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The prompt is pretty self-explanatory. You can throw one character, two characters, three characters into the cab with him, you can have some dude get in the cab with a gun and try to force him to do things... whatever you want! Go for it. | [WP] What if God was a taxi driver? | I was just picked up in Manhattan and mentioned to the driver, "I need to get to Montague and Henry St. in Brooklyn."
"No problem. I know the place."
It was a miracle... no cab driver knows where anything is in Brooklyn.
| It was raining and Harry had forgotten his umbrella. Usually, this would have just been swept under the rug and forgotten about as another stroke of bad luck but the pile of bad memories and thoughts was getting awfully large. So, Harry stood there while the rain soaked him to the bone and the taxis he signaled for did not stop. It was busy on a Friday night here and they probably already had a fare but Harry, falling prey to the arrogance all humans try to bottle up, cursed the driver's and their slight.
Darkness was settling in for its nightly stay and the cars switched their headlights on. Amplified by the rain's reflection Harry was blinded by the incoming cars and decided that walking home in this weather was better than burning his retinas to nothing. He pulled up his coat as best he could, cursed his luck, and started to trudge home.
"Hey, you still looking for a ride?"
Harry looked over and a bright yellow taxi had stopped, rolled down its window, and the man driving had called out to him. Maybe it was his lucky day. "Yeah," Harry said relieved. He opened the back door and climbed in. "You have no idea how happy I am that you stopped."
"Oh, I have an idea," said the driver warmly. He was middle aged and had deep smile lines, as if he somehow enjoyed his job. "It's mighty miserable outside and there you were out in the middle of it. I couldn't let you suffer so."
"Don't forget the fare."
The driver chuckled. "There is that. There is that." He looked into the rear view mirror. "Where to? Or do you just like the company of cabbies?"
"7th and Central. Right on the corner, I can walk the rest." Harry paused a bit and thought of home. His voice came out pained. "My wife is waiting for me so hurry the best you can."
"Troubles back home?" asked the driver. He immediately followed with, "Ah, you don't have to answer that, I pry too much anyhow."
Harry smiled a bit. "It's obvious, huh?"
"I have a talent for reading people." The driver pointed to his head. "If I got a college education I probably could have gone places, but I'm content here." The driver flexed his smile lines. "So to answer your question: only to me, if you know what I mean."
"Ah, I see." The cab lay in silence for some time before Harry finally broke it. "Yes, there has been some trouble."
The cab driver looked back at him. "Trouble at home is never good. It's wrath that destroys us."
Harry nodded. "You're right about that. So right." Harry took a deep breath. "So much has been going on lately it seems. She's seven months pregnant; the wife, that is. We've been married for four and together for eight. We were high school sweethearts."
"Long commitment," said the driver. "You're a strong man."
"Thanks but I wouldn't say that. Here I am pouring my heart and soul out onto a cab driver who is just doing his job and chatting the customer up. Strong is probably the exact opposite of what I am."
The driver laughed. "No, you're strong just as you are weak. We can't be one without the other, as they always say. Your wife's relationship with you is being strained just as yours is with her but neither one of you has given up yet. Strength doesn't mean you're impervious to weakness, you're just able to overcome it more often than not."
Harry frowned. "Surprisingly deep," Harry said before adding, "for a cab driver." The driver laughed again at the jibe. "I bet you get a thousand guys complaining to you about their wives."
"Oh yes, billions even," said the cab driver while Harry chuckled. "Sometimes, though, there are a couple men and women who just need a little support to make sure they don't ruin themselves or their relationship. A push in the right direction, if you will."
"Is that what this is?" asked Harry incredulously. "A push in the right direction?"
"No, I'm just a cab driver." They both shared a laugh at that. "I'm just hoping that man and wife can stay together through thick and thin. Husband should support their wives and wives should support their husbands. It's a vicious world out there and family is too important to lose." The cabbie pulled up to the corner of Central Avenue. "Well, we're here. I hope you and Caitlin do well together."
Harry got out of the cab, paid his fee, and thanked the driver. Then, Harry realized something strange. He whirled around saying, "I never told you my wife's . . ." But there was no sign of the cab. However, the rain had stopped and Harry felt in higher spirits. He swept the entire event under the carpet that may have been a little less full of debris. He'd have to work on that. He walked to his house and up the stone stairs. He opened the door, looked out into the street inquisitively one last time, and walked inside. |
Write a news article about a fictional event.
This prompt was inspired by a recent listen to the 1939 "War of the Worlds" broadcast.
| [WP] Fake News! | Political Scandal: Bo, caught with his tail between his legs.
Late last night in the north yard of the White House the First Dog was caught in the act of hiding the milk bone in the peanut butter jar of the neighbors dog, Jeff. This act of gay dog intercourse on the white house lawn has spark tremendous controversy in Washington. President Obama has released a very unapologetic press statement saying that "This is the way Bo was born. This is his cry to come out of the dog house. America should not shun him for expressing his true feelings. We should support him. He will be the symbol of the Canine Homosexual movement. Bo, may have 99 problems, but a bitch ain't one." President Obama has received harsh criticism from some Republican representatives. During an interview on Fox and Friends Palin had said, "I don't think Bo flaunting his homosexuality can be good for the puppies in this country. They see this and think it's ok to go out and start humping any sausage on a leash." Bo has yet to release a statement regarding his partner Jeff, but he has since been seen with another partner suggesting his potential affiliation with near by Mormon churches. More details will be available as the weeks go on. | In other news, another nine headlines have escaped from The Onion's high security headline breeding facility in Des Moines, raising concerns about the possible further contamination of traditional news-media sources.
This is the second major security failure for the troublingly prescient company, the first of which was the solo escape of a Frontpage Headline: [Dennis Rodman: Kim Jong Un is a 'friend for life'](http://www.usatoday.com/story/gameon/2013/02/28/dennis-rodman-kim-jong-un/1954163/). The ensuing terror and world wide panic led to a promise from The Onion that security at the troubled breeding facility would be tightened, and that the risk of subsequent escapes was 'minimal'. The damage, however, had already been done as at least 2 major American media outlets have been shown to be infected with a virulent and contagious inability to separate fact from fiction. Memorial services for Fox News and MSNBC were sparsely attended, possibly due to fears that the contagion could spread even after a network had reached a state of total irrelevance.
|
Write a news article about a fictional event.
This prompt was inspired by a recent listen to the 1939 "War of the Worlds" broadcast.
| [WP] Fake News! | Political Scandal: Bo, caught with his tail between his legs.
Late last night in the north yard of the White House the First Dog was caught in the act of hiding the milk bone in the peanut butter jar of the neighbors dog, Jeff. This act of gay dog intercourse on the white house lawn has spark tremendous controversy in Washington. President Obama has released a very unapologetic press statement saying that "This is the way Bo was born. This is his cry to come out of the dog house. America should not shun him for expressing his true feelings. We should support him. He will be the symbol of the Canine Homosexual movement. Bo, may have 99 problems, but a bitch ain't one." President Obama has received harsh criticism from some Republican representatives. During an interview on Fox and Friends Palin had said, "I don't think Bo flaunting his homosexuality can be good for the puppies in this country. They see this and think it's ok to go out and start humping any sausage on a leash." Bo has yet to release a statement regarding his partner Jeff, but he has since been seen with another partner suggesting his potential affiliation with near by Mormon churches. More details will be available as the weeks go on. | Christianity declared official religion of US
In a shocking move from the White House, President Obama announced Friday that Christianity is now the official religion of the United States. The executive order will go into effect immediately.
“This is a real win for America and religious freedom and the little guy, who doesn’t want to have to pay for abortion pills for his neighbor’s daughter,” said David Koch, the newly-commissioned self-appointed Head Financier and CEO of the Oval Office.
Though the new law will effectively negate the First Amendment to the US Constitution, Koch, who inexplicably continued to speak on behalf of a nervous-looking President Obama, doesn’t see an issue. “Christianity has long been part of the proud heritage of America, and this just makes it official,” said Koch. “Now we have the true religious freedom to make sure everyone believes exactly as we do.”
The new order will have some immediate repercussions, according to Koch. Effective immediately, the Affordable Care Act, or “Obamacare,” will be defunded, and poor people will be allowed to continue on with their illnesses, just as Jesus intended. Food stamps, unemployment and welfare will also be discontinued, and the real Christians of this nation – the corporations – will receive the tax benefits that God intended.
When asked for comment, President Obama looked panicked but was no longer allowed to speak, because he’s still under suspicion of being a Muslim.
|
You're extremely lonely. Why? Because everyone else has suddenly disappeared. As far as you can tell, you're the last human left.
Write about it. 250 words max. | [FF] Loneliness - 250 words max | My parents are gone for the weekend—celebrating their anniversary in the city. They left me a shit-ton of money so I can buy food and entertain myself. I’ll do what any self-respecting high schooler would do in my situation: buy as much alcohol and weed as I can and throw the dopest party this town has ever seen. There will be naked hot-tubbing in my backyard, beer pong tournament in the garage and lots of other awesome debauchery. Maybe I’ll even be able to get Lacy to come…*in more ways than one, if you know what I mean*. This weekend is going to be fucking awesome!
_____________________________________
“FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING NOOB FAGGOT!!!!” xx_snipez024_xx screams at me through my TV.
“My dick is still sore from when I fucked your mom.” I respond, trying to save face and gain the respect of the CoD lobby.
But I didn’t fuck his mom. I didn’t fuck Lacy. I didn’t fuck anybody. My dick is just sore from jerking off to Faye Reagan seven times this weekend. I glance at the three empty Domino’s Pizza boxes and the empty 2 Liter bottle of Dr. Pepper and sigh.
| Hi, Sorry i didn't answer before, meant to call you back, but seems i think of calling, then a month's passed!
Yeah, I'm good.
...oh...went to the bar with some guys from work, it was fun. Just had a few drinks...Yeah, home now... Nah, didn't fancy it...
How... How are you? Awesome! Good for you. Uh huh. Uh huh... No, not much to tell. Working, playing, rinse, repeat, you know how it is.
...Don't know, didn't ask. Seemed well...
Yeah... So. Guess you're busy, and I've got...should probably get off. Speak to you soon yeah? Won't be so long next time right? You too. Bye. |
You're extremely lonely. Why? Because everyone else has suddenly disappeared. As far as you can tell, you're the last human left.
Write about it. 250 words max. | [FF] Loneliness - 250 words max | Dexter Abbott writes in third-person when he’s lonely.
He tried keeping a diary for the first few months, after they all vanished. But all the “I”s and “me”s made his isolation more apparent. At least now he can imagine someone else is with him, recording his struggle and giving meaning to his life.
The only time he doesn’t feel lonely is when he sleeps. Everyone is there in his dreams. His mother’s soothing voice reads stories to him like she would when he was sick as a child. His father offers words of encouragement, telling him he’ll make it through this.
He hears Selena, too, telling him she loves him. Her soft fingers tickle the palm of his hand. The only sense missing is sight. He hears their voices and feels their touch, but he can no longer see their faces.
Are these tricks of his mind? Or are they trying to communicate with him from wherever it is that everyone went when the whole population just fucking vanished?
He has tried everything to make the dreams come more often--sleeping pills pillaged from the abandoned pharmacy on Foster Street, alcohol by the liter. But they come when they come, and they have been coming less often lately.
“We’ll be back for you,” Selena will say, and he knows the dream is ending.
“Hang in there,” his dad says. Dexter screams back, but they never hear.
“Wake up, Dexter. Please just wake up,” pleads his mother.
And then they’re gone.
| Hi, Sorry i didn't answer before, meant to call you back, but seems i think of calling, then a month's passed!
Yeah, I'm good.
...oh...went to the bar with some guys from work, it was fun. Just had a few drinks...Yeah, home now... Nah, didn't fancy it...
How... How are you? Awesome! Good for you. Uh huh. Uh huh... No, not much to tell. Working, playing, rinse, repeat, you know how it is.
...Don't know, didn't ask. Seemed well...
Yeah... So. Guess you're busy, and I've got...should probably get off. Speak to you soon yeah? Won't be so long next time right? You too. Bye. |
You're extremely lonely. Why? Because everyone else has suddenly disappeared. As far as you can tell, you're the last human left.
Write about it. 250 words max. | [FF] Loneliness - 250 words max | My parents are gone for the weekend—celebrating their anniversary in the city. They left me a shit-ton of money so I can buy food and entertain myself. I’ll do what any self-respecting high schooler would do in my situation: buy as much alcohol and weed as I can and throw the dopest party this town has ever seen. There will be naked hot-tubbing in my backyard, beer pong tournament in the garage and lots of other awesome debauchery. Maybe I’ll even be able to get Lacy to come…*in more ways than one, if you know what I mean*. This weekend is going to be fucking awesome!
_____________________________________
“FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING NOOB FAGGOT!!!!” xx_snipez024_xx screams at me through my TV.
“My dick is still sore from when I fucked your mom.” I respond, trying to save face and gain the respect of the CoD lobby.
But I didn’t fuck his mom. I didn’t fuck Lacy. I didn’t fuck anybody. My dick is just sore from jerking off to Faye Reagan seven times this weekend. I glance at the three empty Domino’s Pizza boxes and the empty 2 Liter bottle of Dr. Pepper and sigh.
| Everyone is gone.
This is the place where I am where everyone is gone.
It just hit me. Again. Everyone is gone.
My footsteps echo.
This is it?
Everything feels.
The same.
Different.
Is this it?
My footsteps on the grass.
They still echo.
The lights are off and no one is home. Everyone is gone.
Everything.
This is where I am. Everything is where I am.
I am more here than I ever have been.
Is this it? This is it?
Everyone is gone.
Everything is it and gone.
My footsteps echo. |
You're extremely lonely. Why? Because everyone else has suddenly disappeared. As far as you can tell, you're the last human left.
Write about it. 250 words max. | [FF] Loneliness - 250 words max | Dexter Abbott writes in third-person when he’s lonely.
He tried keeping a diary for the first few months, after they all vanished. But all the “I”s and “me”s made his isolation more apparent. At least now he can imagine someone else is with him, recording his struggle and giving meaning to his life.
The only time he doesn’t feel lonely is when he sleeps. Everyone is there in his dreams. His mother’s soothing voice reads stories to him like she would when he was sick as a child. His father offers words of encouragement, telling him he’ll make it through this.
He hears Selena, too, telling him she loves him. Her soft fingers tickle the palm of his hand. The only sense missing is sight. He hears their voices and feels their touch, but he can no longer see their faces.
Are these tricks of his mind? Or are they trying to communicate with him from wherever it is that everyone went when the whole population just fucking vanished?
He has tried everything to make the dreams come more often--sleeping pills pillaged from the abandoned pharmacy on Foster Street, alcohol by the liter. But they come when they come, and they have been coming less often lately.
“We’ll be back for you,” Selena will say, and he knows the dream is ending.
“Hang in there,” his dad says. Dexter screams back, but they never hear.
“Wake up, Dexter. Please just wake up,” pleads his mother.
And then they’re gone.
| Everyone is gone.
This is the place where I am where everyone is gone.
It just hit me. Again. Everyone is gone.
My footsteps echo.
This is it?
Everything feels.
The same.
Different.
Is this it?
My footsteps on the grass.
They still echo.
The lights are off and no one is home. Everyone is gone.
Everything.
This is where I am. Everything is where I am.
I am more here than I ever have been.
Is this it? This is it?
Everyone is gone.
Everything is it and gone.
My footsteps echo. |
You're extremely lonely. Why? Because everyone else has suddenly disappeared. As far as you can tell, you're the last human left.
Write about it. 250 words max. | [FF] Loneliness - 250 words max | My parents are gone for the weekend—celebrating their anniversary in the city. They left me a shit-ton of money so I can buy food and entertain myself. I’ll do what any self-respecting high schooler would do in my situation: buy as much alcohol and weed as I can and throw the dopest party this town has ever seen. There will be naked hot-tubbing in my backyard, beer pong tournament in the garage and lots of other awesome debauchery. Maybe I’ll even be able to get Lacy to come…*in more ways than one, if you know what I mean*. This weekend is going to be fucking awesome!
_____________________________________
“FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING NOOB FAGGOT!!!!” xx_snipez024_xx screams at me through my TV.
“My dick is still sore from when I fucked your mom.” I respond, trying to save face and gain the respect of the CoD lobby.
But I didn’t fuck his mom. I didn’t fuck Lacy. I didn’t fuck anybody. My dick is just sore from jerking off to Faye Reagan seven times this weekend. I glance at the three empty Domino’s Pizza boxes and the empty 2 Liter bottle of Dr. Pepper and sigh.
| Day in day out I spent my time around people; however I always felt lonely. Nothing could shake the miserable feeling of isolation, being one amongst the many: how on earth was this possible?
Living in a big city, I always thought that there would have been plenty of friendly faces, social interactions; I was wrong.
“Hi, how may I help you?”
“Please hold”
“Good morning.”
Superficial banter permeated my life; I couldn’t stand it anymore, I wanted an out. Hence I jumped on the opportunity on the trip to Europa when I got the chance.
Now that I’ve left the planet, there’s nobody to talk to. Loneliness has set in, but it’s nowhere near as bad as the apathy I received on the planet Earth.
|
You're extremely lonely. Why? Because everyone else has suddenly disappeared. As far as you can tell, you're the last human left.
Write about it. 250 words max. | [FF] Loneliness - 250 words max | Dexter Abbott writes in third-person when he’s lonely.
He tried keeping a diary for the first few months, after they all vanished. But all the “I”s and “me”s made his isolation more apparent. At least now he can imagine someone else is with him, recording his struggle and giving meaning to his life.
The only time he doesn’t feel lonely is when he sleeps. Everyone is there in his dreams. His mother’s soothing voice reads stories to him like she would when he was sick as a child. His father offers words of encouragement, telling him he’ll make it through this.
He hears Selena, too, telling him she loves him. Her soft fingers tickle the palm of his hand. The only sense missing is sight. He hears their voices and feels their touch, but he can no longer see their faces.
Are these tricks of his mind? Or are they trying to communicate with him from wherever it is that everyone went when the whole population just fucking vanished?
He has tried everything to make the dreams come more often--sleeping pills pillaged from the abandoned pharmacy on Foster Street, alcohol by the liter. But they come when they come, and they have been coming less often lately.
“We’ll be back for you,” Selena will say, and he knows the dream is ending.
“Hang in there,” his dad says. Dexter screams back, but they never hear.
“Wake up, Dexter. Please just wake up,” pleads his mother.
And then they’re gone.
| Day in day out I spent my time around people; however I always felt lonely. Nothing could shake the miserable feeling of isolation, being one amongst the many: how on earth was this possible?
Living in a big city, I always thought that there would have been plenty of friendly faces, social interactions; I was wrong.
“Hi, how may I help you?”
“Please hold”
“Good morning.”
Superficial banter permeated my life; I couldn’t stand it anymore, I wanted an out. Hence I jumped on the opportunity on the trip to Europa when I got the chance.
Now that I’ve left the planet, there’s nobody to talk to. Loneliness has set in, but it’s nowhere near as bad as the apathy I received on the planet Earth.
|
You're extremely lonely. Why? Because everyone else has suddenly disappeared. As far as you can tell, you're the last human left.
Write about it. 250 words max. | [FF] Loneliness - 250 words max | My parents are gone for the weekend—celebrating their anniversary in the city. They left me a shit-ton of money so I can buy food and entertain myself. I’ll do what any self-respecting high schooler would do in my situation: buy as much alcohol and weed as I can and throw the dopest party this town has ever seen. There will be naked hot-tubbing in my backyard, beer pong tournament in the garage and lots of other awesome debauchery. Maybe I’ll even be able to get Lacy to come…*in more ways than one, if you know what I mean*. This weekend is going to be fucking awesome!
_____________________________________
“FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING NOOB FAGGOT!!!!” xx_snipez024_xx screams at me through my TV.
“My dick is still sore from when I fucked your mom.” I respond, trying to save face and gain the respect of the CoD lobby.
But I didn’t fuck his mom. I didn’t fuck Lacy. I didn’t fuck anybody. My dick is just sore from jerking off to Faye Reagan seven times this weekend. I glance at the three empty Domino’s Pizza boxes and the empty 2 Liter bottle of Dr. Pepper and sigh.
| My leaning rail stretches away on either side to loop around and meet itself somewhere behind me.
