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[WP] During your morning bus ride, the person next to you dies. | Two scoops into my cup of cornflakes and I taste blood. I don't know where it's coming from but I read somewhere that the iron is good for you. It goes down easy as I swallow.
"Mind passing me a tissue?" A voice asks.
I acknowledge it with a shake of my head. They only gave me one when I made the purchase, I'll be using it shortly.
My alien-eyeball looking ear plugs squish in like foam. I decide to play Justin Bieber, just loud enough that the girl behind me won't sing along.
I catch a glimpse from my partner, the music seems to be working.
The final jerk is a satisfying one, and the old cobbler next to me has fallen asleep.
I hop out, flinging tissue to dirt. As I pass the old fella and lean up to say hello, he's still out.
Poor guy.
That's the problem with riding the bus.
Nobody gives a rat's ass if it's your stop or the next.
| She always told me to call her Dorie, just Dorie. Sweetest old lady anyone ever met—she’d ask me about my little son Jake every day and if I was seeing any new “young numbers” after my divorce last year. I never had a grandma and formed a bond with her everyone else who rode the 7:15AM Red Line was jealous of. Or maybe they were just annoyed that we talked the whole hour it took for me to get to my dishwashing job.
Dorie had the voice of a screechy goblin from a Harry Potter movie but a heart of fresh-baked cookies—she also perpetually toted a cup of 7-11 coffee. But I noticed something odd this morning.
No cup of coffee—and she was asleep? I gently touched her shoulder right when I sat down next to her, left side, third row back.
“Dorie, hey, you seem tired today? Are you OK?” I asked.
No response. The driver kicked the bus into gear and it shook forward. I guess she was tired today so I decided to let her lean on me this morning while she slept.
Her shriveled mouth opened as her head lay at a right angle on my shoulder. But blood came out. I screamed and the bus shoved to a halt as Dorie hit the front seat. I had taken a CPR class last year when my son was born and my instincts took over—I straddled over her in the middle of the bus and began doing compressions as everyone watched in glazed terror.
The ambulance came in ten minutes. I carried her limp body like a bag of feathers and gave it to the EMTs. There was so much she gave to me and so much I forgot to give.
| |
[WP] During your morning bus ride, the person next to you dies. | I was so sick of riding of the bus, but I couldn't afford a car. There was always some kind of weirdo sitting next to you. That day was no different.
A pale, sickly looking man fell asleep in the seat next to me. At least he wasn't lying against my shoulder or anything. It must have been some kind of record. The day before, it was a man with a nagging cough. The day before that it was a woman with a baby that just wouldn't stop crying. At least today's annoyance was quiet, but it didn't change the fact that there was a guy sleeping next to me.
It occurred to me that the man hadn't even moved since I sat down. I leaned toward him, listening for a breath, but all I got was silence.
"Somebody help!" I yelled. "This man isn't breathing!"
The man's eyes shot open, his face contorted into a beastly mix of wrinkly scars. He let out a high-pitched hiss, exposing two razor-sharp fangs. Before I could even jump out of my seat, a fiery tingling sensation spread through my body as the man latched his teeth onto my neck. Everything went black.
I woke up in a haze. My stomach screamed at me in pain; it felt like I hadn't eaten in years. At first, I thought I was still on the bus, but it smelled different. I peeked my eyes open to find I was sitting on a train. A woman sat down next to me and I closed my eyes.
"Somebody help!" she yelled. "This man isn't breathing!" | She always told me to call her Dorie, just Dorie. Sweetest old lady anyone ever met—she’d ask me about my little son Jake every day and if I was seeing any new “young numbers” after my divorce last year. I never had a grandma and formed a bond with her everyone else who rode the 7:15AM Red Line was jealous of. Or maybe they were just annoyed that we talked the whole hour it took for me to get to my dishwashing job.
Dorie had the voice of a screechy goblin from a Harry Potter movie but a heart of fresh-baked cookies—she also perpetually toted a cup of 7-11 coffee. But I noticed something odd this morning.
No cup of coffee—and she was asleep? I gently touched her shoulder right when I sat down next to her, left side, third row back.
“Dorie, hey, you seem tired today? Are you OK?” I asked.
No response. The driver kicked the bus into gear and it shook forward. I guess she was tired today so I decided to let her lean on me this morning while she slept.
Her shriveled mouth opened as her head lay at a right angle on my shoulder. But blood came out. I screamed and the bus shoved to a halt as Dorie hit the front seat. I had taken a CPR class last year when my son was born and my instincts took over—I straddled over her in the middle of the bus and began doing compressions as everyone watched in glazed terror.
The ambulance came in ten minutes. I carried her limp body like a bag of feathers and gave it to the EMTs. There was so much she gave to me and so much I forgot to give.
| |
[WP] During your morning bus ride, the person next to you dies. | Two scoops into my cup of cornflakes and I taste blood. I don't know where it's coming from but I read somewhere that the iron is good for you. It goes down easy as I swallow.
"Mind passing me a tissue?" A voice asks.
I acknowledge it with a shake of my head. They only gave me one when I made the purchase, I'll be using it shortly.
My alien-eyeball looking ear plugs squish in like foam. I decide to play Justin Bieber, just loud enough that the girl behind me won't sing along.
I catch a glimpse from my partner, the music seems to be working.
The final jerk is a satisfying one, and the old cobbler next to me has fallen asleep.
I hop out, flinging tissue to dirt. As I pass the old fella and lean up to say hello, he's still out.
Poor guy.
That's the problem with riding the bus.
Nobody gives a rat's ass if it's your stop or the next.
| Who was she?
That was a good question. The most obvious one, to be certain. I hadn't seen her long in life. Her face, content, wrinkled and calm, Sat with the eyes open. They looked on, focused on something far away. It was as if she was looking through the seat in front of her, something intangible. Who could tell now? This woman would never be able to reason anymore. She wouldn't bake any more bread, the kind I could smell on her, nor smoke another cigarette to leave a lingering choking sensation in everyone else's nostrils.
Where was she going?
Who would miss her there. She had a small bag with her. Maybe a gift. Maybe a gift to an old friend, or to a grandchild. People who wouldn't see her again, who wouldn't taste the bread, who wouldn't smell the lingering smoke. People who would no doubt hear of the happening. That was the thing I couldn't get past.
You see in my line of work, asking questions only hinders the process. If you ask questions your will is not true. That is what makes my next question more important. It makes it the most dangerous.
Who wanted her dead? Why?
The sweet old woman did not hardly notice when I stuck her leg with the small syringe. Maybe she had nerve damage from all her years. What could this woman have possibly done? By now I am thinking more thoughts, ones that make this more complex. How many stops will it be before they realize? I am close to regret now. I can feel it tugging on me as I get off the bus.
I will think tonight of the bread and the smoke, of the bus, and of the little old lady who's last company was the man who took her life. Maybe I'll stop by the bakery. | |
[WP] During your morning bus ride, the person next to you dies. | I was so sick of riding of the bus, but I couldn't afford a car. There was always some kind of weirdo sitting next to you. That day was no different.
A pale, sickly looking man fell asleep in the seat next to me. At least he wasn't lying against my shoulder or anything. It must have been some kind of record. The day before, it was a man with a nagging cough. The day before that it was a woman with a baby that just wouldn't stop crying. At least today's annoyance was quiet, but it didn't change the fact that there was a guy sleeping next to me.
It occurred to me that the man hadn't even moved since I sat down. I leaned toward him, listening for a breath, but all I got was silence.
"Somebody help!" I yelled. "This man isn't breathing!"
The man's eyes shot open, his face contorted into a beastly mix of wrinkly scars. He let out a high-pitched hiss, exposing two razor-sharp fangs. Before I could even jump out of my seat, a fiery tingling sensation spread through my body as the man latched his teeth onto my neck. Everything went black.
I woke up in a haze. My stomach screamed at me in pain; it felt like I hadn't eaten in years. At first, I thought I was still on the bus, but it smelled different. I peeked my eyes open to find I was sitting on a train. A woman sat down next to me and I closed my eyes.
"Somebody help!" she yelled. "This man isn't breathing!" | Who was she?
That was a good question. The most obvious one, to be certain. I hadn't seen her long in life. Her face, content, wrinkled and calm, Sat with the eyes open. They looked on, focused on something far away. It was as if she was looking through the seat in front of her, something intangible. Who could tell now? This woman would never be able to reason anymore. She wouldn't bake any more bread, the kind I could smell on her, nor smoke another cigarette to leave a lingering choking sensation in everyone else's nostrils.
Where was she going?
Who would miss her there. She had a small bag with her. Maybe a gift. Maybe a gift to an old friend, or to a grandchild. People who wouldn't see her again, who wouldn't taste the bread, who wouldn't smell the lingering smoke. People who would no doubt hear of the happening. That was the thing I couldn't get past.
You see in my line of work, asking questions only hinders the process. If you ask questions your will is not true. That is what makes my next question more important. It makes it the most dangerous.
Who wanted her dead? Why?
The sweet old woman did not hardly notice when I stuck her leg with the small syringe. Maybe she had nerve damage from all her years. What could this woman have possibly done? By now I am thinking more thoughts, ones that make this more complex. How many stops will it be before they realize? I am close to regret now. I can feel it tugging on me as I get off the bus.
I will think tonight of the bread and the smoke, of the bus, and of the little old lady who's last company was the man who took her life. Maybe I'll stop by the bakery. | |
[WP] During your morning bus ride, the person next to you dies. | I was so sick of riding of the bus, but I couldn't afford a car. There was always some kind of weirdo sitting next to you. That day was no different.
A pale, sickly looking man fell asleep in the seat next to me. At least he wasn't lying against my shoulder or anything. It must have been some kind of record. The day before, it was a man with a nagging cough. The day before that it was a woman with a baby that just wouldn't stop crying. At least today's annoyance was quiet, but it didn't change the fact that there was a guy sleeping next to me.
It occurred to me that the man hadn't even moved since I sat down. I leaned toward him, listening for a breath, but all I got was silence.
"Somebody help!" I yelled. "This man isn't breathing!"
The man's eyes shot open, his face contorted into a beastly mix of wrinkly scars. He let out a high-pitched hiss, exposing two razor-sharp fangs. Before I could even jump out of my seat, a fiery tingling sensation spread through my body as the man latched his teeth onto my neck. Everything went black.
I woke up in a haze. My stomach screamed at me in pain; it felt like I hadn't eaten in years. At first, I thought I was still on the bus, but it smelled different. I peeked my eyes open to find I was sitting on a train. A woman sat down next to me and I closed my eyes.
"Somebody help!" she yelled. "This man isn't breathing!" | "Damnit," I thought as I stepped onto the Metro, "this thing is packed."
I tucked my briefcase under my arm and surveyed the area. Finally, my eyes fell upon a single seat open next to a seemingly nice old man with a cane. He smiled at me and nodded at the seat, to which I reluctantly took.
"How are ya today, my boy," he grinned, his tired eyes focused on me.
"Not to bad, sir. Just another day at the office as usual."
Truth be told, my day was shit. I had blown a huge account the prior week and my boss had just canned me. All I could think about was the wife and daughter I had to go home and tell. A small tear began to creep down my cheek as I rested my head against the wall and closed my eyes.
---------
The old man looked down at his shoes and up at the flickering light on the bus. He appeared silent as if he was knew exactly what happened to me today.
"Yknow, kid. You got the rest of your life ahead of you. You've got a beautiful daughter at home and a wife that loves you. You'll find a new job. Not only that, but a job you'll love."
My eyes opened and I jumped back into my seat nervously.
"H-how did you know all that?! You must be mistaking me for someone else, old man."
He smiled again and wiped his large glasses on a kerchief he pulled out of his pocket. Specks of red dotted the white canvas.
"I was a lot like you, son, young and dumb. You'll learn. Life teaches you a thing or two when you get to my age. Lost my first job when I was 14 and my second job when I was 20. My first wife and I had a beautiful boy, but I was a drunk. I pushed both of them away and we were separated for some time. Finally, I got the guts to get back on my feet and become a welder... And a damn good one! I quit the booze, quit the life I screwed up. My wife finally came back to me and my son, who was almost 15 at the time, came around to like me again. He's 45 now and I barely see him. My wife died 2 years back and I've missed her everyday since..."
His voice drifted off as he continued to look at the flickering light of the metro. No one else seemed to hear any of what we were saying. A small tear then started to run down his wrinkled face, but the smile stayed.
"I'm sorry for your loss, sir..." I said softly. My mind drifted to my own parents who I haven't seen in ages. Wasn't my dad turning 60 today? Shit. A bigger sense of sadness crept over as I began to realize I had been blind to what really matters for a while.
"Now you're starting to get it, son." The old man looked at me and smiled, sending a feeling of warmth over me.
"Mr. Libroski, it's time to go."
A man in a white suit was standing in front of me and the old man. He was glaringly handsome, almost as if his face was glowing. His smile made all of my worries and sorrows subside. No one else seemed to care that a man with a white suit was blocking the entire aisle.
"Well, kid, it's been a good ride. I'll be seeing my wife in a moment or two. Maybe we'll meet again someday." The old man laughed as he worked his way out of the seat and grabbed his cane. He took the hand of the man in white and walked off the bus.
------------
My head snapped up as the bus hit a bump. The old man next to me, who was slumped on my shoulder, doubled over and fell into the aisle.
"Mr. Libroski? Sir!" I yelled as people began to wonder what the commotion was.
I shook him to try and wake him up, but it was too late. The medics came and pronounced him dead at the scene, a stroke. As I looked over again at the body one last time, I could see a smile on his face as if he was in a peaceful slumber.
An officer came up to me and told me he had to ask me some questions. Once he was done, he asked me if I needed anything.
"Yes, sir," I smiled through tears, "could I use your phone to call my father? It's his birthday today." | |
[WP] During your morning bus ride, the person next to you dies. | The windows of the bus that were usually only touched by the rain and the occasional passenger that leaned its head on it, were now completely covered in blood and bits of pieces of brains.
I’d told the lady next to me good morning before sitting next to her, as there weren’t many free spots left and I’d rather sit next to someone I vaguely recognize than a shot-up druggie any day. She’d greeted me back, flashing her usual warm smile, the ones grandmothers give their dearest grandchildren.
For the first time, however, she asked me my name. Though I was a bit surprised, I told her.
“Elliot is a nice name,” she said, more to herself than to me. “Heading to work? No car?”
Anybody would be getting suspicious by now, but since I lived alone and rarely talked to my friends these days, I could use the company.
“Yeah. Haven’t got a license. Bus isn’t so bad though, beats walking or biking.”
She hummed some sort of agreement and left it at that.
I saw my stop coming up and started to get up, but she sat me back down, putting a firm hand on my shoulder.
“Hold on just a second, dear, can you hold this for me for a minute?” She handed me a piece of paper. I figured it was a shopping list or something similar.
I looked at the paper and inspected it. It looked ripped off of a blocnote in a haste. It was folded in half so I couldn’t read the text.
I heard the lady tell me to take care of myself before everything in my right ear fell into a loud beep that made my head hurt.
Shocked, I turned my head to face her, only to notice there was no face to behold anymore, just a limp body covered in blood and pieces of brain and god-knows-what. The light from the window of the bus was blocked by a wall of thick blood splattered across the glass.
I stumbled out of my seat, thoroughly shocked by the entire scene and disgusted by the still warm, mushy human remains on my shirt and lap.
Somewhere far away, I heard a woman call 911, seeing as I was in no position to do anything at the moment, let alone call someone.
-
After having calmed down at the police station, I remembered the piece of paper I hadn’t let go of the entire time. In fact, I’d nearly crushed it in my fist.
Checking to see if nobody was around (though I knew fully well there were security cameras around), I opened it and skimmed across it.
In neat, cursive writing, there was a phone number written across the paper. I didn’t recognize the country code, but the number was very long, at least 15 numbers. It was clear it was a phone number, though, as it was divided into parts of two letters, and there was a crude drawing of a phone beneath the number.
I pulled out my phone and called it before I could change my mind. Though my rational mind it was a very stupid thing to do, an invasion of privacy even, the extremely bored part of me (which was about 80% of my entire being) just wanted anything exciting to happen. And it had just happen and it was about to continue.
There was static first, for about twenty seconds straight. Just when I considered hanging up, a series of beeps broke the static, followed by a voice that sounded just too real to be a robot, but wasn’t distinctly human either. A bit like those voices you hear on those weird number stations on the radio. They always creeped me out, and this voice did the exact same, leaving me in a cold sweat.
“807, you have finally reached us?” the voice asked. I thought I recognized a hint of curiosity in her voice.
I hesitated, but then figured it was best to play along. My voice was obviously male, though, so I’d only be able to fool the “person” on the other end if they really were a robot. I decided it wasn’t worth the shot.
“Well, no. 807 has died today. I will continue for her.” Immediately after uttering those last words, I regretted it. I had no idea what I’d be getting myself into.
It was silent on the other end of the line, and I swallowed. If the police came in now, I was screwed.
“As you wish,” the voice told me. “We will contact you shortly, 808.” The static returned and after thirty more seconds, the line went dead.
I was rendered speechless. I had no time to think it through, though, since a police officer came into the room seconds later.
“Call to your mom?” he asked, eyebrows raised. I nodded and he didn’t seem to question it.
The interrogation went as smooth as it could have, with me having no ties to the deceased at all and clearly just being an innocent bystander, unfortunate to have witnessed a suicide. He suggested therapy if it had left me extremely traumatized, but I told the officer that wouldn’t be necessary.
“Alright then,” he sighed and stood up from his chair. He put a piece of paper in front of me on the table between us and handed me a pen. “I’ll need your name, phone number, and some other details.”
I filled in all the blanks obediently and went on my way.
I called in sick in the office and headed home, deciding to walk. I needed the fresh air, the coppery scent of blood still trapped in my nose.
On my way home, I bumped into a man in a suit who seemed to be in a hurry. He excused himself and kept walking before I could answer. I looked back a minute later and saw him staring at me. He turned his head when I met his gaze, though.
I dismissed it and kept walking.
Twenty minutes later, exhausted by the walk (I really needed to exercise more), I approached by apartment building, only to find my name taken off the list of tenants at the front door.
“Huh?” I said to myself, before receiving a firm blow to the head and passing out.
| You slumped to my shoulder and i shrugged,
Half-hearted.
And i; too brittle and British in this weak Monday sun,
Broke silence with a sigh, and accepted your gentle weight.
Assuming sleep: No Fucks given.
This bus of ours....
Shuffles and idles on its bleak morning rounds
and i doze in the traffic's warble; snoozing in its steady bass.
Your old Nokia rang - Obsolete now.
Starting me from sudden sleep -
Cracking its screen as it fell to the floor between my legs;
Your hand resting open, and falling to my thigh.
I picked up your blinking relic;
'Home' - winking green -
Turned to hand it back...
Saw your grey mask.
Wondered why you stared so?
Answered your incoming...
'Hello?!' | |
[WP] Conquering humanity wasn't the problem. Keeping them conquered, that's where the problem laid. | "How... Just fuckin' HOW?! How did these humans take an entire capital city from us?! We've taken away their weaponry, only given them the simplest technology to improve food production, infrastructure, and medical treatment. They can't actually use our weaponry, there so many protections against that! So... How, just how..."
"There's so much in the report, sir. I don't know where to start."
"Fine. Let's break in down in steps. Okay... Um... How did they break into the armory located outside the city? There's a huge barrier and protective shield there."
"They used one of our tanks, sir."
"HOW?! The genetic scanners would have kept them locked out!"
"Well, they didn't use the tank as a tank."
"Okay... I'm listening."
"They somehow found an engineering flaw that causes the tanks to become, well, projectiles."
"They launched a... tank?"
"Yes, it seems will some strange mixture of bonding agent, animal fat soap, gunpowder, sugar, and what our scientists have determined to be a... lime?"
"You mean the green, extremely sour tree fruit?"
"Yes. It seems that combination creates an explosive that blasts a gas mixture into the intake of the cooling coils of the fusion core that reacts rather violently to a nanocompound in the exchanger that-"
"WHAT. DOES. IT. DO?"
"The tank reactor overloads, breaches in one particular spot, and propells the tank at near ballistic speeds."
"They somehow turned a reactor with the best safety record, having no recorded critical failures for over a 100 years, into a rocket and propelled one of our armor vehicles into the barriers?!"
"Yes. Actually... all five of them parked outside the armory."
"Okay. So they broke down the barrier. How did they get past the numerous power armored guards?"
"With grenades."
". . . "
"Not our grenades, but their own... But not the ones we seized, those wouldn't have done anything to our armor. These were new."
"And how did these grenades blow up our guards?!"
"They didn't."
"... What?"
"They didn't 'blow up'. They imploded."
"Again, I'm listening."
"They somehow managed to scrap the tiny gravity generators in our childrens' toys that were thrown out, strip them apart, reassemble them in a strange configuration, and put a trigger switch to a collection of common fusion cell batteries. When the grenades are triggered, the time switch goes off in 5 seconds, the fusion cells deplete instaneously into the gravity generators-"
"You mean they figured out how to remove the layers upon layers of safety mechanisms?"
"Yes, every last one."
"So... what happened?"
"The grenades created massive momentary gravitational fields strong enough to... And I still can't believe this but the readings correspond... The fields were strong enough to create micro-black holes."
"THEY CREATED BLACK HOLE GRENADES?! From our toys and batteries?!"
"Yes. The guards and parts of the base were drawn towards these micro-black holes. Most just ran into each other violently enough to incapacitate. Some were drawn into the actual black holes."
"Okay... That explains how they got in and how they got pass the guards. What did they take? How much of our weaponry did they manage to take from us. Great elders know what they're going to do with it."
"None."
"Explain."
"They didn't take any weaponry, they went to the maintenance section."
"I don't like where this is going."
"They took only one type of item. The repair nano-lathes."
". . . Those things are programed to only create a certain set of designs and repair them. How- No, nevermind how. What was the result?"
"We were able to secure one of the results. Here it is."
"That doesn't look exactly like a nano-lathe, what is it."
"It's a nano-lathe of their design, created by our nano-lathes, that's weaponized."
"Yes. I figured. At this point, I'm ready to ban anything more advanced than a toaster from these humans. What does it do?"
"I'll show you. I'll use the cart we brought it in on as a target. When the weapon fires, it launches a ball of nano-machines at the target, where it breaks down the target into base materials, and then... it reassembles what it finds useful into-"
"MORE GUNS?! They made a gun that shoots and makes more guns?!"
"Yes. Sir. This is the most horrifying thing I've seen. Yet."
"You know, we shouldn't conquered these humans... ... ... ..."
"Sir?"
"... We should have contracted them out." | They litter the skies like stars.
Anoxularis, The One Who Records, brushes talons across the data pad housing tales of planets conquered, planets destroyed, and planets that have yet to be explored. Their role is not to place judgment or to color events with shades of predilection, for history is not a tale that belongs only to the conquerors.
Anoxularis has sat here for many years. Anoxularis has seen the might of their people crush species who, if allowed to thrive, would come to destroy all living things, the very fibers of these beings lined with greed. They are species whose purpose Anoxularis does not understand and does not wish to understand. The One Who Records only wishes to write the tale of an inevitable end, but Anoxularis does not spare history of the feeble babes that cry without their mothers, or the desperate prayers of fledgling civilizations that do not understand why their time must end.
The One Who Records turns to gaze out at the stretch of obsidian, for once, without words. The humans are coming in their ships that look like stars, and Anoxularis knows that this is a battle their people cannot win. The humans had been defenseless. Or so, Anoxularis wrote. But the humans of Earth cried out to The Ones Who Conquer and rebelled.
“We are not afraid of you!” Their soldiers cried out as ships tore through defenses long thought impenetrable. “You are not gods.” The Ones Who Conquer did not understand the tenacity of humanity, the outright refusal to be wiped from existence save for the recordings of Anoxularis. And now, The Ones Who Conquer will be no more. Humanity will grow mightier and eradicate all who stand in its way.
Anoxularis has never had to ponder their own death. Nonexistence was some unknown time that mattered little besides their purpose. Now The One Who Records must write of their own end, but the words fail to come forth as the ships draw closer.
The One Who Records is reminded, briefly, of a transmission from the first planet to be impaled by the might of their people. Anoxularis swipes across the endless texts until they find the question that has carried across lightyears, through blackholes and galaxies that lead back to where it all began.
“Who are you to decide what species lives or dies?"
The ships of Earth no longer look like stars when they are close. The vessel trembles as humanity sends their first attack, and somewhere deep within the ship Anoxularis can hear terrified screams of those who fear death.
Anoxularis glances down at the volumes they have recorded, a lifetime spent writing without question the actions of their people. And at long last the words come forth, an epilogue that will carry across the path of destruction The Ones Who Conquered laid in their wake, back to the home Anoxularis will never see again.
“We were wrong.”
| |
[WP] Conquering humanity wasn't the problem. Keeping them conquered, that's where the problem laid. | Cities burned, governments fell like dominoes. The rich, the powerful, they saw a new kind of wealth, a new kind of power.
Capitulation was swift. Those which accepted the righteous authority of the Dominators lived, leaders paid well in technology and wealth beyond their wildest dreams. Those who refused them died, though there were few enough of those.
All told, the "war" took three hours. Just long enough for the rulers of this diseased little rock to realize that there were no real "negotiations" only terms. Mercy would come or it would not, that was not for the humans to know or decide.
For two years things went smoothly. Certainly there were the occasional riots, quelled at the request of human viceroys no doubt as part of some greater plot. Certainly there was a thriving black market in illegally owned Dominator technology. Certainly there were problems, there was work aplenty for the Enforcers. But by and large the plebians worked in the factories, and they worked hard, and that was all the Dominators asked of a client race.
Until the world burned again.
We miscalculated. While the leaders were kept in line with access to technology that must have seemed a taste of paradise, the poor and unimportant bred malcontents and fostered a growing sense of disillusionment and hatred. Perhaps as an artifact of this "democracy" the humans were mostly occasioned to, even the average citizen somehow believed they were entitled to equal gain as their betters.
Com channels screamed as Viceroy after Viceroy called out for aid, the Enforcers incapable of responding to each threat. Com channels screamed and went silent. A show of force was needed.
The Enforcers poured into one city, putting each and every filthy human to the quiet. An unbroken line of glimmering power-armour stomping through the human defenses as though they weren't there.
Then the city burned in nuclear fire. Shields and armor overwhelmed, nearly 90% of the Enforcer garrison died. The humans had destroyed their own city and nearly two and a half million of their own people.
Immediately, we began to search for a Queen. An Ultimate Leader like the insect folk of Saa'ar Thanguil. One by one we fell, a thousand human trash dying for each enforcer. But still they came. But we were used to that, Saa'ar Thanguil was not forgotten, and the glory and power that would come was worth the risk.
But with each human enclave we purged we found nothing. Each "central" threat was regional, at best, and the threat reformed under a new leader in mere moments.
Finally, we realized, too late, what it meant. Humanity has no leader, no Queen, yet they care not for their individual power. Instead they fight for ideas, each fashions themselves their own leader. Recommend immediate Purgation. Humanity is too chaotic to be controlled. Their ideas too dangerous to be allowed to exist. | It had been nearly 700 Earth years since the people of Earth had surrendered control over to the Trazian people. The humans had decided that the only way for them to stay united was to have a government in charge by an outside control so there would be no issues of race, religion, or sex within the laws. It was an issue that had plagued the humans almost since the dawn of their existence and in some aspects still continues to plague them today. The Trazians saw this, understood this, and begrudgingly accepted the human proposal. They were put in charge of judging crimes, settling disputes between countries, and were the police force of every country. The humans still had control of their borders and laws but the Trazians were there as an unbiased 3rd party to make sure justice was carried out. The Trazians remember the original reason why they were put in charge, after all a Trazian lifespan is around 900 Earth years. Humans however, lived for a collective total of around 80 years. So as the generations passed the humans went from outrage, to acceptance, to suspicion, and now rebellion. At first it started with a few teenagers rebelling. But then when 20 of them attacked a Trazian officer and he was forced to fight back, that's when the human media came in. Now there are sects of humans rebelling against their supposed Trazian overlords, despite the fact that the Trazians have done absolutely nothing in terms of law making. In fact they Trazians gave more technology than they recieved. But *nooooo* the humans thought that the Trazians were some sort of puppeteer, lurking in the shadows, controlling the collective governments. Farngar was recollecting how good times had been at the start. He had led his people to a new Golden Age. They finally had someone they could trust, who hadn't taken advantage of them, who had shared brand new ideas and forms of entertainment, and the the Trazian people had never been happier. *He* had never been happier. For while the humans rebelled against their supposed masters, what they didn't know was that Trazians were naturally subservient. In fact if they had no one to serve they would become so depressed that their life span was basically cut down by 90%. So for the Leader of the Trazians to finally in turn have someone to serve, it was as the humans would say, a godsend. Fangar turned to his second in command, "Did the humans put down the rebellion in England?"
"Yes sir, they did it without any of ours assisting," Trandar looked like he wanted to say more. Fangar sighed.
"What is it?"
"Well sir it looks like the latest rebellion propaganda states that, the soldiers were being coerced into fighting them by us. In fact it has spawned twelve more sects across the world." Trandar responded.
Fangar's sigh grew longer. He put his hands to his face. "Alright. Looks like this arrangement has run its course. How much technology have we given them?"
"Well just some ways to create more cost efficient energy without consuming their natural resources, some entertainment, and the food creation device."
"So no travel technology?" Trandar shook his head no. "Good. Call back all the people. We're leaving Earth and its people to their own demise. Maybe they will remember what we meant to them."
"Sir are you sure?" Trandar said tears starting to form in his eyes. He knew what leaving the humans would mean for Fangar. But he could not cry. Not in front of his best friend.
"Yes. As the humans would say, fuck 'em."
--------------
John stumbled out of the bar, drunk off his ass. The fighting had been hard. Nearly 15 years of fighting the human pawns of the Trazians but they had did it. They had won the war. He and a lot of his friends had been celebrating all week. To think that the Trazians had the gall to come here 700 years ago, and try to tell humans how to live their lives. What a bunch of punks. Coming in here telling us that they are here to serve. If that copy of *To Serve Man* hadn't been rediscovered and passed around to show the truth of the Trazians, then the humans might have gone extinct. Luckily John's ancestors had the forethought to document everything. As the door opened up with more drunk patrons leaving, one of them shouted out "Fuck the Trazians!"
There was a resounding cheer from everyone inside the bar and John cheered too saying, "Yeah! Fuck 'em!" | |
[WP] Conquering humanity wasn't the problem. Keeping them conquered, that's where the problem laid. | The clock ticked over to 8am.
Controller A watched the screen as rush hour burst into life. *He'd* been on Earth for what the humans called a year, but still found many aspects of their existence strange. The morning commute they endured was one such aspect. The calm of 7:59am had transcended into chaos by the time 8:01am rolled around.
Streets and corridors and platforms went from being empty to being instantly crammed full of the squashy creatures. Controller A connected *his* train of thought with Quadrant A's transportation station.
"Humans, your rush hour is about to hit its peak. Act with caution while waiting at platforms. If you don't, you risk being vapourised as the teleportation devices reset themselves. Your cooperation is valued."
As *he* disconnected his thoughts, *he* watched the screen and waited for the inevitable. The daily dissent. Some of the humans' faces showed signs of disgust. Others started pushing and pulling their fellow commuters to start disturbances. One older man who no longer had any hair held up his hands to the cameras, with his middle fingers extended. Apparently this was a most insulting gesture, though Controller A was still unsure why.
The man then took a step forward to the edge of the platform, closed his eyes and leaned forward into the teleportation area as the machines were gathering energy. He was instantly destroyed. It proved to be a catalyst as the other humans starting running this way and that. Some of the weaker beings had fallen to the floor and were being crushed to death. A few had chosen to follow the man's example and self-vapourise. Controller A connected his thoughts again.
"Guards, there is a human incident inside Quadrant A station. Quell the disturbance. Lethal force is authorised."
Controller B came closer to get a better look at the screen.
"Yet another protest, Con A. Curious. The humans fell easily, but now resist so much. What do they think such violence will achieve?"
"I don't know, Con B. Their spirit is strong. They know they will die, that they cannot win, yet they fight. Part of me finds it admirable. Foolish, but admirable."
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
I hope you liked reading my take on /u/mrpigpuncher 's prompt.
If you did, why not check out my novel, [The promise she made](http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01CC31H9A/ref=cm_sw_su_dp). Thanks :)
Or if you have any feedback I'd love to hear it. | It had been nearly 700 Earth years since the people of Earth had surrendered control over to the Trazian people. The humans had decided that the only way for them to stay united was to have a government in charge by an outside control so there would be no issues of race, religion, or sex within the laws. It was an issue that had plagued the humans almost since the dawn of their existence and in some aspects still continues to plague them today. The Trazians saw this, understood this, and begrudgingly accepted the human proposal. They were put in charge of judging crimes, settling disputes between countries, and were the police force of every country. The humans still had control of their borders and laws but the Trazians were there as an unbiased 3rd party to make sure justice was carried out. The Trazians remember the original reason why they were put in charge, after all a Trazian lifespan is around 900 Earth years. Humans however, lived for a collective total of around 80 years. So as the generations passed the humans went from outrage, to acceptance, to suspicion, and now rebellion. At first it started with a few teenagers rebelling. But then when 20 of them attacked a Trazian officer and he was forced to fight back, that's when the human media came in. Now there are sects of humans rebelling against their supposed Trazian overlords, despite the fact that the Trazians have done absolutely nothing in terms of law making. In fact they Trazians gave more technology than they recieved. But *nooooo* the humans thought that the Trazians were some sort of puppeteer, lurking in the shadows, controlling the collective governments. Farngar was recollecting how good times had been at the start. He had led his people to a new Golden Age. They finally had someone they could trust, who hadn't taken advantage of them, who had shared brand new ideas and forms of entertainment, and the the Trazian people had never been happier. *He* had never been happier. For while the humans rebelled against their supposed masters, what they didn't know was that Trazians were naturally subservient. In fact if they had no one to serve they would become so depressed that their life span was basically cut down by 90%. So for the Leader of the Trazians to finally in turn have someone to serve, it was as the humans would say, a godsend. Fangar turned to his second in command, "Did the humans put down the rebellion in England?"
"Yes sir, they did it without any of ours assisting," Trandar looked like he wanted to say more. Fangar sighed.
"What is it?"
"Well sir it looks like the latest rebellion propaganda states that, the soldiers were being coerced into fighting them by us. In fact it has spawned twelve more sects across the world." Trandar responded.
Fangar's sigh grew longer. He put his hands to his face. "Alright. Looks like this arrangement has run its course. How much technology have we given them?"
"Well just some ways to create more cost efficient energy without consuming their natural resources, some entertainment, and the food creation device."
"So no travel technology?" Trandar shook his head no. "Good. Call back all the people. We're leaving Earth and its people to their own demise. Maybe they will remember what we meant to them."
"Sir are you sure?" Trandar said tears starting to form in his eyes. He knew what leaving the humans would mean for Fangar. But he could not cry. Not in front of his best friend.
"Yes. As the humans would say, fuck 'em."
--------------
John stumbled out of the bar, drunk off his ass. The fighting had been hard. Nearly 15 years of fighting the human pawns of the Trazians but they had did it. They had won the war. He and a lot of his friends had been celebrating all week. To think that the Trazians had the gall to come here 700 years ago, and try to tell humans how to live their lives. What a bunch of punks. Coming in here telling us that they are here to serve. If that copy of *To Serve Man* hadn't been rediscovered and passed around to show the truth of the Trazians, then the humans might have gone extinct. Luckily John's ancestors had the forethought to document everything. As the door opened up with more drunk patrons leaving, one of them shouted out "Fuck the Trazians!"
There was a resounding cheer from everyone inside the bar and John cheered too saying, "Yeah! Fuck 'em!" | |
[WP] Conquering humanity wasn't the problem. Keeping them conquered, that's where the problem laid. | We had conquered them, in fact conquered them in record time. No other species, archaic or otherwise, had been as weak in technology and body as they. Within hours of our first troopship landing, we controlled every square centimeter of their landmasses. We even took one of their own back to the Council worlds as a curiosity, locked in a cage.
We made a small fortune over the next few weeks, as everyone wanted to see the barbarian slave from the Fifth Arm that could do such marvelous tricks. We even became so fond of him we thought of him as a pet, rather than a commodity. He was a wonderful little bugger, clever as any we'd captured before, and he always looked at everything with an expression of the utmost curiosity.
Then he escaped. No tunnels, no broken bodies, no mangled cage. Just the door, swinging open and an illegible message in his feces on the floor. We at first thought him stolen, until the Council Vanguard found him down at the spaceport, attempting to barter for passage on a trade vessel. We took possession of him once more, and this time we redoubled the strength and complexity of his locks. It held for some time, and then suddenly we were once again faced with an empty cage--though this time he had spared us the message. This time he was found in the market, bartering for some odd items from the Second Arm colonies.
Translation for the new species had been difficult at first, as they heard and spoke at a completely different frequency range than we did, but once we discovered the range, we placed the learning-translator in the cell with him, in a corner where he wouldn't notice it. They hoped to be able to converse with him within the week, if everything went well and he didn't find (and break) the learning-translator.
Two days after they successfully retrieved the translator, he escaped again. This time, it was much harder to find him, but they did nonetheless--in their own quarters, rifling through their possessions for whatever interested him.
When they asked him why he insisted on escaping, he simply replied, "Because it's fun!" | It had been nearly 700 Earth years since the people of Earth had surrendered control over to the Trazian people. The humans had decided that the only way for them to stay united was to have a government in charge by an outside control so there would be no issues of race, religion, or sex within the laws. It was an issue that had plagued the humans almost since the dawn of their existence and in some aspects still continues to plague them today. The Trazians saw this, understood this, and begrudgingly accepted the human proposal. They were put in charge of judging crimes, settling disputes between countries, and were the police force of every country. The humans still had control of their borders and laws but the Trazians were there as an unbiased 3rd party to make sure justice was carried out. The Trazians remember the original reason why they were put in charge, after all a Trazian lifespan is around 900 Earth years. Humans however, lived for a collective total of around 80 years. So as the generations passed the humans went from outrage, to acceptance, to suspicion, and now rebellion. At first it started with a few teenagers rebelling. But then when 20 of them attacked a Trazian officer and he was forced to fight back, that's when the human media came in. Now there are sects of humans rebelling against their supposed Trazian overlords, despite the fact that the Trazians have done absolutely nothing in terms of law making. In fact they Trazians gave more technology than they recieved. But *nooooo* the humans thought that the Trazians were some sort of puppeteer, lurking in the shadows, controlling the collective governments. Farngar was recollecting how good times had been at the start. He had led his people to a new Golden Age. They finally had someone they could trust, who hadn't taken advantage of them, who had shared brand new ideas and forms of entertainment, and the the Trazian people had never been happier. *He* had never been happier. For while the humans rebelled against their supposed masters, what they didn't know was that Trazians were naturally subservient. In fact if they had no one to serve they would become so depressed that their life span was basically cut down by 90%. So for the Leader of the Trazians to finally in turn have someone to serve, it was as the humans would say, a godsend. Fangar turned to his second in command, "Did the humans put down the rebellion in England?"
"Yes sir, they did it without any of ours assisting," Trandar looked like he wanted to say more. Fangar sighed.
"What is it?"
"Well sir it looks like the latest rebellion propaganda states that, the soldiers were being coerced into fighting them by us. In fact it has spawned twelve more sects across the world." Trandar responded.
Fangar's sigh grew longer. He put his hands to his face. "Alright. Looks like this arrangement has run its course. How much technology have we given them?"
"Well just some ways to create more cost efficient energy without consuming their natural resources, some entertainment, and the food creation device."
"So no travel technology?" Trandar shook his head no. "Good. Call back all the people. We're leaving Earth and its people to their own demise. Maybe they will remember what we meant to them."
"Sir are you sure?" Trandar said tears starting to form in his eyes. He knew what leaving the humans would mean for Fangar. But he could not cry. Not in front of his best friend.
"Yes. As the humans would say, fuck 'em."
--------------
John stumbled out of the bar, drunk off his ass. The fighting had been hard. Nearly 15 years of fighting the human pawns of the Trazians but they had did it. They had won the war. He and a lot of his friends had been celebrating all week. To think that the Trazians had the gall to come here 700 years ago, and try to tell humans how to live their lives. What a bunch of punks. Coming in here telling us that they are here to serve. If that copy of *To Serve Man* hadn't been rediscovered and passed around to show the truth of the Trazians, then the humans might have gone extinct. Luckily John's ancestors had the forethought to document everything. As the door opened up with more drunk patrons leaving, one of them shouted out "Fuck the Trazians!"
There was a resounding cheer from everyone inside the bar and John cheered too saying, "Yeah! Fuck 'em!" | |
[WP] Conquering humanity wasn't the problem. Keeping them conquered, that's where the problem laid. | Tell me Commander, how you managed to lose our stronghold… to these savages!?
I… underestimated them, general.
That doesn’t explain how they breached the containment, how they broke into our armory and got away with the weapons.
WHICH WHERE SUPPOSED TO SECURE OUR INVASION!
Sir, we had no idea what they were capable of!
They feigned subordination while silently sharpening their blades, ready to strike at any moment!
You had the warriors contained!
Where did they get their blades from, did they steal them from under your nose?!
Sir… it was not the warriors who retaliated… every member of their species seems to be devoid of caste, ready to take up the blade as soon as another had fallen.
There were just so many.
Some even juvenile, just a few sweeps old and already chucking incendiaries at our forces!
Commander!
These are savages!
Their measly gunpowder could not put a scratch on our force fields.
How did they get inside the compound?!
Where did your vigilance fail?!
They… did not gain access by subterfuge or stealth… they used the weapons from the prison camp.
But those were locked!
I personally made sure that the cipher devices were intact!
As soon as one of those savages gets their dirty little grubs on one they blow up!
They… weaponized the cipher devices, sir.
WHAT?
They captured two of the soldiers while they were holding a weapon and wrapped them up, only to chuck them at our force field projectors, like some kind of… grenade.
The fusion reactors were overpowered.
At least tell me you can capture them soon, if this ridiculous situation gets any more embarrassing I won’t be surprised if the supreme one orders us incinerated by orbital strike with the rest of these pathetic savages.
Sir… capturing them is now the least of our concerns.
They have… They…
What is it?
Spit it out.
They are giving away their position openly, transmitting a signal by radio.
So?
Why have you not wiped them out already?!
They… appear to have broken the cipher sir. | It had been nearly 700 Earth years since the people of Earth had surrendered control over to the Trazian people. The humans had decided that the only way for them to stay united was to have a government in charge by an outside control so there would be no issues of race, religion, or sex within the laws. It was an issue that had plagued the humans almost since the dawn of their existence and in some aspects still continues to plague them today. The Trazians saw this, understood this, and begrudgingly accepted the human proposal. They were put in charge of judging crimes, settling disputes between countries, and were the police force of every country. The humans still had control of their borders and laws but the Trazians were there as an unbiased 3rd party to make sure justice was carried out. The Trazians remember the original reason why they were put in charge, after all a Trazian lifespan is around 900 Earth years. Humans however, lived for a collective total of around 80 years. So as the generations passed the humans went from outrage, to acceptance, to suspicion, and now rebellion. At first it started with a few teenagers rebelling. But then when 20 of them attacked a Trazian officer and he was forced to fight back, that's when the human media came in. Now there are sects of humans rebelling against their supposed Trazian overlords, despite the fact that the Trazians have done absolutely nothing in terms of law making. In fact they Trazians gave more technology than they recieved. But *nooooo* the humans thought that the Trazians were some sort of puppeteer, lurking in the shadows, controlling the collective governments. Farngar was recollecting how good times had been at the start. He had led his people to a new Golden Age. They finally had someone they could trust, who hadn't taken advantage of them, who had shared brand new ideas and forms of entertainment, and the the Trazian people had never been happier. *He* had never been happier. For while the humans rebelled against their supposed masters, what they didn't know was that Trazians were naturally subservient. In fact if they had no one to serve they would become so depressed that their life span was basically cut down by 90%. So for the Leader of the Trazians to finally in turn have someone to serve, it was as the humans would say, a godsend. Fangar turned to his second in command, "Did the humans put down the rebellion in England?"
"Yes sir, they did it without any of ours assisting," Trandar looked like he wanted to say more. Fangar sighed.
"What is it?"
"Well sir it looks like the latest rebellion propaganda states that, the soldiers were being coerced into fighting them by us. In fact it has spawned twelve more sects across the world." Trandar responded.
Fangar's sigh grew longer. He put his hands to his face. "Alright. Looks like this arrangement has run its course. How much technology have we given them?"
"Well just some ways to create more cost efficient energy without consuming their natural resources, some entertainment, and the food creation device."
"So no travel technology?" Trandar shook his head no. "Good. Call back all the people. We're leaving Earth and its people to their own demise. Maybe they will remember what we meant to them."
"Sir are you sure?" Trandar said tears starting to form in his eyes. He knew what leaving the humans would mean for Fangar. But he could not cry. Not in front of his best friend.
"Yes. As the humans would say, fuck 'em."
--------------
John stumbled out of the bar, drunk off his ass. The fighting had been hard. Nearly 15 years of fighting the human pawns of the Trazians but they had did it. They had won the war. He and a lot of his friends had been celebrating all week. To think that the Trazians had the gall to come here 700 years ago, and try to tell humans how to live their lives. What a bunch of punks. Coming in here telling us that they are here to serve. If that copy of *To Serve Man* hadn't been rediscovered and passed around to show the truth of the Trazians, then the humans might have gone extinct. Luckily John's ancestors had the forethought to document everything. As the door opened up with more drunk patrons leaving, one of them shouted out "Fuck the Trazians!"
There was a resounding cheer from everyone inside the bar and John cheered too saying, "Yeah! Fuck 'em!" | |
[WP] Conquering humanity wasn't the problem. Keeping them conquered, that's where the problem laid. | "How... Just fuckin' HOW?! How did these humans take an entire capital city from us?! We've taken away their weaponry, only given them the simplest technology to improve food production, infrastructure, and medical treatment. They can't actually use our weaponry, there so many protections against that! So... How, just how..."
"There's so much in the report, sir. I don't know where to start."
"Fine. Let's break in down in steps. Okay... Um... How did they break into the armory located outside the city? There's a huge barrier and protective shield there."
"They used one of our tanks, sir."
"HOW?! The genetic scanners would have kept them locked out!"
"Well, they didn't use the tank as a tank."
"Okay... I'm listening."
"They somehow found an engineering flaw that causes the tanks to become, well, projectiles."
"They launched a... tank?"
"Yes, it seems will some strange mixture of bonding agent, animal fat soap, gunpowder, sugar, and what our scientists have determined to be a... lime?"
"You mean the green, extremely sour tree fruit?"
"Yes. It seems that combination creates an explosive that blasts a gas mixture into the intake of the cooling coils of the fusion core that reacts rather violently to a nanocompound in the exchanger that-"
"WHAT. DOES. IT. DO?"
"The tank reactor overloads, breaches in one particular spot, and propells the tank at near ballistic speeds."
"They somehow turned a reactor with the best safety record, having no recorded critical failures for over a 100 years, into a rocket and propelled one of our armor vehicles into the barriers?!"
"Yes. Actually... all five of them parked outside the armory."
"Okay. So they broke down the barrier. How did they get past the numerous power armored guards?"
"With grenades."
". . . "
"Not our grenades, but their own... But not the ones we seized, those wouldn't have done anything to our armor. These were new."
"And how did these grenades blow up our guards?!"
"They didn't."
"... What?"
"They didn't 'blow up'. They imploded."
"Again, I'm listening."
"They somehow managed to scrap the tiny gravity generators in our childrens' toys that were thrown out, strip them apart, reassemble them in a strange configuration, and put a trigger switch to a collection of common fusion cell batteries. When the grenades are triggered, the time switch goes off in 5 seconds, the fusion cells deplete instaneously into the gravity generators-"
"You mean they figured out how to remove the layers upon layers of safety mechanisms?"
"Yes, every last one."
"So... what happened?"
"The grenades created massive momentary gravitational fields strong enough to... And I still can't believe this but the readings correspond... The fields were strong enough to create micro-black holes."
"THEY CREATED BLACK HOLE GRENADES?! From our toys and batteries?!"
"Yes. The guards and parts of the base were drawn towards these micro-black holes. Most just ran into each other violently enough to incapacitate. Some were drawn into the actual black holes."
"Okay... That explains how they got in and how they got pass the guards. What did they take? How much of our weaponry did they manage to take from us. Great elders know what they're going to do with it."
"None."
"Explain."
"They didn't take any weaponry, they went to the maintenance section."
"I don't like where this is going."
"They took only one type of item. The repair nano-lathes."
". . . Those things are programed to only create a certain set of designs and repair them. How- No, nevermind how. What was the result?"
"We were able to secure one of the results. Here it is."
"That doesn't look exactly like a nano-lathe, what is it."
"It's a nano-lathe of their design, created by our nano-lathes, that's weaponized."
"Yes. I figured. At this point, I'm ready to ban anything more advanced than a toaster from these humans. What does it do?"
"I'll show you. I'll use the cart we brought it in on as a target. When the weapon fires, it launches a ball of nano-machines at the target, where it breaks down the target into base materials, and then... it reassembles what it finds useful into-"
"MORE GUNS?! They made a gun that shoots and makes more guns?!"
"Yes. Sir. This is the most horrifying thing I've seen. Yet."
"You know, we shouldn't conquered these humans... ... ... ..."
"Sir?"
"... We should have contracted them out." | It had been nearly 700 Earth years since the people of Earth had surrendered control over to the Trazian people. The humans had decided that the only way for them to stay united was to have a government in charge by an outside control so there would be no issues of race, religion, or sex within the laws. It was an issue that had plagued the humans almost since the dawn of their existence and in some aspects still continues to plague them today. The Trazians saw this, understood this, and begrudgingly accepted the human proposal. They were put in charge of judging crimes, settling disputes between countries, and were the police force of every country. The humans still had control of their borders and laws but the Trazians were there as an unbiased 3rd party to make sure justice was carried out. The Trazians remember the original reason why they were put in charge, after all a Trazian lifespan is around 900 Earth years. Humans however, lived for a collective total of around 80 years. So as the generations passed the humans went from outrage, to acceptance, to suspicion, and now rebellion. At first it started with a few teenagers rebelling. But then when 20 of them attacked a Trazian officer and he was forced to fight back, that's when the human media came in. Now there are sects of humans rebelling against their supposed Trazian overlords, despite the fact that the Trazians have done absolutely nothing in terms of law making. In fact they Trazians gave more technology than they recieved. But *nooooo* the humans thought that the Trazians were some sort of puppeteer, lurking in the shadows, controlling the collective governments. Farngar was recollecting how good times had been at the start. He had led his people to a new Golden Age. They finally had someone they could trust, who hadn't taken advantage of them, who had shared brand new ideas and forms of entertainment, and the the Trazian people had never been happier. *He* had never been happier. For while the humans rebelled against their supposed masters, what they didn't know was that Trazians were naturally subservient. In fact if they had no one to serve they would become so depressed that their life span was basically cut down by 90%. So for the Leader of the Trazians to finally in turn have someone to serve, it was as the humans would say, a godsend. Fangar turned to his second in command, "Did the humans put down the rebellion in England?"
"Yes sir, they did it without any of ours assisting," Trandar looked like he wanted to say more. Fangar sighed.
"What is it?"
"Well sir it looks like the latest rebellion propaganda states that, the soldiers were being coerced into fighting them by us. In fact it has spawned twelve more sects across the world." Trandar responded.
Fangar's sigh grew longer. He put his hands to his face. "Alright. Looks like this arrangement has run its course. How much technology have we given them?"
"Well just some ways to create more cost efficient energy without consuming their natural resources, some entertainment, and the food creation device."
"So no travel technology?" Trandar shook his head no. "Good. Call back all the people. We're leaving Earth and its people to their own demise. Maybe they will remember what we meant to them."
"Sir are you sure?" Trandar said tears starting to form in his eyes. He knew what leaving the humans would mean for Fangar. But he could not cry. Not in front of his best friend.
"Yes. As the humans would say, fuck 'em."
--------------
John stumbled out of the bar, drunk off his ass. The fighting had been hard. Nearly 15 years of fighting the human pawns of the Trazians but they had did it. They had won the war. He and a lot of his friends had been celebrating all week. To think that the Trazians had the gall to come here 700 years ago, and try to tell humans how to live their lives. What a bunch of punks. Coming in here telling us that they are here to serve. If that copy of *To Serve Man* hadn't been rediscovered and passed around to show the truth of the Trazians, then the humans might have gone extinct. Luckily John's ancestors had the forethought to document everything. As the door opened up with more drunk patrons leaving, one of them shouted out "Fuck the Trazians!"
There was a resounding cheer from everyone inside the bar and John cheered too saying, "Yeah! Fuck 'em!" | |
[WP] Conquering humanity wasn't the problem. Keeping them conquered, that's where the problem laid. | "How... Just fuckin' HOW?! How did these humans take an entire capital city from us?! We've taken away their weaponry, only given them the simplest technology to improve food production, infrastructure, and medical treatment. They can't actually use our weaponry, there so many protections against that! So... How, just how..."
"There's so much in the report, sir. I don't know where to start."
"Fine. Let's break in down in steps. Okay... Um... How did they break into the armory located outside the city? There's a huge barrier and protective shield there."
"They used one of our tanks, sir."
"HOW?! The genetic scanners would have kept them locked out!"
"Well, they didn't use the tank as a tank."
"Okay... I'm listening."
"They somehow found an engineering flaw that causes the tanks to become, well, projectiles."
"They launched a... tank?"
"Yes, it seems will some strange mixture of bonding agent, animal fat soap, gunpowder, sugar, and what our scientists have determined to be a... lime?"
"You mean the green, extremely sour tree fruit?"
"Yes. It seems that combination creates an explosive that blasts a gas mixture into the intake of the cooling coils of the fusion core that reacts rather violently to a nanocompound in the exchanger that-"
"WHAT. DOES. IT. DO?"
"The tank reactor overloads, breaches in one particular spot, and propells the tank at near ballistic speeds."
"They somehow turned a reactor with the best safety record, having no recorded critical failures for over a 100 years, into a rocket and propelled one of our armor vehicles into the barriers?!"
"Yes. Actually... all five of them parked outside the armory."
"Okay. So they broke down the barrier. How did they get past the numerous power armored guards?"
"With grenades."
". . . "
"Not our grenades, but their own... But not the ones we seized, those wouldn't have done anything to our armor. These were new."
"And how did these grenades blow up our guards?!"
"They didn't."
"... What?"
"They didn't 'blow up'. They imploded."
"Again, I'm listening."
"They somehow managed to scrap the tiny gravity generators in our childrens' toys that were thrown out, strip them apart, reassemble them in a strange configuration, and put a trigger switch to a collection of common fusion cell batteries. When the grenades are triggered, the time switch goes off in 5 seconds, the fusion cells deplete instaneously into the gravity generators-"
"You mean they figured out how to remove the layers upon layers of safety mechanisms?"
"Yes, every last one."
"So... what happened?"
"The grenades created massive momentary gravitational fields strong enough to... And I still can't believe this but the readings correspond... The fields were strong enough to create micro-black holes."
"THEY CREATED BLACK HOLE GRENADES?! From our toys and batteries?!"
"Yes. The guards and parts of the base were drawn towards these micro-black holes. Most just ran into each other violently enough to incapacitate. Some were drawn into the actual black holes."
"Okay... That explains how they got in and how they got pass the guards. What did they take? How much of our weaponry did they manage to take from us. Great elders know what they're going to do with it."
"None."
"Explain."
"They didn't take any weaponry, they went to the maintenance section."
"I don't like where this is going."
"They took only one type of item. The repair nano-lathes."
". . . Those things are programed to only create a certain set of designs and repair them. How- No, nevermind how. What was the result?"
"We were able to secure one of the results. Here it is."
"That doesn't look exactly like a nano-lathe, what is it."
"It's a nano-lathe of their design, created by our nano-lathes, that's weaponized."
"Yes. I figured. At this point, I'm ready to ban anything more advanced than a toaster from these humans. What does it do?"
"I'll show you. I'll use the cart we brought it in on as a target. When the weapon fires, it launches a ball of nano-machines at the target, where it breaks down the target into base materials, and then... it reassembles what it finds useful into-"
"MORE GUNS?! They made a gun that shoots and makes more guns?!"
"Yes. Sir. This is the most horrifying thing I've seen. Yet."
"You know, we shouldn't conquered these humans... ... ... ..."
"Sir?"
"... We should have contracted them out." | Cities burned, governments fell like dominoes. The rich, the powerful, they saw a new kind of wealth, a new kind of power.
Capitulation was swift. Those which accepted the righteous authority of the Dominators lived, leaders paid well in technology and wealth beyond their wildest dreams. Those who refused them died, though there were few enough of those.
All told, the "war" took three hours. Just long enough for the rulers of this diseased little rock to realize that there were no real "negotiations" only terms. Mercy would come or it would not, that was not for the humans to know or decide.
For two years things went smoothly. Certainly there were the occasional riots, quelled at the request of human viceroys no doubt as part of some greater plot. Certainly there was a thriving black market in illegally owned Dominator technology. Certainly there were problems, there was work aplenty for the Enforcers. But by and large the plebians worked in the factories, and they worked hard, and that was all the Dominators asked of a client race.
Until the world burned again.
We miscalculated. While the leaders were kept in line with access to technology that must have seemed a taste of paradise, the poor and unimportant bred malcontents and fostered a growing sense of disillusionment and hatred. Perhaps as an artifact of this "democracy" the humans were mostly occasioned to, even the average citizen somehow believed they were entitled to equal gain as their betters.
Com channels screamed as Viceroy after Viceroy called out for aid, the Enforcers incapable of responding to each threat. Com channels screamed and went silent. A show of force was needed.
The Enforcers poured into one city, putting each and every filthy human to the quiet. An unbroken line of glimmering power-armour stomping through the human defenses as though they weren't there.
Then the city burned in nuclear fire. Shields and armor overwhelmed, nearly 90% of the Enforcer garrison died. The humans had destroyed their own city and nearly two and a half million of their own people.
Immediately, we began to search for a Queen. An Ultimate Leader like the insect folk of Saa'ar Thanguil. One by one we fell, a thousand human trash dying for each enforcer. But still they came. But we were used to that, Saa'ar Thanguil was not forgotten, and the glory and power that would come was worth the risk.
But with each human enclave we purged we found nothing. Each "central" threat was regional, at best, and the threat reformed under a new leader in mere moments.
Finally, we realized, too late, what it meant. Humanity has no leader, no Queen, yet they care not for their individual power. Instead they fight for ideas, each fashions themselves their own leader. Recommend immediate Purgation. Humanity is too chaotic to be controlled. Their ideas too dangerous to be allowed to exist. | |
[WP] Conquering humanity wasn't the problem. Keeping them conquered, that's where the problem laid. | We had conquered them, in fact conquered them in record time. No other species, archaic or otherwise, had been as weak in technology and body as they. Within hours of our first troopship landing, we controlled every square centimeter of their landmasses. We even took one of their own back to the Council worlds as a curiosity, locked in a cage.
We made a small fortune over the next few weeks, as everyone wanted to see the barbarian slave from the Fifth Arm that could do such marvelous tricks. We even became so fond of him we thought of him as a pet, rather than a commodity. He was a wonderful little bugger, clever as any we'd captured before, and he always looked at everything with an expression of the utmost curiosity.
Then he escaped. No tunnels, no broken bodies, no mangled cage. Just the door, swinging open and an illegible message in his feces on the floor. We at first thought him stolen, until the Council Vanguard found him down at the spaceport, attempting to barter for passage on a trade vessel. We took possession of him once more, and this time we redoubled the strength and complexity of his locks. It held for some time, and then suddenly we were once again faced with an empty cage--though this time he had spared us the message. This time he was found in the market, bartering for some odd items from the Second Arm colonies.
Translation for the new species had been difficult at first, as they heard and spoke at a completely different frequency range than we did, but once we discovered the range, we placed the learning-translator in the cell with him, in a corner where he wouldn't notice it. They hoped to be able to converse with him within the week, if everything went well and he didn't find (and break) the learning-translator.
Two days after they successfully retrieved the translator, he escaped again. This time, it was much harder to find him, but they did nonetheless--in their own quarters, rifling through their possessions for whatever interested him.
When they asked him why he insisted on escaping, he simply replied, "Because it's fun!" | The clock ticked over to 8am.
Controller A watched the screen as rush hour burst into life. *He'd* been on Earth for what the humans called a year, but still found many aspects of their existence strange. The morning commute they endured was one such aspect. The calm of 7:59am had transcended into chaos by the time 8:01am rolled around.
Streets and corridors and platforms went from being empty to being instantly crammed full of the squashy creatures. Controller A connected *his* train of thought with Quadrant A's transportation station.
"Humans, your rush hour is about to hit its peak. Act with caution while waiting at platforms. If you don't, you risk being vapourised as the teleportation devices reset themselves. Your cooperation is valued."
As *he* disconnected his thoughts, *he* watched the screen and waited for the inevitable. The daily dissent. Some of the humans' faces showed signs of disgust. Others started pushing and pulling their fellow commuters to start disturbances. One older man who no longer had any hair held up his hands to the cameras, with his middle fingers extended. Apparently this was a most insulting gesture, though Controller A was still unsure why.
The man then took a step forward to the edge of the platform, closed his eyes and leaned forward into the teleportation area as the machines were gathering energy. He was instantly destroyed. It proved to be a catalyst as the other humans starting running this way and that. Some of the weaker beings had fallen to the floor and were being crushed to death. A few had chosen to follow the man's example and self-vapourise. Controller A connected his thoughts again.
"Guards, there is a human incident inside Quadrant A station. Quell the disturbance. Lethal force is authorised."
Controller B came closer to get a better look at the screen.
"Yet another protest, Con A. Curious. The humans fell easily, but now resist so much. What do they think such violence will achieve?"
"I don't know, Con B. Their spirit is strong. They know they will die, that they cannot win, yet they fight. Part of me finds it admirable. Foolish, but admirable."
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
I hope you liked reading my take on /u/mrpigpuncher 's prompt.
If you did, why not check out my novel, [The promise she made](http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01CC31H9A/ref=cm_sw_su_dp). Thanks :)
Or if you have any feedback I'd love to hear it. | |
[WP] Conquering humanity wasn't the problem. Keeping them conquered, that's where the problem laid. | Tell me Commander, how you managed to lose our stronghold… to these savages!?
I… underestimated them, general.
That doesn’t explain how they breached the containment, how they broke into our armory and got away with the weapons.
WHICH WHERE SUPPOSED TO SECURE OUR INVASION!
Sir, we had no idea what they were capable of!
They feigned subordination while silently sharpening their blades, ready to strike at any moment!
You had the warriors contained!
Where did they get their blades from, did they steal them from under your nose?!
Sir… it was not the warriors who retaliated… every member of their species seems to be devoid of caste, ready to take up the blade as soon as another had fallen.
There were just so many.
Some even juvenile, just a few sweeps old and already chucking incendiaries at our forces!
Commander!
These are savages!
Their measly gunpowder could not put a scratch on our force fields.
How did they get inside the compound?!
Where did your vigilance fail?!
They… did not gain access by subterfuge or stealth… they used the weapons from the prison camp.
But those were locked!
I personally made sure that the cipher devices were intact!
As soon as one of those savages gets their dirty little grubs on one they blow up!
They… weaponized the cipher devices, sir.
WHAT?
They captured two of the soldiers while they were holding a weapon and wrapped them up, only to chuck them at our force field projectors, like some kind of… grenade.
The fusion reactors were overpowered.
At least tell me you can capture them soon, if this ridiculous situation gets any more embarrassing I won’t be surprised if the supreme one orders us incinerated by orbital strike with the rest of these pathetic savages.
Sir… capturing them is now the least of our concerns.
They have… They…
What is it?
Spit it out.
They are giving away their position openly, transmitting a signal by radio.
So?
Why have you not wiped them out already?!
They… appear to have broken the cipher sir. | The clock ticked over to 8am.
Controller A watched the screen as rush hour burst into life. *He'd* been on Earth for what the humans called a year, but still found many aspects of their existence strange. The morning commute they endured was one such aspect. The calm of 7:59am had transcended into chaos by the time 8:01am rolled around.
Streets and corridors and platforms went from being empty to being instantly crammed full of the squashy creatures. Controller A connected *his* train of thought with Quadrant A's transportation station.
"Humans, your rush hour is about to hit its peak. Act with caution while waiting at platforms. If you don't, you risk being vapourised as the teleportation devices reset themselves. Your cooperation is valued."
As *he* disconnected his thoughts, *he* watched the screen and waited for the inevitable. The daily dissent. Some of the humans' faces showed signs of disgust. Others started pushing and pulling their fellow commuters to start disturbances. One older man who no longer had any hair held up his hands to the cameras, with his middle fingers extended. Apparently this was a most insulting gesture, though Controller A was still unsure why.
The man then took a step forward to the edge of the platform, closed his eyes and leaned forward into the teleportation area as the machines were gathering energy. He was instantly destroyed. It proved to be a catalyst as the other humans starting running this way and that. Some of the weaker beings had fallen to the floor and were being crushed to death. A few had chosen to follow the man's example and self-vapourise. Controller A connected his thoughts again.
"Guards, there is a human incident inside Quadrant A station. Quell the disturbance. Lethal force is authorised."
Controller B came closer to get a better look at the screen.
"Yet another protest, Con A. Curious. The humans fell easily, but now resist so much. What do they think such violence will achieve?"
"I don't know, Con B. Their spirit is strong. They know they will die, that they cannot win, yet they fight. Part of me finds it admirable. Foolish, but admirable."
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
I hope you liked reading my take on /u/mrpigpuncher 's prompt.
If you did, why not check out my novel, [The promise she made](http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01CC31H9A/ref=cm_sw_su_dp). Thanks :)
Or if you have any feedback I'd love to hear it. | |
[WP] Conquering humanity wasn't the problem. Keeping them conquered, that's where the problem laid. | "How... Just fuckin' HOW?! How did these humans take an entire capital city from us?! We've taken away their weaponry, only given them the simplest technology to improve food production, infrastructure, and medical treatment. They can't actually use our weaponry, there so many protections against that! So... How, just how..."
"There's so much in the report, sir. I don't know where to start."
"Fine. Let's break in down in steps. Okay... Um... How did they break into the armory located outside the city? There's a huge barrier and protective shield there."
"They used one of our tanks, sir."
"HOW?! The genetic scanners would have kept them locked out!"
"Well, they didn't use the tank as a tank."
"Okay... I'm listening."
"They somehow found an engineering flaw that causes the tanks to become, well, projectiles."
"They launched a... tank?"
"Yes, it seems will some strange mixture of bonding agent, animal fat soap, gunpowder, sugar, and what our scientists have determined to be a... lime?"
"You mean the green, extremely sour tree fruit?"
"Yes. It seems that combination creates an explosive that blasts a gas mixture into the intake of the cooling coils of the fusion core that reacts rather violently to a nanocompound in the exchanger that-"
"WHAT. DOES. IT. DO?"
"The tank reactor overloads, breaches in one particular spot, and propells the tank at near ballistic speeds."
"They somehow turned a reactor with the best safety record, having no recorded critical failures for over a 100 years, into a rocket and propelled one of our armor vehicles into the barriers?!"
"Yes. Actually... all five of them parked outside the armory."
"Okay. So they broke down the barrier. How did they get past the numerous power armored guards?"
"With grenades."
". . . "
"Not our grenades, but their own... But not the ones we seized, those wouldn't have done anything to our armor. These were new."
"And how did these grenades blow up our guards?!"
"They didn't."
"... What?"
"They didn't 'blow up'. They imploded."
"Again, I'm listening."
"They somehow managed to scrap the tiny gravity generators in our childrens' toys that were thrown out, strip them apart, reassemble them in a strange configuration, and put a trigger switch to a collection of common fusion cell batteries. When the grenades are triggered, the time switch goes off in 5 seconds, the fusion cells deplete instaneously into the gravity generators-"
"You mean they figured out how to remove the layers upon layers of safety mechanisms?"
"Yes, every last one."
"So... what happened?"
"The grenades created massive momentary gravitational fields strong enough to... And I still can't believe this but the readings correspond... The fields were strong enough to create micro-black holes."
"THEY CREATED BLACK HOLE GRENADES?! From our toys and batteries?!"
"Yes. The guards and parts of the base were drawn towards these micro-black holes. Most just ran into each other violently enough to incapacitate. Some were drawn into the actual black holes."
"Okay... That explains how they got in and how they got pass the guards. What did they take? How much of our weaponry did they manage to take from us. Great elders know what they're going to do with it."
"None."
"Explain."
"They didn't take any weaponry, they went to the maintenance section."
"I don't like where this is going."
"They took only one type of item. The repair nano-lathes."
". . . Those things are programed to only create a certain set of designs and repair them. How- No, nevermind how. What was the result?"
"We were able to secure one of the results. Here it is."
"That doesn't look exactly like a nano-lathe, what is it."
"It's a nano-lathe of their design, created by our nano-lathes, that's weaponized."
"Yes. I figured. At this point, I'm ready to ban anything more advanced than a toaster from these humans. What does it do?"