At this height, I should be glancing over my shoulder for my brother and his friends, who should be slipping their palms together and directing their eyes at my back, predicting great laughter at my expense.
*One of their little jokes.*
Maybe this... *absence* is just a big one. Maybe they're all---all of them---snickering, crouched in one of the buildings far below. How did they talk all the others into it? I can answer that: their jaws are fair, but their eyes are wild and lusty, just like the part of your heart they live in.
Well, I won't know how they did it until I've searched them all. Then the joke will be on them, and we'll have another story.
The wind's so fast up here, they could've snuck right up behind me.
This one's done. |
You're extremely lonely. Why? Because everyone else has suddenly disappeared. As far as you can tell, you're the last human left.
Write about it. 250 words max. | [FF] Loneliness - 250 words max | Dexter Abbott writes in third-person when he’s lonely.
He tried keeping a diary for the first few months, after they all vanished. But all the “I”s and “me”s made his isolation more apparent. At least now he can imagine someone else is with him, recording his struggle and giving meaning to his life.
The only time he doesn’t feel lonely is when he sleeps. Everyone is there in his dreams. His mother’s soothing voice reads stories to him like she would when he was sick as a child. His father offers words of encouragement, telling him he’ll make it through this.
He hears Selena, too, telling him she loves him. Her soft fingers tickle the palm of his hand. The only sense missing is sight. He hears their voices and feels their touch, but he can no longer see their faces.
Are these tricks of his mind? Or are they trying to communicate with him from wherever it is that everyone went when the whole population just fucking vanished?
He has tried everything to make the dreams come more often--sleeping pills pillaged from the abandoned pharmacy on Foster Street, alcohol by the liter. But they come when they come, and they have been coming less often lately.
“We’ll be back for you,” Selena will say, and he knows the dream is ending.
“Hang in there,” his dad says. Dexter screams back, but they never hear.
“Wake up, Dexter. Please just wake up,” pleads his mother.
And then they’re gone.
| My leaning rail stretches away on either side to loop around and meet itself somewhere behind me.
At this height, I should be glancing over my shoulder for my brother and his friends, who should be slipping their palms together and directing their eyes at my back, predicting great laughter at my expense.
*One of their little jokes.*
Maybe this... *absence* is just a big one. Maybe they're all---all of them---snickering, crouched in one of the buildings far below. How did they talk all the others into it? I can answer that: their jaws are fair, but their eyes are wild and lusty, just like the part of your heart they live in.
Well, I won't know how they did it until I've searched them all. Then the joke will be on them, and we'll have another story.
The wind's so fast up here, they could've snuck right up behind me.
This one's done. |
You're extremely lonely. Why? Because everyone else has suddenly disappeared. As far as you can tell, you're the last human left.
Write about it. 250 words max. | [FF] Loneliness - 250 words max | My parents are gone for the weekend—celebrating their anniversary in the city. They left me a shit-ton of money so I can buy food and entertain myself. I’ll do what any self-respecting high schooler would do in my situation: buy as much alcohol and weed as I can and throw the dopest party this town has ever seen. There will be naked hot-tubbing in my backyard, beer pong tournament in the garage and lots of other awesome debauchery. Maybe I’ll even be able to get Lacy to come…*in more ways than one, if you know what I mean*. This weekend is going to be fucking awesome!
_____________________________________
“FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING NOOB FAGGOT!!!!” xx_snipez024_xx screams at me through my TV.
“My dick is still sore from when I fucked your mom.” I respond, trying to save face and gain the respect of the CoD lobby.
But I didn’t fuck his mom. I didn’t fuck Lacy. I didn’t fuck anybody. My dick is just sore from jerking off to Faye Reagan seven times this weekend. I glance at the three empty Domino’s Pizza boxes and the empty 2 Liter bottle of Dr. Pepper and sigh.
| "Help."
The gesture is pointless. The emptiness won't aid me. Instead, it focuses its sights on my quivering shell, circling it like a vulture waiting for its dinner bell to sound.
I embrace my own legs and wait. All I can do is wait. Wait for a familiar voice. Or a strange one. Wait for a knock on the door or a ringing of a phone. Or the choking of an engine of a car parking in the driveway. Waiting for the postman to drop by with evidence that life still exists even to say it doesn't care.
And I keep waiting, because they'll never come. My world is empty. It 's been empty since I asked her to leave.
"Come back," I plead, but the door is already closed. |
You're extremely lonely. Why? Because everyone else has suddenly disappeared. As far as you can tell, you're the last human left.
Write about it. 250 words max. | [FF] Loneliness - 250 words max | Dexter Abbott writes in third-person when he’s lonely.
He tried keeping a diary for the first few months, after they all vanished. But all the “I”s and “me”s made his isolation more apparent. At least now he can imagine someone else is with him, recording his struggle and giving meaning to his life.
The only time he doesn’t feel lonely is when he sleeps. Everyone is there in his dreams. His mother’s soothing voice reads stories to him like she would when he was sick as a child. His father offers words of encouragement, telling him he’ll make it through this.
He hears Selena, too, telling him she loves him. Her soft fingers tickle the palm of his hand. The only sense missing is sight. He hears their voices and feels their touch, but he can no longer see their faces.
Are these tricks of his mind? Or are they trying to communicate with him from wherever it is that everyone went when the whole population just fucking vanished?
He has tried everything to make the dreams come more often--sleeping pills pillaged from the abandoned pharmacy on Foster Street, alcohol by the liter. But they come when they come, and they have been coming less often lately.
“We’ll be back for you,” Selena will say, and he knows the dream is ending.
“Hang in there,” his dad says. Dexter screams back, but they never hear.
“Wake up, Dexter. Please just wake up,” pleads his mother.
And then they’re gone.
| "Help."
The gesture is pointless. The emptiness won't aid me. Instead, it focuses its sights on my quivering shell, circling it like a vulture waiting for its dinner bell to sound.
I embrace my own legs and wait. All I can do is wait. Wait for a familiar voice. Or a strange one. Wait for a knock on the door or a ringing of a phone. Or the choking of an engine of a car parking in the driveway. Waiting for the postman to drop by with evidence that life still exists even to say it doesn't care.
And I keep waiting, because they'll never come. My world is empty. It 's been empty since I asked her to leave.
"Come back," I plead, but the door is already closed. |
You get the chance to beta test a new time machine that has come out, and you get to share the last few moments of any historical figure with them. Tell them what you feel will make them feel content with their life's work. On the flip-side, if you do not like the person, make your story ring through their ears as they rot in hell.
Ex: Telling Robert H. Goddard that mankind WILL reach the moon and that his critics were wrong; Showing Karl Benz or Henry Ford pictures and specs of how far automobiles have come (Tesla or Agera); etc. | [WP] You are visiting a famous historical figure on their deathbed | I would speak to Emmeline Pankhurst, and speak of suffrage, and equality and of hope, and also of failure, and sadness, and unequal pay, and most of all, I would ask for her advice, and her forgiveness, for I have failed her. | I would speak to the man who had no deathbed, no well-wishers or family around to stroke him as he slowly accepted his fate. I would speak to President Lincoln, just before his death, just before the show began. I would tell him that his death, whenever he died, would be forever talked about in the future, that he would never be forgotten; his fight against slavery would never be hidden from our children.
I would tell him how we call him "Honest Abe," how he forever is a symbol of honesty, bravery, and a wearer of that hat. And when I was finished telling him of all the things his life and his death would do for this country, how Lincoln's Train would never be forgotten, I would ask if it will be worth the price he paid. |
[WP] Write two accounts of a break up, each from the perspective of both parties involved. | Come on guys. This isn't literature. Allow me to give it a go.
See if you can follow along. This is a type of story which I call "switchback". Each paragraph switches between two parties and their thoughts.
-----
FINAL LOVE
I can't do it. I know I have to. I have no other choice. It's been weeks, no, months since I heard the news. I never had the heart to tell her.
I wonder what he wants to see me for? I don't remember scheduling a date for today. I have a test tomorrow and I have to study, so this better be quick.
Ah. There she is. God. I can't do it. I am completely unable to let her go, no matter how hard I try. My body refuses.
There's my boyfriend! Hm, he seems a tad... frazzled. I wonder what's wrong?
I have to do it. If I don't, it will ruin her. If I do, it will ruin her. I'm dead if I do, dead if I don't. How can I do this?
"Liam, is something wrong?"
Shit. I can't. I don't even know at this point. What do I say? I don't want her angry, but I want to break up on a positive note. Hell, is that even possible?
"Liam? Hello?"
"Isa, I... *sigh* I..."
Something is troubling him. Maybe if I cuddle next to him he'll feel better.
"No! I can't, Isa. I have to go."
"Go where? Your next period isn't for-"
"No. Not class. My parents are transferring me to another school."
"What? How could this happen?"
I knew this was a bad idea. It's going to destroy her, and there's nothing I can do, no matter how hard I try for it not to.
"Why?"
"We're moving. Away. Far away. And I'm afraid..."
"No! Liam! You can't leave!"
She's breaking down. If I don't do something, we'll both be wrecks.
"Where? I can come! We can be together!"
"No. You can't come. It's another state, across the country, and I fear I may never see you again."
"We'll call and text and-"
"Isa. We have to face the facts. We can't be together."
He's breaking up with me! Why did his goddamned family have to go? He's my other half, and we're inseparable. Why me? Why now?
"I'm sorry."
"When are you leaving?"
"Tomorrow. I have my bags packed, and I was too scared to say so."
"*sniff* It's alright, Liam. I understand. You have no control. I'll always wish you the best. You'll be in my prayers."
"Spare the prayers, Isa. If you don't forget about us, you can never move on. And that's the least we can do for each other."
-
And so Liam moved away. Away from me. Forever. I never did see or talk to him after that. He left, I broke down, and fell ill. I never did recover, and ended up dying at 21, sick for 3 years.
And so I moved away. I never heard from Isa after that point. I felt she was getting worse. I saved up three years to head back. I went back to see her after being torn apart, and found her passed away. She died at a young 21, and as I sat by her grave, behind by a matter of months, in the pouring rain, so did I. That night I fell horribly ill, and died on the same day, 4 years past, that I saw her for the last time. A kind of poetic justice. I died heartbroken and miserable. I wish none of this upon any true lovers. Do all in your will to be together. It could be your bond that keeps you living.
-Fin-
----- | Girl:
I knew he wouldn't understand when I told him. He just would not understand that he hadn't done anything wrong for me to cheat on him. It's just that...well...Michael was there for me when I needed someone and he wasn't. He was always at work out out with his friends and even when we were together our relationship had become stale. The same conversation, the same pizza for dinner, the same T.V. show and the same sex, he had really stopped trying and then Michael came in to my life. He had such life to him, such enthusiasm and we just really clicked. And when Michael kissed me, I knew I had to tell him that it was over, I hope in time he understands that it wasn't his fault, it's just we weren't right.
Guy:
WHORE!!!!! | |
[WP] Told from the point of view of a stand-up comic as he's bombing a set | Seriously? Did that really not fucking kill? Jesus Christ, I swear to God, fucking Jehova--I can't believe this is happening. Okay, relax. You got this. What do I do? I should hump the stool. *Don't hump the stool you fucking idiot.*
No, no, okay, I got it, I'll pretend the microphone is a penis. That'll get a laugh right?
Wait. What did that lady say?
She's a rape victim. Well that's just fucking fantastic.
Note to self--no more microphones-are-penises jokes. No penis jokes anymore.
Let's try some self-degradation, that'll get them moving, right?
Hey fuckers! Looks how fat I am! HA! HA!
Shit.
Fuck I wish the MC wasn't high as balls. He didn't even pronounce my name right, and I'm pretty sure he's convinced we're at Studio 54 right now.
Why didn't I just stay in that certificate course for computer repair. Fuck I'm not even Jewish anymore.
Okay. Seriously. Guy at the back. You see my pain. Let me know my time is up. Shine the god-damn-flashlight already. SHINE THE FLASHLIGHT IN MY EYES OR I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL MASTURBATE ON THIS STAGE.
Oh. OH! A flash! Yessss. Okay, time to wrap it up.
I have this killer jokes about Sandy Hook. This is perfect.
This will end *perfectly*. | *please don't fuck up, please don't fuck up, please don't fuck up*
I've been standing on this stage for the past 10 minutes. I had spent the past 3 weeks memorizing my act. I was going to ease in with some easy going jokes, then throw out what I've got up my sleeve. Thing is, I've not heard a word from the audience.
That's not a good sign.
"You know I was setting my alarm clock last night to wake up for work. Lying down, performing what feels like advanced mathematic calculations to determine the best time to wake up."
*Not even a smirk! This isn't going so well...*
" Its so fucking boring on the train. Staring out the window...same old suburbs every day. You know exactly what to expect next.
That shitty house is coming up before the next stop."
Then I heard a voice from the crowd.
"Yeah, well you're act is fucking boring and your jokes are shitty"
I responded without thinking.
"What do you do for a living, sir?"
"I'm a sales manager."
"And you think **my** act is boring and **my** jokes are shitty?"
It was 50/50 if this would work and it was all in the delivery, which came out quite dry. Sometimes that pays off if you're in the right town. I wasn't.
"Hey jackoff, we came here to watch your jokes and be entertained, and I've seen neither tonight!"
At that moment the crowd started booing me.
It felt like this moment wouldn't end.
It happens every now and then, but that doesn't mean it gets any easier.
So, with nothing to lose, I worked with what I had.
"Alright alright....sales manager, huh. Seriously it always amazes me just how little some people know, and they just get away with it
Its like, the further up the corporate ladder you go, the less you have to do and the less you have to know
So you delegate work and knowledge, and just call upon it whenever you choose"
That was my last joke for the night. I'm going to need to take this suit to the dry cleaners. It's been a while since I've had food thrown at me on stage.
This is the last time I'll gig this shitty town.
| |
What the title suggests, love story doesn't strictly have to be straight, homosexual love stories are welcome as well. | [WP] Write me a love story between two homeless people. | I will always remember Chris. I loved him. Even though we had nothing, he was my best friend. I met him in a soup kitchen. I was a year out of college, no money, no job, and finally no home. My parents died before I graduated, and we never had much. So I ended up homeless.
I didn’t think Chris was a handsome man. He was dirty, and smelled like he hadn’t bathed. Ever. But he was kind to me. It’d been so long since someone treated me like a human. He showed me how to start a fire in a barrel. He showed me which restaurants throw out good food, and when. He even showed me how to protect myself if I was attacked.
Chris was former Infantry. When he came back from the Middle East he had trouble adjusting to civilian life. After months of being shot at he just couldn’t adjust. The nightmares came first, when he slept, then when he was awake. His work suffered, and then he lost his job. Then the next one. Then the next. Pretty soon no one would hire him. So eventually he ended up here.
I don’t know how I started to love Chris. Maybe it was the way flames danced in his brown eyes. Or maybe it was how eventually I stopped smelling his stink, and started to notice the unique smell of his sweat. The deep baritone of his voice. Our first kiss was along a stretch of artificial beach near the docks.
It was a clear and starry night. We lay silent in the sand, the darkness swallowing the space between us. I scooted closer to him, and placed my arm across his chest. I let the gravitational field of his lips guide mine to his. He tasted like day old muffin and spiced orange. Or was it grapefruit? We made love for the first time that night.
I remember the day I missed my period. When I told Chris about it, he could only say “we can’t keep it”. I knew he was right. But we couldn’t afford the abortion, and neither of us knew any other way to get rid of it. So, we did it the only way we knew how… I spent a week in the emergency room.
Things were different after. Chris was still the same person. Still smelled of sweat and tasted like spiced citrus. But he was distant. I was distant… Maybe we both realized the gravity of love between the homeless. That each time we made love we risked bringing another into this horrible life of ours. That this life wasn’t the dream we pretended it was. That our love was just a game…
I woke up one morning, and Chris was gone. As if he never existed. I went to all our usual food places, but nothing. I began to panic. What would I do without him? I need him. I searched for days. I asked the sisters, the volunteers at the shelter. I even once worked up the courage to ask a cop. No one had seen him. That was two years ago.
Now here I am. I finally pulled myself out of the gutter. I’m here interviewing for a construction job. As I rise and face the door to the interview room, I hear the jingle of the door behind me opening. “Hello” says a high, soft male voice. I smell spiced citrus.
| Nothing. It's such an expandable word that no one truly understands. It can mean so many things, you might feel empty inside, physically have no resources at your hands, or emotionally drained from the dreadful deceiving world we continue to live in. I believe I have nothing, in every aspect. I can't bring myself to have faith in anything. I've lived a life full of agony and pain, treacherous days pass and go faster than the sun sets and rises. Why am I here? What do I have left? Where do I go from here? I live on the corner of 18th Street and Dixon Avenue, I see many people throughout the day. Some are assholes and some are genuine human beings. I've given up on being a beggar, I despise begging for something I believe I should have made myself. I don't feel pride in receiving someone else's money, it makes me feel worthless and as useful as the piece of garbage that gritty construction worker just threw out.
I don't have many friends, who would want to converse with an old vile hag like me? I'm 26 years old and I feel and look like I'm 68. Yet, why am I still here? My reason is simple. Her. We met on a frigid winters night in the middle of January, if I remember correctly it was January 21st, 2003. New York had been hit with it's biggest winter ever, we were simply helpless left outside in the bitter cold. I see her begging on a sidewalk next to a coffee shop, in New York it is illegal to beg outside of a store front but the owner of the shop allowed it during the winter. The month before I had gotten jacked by a few men in downtown New York City, they took everything I had right before the bleak cold hit. I had to gather my resources in a matter of days, I wasn't dressed for the occasion as I was only wearing one long sleeve shirt in below zero weather. I walked up next to her and could see in her bright blue eyes how cold she was, she had a face that I will never forget, it was like a statue, the only time she would move is when she had to shiver, and she would go back to her main position. I sat down and asked her how much she made and how long she was out here. She replied ever so softly with "I...I...I madeeee... about $7, anddd.. I've been herrr-hur-e for about ta-ta-ta tenn hours.", I wasn't surprised at how little she had made, however, at the time $7 was a lot for someone who didn't have anything.
I told her I knew a place where we could get some shelter from the cold and maybe warm up a little bit. As a beggar you never decline the chance to get warm, or help in general. I lead her to a place I knew from the previous winters that was a hideout for when the cold was just too much to handle. It was not the safest of areas and that's why I stayed away from it. I couldn't resist it though, the cold was getting to my mind and I ignored everything it was telling me. She follows me to the spot, and it is right behind a convenient store in South Bronx. The store had a dumpster that was frequently emptied by the trash-men. Every other time I have gone to this spot the dumpster was empty, but it didn't matter if it was or wasn't, if it was warm we didn't care. We open the dumpster and it is completely empty, we grab a couple of blankets from our backpack and lie down inside the dumpster. There is very limited light inside the dumpster but just enough to see one another's face. I can pinpoint where her eyes are and where her lips are, but there isn't much else I can see. It was late by this time, I didn't have a watch with me, but it was probably towards the morning hours. We both were extremely tired and did not sleep the night before. For warmth we bundled together and held each other tight. She was beautiful, I couldn't believe I had her in my arms, she was colder than I was, and I could feel every goose bump on her arm. She didn't talk much, but thanked me for helping her out. She told me no one has ever given her the time of day, and this is the first time she could say she felt happy. I had not felt happy for the longest time before I met this woman, but she made me feel like everything I have ever wanted.
We fell asleep in each others arms that night, and never looked back from that day forward. We promised that we would do everything together, we would build a life together and have a family, we wanted to achieve our life goals, she wanted to be a doctor and I wanted to be a writer, she had planned to call her children Daniel and Crissie, she wanted to live in a house by the beach, when she was five she had a dog named Pluto and he lived until he was 15, I knew her life story, she knew mine. We planned everything, we wrote on the sidewalk with chalk we had found on the streets left by some little girls from the Boys and Girls club. We wrote down every detail and every fragment of our future. We wrote on the walls, on the street, on the sidewalk, we had our story, our life. Our goals seemed to be right in front of us, waiting for us to grab out and reach them, why not try and live the life we have always dreamed of. It took months, to finally get one step accomplished, we found part time jobs at the convenient store in South Bronx.
She worked as a cashier and I worked as a delivery driver. I would bring her flowers every morning and she would smile as bright as the Best Buy signs in Time Square. I always undervalued life, I never saw the good in the simple things, but, with her I knew everything was right, I saw the details, the pieces of the 5000 piece puzzle were being put together right before my eyes. Time was irrelevant at this point, I didn't know what the day was, and quite frankly I didn't care. All I wanted to do was to spend all of my time with her. She meant the world to me, she was my world. I couldn't get enough of her, and as the days past and turned into months it didn't seem she felt the same. She would not smile like she did before, what was I doing wrong? Why was everything falling apart? It seemed like she had lost everything we planned for. I would ask her and ask her what was wrong and she would blow it off, she wouldn't talk much of it. She became more successful and as she earned a bigger paycheck the less and less I felt I meant something to her, she went from seeing me every day to every other day, to three times a week, to once a week. I lost her. After that day, I never saw her again, we weren't together, she wasn't who I thought she was, I had nothing. I tried to call her, but there was no answer, I lost the vision in my brain of what she looked like, how her voice sounded when she spoke, and what the love felt like. Nothing ever lasts forever when you have nothing, and that is when I woke up to find myself alone in a dumpster behind a convenient store in South Bronx.
Nothing. |
What the title suggests, love story doesn't strictly have to be straight, homosexual love stories are welcome as well. | [WP] Write me a love story between two homeless people. | "I'll fucking kill you if you touch me."
It might have been love at first sight. He stood awkwardly on the bale of hay, balancing himself against the side of the rail car, as he stared at his opponent.
She seemed to be roughly his age, a few years shy of thirty. Judging by her rough skin and matted hair, he guessed that she'd been riding the rails for many years. Despite that, she was attractive. The hardships of life seemed to uncover a wild beauty in her.
"Sorry-- I thought this car was empty."
"Well, it's not. Goodbye."
She waved the small knife clutched in her left hand, pointing towards the hatch in the roof that he had just climbed into.
"I've got about half of a pizza in my backpack..."
"Good for you. Goodbye."
"Look, let me share it with you."
It had been a long time since she'd had pizza. Such luxury was so foreign that she considered asking him to prove it before she put away the knife.
Aggression, and then cooperation, was the name of the game. Being completely hostile at first gave her precious seconds to size up new people, but life on the rails was hard, and was impossible without cooperation.
So they sat and ate day-old pizza on the floor of a hay car steaming through Nebraska.
It took three days to get to Oklahoma, and in those three days they got to know each other. During the daytime they sat cross legged on the bales and talked. She told him about losing her job, feeling relieved, and heading to the tracks to prevent herself from getting trapped in another job. He told her about his drug-addicted parents, and how he was just trying to put miles in between them.
In the evenings they lay silently on the hay bales, heads close together to afford a view of the stars through the hatch. At night they fell asleep in each other's arms, as much for warmth as to express affection.
"YOU! Pull yourself out of that car right now!"
The train had unexpectedly come to a stop on the third night. He stuck his head out of the hatch to see what was going on, and was immediately greeted by the blinding flashlight of a railyard worker.
"Sir-- if you'll just let me ride until Oklahoma..."
"Out. Now."
Would she follow him and face arrest? Would she hide in the train and risk never seeing him again? He moved slowly and deliberately, hoping to hear her move behind him. Silence.
As he stepped onto the roof of the car, he finally heard something from inside the car.
"I love you."
Half an hour later, as he waited in the guard's shack for the police to come, the train rumbled back to life and slipped away. He kept his eyes on the hay car until it disappeared into the night. | Nothing. It's such an expandable word that no one truly understands. It can mean so many things, you might feel empty inside, physically have no resources at your hands, or emotionally drained from the dreadful deceiving world we continue to live in. I believe I have nothing, in every aspect. I can't bring myself to have faith in anything. I've lived a life full of agony and pain, treacherous days pass and go faster than the sun sets and rises. Why am I here? What do I have left? Where do I go from here? I live on the corner of 18th Street and Dixon Avenue, I see many people throughout the day. Some are assholes and some are genuine human beings. I've given up on being a beggar, I despise begging for something I believe I should have made myself. I don't feel pride in receiving someone else's money, it makes me feel worthless and as useful as the piece of garbage that gritty construction worker just threw out.
I don't have many friends, who would want to converse with an old vile hag like me? I'm 26 years old and I feel and look like I'm 68. Yet, why am I still here? My reason is simple. Her. We met on a frigid winters night in the middle of January, if I remember correctly it was January 21st, 2003. New York had been hit with it's biggest winter ever, we were simply helpless left outside in the bitter cold. I see her begging on a sidewalk next to a coffee shop, in New York it is illegal to beg outside of a store front but the owner of the shop allowed it during the winter. The month before I had gotten jacked by a few men in downtown New York City, they took everything I had right before the bleak cold hit. I had to gather my resources in a matter of days, I wasn't dressed for the occasion as I was only wearing one long sleeve shirt in below zero weather. I walked up next to her and could see in her bright blue eyes how cold she was, she had a face that I will never forget, it was like a statue, the only time she would move is when she had to shiver, and she would go back to her main position. I sat down and asked her how much she made and how long she was out here. She replied ever so softly with "I...I...I madeeee... about $7, anddd.. I've been herrr-hur-e for about ta-ta-ta tenn hours.", I wasn't surprised at how little she had made, however, at the time $7 was a lot for someone who didn't have anything.
I told her I knew a place where we could get some shelter from the cold and maybe warm up a little bit. As a beggar you never decline the chance to get warm, or help in general. I lead her to a place I knew from the previous winters that was a hideout for when the cold was just too much to handle. It was not the safest of areas and that's why I stayed away from it. I couldn't resist it though, the cold was getting to my mind and I ignored everything it was telling me. She follows me to the spot, and it is right behind a convenient store in South Bronx. The store had a dumpster that was frequently emptied by the trash-men. Every other time I have gone to this spot the dumpster was empty, but it didn't matter if it was or wasn't, if it was warm we didn't care. We open the dumpster and it is completely empty, we grab a couple of blankets from our backpack and lie down inside the dumpster. There is very limited light inside the dumpster but just enough to see one another's face. I can pinpoint where her eyes are and where her lips are, but there isn't much else I can see. It was late by this time, I didn't have a watch with me, but it was probably towards the morning hours. We both were extremely tired and did not sleep the night before. For warmth we bundled together and held each other tight. She was beautiful, I couldn't believe I had her in my arms, she was colder than I was, and I could feel every goose bump on her arm. She didn't talk much, but thanked me for helping her out. She told me no one has ever given her the time of day, and this is the first time she could say she felt happy. I had not felt happy for the longest time before I met this woman, but she made me feel like everything I have ever wanted.
We fell asleep in each others arms that night, and never looked back from that day forward. We promised that we would do everything together, we would build a life together and have a family, we wanted to achieve our life goals, she wanted to be a doctor and I wanted to be a writer, she had planned to call her children Daniel and Crissie, she wanted to live in a house by the beach, when she was five she had a dog named Pluto and he lived until he was 15, I knew her life story, she knew mine. We planned everything, we wrote on the sidewalk with chalk we had found on the streets left by some little girls from the Boys and Girls club. We wrote down every detail and every fragment of our future. We wrote on the walls, on the street, on the sidewalk, we had our story, our life. Our goals seemed to be right in front of us, waiting for us to grab out and reach them, why not try and live the life we have always dreamed of. It took months, to finally get one step accomplished, we found part time jobs at the convenient store in South Bronx.
She worked as a cashier and I worked as a delivery driver. I would bring her flowers every morning and she would smile as bright as the Best Buy signs in Time Square. I always undervalued life, I never saw the good in the simple things, but, with her I knew everything was right, I saw the details, the pieces of the 5000 piece puzzle were being put together right before my eyes. Time was irrelevant at this point, I didn't know what the day was, and quite frankly I didn't care. All I wanted to do was to spend all of my time with her. She meant the world to me, she was my world. I couldn't get enough of her, and as the days past and turned into months it didn't seem she felt the same. She would not smile like she did before, what was I doing wrong? Why was everything falling apart? It seemed like she had lost everything we planned for. I would ask her and ask her what was wrong and she would blow it off, she wouldn't talk much of it. She became more successful and as she earned a bigger paycheck the less and less I felt I meant something to her, she went from seeing me every day to every other day, to three times a week, to once a week. I lost her. After that day, I never saw her again, we weren't together, she wasn't who I thought she was, I had nothing. I tried to call her, but there was no answer, I lost the vision in my brain of what she looked like, how her voice sounded when she spoke, and what the love felt like. Nothing ever lasts forever when you have nothing, and that is when I woke up to find myself alone in a dumpster behind a convenient store in South Bronx.
Nothing. |
What the title suggests, love story doesn't strictly have to be straight, homosexual love stories are welcome as well. | [WP] Write me a love story between two homeless people. | I will always remember Chris. I loved him. Even though we had nothing, he was my best friend. I met him in a soup kitchen. I was a year out of college, no money, no job, and finally no home. My parents died before I graduated, and we never had much. So I ended up homeless.
I didn’t think Chris was a handsome man. He was dirty, and smelled like he hadn’t bathed. Ever. But he was kind to me. It’d been so long since someone treated me like a human. He showed me how to start a fire in a barrel. He showed me which restaurants throw out good food, and when. He even showed me how to protect myself if I was attacked.
Chris was former Infantry. When he came back from the Middle East he had trouble adjusting to civilian life. After months of being shot at he just couldn’t adjust. The nightmares came first, when he slept, then when he was awake. His work suffered, and then he lost his job. Then the next one. Then the next. Pretty soon no one would hire him. So eventually he ended up here.
I don’t know how I started to love Chris. Maybe it was the way flames danced in his brown eyes. Or maybe it was how eventually I stopped smelling his stink, and started to notice the unique smell of his sweat. The deep baritone of his voice. Our first kiss was along a stretch of artificial beach near the docks.
It was a clear and starry night. We lay silent in the sand, the darkness swallowing the space between us. I scooted closer to him, and placed my arm across his chest. I let the gravitational field of his lips guide mine to his. He tasted like day old muffin and spiced orange. Or was it grapefruit? We made love for the first time that night.
I remember the day I missed my period. When I told Chris about it, he could only say “we can’t keep it”. I knew he was right. But we couldn’t afford the abortion, and neither of us knew any other way to get rid of it. So, we did it the only way we knew how… I spent a week in the emergency room.
Things were different after. Chris was still the same person. Still smelled of sweat and tasted like spiced citrus. But he was distant. I was distant… Maybe we both realized the gravity of love between the homeless. That each time we made love we risked bringing another into this horrible life of ours. That this life wasn’t the dream we pretended it was. That our love was just a game…
I woke up one morning, and Chris was gone. As if he never existed. I went to all our usual food places, but nothing. I began to panic. What would I do without him? I need him. I searched for days. I asked the sisters, the volunteers at the shelter. I even once worked up the courage to ask a cop. No one had seen him. That was two years ago.
Now here I am. I finally pulled myself out of the gutter. I’m here interviewing for a construction job. As I rise and face the door to the interview room, I hear the jingle of the door behind me opening. “Hello” says a high, soft male voice. I smell spiced citrus.
| The banks had given me a mortgage knowing that I could make the payments. I had an illustrious career with a budding legal firm, and I was on my up to full partner. I was a rising star, full of potential, and not even the sky could limit me. I was on top of the world, that is, until I met her.
Throughout high school and university I'd seen my fair share of parties. Weed was as common as booze, more so in some circles, and there were always harder drugs available for those who wanted them. I myself never got into anything heavy; I saw too many friends dropping out so that they could work full time tying to pay for a habit. It was only during my internship that I decided to try Adderall.
It was given to me by another intern, to help me stay up and concentrate during the wee hours of the morning, and holy hell, it worked like a charm. For a couple of years, no one realized it, since by that time my contact had dropped out of the firm. The problem was that it started to take more and more to get me to that level of concentration that I needed.
It wasn't a big jump for me to move up into the heavier stimulants. I got into Vyvanse, and then, on one fateful day, the crystal was put in front of me. I'd been snorting for a while, so I didn't even really think much of it. There was a deadline I had to meet, and I had 3 days to make it. So it went right up my nose, and my life went to shit.
It was 4 months after that when the bank came for my house. I'd eaten up all my savings and I was hardly going to work anymore. What's funny is that no one really figured it out, they all chalked it up to stress and inability to cope with the pressure. So one day I stopped showing up, and the next day I was on the street, rehab hadn't even crossed my mind.
Now, I don't know if you've ever lived out on the street, but everything you've heard is true. It's a cold, hard life, especially if you have an addiction. For the first few months I managed to scrape by on what was left of my meager savings, doing day work for people who needed furniture moved and the like, but then I decided to sell my car, because I'd been dry for 2 days and it was getting to me. This is when my life took a real turn for the worse.
Street life for me became begging, and looking for cans. I couldn't handle the bus, and I had no way to make it to the peoples houses to help out with what they needed. Cans make you more than you'd think, and panhandling outside of big-box stores could net me enough for a gram on a good day.
I can still remember the day that I met her. I was in an alley, scrounging for cans so I could make it to the bottle depot before it closed, when I felt a pain right next to my spine. This wasn't the first time I got mugged, and it wouldn't be the last. I mean, I may have been a homeless addict, but I still wanted to live, if only to get that next fix.
Before my assailant could get the words out of his mouth, I heard a loud *THUNK* and a pained gasp. Turning around I saw that this dirty woman decked out in an old ski jacket had cracked this guy in the head with a lead pipe. She gave me a half smile as I tried to stutter out a thank you.
"No matter how down and out I am, I won't ever stand by and watch someone get robbed."
She gave me a half-cocked smile, then turned and started to walk back down the alley to what I judged was her shopping cart. I called out to her to come back, but she just kept walking. Her eyes, that's what I really noticed about her. They were a deep blue, belying a quiet dignity and intelligence, while at the same time showing wear and tear that comes with the territory. I was broken from my spell by a drawn out moan from the that asshole on the ground beside me. She may have had morals, but I wasn't above rifling through his pockets for the last bit of cash I needed for that fix.
Over the next few weeks I kept my eye out for this mysterious woman that saved me, but to no avail. It was a month and a half before I found her again. I was picking up from a shitty street thug when I spied her walking towards me. I lit up inside, not only at the prospect of getting high again, but of finally being able to express my gratitude.
After a moment I realized that she wasn't coming to me, but to the dealer next to me. I hung back while she paid him in small change and crumpled bills, waiting until she might speak to me again. Finally she got what she wanted, and started to head back to an alley, pulling out a dirty pipe from her pocket. I didn't walk up terribly quickly, since I knew from experience how skittish meth-heads can be, broaching the distance one measured step at a time.
I caught up, and she jumped, until she saw that I had pulled out my stash. There's sort of a bond between drug users that exists only in the confines of addiction. We were inextricably linked through this horrible substance that we couldn't live without. She loaded up the pipe, then took a hit. Then another, and another. You could see that she had changed the moment she exhaled the first puff, calming down and speeding up at the same time. I got the pipe and went through the same ritual until my twisted notion of normalcy took over as well.
The rest of the day we walked and talked each others ears off about everything and nothing. One good thing that you can say about stims is that you're never at a loss for words. Next thing I knew we were fucking like rabbits under a pedestrian bridge.
The details of how she got to where she is were remarkably similar to mine: she was offered a line, and the rest is history. Her job, her house, her friends and family, all gone. Those bridges were burned, and here she was.
We found ourselves together more and more, finding comfort and safety in one another. We fought a lot, mostly about drugs, and made up a lot, mostly once we scored. She was an independent businesswoman, or so she called herself. In reality she was selling herself to anyone who was willing to buy, using the drugs to cope with what she'd become. I started breaking into cars, garages, most anything with a lock to get my hands on something to sell. What morals I'd had were gone, the next fix was always at the forefront of my mind, while she came in a distant second. Still, I loved her. She did what she had to do for money, and I was in no position to judge. I really think she loved me too, since she said the only way she could get through the day was to imagine it was me on top of her.
Once the weather started to get colder, we hopped a train and went down to where it was never Winter, where we could sleep outside and never have to worry about hypothermia. Down in Florida, too, you get a lot of people cooking in bathtubs and shit like that, so picking up was never an issue.
It wasn't long, though before some truly scary people started to take an interest in her. The local gangs had areas of the city cut out, and they were very territorial. They caught up with her one night after she got back onto her street corner. Beat her up real bad, stole all she had on her, and said it would keep happening if she didn't join up with them. I told her that we'd just move around more, and this way we could keep more cash, which meant more drugs for us. I was right, that's for sure, but I underestimated their persistence in my drug-addled state. All I could think of was getting more and more and more.
It was a month before they found her again, and another month before someone found her. I won't go into detail, but it was brutal what they did. I heard about it from one of their girls one night. Before that moment, it had all been sunshine and lollipops compared to that.
Knowing I would never see her again broke something in me. It's made me crazy. It stopped all feelings of self preservation and any idea I'd entertained of getting lean and starting again.
Right now I have a gram in one pocket, and a pistol with 2 extra magazines in the the other. I'm going to get my one last fix, then head on over to the local clubhouse to see if I can get some payback for what they did to her.
So now you know what I've been through, and why I have to go now. My mind is made up, there will be no tomorrow for me. God, this sunset is beautiful. I only wish she could have been here to see it with me... |
What the title suggests, love story doesn't strictly have to be straight, homosexual love stories are welcome as well. | [WP] Write me a love story between two homeless people. | "I'll fucking kill you if you touch me."
It might have been love at first sight. He stood awkwardly on the bale of hay, balancing himself against the side of the rail car, as he stared at his opponent.
She seemed to be roughly his age, a few years shy of thirty. Judging by her rough skin and matted hair, he guessed that she'd been riding the rails for many years. Despite that, she was attractive. The hardships of life seemed to uncover a wild beauty in her.
"Sorry-- I thought this car was empty."
"Well, it's not. Goodbye."
She waved the small knife clutched in her left hand, pointing towards the hatch in the roof that he had just climbed into.
"I've got about half of a pizza in my backpack..."
"Good for you. Goodbye."
"Look, let me share it with you."
It had been a long time since she'd had pizza. Such luxury was so foreign that she considered asking him to prove it before she put away the knife.
Aggression, and then cooperation, was the name of the game. Being completely hostile at first gave her precious seconds to size up new people, but life on the rails was hard, and was impossible without cooperation.
So they sat and ate day-old pizza on the floor of a hay car steaming through Nebraska.
It took three days to get to Oklahoma, and in those three days they got to know each other. During the daytime they sat cross legged on the bales and talked. She told him about losing her job, feeling relieved, and heading to the tracks to prevent herself from getting trapped in another job. He told her about his drug-addicted parents, and how he was just trying to put miles in between them.
In the evenings they lay silently on the hay bales, heads close together to afford a view of the stars through the hatch. At night they fell asleep in each other's arms, as much for warmth as to express affection.
"YOU! Pull yourself out of that car right now!"
The train had unexpectedly come to a stop on the third night. He stuck his head out of the hatch to see what was going on, and was immediately greeted by the blinding flashlight of a railyard worker.
"Sir-- if you'll just let me ride until Oklahoma..."
"Out. Now."
Would she follow him and face arrest? Would she hide in the train and risk never seeing him again? He moved slowly and deliberately, hoping to hear her move behind him. Silence.
As he stepped onto the roof of the car, he finally heard something from inside the car.
"I love you."
Half an hour later, as he waited in the guard's shack for the police to come, the train rumbled back to life and slipped away. He kept his eyes on the hay car until it disappeared into the night. | The banks had given me a mortgage knowing that I could make the payments. I had an illustrious career with a budding legal firm, and I was on my up to full partner. I was a rising star, full of potential, and not even the sky could limit me. I was on top of the world, that is, until I met her.
Throughout high school and university I'd seen my fair share of parties. Weed was as common as booze, more so in some circles, and there were always harder drugs available for those who wanted them. I myself never got into anything heavy; I saw too many friends dropping out so that they could work full time tying to pay for a habit. It was only during my internship that I decided to try Adderall.
It was given to me by another intern, to help me stay up and concentrate during the wee hours of the morning, and holy hell, it worked like a charm. For a couple of years, no one realized it, since by that time my contact had dropped out of the firm. The problem was that it started to take more and more to get me to that level of concentration that I needed.