"I'll show you. I'll use the cart we brought it in on as a target. When the weapon fires, it launches a ball of nano-machines at the target, where it breaks down the target into base materials, and then... it reassembles what it finds useful into-"
"MORE GUNS?! They made a gun that shoots and makes more guns?!"
"Yes. Sir. This is the most horrifying thing I've seen. Yet."
"You know, we shouldn't conquered these humans... ... ... ..."
"Sir?"
"... We should have contracted them out." | The clock ticked over to 8am.
Controller A watched the screen as rush hour burst into life. *He'd* been on Earth for what the humans called a year, but still found many aspects of their existence strange. The morning commute they endured was one such aspect. The calm of 7:59am had transcended into chaos by the time 8:01am rolled around.
Streets and corridors and platforms went from being empty to being instantly crammed full of the squashy creatures. Controller A connected *his* train of thought with Quadrant A's transportation station.
"Humans, your rush hour is about to hit its peak. Act with caution while waiting at platforms. If you don't, you risk being vapourised as the teleportation devices reset themselves. Your cooperation is valued."
As *he* disconnected his thoughts, *he* watched the screen and waited for the inevitable. The daily dissent. Some of the humans' faces showed signs of disgust. Others started pushing and pulling their fellow commuters to start disturbances. One older man who no longer had any hair held up his hands to the cameras, with his middle fingers extended. Apparently this was a most insulting gesture, though Controller A was still unsure why.
The man then took a step forward to the edge of the platform, closed his eyes and leaned forward into the teleportation area as the machines were gathering energy. He was instantly destroyed. It proved to be a catalyst as the other humans starting running this way and that. Some of the weaker beings had fallen to the floor and were being crushed to death. A few had chosen to follow the man's example and self-vapourise. Controller A connected his thoughts again.
"Guards, there is a human incident inside Quadrant A station. Quell the disturbance. Lethal force is authorised."
Controller B came closer to get a better look at the screen.
"Yet another protest, Con A. Curious. The humans fell easily, but now resist so much. What do they think such violence will achieve?"
"I don't know, Con B. Their spirit is strong. They know they will die, that they cannot win, yet they fight. Part of me finds it admirable. Foolish, but admirable."
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
I hope you liked reading my take on /u/mrpigpuncher 's prompt.
If you did, why not check out my novel, [The promise she made](http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01CC31H9A/ref=cm_sw_su_dp). Thanks :)
Or if you have any feedback I'd love to hear it. | |
[WP] Conquering humanity wasn't the problem. Keeping them conquered, that's where the problem laid. | "How... Just fuckin' HOW?! How did these humans take an entire capital city from us?! We've taken away their weaponry, only given them the simplest technology to improve food production, infrastructure, and medical treatment. They can't actually use our weaponry, there so many protections against that! So... How, just how..."
"There's so much in the report, sir. I don't know where to start."
"Fine. Let's break in down in steps. Okay... Um... How did they break into the armory located outside the city? There's a huge barrier and protective shield there."
"They used one of our tanks, sir."
"HOW?! The genetic scanners would have kept them locked out!"
"Well, they didn't use the tank as a tank."
"Okay... I'm listening."
"They somehow found an engineering flaw that causes the tanks to become, well, projectiles."
"They launched a... tank?"
"Yes, it seems will some strange mixture of bonding agent, animal fat soap, gunpowder, sugar, and what our scientists have determined to be a... lime?"
"You mean the green, extremely sour tree fruit?"
"Yes. It seems that combination creates an explosive that blasts a gas mixture into the intake of the cooling coils of the fusion core that reacts rather violently to a nanocompound in the exchanger that-"
"WHAT. DOES. IT. DO?"
"The tank reactor overloads, breaches in one particular spot, and propells the tank at near ballistic speeds."
"They somehow turned a reactor with the best safety record, having no recorded critical failures for over a 100 years, into a rocket and propelled one of our armor vehicles into the barriers?!"
"Yes. Actually... all five of them parked outside the armory."
"Okay. So they broke down the barrier. How did they get past the numerous power armored guards?"
"With grenades."
". . . "
"Not our grenades, but their own... But not the ones we seized, those wouldn't have done anything to our armor. These were new."
"And how did these grenades blow up our guards?!"
"They didn't."
"... What?"
"They didn't 'blow up'. They imploded."
"Again, I'm listening."
"They somehow managed to scrap the tiny gravity generators in our childrens' toys that were thrown out, strip them apart, reassemble them in a strange configuration, and put a trigger switch to a collection of common fusion cell batteries. When the grenades are triggered, the time switch goes off in 5 seconds, the fusion cells deplete instaneously into the gravity generators-"
"You mean they figured out how to remove the layers upon layers of safety mechanisms?"
"Yes, every last one."
"So... what happened?"
"The grenades created massive momentary gravitational fields strong enough to... And I still can't believe this but the readings correspond... The fields were strong enough to create micro-black holes."
"THEY CREATED BLACK HOLE GRENADES?! From our toys and batteries?!"
"Yes. The guards and parts of the base were drawn towards these micro-black holes. Most just ran into each other violently enough to incapacitate. Some were drawn into the actual black holes."
"Okay... That explains how they got in and how they got pass the guards. What did they take? How much of our weaponry did they manage to take from us. Great elders know what they're going to do with it."
"None."
"Explain."
"They didn't take any weaponry, they went to the maintenance section."
"I don't like where this is going."
"They took only one type of item. The repair nano-lathes."
". . . Those things are programed to only create a certain set of designs and repair them. How- No, nevermind how. What was the result?"
"We were able to secure one of the results. Here it is."
"That doesn't look exactly like a nano-lathe, what is it."
"It's a nano-lathe of their design, created by our nano-lathes, that's weaponized."
"Yes. I figured. At this point, I'm ready to ban anything more advanced than a toaster from these humans. What does it do?"
"I'll show you. I'll use the cart we brought it in on as a target. When the weapon fires, it launches a ball of nano-machines at the target, where it breaks down the target into base materials, and then... it reassembles what it finds useful into-"
"MORE GUNS?! They made a gun that shoots and makes more guns?!"
"Yes. Sir. This is the most horrifying thing I've seen. Yet."
"You know, we shouldn't conquered these humans... ... ... ..."
"Sir?"
"... We should have contracted them out." | We had conquered them, in fact conquered them in record time. No other species, archaic or otherwise, had been as weak in technology and body as they. Within hours of our first troopship landing, we controlled every square centimeter of their landmasses. We even took one of their own back to the Council worlds as a curiosity, locked in a cage.
We made a small fortune over the next few weeks, as everyone wanted to see the barbarian slave from the Fifth Arm that could do such marvelous tricks. We even became so fond of him we thought of him as a pet, rather than a commodity. He was a wonderful little bugger, clever as any we'd captured before, and he always looked at everything with an expression of the utmost curiosity.
Then he escaped. No tunnels, no broken bodies, no mangled cage. Just the door, swinging open and an illegible message in his feces on the floor. We at first thought him stolen, until the Council Vanguard found him down at the spaceport, attempting to barter for passage on a trade vessel. We took possession of him once more, and this time we redoubled the strength and complexity of his locks. It held for some time, and then suddenly we were once again faced with an empty cage--though this time he had spared us the message. This time he was found in the market, bartering for some odd items from the Second Arm colonies.
Translation for the new species had been difficult at first, as they heard and spoke at a completely different frequency range than we did, but once we discovered the range, we placed the learning-translator in the cell with him, in a corner where he wouldn't notice it. They hoped to be able to converse with him within the week, if everything went well and he didn't find (and break) the learning-translator.
Two days after they successfully retrieved the translator, he escaped again. This time, it was much harder to find him, but they did nonetheless--in their own quarters, rifling through their possessions for whatever interested him.
When they asked him why he insisted on escaping, he simply replied, "Because it's fun!" | |
[WP] Conquering humanity wasn't the problem. Keeping them conquered, that's where the problem laid. | "How... Just fuckin' HOW?! How did these humans take an entire capital city from us?! We've taken away their weaponry, only given them the simplest technology to improve food production, infrastructure, and medical treatment. They can't actually use our weaponry, there so many protections against that! So... How, just how..."
"There's so much in the report, sir. I don't know where to start."
"Fine. Let's break in down in steps. Okay... Um... How did they break into the armory located outside the city? There's a huge barrier and protective shield there."
"They used one of our tanks, sir."
"HOW?! The genetic scanners would have kept them locked out!"
"Well, they didn't use the tank as a tank."
"Okay... I'm listening."
"They somehow found an engineering flaw that causes the tanks to become, well, projectiles."
"They launched a... tank?"
"Yes, it seems will some strange mixture of bonding agent, animal fat soap, gunpowder, sugar, and what our scientists have determined to be a... lime?"
"You mean the green, extremely sour tree fruit?"
"Yes. It seems that combination creates an explosive that blasts a gas mixture into the intake of the cooling coils of the fusion core that reacts rather violently to a nanocompound in the exchanger that-"
"WHAT. DOES. IT. DO?"
"The tank reactor overloads, breaches in one particular spot, and propells the tank at near ballistic speeds."
"They somehow turned a reactor with the best safety record, having no recorded critical failures for over a 100 years, into a rocket and propelled one of our armor vehicles into the barriers?!"
"Yes. Actually... all five of them parked outside the armory."
"Okay. So they broke down the barrier. How did they get past the numerous power armored guards?"
"With grenades."
". . . "
"Not our grenades, but their own... But not the ones we seized, those wouldn't have done anything to our armor. These were new."
"And how did these grenades blow up our guards?!"
"They didn't."
"... What?"
"They didn't 'blow up'. They imploded."
"Again, I'm listening."
"They somehow managed to scrap the tiny gravity generators in our childrens' toys that were thrown out, strip them apart, reassemble them in a strange configuration, and put a trigger switch to a collection of common fusion cell batteries. When the grenades are triggered, the time switch goes off in 5 seconds, the fusion cells deplete instaneously into the gravity generators-"
"You mean they figured out how to remove the layers upon layers of safety mechanisms?"
"Yes, every last one."
"So... what happened?"
"The grenades created massive momentary gravitational fields strong enough to... And I still can't believe this but the readings correspond... The fields were strong enough to create micro-black holes."
"THEY CREATED BLACK HOLE GRENADES?! From our toys and batteries?!"
"Yes. The guards and parts of the base were drawn towards these micro-black holes. Most just ran into each other violently enough to incapacitate. Some were drawn into the actual black holes."
"Okay... That explains how they got in and how they got pass the guards. What did they take? How much of our weaponry did they manage to take from us. Great elders know what they're going to do with it."
"None."
"Explain."
"They didn't take any weaponry, they went to the maintenance section."
"I don't like where this is going."
"They took only one type of item. The repair nano-lathes."
". . . Those things are programed to only create a certain set of designs and repair them. How- No, nevermind how. What was the result?"
"We were able to secure one of the results. Here it is."
"That doesn't look exactly like a nano-lathe, what is it."
"It's a nano-lathe of their design, created by our nano-lathes, that's weaponized."
"Yes. I figured. At this point, I'm ready to ban anything more advanced than a toaster from these humans. What does it do?"
"I'll show you. I'll use the cart we brought it in on as a target. When the weapon fires, it launches a ball of nano-machines at the target, where it breaks down the target into base materials, and then... it reassembles what it finds useful into-"
"MORE GUNS?! They made a gun that shoots and makes more guns?!"
"Yes. Sir. This is the most horrifying thing I've seen. Yet."
"You know, we shouldn't conquered these humans... ... ... ..."
"Sir?"
"... We should have contracted them out." | Tell me Commander, how you managed to lose our stronghold… to these savages!?
I… underestimated them, general.
That doesn’t explain how they breached the containment, how they broke into our armory and got away with the weapons.
WHICH WHERE SUPPOSED TO SECURE OUR INVASION!
Sir, we had no idea what they were capable of!
They feigned subordination while silently sharpening their blades, ready to strike at any moment!
You had the warriors contained!
Where did they get their blades from, did they steal them from under your nose?!
Sir… it was not the warriors who retaliated… every member of their species seems to be devoid of caste, ready to take up the blade as soon as another had fallen.
There were just so many.
Some even juvenile, just a few sweeps old and already chucking incendiaries at our forces!
Commander!
These are savages!
Their measly gunpowder could not put a scratch on our force fields.
How did they get inside the compound?!
Where did your vigilance fail?!
They… did not gain access by subterfuge or stealth… they used the weapons from the prison camp.
But those were locked!
I personally made sure that the cipher devices were intact!
As soon as one of those savages gets their dirty little grubs on one they blow up!
They… weaponized the cipher devices, sir.
WHAT?
They captured two of the soldiers while they were holding a weapon and wrapped them up, only to chuck them at our force field projectors, like some kind of… grenade.
The fusion reactors were overpowered.
At least tell me you can capture them soon, if this ridiculous situation gets any more embarrassing I won’t be surprised if the supreme one orders us incinerated by orbital strike with the rest of these pathetic savages.
Sir… capturing them is now the least of our concerns.
They have… They…
What is it?
Spit it out.
They are giving away their position openly, transmitting a signal by radio.
So?
Why have you not wiped them out already?!
They… appear to have broken the cipher sir. | |
[Wp] It takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. Without realising, you've just hit 10,000 hours of (random mundane task) | A dozen bags a day, four wheels per bag, six scones per wheel. This adds up to 288 scones every day. It never did cease to amaze that the Amilicia pastry shop sold nearly every single one. As one of the few remaining storefronts in the concrete gulch that was the rebuilt Front Street, the Amilicia family's 1962 storefront gave the men of the towers a consistently excellent pick-me-up. But that meant that a traditional bakery drove the traffic of small shopping center, and that meant that all Garrison "Gary" Swartz did from the hours of 6 till 3, Friday to Tuesday.
Every step was repeated. And repeated. And repeated. Of the 6 flavors, three followed a fruit-inside-nuts on top model. The other's subtle difference was one of the few things that kept him from going bananas, coincidentally one of the strange English phrases he mulled while dumping 2.2 ounces of frozen banana onto a flat pancake of dough. His superiors made sure he knew that the banana walnut scones where the best profit makers, and to keep up the good work.
"good work" was another phrase that spent it's fair share of time being mulled, because it was never a description he applied to his scones. The Amilicia pastry shop knew roughly how many scones to make every day, and didn't see much change in volume of business, and the second shift would start immediately after Gary left the Bakery. So the road to the requested bag quota was littered with plenty of time spent blankly staring into space. Coffee was always available, and Gary was one of the bakery's many artists of the overcomplicated brew. It was a terrible cheap Mediterranean espresso roast that came in bags the size of cattle, so now matter what you did to it you'd be left with motor oil. So every employee would exhaustively labor over a pot for almost an hour and still have license to bitch to about the "Amilicia sludge coffee".
But when the news broadcast, played through verbatim 3 times from seven to ten on the building speakers, was too full of disgusting things done by disgusting people, seven simple steps kept a rhythm. A rhythm that could drown out the soft and solemn voice carrying through the high flat walls. The recipes where on the wall in front of the high steel table. Their precise measures never made it into the scones Gary made, always a little above or below the figures in little sans - serif capitals. Everyone knew the cinnamon scones produced more than what the sheets said, due to it being a direct copy of a recipe saved by Vincent Amilicia when a shell started a fire in his store. Despite being a patriotic symbol of wartime pride and spirit, the man was a bit of a dozy cunt when you get right down to it.
Every recipe had at least one typo or minor fuck up of conversion, and despite that once you figured out what he meant they reliably produced buttery flaky pastry with just enough sweetness, flavor and texture to justify it being expensive enough to turn a profit. This was another reason was dubious about the amount he was told "good job". Because he didn't come up with pastry, he was just an instruction following machine. The devilish chemistry wasn't his invention, all he did was churn out the same tasks every day.
Of all the reasons to leave the job of weighing, mixing, weighing again, filling, shaping, cutting and freezing the lack of creative potential was near the bottom. The creative potential it offered was it's pay and placement, and when it came time to leave it wasn't unexpected. Three years at school, two years as an intern, a year serving on a border wall far from danger, five years as a data analyst, two hours on a commuter plane and a bus ride to a stop closest to offices of his new employers put him back in front of the yellow tinged glow of Amilicia pastry shop on front street. He had an hour until his interview, so he elected to amuse himself by purchasing one of those banana nut scones he so rarely saw returned to the staff after closing time. After recognizing No one in the store and spending a few cents more than he remembered, he found himself with a dry, flat scone that covered his hands in sticky fruit.
Maybe he did a better job than he thought. | Soap suds bubbled over the rim of the sink and onto the floor.
Breathing out a sigh, John dipped his hands into the warm dish filled water, reaching reflexively for a plate and washing brush. Most people hated doing the dishes, and so his wife and children praised him profoundly after dinner each day as he completed the job with a smile.
The first plate hit the rack with a clang, its white surface spotless besides the two soap suds dribbling down. Grinning, John snatched the second plate as if it were alive. Its surface came out cleaner then the first, he dipped it briefly into a dish of cold water and when it hit the rack it was perfect, no suds.
His hands of destruction denied dribs of dirt asylum on their own accord. In the mean time John thought of adultly problems like the rent, the power bill, work tomorrow. His swipes no longer at food grime, but at his thoughts weighing down so heavily on his palms.
Slowly the stiffness in his knuckles eased and John pulled the plug observing each hand in amazement. For some reason they almost seemed. . . brighter?
The grey dirt water that screeched down the plug hole to anyone else, would be just that. But John knew the truth and so he smiled simply satisfied.
"Baby, are you okay?" His wife whispered from behind. Startled, he realised he was standing, still looking down on open hands.
John turned, "Of course, Honey."
His hands met her cheeks, sharing some of his glow. His wife smiled, her face suddenly brightening. He kissed her, but his mind still lingered on the dishes.
No longer sure which of the two. . . He needed more.
| |
[Wp] It takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. Without realising, you've just hit 10,000 hours of (random mundane task) | The day started off like any other. Going through my daily routine on auto-pilot. Alarm, shower, tea, breakfast, the daily blast of current events, check the emails. Everything felt completely normal. I did find myself feeling a little friskier then usual, but no time for instant gratification! I had a job to go to.
My normal travel meant taking the subway from New Jersey to Manhattan, where I worked as a social media manager for an events marketing firm. Concerts, music festivals, artist interviews those sorts of things. After leaving my apartment it was clear things were a little different. I felt like I was in high school! Every girl that walked past me resulted in a tingling in my pants. By the time I was in the train car I was trying to hide a relentless boner through my thin and silky work slacks.
Fuckk I thought to myself. What the hell is going on here? I looked down at my bulging pants. The fuck bro? I tried to reason with my nether regions. It was no use. It demanded relief, it needed satisfaction. The girl in front of me, probably just turned 18, with a tiny short skirt and the red curls wasn't holding on to the bar of the train. When it went around a turn, resulting in some turbulence, she lost her balance falling backwards into my. Ass first. She basically impaled herself onto my raging salmon, and upon realizing what it was she'd stumbled on, let out a loud gasp and gave me the dirtiest look I'd ever had the displeasure of being on the receiving end of. She whispered to her friends and they all giggled and pointed at my pants.
I wanted to hide, but there were a couple stops to go and the train car was too crowded from the early commute to find refuge on the other side of the car. People did give me some space though. The normal looking guy trying to cover a boner the size of a Texas burger. I did my breathing exercises and attempted to meditate. Clearing my mind of all temptations. I tried listening to a podcast that covered human rights violations in the middle east. That seemed to do the trick. By the time I arrived at the 33rd street station, I'd regained a basic level of control over my impulses
Phew. I was making good time at this point, the boners were chilling out. I decided to walk to 20+ blocks to Columbus circle where I worked. Thinking the air would do me some good was a silly dream. I was still super horny and it was pissing me of.
I left the station and resumed my walk down Broadway avenue, through times square. A great way to start the day. Turned up some music and began my trek. I soon realized walking was a big mistake. Spring was in the air, layers were shed, girls were showing off their perfect legs and other gifts. Letting the skin breathe after the winter.
I tried to block everything out and walk in a straight line , keeping my head down and focusing on music. Along the way I ran into trouble with the people in superhero and Disney costumes on times square. Making a buck with the tourists by taking pictures with them. Minnie Mouse was looking finee. She reached her hand out.
“Want a picture cutie” she asked?
“Do i look like a damn tourist?” I snapped and pushed past her.
The statue of liberty on stilts made me want nothing more then to release a fat load onto that green sexy, historical face. I shook my head vigorously and went full speed ahead.
Where the fuck is my head at?? Jesus Christ brain take it down a goddamned notch I thought to myself. I managed to get close to where I worked a dozen or so blocks later. After several boners and untold raunchy thoughts. A bum near the corner of my building was screaming bloody murder, in a southern drawl, about gods, goddesses, reptilians, society, sexual awakenings. The last one caught my ears, I was definitely feeling some sort of awakening. As I wandered near the bum stopped his insane screaming and stared for the second. He stepped in front of me and stared me right in the eyes. I lost my boner. His grisled, gnarly yellow teeth, dirty scars, and petrified black eyes took care of that. He was staring into my soul.
In a completely calm and suddenly pleasant, perfect British accent.
"You are on the verge my son"
He smiled stepped aside and resumed his nonsensical rant as if nothing ever happened.
Confused and feeling uneasy, I continued into my building. Said hello to the door man and headed upstairs. Said a speedy hello to the cute receptionist and, avoiding all eye contact with other employees, headed straight into my dinky office, shut the door and sat at my desk. At last I had the oak desk as a barrier between my pocket rocket and the woman of the outside world.
We'll, what the fuck do I do now. I stared at the pile of papers on my desk, opened my laptop and checked the social media channels. Trying to keep my mind busy. Meanwhile the vagina miner in my pants was getting sick of my pathetic attempts to distract it from its ultimate goal. It needed a release. A tidal wave the likes of which Indonesia had never seen.
At that moment I knew I could hardly take it anymore. I was ready to throw on the porn, throw a sock on my office door and get to work.
It was at that precise moment that my office crush, Lilly, did a half assed knock and walked into my office. Peppy, quirky, full of energy and goddamned hot I'd had a crush on her ever since she came to the office months ago. She reminded me alot of Zooey Deshanel in both looks and attitude. Except Lilly had bigger boob's. And today she was showing them off particularly aggressively. Practically bulging out of her tiny blue shirt.
"Hey Jeff! Good morning. Here's that monthly report on - why are you so sweaty"?
"Hey you hi up Lilly I uh... jogged here from 33rd street still winding down" I replied nervously.
She beamed. "Look at you, you big honking marathon runner. "
She started jabbering about her latest exercise routine like a monkey on Meth. Shower her moves, stretching. At one point she started showing off her jogging form. Boob's bouncing practically in my face. Then it happened. A nip slipped out, just a bit. Just a tiny peek at a perfect, adorable pink nip. I couldn't take it any more.
"GET OUT!!" I roared. GET THE FUCK OUT LILLY YOU SEXY LITTLE BITCH...FUCK!"
Lilly stopped her jogging, looking shocked. Fixed her shirt. Calmly. Gave me a half crooked curious smile
"Calm the fuck down Jeff. Don't have to take it out on me. Something's obviously on my your mind today so I'll let that one slide" She winked. " Also, boss wants to see you in his office."
“Out Lilly!:” Pointed aggressively at the door. With both my hand and dick.
She gasped, slid out the door closing it authoritatively with a confident snap.
Jesus fucking fuck. My inner thought process was racing. Fuck the boss. Fuck this office . Fuck Lilly, literally. This is bullshit, something is wrong. I need to go fap right now. Get my head clear. Can't do it in my office. Too risky. | Soap suds bubbled over the rim of the sink and onto the floor.
Breathing out a sigh, John dipped his hands into the warm dish filled water, reaching reflexively for a plate and washing brush. Most people hated doing the dishes, and so his wife and children praised him profoundly after dinner each day as he completed the job with a smile.
The first plate hit the rack with a clang, its white surface spotless besides the two soap suds dribbling down. Grinning, John snatched the second plate as if it were alive. Its surface came out cleaner then the first, he dipped it briefly into a dish of cold water and when it hit the rack it was perfect, no suds.
His hands of destruction denied dribs of dirt asylum on their own accord. In the mean time John thought of adultly problems like the rent, the power bill, work tomorrow. His swipes no longer at food grime, but at his thoughts weighing down so heavily on his palms.
Slowly the stiffness in his knuckles eased and John pulled the plug observing each hand in amazement. For some reason they almost seemed. . . brighter?
The grey dirt water that screeched down the plug hole to anyone else, would be just that. But John knew the truth and so he smiled simply satisfied.
"Baby, are you okay?" His wife whispered from behind. Startled, he realised he was standing, still looking down on open hands.
John turned, "Of course, Honey."
His hands met her cheeks, sharing some of his glow. His wife smiled, her face suddenly brightening. He kissed her, but his mind still lingered on the dishes.
No longer sure which of the two. . . He needed more.
| |
[Wp] It takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. Without realising, you've just hit 10,000 hours of (random mundane task) | A dozen bags a day, four wheels per bag, six scones per wheel. This adds up to 288 scones every day. It never did cease to amaze that the Amilicia pastry shop sold nearly every single one. As one of the few remaining storefronts in the concrete gulch that was the rebuilt Front Street, the Amilicia family's 1962 storefront gave the men of the towers a consistently excellent pick-me-up. But that meant that a traditional bakery drove the traffic of small shopping center, and that meant that all Garrison "Gary" Swartz did from the hours of 6 till 3, Friday to Tuesday.
Every step was repeated. And repeated. And repeated. Of the 6 flavors, three followed a fruit-inside-nuts on top model. The other's subtle difference was one of the few things that kept him from going bananas, coincidentally one of the strange English phrases he mulled while dumping 2.2 ounces of frozen banana onto a flat pancake of dough. His superiors made sure he knew that the banana walnut scones where the best profit makers, and to keep up the good work.
"good work" was another phrase that spent it's fair share of time being mulled, because it was never a description he applied to his scones. The Amilicia pastry shop knew roughly how many scones to make every day, and didn't see much change in volume of business, and the second shift would start immediately after Gary left the Bakery. So the road to the requested bag quota was littered with plenty of time spent blankly staring into space. Coffee was always available, and Gary was one of the bakery's many artists of the overcomplicated brew. It was a terrible cheap Mediterranean espresso roast that came in bags the size of cattle, so now matter what you did to it you'd be left with motor oil. So every employee would exhaustively labor over a pot for almost an hour and still have license to bitch to about the "Amilicia sludge coffee".
But when the news broadcast, played through verbatim 3 times from seven to ten on the building speakers, was too full of disgusting things done by disgusting people, seven simple steps kept a rhythm. A rhythm that could drown out the soft and solemn voice carrying through the high flat walls. The recipes where on the wall in front of the high steel table. Their precise measures never made it into the scones Gary made, always a little above or below the figures in little sans - serif capitals. Everyone knew the cinnamon scones produced more than what the sheets said, due to it being a direct copy of a recipe saved by Vincent Amilicia when a shell started a fire in his store. Despite being a patriotic symbol of wartime pride and spirit, the man was a bit of a dozy cunt when you get right down to it.
Every recipe had at least one typo or minor fuck up of conversion, and despite that once you figured out what he meant they reliably produced buttery flaky pastry with just enough sweetness, flavor and texture to justify it being expensive enough to turn a profit. This was another reason was dubious about the amount he was told "good job". Because he didn't come up with pastry, he was just an instruction following machine. The devilish chemistry wasn't his invention, all he did was churn out the same tasks every day.
Of all the reasons to leave the job of weighing, mixing, weighing again, filling, shaping, cutting and freezing the lack of creative potential was near the bottom. The creative potential it offered was it's pay and placement, and when it came time to leave it wasn't unexpected. Three years at school, two years as an intern, a year serving on a border wall far from danger, five years as a data analyst, two hours on a commuter plane and a bus ride to a stop closest to offices of his new employers put him back in front of the yellow tinged glow of Amilicia pastry shop on front street. He had an hour until his interview, so he elected to amuse himself by purchasing one of those banana nut scones he so rarely saw returned to the staff after closing time. After recognizing No one in the store and spending a few cents more than he remembered, he found himself with a dry, flat scone that covered his hands in sticky fruit.
Maybe he did a better job than he thought. | I could hear the gurgle of my coffee maker as it churned the last drops of water into black gold. I tossed the remote aside, launched from the couch as the weatherman gave the daily forecast, swung open the fridge and lunged for creamer. The morning haze hadn't worn off yet and I had to leave for work in minutes. I poured the coffee into my favorite checkered travel mug and watched my brew swirl into a perfect caramel colored blend.
The mere smell and thought of my morning ritual had my stomach rumbling and my anus tightening before I even took a sip. *I've conditioned myself* I smirked at the thought while waddling with caution towards the bathroom in the opposite corner of my 400 square foot studio apartment. With my neck craned forward I slowly took my first sip of that sweet elixir while dropping trow, and with that taste on my lips I fell to my throne and thus ended the life cycle of whatever poor cow became a patty at the In 'n' Out on Sepulveda Blvd.
Not to get too descriptive about my "movements", but it was a satisfying evacuation to say the least. Solid, dense and foul. The tip breached the toilet water just enough to remind me of the bacteria and waste cleased from my temple.
I reached behind me with a paper mitten made from 2 ply Charmin woven around my hand and wiped one smooth stroke from front to back. Pridefully I took a look at what remnants of death I removed and smiled to myself as I dropped it behind my back into the bowl of water.
I reached behind with another, freshly prepared paper mitten and stroked my crack. I smiled prematurely as I stared at my white mitt. It was spotless. I dropped it behind my back into the water amd tried again. Nothing. White as cotton. My upper lip curled in confusion before morphing into a smile. *If only every time could be like this. Today's gonna be a good day* I thought as I stood up, flushed and took a gulp of my coffee.
tl;dr I'm now an expert at wiping my ass. | |
[Wp] It takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. Without realising, you've just hit 10,000 hours of (random mundane task) | The day started off like any other. Going through my daily routine on auto-pilot. Alarm, shower, tea, breakfast, the daily blast of current events, check the emails. Everything felt completely normal. I did find myself feeling a little friskier then usual, but no time for instant gratification! I had a job to go to.
My normal travel meant taking the subway from New Jersey to Manhattan, where I worked as a social media manager for an events marketing firm. Concerts, music festivals, artist interviews those sorts of things. After leaving my apartment it was clear things were a little different. I felt like I was in high school! Every girl that walked past me resulted in a tingling in my pants. By the time I was in the train car I was trying to hide a relentless boner through my thin and silky work slacks.
Fuckk I thought to myself. What the hell is going on here? I looked down at my bulging pants. The fuck bro? I tried to reason with my nether regions. It was no use. It demanded relief, it needed satisfaction. The girl in front of me, probably just turned 18, with a tiny short skirt and the red curls wasn't holding on to the bar of the train. When it went around a turn, resulting in some turbulence, she lost her balance falling backwards into my. Ass first. She basically impaled herself onto my raging salmon, and upon realizing what it was she'd stumbled on, let out a loud gasp and gave me the dirtiest look I'd ever had the displeasure of being on the receiving end of. She whispered to her friends and they all giggled and pointed at my pants.
I wanted to hide, but there were a couple stops to go and the train car was too crowded from the early commute to find refuge on the other side of the car. People did give me some space though. The normal looking guy trying to cover a boner the size of a Texas burger. I did my breathing exercises and attempted to meditate. Clearing my mind of all temptations. I tried listening to a podcast that covered human rights violations in the middle east. That seemed to do the trick. By the time I arrived at the 33rd street station, I'd regained a basic level of control over my impulses
Phew. I was making good time at this point, the boners were chilling out. I decided to walk to 20+ blocks to Columbus circle where I worked. Thinking the air would do me some good was a silly dream. I was still super horny and it was pissing me of.
I left the station and resumed my walk down Broadway avenue, through times square. A great way to start the day. Turned up some music and began my trek. I soon realized walking was a big mistake. Spring was in the air, layers were shed, girls were showing off their perfect legs and other gifts. Letting the skin breathe after the winter.
I tried to block everything out and walk in a straight line , keeping my head down and focusing on music. Along the way I ran into trouble with the people in superhero and Disney costumes on times square. Making a buck with the tourists by taking pictures with them. Minnie Mouse was looking finee. She reached her hand out.
“Want a picture cutie” she asked?
“Do i look like a damn tourist?” I snapped and pushed past her.
The statue of liberty on stilts made me want nothing more then to release a fat load onto that green sexy, historical face. I shook my head vigorously and went full speed ahead.
Where the fuck is my head at?? Jesus Christ brain take it down a goddamned notch I thought to myself. I managed to get close to where I worked a dozen or so blocks later. After several boners and untold raunchy thoughts. A bum near the corner of my building was screaming bloody murder, in a southern drawl, about gods, goddesses, reptilians, society, sexual awakenings. The last one caught my ears, I was definitely feeling some sort of awakening. As I wandered near the bum stopped his insane screaming and stared for the second. He stepped in front of me and stared me right in the eyes. I lost my boner. His grisled, gnarly yellow teeth, dirty scars, and petrified black eyes took care of that. He was staring into my soul.
In a completely calm and suddenly pleasant, perfect British accent.
"You are on the verge my son"
He smiled stepped aside and resumed his nonsensical rant as if nothing ever happened.
Confused and feeling uneasy, I continued into my building. Said hello to the door man and headed upstairs. Said a speedy hello to the cute receptionist and, avoiding all eye contact with other employees, headed straight into my dinky office, shut the door and sat at my desk. At last I had the oak desk as a barrier between my pocket rocket and the woman of the outside world.
We'll, what the fuck do I do now. I stared at the pile of papers on my desk, opened my laptop and checked the social media channels. Trying to keep my mind busy. Meanwhile the vagina miner in my pants was getting sick of my pathetic attempts to distract it from its ultimate goal. It needed a release. A tidal wave the likes of which Indonesia had never seen.
At that moment I knew I could hardly take it anymore. I was ready to throw on the porn, throw a sock on my office door and get to work.
It was at that precise moment that my office crush, Lilly, did a half assed knock and walked into my office. Peppy, quirky, full of energy and goddamned hot I'd had a crush on her ever since she came to the office months ago. She reminded me alot of Zooey Deshanel in both looks and attitude. Except Lilly had bigger boob's. And today she was showing them off particularly aggressively. Practically bulging out of her tiny blue shirt.
"Hey Jeff! Good morning. Here's that monthly report on - why are you so sweaty"?
"Hey you hi up Lilly I uh... jogged here from 33rd street still winding down" I replied nervously.
She beamed. "Look at you, you big honking marathon runner. "
She started jabbering about her latest exercise routine like a monkey on Meth. Shower her moves, stretching. At one point she started showing off her jogging form. Boob's bouncing practically in my face. Then it happened. A nip slipped out, just a bit. Just a tiny peek at a perfect, adorable pink nip. I couldn't take it any more.
"GET OUT!!" I roared. GET THE FUCK OUT LILLY YOU SEXY LITTLE BITCH...FUCK!"
Lilly stopped her jogging, looking shocked. Fixed her shirt. Calmly. Gave me a half crooked curious smile
"Calm the fuck down Jeff. Don't have to take it out on me. Something's obviously on my your mind today so I'll let that one slide" She winked. " Also, boss wants to see you in his office."
“Out Lilly!:” Pointed aggressively at the door. With both my hand and dick.
She gasped, slid out the door closing it authoritatively with a confident snap.
Jesus fucking fuck. My inner thought process was racing. Fuck the boss. Fuck this office . Fuck Lilly, literally. This is bullshit, something is wrong. I need to go fap right now. Get my head clear. Can't do it in my office. Too risky. | As the last terrorist fell, my team started to defuse the bomb. I quickly pulled out my knife to show it off to my dead comrades. As soon as the bomb was defused something terrible happened. It had been 10,000 hours. I didn't believe it. I quickly checked my steam profile. It couldn't be true. As a small little achievement popped up, I stared in shock. The cries of my team slowly blurred together in my ears. I couldn't focus. There was no way I could take my eyes off of the achievement
"CSGO: Expert". | |
[Wp] It takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. Without realising, you've just hit 10,000 hours of (random mundane task) | A knock bangs on my door.
I get up from my seat, putting my 3DS down and turn off my television. I peek outside the window near the front door to see who it is. What I see is a sea of people and news trucks. Paparazzi flashing their cameras, news reporters reporting in front of my house, and a man holding one giant check.
I have no idea what is going on.
I walk to the door, swallowing my anxiety. I take a deep breath for what’s on the other side. I swing the door open.
“There he is!” a voice called out “That’s him!”
Swarms of the media come rushing towards me. Questions are being asked left and right. The noise is so loud like static on television that I cant hear what is being said to me. The flashing lights blinding my eyes, all while I’m still in my pajamas.
“W-What is going on!?” I yell at the crowd demanding an answer.
“Excuse me.” An older gentleman speaks. He is shorter then me, head full of gray, a lot rounder then I am as well. “My name is Douglas, I am with the National Association of Human Achievements’ and I would like to present you a check for 1 million dollars.”
My brain must had a meltdown because I had to ask him again, “I-I-I’m sorry….what?”
“We at the NAOHA would like to present you with a check for 1 million dollars for achieving something no human has ever done before.”
He grabs the check from another man and hands it to me. I read what is on the check and sure enough it’s for one million smackaroos. A mix emotion of feelings fell on me, “holy shit I’m fucking rich…” I thought to myself. I was happy that I am given this reward….wait…
“umm…why am I getting this exactly?” I asked Douglas “I don’t think I’ve done anything.”
“but that’s exactly why you’re getting the award!” Douglas proudly exclaimed.
“Huh?”
Now I am confused.
“My good sir, you are getting this award because you have achieve what no other human has done. Put 10,000 hours into procrastinating and absolutely not getting anything important done!”
“Oh my god….” I thought. My jaw drop, I was dumbfounded, this is a joke right? There is no way I’m getting 1 million dollars for being a lazy sack of shit. This is a joke…. right?!
“now now no need to be humble.” Douglas said. “This is a extraordinary event, not once in human history has a human been so lazy, so distracted and so determined to not get anything done…”
“Oh dear god this is real…”
“That we at the NAOHA, with the highest honor, present you this check for one million dollars!”
a round of applause fills the air and the flashing lights start filling my view. Douglas comes up to me and hold the check in front of me. Reporters run up towards me as security guards hold them back from attacking me.
“Sir, is it true that you once had 10 page essay with a 5 month time limit and waited till the last moment to get it done?!” one reporter said
“I’ve also heard that you let your room get dirty because you wanted to just play video games, is this true sir!?”
“…Fuck my life….” I thought
One reporter came up to me and asks, “sir, now that you have won this award. What will you do next”?
Then it hit me. What am I depressed about? Shit I just won one million dollars for just being a lazy sack of shit. So I grab my check and I look towards the sea of people.
“Well….” I said “there is only one thing left too do.”
I grab the door handle and before I slam it set I let the world know….
“I’m going to sit back on my couch and play monster hunter 4”
__________________________________________________________________
1st prompt i did. Criticism are welcome, thank you for reading and i hope you enjoyed it.
| Two hours a day, six days a week, on the seventh day you may rest.
Do this non-stop, no brakes, never. Summer, winter, cold or warm. Doesn't matter. You get through it, you have to, it is your legacy. Walk up the stairs, push the door, show card, smile, go change.
Back out, geared up, hit the mill, thirty minutes. Run, run, run, four miles.
Step down, row machine, row, row, row, row your fucking boat, five k's.
Good, now you're warmed up. Time to get serious.
But wait ! A little change in tempo. Ah there we go.*Last Resort*, *Sheperd of Fire*, yeah that should do.
Now it's time.
Stretch arms. Breathe deeply. Lateral pull-ups. Pull, pull. That twentieth is a doozy, pull **motherfucker**, pull ! Rest, thirty seconds.
Next up, bench press. Look around, no one can spot. Hmm, solo-mode, it's risky but fuck-it. Place plates, one plate, two plate, they call you Plato. Sit down, lie down. Breathe, place hands, flex fingers. Get mad. Push, push, now back down, exhale, now push, push. That tenth's a doozy, grind teeth, push **motherfucker** push. Rest thirty seconds, go again and again.
*Hold strong*, *Indesctructible*, yeah that's nice.
Squats, curls, push-ups, sit-ups.
Get mad, hell bent. You have to make it, that tenth rep. DO IT!
Crunches, lunges, lifts, raises.
Now you're done. Hit the mat, stretch. Two hours, every day but the seventh.
Go change, look at the new faces, everybody's new. Where's Jim ? Did he stop comming ?
Smile and walk out the door. Walk to your car. Every day.
Every day, every week, a little over sixteen years.
*Why ?* Who knows, somewhen a long time ago, someone dear to you hurt you. Torn your heart and left you bleeding. Now you bleed for yourself, you push and pull and grind your teeth for yourself, and you are strong, not weak like you used to be, you're strong.
Every week, every day but the seventh, two hours a day. You smile, tomorrow's Sunday.
| |
[Wp] It takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. Without realising, you've just hit 10,000 hours of (random mundane task) | The day started off like any other. Going through my daily routine on auto-pilot. Alarm, shower, tea, breakfast, the daily blast of current events, check the emails. Everything felt completely normal. I did find myself feeling a little friskier then usual, but no time for instant gratification! I had a job to go to.
My normal travel meant taking the subway from New Jersey to Manhattan, where I worked as a social media manager for an events marketing firm. Concerts, music festivals, artist interviews those sorts of things. After leaving my apartment it was clear things were a little different. I felt like I was in high school! Every girl that walked past me resulted in a tingling in my pants. By the time I was in the train car I was trying to hide a relentless boner through my thin and silky work slacks.
Fuckk I thought to myself. What the hell is going on here? I looked down at my bulging pants. The fuck bro? I tried to reason with my nether regions. It was no use. It demanded relief, it needed satisfaction. The girl in front of me, probably just turned 18, with a tiny short skirt and the red curls wasn't holding on to the bar of the train. When it went around a turn, resulting in some turbulence, she lost her balance falling backwards into my. Ass first. She basically impaled herself onto my raging salmon, and upon realizing what it was she'd stumbled on, let out a loud gasp and gave me the dirtiest look I'd ever had the displeasure of being on the receiving end of. She whispered to her friends and they all giggled and pointed at my pants.
I wanted to hide, but there were a couple stops to go and the train car was too crowded from the early commute to find refuge on the other side of the car. People did give me some space though. The normal looking guy trying to cover a boner the size of a Texas burger. I did my breathing exercises and attempted to meditate. Clearing my mind of all temptations. I tried listening to a podcast that covered human rights violations in the middle east. That seemed to do the trick. By the time I arrived at the 33rd street station, I'd regained a basic level of control over my impulses
Phew. I was making good time at this point, the boners were chilling out. I decided to walk to 20+ blocks to Columbus circle where I worked. Thinking the air would do me some good was a silly dream. I was still super horny and it was pissing me of.
I left the station and resumed my walk down Broadway avenue, through times square. A great way to start the day. Turned up some music and began my trek. I soon realized walking was a big mistake. Spring was in the air, layers were shed, girls were showing off their perfect legs and other gifts. Letting the skin breathe after the winter.
I tried to block everything out and walk in a straight line , keeping my head down and focusing on music. Along the way I ran into trouble with the people in superhero and Disney costumes on times square. Making a buck with the tourists by taking pictures with them. Minnie Mouse was looking finee. She reached her hand out.
“Want a picture cutie” she asked?
“Do i look like a damn tourist?” I snapped and pushed past her.
The statue of liberty on stilts made me want nothing more then to release a fat load onto that green sexy, historical face. I shook my head vigorously and went full speed ahead.
Where the fuck is my head at?? Jesus Christ brain take it down a goddamned notch I thought to myself. I managed to get close to where I worked a dozen or so blocks later. After several boners and untold raunchy thoughts. A bum near the corner of my building was screaming bloody murder, in a southern drawl, about gods, goddesses, reptilians, society, sexual awakenings. The last one caught my ears, I was definitely feeling some sort of awakening. As I wandered near the bum stopped his insane screaming and stared for the second. He stepped in front of me and stared me right in the eyes. I lost my boner. His grisled, gnarly yellow teeth, dirty scars, and petrified black eyes took care of that. He was staring into my soul.
In a completely calm and suddenly pleasant, perfect British accent.
"You are on the verge my son"
He smiled stepped aside and resumed his nonsensical rant as if nothing ever happened.
Confused and feeling uneasy, I continued into my building. Said hello to the door man and headed upstairs. Said a speedy hello to the cute receptionist and, avoiding all eye contact with other employees, headed straight into my dinky office, shut the door and sat at my desk. At last I had the oak desk as a barrier between my pocket rocket and the woman of the outside world.
We'll, what the fuck do I do now. I stared at the pile of papers on my desk, opened my laptop and checked the social media channels. Trying to keep my mind busy. Meanwhile the vagina miner in my pants was getting sick of my pathetic attempts to distract it from its ultimate goal. It needed a release. A tidal wave the likes of which Indonesia had never seen.
At that moment I knew I could hardly take it anymore. I was ready to throw on the porn, throw a sock on my office door and get to work.
It was at that precise moment that my office crush, Lilly, did a half assed knock and walked into my office. Peppy, quirky, full of energy and goddamned hot I'd had a crush on her ever since she came to the office months ago. She reminded me alot of Zooey Deshanel in both looks and attitude. Except Lilly had bigger boob's. And today she was showing them off particularly aggressively. Practically bulging out of her tiny blue shirt.
"Hey Jeff! Good morning. Here's that monthly report on - why are you so sweaty"?
"Hey you hi up Lilly I uh... jogged here from 33rd street still winding down" I replied nervously.
She beamed. "Look at you, you big honking marathon runner. "
She started jabbering about her latest exercise routine like a monkey on Meth. Shower her moves, stretching. At one point she started showing off her jogging form. Boob's bouncing practically in my face. Then it happened. A nip slipped out, just a bit. Just a tiny peek at a perfect, adorable pink nip. I couldn't take it any more.
"GET OUT!!" I roared. GET THE FUCK OUT LILLY YOU SEXY LITTLE BITCH...FUCK!"
Lilly stopped her jogging, looking shocked. Fixed her shirt. Calmly. Gave me a half crooked curious smile
"Calm the fuck down Jeff. Don't have to take it out on me. Something's obviously on my your mind today so I'll let that one slide" She winked. " Also, boss wants to see you in his office."
“Out Lilly!:” Pointed aggressively at the door. With both my hand and dick.
She gasped, slid out the door closing it authoritatively with a confident snap.
Jesus fucking fuck. My inner thought process was racing. Fuck the boss. Fuck this office . Fuck Lilly, literally. This is bullshit, something is wrong. I need to go fap right now. Get my head clear. Can't do it in my office. Too risky. | Two hours a day, six days a week, on the seventh day you may rest.
Do this non-stop, no brakes, never. Summer, winter, cold or warm. Doesn't matter. You get through it, you have to, it is your legacy. Walk up the stairs, push the door, show card, smile, go change.
Back out, geared up, hit the mill, thirty minutes. Run, run, run, four miles.
Step down, row machine, row, row, row, row your fucking boat, five k's.
Good, now you're warmed up. Time to get serious.
But wait ! A little change in tempo. Ah there we go.*Last Resort*, *Sheperd of Fire*, yeah that should do.
Now it's time.
Stretch arms. Breathe deeply. Lateral pull-ups. Pull, pull. That twentieth is a doozy, pull **motherfucker**, pull ! Rest, thirty seconds.
Next up, bench press. Look around, no one can spot. Hmm, solo-mode, it's risky but fuck-it. Place plates, one plate, two plate, they call you Plato. Sit down, lie down. Breathe, place hands, flex fingers. Get mad. Push, push, now back down, exhale, now push, push. That tenth's a doozy, grind teeth, push **motherfucker** push. Rest thirty seconds, go again and again.
*Hold strong*, *Indesctructible*, yeah that's nice.
Squats, curls, push-ups, sit-ups.
Get mad, hell bent. You have to make it, that tenth rep. DO IT!
Crunches, lunges, lifts, raises.
Now you're done. Hit the mat, stretch. Two hours, every day but the seventh.
Go change, look at the new faces, everybody's new. Where's Jim ? Did he stop comming ?
Smile and walk out the door. Walk to your car. Every day.
Every day, every week, a little over sixteen years.
*Why ?* Who knows, somewhen a long time ago, someone dear to you hurt you. Torn your heart and left you bleeding. Now you bleed for yourself, you push and pull and grind your teeth for yourself, and you are strong, not weak like you used to be, you're strong.
Every week, every day but the seventh, two hours a day. You smile, tomorrow's Sunday.
| |
[Wp] It takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. Without realising, you've just hit 10,000 hours of (random mundane task) | A knock bangs on my door.
I get up from my seat, putting my 3DS down and turn off my television. I peek outside the window near the front door to see who it is. What I see is a sea of people and news trucks. Paparazzi flashing their cameras, news reporters reporting in front of my house, and a man holding one giant check.
I have no idea what is going on.
I walk to the door, swallowing my anxiety. I take a deep breath for what’s on the other side. I swing the door open.
“There he is!” a voice called out “That’s him!”
Swarms of the media come rushing towards me. Questions are being asked left and right. The noise is so loud like static on television that I cant hear what is being said to me. The flashing lights blinding my eyes, all while I’m still in my pajamas.
“W-What is going on!?” I yell at the crowd demanding an answer.
“Excuse me.” An older gentleman speaks. He is shorter then me, head full of gray, a lot rounder then I am as well. “My name is Douglas, I am with the National Association of Human Achievements’ and I would like to present you a check for 1 million dollars.”
My brain must had a meltdown because I had to ask him again, “I-I-I’m sorry….what?”
“We at the NAOHA would like to present you with a check for 1 million dollars for achieving something no human has ever done before.”
He grabs the check from another man and hands it to me. I read what is on the check and sure enough it’s for one million smackaroos. A mix emotion of feelings fell on me, “holy shit I’m fucking rich…” I thought to myself. I was happy that I am given this reward….wait…
“umm…why am I getting this exactly?” I asked Douglas “I don’t think I’ve done anything.”
“but that’s exactly why you’re getting the award!” Douglas proudly exclaimed.
“Huh?”
Now I am confused.
“My good sir, you are getting this award because you have achieve what no other human has done. Put 10,000 hours into procrastinating and absolutely not getting anything important done!”
“Oh my god….” I thought. My jaw drop, I was dumbfounded, this is a joke right? There is no way I’m getting 1 million dollars for being a lazy sack of shit. This is a joke…. right?!
“now now no need to be humble.” Douglas said. “This is a extraordinary event, not once in human history has a human been so lazy, so distracted and so determined to not get anything done…”
“Oh dear god this is real…”
“That we at the NAOHA, with the highest honor, present you this check for one million dollars!”
a round of applause fills the air and the flashing lights start filling my view. Douglas comes up to me and hold the check in front of me. Reporters run up towards me as security guards hold them back from attacking me.
“Sir, is it true that you once had 10 page essay with a 5 month time limit and waited till the last moment to get it done?!” one reporter said
“I’ve also heard that you let your room get dirty because you wanted to just play video games, is this true sir!?”
“…Fuck my life….” I thought
One reporter came up to me and asks, “sir, now that you have won this award. What will you do next”?
Then it hit me. What am I depressed about? Shit I just won one million dollars for just being a lazy sack of shit. So I grab my check and I look towards the sea of people.
“Well….” I said “there is only one thing left too do.”
I grab the door handle and before I slam it set I let the world know….
“I’m going to sit back on my couch and play monster hunter 4”
__________________________________________________________________
1st prompt i did. Criticism are welcome, thank you for reading and i hope you enjoyed it.
| There is a universal law not a lot of people know. A law of nature, not one made by man. It states that after 10,000 hours of doing something, no matter what, you become an expert at it.
And when you do, they find you. They did find me when I mastered it, and they took me in. We were only about a hundred people. I did not meet all of them, only a few. Lea, a french teenager, was an expert at procrastinating: she once went without taking a shower for 6 months, because she “would do it tomorrow”
Jayesh was an expert shitposter, from pepe to mr. skeletal, he could turn any meme into higher arts.
Jeff, an expert runner. He could basically run any distance without ever running out of breath. Think Forrest Gump times 10. And then there was angelina, expert smiler. I shouldn't even be surprised I fell in love with her, her smiles was indeed perfect, both showing her straight teeth and the playfulness in her eyes. I could never get enough of her. I barely talked to her of course, I was just just another nerd scared of anything that might even look like a woman, stuttering when she glanced at my general direction. I remember vividly the first time she said “hi” to me, it was like someone punched my in the stomach; like the sun directed all its energy towards me to make me melt, burn; like I died and started ascending to heaven. I was even more in love than I was before. That very same night, I lay down in my bed and replayed the memory back in my head. I closed my eyes, put my hands behind my head, and thought hard about it.
After the deed was done, I went and took a shower
See, I mastered something very useful for every lonely, awkward teenager:
I did not need to touch my noodle to make a puddle
---------------------------------------------
If you liked my story or have any suggestions about it, please let me know, that would be very useful :). | |
[Wp] It takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. Without realising, you've just hit 10,000 hours of (random mundane task) | The day started off like any other. Going through my daily routine on auto-pilot. Alarm, shower, tea, breakfast, the daily blast of current events, check the emails. Everything felt completely normal. I did find myself feeling a little friskier then usual, but no time for instant gratification! I had a job to go to.
My normal travel meant taking the subway from New Jersey to Manhattan, where I worked as a social media manager for an events marketing firm. Concerts, music festivals, artist interviews those sorts of things. After leaving my apartment it was clear things were a little different. I felt like I was in high school! Every girl that walked past me resulted in a tingling in my pants. By the time I was in the train car I was trying to hide a relentless boner through my thin and silky work slacks.
Fuckk I thought to myself. What the hell is going on here? I looked down at my bulging pants. The fuck bro? I tried to reason with my nether regions. It was no use. It demanded relief, it needed satisfaction. The girl in front of me, probably just turned 18, with a tiny short skirt and the red curls wasn't holding on to the bar of the train. When it went around a turn, resulting in some turbulence, she lost her balance falling backwards into my. Ass first. She basically impaled herself onto my raging salmon, and upon realizing what it was she'd stumbled on, let out a loud gasp and gave me the dirtiest look I'd ever had the displeasure of being on the receiving end of. She whispered to her friends and they all giggled and pointed at my pants.
I wanted to hide, but there were a couple stops to go and the train car was too crowded from the early commute to find refuge on the other side of the car. People did give me some space though. The normal looking guy trying to cover a boner the size of a Texas burger. I did my breathing exercises and attempted to meditate. Clearing my mind of all temptations. I tried listening to a podcast that covered human rights violations in the middle east. That seemed to do the trick. By the time I arrived at the 33rd street station, I'd regained a basic level of control over my impulses
Phew. I was making good time at this point, the boners were chilling out. I decided to walk to 20+ blocks to Columbus circle where I worked. Thinking the air would do me some good was a silly dream. I was still super horny and it was pissing me of.
I left the station and resumed my walk down Broadway avenue, through times square. A great way to start the day. Turned up some music and began my trek. I soon realized walking was a big mistake. Spring was in the air, layers were shed, girls were showing off their perfect legs and other gifts. Letting the skin breathe after the winter.
I tried to block everything out and walk in a straight line , keeping my head down and focusing on music. Along the way I ran into trouble with the people in superhero and Disney costumes on times square. Making a buck with the tourists by taking pictures with them. Minnie Mouse was looking finee. She reached her hand out.
“Want a picture cutie” she asked?
“Do i look like a damn tourist?” I snapped and pushed past her.
The statue of liberty on stilts made me want nothing more then to release a fat load onto that green sexy, historical face. I shook my head vigorously and went full speed ahead.
Where the fuck is my head at?? Jesus Christ brain take it down a goddamned notch I thought to myself. I managed to get close to where I worked a dozen or so blocks later. After several boners and untold raunchy thoughts. A bum near the corner of my building was screaming bloody murder, in a southern drawl, about gods, goddesses, reptilians, society, sexual awakenings. The last one caught my ears, I was definitely feeling some sort of awakening. As I wandered near the bum stopped his insane screaming and stared for the second. He stepped in front of me and stared me right in the eyes. I lost my boner. His grisled, gnarly yellow teeth, dirty scars, and petrified black eyes took care of that. He was staring into my soul.
In a completely calm and suddenly pleasant, perfect British accent.
"You are on the verge my son"
He smiled stepped aside and resumed his nonsensical rant as if nothing ever happened.
Confused and feeling uneasy, I continued into my building. Said hello to the door man and headed upstairs. Said a speedy hello to the cute receptionist and, avoiding all eye contact with other employees, headed straight into my dinky office, shut the door and sat at my desk. At last I had the oak desk as a barrier between my pocket rocket and the woman of the outside world.
We'll, what the fuck do I do now. I stared at the pile of papers on my desk, opened my laptop and checked the social media channels. Trying to keep my mind busy. Meanwhile the vagina miner in my pants was getting sick of my pathetic attempts to distract it from its ultimate goal. It needed a release. A tidal wave the likes of which Indonesia had never seen.
At that moment I knew I could hardly take it anymore. I was ready to throw on the porn, throw a sock on my office door and get to work.
It was at that precise moment that my office crush, Lilly, did a half assed knock and walked into my office. Peppy, quirky, full of energy and goddamned hot I'd had a crush on her ever since she came to the office months ago. She reminded me alot of Zooey Deshanel in both looks and attitude. Except Lilly had bigger boob's. And today she was showing them off particularly aggressively. Practically bulging out of her tiny blue shirt.
"Hey Jeff! Good morning. Here's that monthly report on - why are you so sweaty"?
"Hey you hi up Lilly I uh... jogged here from 33rd street still winding down" I replied nervously.
She beamed. "Look at you, you big honking marathon runner. "
She started jabbering about her latest exercise routine like a monkey on Meth. Shower her moves, stretching. At one point she started showing off her jogging form. Boob's bouncing practically in my face. Then it happened. A nip slipped out, just a bit. Just a tiny peek at a perfect, adorable pink nip. I couldn't take it any more.
"GET OUT!!" I roared. GET THE FUCK OUT LILLY YOU SEXY LITTLE BITCH...FUCK!"
Lilly stopped her jogging, looking shocked. Fixed her shirt. Calmly. Gave me a half crooked curious smile
"Calm the fuck down Jeff. Don't have to take it out on me. Something's obviously on my your mind today so I'll let that one slide" She winked. " Also, boss wants to see you in his office."
“Out Lilly!:” Pointed aggressively at the door. With both my hand and dick.
She gasped, slid out the door closing it authoritatively with a confident snap.
Jesus fucking fuck. My inner thought process was racing. Fuck the boss. Fuck this office . Fuck Lilly, literally. This is bullshit, something is wrong. I need to go fap right now. Get my head clear. Can't do it in my office. Too risky. | There is a universal law not a lot of people know. A law of nature, not one made by man. It states that after 10,000 hours of doing something, no matter what, you become an expert at it.
And when you do, they find you. They did find me when I mastered it, and they took me in. We were only about a hundred people. I did not meet all of them, only a few. Lea, a french teenager, was an expert at procrastinating: she once went without taking a shower for 6 months, because she “would do it tomorrow”
Jayesh was an expert shitposter, from pepe to mr. skeletal, he could turn any meme into higher arts.
Jeff, an expert runner. He could basically run any distance without ever running out of breath. Think Forrest Gump times 10. And then there was angelina, expert smiler. I shouldn't even be surprised I fell in love with her, her smiles was indeed perfect, both showing her straight teeth and the playfulness in her eyes. I could never get enough of her. I barely talked to her of course, I was just just another nerd scared of anything that might even look like a woman, stuttering when she glanced at my general direction. I remember vividly the first time she said “hi” to me, it was like someone punched my in the stomach; like the sun directed all its energy towards me to make me melt, burn; like I died and started ascending to heaven. I was even more in love than I was before. That very same night, I lay down in my bed and replayed the memory back in my head. I closed my eyes, put my hands behind my head, and thought hard about it.
After the deed was done, I went and took a shower
See, I mastered something very useful for every lonely, awkward teenager:
I did not need to touch my noodle to make a puddle
---------------------------------------------
If you liked my story or have any suggestions about it, please let me know, that would be very useful :). | |
[Wp] It takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. Without realising, you've just hit 10,000 hours of (random mundane task) | A brush stroke here. Then there. Flick some black paint on the sky for some birds, then add some more clouds. Perfect.
Though not quite. Frowning, Jon bit the end of the wooden brush in contemplation. It was missing something. He had captured the mountain's jagged sides, the reflection of the trees in the water, and the cloudy sky. What was missing?
Life! The birds were fine, but the landscape was lacking in signs of life.
Jon pulled the brush from his mouth and swapped it for the delicate one. He dipped it in brown paint and touched the bristles to the canvas.
DING!
He jumped, causing brown to streak up over the mountain, ruining his picture. He cursed, blaming the microwave.
Then his vision flooded green. Words in white faded into his sight, surrounded by golden sparks. LEVEL UP!
"What the..." he began, wiping his eyes. It all faded away. A second DING! sounded. This time he sourced it to... his head? It was coming from inside his mind. But it was so loud.
*
Jon waited by the phone. The DING!ing had stopped after eight more sounds over an hour ago. He had called the doctor after the fourth DING! only to be told to schedule a phone-home appointment. The grandfather clock in the living room chimed one o'clock.
RING-RING!
He picked up the phone, holding it to his ear. "Dr. Marsh! Thank God. Listen, I was painting the mountain, like you suggested, and—"
"Jonathan Rider, this isn't Dr. Marsh." The voice on the other end of the line was deep, monotonous, and completely unlike the softness of Marsh's voice.
"Who is this? I need to speak to Dr. Marsh. This is completely unprofessional. I specifically asked for—"
The voice interrupted him again. "I am not calling from Star House, Mr. Rider."
Jon froze. No one knew of his sessions at the Star House. In fact, very few people knew his full name. "Who the Hell is this?" he demanded, pulling out a note block and pen, ready to detail everything he was told to report them for breaching confidentiality. Report who? In theory, it had to be someone involved with Star House. He had only ever met Dr. Marsh and the receptionist, Anna. And the voice wasn't familiar in the slightest.
"My name is not important, Mr. Rider. I represent the Sol Institute. We intercepted your call to the Star House. Your condition was logged in our servers. The Sol Institute prides itself in its privacy and you very almost caused us quite some trouble."
"What are you talking about? I've never even heard of this 'Sol Institute'? How can you have my 'condition', whatever that means, in your servers? I'm going to report this! This is completely—"
"Mr. Rider, please. As I was saying, the Sol Institute is very private about its affairs and clients. Today you experienced a strange event. I urge you to set up an appointment with us to learn more."
"How do you know this?" Jon ceased his scribbles, paying more attention to the person's words. "Who *are* you?"
"You are a client of the Sol Institute. We can discuss this further in a scheduled appointment. However, I cannot give you my name over the phone. It's not secure."
He refrained from asking why it wasn't secure. If they could talk about the Sol Institute, why not just a simple name? He knew he wasn't a client of them anyway - he had never heard of them. "Right. And why should I? Why don't I just ignore this call? Forget about the 'Institute' completely."
"Because you are curious, Mr. Rider. Curiosity is a very powerful thing."
Thing. *Right*. "Curiosity killed the cat."
"But satisfaction brought it back."
Jon had never heard someone say that before. Was he being won over? A little. He wanted to know what had happened, more than anything. To stop it too. "Fine. I'll make an appointment. What are the slots?"
"When are you free?"
"Whenever? I don't know."
"Five o'clock tonight?"
"Yeah. Sure. Where do I go?"
There was a chuckle through the line. "We come to you, Mr. Rider. We will see you at five o'clock. Thank you for your time." Click.
*
They arrived on the dot of five o'clock. Jon opened the door slowly, his foot ready behind it, in case he needed to slam it shut.
There were two men. One, tall with a grey suit, had blond hair with grey threaded through. The second, short with a blue suit, was handsome and brunet. Both had their hands locked in front of them, briefcases dangling from their hooked forefingers.
"Mr. Rider," Grey greeted him, offering one hand out. Jon reached around the door to shake it hesitantly. "We're from the Sol Institute. I hope we're on time." There was the slightest bit of humour laced in his voice.
"You're not the person who spoke to me on the phone," Jon muttered, keeping his foot firm behind the door.
Grey chuckled, "Oh, no. We'd never send an Operator for an appointment."
"Operator?"
"Phone Operator," chimed in Blue. "We can't give you more than that. Can we come in? We have plenty to talk about."
Jon glanced between the two. "Sure." He shuffled his foot out of the way, opening the door wide enough to let them in. "The, uh, living room's to the left."
Grey nodded, stepping in first, Blue just behind him. They wiped their feet on the welcome mat and walked into the living room. Shutting the door, Jon made sure not to lock it. He followed them in, gesturing to the cream leather sofas. They sat.
"Well," smiled Blue, voice thick with an accent. "Introductions. I'm cold."
"Cold? Sorry, I can put the heating on." Jon stepped towards the hallway.
"No, no. I'm quite fine, Mr. Rider. I'm *Cole*," Blue drew the name out to pronounce it better. "This is my associate, Zachary."
Grey - Zachary - nodded. "Apologies for the misunderstanding. Cole is an International Knocker."
"Knocker?" Jon questioned, standing in the archway, only a few steps from the front door.
"We have certain... unusual terms for our job titles. Operators make the most sense. Knockers are... Us. We knock on doors. Home visits, the like."
"Right. What do you do in these home visits?"
Zachary pulled his briefcase onto his lap, fiddling with the lock. It popped open. There was a stack of different-coloured papers inside. "Inform the client of our work, and enlighten our client."
"So this is, what, religious? Look, I'm an atheist, I don't believe in anything and I'm not going to start."
Cole chuckled, "I promise, we're not into that. We're medical professionals."
"Affiliated with Star House?"
"It's... a little more complicated than that, Mr. Rider. I'm sure the Operator explained how private the Sol Institute is," answered Zachary, brushing down the collar of his suit. "We have certain specialities. I'm afraid our variant of therapy isn't quite like Dr. Marsh's speciality."
Jon grimaced. How much did they know of his appointments with Dr. Marsh? What did it even have to do with his 'strange event'? "Right. So what are your 'specialities'?"
"Levelling up, of course," Cole cut in. "You're part of a new generation, Mr. Rider. Levelling up is an anomaly in this world. We're here to help the Masters."
"What are you *talking* about? Levelling up? Masters? Are you *insane*?" Jon snapped, checking his back pockets for his phone. It was there. He could dial 999 within ten seconds, he estimated. What if they attacked him? The world was full of insane people nowadays.
"Mr. Rider, please," Zachary sighed, sounding exasperated. While tall, the man looked thin and aged, likely not as much of a threat as the stockier Cole. Were they called Knockers because they *knocked* heads in?
Cole reached into Zachary's case to bring out a leaf of papers. "This will explain everything. Zachary can give you the rundown." He stood, holding out the papers. Jon took them, taking a half-step back to keep distance, and browsed through the first few paragraphs as Zachary spoke.
"First: levelling up. As I said, a new generation. Many years ago, one hundred humans participated in a study to map genetics. From there, a eugenics project emerged and the one hundred participants agreed to an experiment. Fifty couples produced, initially, thirty-nine children. Another—"
"Hold up!" Jon shook his head, astounded. "This is impossible. This 'eugenics project' wasn't just that though. It says here that you 'added' genetics, not just mapped them. Isn't that illegal?"
"Not with the right paperwork and consent from a—"
"You messed with human DNA but it's okay because you have *paperwork*? Oh, *wow*."
"Mr. Rider, *please*. This was twenty-nine years ago, it can't be changed now—"
"*I'm* twenty-*eight*... Are you saying that I'm a 'client' because I'm the... the *product* of some messed up experiment?"
Zachary held up a hand. "Let me explain. You are, indeed, one of the children of the eugenics project. This work was done to improve society. You see, the country was struggling. Workers weren't skilled enough. Employment was down. The economy was *crushed*. The project was one of many attempts at giving the country a net. If we could not only incentivise workers, but also boost workers to do an even better job... Think about it."
Jon laughed. Were they crazy? How could they even think it would work? It had to be an elaborate prank. Sam took pranks too far nowadays. "You're *insane*. This is insane! Get out of here."
"Mr. Rider, we are not. You have seen the result of the Sol Institute's hard work. You levelled up."
"I saw a screen and I blacked out. You can't program someone to... have whatever that thing is!"
"But we have."
"*No*, you have *not*."
"You have levelled up, Mr. Rider. You are a Master."
"I want you out of my house. *Now*."
Zachary stood and placed his open briefcase on the coffee table. "You are a Master now, Mr. Rider. You know it."
"Get *out*!" Jon pointed to the front door, standing firm. It was an elaborate prank. None of it made any sense.
**Continued in the Comments.** | "Oh my", she purred. Lynne always has this reaction when I bathe her. "You have really got quite the skill, Jenna."
"Thanks, Lynne. I'm happy to be able to help you feel better. Just let me know if you feel uncomfortable, okay? Is there anything new going on around here? What is the gossip?" I always tried to be upbeat, especially with the older ones.
She cleared her throat and shifted her position in the tub slightly. "Don't worry about me. Whatever you're doing, just keep doing that." She looked at me, and her eyes seemed to sparkle a bit. "D-d-doctor Morris says it won't be much longer now. That maybe there are three or four weeks left. I have not heard from my son in a few weeks, but he said he would come visit."