It wasn't a big jump for me to move up into the heavier stimulants. I got into Vyvanse, and then, on one fateful day, the crystal was put in front of me. I'd been snorting for a while, so I didn't even really think much of it. There was a deadline I had to meet, and I had 3 days to make it. So it went right up my nose, and my life went to shit.
It was 4 months after that when the bank came for my house. I'd eaten up all my savings and I was hardly going to work anymore. What's funny is that no one really figured it out, they all chalked it up to stress and inability to cope with the pressure. So one day I stopped showing up, and the next day I was on the street, rehab hadn't even crossed my mind.
Now, I don't know if you've ever lived out on the street, but everything you've heard is true. It's a cold, hard life, especially if you have an addiction. For the first few months I managed to scrape by on what was left of my meager savings, doing day work for people who needed furniture moved and the like, but then I decided to sell my car, because I'd been dry for 2 days and it was getting to me. This is when my life took a real turn for the worse.
Street life for me became begging, and looking for cans. I couldn't handle the bus, and I had no way to make it to the peoples houses to help out with what they needed. Cans make you more than you'd think, and panhandling outside of big-box stores could net me enough for a gram on a good day.
I can still remember the day that I met her. I was in an alley, scrounging for cans so I could make it to the bottle depot before it closed, when I felt a pain right next to my spine. This wasn't the first time I got mugged, and it wouldn't be the last. I mean, I may have been a homeless addict, but I still wanted to live, if only to get that next fix.
Before my assailant could get the words out of his mouth, I heard a loud *THUNK* and a pained gasp. Turning around I saw that this dirty woman decked out in an old ski jacket had cracked this guy in the head with a lead pipe. She gave me a half smile as I tried to stutter out a thank you.
"No matter how down and out I am, I won't ever stand by and watch someone get robbed."
She gave me a half-cocked smile, then turned and started to walk back down the alley to what I judged was her shopping cart. I called out to her to come back, but she just kept walking. Her eyes, that's what I really noticed about her. They were a deep blue, belying a quiet dignity and intelligence, while at the same time showing wear and tear that comes with the territory. I was broken from my spell by a drawn out moan from the that asshole on the ground beside me. She may have had morals, but I wasn't above rifling through his pockets for the last bit of cash I needed for that fix.
Over the next few weeks I kept my eye out for this mysterious woman that saved me, but to no avail. It was a month and a half before I found her again. I was picking up from a shitty street thug when I spied her walking towards me. I lit up inside, not only at the prospect of getting high again, but of finally being able to express my gratitude.
After a moment I realized that she wasn't coming to me, but to the dealer next to me. I hung back while she paid him in small change and crumpled bills, waiting until she might speak to me again. Finally she got what she wanted, and started to head back to an alley, pulling out a dirty pipe from her pocket. I didn't walk up terribly quickly, since I knew from experience how skittish meth-heads can be, broaching the distance one measured step at a time.
I caught up, and she jumped, until she saw that I had pulled out my stash. There's sort of a bond between drug users that exists only in the confines of addiction. We were inextricably linked through this horrible substance that we couldn't live without. She loaded up the pipe, then took a hit. Then another, and another. You could see that she had changed the moment she exhaled the first puff, calming down and speeding up at the same time. I got the pipe and went through the same ritual until my twisted notion of normalcy took over as well.
The rest of the day we walked and talked each others ears off about everything and nothing. One good thing that you can say about stims is that you're never at a loss for words. Next thing I knew we were fucking like rabbits under a pedestrian bridge.
The details of how she got to where she is were remarkably similar to mine: she was offered a line, and the rest is history. Her job, her house, her friends and family, all gone. Those bridges were burned, and here she was.
We found ourselves together more and more, finding comfort and safety in one another. We fought a lot, mostly about drugs, and made up a lot, mostly once we scored. She was an independent businesswoman, or so she called herself. In reality she was selling herself to anyone who was willing to buy, using the drugs to cope with what she'd become. I started breaking into cars, garages, most anything with a lock to get my hands on something to sell. What morals I'd had were gone, the next fix was always at the forefront of my mind, while she came in a distant second. Still, I loved her. She did what she had to do for money, and I was in no position to judge. I really think she loved me too, since she said the only way she could get through the day was to imagine it was me on top of her.
Once the weather started to get colder, we hopped a train and went down to where it was never Winter, where we could sleep outside and never have to worry about hypothermia. Down in Florida, too, you get a lot of people cooking in bathtubs and shit like that, so picking up was never an issue.
It wasn't long, though before some truly scary people started to take an interest in her. The local gangs had areas of the city cut out, and they were very territorial. They caught up with her one night after she got back onto her street corner. Beat her up real bad, stole all she had on her, and said it would keep happening if she didn't join up with them. I told her that we'd just move around more, and this way we could keep more cash, which meant more drugs for us. I was right, that's for sure, but I underestimated their persistence in my drug-addled state. All I could think of was getting more and more and more.
It was a month before they found her again, and another month before someone found her. I won't go into detail, but it was brutal what they did. I heard about it from one of their girls one night. Before that moment, it had all been sunshine and lollipops compared to that.
Knowing I would never see her again broke something in me. It's made me crazy. It stopped all feelings of self preservation and any idea I'd entertained of getting lean and starting again.
Right now I have a gram in one pocket, and a pistol with 2 extra magazines in the the other. I'm going to get my one last fix, then head on over to the local clubhouse to see if I can get some payback for what they did to her.
So now you know what I've been through, and why I have to go now. My mind is made up, there will be no tomorrow for me. God, this sunset is beautiful. I only wish she could have been here to see it with me... |
What the title suggests, love story doesn't strictly have to be straight, homosexual love stories are welcome as well. | [WP] Write me a love story between two homeless people. | I will always remember Chris. I loved him. Even though we had nothing, he was my best friend. I met him in a soup kitchen. I was a year out of college, no money, no job, and finally no home. My parents died before I graduated, and we never had much. So I ended up homeless.
I didn’t think Chris was a handsome man. He was dirty, and smelled like he hadn’t bathed. Ever. But he was kind to me. It’d been so long since someone treated me like a human. He showed me how to start a fire in a barrel. He showed me which restaurants throw out good food, and when. He even showed me how to protect myself if I was attacked.
Chris was former Infantry. When he came back from the Middle East he had trouble adjusting to civilian life. After months of being shot at he just couldn’t adjust. The nightmares came first, when he slept, then when he was awake. His work suffered, and then he lost his job. Then the next one. Then the next. Pretty soon no one would hire him. So eventually he ended up here.
I don’t know how I started to love Chris. Maybe it was the way flames danced in his brown eyes. Or maybe it was how eventually I stopped smelling his stink, and started to notice the unique smell of his sweat. The deep baritone of his voice. Our first kiss was along a stretch of artificial beach near the docks.
It was a clear and starry night. We lay silent in the sand, the darkness swallowing the space between us. I scooted closer to him, and placed my arm across his chest. I let the gravitational field of his lips guide mine to his. He tasted like day old muffin and spiced orange. Or was it grapefruit? We made love for the first time that night.
I remember the day I missed my period. When I told Chris about it, he could only say “we can’t keep it”. I knew he was right. But we couldn’t afford the abortion, and neither of us knew any other way to get rid of it. So, we did it the only way we knew how… I spent a week in the emergency room.
Things were different after. Chris was still the same person. Still smelled of sweat and tasted like spiced citrus. But he was distant. I was distant… Maybe we both realized the gravity of love between the homeless. That each time we made love we risked bringing another into this horrible life of ours. That this life wasn’t the dream we pretended it was. That our love was just a game…
I woke up one morning, and Chris was gone. As if he never existed. I went to all our usual food places, but nothing. I began to panic. What would I do without him? I need him. I searched for days. I asked the sisters, the volunteers at the shelter. I even once worked up the courage to ask a cop. No one had seen him. That was two years ago.
Now here I am. I finally pulled myself out of the gutter. I’m here interviewing for a construction job. As I rise and face the door to the interview room, I hear the jingle of the door behind me opening. “Hello” says a high, soft male voice. I smell spiced citrus.
| Homeless wasn't the word to describe Cara. She preferred to be called free. Free from burden, obligation, or mortgage. It had been four years since she'd slept with a roof over her head and she wouldn't change it for all the world. How could she not want to fall into sleep with the stars and moon as her nightlight? She had all she could ever want.
Then she met Anna.
She'd been passing through one of the major cities, a day like any other, when she heard the short and muffled sobs of one trying desperately to hold back tears. Interested, she followed the sound and saw a girl, huddled in the corner of an old and dusty building. The girl looked up at the sound of Cara's entrance and floored the drifter with her beauty.
A dusty shaft of sunlight poured through the window and ignited her hair into auburn sunshine over her pale skin. Her blue eyes, shining from tears, looked at her with all the fractured dreams of adolescence. She was no more than sixteen.
They sat for hours that night and exchanged stories. Anna's life was harder than Cara's had ever been. Her father had first taken her when she was 6 and hadn't stopped since. Her mother grew so harsh and strict with her, treating her as if she weren't real. Her reality grew black and grim until she could take no more. She ran away.
They left the city with their hands clasped proudly together. Two lovers prepared to reap all the fruits of the world. Earth was filled with beauty for those willing to seek it. They vowed to see mountains and oceans and all there was to see.
But to Cara, those fruits were secondary to just being with Anna. Never had she felt so powerfully for someone. Never had she felt that warm pressure in her diaphragm when she tried to say, "I love you." Never had her love been so passionate and raw that those words seemed treacherous.
The first night they made love was the best night of her life. Anna's initial fear and reluctance dissolved and Cara knew she felt safe. Anna knew she would never hurt her and that knowledge was more fulfilling than sex could ever be. In the early hours and under the stars she whispered in Anna's ear, "I love you."
Anna said it back and Cara realized she had found a home.
A year passed of this; the two loving and living. But that final day would be burned into Cara's mind forever. She could still feel the heat of the sun-heated asphalt through the worn soles of her shoes. The way Anna's fingers interlaced with hers. The sound of the squad car approaching them and the bewildered look of the driver.
He pulled over, his tires leaving long black marks on the road and his brakes filling the air with a wretched howl. He threw himself from the car and chased the two. They ran for hours, the cop calling more and more men until they were cornered.
They grabbed Anna and pulled her away, tore her from Cara's frenzied embrace. Ripped apart the two's final kiss. They never listened to Anna's frantic words. Her tears and explanations.
Cara was let go when one of the officer's determined, "What's one fucking dyke? We already rescued that one bitch. We're heroes."
Now she sits in a diner with a cold cup of coffee in front of her. Tears stream freely from her eyes and the patron's stare and feel uncomfortable. She can hear their whispers about her clothes, her hair, her everything. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. She's homeless.
|
What the title suggests, love story doesn't strictly have to be straight, homosexual love stories are welcome as well. | [WP] Write me a love story between two homeless people. | "I'll fucking kill you if you touch me."
It might have been love at first sight. He stood awkwardly on the bale of hay, balancing himself against the side of the rail car, as he stared at his opponent.
She seemed to be roughly his age, a few years shy of thirty. Judging by her rough skin and matted hair, he guessed that she'd been riding the rails for many years. Despite that, she was attractive. The hardships of life seemed to uncover a wild beauty in her.
"Sorry-- I thought this car was empty."
"Well, it's not. Goodbye."
She waved the small knife clutched in her left hand, pointing towards the hatch in the roof that he had just climbed into.
"I've got about half of a pizza in my backpack..."
"Good for you. Goodbye."
"Look, let me share it with you."
It had been a long time since she'd had pizza. Such luxury was so foreign that she considered asking him to prove it before she put away the knife.
Aggression, and then cooperation, was the name of the game. Being completely hostile at first gave her precious seconds to size up new people, but life on the rails was hard, and was impossible without cooperation.
So they sat and ate day-old pizza on the floor of a hay car steaming through Nebraska.
It took three days to get to Oklahoma, and in those three days they got to know each other. During the daytime they sat cross legged on the bales and talked. She told him about losing her job, feeling relieved, and heading to the tracks to prevent herself from getting trapped in another job. He told her about his drug-addicted parents, and how he was just trying to put miles in between them.
In the evenings they lay silently on the hay bales, heads close together to afford a view of the stars through the hatch. At night they fell asleep in each other's arms, as much for warmth as to express affection.
"YOU! Pull yourself out of that car right now!"
The train had unexpectedly come to a stop on the third night. He stuck his head out of the hatch to see what was going on, and was immediately greeted by the blinding flashlight of a railyard worker.
"Sir-- if you'll just let me ride until Oklahoma..."
"Out. Now."
Would she follow him and face arrest? Would she hide in the train and risk never seeing him again? He moved slowly and deliberately, hoping to hear her move behind him. Silence.
As he stepped onto the roof of the car, he finally heard something from inside the car.
"I love you."
Half an hour later, as he waited in the guard's shack for the police to come, the train rumbled back to life and slipped away. He kept his eyes on the hay car until it disappeared into the night. | Homeless wasn't the word to describe Cara. She preferred to be called free. Free from burden, obligation, or mortgage. It had been four years since she'd slept with a roof over her head and she wouldn't change it for all the world. How could she not want to fall into sleep with the stars and moon as her nightlight? She had all she could ever want.
Then she met Anna.
She'd been passing through one of the major cities, a day like any other, when she heard the short and muffled sobs of one trying desperately to hold back tears. Interested, she followed the sound and saw a girl, huddled in the corner of an old and dusty building. The girl looked up at the sound of Cara's entrance and floored the drifter with her beauty.
A dusty shaft of sunlight poured through the window and ignited her hair into auburn sunshine over her pale skin. Her blue eyes, shining from tears, looked at her with all the fractured dreams of adolescence. She was no more than sixteen.
They sat for hours that night and exchanged stories. Anna's life was harder than Cara's had ever been. Her father had first taken her when she was 6 and hadn't stopped since. Her mother grew so harsh and strict with her, treating her as if she weren't real. Her reality grew black and grim until she could take no more. She ran away.
They left the city with their hands clasped proudly together. Two lovers prepared to reap all the fruits of the world. Earth was filled with beauty for those willing to seek it. They vowed to see mountains and oceans and all there was to see.
But to Cara, those fruits were secondary to just being with Anna. Never had she felt so powerfully for someone. Never had she felt that warm pressure in her diaphragm when she tried to say, "I love you." Never had her love been so passionate and raw that those words seemed treacherous.
The first night they made love was the best night of her life. Anna's initial fear and reluctance dissolved and Cara knew she felt safe. Anna knew she would never hurt her and that knowledge was more fulfilling than sex could ever be. In the early hours and under the stars she whispered in Anna's ear, "I love you."
Anna said it back and Cara realized she had found a home.
A year passed of this; the two loving and living. But that final day would be burned into Cara's mind forever. She could still feel the heat of the sun-heated asphalt through the worn soles of her shoes. The way Anna's fingers interlaced with hers. The sound of the squad car approaching them and the bewildered look of the driver.
He pulled over, his tires leaving long black marks on the road and his brakes filling the air with a wretched howl. He threw himself from the car and chased the two. They ran for hours, the cop calling more and more men until they were cornered.
They grabbed Anna and pulled her away, tore her from Cara's frenzied embrace. Ripped apart the two's final kiss. They never listened to Anna's frantic words. Her tears and explanations.
Cara was let go when one of the officer's determined, "What's one fucking dyke? We already rescued that one bitch. We're heroes."
Now she sits in a diner with a cold cup of coffee in front of her. Tears stream freely from her eyes and the patron's stare and feel uncomfortable. She can hear their whispers about her clothes, her hair, her everything. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. She's homeless.
|
What the title suggests, love story doesn't strictly have to be straight, homosexual love stories are welcome as well. | [WP] Write me a love story between two homeless people. | I will always remember Chris. I loved him. Even though we had nothing, he was my best friend. I met him in a soup kitchen. I was a year out of college, no money, no job, and finally no home. My parents died before I graduated, and we never had much. So I ended up homeless.
I didn’t think Chris was a handsome man. He was dirty, and smelled like he hadn’t bathed. Ever. But he was kind to me. It’d been so long since someone treated me like a human. He showed me how to start a fire in a barrel. He showed me which restaurants throw out good food, and when. He even showed me how to protect myself if I was attacked.
Chris was former Infantry. When he came back from the Middle East he had trouble adjusting to civilian life. After months of being shot at he just couldn’t adjust. The nightmares came first, when he slept, then when he was awake. His work suffered, and then he lost his job. Then the next one. Then the next. Pretty soon no one would hire him. So eventually he ended up here.
I don’t know how I started to love Chris. Maybe it was the way flames danced in his brown eyes. Or maybe it was how eventually I stopped smelling his stink, and started to notice the unique smell of his sweat. The deep baritone of his voice. Our first kiss was along a stretch of artificial beach near the docks.
It was a clear and starry night. We lay silent in the sand, the darkness swallowing the space between us. I scooted closer to him, and placed my arm across his chest. I let the gravitational field of his lips guide mine to his. He tasted like day old muffin and spiced orange. Or was it grapefruit? We made love for the first time that night.
I remember the day I missed my period. When I told Chris about it, he could only say “we can’t keep it”. I knew he was right. But we couldn’t afford the abortion, and neither of us knew any other way to get rid of it. So, we did it the only way we knew how… I spent a week in the emergency room.
Things were different after. Chris was still the same person. Still smelled of sweat and tasted like spiced citrus. But he was distant. I was distant… Maybe we both realized the gravity of love between the homeless. That each time we made love we risked bringing another into this horrible life of ours. That this life wasn’t the dream we pretended it was. That our love was just a game…
I woke up one morning, and Chris was gone. As if he never existed. I went to all our usual food places, but nothing. I began to panic. What would I do without him? I need him. I searched for days. I asked the sisters, the volunteers at the shelter. I even once worked up the courage to ask a cop. No one had seen him. That was two years ago.
Now here I am. I finally pulled myself out of the gutter. I’m here interviewing for a construction job. As I rise and face the door to the interview room, I hear the jingle of the door behind me opening. “Hello” says a high, soft male voice. I smell spiced citrus.
| "Welcome back Mr. Williams" the chipper twenty something year old said. The middle aged filthy looking man wearing an old stained, torn T-shirt and grease covered jeans simply responded with a grunt. He shuffles to the back of the store where the alcohol has always been. He opens the freezer door letting the brisk air dance around his face before grabbing a bottle of whiskey. He moves back towards the register and slams the bottle in front of Alice. He ignores her comments about his drinking and pulls out a small mountain of change to pay with.
He walks out with his brown bag of poison and spits. The homeless man begins moving towards the crosswalk when a youngish looking girl approaches him. The man looks over her and notices she has clothes that appear to have been purchased recently but are covered in a thin layer of dirt. The second thing he notices are her large brown eyes and her auburn hair. She asks him, "what's your name? I'm Jessica. Are you homeless?" The homeless man is a little taken aback but responds, " Yes, I'm homeless and my name is Stan, Stan...uh...Rivers. Why do you care?" Jessica answers back slightly amused, "I'm new around here. I didn't like how my sister looked down on me so I decided I would rather live on the streets, and that brings me to my next question. How can I be a good homeless person?" Stan chuckled, scratched his beard and responded, " frankly, I don't know. If you want you can follow me and try to pick up some tricks." Stan thought to himself, why on earth would he let her hang around. He hates people and trusts them about as much as he would trust a steak with a starving dog. His mind began to ponder over these ideas but is snapped back into reality by Jessica. " Really, I hope I won't bother you too much."
Over the next couple of months the two begin to bond. Jessica adjusts to life with very little. Stan begins to fall for Jessica. One especially cold night, Stan builds up as much courage as he can find and says, " I have been lying to you. My real name isn't Steve, it's Roy." Jessica looks at him with her big brown eyes that he learned to adore and asks nonchalantly, " why bother telling me now?" Roy twirls his fingers and mutters, " because I trust you and you mean a lot to me." before Roy knows it he almost falls because Jessica wraps her arms around him sending warm waves throughout his body. Inhaling Jessica's scent Roy says without realizing it, "I love you." Jessica looks up and responds, "That would be weird if I didn't love you too." Roy questions if this is just a dream or some sick prank. Eventually he decides he is going to enjoy the time with this dream and let's the warmth from Jessica's arms travel throughout his body finally ending at his heart.