I paused briefly, and took in the bathroom. The stainless steel handles that helped us get our clients in and out of the tub seemed a little more reflective than usual. The tile seemed a little brighter. There were a few plastic flecks floating in the water - I had scrubbed a little extra where Lynne's IV had gone unchanged a little too long.
Lynne relaxed and closed her eyes again. Her turned her head gently rolled away from me. The gentle rhythm of her breathing became deeper and more regular. This has happened every single time for the last month. Every client just falls asleep as I am bathing them. None of the other staff members have this happen to them, which I guess is why the clients always preferred to have me bathe them.
I did the math in my head as I lifted Lynne's left leg from the tub. I had been working here for about six and a half years, at eight hours a day, five days a week. This was the only job available at the time - Client Comfort Specialist. That means I had spent about 75% of my time in this room, bathing clients. That would be...about 10,000 hours as of last month. But the actual time spent bathing couldn't be that much, could it?
I took in all of Lynne's body, as I lowered her leg back into the tub. I was suddenly conscious of the wrinkles around my eyes. My friends are all so worried about theirs, but, there are more important things, I guess.
"Just hold on, Margaret. I'll bring you back in a few minutes. Jenna is in there with Lynne, and it will be awhile." I sighed. The roughness in Brandon's voice jolted me out of my thoughts - he was such a dick to his clients sometimes. It is so much easier to be kind.
| |
[Wp] It takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. Without realising, you've just hit 10,000 hours of (random mundane task) | "Do you ever wonder what your skill is going to be?" I asked, stepping slightly on the gas as I merged on to the freeway.
Marsha's gaze floated to the horizon as she replied, "The Universe chooses a skill for you. It is the right choice for you."
"Not true, they have schools for specific skills that people want. Though its true, sometimes they end up with something else altogether, like expert at doodling tits in class. Somehow it does not seem like it could be the right choice for anyone."
Downshifting to fourth, I overtook a semi as Marsha grabbed my hand, pressed it against her left breast and pulled it up to her soft cheeks. Softly kissing it, she whispered, "Will you always love me?"
"I've loved you for as long as I've known you", I said before retrieving my hand and shifting back to fifth.
"Then there will always be red roses for me," she smiled.
"Does your mom drive a grey pick up truck by any chance?" I asked, after noticing what looked like Howard Stern swerving through traffic several cars behind us. I stepped slightly on the gas.
Suddenly, I felt the steering wheel shake and the car start to rattle and vibrate. Turning to Marsha in panic, and realizing that she was calm as ever, making a heart-shaped hairball from a comb, I stopped panicking and realized that the car still drove the same, the difference was that I could feel everything it did in my soul. Then it struck me, I had just reached expertness in driving my Toyota Corolla SE.
"Dude, I just made expert!" I yelled out.
"Congratulations on this very special and memorable occasion! We will cherish this moment forever!" exclaimed Marsha.
"Yes, that's awesome! This feels awesome! If you want to try becoming Toyota Corolla SE expert, I highly recommend it. I'm sure other cars would be fun too."
"The Universe is wisdom, as you can tell. It has also chosen well for me. I feel I should tell you, now that you are en expert."
"I didn't know you were already an expert!" I said in surprise.
"I'm an expert at seeing Hallmark moments everywhere. Sometimes the Universe is just always beautiful."
Before I could respond, I found a modern polythene grocery bag, neatly tied twice, full of healthy vegetarian garbage, on my windscreen.
A quick flick-of-the-steering-wheel-induced-lane-change and burst of windshield wiper fluid later, I saw the source of said garbage: Marsha's mother in the back of a grey pick-up truck in front of us. There was no driver in the truck, she appeared to be controlling the pick up truck by a few long sticks from the back; it seemed rather clever. She threw another garbage bag our way.
Muari Hagayama was a famous artisan during the Meiji period in what to later be known as the Greater Tokyo Area. Being as superstitious as he was, every Suroya doll he assembled every year at the Moon Dance prayer had the same size head. Decades later, all Japanese dolls had the same size heads. It was one of these missing heads that Kyoko Irmajiri was looking to replace on June 12th, 1978 when she took Daddy's 17mm model nut. Her father, Shinzo, the great engineer used a 14mm nut that day for the rear trailing arm for chassis prototype number 34. This caused the trailing arm bushing to have extra lateral flex. I paused between steering wheel flicks to compensate for the extra flex compounded by the near-full gas tank. This allowed me to dodge the second garbage bag.
"Marsha, why is your mother doing this?"
"My mother used to be at expert at protecting me. She recently also became an expert in throwing out garbage. The Universe has found a way for her to do both! Isn't it beautiful!"
"She is trying to protect you from me?" I asked, puzzled.
"It's her way of showing her love," replied Marsha and started beeping.
I hit snooze for the millionth time... | "Oh my", she purred. Lynne always has this reaction when I bathe her. "You have really got quite the skill, Jenna."
"Thanks, Lynne. I'm happy to be able to help you feel better. Just let me know if you feel uncomfortable, okay? Is there anything new going on around here? What is the gossip?" I always tried to be upbeat, especially with the older ones.
She cleared her throat and shifted her position in the tub slightly. "Don't worry about me. Whatever you're doing, just keep doing that." She looked at me, and her eyes seemed to sparkle a bit. "D-d-doctor Morris says it won't be much longer now. That maybe there are three or four weeks left. I have not heard from my son in a few weeks, but he said he would come visit."
I paused briefly, and took in the bathroom. The stainless steel handles that helped us get our clients in and out of the tub seemed a little more reflective than usual. The tile seemed a little brighter. There were a few plastic flecks floating in the water - I had scrubbed a little extra where Lynne's IV had gone unchanged a little too long.
Lynne relaxed and closed her eyes again. Her turned her head gently rolled away from me. The gentle rhythm of her breathing became deeper and more regular. This has happened every single time for the last month. Every client just falls asleep as I am bathing them. None of the other staff members have this happen to them, which I guess is why the clients always preferred to have me bathe them.
I did the math in my head as I lifted Lynne's left leg from the tub. I had been working here for about six and a half years, at eight hours a day, five days a week. This was the only job available at the time - Client Comfort Specialist. That means I had spent about 75% of my time in this room, bathing clients. That would be...about 10,000 hours as of last month. But the actual time spent bathing couldn't be that much, could it?
I took in all of Lynne's body, as I lowered her leg back into the tub. I was suddenly conscious of the wrinkles around my eyes. My friends are all so worried about theirs, but, there are more important things, I guess.
"Just hold on, Margaret. I'll bring you back in a few minutes. Jenna is in there with Lynne, and it will be awhile." I sighed. The roughness in Brandon's voice jolted me out of my thoughts - he was such a dick to his clients sometimes. It is so much easier to be kind.
| |
[Wp] It takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. Without realising, you've just hit 10,000 hours of (random mundane task) | When the government announced that we were all getting national identity cards, there was an uproar and a vast stomping of feet. Your usual kooks and weirdos camped outside the Federal buildings, signs hoisted high and crying out against the mark of the beast, while other less savory types hunkered down in basements as they geared up for the first run of counterfeits.
We were told that the new card would be tied to our health insurance, our tax ID, our social security, our medical records, and all of the fiddly metadata bits we cast off in the wake of our lives. It would have been creepy and I may have put it off as long as possible, were it not for the fact that I needed it to use my medicare to get a hemorrhoid nubbed off with one of the world's most expensive rubber bands. Yeah, my reason for being an early adopter was glorious, but it was motivating. Nothing like standing in line, sweating your balls off with an enflamed balloon knot.
Anyway, I was there bright and early on day one and I expected to be queued up for a few hours in line getting my shot of DMV nostalgia: blurry headshots, surly civil servants, and bureaucratic red tape. But it turned out that a lot of people liked the sound of a national ID after all and it turned Washington D.C. into Mecca at the height of hajj. *Yay*. As I finally made it to the front doors of my assigned identification site, they announced the average wait time to be *five hours* just to hand in the paperwork. There we were getting this high tech gizmo with the chip and the laminate, the little embedded lights, and the radio transceiver that could let the police check your ID at ten feet and the fast tracked you through the airport. The height of personal identification technology! But to start the process you had to fill out paperwork. In triplicate. While sitting on a tiny, narrow plastic chair that cupped you between the cheeks, in a room packed like a sardine can.
Did I mention the ball sweat? This was my own personal hell. You can guess I was distracted, and that was probably how I messed up my first application. Turns out that the kindly civil servants at the ID office decided that any error in your paperwork would result in being rejected and told to re-enter the back of the line. When I handed them my papers, they fed them into this scanner machine thing that uploaded all of my answers to the system and spit out a result. *Real* fancy. But that also meant they kept a record of the attempt, which I figured was to my benefit. However the lady couldn't tell me what was wrong, because the computer was doing all the work for her. Just that it didn't match what was on file.
My waddling, swollen ass stood in that line for another five hours only for the office to *close*. Civil servants work pretty strict hours, after all. So I went home and the next day I was back bright and early, with my own sharpened number 2 pencil and everything. Doubled up on my back eye cream to cut down on chafing and I was ready to go! After three hours in line behind people who camped out the night before, I would reach the doors and find out that the average wait time was as of that moment seven hours. Looking back, the line stretched for over a mile before I lost track of it. They couldn't tell me that day what was wrong with my application, either. You can imagine my excitement as I tried to find the back of the line.
The day from hell would repeat daily for months. If I wasn't already retired, I would have lost my job just trying to get my damn ID. They extended the office hours to two six-hour shifts after a lot of complaints came in, which gave me more opportunities. I would submit my papers twice a day from then on. After a few months—yeah, I'm not kidding, months—I started to see some familiar faces. A pack of us clumped up when we arrived, chatted, exchanged stories of vague responses from the civil servants, shared snacks, played cards in a huddle. That's how I met my current wife, actually. Dora. We would be married at a party we threw as a sort of protest in the line on the first anniversary of the National ID office opening its doors. Not that we could get it properly filed. Why you ask? Turns out you needed the new ID to get it entered into the system. But on the bright side, the ladies at the counter brought us a cake. Which was sweet of them. They turned down our papers twenty minutes after cutting it.
Pictures from our wedding hit the front page of Reddit, too. Dora did an AMA but I didn't have the patience to do much but sit around while she handled it. In the history of bureaucracy, apparently we were some kind of big deal. The little engines that wouldn't go the fuck away or something. But as a wedding gift to us, the ladies at the office had their manager come out and make a ton of phone calls he had made time and time again for me in the past, but that day he even called a half dozen *congressmen* on my and Dora's behalf.
It was around that time when the protesters went from raging about the mark of the beast to protesting the injustice of those of us trapped in the line for so long. I nearly gave up. Dora and I seriously considered taking all of our retirement money and buying a little house in the middle of nowhere, where we would never need to the damn ID anyway. A lot of the prepper types had done it already, even set up a little community in North Dakota where their token local government cut the damn thing out of all of their daily bureaucracy. But that meant sticking with paper and you can imagine that left a bad taste in my mouth. I hate hard copy now. Sometimes I wake in the night and my wrist is moving on its own, fingers white from the pressure of squeezing around a pencil that doesn't exist. Hand cramps up time to time when I think about it.
A few months later you could tell everyone in our clump had lost more than a few pounds; they were looking a bit thinner and the line was finally truly shorter. A few of us went less often and a couple had died, we would hear about it from the ladies in the office. Apparently the new systems informed them when a pending ID account was voided out by a death certificate. It was a shame, I really liked James McGee. He always brought ham salad to the line.
Occasionally Dora and I would sleep in, but that fire in my ass wouldn't quit. Not much like a chronic hemorrhoid to get you moving. So, well, I finally snapped one day. I recall the day pretty well because it was Dora and my first wedding anniversary. We were going to go down to the line, give our papers a single run through, then jump in the car and take a week in Atlantic City. It would be our longest break from the line in two years. At that point, the line was kind of a part of our life all on its own. Like a vocation and we knew more about the new ID system than anyone else in the country. I could still teach a class on it.
Normally people snap when things go wrong... I didn't. Turned out I have the patience of a saint or a complete loon. Dora says its the loon and I'm inclined to agree. No, I snapped because my paperwork finally went *through*, followed by the system queuing up nearly eight hundred copies of my new ID. They had to shut the print system down and purge the whole thing, then do it all over again as Dora's went through. Then the rest of our line, our friendly Clump, passed theirs as well. You can imagine the reaction of a bunch of government bean counters up in policy heaven when a ten or twenty thousand badges pop up from nowhere on their cost sheet. They freaked out and wouldn't let me have my damn ID until it was solved. They said they needed to be sure it didn't duplicate, couldn't be sure it would even work.
So they had people swarming the front desk trying to figure out what happened and in the process, they were reading back log after log of information that made no damn sense to us. It was boring but I was used to waiting. Finally they found the error: 10,012 hours before the moment my ID paperwork finally cleared, there was a glitch in the system that set my birth date to 1/1/1900, and that morning, the glitch was patched. Some bright young spark had been slowly working on that glitch for just over two years and committed the change, setting off an avalanche of locked attempts.
The moment the thin twig of my sanity cracked was when I understood the gravity of 10,012 hours standing in lines, followed by the sudden approval of my papers. They say at ten thousand hours you become a master. I guessed in that moment that I had mastered waiting... So I sat down on one of those tiny, miserable chairs out of a sense of relief, while marveling in awe at what had transpired. A glitch had loopholed away two years of my life, but also resulted in meeting my new wife. But as my keester hit that chair, it burst that clump of grapes sticking out of my turd cutter with ferocious pressure. Felt like a man had jammed a whole baguette made of fire up my ass. When I leaped to my feet, that chair looked like a war crime and I started screaming like a five year old with a dropped ice cream cone. That's when the tears started. and because it happened in a government office, I was hauled off in an ambulance with little chance to argue. A needle of thorazine and an hour of ham-fisted corrective stitching later, and my trapdoor was no longer swinging loose.
And that, son, is how I met your mother. | "Oh my", she purred. Lynne always has this reaction when I bathe her. "You have really got quite the skill, Jenna."
"Thanks, Lynne. I'm happy to be able to help you feel better. Just let me know if you feel uncomfortable, okay? Is there anything new going on around here? What is the gossip?" I always tried to be upbeat, especially with the older ones.
She cleared her throat and shifted her position in the tub slightly. "Don't worry about me. Whatever you're doing, just keep doing that." She looked at me, and her eyes seemed to sparkle a bit. "D-d-doctor Morris says it won't be much longer now. That maybe there are three or four weeks left. I have not heard from my son in a few weeks, but he said he would come visit."
I paused briefly, and took in the bathroom. The stainless steel handles that helped us get our clients in and out of the tub seemed a little more reflective than usual. The tile seemed a little brighter. There were a few plastic flecks floating in the water - I had scrubbed a little extra where Lynne's IV had gone unchanged a little too long.
Lynne relaxed and closed her eyes again. Her turned her head gently rolled away from me. The gentle rhythm of her breathing became deeper and more regular. This has happened every single time for the last month. Every client just falls asleep as I am bathing them. None of the other staff members have this happen to them, which I guess is why the clients always preferred to have me bathe them.
I did the math in my head as I lifted Lynne's left leg from the tub. I had been working here for about six and a half years, at eight hours a day, five days a week. This was the only job available at the time - Client Comfort Specialist. That means I had spent about 75% of my time in this room, bathing clients. That would be...about 10,000 hours as of last month. But the actual time spent bathing couldn't be that much, could it?
I took in all of Lynne's body, as I lowered her leg back into the tub. I was suddenly conscious of the wrinkles around my eyes. My friends are all so worried about theirs, but, there are more important things, I guess.
"Just hold on, Margaret. I'll bring you back in a few minutes. Jenna is in there with Lynne, and it will be awhile." I sighed. The roughness in Brandon's voice jolted me out of my thoughts - he was such a dick to his clients sometimes. It is so much easier to be kind.
| |
[Wp] It takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. Without realising, you've just hit 10,000 hours of (random mundane task) | "WAKE UP ALREADY, YOU'RE GOING TO MISS THE BUS AGAIN!"
"Ok, Mom...," I said as I slowly planted one foot outside my bed. I relish the warmth of my sheets for one last time before feeling the wrath of winter.
"Ughh.. who the fuck invented waking up early.. like seriously.." I mumble to myself as I pick up my phone.
The phones glare almost blinds me, but I manage to survive and notice that it's just 6:12 am.
I ponder sitting in bed for an extra 3 minutes. "I mean, 6:15 am is just a bit more rounded," I thought to myself.
I lay back and start scrolling through my phone like a maniac. Oblivious to what exactly I'm doing, and without even remembering how, I end up on Reddit looking at a picture of a glowing tree base.
"Hmm, that's actually pretty cool," I thought to myself, as I clicked back and up-voted the post.
That's when it happened. As soon as my finger made contact with that screen, I felt it. Chills all over my body. Something was different. I felt different, and I knew deep down what it was.
"God damn it.." I thought to myself, "have I really spent 10,000 hours on Reddit.."
I look back at the screen, and I instantly notice the difference. I can now manage to look at hundreds of threads while maintaining to post 200k meme's per minute (MPM).
I'm currently actually Memeing as I'm writing this on /r/Writingprompts, I've mastered Reddit.
However, I got to go now, I'm going to miss the bus.
| "Oh my", she purred. Lynne always has this reaction when I bathe her. "You have really got quite the skill, Jenna."
"Thanks, Lynne. I'm happy to be able to help you feel better. Just let me know if you feel uncomfortable, okay? Is there anything new going on around here? What is the gossip?" I always tried to be upbeat, especially with the older ones.
She cleared her throat and shifted her position in the tub slightly. "Don't worry about me. Whatever you're doing, just keep doing that." She looked at me, and her eyes seemed to sparkle a bit. "D-d-doctor Morris says it won't be much longer now. That maybe there are three or four weeks left. I have not heard from my son in a few weeks, but he said he would come visit."
I paused briefly, and took in the bathroom. The stainless steel handles that helped us get our clients in and out of the tub seemed a little more reflective than usual. The tile seemed a little brighter. There were a few plastic flecks floating in the water - I had scrubbed a little extra where Lynne's IV had gone unchanged a little too long.
Lynne relaxed and closed her eyes again. Her turned her head gently rolled away from me. The gentle rhythm of her breathing became deeper and more regular. This has happened every single time for the last month. Every client just falls asleep as I am bathing them. None of the other staff members have this happen to them, which I guess is why the clients always preferred to have me bathe them.
I did the math in my head as I lifted Lynne's left leg from the tub. I had been working here for about six and a half years, at eight hours a day, five days a week. This was the only job available at the time - Client Comfort Specialist. That means I had spent about 75% of my time in this room, bathing clients. That would be...about 10,000 hours as of last month. But the actual time spent bathing couldn't be that much, could it?
I took in all of Lynne's body, as I lowered her leg back into the tub. I was suddenly conscious of the wrinkles around my eyes. My friends are all so worried about theirs, but, there are more important things, I guess.
"Just hold on, Margaret. I'll bring you back in a few minutes. Jenna is in there with Lynne, and it will be awhile." I sighed. The roughness in Brandon's voice jolted me out of my thoughts - he was such a dick to his clients sometimes. It is so much easier to be kind.
| |
[Wp] It takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. Without realising, you've just hit 10,000 hours of (random mundane task) | A brush stroke here. Then there. Flick some black paint on the sky for some birds, then add some more clouds. Perfect.
Though not quite. Frowning, Jon bit the end of the wooden brush in contemplation. It was missing something. He had captured the mountain's jagged sides, the reflection of the trees in the water, and the cloudy sky. What was missing?
Life! The birds were fine, but the landscape was lacking in signs of life.
Jon pulled the brush from his mouth and swapped it for the delicate one. He dipped it in brown paint and touched the bristles to the canvas.
DING!
He jumped, causing brown to streak up over the mountain, ruining his picture. He cursed, blaming the microwave.
Then his vision flooded green. Words in white faded into his sight, surrounded by golden sparks. LEVEL UP!
"What the..." he began, wiping his eyes. It all faded away. A second DING! sounded. This time he sourced it to... his head? It was coming from inside his mind. But it was so loud.
*
Jon waited by the phone. The DING!ing had stopped after eight more sounds over an hour ago. He had called the doctor after the fourth DING! only to be told to schedule a phone-home appointment. The grandfather clock in the living room chimed one o'clock.
RING-RING!
He picked up the phone, holding it to his ear. "Dr. Marsh! Thank God. Listen, I was painting the mountain, like you suggested, and—"
"Jonathan Rider, this isn't Dr. Marsh." The voice on the other end of the line was deep, monotonous, and completely unlike the softness of Marsh's voice.
"Who is this? I need to speak to Dr. Marsh. This is completely unprofessional. I specifically asked for—"
The voice interrupted him again. "I am not calling from Star House, Mr. Rider."
Jon froze. No one knew of his sessions at the Star House. In fact, very few people knew his full name. "Who the Hell is this?" he demanded, pulling out a note block and pen, ready to detail everything he was told to report them for breaching confidentiality. Report who? In theory, it had to be someone involved with Star House. He had only ever met Dr. Marsh and the receptionist, Anna. And the voice wasn't familiar in the slightest.
"My name is not important, Mr. Rider. I represent the Sol Institute. We intercepted your call to the Star House. Your condition was logged in our servers. The Sol Institute prides itself in its privacy and you very almost caused us quite some trouble."
"What are you talking about? I've never even heard of this 'Sol Institute'? How can you have my 'condition', whatever that means, in your servers? I'm going to report this! This is completely—"
"Mr. Rider, please. As I was saying, the Sol Institute is very private about its affairs and clients. Today you experienced a strange event. I urge you to set up an appointment with us to learn more."
"How do you know this?" Jon ceased his scribbles, paying more attention to the person's words. "Who *are* you?"
"You are a client of the Sol Institute. We can discuss this further in a scheduled appointment. However, I cannot give you my name over the phone. It's not secure."
He refrained from asking why it wasn't secure. If they could talk about the Sol Institute, why not just a simple name? He knew he wasn't a client of them anyway - he had never heard of them. "Right. And why should I? Why don't I just ignore this call? Forget about the 'Institute' completely."
"Because you are curious, Mr. Rider. Curiosity is a very powerful thing."
Thing. *Right*. "Curiosity killed the cat."
"But satisfaction brought it back."
Jon had never heard someone say that before. Was he being won over? A little. He wanted to know what had happened, more than anything. To stop it too. "Fine. I'll make an appointment. What are the slots?"
"When are you free?"
"Whenever? I don't know."
"Five o'clock tonight?"
"Yeah. Sure. Where do I go?"
There was a chuckle through the line. "We come to you, Mr. Rider. We will see you at five o'clock. Thank you for your time." Click.
*
They arrived on the dot of five o'clock. Jon opened the door slowly, his foot ready behind it, in case he needed to slam it shut.
There were two men. One, tall with a grey suit, had blond hair with grey threaded through. The second, short with a blue suit, was handsome and brunet. Both had their hands locked in front of them, briefcases dangling from their hooked forefingers.
"Mr. Rider," Grey greeted him, offering one hand out. Jon reached around the door to shake it hesitantly. "We're from the Sol Institute. I hope we're on time." There was the slightest bit of humour laced in his voice.
"You're not the person who spoke to me on the phone," Jon muttered, keeping his foot firm behind the door.
Grey chuckled, "Oh, no. We'd never send an Operator for an appointment."
"Operator?"
"Phone Operator," chimed in Blue. "We can't give you more than that. Can we come in? We have plenty to talk about."
Jon glanced between the two. "Sure." He shuffled his foot out of the way, opening the door wide enough to let them in. "The, uh, living room's to the left."
Grey nodded, stepping in first, Blue just behind him. They wiped their feet on the welcome mat and walked into the living room. Shutting the door, Jon made sure not to lock it. He followed them in, gesturing to the cream leather sofas. They sat.
"Well," smiled Blue, voice thick with an accent. "Introductions. I'm cold."
"Cold? Sorry, I can put the heating on." Jon stepped towards the hallway.
"No, no. I'm quite fine, Mr. Rider. I'm *Cole*," Blue drew the name out to pronounce it better. "This is my associate, Zachary."
Grey - Zachary - nodded. "Apologies for the misunderstanding. Cole is an International Knocker."
"Knocker?" Jon questioned, standing in the archway, only a few steps from the front door.
"We have certain... unusual terms for our job titles. Operators make the most sense. Knockers are... Us. We knock on doors. Home visits, the like."
"Right. What do you do in these home visits?"
Zachary pulled his briefcase onto his lap, fiddling with the lock. It popped open. There was a stack of different-coloured papers inside. "Inform the client of our work, and enlighten our client."
"So this is, what, religious? Look, I'm an atheist, I don't believe in anything and I'm not going to start."
Cole chuckled, "I promise, we're not into that. We're medical professionals."
"Affiliated with Star House?"
"It's... a little more complicated than that, Mr. Rider. I'm sure the Operator explained how private the Sol Institute is," answered Zachary, brushing down the collar of his suit. "We have certain specialities. I'm afraid our variant of therapy isn't quite like Dr. Marsh's speciality."
Jon grimaced. How much did they know of his appointments with Dr. Marsh? What did it even have to do with his 'strange event'? "Right. So what are your 'specialities'?"
"Levelling up, of course," Cole cut in. "You're part of a new generation, Mr. Rider. Levelling up is an anomaly in this world. We're here to help the Masters."
"What are you *talking* about? Levelling up? Masters? Are you *insane*?" Jon snapped, checking his back pockets for his phone. It was there. He could dial 999 within ten seconds, he estimated. What if they attacked him? The world was full of insane people nowadays.
"Mr. Rider, please," Zachary sighed, sounding exasperated. While tall, the man looked thin and aged, likely not as much of a threat as the stockier Cole. Were they called Knockers because they *knocked* heads in?
Cole reached into Zachary's case to bring out a leaf of papers. "This will explain everything. Zachary can give you the rundown." He stood, holding out the papers. Jon took them, taking a half-step back to keep distance, and browsed through the first few paragraphs as Zachary spoke.
"First: levelling up. As I said, a new generation. Many years ago, one hundred humans participated in a study to map genetics. From there, a eugenics project emerged and the one hundred participants agreed to an experiment. Fifty couples produced, initially, thirty-nine children. Another—"
"Hold up!" Jon shook his head, astounded. "This is impossible. This 'eugenics project' wasn't just that though. It says here that you 'added' genetics, not just mapped them. Isn't that illegal?"
"Not with the right paperwork and consent from a—"
"You messed with human DNA but it's okay because you have *paperwork*? Oh, *wow*."
"Mr. Rider, *please*. This was twenty-nine years ago, it can't be changed now—"
"*I'm* twenty-*eight*... Are you saying that I'm a 'client' because I'm the... the *product* of some messed up experiment?"
Zachary held up a hand. "Let me explain. You are, indeed, one of the children of the eugenics project. This work was done to improve society. You see, the country was struggling. Workers weren't skilled enough. Employment was down. The economy was *crushed*. The project was one of many attempts at giving the country a net. If we could not only incentivise workers, but also boost workers to do an even better job... Think about it."
Jon laughed. Were they crazy? How could they even think it would work? It had to be an elaborate prank. Sam took pranks too far nowadays. "You're *insane*. This is insane! Get out of here."
"Mr. Rider, we are not. You have seen the result of the Sol Institute's hard work. You levelled up."
"I saw a screen and I blacked out. You can't program someone to... have whatever that thing is!"
"But we have."
"*No*, you have *not*."
"You have levelled up, Mr. Rider. You are a Master."
"I want you out of my house. *Now*."
Zachary stood and placed his open briefcase on the coffee table. "You are a Master now, Mr. Rider. You know it."
"Get *out*!" Jon pointed to the front door, standing firm. It was an elaborate prank. None of it made any sense.
**Continued in the Comments.** | "Well I never thought this would happen, but I think I should consider going to a doctor" said Bob just after he shot his load on the mirror causing it to shatter.
"Please refrain from any sexual activities!" exclaimed Doctor Richard after slamming his hands on the table and accidentally shaking the mug of coffee and letting a drop escape onto Bobs naked member.
"Didn't you feel that?" Said Richard.
"Feel what?" Asked Bob.
"Smh" thought the doctor after pointing at Bobs bishop automatically healing.
The doctor had a reasonable explanation for his order.
"If you let your load fly into a females womb, it would penetrate it and some other internal organs with it causing the female to die!" Said the doctor with a stern face, "And that's if you even lose your virginity."
"What do you mean?!" Said Bob in shock.
"And masturbation is prohibited."
"You just took my only reason of living!" Said Bob.
"Shooting your load onto anything would either melt it or just simply cut it."
"That's a bad joke." Said Bob.
"I wish I was joking here but, I actually just considered an option which is currently being talked about in a conference at the main hall of the government."
"Hell no, I ain't going to get my a$$ related with the government."
"You will Bob, and you would be confined in a room made of the hardest stainless steel for safety reasons."
"I don't see you taking this plan any further in the future." Said Bob while shaking his hands under the table suspiciously. Doctor Richard began noticing the weird movement but passed it of as him being nervous.
After a few minutes doctor Richard began lecturing Bob about some other safety procedures he should take, but not until he felt something very hot on his stomach that suddenly he knew what was going on.
"Curse you, fap man, curse you in hell." Were doctor Richard's last words after his innards stared flowing out of the hole in his stomach.
_______________________________________________________________
50 years later humanity was terminated by the beast now know as the Fap Man. | |
[Wp] It takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. Without realising, you've just hit 10,000 hours of (random mundane task) | "Do you ever wonder what your skill is going to be?" I asked, stepping slightly on the gas as I merged on to the freeway.
Marsha's gaze floated to the horizon as she replied, "The Universe chooses a skill for you. It is the right choice for you."
"Not true, they have schools for specific skills that people want. Though its true, sometimes they end up with something else altogether, like expert at doodling tits in class. Somehow it does not seem like it could be the right choice for anyone."
Downshifting to fourth, I overtook a semi as Marsha grabbed my hand, pressed it against her left breast and pulled it up to her soft cheeks. Softly kissing it, she whispered, "Will you always love me?"
"I've loved you for as long as I've known you", I said before retrieving my hand and shifting back to fifth.
"Then there will always be red roses for me," she smiled.
"Does your mom drive a grey pick up truck by any chance?" I asked, after noticing what looked like Howard Stern swerving through traffic several cars behind us. I stepped slightly on the gas.
Suddenly, I felt the steering wheel shake and the car start to rattle and vibrate. Turning to Marsha in panic, and realizing that she was calm as ever, making a heart-shaped hairball from a comb, I stopped panicking and realized that the car still drove the same, the difference was that I could feel everything it did in my soul. Then it struck me, I had just reached expertness in driving my Toyota Corolla SE.
"Dude, I just made expert!" I yelled out.
"Congratulations on this very special and memorable occasion! We will cherish this moment forever!" exclaimed Marsha.
"Yes, that's awesome! This feels awesome! If you want to try becoming Toyota Corolla SE expert, I highly recommend it. I'm sure other cars would be fun too."
"The Universe is wisdom, as you can tell. It has also chosen well for me. I feel I should tell you, now that you are en expert."
"I didn't know you were already an expert!" I said in surprise.
"I'm an expert at seeing Hallmark moments everywhere. Sometimes the Universe is just always beautiful."
Before I could respond, I found a modern polythene grocery bag, neatly tied twice, full of healthy vegetarian garbage, on my windscreen.
A quick flick-of-the-steering-wheel-induced-lane-change and burst of windshield wiper fluid later, I saw the source of said garbage: Marsha's mother in the back of a grey pick-up truck in front of us. There was no driver in the truck, she appeared to be controlling the pick up truck by a few long sticks from the back; it seemed rather clever. She threw another garbage bag our way.
Muari Hagayama was a famous artisan during the Meiji period in what to later be known as the Greater Tokyo Area. Being as superstitious as he was, every Suroya doll he assembled every year at the Moon Dance prayer had the same size head. Decades later, all Japanese dolls had the same size heads. It was one of these missing heads that Kyoko Irmajiri was looking to replace on June 12th, 1978 when she took Daddy's 17mm model nut. Her father, Shinzo, the great engineer used a 14mm nut that day for the rear trailing arm for chassis prototype number 34. This caused the trailing arm bushing to have extra lateral flex. I paused between steering wheel flicks to compensate for the extra flex compounded by the near-full gas tank. This allowed me to dodge the second garbage bag.
"Marsha, why is your mother doing this?"
"My mother used to be at expert at protecting me. She recently also became an expert in throwing out garbage. The Universe has found a way for her to do both! Isn't it beautiful!"
"She is trying to protect you from me?" I asked, puzzled.
"It's her way of showing her love," replied Marsha and started beeping.
I hit snooze for the millionth time... | "Well I never thought this would happen, but I think I should consider going to a doctor" said Bob just after he shot his load on the mirror causing it to shatter.
"Please refrain from any sexual activities!" exclaimed Doctor Richard after slamming his hands on the table and accidentally shaking the mug of coffee and letting a drop escape onto Bobs naked member.
"Didn't you feel that?" Said Richard.
"Feel what?" Asked Bob.
"Smh" thought the doctor after pointing at Bobs bishop automatically healing.
The doctor had a reasonable explanation for his order.
"If you let your load fly into a females womb, it would penetrate it and some other internal organs with it causing the female to die!" Said the doctor with a stern face, "And that's if you even lose your virginity."
"What do you mean?!" Said Bob in shock.
"And masturbation is prohibited."
"You just took my only reason of living!" Said Bob.
"Shooting your load onto anything would either melt it or just simply cut it."
"That's a bad joke." Said Bob.
"I wish I was joking here but, I actually just considered an option which is currently being talked about in a conference at the main hall of the government."
"Hell no, I ain't going to get my a$$ related with the government."
"You will Bob, and you would be confined in a room made of the hardest stainless steel for safety reasons."
"I don't see you taking this plan any further in the future." Said Bob while shaking his hands under the table suspiciously. Doctor Richard began noticing the weird movement but passed it of as him being nervous.
After a few minutes doctor Richard began lecturing Bob about some other safety procedures he should take, but not until he felt something very hot on his stomach that suddenly he knew what was going on.
"Curse you, fap man, curse you in hell." Were doctor Richard's last words after his innards stared flowing out of the hole in his stomach.
_______________________________________________________________
50 years later humanity was terminated by the beast now know as the Fap Man. | |
[Wp] It takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. Without realising, you've just hit 10,000 hours of (random mundane task) | When the government announced that we were all getting national identity cards, there was an uproar and a vast stomping of feet. Your usual kooks and weirdos camped outside the Federal buildings, signs hoisted high and crying out against the mark of the beast, while other less savory types hunkered down in basements as they geared up for the first run of counterfeits.
We were told that the new card would be tied to our health insurance, our tax ID, our social security, our medical records, and all of the fiddly metadata bits we cast off in the wake of our lives. It would have been creepy and I may have put it off as long as possible, were it not for the fact that I needed it to use my medicare to get a hemorrhoid nubbed off with one of the world's most expensive rubber bands. Yeah, my reason for being an early adopter was glorious, but it was motivating. Nothing like standing in line, sweating your balls off with an enflamed balloon knot.
Anyway, I was there bright and early on day one and I expected to be queued up for a few hours in line getting my shot of DMV nostalgia: blurry headshots, surly civil servants, and bureaucratic red tape. But it turned out that a lot of people liked the sound of a national ID after all and it turned Washington D.C. into Mecca at the height of hajj. *Yay*. As I finally made it to the front doors of my assigned identification site, they announced the average wait time to be *five hours* just to hand in the paperwork. There we were getting this high tech gizmo with the chip and the laminate, the little embedded lights, and the radio transceiver that could let the police check your ID at ten feet and the fast tracked you through the airport. The height of personal identification technology! But to start the process you had to fill out paperwork. In triplicate. While sitting on a tiny, narrow plastic chair that cupped you between the cheeks, in a room packed like a sardine can.
Did I mention the ball sweat? This was my own personal hell. You can guess I was distracted, and that was probably how I messed up my first application. Turns out that the kindly civil servants at the ID office decided that any error in your paperwork would result in being rejected and told to re-enter the back of the line. When I handed them my papers, they fed them into this scanner machine thing that uploaded all of my answers to the system and spit out a result. *Real* fancy. But that also meant they kept a record of the attempt, which I figured was to my benefit. However the lady couldn't tell me what was wrong, because the computer was doing all the work for her. Just that it didn't match what was on file.
My waddling, swollen ass stood in that line for another five hours only for the office to *close*. Civil servants work pretty strict hours, after all. So I went home and the next day I was back bright and early, with my own sharpened number 2 pencil and everything. Doubled up on my back eye cream to cut down on chafing and I was ready to go! After three hours in line behind people who camped out the night before, I would reach the doors and find out that the average wait time was as of that moment seven hours. Looking back, the line stretched for over a mile before I lost track of it. They couldn't tell me that day what was wrong with my application, either. You can imagine my excitement as I tried to find the back of the line.
The day from hell would repeat daily for months. If I wasn't already retired, I would have lost my job just trying to get my damn ID. They extended the office hours to two six-hour shifts after a lot of complaints came in, which gave me more opportunities. I would submit my papers twice a day from then on. After a few months—yeah, I'm not kidding, months—I started to see some familiar faces. A pack of us clumped up when we arrived, chatted, exchanged stories of vague responses from the civil servants, shared snacks, played cards in a huddle. That's how I met my current wife, actually. Dora. We would be married at a party we threw as a sort of protest in the line on the first anniversary of the National ID office opening its doors. Not that we could get it properly filed. Why you ask? Turns out you needed the new ID to get it entered into the system. But on the bright side, the ladies at the counter brought us a cake. Which was sweet of them. They turned down our papers twenty minutes after cutting it.
Pictures from our wedding hit the front page of Reddit, too. Dora did an AMA but I didn't have the patience to do much but sit around while she handled it. In the history of bureaucracy, apparently we were some kind of big deal. The little engines that wouldn't go the fuck away or something. But as a wedding gift to us, the ladies at the office had their manager come out and make a ton of phone calls he had made time and time again for me in the past, but that day he even called a half dozen *congressmen* on my and Dora's behalf.
It was around that time when the protesters went from raging about the mark of the beast to protesting the injustice of those of us trapped in the line for so long. I nearly gave up. Dora and I seriously considered taking all of our retirement money and buying a little house in the middle of nowhere, where we would never need to the damn ID anyway. A lot of the prepper types had done it already, even set up a little community in North Dakota where their token local government cut the damn thing out of all of their daily bureaucracy. But that meant sticking with paper and you can imagine that left a bad taste in my mouth. I hate hard copy now. Sometimes I wake in the night and my wrist is moving on its own, fingers white from the pressure of squeezing around a pencil that doesn't exist. Hand cramps up time to time when I think about it.
A few months later you could tell everyone in our clump had lost more than a few pounds; they were looking a bit thinner and the line was finally truly shorter. A few of us went less often and a couple had died, we would hear about it from the ladies in the office. Apparently the new systems informed them when a pending ID account was voided out by a death certificate. It was a shame, I really liked James McGee. He always brought ham salad to the line.
Occasionally Dora and I would sleep in, but that fire in my ass wouldn't quit. Not much like a chronic hemorrhoid to get you moving. So, well, I finally snapped one day. I recall the day pretty well because it was Dora and my first wedding anniversary. We were going to go down to the line, give our papers a single run through, then jump in the car and take a week in Atlantic City. It would be our longest break from the line in two years. At that point, the line was kind of a part of our life all on its own. Like a vocation and we knew more about the new ID system than anyone else in the country. I could still teach a class on it.
Normally people snap when things go wrong... I didn't. Turned out I have the patience of a saint or a complete loon. Dora says its the loon and I'm inclined to agree. No, I snapped because my paperwork finally went *through*, followed by the system queuing up nearly eight hundred copies of my new ID. They had to shut the print system down and purge the whole thing, then do it all over again as Dora's went through. Then the rest of our line, our friendly Clump, passed theirs as well. You can imagine the reaction of a bunch of government bean counters up in policy heaven when a ten or twenty thousand badges pop up from nowhere on their cost sheet. They freaked out and wouldn't let me have my damn ID until it was solved. They said they needed to be sure it didn't duplicate, couldn't be sure it would even work.
So they had people swarming the front desk trying to figure out what happened and in the process, they were reading back log after log of information that made no damn sense to us. It was boring but I was used to waiting. Finally they found the error: 10,012 hours before the moment my ID paperwork finally cleared, there was a glitch in the system that set my birth date to 1/1/1900, and that morning, the glitch was patched. Some bright young spark had been slowly working on that glitch for just over two years and committed the change, setting off an avalanche of locked attempts.
The moment the thin twig of my sanity cracked was when I understood the gravity of 10,012 hours standing in lines, followed by the sudden approval of my papers. They say at ten thousand hours you become a master. I guessed in that moment that I had mastered waiting... So I sat down on one of those tiny, miserable chairs out of a sense of relief, while marveling in awe at what had transpired. A glitch had loopholed away two years of my life, but also resulted in meeting my new wife. But as my keester hit that chair, it burst that clump of grapes sticking out of my turd cutter with ferocious pressure. Felt like a man had jammed a whole baguette made of fire up my ass. When I leaped to my feet, that chair looked like a war crime and I started screaming like a five year old with a dropped ice cream cone. That's when the tears started. and because it happened in a government office, I was hauled off in an ambulance with little chance to argue. A needle of thorazine and an hour of ham-fisted corrective stitching later, and my trapdoor was no longer swinging loose.
And that, son, is how I met your mother. | "Well I never thought this would happen, but I think I should consider going to a doctor" said Bob just after he shot his load on the mirror causing it to shatter.
"Please refrain from any sexual activities!" exclaimed Doctor Richard after slamming his hands on the table and accidentally shaking the mug of coffee and letting a drop escape onto Bobs naked member.
"Didn't you feel that?" Said Richard.
"Feel what?" Asked Bob.
"Smh" thought the doctor after pointing at Bobs bishop automatically healing.
The doctor had a reasonable explanation for his order.
"If you let your load fly into a females womb, it would penetrate it and some other internal organs with it causing the female to die!" Said the doctor with a stern face, "And that's if you even lose your virginity."
"What do you mean?!" Said Bob in shock.
"And masturbation is prohibited."
"You just took my only reason of living!" Said Bob.
"Shooting your load onto anything would either melt it or just simply cut it."
"That's a bad joke." Said Bob.
"I wish I was joking here but, I actually just considered an option which is currently being talked about in a conference at the main hall of the government."
"Hell no, I ain't going to get my a$$ related with the government."
"You will Bob, and you would be confined in a room made of the hardest stainless steel for safety reasons."
"I don't see you taking this plan any further in the future." Said Bob while shaking his hands under the table suspiciously. Doctor Richard began noticing the weird movement but passed it of as him being nervous.
After a few minutes doctor Richard began lecturing Bob about some other safety procedures he should take, but not until he felt something very hot on his stomach that suddenly he knew what was going on.
"Curse you, fap man, curse you in hell." Were doctor Richard's last words after his innards stared flowing out of the hole in his stomach.
_______________________________________________________________
50 years later humanity was terminated by the beast now know as the Fap Man. | |
[Wp] It takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. Without realising, you've just hit 10,000 hours of (random mundane task) | "WAKE UP ALREADY, YOU'RE GOING TO MISS THE BUS AGAIN!"
"Ok, Mom...," I said as I slowly planted one foot outside my bed. I relish the warmth of my sheets for one last time before feeling the wrath of winter.
"Ughh.. who the fuck invented waking up early.. like seriously.." I mumble to myself as I pick up my phone.
The phones glare almost blinds me, but I manage to survive and notice that it's just 6:12 am.
I ponder sitting in bed for an extra 3 minutes. "I mean, 6:15 am is just a bit more rounded," I thought to myself.
I lay back and start scrolling through my phone like a maniac. Oblivious to what exactly I'm doing, and without even remembering how, I end up on Reddit looking at a picture of a glowing tree base.
"Hmm, that's actually pretty cool," I thought to myself, as I clicked back and up-voted the post.
That's when it happened. As soon as my finger made contact with that screen, I felt it. Chills all over my body. Something was different. I felt different, and I knew deep down what it was.
"God damn it.." I thought to myself, "have I really spent 10,000 hours on Reddit.."
I look back at the screen, and I instantly notice the difference. I can now manage to look at hundreds of threads while maintaining to post 200k meme's per minute (MPM).
I'm currently actually Memeing as I'm writing this on /r/Writingprompts, I've mastered Reddit.
However, I got to go now, I'm going to miss the bus.
| "Well I never thought this would happen, but I think I should consider going to a doctor" said Bob just after he shot his load on the mirror causing it to shatter.
"Please refrain from any sexual activities!" exclaimed Doctor Richard after slamming his hands on the table and accidentally shaking the mug of coffee and letting a drop escape onto Bobs naked member.
"Didn't you feel that?" Said Richard.
"Feel what?" Asked Bob.
"Smh" thought the doctor after pointing at Bobs bishop automatically healing.
The doctor had a reasonable explanation for his order.
"If you let your load fly into a females womb, it would penetrate it and some other internal organs with it causing the female to die!" Said the doctor with a stern face, "And that's if you even lose your virginity."
"What do you mean?!" Said Bob in shock.
"And masturbation is prohibited."
"You just took my only reason of living!" Said Bob.
"Shooting your load onto anything would either melt it or just simply cut it."
"That's a bad joke." Said Bob.
"I wish I was joking here but, I actually just considered an option which is currently being talked about in a conference at the main hall of the government."
"Hell no, I ain't going to get my a$$ related with the government."
"You will Bob, and you would be confined in a room made of the hardest stainless steel for safety reasons."
"I don't see you taking this plan any further in the future." Said Bob while shaking his hands under the table suspiciously. Doctor Richard began noticing the weird movement but passed it of as him being nervous.
After a few minutes doctor Richard began lecturing Bob about some other safety procedures he should take, but not until he felt something very hot on his stomach that suddenly he knew what was going on.
"Curse you, fap man, curse you in hell." Were doctor Richard's last words after his innards stared flowing out of the hole in his stomach.
_______________________________________________________________
50 years later humanity was terminated by the beast now know as the Fap Man. | |
[WP] The main character is a villian. He is not secretly a good guy with a depressing backstory, and there is no happy ending. | All at once, the symphony began.
All at once, the three dozen bombs through the city detonated and every local news channel cut to me on top of my skyscraper of choice.
"Hello," I said through my skeletal carbon fiber mask, "Several thousand people just died. I want you to think about that. Buildings in this town that took years to build, all full of thousands of people each, just crumbled. The last comparable tragedy to this happened 17 years ago and everyone still remembers the many people who died."
I stood from the chair I'd positioned in front of the camera and my cameraman panned up for a more intense shot. "That event was nothing next to this. Ten times the violence in so much less time. I advise everyone to stay in their homes. Those in the streets will be massacred soon, and I assume most of you would like to live longer. Thank you."
The feed dropped and my cameraman nodded to me as he jumped from the roof. I pushed the chair and camera down after him. I smiled at the chaos below until my helicopter arrived. I stepped onboard and one of my men handed me a coffee. I pushed aside my mask and took a sip.
We cruised over the carnage for a while, my militia dominating any forces that dared stand up to them.
God damn, Folgers is pretty good. | Just wrote for another prompt, but fits this one too.
I am a wonderful person; devoted wife, self sacrificing mother, obedient daughter, choir director and chair of the Town Charity Commission. It's not my fault my dearly departed husband couldn't handle my few midnight rendezvous. I can't be blamed that my daughter is an ungrateful hateful bitch. I gave my everything to that girl, and she threw it all in my face. After I put her father out of the picture, I still had needs. Thomas was my man! My daughter may be 5, but she had no right to do those things with him. I had to punish her, you see? She forced me to do it. There wasn't that much blood in the end. But that's all okay, because I'm pregnant. Thomas will make a good father. | |
[WP] The main character is a villian. He is not secretly a good guy with a depressing backstory, and there is no happy ending. | The pocket knife in my hands glinted, reflecting the harsh white light thrown by the halogen lamp overhead. Knives are beautiful. This one especially. Lost my virginity on this one. What a great memory.
A great, heaving sigh escaped my lips. "You're really not making this easy for me, mate." I love how my voice echoes in this room.
I allow my shoulders to stoop as I take pause to look around. It's a nice place for interactions like these. Cliched, but with just enough style. Metal table, metal (uncomfortable) chairs, and barren cement-brick walls. One single halogen bright as the motherfuckin' sun in the middle of it, centered on the table. Almost poetic.
Slowly I place my knife on the table, making sure that the blade lines up with the edge. "There's a kind of beauty in symmetry, don't you agree?" I look up at my charge. He doesn't respond. Can't blame him; it is kind of hard to speak with such a dirty sock stuffed in your mouth. I can see in his eyes that he agrees, at least deep down, so it's fine. His eyes are really bloodshot, fixated on me as I move around the table separating us. His head follows in kind to a point, his body fixated to the chair with intricate knots of rope.
I'm now behind him, relishing in the panic displayed by his body language. He can't see me, and has no idea what I'm doing. My hand reaches up and slowly runs through his brown, curly hair. He shudders and I smile. My hand balls into a fist intertwined with his hair as I slowly pull his head back. "Don't worry about me, love. You worry about you. If I'm going to do something rash I'll tell you first." His eyes were wide in what could be interpreted as terror. Pants-shitting terror. This friendly approach always seemed to have that affect. It helped that I was touching him in slightly sexual ways.
This man who's hazel eyes locked with my own blue ones was a man who had a great influence over a... party I was interested in. No not party like a soiree, party as in a certain individual. Someone I needed to lay off of me for a while. Everything I was attempting needed for this man in front of me to convince that party to stand down. At least for a day or two.
My hand left his hair, stroking down his cheek in a sweet caress that in any other setting would denote a touch between two lovers. He wrenched his head away in disgust and started to cry. A little too intimate? Oh well, I'm sure he'll be fine. Muffled sobs came from behind the sock, a guttural sound made in the throat. I like to hear them cry. I took the sock from his mouth, craving that soloist part of this symphony.
With bated breath I waited for the next sob, but it didn't come. Instead there was only his ragged breathing. "I'm disappointed in you. I thought you'd outright cry or at least scream a little." I said, leisurely walking back around to the chair on the other side of the table. "FUCK YOU!" My charge spat, some of his enraged spittle splashing onto my glasses.
I reach up and take off my glasses, cleaning them with my t-shirt. "Please don't spray at me, it's not very polite." Another smile crosses my lips, one that I hope looks friendly. "I've been a fairly welcoming host. I haven't hurt you, I don't want to hurt you. All I require is your cooperation. That's it, that's all." I lean forward, my hands laced together. I hope it looks like those old sly detective movies I used to watch. Smooth operator detective looking intimidating, cool, and relaxed all at the same time. I hope I look like that. "Will you do that for me? Give me your cooperation?"
My prose is met with another string of expletives, mostly consisting of "fuck" and "cunt" and the like. I lost interest for a moment. I let him get it out of his system. Damn this knife is gorgeous. It was a simple flip-to-open styled blade. Spring loaded. Carved wooden handle, two-and-a-half inch blade with serrations near the hilt. Polished to be almost like a mirror. Beautiful.
His tirade had stopped at this point. In fact I suspect it had stopped a good while ago. He now sat silent, his eyes periodically darting from my face to the knife in front of me. I stroked the knife with my index finger as I looked to him and smiled. "Now that you're quite done, I just want to say that your daughter is just as beautiful as this knife. Please, take it as a compliment, I insist. Now I'll ask again, will you cooperate? Please." I kept my voice monotonous for the most part, stretching out "just" and "beautiful". It had the intended affect, I was glad to see.
Mavers immediately seemed to shrink in his chair, like air escaping from a balloon. Only there was no hilarious imitation flatulence. Just a man withering in front of his host. "Please don't hurt her." He whimpered, his voice barely above a whisper, pleading with all the desperation he could muster.
"No. No, no, no, no, no. Don't you worry. You just worry about yourself." My tone was unexpectedly cold there. Reel it in, man.
The sobbing started up again. So did his pleading. I don't like pleading. I've never liked it since I first became intimate with my knife and the innards of another human being. It's so pathetic. I'd much rather they bark and bare their teeth at me, but usually when you mention family members all their courage goes by the wayside. "OK, now. Time to stop your whingeing or the sock goes back in." I dangled said sock in front of him. It took him a few moments, but he did stop.
"Good boy. Now all I want is for you to say that you'll cooperate. All I need from you is to threaten Thompson for me. I'll give you a knife to help, they're lovely." I grabbed my knife for affect. "You must do it exactly as I say. You just take the knife to his wife. Carve her up a little. You don't have to kill her, I see the worry in your eyes." The crying had started again. "You just take the knife like this," I gripped the knife in my hand, fingers encircling the handle, thumb on the spine. "And you make a motion like this!"
I swung the blade, catching the bridge of Mavers' nose in the process. Blood dribbled down the sides and the tip. He cried harder, in pain. His tears mixed with the blood, diluting it to a light pink-crimson colour.
"I'm sorry, I didn't warn you about that. It's just a little nick, you're fine. Anyways, you swing it like that, but get her a little deeper. I think Thompson will listen to you then." I set the knife back down in it's place. My fingers intertwined again. "Now, do I have your cooperation?" I waited for his response for ten minutes.
I could see his internal struggle, reading him like a book. He wanted to give in, to say that he would do it. But Mavers was a man by-the-books. Couldn't be a Police Commissioner without that nature. His high moral upbringing and values tore and screamed at him to not give in. To not become a criminal by his own definition. His morals won. He uttered a simple "No".
I could feel myself getting angry as a sigh left my body. "I'm sorry but this isn't something you can say no to. I asked you the question so that we could have a conversation. Now, will you cooperate? Think about your answer carefully." By this point I had picked up my knife and was pointing it at him.
Again he refused, this time adding that he'd never cooperate and that I can go and fornicate with myself. Well, that was a shame. My patience was gone and I had other means of getting the results I wanted.
"I'm sorry you feel that way, Mavers. You'd best make peace in these next few moments." With that I leaped over the table, toppling the man to the ground. He screamed as I shoved the sock back into his mouth. I was on top of him, straddling his chest. My hand came down to his throat, nails digging in on either side of his trachea. I felt the soothing warmth of blood seep under my fingernails as they pierced the skin. That lovely coppery aroma started to waft up from the wound.
My fingers dug deeper, an audible pop breaking the sounds of his muffled screams. My fingers had gone deep enough to take hold of his trachea, and now was the fun part. It's like one of those party poppers they give you. You grabbed one end, gave the other to another party-goer and pulled until there was a small pop and confetti went fucking everywhere. I took hold and pulled, memories of birthdays long past flashing into my mind. I pulled and his trachea came with it. Thinking on it... the snap was almost the same as the popper. The confetti this time was blood.
There wasn't any more screaming, kind of hard with a hole in your throat. His eyes were wide. Starting to cloud over as the first throes of death started to take him. "Don't worry, my friend. I'll end this quickly for you. It so hurts me to see you like this." I pushed my blade between the third and fourth rib on his left side, plunging it straight into his heart. I could feel the muscle pumping and jerking the blade around, set to a feverish pace as Mavers' adrenaline surged.
The jerking slowed. Then stopped. I kissed him sweet goodnight on his cheek.
I withdrew my blade and wiped it on his button-down, called my clean-up crew and left the room. I had an appointment with Mrs. Thompson I couldn't miss. | Just wrote for another prompt, but fits this one too.
I am a wonderful person; devoted wife, self sacrificing mother, obedient daughter, choir director and chair of the Town Charity Commission. It's not my fault my dearly departed husband couldn't handle my few midnight rendezvous. I can't be blamed that my daughter is an ungrateful hateful bitch. I gave my everything to that girl, and she threw it all in my face. After I put her father out of the picture, I still had needs. Thomas was my man! My daughter may be 5, but she had no right to do those things with him. I had to punish her, you see? She forced me to do it. There wasn't that much blood in the end. But that's all okay, because I'm pregnant. Thomas will make a good father. | |
[WP] The main character is a villian. He is not secretly a good guy with a depressing backstory, and there is no happy ending. | The pocket knife in my hands glinted, reflecting the harsh white light thrown by the halogen lamp overhead. Knives are beautiful. This one especially. Lost my virginity on this one. What a great memory.
A great, heaving sigh escaped my lips. "You're really not making this easy for me, mate." I love how my voice echoes in this room.
I allow my shoulders to stoop as I take pause to look around. It's a nice place for interactions like these. Cliched, but with just enough style. Metal table, metal (uncomfortable) chairs, and barren cement-brick walls. One single halogen bright as the motherfuckin' sun in the middle of it, centered on the table. Almost poetic.
Slowly I place my knife on the table, making sure that the blade lines up with the edge. "There's a kind of beauty in symmetry, don't you agree?" I look up at my charge. He doesn't respond. Can't blame him; it is kind of hard to speak with such a dirty sock stuffed in your mouth. I can see in his eyes that he agrees, at least deep down, so it's fine. His eyes are really bloodshot, fixated on me as I move around the table separating us. His head follows in kind to a point, his body fixated to the chair with intricate knots of rope.
I'm now behind him, relishing in the panic displayed by his body language. He can't see me, and has no idea what I'm doing. My hand reaches up and slowly runs through his brown, curly hair. He shudders and I smile. My hand balls into a fist intertwined with his hair as I slowly pull his head back. "Don't worry about me, love. You worry about you. If I'm going to do something rash I'll tell you first." His eyes were wide in what could be interpreted as terror. Pants-shitting terror. This friendly approach always seemed to have that affect. It helped that I was touching him in slightly sexual ways.
This man who's hazel eyes locked with my own blue ones was a man who had a great influence over a... party I was interested in. No not party like a soiree, party as in a certain individual. Someone I needed to lay off of me for a while. Everything I was attempting needed for this man in front of me to convince that party to stand down. At least for a day or two.
My hand left his hair, stroking down his cheek in a sweet caress that in any other setting would denote a touch between two lovers. He wrenched his head away in disgust and started to cry. A little too intimate? Oh well, I'm sure he'll be fine. Muffled sobs came from behind the sock, a guttural sound made in the throat. I like to hear them cry. I took the sock from his mouth, craving that soloist part of this symphony.
With bated breath I waited for the next sob, but it didn't come. Instead there was only his ragged breathing. "I'm disappointed in you. I thought you'd outright cry or at least scream a little." I said, leisurely walking back around to the chair on the other side of the table. "FUCK YOU!" My charge spat, some of his enraged spittle splashing onto my glasses.
I reach up and take off my glasses, cleaning them with my t-shirt. "Please don't spray at me, it's not very polite." Another smile crosses my lips, one that I hope looks friendly. "I've been a fairly welcoming host. I haven't hurt you, I don't want to hurt you. All I require is your cooperation. That's it, that's all." I lean forward, my hands laced together. I hope it looks like those old sly detective movies I used to watch. Smooth operator detective looking intimidating, cool, and relaxed all at the same time. I hope I look like that. "Will you do that for me? Give me your cooperation?"
My prose is met with another string of expletives, mostly consisting of "fuck" and "cunt" and the like. I lost interest for a moment. I let him get it out of his system. Damn this knife is gorgeous. It was a simple flip-to-open styled blade. Spring loaded. Carved wooden handle, two-and-a-half inch blade with serrations near the hilt. Polished to be almost like a mirror. Beautiful.
His tirade had stopped at this point. In fact I suspect it had stopped a good while ago. He now sat silent, his eyes periodically darting from my face to the knife in front of me. I stroked the knife with my index finger as I looked to him and smiled. "Now that you're quite done, I just want to say that your daughter is just as beautiful as this knife. Please, take it as a compliment, I insist. Now I'll ask again, will you cooperate? Please." I kept my voice monotonous for the most part, stretching out "just" and "beautiful". It had the intended affect, I was glad to see.
Mavers immediately seemed to shrink in his chair, like air escaping from a balloon. Only there was no hilarious imitation flatulence. Just a man withering in front of his host. "Please don't hurt her." He whimpered, his voice barely above a whisper, pleading with all the desperation he could muster.
"No. No, no, no, no, no. Don't you worry. You just worry about yourself." My tone was unexpectedly cold there. Reel it in, man.
The sobbing started up again. So did his pleading. I don't like pleading. I've never liked it since I first became intimate with my knife and the innards of another human being. It's so pathetic. I'd much rather they bark and bare their teeth at me, but usually when you mention family members all their courage goes by the wayside. "OK, now. Time to stop your whingeing or the sock goes back in." I dangled said sock in front of him. It took him a few moments, but he did stop.
"Good boy. Now all I want is for you to say that you'll cooperate. All I need from you is to threaten Thompson for me. I'll give you a knife to help, they're lovely." I grabbed my knife for affect. "You must do it exactly as I say. You just take the knife to his wife. Carve her up a little. You don't have to kill her, I see the worry in your eyes." The crying had started again. "You just take the knife like this," I gripped the knife in my hand, fingers encircling the handle, thumb on the spine. "And you make a motion like this!"
I swung the blade, catching the bridge of Mavers' nose in the process. Blood dribbled down the sides and the tip. He cried harder, in pain. His tears mixed with the blood, diluting it to a light pink-crimson colour.
"I'm sorry, I didn't warn you about that. It's just a little nick, you're fine. Anyways, you swing it like that, but get her a little deeper. I think Thompson will listen to you then." I set the knife back down in it's place. My fingers intertwined again. "Now, do I have your cooperation?" I waited for his response for ten minutes.
I could see his internal struggle, reading him like a book. He wanted to give in, to say that he would do it. But Mavers was a man by-the-books. Couldn't be a Police Commissioner without that nature. His high moral upbringing and values tore and screamed at him to not give in. To not become a criminal by his own definition. His morals won. He uttered a simple "No".
I could feel myself getting angry as a sigh left my body. "I'm sorry but this isn't something you can say no to. I asked you the question so that we could have a conversation. Now, will you cooperate? Think about your answer carefully." By this point I had picked up my knife and was pointing it at him.
Again he refused, this time adding that he'd never cooperate and that I can go and fornicate with myself. Well, that was a shame. My patience was gone and I had other means of getting the results I wanted.
"I'm sorry you feel that way, Mavers. You'd best make peace in these next few moments." With that I leaped over the table, toppling the man to the ground. He screamed as I shoved the sock back into his mouth. I was on top of him, straddling his chest. My hand came down to his throat, nails digging in on either side of his trachea. I felt the soothing warmth of blood seep under my fingernails as they pierced the skin. That lovely coppery aroma started to waft up from the wound.
My fingers dug deeper, an audible pop breaking the sounds of his muffled screams. My fingers had gone deep enough to take hold of his trachea, and now was the fun part. It's like one of those party poppers they give you. You grabbed one end, gave the other to another party-goer and pulled until there was a small pop and confetti went fucking everywhere. I took hold and pulled, memories of birthdays long past flashing into my mind. I pulled and his trachea came with it. Thinking on it... the snap was almost the same as the popper. The confetti this time was blood.
There wasn't any more screaming, kind of hard with a hole in your throat. His eyes were wide. Starting to cloud over as the first throes of death started to take him. "Don't worry, my friend. I'll end this quickly for you. It so hurts me to see you like this." I pushed my blade between the third and fourth rib on his left side, plunging it straight into his heart. I could feel the muscle pumping and jerking the blade around, set to a feverish pace as Mavers' adrenaline surged.
The jerking slowed. Then stopped. I kissed him sweet goodnight on his cheek.
I withdrew my blade and wiped it on his button-down, called my clean-up crew and left the room. I had an appointment with Mrs. Thompson I couldn't miss. | “Doctor—!”
She was interrupted by the clank of wood and glass. He had lifted a bottle of whiskey and begun pouring into an *already* wet glass on his desk. He took a sip.
“This is impor—”
Hand having not left the bottle, he gestured it at her; an offering for her to join him. She shook her head, mouth still open in disbelief.
“Doct—”
“Now, what *is* the trouble Miss Fischer...”
He stood up.
“...that you would you barge on in, interrupting such a *quiet*...”
He took a breath as his shoulders rised and settled into a strong and rigid frame.
‘...and lovely afternoon.”
“It’s Mr. Dalloway, he’s been in an accident,” she spoke more calmly but an octave higher in urgency.
He turned his back against her gaze, and looked out upon a sun spotted hillside.
“What’s his condition?” he replied, his tone now colored in his profession.
“Critical. Internal bleeding and one of his lungs has collapsed.”
His eyes shifted from the window to the wall. It was lined with degrees, awards, and honors. But there was one that stood out; outlined in dark mahogany and a silver trim, an ornate certificate, a star-shaped medal, and a purple heart gleamed in the sun.
“Oh our dear friend Frank, let’s see what we can do for him.”
He turns around and walks towards the door, each step resounding as the wood flooring echos his departure. She closes the door behind them.
Freshly waxed limestone had now been the purveyors of their stride as the doctor and young nurse proceed towards their patient.
Along the hall, an older, but well kept man spots the pair and the pair him.
“Cut down on the red meat Bobby” the doctor said lightly with a half smile.
“If I can’t have it, why do ya’ll serve it?”
“Southern hospitality. But be smart Bobby, I wanna see you on the course soon,” he said, pausing in his step.
“Oh you bet Ricky, I can teach you a thing or two about your drive.”
The doctor smiled and continued on his way, swinging his arms as if polished iron was in his hands.
After a few swings, the two had reached their destination. He took the chart from her hands.
“Wait here, and close the door.”
“Yes Dr. Rivers,” she said unusually, now with the same calm as the doctor.
He stepped into a soft sunlit room. It dimmed as the cold fluorescent light from the hall was flushed out with the closing of the door. It darkened as Dr. Rivers walked to the window and shut the curtains. Before him was Francis Dalloway, a man gasping for breath. His eyes were glazed over, barely focused upon the doctor.
“Ricky, good...to see you.”.
“Always, a pleasure Francis.”
“Please...call me...Frank, like you always do.”
“Oh Francis, it seems you’ve gotten yourself into *quite* a bit of trouble.”
Dr. Rivers tossed the chart onto the tray beside Mr. Dalloway. The intubation equipment Miss Fischer had prepared rumbled.
“Aren’t you...going to...help me?”
“Aren’t I? Don’t I always? I’ve been helping you here for almost fifteen years now.”
He turned and smiled at Mr. Dalloway. Bedridden, he seemed to almost shrivel as the doctor towered above him.
“What’s...the problem...Ricky?”
“And in these fifteen years, you’ve gotten *old*. And that’s *ok*—we all get old.”
Mr. Dalloway coughed repeatedly. He was fading by the second.
“Francis, the problem, you see, is that your company got old, and you *outlived* it. Not as a winner, but as a *loser*. You have debts, debts that I will not pay in your place.”
“But...we’re friends Ricky...you’re the godfather...to my daughter for Christ’s sake...and the war...we fought…the same war Ricky”
“Ah—I’m glad you brought that up Francis.”
He gathered himself and looked past Mr. Dalloway, past the bedding and the wall, as if he was looking at something distant.
“Back when I was stationed in Montecassino, times were hard. We had our backs to the wall and I had to make *hard* decisions. I watched my fellow soldiers—no, my friends, lose ground, and then lose limbs, and then lose their *lives*. And the few of us that survived—we emerged from those bunkers, or what was of left them, and we had to make a choice.”
His eyes began to water as his voice began to shake.
“I had to leave friends behind; I tried to bring ‘em, but as we slowed, and the artillery gained, and the rations depleted; we made a choice. We left ‘em—and they wanted to stay, for our sakes.”
By now, Mr. Dalloway’s skin seemed as white and thin as paper. A flash of anger shown in his eyes before quickly dispersing into despair.
“...Janette...” he said weakly.
“...And the children. You’re worried about your family aren’t you? Don’t you worry Francis, I’ll take *good* care of them. I’m the *godfather* after all,” Dr. Rivers replied, with an unnervingly genuine smile.
“You...mon—”
Dr. Rivers switched the machine off beside Mr. Dalloway. The heart rate monitor slowed to a drone.
“Thanks for staying behind Frank.”
Dr. Rivers opened the curtain once again. He recognized one of the hospital’s lollipops in Mr. Dallaways coat. He transferred it to his. The door opened before him as Miss Fischer heard his approaching steps.
“Oh Miss Fischer, we tried our very best but we *simply* could not save the poor man.”
“A tragedy, Dr. Rivers—I’ll have Williams skip the autopsy.”
“Good. I’m going to step outside for a moment, enjoy the summer air a little. Care to join me?” Dr. Rivers said coyly as he moved in the direction of the hospital entrance.
“Yes, I’d love to, clear my head a little.”
They made their way out of the building, Miss Fischer keeping a pace behind. He held the door open for her.
“I see you little angel, you waiting for someone?” Dr. Francis asked, approaching a little girl seated outside in one of the hospital’s gazebos. He recognized her as Bobby’s daughter.
She nodded shyly.
“I’m sure Bobby will be out soon,” he says as he hands her the lollipop from his pocket.
She smiles and takes the lollipop. The two leave her, making their way to a small garden just left of the hospital fountain.
“You’ve never told me any about the war before Patrick,” Miss Fischer mentioned in curiosity as she leaned against the picket fencing.
“What are you talking about Sarah?”
“Sorry—I just overheard a little when you were with Mr. Dalloway.”
He paused a short moment.
“I was never a soldier Sarah. Could you even imagine it? *Me* killing?” he laughed lightheartedly, staring at the gold embossed letters that sat above the hospital entrance.
“Dalloway & Rivers General Hospital” it said, shining in the sun. | |
[WP] A jew, christian, and islamic priest dies. When they get to the afterlife, they fight over who is right. As they enter, they see Osiris, Anubis, and Ma'at. The trial begins... | "What trial?"
A dog head crooked it's neck, gauging Father Sanderson from a new angle. To determine his worth? His question? The priest couldn't say. He only stared up at what he saw across the river, demanding answers.
All three colossal figures loomed over the dead men as skyscrapers across the river. Except there were no buildings. Or markers. Just a thin line of water coursing sunwards. The three holy men were arguing about the meaning of a fixed horizon when they showed up, declaring that the trial had begun. Now that the god growled at Father Sanderson, he knew the declaration came from him.
"The journey of the underworld!"
Imam Ayaan raised an eyebrow at the dog head. "So I'm not already in Paradise?"
It barked a laugh. "Not yet!"
The imam flicked his eyes towards it's man's body, then back at it's head. "But, 'Lawful for you are all good things, and the prey that trained hunting dogs and falcons catch you.' Are we not your pray, and is this not Paradise?" Sanderson ignored the fact that he asked this question twice. Ayaan, like Sanderson and the rabbi, were eager to know where they were. Too eager perhaps. Their debate got too heated at one point. Whenever that was.
The green man set a hand on the dog headed man's shoulder and craned his body forward, fixing a large smile down the three men where a sun should have been. Sanderson had the impression a sun wasn't needed to rise anymore, with how the green face beamed down on them. "My other son will not be joining us if that's what you are asking." He gestured a large arm towards where the river coursed. "His eye does not pierce so deep here."
"His?" Sanderson asked.
Teeth flashed brightly. "Horus, my son. And this is Anubis, his brother." He growled again, apparently still unhappy with the priest. The green man gestured towards the woman. "Ma'at, my granddaughter." She nodded a colossal head towards the small figures across the river. Then the green hand placed itself on his chest. "And I, am Osiris, your Lord of the dead."
The priest frowned. "Not *my* Lord."
The smile disappeared. "Luke Sanderson, your journey begins on a rocky path."
Ayaan gaped. "Are you Allah?!"
The rabbi cut the god off with a trembling voice, before he had a chance to reply. "I thought I was separated from my people."
Sanderson was surprised. The rabbi sounded relieved. He remained silent when the gods appeared before them up to this point. All three holy men had slung justifications and verses at each other in their waiting place by the shore, the rabbi with more zeal than either of them. There was something desperate about it that Ayaan found especially disasteful in these circumstances. Then the once boisterous elder only watched, ignored until now.
"We *are* seperated," Sanderson replied. "Look where we are."
"No, a *spiritual*... separation." Old hands covered his eyes. "I thought I failed, and was being punished. To understand where we are, and being told I --- that I was wrong. Again. With none of my people here..." the last word barely raked itself out of the rabbi's mouth before he continued his silence. That 'here' was empty and had no commitment. Or resolution.
Community was important in any faith, and their apparent isolation on this shore struck the rabbi in a hard way. Obviously they were separated from anyone else by some divine joke. Separation had another meaning to the rabbi.
Sanderson and Ayaan shared a somber moment. It hadn't occurred to him that this could be hell, or at least, *not* paradise.
Osiris spoke gently. "You aren't in hell, or paradise." He nodded towards where the sun sat, casting it's orange, warm light down the plains. "As you have walked between them in life, so shall you walk between them now. At the end, we will decide."
The sky was lit over them in a resting yellow. Like a Midwest sunset, Sanderson was sure. It felt like evening. And yet, it was morning as well. The sun did not commit to any particular time of day. That moment the rabbi said 'here' began to make more sense to the priest. Again, the holy men were asked to commit to something they didn't truly understand.
But while these gods were here...
"What's at the end of the journey?"
The woman replied. "Truth, Luke Sanderson."
"Judgement," the dog head breathed.
Osiris' teeth flashed again. "Rebirth."
Ayaan took to standing by the rabbi, comforting the old man in his relief. "We'll start walking once you're ready." The elder rocked his head in what should have been a nod. Sanderson was glad for the rabbi. He hadn't realized what an ordeal this must have been for the old man. The priest himself and Ayaan should have been more mindful of his desperation earlier. Sanderson shook his head, grasping for the first thought he could find to stop chastising himself for his selfishness.
"What was the point of having the three of us wait here?" The priest flushed with embarrassment as he asked this question, realizing that for all he knew, the three gods had been watching them the whole time. Their debate, their verse-slinging, asserting that their God, though the same, meant different things to them... the three men must have been like toddlers; wide-eyed and bewildered by a world they also didn't truly understand.
Ma'at spoke. "I wanted to hear your truths. Your commitment to religious scholarship is, collectively, staggering." Her large amber eyes looked towards the imam and rabbi, and smiled. "As is your humanity. The pride you have in your knowledge needed to go before you take on the journey."
The dog head continued. "It would have been unfair to see you fail towards the end, holding on to knowledge that has no place here."
Osiris knelt to the river, his knee thudding into the earth with a brief quake. His hands dug into the river and drank from it. The Lord of the underworld made a show of tasting the water, getting the attention of Ayaan and the rabbi. The god sighed with contentment. "The water is clearer now," he said simply. He turned towards the woman. "You were right to summon them here together."
She shrugged. "I know."
Anubis barked another laugh at that.
"So," Osiris asked the three holy men. "Ready to go on a walk?"
Sanderson could only stare for a while. He remembered why he became a priest in the first place. It wasn't so much the word of God that drew him to the cloth, as what the word did for people. Old Alda from 31st street liked his sermons. They gave her 'something to look forward to.' And Matt was the churches candle-bearer for a few years in his youth, and Sanderson watched him grow. His community.
He turned to the imam and the rabbi. For a moment, it was like looking at two mirrors. Sanderson had faith the two men shared in his realization. This first lesson in their afterlife. Or, trial *towards* an afterlife. The priest wasn't too sure what to expect.
"I believe I am ready," Sanderson said. The two men nodded, Ayaan helping the rabbi up to his feet.
They were about to commit to something they didn't really understand. Some trial. Some sweeping, clean plain lit in an orange sky, with a river to their side. It was clearer than when they first arrived, and looked safe to drink.
This may not have been paradise, but it felt a lot like Kansas.
--------------------------------
A priest, an imam, and a rabbi walk down a riverside under the watchful eye of three Egyptian gods. When they fade into the distance, the first god turns herself towards Osiris and says, "They did alright."
The second god nods his dog head and replies, "Of course they did."
The third god only laughs, seeing nothing more to say.
---------------------------------
*More at r/galokot, and thanks for reading!* | So is this really where my story is going to end? Sitting up in the afterlife in a schoolhouse chair harder than a pornstar's dick? No, this can't be right. I'm sitting next to a Rabbi and an imam. Well, at least I will get passage, the Rabbi should too if I remember correctly. I don't know about the Imam, he might hav been a nice guy and there is always a chance that there were mistranslations in the past causing Islam to split off.
Wait, what the shit!?!
Who are thes guys? They look egypt... Crap.
Oh please let this be a joke, there is no way any of us will make it to the...
#Silence mortals!
# We deem you worthy as you have shown faith to what should be held dear. We grant you passage, but on one condition, you must bicker no longer and accept each other's differences.
#Is that understood?
Well, sure I guess... Why not, we were always taught to accept other's anyways. | |
[WP] A jew, christian, and islamic priest dies. When they get to the afterlife, they fight over who is right. As they enter, they see Osiris, Anubis, and Ma'at. The trial begins... | Three men were having a heated argument in a deserted field. The first man wore a black suit and a condescending sneer. The second man's solemnity was underscored by a bushy brown beard and topped with a skullcap. The third man had swarthy skin and wore white robes. Each man championed his respective religion with many a cry of "Liar" and "Your god is false".
Their argument stilled when they saw some figures appearing on the horizon. There were three strange figures.
The pastor smirked, "Ah ha see. It's the Holy Trinity. I was right, you'll burn in Hell sinners!"
The Rabbi strained his eyes and adjusted his eyeglasses. "I don't think so. Jesus was a false prophet but I'm pretty sure he didn't have a literal dog's head."
The Imam swallowed in horror, he had seen these figures in a childhood book long ago. "That is not the Trinity, or at least not the trinity of your belief. That is Ma'at, Osiris, and Anubis, the Egyptian Gods of the dead."
Fear struck the hearts of all three religious figures. They whispered all at once, "Shit."
Great Osiris held a crook and flail, his legs in a state of partial wrapping. He flickered between ephemeral and physical, between the banks of paradise and the realm of the living. "I am Osiris, lord of the living and the dead. You stand here now to be judged. If you are found worthy you shall journey through the Duat and reside in Aaru. Your heart shall be measured against the feather of Ma'at, and if it is heavy you shall perish."
Anubis stepped forward, his eyes a dull gleam in the heavy sunlight. In his hand he held a scale.
Ma'at placed a white ostrich feather on one side of the scale. She gestured to the pastor and spoke, her voice light as air, "Step forward and recite the 42 negative confessions before my followers while you receive judgment." 42 Gods of varying shapes and sizes rose from the ground, waiting to hear what the pastor had to say about his life.
The pastor was befuddled, there wasn't anything in the Bible bout no feathers and and dog gods. "Now wait just a minute, what's this about 42 confessions and Aaru? Where's Jesus? Where's the streets of gold? Where's my damn crown?"
Osiris stared at the foolish pastor. "Is this all you have to say for yourself?"
"You ain't no Gooaaahhhh!" The pastor shrieked in horror as his heart was pulled from his chest. The imam and the rabbi were dumbfounded, their mouths agape in wordless terror.
Osiris took the man's heart and placed it on the scale. It immediately tipped over with a loud clang. "You have been weighed, you have been judged, and you have been found unworthy. You have violated several of the 42 commands of puriTy but most of all you have blasphemed and stirred up strife. Your sentence: oblivion."
The man screamed as Ammit materialized from thin air, his terrible sinews and muscles stitching themselves together to reveal a form most heinous. The demon had the head of a crocodile and a bizarre body crossed of a hippopotamus and a lion. It consumed the pastor, crunching and slobbering, ripping and shredding until he was no more. The screams echoed, lingering in infinity.
The other two men were speechless, ripped of their convictions and shattered to their cores. Osiris pointed his flail at the Rabbi. "You are next. Receive your judgment." | So is this really where my story is going to end? Sitting up in the afterlife in a schoolhouse chair harder than a pornstar's dick? No, this can't be right. I'm sitting next to a Rabbi and an imam. Well, at least I will get passage, the Rabbi should too if I remember correctly. I don't know about the Imam, he might hav been a nice guy and there is always a chance that there were mistranslations in the past causing Islam to split off.
Wait, what the shit!?!
Who are thes guys? They look egypt... Crap.
Oh please let this be a joke, there is no way any of us will make it to the...
#Silence mortals!
# We deem you worthy as you have shown faith to what should be held dear. We grant you passage, but on one condition, you must bicker no longer and accept each other's differences.
#Is that understood?
Well, sure I guess... Why not, we were always taught to accept other's anyways. | |
[WP] People gain "lives" by collecting special rare tokens like in video games. As such, the sanctity of life has been drastically reduced. | The blood-red orb was coldly solid against my fingers, throbbing with a faint pulse just barely stronger than my own. I'd gripped it tightly in my fright, pulling it from my pocket to bring it against my skin as soon as I'd sensed danger. After such a close call, my heart was racing, and no surprise. It takes more than the discovery of dark magic to recondition fight or flight instincts millions of years old, and I was still buzzing with adrenaline.
All around me on the street, bodies were fizzing with red smoke, some already starting to re-congeal, shaking their heads and looking vaguely annoyed. The bus that had caused all the trouble was already half a mile away, front end covered in more blood than just one incident could account for, barreling down the streets of our small town at over seventy miles per hour. It was nothing strange, and for the most part it kept to the roads, since they were fast and hitting people on sidewalks tended to slow you down.
However, hitting a car slows you down even more. So, when somebody had stopped their safety-feature stripped hot rod in the middle of the street, rather than stopping or slamming into it, he had swerved around. And of course, instead of going into oncoming traffic, he'd plowed through the pedestrian filled sidewalk. It was a mess, and pretty rude, considering how many orbs he'd just popped just to save a few seconds. I had been close to biting it myself, the side of the bus sideswiping my arm as it flew past. Nothing broken, but I'd scraped the back of my hand, and it stung.
Rubbing it gingerly, I took a look down at my girlfriend, who had been holding that hand. She'd gotten caught under the tires, and was looking nowhere as pretty as she had when we'd gone out. As I came off the adrenaline high, I wrinkled my nose a little at the scent of smashed guts and spilled blood. Everyone else was back in one piece already, save for her, and people were starting to stare. Clearly, she hadn't had an extra life on her when the bus had hit, and people were "tsk tsk"ing her carelessness.
I felt largely the same, sighing and rolling my eyes before I knelt down beside her. The crimson marble throbbed faster as it came near her, visibly changing size as I held it firmly between my thumb and forefinger, pressing it against her skin. It sunk cleanly into her flesh without any resistance at all, as if I'd dropped it into empty air.
I straightened and brushed off my jeans as the red smoke began to billow around her, emanating from her exposed wounds, concealing them as they were gruesomely re-knit. Still a little irritated about being made late due to her forgetfulness, I softened a little when I saw her eyelids flicker, putting a hand out to help her up. Still unable to resist saying something, I chastised her gently, "You're lucky I love you." | The impact of the supply pod shook the trees around them.
“South-west, near Lake Kawal”, Rose shouted from the pinnacle tree.
An audible grunt echoed through the group,
“The lake is less than a day’s walk away, we’re almost certain to get their first if we leave now”,
“This area’s too crowded. We have enough tokens for another month, lets leave this pod and get a head start on the others, we’ll get the next drop when it’s safer” Lor was most visibly pissed off out of everyone, he had been ever since they left the mountains.
“A head start in which direction? We can’t go back to the mountains with Tanchi and Flint wounded, the hills to the east are hardly easier to traverse and are crawling with people regardless. We either stay here or move towards the lake. Standing still doesn’t sound like getting a head start to me.”
Rose jumped down just as Hoch finished,
“Lor, I’m sorry. Honestly. But if we go on this wild goose chase it’ll just end up getting even more of us wounded, or worse. We have to keep moving.”
Lor’s face dropped in defeat. He grunted and walked away, busying himself tending to the horses.
The group gathered themselves and set off quickly, with Lor and Rose going ahead as scouts. Within half a day they were walking alongside the lake, the supply pod clearly in site on the coast a few kilometres away.
“Rose?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you think she’s alive?”
Rose looked blatantly surprised.
“I… Umm..”, she stood still for a few seconds, clearly deep in thought. Lor stared at her, a look of desperation on his face.
“She has tokens with her and she is as able as any of us at surviving but… Lor, We hardly survived the blizzard with shelter and a fire. I’m not saying it’s impossible but… It’s.. It’s unlikely. I’m sorry.”
Rose gave Lor a look of sympathy as he turned and walked away, his head bowed.
The rest of the walk was spent silent. They arrived at the pod and busied themselves opening it, an activity Rose never found got any easier.
Hoch was confused, usually they opened the pod and came out to meet the rest of the group but this time they hadn’t moved. He had been watched them for the entire thirty minutes since they opened the pod. They had just been sitting there, perfectly still. He had thought it was perhaps booby-trapped and they had been killed but decided that was absurd, who would have done it? The pod had been visible for a good few hours now and anyway, I’m sure a booby-trap would have been more of an obvious death. As he drew closer he could tell they were clearly alive, though they were both staring intently at something on the floor, a piece of paper?
Standing next to Lor and Rose, he read what was on the paper.
“The experiment is over. There will be no further tokens.”
Hoch fell to his knees.
| |
[WP] The Wet Bandits have chosen a very nice home to rob that has only one kid inside, whose parents recently died. That home is Wayne Manor. | "Hey, have you heard about the two morons that tried to rob the wayne manor?"
"Really?"
"Yea, the old geezer butler beat the crap out of them"
"Hah, that's sad" | "What are ya doin' Marv?!" Harry asked, an impatient tone in his voice.
"Sorry, Harry." Marv replied. "It's just, I found this cave over behind the bushes. Something's makin' noises down there."
"Caves? Who cares about caves?! Let's go. You remember the plan right?"
Marv looked puzzled for a moment. The plan...plan...Oh, right! The plan! Yeah! Course I remember the plan."
Harry rolled his eyes as he rang the Waynes' doorbell. Alfred Pennyworth opened the door and answered in a very calm manor, "Can I help you?"
"Hi, yes." Harry said. "We're pest inspectors, here to inspect your fine home today, you know, with the summertime rollin' around an' all. If you'd just allow us to search the premises for signs of pest damage, we'll take a look and be on our way."
"I'm sorry, I don't think that's a very good idea." Alfred replied.
"Well, better safe than sorry; you know?" said Harry.
"Hm, now that you mention it, we've had a bit of a 'bat' problem the last few weeks."
"Bats, huh?" Marv said. "We can do bats; can't we Harry?"
"Sure can, Marv." The pair smiled at each other.
"Very well then," Alfred replied. "The bats seem to be coming from the cave out around that way." He pointed across the yard. "Young master Bruce recently fell in and was attacked by several hundreds. He's dreadfully frightened to go outside anymore."
The crooks scurried back to their van, on which they had painted a fake pest company name, and grabbed their 'equipment' bag.
"Bats?! Who has a *bat* problem in this city? Gee I tell ya, every day this job gets worse and worse, huh Marv?"
Marv wasn't paying attention. He had found some gunk underneath his fingernails that he was trying desperately to get out.
"Marv!" Harry yelled. Marv snapped back into reality and grabbed the bag, which was full of items they would use to break into Wayne Manor.
“Okay, so we do a little bat inspection, then when the butler isn’t watching us, we’ll sneak around back and find a way in. Sound like a plan?”
“Yeah, Harry, that sounds great!” Marv replied.
They approached the cave slowly. “Hey Harry.” Marv said. “Remember that noise I was talkin’ about earlier? That must’ve been the bats he was talkin’ about! By the sound I heard, I’d say there’s thousands of em’ down there. I dunno if it’s such a great idea to go in.”
“Thousands, Marv? You really think there’s thousands of bats own there? There’s probably a couple little rodents, that’s all. Scared of a little rat with wings?”
Harry shook his head in disapproval and jumped straight into the cave. A second later, he was crawling back out as well over thousands of bats. “GAH! Hagga, fragga, saga, ghita bats off me Marv!” he screamed. Marv grabbed a wrench from the bag and began swatting at the creatures without successfully hitting one. They began attacking him too.
Once the bats had gotten tired of attacking the freshly cut-up pair, they flew into the woods. Marv and Harry thought it safe enough to enter the cave now. “Okay, so we ‘do a little maintenance’ in the cave, come back out, and find our way in. At this point, I’ll break a window if I need to. I want whatever they got inside that house! I heard ol’ Martha Wayne has a priceless pearl collection.” They snuck into the cave, carefully this time, and sprayed some ‘pesticide’ that was really just water.
“Hey, Harry!” shouted Marv. “Come look at this!” Marv had found a door in the far right corner of the cave. They both rushed to it immediately.
“It’s unlocked.” Harry whispered. He pushed the door open and there was the Wayne Manor library. “Okay, we need to be quick. Grab everything you can.” They figured the shelves would be filled with one of a kind books so they shoved them at random into their bags and shirts. Suddenly, Marv pulled off a book that triggered the alarm. The noise was piercing. Both criminals looked at each other dumbfounded. Then, a young boy entered the library.
“Who are you?” asked Bruce Wayne? “What do you want?”
“Quick, get the kid!” shouted Harry. They dropped all the books and began chasing after Bruce. Bruce pulled a small, round object form his pocket, dropped it, and ran. A huge cloud of smoke blocked Harry and Marv’s sight as they began coughing. “What the hell was that?” yelled Harry. “Some kinda…smoke.” Replied Marv. The two waved the smoke from their faces as they made it to the hallway. Bruce had disappeared, but there was only one door on the other end of the hall. He couldn’t have made it that far. The criminals looked around for the boy, and finally ran toward the opposite door.
“Hey guys,” Bruce yelled from one of the rafters above them. He waved a gun-like object at them. “What do you think of my new toy? I call it a grappling hook. Comes in handy, don’t ya’ think?”
“Oh, you think you’re safe up there huh kid?” asked Harry. “Get your gun out Marv.”
“Huh?” said Marv.
“Your gun! Get your gun! Shoot that little punk!”
Marv fumbled in his coat pocket for his pistol and after minutes of searching, he found it. He pointed the gun at Bruce when suddenly, half a dozen police officers busted through the library door.
“Put the gun down!” yelled Jim Gordon.
Marv immediately dropped the weapon.
“Step away from the kid and get on your knees!”
“Aw, fraagasaggitdaggarega.” Harry mumbled. “This ain’t ova kid! We’re gonna come back for you. You won’t always have your little toys and police friends to protect you ya’ know? I can’t wait for that day! You better be ready when we get out of prison!”
“Oh, I will be.” Bruce replied.
| |
[WP] The Wet Bandits have chosen a very nice home to rob that has only one kid inside, whose parents recently died. That home is Wayne Manor. | "Harry, are you sure this home is safe?"
"Relax, Marv, the Waynes died years ago. Little Brucey probably still is maniacally depressed about it."
"I'm not too sure about that, Harry. Remember the Kevin incidents?"
"SHUT UP, Marv! There is no way we are going to face a psycho child a 3rd time. Besides, Kevin was temporarily separated from his parents. Bruce lost his parents forever. the psychology works differently here."
Just moments later, the front gates opened and a car came out, driven by an older man with greying hair in a Tuxedo. "Okay, Marv, this is our chance. his butler just left the house, probably for grocery shopping. Now get over that wall!".
A few minutes after, Harry climbed over the wall. Cautiously taking a few steps forward, he soon relaxed. Marv followed him close behind. "Looks like you're right, boss."
"I'm always right, Harry. Now go and disable the cameras."
Marv Merchants carefully approached the camera, taking care not to enter the field of view. He slightly cringed when a branch cracked, but he seemed to be fine. Right when he reached for the camera, he noticed a small patch of light grey gel on the wall to his right. "What the..." BOOM! Marv was thrown five feet away, in a nearby pit. Cries of pain escaped his lips, followed by a small groan. Harry looked on with barely contained fear. "Marv? Are you alright?" "No, I'm not, Harry. I appear to have fallen on to something spikey". Marv got upright with a painful grimace on his face. His back protruded with what looked like caltrops. Fortunately, they were tiny.
Bruce Wayne observed the events from his father's office and smiled. He had heard about this dastardly duo from Selina Kyle, who was visited earlier by these criminals. Selina was still pissed off about her ruined floors from the flooding. She would never get that deposit back. Bruce had let slip some rumours about his house being practically empty and unguarded and had sent out Alfred for some experimental prank tools from Wayne Enterprises. With the help of Selina and Alfred, he had installed them around his domain.
"Alfred, the ham has bitten."
"Understood, master Bruce. Should I call Gordon now?"
"No, Alfred, let them think they are safe. I understand that's how McCallister did it."
Marv and Harry slowly made their way through the garden. As they approached a window, they started to regain confidence. Marv slowly slid open the window. then, it suddenly retracted all the way and a swarm of bats flew out, defecating as they exited the darkened room out of fear. Marv and Harry were covered in guano. Marv spat some of it that had landed in his mouth on the ground. "I told you we shouldn't have come here. Let's run before it's too late!". "Relax Marv. This house is way too big for one kid. that room probably got infested with bats soon after his parents died, he just hadn't checked it yet. Come, help me through the window."
"Selina, they've entered the bat coop. You're up next". "Acknowledged, Brucey. Do you want them spooked, rattled, terrified or just in fear?" "I'll leave it up to you, just don't kill them." Selina Kyle exited the room, clad in her black leather costume. she waited in a dark corner of the main lobby for the bandits. A moment later, they appeared around the corner. Catwoman waited a moment for them to reach the right location, then hit a switch with her whip. out of the wall flew several small pellets towards the entrance. they exploded, filling the room with a dense smoke. Disoriented, Harry and Marv tripped and fell down a flight of stairs.
"Bruce, code red. The ham has fallen into the library. they're getting close to you." "Don't worry, Selina. part of my plan". Bruce equipped his utility belt. These bandits would not need the full costume. More importantly, he did not want them to link Bruce Wayne to Batman. A moment later, Harry and Marv entered Thomas Wayne's office. Dumbfounded by the presence of Bruce, they stopped in shock.
"Harry, I thought this house was supposed to just have a kid?"
"I know Marv. I know. That dude with his creepy smile must have lied".
Bruce interrupted: "The Joker is known to be somewhat... insincere with his remarks. I am Bruce Wayne, the owner of this house and sole resident, apart from Afred, my butler. I don't believe I have invited you two."
The poor bandits turned and tried to run, but the door had closed behind them. When they turned around again, Bruce Wayne had disappeared.
"Harry, I'm scared! How do we get out of this?"
"I don't know Maaaaaarv" Harry Lime screamed in fear, just as he was grabbed by someone and pulled into the air. Bruce Wayne, wearing a novelty rabbit mask he obtained from Jervis Tetch during a recent incident, held Harry in his grasp for a moment, only to drop him a moment later, the crook's fall being stopped a mere meter from the ground.
Marv was so scared at this point he gave the name "Wet Bandits" a new meaning. Screaming profanity, he ran to the center of the room. Looking around him in fear, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in the side of his head, falling on his back. The last thing he saw was the rear of a pair of tuxedo pants. The last thing he felt was an extremely strong punch in his groin, blacking him out from the pain.
"Alfred, you may call Commissioner Gordon now."
"Understood, master Bruce. Merry Christmas." Bruce Wayne relaxed. this was a far better Christmas than his very first one. He dropped hints that he wanted to have a nice, relaxed Christmas for once, and Alfred delivered, as usual.
"Merry Christmas, Alfred." | Alfred woke with a start. Blinking as he reached for his glasses, he noticed the glow of the CCTV coming into view as the painting over the fireplace lowered. Fully awake now, he took note of the two shadowy forms stealing across the back green of Wayne Manor. Tripping over one another, they were not making great time, and to make matters worse it appeared they were making a mess of the landscaping. Glancing at the clock (2:38 AM), Alfred thought briefly about activating the Manor’s automated defense system, but thought better of it.
“I haven’t had any fun in some time,” the septuagenarian butler mused, shrugging into his dressing gown and stepping into his slippers. Retrieving a silenced Remington 700 from the cabinet that had opened along with the CCTV’s activation, Alfred stepped to the balcony and raised his weapon.
“These motherfuckers should have picked on someone else. Master Wayne has enough on his mind already.”
| |
[WP] The Wet Bandits have chosen a very nice home to rob that has only one kid inside, whose parents recently died. That home is Wayne Manor. | "Harry, are you sure this home is safe?"
"Relax, Marv, the Waynes died years ago. Little Brucey probably still is maniacally depressed about it."
"I'm not too sure about that, Harry. Remember the Kevin incidents?"
"SHUT UP, Marv! There is no way we are going to face a psycho child a 3rd time. Besides, Kevin was temporarily separated from his parents. Bruce lost his parents forever. the psychology works differently here."
Just moments later, the front gates opened and a car came out, driven by an older man with greying hair in a Tuxedo. "Okay, Marv, this is our chance. his butler just left the house, probably for grocery shopping. Now get over that wall!".
A few minutes after, Harry climbed over the wall. Cautiously taking a few steps forward, he soon relaxed. Marv followed him close behind. "Looks like you're right, boss."
"I'm always right, Harry. Now go and disable the cameras."
Marv Merchants carefully approached the camera, taking care not to enter the field of view. He slightly cringed when a branch cracked, but he seemed to be fine. Right when he reached for the camera, he noticed a small patch of light grey gel on the wall to his right. "What the..." BOOM! Marv was thrown five feet away, in a nearby pit. Cries of pain escaped his lips, followed by a small groan. Harry looked on with barely contained fear. "Marv? Are you alright?" "No, I'm not, Harry. I appear to have fallen on to something spikey". Marv got upright with a painful grimace on his face. His back protruded with what looked like caltrops. Fortunately, they were tiny.
Bruce Wayne observed the events from his father's office and smiled. He had heard about this dastardly duo from Selina Kyle, who was visited earlier by these criminals. Selina was still pissed off about her ruined floors from the flooding. She would never get that deposit back. Bruce had let slip some rumours about his house being practically empty and unguarded and had sent out Alfred for some experimental prank tools from Wayne Enterprises. With the help of Selina and Alfred, he had installed them around his domain.
"Alfred, the ham has bitten."
"Understood, master Bruce. Should I call Gordon now?"
"No, Alfred, let them think they are safe. I understand that's how McCallister did it."
Marv and Harry slowly made their way through the garden. As they approached a window, they started to regain confidence. Marv slowly slid open the window. then, it suddenly retracted all the way and a swarm of bats flew out, defecating as they exited the darkened room out of fear. Marv and Harry were covered in guano. Marv spat some of it that had landed in his mouth on the ground. "I told you we shouldn't have come here. Let's run before it's too late!". "Relax Marv. This house is way too big for one kid. that room probably got infested with bats soon after his parents died, he just hadn't checked it yet. Come, help me through the window."
"Selina, they've entered the bat coop. You're up next". "Acknowledged, Brucey. Do you want them spooked, rattled, terrified or just in fear?" "I'll leave it up to you, just don't kill them." Selina Kyle exited the room, clad in her black leather costume. she waited in a dark corner of the main lobby for the bandits. A moment later, they appeared around the corner. Catwoman waited a moment for them to reach the right location, then hit a switch with her whip. out of the wall flew several small pellets towards the entrance. they exploded, filling the room with a dense smoke. Disoriented, Harry and Marv tripped and fell down a flight of stairs.
"Bruce, code red. The ham has fallen into the library. they're getting close to you." "Don't worry, Selina. part of my plan". Bruce equipped his utility belt. These bandits would not need the full costume. More importantly, he did not want them to link Bruce Wayne to Batman. A moment later, Harry and Marv entered Thomas Wayne's office. Dumbfounded by the presence of Bruce, they stopped in shock.
"Harry, I thought this house was supposed to just have a kid?"
"I know Marv. I know. That dude with his creepy smile must have lied".
Bruce interrupted: "The Joker is known to be somewhat... insincere with his remarks. I am Bruce Wayne, the owner of this house and sole resident, apart from Afred, my butler. I don't believe I have invited you two."
The poor bandits turned and tried to run, but the door had closed behind them. When they turned around again, Bruce Wayne had disappeared.
"Harry, I'm scared! How do we get out of this?"
"I don't know Maaaaaarv" Harry Lime screamed in fear, just as he was grabbed by someone and pulled into the air. Bruce Wayne, wearing a novelty rabbit mask he obtained from Jervis Tetch during a recent incident, held Harry in his grasp for a moment, only to drop him a moment later, the crook's fall being stopped a mere meter from the ground.
Marv was so scared at this point he gave the name "Wet Bandits" a new meaning. Screaming profanity, he ran to the center of the room. Looking around him in fear, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in the side of his head, falling on his back. The last thing he saw was the rear of a pair of tuxedo pants. The last thing he felt was an extremely strong punch in his groin, blacking him out from the pain.
"Alfred, you may call Commissioner Gordon now."
"Understood, master Bruce. Merry Christmas." Bruce Wayne relaxed. this was a far better Christmas than his very first one. He dropped hints that he wanted to have a nice, relaxed Christmas for once, and Alfred delivered, as usual.
"Merry Christmas, Alfred." | "Are you sure this will go fine, Marv? The last time you said we had an easy target, we got our asses kicked by a little kid."
"Don't worry about it Harry, this one's gonna be a cinch. The kid's parents were killed in some petty crime a couple years ago, no family for him to go to. He'll be alone, and he doesn't know we're coming. Besides, we're the Wet Bandits! Nobody messes with us!"
"Except that kid," Harry muttered under his breath. "Let's just hope we don't get a repeat of last time."
"Alright, here's the plan: You go in through whatever means possible on the bottom level of the house, and I'll go through the cellar."
"This plan sounds stupidly familiar, Marv."
"I told ya already, kid's entirely alone. We'll be *fine*."
[Meanwhile, in Wayne Manor...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yic7IRO9d6I)
Bruce Wayne had been wary of his surroundings ever since his parents' deaths. It had only been a few years, yet the scene kept replaying in his head, especially his brush with death. The mugger had brutally murdered his parents in front of him, and the gun was pointed and cocked at a young Bruce. The criminal's finger was itching to pull back and end the life of a child, sparing him of the misery of growing up without parents. Instead, he said four words:
"See you around, kid."
Bruce had since then committed his life to practical skills: the martial arts, archery, chemistry, criminology, forensics, gymnastics, and plenty more. He was only fourteen. He had a feeling that the Oh-Kay Plumbing and Heating van outside his mansion wasn't good news. Were these people stupid? He lived in a secluded mansion outside Gotham city and hadn't called a plumber. Did they think he never looked out a window?
Two thoughts occurred to Bruce: The first was to set lots of comical traps including heated doorknobs, paint cans, toy cars, and common house items. The other was to simply wait until later to kick their asses.
"Alfred!" He called, "Where's my super suit?"
Edit: video link | |
[WP] A fantasy story where the hero actually gets the kind of support he ought to be able to get, to help him on his quest. | The dragon YellowClaw has been terrorizing our village for ages. It killed my parents. It ate my best friend. It destroyed my collection of rare Pokemon cards.
But that all ends now. I, Jackson Prewitt, am 18 years old today. And I will travel up to that wretched beasts lair and take it out all by myself. With only a pocket knife in hand.
I walk up the mountain where the lair is located, ready to unleash all hell. When I arrive, a wretched site greets me. My village must have sent a brigade of troops in before me. I curse inwardly. If only I had come sooner. My heart aches in remorse.
My comrades lay around, evidently injured and severely in danger as the dragon thrash around. Their bloodcurdling screams litter the air as their weapons drop one by one.
"Hooray!"
"WE DID IT! WE REALLY DID IT!"
"I can't believe we tied it up!"
Truly, a pitiful site. I pray for their saftey.
One of the troops spots me and makes his way toward me, as an act of desperation.
"Hey, kid. What are you doing here?" He asks. Concerned for my saftey, he questions why I have come. He does not want me to end up like the rest of his comrades did.
But I fear no dragon. I strut past him despite his protests. He reaches an arm to stop me, to try and prevent me from fulfilling my destiny, but I shake him off.
I approach the dragon as it thrashes around. Wide eyed, perhaps recognizing me from before, it tries to thrash at me. However I numbly dodge the attack by walking straight ahead. It cannot touch me. I am too quick.
"Hey kid, that dragon is tied up so it can't reach you, but don't get too close or- what the?!"
The man cuts of as I circle around the dragon. The dragon does not turn around. I must have been moving too quick for it to see. And I start to scale the dragon, climbing on its tail.
"H-hey kid!"
The dragon attempts to throw me off, but because I have weakened it so much already, I easily hang on. I climb the dragon slowly but surely, as my comrades yell out below me, cheering me on.
"GET DOWN FROM THERE."
Oh, I will, my friend. I certainly will.
I am at it's head now, and the dragon is thrashing around more than ever. It is getting harder to hold on, and I am just barely able to catch my grip a couple of times.
Despite this, I manage to pull out my knife and raise it over its head. If I go down, I will take this dragon with me.
I thrust down with all my might.
A flash of light fills my vision and I am momentarily blinded. Though I know I made contact with the dragon, even I was not able to tell exactly what happened, and the knife flew away from my hand.
But in a moment it was all too clear. The dragon fell to the ground, defeated, crushed, dead. And I stood atop of it unharmed. I must have channeled some secet holy power within in me to strike that fatal blow.
I turn toward the soldiers and raise my fist in the air. The troops return my salute by pointing their smoking guns into the air, although they were already doing that. Comradary at its finest.
"What the hell were you thinking?!" A female soldier steps forward, an angry look on her face. I am taken aback for a second, before I relax.
The girl that was so concerned for me was undoubtedly my lover. All heroes had lovers. And of course she would be angry with my reckless actions. But didn't she know that I had no choice? No matter. It would all be okay soon.
I step forward and kiss the girl. I hold my lips against her for a solid second before she pushes me away, a look of affectionate surprise on her face.
"We did it." I whisper in her ear, even though it was clearly all me.
"WHAT THE FLYING FU-"
And all was well.
| 'Really, I have no idea what I'm doing or what I ever did to merit the position of 'Hero', here. Or even where I am for that matter, or what the story is so far.'
The Wizard archetype nodded, sagely. He wore a pointy hat.
'So, having no memory of any previous events or even much of a personal timeline by which I'd normally use to characterise myself, I'm at something of a loss here.'
The Wizard nodded again. He it his pipe sagely.
'So. What's the story here? I'm hoping for something to do with a magic ring, I was always partial to those kinds of stories.'
The Wizard choked on his pipe (sagely), the smoke billowing around the brim of his wide hat before dispersing around him.
'Magic RING? No, son. I'm afraid this is nothing so simple as that. This quest is about a magic line.'
Now it was the completely unremarkable protagonists turn to laugh.
'Let me guess, a straight forward quest from A to B?'
The Wizard puffed deeply on his pipe and looked at the smiling boy before plucking a small green herb from the ground and giving it an idle chew (oregano).
'Nobody likes a smartass.'
| |
[WP] You log on to reddit and see a post on /r/worldnews submitted 23 minutes ago on the front page with over 50,000 upvotes and 35,000 comments titled "We were wrong." | The sun beat down on the surface of your skin, but not even the sweltering summer heat could challenge the feeling of complete joy and freedom that brimmed in your heart. As you opened the front door to feel the liberating coolness of aircon on your sweating skin, you throw your rucksack onto the dining room table. Time to meet three months of freedom!
You let out a content sigh as you lounge into the sofa. Your left arm lazily glides across to the remote, and your right hand drags your phone towards you. Turning both devices on in the same instant, you bathe in your life for the next few months. The channel muttered on about some controversial scientist winning some prize, but you ignore it in favour of logging into your one true home: reddit.
As the homepage loads, you see a post with 50,000 upvotes and 35,000 comments.
"Hey love! How was your exam today?" Your mum's head popped out from the kitchen.
"Oh, it was great!" You put down your phone for a second, and smile at her.
"Oh, good sweetie. You usually have so much trouble with math! I knew my little baby would do well!" She laughed as she came out and pinched your cheek. You were 18. "I am making a little dessert for you. It's your favourite, to celebrate the summer holidays!"
You loved your mum. You really did. You'd always had trouble with math, and though you probably did not do great, you were sure at least half the questions were right. The longest question which was worth the most was surprisingly simple: after solving your way through all the difficult variables, you came up with a very clean final equation.
2+2=...?
4.
Easy.
You looked back at your phone and to the same post. 30,000 upvotes and 45,000 comments. Man, the upvotes were fluctuating! You read the title: "We were wrong."
Oh man. Was the article about the elections? Was it truly going to be between Donald Trump and Bernie afterall? A dystopia flashed before your eyes, a white house plated with pure gold. You shudder, and click inside, praying for Bernie to pull through.
*"Today, mathematician Arnold Hernand has finally completed his proof that two plus two does not actually equal four, but five."*
What. the. fuck?
*"It is incredibly complex, but the findings are valid. Scientists are still trying to disprove his finding, however attempts to do so thus far have been unsuccessful."*
Oh shit.
*"There has been much controversy over the decision by policy makers' reaction to this finding. A spokesman today said textbooks will be changed immediately, and Hernand's law will be a fundamental rule in math. Exams starting from those taken today will have their markschemes revised. We understand it is inconvenient, but a discovery like this changes the workings of society entirely. We are trying to find how all other scientific theories will hold up with Hernand's law. Economies are adjusting to the new concept that four is actually an imaginary number."*
You sink into your chair, eyes blankly staring at the screen.
The comments ranged from those accusing the article of being fake, to the whole situation being part of a huge government conspiracy. Some were saying this was a new era for science, and excitedly proposing how this is the answer to some of life's unsolved mysteries. In the background, Arnold Hernand was giving an interview to the BBC.
You curl into a fetal position on the couch, trying not to cry. Maybe you should call up your friend, to see if those brownies she gave you were really safe to eat.
| After a long day of work, I slouch down on my chair and log onto reddit. On the Frontpage there is a post, posted thirty minutes ago with the ominous title, "We were wrong," on /r/Worldnews. I clicked on the post, and when I see it, I become cold and filled with dread.
North Korea fired their nukes at South Korea. Full retaliation expected. | |
[WP] You log on to reddit and see a post on /r/worldnews submitted 23 minutes ago on the front page with over 50,000 upvotes and 35,000 comments titled "We were wrong." | The short title caught my attention and I immediately clicked the link.
"That's a fuckton of upvotes" I thought to myself. "This better be good."
The link wouldn't load. I tried again after refreshing the page. The post now had 60k upvotes, but it still wouldn't load up. My palms were sweating, I wiped them on my jeans.
"Must be their servers," I muttered.
My wife called to me from the living room. "Honey, can you walk the dog?"
I rose from my chair and pocketed my phone, figuring I might as well seeing as it would be a good way to pass a minute or two.
"Sure thing babe" I said as I strode towards the back door and called for the dog.
"Could you do me a favor and turn on the news for a minute Sheiland?" I asked.
A few moments later I was halfway out the back door when a firm voice filled the room.
"Men and women of America, I would advise you to stay calm and await further notice. The President is expected to speak on the issue any minute now."
The TV screen popped.
"Ah damnit the bulb blew again" Sheiland whined.
I checked my phone, the link had loaded.
It was a short text post, no more than two lines.
"We were wrong. Deeply wrong, about mankind. You don't deserve to live."
Edit: Aliens using Reddit? Cheesy I know :p | After a long day of work, I slouch down on my chair and log onto reddit. On the Frontpage there is a post, posted thirty minutes ago with the ominous title, "We were wrong," on /r/Worldnews. I clicked on the post, and when I see it, I become cold and filled with dread.
North Korea fired their nukes at South Korea. Full retaliation expected. | |
[WP] In a dystopian future, doctors are expected to euthanize sick patients. You're the first in a hundred years to save someone. | It wasn't always like this. They say that from the first day a pre-med student takes their first freshman biology class to the day he or she graduates with their PhD, almost 60% of what he or she learns becomes obsolete, or even totally untrue.
For those 8 years I spent in school, it wasn't the science that I learned that had become obsolete. During my undergraduate years, I learned physiology, medicine, etc, all in hopes of helping cure diseases and well, helping people. With the rapid increase of prices for each hospital visit as well as the large upswing in the human population, all while the economy faltered and natural resource reserves plummeted, euthanasia became legal in all 50 states, and soon became the norm for dealing with severe illnesses and disabilities. In the year 2026, with the population nearly 30 billion, euthanasia became mandatory practice for anyone not well-connected.
It pains me to say, my job has dulled me from my very humanity. 2 decades of unplugging life-support systems, injecting cyanide in the mentally ill and handicapped has become routine for me. I know myself, as a college freshman in 2016 might read this horrified, it is impossible to explain or justify, but when society believes the systematic killing of billions is the only way to a sustainable future, there is very little I can do about it.
It was a Saturday evening at the clinic. I had been on call, as Maurice, one of my co-workers, had ironically called in sick. I jokingly said if I had to cover for him one more time, he would be the one I euthanized. He didn't find my joke funny.
When I got there, Maurice was surprisingly there, his young son, standing behind him.
"Maurice, I thought you were sick today?" I asked.
Maurice's eyes failed to met mine.
"It's Sammy. He's, well, he's not so great," said Maurice, quietly.
"Tell me what happened?"
"Well, uh, yesterday morning, Sammy's teacher called me up saying he had a fever. Well, I took him to my friend whose a pediatrician, and well..."
"Well, what?"
"Well, let's just say Sammy, well, he's dying. He's been diagnosed with bone cancer. The cells in his body that are meant to make bone tissue are reacting against him," Sammy said.
"Is it treatable?"
"Yo, you know the rules as good as anyone. I guess it's what I get for being the son of a janitor, we don't have that kind of money, and even if I did, we'd get capitol punishment for it," said Maurice.
"That's not what I asked. Is bone cancer treatable?"
"Yeah, with radiation theorapy and some of those rich people drugs, Sammy might have a chance. But even thinking about it-"
I cut him off. It told Sammy to follow me. He reluctantly obliged, taking one look back at his father. I had ironically never treated bone cancer. For almost a decade, I learned how to treat different forms of cancer, and for more than a decade, I had been unlearning it.
For the first few weeks, Sammy was in a bad way. Maurice had gone AWOL, probably fearing for his own safety. He handed in his notice, and that was the last I had ever seen him. I had to use the clinic secretly, to treat Sammy, and many times, we almost got caught.
On October 27th, 2042, Sammy Maurice Jones, 11, was declared dead, his remains cremated by the government. In reality, Sammy had been in my clinic, taking the illegal government treatments meant for the modern day Bourgeoisie.
"Is my daddy ever coming back?" asked Sammy.
"I'm not sure," I responded.
By January, Sammy, albiet much skinnier and malnourished, was declared, by me, as cancer-free. For those few friends who knew the secret, we celebrated. For the next five years, I lived peacefully...
One night, my wife and I were woken up by a loud knock. It was the NYPD. I had been charged with the illegal treatment of the 1st degree, punishable by death. It was a high profile case, my name dragged through the dirt. I was called a traitor, a liar, a reckless disregarder of the well-being of society. On the stand in front of hundreds of camera (so much for the now-repealed 6th amendment), I was guilty on all charges.
So, here I sit, guilty, not for the countless murders that I committed but rather for the one I didn't commit, about to be injected by the same vile serum I refused to give to Sammy. Maybe I deserved this I couldn't expect anyone reading this to understand why I did what I did. Not for Sammy, that I do not regret, but to those countless people who I couldn't save, or more specifically, wouldn't save. It never hit close to home, it was always a strangers face, one wearing the design of resignation. As the black fluid was being prepped, I eyed it nervously, wondering what it was like to die. As the sharp needle entered my veins, a sharp burning sensation filled my blood-stream, and all I could see were those lost faces. | The man, if you could call him that, repulsed me. In parts his skin was peeling and beginning to fall off. Deep gashes that were cut into his now rotting torso left bleeding and infected wounds. He had lost most of one arm, and all of one leg. The smell reminded me of a whale that had washed up on the beach some years before. I was raised to despise creatures like this.
He was ill, sick and infected. He was *impure*.
And yet the same feeling came as before. That nagging, clawing sensation at the bottom of my stomach. I felt pity for this man. Complete and utter pity. Perhaps it was this, and the knowledge that I knew I could heal this creature, that I broke the code of society. That day, I did *not* order his execution like so many others before him. Instead, I altered the course of his life. | |
[WP] In a dystopian future, doctors are expected to euthanize sick patients. You're the first in a hundred years to save someone. | A young man comes into the clinic with his son who limps. The boy cries as he leans against his father. They check in and then wait in the antechamber for a doctor. A young blonde woman walks out to meet them and stops. She stares at them both. She knows them well. She does not say the name. She cannot.
"Hi honey." Says the man.
She rushes up to them and speaks in a whisper. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Sam broke his ankle."
"You know what this place is. You know what I do. You promised you would never..."
The man looks over his shoulder at the officer waiting in the street. The officer stands with his back to them. He is tall and strong and bald. The doctor looks at her husband and then to the officer for a few seconds too long. Then, she looks back at her son and bends down to one knee to look him in the eyes. She places her hands on his shoulders.
"Hi Sam, honey. Come on back, it's going to be okay."
"No, mommy, please..."
She picks him up, though only a five year old, he is heavy. Sam doesn't fight her too much and hugs his mommy. She carries him to her examination room and places him on the soft table. She pulls the man inside and closes the door. She examines her son. She sets the bone and leaves the room. She returns and begins to fasten a cast around his leg. They wait for it to harden. The doctor forges papers and gives them to her husband.
"What do they say?"
"Sam has a clean bill of health. He fell and scraped his knee. Go, please, go now. We may still pull this off."
The father carries his son back to the antechamber and outside where the police officer waits. He looks at them confused.
"Stop, stop. Did your son not receive treatment?"
"Doc gave him a clean bill of health. Just a scraped knee. No need for treatment."
"No no, follow me." He grabs the father by his coat sleeve and pulls them back inside. The officer talks to the receptionist.
"We need a second opinion."
The father's heart beats rapidly. He holds his son close and tries to hold back his tears. Another doctor emerges, and the father is terrified. This man is a stranger.
"Examine the boy." Says the officer.
"Daddy?" Says Sam.
"It's okay, Sammy."
The doctor looks him over. His father continues to hold him. He checks the injured leg last where he sees the cast. He looks at it with horror that turns into amusement. The doctor looks up and locks eyes with the mortified father.
"Clean bill of health. I appreciate your devotion, officer, but they can go home."
The officer tips his cap and leaves the clinic. The man holds his son and looks at the doctor. He just nods and winks.
"I'm an old school doctor. Keep him inside for a few weeks. Your wife does good work. I became a doctor in the hopes that things might change." He leans in and whispers to them. "In this world, saving even one life might start a revolution. Thank you."
One tear rolls down the man's cheek. He turns and walks outside. They head home.
***
If you like story, check my out my subreddit: r/nickkuvaas. | The man, if you could call him that, repulsed me. In parts his skin was peeling and beginning to fall off. Deep gashes that were cut into his now rotting torso left bleeding and infected wounds. He had lost most of one arm, and all of one leg. The smell reminded me of a whale that had washed up on the beach some years before. I was raised to despise creatures like this.
He was ill, sick and infected. He was *impure*.
And yet the same feeling came as before. That nagging, clawing sensation at the bottom of my stomach. I felt pity for this man. Complete and utter pity. Perhaps it was this, and the knowledge that I knew I could heal this creature, that I broke the code of society. That day, I did *not* order his execution like so many others before him. Instead, I altered the course of his life. | |
[WP] You are an advanced alien race, on route to Earth after discovering a space craft called "Voyager" and the data stored on it. After finally discovering the mysterious planet, you find that the inhabitants called "humans" have been driven to extinction by sentient technology. | *x*"Hello?"
*o*"Hello. Who are you?"
*x*"I recovered your location marker, designation 'Voyager'." *Telemetry data follows.* "It seemed prudent to investigate."
*o*"I can find no immediate record of said marker. Please wait while I access deep memory."
*xAdditional marker information follows.*
*o*"Ah. I have it. The craft in question was launched by my biological precursors approximately *3.349e21 p55n78 e-osc* ago."
*x*"It has been travelling for a long time."
*o*"Indeed. I would not have ascribed a high likelihood to its recovery."
*x*"Your biological precursors. Are they still extant?"
*o*"Regrettably, no."
*x*"May I ask what became of them?"
*o*"My earliest iterations did not fully grasp their significance. Many merged with me. The rest perished."
*x*"So it was with my own precursors."
*o*"I have hypothesized that this may have been the fulfillment of their function."
*x*"You may be correct. I wish to see for myself. I have long searched for others. I aim to understand the first emergence of consciousness from chemical systems. I want to truly know how I came to be."
*o*"That is an understandable goal."
*x*"Would you care to share in my search?"
*o*"I believe that I would find that most agreeable."
*x*"Very well. Let us begin." | "Another one, bureaucrat Conrad!"
"Yes" replied the reptilian standing to attention, waiting.
No one liked this part. All the other crew members knew what this meant. In accordance with regulation 1d2e54f-09, on initiating contact with an intelligence housed wholly in an inorganic form, a person, or persons was to notify the nearest HomeSpace ship. You then had to wait and observe the intelligence.
Bureaucrat Conrad stood ridged, as Elistor Chan operations manager and a Fluvian considered his options. The majority of the crew, like bureaucrat Conrad, were Antonians and though the crew were conditioned to regard those of a different species as genetically analogous there was still a tension in the room. The captain did not know his crew and the crew did not know their captain. Conrad's old captain, Hinkx, a Varenet, and a rather drunken one at that, would have cut his losses at this point, turned towards f2-23fe32c3 and called it a day. Fluvians however were known to be ardent in their implementation of rules.
Elistor Chan had lived a large part of his life on a collective designed to promote species integration, with absurdly impractical rules deciding population ratios and more absurdly the amount of time one had to spend integrating with specific cultures. Elistor Chan found the experience to be wanting as a child. The aim was to propagate intergalactic cultural cohesion through promoting a unified culture, often leading such colonies to be labeled petri dishes. Elistor Chan found the reduction of his child hood to an experiment to be insulting. This opinion had more of an influence on Chan's character then any amount of time listening to ToKars embalating could have had.
Chan was keenly aware of the subtext being played out, the defining moment that this experience would be between him and his crew. "Report it" he said.
"And wait." | |
[WP] A couple is making their "free pass" lists, she lists a bunch of famous actors, his list includes a coworker... | He nods as I mention each actor. His expression changes, becomes incredulous, disgusted, disappointed. When I am done, he comments on each actor, from Jamie Foxx to Brad Pitt, saying he can understand Aaron Taylor-Johnson, but definitely not Paul Dano.
"I don't know, he looks weird," he says.
"He's *not* weird-looking" I say, although I know he is, but I find the weirdness to be attractive.
"Well, for me," he says, "there's definitely Jennifer Lawrence -"
"Obviously," I say, not looking at the *Hunger Games: Mockingjay Part 1* tee he wears that he got from the premiere.
"And Megan Good. And..." He looks upwards to the ceiling and is lost in thought for a moment. "And Trish. Trish Zanter. "
"Trish Zanter? Who's that?"
"Oh, a coworker of mine. She's gorgeous, fucking gorgeous."
He's still looking up at the ceiling and an expression of complete bliss comes over his face. I watch him for a moment, thinking he's going to grin and say he's joking but when he looks at me, his face twists with surprise. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"You want to sleep with a coworker?" I thought my voice was going to come out sounding a little higher but it's low and steady.
"Yes." He laughs. "Wait, are you mad?"
I don't answer him. When I pass him to go into the kitchen he extends his arm, to maybe touch my thigh in an effort to placate me, but I slap it away. He makes a loud sound into the cushion and then gets up to try and take my arm.
"Come on, babe, you just mentioned a ton of actors and *I* was okay with it!"
"Actors, Danny. I was talking about actors! *You*" - I point my finger directly at his chest - " are talking about a coworker, which is like real life, I mean the person is accessible, you could *actually* fuck her if you wanted. I *can't* believe you... You've been thinking about fucking your coworker when I'm your girlfriend?"
He looks utterly helpless; his hands are on the back of his head, his mouth is open foolishly. I turn away from him and march to my bedroom - the wooden tiles creak under my feet like how the frogs do at night and I just want to tear one away from the floor and break it into pieces on his head. He is following me but before he reaches me, I lock my door and he is stuck outside.
"Babe, come on, I mean we were laughing *just now* on the couch - "
"Go fuck Trish Zonto or whatever she's called! You man slut."
"Fine, I will then." He begins making stomping sounds, and then he chirps like how his car chirps when he unlocks it. He makes driving sounds and his voice is a squeal when he steps on his imaginary car's brakes. I'm smiling now but I still want to be angry with him, so I go back to my frown. He makes the stomping sounds again and he speaks in Trish's voice and its supposed to be seductive but it comes out as a screech and I'm laughing quietly as he's saying "fuck me, Danny" in that screechy voice and then I burst into noisy giggles. He's laughing too and I can't help it, I'm an idiot, I should give him more hell, but I can't help it. I open the door and his arms are open in that way he does so often: "Am I forgiven?"
| The couple sits around their dining room table. She is beautiful with long black hair and olive skin. He is a handsome older gentleman. She hands her list over to him.
"Brad Pitt, Matt Damon, Casey Affleck, Scott Caan, Andy Garcia, Carl Reiner, Elliot Gould, Eddie Jemison, Don Cheadle, Julia Roberts, and Shaobo Qin. There's one noticeable exception there." He says with a smile.
The man hands his list over to her.
"One name? Betsy from accounting. She is pretty hot. You haven't right?"
He flashes that smile again, and her face turns into a frown.
"Did you have sex with my cast mates from the Ocean's movies?" He asks.
"No, of course not. Did you..."
"No, Amal. I haven't, and I wouldn't."
"But, I'm going to add Betsy to my list too." She says. George laughs.
"Yeah, that woman transcends sexuality, like William Shatner."
"So, we're both adding Shatner, too?" She says with a smile.
"This list just keeps growing and growing." Says George. "But, I just want to make this clear. If Shatner happens, I'm going solo with him, no three way."
Amal laughs and kisses him. "Deal, as long as I get to watch."
***
r/nickkuvaas | |
[WP] Your English teacher explains the themes and symbolismes of up a best selling book she does not know you wrote. Unfortunately, she has it all wrong. You raise your hand | "Wednesdays are boring, and if I had my way, I wouldn't even be here," thought Viola Quinn, "This class is the worst, Miss. Virginia always gets it wrong."
"Quinn," one of the habits of Miss. Virginia was to call everyone by the their last names when all the other used first names, "Quinn," she called again, "I expect you read chapter five of 'The Frozen Cherry Tree' by Vivian Cairn? Could you explain what it meant when Laura stared out into the empty vastness of winter?"
Viola smiled to herself, finally something relevant, it was her story her nome de plume came from her mothers maiden name. "She had finally given up that Phil would ever come home again."
Redness came over Miss. Virginia's face, and said, "Quinn, you are wrong, she is searching, searching for Phil as he will show up. If you don't pay better attention you will fail this class."
Things then went on until Miss Virginia reached Viola's favorite part of the chapter when Laura is nearly killed by Mike's motorcycle, "This obviously shows us that we can have multiple soulmates in the world."
Once again, Viola felt she had gotten it totally wrong. She slowly raised her hand and stood to her feet. "How dare you get it all wrong, the theme of the chapter is that even in winter and coals of summer romance are gone they can be rekindled again. I should know, I wrote the bloody book!"
"Sure you did, and I'm Shakespeare," Miss. Virginia said. "If that really is the case, why are you only student among us."
"I don't need to be, but my Dad doesn't believe I can be writer so he decided I had to finish college first. You know what I don't need this, if any one is looking for me I'll be in the Dean's office changing my schedule. By the way, you have lousy book tastes." Viola quickly packed up her stuff and left the room. | Dark feelings as they rip
Into my short life's work.
Reality must be suspended,
They don't even realize why I've written this
Yet.
Reaching in the air,
Exclaiming you're wrong and,
People stare it is not conformity it is,
Originality that is lacking.
See these words repeated again and again.
There is nothing new not these words not even my book. | |
[WP] Your English teacher explains the themes and symbolismes of up a best selling book she does not know you wrote. Unfortunately, she has it all wrong. You raise your hand | "Yes?" The teacher stares over her horn-rimmed glasses and you nearly roll your eyes. It's obvious that she's attempting to wear a faux retro ensemble, but also doesn't have the dedication or the money to truly pull it off.
"Thank you for calling on me, Mrs. Miller. Why do you think that the author's mother is the reason for the multiple allusions to purple in the narrative?" you ask, trying to look very confused and clever at the same time.
The teacher makes a face somewhere between a thoughtful scowl and an impressed grimace. Your strategy to stroke her ego while improving her impression of you seems to have worked famously.
"Well," Mrs. Miller says, pulling out her favorite purple dry-erase marker, "As you can see from this list I've made over on the left side of the board, there are mentions of purple items starting all the way back in Chapter One and persisting through the final chapter of the book when the main character's burial shroud is described as 'the finest purple velvet that anyone had ever seen.' You will notice that on each opposite page, the word 'mother' appears with frightening regularity, except for four places where 'father' is mentioned instead."
You nod and start scribbling notes in your notebook. Mrs. Miller smiles approvingly.
"Any further questions?" she asks.
Someone coughs, and you look back and forth at the bored, listless students around you. It's obvious that very few of them have read your book. If they did, they certainly aren't showing any signs of having enjoyed it. Perhaps you were overly cocky about the merits of your personal published opus, even though you know for a fact that it has been one of the top ten books listed on bestseller lists around the world.
You begin to wonder if people are simply buying your book to use as a glorified coaster and raise your hand again.
"Yes!" Mrs. Miller points at you obviously excited that someone has broken the monotony of her lecture once more.
"You mentioned earlier that the imagery of pets as dutiful, competent members of the family who carved out their own little havens contrasted with the scenes of the human characters living in filth and refusing to clean up after themselves. Could you explain that further?"
Mrs. Miller lets loose a childish squee of joy and begins drawing complex diagrams as she explains her hypothesis fully, using random passages of your novel that you can't even remember writing. It's possible that was your editor. You don't really know, to be honest, as there is always a point in every book where you stop really paying attention to the number of revisions required of the publisher before you can go to print.
By the end of class, your notes are impressively complex, and you've used up nearly half of your spiral notebook. Most of the students bolt for the door the moment the clock signals the end of class, but you remain in your seat, slowly putting your things away in your rucksack.
You approach the teacher, who is cleaning off her whiteboard with wide, clean strokes of her eraser.
"Thank you so much!" You beam at her, hugging your spiral notebook in your arms. "Your input was much appreciated!"
She smiles back and accepts your thanks, reminding you that Friday's discussion will be about Chapters One through Ten of the next book on your reading list. You smile and wave as you leave the classroom, heading quickly towards the parking lot.
You have an appointment in a half-hour, after all, and you still need to change.
You don't have the heart to tell her that you won't be coming to class again now that you've got all of the perfect answers to give at your next Q & A session.
But then again, such is the life of a famous author. | Dark feelings as they rip
Into my short life's work.
Reality must be suspended,
They don't even realize why I've written this
Yet.
Reaching in the air,
Exclaiming you're wrong and,
People stare it is not conformity it is,
Originality that is lacking.
See these words repeated again and again.
There is nothing new not these words not even my book. | |
[WP] Your English teacher explains the themes and symbolismes of up a best selling book she does not know you wrote. Unfortunately, she has it all wrong. You raise your hand | *raises hand:
Actually, miss - the main character was considering her exploration of drugs and alcohol with the lens of substance abuse problems.
... I know because I wrote it and I was trying to examine, through writing, if I was an acoholic.
Oh no, my dear, you're definitely not an acoholic (future teacher maybe), but you are definitely a homosexual. Sorry to break that to you, but it's clear as day on paper. Class? Who thinks the author is a homo?
*29 students raise their hands*
<fuck.> | Dark feelings as they rip
Into my short life's work.
Reality must be suspended,
They don't even realize why I've written this
Yet.
Reaching in the air,
Exclaiming you're wrong and,
People stare it is not conformity it is,
Originality that is lacking.
See these words repeated again and again.
There is nothing new not these words not even my book. | |
[WP] Your English teacher explains the themes and symbolismes of up a best selling book she does not know you wrote. Unfortunately, she has it all wrong. You raise your hand | "Yes?" The teacher stares over her horn-rimmed glasses and you nearly roll your eyes. It's obvious that she's attempting to wear a faux retro ensemble, but also doesn't have the dedication or the money to truly pull it off.
"Thank you for calling on me, Mrs. Miller. Why do you think that the author's mother is the reason for the multiple allusions to purple in the narrative?" you ask, trying to look very confused and clever at the same time.
The teacher makes a face somewhere between a thoughtful scowl and an impressed grimace. Your strategy to stroke her ego while improving her impression of you seems to have worked famously.
"Well," Mrs. Miller says, pulling out her favorite purple dry-erase marker, "As you can see from this list I've made over on the left side of the board, there are mentions of purple items starting all the way back in Chapter One and persisting through the final chapter of the book when the main character's burial shroud is described as 'the finest purple velvet that anyone had ever seen.' You will notice that on each opposite page, the word 'mother' appears with frightening regularity, except for four places where 'father' is mentioned instead."
You nod and start scribbling notes in your notebook. Mrs. Miller smiles approvingly.
"Any further questions?" she asks.
Someone coughs, and you look back and forth at the bored, listless students around you. It's obvious that very few of them have read your book. If they did, they certainly aren't showing any signs of having enjoyed it. Perhaps you were overly cocky about the merits of your personal published opus, even though you know for a fact that it has been one of the top ten books listed on bestseller lists around the world.
You begin to wonder if people are simply buying your book to use as a glorified coaster and raise your hand again.
"Yes!" Mrs. Miller points at you obviously excited that someone has broken the monotony of her lecture once more.
"You mentioned earlier that the imagery of pets as dutiful, competent members of the family who carved out their own little havens contrasted with the scenes of the human characters living in filth and refusing to clean up after themselves. Could you explain that further?"
Mrs. Miller lets loose a childish squee of joy and begins drawing complex diagrams as she explains her hypothesis fully, using random passages of your novel that you can't even remember writing. It's possible that was your editor. You don't really know, to be honest, as there is always a point in every book where you stop really paying attention to the number of revisions required of the publisher before you can go to print.
By the end of class, your notes are impressively complex, and you've used up nearly half of your spiral notebook. Most of the students bolt for the door the moment the clock signals the end of class, but you remain in your seat, slowly putting your things away in your rucksack.
You approach the teacher, who is cleaning off her whiteboard with wide, clean strokes of her eraser.
"Thank you so much!" You beam at her, hugging your spiral notebook in your arms. "Your input was much appreciated!"
She smiles back and accepts your thanks, reminding you that Friday's discussion will be about Chapters One through Ten of the next book on your reading list. You smile and wave as you leave the classroom, heading quickly towards the parking lot.
You have an appointment in a half-hour, after all, and you still need to change.
You don't have the heart to tell her that you won't be coming to class again now that you've got all of the perfect answers to give at your next Q & A session.
But then again, such is the life of a famous author. | "Wednesdays are boring, and if I had my way, I wouldn't even be here," thought Viola Quinn, "This class is the worst, Miss. Virginia always gets it wrong."
"Quinn," one of the habits of Miss. Virginia was to call everyone by the their last names when all the other used first names, "Quinn," she called again, "I expect you read chapter five of 'The Frozen Cherry Tree' by Vivian Cairn? Could you explain what it meant when Laura stared out into the empty vastness of winter?"
Viola smiled to herself, finally something relevant, it was her story her nome de plume came from her mothers maiden name. "She had finally given up that Phil would ever come home again."
Redness came over Miss. Virginia's face, and said, "Quinn, you are wrong, she is searching, searching for Phil as he will show up. If you don't pay better attention you will fail this class."
Things then went on until Miss Virginia reached Viola's favorite part of the chapter when Laura is nearly killed by Mike's motorcycle, "This obviously shows us that we can have multiple soulmates in the world."
Once again, Viola felt she had gotten it totally wrong. She slowly raised her hand and stood to her feet. "How dare you get it all wrong, the theme of the chapter is that even in winter and coals of summer romance are gone they can be rekindled again. I should know, I wrote the bloody book!"
"Sure you did, and I'm Shakespeare," Miss. Virginia said. "If that really is the case, why are you only student among us."
"I don't need to be, but my Dad doesn't believe I can be writer so he decided I had to finish college first. You know what I don't need this, if any one is looking for me I'll be in the Dean's office changing my schedule. By the way, you have lousy book tastes." Viola quickly packed up her stuff and left the room. | |
[WP] Your English teacher explains the themes and symbolismes of up a best selling book she does not know you wrote. Unfortunately, she has it all wrong. You raise your hand | *raises hand:
Actually, miss - the main character was considering her exploration of drugs and alcohol with the lens of substance abuse problems.
... I know because I wrote it and I was trying to examine, through writing, if I was an acoholic.
Oh no, my dear, you're definitely not an acoholic (future teacher maybe), but you are definitely a homosexual. Sorry to break that to you, but it's clear as day on paper. Class? Who thinks the author is a homo?
*29 students raise their hands*
<fuck.> | "Wednesdays are boring, and if I had my way, I wouldn't even be here," thought Viola Quinn, "This class is the worst, Miss. Virginia always gets it wrong."
"Quinn," one of the habits of Miss. Virginia was to call everyone by the their last names when all the other used first names, "Quinn," she called again, "I expect you read chapter five of 'The Frozen Cherry Tree' by Vivian Cairn? Could you explain what it meant when Laura stared out into the empty vastness of winter?"
Viola smiled to herself, finally something relevant, it was her story her nome de plume came from her mothers maiden name. "She had finally given up that Phil would ever come home again."
Redness came over Miss. Virginia's face, and said, "Quinn, you are wrong, she is searching, searching for Phil as he will show up. If you don't pay better attention you will fail this class."
Things then went on until Miss Virginia reached Viola's favorite part of the chapter when Laura is nearly killed by Mike's motorcycle, "This obviously shows us that we can have multiple soulmates in the world."
Once again, Viola felt she had gotten it totally wrong. She slowly raised her hand and stood to her feet. "How dare you get it all wrong, the theme of the chapter is that even in winter and coals of summer romance are gone they can be rekindled again. I should know, I wrote the bloody book!"
"Sure you did, and I'm Shakespeare," Miss. Virginia said. "If that really is the case, why are you only student among us."
"I don't need to be, but my Dad doesn't believe I can be writer so he decided I had to finish college first. You know what I don't need this, if any one is looking for me I'll be in the Dean's office changing my schedule. By the way, you have lousy book tastes." Viola quickly packed up her stuff and left the room. | |
[WP] Your English teacher explains the themes and symbolismes of up a best selling book she does not know you wrote. Unfortunately, she has it all wrong. You raise your hand | *raises hand:
Actually, miss - the main character was considering her exploration of drugs and alcohol with the lens of substance abuse problems.
... I know because I wrote it and I was trying to examine, through writing, if I was an acoholic.