The two spend several years living from alley to alley. Roy proposes with a ring he bought from a pawnshop after saving up for some time. Jessica accepts his proposal as her her eyes well up with tears. Jessica tells Roy they don't need to have a wedding as long as they spend their lives together. The newly engaged couple share a passionate kiss and they both begin to daydream about their future together. |
What the title suggests, love story doesn't strictly have to be straight, homosexual love stories are welcome as well. | [WP] Write me a love story between two homeless people. | "I'll fucking kill you if you touch me."
It might have been love at first sight. He stood awkwardly on the bale of hay, balancing himself against the side of the rail car, as he stared at his opponent.
She seemed to be roughly his age, a few years shy of thirty. Judging by her rough skin and matted hair, he guessed that she'd been riding the rails for many years. Despite that, she was attractive. The hardships of life seemed to uncover a wild beauty in her.
"Sorry-- I thought this car was empty."
"Well, it's not. Goodbye."
She waved the small knife clutched in her left hand, pointing towards the hatch in the roof that he had just climbed into.
"I've got about half of a pizza in my backpack..."
"Good for you. Goodbye."
"Look, let me share it with you."
It had been a long time since she'd had pizza. Such luxury was so foreign that she considered asking him to prove it before she put away the knife.
Aggression, and then cooperation, was the name of the game. Being completely hostile at first gave her precious seconds to size up new people, but life on the rails was hard, and was impossible without cooperation.
So they sat and ate day-old pizza on the floor of a hay car steaming through Nebraska.
It took three days to get to Oklahoma, and in those three days they got to know each other. During the daytime they sat cross legged on the bales and talked. She told him about losing her job, feeling relieved, and heading to the tracks to prevent herself from getting trapped in another job. He told her about his drug-addicted parents, and how he was just trying to put miles in between them.
In the evenings they lay silently on the hay bales, heads close together to afford a view of the stars through the hatch. At night they fell asleep in each other's arms, as much for warmth as to express affection.
"YOU! Pull yourself out of that car right now!"
The train had unexpectedly come to a stop on the third night. He stuck his head out of the hatch to see what was going on, and was immediately greeted by the blinding flashlight of a railyard worker.
"Sir-- if you'll just let me ride until Oklahoma..."
"Out. Now."
Would she follow him and face arrest? Would she hide in the train and risk never seeing him again? He moved slowly and deliberately, hoping to hear her move behind him. Silence.
As he stepped onto the roof of the car, he finally heard something from inside the car.
"I love you."
Half an hour later, as he waited in the guard's shack for the police to come, the train rumbled back to life and slipped away. He kept his eyes on the hay car until it disappeared into the night. | "Welcome back Mr. Williams" the chipper twenty something year old said. The middle aged filthy looking man wearing an old stained, torn T-shirt and grease covered jeans simply responded with a grunt. He shuffles to the back of the store where the alcohol has always been. He opens the freezer door letting the brisk air dance around his face before grabbing a bottle of whiskey. He moves back towards the register and slams the bottle in front of Alice. He ignores her comments about his drinking and pulls out a small mountain of change to pay with.
He walks out with his brown bag of poison and spits. The homeless man begins moving towards the crosswalk when a youngish looking girl approaches him. The man looks over her and notices she has clothes that appear to have been purchased recently but are covered in a thin layer of dirt. The second thing he notices are her large brown eyes and her auburn hair. She asks him, "what's your name? I'm Jessica. Are you homeless?" The homeless man is a little taken aback but responds, " Yes, I'm homeless and my name is Stan, Stan...uh...Rivers. Why do you care?" Jessica answers back slightly amused, "I'm new around here. I didn't like how my sister looked down on me so I decided I would rather live on the streets, and that brings me to my next question. How can I be a good homeless person?" Stan chuckled, scratched his beard and responded, " frankly, I don't know. If you want you can follow me and try to pick up some tricks." Stan thought to himself, why on earth would he let her hang around. He hates people and trusts them about as much as he would trust a steak with a starving dog. His mind began to ponder over these ideas but is snapped back into reality by Jessica. " Really, I hope I won't bother you too much."
Over the next couple of months the two begin to bond. Jessica adjusts to life with very little. Stan begins to fall for Jessica. One especially cold night, Stan builds up as much courage as he can find and says, " I have been lying to you. My real name isn't Steve, it's Roy." Jessica looks at him with her big brown eyes that he learned to adore and asks nonchalantly, " why bother telling me now?" Roy twirls his fingers and mutters, " because I trust you and you mean a lot to me." before Roy knows it he almost falls because Jessica wraps her arms around him sending warm waves throughout his body. Inhaling Jessica's scent Roy says without realizing it, "I love you." Jessica looks up and responds, "That would be weird if I didn't love you too." Roy questions if this is just a dream or some sick prank. Eventually he decides he is going to enjoy the time with this dream and let's the warmth from Jessica's arms travel throughout his body finally ending at his heart.
The two spend several years living from alley to alley. Roy proposes with a ring he bought from a pawnshop after saving up for some time. Jessica accepts his proposal as her her eyes well up with tears. Jessica tells Roy they don't need to have a wedding as long as they spend their lives together. The newly engaged couple share a passionate kiss and they both begin to daydream about their future together. |
The why is up to you. | [WP] A tedious, daily chore, done for the last time. | The bright fluorescent bulb flickered and whined. Micah saw it from the corner of his eye groaning inwardly, it pained his eyes the brightness of it. Waking him up from his unsteady slumber his labored breaths stabbing needles in his chest. He turned his head slowly, trying to see where the nurse placed the nearest glass of water.
There it was, the paper cup was wrinkled with use. He reached out to it with his gnarled withered hands.
Those very hands had labored for 30 years working at the docks in Cape Town. For 21 years those same hands, until 5 years ago, had held a simple silver wedding band. Now holding the cup he held it up against lips. His eyes caught the sight of a cockroach struggling in the clear abyss. Struggling for all he can to survive and scuttle to safety. Oh why did he labor so? Why did he not just resign to fate?
Such were the conditions of the hospital, grime outnumbered both patients and doctors. When the lights were out at 9PM, the halls and rooms were the domains of rats and mice. Struggling for the leftovers of the meager gruel that the staff called food. At night Micah could hear the screams of agony from the neighboring patients. Nurses coming and going replacing IVs in all manners of the night. Micah hadn't slept in weeks. His breaths grew labored and weary. He looked forward to that final time when he would join Liza in whatever eternal abode awaits them. Since she departed from his life 5 years ago every breath was a chore, a tedious laborious chore which left him in a cynical state of agony and pain. This day would be the last. | She had spent the night procrastinating again, and she had to meet her boss today and tell him how little progress she'd made. She threw five punches in the air.
"God, Alice, what were you thinking?"
Half-formed excuses ran through her head, but none rang true, and she knew he wouldn't want to hear them anyway.
"Nothing! You weren't thinking anything, you lazy bitch. Like he'd want to hear any of this shit anyway."
She paced around the room five times, calmed herself down, and put on her socks and shoes. It didn't feel right. She hesitated.
"Fuck."
"Come on!"
"Fine!"
She ground her teeth as she took her socks and shoes back off.
"I thought you were done with this, at least."
She put them on again and took them off again, but she remembered to pay attention to what she was thinking and feeling. After the fourth time, she hesitated again.
"You could get up and go now."
The thought didn't fill her with dread. After another pause, she took them off and put them on again.
On the way to work she counted motorcycles, but she didn't feel as bad about it as the shoes. There were six if you counted the weird three-wheeled one, but she didn't make up an excuse to exclude it.
"Good job, Alice."
The meeting with her boss went better than she expected, as it usually did. |
The why is up to you. | [WP] A tedious, daily chore, done for the last time. | "Cell 32!"
I jumped to order abruptly. It'd been awhile since I'd truly gotten lost in a book. The tier was oddly quiet today, must be the rain. It's nice when it rains. Something about the sound of raindrops gaining in ferocity with the wind, it takes me out of here if only for a brief moment.
I can hear Melendez walking around the corner before I even see him. It's incredible how quickly you can come to identify people by the sound of their pace here.
Today should be pay day.
I peek my head out of the cell, first to my left and then to Melendez coming from the right. I can tell it all worked out by the look on his face. He hands me the mop bucket and I start cleaning the tier.
So far, so good, we're half way there.
At exactly 9:05, Corbin is gonna get his door opened to head to the infirmary for meds. I feel bad for the kid, truly, but he knows the rules. Halligan still owes four points and The Chief got reliable intel two weeks ago that his celly Dex is still buying hits from Poncho. Incredible.
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous. There's no way out of this one, I gotta make my bones sooner or later. If there's one thing I hate it's someone who doesn't pay what he owes.
This whole thing is bigger than me anyways. Push it to the back and move forward.
When I dip the mop in the bucket I can feel the tool swirling in the water. I am overjoyed. This scumbag is going to get it.
9:02. I can feel the blood rushing through my veins. I need to relax, I'm going too fast. The wind picks up outside. I near the final stretch of the teir and again become aware of the sound of the rain banging on against the windows. Relief washes over me.
I've been waiting to get this done so long, and here I am reaching the pinnacle, feeling a complete state of calm and relief.
Corbin beams me directly in the eye with his mirror from two cells down. I can't help but wince and turn my head quickly. I hope nobody saw that.
I reach down into the water, careful not to cut myself. The tool has a solid grip. I was expecting the handle to be made with electrical tape, but this feels thicker. I think one of Melendez's people is tight with a guy down in the woodworking shop over in Unit A, maybe those guys get some quality stuff.
I look down the tier to the command post and watch Officer Vries. He finally adjusts his posture and lumbers toward the intercom.
It's on. Halligan is gonna get it and I'm gonna get mine. Today is my day.
"Cell 48!"
| She had spent the night procrastinating again, and she had to meet her boss today and tell him how little progress she'd made. She threw five punches in the air.
"God, Alice, what were you thinking?"
Half-formed excuses ran through her head, but none rang true, and she knew he wouldn't want to hear them anyway.
"Nothing! You weren't thinking anything, you lazy bitch. Like he'd want to hear any of this shit anyway."
She paced around the room five times, calmed herself down, and put on her socks and shoes. It didn't feel right. She hesitated.
"Fuck."
"Come on!"
"Fine!"
She ground her teeth as she took her socks and shoes back off.
"I thought you were done with this, at least."
She put them on again and took them off again, but she remembered to pay attention to what she was thinking and feeling. After the fourth time, she hesitated again.
"You could get up and go now."
The thought didn't fill her with dread. After another pause, she took them off and put them on again.
On the way to work she counted motorcycles, but she didn't feel as bad about it as the shoes. There were six if you counted the weird three-wheeled one, but she didn't make up an excuse to exclude it.
"Good job, Alice."
The meeting with her boss went better than she expected, as it usually did. |
The why is up to you. | [WP] A tedious, daily chore, done for the last time. | The bright fluorescent bulb flickered and whined. Micah saw it from the corner of his eye groaning inwardly, it pained his eyes the brightness of it. Waking him up from his unsteady slumber his labored breaths stabbing needles in his chest. He turned his head slowly, trying to see where the nurse placed the nearest glass of water.
There it was, the paper cup was wrinkled with use. He reached out to it with his gnarled withered hands.
Those very hands had labored for 30 years working at the docks in Cape Town. For 21 years those same hands, until 5 years ago, had held a simple silver wedding band. Now holding the cup he held it up against lips. His eyes caught the sight of a cockroach struggling in the clear abyss. Struggling for all he can to survive and scuttle to safety. Oh why did he labor so? Why did he not just resign to fate?
Such were the conditions of the hospital, grime outnumbered both patients and doctors. When the lights were out at 9PM, the halls and rooms were the domains of rats and mice. Struggling for the leftovers of the meager gruel that the staff called food. At night Micah could hear the screams of agony from the neighboring patients. Nurses coming and going replacing IVs in all manners of the night. Micah hadn't slept in weeks. His breaths grew labored and weary. He looked forward to that final time when he would join Liza in whatever eternal abode awaits them. Since she departed from his life 5 years ago every breath was a chore, a tedious laborious chore which left him in a cynical state of agony and pain. This day would be the last. | The hide stretched on the rack before her. She had cut in the darkness before the morning, pulling it from the antelope like the cloak from a visiting guest. As light first spilled into the canyon, all of the meat and fat had been scraped away, and when the sun rose high above the canyon, as if angry to find her hiding there, she retreated to the shade to smoke, laying the hide flat to watch as its moisture burned away.
Soon the day had crossed the sky, forgetting the canyon, and the shade came retreating back to her. Floral smells that sealed themselves from the afternoon’s poor temper opened, and sought her nostrils. She knelt, and shaved gold and black and brown hair, not turning to watch it dance away with the wind. She brought the hide, now naked, to the edge of the stream that had injured the earth here, opening its skin wide and deep. She hung it on a low branch, and the stream took the hide in its hands and washed it.
Taking the basket that held the antelope’s brain, she bent and allowed the stream into it. She took basket and hide, and brought them to the sandy clearing where they gathered in the evening to keep warm, to tell stories and sometimes to dance. The hide folded neatly into the basket’s slick and oily contents, and as she let it go the first hole appeared in the sky above her.
Now the hide was stretched before her, and the sky was full of holes. It was bright and warm, and the fire she was preparing would not have been necessary this evening, but for the smoke it provided. Smoke to bring the hide easily to its leather. Soon the men would return, smelling of dust and tobacco and blood.
And she could smell blood.
Blood, and smoke, and something else. A smell her nostrils had never found before. The wind rose around her, and brought with it the sounds of hooves and voices. These sounds were swallowed by larger ones, angular cracking sounds, as though an entire forrest were falling at once. She stood facing the immense noise, her hands at her face, the smell of the antelope’s blood on them, the smell of its brains and skin. The smells of the hide.
The small thunder of hooves grew louder. The wind brought again its new collection of smells, acrid and unfamiliar. Echoes of words she did not understand flew towards her from the bend in the canyon ahead. Shadows followed them, and stopped. She stared them down. The shadows, shrouded in their strange smells and awful sounds, crept towards her. She reached for the half-moon of sharpened flint, the one she used to shave the gold and black and brown hair from the hides the men brought back each day. Her fingers found its edge. The shadows moved closer.
The bright, warm air of the canyon surrendered itself to the scent of blood. |
The why is up to you. | [WP] A tedious, daily chore, done for the last time. | "Cell 32!"
I jumped to order abruptly. It'd been awhile since I'd truly gotten lost in a book. The tier was oddly quiet today, must be the rain. It's nice when it rains. Something about the sound of raindrops gaining in ferocity with the wind, it takes me out of here if only for a brief moment.
I can hear Melendez walking around the corner before I even see him. It's incredible how quickly you can come to identify people by the sound of their pace here.
Today should be pay day.
I peek my head out of the cell, first to my left and then to Melendez coming from the right. I can tell it all worked out by the look on his face. He hands me the mop bucket and I start cleaning the tier.
So far, so good, we're half way there.
At exactly 9:05, Corbin is gonna get his door opened to head to the infirmary for meds. I feel bad for the kid, truly, but he knows the rules. Halligan still owes four points and The Chief got reliable intel two weeks ago that his celly Dex is still buying hits from Poncho. Incredible.
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous. There's no way out of this one, I gotta make my bones sooner or later. If there's one thing I hate it's someone who doesn't pay what he owes.
This whole thing is bigger than me anyways. Push it to the back and move forward.
When I dip the mop in the bucket I can feel the tool swirling in the water. I am overjoyed. This scumbag is going to get it.
9:02. I can feel the blood rushing through my veins. I need to relax, I'm going too fast. The wind picks up outside. I near the final stretch of the teir and again become aware of the sound of the rain banging on against the windows. Relief washes over me.
I've been waiting to get this done so long, and here I am reaching the pinnacle, feeling a complete state of calm and relief.
Corbin beams me directly in the eye with his mirror from two cells down. I can't help but wince and turn my head quickly. I hope nobody saw that.
I reach down into the water, careful not to cut myself. The tool has a solid grip. I was expecting the handle to be made with electrical tape, but this feels thicker. I think one of Melendez's people is tight with a guy down in the woodworking shop over in Unit A, maybe those guys get some quality stuff.
I look down the tier to the command post and watch Officer Vries. He finally adjusts his posture and lumbers toward the intercom.
It's on. Halligan is gonna get it and I'm gonna get mine. Today is my day.
"Cell 48!"
| The hide stretched on the rack before her. She had cut in the darkness before the morning, pulling it from the antelope like the cloak from a visiting guest. As light first spilled into the canyon, all of the meat and fat had been scraped away, and when the sun rose high above the canyon, as if angry to find her hiding there, she retreated to the shade to smoke, laying the hide flat to watch as its moisture burned away.
Soon the day had crossed the sky, forgetting the canyon, and the shade came retreating back to her. Floral smells that sealed themselves from the afternoon’s poor temper opened, and sought her nostrils. She knelt, and shaved gold and black and brown hair, not turning to watch it dance away with the wind. She brought the hide, now naked, to the edge of the stream that had injured the earth here, opening its skin wide and deep. She hung it on a low branch, and the stream took the hide in its hands and washed it.
Taking the basket that held the antelope’s brain, she bent and allowed the stream into it. She took basket and hide, and brought them to the sandy clearing where they gathered in the evening to keep warm, to tell stories and sometimes to dance. The hide folded neatly into the basket’s slick and oily contents, and as she let it go the first hole appeared in the sky above her.
Now the hide was stretched before her, and the sky was full of holes. It was bright and warm, and the fire she was preparing would not have been necessary this evening, but for the smoke it provided. Smoke to bring the hide easily to its leather. Soon the men would return, smelling of dust and tobacco and blood.
And she could smell blood.
Blood, and smoke, and something else. A smell her nostrils had never found before. The wind rose around her, and brought with it the sounds of hooves and voices. These sounds were swallowed by larger ones, angular cracking sounds, as though an entire forrest were falling at once. She stood facing the immense noise, her hands at her face, the smell of the antelope’s blood on them, the smell of its brains and skin. The smells of the hide.
The small thunder of hooves grew louder. The wind brought again its new collection of smells, acrid and unfamiliar. Echoes of words she did not understand flew towards her from the bend in the canyon ahead. Shadows followed them, and stopped. She stared them down. The shadows, shrouded in their strange smells and awful sounds, crept towards her. She reached for the half-moon of sharpened flint, the one she used to shave the gold and black and brown hair from the hides the men brought back each day. Her fingers found its edge. The shadows moved closer.
The bright, warm air of the canyon surrendered itself to the scent of blood. |
The why is up to you. | [WP] A tedious, daily chore, done for the last time. | The bright fluorescent bulb flickered and whined. Micah saw it from the corner of his eye groaning inwardly, it pained his eyes the brightness of it. Waking him up from his unsteady slumber his labored breaths stabbing needles in his chest. He turned his head slowly, trying to see where the nurse placed the nearest glass of water.
There it was, the paper cup was wrinkled with use. He reached out to it with his gnarled withered hands.
Those very hands had labored for 30 years working at the docks in Cape Town. For 21 years those same hands, until 5 years ago, had held a simple silver wedding band. Now holding the cup he held it up against lips. His eyes caught the sight of a cockroach struggling in the clear abyss. Struggling for all he can to survive and scuttle to safety. Oh why did he labor so? Why did he not just resign to fate?
Such were the conditions of the hospital, grime outnumbered both patients and doctors. When the lights were out at 9PM, the halls and rooms were the domains of rats and mice. Struggling for the leftovers of the meager gruel that the staff called food. At night Micah could hear the screams of agony from the neighboring patients. Nurses coming and going replacing IVs in all manners of the night. Micah hadn't slept in weeks. His breaths grew labored and weary. He looked forward to that final time when he would join Liza in whatever eternal abode awaits them. Since she departed from his life 5 years ago every breath was a chore, a tedious laborious chore which left him in a cynical state of agony and pain. This day would be the last. | This was it. One last time time and it would be all over. He smiled to himself but quickly stopped when he realised how sick his happiness was. He open the bag which contained his tools for the job. He cleaned them from the day before, as he always had.
"Last time" he whispered beneath his breath.
He hoped it would be his last time. His 'job' provided him sanity which he no longer needed.
The ringing of the bell almost startled him even though he had become used to it. As always there was a terrified scream when his, as you might call it, victim woke up.
"WHO ARE YOU!?" The man yelled.
All I said back was, "Unfortunate last words." |
The why is up to you. | [WP] A tedious, daily chore, done for the last time. | "Cell 32!"
I jumped to order abruptly. It'd been awhile since I'd truly gotten lost in a book. The tier was oddly quiet today, must be the rain. It's nice when it rains. Something about the sound of raindrops gaining in ferocity with the wind, it takes me out of here if only for a brief moment.
I can hear Melendez walking around the corner before I even see him. It's incredible how quickly you can come to identify people by the sound of their pace here.
Today should be pay day.
I peek my head out of the cell, first to my left and then to Melendez coming from the right. I can tell it all worked out by the look on his face. He hands me the mop bucket and I start cleaning the tier.
So far, so good, we're half way there.
At exactly 9:05, Corbin is gonna get his door opened to head to the infirmary for meds. I feel bad for the kid, truly, but he knows the rules. Halligan still owes four points and The Chief got reliable intel two weeks ago that his celly Dex is still buying hits from Poncho. Incredible.
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous. There's no way out of this one, I gotta make my bones sooner or later. If there's one thing I hate it's someone who doesn't pay what he owes.
This whole thing is bigger than me anyways. Push it to the back and move forward.
When I dip the mop in the bucket I can feel the tool swirling in the water. I am overjoyed. This scumbag is going to get it.
9:02. I can feel the blood rushing through my veins. I need to relax, I'm going too fast. The wind picks up outside. I near the final stretch of the teir and again become aware of the sound of the rain banging on against the windows. Relief washes over me.
I've been waiting to get this done so long, and here I am reaching the pinnacle, feeling a complete state of calm and relief.
Corbin beams me directly in the eye with his mirror from two cells down. I can't help but wince and turn my head quickly. I hope nobody saw that.
I reach down into the water, careful not to cut myself. The tool has a solid grip. I was expecting the handle to be made with electrical tape, but this feels thicker. I think one of Melendez's people is tight with a guy down in the woodworking shop over in Unit A, maybe those guys get some quality stuff.
I look down the tier to the command post and watch Officer Vries. He finally adjusts his posture and lumbers toward the intercom.
It's on. Halligan is gonna get it and I'm gonna get mine. Today is my day.
"Cell 48!"
| This was it. One last time time and it would be all over. He smiled to himself but quickly stopped when he realised how sick his happiness was. He open the bag which contained his tools for the job. He cleaned them from the day before, as he always had.
"Last time" he whispered beneath his breath.
He hoped it would be his last time. His 'job' provided him sanity which he no longer needed.
The ringing of the bell almost startled him even though he had become used to it. As always there was a terrified scream when his, as you might call it, victim woke up.
"WHO ARE YOU!?" The man yelled.
All I said back was, "Unfortunate last words." |
The why is up to you. | [WP] A tedious, daily chore, done for the last time. | "Cell 32!"
I jumped to order abruptly. It'd been awhile since I'd truly gotten lost in a book. The tier was oddly quiet today, must be the rain. It's nice when it rains. Something about the sound of raindrops gaining in ferocity with the wind, it takes me out of here if only for a brief moment.
I can hear Melendez walking around the corner before I even see him. It's incredible how quickly you can come to identify people by the sound of their pace here.
Today should be pay day.
I peek my head out of the cell, first to my left and then to Melendez coming from the right. I can tell it all worked out by the look on his face. He hands me the mop bucket and I start cleaning the tier.
So far, so good, we're half way there.
At exactly 9:05, Corbin is gonna get his door opened to head to the infirmary for meds. I feel bad for the kid, truly, but he knows the rules. Halligan still owes four points and The Chief got reliable intel two weeks ago that his celly Dex is still buying hits from Poncho. Incredible.
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous. There's no way out of this one, I gotta make my bones sooner or later. If there's one thing I hate it's someone who doesn't pay what he owes.
This whole thing is bigger than me anyways. Push it to the back and move forward.
When I dip the mop in the bucket I can feel the tool swirling in the water. I am overjoyed. This scumbag is going to get it.
9:02. I can feel the blood rushing through my veins. I need to relax, I'm going too fast. The wind picks up outside. I near the final stretch of the teir and again become aware of the sound of the rain banging on against the windows. Relief washes over me.
I've been waiting to get this done so long, and here I am reaching the pinnacle, feeling a complete state of calm and relief.
Corbin beams me directly in the eye with his mirror from two cells down. I can't help but wince and turn my head quickly. I hope nobody saw that.
I reach down into the water, careful not to cut myself. The tool has a solid grip. I was expecting the handle to be made with electrical tape, but this feels thicker. I think one of Melendez's people is tight with a guy down in the woodworking shop over in Unit A, maybe those guys get some quality stuff.
I look down the tier to the command post and watch Officer Vries. He finally adjusts his posture and lumbers toward the intercom.
It's on. Halligan is gonna get it and I'm gonna get mine. Today is my day.
"Cell 48!"
| The colours dancing across the screen had little impact now.
He used to love The Simpsons. He used to watch it, high as a kite, with all his friends in his dorm room. Now, they were just yellow blurs, a big bright reminder of what life used to be.
He thought back to the day before it happened.
He was outside in the crispness of the early morning, the sun high and bright, stinging his already burnt shoulders. He filled the bucket up with soapy water, and threw it all over his prize possession. He still remembers the day his Dad pulled up in it in their driveway. He couldn't believe it was his. He promised he'd always take care of it. It was love at first sight.
He wasn't much of clean freak, in fact he was usually messy and disorganized. But not with her. not his car. When she was clean she was the brightest red, so bright she looked like the apple Mike Brady shined against his shirt. So vivid, so colourful and shiny, she would have fit in Springfield herself.
So he buffed and polished the morning away, and thought about the night ahead. Seeing her. Drinking, dancing. His favourite song by Childish Gambino sung out of his speakers as he day dreamed of the weekend, and what it would bring.
He couldn't bare to think back to it now. His car. The promise of a good time. Standing, *dancing* as he polished and scrubbed his baby.
Now he couldn't even drive her.
Never again.
He let out a primal groan, that scared even himself, and threw the remote so hard it smashed all over his wall. He could feel the familiar burn of salty tears fill his eyes as his mother rushed in, knowing the familiar cry of frustration.
"Maybe it's time for a rest...." She sighed, as she wheeled him to his room and lifted him under the covers. |
The why is up to you. | [WP] A tedious, daily chore, done for the last time. | "You know you don't have to do this." squeaked my mother, trying her best to hold back the tears.
"Of course I do." I said, brandishing the axe in my hand and raising it above my head. "It's the least I could do." I brought the axe down hard with perfect form. My mother sobbed uncontrollably, unable to hold back finally.
The wooden log split perfectly sideways off the stump, I cut it perfectly right down the middle. "You're crazy if you think I'm gonna leave you without at least a month's worth of firewood." I said, winking at her.
My dad showed me how to handle the axe the moment I turned 5, and have done it every day since. He would never let me chop up enough for a week or even a few days for that matter. He insisted I do a small amount every day to stay strong. For the past 14 years, day in and out, I chopped the wood, it was probably the only thing in my life I perfected.
"I'm just...going to miss you so much sweetie." my mom choked out. Her baby bird was finally leaving the nest. "I just wish your father were here to see how far you've come." The tears streamed uncontrollably over her cheeks. Dad passed when I was 8, I've been the man of the house for years.
All my belongings and textbooks were packed up for college in my car. I was supposed to leave ten minutes ago, but damned if I was gonna leave my mom high and dry without firewood. She would be here on the farm all alone by herself.
"I'll come back and visit, you know that." I said as I split another log with ease. "You need any more splittin' done, you call me and I'll be back in a flash."
Blowing her nose, mom got real stern. "You will do no such thing young man, you go and live your life and be successful. I've been workin' this place since your great grandfather was around. I'll get along just fine, 'sides I have Sadie to keep me company." Sadie was our German Shephard that dad got me when I turned 7.
While I began propping up the last log I finally started feeling the tears forming behind my eyes. I had looked forward to this moment for years. I was on my way out, one of the lucky few in my small town to get somewhere. Trembling, I started to bring the axe up.
I held it high, ready to bring it down for the last time, my vision starting to blur a little. It became too much, I dropped the axe by my side and hugged my mom hard, letting my own tears flow.
We held each other crying for a good, long time. Memories of my childhood flashed before me. The day I taught Sadie to play fetch, dad letting me drive the tractor on his lap, mom baking fresh peach pie, getting a splinter lodged deep under my fingernail while fixing the fence.
Finally, it wasn't me, but mom who broke contact. She looked straight into my eyes. "Go now son, the world is yours. Go and take it." | I smiled as I started the dishwasher for the last time. Who would have thought that such a mundane act could be so very comforting? It seems so...normal; it seems so unimportant. If I had it all to do again, I'd load that goddamn machine a thousand times over. How did I live my life with so many dirty dishes? Why did I never get those stains removed from the carpet? And let's not get started on repainting the living room. This is my home, after all; this is where I *lived*. Cleaning up after yourself is such a simple and normal part of being alive, but I guess I'll never get a chance to do it again. Today is the day I die.
I smiled once more as I carefully locked the door for the last time. I checked to be sure that I had my wallet, my keys, and my watch. I noticed that the grass needs mowing and my vegetable garden is in desperate need of a good weeding.
"I hope someone takes care of that," I thought. I did put an awful lot of work into it.
With one last look, I smiled again as I passed the gate and went to meet my doom. |
The why is up to you. | [WP] A tedious, daily chore, done for the last time. | A bitter roast, acidic on the palate, and probably fair trade. I grind the kernels until the oil releases aromatic piles of black dust.
There was a high price for this cup.
There are the perfect imprints of his teeth on my breasts, the knife marks on my sex, stomach, thighs... There are bottles of concealer and foundation to cover the black eyes, the scarves to veil the fingermarks around my neck. There is a child unborn.
I swirl the powders into the dark libation until they have completely dissolved. I hope he takes his ricin well, because this is the last, damn cup of coffee I'm making him. | I smiled as I started the dishwasher for the last time. Who would have thought that such a mundane act could be so very comforting? It seems so...normal; it seems so unimportant. If I had it all to do again, I'd load that goddamn machine a thousand times over. How did I live my life with so many dirty dishes? Why did I never get those stains removed from the carpet? And let's not get started on repainting the living room. This is my home, after all; this is where I *lived*. Cleaning up after yourself is such a simple and normal part of being alive, but I guess I'll never get a chance to do it again. Today is the day I die.
I smiled once more as I carefully locked the door for the last time. I checked to be sure that I had my wallet, my keys, and my watch. I noticed that the grass needs mowing and my vegetable garden is in desperate need of a good weeding.
"I hope someone takes care of that," I thought. I did put an awful lot of work into it.
With one last look, I smiled again as I passed the gate and went to meet my doom. |
The why is up to you. | [WP] A tedious, daily chore, done for the last time. | A bitter roast, acidic on the palate, and probably fair trade. I grind the kernels until the oil releases aromatic piles of black dust.
There was a high price for this cup.
There are the perfect imprints of his teeth on my breasts, the knife marks on my sex, stomach, thighs... There are bottles of concealer and foundation to cover the black eyes, the scarves to veil the fingermarks around my neck. There is a child unborn.
I swirl the powders into the dark libation until they have completely dissolved. I hope he takes his ricin well, because this is the last, damn cup of coffee I'm making him. | "You know you don't have to do this." squeaked my mother, trying her best to hold back the tears.
"Of course I do." I said, brandishing the axe in my hand and raising it above my head. "It's the least I could do." I brought the axe down hard with perfect form. My mother sobbed uncontrollably, unable to hold back finally.
The wooden log split perfectly sideways off the stump, I cut it perfectly right down the middle. "You're crazy if you think I'm gonna leave you without at least a month's worth of firewood." I said, winking at her.
My dad showed me how to handle the axe the moment I turned 5, and have done it every day since. He would never let me chop up enough for a week or even a few days for that matter. He insisted I do a small amount every day to stay strong. For the past 14 years, day in and out, I chopped the wood, it was probably the only thing in my life I perfected.
"I'm just...going to miss you so much sweetie." my mom choked out. Her baby bird was finally leaving the nest. "I just wish your father were here to see how far you've come." The tears streamed uncontrollably over her cheeks. Dad passed when I was 8, I've been the man of the house for years.
All my belongings and textbooks were packed up for college in my car. I was supposed to leave ten minutes ago, but damned if I was gonna leave my mom high and dry without firewood. She would be here on the farm all alone by herself.
"I'll come back and visit, you know that." I said as I split another log with ease. "You need any more splittin' done, you call me and I'll be back in a flash."
Blowing her nose, mom got real stern. "You will do no such thing young man, you go and live your life and be successful. I've been workin' this place since your great grandfather was around. I'll get along just fine, 'sides I have Sadie to keep me company." Sadie was our German Shephard that dad got me when I turned 7.
While I began propping up the last log I finally started feeling the tears forming behind my eyes. I had looked forward to this moment for years. I was on my way out, one of the lucky few in my small town to get somewhere. Trembling, I started to bring the axe up.
I held it high, ready to bring it down for the last time, my vision starting to blur a little. It became too much, I dropped the axe by my side and hugged my mom hard, letting my own tears flow.
We held each other crying for a good, long time. Memories of my childhood flashed before me. The day I taught Sadie to play fetch, dad letting me drive the tractor on his lap, mom baking fresh peach pie, getting a splinter lodged deep under my fingernail while fixing the fence.
Finally, it wasn't me, but mom who broke contact. She looked straight into my eyes. "Go now son, the world is yours. Go and take it." |
[WP] The Second American Civil War. What started it, and who are the two sides? | "There isn't any money in fighting overseas anymore."
That's how the pitch had started. And it was met with a deafening silence around the room.
The conference had been called after years of heavy losses in the arms industry. CEOs and executive leadership from all the major arms companies were present. A few representatives from the big mercenary corporations had also been invited. Close to two hundred people had arrived at the conference hall to discuss options and strategies for the decline in sales.
"The world is too poor. America is the only country supplying us with any business and their opponents are too poor to justify any more military spending. It worked for long enough, but now we've gotten to the point that we can't sell them on anything. They are just too powerful. We need a new approach, and I think I've got it."
The crowd seemed to lean in as a whole as the young executive paused to build anticipation.
"Civil war."
Gasps and quiet murmuring went around the room and slowly built to loud conversations taking place. The young man took a seat and waited while they deliberated. Over the next few hours they talked and debated and went over options and at the end of the day, they'd come to an agreement. War it would be.
The rest was handled by lawyers and salespeople. Who would take what products, what shipments. Government leaders were called and informed of the new plan, and asked to place their orders now. Troops would have to be divided up. New soldiers would have to be trained. Equipment would have to distributed. New weapons invented. Counter-weapons to those weapons created. It was going to be big and everyone wanted a piece.
Of course they had to choose an issue. This was hotly debated. Some wanted to stage a class war, but it was decided that this would be fairly one-sided and won too quickly. Others favored religion, but it was too unstable of any idea without any guarantee that religions would jump on board. Finally though, after much deliberation, it was decided that it would be race again. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it" was the colloquialism that won over most of them. They knew they could easily build tensions based on race, and with such a diverse country, it could be segmented even further, meaning more profits for them.
The second American Civil War began in 2061, and was anything but. | The battle of Caesar's Palace was a decisive decisive one. The second B.I.G. battalion colloquially known as the "Bad Boys" had pushed the main force of the 2P army, "Death Row", into the desert.
With Las Vegas fallen, The soldiers of Death Row hoped to retreat through the desert, and march back to the capital through Death Valley national park.
While the low riding pants (colloquially known as sagging) worn by both armies were useful during the Glock shootouts within Las Vegas' city limits, it made traversing the desert painfully slow.
By the time the "Death Row" army arrived back to Los Angeles, more than 2/3 have died of dehydration. With defeat imminent, The treaty of *Coast2Coast* was signed, which laid a number of provisions on West-Coast rappers, which included:
* Y'all a bunch a bitches
* We get rich, y'all bitch
* Wu-Tang in the house, bitch
From *A history of the East Coast-West Coast Rappers' Feud* | |
[WP] Dreams are misinterpretations of possible futures. For the first time one of these dreams come true. | I dream of her.
I dream of me.
I dream of us.
Every night as I laid my head down on that pillow, the walls of my reality faded away and I became the man that I wanted to be. The man she had always wanted me to be.
We would go to the beach, to the park. I would hold her hand, she would laugh at my dry jokes. Seeing her smile would light up my world, hearing her laugh would take the weight off my shoulders.
Finally, she would always run a few metres in front of me and hold up her hand to me, as if beckoning me to join her. Then a loud screech begins to come from somewhere, she turns to see it, but I can't move. All I can see is her.
And then I wake up. The dream that I desperately hopped was reality, was just a dream. For if it was reality, it would mean that at least I would be by her side. At least I could look upon her face, see her smile, and hear her laugh.
Instead, nothing has changed. She still won't reply to my calls. Still won't read my messages. And my world is still a dull, monotone black and grey existence.
I bury my face in the pillow, trying to escape back into my dream. But it doesn't work. I can't get back to sleep, and I have to go to work.
I brace myself, as if I am about to swallow a bitter pill, and begin to get ready for the day ahead.
Thirty minutes later and I'm out the door, walking to work. The sun shines perfectly through the blue sky, but all I see is clouds and rain. The flowers line the sidewalks in beautiful sparks of red, blue and yellow, but all I see is black and grey.
Crossing the intersection, I walk into the park. The same park that I dream of every night. My feet plod onwards, my brain trying to find some way to escape my dull reality.
And then I see her.
Standing in the middle of the grass, the wind quietly blowing her long brown wavy hair into her face. The sun framing her every curve. The smile on her face. Her eyes seeming to dance with life and joy. The way her lips part to let out what must be a laugh, yet I cannot hear it from where I am.
She turns in my direction, and then sees me.
Letting out small smile, she embraces me with her eyes and slowly extends her hand and waves me over, beckoning me to her side.
My feet, however, do not respond.
This must be a dream.
I pinch the skin of my hand.
Nothing happens. I do not wake up.
This is not a dream.
I smile as the realisation hits me. This is actually happening.
I raise my foot to begin walking to her side, and then I hear it.
A loud screeching coming from behind me.
Her eyes quickly dart to the origin of the source, a terrified look overcoming her face. She begins to run towards me, her hands waving at me, her lips moving as if she was trying to shout something to me.
I begin to turn, to see for myself what was happening.
And then something smashes into my side.
My whole body lifts off the ground as I fly through the air, eventually smashing headfirst into some nearby concrete stairs.
Pain sears through every part of me, and as I lie on the concrete ground, unable to move anything, red blood pooling infront of me. My eyes frantically search for her amongst all the people running around in confusion, hoping to see if she is okay.
I finally spot her as she desperately tries to push through the crowd to my side. Her lips move to say something, but all I can hear is a dull shrill coming from my ears.
The walls of my vision begin to fade into darkness, intense pain overwhelming my body. And as my eyes flicker and drift to a close, I spot but a single rose lying but a few feet away from me.
A single red rose.
The colour of life had returned to my black and grey existence.
| Hmm. That tooth dream again. This time I only lost one, my top left incisor. The scientific consensus on this was pretty clear. Something was coming that would cause me to not have good personal hygiene. Now, if only I could remember the rest of the dream so I could figure out why. I wracked my brain for a few minutes. I was at work…no… driving home from work. Yes, that’s it. Driving home from work.
I wrote down as much detail as I could remember and then consulted the Guide. Crap. Well good thing I had the dream. Now I can at least do something about it.
I got ready and drove to the construction site. I donned my reflective vest and hard hat, grabbed my cooler and went to the middle of the bridge. “Hey, Larry!”
“Mornin’ Doug. Another beautiful day in the neighborhood, eh?”
“Sure beats the office.” I had changed careers after that on dream a few years ago. Turned out the type of software I specialized in went obsolete pretty much overnight by a bright, young college drop-out. People were laid off left and right. I made the switch early enough and was able to get a new job in the same town. I always consider myself lucky that I had my dream. Some of my counterparts in my office and offices around the country were not so lucky.