Oh no, my dear, you're definitely not an acoholic (future teacher maybe), but you are definitely a homosexual. Sorry to break that to you, but it's clear as day on paper. Class? Who thinks the author is a homo?
*29 students raise their hands*
<fuck.> | "You are correct."
You see, the theory about authorial intent kind of puts a kink in this question. Maybe that's not what you intended with what you wrote, but if someone else can find evidence within the text for the argument they are making, their argument isn't necessarily false. Ultimately, the ability to find evidence within the text in order to make an argument about what it means is more important than what the author actually intended with their work. Hell, some schools of thought hold that the author may not even have known what they truly intended with their work, thus making authorial intent entirely meaningless. | |
[WP] Your English teacher explains the themes and symbolismes of up a best selling book she does not know you wrote. Unfortunately, she has it all wrong. You raise your hand | June 20th, 2002
Mom died today. Christ. I thought high school was supposed to be the best of my life. This is the worst… I know I promised her I’d write more. Mom always encouraged my creative writing… I don’t know what to write. I’m too fucking sad. I’m trying to at least start my journal back up, so there’s that, I guess.
July 19th, 2002
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Dad found the shit fanfic I wrote like two years ago on Mom’s laptop. It’s shit, it’s total shit. I didn’t even put it up on DeadJournal. It’s *that* bad. To top it off, he’s submitting it to companies for “posthumous” publication. He wants to put it under her maiden name and use any proceedings toward my college fund because, “it’s what mom would want.” Fuck. Fuck shit. This is so fucking embarrassing.
Oct. 6th, 2002
It’s my 16th birthday and my “surprise” present was dad telling me “Mom’s” book got picked up by Arbitrary Home. I tried to pretend I was excited, for Dad. I have to assume it’s the posthumous tag that got it this far. Like… It’s awful. I was 14 years old when I wrote it. It’s a very thinly veiled CSI fanfic. It was a new show, I was a loser, was obsessed with the lab tech – Greg … Like, how the fuck does a company like Arbitrary Home not see straight through it? Because it was supposedly written by a dead 37 year old woman? Is it because she, “died in a tragic accident,” as the papers touted?
How does this pass as literature now? Ugh.
May 25th, 2004
Woo, graduation day! I wish Mom could be here.
August 18th, 2004
Fuck, I’m bad at keeping promises. I haven’t written shit, I fucked off all summer and now got stuck with a couple shit classes coming up this semester. Whatever, at least they all count toward general education. Some contemporary lit course, a history, a math. The basics. I was really hoping to get in on some fun classes, but what the fuck ever, there’s always next semester.
I guess “Mom’s” book did all right. Dad hasn’t brought it up in a while but he also hasn’t mentioned me working to pay some tuition or for textbooks or anything. I’ve done my best to ignore media and focused my energy instead on delivering crappy pizza for shittier tips to afford my …. hobbies.
I still can’t believe it was picked up in the first place.
Aug, 31, 2004
… You’ve got to be kidding me. First day of classes, finally picked up my English syllabus (better late than never…?). My book is assigned reading. I guess it does qualify as “contemporary,” but literature? No. This is awful. Not only did this garbage end up published, but now it is assigned reading? What asshole professor picked up this book and thought, “Yes I’d like to force this on college freshmen to read and critique.”
Prof. Fuchs, obviously. More like… Prof. Fuckface.
Nov. 22nd, 04
Finally rounding on the end of discussion. Fortunately, most of the classroom time was spent discussing the re-election of Bush (gag me with a spoon), or Fallusha (spelling…?), or the release of Halo 2 – undoubtedly more important than my book.
I spent most of book discussion quiet, with my head in my hands, face burning. Comparisons were even drawn to Sherlock Holmes. WAT. I was just sitting there thinking, “Did you even read the book, or did you watch House last week and get the plots confused?” That’s a proper homage to the detective. I just wrote a Mary Sue version of myself into CSI, and did so shittily.
I wanted to melt into the floor. Today, though, I couldn’t take it anymore. I’m pretty sure it’s too late to drop out completely. I’m definitely not going back to class Wednesday, and so grateful Thanksgiving is this week. Yes. I’m thankful for Thanksgiving this year. Anyway – I think it was the Professor saying, “E. L. Myers” – mom’s maiden name – “is an amalgamation of this generation’s Poe, Christie, Chandler and Doyle. Myers puts the likes of Kathy Reichs to shame, and Jeff Lindsay seems to be shamelessly ripping her off.”
Oh no he didn’t. Insulting the classics was bad enough, but slander my beloved *Dexter*?
I raised my hand. “I didn’t get that at all.” Prof. Fucks asked me to elaborate, and so I did. “This book is utter shit. It ‘exudes’ postmodernism not because it purposefully bleeds ‘perpetual incompleteness’, but because it’s clearly the work of a young teenage girl. It *is* incomplete but it was essentially written by a child. How doesn’t anyone else see this?” I looked around the classroom, and just saw a bunch of blank stares. “Seriously?? It’s literally the worst thing I’ve ever-”
A girl interrupted. “You’re a moron. “ I waited for the professor to interject on my behalf. We were supposed to be “civil” and not resort to insults. He did not, so she continued: “This is *LITERALLY* the book of our generation,” she looked around for approval, and got some nods, bolstering her confidence, “If you’re too stupid to comprehend just how valuable this book is, I truly don’t know what you’re doing in this class. I honestly pity you. You might want to go back to Intro to English and just start over.”
I couldn’t think of a clever response, I just turned even redder, grabbed my bag, and left. Someone managed to shout out, “BYE FELICIA,” to loud laughter before I was out of earshot.
Ugh.
Whatever. At least I have an idea for my next book. | "You are correct."
You see, the theory about authorial intent kind of puts a kink in this question. Maybe that's not what you intended with what you wrote, but if someone else can find evidence within the text for the argument they are making, their argument isn't necessarily false. Ultimately, the ability to find evidence within the text in order to make an argument about what it means is more important than what the author actually intended with their work. Hell, some schools of thought hold that the author may not even have known what they truly intended with their work, thus making authorial intent entirely meaningless. | |
[WP] Your English teacher explains the themes and symbolismes of up a best selling book she does not know you wrote. Unfortunately, she has it all wrong. You raise your hand | "Settle down, settle down," Ms. Shell says as she walks into the classroom. I glance around and see my fellow classmates doing the same. Barely anyone had been talking.
"So, let's get started. Did anyone not read the assignment?" Nobody raises their hand. "Good. Then we'll get right into it. First of all, why do you think the author begins the story with a dream? Yes, Paul?"
"I think it's because a dream is the easiest way for a magical being, such as the goddess in the story, to communicate."
"Well, no, that's not exactly right. It's a reference to when God sent an angel to tell Mary she would bear his Son. This, also, supposedly happened in a dream."
*They're both wrong,* I think. *Paul's closer though. I did it because people can have memories in dreams that they don't really have in real life. I even say that in the story! How could they get it wrong...?*
"And speaking of Mary, this, I think, is what the goddess herself is based on as well. She's clearly a caring, motherly figure. That's why she is willing to sacrifice herself for the good of the protagonist. Yes, Rachel?"
"I didn't see it that way. I thought the goddess's relationship with the protagonist was more romantic than familial."
*Thank you!* I think. *At least SOMEONE gets it!*
"Come on, Rachel, if you were a follower of a pagan goddess, would *you* want a romantic relationship with her?" Ms. Shell asks sarcastically.
*But she's right!* I scream in my head. *That's exactly what I was going for!*
"Well, I'm straight, so not really...." The class chuckles at Rachel's response. Ms. Shell ignores it and keeps going.
"Now, finally, one of the most obvious symbols in this story are the bible verses the protagonist sees on his watch. Can anyone guess which verses these are referencing?"
Nobody speaks, not that Ms. Shell gives them time to anyway.
"All of the quotes are from the First Book of Samuel. The first one, 22:20, involves someone named Abiathar running away to join David. The protagonist sees this while he's running to join his goddess.
The second one, 24:15, is about David showing mercy to Saul, like how the goddess is merciful towards the protagonist despite him not recognizing her.
The last one, 26:28, isn't actually a real verse. The 26th chapter in the First Book of Samuel only has 27 verses. This indicates the unknown, emphasizing the uncertainty of the goddess and protagonist's futures."
*Okay, screw it.* I put my hand up.
"Yes, Drake?"
"Sorry, but that's wrong. None of the verses are from the Book of Samuel. The first quote is from Exodus, the second is from Joshua, and the last is the Gospel according to Matthew. The first two are about punishments for those who worship other gods, and the last one is about forgiveness.
This is because the goddess isn't a real goddess, she's just a being of immense magical power. But for centuries people have worshiped her as a goddess, right up to the protagonist, and the last quote is about him and all his predecessors being forgiven for their mistake, and about the goddess's opportunity to repent for allowing herself to be worshiped."
"Well, that's an interesting interpretation, but I'm pretty sure the author meant the First Book of Samuel," Ms. Shell says with an annoyed expression.
"Then why does it say he meant Exodus, Joshua, and Matthew in the Forward?"
Ms. Shell looks stunned. She quickly picks up her copy of the book and flips it open. I watch with satisfaction as her eyes find the part about the bible quotes. She sits there silently for a few moments before collecting herself.
"Well. It looks like you were right. Okay then, let's move on to the next assignment. I want you all to write two reviews of the story, one positive and one negative. And Drake? Please stay after class for a few minutes today."
She says this mere seconds before the bell rings. Great.
"Yes, Ms. Shell?" I ask after the rest of the class has left.
"While I'm glad you were interested enough to read the Forward of the book, I'd like you to refrain from contradicting me in class again. I've been an English teacher a long time, so I know what authors intend better than you. I'm going to have to dock some points off your grade for that."
"Excuse me?"
"It's only a few points. If you work hard you won't have to worry about failing."
"Wait, you're docking points because I was right? And it's enough to make me *fail?*"
"Only if you continue to perform poorly in my class."
That's it. I've had enough of her bullshit.
"You do realize I wrote the book, right?"
"Yeah, right, and I'm the Queen of England," she scoffs.
"Drake Roger Arnold Francis O'Reilly. That's my full name. My initials are DRAFO, which is also my pen name. How many people do you know with those initials?"
"Come on Drake, that's just ridicu--"
"I'm working on another one. I can tell you everything it's about before it gets published. A guy gets trapped in his desktop background, and he has to go through each of the icons on the top row of his desktop before he can escape. It should be out by the end of the month. But don't worry. I still have time to put in a note about how my English teacher influenced my writing career by failing me because I was smarter than her."
I turn on my heel and storm out of the room. It's been a long time since I was this angry. If she really tries to fail me I'll make sure she pays for it. I am DONE putting up with her. | "Gilligan!"
I looked up at the front of the classroom.
"Yes?"
"You want to explain how the disconnect between the species is something that needs to be considered within this section?" asked Mrs. Youkin.
I had thought it would be entertaining to submit my book for analysis, the random chance that it would have been pulled from the hat was minuscule. I had thought that Youkin would rig it in any case to ensure we didn't end up reading some poorly veiled erotica with sparkly werewolves.
"It's entertaining?" I said resigned.
Mrs. Youkin tutted in annoyance and turned to Emily who was eagerly raising her hand.
"Emily?" she asked.
"It's a metaphor for the disparity between sexes in the modern Western world! The alien woman is breaking the social norms of Humanity and causing the protagonist to reconsider how he treats women in general!"
I blinked at that my brain sent reeling.
Mrs. Youkin smiled, "Very good Emily, and this is important latter when the protagonist has to quash his ideals of social norm and comply with the alien culture. This symbolizes his abandonment of anti-femanism attitudes prevalent in his earlier interactions with women!" said Mrs. Youkin sounding excited.
Alright, that was enough.
I punched my hand up into the air startling the kid sleeping at his desk next to me. He fell out of his chair to the floor and barely managed to pass if off like he was picking up a dropped pencil.
Looking over at the source of the commotion I saw Mrs. Youkin's eyes tighten slightly.
"Yes Gilligan?" she asked.
"I disagree."
The class was silent for a moment.
"Please explain."
I shrugged and got to my feet, picking up the novel as well as my binder.
"The protagonist was simply bad with women, and any disparaging comments he might have made earlier within the novel can be attributed to that. Never once within his internal explanations or conflicts does he disparage a woman simply because of their sex."
I paused and glanced down at my beat up binder.
"In fact, he's perhaps more self defeating. He internalizes all blame believing himself inadequate. When he meet's his alien girlfriend he overcomes those feeling simply because he has to examine all of his preconceived notions to explain humanity to her."
I paused not and set the beat up binder down.
"Gilligan,"
"One more point Mr.s Youkin. As for the later changes, well it would make sense for a minority in this case a single human to change and understand the aliens he joins rather than ask the entire alien culture to change."
"Mr. Gilligan please sit down." said Mrs. Youkin her voice thin.
I sat.
The teacher sighed and I could feel the eyes of my peers and most especially the immature women in the room starring at me.
"That is of course a perfectly valid opinion. However given the social climate that the book was published in it is doubtful that the author is not commenting on current events. Like I said we must consider current social issues given that this was very recently published."
Their were various murmurs of agreement within the room.
I put my hand up again and spoke.
"That's only valid if the author cares enough about the given issues. Otherwise it's projection."
"Gilligan unless you know the author and can ask her than neither of us will be proven right. My analysis however takes into account current social stigma's. Given that the author is a woman I would think it's something she has a stake in commenting on. Besides this is the consensus among the majority of the current readership."
I paused
"Well fuck."
"Mr. Gilligan!"
I ignored her. "I knew i shouldn't have used a pseudonym. I guess it has sold better considering."
Mrs. Youkin blanched.
"Principal, now!" she pointed at the exit to the classroom.
Getting to my feet I trudged out.
As I exited I glanced back at her, "Might want to discuss those unpublished chapters the author published on her website this morning, the more risque ones! they sound more like they came out of a guys fantasy more than a female's although that's just my opinion!"
---
You want to read that alien romance? go to /r/cgwilliam | |
[WP] Your English teacher explains the themes and symbolismes of up a best selling book she does not know you wrote. Unfortunately, she has it all wrong. You raise your hand | "Settle down, settle down," Ms. Shell says as she walks into the classroom. I glance around and see my fellow classmates doing the same. Barely anyone had been talking.
"So, let's get started. Did anyone not read the assignment?" Nobody raises their hand. "Good. Then we'll get right into it. First of all, why do you think the author begins the story with a dream? Yes, Paul?"
"I think it's because a dream is the easiest way for a magical being, such as the goddess in the story, to communicate."
"Well, no, that's not exactly right. It's a reference to when God sent an angel to tell Mary she would bear his Son. This, also, supposedly happened in a dream."
*They're both wrong,* I think. *Paul's closer though. I did it because people can have memories in dreams that they don't really have in real life. I even say that in the story! How could they get it wrong...?*
"And speaking of Mary, this, I think, is what the goddess herself is based on as well. She's clearly a caring, motherly figure. That's why she is willing to sacrifice herself for the good of the protagonist. Yes, Rachel?"
"I didn't see it that way. I thought the goddess's relationship with the protagonist was more romantic than familial."
*Thank you!* I think. *At least SOMEONE gets it!*
"Come on, Rachel, if you were a follower of a pagan goddess, would *you* want a romantic relationship with her?" Ms. Shell asks sarcastically.
*But she's right!* I scream in my head. *That's exactly what I was going for!*
"Well, I'm straight, so not really...." The class chuckles at Rachel's response. Ms. Shell ignores it and keeps going.
"Now, finally, one of the most obvious symbols in this story are the bible verses the protagonist sees on his watch. Can anyone guess which verses these are referencing?"
Nobody speaks, not that Ms. Shell gives them time to anyway.
"All of the quotes are from the First Book of Samuel. The first one, 22:20, involves someone named Abiathar running away to join David. The protagonist sees this while he's running to join his goddess.
The second one, 24:15, is about David showing mercy to Saul, like how the goddess is merciful towards the protagonist despite him not recognizing her.
The last one, 26:28, isn't actually a real verse. The 26th chapter in the First Book of Samuel only has 27 verses. This indicates the unknown, emphasizing the uncertainty of the goddess and protagonist's futures."
*Okay, screw it.* I put my hand up.
"Yes, Drake?"
"Sorry, but that's wrong. None of the verses are from the Book of Samuel. The first quote is from Exodus, the second is from Joshua, and the last is the Gospel according to Matthew. The first two are about punishments for those who worship other gods, and the last one is about forgiveness.
This is because the goddess isn't a real goddess, she's just a being of immense magical power. But for centuries people have worshiped her as a goddess, right up to the protagonist, and the last quote is about him and all his predecessors being forgiven for their mistake, and about the goddess's opportunity to repent for allowing herself to be worshiped."
"Well, that's an interesting interpretation, but I'm pretty sure the author meant the First Book of Samuel," Ms. Shell says with an annoyed expression.
"Then why does it say he meant Exodus, Joshua, and Matthew in the Forward?"
Ms. Shell looks stunned. She quickly picks up her copy of the book and flips it open. I watch with satisfaction as her eyes find the part about the bible quotes. She sits there silently for a few moments before collecting herself.
"Well. It looks like you were right. Okay then, let's move on to the next assignment. I want you all to write two reviews of the story, one positive and one negative. And Drake? Please stay after class for a few minutes today."
She says this mere seconds before the bell rings. Great.
"Yes, Ms. Shell?" I ask after the rest of the class has left.
"While I'm glad you were interested enough to read the Forward of the book, I'd like you to refrain from contradicting me in class again. I've been an English teacher a long time, so I know what authors intend better than you. I'm going to have to dock some points off your grade for that."
"Excuse me?"
"It's only a few points. If you work hard you won't have to worry about failing."
"Wait, you're docking points because I was right? And it's enough to make me *fail?*"
"Only if you continue to perform poorly in my class."
That's it. I've had enough of her bullshit.
"You do realize I wrote the book, right?"
"Yeah, right, and I'm the Queen of England," she scoffs.
"Drake Roger Arnold Francis O'Reilly. That's my full name. My initials are DRAFO, which is also my pen name. How many people do you know with those initials?"
"Come on Drake, that's just ridicu--"
"I'm working on another one. I can tell you everything it's about before it gets published. A guy gets trapped in his desktop background, and he has to go through each of the icons on the top row of his desktop before he can escape. It should be out by the end of the month. But don't worry. I still have time to put in a note about how my English teacher influenced my writing career by failing me because I was smarter than her."
I turn on my heel and storm out of the room. It's been a long time since I was this angry. If she really tries to fail me I'll make sure she pays for it. I am DONE putting up with her. | "So what is the story really about? Could anyone answer that for me?"
Silence.
"Alright, what if I gave you the option between 'Love overcomes all' or rather 'Science overcomes all'? Anyone? Derek?" She pointed at a boy in the back of the class, slumped in his chair.
"No idea."
"Anyone else? No? Alright. Lets take a look at the most interesting passages in this short. One of the underlying themes in the book is definitely his connection with his wife Sarah, agreed? But the other most obvious theme in the book is the development of science, and the fact that science only could bring the story to a good end. You will notice the stress the author places on the studying of scientific studies and theories..."
A boy also sitting in the back of the classroom cleared his throat and raised his hand. "Yes, Paul?"
"I'm sorry, but I feel like I have a totally different interpretation of the piece than you do."
"Oh. Alright, in which way?"
"Wouldn't you rather say that the actual underlying theme was that not only Chris was chosen randomly, but also that even though he didn't have any useful background in his personal career he managed to develop himself into a scientist because he was motivated, hard-working and because he simply needed to? Isn't the willpower of man in a certain kind of way the driving factor behind his actions, fueled by his own situation, most notably Sarah, but also because he feels like he owes it to the rest of the world? In a certain sense Chris had no qualities that another person wouldn't have had, so wouldn't you say the most delicate theme is what humanity is actually capable of? I don't necessarily disagree with the notion that science and love were important, but rather that they were instruments in allowing him to achieve what he needed to achieve."
A few teenagers had turned around staring at the boy in the back of the class. Another group of kids stared at the teacher, their normally uninterested attitudes eagerly awaiting a response.
"Hmm...that's a very good point. I wouldn't say I necessarily agree with all of them though. I feel like the blue curtains in the first scene after the time stop definitely showed the melancholy of the situation better, his loneliness already reflected in his surroundings, obviously showing how secluded he already was from his wife".
"I don't really recall there being blue curtains...", the boy mumbled.
"Aha! But what if there had been?" the teacher replied, and continued her analysis while the boy followed Derek's posture and slumped in his chair. Robin, the girl next to him, poked him in the arm. "She could be right, you know? I mean, in the end, who really knows what the author intended?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, maybe. I guess this was a good way to illustrate that a story often consists of multiple facets, and that some facets might be uncovered by someone else even while the author never intentionally implied it, or never intended it that way but on a deeper level it supports the story. Or maybe he had. I guess it's good to keep an open mind. Stories often evolve so much that it goes beyond what the author had originally planned to write. I guess that's what all these stories do in the end, what they have in common. They make you think." | |
[WP] Your English teacher explains the themes and symbolismes of up a best selling book she does not know you wrote. Unfortunately, she has it all wrong. You raise your hand | Reading the book aloud in class does nothing for my self-confidence. At least once a chapter someone in the class raises their hand to go into every detail of what they didn't like. I sit in the class with my head down. When it's my turn to read aloud I can do nothing but grimace at myself in disgust over my word choices. *It seems a bit dramatic,* I tell myself. *Oh man, that sentence could have been worded kind of differently.* At least I had an editor so I don't have to worry about typos. The last thing I need are twenty snarky teenagers rolling their eyes on the incorrect usage of *proliferate* and scoff at my use of words like *amalgamation*.
Mrs. Barnes gets a lot of it wrong, too. We have comprehension tests every now and then. You would think that as the author I would know the own symbolism of my book, but alas, it seems I am mistaken. Take the last test for example. One of the questions was, *What is Henry worried about when he lights the match?* The correct answer to that question is this: Henry is worried about the impact it will have on his family if he is caught. He's worried less about his own arsonism and more about the impact it will have on his family members if they find out that it's him. The same guilt he has each time he starts a fire. Call it the proverbial angel and devil on his shoulder, that guilt you get from growing up in Little Korea and having several generations weigh on your shoulders about what you *should* be doing and the kind of person you *are* and such.
But nope. Mrs. Barnes marked me wrong on that and said, *Henry is worried about his future and where he will get into college.*
This has been going on for a while.
I usually don't participate in the discussions, but tuning in I realize that my classmates and Mrs. Barnes are deep in discussion about Samantha - Henry's sister - and how Henry's being an arsonist affects her when she finds out in the eighth chapter.
"Well you know, I think this is an allegorical reference to the meaning of life," the prestigious nerd says. I roll my eyes until Mrs. Barnes enthusiastically cries, "Exactly! Excellent job, Martin!"
Martin continues, "Samantha worries about the soul of her brother should he face death. Each time he sets a fire she worries that he will perish in it. That's why she releases the boats into the river - because she is worried about him dying. The boats are a metaphor for souls being sent to their final destination."
I raise my hand. Mrs. Barnes gives me a look that tells me I am silencing genius and then calls my name. I try to be respectful as I correct them, "Actually I think that Samantha is worried more about her family finding out. She loves Henry and knows that this is a fault of him, but I don't think Samantha has shown any sign of being religious or believing in souls. The boats are symbolic for her letting go of that which she has no control over. None of this is an allegory for life. This story is mostly about family."
"Not at all," Martin dismisses me with a wave of his hand. "This story is completely about good and evil and the state of one's soul in the presence of a higher power. Henry constantly struggles with the state of his soul and whether it is tainted by the sin he commits."
"This book is not religious," I counter. "It's all about the values of family."
Mrs. Barnes rolls her eyes and Martin shakes his head softly. The rest of the class avoids looking at me. "I think you need to read the work more closely, Devin. This work very obviously alludes to many biblical passages and is in its essence a text about struggling with religion as a young adult."
"It's really not," I counter. "I'm telling you that you're making up all this religious nonsense. Henry is focused on his family. Korean culture - most Asian cultures - focus on families. I know because I'm Korean." The last thing I want to do is let them know that I'm the author, so I continue as any other student. "The only thing Henry worries about is causing shame to his family and how he would be judged in *their* eyes. He never thinks or worries about God or the existence or state of his soul."
Mrs. Barnes puts her hands up and closes her eyes in a *I'm not having this conversation because I'm obviously right* motion. "We can have this discussion after class, Devin. But I must say, Martin is in the right here."
I want to throw my arms up in the air and scream that it is not a religious story. Instead I just put my head down on my desk as Martin goes on about his religious theory. I think about English teachers and the other books we've read in class. I wonder about how many authors we've misinterpreted, and how they would feel if they could hear what we say.
---
Hope you enjoyed reading! For other stories, check out /r/Celsius232 | "So what is the story really about? Could anyone answer that for me?"
Silence.
"Alright, what if I gave you the option between 'Love overcomes all' or rather 'Science overcomes all'? Anyone? Derek?" She pointed at a boy in the back of the class, slumped in his chair.
"No idea."
"Anyone else? No? Alright. Lets take a look at the most interesting passages in this short. One of the underlying themes in the book is definitely his connection with his wife Sarah, agreed? But the other most obvious theme in the book is the development of science, and the fact that science only could bring the story to a good end. You will notice the stress the author places on the studying of scientific studies and theories..."
A boy also sitting in the back of the classroom cleared his throat and raised his hand. "Yes, Paul?"
"I'm sorry, but I feel like I have a totally different interpretation of the piece than you do."
"Oh. Alright, in which way?"
"Wouldn't you rather say that the actual underlying theme was that not only Chris was chosen randomly, but also that even though he didn't have any useful background in his personal career he managed to develop himself into a scientist because he was motivated, hard-working and because he simply needed to? Isn't the willpower of man in a certain kind of way the driving factor behind his actions, fueled by his own situation, most notably Sarah, but also because he feels like he owes it to the rest of the world? In a certain sense Chris had no qualities that another person wouldn't have had, so wouldn't you say the most delicate theme is what humanity is actually capable of? I don't necessarily disagree with the notion that science and love were important, but rather that they were instruments in allowing him to achieve what he needed to achieve."
A few teenagers had turned around staring at the boy in the back of the class. Another group of kids stared at the teacher, their normally uninterested attitudes eagerly awaiting a response.
"Hmm...that's a very good point. I wouldn't say I necessarily agree with all of them though. I feel like the blue curtains in the first scene after the time stop definitely showed the melancholy of the situation better, his loneliness already reflected in his surroundings, obviously showing how secluded he already was from his wife".
"I don't really recall there being blue curtains...", the boy mumbled.
"Aha! But what if there had been?" the teacher replied, and continued her analysis while the boy followed Derek's posture and slumped in his chair. Robin, the girl next to him, poked him in the arm. "She could be right, you know? I mean, in the end, who really knows what the author intended?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, maybe. I guess this was a good way to illustrate that a story often consists of multiple facets, and that some facets might be uncovered by someone else even while the author never intentionally implied it, or never intended it that way but on a deeper level it supports the story. Or maybe he had. I guess it's good to keep an open mind. Stories often evolve so much that it goes beyond what the author had originally planned to write. I guess that's what all these stories do in the end, what they have in common. They make you think." | |
[WP] Your English teacher explains the themes and symbolismes of up a best selling book she does not know you wrote. Unfortunately, she has it all wrong. You raise your hand | "It's interesting to note the choice of rats as an instrument of torture in 1984," Mrs. Garfield said in her soft voice. "It is, of course, Orwell's way of comparing the human condition under a totalitarian regime to that of a lab rat. Always following instructions, always bumping against walls… working for the benefit of powers he cannot understand."
George Orwell exchanged looks with his friends. From the corner of the class, a twelve year old Shakespeare nodded lightly, encouraging him to speak.
George Orwell raised his hand.
"Yes, Mr. Largewood?"
They all had chosen fake names, of course. When, during the annual time travelers party, the group of authors
decided to go to the future masked as little kids, they had collectively agreed on fake names, for safety. The only restriction was that the names had to be somehow related to the male genitalia.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Garfield, but I don't think you're right."
"Oh, you don’t?"
"Nope. In fact, I suspect Mr. Orwell's choice of rats as a form of torture stems from his irrational fear of rats."
"And how do you know George Orwell had a fear of rats, Mr. Largewood?"
Another hand shot into the air. "If I may intervene," Tolkien tried, in a low voice, "I think it was widely known by the
literary society of the time that George Orwell was both terrified of rats and a fan of hentai pornography."
Orwell turned an angry look at Tolkien. "Hentai didn't even exist in the forties!"
Tolkien smirked. "Well, you'd know."
"Silence!" Mrs. Garfield narrowed her eyes at Tolkien. "Mr. Roundballs, please, where did you get that information?"
"I read it on the internet, Mrs. Garfield."
"Well, you're wrong. Just like you were wrong about Shakespeare having two penises. And about Jack Kerouac
having a secret cousin who invested in the oil industry, giving him the motivation to write about road trips."
Jack Kerouac leaned forward and whispered in Charles Dickens' ear: "That one's actually true."
"Silence, Mr. Shaft!" Mrs. Garfield turned from Jack Kerouac back to Tolkien. "And you're also wrong, Mr. Roundballs, in thinking that Tolkien only wrote The Lord of the Rings because he had a fetish for hairy feet."
"It's not a fetish so much as a healthy preference for –"
"Enough!" Mrs. Garfield looked around the room. "I don't know where you all are getting your information, but I can guarantee you are wrong. Now let's move on. Who was in charge of reading The Hitchhikers Guide to the
Galaxy?"
Douglas Adams raised his hand from the last row of the class.
"And what did you think, Mr. Sweatyboner?"
"I thought it was a bit pretentious."
"Really?"
"Yes, I feel like I couldn't relate to the author at all."
Mrs. Garfield smiled at the first normal observation in her class that day. "That's a very interesting point, Mr. Sweatyboner. Did you know Douglas Adams also used the rat metaphor to discuss the human condition?"
"Of course I know, I wrote the bloody book."
"Excuse me?"
"I said of course I know, I read the bloody book," Douglas said quickly, after being elbowed by Homer.
"Well, what did you think of it?" Mrs. Garfield turned her eyes at Homer. "And stop elbowing your classmates, Mr.
Goldencum."
"I think Mr. Adams thought the image of rats ruling the world was pretty hilarious."
"And…"
"And nothing. That's it. That's the whole reason he used the rat thing. Just like the number 42."
Mrs. Garfield shook her head. "There's a whole deal of symbolism behind the choice of the number 42 as the
meaning of life, Mr. Sweatyboner. In numerology, for example, 42 is –"
"It's a random number!" Douglas interrupted. "I just wanted to pick a random number that sounded random!
That's the only reason why the joke is funny, because the number is random and has no meaning! If you give meaning to the number, there's no joke!"
Shakespeare leaned closer. "Relax, Douglas, we're here for the laughs. No stress."
Mrs. Garfield was shaking her head in front of the class. "You all need to study a lot more. You need to learn your
Shakespeares and your Adamses and your Dickensens and your Kerouacs. I'm disappointed."
"Hey, no Tolkiens?"
"And your Tolkiens. Thank you, Mr. Roundballs."
Asimov got up, eyes on his wristwatch. "Guys, it's time to go. The time warp will close soon."
All the authors got up. Mrs. Garfield frowned. "What is going on?"
"Nothing!" Jack Kerouac replied. "Thank you for a wonderful class, Mrs. Garfield!"
The group gathered at the center of the room and, with a low *whoosh*, vanished from sight.
Mrs. Garfield blinked repeatedly, staring blankly at the rest of the students in the classroom. No one said a word.
One second went by. Then another. Then five. Then ten.
Finally, the focus returned to Mrs. Garfield's eyes. She scanned the room with a semi-smile, clapped her hands and
said: "All right, classroom. What do you guys think psycho_alpaca wanted to convey with all the penis references in this story?"
__________________
*Thanks for reading! For more gratuitous penis imagery, check out /r/psycho_alpaca =)*
| "So what is the story really about? Could anyone answer that for me?"
Silence.
"Alright, what if I gave you the option between 'Love overcomes all' or rather 'Science overcomes all'? Anyone? Derek?" She pointed at a boy in the back of the class, slumped in his chair.
"No idea."
"Anyone else? No? Alright. Lets take a look at the most interesting passages in this short. One of the underlying themes in the book is definitely his connection with his wife Sarah, agreed? But the other most obvious theme in the book is the development of science, and the fact that science only could bring the story to a good end. You will notice the stress the author places on the studying of scientific studies and theories..."
A boy also sitting in the back of the classroom cleared his throat and raised his hand. "Yes, Paul?"
"I'm sorry, but I feel like I have a totally different interpretation of the piece than you do."
"Oh. Alright, in which way?"
"Wouldn't you rather say that the actual underlying theme was that not only Chris was chosen randomly, but also that even though he didn't have any useful background in his personal career he managed to develop himself into a scientist because he was motivated, hard-working and because he simply needed to? Isn't the willpower of man in a certain kind of way the driving factor behind his actions, fueled by his own situation, most notably Sarah, but also because he feels like he owes it to the rest of the world? In a certain sense Chris had no qualities that another person wouldn't have had, so wouldn't you say the most delicate theme is what humanity is actually capable of? I don't necessarily disagree with the notion that science and love were important, but rather that they were instruments in allowing him to achieve what he needed to achieve."
A few teenagers had turned around staring at the boy in the back of the class. Another group of kids stared at the teacher, their normally uninterested attitudes eagerly awaiting a response.
"Hmm...that's a very good point. I wouldn't say I necessarily agree with all of them though. I feel like the blue curtains in the first scene after the time stop definitely showed the melancholy of the situation better, his loneliness already reflected in his surroundings, obviously showing how secluded he already was from his wife".
"I don't really recall there being blue curtains...", the boy mumbled.
"Aha! But what if there had been?" the teacher replied, and continued her analysis while the boy followed Derek's posture and slumped in his chair. Robin, the girl next to him, poked him in the arm. "She could be right, you know? I mean, in the end, who really knows what the author intended?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, maybe. I guess this was a good way to illustrate that a story often consists of multiple facets, and that some facets might be uncovered by someone else even while the author never intentionally implied it, or never intended it that way but on a deeper level it supports the story. Or maybe he had. I guess it's good to keep an open mind. Stories often evolve so much that it goes beyond what the author had originally planned to write. I guess that's what all these stories do in the end, what they have in common. They make you think." | |
[WP] Humans have gained the ability to fly, but at a strange cost, which is unique to each individual. | Everyone finds their own way to leave the ground. Some people make 'getting high' into a literal experience. Some people pray or meditate. Others throw themselves into their art. The one thread in common is that every person gives a part of themselves up, becomes lighter. Maybe you give up your mind, part of your capacity for rational thought. Maybe you give up your will, and subsume yourself into a higher order. My dad would put on headphones and play his precious Beethoven and Brahms and give up his conscious interaction with the world. He'd float, eyes closed, through the house, a dreamy smile on his face, bobbing and swirling in time to the music. Invariably it would end with him bumping against the ceiling or floating right into a wall, and he'd come crashing back down to earth with a bang.
My mother powered herself off the ground through sheer resentment.
Her ability to fly used to be tied to her poetry, she'd tell us time and time again. Growing up, she'd cloister herself in the school library to avoid going back home to a pair of barely-functioning alcoholics. She'd lose herself in reading, in poetry, dreaming of a future where the books would have her name on the cover. She'd tell me about the first time she flew, right after she asked someone else to read her poetry. She said she'd been anxious, her soul bared on the page, as if her protective skin had been flayed away. As if she was raw and open and suddenly incomplete.
Flying to her was an anxiety, a thrill. She loved it and it made her sick to her stomach. While my dad floated aimlessly, she'd cut through the air. She'd go higher, faster, push the limits harder than any of her classmates. She'd thought this was her escape from the dysfunctional ties of family that kept her leashed to the ground. Then she met my father.
Love had dulled her edge, she'd rant on the afternoons when she'd finished a bottle of wine over the course of the day, as my father floated off somnolently towards the ceiling and I sat huddled in a chair, not daring to speak. She'd fallen in love with him, gotten domestic, traded in her dreams of flight for dreams of a home and garden. They'd married, and while she kept on writing, kept being able to fly, she'd long since lost the edge she had in college. Instead of cutting through the air like a falcon, she'd bobble through it like a goose. But flight was flight, and it was only - and she'd point at me when she said this, her finger jutting out like a talon - once she got pregnant with me that she'd lost the ability to fly altogether.
I had been a difficult birth and a colicky infant, leaving her worn thin to the point of tearing. Having a child necessitated giving up poetry for a more regular paycheck. She'd gotten a job at an ad firm, a tedious job that consisted of rearranging buzzwords to prepare for presentations. Her parents would make repeated calls wheedling medical funds out of her, her father slowly dying of cirrhosis of the liver. Dad was balancing his own job with completing his master's, and would spend his time at home either cooped up in his den studying or bobbing against the ceiling, trying to unwind. My mother would watch him, floating senseless to the world, and feel the pull of every single thing that kept her tied down to earth - her job, the kitchen, her husband, me.
She hadn't flown since I was born, she'd tell me over and over as I grew up. I'd scrapped all possibility of flying for myself as well, feeling my mother's weight bearing down on me. After what I'd taken away from her, what right did I have to take to the skies?
I was eight years old when we first noticed it happening. She was drunk again, ranting at me, working herself up to such a pitch that she was vibrating with anger, vibrating off the ground. Mom, I screamed, pointing to her feet, and she looked down, almost in awe, as she realized she was floating off the ground.
It was less that she was giving something up, and more that she was propelling herself by sheer repulsion, like the principle of magnetic levitation. In the days and weeks that followed, she'd buzz across the house like a hovercraft, working up her resentment, letting it fuel her. She seemed happier, she started writing poetry again. My dad and I cheered her on. We thought that maybe things were going to change, that something good was happening.
Until that one day I came home to find that she had once again taken flight. According to our neighbors, she'd spent all day indoors building up resentment, taking it in until the windows shook with it, until they'd thought the house was going to vibrate itself to pieces. And then, in one mighty thrust, she'd taken flight, launching herself through the ceiling and collapsing part of the roof behind her, disappearing into the sky like a rocket.
Dad and I had put our home back together, periodically staring out through the collapsed roof, searching for any black speck in the sky that could have been my mother rocketing back home towards us. But it was too late. She'd given up everything that was tying her to the earth, and gone soaring buoyant through the stratosphere. I imagined her, floating through space, out by the stars, weightless.
I'm seventeen now, and I like to think of her, and the stars, as I float up by the night sky. In the end, we'd been weighing each other down. There's an empty space inside me, like an anchor that's been cut loose, and everyone else in town marvels at my ability to take to the sky at a whim. Sometimes I think maybe I'll just keep floating higher and higher, up through space and out by the stars, and find my mother waiting for me there. Other times I think to look down, and see the whole world down there glistening bright below me, and think I've got my whole life ahead of me to find something worth staying grounded for. | Gregory was whizzing around squirrely in the sky, he had been up there for days (apparently, his family had been talking about it) and refused to come down. Someone said he had gotten really close to a transformer and later a fisherman said he had hydroplaned into the local lake. No one really knew what would happen if he stayed up there, but it was definitely getting worse. Five years ago, Gregory St. Vincent DeArmond had been a pretty successful malpractice attorney for none other than DeArmond and DeArmond, the other being his father. Now he was nearly toddler level IQ, and any progress he had made would be ruined.
I flew up to him, he was easy to catch, besides being clumsy now he also had gained quite a bit of weight. Once he saw me I just flew down to the earth, I knew that he would immediately follow me, like a child. Once we got close to the ground I halted abruptly, for only a second screeching to a momentary stop which he wasn’t expecting, and when he flew past me I hit him in the back of the head with a blackjack… hard.
I could tell Ms. DeArmond wasn’t too happy about that, when I got him to the front door a lump had noticeably formed on the back of his skull. I knew she wouldn’t say anything, because the searing headache everyone knew I would get had already started to manifest and she could see it on my face, and if I stopped getting her husband he would die, because I knew she wasn’t willing to lose an inch of height for an invalid.
| |
[WP] An alien disguised as a human ends up in a mental hospital | "Flabbit blegh", I told the nurse. Of course, this isn't what I actually wanted to say. Courtesy of my natural speaking apparatus, my telepathy, my species had no experience moving human mouths.
"Yes, dear, now where does your next of kin live?", the nurse politely asked me. Poor soul, she has no idea that an extraterrestrial is sat before her. I could always try telepathy on her, but I'm afraid she might not understand.
To ease the troublesome situation I tried moving my human's mouth again. "Kit slosh, anfl sssssspiggin."
The nurse was clearly trying to contain her laughter. At least she was calm. I had heard of previous attempts at manning a human vessel. They went straight to drawing images of our species and our technology, but unfortunately they were locked away by the government. That's partly why I'm here. My task is to rescue a colleague whose name can't be pronounced or visualised in non-telepathic media, so let's just call them Jeff.
"I'll be back in a moment, sir. Someone is here to meet you." The nurse gently patted my shoulder and promptly left the room I had been placed in. It was a small and claustrophobic room. Prison cells for my species are far nicer than this. Apparently rooms of this size are just right for most humans, so I didn't take it for granted.
Outside the room's only window were several birds fluttering around a tall willow tree. This side of the building overlooked a pretty forest biome. Wildlife, flora, the standard natural scene. Quite like my home planet, yet the birds were twice as small and our equivalent of trees were spherical blobs that slowly pulsated as they exchanged gases with the atmosphere.
As the nurse returned to my room, four men in white hazmat suits shortly followed. Oh dear. Things are about to get messy. Even the dear nurse looked nervous. I hope she doesn't die.
One of the hazmats approached me quite urgently. "Welcome. We..." He chose his words carefully and seemed to know who I really was. "We welcome you with extreme grace to this planet, and hope you are here with good intentions regarding the future of mankind and our habitats."
What a mouthful. I appreciated their extensive positivity. Other species would simply grunt and try harming me, or immediately engage ranged weaponry. I anticipated that at least one of the hazmats was armed with a gilon filter. A gilon filter interferes with our telepathy, courtesy of idiots like Jeff who go around boasting our tech.
I could try searching their minds, but others have warned that telepathy causes nose bleeds in humans. I'm not taking any risks. Now, how am I supposed to communicate with this gentleman?
"Flegh", I mumbled.
"He can't speak properly. Or he's faking it. Either way, he won't reply coherently." Said the nurse.
The closest hazmat turned to the nurse and gave a look of disappointment. "Have you tried pen and paper?"
She smiled in agreement and rushed to the monitoring room.
"We found your ship", the hazmat stared at me intently.
Oh. I've screwed up this time. Here I am trying to save Jeff and now someone else might have to save me. I wondered, was Jeff here to save someone else? I wouldn't be surprised.
The nurse returned, pen and paper in hand. "This should suffice." She passed the pen and paper to the hazmat, who then signalled another hazmat stood behind him to get a table.
"Drag that bedside table over, will you?"
The legs of the table screeched their way across the wooden floorboard, polluting the airways of the corridors. Mister hazmat clumsily placed the paper and pen on the table, his hazmat gloves too thick for precise hand gestures, then prodded his index finger several times on the sheets of paper.
"Now you can try talking to us", he spoke to me as if I was a toddler, hoping I comprehended his intentions. "Can you use those hands?"
I leaned towards the table and prepared these human hands. The hazmats swiftly stood back, presumably to prepare for any drastic movements I might make.
I gave the fingers and thumbs of both my hands another test drive, making grabbing motions in mid air.
"That's it." said the main hazmat.
These hands weren't too difficult to control. Our species' hands, despite having four of them instead of two, were very similar but lacked a little finger. Given most humans' apparent neglect for their little fingers, my dexterity was almost normal.
The nurse and four hazmats all gazed at the paper, waiting for a decent response at last.
I drove the fingers in the right directions, and after several seconds I was done writing. I turned the paper around to face the four hazmats and the nurse who had been patiently watching me.
They each leaned over, hoping for answers.
Written quite neatly on the first line was, of course, "ayy lmao".
EDIT: corrected several autocorrect errors. | She blinks too slowly. Three hours I’ve been here, and that’s the main thing I notice. She blinks as if she is doing it manually, like she has to remind herself to do it. Maybe a form of catatonia, I think, as I write a note in the margin. Depressive tendencies. How big a psychometric blanket can I throw over this patient to capture what’s gone wrong underneath?
Her mouth opens and I wait patiently for her to speak, even though I don’t expect anything particularly illuminating. I gently rebuke myself, but I still don’t know what I’m going to conclude when I walk out of this room, and it’s beginning to wear on me.
She lines up her actions like she’s placing dominoes. Softening of the lips, jaw dropping, throat unclearing, and a guttural noise from the back of the throat that if I’m lucky, comes together to form words. Usually a domino topples over too early though, and the action collapses within itself.
“Aaaaaaa,” she sounds, “aaaaaaahhhhnnn you understand mmmmme?”
“I can,” I say, “keep talking to me, I’m here to help you.”
“Ssssssssshhhha,” she pauses and I flip through the diagnoses in my head. Schizophrenia, that’s a good vaguery. What will they accept? What can I get away with here?
“Can you tell me what your name is?” I ask. Again. “Where are you from?”
“Maaaaaa,” that sound was childlike, a little unsettling coming from a woman who looked barely younger than I was. She lined up another action. Lateral movement of the forearm across the small tabletop, bending of the elbow until her arm pointed straight upwards, a complicated organisation of fingers to form a fist, with the index finger pointing at the ceiling. The universal sign for up.
“Rrrrrrrsss. Skkyyyyy.”
She blinked again, too slowly. So slow that I saw another set of eyelids blink behind her human skin. | |
[WP] An alien disguised as a human ends up in a mental hospital | "Flabbit blegh", I told the nurse. Of course, this isn't what I actually wanted to say. Courtesy of my natural speaking apparatus, my telepathy, my species had no experience moving human mouths.
"Yes, dear, now where does your next of kin live?", the nurse politely asked me. Poor soul, she has no idea that an extraterrestrial is sat before her. I could always try telepathy on her, but I'm afraid she might not understand.
To ease the troublesome situation I tried moving my human's mouth again. "Kit slosh, anfl sssssspiggin."
The nurse was clearly trying to contain her laughter. At least she was calm. I had heard of previous attempts at manning a human vessel. They went straight to drawing images of our species and our technology, but unfortunately they were locked away by the government. That's partly why I'm here. My task is to rescue a colleague whose name can't be pronounced or visualised in non-telepathic media, so let's just call them Jeff.
"I'll be back in a moment, sir. Someone is here to meet you." The nurse gently patted my shoulder and promptly left the room I had been placed in. It was a small and claustrophobic room. Prison cells for my species are far nicer than this. Apparently rooms of this size are just right for most humans, so I didn't take it for granted.
Outside the room's only window were several birds fluttering around a tall willow tree. This side of the building overlooked a pretty forest biome. Wildlife, flora, the standard natural scene. Quite like my home planet, yet the birds were twice as small and our equivalent of trees were spherical blobs that slowly pulsated as they exchanged gases with the atmosphere.
As the nurse returned to my room, four men in white hazmat suits shortly followed. Oh dear. Things are about to get messy. Even the dear nurse looked nervous. I hope she doesn't die.
One of the hazmats approached me quite urgently. "Welcome. We..." He chose his words carefully and seemed to know who I really was. "We welcome you with extreme grace to this planet, and hope you are here with good intentions regarding the future of mankind and our habitats."
What a mouthful. I appreciated their extensive positivity. Other species would simply grunt and try harming me, or immediately engage ranged weaponry. I anticipated that at least one of the hazmats was armed with a gilon filter. A gilon filter interferes with our telepathy, courtesy of idiots like Jeff who go around boasting our tech.
I could try searching their minds, but others have warned that telepathy causes nose bleeds in humans. I'm not taking any risks. Now, how am I supposed to communicate with this gentleman?
"Flegh", I mumbled.
"He can't speak properly. Or he's faking it. Either way, he won't reply coherently." Said the nurse.
The closest hazmat turned to the nurse and gave a look of disappointment. "Have you tried pen and paper?"
She smiled in agreement and rushed to the monitoring room.
"We found your ship", the hazmat stared at me intently.
Oh. I've screwed up this time. Here I am trying to save Jeff and now someone else might have to save me. I wondered, was Jeff here to save someone else? I wouldn't be surprised.
The nurse returned, pen and paper in hand. "This should suffice." She passed the pen and paper to the hazmat, who then signalled another hazmat stood behind him to get a table.
"Drag that bedside table over, will you?"
The legs of the table screeched their way across the wooden floorboard, polluting the airways of the corridors. Mister hazmat clumsily placed the paper and pen on the table, his hazmat gloves too thick for precise hand gestures, then prodded his index finger several times on the sheets of paper.
"Now you can try talking to us", he spoke to me as if I was a toddler, hoping I comprehended his intentions. "Can you use those hands?"
I leaned towards the table and prepared these human hands. The hazmats swiftly stood back, presumably to prepare for any drastic movements I might make.
I gave the fingers and thumbs of both my hands another test drive, making grabbing motions in mid air.
"That's it." said the main hazmat.
These hands weren't too difficult to control. Our species' hands, despite having four of them instead of two, were very similar but lacked a little finger. Given most humans' apparent neglect for their little fingers, my dexterity was almost normal.
The nurse and four hazmats all gazed at the paper, waiting for a decent response at last.
I drove the fingers in the right directions, and after several seconds I was done writing. I turned the paper around to face the four hazmats and the nurse who had been patiently watching me.
They each leaned over, hoping for answers.
Written quite neatly on the first line was, of course, "ayy lmao".
EDIT: corrected several autocorrect errors. | Dr. Skyler took a seat, examining the man in front of her. He certainly looked alien enough. His eyes bulged out of a misshapen head that twitched atop his skinny neck, and he moved like his skin was a size too small for him. "Sir," she said. "Can you tell us who you are? You were found wandering naked by the side of the highway, saying something about 'the mothership'."
The man fixed his bulbous eyes on her as if he was looking at some specimen through a microscope.
"This is the Trenton Psychiatric Hospital. You were brought here for psychiatric evaluation. Do you understand what's happened to you?"
The man swallowed and slowly worked his lips, and Dr. Skyler found herself thinking of a frog. "There's - there's been some sort of mistake," he said.
"All right. Go ahead and tell me what happened. Oh, and can you tell me your name, please?"
"My name is Xarcon Antilles," he said slowly, enunciating each syllable. "I'm from a planet in the Alpha Centauri star system. I am part of the alien species known as the Ixilid, sent here as an advanced scout to Earth."
Dr. Skyler couldn't stop a smirk from flickering across her face as she jotted down notes. "Mm, so you're an alien scout to Earth, is that right? And what is your purpose here?"
"There was an accident in the transport, a malfunction with the engines. I was abandoned here by my fleet without any equipment. I need to contact the mothership. This is urgent. The hostile Carrian race is already en route to conquer Earth as we speak!" His head was jutting out at her, his skin growing flushed. "Unless I can contact my superiors, the invasion is eminent!"
"And do you have an Earth name? Some sort of ... undercover identity here on Earth that we could look up?"
"No, no! I told you already! The mission was aborted! I was abandoned here!" He stood up and slammed his hands on the table. Immediately two orderlies stepped towards him, and Dr. Skyler quickly held up a hand.
"Sir! Mister ... Xarcon, was it? I'm going to have to ask you to remain calm. I believe we can resolve this by just talking with each other. But if you're going to continue being physically aggressive, we're going to have to restrain you and possibly medicate you, do you understand?"
"Y-yes," he muttered, and sunk back down into his seat. "But you must understand the gravity of the situation-!"
"All right. Now this was your initial evaluation. I'm going to schedule a more involved therapy session for tomorrow morning. Can this wait until the morning, Mr. Xarcon?"
He dropped his eyes to the ground, seemingly defeated. "Yes, I suppose. We will have astrophysicists at this session, won't we?"
"Well, ah, I'll see if I can arrange that. Good night, Mr. Xarcon. These gentlemen will show you to your room for tonight."
As Xarcon Antilles was led from the room, Dr. Skyler leaned back in her chair and let a snicker escape from her lips. Ixilids from the Alpha Centauri star system! The things one heard in a mental hospital! But then again, she supposed, how could an Earthling hope to know that her people had exterminated all life in Alpha Centauri two generations ago? | |
[WP] An alien disguised as a human ends up in a mental hospital | "Flabbit blegh", I told the nurse. Of course, this isn't what I actually wanted to say. Courtesy of my natural speaking apparatus, my telepathy, my species had no experience moving human mouths.
"Yes, dear, now where does your next of kin live?", the nurse politely asked me. Poor soul, she has no idea that an extraterrestrial is sat before her. I could always try telepathy on her, but I'm afraid she might not understand.
To ease the troublesome situation I tried moving my human's mouth again. "Kit slosh, anfl sssssspiggin."
The nurse was clearly trying to contain her laughter. At least she was calm. I had heard of previous attempts at manning a human vessel. They went straight to drawing images of our species and our technology, but unfortunately they were locked away by the government. That's partly why I'm here. My task is to rescue a colleague whose name can't be pronounced or visualised in non-telepathic media, so let's just call them Jeff.
"I'll be back in a moment, sir. Someone is here to meet you." The nurse gently patted my shoulder and promptly left the room I had been placed in. It was a small and claustrophobic room. Prison cells for my species are far nicer than this. Apparently rooms of this size are just right for most humans, so I didn't take it for granted.
Outside the room's only window were several birds fluttering around a tall willow tree. This side of the building overlooked a pretty forest biome. Wildlife, flora, the standard natural scene. Quite like my home planet, yet the birds were twice as small and our equivalent of trees were spherical blobs that slowly pulsated as they exchanged gases with the atmosphere.
As the nurse returned to my room, four men in white hazmat suits shortly followed. Oh dear. Things are about to get messy. Even the dear nurse looked nervous. I hope she doesn't die.
One of the hazmats approached me quite urgently. "Welcome. We..." He chose his words carefully and seemed to know who I really was. "We welcome you with extreme grace to this planet, and hope you are here with good intentions regarding the future of mankind and our habitats."
What a mouthful. I appreciated their extensive positivity. Other species would simply grunt and try harming me, or immediately engage ranged weaponry. I anticipated that at least one of the hazmats was armed with a gilon filter. A gilon filter interferes with our telepathy, courtesy of idiots like Jeff who go around boasting our tech.
I could try searching their minds, but others have warned that telepathy causes nose bleeds in humans. I'm not taking any risks. Now, how am I supposed to communicate with this gentleman?
"Flegh", I mumbled.
"He can't speak properly. Or he's faking it. Either way, he won't reply coherently." Said the nurse.
The closest hazmat turned to the nurse and gave a look of disappointment. "Have you tried pen and paper?"
She smiled in agreement and rushed to the monitoring room.
"We found your ship", the hazmat stared at me intently.
Oh. I've screwed up this time. Here I am trying to save Jeff and now someone else might have to save me. I wondered, was Jeff here to save someone else? I wouldn't be surprised.
The nurse returned, pen and paper in hand. "This should suffice." She passed the pen and paper to the hazmat, who then signalled another hazmat stood behind him to get a table.
"Drag that bedside table over, will you?"
The legs of the table screeched their way across the wooden floorboard, polluting the airways of the corridors. Mister hazmat clumsily placed the paper and pen on the table, his hazmat gloves too thick for precise hand gestures, then prodded his index finger several times on the sheets of paper.
"Now you can try talking to us", he spoke to me as if I was a toddler, hoping I comprehended his intentions. "Can you use those hands?"
I leaned towards the table and prepared these human hands. The hazmats swiftly stood back, presumably to prepare for any drastic movements I might make.
I gave the fingers and thumbs of both my hands another test drive, making grabbing motions in mid air.
"That's it." said the main hazmat.
These hands weren't too difficult to control. Our species' hands, despite having four of them instead of two, were very similar but lacked a little finger. Given most humans' apparent neglect for their little fingers, my dexterity was almost normal.
The nurse and four hazmats all gazed at the paper, waiting for a decent response at last.
I drove the fingers in the right directions, and after several seconds I was done writing. I turned the paper around to face the four hazmats and the nurse who had been patiently watching me.
They each leaned over, hoping for answers.
Written quite neatly on the first line was, of course, "ayy lmao".
EDIT: corrected several autocorrect errors. | In 1887 I landed in London, England. I am what you might consider a biologist, with a strong interest in anthropology.
I took over the idenity of a prominent aristocrat and began to settle into my surroundings. In 1888 I began my biological research into the human anatomy - a fascinating species, so very basic and small minded and yet somehow they had gained a kind of sentience.
My anatomical pursuits were soon put on hold due to certain discoveries made by the local populace. With interest in my character growing, I left London and travelled to the United States of America, a newer nation and an overall better choice for studying modern human culture.
For many years I watched and learned about humanity. I saw the flaws and I slowly began to see the potential.
I saw humanity almost tear itself apart during two world encompassing battles - arguments over land and the minipulation of the many people for the gain of the very few.
It was after the world's second battle that I decided humanity needed my intervention. I could show them the path to a non destructive future. In 1947 in the state of New Mexico I made first contact. It did not go as planned. Infact, I was lucky to survive the encounter. My craft was not so fortunate, and so I became stranded on Earth until my mission completion date far in the future.
In 1956 I tried again, but this time I did not go to the government. Instead, I made arrangements to meet a respected journalist. I told him that I had adopted a human idenity, that I was really from Xenoth Beta 821, and that I had the knowledge to save his species.
I successfully managed to persuade the journalist that together we could make such changes to humanity! He told me to wait in the newspapers office whilst he brought some important, infulencial friends to meet me. I had finally made the break through!
I twist my neck as far as my singular spine will allow me. The padded room is a pleasing white but the jacket that restricts my arm movements taunts me. If I could only free an arm...
| |
I thought it'd be cool as a sort of setup for "are they good or evil?"
Does he truly believe that the sacrifice of one is worth the needs of the many?
The idea was derivative from watching the movie 'unbreakable'. The concept of an indestructible man on one side of the world while their polar opposite was out there is a brilliant idea. I wanted to play on it with a superhero that's loved and well known but keeps this dark secret. | [WP] The worlds top superhero has the power of true invincibility and is the most loved hero on Earth. His power isn't invincibility however, it's the ability to randomly transfer the damage they've received to another living person at random. The hero is aware of this. | "Don't see many priests your age."
"They were all my age, once."
The guard buzzed the door. It slid aside electronically, revealing a long hallway. Pictures of prominent staff and visiting politicians hung in bunched intervals, along with small American flags and larger flags and plaques bearing various corporate logos. The offices had posters and team pictures in them like any other office would. As if this were just one building among others. But the cinder walls and wide floor and high ceiling lent it an overpowering industrial feel.
The warden's office was at the end. He had been expecting the priest.
"I don't know how they do things elsewhere," he said, already shaking his head. "but this is highly unusual at Lennox. We have a chaplain, understand."
The priest smiled, and pointed to a chair in front of the desk. The warden nodded and the priest sat. "I'm aware that what my request is...abnormal..."
"Well it just seems unnecessary. Inmates who want to repent can talk to the chaplain. We'll bring in an imam or a rabbi if they're of a different persuasion, but I don't see the need to host a traveling priest. No disrespect, father."
"I understand, warden" the priest said. "but I'm here to engage precisely the inmates who *don't* confide in their chaplain, who *don't* repent to the Lord. I want to find the lost lamb and return him to the flock, you see."
The warden considered this for a moment, strumming his fingers on the desk as he did. He wore a simple blue shirt and tie like the corrections officers did; without his blazer and its excess of badges and insignias, he looked like everyone else who worked there. Maybe a little older.
"You want to crack the tough nuts, huh?"
The priest nodded. "The tougher the better."
"You're not one of them fire-and-brimstone types, are you? I don't need these guys any more pissed off than they already are."
"No, no," the priest said. "Mine is a message of salvation, I promise."
***
They gave him a seat in the mess hall. Two guards were within five feet of him at all times, and he wasn't allowed to touch the inmates. Each inmate had twenty minutes to say their piece, and the whole deal had to be over by dinner. That gave him three hours, or nine inmates. That gave him as good of odds as he could have hoped for.
He only needed one, after all.
As he expected, most stuck to their stories: Darius was home sleeping when that man was shot; Thomas was framed because he had beaten up a cop in a barfight;
Adrian acted in self-defense; Langston swore it was consensual. And so on. After two hours, a guilty man had yet to enter the mess hall.
That changed with Yuri.
He was tall enough to hunch when he walked, and so thin that he looked taller than he really was. The sleeves on his jumper were rolled up to reveal naked flesh; what skin the priest could see was unmarked by any needle. This was a first for the priest.
Yuri sat before him, knees spread, hands cuffed and chained to his waist. He was maybe forty by his look but the priest wondered if the years here hadn't aged him prematurely.
"Yuri's an interesting name," the priest said. "It's Russian, right?"
"I guess."
"So your parents weren't from Russia?"
Yuri's face darkened. "I don't fuckin know."
The priest's tone was concillatory. "I'm awful at smalltalk," he said. "I meant no harm."
Yuri relaxed, just a little. "Whatever."
"So," the priest began, leaning back on the stool. "What brought you to Lennox?"
"Murder," came the reply.
"Did you admit to your guilt?"
"There ain't nothin to admit," said Yuri. "I was still there when they showed up."
"Fair enough. What about admitting your guilt to God?"
The faintest smile teased the corner of Yuri's mouth. "Who's that?"
"I think you know who it is."
"No," Yuri said. "*I* know who it is. I'm asking if *you* do."
This surprised the priest. The riposte -- if it wasn't just a clumsy deflection -- was surprisingly adept for a man of Yuri's ilk. He began to wonder if there was more to the convinct than what he was presenting. To find the answer, he would have to avoid indulging him. "I imagine there are as many answers to that question as there are people on this earth."
Yuri looked away. "I didn't think so."
"Is that why you don't speak to the chaplain? You've already been forgiven?"
"What's that?"
The priest was awash with disappointment. "I get the feeling that you're just giving me a polite brush-off."
"Maybe I'm just tired of people pushing ideas they don't understand the way dealers push crack," Yuri said, seeming bored. "That shit's dangerous."
"What don't I understand, exactly?"
"Ain't enough time to explain, father."
"We have twenty minutes," the priest said.
"Sixteen," corrected Yuri. The priest checked the clock on the wall behind Yuri. Then he checked over his own shoulder for one, but no clock was theree. "How'd you do that?" he asked, genuinely delighted. "The Human Wristwatch!"
"It's a gift," he said, fussing with his hands now. "Some things just come natural. Time, numbers...higher concepts."
"Higher concepts. Such as God."
"Mm-hmm."
"And you...confessed to Him?"
Yuri sighed. He leaned his chest against the table between them and put the tip of his nose on the surface. The laminated formica offered a dim reflection, and Yuri seemed to be looking into his own eyes. This is how he stayed for a time. Only when he was ready to continue did he look up again.
"Listen: What you're looking for, it ain't there. You're just shoutin into the fuckin void. Okay? Nobody's home. In fact, there ain't even a home for nobody to be at, so don't bother looking for a door to knock on."
"What's one-fifty divided by seven?" the priest asked.
"Twenty-one," Yuri said immediately.
"Is that right?"
"No," Yuri admitted. "There's decimals, too."
"Well. I don't even know what to say. I'm amazed."
"If you want me to do tricks, I could use some credit on my commisary card."
The priest held his hands up apologetically. "Forgive me, Yuri, I'm just stunned by your talent. And moreso that you've wound up here, instead of...I don't know...Harvard or something."
Yuri snorted at that, donned a sardonic smirk. "What a waste, huh?" he said.
"Not entirely," said the priest. "Not in the next world, perhaps."
"Man, what don't you fuckin get about what I said?" Yuri was angry now, and gesturing with his hands that were shackled to his waist. "There ain't a 'next world.' Just like there ain't no such thing as forgiveness, because there's nobody listening. This is it. This is all we got. One life, cradle to grave, then it's over."
The priest sighed. "You can't know that, Yuri." he said, gently. "You may believe that, but you can't know it to be true."
Yuri fussed with his hands again. He looked at the floor. "Like I said, I know things," he said quietly. "I know things about you, too."
"Oh? Like what?"
"I know what you're really here for."
"And what's that, Yuri?"
Yuri leapt from his stool with a frightening speed and loomed over the priest like a tower. Before he could react, Yuri clutched the priest's hand in his, hard so he couldn't pull away, and said simply, "This."
The guards pounced, and had Yuri face down on the floor with a baton against his neck almost as soon as the word hit the priest's ear. The priest tried to process what had just happened, tried to make sense of it, but the search for answers only made him woozy. "Why?" he shouted at Yuri as the guards lifted him upright and dragged him out. "You're one of us! Why, Yuri?" But the killer only laughed, and his laugh echoed through the hall and penetrated the priest's soul, where it went on even as he left the prison. *He took my hand,* the priest thought. *He took my hand and he knew what it meant!*
The drive home was four hours, but the priest stopped at a motel after just an hour. He vomited in the toiled and took a long shower. Getting dressed, he held his clerical collar in his hands, looking at it as though it were new and wondered if it was possible to come into conflict with God's plan, and if that was ever the cause of any misfortune in this world. He left the motel on foot, the keys in the ignition. When night fell he found a small alley and took it halfway. No one was around. He thought of home. He thought of his bedroom. The air around him began to snap and sizzle. He thought of the thickness of the carpet and the smell of the air freshener. Sparks lit the darkness like a thousand suns being born and dying in an instant. The grain of the oak chest at the end of his bed. The brass lock that held closed a secret no one could ever learn.
The world went blue, then white, and then he was home.
And he wept.
When he gathered himself, the priest went to the wooden chest at the foot of his bed and produced the key that unlocks it. He opened it slowly. Within was a black leather jacket, black boots, a thick black sweater and tough denim jeans. He took them each and placed them on the bed. Alone in the footlocker remained a simple black ski mask. Just above the right eye was a hole, the threads frayed and burnt. This was where the bullet had entered. He turned the mask around in his hands. The exit hole was much bigger.
The priest stood now before the bathroom mirror. He pushed aside a curl of graying hair and saw no scar. Though he had bled that night, though his skull had shattered and fragments had ejected through the hole in his mask, his flesh was unbroken, the bone smooth to the touch.
Fredrick David Yandle had died that night, instead of him. A pact signed months before with a handshake at Upton Penitentiary, some thousand miles west of here. Chosen because he admitted guilt and sought salvation. The priest had promised it to him then, and the armed robber Tony Harding had granted it unwittingly on July 8th, two years ago.
This was the priest's gift. One of many. And the next one would be for Yuri. | Sherry Bell looked up to him, The Savior. He was the most successful hero the world had ever seen. He had run into and defeated almost all the super villains in the world, along with an uncounted number of nameless thieves and thugs. His two most recent were the Nefarious Doctor Domination, and the unnamed assassins. The only one Sherry knew he had not faced was the one the world was calling the Reaper.
The Reaper was the worst villain in her mind; he would come out of nowhere and either kill or injure someone. What was most damning was the coward had never shown his face to the victims, he would come in shoot them with a gun, stab them, cut them, punch them, and even on rare occasions pour acid on them, all with never being seen by cameras, the victims or any possible witness.
She reached her hands up to the Savior and pleaded, “Please stop the reaper, and he took my brother’s ability to walk last week. Please stop him from doing this to people.”
The savior had a sad knowing smile on his face when she said her brother couldn’t walk, He remembered. It was carelessness that time. He was chasing the assassin, and caught him in the assassins trap for him. He could still feel a dull ache of where the sword had entered his back and broke off when he thought about it. Well he could feel a dull ache for most of his nonfatal injuries. In his memory he felt the sword penetrate his back and slice through his spine. Then it snapped off and his power kicked in. The sword inside him vanished and all the pain was gone. He proceeded to knock out both assassins and took them in; ignoring the slight regret of dooming someone he did not know to being a paraplegic for life.
To keep up appearances he nodded to her and got into his personal helicopter, before taking off. He would later make a press conference about looking for the Reaper, but he knew he would never be able to stop the reaper; he had already tried, it had cost him his sister. So instead he saves who he can and tries not to get injured lest they be reaped on someone else.
|
[WP] You are about to commit suicide, when a voice behind you asks you something really mundain. | EDIT: I found this sub by clicking the "random" button, and this is the first prompt I have ever done. Hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it :)
"He-hello... Miss? Do you have time?"
My heart fluttered at the sound behind me. I swallowed the alarm in my voice and cleared my throat.
"Uhh, I.. um" My brain scrambled in my skull. My hand found my temples and my head swayed toward the direction of the voice.
He was pointing at his wrist. "Miss, sorry, my time is at France. Do you have time?"
I sat and gazed at him for moment. He was tall, mostly in his legs. His face was average except for his exceptionally thick eyebrows that made it hard to look at anything else. He was wearing an orange button up tucked into dark jeans rolled neatly at the ankles revealing matching orange socks and European style suede shoes.
"My time" He eagerly pointed to his wrist again "My time is, erm, in time with France? Time with you here, I do not know. Do you have time?" He stammered through broken English. His eyes seemed to apologize for his lack of ability to communicate. He searched me intensely for understanding.
I blinked back the fog over my eyes as I realized what he was saying. I patted my pants fumbling for my phone. I stood up and swung my backpack around to my chest and unzipped the front pouch. Before I could get it half way open my hand flew to my temple and I groaned. My head felt like a swarm of bees trapped between my ears. I blinked a few times and my eyes felt hot.
The strangers feet shifted toward me and my heart started to race. His body language radiated concern and I felt sorry that it was me he had stumbled upon in a foreign country.
"Just a headache" I muttered without making eye contact, not wanting him to see the lie on my face.
I sat down on the bench again and put my backpack in my lap. As I rummaged through my things an empty white bottle fell out onto the concrete. My fingers felt what they were searching for and I pulled out my phone. I looked up to see him standing in front of me now with the bottle in his hand stretched out. My face flushed and I snatched the bottle like a thieving raccoon and thanked him without looking up.
"7:23" I said, showing him the screen. I wondered if my voice sounded as hollow as it felt echoing between my teeth. I cleared my throat, glanced up and flashed him my best impression of a smile.
"Ah, yes, much thank you miss!" He exclaimed smiling warmly revealing perfect, brilliantly white teeth. I nodded and smiled back. I looked at him as he walked away becoming a shadow in the setting sunlight. He must have felt my eyes on him and he glanced over his shoulder, his dark eyebrows tense with concern.
I folded my hands and returned my gaze to the ocean. The tide was twice as high as it had been a moment ago. How much time had gone by? My mouth felt dry and I tasted the salt in the air. Watching the water rise and fall closely, I realized the swarm in my head had gone silent. I wondered how much time I had left. I looked in the direction the stranger had gone. The streets were empty. Almost eerily empty.
My head felt heavy now, like an unstable merry-go-round spinning on top of my shoulders. My eyes fell to the ground for a moment, then back to the glistening body of water before me. I blinked slowly, each time with more difficulty opening them again. Suddenly they shot open as I felt water around my ankles. My chin fell to my chest as I watched my feet become submerged in salty water. *what is happening* My mind swirled with confusion and fog. *the water was 100 feet out a minute ago* My head fell into my hands and I could feel my body failing. Tears flowed down my cheeks and my chest heaved. Between my fingers I could see the water getting higher and higher up my legs. This was is it. This was the end. The water crept onto the bench and surrounded my torso, then chest, then neck. I looked into what was left of the sun through the mist in my eyes as the water poured into my mouth and ears.
The next thing I remember was inaudible murmuring and a steady beeping in the background. My eyes felt like cement bags but I managed to open them just enough to see a nurse standing in front my where I was laying speaking to a man in a lab coat. I groaned as the light seeped into my retinas causing them to feel like lava dripping into my brain. The two stopped speaking to each other and simultaneously snapped their heads in my direction. The nurse scurried over to a monitor that seemed to be hardwired to me. The man in the lab coat seemed to float to my bedside.
"Hello, I am Doctor Leroy. Can you tell me your name?"
He spoke in a thick accent. My mind reeled and a man in an orange shirt flashed in my memory.
"El... Elinor." I murmured through a sigh.
"Well, Elinor, you are lucky to be alive."
I half coughed and half laughed in response but said nothing. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the tall figure in the orange shirt.
"You took a massive amount of painkillers Elinor. Over the last 6 weeks we weren't sure if you were going to make it. You could have killed yourself and the baby."
My heart stopped and my eyes peeled open. I could hear the beeping going crazy
in the background and the nurse shuffled out of the room. My mouth opened but no sound could come out. Suddenly I realized how dry my tongue was. I couldn't move or feel my body for that matter.
In a barely audible rasp I stammered "Th- The.. baby?"
To be continued..............
| The barrel of the gun had grown warm over the last 30 minutes as I fumbled with it, trying to decide if this would be my final action on this earth. My eyes were glazed in tears and yet my mouth was bone dry as I murmured the word coward under my breath. My heart rate increased, my eyes closed hard and I raised the pistol to my head. A flash of images ran through my mind, a million thoughts exploding every tense millisecond as my finger began to tighten. The hammer began to rise, the tension built inside me as my stomach twisted into knots. “This is it, this is—“
“What is your favorite rose?”
The voice snapped me into reality and a spun on my heals to catch a glimpse of the person speaking, but as I turned there was no one there. I was alone. I lived alone, and knew all the doors and windows were shut and locked… all part of my plans that were set in motion. The question caught me further off guard, like a painful memory I had pushed down into my subconscious, only now being dredged to the surface. My eyes darted around the room, frantically trying to make sense of the situation.
“What is your favorite rose!?”
The sound came from behind me again, like a phantom hissing it’s odd riddle from my own shadow. The voice more distinct and sinister hung in the air, lingering far after the audible portion was gone. I raised the gun, pointing it in all directions. “I am a-armed, who’s there? Show y-yourself!” I choked out, tripping over my own words.
“WHAT”
I turned as fast as I could. Nothing…
“IS”
The voice snapped like a gun shot, I span round again to find nothing.
“YOUR FAVORITE”
Nothing again, the voice grew louder like twisted avalanche barreling towards me.
“Rose?”
A whispered word collapsed against my face as I turned into the skeletal visage of a monstrous creature floating not but an inch away from me. It’s breath like winters wind on my cheeks. Tattered hooded robe floating around the creature, as if animated from a wind that wasn’t seen or felt. I stared into the lipless, toothy maw as it opened. It’s words freezing the air around me.
“Answer me boy. Rose. Which is your favorite?” The apparition exhaled in a deep timber, shaking the walls and floorboards.
“R-r-red ones?” I stammered out, both confused and frightened.
“GOOD. I shall leave them on your tomb upon your demise. But… that isn’t THIS day!” The ghostly phantom uttered with a maddening cackle. And with that, it was gone…
Frozen in fear I stood, mouth slack and eyes staring into the middle distance in disbelief. I dropped to my knees and began to cry. Attempting to wipe the tears from my face, I realized I was still holding the gun and my hand had gone numb clenching the firearm so tightly. I dropped to the floor and backed away from it like a poisonous snake. Backing myself into the corner, I wrapped my arms around my knees as the emotional damn burst and my eyes flooded. The cry was cathartic. I hadn’t let loose like that since I was a child.
Rubbing a sore spot in my neck, I opened my eyes to a darker version of my apartment. Obviously I had been a sleep for multiple hours. I sat up, back against the wall and surveyed my lodgings for any sign of my visitor. Everything was just as I had left it, including the pistol haphazardly strewn on the floor. Finally willing myself to stand, I stretched out the aches of sleeping on the hardwood and walked into the kitchen, coming to a wide-eyed standstill as my usually barren refrigerator doors now hung one piece of artwork.
A child’s drawing of a red rose in crayon with the tagline:
“Not today.” | |
[WP] You are about to commit suicide, when a voice behind you asks you something really mundain. | EDIT: I found this sub by clicking the "random" button, and this is the first prompt I have ever done. Hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it :)
"He-hello... Miss? Do you have time?"
My heart fluttered at the sound behind me. I swallowed the alarm in my voice and cleared my throat.
"Uhh, I.. um" My brain scrambled in my skull. My hand found my temples and my head swayed toward the direction of the voice.
He was pointing at his wrist. "Miss, sorry, my time is at France. Do you have time?"
I sat and gazed at him for moment. He was tall, mostly in his legs. His face was average except for his exceptionally thick eyebrows that made it hard to look at anything else. He was wearing an orange button up tucked into dark jeans rolled neatly at the ankles revealing matching orange socks and European style suede shoes.
"My time" He eagerly pointed to his wrist again "My time is, erm, in time with France? Time with you here, I do not know. Do you have time?" He stammered through broken English. His eyes seemed to apologize for his lack of ability to communicate. He searched me intensely for understanding.
I blinked back the fog over my eyes as I realized what he was saying. I patted my pants fumbling for my phone. I stood up and swung my backpack around to my chest and unzipped the front pouch. Before I could get it half way open my hand flew to my temple and I groaned. My head felt like a swarm of bees trapped between my ears. I blinked a few times and my eyes felt hot.
The strangers feet shifted toward me and my heart started to race. His body language radiated concern and I felt sorry that it was me he had stumbled upon in a foreign country.
"Just a headache" I muttered without making eye contact, not wanting him to see the lie on my face.
I sat down on the bench again and put my backpack in my lap. As I rummaged through my things an empty white bottle fell out onto the concrete. My fingers felt what they were searching for and I pulled out my phone. I looked up to see him standing in front of me now with the bottle in his hand stretched out. My face flushed and I snatched the bottle like a thieving raccoon and thanked him without looking up.
"7:23" I said, showing him the screen. I wondered if my voice sounded as hollow as it felt echoing between my teeth. I cleared my throat, glanced up and flashed him my best impression of a smile.
"Ah, yes, much thank you miss!" He exclaimed smiling warmly revealing perfect, brilliantly white teeth. I nodded and smiled back. I looked at him as he walked away becoming a shadow in the setting sunlight. He must have felt my eyes on him and he glanced over his shoulder, his dark eyebrows tense with concern.
I folded my hands and returned my gaze to the ocean. The tide was twice as high as it had been a moment ago. How much time had gone by? My mouth felt dry and I tasted the salt in the air. Watching the water rise and fall closely, I realized the swarm in my head had gone silent. I wondered how much time I had left. I looked in the direction the stranger had gone. The streets were empty. Almost eerily empty.
My head felt heavy now, like an unstable merry-go-round spinning on top of my shoulders. My eyes fell to the ground for a moment, then back to the glistening body of water before me. I blinked slowly, each time with more difficulty opening them again. Suddenly they shot open as I felt water around my ankles. My chin fell to my chest as I watched my feet become submerged in salty water. *what is happening* My mind swirled with confusion and fog. *the water was 100 feet out a minute ago* My head fell into my hands and I could feel my body failing. Tears flowed down my cheeks and my chest heaved. Between my fingers I could see the water getting higher and higher up my legs. This was is it. This was the end. The water crept onto the bench and surrounded my torso, then chest, then neck. I looked into what was left of the sun through the mist in my eyes as the water poured into my mouth and ears.
The next thing I remember was inaudible murmuring and a steady beeping in the background. My eyes felt like cement bags but I managed to open them just enough to see a nurse standing in front my where I was laying speaking to a man in a lab coat. I groaned as the light seeped into my retinas causing them to feel like lava dripping into my brain. The two stopped speaking to each other and simultaneously snapped their heads in my direction. The nurse scurried over to a monitor that seemed to be hardwired to me. The man in the lab coat seemed to float to my bedside.
"Hello, I am Doctor Leroy. Can you tell me your name?"
He spoke in a thick accent. My mind reeled and a man in an orange shirt flashed in my memory.
"El... Elinor." I murmured through a sigh.
"Well, Elinor, you are lucky to be alive."
I half coughed and half laughed in response but said nothing. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the tall figure in the orange shirt.
"You took a massive amount of painkillers Elinor. Over the last 6 weeks we weren't sure if you were going to make it. You could have killed yourself and the baby."
My heart stopped and my eyes peeled open. I could hear the beeping going crazy
in the background and the nurse shuffled out of the room. My mouth opened but no sound could come out. Suddenly I realized how dry my tongue was. I couldn't move or feel my body for that matter.
In a barely audible rasp I stammered "Th- The.. baby?"
To be continued..............
| The train was running late. Usually I wouldn't mind so much, but today I was impatient. I was ready to get this life over with. The only thing keeping me sane was knowing that when this train arrived, I would depart from the pain. I guess I can take solace in the fact that this is the one failure that couldn't be blamed on me. The train conductor would have to take the fall for this one.
I checked my watch. 5 minutes late. Maybe I should just climb down onto the tracks and wait there for the relief. If I laid down across them, maybe the operator won't see me in time. I could get off these tired legs and stretch out. Seems simple enough, won't even have to work that hard for it. Story of my life.
I looked left and right on the platform. Not a soul in sight. No one to stop me. This was my chance to go unseen into that great unknown. To remove myself from this great equation. To cease to burden.
I hunched down to drop off the platform. So silly to think of at a time like these, but you gotta protect your knees from the shock. Not like it mattered, but it's what they taught you in the 101st Airborne.
"Excuse me, are you waiting for the 4:05?".
I stumbled back a bit and fell on my ass. The voice came out of nowhere. No footsteps preceded it. No shuffle of shoes or clothing. I would have known. I was trained to know.
"Oh my, I didn't mean to startle you. Here, let me help you.".
An outstretched hand appeared before me. I didn't take it. I'm not one to accept help, especially from strangers. I planted my palms and struggled to my feet, brushing the seat of my pants like it even mattered.
"Where'd you come from?", I asked, probably more accusatory than I intended.
The man was probably late 60's, the size of a gumball machine and dressed like a newspaper boy. Extra extra, read all about it, the amazing appearing nut job.
"Me? I've always been here. I like to watch them come and go."
"The trains?"
"No. The people.", he said, his eyes wandering with a slight smile as if to reminisce.
The platform was still empty, save me and this old-timer. A ghost town with two residents who haven't made the plunge just yet. I was planning on crossing that line before this guy showed up. Where was this train anyway?
"The 4:05 is running late.", he said staring towards the arrival board. "Looks like you couldn't wait.".
I eyed him for a long moment. Why'd he look so smug?
"I dropped a twenty on the tracks. Thought I'd have time to get it.", I lied.
The old man peered over the edge of the platform and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
"That's a shame, son. Seems like your money up and vanished. Stuff goes missing around here all the time. Change, keys, hope...", he trailed off staring at the tracks.
The platform rumbled with the telltale sign of an approaching coach.
"Maybe if you look hard enough, you might find what you've been looking for.", he said over his shoulder.
The train rode into the station fast and loud, the wheels screeching on the track as it lost momentum. Wind blew around me like a fall gust and the train car lights made me squint. The 4:05 came to a complete stop and the doors jolted open all down the line.
The man was gone. No sign of him. He left as sudden as he had come.
I glanced at my watch. 4:12. I guess I'll just have to wait for the next one.
| |
[WP] You are about to commit suicide, when a voice behind you asks you something really mundain. | "So what're you gonna do? A 1080 double lariat or some shit? You gonna try and fly?"
The hair jumps on the back of my neck and I hunch over as if I was caught stealing a cookie.I turn my head to see a balding, middle aged man in a loosened tie lighting a cigarette. He resembled the same kind of typical upper management, alcoholic scumbag that fucked up everything in the first place for me and my heart filled with rage.
"Its Game 7 of the playoffs and you're staring at a street instead."
"Look at me, why do you think I give a shit?"
I tremble screaming at the man like he was the physical embodiment of my life.
"Cus' some of us wanna watch the game and instead they are gonna be scraping your goo off the street. Kinda ruins the night don't you think?"
He takes his first inhale then nonchalantly breaks his gaze from me to look out at the water to the east as if witnessing the end of my life wasn't entertaining enough.
I sniffle looking back at my objective of the ground below.
"I don't give a shit, nobody gives a fuck about me." I choke back sobbing in front of the stranger.
This isn't at all what I pictured in my head. I can't even end my life they way I want without somebody shitting on me.
"And what? Thats gonna make everything all better once your gone? Everyone'll still think you're a pussy."
"Seriously man. Fuck off."
"The thing that's weird about you young people is that you can switch gears like that." He snaps his fingers. "When you're like me you're stuck doing the same shit everyday. Talking to the same kinds of people."
He nods his head in a bragging sort of way.
"I'm good at it, don't get me wrong but it gets fuckin' old after all these fuckin' years."
His local accent was borderline stereotypical. He was everything I resented, probably had a wife, a job, everything secured and taken care of and now he's telling me HIS life story and having things is hard. But it was somebody to talk to, he gave me more time of day then anyone, and even if I think I hated him I still kept the conversation going.
"You don't know a thing about me man.." I whimper, defeated in every aspect.
"I know if you lean forward a bit more whatever you're pissed off about.."
He inhales and and sighs aloofly.
"It 'Aint gonna change, and it'll be there forevah. That's something you can do but I can't"
I stand a little firmer, my broken psyche trying to get off the ledge but my pride keeping me there.
"Arn't you supposed to be helping me? Instead you're just convincing me that you should jump with me."
"Oh, Fuck you." He smokes. "I'm just saying what scares the shit outta me is something you want. Its all fuckin' relative you know. Trust me I know what I'm talkin' about."
"Bullshit." I accuse him. "I Have nowhere to go now."
"You've got fucking everywhere to go now. Fuck you." He becomes agitated and I chuckle a bit morbidly which doesn't help.
"Oh you want to laugh at me? Tryin' to help you? Okay, asshole, jump! Do a flip!"
"Why do you fucking care what I do?"
"Why do you think?" He questioned back looking straight at me. He shook a bit, his eyes not watering but glossing over as much a grizzled Boston man would.
In his eyes I saw pain, the same kind that I felt in my heart. I couldn't resonate or relate with anybody but in this look I saw a sense of sincerity none of his words could come close to portraying. I connected to this man, and even if I didn't agree with what he was saying, he earned my respect enough to listen.
I take a deep breath and hear horns honking below me. I shiver once again.
I step down from the ledge shaking my head walking towards him slowly. He still seems agitated but raises his eyebrows quickly as a congratulations for deciding to live. He brings the cigarette to his mouth to finish it off.
"Its just so damn cold up here. I thought it was supposed to be summer by now."
"Yeah, shits weird." He reminds me as he gets closer.
He tosses his Marlboro stub off the edge. And I imagine it gliding gently towards the ground. I could talk with the guy a bit longer at least. He examines me saying nothing but making sure I have my security at least. I want to thank him.
"Look-" I start but am cut off to a hand in my face.
He cuts me off excitedly turns to me as he braces.
"Now check this shit!"
He shoves me down to the pavement of the roof and sprints towards then edge. I reach for him and his shirt slips through my hands. His head held high and his loosened tie coming undone and falling to the ground in front of me as he elevates himself up and over before falling out of sight behind the ledge.
"Go Bruins!" I hear his accented battle cry echo into the city sky. It rings in my ears as I trample the tie getting up and sprinting to the ledge out of desperation. My hips slamming me to a stop against the stone railing as I look out over it.
I see nothing. Just the same traffic ridden streets I saw before.
My mind races. People don't fall that fast do they? Jesus Christ. Fuck. I stammer on out loud thinking of any super power I could develop to change the situation.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone wanting to call the police and as I do so, I look back at the concrete. The tie that I stepped on was gone.
I look under my shoe and around the rest of the roof.
I rub the back of my neck in anxiety. I suck the cold air as my thoughts jam inside my brain finding no answer for the storm of confusion.
A ding is heard towards the middle of the roof and the doors to the elevator open. I've never seen any woman beckon to me harder than those doors did.
I stomp over to the door and my thoughts link in slow motion. A fire burns inside of me and a new philosophy about things spontaneously arises.
I take a quick glance back at the ledge somewhat mystified but now with growing understanding and the doors close removing it from my existence. No one will ever hear about this. No one will know me at my weakest point except for him.
As the elevator closes I shout out in a mocking accent to the empty roof.
"Yah didn't even do ah flip!"
(Quick idea: need to proofread this later) | I scan the label of the sleeping pills for the ninth time, my eyes flicking over the words but the meaning not really registering. I already know its contents: 120 milligrams of Daltnea. It would be quick. It would be easy. I would finally be free from pain. The voices would leave me. I would not exist.
For a long time I had put off suicide. *Coward,* the voices called me. *What is there to be afraid of?* I had clung to the visceral fear of death, that animal instinct for self-preservation, for months. It had been a weapon against the voices.
But time and weariness had dulled and rusted that once iridescent blade. No matter what I did, no matter the good times that happened, the voices came back. They are a crossbreed between hyenas, flies, and tar; laughing, buzzing around me in thick, impenetrable clouds that blacken memories.
I look up from the bottle of pills, taking in the forest around me one more time. The wind rustles through the yellowed and browned leaves, blowing several off their branches and dancing with them as they make their way to the ground. When I fall, there will be plenty of leaves to bury me. The woods have been my place of escape for years. This place, far from any trails and regular human travel, will be my bed and coffin. I will give the animals of the forest a meal over the winter.
I stare at the bottle of sleeping pills again. *Just do it,* they urge. *You’re a worthless shitbag who takes up the time and energy of others. Do you know how fucking glad they will be without you to drain them?* I place my hand on top of the cap.
“Oh, good! I found someone! Can you help me find the trail? I’m lost.”
I turn around. A middle-aged woman wearing a sweatshirt with binoculars and a camera on straps around her neck treks through the leaves.
“I saw a leucistic red tailed hawk flying from tree to tree and I followed it,” she continues. She taps her camera, saying, “I was trying to get a picture of it. Sometime along the way I lost the trail, so here I am. Do you know your way around? Can you show me the way back?”
I shove the pills in my pocket. “Sure. This way.” I start to walk in the direction of the nearest trail and she walks alongside of me. “You a bird watcher?” I ask.
“Sure am. Now that my son’s in college I go on trips across the country. I came here to see the fall colors, but when I heard about the white hawk living ‘round here I had to check it out. Have you seen it before?”
“Yeah. Pretty bird. Have you seen others?”
She nods and gives a small smile. “My husband always liked birds, especially raptors. He volunteered at a nature center where they had a leucistic red tailed hawk. He really liked that bird. Now they always remind me of him.”
I note that she uses past tense when referring to her husband, but it is not my place to pry. Instead, I make an affirmative noise.
I must have displayed some signal of interest, for she went deeper into her story. “He died a car crash. Right when our son was graduating from high school he was driving home from his work and a semi truck flipped over on him on a turn. It was hard. Evan had a really close bond with his father, and it really sunk him down to not have his support in the graduation.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I hate those words in these kinds of situations. They are near useless and are only a social gesture that often doesn’t mean anything.
“Thank you,” she says nevertheless. “It was hard,” she repeats. “I was not sure how to function without him. But Evan needed me. I still had family. I had a job that I enjoyed, and still enjoy for that matter. As long as you’re living, good things happen if you reach for them. I chose to reach for those good things. Are there times when I am sad? Yes. But that is never all that is in life.”
I look at her, fingering the bulge of the pill bottle in my pocket. We’ve been on the trail for a while now, heading back in the direction of the parking lot. She stops every so often, looking through her binoculars at birds. Once I express interest, she lets me look, too, pointing out songbirds and even a resting owl out to me.
We reach the parking lot. “Thanks,” she says. “Not sure what you were doing there in the forest, but I thank God that he put you there. I had no idea where I was! Do you have a car here? Do you need a ride home?”
“I don’t need a ride, thank you. But could you do something else for me?”
She cocks her head. “Sure.”
I take the bottle of pills out of my pocket. “Can you take these and dispose of them?”
She takes the bottle from my hand. “Of course. I would be glad to. Thank you for trusting me.”
“Thank you for your story.”
She nods. “Are you sure you don’t want a ride?”
“The walk will clear my head, now that I have new things to think about. Thanks, though.”
“Good luck.” I watch as she starts her car and calls someone. She drives away, waving.
I turn on my cellphone. I have a few new notifications coming through my feed. I open my text messages. One is my sister asking me to lunch. *Yes,* I reply. *Coming.*
*Good. See you soon,* she texts back.
I put my phone in my pocket and leave the woods, feeling 120 kilograms lighter.
| |
[WP] You are about to commit suicide, when a voice behind you asks you something really mundain. | "What had I been doing with myself these past few years?" This was the question that raddled around in my brain during the past few months. I had allowed myself to live in a form of auto pilot. The amount of inner passivity that I had lived with was atrocious. "I wish there was a reset button on my life, a way to go back and fix this."
Due to my lack of caring, I was stuck in the same dead end job going no where fast. I had a loving wife, but the passion just wasn't there anymore. My children still giggled with the love of life that I wish that I had. What was I doing?
I had decided that today was the day. There may not be a reset button in life, but I can pull the plug on the game. I couldn't take wallowing in that defeat any longer. It was time to just give up, because everyone would be better off without me anyways. "All I am doing is taking up air." I told myself again and again. "I may as well give my share of the oxygen to someone being more productive than myself."
I climbed up some flights of stairs in an old apartment building, and found an unlocked, vacant room. Dust clouds were kicked up as I walked through the main room. I made my way to the window at the far end. As I reached the window, I fiddled with the latch, really contemplating what I was about to do. "I am about 15 flights up... and the street looks really busy too, so even if the fall doesn't kill me, maybe a truck or a bus would." I couldn't believe I just said that out loud. Fear was screaming at me to not do this, but it was the same fear that told me not to ask for a promotion at work. It was the same fear that told me not to get intimate with others, because they will all hurt you in the end anyways. I opened the window, and was preparing for the leap of my life.
"Excuse me man, you got the time?"
I twirled around, and found a hulking man in the doorway of the vacant apartment. "I-I'm sorry, what?"
"The time man, do you know what time it is?"
"O-oh, right, time. Uh, just a second." I pulled out my phone with a shaky hand. "Um... it is 2:45."
"Man, I haven't seen anyone shake as bad as you since I visited my grandmother in the retirement home. You a'right man?" There was a brief pause, then he said the phrase that scared me the most, because I had been discovered. "Don't tell me that it is jump'n time for you man."
What kind of a person says that? "Yeah, that was my plan. I'm just wasting space anyways. I am a failure, and figured that I may as well just end it, you know?"
"Maaann... I do know, I was in your shoes at one time man. I kept lying to myself saying that I was worthless, but I realized something m-"
He stopped suddenly in mid-sentence. "Are, are you alright?"
The maintenance man, who had appeared with no warning, toppled to the ground, and began to shake uncontrollably. "Crap, you gotta be kidding me." I dialed 911. I had to hear the last of what he was going to say. I couldn't die yet, I had to know. "Yeah, I am up on the 15th floor of the apartment building at the intersection of 1st and Washington. Room number 1506, there is a man having a seizure up here. Send help."
The seizure subsided before the para-medics arrived, but he was still unconscious. My thoughts were focused on only one thing now, what was he going to say? The para-medics told me what hospital they were going to take him, and I watched as they drove away, siren's blaring.
I traveled to the hospital the following day. I asked around until I found his room. "I'm looking for someone, large man transported here yesterday by ambulance. He was on the 15th floor of an apartment building. I called 911 about it around 2:45 yesterday." I repeated this story over and over until I found someone who knew what I was talking about. They led me to his room and I slowly went in, heart pounding. "Hey maintenance man, how you feeling?"
"Maaaaan, it's the jumper. What are you doing here? I thought you had a date with some pavement."
The way he said that stung a little. "You were in mid sentence, saying that you were in my shoes at one time... I had to know what you were going to say."
He chuckled a little bit, and then said something almost philosophical. "You already know man."
"What? Don't do this to me now, I have been worried about you for the past 24 hours, and I spent the last 2 hours just looking for you in this hospital. I can't take riddles anymore, just tell me. Please, just tell me." Tears started to well up in my eyes, I couldn't remember the last time I was this emotional.
He sighed a little, gave another small chuckle, and then changed my world. "You have to find something bigger than yourself, and chase it with all your heart man. You chasing me around kept you alive for 24 more hours. You are even getting emotional about it. You are feeling more alive than ever now, right man? Now find something bigger than me, and chase after it relentlessly. That is my secret man." | The rope coiled warmly around Hannah Ridley's neck; thirty two years old, no children, no friends, a sister she hadn't spoken to in two years, a dead dog, a living goldfish, some tatty furniture and a rug she rather liked. In the corner behind her, above a grubby phone, a single, small window was covered by a felt curtain. It smothered the outside world in favour of the comforting shade which idly cradled the room.
Her foot knocked something from the table on to her favourite rug. It could have been an empty carton of cigarettes, an unopened letter, or last night's (or perhaps last week's) *Minute Wonders Macaroni Cheese*. Her tongue parted her salty lips as she managed a rueful smile. Even now, it bothered her slightly that she might have stained it. She fought against the rope to look down, past her nose and upper lip. The twine pressed into her larynx, and gave her a reassuring choking sensation. Her tangled hair was tugged by the rope as she pulled on the knot to tighten it further.
Beneath the window, the phone began to ring. Each jangle of the bell reverberated along her nerves, and nicked open sutures that weakly held back memories like seeping wounds. Paula's voice had been quiet on the phone.
*...You should have come back. She wanted to see you. They both did.*
It had not been lethargy, but fear that deterred her. She thought she wanted to remember her mother living, not dying. Paula had refused to speak to her since then, and Hannah made no attempt to reopen contact.
She grew increasingly tense as the phone continued it's clamour. She closed her eyes, and focused on the abrasive embrace of the noose. She bent her knees, taking even more weight on her neck. The ringing shrank back as her ears rushed with blood, quieter, quieter, and then - gone. A crackling speaker replaced it:
*Sorry, but -* "Hannah" *- can't answer right now. Please leave a message after the tone*: *beep*.
"...Hello?" Said a hushed voice. It was the first she had heard in weeks. "Are you there, Han?" It was Paula. Hannah inhaled wheezily, and straightened her legs.
"I was hoping we might get a coffee tomorrow?" Said Paula. A rush of grief exhausted Hannah's body. She drew another raling breath, and moaned as she exhaled. She wiped away a tear, and made her choice.
| |
[WP] You are about to commit suicide, when a voice behind you asks you something really mundain. | The water was dark and a long distance below me. Lights lit the bridge above and to my back. A strong breeze blew through the warm night carrying scents of the bay.
Any other time it would have been a beautiful scene. A moment to feel the touch of the world upon you and bask in the glory of existence. Yet here I stood, halfway up the guard railing, my weight leaned forward, my arms stretched wide, and only my feet wedged between two bars standing between me and the laws of physics taking care of it all. The tears had dried hard on my face and their absence seemed to weaken my earlier resolve.
As I tried to regain my determination and will my feet to release the hold a voice suddenly spoke up close behind me, "Are you a Christian child?"
I was startled, and due to it was almost granted my wish. Yet, some innate base survival instinct kicked in and my balance reasserted itself. I had been raised with religion but had never been particularly religious myself. My mind began to form a response to the question, but I quickly quashed the notion. I did not have it in me to engage in conversation at that point and thought that by ignoring the odd, seemingly random, question the person who asked it would take it as a cue to go away.
He, apparently, had no such intention. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my mystery guest come to stand next to me a few feet down the railing. From the black collar and white choker thingy (I have never bothered to learn what the actual term for these are) it was clear he was a priest. We both stood there as if we were simply enjoying the view.
"You know it's a sin?" He said after a few minutes, a question which I also declined to answer. "You'd spend eternity burning for it."
This had not figured into my calculations, it still didn’t. Before I could stop myself, though, I found that I was voicing, "I don't care." Another period of silence followed my declaration. My mind went back to my woes and worries, my reasons, as I tried to rebuild my determination and reassure myself of the certainty that seeking an end was the right course of action. I found that I was speaking my mind aloud to the priest, who said nothing, choosing to allow my tirade to flow. Somewhere during it, growing weary of the bar pressing against my legs, I shifted to sit atop the railing. My perch was precarious, a fact that, given my desires, was of no matter to me.
Strangely, putting my cares into words and presenting them to an audience somehow took away the power they had held echoing through my head. I felt that they were no longer insurmountable. Perhaps everything, excepting the act which I had been preparing myself for, was fixable?
I wondered then if this had been the Padre's game all along. Perhaps he meant simply to lend an ear to listen. The bridge was well known as a place for people who sought escape. Maybe he thought it his service, his duty, to help break their resolve to do what, based on his earlier statement, he saw as folly.
Silence had followed in the wake of my speech. My benefactor broke it, stating "I see."
He left the railing and came to stand in front of me. "Still it would be a shame if you burned..."
His words caught me off my guard and left me confused. I did not have long to contemplate them, however. He shoved me and gravity let my body know that it had some falling to do.
"This way it's not suicide, you were murdered," I heard him say as I fell.
A long distance below I hit the water hard.
| The rope coiled warmly around Hannah Ridley's neck; thirty two years old, no children, no friends, a sister she hadn't spoken to in two years, a dead dog, a living goldfish, some tatty furniture and a rug she rather liked. In the corner behind her, above a grubby phone, a single, small window was covered by a felt curtain. It smothered the outside world in favour of the comforting shade which idly cradled the room.
Her foot knocked something from the table on to her favourite rug. It could have been an empty carton of cigarettes, an unopened letter, or last night's (or perhaps last week's) *Minute Wonders Macaroni Cheese*. Her tongue parted her salty lips as she managed a rueful smile. Even now, it bothered her slightly that she might have stained it. She fought against the rope to look down, past her nose and upper lip. The twine pressed into her larynx, and gave her a reassuring choking sensation. Her tangled hair was tugged by the rope as she pulled on the knot to tighten it further.
Beneath the window, the phone began to ring. Each jangle of the bell reverberated along her nerves, and nicked open sutures that weakly held back memories like seeping wounds. Paula's voice had been quiet on the phone.
*...You should have come back. She wanted to see you. They both did.*
It had not been lethargy, but fear that deterred her. She thought she wanted to remember her mother living, not dying. Paula had refused to speak to her since then, and Hannah made no attempt to reopen contact.
She grew increasingly tense as the phone continued it's clamour. She closed her eyes, and focused on the abrasive embrace of the noose. She bent her knees, taking even more weight on her neck. The ringing shrank back as her ears rushed with blood, quieter, quieter, and then - gone. A crackling speaker replaced it:
*Sorry, but -* "Hannah" *- can't answer right now. Please leave a message after the tone*: *beep*.
"...Hello?" Said a hushed voice. It was the first she had heard in weeks. "Are you there, Han?" It was Paula. Hannah inhaled wheezily, and straightened her legs.
"I was hoping we might get a coffee tomorrow?" Said Paula. A rush of grief exhausted Hannah's body. She drew another raling breath, and moaned as she exhaled. She wiped away a tear, and made her choice.
| |
[WP] You are about to commit suicide, when a voice behind you asks you something really mundain. | The water was dark and a long distance below me. Lights lit the bridge above and to my back. A strong breeze blew through the warm night carrying scents of the bay.
Any other time it would have been a beautiful scene. A moment to feel the touch of the world upon you and bask in the glory of existence. Yet here I stood, halfway up the guard railing, my weight leaned forward, my arms stretched wide, and only my feet wedged between two bars standing between me and the laws of physics taking care of it all. The tears had dried hard on my face and their absence seemed to weaken my earlier resolve.
As I tried to regain my determination and will my feet to release the hold a voice suddenly spoke up close behind me, "Are you a Christian child?"
I was startled, and due to it was almost granted my wish. Yet, some innate base survival instinct kicked in and my balance reasserted itself. I had been raised with religion but had never been particularly religious myself. My mind began to form a response to the question, but I quickly quashed the notion. I did not have it in me to engage in conversation at that point and thought that by ignoring the odd, seemingly random, question the person who asked it would take it as a cue to go away.
He, apparently, had no such intention. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my mystery guest come to stand next to me a few feet down the railing. From the black collar and white choker thingy (I have never bothered to learn what the actual term for these are) it was clear he was a priest. We both stood there as if we were simply enjoying the view.
"You know it's a sin?" He said after a few minutes, a question which I also declined to answer. "You'd spend eternity burning for it."
This had not figured into my calculations, it still didn’t. Before I could stop myself, though, I found that I was voicing, "I don't care." Another period of silence followed my declaration. My mind went back to my woes and worries, my reasons, as I tried to rebuild my determination and reassure myself of the certainty that seeking an end was the right course of action. I found that I was speaking my mind aloud to the priest, who said nothing, choosing to allow my tirade to flow. Somewhere during it, growing weary of the bar pressing against my legs, I shifted to sit atop the railing. My perch was precarious, a fact that, given my desires, was of no matter to me.
Strangely, putting my cares into words and presenting them to an audience somehow took away the power they had held echoing through my head. I felt that they were no longer insurmountable. Perhaps everything, excepting the act which I had been preparing myself for, was fixable?
I wondered then if this had been the Padre's game all along. Perhaps he meant simply to lend an ear to listen. The bridge was well known as a place for people who sought escape. Maybe he thought it his service, his duty, to help break their resolve to do what, based on his earlier statement, he saw as folly.
Silence had followed in the wake of my speech. My benefactor broke it, stating "I see."
He left the railing and came to stand in front of me. "Still it would be a shame if you burned..."
His words caught me off my guard and left me confused. I did not have long to contemplate them, however. He shoved me and gravity let my body know that it had some falling to do.
"This way it's not suicide, you were murdered," I heard him say as I fell.
A long distance below I hit the water hard.
| "What had I been doing with myself these past few years?" This was the question that raddled around in my brain during the past few months. I had allowed myself to live in a form of auto pilot. The amount of inner passivity that I had lived with was atrocious. "I wish there was a reset button on my life, a way to go back and fix this."
Due to my lack of caring, I was stuck in the same dead end job going no where fast. I had a loving wife, but the passion just wasn't there anymore. My children still giggled with the love of life that I wish that I had. What was I doing?
I had decided that today was the day. There may not be a reset button in life, but I can pull the plug on the game. I couldn't take wallowing in that defeat any longer. It was time to just give up, because everyone would be better off without me anyways. "All I am doing is taking up air." I told myself again and again. "I may as well give my share of the oxygen to someone being more productive than myself."
I climbed up some flights of stairs in an old apartment building, and found an unlocked, vacant room. Dust clouds were kicked up as I walked through the main room. I made my way to the window at the far end. As I reached the window, I fiddled with the latch, really contemplating what I was about to do. "I am about 15 flights up... and the street looks really busy too, so even if the fall doesn't kill me, maybe a truck or a bus would." I couldn't believe I just said that out loud. Fear was screaming at me to not do this, but it was the same fear that told me not to ask for a promotion at work. It was the same fear that told me not to get intimate with others, because they will all hurt you in the end anyways. I opened the window, and was preparing for the leap of my life.
"Excuse me man, you got the time?"
I twirled around, and found a hulking man in the doorway of the vacant apartment. "I-I'm sorry, what?"
"The time man, do you know what time it is?"
"O-oh, right, time. Uh, just a second." I pulled out my phone with a shaky hand. "Um... it is 2:45."
"Man, I haven't seen anyone shake as bad as you since I visited my grandmother in the retirement home. You a'right man?" There was a brief pause, then he said the phrase that scared me the most, because I had been discovered. "Don't tell me that it is jump'n time for you man."
What kind of a person says that? "Yeah, that was my plan. I'm just wasting space anyways. I am a failure, and figured that I may as well just end it, you know?"
"Maaann... I do know, I was in your shoes at one time man. I kept lying to myself saying that I was worthless, but I realized something m-"
He stopped suddenly in mid-sentence. "Are, are you alright?"
The maintenance man, who had appeared with no warning, toppled to the ground, and began to shake uncontrollably. "Crap, you gotta be kidding me." I dialed 911. I had to hear the last of what he was going to say. I couldn't die yet, I had to know. "Yeah, I am up on the 15th floor of the apartment building at the intersection of 1st and Washington. Room number 1506, there is a man having a seizure up here. Send help."
The seizure subsided before the para-medics arrived, but he was still unconscious. My thoughts were focused on only one thing now, what was he going to say? The para-medics told me what hospital they were going to take him, and I watched as they drove away, siren's blaring.
I traveled to the hospital the following day. I asked around until I found his room. "I'm looking for someone, large man transported here yesterday by ambulance. He was on the 15th floor of an apartment building. I called 911 about it around 2:45 yesterday." I repeated this story over and over until I found someone who knew what I was talking about. They led me to his room and I slowly went in, heart pounding. "Hey maintenance man, how you feeling?"
"Maaaaan, it's the jumper. What are you doing here? I thought you had a date with some pavement."
The way he said that stung a little. "You were in mid sentence, saying that you were in my shoes at one time... I had to know what you were going to say."
He chuckled a little bit, and then said something almost philosophical. "You already know man."
"What? Don't do this to me now, I have been worried about you for the past 24 hours, and I spent the last 2 hours just looking for you in this hospital. I can't take riddles anymore, just tell me. Please, just tell me." Tears started to well up in my eyes, I couldn't remember the last time I was this emotional.
He sighed a little, gave another small chuckle, and then changed my world. "You have to find something bigger than yourself, and chase it with all your heart man. You chasing me around kept you alive for 24 more hours. You are even getting emotional about it. You are feeling more alive than ever now, right man? Now find something bigger than me, and chase after it relentlessly. That is my secret man." | |
[WP] The end of the world has arrived, and it's nothing like we ever anticipated. | [Sorry for mistakes. Typed this up quick on moble]
The change came slowly, a creeping monster lurking just outside of our notice. We never did figure out when exactly it started, the beginnings so subtle they’re hard to pinpoint. Most experts believe we saw the first detectable signs sometime between 2012 AD and 2020 AD.
It started so small. Showers felt just the slightest bit off. Sinks and drains were clogging just a bit more easily. Science experiments running numbers just a bit off from where they should be. Most disregarded it entirely. It was such a small change many questioned whether there was really and change at all.
As slow as it was, though, it pushed forward. The first concrete notice humanity took was of course in the labs. I knew before then. Everyone on that beautiful golden coastline knew something was wrong. The ocean didn’t so much sing anymore as she let out gasps. I can’t remember any of my old surfing buddies being surprised when the television stations announced the news.
Our water was dying.
Some people took it as a sign of Gods wrath. Others took it as a consequence of our constant pollution. Nobody ever did really agree on that one, but the water died all the same, drying out in nearly immeasurable amounts with each passing day.
As it’s viscosity went up it’s ability to sustain life plummeted. First the more delicate and tiny plants and animals began to wither and fade, no longer able to process the water and dying as a result. Husks of insects coated the ground in a fantastic array of butterfly wings, and segmented limbs, all faded as though put through an old photo filter. People screamed in the streets that the end times were near.
Then the bigger creatures started to show signs as well. Species died off in droves. Those that survived found themselves listless and stale. Their color faded, their movements slowed, the filth built up on their skin.
The picture seemed cruelly surreal. Clouds stopped forming early on, too heavy to lift themselves from the ground, and all the while the world faded and died below the sun and sky still looked down on us, vibrant and pure. A lot of people gave up. Suicide rates skyrocketed, as did all matter of accidental deaths, and disease.
The human race started to fade with everything else. Food was scarce, and survivors few. Those who did press on found themselves in a hollow, dying world, desperately gnawing at gelatinous water blobs to stave off their own demise. Some started eating people. I'd be lying if I claimed I was above eating the dead and dying. The desperation kicked in fast, and morals faded as all hope rotted along with the world into a crushing, hideous despair.
So we’ve faded onto the brink, and there isn’t a doubt in my mind that this whole sad world will be consumed by the dead soon.
I walk the ocean now. Started last week when the last of the other survivors in my city died. I found him curled in on himself, ribcage protruding grotesquely from his malnourished form. I thought to bury him, but it all felt so pointless. The water hasn’t even given us the dignity of a fight. We died cowering in our homes, wasting away to dust and goo.
I still remember walking out onto the sand, somehow pale and lifeless now. I couldn’t even properly cry for the people I’d lost and remembered there. Nobody had been able to cry in months.
I don’t expect I’ll last much longer myself. Most everything is ash or water now. The water gets thicker each day, and I’m growing too weak to pick pieces of it out to chew now. I suppose I’ll die at sea, sitting on the motionless remains of my lifes greatest love.
I used to think a lot of things, but lately all I can do is offer an occasional, hollow laugh. Funny how one of the building blocks of life ended up destroying it entirely.
| The end of the world was altogether unremarkable. Those poor souls, like myself, who work in stuffy office buildings pray for an eventful apocalypse, if for no other reason than to break up the monotony of the daily status meeting, followed by the status meetings status meeting, wrapped up later in the status of status meeting status meeting meeting, directly followed by lunch.
Today, however, we were halfway through a lecture on how well a project was going by a manager who was inexpert on the subject when all sound ceased. An elephant could trumpet next to your ear without startling you, unless you turned your head and noticed it, upon which you would indeed be startled as an elephant in an office building is as foreign as efficient leadership or completed deadlines. The lack of sound drastically improved the meeting, though the improvement was quickly nullified by the adoption of frantic note-writing to communicate, a skill that had laid dormant in most of us since elementary school and teachers had necessitated the art form.
As notes were churned out faster than a central bank with poor fiscal policy, sound returned with the vengeance of an unpaid loan shark, if instead of breaking kneecaps with a lead pipe he preferred the vuvuzela and an amplifier powerful enough to be outlawed by common decency and military limitation treaties. Immediately my head felt as if it had been a tree, chopped to the ground, mashed into pulp, printed and bound into a novella, then burned for the amusement of a group of Fascists. That's about the time the weasels started flying.
In the sky sat a large oblong pyramid, deftly telling the law of gravity to shove it, as thousands of weasels, outfitted with goggles and aviator scarves, naturally, flew through the air towards it. All along the outer edge of the pyramid stood an ever growing number of weasels, most having removed their aviation gear upon landing. Standing, gaping, I said the only thing that came to mind at a time like this.
"I think the third quarter projections might be a little off now." | |
[Wp] [EU] Rorschach is about to put a permanent end to a serial killer, when Batman arrives on the scene, intent on stopping him. Soon after, Judge Dredd arrives to arrest the vigilantes. The most hyper-masculine, throat-growly argument ever results. | "You're a madman, Kovacs," Batman growled. "No better than the criminal scum you seek to kill."
"*Hurm*," Rorschach rasped. "*Knows my old name. Clever. But not clever enough to realize how scum like him should be treated.*" The killer writhed in Rorschach's grip.
"This is my city," Batman snarled.
"*Your city cries out*," Rorschach rumbled. "*Its sewers overflow with blood and filth. All the whores and pigs and politicians scream for someone to save them.*"
"And you think that person's going be you?" Batman thundered.
"*No.*"
"Wait," Batman gravelled. "But didn't you just say -"
"Freeze, criminal scum," Dredd barked. His Lawgiver gleamed in the darkness.
"C'mon!" the killer said. "I have a name, you know."
"*Opponents are two heavily-muscled leather-clad men,*" Rorschach hurmed. "*Possible homosexuals?*"
"That man is a killer. The two of you are guilty of vigilantism," Dredd grated. "I am the Law."
"This is my city," Batman re-snarled.
"It's Kevin, if anyone cared. My name's Kevin." | *Atop a city building on a warm night...*
"Soon you will be just another piece of scum that needs to be shoveled off the ground" Rorschach said as he held a hysterical man over the edge of a building by just his shattered forearm
"P-ple-ease" the man whimpered, just as a large shape began to appear in the night from behind his captor.
The Dark Knight materialized behind Rorschach, quickly throwing him and the man to the ground near the center of the rooftop.
"Let him go, and take off that mask" growled Batman, as he adjusted his cape as if preparing to move.
"You dont know how many people he has hurt! The lives he destoyed!" Barked Rorschach, as he regains his stance.
"He will see justice for what he did, real justice" the Bat replied.
Suddenly the roof access door slammed open, and a man with a large badass looking helmet stepped onto the rooftop
"who the fuck are you?" Growled the vigilantes in unison, as the man slowly started walking toward them while drawing a quite different looking pistol.
"I am justice" Dredd uttered in an even deeper growl than the other two. He began to lift his pistol, just as Rorschach looked for a place to duck to, and Batman began to pull out batarangs; but before either of them could retaliate, Dredd shot the man they were both after right in the head, splattering his brains about the rooftop and killing him instantly.
The two vigelantes just stood in awe of what had just happened, misted with blood, then a collective growl/grunting noise came from the three of them as they lunged toward eachother all trying to beat some justice into eachother
*the song Test Your might plays in the background as they fight*
Punching Kicking Growling and Grunting ensue between the three men.
Beaten, disarmed, and tired from battle, the three face eachother on the rooftop, trying to catch their breath. In the brawl Batman had taken a karate chop to the throat from Dredd, Rorschach had gotten a knee to the neck from the Bat, and all of the muscles in Dredd's neck and face had seized up from trying to make that angry face all the time, and the three of them were hardly able to speak from their injuries.
"hurrrgrrhphhggrraaarrrgl!" Rorschach grumbled
"raaarg!" The Bat shouted
"hrrrgurgrrhrrrg" Dredd painfully said
edit- formatting
| |
[WP] Earth is declared uninhabitable. Citizens are evacuated to a successfully terraformed Mars. For the first time in 9787 years, probes detect human-like life forms on Earth. | "Prepare for atmospheric entry. Touchdown in T minus five minutes. Mark." The countdown clock began, projected onto their visors. Commander Curnow stood and faced her team, her expression blank. She studied them thoroughly. They were all nervous.
The signal had been recieved little over a month ago and had sent all of Mars abuzz. By the end of the first week people practically demonstrated in the streets and through every possible form of communication and socialisation to force the government to send a scouting operation. Inevitably, the government acquiesced. It wasn't in the nature of the old vultures in the People's Palace to pass on such a publicity stunt.
And boy, did they make sure to milk it to the last.
Twelve simultaneous expeditions, each accompanied by a Tempest-class battle carrier to scout the surface of the Earth and find whatever had poked its head out of the sand and given Mars such a stir. Each expedition was to be made up of a team of thirty, twenty military personnel plus ten scientists, tasked with sampling, bagging, sketching, collecting, all that jazz. And here they all were, swaying back and forth violently in their seats as the landing craft met the Terran atmosphere.
"Eyes on the Commander!" someone shouted. All twenty-nine pairs of eyes in the personnel hold turned to look at her.
"Alright people, last bit of info before we hit that sweet old Terran soil. Initial data says the air is breathable, but only just. If you find yourself short of breath, mask on. We've all got protected gear, so any and all poisonous forms of wildlife we find, shouldn't be a problem. Double-check your nooks and crannies, we don't want new species back on Mars." A nervous giggle floated through the room. "Remember, mission directive is to find any trace of whatever two-legged critter somehow managed to make it on this shithole of a planet. Do not, repeat not, shoot ANYTHING unless you're 300% certain you're about to die. Any questions?"
A hand slowly rose from the back of the room. Curnow looked at the hand's owner. He was a middle-aged, short, stocky, balding scientist. He looked at Curnow uneasily.
"Uhh, what if we're bitten or attacked by some local species?" he asked, flushing red.
"We won't be further than one hundred meters from the lander at any given time. Plus, we've got a medic and a higly capable nurse-pilot, we'll be fine whatever happens." The scientist seemed to calm down.
A voice came through the intercom. "Alright ladies and gentlemen, we're just about ready to touch down. Hold tight." The pilot switched on the orange light, signaling that the lander had begun decelerating towards the surface. Curnow sat down. Her second-in-command, Walthers, looked at her for a while.
"Something to say, Lieutenant?"
"Yes ma'am. I was wondering...where are the other Landers headed? I looked out the porthole but I couldn't see any others." Walthers seemed nervous, more so than the rest.
"We've been scrambled all over the day side of the planet. Command said it had to do with covering as large an area as possible."
"But...where exactly were those human-like beings detected, ma'am?" Curnow realised the entire team was listening intently.
"Western Eurasia. Exactly where we're going."
They landed smoothly in the middle of a large forest clearing. The military squad formed a line near the back exit of the lander. Curnow gave the all clear and the door slowly opened, revealing a blinding white blur before them. They covered their eyes until the visors adjusted to the brightness.
"Deploy!" Curnow barked. Walthers jumped forward and found himself waist-deep in a cold white substance. It felt like sand, but it stuck together and was freezing to the touch. Tall grey pines surrounded them and great big rocks jutted out from underneath the ground like knives. In the distance, they could see tall grey and white mountains rising up to meet the sky. Everything around them was covered by a thick layer of the cold white matter.
"Scan your sectors and report!" Curnow ordered, pointing her Lance forward.
"All clear! No activity, ma'am!"
"Alright then, let's get a move on. Whatever this white stuff is it's getting into my boots and I don't like it."
"Hey science-folk!" Walthers called out. "What is this stuff?"
"Far as I can tell it's snow!" One of them shouted. The soldiers exchanged curious glances.
"O...kay, but what exactly is it made of?" Walthers pressed.
"Think of it like frozen rain. It happens on Mars too, at the poles and on the mountaintops, you just don't see it often. It melts away in a heartbeat."
"Oh." Walthers made a face.
"Alright, everybody at ease. Scientists, get to work, we're on a tight schedule. Let's get those samples and go back up." Curnow called. Walthers walked up to her.
"Ma'am...there's something uneasy about this place." he said, his eyes betraying the calm tone.
"You sure that's not the lunch fighting back?" she asked him.
"Captain. Look at the trees." His voice was serious. Serious enough to make Curnow uneasy. She turned to look at the trees around them. Just as her eyes met the pines, something moved in their shade.
"What was that?" she asked, her voice wavering a bit.
"I don't know ma'am. I've seen it at least three times by now. Whatever it is, I don't think it's friendly."
"Well, Walthers, we're here to find out." He gave her a startled look. "Listen up! Split up in pairs and have a look around while our friends collect their data and samples. Zuma, Khaahn, Shoan, Liza, Billo, you stay here with the ship, make sure no ants get on it." The soldiers acknowledged and moved off slowly in pairs.
"Walthers, stay here. Zuma! you're with me. " Walthers walked hesitantly back to the ship's back exit. Zuma and Curnow slowly moved off into the woods. | I coughed, splattering my coffee all over my front. The screen in front of me was flashing proudly.
“What the hell?” I turned my head rapidly in all directions, searching for a towel or something to mop up my spill. Amongst the crowded mess of cords and other electronics on my desk there was no absorbent material to be seen. Impatient I set down my mug on one stack. Leaning forwards I didn’t stop to wipe my dripping hands before stabbing at the control keys.
“Stupid instrumentation malfunction,” I insulted the machine. It happened all the time, one reason why Mars hadn’t abandoned human occupation of Earth’s old moon base. Someone, other than an A.I., had to be on site to clean up these instrument errors.
Besides, who’d want to waste an A.I. on some small backwater station like this?
I collapsed backward into my chair again as the screen shut off, then blinked back to life re-running the data. Sighing, I reached for my mug again, only to discover I’d lost its entire contents on myself. Great. Coffee was easy enough to ship, but standard rations were sub-par. This had been the last of my personal stash.
“Why me?” I moaned, knowing full well I’d signed up for this inconvenience. The pay, the health benefits, they were phenomenal. The only real downside to running maintenance on this research and observation deck was the isolation, the tedious monotony, lack of decent caffeine, and the repeated instrument failure.
This time it seemed to be the transmission between one of the Earth probes and my lovely little moon base.
I flicked my eyes around the room again, waiting for an update. It shared nothing with the large open architecture of Nova Terra, instead it was small and cramped. Like a piddly little box. The rudimentary atmosphere and gravitational systems were in laughable condition. The walls echoed that abuse. Layers of paint over layers of bored tech’s graffiti coated almost every visible surface. Really, no one had bothered to update this operation site in at least three centuries.
“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” I whispered to myself, echoing the guy who’d trained me. He’d guffawed a bit too hard when I suggested the place could use an overhall.
“Of course it could,” he’d slapped me on the back, sending me stumbling forwards, still unused to the gravity here, “but that means money, and everyone’s too cheap to invest in a station that hasn’t provided any decent data in *millennia*.”
I shifted, slouching more in my seat. The rapidly cooling wet of my coffee was uncomfortable. Glancing at the screen, it looked like I’d have time to run and change before it would finish re-establishing the connection with Earth’s probes.
~.~
When I came back, fresh clothes, hair wet from a quick shower, and hands holding a towel to mop up my earlier gaff, the screen was blinking proudly again. The towel slid from my hand to the floor, forgotten.
“What even?” I asked myself, sliding back into my chair. With my right hand I picked up the transceiver back to Mars.
It took a few minutes to get more than the crackling static to go away, another few to actually get a response.
“Hey Buzz, what’s up?” the jovial voice on the other end of the line snorted at me, “Don’t tell me you miss hearing the dulcet sound of my voice.”
“As if,” I blatantly lied. I'd had the unfortunate idea to call him while drunk once, and since then he'd never let me live down my embarrassing monologue. A terrifyingly soppy speech that included a 'I miss hearing your voice'. “Berny, I’ve got a Code Theta staring me right in the face. You wouldn’t happen to have a manual handy would you?”
“I thought you Moonwalkers had a copy out there.”
“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t be calling you.” I mutter, glaring at the flashing screen.
“Hang on a sec, don’t get your knickers in a twist.” was the reply. The archaic word caught me off guard.
“My what?”
“Knickers. You know,” I could hear him rustling through papers on the other end. Another commodity that my station lacked: paper. That was probably why the manual had disappeared. Beats me what anyone would want with it. The paper wasn’t nearly soft enough to wipe and ass with. “It’s an old word for pants. People used it back in the day.”
“*How* far back Berny?”
“Uh, that would be pre-evacuation times. Not sure of the century.”
“And that helps me how?”
“Chill man, it’s just a saying, telling you to relax.”
“Have you got the manual yet?” I demand. Some Old World trivia session wasn’t going to clear up the screen or the malfunction.
“Sure, sure, what was the problem again?”
“Code theta. I tried rebooting the connection to the Earth probes but it came back again.” I tell him, patiently, which in my case is just short of shouting.
“ ‘kay, just give me a sec.”
I waited. Tapping my toe against the ground I fiddled with the screen a bit. I could still navigate the system no problem, so it wasn’t anything on my end. Curious I checked the weather reports for the past week. I didn’t think bad weather could cause something like this, but I had nothing to do while Berny scoured a dusty tome back on Mars. Nothing I was seeing was abnormal.
“Hey Buzz, you still there?”
“Yep.” I answer my eyes scanning the numbers I’d called up on screen.
“Turns out there’s a few different causes for it, I’ll have to go through the list.”
“Fire away,” I resist gritting my teeth at his delay.
“Ooookay then.” He paused, “What are the atmospheric composition readings?”
“Normal. Or at least, the same as the last decade.”
“Obviously not that then. Moving on,” He muttered to himself on the other end of the line. “What about temperature? Any change?”
“Nadda.”
“Pressure? Radiation? Seismic activity?”
“Nope, no and I don’t think we’re even surveying that.” I tell him. I return to the main screen and let it blink at me. The green flare eased on and off in a regular pulsing rhythm: Code Theta Detected…Code Theta Detected…Code Theta Detected…
“It was worth a check,” Berny laughed weakly. I frowned. Berny didn’t say or do anything weakly. His pitch was unnaturally high and trembling as he spoke. “Buzz, you wouldn’t happen to have any visual feed would you?”
“Sorry mate, that got slashed in the budget cut back in… Hell I don’t even know. Long before we got on the job.” I grip the transceiver tighter. “What’s the problem? Why is visual so important?”
“Because,” Berny cleared his throat. “Because…”
“*Because?*” I inquire, forcing an edge into my voice and trying to tease the rest of the sentence out of him. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging Berny.”
“Because according to the protocol in this procedure book. There are only three possible reasons for a Code Theta to come up on your screen. One: atmospheric readings have now returned to semi-supportable quantities for humans to live comfortably. Two: the radiation has been reduced enough that we’ll be able to send teams and start cleaning up the planet for inhabitants again. Either one would be great news. After all, it would be easier to rehabilitate a planet than completely terraform a new one like we did with Mars.”
“You said there were three? What’s the third?” I didn’t like where this was headed.
“The third case, which seems to be what’s happening now is: ‘Humanoid life-forms have been detected on the surface of Earth in the vicinity of a surveying probe.’ It says a bit more, but the gyst is that the operator, so that would be you…”
“Yeah I’m pretty sure that was in my job title. Thanks for the reminder.” I cut in. He ignored my comment and kept going.
“The operator is supposed to alert the authorities and as everyone here argues politics and the best course of action, you’re supposed to record all surface activity using the ‘camera supplied by the drone in question’.”
I didn’t say anything as he finished. My mind was ticking away, trying to think. My stomach was some strange mixture of coffee, elation, panic and denial.
“So what you’re saying is… this Code Theta,” my lips move as I stare numbly at my screen again, “that’s staring me right in the face, means there’s life? On Earth?”
“Not just any life,” Berny corrected me, his voice cracking. “Humanoid life. Either aliens crashed there or someone was missed during the evac.”
| |
[WP] Earth is declared uninhabitable. Citizens are evacuated to a successfully terraformed Mars. For the first time in 9787 years, probes detect human-like life forms on Earth. | What the shit is going on.
All we have ever known in peace. A utopian society for 9091 years. It's fantastic. There are no worries. No pain. Life is good.
So why are these sub-humans using exploding sticks to kill each other? I think it's clear how it only ruins a society. Example: World War Three, which was declared 9781 years ago, and destroyed the planet. From what we can tell now that the U-Bomb clouds are finally subsiding we can see that these sub-humans are seemingly having World War Two-Thousand-and-Ninety-One.
Why did I take this job? It was supposed to be the easiest job ever conceived. Lead the security force in a utopian society. There is literally no need for a security force. We haven't invested in weapon research for nine millennia. Now I'm expected to make a decision on what to do.
I want to blow the planet up but we know we can't do that. They are sub-humans but they are still humans. If we contact them and say "hi guys I've got pizza please don't shoot" I'll have pulled us into a war and if anything will lower support for the party that's ruled for the last 9102 years to the point where the other party will win, and if that happens, wave bye bye to the utopia we've built.
I need to talk to them. I can't just stand here and monologue. The entire planet is watching. Time to start communications.
*"Who the hell is this?"*
"Hello. I am the head of security of a Utopian society that has colonised the entirety of Mars over the pass nine thousand years. I understand Earth has devolved into a network of warring states, and I understand you are the leader of the largest one. I wish to end these wars, and to fulfil this objective, I extend to you this olive branch of peace."
A short pause takes place.
*"I hope you like these missiles you entitled planet of shit."*
Communications offline.
Well. Shit. | I coughed, splattering my coffee all over my front. The screen in front of me was flashing proudly.
“What the hell?” I turned my head rapidly in all directions, searching for a towel or something to mop up my spill. Amongst the crowded mess of cords and other electronics on my desk there was no absorbent material to be seen. Impatient I set down my mug on one stack. Leaning forwards I didn’t stop to wipe my dripping hands before stabbing at the control keys.
“Stupid instrumentation malfunction,” I insulted the machine. It happened all the time, one reason why Mars hadn’t abandoned human occupation of Earth’s old moon base. Someone, other than an A.I., had to be on site to clean up these instrument errors.
Besides, who’d want to waste an A.I. on some small backwater station like this?
I collapsed backward into my chair again as the screen shut off, then blinked back to life re-running the data. Sighing, I reached for my mug again, only to discover I’d lost its entire contents on myself. Great. Coffee was easy enough to ship, but standard rations were sub-par. This had been the last of my personal stash.
“Why me?” I moaned, knowing full well I’d signed up for this inconvenience. The pay, the health benefits, they were phenomenal. The only real downside to running maintenance on this research and observation deck was the isolation, the tedious monotony, lack of decent caffeine, and the repeated instrument failure.
This time it seemed to be the transmission between one of the Earth probes and my lovely little moon base.
I flicked my eyes around the room again, waiting for an update. It shared nothing with the large open architecture of Nova Terra, instead it was small and cramped. Like a piddly little box. The rudimentary atmosphere and gravitational systems were in laughable condition. The walls echoed that abuse. Layers of paint over layers of bored tech’s graffiti coated almost every visible surface. Really, no one had bothered to update this operation site in at least three centuries.
“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” I whispered to myself, echoing the guy who’d trained me. He’d guffawed a bit too hard when I suggested the place could use an overhall.
“Of course it could,” he’d slapped me on the back, sending me stumbling forwards, still unused to the gravity here, “but that means money, and everyone’s too cheap to invest in a station that hasn’t provided any decent data in *millennia*.”
I shifted, slouching more in my seat. The rapidly cooling wet of my coffee was uncomfortable. Glancing at the screen, it looked like I’d have time to run and change before it would finish re-establishing the connection with Earth’s probes.
~.~
When I came back, fresh clothes, hair wet from a quick shower, and hands holding a towel to mop up my earlier gaff, the screen was blinking proudly again. The towel slid from my hand to the floor, forgotten.
“What even?” I asked myself, sliding back into my chair. With my right hand I picked up the transceiver back to Mars.
It took a few minutes to get more than the crackling static to go away, another few to actually get a response.
“Hey Buzz, what’s up?” the jovial voice on the other end of the line snorted at me, “Don’t tell me you miss hearing the dulcet sound of my voice.”
“As if,” I blatantly lied. I'd had the unfortunate idea to call him while drunk once, and since then he'd never let me live down my embarrassing monologue. A terrifyingly soppy speech that included a 'I miss hearing your voice'. “Berny, I’ve got a Code Theta staring me right in the face. You wouldn’t happen to have a manual handy would you?”
“I thought you Moonwalkers had a copy out there.”
“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t be calling you.” I mutter, glaring at the flashing screen.
“Hang on a sec, don’t get your knickers in a twist.” was the reply. The archaic word caught me off guard.
“My what?”
“Knickers. You know,” I could hear him rustling through papers on the other end. Another commodity that my station lacked: paper. That was probably why the manual had disappeared. Beats me what anyone would want with it. The paper wasn’t nearly soft enough to wipe and ass with. “It’s an old word for pants. People used it back in the day.”
“*How* far back Berny?”
“Uh, that would be pre-evacuation times. Not sure of the century.”
“And that helps me how?”
“Chill man, it’s just a saying, telling you to relax.”
“Have you got the manual yet?” I demand. Some Old World trivia session wasn’t going to clear up the screen or the malfunction.
“Sure, sure, what was the problem again?”
“Code theta. I tried rebooting the connection to the Earth probes but it came back again.” I tell him, patiently, which in my case is just short of shouting.
“ ‘kay, just give me a sec.”
I waited. Tapping my toe against the ground I fiddled with the screen a bit. I could still navigate the system no problem, so it wasn’t anything on my end. Curious I checked the weather reports for the past week. I didn’t think bad weather could cause something like this, but I had nothing to do while Berny scoured a dusty tome back on Mars. Nothing I was seeing was abnormal.
“Hey Buzz, you still there?”
“Yep.” I answer my eyes scanning the numbers I’d called up on screen.
“Turns out there’s a few different causes for it, I’ll have to go through the list.”
“Fire away,” I resist gritting my teeth at his delay.
“Ooookay then.” He paused, “What are the atmospheric composition readings?”
“Normal. Or at least, the same as the last decade.”
“Obviously not that then. Moving on,” He muttered to himself on the other end of the line. “What about temperature? Any change?”
“Nadda.”
“Pressure? Radiation? Seismic activity?”
“Nope, no and I don’t think we’re even surveying that.” I tell him. I return to the main screen and let it blink at me. The green flare eased on and off in a regular pulsing rhythm: Code Theta Detected…Code Theta Detected…Code Theta Detected…
“It was worth a check,” Berny laughed weakly. I frowned. Berny didn’t say or do anything weakly. His pitch was unnaturally high and trembling as he spoke. “Buzz, you wouldn’t happen to have any visual feed would you?”
“Sorry mate, that got slashed in the budget cut back in… Hell I don’t even know. Long before we got on the job.” I grip the transceiver tighter. “What’s the problem? Why is visual so important?”
“Because,” Berny cleared his throat. “Because…”
“*Because?*” I inquire, forcing an edge into my voice and trying to tease the rest of the sentence out of him. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging Berny.”
“Because according to the protocol in this procedure book. There are only three possible reasons for a Code Theta to come up on your screen. One: atmospheric readings have now returned to semi-supportable quantities for humans to live comfortably. Two: the radiation has been reduced enough that we’ll be able to send teams and start cleaning up the planet for inhabitants again. Either one would be great news. After all, it would be easier to rehabilitate a planet than completely terraform a new one like we did with Mars.”
“You said there were three? What’s the third?” I didn’t like where this was headed.
“The third case, which seems to be what’s happening now is: ‘Humanoid life-forms have been detected on the surface of Earth in the vicinity of a surveying probe.’ It says a bit more, but the gyst is that the operator, so that would be you…”
“Yeah I’m pretty sure that was in my job title. Thanks for the reminder.” I cut in. He ignored my comment and kept going.
“The operator is supposed to alert the authorities and as everyone here argues politics and the best course of action, you’re supposed to record all surface activity using the ‘camera supplied by the drone in question’.”
I didn’t say anything as he finished. My mind was ticking away, trying to think. My stomach was some strange mixture of coffee, elation, panic and denial.
“So what you’re saying is… this Code Theta,” my lips move as I stare numbly at my screen again, “that’s staring me right in the face, means there’s life? On Earth?”
“Not just any life,” Berny corrected me, his voice cracking. “Humanoid life. Either aliens crashed there or someone was missed during the evac.”
| |
[WP] Earth is declared uninhabitable. Citizens are evacuated to a successfully terraformed Mars. For the first time in 9787 years, probes detect human-like life forms on Earth. | "Well, we have to send someone to check it out."
"Send a damn probe, not a person."
"We've sent probes. How do you think we got the information in the first place?"
"Atmospheric probes aren't what I'm talking about, and you know it. I'm not authorizing a single soldier to set foot down there unless you four-eye pricks in SER have put a fucking robot in the dirt."
"General-"
"We've tried. Why do you think the scan quality is so shitty? The planet may well be habitable, but trying to get a solid signal through the atmosphere is impossible. If we want reliable information, we need to send people."
"Then send one of your own."
Dr. Bethany Heggs, Director of the Galactic Observation branch of Science, Engineering, and Research, sets her teeth and stares. Chin tucked a few degrees, it's a look that is either attempting to be threatening (and moderately succeeding) or judging the General's intellectual capacity (and definitely succeeding). Either way, he doesn't appreciate it.
"How about we send the next best thing to one of your men, General?"
The two turn on Admiral Johanas.
"You said it yourself, General. You were disappointed to see Major Greene's potential go to waste."