“Hey Doug, do you mind taking the first go with the jackhammer today?”
“You’re not going to get me hurt are you, Deep?”
“You know I got your back, but I’m just tired this morning and last night...” I cut him off. I knew had a dream and I knew he would never put me in danger. Besides, it was illegal to use dreams to harm someone else.
“No sweat, I’ll go first.”
After a long day of manual labor, I pack up and head on out. Driving home I’m careful to keep an extra sharp eye on the road. It’s easy to let your mind wander after a day out in the summer sun. But I can’t lose concentration today.
Right as I’m changing lanes for my exit, the driver of the car in front of me slams on his brakes. I almost didn’t see it. On any other day, I’m sure I would have missed it. I take the appropriate action and just barely avoid the accident.
HA! Once again, my dreams come to the rescue. A smile creeps across my face as I turn up the radio and continue my drive home.
“Ya know what, I’m going to call Em and tell her the good news,” I decided out loud. I picked up the phone and scrolled for her number. She’ll never believe how spot-on I’ve been recently.
The gunshot-esk cracks and screeching was the next thing I heard. It was a mini-van, with 4 children inside. I wiped the blood from my face and stared at the scene in the middle of the intersection in horror. I guess sometimes, dreams do come true. | |
There are things we all desire in life: material, physical or otherwise. I, myself, have a longing for a bit of technology. The company that makes it is beloved by scores of people and reviled just as much. Oh, if only I had the money to afford this sleek lightweight beast. I tremble at the thought that something that weighs less than a childrens book could court my fancy. I marvel at the thought of having the world at my fingertips while on the crapper. I would actually love to be able to afford an iPad air. Hate me if you will!
Just write! Have fun. :) | [FF] 150 words or less: Describe something you desire and reveal it at the end | My mouth waters at the thought of the long tube. Rivulets of saliva run down my chin and disappear into the forest of my goatee. It burns inside me like a dying phoenix collapsing to ash. I nick my finger with the tine of a fork. There's no blood, I'm just edgy.
"Calm down, you'll be fine." She says chewing cinnamon gum.
I spear a carrot and nibble on the end. She leaves the table and exits the backdoor. I remain at the table, sullen. A smell. I know that smell. I follow my wife’s trail and open the door.
“Aha, I knew it. You lied to me.” The crickets chirp their light, melodic chorus.
“Don’t you blame me. I don’t have to give it up.”
“I don’t care what you say. This is bullshit and you know it. Please, honey just let me have a drag of your cigarette.”
| Eyes feel heavy, focused, tired. Minutes count down; time slips through the cracks slowly as if dragged by an anchor, the chains tied round my chest. Shallow breathing, focus fading, silently cursing the day this curse was cast. My mind wanders from the task at hand; my eyes shift listlessly away, a vision of endless lush fields appear before me. Blades of grass blur by as I swiftly fly by in a flurry, tufts of wind tug at the seams of my clothes; I feel free. Buzzer sounds, slammed back to reality, the anchor reattached, affixed firmly to my chest, a cascade of words whip my eyes, demanding my attention. My brain revolts, vexation rises and I shout “Fucking bullshit online driving exam, why the fuck are these things four hours long. I just want to be over with it!” |
There are things we all desire in life: material, physical or otherwise. I, myself, have a longing for a bit of technology. The company that makes it is beloved by scores of people and reviled just as much. Oh, if only I had the money to afford this sleek lightweight beast. I tremble at the thought that something that weighs less than a childrens book could court my fancy. I marvel at the thought of having the world at my fingertips while on the crapper. I would actually love to be able to afford an iPad air. Hate me if you will!
Just write! Have fun. :) | [FF] 150 words or less: Describe something you desire and reveal it at the end | That twinge. That first flutter. That feeling that can't be described to anyone who hasn't experienced it. It's so exciting, yet so terrifying. I can't help but feel selfish because I've felt it so many times before when others only hope to. I know I can't have it. I know it would be reckless and irresponsible, but it doesn't stop the urge. I wrap my arms around my belly and let the tears come...
I want a baby. | Eyes feel heavy, focused, tired. Minutes count down; time slips through the cracks slowly as if dragged by an anchor, the chains tied round my chest. Shallow breathing, focus fading, silently cursing the day this curse was cast. My mind wanders from the task at hand; my eyes shift listlessly away, a vision of endless lush fields appear before me. Blades of grass blur by as I swiftly fly by in a flurry, tufts of wind tug at the seams of my clothes; I feel free. Buzzer sounds, slammed back to reality, the anchor reattached, affixed firmly to my chest, a cascade of words whip my eyes, demanding my attention. My brain revolts, vexation rises and I shout “Fucking bullshit online driving exam, why the fuck are these things four hours long. I just want to be over with it!” |
There are things we all desire in life: material, physical or otherwise. I, myself, have a longing for a bit of technology. The company that makes it is beloved by scores of people and reviled just as much. Oh, if only I had the money to afford this sleek lightweight beast. I tremble at the thought that something that weighs less than a childrens book could court my fancy. I marvel at the thought of having the world at my fingertips while on the crapper. I would actually love to be able to afford an iPad air. Hate me if you will!
Just write! Have fun. :) | [FF] 150 words or less: Describe something you desire and reveal it at the end | My mouth waters at the thought of the long tube. Rivulets of saliva run down my chin and disappear into the forest of my goatee. It burns inside me like a dying phoenix collapsing to ash. I nick my finger with the tine of a fork. There's no blood, I'm just edgy.
"Calm down, you'll be fine." She says chewing cinnamon gum.
I spear a carrot and nibble on the end. She leaves the table and exits the backdoor. I remain at the table, sullen. A smell. I know that smell. I follow my wife’s trail and open the door.
“Aha, I knew it. You lied to me.” The crickets chirp their light, melodic chorus.
“Don’t you blame me. I don’t have to give it up.”
“I don’t care what you say. This is bullshit and you know it. Please, honey just let me have a drag of your cigarette.”
| I can feel your warmth in my lap, but I know I have to wait. I've been thinking about this all day - I could barely focus at work. Now that I have you, the temptation is almost insurmountable, but I know the payoff will be so much better if I can hold out a little longer so that I can enjoy you in your entirety. Your warmth is a constant reminder that you're there, but even more intoxicating is your smell. You fill the area with your scent, and I can barely keep my mind on what I'm doing even now. I not only want you, I need you. Inside of me. It's almost carnal, because truth is, its carnivorous. I want to undress you, take off your wrapper, and bite into you. I love you, Big Mac. From the drive-through to home you'll be all I think about.
EDIT: GRAMMAR |
There are things we all desire in life: material, physical or otherwise. I, myself, have a longing for a bit of technology. The company that makes it is beloved by scores of people and reviled just as much. Oh, if only I had the money to afford this sleek lightweight beast. I tremble at the thought that something that weighs less than a childrens book could court my fancy. I marvel at the thought of having the world at my fingertips while on the crapper. I would actually love to be able to afford an iPad air. Hate me if you will!
Just write! Have fun. :) | [FF] 150 words or less: Describe something you desire and reveal it at the end | That twinge. That first flutter. That feeling that can't be described to anyone who hasn't experienced it. It's so exciting, yet so terrifying. I can't help but feel selfish because I've felt it so many times before when others only hope to. I know I can't have it. I know it would be reckless and irresponsible, but it doesn't stop the urge. I wrap my arms around my belly and let the tears come...
I want a baby. | >I awake each day with an unforced smile. Challenging work fills most of my time, though ultimately I emerge a more well rounded person from it. Leisure period is filled with innumerable calls for my company. I have my choice at any or none. My current character-building activity is progressing swimmingly. Correspondence with a special someone helps me to feel fulfilled. After much stress and hardship I have what I desire. I am happy.
I set the pad and pen at my side and replace them with a glass. Unsteady vision makes writing frustrating. I drain the contents and think, longingly, of all I've written. A quiver of desperation shoots through me and my motor control falters. The glass tumbles gently to the floor. Room spinning now, black dots spreading through it like a plague. Warmth streams slowly down my cheek. I stare into blackness. I am depressed. |
There are things we all desire in life: material, physical or otherwise. I, myself, have a longing for a bit of technology. The company that makes it is beloved by scores of people and reviled just as much. Oh, if only I had the money to afford this sleek lightweight beast. I tremble at the thought that something that weighs less than a childrens book could court my fancy. I marvel at the thought of having the world at my fingertips while on the crapper. I would actually love to be able to afford an iPad air. Hate me if you will!
Just write! Have fun. :) | [FF] 150 words or less: Describe something you desire and reveal it at the end | I find that the most enjoyable time to be alive is when I am sleeping. My brain does not think, and consciously, I do not exist. What I desire is a mere extension of that.
I want to die. | >I awake each day with an unforced smile. Challenging work fills most of my time, though ultimately I emerge a more well rounded person from it. Leisure period is filled with innumerable calls for my company. I have my choice at any or none. My current character-building activity is progressing swimmingly. Correspondence with a special someone helps me to feel fulfilled. After much stress and hardship I have what I desire. I am happy.
I set the pad and pen at my side and replace them with a glass. Unsteady vision makes writing frustrating. I drain the contents and think, longingly, of all I've written. A quiver of desperation shoots through me and my motor control falters. The glass tumbles gently to the floor. Room spinning now, black dots spreading through it like a plague. Warmth streams slowly down my cheek. I stare into blackness. I am depressed. |
There are things we all desire in life: material, physical or otherwise. I, myself, have a longing for a bit of technology. The company that makes it is beloved by scores of people and reviled just as much. Oh, if only I had the money to afford this sleek lightweight beast. I tremble at the thought that something that weighs less than a childrens book could court my fancy. I marvel at the thought of having the world at my fingertips while on the crapper. I would actually love to be able to afford an iPad air. Hate me if you will!
Just write! Have fun. :) | [FF] 150 words or less: Describe something you desire and reveal it at the end | I pulled my hand out of the drywall. My hand was bleeding, but I felt a little less frustrated. Once more, I carefully scanned the room; top to bottom, left to right.
Nowhere! They’re no-fucking-where! “Fuck!” I scream. I grab a handful of my wife’s hair, and yank her up to eye level. “Where are they?” I spit a little as I scream at her face. “Where the fuck are they?” I shout. No answer. She looks frightened. And old. Frightened and old Claire Moriarty.
Then I feel it. A shooting, white-hot energy, that bursts forth from my subconscious, and fills me with… with an ancient feeling. I unclench my fist and my wife flumps to the floor. Is this memory? No. Ego? Neigh. It is Instinct, and I can feel it pulsing in my veins. It says, “look left.” Ah, there they are. On the counter. Brown Sugar Pop-Tarts.
| >I awake each day with an unforced smile. Challenging work fills most of my time, though ultimately I emerge a more well rounded person from it. Leisure period is filled with innumerable calls for my company. I have my choice at any or none. My current character-building activity is progressing swimmingly. Correspondence with a special someone helps me to feel fulfilled. After much stress and hardship I have what I desire. I am happy.
I set the pad and pen at my side and replace them with a glass. Unsteady vision makes writing frustrating. I drain the contents and think, longingly, of all I've written. A quiver of desperation shoots through me and my motor control falters. The glass tumbles gently to the floor. Room spinning now, black dots spreading through it like a plague. Warmth streams slowly down my cheek. I stare into blackness. I am depressed. |
There are things we all desire in life: material, physical or otherwise. I, myself, have a longing for a bit of technology. The company that makes it is beloved by scores of people and reviled just as much. Oh, if only I had the money to afford this sleek lightweight beast. I tremble at the thought that something that weighs less than a childrens book could court my fancy. I marvel at the thought of having the world at my fingertips while on the crapper. I would actually love to be able to afford an iPad air. Hate me if you will!
Just write! Have fun. :) | [FF] 150 words or less: Describe something you desire and reveal it at the end | I pulled my hand out of the drywall. My hand was bleeding, but I felt a little less frustrated. Once more, I carefully scanned the room; top to bottom, left to right.
Nowhere! They’re no-fucking-where! “Fuck!” I scream. I grab a handful of my wife’s hair, and yank her up to eye level. “Where are they?” I spit a little as I scream at her face. “Where the fuck are they?” I shout. No answer. She looks frightened. And old. Frightened and old Claire Moriarty.
Then I feel it. A shooting, white-hot energy, that bursts forth from my subconscious, and fills me with… with an ancient feeling. I unclench my fist and my wife flumps to the floor. Is this memory? No. Ego? Neigh. It is Instinct, and I can feel it pulsing in my veins. It says, “look left.” Ah, there they are. On the counter. Brown Sugar Pop-Tarts.
| Her lip trembles at my touch. This, this is my desire. The averted gaze, the quick sidelong glance, a dance of sorts, played among two strangers in the street. The players, like rams, locking horns in combat, shoulders crashing again and again. I remain unmoving, unbreakable, and their muttered words of pardon greet my ears. My level smile is the only response, but through my clenched teeth I hiss to myself, savouring the word.
Power…
|
[WP] A sherriff walks off of the murderer's property. He doesn't know that the property owner is the murderer. He realizes the truth. He turns around and says... (200 words) | "Oh my God, the property owner is the murderer!" | I should kill more often. Not for no reason, but if this slow-witted, cigar-chomping, mumbling desk jockey is the best LAPD can send on such a high-profile "disappearance", why would I sit through another bothersome interpersonal dispute when murder is apparently so very easy to get away with?
My pulse is steady and my demeanor calm as I answer the final, utterly generic question. My God. I'm almost indignant that my tax dollars pay for such incompetence.
The policeman thanks me for my time and shuffles toward the door.
"You're very welcome, Lieutenant Columbo. Don't hesitate to call if you've any further questions," I say, ever the gracious host and cooperative witness.
"Well, thanks very much. Yeah, if I think of anything else, I'll let you know."
I'm about to close the door when he stops on the threshold and turns.
"Just one more thing..."
_____________
AN: I'm sorry, I had to. | |
I find it's difficult to describe massive waves of people surrounded by utter chaos, so I want to see you give it a try. What are you doing? Are you one of the riot police, sworn to protect the people in and outside the riot? Are you a rioter, rallying against some social injustice? Or are you simply a bystander, observing the chaos with little idea what's going on?
This is a tough exercise in writing. Give it your best go! | [WP] You are part of a riot. Where are you? | I caught one of the rioters by the arm and opened my trench coat, revealing bottles of kerosine and whiskey.
"Can I get you a Molotov, young man?" I asked. "They're twenty Euros apiece. Your money back if you catch a cop on fire."
"Nah, man," the rioter said. "I ain't that crazy."
"A gas mask then. The pigs will throw gas sooner or later. Forty Euros is a small price to pay for your dignity."
The rioter agreed and shelled out the money, and I went spinning away through the press. The gas mask was a cheap fake, of course, but my customers would never find me to complain, and the profit margins from selling costume masks were magnificent.
I caught sight of a hat I fancied, so I skipped past its owner and snatched it off, then spun away. I saw a girl I fancied, so I stole a kiss and spun away. I was always spinning in the crowd - selling and stealing and spinning, until I was damnably dizzy, but I didn't stop spinning because spinning was the center of the fun. Only by spinning could you see all the moving limbs dance, and the angry faces blurring together into a single expression. Each riot had its own individualistic hints in its expression, but all of them were equally profitable, and I could think of no happier way spend an afternoon.
Perhaps tomorrow I'd drop in on the "peaceful" march over in Athens. With a Molotov here and a bullet there, I'm sure I'd get things lively enough.
I've heard it said that anarchy is all about not having a government or ruler. That couldn't be more wrong. In this moment of anarchy, I am king. | There they were. The ones who started everything. Covering their faces as if the masks granted them immunity.
Smith had seen the deterioration of the country. His job was long gone and he had run out of money. Watching his wife leave with his two kids was the straw that broke the camel's back. Except this time, the camel was his sanity.
He began to walk among the protesters, like a zombie. He really didn't know why he was doing it. He just wanted to see the face of the enemy up close. For some reason, he felt fine walking among the herd... knowing that it would all be over as soon as the first shot was fired.
"Will I kill, or will I be killed?", he thought. He no longer gave a damn. He just knew that it would all be over soon.
For days, he walked among the protesters, clenching his fists against the sky. Watching the drones hover over him, looking at them, staring at them, whispering to himself... "I know who you are..."
The final day, he didn't go to the protest. His friends asked if he would attend. "Sorry, I'm feeling bad today. But I promise I'll watch closely."
And he did. He watched closely while he was sitting on the chair, looking through the broken window of an abandoned building... through the crosshair of his good ol' sniper rifle.
"Today, it all ends".
Click.
EDIT: Fixed the first paragraph to add more suspense. |
[WP]: a new STD is discovered, which spreads by turning the infected incredibly physically attractive, however shortening their life spans significantly | Dr. Johansen ogled over the most recent statistics with fear in his eyes; the infection rate was much higher than the projection had estimated for the third consecutive year, 850 million detected cases worldwide, victims dying of massive hepatic failure in an average of 8 years after acquiring the disease. He stroked his brow worriedly. Something must be done to stop this menace.
Countries' birth rates steadily declined as the world's population became obsessed with either avoiding intercourse or actively seeking infection. The temptation was too strong to ignore for long. Turmoil sprung in the parliaments as economies crashed, the health agencies desperately trying to find a vaccine, the churches admonishing their faithful against the evils of promiscuity. Hate parades. Support parades. People clamoring for a cure and people hailing it as the dawn of a new world order: the whole world was upended by a strand of RNA.
"Sneaky little virus" Johansen thought. "ensuring transmission by making infected individuals look like fit reproductive partners". People can't fight such basic instinct, much less when the social concepts of beauty are thrown into the mix. Plus, they know they will die soon, and abandon themselves to a wildly debauched lifestyle. No morals, no regrets. And who can blame them? They ARE beautiful. Johansen kept poring over his medical journals, trying to figure out his course of action.
"Fuck this -he thought- might as well go catch it... After all, no one ever comes to see a plastic surgeon anymore." | "So you have the [beautiful Squidward disease](http://i0.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/original/000/171/180/tumblr_lpycb2FGGZ1qg45tj.gif?1315271524), huh?"
"Yeah."
"Wanna have sex?"
"Sure." | |
[WP]: a new STD is discovered, which spreads by turning the infected incredibly physically attractive, however shortening their life spans significantly | They called it Pulchrasituoma when it was first discovered, following the trend of naming shit that kills you after pretty Latin words. Everyone could tell something had changed. People were nicer looking, people were happier. You'd go to a club and there wasn't a homely person in sight. Not that they didn't exist anymore, of course the uninfected existed. It's just they didn't go to clubs much anymore. What was the point?
Before, there was a chance for them still. You might have been ugly, but you had personality, or charm, or money. But now almost everyone was beautiful, and so there were more beautiful people with personality, charm, and money. Why date an uggo? You could find a prettier version of them in the time it took to fuck a disease into somebody.
And at first, there weren't any downsides. Not everyone sought it out, if only because you would have to explain to your mother why you were suddenly so much more handsome, but plenty enough did. And then people started dying. It took twenty or thirty years, but people started dying. The average life expectancy in the states fell to 58 years old. The estimate was that around 45% of the population had it.
There wasn't any way to detect it. That would have been too easy. The only symptom was becoming beautiful. No, not beautiful. Fuckable. That, and dying between the ages of 40 and 50. A clever fucking virus, if there ever was one. I'm surprised it took so long for it to come about. Using our own dicks as the knife we would stick in each other's backs. A thing of fucking beauty it is.
Preacher's called it god's answer to our lust. Conservationists called it Gaia's answer to our overpopulation. Some called it a gift. The great equalizer. And so what if it killed you a bit sooner? The life you had left would be so much sweeter.
The government tried to start a quarantine, but even the government was split. It didn't help that a quarantine was only possible if you discriminated based on looks, it only added to the list of human rights violations. The military was called in, and internment camps were started, but even the military fell apart. Soldiers were never really good at avoiding STDs on deployment, and this one was no different. Civil war would be a harsh word to use, at least for the United States, but mass riots broke out as people started fighting against the quarantine measures. People died, lots of people. Other countries didn't fare better. The poorer ones, where sex-ed was worse, had the infected vastly outnumber the uninfected. Their governments were taken over quickly.