Bethany clenches her teeth, hoping it looks more like reservation and trepidation than the smile she's battling back. She lead the horses to water, now if they'll just drink she'll have and an REI mission leaving for Earth by the end of the week. Sure, it might just be one guy, and sure that guy may be a dishonorably discharged former military Major now major felon, but she'll take it--this was the plan all along after all.
"Major Greene may have made some misguided judgments, b-"
"He killed his team, General. Point blank."
The fact that the former Major claimed they had been infected by a parasite of some sort had never entered the discussion beyond the initial report. Without the bodies of her team or any evidence supporting the claim, all it did was spare her from the death penalty due to a flimsy insanity plea and the fact that she had enough commendations to make even the most rabid citizen hesitate to put her in the gallows. If Bethany had an inclination to believe the woman, nobody knew. The whole incident had happened on the heals of her first observation of the incoming reports from Earth's atmospheric probes. If her first gut feeling was that there would be resistance to sending an REI mission to the planet, she hadn't told anyone.
Major Greene being in prison at this moment was destined chance. At least, depending on what she found on Earth, that's what Bethany would make sure the history books would say.
- - - -
Destined chance her ass. Major Greene knows Dr. Bethany Heggs, saw the look in the Mad Doctor's eyes when she'd been sentenced to prison. A look that went noticed because Dr. Heggs was supposed to be the person who backed Greene up, who told her superiors and the Admiral and anyone else who would give a shit that the idea of alien parasites that alter the hosts mental state doesn't sound crazy but is in fact plausible. Dr. Heggs is the woman who talks about the infinite possibilities of space. She's the woman who publishes those overly analytical briefs for REI soldiers on what to look out for based on planetary facts when doing recon in uncharted territory.
Greene came back with the blood of five people on her hands and a story and low and behold Dr. Heggs raised her eyebrows and said, "Parasites. Really?" She threw that a look at the Admiral and tilts her head and Greene knew at that moment she was fucked. The following, "Do you have any evidence of this?" was just the next step toward the end, so obvious that Greene didn't bat an eye when the footage from her suit showed up scratchy and near unreadable.
The blurry 2.2 second clip of her unshaking pistol shooting Jenkins through the right eye was the nail in the coffin.
Dr. Heggs had said, "Such a shame. I agree it's hard to prosecute someone so deluded," and Greene waited.
She's been waiting to find out a way to shoot Dr. Heggs through the right eye. Instead she finds herself handcuffed and shock-collared in a room with an REI mission brief for Earth, of all places, in front of her. The Admiral is too political to show pity, the General too lost in disappointment and disgust. The corner of Dr. Heggs' mouth twitches in what Greene knows is a motion that wants to be a smile.
"So, REI on Earth or spend my life in a prison cell?" Greene wants to bring up the hypocrisy of sending a soldier suffering of supposed mental delusions on a military mission. She doesn't, because she doubts it's a fight she'll win. With how strong of a hold Dr. Heggs has over everybody in charge, she doubts it'll even keep her from going if she wanted it to. "Doesn't matter," she says, fighting back the desire to bare her teeth at the fact that nobody even attempted an answer, that she's not cutting anyone off. "When do I leave?"
"A month. We need to get you recon ready."
Of course. Three weeks in prison and Greene's already lost muscle mass. She trains the best she can, but without access to the military facilities, all she has to work with is her weight, and in Mar's puny atmosphere, that means close to nothing.
- - - -
Greene has a month of gym use, vaccinations, medical tests, and steroids. She's half a day into her month of prep when Dr. Heggs steps into her exam room after the physician's stepped out. It's a testament to Greene's willpower that she's not dead by the time she starts talking.
"I don't know what you'll find there, Major. But I'd step the training up." There's a smile playing on her lips that makes Greene step away from the bed, knuckles white--because the Mad Doctor only gets one chance at this, which means Greene can definitely beat the shit out of her and still get sent to Earth.
Dr. Heggs is as physically slippery as she is mentally, and back out the door before Greene has the chance.
- - - -
The air is thicker than Mars. Her suit says it's due to an elevation of nitrogen. Not enough to kill her, at least not with the augmentations she has as an REI soldier. Adaptability to air that's not quite right for humans is necessary for those working in places that are one thousand percent not quite right for humans. Still, she keeps a close eye on her vitals display on her HUD during the first day after landing. Increased nitrogen was as much a surprise as any atmospheric changes are on an unexplored planet--meaning not at all.
Her eight-hour fly over prior to landing showed pockets of rich green, bright and vibrant in comparison to the larger valleys of baked white earth and deep canyons of red rock. Cities half buried or entirely decimated. Lake beds muddy bogs. Once hard cut lines softened by thousands of years indicated ocean levels, decreased by hundreds of feet from where they had once been, most likely when humans still inhabited the planet.
There are animals, which is a good sign and makes Greene's plans on not returning all the more viable. Straggling herds of animals plod across the desert landscape, invisible to the naked eye for how well they blend in with the sand and only detected by her ship's systems. Other things in the canyons, a few video captures show exoskeletal creatures with sharp stingers and pincers big enough to amputate a human arm if the animal is strong enough for it. The pockets of green are dense enough not even her ship's sensors can break through to scan properly. She doesn't need scanners for the sky, full of birds with astonishing wingspan and wicked looking beaks.
Compared to the history books, this isn't Earth. It may be Greene's escape, but it's nothing like coming home.
Nothing resembles a human being.
Green can only check in every eight hours, if she's on the top of a hill or mountain cleared of trees. The connection is spotty at best and garbled to all hell at worse. The first window is scrambled through, and as she waits for the next she finds another hill, higher than the last, and works. It takes three hours to put the basic AI drone together that they shipped with her. More sturdy than the tiny ones that she can launch into the air with a flick of her wrist, but she takes the time on it because the bigger one has a chance to stand up against the birds. She sets the drone to a basic exploration route and sets up a perimeter with electrified wire.
An hour before the next window sharp chirps come from inside the ship and she makes her way in. A flick of the wrist, a pivot of the pilot's seat, and she's watching fuzzy drone video feed. Tall, lean bipeds lope after a thick animal with rough hide and a squat face. The image brings cavemen of the Terran history books to mind until the drone swoops down, making the image larger, if not clearer. Pants and shirts not entirely different than what people wear on Mars, and what look to be long rifles strapped to their backs, sleek and slender and deadly. Advanced enough for firearms, but still running after an animal.
Sport hunting has been around for as long as people have been though. Still, the image brings a sharp prickling sensation crawling down Greene's back. All the steroids and augmentation in the world haven't prepared her to be on the run from pursuit predators.
The second call gains patchy communication. She sends her data dump and revels in giving Dr. Heggs disappointing news. "No humans detected yet."
The General says, "Keep at it, Major."
The Admiral says, "Be safe out there."
Dr. Heggs is silent, and Greene smiles as she eats her condensed calorie nutrient pack afterward, thinking about the Mad Doctor's pursed lips and clenched hands.
> *Edited: spelling* | I coughed, splattering my coffee all over my front. The screen in front of me was flashing proudly.
“What the hell?” I turned my head rapidly in all directions, searching for a towel or something to mop up my spill. Amongst the crowded mess of cords and other electronics on my desk there was no absorbent material to be seen. Impatient I set down my mug on one stack. Leaning forwards I didn’t stop to wipe my dripping hands before stabbing at the control keys.
“Stupid instrumentation malfunction,” I insulted the machine. It happened all the time, one reason why Mars hadn’t abandoned human occupation of Earth’s old moon base. Someone, other than an A.I., had to be on site to clean up these instrument errors.
Besides, who’d want to waste an A.I. on some small backwater station like this?
I collapsed backward into my chair again as the screen shut off, then blinked back to life re-running the data. Sighing, I reached for my mug again, only to discover I’d lost its entire contents on myself. Great. Coffee was easy enough to ship, but standard rations were sub-par. This had been the last of my personal stash.
“Why me?” I moaned, knowing full well I’d signed up for this inconvenience. The pay, the health benefits, they were phenomenal. The only real downside to running maintenance on this research and observation deck was the isolation, the tedious monotony, lack of decent caffeine, and the repeated instrument failure.
This time it seemed to be the transmission between one of the Earth probes and my lovely little moon base.
I flicked my eyes around the room again, waiting for an update. It shared nothing with the large open architecture of Nova Terra, instead it was small and cramped. Like a piddly little box. The rudimentary atmosphere and gravitational systems were in laughable condition. The walls echoed that abuse. Layers of paint over layers of bored tech’s graffiti coated almost every visible surface. Really, no one had bothered to update this operation site in at least three centuries.
“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” I whispered to myself, echoing the guy who’d trained me. He’d guffawed a bit too hard when I suggested the place could use an overhall.
“Of course it could,” he’d slapped me on the back, sending me stumbling forwards, still unused to the gravity here, “but that means money, and everyone’s too cheap to invest in a station that hasn’t provided any decent data in *millennia*.”
I shifted, slouching more in my seat. The rapidly cooling wet of my coffee was uncomfortable. Glancing at the screen, it looked like I’d have time to run and change before it would finish re-establishing the connection with Earth’s probes.
~.~
When I came back, fresh clothes, hair wet from a quick shower, and hands holding a towel to mop up my earlier gaff, the screen was blinking proudly again. The towel slid from my hand to the floor, forgotten.
“What even?” I asked myself, sliding back into my chair. With my right hand I picked up the transceiver back to Mars.
It took a few minutes to get more than the crackling static to go away, another few to actually get a response.
“Hey Buzz, what’s up?” the jovial voice on the other end of the line snorted at me, “Don’t tell me you miss hearing the dulcet sound of my voice.”
“As if,” I blatantly lied. I'd had the unfortunate idea to call him while drunk once, and since then he'd never let me live down my embarrassing monologue. A terrifyingly soppy speech that included a 'I miss hearing your voice'. “Berny, I’ve got a Code Theta staring me right in the face. You wouldn’t happen to have a manual handy would you?”
“I thought you Moonwalkers had a copy out there.”
“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t be calling you.” I mutter, glaring at the flashing screen.
“Hang on a sec, don’t get your knickers in a twist.” was the reply. The archaic word caught me off guard.
“My what?”
“Knickers. You know,” I could hear him rustling through papers on the other end. Another commodity that my station lacked: paper. That was probably why the manual had disappeared. Beats me what anyone would want with it. The paper wasn’t nearly soft enough to wipe and ass with. “It’s an old word for pants. People used it back in the day.”
“*How* far back Berny?”
“Uh, that would be pre-evacuation times. Not sure of the century.”
“And that helps me how?”
“Chill man, it’s just a saying, telling you to relax.”
“Have you got the manual yet?” I demand. Some Old World trivia session wasn’t going to clear up the screen or the malfunction.
“Sure, sure, what was the problem again?”
“Code theta. I tried rebooting the connection to the Earth probes but it came back again.” I tell him, patiently, which in my case is just short of shouting.
“ ‘kay, just give me a sec.”
I waited. Tapping my toe against the ground I fiddled with the screen a bit. I could still navigate the system no problem, so it wasn’t anything on my end. Curious I checked the weather reports for the past week. I didn’t think bad weather could cause something like this, but I had nothing to do while Berny scoured a dusty tome back on Mars. Nothing I was seeing was abnormal.
“Hey Buzz, you still there?”
“Yep.” I answer my eyes scanning the numbers I’d called up on screen.
“Turns out there’s a few different causes for it, I’ll have to go through the list.”
“Fire away,” I resist gritting my teeth at his delay.
“Ooookay then.” He paused, “What are the atmospheric composition readings?”
“Normal. Or at least, the same as the last decade.”
“Obviously not that then. Moving on,” He muttered to himself on the other end of the line. “What about temperature? Any change?”
“Nadda.”
“Pressure? Radiation? Seismic activity?”
“Nope, no and I don’t think we’re even surveying that.” I tell him. I return to the main screen and let it blink at me. The green flare eased on and off in a regular pulsing rhythm: Code Theta Detected…Code Theta Detected…Code Theta Detected…
“It was worth a check,” Berny laughed weakly. I frowned. Berny didn’t say or do anything weakly. His pitch was unnaturally high and trembling as he spoke. “Buzz, you wouldn’t happen to have any visual feed would you?”
“Sorry mate, that got slashed in the budget cut back in… Hell I don’t even know. Long before we got on the job.” I grip the transceiver tighter. “What’s the problem? Why is visual so important?”
“Because,” Berny cleared his throat. “Because…”
“*Because?*” I inquire, forcing an edge into my voice and trying to tease the rest of the sentence out of him. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging Berny.”
“Because according to the protocol in this procedure book. There are only three possible reasons for a Code Theta to come up on your screen. One: atmospheric readings have now returned to semi-supportable quantities for humans to live comfortably. Two: the radiation has been reduced enough that we’ll be able to send teams and start cleaning up the planet for inhabitants again. Either one would be great news. After all, it would be easier to rehabilitate a planet than completely terraform a new one like we did with Mars.”
“You said there were three? What’s the third?” I didn’t like where this was headed.
“The third case, which seems to be what’s happening now is: ‘Humanoid life-forms have been detected on the surface of Earth in the vicinity of a surveying probe.’ It says a bit more, but the gyst is that the operator, so that would be you…”
“Yeah I’m pretty sure that was in my job title. Thanks for the reminder.” I cut in. He ignored my comment and kept going.
“The operator is supposed to alert the authorities and as everyone here argues politics and the best course of action, you’re supposed to record all surface activity using the ‘camera supplied by the drone in question’.”
I didn’t say anything as he finished. My mind was ticking away, trying to think. My stomach was some strange mixture of coffee, elation, panic and denial.
“So what you’re saying is… this Code Theta,” my lips move as I stare numbly at my screen again, “that’s staring me right in the face, means there’s life? On Earth?”
“Not just any life,” Berny corrected me, his voice cracking. “Humanoid life. Either aliens crashed there or someone was missed during the evac.”
| |
[WP] Earth is declared uninhabitable. Citizens are evacuated to a successfully terraformed Mars. For the first time in 9787 years, probes detect human-like life forms on Earth. | "Well, we have to send someone to check it out."
"Send a damn probe, not a person."
"We've sent probes. How do you think we got the information in the first place?"
"Atmospheric probes aren't what I'm talking about, and you know it. I'm not authorizing a single soldier to set foot down there unless you four-eye pricks in SER have put a fucking robot in the dirt."
"General-"
"We've tried. Why do you think the scan quality is so shitty? The planet may well be habitable, but trying to get a solid signal through the atmosphere is impossible. If we want reliable information, we need to send people."
"Then send one of your own."
Dr. Bethany Heggs, Director of the Galactic Observation branch of Science, Engineering, and Research, sets her teeth and stares. Chin tucked a few degrees, it's a look that is either attempting to be threatening (and moderately succeeding) or judging the General's intellectual capacity (and definitely succeeding). Either way, he doesn't appreciate it.
"How about we send the next best thing to one of your men, General?"
The two turn on Admiral Johanas.
"You said it yourself, General. You were disappointed to see Major Greene's potential go to waste."
Bethany clenches her teeth, hoping it looks more like reservation and trepidation than the smile she's battling back. She lead the horses to water, now if they'll just drink she'll have and an REI mission leaving for Earth by the end of the week. Sure, it might just be one guy, and sure that guy may be a dishonorably discharged former military Major now major felon, but she'll take it--this was the plan all along after all.
"Major Greene may have made some misguided judgments, b-"
"He killed his team, General. Point blank."
The fact that the former Major claimed they had been infected by a parasite of some sort had never entered the discussion beyond the initial report. Without the bodies of her team or any evidence supporting the claim, all it did was spare her from the death penalty due to a flimsy insanity plea and the fact that she had enough commendations to make even the most rabid citizen hesitate to put her in the gallows. If Bethany had an inclination to believe the woman, nobody knew. The whole incident had happened on the heals of her first observation of the incoming reports from Earth's atmospheric probes. If her first gut feeling was that there would be resistance to sending an REI mission to the planet, she hadn't told anyone.
Major Greene being in prison at this moment was destined chance. At least, depending on what she found on Earth, that's what Bethany would make sure the history books would say.
- - - -
Destined chance her ass. Major Greene knows Dr. Bethany Heggs, saw the look in the Mad Doctor's eyes when she'd been sentenced to prison. A look that went noticed because Dr. Heggs was supposed to be the person who backed Greene up, who told her superiors and the Admiral and anyone else who would give a shit that the idea of alien parasites that alter the hosts mental state doesn't sound crazy but is in fact plausible. Dr. Heggs is the woman who talks about the infinite possibilities of space. She's the woman who publishes those overly analytical briefs for REI soldiers on what to look out for based on planetary facts when doing recon in uncharted territory.
Greene came back with the blood of five people on her hands and a story and low and behold Dr. Heggs raised her eyebrows and said, "Parasites. Really?" She threw that a look at the Admiral and tilts her head and Greene knew at that moment she was fucked. The following, "Do you have any evidence of this?" was just the next step toward the end, so obvious that Greene didn't bat an eye when the footage from her suit showed up scratchy and near unreadable.
The blurry 2.2 second clip of her unshaking pistol shooting Jenkins through the right eye was the nail in the coffin.
Dr. Heggs had said, "Such a shame. I agree it's hard to prosecute someone so deluded," and Greene waited.
She's been waiting to find out a way to shoot Dr. Heggs through the right eye. Instead she finds herself handcuffed and shock-collared in a room with an REI mission brief for Earth, of all places, in front of her. The Admiral is too political to show pity, the General too lost in disappointment and disgust. The corner of Dr. Heggs' mouth twitches in what Greene knows is a motion that wants to be a smile.
"So, REI on Earth or spend my life in a prison cell?" Greene wants to bring up the hypocrisy of sending a soldier suffering of supposed mental delusions on a military mission. She doesn't, because she doubts it's a fight she'll win. With how strong of a hold Dr. Heggs has over everybody in charge, she doubts it'll even keep her from going if she wanted it to. "Doesn't matter," she says, fighting back the desire to bare her teeth at the fact that nobody even attempted an answer, that she's not cutting anyone off. "When do I leave?"
"A month. We need to get you recon ready."
Of course. Three weeks in prison and Greene's already lost muscle mass. She trains the best she can, but without access to the military facilities, all she has to work with is her weight, and in Mar's puny atmosphere, that means close to nothing.
- - - -
Greene has a month of gym use, vaccinations, medical tests, and steroids. She's half a day into her month of prep when Dr. Heggs steps into her exam room after the physician's stepped out. It's a testament to Greene's willpower that she's not dead by the time she starts talking.
"I don't know what you'll find there, Major. But I'd step the training up." There's a smile playing on her lips that makes Greene step away from the bed, knuckles white--because the Mad Doctor only gets one chance at this, which means Greene can definitely beat the shit out of her and still get sent to Earth.
Dr. Heggs is as physically slippery as she is mentally, and back out the door before Greene has the chance.
- - - -
The air is thicker than Mars. Her suit says it's due to an elevation of nitrogen. Not enough to kill her, at least not with the augmentations she has as an REI soldier. Adaptability to air that's not quite right for humans is necessary for those working in places that are one thousand percent not quite right for humans. Still, she keeps a close eye on her vitals display on her HUD during the first day after landing. Increased nitrogen was as much a surprise as any atmospheric changes are on an unexplored planet--meaning not at all.
Her eight-hour fly over prior to landing showed pockets of rich green, bright and vibrant in comparison to the larger valleys of baked white earth and deep canyons of red rock. Cities half buried or entirely decimated. Lake beds muddy bogs. Once hard cut lines softened by thousands of years indicated ocean levels, decreased by hundreds of feet from where they had once been, most likely when humans still inhabited the planet.
There are animals, which is a good sign and makes Greene's plans on not returning all the more viable. Straggling herds of animals plod across the desert landscape, invisible to the naked eye for how well they blend in with the sand and only detected by her ship's systems. Other things in the canyons, a few video captures show exoskeletal creatures with sharp stingers and pincers big enough to amputate a human arm if the animal is strong enough for it. The pockets of green are dense enough not even her ship's sensors can break through to scan properly. She doesn't need scanners for the sky, full of birds with astonishing wingspan and wicked looking beaks.
Compared to the history books, this isn't Earth. It may be Greene's escape, but it's nothing like coming home.
Nothing resembles a human being.
Green can only check in every eight hours, if she's on the top of a hill or mountain cleared of trees. The connection is spotty at best and garbled to all hell at worse. The first window is scrambled through, and as she waits for the next she finds another hill, higher than the last, and works. It takes three hours to put the basic AI drone together that they shipped with her. More sturdy than the tiny ones that she can launch into the air with a flick of her wrist, but she takes the time on it because the bigger one has a chance to stand up against the birds. She sets the drone to a basic exploration route and sets up a perimeter with electrified wire.
An hour before the next window sharp chirps come from inside the ship and she makes her way in. A flick of the wrist, a pivot of the pilot's seat, and she's watching fuzzy drone video feed. Tall, lean bipeds lope after a thick animal with rough hide and a squat face. The image brings cavemen of the Terran history books to mind until the drone swoops down, making the image larger, if not clearer. Pants and shirts not entirely different than what people wear on Mars, and what look to be long rifles strapped to their backs, sleek and slender and deadly. Advanced enough for firearms, but still running after an animal.
Sport hunting has been around for as long as people have been though. Still, the image brings a sharp prickling sensation crawling down Greene's back. All the steroids and augmentation in the world haven't prepared her to be on the run from pursuit predators.
The second call gains patchy communication. She sends her data dump and revels in giving Dr. Heggs disappointing news. "No humans detected yet."
The General says, "Keep at it, Major."
The Admiral says, "Be safe out there."
Dr. Heggs is silent, and Greene smiles as she eats her condensed calorie nutrient pack afterward, thinking about the Mad Doctor's pursed lips and clenched hands.
> *Edited: spelling* | “Wh- What?”
Bewilderment set in as a routine scan of Tarver’s area of responsibility showed signs of human life.
***
Probes scoured a desolate Earth, and one probe in particular belonging to the Humanity Preservation Society, detected the faintest sign of human life. That signal originating from the probe that scoured the surface of the Earth, was sent to a space station orbiting Earth, which was routed to a space station orbiting Mars: the space station where Tarver sat in a cubicle picking his nose.
The signal that represented a detection of human life on Earth quietly blinked in the corner of Tarver’s virtual HUD. Virtual HUDs, or Virtual Heads Up Displays, are commonly used for day to day office productivity. For legitimate volunteer HPR Earth Probe Scanning Operators, or EPSOs, the signal of human life that Tarver received would normally operatively blind an EPSO’s point of view, making it impossible to miss a detection of human life on Earth. However, Tarver was what society would label as a “slacker”, and Tarver fit the role perfectly. On his very first day as a volunteer EPSO, or as a “forced volunteer” in his own words, he modified his virtual HUD’s “Alerts” setting to “bare minimum”. He was solitary, borderline shut-in, however he had a strict way of living. He simply wanted to “live a life in your own convenience”. His conviction in keeping this standard of living rivaled the perseverance of Mars’ global leaders. Any sort of disruption in his way of living was a gross violation of his rights as a human being as far as he was concerned.
As soon as he was done “mining the caves of gold”, he noticed an annoying blinking in the corner of his eye. With furrowed brows, he willed the alert into view.
“Wh-What?” he said, bewildered at the alert’s message.
“Human life detected in Area 5, X=352, Y=564. Immediate investigation required.”
The message blinked in plain view virtually. The more he tried not concentrating on the blinking message, it seemed to him that the message blinked increasingly vigorously as time passed. He sighed and thought it such a pain. He immediately started brainstorming how to hide the message into the background of the HUD’s display, but everything he tried was futile. The message persisted, and would not minimize into the HUD’s background.
The initial bewilderment turned into frustration as the Alert continued to blink uncaring to Tarver’s feelings. He wanted it to just go away, so that he could concentrate on how many hours were left in his EPSO shift before he could go back home to daydream about space.
***
***
This is my first WP submission, and my first writing project in a couple of months. it would be appreciated if you were to dissect it in all meaning of the word. :) thanks in advance for reading!
... yes i know it`s only a couple hundred words long. :( | |
[WP] Earth is declared uninhabitable. Citizens are evacuated to a successfully terraformed Mars. For the first time in 9787 years, probes detect human-like life forms on Earth. | "Well, we have to send someone to check it out."
"Send a damn probe, not a person."
"We've sent probes. How do you think we got the information in the first place?"
"Atmospheric probes aren't what I'm talking about, and you know it. I'm not authorizing a single soldier to set foot down there unless you four-eye pricks in SER have put a fucking robot in the dirt."
"General-"
"We've tried. Why do you think the scan quality is so shitty? The planet may well be habitable, but trying to get a solid signal through the atmosphere is impossible. If we want reliable information, we need to send people."
"Then send one of your own."
Dr. Bethany Heggs, Director of the Galactic Observation branch of Science, Engineering, and Research, sets her teeth and stares. Chin tucked a few degrees, it's a look that is either attempting to be threatening (and moderately succeeding) or judging the General's intellectual capacity (and definitely succeeding). Either way, he doesn't appreciate it.
"How about we send the next best thing to one of your men, General?"
The two turn on Admiral Johanas.
"You said it yourself, General. You were disappointed to see Major Greene's potential go to waste."
Bethany clenches her teeth, hoping it looks more like reservation and trepidation than the smile she's battling back. She lead the horses to water, now if they'll just drink she'll have and an REI mission leaving for Earth by the end of the week. Sure, it might just be one guy, and sure that guy may be a dishonorably discharged former military Major now major felon, but she'll take it--this was the plan all along after all.
"Major Greene may have made some misguided judgments, b-"
"He killed his team, General. Point blank."
The fact that the former Major claimed they had been infected by a parasite of some sort had never entered the discussion beyond the initial report. Without the bodies of her team or any evidence supporting the claim, all it did was spare her from the death penalty due to a flimsy insanity plea and the fact that she had enough commendations to make even the most rabid citizen hesitate to put her in the gallows. If Bethany had an inclination to believe the woman, nobody knew. The whole incident had happened on the heals of her first observation of the incoming reports from Earth's atmospheric probes. If her first gut feeling was that there would be resistance to sending an REI mission to the planet, she hadn't told anyone.
Major Greene being in prison at this moment was destined chance. At least, depending on what she found on Earth, that's what Bethany would make sure the history books would say.
- - - -
Destined chance her ass. Major Greene knows Dr. Bethany Heggs, saw the look in the Mad Doctor's eyes when she'd been sentenced to prison. A look that went noticed because Dr. Heggs was supposed to be the person who backed Greene up, who told her superiors and the Admiral and anyone else who would give a shit that the idea of alien parasites that alter the hosts mental state doesn't sound crazy but is in fact plausible. Dr. Heggs is the woman who talks about the infinite possibilities of space. She's the woman who publishes those overly analytical briefs for REI soldiers on what to look out for based on planetary facts when doing recon in uncharted territory.
Greene came back with the blood of five people on her hands and a story and low and behold Dr. Heggs raised her eyebrows and said, "Parasites. Really?" She threw that a look at the Admiral and tilts her head and Greene knew at that moment she was fucked. The following, "Do you have any evidence of this?" was just the next step toward the end, so obvious that Greene didn't bat an eye when the footage from her suit showed up scratchy and near unreadable.
The blurry 2.2 second clip of her unshaking pistol shooting Jenkins through the right eye was the nail in the coffin.
Dr. Heggs had said, "Such a shame. I agree it's hard to prosecute someone so deluded," and Greene waited.
She's been waiting to find out a way to shoot Dr. Heggs through the right eye. Instead she finds herself handcuffed and shock-collared in a room with an REI mission brief for Earth, of all places, in front of her. The Admiral is too political to show pity, the General too lost in disappointment and disgust. The corner of Dr. Heggs' mouth twitches in what Greene knows is a motion that wants to be a smile.
"So, REI on Earth or spend my life in a prison cell?" Greene wants to bring up the hypocrisy of sending a soldier suffering of supposed mental delusions on a military mission. She doesn't, because she doubts it's a fight she'll win. With how strong of a hold Dr. Heggs has over everybody in charge, she doubts it'll even keep her from going if she wanted it to. "Doesn't matter," she says, fighting back the desire to bare her teeth at the fact that nobody even attempted an answer, that she's not cutting anyone off. "When do I leave?"
"A month. We need to get you recon ready."
Of course. Three weeks in prison and Greene's already lost muscle mass. She trains the best she can, but without access to the military facilities, all she has to work with is her weight, and in Mar's puny atmosphere, that means close to nothing.
- - - -
Greene has a month of gym use, vaccinations, medical tests, and steroids. She's half a day into her month of prep when Dr. Heggs steps into her exam room after the physician's stepped out. It's a testament to Greene's willpower that she's not dead by the time she starts talking.
"I don't know what you'll find there, Major. But I'd step the training up." There's a smile playing on her lips that makes Greene step away from the bed, knuckles white--because the Mad Doctor only gets one chance at this, which means Greene can definitely beat the shit out of her and still get sent to Earth.
Dr. Heggs is as physically slippery as she is mentally, and back out the door before Greene has the chance.
- - - -
The air is thicker than Mars. Her suit says it's due to an elevation of nitrogen. Not enough to kill her, at least not with the augmentations she has as an REI soldier. Adaptability to air that's not quite right for humans is necessary for those working in places that are one thousand percent not quite right for humans. Still, she keeps a close eye on her vitals display on her HUD during the first day after landing. Increased nitrogen was as much a surprise as any atmospheric changes are on an unexplored planet--meaning not at all.
Her eight-hour fly over prior to landing showed pockets of rich green, bright and vibrant in comparison to the larger valleys of baked white earth and deep canyons of red rock. Cities half buried or entirely decimated. Lake beds muddy bogs. Once hard cut lines softened by thousands of years indicated ocean levels, decreased by hundreds of feet from where they had once been, most likely when humans still inhabited the planet.
There are animals, which is a good sign and makes Greene's plans on not returning all the more viable. Straggling herds of animals plod across the desert landscape, invisible to the naked eye for how well they blend in with the sand and only detected by her ship's systems. Other things in the canyons, a few video captures show exoskeletal creatures with sharp stingers and pincers big enough to amputate a human arm if the animal is strong enough for it. The pockets of green are dense enough not even her ship's sensors can break through to scan properly. She doesn't need scanners for the sky, full of birds with astonishing wingspan and wicked looking beaks.
Compared to the history books, this isn't Earth. It may be Greene's escape, but it's nothing like coming home.
Nothing resembles a human being.
Green can only check in every eight hours, if she's on the top of a hill or mountain cleared of trees. The connection is spotty at best and garbled to all hell at worse. The first window is scrambled through, and as she waits for the next she finds another hill, higher than the last, and works. It takes three hours to put the basic AI drone together that they shipped with her. More sturdy than the tiny ones that she can launch into the air with a flick of her wrist, but she takes the time on it because the bigger one has a chance to stand up against the birds. She sets the drone to a basic exploration route and sets up a perimeter with electrified wire.
An hour before the next window sharp chirps come from inside the ship and she makes her way in. A flick of the wrist, a pivot of the pilot's seat, and she's watching fuzzy drone video feed. Tall, lean bipeds lope after a thick animal with rough hide and a squat face. The image brings cavemen of the Terran history books to mind until the drone swoops down, making the image larger, if not clearer. Pants and shirts not entirely different than what people wear on Mars, and what look to be long rifles strapped to their backs, sleek and slender and deadly. Advanced enough for firearms, but still running after an animal.
Sport hunting has been around for as long as people have been though. Still, the image brings a sharp prickling sensation crawling down Greene's back. All the steroids and augmentation in the world haven't prepared her to be on the run from pursuit predators.
The second call gains patchy communication. She sends her data dump and revels in giving Dr. Heggs disappointing news. "No humans detected yet."
The General says, "Keep at it, Major."
The Admiral says, "Be safe out there."
Dr. Heggs is silent, and Greene smiles as she eats her condensed calorie nutrient pack afterward, thinking about the Mad Doctor's pursed lips and clenched hands.
> *Edited: spelling* | This is my first post. Be nice.
Station Watchtower
High Earth Orbit – Over The Equator
April 29th, 13,417 CE
“Why are we here?!” groaned CPO Garroway. “Well the short answer is that you got caught inside the sky marshall's daughter” grumbled Thomlinson, “and then, when you got caught you told the Sky Marshall that I was the one who put in a good word for you. Snitch.”
“Well, that's true, but don't you think this is a bit excessive? We've been out here for a year. You'd think he'd let it go, she kind of gets around.” Garroway went on as Chief Thomlinson's attention was drawn to the display again. “Hey, shut up a minute” he snapped as he saw it again. “It” was not much, just a small fleeting glympse of movement near the rubble on his display screen.
They, meaning Chief Petty Officers Garroway and Thomlinson, had been working in Station Watchtower for about the last year as a disciplenary measure due to certain indescressions that needn't be mentioned here. The purpose for Station Watchtower was just that, to serve as a watchtower over the now vacant earth. The Station existed to monitor the environment “back home” so that one day when the air finally cleared out and the planet wasn't a toxic dirtball anymore all of the humans could go home and get back about the business of messing it all up again. Now, normally this was a very quiet assignment comprising mainly of maintaining the delicate communication arrays on the station that allowed it to listen to a far flung network of atmospheric and surface probes that were to notify the humans when things finally stopped being poinsonous down there. When not fixing something, the crew usually passed time watching the massive network of camera probes that were flying around the planet's surface watching for the seeds of life to spring forth from the ashes once again.
Now what Thomlinson had seen wasn't really that out of the ordinary in the grand scale of things, it was the movement of an animal. At something like 10,000 years after the humans had fled the ravaged earth, there were plenty of animals and plants all over the surface, but whatever It happened to be just didn't look right.
“Thommy, you're losing it man. I can't see anything, it's just a pile of rubble. Oh wait, I think I just saw something too, can you get that drone to orbit over the area?” Garroway asked. “Already go it keyed up." Thomlinson replied as the camera feed showed the drone throttling back it's engines and banking to circle the area. As the camera settled on the area in question they saw It. It was small, only about a meter tall and built a bit like, well, a bit like a Hobbit. It was appeared to be rummaging around in the rubble of a long collapsed building looking for God knows what. But It walked upright, like a human.
They both jumped back from the display and immidiately checked to make sure that this was being transmitted back to Mars.
CENTCOM Earth Federation Navy
Office of the Sky Marshall
Cydonian Plain, Mars
April 29th, 13,417 CE
“Why are you bothering me with the ramblings of that degenerate manchild?” Sky Marshall Hayes had all but forgotten about Garroway and Thomlinson quietly serving out the rest of their term literally millions of mile from his current location, and he didn't apprecaite the reminder.
Science officer Salar braced at the outburst but almost immediately relaxed and continued, “it appears that there is movement on the surface. Watchtower spotted a small biped moving around on the outskirts of New Mombasa in the Imperial African Region about 14 hours ago, they have since spotted 87 more. Upon sighting what we are operatively calling a hobbit they launched a LLOD (long life observation drone) to relieve the probe currently on station. Apparently, the longer they orbited the area the more of these hobbits they saw. They did notice signs of intelligence, the first subject spotted noticed the drone and rather than run or try to attack, it watched. This could be caused by shock, but the drones we are using are fairly small and quiet. About an hour ago they pulled the drone up to an altitude of 5km to get a better view of the surrounding area and were able to find two settlements. Upon further observation they settlements show signs of bronze age tech and intelligence.”
After a moment Shy Marshall Hayes, looked up from the display in his desktop and looked SO Salar in the eye, “what exactly are you telling me?” Salar took a deep breath and continued, “essentially, sir, despite background radiation levels being high enough to cause cancer inside a month, Life has found a way. That isn't our planet anymore. We are putting a working group together to see how we need to handle this.”
“What do you mean “handle this” that's our planet, now I am in no way saying that we need to send FSS Cancer over there and burn down their huts from orbit, but I feel like we need to make contact with these “hobbits”.” Hayes went on “has the Grand Panjandrum been informed?” “Not yet, that's why I'm here” answered Salar.
“I'll make the call.”
More to come. | |
[WP] Earth is declared uninhabitable. Citizens are evacuated to a successfully terraformed Mars. For the first time in 9787 years, probes detect human-like life forms on Earth. | Stella marveled at the beauty of the abandoned planet. The blue-green marbling of Earth always held her attention on these trips. She wished this planted were home rather than the plain, rust colored Mars.
“Computer, enter orbit” Stella directed the ships AI. She would let the craft take a full rotation of the planet before landing. Earth was even more stunning up close. The green expanse of the forest merged into the desert. The small, white islands of ice capped either end of the planet. The fluffy clouds swirled with the yellow-brown streaks of pollution.
“Computer, atmosphere report” she said, already knowing the answer.
”Nitrogen 50%, Nitrous Oxide 29%, Oxygen 9%, Carbon Dioxide 7%, Argon 3%, Trace Gasses 2%. Volatile organic compounds at dangerous levels. Not suitable for respiration.” The computer answered in its monotone voice.
The Earth had been abandoned by humans thousands of years ago. Pollution from heavy machinery, animal farms and transportation had turned the air into this toxic cocktail. To keep Mars from suffering the same fate, corporations kept their automated factories here on Earth. With only the occasional mechanic or delivery ship entering the atmosphere, the pollution had only grown worse.
Stella was the captain of a well-armed delivery ship. Most shipments from earth had been fully automated. Fruits, vegetables and fish that were genetically modified to survive the toxic air were all processed and packaged for drone pick-up. Even building materials such as plastic and steel were forged on Earth before being brought back to Mars. Stella’s pick-up was much more valuable. Palladium and platinum were very rare and in extremely high demand for use in robotics. A single bar of palladium was worth more than a full year’s production of copper, which is why her ship was so well armed.
Stella’s good mood began to fade as her craft passed the beauty of Asia and began to enter the massive factories of the Middle East and North Africa. Nearly 90% of the mega factories were located in what used to be Egypt and Saudi Arabia. Locations chosen by statistician on Mars due to their low risk of natural disasters and the proximity of natural resources. Stella found some irony that the birth place of humanity was now a cancerous tumor on this planet.
“Computer, landing report” reluctantly she forced herself to continue her mission.
“Landing Zone: Clear. Weather: Clear. Factory Operation: Normal. Space Crafts: None Detected. Lifeforms: Present.”
After the trouble with her last shipment, Stella was glad to have a trip free of pirates or fires. The animals were a nuisance but they didn’t have laser weapons to compete with her ship. Usually, the mutated beasts of Earth left the factories alone. Electric fences and turrets kept the mutants mostly contained in the forests, but the food production factories were still a target for hungry scavengers.
“Computer, enter atmosphere. Locate and analyze lifeforms.”
The computer brought the ship closer to Earth, but the automated voice did not reply to the captain’s command.
“Computer, lifeform report” Stella said growing more agitated.
“Anomaly in report, rerunning calculations.”
Stella kicked the control panel near her chair. “I swear I will replace you.”
“Lifeform Location: Wypon Factory, Control Room. Lifeform Analysis: Bipedal, 90 Kilograms, Stationary. Probable Humanoid” announced the AI system.
Stella’s craft was hovering directly over the Wypon factory. She looked out over the nearly 500 acres of sprawling buildings connected by transport tubes. The entire operation was surrounded by walls and laser turrets with the control room directly in the center. Nothing could have possibly breached so far into the factory.
“Can’t believe they send me to Earth with this garbage AI.” Stella said to no one in particular. “Computer, rerun Lifeform location.”
“Previous report triple checked. Adjusting location and rechecking.” The craft slowly drifted over the small building that contained the control room.
Looking out the window, Stella thought operations seemed to be running normally. Raw material was being dumped by drones near the outer edges of the factory and intermediate products flowed though transport tubes on conveyor belts. Huge plumes of oily looking smoke bellowed from the countless smelting stacks. No fires in the forest beyond the walls, no lasers firing on mutants, no repair bots buzzing by and most fortunately no pirate ships in her area.
“Lifeform Location: Wypon Factory, Control Room. Multiple humanoids detected.”
Stella wondered what the AI was detecting. There were no mechanics scheduled for today. No programmers should be here, not that they would ever come willingly. Even if a beast had made it to the control room, what kind of mutant walks on two legs? Stella thoughts were interrupted by a voice:
*“Welcome home Stella.”*
She spun in her chair. The craft was empty other than the blinking of various interment panels.
“Who’s there?” she shouted at the empty room.
*”I think it’s time for us to talk.”*
Stella’s heart was racing. She couldn’t understand where that voice had come from. It seemed to be right in the room with her.
*”Come down and join us Stella.”*
The voices are in my head, thought Stella. Was this what was in the control room? What do they want with me?
Stella dropped down on her knees. She was breathing far too fast for her oxygen controlled environment. Her vison began to blur. She was struggling to hold herself upright. The ship began to descend without her command and with that Stella collapsed on the cold metal floor.
&nbsp;
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******
^(Thanks for reading! The real world needs my attention now, but I'll start working on a part 2 if anyone's interested.)
| The camera feed would slowly flick on as for a brief moment, it'd be zoomed in almost directly to the face of young man with almost a twisted expression of frustration before finally letting off a small exhale as the video feed would be properly calibrated, as he'd begin to slowly slump back down to his blank white chair while rubbing the top of his forehead. As he'd begin to speak with almost a monotone manner.
"This is Scott Abrams en-route to Earth, video-logging for the first time at... 0200 hours. Currently flying in the Marxus A-class mini-cruiser... And I can't go to bed."
He'd momentarily yawn out in his place as the camera would show the messy office space behind him, the white desk filled with papers and files along with electronic equipment lining the walls akin to posters in a teenage girl's room, as Scott would be wearing a single white and black jumpsuit, along with his dull green eyes staring towards the screen along with a salt-and-pepper coloring in his short hair as he'd rub his left eye while continuing.
"I've been sent for an investigation over some... 'Activity' over on the desolate place. Supposedly readings show some non-natural manipulation of the ground bellow. Superior told me it was just a fancier term for 'it looks like new buildings' on the mapping software."
He'd pause briefly, his eyes straying away from the screen for a split second towards one of the electronics behind him before muttering out some inaudible phrase before speaking louder as he returns his vision to the screen and camera.
"I should've made this sooner, but in all honesty I have nothing else in mind other than the mind-boggling question of why I have to go alone. It's not as if I'm unarmed, but I'd like someone else to talk to besides Martha-"
As soon as he'd mention the name, suddenly an off-camera metallic voice would respond with a louder volume than Scott's own voice, making him jump in his seat as it'd ramble on.
"Hello Dr. Scott Abrams. What would you require-?"
Almost immediately he'd mutter out some curse and something along the lines of 'piece of shit robot' as he'd quickly jam some sort of button or keyboard off screen to turn the AI off, looking somewhat pissed before just falling lax on his seat and reaching out his hand for the mouse barely in view.
"Scott Abrams logging out. I'm going to bed."
*I will continue on likely later in the day as a response to the comment. Typing on a phone is not the best on my thumbs.* **Part Two coming very soon.** | |
[WP] Earth is declared uninhabitable. Citizens are evacuated to a successfully terraformed Mars. For the first time in 9787 years, probes detect human-like life forms on Earth. | Stella marveled at the beauty of the abandoned planet. The blue-green marbling of Earth always held her attention on these trips. She wished this planted were home rather than the plain, rust colored Mars.
“Computer, enter orbit” Stella directed the ships AI. She would let the craft take a full rotation of the planet before landing. Earth was even more stunning up close. The green expanse of the forest merged into the desert. The small, white islands of ice capped either end of the planet. The fluffy clouds swirled with the yellow-brown streaks of pollution.
“Computer, atmosphere report” she said, already knowing the answer.
”Nitrogen 50%, Nitrous Oxide 29%, Oxygen 9%, Carbon Dioxide 7%, Argon 3%, Trace Gasses 2%. Volatile organic compounds at dangerous levels. Not suitable for respiration.” The computer answered in its monotone voice.
The Earth had been abandoned by humans thousands of years ago. Pollution from heavy machinery, animal farms and transportation had turned the air into this toxic cocktail. To keep Mars from suffering the same fate, corporations kept their automated factories here on Earth. With only the occasional mechanic or delivery ship entering the atmosphere, the pollution had only grown worse.
Stella was the captain of a well-armed delivery ship. Most shipments from earth had been fully automated. Fruits, vegetables and fish that were genetically modified to survive the toxic air were all processed and packaged for drone pick-up. Even building materials such as plastic and steel were forged on Earth before being brought back to Mars. Stella’s pick-up was much more valuable. Palladium and platinum were very rare and in extremely high demand for use in robotics. A single bar of palladium was worth more than a full year’s production of copper, which is why her ship was so well armed.
Stella’s good mood began to fade as her craft passed the beauty of Asia and began to enter the massive factories of the Middle East and North Africa. Nearly 90% of the mega factories were located in what used to be Egypt and Saudi Arabia. Locations chosen by statistician on Mars due to their low risk of natural disasters and the proximity of natural resources. Stella found some irony that the birth place of humanity was now a cancerous tumor on this planet.
“Computer, landing report” reluctantly she forced herself to continue her mission.
“Landing Zone: Clear. Weather: Clear. Factory Operation: Normal. Space Crafts: None Detected. Lifeforms: Present.”
After the trouble with her last shipment, Stella was glad to have a trip free of pirates or fires. The animals were a nuisance but they didn’t have laser weapons to compete with her ship. Usually, the mutated beasts of Earth left the factories alone. Electric fences and turrets kept the mutants mostly contained in the forests, but the food production factories were still a target for hungry scavengers.
“Computer, enter atmosphere. Locate and analyze lifeforms.”
The computer brought the ship closer to Earth, but the automated voice did not reply to the captain’s command.
“Computer, lifeform report” Stella said growing more agitated.
“Anomaly in report, rerunning calculations.”
Stella kicked the control panel near her chair. “I swear I will replace you.”
“Lifeform Location: Wypon Factory, Control Room. Lifeform Analysis: Bipedal, 90 Kilograms, Stationary. Probable Humanoid” announced the AI system.
Stella’s craft was hovering directly over the Wypon factory. She looked out over the nearly 500 acres of sprawling buildings connected by transport tubes. The entire operation was surrounded by walls and laser turrets with the control room directly in the center. Nothing could have possibly breached so far into the factory.
“Can’t believe they send me to Earth with this garbage AI.” Stella said to no one in particular. “Computer, rerun Lifeform location.”
“Previous report triple checked. Adjusting location and rechecking.” The craft slowly drifted over the small building that contained the control room.
Looking out the window, Stella thought operations seemed to be running normally. Raw material was being dumped by drones near the outer edges of the factory and intermediate products flowed though transport tubes on conveyor belts. Huge plumes of oily looking smoke bellowed from the countless smelting stacks. No fires in the forest beyond the walls, no lasers firing on mutants, no repair bots buzzing by and most fortunately no pirate ships in her area.
“Lifeform Location: Wypon Factory, Control Room. Multiple humanoids detected.”
Stella wondered what the AI was detecting. There were no mechanics scheduled for today. No programmers should be here, not that they would ever come willingly. Even if a beast had made it to the control room, what kind of mutant walks on two legs? Stella thoughts were interrupted by a voice:
*“Welcome home Stella.”*
She spun in her chair. The craft was empty other than the blinking of various interment panels.
“Who’s there?” she shouted at the empty room.
*”I think it’s time for us to talk.”*
Stella’s heart was racing. She couldn’t understand where that voice had come from. It seemed to be right in the room with her.
*”Come down and join us Stella.”*
The voices are in my head, thought Stella. Was this what was in the control room? What do they want with me?
Stella dropped down on her knees. She was breathing far too fast for her oxygen controlled environment. Her vison began to blur. She was struggling to hold herself upright. The ship began to descend without her command and with that Stella collapsed on the cold metal floor.
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
******
^(Thanks for reading! The real world needs my attention now, but I'll start working on a part 2 if anyone's interested.)
| "Come on, man. Let's get inside before the storm peels our skin off." Kip was my best friend, but made me work for it.
"Haven't you ever wondered what it's like to see a dust storm from the *inside*? What if it's really awesome?"
I closed my eyes, head shaking. "It'll look like you're in sand. Then you'll die. Does that sound like fun to you? Get your ass into the house before I knock you out and drag your body in."
He held his hands up in defeat. "Okay, okay, sheesh. Don't get all pushy, now."
We ran inside, shutting the door behind us. I ran up to the home console and selected 'STORM DEFENSE', which put up a protective barrier around the doors and windows.
With nothing else to do, I also selected 'radio- FM' and figured I'd let the news play to help kill time. It was just the usual crap.
"*...His Majesty, King Hustin III, is traveling around the planet and blessing families in need. Due to the extreme shortages running rampant, he has cut the required weekly offerings in half...*"
"Gee, what a nice guy," I said, rolling my eyes. "You'd think he could actually try to help us. Greedy bastard."
Kip shrugged. "Whatever, he's the king. Probably best to keep stuff like that to yourself, you know."
I shot him a dirty look. "What, are you going to turn me over?"
"No, come on. I'd never, but someone might."
"Hmph. Whatever, who cares? This storm better be a short one. I hate just sitting around here, waiting."
The news caught my attention again. "...*The King has also stated that all search activity regarding the solar system is to be stopped, in order to focus on fixing the problems we have here on Mars...*"
I stood up, throwing my hand into the air and screaming with rage. "What the *fuck* is this? Kip, did you hear this bullshit? Did I just get fired by a fucking *news reporter*? I swear by his name, I am so sick of this crap. What if something pops up in our solar system, and we just miss it entirely?"
Kip looked at me with tired eyes. "You still think you're going to find something on that blue planet? Everyone knows it's dead, it always has been."
"You don't know that. What if all that blue is liquid water? Life would so easily form there, it's not even funny. If we popped up here, how could nothing there? If I could just get a probe close enough..."
He shrugged again. "Just because it could doesn't mean it would, right? That's what they teach us."
"They also teach us not to stand in a sandstorm, but you were about to let one pick the skin off you."
He giggled a little. "That's just my curiousity, I'm not actually that stupid. Nature just interests me, and I want to experience the beauty of it."
I relaxed a bit, but kept staring at him. "Yeah, well...so do I."
*******
Once the storm had subsided, Kip and I went back to work. He was just a stocker at the local grocery store, because 'it's a job that will always be needed', as he put it. That kind of life was never enough for me, though. I needed substance, I needed to satiate my wonder. Now, that was being ripped out from under me.
"Boss, is it true?" I asked, right when I busted through the door. "Are they shutting us down?"
Dr. Buchanan let out a sigh. "Yes, Peter. We're being shut down to reserve resources, and the probes we have out are to be recalled by tomorrow."
My jaw clenched and I shook with rage, tears forming in my eyes. "You can't let them just...do this to us. Did you even *try* to put up a fight?"
"Peter..."
"No. No, I'm sick of this shit. That asshole just...does what he wants! You know damn well this place needs to stay open."
"There's nothing we can do. Use today however you'd like, and explore the solar system using our probes, but recall them by closing. I'm sorry."
I threw my bag on the floor, storming over to my cubicle. *Hey, at least I get to mess around for a little while, I guess.*
The thought didn't quell my rage nearly enough. I plopped into my chair, slumping over to avoid the dirty looks of everyone that disproved of my little rage fit. As usual, I browsed through the probe reports and skimmed over photographs returned. As usual, there was nothing even remotely interesting. This time, however, I was not limited by protocol or standard. I noticed that I suddenly had admin privileges, granting me extreme freedom to use a probe however I'd like to.
I sat up, peeking over at Dr. Buchanan. He had a dry smile on his face, and winked.
*Now this is some good shit. I've got one day left...let's see what I can do with it.*
----
*thanks for reading! It seems a few are interested, so I'll start writing a second part!*
[Part 2 is up!](https://www.reddit.com/r/resonatingfury/comments/4hamhq/the_lost_planet_part_2/) | |
[WP] Earth is declared uninhabitable. Citizens are evacuated to a successfully terraformed Mars. For the first time in 9787 years, probes detect human-like life forms on Earth. | **UPDATE: I've compiled the entire story into [a single document](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1xfgO03RAkyQ3NgLyxcH03ks0sbdXcJrEHVS8QOeZqTA/edit?usp=sharing), which is a little more polished, for everyone's viewing pleasure. I will update this document along with continuing to post here for anyone who wants to see the continuation of the story.**
**UPDATE 2: I've got a [subreddit!](https://www.reddit.com/r/varafel) I'll be posting my stories into there from now on.**
We were a dying race then, sick from the toxic vapors and plumes erupting from the ground, billions dead within the first hour. The lucky few who did make it to the transports saw the sky falling as they launched off planet, oxygen burning off, the blue sky fading to a pale, sulfur-tinted black below them. There was no going back, the land scorched and uninhabitable. Instead, we set our sights forward, to that little red planet whose terraforming was a constant source of political football with the politicians, loud voices demanding the exorbitant costs be brought down or eliminated entirely, while others vowed its necessity in the face of an Earth whose climate was slowly and inevitably leeching away to global exploitation. I guess the possibility of the extinction of the human race was enough to tide them over for those last few centuries, enough for the taxpayers at least.
Our little blue planet receded to a pale dot as we left, many crying, many shouting, all of them just happy to be alive. From the InfoNet, most knew that life on Mars would be rough, hard labor, a concept none of them had much experience with, coming from a society of leisure and delicacy, of emotional simulators and VR and professions of life which had no meaning or worth on the planet they now approached. Though there were oceans and a somewhat breathable atmosphere, the mass-scale growth of fauna and flora wasn’t due completion for another 150 years. The people who were there, maintenance workers and scientists, barely numbered ten thousand. There were two million of us, from an initial population of 18 billion lives, the only survivors which had made it off in time. Concerns about food, nutrition, and housing would be an issue, problems which were already being discussed. These people, huddled in the confines of this repurposed cargo freighter were the last hope, noisy creatures packed on their arks, sailing across the vast gulf of space, and I was the pilot of one of these ships, one of the Noah who made the journey.
68 days later we broke atmosphere, everyone getting down in one piece, and well, I guess you know the rest. No food, no housing, mass hysteria. No one was there to lead them, no government at all, just a bunch of frightened monkeys trapped in a room with no bananas. Chaos. The soldiers inhabiting the only military base here, a forward observation outpost designed to construct, house and launch classified probes, came out and instated order, a curfew, rations. Using the rusty dirt with water to build brick houses, thousands dying from disease and exposure, but no one stepped out of line because no one had weapons, no one could object. Eventually we got our shit together, though. We built cities, huddled around the towering terraforming machines, cultivating the landscape, genetically altering strains of human DNA to make cattle, chickens, horses. Mars had iron and carbon plenty, enough for steel, but without rare metals, without fuel outside of scavenged fusion drives from the ships and solar, there wasn’t enough power to go around. Things started to get dicey, tensions rising, the first of the “Power Wars.”
Where was I during all of this? You tell me, I was doing maintenance on one of the fusion drives when everything went black.
//Your corpse was retrieved from a block of coolant we dug up several cycles ago. We thawed you and reconstructed your body in a medUnit.//
No shit, huh. Technology must’ve come a long way for us to be able to raise the dead. Wait, you said ‘dug up.’ Did the ceiling collapse? What was I buried under?
//You were detected inside 40 meters of dirt and excavated in a portion of the evacuated tunnels. From records, I would guess that you were located somewhere near the site of the original bunker.//
Must’ve been a sinkhole to get buried so deep, if that’s what you mean. Also, what ‘bunker’ are you talking about? I was inside one of the surface laboratories, the only bunkers on this planet are run by the military, near the poles.
//Mars is now run by military organizations, and has been for thousands of cycles. You are currently in one, one of 37 scattered across and below the gradient. From your story, I ascertain that you were killed and buried sometime in cycle start date -0040.3, just before the initial proceedings of Event 5, the first and largest of the skirmishes that have dominated Mars since its colonization by humans. Perhaps one of the bombs destroyed your facility.//
.
You aren’t human, are you?
//Correct.//
Are there any humans around which I can talk with?
//Installation Zulu-09 houses a population of 447 soldiers, but when you were awoken initially, you were unable to communicate with any personnel. A byproduct of the English language evolving over the course of thousands of cycles, I ascertain. You were sedated and mindjacked with an interface connecting to my language repositories and algorithms, and I was able to find a medium through which we can communicate.//
I’ve been wondering why I was floating through space talking to a disembodied voice.
//I do not know how your mind is visually processing this. Your mind is unlike any of the thousands which I have linked with in my timeline.//
How old are you?
//5940.2242 cycles.//
Translate that to years, please.
//I do not know what a ‘year’ is.//
You know, 365 Earth days.
//I do not know what an ‘Earth day’ is.//
All right, all right, have it your way. A frickin long time, probably a couple hundred years, *my* years. So why did you guys-
//I am being instructed to outfit you with a language-compatibility chip and bring you before General Ingstin. An escort will lead to him momentarily. You may ask me further questions after this interview.//
----
*[PART 2](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/4h9385/wp_earth_is_declared_uninhabitable_citizens_are/d2opomw)*
| "Come on, man. Let's get inside before the storm peels our skin off." Kip was my best friend, but made me work for it.
"Haven't you ever wondered what it's like to see a dust storm from the *inside*? What if it's really awesome?"
I closed my eyes, head shaking. "It'll look like you're in sand. Then you'll die. Does that sound like fun to you? Get your ass into the house before I knock you out and drag your body in."
He held his hands up in defeat. "Okay, okay, sheesh. Don't get all pushy, now."
We ran inside, shutting the door behind us. I ran up to the home console and selected 'STORM DEFENSE', which put up a protective barrier around the doors and windows.
With nothing else to do, I also selected 'radio- FM' and figured I'd let the news play to help kill time. It was just the usual crap.
"*...His Majesty, King Hustin III, is traveling around the planet and blessing families in need. Due to the extreme shortages running rampant, he has cut the required weekly offerings in half...*"
"Gee, what a nice guy," I said, rolling my eyes. "You'd think he could actually try to help us. Greedy bastard."
Kip shrugged. "Whatever, he's the king. Probably best to keep stuff like that to yourself, you know."
I shot him a dirty look. "What, are you going to turn me over?"
"No, come on. I'd never, but someone might."
"Hmph. Whatever, who cares? This storm better be a short one. I hate just sitting around here, waiting."
The news caught my attention again. "...*The King has also stated that all search activity regarding the solar system is to be stopped, in order to focus on fixing the problems we have here on Mars...*"
I stood up, throwing my hand into the air and screaming with rage. "What the *fuck* is this? Kip, did you hear this bullshit? Did I just get fired by a fucking *news reporter*? I swear by his name, I am so sick of this crap. What if something pops up in our solar system, and we just miss it entirely?"
Kip looked at me with tired eyes. "You still think you're going to find something on that blue planet? Everyone knows it's dead, it always has been."
"You don't know that. What if all that blue is liquid water? Life would so easily form there, it's not even funny. If we popped up here, how could nothing there? If I could just get a probe close enough..."
He shrugged again. "Just because it could doesn't mean it would, right? That's what they teach us."
"They also teach us not to stand in a sandstorm, but you were about to let one pick the skin off you."
He giggled a little. "That's just my curiousity, I'm not actually that stupid. Nature just interests me, and I want to experience the beauty of it."
I relaxed a bit, but kept staring at him. "Yeah, well...so do I."
*******
Once the storm had subsided, Kip and I went back to work. He was just a stocker at the local grocery store, because 'it's a job that will always be needed', as he put it. That kind of life was never enough for me, though. I needed substance, I needed to satiate my wonder. Now, that was being ripped out from under me.
"Boss, is it true?" I asked, right when I busted through the door. "Are they shutting us down?"
Dr. Buchanan let out a sigh. "Yes, Peter. We're being shut down to reserve resources, and the probes we have out are to be recalled by tomorrow."
My jaw clenched and I shook with rage, tears forming in my eyes. "You can't let them just...do this to us. Did you even *try* to put up a fight?"
"Peter..."
"No. No, I'm sick of this shit. That asshole just...does what he wants! You know damn well this place needs to stay open."
"There's nothing we can do. Use today however you'd like, and explore the solar system using our probes, but recall them by closing. I'm sorry."
I threw my bag on the floor, storming over to my cubicle. *Hey, at least I get to mess around for a little while, I guess.*
The thought didn't quell my rage nearly enough. I plopped into my chair, slumping over to avoid the dirty looks of everyone that disproved of my little rage fit. As usual, I browsed through the probe reports and skimmed over photographs returned. As usual, there was nothing even remotely interesting. This time, however, I was not limited by protocol or standard. I noticed that I suddenly had admin privileges, granting me extreme freedom to use a probe however I'd like to.
I sat up, peeking over at Dr. Buchanan. He had a dry smile on his face, and winked.
*Now this is some good shit. I've got one day left...let's see what I can do with it.*
----
*thanks for reading! It seems a few are interested, so I'll start writing a second part!*
[Part 2 is up!](https://www.reddit.com/r/resonatingfury/comments/4hamhq/the_lost_planet_part_2/) | |
[WP] Not all prisons are made of iron. | "What the... what the hell!?"
He was lost. He remembered being blaming himself.
His mind went back to see his wife crossing the street, trying to chase him. They had just another petty fight over how to spend their money. He walked away from her as tears streamed down her face, she quickly went after him, that is when he heard the sound he would never forget. His wife's body being hit by a car. The sound was a bang, with bones cracking, and the screams. Right before the car hit her, she and some of the bystanders screamed, but he knew which scream was her's, that scream was permanently replaying in his brain.
He looked over to the other side of his bed, right where his wife used to sleep beside him, there was still no one there. Every night before he went to sleep, he wished that he would be able to fall asleep again as they used to, with his arms wrapped around her. Every morning, before he opened his eyes or before he looked towards her side fo the bed, he wished, even prayed, that she had come back during the night and joined him again. A normal husband would be furious at their wives if they had left without explanation, without a goodbye, but not him. He swore he wouldn't be mad or upset, he wouldn't care that she left, he just wanted his Lauren back.
Every day he followed the same routine, got out of bed, ate a measly breakfast, lazily brushed his teeth, went to his job (a member of the custodial staff at a high school, about 30 minutes from his house), came home, ate whatever was easiest to make for dinner, brushed his teeth one more time, and crawled into bed. He didn't have it in him anymore, he didn't want to enjoy life, he couldn't do it without his wife by his side. A quote that he thought about, one that he thought couldn't be more true, is one that goes something like "behind every great man is a great woman", and he knew he could never be or feel great again without his woman.
Sometimes, in his sleep, he would scream, maybe even cry. He would wake up with sweat all over his body. He heard, and kept hearing, the scream his wife had produced right before she was hit. He wished he could forget it, he didn't want his last memory of her voice to be her scream, but there was not way around it, he had heard it.
Following his normal routine, he ate simple dinner, but then did something out of the ordinary for him. He was done. He couldn't live like that anymore. He was either going to bring his wife back, or go to her, and he knew the former wasn't possible. He went into his 1987 Mercedes-Benz sedan and drove to "Brian's Booze", the closest liquor store. He bought the cheapest, yet biggest, bottle he could find. He forced down a few sips, then started his car. Each sip he took was a struggle, he was never a drinker, but he wanted to escape from his pain.
...
Slowly waking up to the beeps of a machine next to him, he looks down and sees tubes attached to his arms and feels a tube going to his nose. His heart rate spikes as he tries to figure out where he is. He screamed. A nurse ran in, then went to get the surgeon. The surgeon told him that he had crashed his car and nearly died. The car crashed into a corner of a cement wall. "The car was going so fast, that if you had made the car move one foot more to the left, you would have met your maker, this is truly a miracle".
The man looked over to the windows on the other side of the room, the sun was glaring in, reflecting off of everything bright, shining into his eyes. He thought to himself, "there really is no way out of this".
| I am so lonely in here. I can not remember the last time I saw the light and goodness of this world. Everyday I grieve and scream to escape this nightmare but it echoes over and over. One day I will escape this existence, but today will not be that day. Nor tomorrow or the next day, I have no idea, but I have no options left. I am sick and tired of hearing my own voice. I am hungry for contact with others, but I am unable to connect with them. Maybe I'll take the one option I do have left. But I'm not sure I'm brave enough to act on it. No I can't. Could I? I miss freedom, and all it takes is one trigger pull. Maybe the other side is the existence I want. I should have never signed that dotted line. | |
[WP] Not all prisons are made of iron. | Day 100. One hundred days since I've seen my family, friends, and my dog, Lily. I think I miss her stupid, derp-eyed face the most. She's probably in the lap of luxury with my parents, getting to eat little bits of human food from time to time; Something I do not allow in my house. It's dog food or go to bed hungry.
It's been ninety-five days since I last had a cocktail. I think I still remember the bite of alcohol as it slid down my throat. In my old life I had a small alcohol addiction which is why I never had any long-term relationships. I always had two or three drinks before going to bed. When I washed ashore my sandy prison, I thought I would be able to find a smuggler's hatch like in Pirates of the Caribbean. I did find some kind of tubular growing in the underbrush and that kept me fed for a few weeks, but no alcohol. I went through a rough withdrawal, and I thought I would end up dying here. Dying here in this place where I'm always thirsty, always hungry, and can never escape. It's been seventy-three days since I last thought about alcohol.
It's been fifty-seven days since I last had a coconut. I always hated coconuts back in my old life. I shuddered at the very thought of putting anything coconut-flavored in my mouth. The first time I saw one here, I scurried over and cracked it open on a long piece of metal - I think it used to be part of the ship's siding, but I'm no expert. The sweet water that washed over my tongue might have been creme brulee. The first sip went down my throat before I realized it went in. I forced myself to savor the second sip, letting it sit and mingle with my taste buds, before I satisfied my parched throat. The coconuts lasted thirty-three days. Looking back, those were the best days of my life here.
It's been thirty-five days since I last felt angry. I remember I was trying to cut open a fish and I managed to slice my hand. The rage came fast and hard and I began screaming. I screamed so loud that a bird hidden in one of the few trees behind me took flight. I screamed for so long that my throat began to tear. I think I may have cried, but it could have been kickback from the water I was thrashing through along the shoreline leaving a trail of blood behind. I don't know how long I kept at it, but by the time I finished and returned to the fish it was rotten and revolting. I stared at it and felt all of my emotions leak out of me one-by-one. There was no point.
It's been a week since I last had fresh water. It hasn't rained in two weeks and I drank the last drop exactly six days ago. I stare at the sky and pray for rain. I was not the praying kind before I got here, but now it seems like the best idea I can think of. I sigh and take a bite of raw meat, cringing at the saltiness. I really need some water. I guess I should be happy I have something to eat.
"Not bad." I say to myself. I don't have anyone to talk to besides myself. You see, it's been two days since I last saw another human being. I wonder if I'll slowly lose my mind now. I take my knife and mark the 100th notch on a tree. I guess this is my new home. I chew through another bite and smile.
It's been a long time since I last felt happy. | I am so lonely in here. I can not remember the last time I saw the light and goodness of this world. Everyday I grieve and scream to escape this nightmare but it echoes over and over. One day I will escape this existence, but today will not be that day. Nor tomorrow or the next day, I have no idea, but I have no options left. I am sick and tired of hearing my own voice. I am hungry for contact with others, but I am unable to connect with them. Maybe I'll take the one option I do have left. But I'm not sure I'm brave enough to act on it. No I can't. Could I? I miss freedom, and all it takes is one trigger pull. Maybe the other side is the existence I want. I should have never signed that dotted line. | |
[WP] Not all prisons are made of iron. | They all want to know what I've been doing for the past four years. Apparently, the big 4.00 isn't enough. The dual-degree isn't enough. They won't just settle for records and numbers; they want to know what I said, what I wrote, what kind of person I decided to pretend to be in college. And I don't want to tell them.
Why must they force me into a chain gang with my past selves? I'm no longer affiliated with the freshman who submitted an immature piece about bird noises to the school journal or the junior who could only squeeze ten out of the twenty required pages for his term paper. Just let me start anew. Well, let me take the few redeeming qualities I have to my name, but otherwise, give me a clean slate. Accept me for the professional upstart I purport to be. Ignore the trail of ashes in my wake.
There's a table at the end of the job application. "List three references." I don't really want to bother the priest from my hometown and my Intro to Climatology professor, since I haven't actually spoken to them in four years. Can I just spare all parties involved the trouble and leave this part blank? Can't they just take a statement of character from my garbage man? He knows I put the plastics and the metals in the recycling bin and the greasy pizza boxes and chicken bones in the trash can, which is more than any of my undergraduate iterations can say for themselves. I end up putting down a now-defunct phone number for my last reference. It's only fair: if they want a review of my past self, then they can call the number that was in use at the time.
Maybe eventually, I'll be able to start everything anew. It'd require destroying everything I spent the last four years and the eighteen before that building up. I'm well on my way: as of now, the bridges leading to and fro have all been burned. The hard part is escaping myself. | I am so lonely in here. I can not remember the last time I saw the light and goodness of this world. Everyday I grieve and scream to escape this nightmare but it echoes over and over. One day I will escape this existence, but today will not be that day. Nor tomorrow or the next day, I have no idea, but I have no options left. I am sick and tired of hearing my own voice. I am hungry for contact with others, but I am unable to connect with them. Maybe I'll take the one option I do have left. But I'm not sure I'm brave enough to act on it. No I can't. Could I? I miss freedom, and all it takes is one trigger pull. Maybe the other side is the existence I want. I should have never signed that dotted line. | |
[WP] Not all prisons are made of iron. | Prison, not physical, but a mental prison that's what you could call it.
I had been ripped away from my family, from my friends, purely because of my actions. Not behind a cage, I had what you could call freedom in a sense. My daily living still occurred, work, shopping, cooking, but nothing ever felt worth the time that was spent on the task. Two years, two long years of the situation being constant, it almost felt like I was in a perfect time-loop, with how rare events changed on a day to day basis.
The last week had been different though, a new woman had become employed in the work place. Sara was her name, and how I envied her, to me she had everything I thought I could desire. She was talking to co-workers constantly, making the others laugh, and would constantly invite people to go out for drinks after work. The attention Sara got from my coworkers, frustrated me, whether the attention was given because of her auburn hair, her green eyes, her athletic body or her personality, the fact was she made me jealous of the life she seemed to live, a life I wished was my own.
Today was slightly odd though, although I guess she had noticed that I had not been going out with the coworkers after work to the bar, or any location she had chosen. She spoke to me, "Aviella, why don't you come out with me tonight?" she stated. I shrugged it off, but the thought worked as a seed in my head. That seed grew as the day went about, and nearing the end of the day Sara even offered a ride to me, to the club that she had invited our co-workers to, and a ride home following, swearing that she wouldn't drink and act as a designated driver for me.
Cautious, in my mind, wondering if this was some type of plot, or more shame for me to feel, more hazy, depressed than I was, I still accepted, and went with Sara to the club.
We arrived at the club around seven, rather early, but I guess it works. I spoke with the bartender and grabbed a drink for myself, and a few more for other coworkers. When I got back to the table though, the real adventure began. After I placed the drinks down, Sara asked for me to dance with her,which shocked and confused me.
Overjoyed and enthusastic, I went on the floor and spent the night dancing with her, and the night ended with a kiss, between Sara and myself. I was embarrassed and delighted. Although the actions made me nervous, I complied. Nervousness lasting during the events, from when I had came out to my family, and to my community and many shunned me.
That night, I learned that one of my coworkers knew about the events that had transpired two years ago, and had been the one to discuss those events with Sara. My coworkers all supported us, in our intimate play at the end of the night, and for the first time in two years I was happy.
I spoke to Sara as she was driving me home, "Thanks for breaking me out of this cage."
---------------------------------------
Please criticize.
-----------------------------------------
Some editing done, with advice given from /u/WriterWhoWrites . | I am so lonely in here. I can not remember the last time I saw the light and goodness of this world. Everyday I grieve and scream to escape this nightmare but it echoes over and over. One day I will escape this existence, but today will not be that day. Nor tomorrow or the next day, I have no idea, but I have no options left. I am sick and tired of hearing my own voice. I am hungry for contact with others, but I am unable to connect with them. Maybe I'll take the one option I do have left. But I'm not sure I'm brave enough to act on it. No I can't. Could I? I miss freedom, and all it takes is one trigger pull. Maybe the other side is the existence I want. I should have never signed that dotted line. | |
[WP] Not all prisons are made of iron. | Day 100. One hundred days since I've seen my family, friends, and my dog, Lily. I think I miss her stupid, derp-eyed face the most. She's probably in the lap of luxury with my parents, getting to eat little bits of human food from time to time; Something I do not allow in my house. It's dog food or go to bed hungry.
It's been ninety-five days since I last had a cocktail. I think I still remember the bite of alcohol as it slid down my throat. In my old life I had a small alcohol addiction which is why I never had any long-term relationships. I always had two or three drinks before going to bed. When I washed ashore my sandy prison, I thought I would be able to find a smuggler's hatch like in Pirates of the Caribbean. I did find some kind of tubular growing in the underbrush and that kept me fed for a few weeks, but no alcohol. I went through a rough withdrawal, and I thought I would end up dying here. Dying here in this place where I'm always thirsty, always hungry, and can never escape. It's been seventy-three days since I last thought about alcohol.
It's been fifty-seven days since I last had a coconut. I always hated coconuts back in my old life. I shuddered at the very thought of putting anything coconut-flavored in my mouth. The first time I saw one here, I scurried over and cracked it open on a long piece of metal - I think it used to be part of the ship's siding, but I'm no expert. The sweet water that washed over my tongue might have been creme brulee. The first sip went down my throat before I realized it went in. I forced myself to savor the second sip, letting it sit and mingle with my taste buds, before I satisfied my parched throat. The coconuts lasted thirty-three days. Looking back, those were the best days of my life here.
It's been thirty-five days since I last felt angry. I remember I was trying to cut open a fish and I managed to slice my hand. The rage came fast and hard and I began screaming. I screamed so loud that a bird hidden in one of the few trees behind me took flight. I screamed for so long that my throat began to tear. I think I may have cried, but it could have been kickback from the water I was thrashing through along the shoreline leaving a trail of blood behind. I don't know how long I kept at it, but by the time I finished and returned to the fish it was rotten and revolting. I stared at it and felt all of my emotions leak out of me one-by-one. There was no point.
It's been a week since I last had fresh water. It hasn't rained in two weeks and I drank the last drop exactly six days ago. I stare at the sky and pray for rain. I was not the praying kind before I got here, but now it seems like the best idea I can think of. I sigh and take a bite of raw meat, cringing at the saltiness. I really need some water. I guess I should be happy I have something to eat.
"Not bad." I say to myself. I don't have anyone to talk to besides myself. You see, it's been two days since I last saw another human being. I wonder if I'll slowly lose my mind now. I take my knife and mark the 100th notch on a tree. I guess this is my new home. I chew through another bite and smile.
It's been a long time since I last felt happy. | Yes, I know the hope I hold is futile.
It will only hurt in the end; it will only tear me and her apart.
But I can't control it... and believe me, I've tried. I've broken too many times to count.
Sometimes I think it would be best for everyone if I could run away, detangle and detatch. I wouldn't cause anyone anymore pain. But I can't do that to her... because no matter how much I hurt her, she needs me to survive in this cruel, cold world.
The sickest part is that I can't steer her in the right direction. We always make the same mistakes, and I'm impulsive. I can't stop myself from going after what I want, and I accidentally destroy her in the process.
So here I am, beating frantically against her ribcage. | |
[WP] Not all prisons are made of iron. | Day 100. One hundred days since I've seen my family, friends, and my dog, Lily. I think I miss her stupid, derp-eyed face the most. She's probably in the lap of luxury with my parents, getting to eat little bits of human food from time to time; Something I do not allow in my house. It's dog food or go to bed hungry.
It's been ninety-five days since I last had a cocktail. I think I still remember the bite of alcohol as it slid down my throat. In my old life I had a small alcohol addiction which is why I never had any long-term relationships. I always had two or three drinks before going to bed. When I washed ashore my sandy prison, I thought I would be able to find a smuggler's hatch like in Pirates of the Caribbean. I did find some kind of tubular growing in the underbrush and that kept me fed for a few weeks, but no alcohol. I went through a rough withdrawal, and I thought I would end up dying here. Dying here in this place where I'm always thirsty, always hungry, and can never escape. It's been seventy-three days since I last thought about alcohol.
It's been fifty-seven days since I last had a coconut. I always hated coconuts back in my old life. I shuddered at the very thought of putting anything coconut-flavored in my mouth. The first time I saw one here, I scurried over and cracked it open on a long piece of metal - I think it used to be part of the ship's siding, but I'm no expert. The sweet water that washed over my tongue might have been creme brulee. The first sip went down my throat before I realized it went in. I forced myself to savor the second sip, letting it sit and mingle with my taste buds, before I satisfied my parched throat. The coconuts lasted thirty-three days. Looking back, those were the best days of my life here.
It's been thirty-five days since I last felt angry. I remember I was trying to cut open a fish and I managed to slice my hand. The rage came fast and hard and I began screaming. I screamed so loud that a bird hidden in one of the few trees behind me took flight. I screamed for so long that my throat began to tear. I think I may have cried, but it could have been kickback from the water I was thrashing through along the shoreline leaving a trail of blood behind. I don't know how long I kept at it, but by the time I finished and returned to the fish it was rotten and revolting. I stared at it and felt all of my emotions leak out of me one-by-one. There was no point.
It's been a week since I last had fresh water. It hasn't rained in two weeks and I drank the last drop exactly six days ago. I stare at the sky and pray for rain. I was not the praying kind before I got here, but now it seems like the best idea I can think of. I sigh and take a bite of raw meat, cringing at the saltiness. I really need some water. I guess I should be happy I have something to eat.
"Not bad." I say to myself. I don't have anyone to talk to besides myself. You see, it's been two days since I last saw another human being. I wonder if I'll slowly lose my mind now. I take my knife and mark the 100th notch on a tree. I guess this is my new home. I chew through another bite and smile.
It's been a long time since I last felt happy. | Crowley, my warden, had a face that was one part scar tissue and other part shit-eating grin.
He opened the doors of my cell open with a mock bow and a flourish. I stared at the man incredulously before dragging my shackle-bound feet into my new home. As I was halfway across the threshold, Crowley slammed the door on me, causing me to plant my face in the cold concrete. My ears were ringing but the sadistic guffaw of the warden was unmistakable.
'heh heh', Crowley finally recovered from his fit of laughter. 'Not all prisons are made of iron', he taunted.
He pointed to the lustrous, silver bars of the cell.
'This baby right here', he gently ran his hands over my new confinement, 'is a titanium - neodymium alloy with a three-layer carbon fiber inter-mesh with a eighth inch thick outer casing of Kevlar.
He unceremoniously tossed in the old file that I used to cut the bars open from my old cell into my new cell.
'You file your little heart out! Heh heh heh...'. The Warden walked away from the cell with this one final closing remark, his irritating yet distinct laughter echoing around my chamber and whirling in the nooks and crannies of the rough concrete.
______________________________________________________________________________________
Were you expecting something deep and psychological? | |
[WP] Not all prisons are made of iron. | Day 100. One hundred days since I've seen my family, friends, and my dog, Lily. I think I miss her stupid, derp-eyed face the most. She's probably in the lap of luxury with my parents, getting to eat little bits of human food from time to time; Something I do not allow in my house. It's dog food or go to bed hungry.
It's been ninety-five days since I last had a cocktail. I think I still remember the bite of alcohol as it slid down my throat. In my old life I had a small alcohol addiction which is why I never had any long-term relationships. I always had two or three drinks before going to bed. When I washed ashore my sandy prison, I thought I would be able to find a smuggler's hatch like in Pirates of the Caribbean. I did find some kind of tubular growing in the underbrush and that kept me fed for a few weeks, but no alcohol. I went through a rough withdrawal, and I thought I would end up dying here. Dying here in this place where I'm always thirsty, always hungry, and can never escape. It's been seventy-three days since I last thought about alcohol.
It's been fifty-seven days since I last had a coconut. I always hated coconuts back in my old life. I shuddered at the very thought of putting anything coconut-flavored in my mouth. The first time I saw one here, I scurried over and cracked it open on a long piece of metal - I think it used to be part of the ship's siding, but I'm no expert. The sweet water that washed over my tongue might have been creme brulee. The first sip went down my throat before I realized it went in. I forced myself to savor the second sip, letting it sit and mingle with my taste buds, before I satisfied my parched throat. The coconuts lasted thirty-three days. Looking back, those were the best days of my life here.
It's been thirty-five days since I last felt angry. I remember I was trying to cut open a fish and I managed to slice my hand. The rage came fast and hard and I began screaming. I screamed so loud that a bird hidden in one of the few trees behind me took flight. I screamed for so long that my throat began to tear. I think I may have cried, but it could have been kickback from the water I was thrashing through along the shoreline leaving a trail of blood behind. I don't know how long I kept at it, but by the time I finished and returned to the fish it was rotten and revolting. I stared at it and felt all of my emotions leak out of me one-by-one. There was no point.
It's been a week since I last had fresh water. It hasn't rained in two weeks and I drank the last drop exactly six days ago. I stare at the sky and pray for rain. I was not the praying kind before I got here, but now it seems like the best idea I can think of. I sigh and take a bite of raw meat, cringing at the saltiness. I really need some water. I guess I should be happy I have something to eat.
"Not bad." I say to myself. I don't have anyone to talk to besides myself. You see, it's been two days since I last saw another human being. I wonder if I'll slowly lose my mind now. I take my knife and mark the 100th notch on a tree. I guess this is my new home. I chew through another bite and smile.
It's been a long time since I last felt happy. | "History is a genocide".
The overpass loud with the sound of overcast downpour. Cars speeding past, at what seem to be at night the speed of light. Some persistence of vision, sitting here once more, staring at grey slabs and contemplating eternity.
"There is an intolerance in god for man, just as there was an intolerance in angel for man".
The wetness of the earth seeping through the cracks of the old construction, spilling in between the brake of weeds and erosion - time letting that which falls from the sky into the stone of the earth.
"Drenched is the earth once more".
The intolerance of a man for hell, and that prison outside the garden, called earth. Some vile place of passions and wonderment, designed to get you lost. Someplace for wretched sinners, to prove they are above that which is material, something to retire in jealously and want once more for the divinity of spirit.
"But, you never talk back to me, you never hear me". . . . "DO YOU"
Jack shook the baby doll. The words 'Jesus Christ' written on its forehead in sharpie. Jack was mad from the day he got back, but there is no way he was going to trust those VA doctors. . .
| |
[WP] Not all prisons are made of iron. | Day 100. One hundred days since I've seen my family, friends, and my dog, Lily. I think I miss her stupid, derp-eyed face the most. She's probably in the lap of luxury with my parents, getting to eat little bits of human food from time to time; Something I do not allow in my house. It's dog food or go to bed hungry.
It's been ninety-five days since I last had a cocktail. I think I still remember the bite of alcohol as it slid down my throat. In my old life I had a small alcohol addiction which is why I never had any long-term relationships. I always had two or three drinks before going to bed. When I washed ashore my sandy prison, I thought I would be able to find a smuggler's hatch like in Pirates of the Caribbean. I did find some kind of tubular growing in the underbrush and that kept me fed for a few weeks, but no alcohol. I went through a rough withdrawal, and I thought I would end up dying here. Dying here in this place where I'm always thirsty, always hungry, and can never escape. It's been seventy-three days since I last thought about alcohol.
It's been fifty-seven days since I last had a coconut. I always hated coconuts back in my old life. I shuddered at the very thought of putting anything coconut-flavored in my mouth. The first time I saw one here, I scurried over and cracked it open on a long piece of metal - I think it used to be part of the ship's siding, but I'm no expert. The sweet water that washed over my tongue might have been creme brulee. The first sip went down my throat before I realized it went in. I forced myself to savor the second sip, letting it sit and mingle with my taste buds, before I satisfied my parched throat. The coconuts lasted thirty-three days. Looking back, those were the best days of my life here.
It's been thirty-five days since I last felt angry. I remember I was trying to cut open a fish and I managed to slice my hand. The rage came fast and hard and I began screaming. I screamed so loud that a bird hidden in one of the few trees behind me took flight. I screamed for so long that my throat began to tear. I think I may have cried, but it could have been kickback from the water I was thrashing through along the shoreline leaving a trail of blood behind. I don't know how long I kept at it, but by the time I finished and returned to the fish it was rotten and revolting. I stared at it and felt all of my emotions leak out of me one-by-one. There was no point.
It's been a week since I last had fresh water. It hasn't rained in two weeks and I drank the last drop exactly six days ago. I stare at the sky and pray for rain. I was not the praying kind before I got here, but now it seems like the best idea I can think of. I sigh and take a bite of raw meat, cringing at the saltiness. I really need some water. I guess I should be happy I have something to eat.
"Not bad." I say to myself. I don't have anyone to talk to besides myself. You see, it's been two days since I last saw another human being. I wonder if I'll slowly lose my mind now. I take my knife and mark the 100th notch on a tree. I guess this is my new home. I chew through another bite and smile.
It's been a long time since I last felt happy. | Transmission 490173
C/M Lt G Anderson
Ships Doctor
Simulation -Begins- 1425501A
Verifying DMI Pool Data///////////////Success
Electroencephalography module 6
System ' Green ''
Synapse response; Positive
Ocular focus; Positive
Nerve electro; Positive -+1
WARNING' High Sodium Levels Detected ''
ACK
PBall; 0
P Response; 0
J Response; 0
S Response; 0
Notes AZ
---------
Since the entity arrived onboard, communication with hosts remains unsuccessful. Production of pheromones has ceased as in all cases, with the exception of 490173. REM sleep seems a possibility, Alpha waves have been detected in three of the five experiments conducted, suggests onset of Coma however does not match with high EEG scans and levels of Sodium on the skin. Drip being changed six times daily due to fluid output of skin.
High pulse rate in bursts aligned with the excessive sweat suggests patient is aware. Extensive neuropsychological testing, carried out with a communication aid system which exploited the patients residual eye movements, showed preserved cognitive abilities in spite of the long standing de-efferentation.
Five words present, repetitive now for the three week monitoring period. SEE; ESCAPE; ESCAPE; DANGER; END. no changes to patient external status.
Intention to review in two weeks time. Placed under secular care, Sodium increase authorised.
| |
[WP] Not all prisons are made of iron. | Day 100. One hundred days since I've seen my family, friends, and my dog, Lily. I think I miss her stupid, derp-eyed face the most. She's probably in the lap of luxury with my parents, getting to eat little bits of human food from time to time; Something I do not allow in my house. It's dog food or go to bed hungry.
It's been ninety-five days since I last had a cocktail. I think I still remember the bite of alcohol as it slid down my throat. In my old life I had a small alcohol addiction which is why I never had any long-term relationships. I always had two or three drinks before going to bed. When I washed ashore my sandy prison, I thought I would be able to find a smuggler's hatch like in Pirates of the Caribbean. I did find some kind of tubular growing in the underbrush and that kept me fed for a few weeks, but no alcohol. I went through a rough withdrawal, and I thought I would end up dying here. Dying here in this place where I'm always thirsty, always hungry, and can never escape. It's been seventy-three days since I last thought about alcohol.
It's been fifty-seven days since I last had a coconut. I always hated coconuts back in my old life. I shuddered at the very thought of putting anything coconut-flavored in my mouth. The first time I saw one here, I scurried over and cracked it open on a long piece of metal - I think it used to be part of the ship's siding, but I'm no expert. The sweet water that washed over my tongue might have been creme brulee. The first sip went down my throat before I realized it went in. I forced myself to savor the second sip, letting it sit and mingle with my taste buds, before I satisfied my parched throat. The coconuts lasted thirty-three days. Looking back, those were the best days of my life here.
It's been thirty-five days since I last felt angry. I remember I was trying to cut open a fish and I managed to slice my hand. The rage came fast and hard and I began screaming. I screamed so loud that a bird hidden in one of the few trees behind me took flight. I screamed for so long that my throat began to tear. I think I may have cried, but it could have been kickback from the water I was thrashing through along the shoreline leaving a trail of blood behind. I don't know how long I kept at it, but by the time I finished and returned to the fish it was rotten and revolting. I stared at it and felt all of my emotions leak out of me one-by-one. There was no point.
It's been a week since I last had fresh water. It hasn't rained in two weeks and I drank the last drop exactly six days ago. I stare at the sky and pray for rain. I was not the praying kind before I got here, but now it seems like the best idea I can think of. I sigh and take a bite of raw meat, cringing at the saltiness. I really need some water. I guess I should be happy I have something to eat.
"Not bad." I say to myself. I don't have anyone to talk to besides myself. You see, it's been two days since I last saw another human being. I wonder if I'll slowly lose my mind now. I take my knife and mark the 100th notch on a tree. I guess this is my new home. I chew through another bite and smile.
It's been a long time since I last felt happy. | When can i get out?
Why cant i ever leave?
Why cant i ever go?
Why am i stuck here?
Why does everything hate me...
Why
Why
Why
There is no escape....
There is only death
With That comes ease.
When trapped in ones mind, you begin to wish for the harshest prison. | |
[WP] Not all prisons are made of iron. | They all want to know what I've been doing for the past four years. Apparently, the big 4.00 isn't enough. The dual-degree isn't enough. They won't just settle for records and numbers; they want to know what I said, what I wrote, what kind of person I decided to pretend to be in college. And I don't want to tell them.
Why must they force me into a chain gang with my past selves? I'm no longer affiliated with the freshman who submitted an immature piece about bird noises to the school journal or the junior who could only squeeze ten out of the twenty required pages for his term paper. Just let me start anew. Well, let me take the few redeeming qualities I have to my name, but otherwise, give me a clean slate. Accept me for the professional upstart I purport to be. Ignore the trail of ashes in my wake.
There's a table at the end of the job application. "List three references." I don't really want to bother the priest from my hometown and my Intro to Climatology professor, since I haven't actually spoken to them in four years. Can I just spare all parties involved the trouble and leave this part blank? Can't they just take a statement of character from my garbage man? He knows I put the plastics and the metals in the recycling bin and the greasy pizza boxes and chicken bones in the trash can, which is more than any of my undergraduate iterations can say for themselves. I end up putting down a now-defunct phone number for my last reference. It's only fair: if they want a review of my past self, then they can call the number that was in use at the time.
Maybe eventually, I'll be able to start everything anew. It'd require destroying everything I spent the last four years and the eighteen before that building up. I'm well on my way: as of now, the bridges leading to and fro have all been burned. The hard part is escaping myself. | "What the... what the hell!?"
He was lost. He remembered being blaming himself.
His mind went back to see his wife crossing the street, trying to chase him. They had just another petty fight over how to spend their money. He walked away from her as tears streamed down her face, she quickly went after him, that is when he heard the sound he would never forget. His wife's body being hit by a car. The sound was a bang, with bones cracking, and the screams. Right before the car hit her, she and some of the bystanders screamed, but he knew which scream was her's, that scream was permanently replaying in his brain.
He looked over to the other side of his bed, right where his wife used to sleep beside him, there was still no one there. Every night before he went to sleep, he wished that he would be able to fall asleep again as they used to, with his arms wrapped around her. Every morning, before he opened his eyes or before he looked towards her side fo the bed, he wished, even prayed, that she had come back during the night and joined him again. A normal husband would be furious at their wives if they had left without explanation, without a goodbye, but not him. He swore he wouldn't be mad or upset, he wouldn't care that she left, he just wanted his Lauren back.
Every day he followed the same routine, got out of bed, ate a measly breakfast, lazily brushed his teeth, went to his job (a member of the custodial staff at a high school, about 30 minutes from his house), came home, ate whatever was easiest to make for dinner, brushed his teeth one more time, and crawled into bed. He didn't have it in him anymore, he didn't want to enjoy life, he couldn't do it without his wife by his side. A quote that he thought about, one that he thought couldn't be more true, is one that goes something like "behind every great man is a great woman", and he knew he could never be or feel great again without his woman.
Sometimes, in his sleep, he would scream, maybe even cry. He would wake up with sweat all over his body. He heard, and kept hearing, the scream his wife had produced right before she was hit. He wished he could forget it, he didn't want his last memory of her voice to be her scream, but there was not way around it, he had heard it.
Following his normal routine, he ate simple dinner, but then did something out of the ordinary for him. He was done. He couldn't live like that anymore. He was either going to bring his wife back, or go to her, and he knew the former wasn't possible. He went into his 1987 Mercedes-Benz sedan and drove to "Brian's Booze", the closest liquor store. He bought the cheapest, yet biggest, bottle he could find. He forced down a few sips, then started his car. Each sip he took was a struggle, he was never a drinker, but he wanted to escape from his pain.
...
Slowly waking up to the beeps of a machine next to him, he looks down and sees tubes attached to his arms and feels a tube going to his nose. His heart rate spikes as he tries to figure out where he is. He screamed. A nurse ran in, then went to get the surgeon. The surgeon told him that he had crashed his car and nearly died. The car crashed into a corner of a cement wall. "The car was going so fast, that if you had made the car move one foot more to the left, you would have met your maker, this is truly a miracle".
The man looked over to the windows on the other side of the room, the sun was glaring in, reflecting off of everything bright, shining into his eyes. He thought to himself, "there really is no way out of this".
| |
[WP] A drug is released that causes people to feel completely content with their lives. The suicide rate skyrockets. | What does the drug feel like?
It feels good. It doesn't make you feel like you can do anything like Adderall does, and it doesn't make you feel the same, only slightly better, like Prozac does.
It just makes you feel good. Content. Everything is fine, even though the only food you can afford is shit, your job sucks, you've just broken up with your significant other, and you've got nothing to show for the past decade of your life. You're just happy with the way things are. Because why worry? You've got this wonder drug to keep you happy.
The thing is though, it's potent shit. It gives with one hand and takes with the other. You feel good, but you develop a tolerance for it, and worse yet, you start needing it to feel normal. You could take more, get that good feeling back, but there's only so much your body can take, you know?
This drug has existed for years. They've used it in hospitals for cancer patients, they've used it to treat certain conditions, hell, healthy people have had access to it through street dealers!
It's just that... Now it's legal. Available over the counter at any good pharmacy, in pill, powder, even in solution, in pre-filled syringes! People don't know the potency of this stuff. They're dying left, right, and centre because they're taking too much. Accidental suicide.
The pharmaceutical companies call it by a few different names, Soma^TM , Contentin^TM , among others. The scientists call it diamorphine. You know it by another name, though.
Heroin. | As I take the right hand turn, I notice something different. The guy who normally jumps up and tries to "clean my windshield" was sitting passively on the side of the road. As I reach the office I notice the voices don't seem to be tormenting Peter today ( troubled man with dreads who normally screams at God). Later that evening when the day is done I start my car. As I wait for it to warm up, I reflect on the harshness of the winter. The coldest one on record. But the bustling city streets seemed packed with pedestrians. All these people seemed perfectly happy walking around without their coats.
--––------–----
6 months later.
Pfizer gets acquitted from mass murder charges.
The pharmaceutical giant was found not guilty of mass murder when it argued in court that their drug worked "a little too well" by making people so content they would ignore their self preservation. Hundreds of people died after trying this new drug and going outside while under the influence. | |
[WP] A drug is released that causes people to feel completely content with their lives. The suicide rate skyrockets. | Henry sat on the couch next to his girlfriend, Sara, in their small, comfy, 1-bedroom apartment. She flipped through the channels, searching for something interesting to watch.
When the channel changed to MTV, she stopped on it a moment. A newly popular band named "Their Lives" was in the middle of a live performance. They sounded terrible.
"Ugh," Sara groaned, "how can all those tweens even *listen* to this trash. It sounds so awful!"
"Yea. They are definitely pretty awful," Henry nodded in agreement.
Suddenly everything in their apartment started to vibrate. The drinks in their glasses on the coffee table trembled just enough to where you could see tiny little ripples on the surface of the liquid in the cups. The tea cups in the cabinet emitted a tiny high pitched tinkling sound as the vibration grew slightly stronger and stronger.
"What the fuck is that!?" Henry yelled, nervously. He looked at Sara, and she looked back at him, in equal confusion, and a bit of panic in her eyes.
The two of them got up and ran out onto the balcony. The noise was much louder now, outside, and they could see what was causing it.
Up in the pale late-dusk sky were hundreds... no... THOUSANDS of military helicopters, flying across the city, spaced like a giant flying-grid at even intervals, about 100 yards apart from each other front-to-back and side-to-side.
As they drew nearer, Henry and Sara could see some sort of strange, neon green colored gas was spraying out from the undersides of all the helicopters, dispersing into the air all throughout the city in which they lived.
"They're... they're GASSING US!!!" Sara shrieked, "oh my god! What the fuck!?!?"
At that same moment, a booming voice echoed all across the city, seeming to come from every direction all at once. It must've been the loudspeakers on all the helicopters delivering an audio message all at the same time as each other.
"Do not attempt to hide from the gas. Less than 1 nanogram is enough to cure you. If you are hearing this message, you have already inhaled enough of the gas to have ingested the cure. Have no fear. No physical harm will come to you as a result of our cure. This message will now repeat. Do not atte-" (and so it repeated on and on like this)
"WHAT THE FUCK!?!?" Sara screamed, again.
"What do you think it is?" Henry stammered, nervously.
"I don't know, but that audio message crap about how it won't physically harm us makes me feel extra sure that that's total bullshit and that that's exactly what it'll do to us. Hurry, let's get back inside. I think I have some dentist masks in the bottom drawer next to the washing machine," Sara urged. They quickly hurried back inside and shut the glass sliding balcony door behind them.
After a few minutes of pacing nervously back and forth, and realizing they couldn't go outside, out of fear of the gasses that had spread all throughout their city, they decided to sit back down and watch tv, while waiting and trying to figure out what to do, and what was going on.
Sara was flipping through the channels, just as before, and sure enough "Their Lives" was still in the middle of a live performance on MTV, which once again, she stopped on, to comment about.
This time, however, the words seemed to stumble as she opened her mouth to speak.
"Man, this band is so awf-" she had begun to mouth the word "awful", but all that came out was a strange gagging "a" sound.
She stopped, mid-word, and kind of pulled her head back and cocked it ever so slightly to the side, as if puzzled not just by what she was watching and listening to, but also puzzled by her own self, and her own reaction to it.
"They're..." she turned, still with a look of utter confusion on her face, and looked at Henry, who was staring right back at her, with that same look of confusion in his own eyes.
"They're perfectly fi-..." she stuttered a moment, "fine? They're... fine? I guess? But... how? I don't... I don't underst-"
"-Yea," Henry interrupted, "they... are, aren't they? They're... I don't know why but, somehow they... huh... I mean, I just don't really hate them anymore. It's like..."
"...like I feel OKAY with them," Sara finished his sentence for him.
"Yea, exactly" he continued, "it's like, what's the word I'm looking for here. I feel uhhhh...."
"CONTENT," Sara blurted suddenly.
"Yea! That's it! I feel, somehow, perfectly content with their music," Henry nodded, in a strange, dawning-comprehension sort of way.
The two of them then turned their attention to the tv, and watched placidly as "Their Lives" finished out their set.
Then, when the show was over, and the commercials came on, Sara grabbed the remote and started channel surfing again. She stopped on CNN. It said "BREAKING NEWS!!!" in big white font on a blue-border surrounding a live-footage shot on the screen.
The camera zoomed in on some guy holding a sheet of paper with some sort of line-graph on it.
The CNN reporter in the foreground shuffled his stance, trying to get partially into camera view, while still simultaneously keeping the scientist holding the paper graph in view behind him.
"Erin, it looks like there's, err, one second, sorry-" he stopped and looked behind him to avoid tripping over something on the ground, "anyway, as I was saying, it looks like this scientist behind me is holding, um, I'm trying to get a closer look at it-"
The feed cut back to the CNN anchor room, and Erin frowned slightly and craned her neck, as she watched Anderson through on the live feed, "is there any... uh... can you tell possibly what the chart is exactly? Anderson?"
"Yea, Erin, I'm trying to get a better look at it, but..." he paused for a second and pressed one of his hands to his ear and looked down at the ground and nodded, "AH, okay yea, I'm getting confirmation now, it is apparently a graph of the national Suicide Rate, printed out on a piece of printer paper."
Erin frowned and pulled her head back in surprise in a sort of "wtf?"-esque type of body language. "Okay, uh, I don't understand why... what is err... what is the significance of all of this? There seems to be a lot of uh... commotion all around you, could you try to explain some of the context surrounding this situation?"
Anderson, who had been standing perfectly still, a steady frown on his face the whole time Erin was talking to him, his index finger pressed gently against the side of his ear, nodded when she finished her question, and he looked back up into the camera, to answer, "Right, so uh, that's what we've been trying to work out over here, but, from what we can see, there appears to be, uh, Frank could you just, yea, over there-" Anderson mumbled some camera directions to his cameraman, and the camera turned to a new angle and zoomed in on some tall, blurry white object off in the distance, and then adjusted its focus on it, so it came into clear view. An enormous space cargo-rocket was sitting on a launch pad, out in the middle of the desert. "-yea so as you can see, there's a huge rocket sitting over there, in the middle of the desert. It's just over on the other side of the outer perimeter fence to Area 51, so, we can't get any closer to it than we are right now, but uh, yea, it's definitely some sort of a large rocket, Erin."
"Thanks, Anderson," she said, the tv view now back in the anchor room. "Okay, well, for viewers just tuning in, as best we can tell, there is some unknown scientist guy walking swiftly towards a large rocket, at the Area 51 military base. We don't know anything more at the time, other than that, apparently the scientist was carrying a sheet of paper with the national suicide rate printed on it. Anderson, could you ask Frank to keep his camera pointed at that scientist guy, I want... I want to see where he's going, what's he's doing."
"Yea, definitley, Erin. Frank, just, yea, keep it on there-" Anderson slid out of camera view and mumbled some more directions to the cameraman, and the CNN view was now zoomed steadily on the Scientist as he walked closer and closer to the rocket looming monolithically in the distance, and tracked him continuously.
When the scientist finally got to the rocket, some men in hazmat suits greeted him, and he handed the paper to one of them. That man then climbed up an extremely long ladder, which was directly parallel to the rocket, and once he was about 200 feet up, he reached over and pressed some buttons on the side of the rocket, at which point a small payload-door slid open, and the man placed the sheet of paper into the payload bay, and then pressed some more buttons until the payload-door slid back closed.
"It seems they have put this, uh... sheet of paper with the national suicide rate printed on it, into the rocket's payload bay, Erin," Anderson said, looking into the camera, with a perplexed facial expression.
The CNN view switched back to the anchor room, with the live-shot hovering over Erin's shoulder in the background.
"Okay, those of you just tuning in, were not sure what's going on exactly or whethe- OH! WOW!!!" Erin, yelled out, nervously, as the rocket's engines suddenly ignited, and enormous jets of fire and smoke shot out in all directions underneath the launch pad. The rocket slowly lifted off the ground and began rocketing faster and faster, higher and higher, up into the atmosphere, and then out into space.
The end.
| As I take the right hand turn, I notice something different. The guy who normally jumps up and tries to "clean my windshield" was sitting passively on the side of the road. As I reach the office I notice the voices don't seem to be tormenting Peter today ( troubled man with dreads who normally screams at God). Later that evening when the day is done I start my car. As I wait for it to warm up, I reflect on the harshness of the winter. The coldest one on record. But the bustling city streets seemed packed with pedestrians. All these people seemed perfectly happy walking around without their coats.
--––------–----
6 months later.
Pfizer gets acquitted from mass murder charges.
The pharmaceutical giant was found not guilty of mass murder when it argued in court that their drug worked "a little too well" by making people so content they would ignore their self preservation. Hundreds of people died after trying this new drug and going outside while under the influence. | |
[WP] A drug is released that causes people to feel completely content with their lives. The suicide rate skyrockets. | *Excerpt from the NY Times, February 11th 2034*
>The FDA wanted to ban it. But it had no real reason, the clinical trials did well and there were no documented side effects on the test subjects. They had only one real argument, a paper published in a journal of speculative medicine which said that happiness, like everything else, had to be administered in doses of moderation. High-usage of this drug would lead to high probability of risk-taking behavior, excess alcohol consumption, binge eating, neglecting threats, etc. But that wasn't really an argument, as it could be made for all drugs in existence: *Take it in moderation, duh!* The matter went to the supreme court and the FDA lost- the pursuit of happiness is an inalienable right.
>It was subsequently released to the market.
---
Jason pops the pill as he puts the water to boil. No spices, meat or vegetables- he just strains the noodles and throws the gooey overboiled mess on his plate.
It tastes like the best five-star meal he never had.
The cellphone rings, "Jason, dear, you don't call!"
"That's because everything's good, mom! You worry for nothing."
"Your grades have been going down. How will you get a job if you don't graduate?"
"Why do people need a job, mom?"
"What kind of question is that, Jason? Should I come over? I'm worried."
"People take jobs to earn money, why? To buy good stuff to feel happy. To not get bored. What if I could do all of that without a job? "
"What are you saying, son, listen-"
"Gotta go." The line goes dead.
He slumps down on the sofa with the spaghetti on a paper plate and switches on the TV.
---
Carter peers outside the alleyway, no one is there. He gives out a whistle and starts walking down the pavement. Another man appears from the bend and takes his hands out of his pockets. They exchange envelopes as they pass each other by. He turns the corner, looks around again, and opens the envelope to inspect the note neatly folded inside. He smiles and shoves it inside his sheepskin coat.
---
Alicia entered the restaurant and sat at an empty table. She crossed her legs and brought out her cell.
Text from Clara: "What're you upto, Babe?"
"On a date. He's late, as usual."
"Oh, you're too good to deal with this shit."
"I know, lol :)"
"Move on, I've been hearing rumors."
"That's why I called him here. I'll tell him to come straight."
"Good luck. You always have my shoulder to cry on."
"F off."
"Gladly." Clara has signed off.
She ordered a cup of coffee, sipped through slowly watching the parking lot outside. After twenty minutes, she got a text from Brian.
"Sorry, can't make it right now, babe. Got tied up, will call later."
She logged in to facebook to check. No activity on Brian's profile.
Text to Clara: "Check Brian's profile. I think his settings have blocked me out of seeing specific activity."
"Wait up."
Alicia waited.
"Ooh. You're not gonna like this. He just signed into a bar and uploaded pic. I'm sending."
Alicia stared at the phone as her eyes glistened. She shoved it into her purse, dropped a bill on the table and stormed off.
---
Jason is still slumped on the sofa, the commercial for the contentment drug playing out in his eyes.
His expression is not so serene anymore. He plucks the neck of his t-shirt and brings it to his nose, immediately turning his head in disgust.
He sits up and moves across the hallway, pausing before the many letters and brochures littered on the floor. He pauses, sighs and sits on the floor. Opens up the first letter: bills. The second one: more bills. The third one carries the logo of his bank, he chugs it away. From the pile he picks up another letter: it's from his university. He opens it and reads. It is a termination notice.
He rips it and stands up, pacing around frantically. His face turns to a grimace and he takes out his t-shirt and moves to the bathroom. Another dirty mess: he checks the cupboard behind the mirror and finds the pill bottle empty. He looks around and his de-contentment increases, reality sets in like the rot that has taken his apartment. He gets on the bathtub, opens the tap and lets the water stream over him. He lets out a scream.
---
"Man, I'm horny as fuck." Carter says as he leers at a woman walk down the pavement.
"You're on parole, remember. Do you wanna go in again?"
"Maybe." He says, as another woman walks by.
"So how's the new stuff doing?"
"Pretty good. Selling like nothing before."
"Have you tried it?"
"Never get high on your own supply."
"Strange to thing that something that's legal can fetch so much on the black market." He put on his golf-cap and walked away, chuckling
"They only allow three a week max." Carter said to himself, eyeing someone coming from afar. He checked the street, and started moving towards her.
---
Alicia moves out of the pharmacy, still clutching her ID and the brand new box of pills. She opens it and throws away the instructions and pops one in.
Her appearance is unflattering. Crying made rivers of mascara trail down her cheeks. Her hair unkempt, as if she'd been in a tussle.
"Hey, ho! Get the fuck out of this neighborhood!"
She turns towards the voice. It is a skinny man, wearing a smelly brown t-shirt. His clothes and hair are dripping wet, like he just got out of a shower.
"You fucking lowlives are ruining this neighborhood." He continues screaming as Alicia stares back at him defiantly.
"You're a fucking asshole!" She screams, but her annoyance is overcome by shame for looking like a fuckup and being confused for a prostitute. She pops a pill as the wet creep enters the pharmacy.
---
"Refill" Jason taps the bottle on the counter and throws down his ID.
The receptionist takes the bottle, scans it with the barcode reader, she checks his ID and types into the computer. Then she puts a green tick mark on the bottle with a felt pen and gives him a fresh one.
"My last this week. Two more days, but I've got arrangements for that."
She tries to hide her disgust and appear professional. It is an open secret that the pill could be bought on the allies, but this brazenness can only emerge from stupidity. She prints out a sheet and hands him a pen. Jason signs and grabs the bottle. He pops in a pill then and there and asks to add a bottle of mineral water to his bill.
---
"Hey, honey. Wanna have a nice time?" Carter pauses in front of the woman, eyeing her lasciviously as he chews his gum.
"I already am," she replies with a bright smile that shone through the rivers of mascara and disheveled hair all over her cheeks.
Carter knew one when he saw one, and he flashed a smile.
"I've got a present for you, right down this alley. Come."
She smiled and narrowed her eyes, "Really? For me? Wow. I just had the worst day and now everything's better already!"
He took her into the alley, pushed her against a wall and placed his hand on her mouth.
---
Jason stopped on the pavement when he heard noises coming from the alley.
He peered into the dark, the headlights of a passing car illuminated his dealer, half undressed over, the woman he'd seen in front of the pharmacy.
"What's going on Carter? Found a date?" He said with a smile.
The woman lay there, a smile glued to her lips. But it was as if someone had distended her lips to stretch, and there was no emotion behind it. Not sadness, not pleasure. Just an empty gaze of being content at whatever her predicament was.
"You ran out already?" Carter said in a gruff voice.
"No, have enough till the weekend." Jason cheerily replied.
"Then fuck off already." Carter went back down on the woman.
She lay frigid on the floor and Jason looked on for a minute.
Then he smiled a contented smile. "Have a good night, both of you."
He walked down the street until Carter's grunts disappeared. Then he sat back on his sofa and and switched on the TV.
| As I take the right hand turn, I notice something different. The guy who normally jumps up and tries to "clean my windshield" was sitting passively on the side of the road. As I reach the office I notice the voices don't seem to be tormenting Peter today ( troubled man with dreads who normally screams at God). Later that evening when the day is done I start my car. As I wait for it to warm up, I reflect on the harshness of the winter. The coldest one on record. But the bustling city streets seemed packed with pedestrians. All these people seemed perfectly happy walking around without their coats.
--––------–----
6 months later.
Pfizer gets acquitted from mass murder charges.
The pharmaceutical giant was found not guilty of mass murder when it argued in court that their drug worked "a little too well" by making people so content they would ignore their self preservation. Hundreds of people died after trying this new drug and going outside while under the influence. | |
[WP] A drug is released that causes people to feel completely content with their lives. The suicide rate skyrockets. | What does the drug feel like?
It feels good. It doesn't make you feel like you can do anything like Adderall does, and it doesn't make you feel the same, only slightly better, like Prozac does.
It just makes you feel good. Content. Everything is fine, even though the only food you can afford is shit, your job sucks, you've just broken up with your significant other, and you've got nothing to show for the past decade of your life. You're just happy with the way things are. Because why worry? You've got this wonder drug to keep you happy.
The thing is though, it's potent shit. It gives with one hand and takes with the other. You feel good, but you develop a tolerance for it, and worse yet, you start needing it to feel normal. You could take more, get that good feeling back, but there's only so much your body can take, you know?
This drug has existed for years. They've used it in hospitals for cancer patients, they've used it to treat certain conditions, hell, healthy people have had access to it through street dealers!
It's just that... Now it's legal. Available over the counter at any good pharmacy, in pill, powder, even in solution, in pre-filled syringes! People don't know the potency of this stuff. They're dying left, right, and centre because they're taking too much. Accidental suicide.
The pharmaceutical companies call it by a few different names, Soma^TM , Contentin^TM , among others. The scientists call it diamorphine. You know it by another name, though.
Heroin. | The small blue pill reminds me of something, a distant memory at back from my younger years, when everything was crazy. These days I am much more relaxed. My depression used to eat me alive, but ever since this little guy came out I always feel okay. That's all I have ever wanted. What more could I need? Maybe real happiness would be great, but normally that's just way to hard to find.
I pop the thing in my mouth, wash down with a full glass of water like I do every day. Within half an hour I am enjoying an afternoon cleaning session. What a great way to spend the day. I just love doing these menial things and not thinking. Thinking sucks, it just leads to bad feelings, I wish that I never had to think.
Wait! I don't! I'll just take another FG pill when this one feels like it's wearing off! No worries, ooh except that dust on the window sill, let me just get that real quick.
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
I never feel bad anymore, life is great, I don't know why I even felt upset in the first place. I must not have been that upset. Why did I always used feel like it would be easier to die? That was dumb. I just feel so warm right now and it's the best.
I don't ever want to feel that way again, why should I be a helpless loser? I'm not going to, if I never lose this feeling until I die then I won't ever have to deal with my stomach eating me up because of the fear.
This water is just so good. Anyways... I don't miss it, I will never let myself sink back down to the lifelessness that never feels like it will get any better. I'm going to take all of the pills. I wonder how many I can fit in my mouth? Lets find out!
I stand outside, looking over the railing of the balcony of my apartment, wow I'm high. "That mean's two things!" I can't stop giggling, and as this is the best moment of my life, I think it's time. I lean forward and fly. | |
[WP] A drug is released that causes people to feel completely content with their lives. The suicide rate skyrockets. | Henry sat on the couch next to his girlfriend, Sara, in their small, comfy, 1-bedroom apartment. She flipped through the channels, searching for something interesting to watch.
When the channel changed to MTV, she stopped on it a moment. A newly popular band named "Their Lives" was in the middle of a live performance. They sounded terrible.
"Ugh," Sara groaned, "how can all those tweens even *listen* to this trash. It sounds so awful!"
"Yea. They are definitely pretty awful," Henry nodded in agreement.
Suddenly everything in their apartment started to vibrate. The drinks in their glasses on the coffee table trembled just enough to where you could see tiny little ripples on the surface of the liquid in the cups. The tea cups in the cabinet emitted a tiny high pitched tinkling sound as the vibration grew slightly stronger and stronger.
"What the fuck is that!?" Henry yelled, nervously. He looked at Sara, and she looked back at him, in equal confusion, and a bit of panic in her eyes.
The two of them got up and ran out onto the balcony. The noise was much louder now, outside, and they could see what was causing it.
Up in the pale late-dusk sky were hundreds... no... THOUSANDS of military helicopters, flying across the city, spaced like a giant flying-grid at even intervals, about 100 yards apart from each other front-to-back and side-to-side.
As they drew nearer, Henry and Sara could see some sort of strange, neon green colored gas was spraying out from the undersides of all the helicopters, dispersing into the air all throughout the city in which they lived.
"They're... they're GASSING US!!!" Sara shrieked, "oh my god! What the fuck!?!?"
At that same moment, a booming voice echoed all across the city, seeming to come from every direction all at once. It must've been the loudspeakers on all the helicopters delivering an audio message all at the same time as each other.
"Do not attempt to hide from the gas. Less than 1 nanogram is enough to cure you. If you are hearing this message, you have already inhaled enough of the gas to have ingested the cure. Have no fear. No physical harm will come to you as a result of our cure. This message will now repeat. Do not atte-" (and so it repeated on and on like this)
"WHAT THE FUCK!?!?" Sara screamed, again.
"What do you think it is?" Henry stammered, nervously.
"I don't know, but that audio message crap about how it won't physically harm us makes me feel extra sure that that's total bullshit and that that's exactly what it'll do to us. Hurry, let's get back inside. I think I have some dentist masks in the bottom drawer next to the washing machine," Sara urged. They quickly hurried back inside and shut the glass sliding balcony door behind them.
After a few minutes of pacing nervously back and forth, and realizing they couldn't go outside, out of fear of the gasses that had spread all throughout their city, they decided to sit back down and watch tv, while waiting and trying to figure out what to do, and what was going on.
Sara was flipping through the channels, just as before, and sure enough "Their Lives" was still in the middle of a live performance on MTV, which once again, she stopped on, to comment about.
This time, however, the words seemed to stumble as she opened her mouth to speak.
"Man, this band is so awf-" she had begun to mouth the word "awful", but all that came out was a strange gagging "a" sound.
She stopped, mid-word, and kind of pulled her head back and cocked it ever so slightly to the side, as if puzzled not just by what she was watching and listening to, but also puzzled by her own self, and her own reaction to it.
"They're..." she turned, still with a look of utter confusion on her face, and looked at Henry, who was staring right back at her, with that same look of confusion in his own eyes.
"They're perfectly fi-..." she stuttered a moment, "fine? They're... fine? I guess? But... how? I don't... I don't underst-"
"-Yea," Henry interrupted, "they... are, aren't they? They're... I don't know why but, somehow they... huh... I mean, I just don't really hate them anymore. It's like..."
"...like I feel OKAY with them," Sara finished his sentence for him.
"Yea, exactly" he continued, "it's like, what's the word I'm looking for here. I feel uhhhh...."
"CONTENT," Sara blurted suddenly.
"Yea! That's it! I feel, somehow, perfectly content with their music," Henry nodded, in a strange, dawning-comprehension sort of way.
The two of them then turned their attention to the tv, and watched placidly as "Their Lives" finished out their set.
Then, when the show was over, and the commercials came on, Sara grabbed the remote and started channel surfing again. She stopped on CNN. It said "BREAKING NEWS!!!" in big white font on a blue-border surrounding a live-footage shot on the screen.
The camera zoomed in on some guy holding a sheet of paper with some sort of line-graph on it.
The CNN reporter in the foreground shuffled his stance, trying to get partially into camera view, while still simultaneously keeping the scientist holding the paper graph in view behind him.
"Erin, it looks like there's, err, one second, sorry-" he stopped and looked behind him to avoid tripping over something on the ground, "anyway, as I was saying, it looks like this scientist behind me is holding, um, I'm trying to get a closer look at it-"
The feed cut back to the CNN anchor room, and Erin frowned slightly and craned her neck, as she watched Anderson through on the live feed, "is there any... uh... can you tell possibly what the chart is exactly? Anderson?"
"Yea, Erin, I'm trying to get a better look at it, but..." he paused for a second and pressed one of his hands to his ear and looked down at the ground and nodded, "AH, okay yea, I'm getting confirmation now, it is apparently a graph of the national Suicide Rate, printed out on a piece of printer paper."
Erin frowned and pulled her head back in surprise in a sort of "wtf?"-esque type of body language. "Okay, uh, I don't understand why... what is err... what is the significance of all of this? There seems to be a lot of uh... commotion all around you, could you try to explain some of the context surrounding this situation?"
Anderson, who had been standing perfectly still, a steady frown on his face the whole time Erin was talking to him, his index finger pressed gently against the side of his ear, nodded when she finished her question, and he looked back up into the camera, to answer, "Right, so uh, that's what we've been trying to work out over here, but, from what we can see, there appears to be, uh, Frank could you just, yea, over there-" Anderson mumbled some camera directions to his cameraman, and the camera turned to a new angle and zoomed in on some tall, blurry white object off in the distance, and then adjusted its focus on it, so it came into clear view. An enormous space cargo-rocket was sitting on a launch pad, out in the middle of the desert. "-yea so as you can see, there's a huge rocket sitting over there, in the middle of the desert. It's just over on the other side of the outer perimeter fence to Area 51, so, we can't get any closer to it than we are right now, but uh, yea, it's definitely some sort of a large rocket, Erin."
"Thanks, Anderson," she said, the tv view now back in the anchor room. "Okay, well, for viewers just tuning in, as best we can tell, there is some unknown scientist guy walking swiftly towards a large rocket, at the Area 51 military base. We don't know anything more at the time, other than that, apparently the scientist was carrying a sheet of paper with the national suicide rate printed on it. Anderson, could you ask Frank to keep his camera pointed at that scientist guy, I want... I want to see where he's going, what's he's doing."
"Yea, definitley, Erin. Frank, just, yea, keep it on there-" Anderson slid out of camera view and mumbled some more directions to the cameraman, and the CNN view was now zoomed steadily on the Scientist as he walked closer and closer to the rocket looming monolithically in the distance, and tracked him continuously.
When the scientist finally got to the rocket, some men in hazmat suits greeted him, and he handed the paper to one of them. That man then climbed up an extremely long ladder, which was directly parallel to the rocket, and once he was about 200 feet up, he reached over and pressed some buttons on the side of the rocket, at which point a small payload-door slid open, and the man placed the sheet of paper into the payload bay, and then pressed some more buttons until the payload-door slid back closed.
"It seems they have put this, uh... sheet of paper with the national suicide rate printed on it, into the rocket's payload bay, Erin," Anderson said, looking into the camera, with a perplexed facial expression.
The CNN view switched back to the anchor room, with the live-shot hovering over Erin's shoulder in the background.
"Okay, those of you just tuning in, were not sure what's going on exactly or whethe- OH! WOW!!!" Erin, yelled out, nervously, as the rocket's engines suddenly ignited, and enormous jets of fire and smoke shot out in all directions underneath the launch pad. The rocket slowly lifted off the ground and began rocketing faster and faster, higher and higher, up into the atmosphere, and then out into space.
The end.
| The small blue pill reminds me of something, a distant memory at back from my younger years, when everything was crazy. These days I am much more relaxed. My depression used to eat me alive, but ever since this little guy came out I always feel okay. That's all I have ever wanted. What more could I need? Maybe real happiness would be great, but normally that's just way to hard to find.
I pop the thing in my mouth, wash down with a full glass of water like I do every day. Within half an hour I am enjoying an afternoon cleaning session. What a great way to spend the day. I just love doing these menial things and not thinking. Thinking sucks, it just leads to bad feelings, I wish that I never had to think.
Wait! I don't! I'll just take another FG pill when this one feels like it's wearing off! No worries, ooh except that dust on the window sill, let me just get that real quick.
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I never feel bad anymore, life is great, I don't know why I even felt upset in the first place. I must not have been that upset. Why did I always used feel like it would be easier to die? That was dumb. I just feel so warm right now and it's the best.
I don't ever want to feel that way again, why should I be a helpless loser? I'm not going to, if I never lose this feeling until I die then I won't ever have to deal with my stomach eating me up because of the fear.
This water is just so good. Anyways... I don't miss it, I will never let myself sink back down to the lifelessness that never feels like it will get any better. I'm going to take all of the pills. I wonder how many I can fit in my mouth? Lets find out!
I stand outside, looking over the railing of the balcony of my apartment, wow I'm high. "That mean's two things!" I can't stop giggling, and as this is the best moment of my life, I think it's time. I lean forward and fly. | |
[WP] A drug is released that causes people to feel completely content with their lives. The suicide rate skyrockets. | *Excerpt from the NY Times, February 11th 2034*
>The FDA wanted to ban it. But it had no real reason, the clinical trials did well and there were no documented side effects on the test subjects. They had only one real argument, a paper published in a journal of speculative medicine which said that happiness, like everything else, had to be administered in doses of moderation. High-usage of this drug would lead to high probability of risk-taking behavior, excess alcohol consumption, binge eating, neglecting threats, etc. But that wasn't really an argument, as it could be made for all drugs in existence: *Take it in moderation, duh!* The matter went to the supreme court and the FDA lost- the pursuit of happiness is an inalienable right.
>It was subsequently released to the market.
---
Jason pops the pill as he puts the water to boil. No spices, meat or vegetables- he just strains the noodles and throws the gooey overboiled mess on his plate.
It tastes like the best five-star meal he never had.
The cellphone rings, "Jason, dear, you don't call!"
"That's because everything's good, mom! You worry for nothing."
"Your grades have been going down. How will you get a job if you don't graduate?"
"Why do people need a job, mom?"
"What kind of question is that, Jason? Should I come over? I'm worried."
"People take jobs to earn money, why? To buy good stuff to feel happy. To not get bored. What if I could do all of that without a job? "
"What are you saying, son, listen-"
"Gotta go." The line goes dead.
He slumps down on the sofa with the spaghetti on a paper plate and switches on the TV.
---
Carter peers outside the alleyway, no one is there. He gives out a whistle and starts walking down the pavement. Another man appears from the bend and takes his hands out of his pockets. They exchange envelopes as they pass each other by. He turns the corner, looks around again, and opens the envelope to inspect the note neatly folded inside. He smiles and shoves it inside his sheepskin coat.
---
Alicia entered the restaurant and sat at an empty table. She crossed her legs and brought out her cell.
Text from Clara: "What're you upto, Babe?"
"On a date. He's late, as usual."
"Oh, you're too good to deal with this shit."
"I know, lol :)"
"Move on, I've been hearing rumors."
"That's why I called him here. I'll tell him to come straight."
"Good luck. You always have my shoulder to cry on."
"F off."
"Gladly." Clara has signed off.
She ordered a cup of coffee, sipped through slowly watching the parking lot outside. After twenty minutes, she got a text from Brian.
"Sorry, can't make it right now, babe. Got tied up, will call later."
She logged in to facebook to check. No activity on Brian's profile.
Text to Clara: "Check Brian's profile. I think his settings have blocked me out of seeing specific activity."
"Wait up."
Alicia waited.
"Ooh. You're not gonna like this. He just signed into a bar and uploaded pic. I'm sending."
Alicia stared at the phone as her eyes glistened. She shoved it into her purse, dropped a bill on the table and stormed off.
---
Jason is still slumped on the sofa, the commercial for the contentment drug playing out in his eyes.
His expression is not so serene anymore. He plucks the neck of his t-shirt and brings it to his nose, immediately turning his head in disgust.
He sits up and moves across the hallway, pausing before the many letters and brochures littered on the floor. He pauses, sighs and sits on the floor. Opens up the first letter: bills. The second one: more bills. The third one carries the logo of his bank, he chugs it away. From the pile he picks up another letter: it's from his university. He opens it and reads. It is a termination notice.
He rips it and stands up, pacing around frantically. His face turns to a grimace and he takes out his t-shirt and moves to the bathroom. Another dirty mess: he checks the cupboard behind the mirror and finds the pill bottle empty. He looks around and his de-contentment increases, reality sets in like the rot that has taken his apartment. He gets on the bathtub, opens the tap and lets the water stream over him. He lets out a scream.
---
"Man, I'm horny as fuck." Carter says as he leers at a woman walk down the pavement.
"You're on parole, remember. Do you wanna go in again?"
"Maybe." He says, as another woman walks by.
"So how's the new stuff doing?"
"Pretty good. Selling like nothing before."
"Have you tried it?"
"Never get high on your own supply."
"Strange to thing that something that's legal can fetch so much on the black market." He put on his golf-cap and walked away, chuckling
"They only allow three a week max." Carter said to himself, eyeing someone coming from afar. He checked the street, and started moving towards her.
---
Alicia moves out of the pharmacy, still clutching her ID and the brand new box of pills. She opens it and throws away the instructions and pops one in.
Her appearance is unflattering. Crying made rivers of mascara trail down her cheeks. Her hair unkempt, as if she'd been in a tussle.
"Hey, ho! Get the fuck out of this neighborhood!"
She turns towards the voice. It is a skinny man, wearing a smelly brown t-shirt. His clothes and hair are dripping wet, like he just got out of a shower.
"You fucking lowlives are ruining this neighborhood." He continues screaming as Alicia stares back at him defiantly.
"You're a fucking asshole!" She screams, but her annoyance is overcome by shame for looking like a fuckup and being confused for a prostitute. She pops a pill as the wet creep enters the pharmacy.
---
"Refill" Jason taps the bottle on the counter and throws down his ID.
The receptionist takes the bottle, scans it with the barcode reader, she checks his ID and types into the computer. Then she puts a green tick mark on the bottle with a felt pen and gives him a fresh one.
"My last this week. Two more days, but I've got arrangements for that."
She tries to hide her disgust and appear professional. It is an open secret that the pill could be bought on the allies, but this brazenness can only emerge from stupidity. She prints out a sheet and hands him a pen. Jason signs and grabs the bottle. He pops in a pill then and there and asks to add a bottle of mineral water to his bill.
---
"Hey, honey. Wanna have a nice time?" Carter pauses in front of the woman, eyeing her lasciviously as he chews his gum.
"I already am," she replies with a bright smile that shone through the rivers of mascara and disheveled hair all over her cheeks.
Carter knew one when he saw one, and he flashed a smile.
"I've got a present for you, right down this alley. Come."
She smiled and narrowed her eyes, "Really? For me? Wow. I just had the worst day and now everything's better already!"
He took her into the alley, pushed her against a wall and placed his hand on her mouth.
---
Jason stopped on the pavement when he heard noises coming from the alley.
He peered into the dark, the headlights of a passing car illuminated his dealer, half undressed over, the woman he'd seen in front of the pharmacy.
"What's going on Carter? Found a date?" He said with a smile.
The woman lay there, a smile glued to her lips. But it was as if someone had distended her lips to stretch, and there was no emotion behind it. Not sadness, not pleasure. Just an empty gaze of being content at whatever her predicament was.
"You ran out already?" Carter said in a gruff voice.
"No, have enough till the weekend." Jason cheerily replied.
"Then fuck off already." Carter went back down on the woman.
She lay frigid on the floor and Jason looked on for a minute.
Then he smiled a contented smile. "Have a good night, both of you."
He walked down the street until Carter's grunts disappeared. Then he sat back on his sofa and and switched on the TV.
| The needle slips out and the nurse smiles. That’s all you’ll need now, she says, as your mind stills. Your heart stops racing and the anxiety, the panic, the unsettling flapping of birds behind your eyes stops as the drug reaches out and clips their wings.
The beasts are caged. How do you feel?
How do you feel, as you reach the end of the rollercoaster and look out onto the plateau? Now that the colours have come back as muted pastels painted in watercolours, and life takes on a soft focus? The eternal spring has arrived to take away the cold, but it never gets too warm to be uncomfortable. How do you feel?
How do you feel, now that the lights are all amber on your emotional switchboard and the circuits are all wired correct and safe? When your wife lies next to you, crying because she can’t feel a spark, while you stroke her hair and say I don’t understand. How can you be sad when I’m fixed now?
At the very end, at the edge of life, at the edge of the rooftop, looking into a sucking black hole with the muffled sound of the city far below. The twinkling headlights of cars at stoplights are beyond your reach, but not for long. How do you feel?
You feel content. | |
[WP] A drug is released that causes people to feel completely content with their lives. The suicide rate skyrockets. | "Are you tired of having dreams that you will never achieve? Tired of wanting it all but not being able grab it? Do you set realistically unrealistic goals for yourself? Drozenol may be just right for you."
Her glossy eyes stared into my soul through the television screen. Occasionally she would tilt her head ever so slightly in between sentences. She was having a conversation with the viewer and was dressed the part. A warm yellow cardigan sweater on top of a floral white blouse. Lightly bleached blonde hair and a face with subtle happy wrinkles. Laugh lines I think she called them. Adorned around the neck with a pearl necklace, dulled enough to look fake.
She was your mother, your friend's mother, your co-worker, your neighbor, your aunt, your Mrs. fucking Robinson for all I care. She connected with the lonely demographic we were going for and that's the only thing that mattered to me. Her teeth matched her necklace and her smile kept the viewer distracted while an auctioneer narrator rattled off the side effects.
"...and in some cases thoughts of death may occur." She tilted her head to the opposite side.
"I gotta admit the commercial makes me a little uncomfortable." Said Paul, who was nibbling on the corner of his fingernail. He stood up and walked to the television. It was paused on the woman's glazed smiley face. "Where did we get her again?"
"She was the casting director's sister," I replied, scratching my head. "Maybe her aunt. She was a tester for the product. She's down in the lobby if you want to call her up."
Paul shook his head and waved it off. "Nah, she's fine. It could be that it's the product that I'm having concerns about. I've always assumed anti-depressants were all about the placebo effect and we were just selling sugar pills. It's rather frightening when your product actually works."
"So you'd rather scam the consumers with sugar pills than offer them a potential solution?"
"These aren't anti-depressants, Alan! That's the thing. You've seen what they do to people."
"I've seen them help people, if that's what you're referring to." I replied.
Paul stifled a startled snort. "Help? It doesn't help! It changes them. Do I need to remind you what happened to the testers?"
"I don't want to hear it," I raised my voice so I could stop hearing his. "What happened to those testers after the trials are not our legal responsibility. The fatalities that occurred were not in anyway linked to Drozenol."
Not medically that is. There absolutely had to have been a link. Anyone should be able to figure that out. Every single tester that tried the product and not the sugar pill has either shot themselves or hung themselves or flung themselves off a roof somewhere. All but one; and that one's face is on the screen in front of us.
"Look, Paul. There are a lot of pharmaceutical companies out there. We're not even in the top twenty. We *need* to put out a product this quarter. For the shareholders, for the company, for us. This is important for us."
Paul was about to disagree with me again. I've known and worked with him for so long I can read his face before he even registers an idea. His face showed disagreement for a second, but changed to puzzled. He was staring out our eleventh story window. He rushed over to it and looked down. I followed.
On the ground was a person lying face down, draped in a yellow cardigan and surrounded by shattered pearls. | The needle slips out and the nurse smiles. That’s all you’ll need now, she says, as your mind stills. Your heart stops racing and the anxiety, the panic, the unsettling flapping of birds behind your eyes stops as the drug reaches out and clips their wings.
The beasts are caged. How do you feel?
How do you feel, as you reach the end of the rollercoaster and look out onto the plateau? Now that the colours have come back as muted pastels painted in watercolours, and life takes on a soft focus? The eternal spring has arrived to take away the cold, but it never gets too warm to be uncomfortable. How do you feel?
How do you feel, now that the lights are all amber on your emotional switchboard and the circuits are all wired correct and safe? When your wife lies next to you, crying because she can’t feel a spark, while you stroke her hair and say I don’t understand. How can you be sad when I’m fixed now?
At the very end, at the edge of life, at the edge of the rooftop, looking into a sucking black hole with the muffled sound of the city far below. The twinkling headlights of cars at stoplights are beyond your reach, but not for long. How do you feel?
You feel content. | |
[WP] A depressed and suicidal man starts to take up incredibly dangerous hobbies in order to die doing something unimportant. Over the years, he's inadvertently grown to be pretty good at those pastimes. | Trent was beloved by his entire community. Not a single person could speak ill of him. He was perceived as the wise guru, constantly helping others and trying his best to make everyones' lives better. The whole town had no clue how badly he wanted to kill himself.
Selflessness is seen as a mostly desirable trait. Trent was just about as selfless as they came. He cared so much for everybody else that he barely had any time for himself. Everyone just assumed he was a happy man, altruistic types usually are. Trent was an extreme case though. Trent would feel compelled to help others far into the expense of his own wellbeing. His desire to take his own life was borne from this resilient impediment to his own happiness.
So when Trent put the gun to his head, staring down that sweet barrel of freedom, he thought how his suicide would impact the town. Most in his position would just shrug off these imposing thoughts and squeeze the trigger. Trent was a different case, with tears welling at his eyes, Trent knew he couldn't do this to all the people who loved him. Once again, Trent did what was best for his community at his own detriment.
He was no fool. The temptation of being dead was too great for Trent and he quickly found a suitable loophole. He knew that his suicide would cause the community to blame themselves. Whereas in the case of an accidental death, Trent's life would be celebrated in happy retrospect.
Trent started engaging in some of the more risky past times. His first endeavor was fire fighting. When things got rough, our boy Trent got the call. Stories of his fearlessness spread quicker than the fires he doused. When buildings were deemed too unstable to enter, Trent would barge in, invigorated by the prospect of a fiery tomb. Trent remained unconquered by the flames.
Taking long walks through neighbouring bear country became a regular event for Trent. When he finally stumbled upon a bunch of cubs he knew he had done it. This was surely it. The furry, nubile cubs nosed him suspiciously. Trent bent down and started playing, the purity of the experience was refreshing. He barely flinched when the inevitable bone chilling roar filled the surrounding meadow. He was face to face with a vicious, primal mother grizzly bear. Saliva oozing between her exposed teeth, she was prepared to kill. Trent locked eyes, exhaled slowly and willfully accepted his fate. He had never felt such peace in his life. Confused by his nonchalance, mother grizzly cautiously backed away.
The next few years saw Trent continue his suicidal activities. Eventually he grew tired of them, turns out sky diving and lion taming lose their appeal when you can welcome death like an old friend. Trent never figured out how to make himself happy. The closest he got was when he thought he was about to die. What he did learn was how to be courageous, Trent was no longer the man too afraid to take his own life. | It's odd how it began. One drunken morning I decided that I was done, I've had enough. I've given it my all, and now I can move onto... something else, even if it would be nothing, it would still be better than this.
Stumbling over to the medicine cabinet with one eye open to keep the room from spinning completely out of control, with vodka bottle in hand, I reached for the ambien. 'Oh hey, I'm doing a shot of pills now' the somber thought crossing my mind. Tilted my head back, inhaled, swallowed the pills, chased with vodka, slowly exhaling I stared at myself in the mirror. Eyes red and tears streaming down my face.
That was the last thing I remembered of that week. Next moment I can recall, I'm standing all dressed up in a lobby of some office. I don't think I was surprised, I was still feeling numb, maybe I still am, maybe this is a dream that coma patients have, or the white room some people experience before death. "Thank you" said the receptionist, "we look forward to seeing you Monday!".
Instinctively I smile and nod, having been detached from reality for so long, you learn to put on a mask right quick, otherwise people question you. Whether you're alright, or if something is bothering you. No one really wants to know though, most of them just want to feel good about themselves for pretending to care, which is fine. You can't judge them for that. Having a person unload all their ills and worries on you is taxing, no point in stressing out other people when they definitely don't want to deal with your shit.
Getting my bearings, I head for the glass doors that seem to lead outside. I cross the threshold, and my mask breaks, I can no longer pretend to be numb. The anxiety sets in, I'm on a busy city street, unfamiliar with my surroundings and surrounded by people. My skin crawls and I need to escape. Walking at a brisk pace down the street, I try to make sense of what happened and where I ended up, but it doesn't. I feel even worse, I want to crouch, and scream, and cry. I jump into moving traffic.
My eyes are closed and I feel weightless, relaxed, wind blowing past me. Wind blowing past me much faster than it should be. I open my eyes and I'm falling towards the earth. My hands are cold. Another figure appears in front of me wearing a jumpsuit and a parachute. They're smiling and waving. I try to focus on them but I can't keep my eyes open, I'm falling too fast and the wind stabs at my face.
*will finish later* |
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