The revolutions had names like the Beautiful Coup and the Revolution of Angels. The stronger governments managed to sue for peace, on the terms that the infected agree to live on reservations. I guess they thought that with shorter life spans, maybe they'd die out eventually and regular people could take back over.
But the virus was clever. It waited until you were biologically useless to it, until you statistically would not be able to have more children. And then it killed you. The infected population grew as adorable children and cute toddlers, already infected from the womb, started replacing the older generations.
It wasn't long before the fences meant to keep the infected out became the fences that kept the uninfected in. The infected claimed victory. Within a half century there were only pockets of uninfected, now protected minorities.
The happiness was short lived though. Now everyone was beautiful, but what did that change? The bar had been raised, but that didn't matter when you were the ugliest beauty, you were still ugly relative to everyone else. Nothing changed, life was as brutal as ever, but at least now it was short. | "So you have the [beautiful Squidward disease](http://i0.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/original/000/171/180/tumblr_lpycb2FGGZ1qg45tj.gif?1315271524), huh?"
"Yeah."
"Wanna have sex?"
"Sure." | |
[WP]: a new STD is discovered, which spreads by turning the infected incredibly physically attractive, however shortening their life spans significantly | Dr. Johansen ogled over the most recent statistics with fear in his eyes; the infection rate was much higher than the projection had estimated for the third consecutive year, 850 million detected cases worldwide, victims dying of massive hepatic failure in an average of 8 years after acquiring the disease. He stroked his brow worriedly. Something must be done to stop this menace.
Countries' birth rates steadily declined as the world's population became obsessed with either avoiding intercourse or actively seeking infection. The temptation was too strong to ignore for long. Turmoil sprung in the parliaments as economies crashed, the health agencies desperately trying to find a vaccine, the churches admonishing their faithful against the evils of promiscuity. Hate parades. Support parades. People clamoring for a cure and people hailing it as the dawn of a new world order: the whole world was upended by a strand of RNA.
"Sneaky little virus" Johansen thought. "ensuring transmission by making infected individuals look like fit reproductive partners". People can't fight such basic instinct, much less when the social concepts of beauty are thrown into the mix. Plus, they know they will die soon, and abandon themselves to a wildly debauched lifestyle. No morals, no regrets. And who can blame them? They ARE beautiful. Johansen kept poring over his medical journals, trying to figure out his course of action.
"Fuck this -he thought- might as well go catch it... After all, no one ever comes to see a plastic surgeon anymore." | Pariahs have become overnight celebrities advocating celibacy, and decades of sexual liberation have gone down the drain. The Amish, the Mormons, fundamentalists, and all other conservative circles have risen to power with the newly dictated rules for the survival of the fittest.
Beauty has once again become the great face of shame, of deplority, the greatest temptation. Advertisements don't even show people anymore, in an attempt to dimish power over physcial attractiveness. Now, plastic surgeons and cosmetic industries are no different from mad scientists and visual effects makeup artists.
Museums began to purge the works of the Renaissance era, depictions of physical perfection taken down in place of war, disease, sadness. With this new lack of human essence the art world has desecended into abstract works of angst and frustration, a mix of Pollack, Dali, and Goya.
The image of life and vitality is a gaunt, hallowed face with patchy conplexion and thin, frizzled hair. Mothers began shaving their daughters in an attempt to make them look less attractive and more androgynous. Sex in general has become labeled as a 'beautiful exit' and a growing trend of youths copulating and spending the remainder of their lives in crack houses have emerged.
| |
[WP]: a new STD is discovered, which spreads by turning the infected incredibly physically attractive, however shortening their life spans significantly | They called it Pulchrasituoma when it was first discovered, following the trend of naming shit that kills you after pretty Latin words. Everyone could tell something had changed. People were nicer looking, people were happier. You'd go to a club and there wasn't a homely person in sight. Not that they didn't exist anymore, of course the uninfected existed. It's just they didn't go to clubs much anymore. What was the point?
Before, there was a chance for them still. You might have been ugly, but you had personality, or charm, or money. But now almost everyone was beautiful, and so there were more beautiful people with personality, charm, and money. Why date an uggo? You could find a prettier version of them in the time it took to fuck a disease into somebody.
And at first, there weren't any downsides. Not everyone sought it out, if only because you would have to explain to your mother why you were suddenly so much more handsome, but plenty enough did. And then people started dying. It took twenty or thirty years, but people started dying. The average life expectancy in the states fell to 58 years old. The estimate was that around 45% of the population had it.
There wasn't any way to detect it. That would have been too easy. The only symptom was becoming beautiful. No, not beautiful. Fuckable. That, and dying between the ages of 40 and 50. A clever fucking virus, if there ever was one. I'm surprised it took so long for it to come about. Using our own dicks as the knife we would stick in each other's backs. A thing of fucking beauty it is.
Preacher's called it god's answer to our lust. Conservationists called it Gaia's answer to our overpopulation. Some called it a gift. The great equalizer. And so what if it killed you a bit sooner? The life you had left would be so much sweeter.
The government tried to start a quarantine, but even the government was split. It didn't help that a quarantine was only possible if you discriminated based on looks, it only added to the list of human rights violations. The military was called in, and internment camps were started, but even the military fell apart. Soldiers were never really good at avoiding STDs on deployment, and this one was no different. Civil war would be a harsh word to use, at least for the United States, but mass riots broke out as people started fighting against the quarantine measures. People died, lots of people. Other countries didn't fare better. The poorer ones, where sex-ed was worse, had the infected vastly outnumber the uninfected. Their governments were taken over quickly.
The revolutions had names like the Beautiful Coup and the Revolution of Angels. The stronger governments managed to sue for peace, on the terms that the infected agree to live on reservations. I guess they thought that with shorter life spans, maybe they'd die out eventually and regular people could take back over.
But the virus was clever. It waited until you were biologically useless to it, until you statistically would not be able to have more children. And then it killed you. The infected population grew as adorable children and cute toddlers, already infected from the womb, started replacing the older generations.
It wasn't long before the fences meant to keep the infected out became the fences that kept the uninfected in. The infected claimed victory. Within a half century there were only pockets of uninfected, now protected minorities.
The happiness was short lived though. Now everyone was beautiful, but what did that change? The bar had been raised, but that didn't matter when you were the ugliest beauty, you were still ugly relative to everyone else. Nothing changed, life was as brutal as ever, but at least now it was short. | Angela straddled her latest client, running her fingers through his hair.
“Are you ready to burst from your cocoon, hon?” she whispered in his ear. The john, eyes closed, could only nod, sweat beading under his fringe of greying hair. Angela smiled, running her lips over his earlobe. She continued to kiss her way down to his chest, unbuttoning his threadbare shirt.
“There’s no going back, you know…” she warned.
“It’s almost over for me regardless,” he muttered, “I’d think you would be more worried than me.”
Angela smiled weakly. “If I didn’t go through with this, I’d be worried a lot more.” She reached down and undid his belt, and they began a passionate embrace.
When all was through, the man admired his new body. He smiled broadly at his thicker hair, his eyes filled with a new glimmer. His smile was broader, his face fuller, his entire being rejuvenated and young. At least for now. He pulled an exhausted Angela to his chest.
“Thank you,” he said. He retrieved his wallet, and emptied its remaining cash into her hand. They went their separate ways in front of the motel.
Angela limped to her car, checking herself in the rear view mirror. Everything was blurry to her, but even she could see the wrinkled appearing in her face. She pulled at a cluster of hair strands, and they came off in her hands. She checked her accumulated earnings; 15,000. More than she had ever been used to, but her clientele recently had obviously had more disposable income than most. She got the old engine to sputter to life one last time, and drove ever carefully deep into the downtown district, coming to a stop in front of one particularly dilapidated terrace. She stuffed a legal envelope.
“To Abigail” it said on its front, “I got it. I know I said I’d be careful, but sometimes these things happen. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I’ve made it work for me as best I can, and I hope I can help bring beauty to your life like I have for so many others this week.” Her hands were starting to shake. “Your sister, Angela. I love you.” she managed to scribble out.
She stuffed the envelope through the mail slot, and stumbled back to her car. It kept going long after she stopped, its headlights glowing like specters as it vanished into the night.
| |
Feel free to embellish a little, but don't go overboard. You can discuss whatever kind of fear you like, and whether or not you overcame it.
Happy writing! | [WP] Let's do something different: Write about a personal experience. When in your life have you felt most afraid? Why? | In high school, we had to practice a number of emergency drills unrelated to the usual fire variety. This was commonplace after a certain school in Colorado struck fear into the hearts of parents everywhere. These drills were mostly annoyances, albeit ones that delayed lectures, but at least they were grounded in reality. A number of students didn't understand why we needed to care, assuming that such an event couldn't happen in our town. I, on the other hand, took it very seriously. I, unlike my peers, had previously been in a school that was infiltrated by gunmen.
It was an assembly, so most students and even some parents, were gathered in the auditorium. We didn't hear the doors open or at least notice that the people who stepped in were there to listen. Everyone was focused on the stage until the gunmen were in position. I can't remember how many there were, in retrospect. There were at least three, probably more outside. All I knew was that they were angry and they were well-armed.
If I was scared, I can't even imagine the boy on stage. One of the men had stormed the stage and held him at gunpoint. Two more patroled the aisles. It's worth mentioning at this point that this was not like the school shootings you hear about on the news. Those tragic events are done at the hands of other students. These were professionals, an unsanctioned police force that simply disagreed with the direction of our school.
When they first arrived, one of the audience members had been recording the assembly with a video camera. He managed to escape via a side door and alert the proper authorities. I the video heard it made CNN, but I've never seen evidence of that. The police arrived at the school and talked the gunmen out without any shots getting fired.
If you've never had a gun pointed at you or in your general direction by an unstable individual(s) who has nonetheless been trained to use that weapon to kill, it is a difficult experience to describe. As a kid, there was always that misplaced sense of invulnerability. We'd play in traffic and fancy ourselves stuntmen. We'd improvise sports with high risk of injury. We were never really afraid, though. Staring at a rifle staring at you is a sobering experience. That shell, the armor of childhood, cracks. It abandoned me that day. I couldn't look at the barrel the same way I looked at the pool from a rooftop; I couldn't convince myself that I'd be fine.
"This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard of," shouted one student in my homeroom class as the color coded drill extended into its second hour. They sat at their desk in homeroom. I sat in a darkened auditorium, hoping that the police arrived quickly. | The parents of the kid I was babysitting came back around 1am. I declined their offer for a ride home. It was my last New England fall before I left for college and an unseasonably warm night for the first night of November. Besides, I only lived a mile away.
I took the long way home, hoping to stretch out my remaining time. I always loved late night walks, I would contemplate my life and whatever issues I was dealing with. I turned into a condo community and saw a car with the lights on. For a moment I thought it was just left there and wondered what it would be like to steal a car. I laughed off the idea and continued on my walk.
Once I was a hundred feet away I saw my shadow shift in the moving headlights. The car had begun following me. I was freaking out a little now. I convinced myself it was just some asshole kids messing with me the day after Halloween. It was an unsettling two blocks.
I reached a major road and the car turned and sped away. I breathed a premature sigh of relief. It turned around and faced me.
I thought I was going to die. This psycho was going to roll down their window and shoot me. I decided not to give them the satisfaction of seeing an inch of fear on my face and glared at the driver’s estimated position. I walked past and expected the worst. Nothing.
Up ahead I saw a little chubby elderly woman walking her dog. She might as well have been an angel to me. We both commented on the warmth of the night. I turned down an alley was and slipped between two houses to ensure I would no longer be stalked. I was home free.
A block later a cop pulls over by me saying that an elderly couple on neighborhood watch had spotted a suspicious individual in all black. I looked down, I’m wearing a black leather jacket and black slacks. Yup that’s me. I asked if they reported me from their car. Yup. I burst out laughing recalling my death glare and how scared they must have been during my own terror.
|
Feel free to embellish a little, but don't go overboard. You can discuss whatever kind of fear you like, and whether or not you overcame it.
Happy writing! | [WP] Let's do something different: Write about a personal experience. When in your life have you felt most afraid? Why? | In high school, we had to practice a number of emergency drills unrelated to the usual fire variety. This was commonplace after a certain school in Colorado struck fear into the hearts of parents everywhere. These drills were mostly annoyances, albeit ones that delayed lectures, but at least they were grounded in reality. A number of students didn't understand why we needed to care, assuming that such an event couldn't happen in our town. I, on the other hand, took it very seriously. I, unlike my peers, had previously been in a school that was infiltrated by gunmen.
It was an assembly, so most students and even some parents, were gathered in the auditorium. We didn't hear the doors open or at least notice that the people who stepped in were there to listen. Everyone was focused on the stage until the gunmen were in position. I can't remember how many there were, in retrospect. There were at least three, probably more outside. All I knew was that they were angry and they were well-armed.
If I was scared, I can't even imagine the boy on stage. One of the men had stormed the stage and held him at gunpoint. Two more patroled the aisles. It's worth mentioning at this point that this was not like the school shootings you hear about on the news. Those tragic events are done at the hands of other students. These were professionals, an unsanctioned police force that simply disagreed with the direction of our school.
When they first arrived, one of the audience members had been recording the assembly with a video camera. He managed to escape via a side door and alert the proper authorities. I the video heard it made CNN, but I've never seen evidence of that. The police arrived at the school and talked the gunmen out without any shots getting fired.
If you've never had a gun pointed at you or in your general direction by an unstable individual(s) who has nonetheless been trained to use that weapon to kill, it is a difficult experience to describe. As a kid, there was always that misplaced sense of invulnerability. We'd play in traffic and fancy ourselves stuntmen. We'd improvise sports with high risk of injury. We were never really afraid, though. Staring at a rifle staring at you is a sobering experience. That shell, the armor of childhood, cracks. It abandoned me that day. I couldn't look at the barrel the same way I looked at the pool from a rooftop; I couldn't convince myself that I'd be fine.
"This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard of," shouted one student in my homeroom class as the color coded drill extended into its second hour. They sat at their desk in homeroom. I sat in a darkened auditorium, hoping that the police arrived quickly. | when I was 10 I went to Disneyland for the first time. We decided to go to the Haunted Mansion ride. Big Mistake. As we got in this giant elevator, I started staring up at the portraits.
Normal portraits, right? Until the elevator goes down, then they turn into people dying and being blown up. All sorts of things that would freak any kid out. Then I noticed the fake body hanging from the top of the ride and promptly freaked out.
"I DON'T WANNA GO IN!" I started grabbing my mom and getting her attention, and people started staring. The guy operating the ride promised he would take me up after everyone got out to the next part.
Everyone stared at me as they walked out to the next portion of the Haunted Mansion. That was probably the most I've been scared.
Never went back to Disneyland.
*10 year old me was such a weenie* |
Feel free to embellish a little, but don't go overboard. You can discuss whatever kind of fear you like, and whether or not you overcame it.
Happy writing! | [WP] Let's do something different: Write about a personal experience. When in your life have you felt most afraid? Why? | I felt my heart sink, when I noticed the area code. It wasn’t a number I recognized, but I knew that it was coming from the area my brother lived in. After a few moments of deliberation, I quietly stood up from my seat, and handed in a half-finished exam, sheepishly pointing at my cell phone before stepping out.
I felt nervous, answering the call. It was never anything good. He had been dealing with depression and a drug problem for years now. Whenever he called, it was always an ordeal. I didn’t know what to make of the strange number.
I could hear a guy on the other hand, and at first I couldn’t make out what he was saying. It was coming in so fast, so jumbled. I begged him to slow down, and as I began to catch snippets of what he was saying…
The entire day was a wash, as I sat there, numbly waiting to hear from the hospital. He had been shot. Nobody knew if he would be okay. His friend was waiting outside of the ER. It was a drive-by, they didn’t know who did it, nobody knew anything, nobody was saying anything.
I skipped my finals that day. Skipped lunch, dinner. Burnt through smoke after smoke after smoke. I didn’t know what to do, who to call. Should I even tell mom? Should I fly out? Will he be okay?
I didn’t sleep that night. Just… sat outside smoking. His friend promised he’d call back, so I just sat there, waiting, phone in hand. Decided not to call mom. He always told me that, if something like this ever happened, he didn’t want her to know. Keep her happy.
I didn’t hear from his friend for the next few days. I tried calling him, but it always went straight to voicemail. I remember blacking out at one point. It all began to swim together, become one giant blur.
I finally heard from him, almost a week later. He just called to say that he was fine. Stuck in a wheelchair for a while. He’d find them, though. Always the tough guy. I didn’t really know what to say. Said I was happy to hear from him, that he was okay. We didn’t really talk much before he had to go.
I’m… I’m still scared. Scared that he’ll stop calling. Worried about what he’s doing. Mad that… that I can’t help him. All I can do is just listen, and… I’m just scared that next time… | Oh, man. You're gonna laugh at this one.
See, I have a phobia. No big deal, lots of people have them. But mine is pretty weird.
I have a phobia of cheese.
Look, I never said it was rational. I'm fine with melted/soft/sweet cheeses. But just about anything else I just can't stand. It's not exactly fear, just a deep sense of uneasiness and revulsion. Even just typing the word makes me very uncomfortable.
Obviously, this can be annoying. By far the most annoying thing is that if it ever comes up (and, believe you me, it will) people think it's funny to wave cheese in my face, throw it at me, you get the picture. *If I had a phobia of blood, you wouldn't fucking cut yourself in front of me!*
So, anyway. Scariest moment. I'm at a new job; trying to make a good impression. This will involve me grating cheese. Shit.
I have to do this, because if I tell them I've got a phobia of cheese they will think I'm insane.
But, oh God, it's got that tiny bit of give to it and I can see the slight *residue* it's leaving on the grater and I'm making fucking fingerprints in it and it's going to get under my nails oh my God -
Afterwards, I scrub my hands. Frantically. For a while.
They stopped calling me a few weeks later, anyway. Fuck them. |
Feel free to embellish a little, but don't go overboard. You can discuss whatever kind of fear you like, and whether or not you overcame it.
Happy writing! | [WP] Let's do something different: Write about a personal experience. When in your life have you felt most afraid? Why? | In high school, we had to practice a number of emergency drills unrelated to the usual fire variety. This was commonplace after a certain school in Colorado struck fear into the hearts of parents everywhere. These drills were mostly annoyances, albeit ones that delayed lectures, but at least they were grounded in reality. A number of students didn't understand why we needed to care, assuming that such an event couldn't happen in our town. I, on the other hand, took it very seriously. I, unlike my peers, had previously been in a school that was infiltrated by gunmen.
It was an assembly, so most students and even some parents, were gathered in the auditorium. We didn't hear the doors open or at least notice that the people who stepped in were there to listen. Everyone was focused on the stage until the gunmen were in position. I can't remember how many there were, in retrospect. There were at least three, probably more outside. All I knew was that they were angry and they were well-armed.
If I was scared, I can't even imagine the boy on stage. One of the men had stormed the stage and held him at gunpoint. Two more patroled the aisles. It's worth mentioning at this point that this was not like the school shootings you hear about on the news. Those tragic events are done at the hands of other students. These were professionals, an unsanctioned police force that simply disagreed with the direction of our school.
When they first arrived, one of the audience members had been recording the assembly with a video camera. He managed to escape via a side door and alert the proper authorities. I the video heard it made CNN, but I've never seen evidence of that. The police arrived at the school and talked the gunmen out without any shots getting fired.
If you've never had a gun pointed at you or in your general direction by an unstable individual(s) who has nonetheless been trained to use that weapon to kill, it is a difficult experience to describe. As a kid, there was always that misplaced sense of invulnerability. We'd play in traffic and fancy ourselves stuntmen. We'd improvise sports with high risk of injury. We were never really afraid, though. Staring at a rifle staring at you is a sobering experience. That shell, the armor of childhood, cracks. It abandoned me that day. I couldn't look at the barrel the same way I looked at the pool from a rooftop; I couldn't convince myself that I'd be fine.
"This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard of," shouted one student in my homeroom class as the color coded drill extended into its second hour. They sat at their desk in homeroom. I sat in a darkened auditorium, hoping that the police arrived quickly. | Oh, man. You're gonna laugh at this one.
See, I have a phobia. No big deal, lots of people have them. But mine is pretty weird.
I have a phobia of cheese.
Look, I never said it was rational. I'm fine with melted/soft/sweet cheeses. But just about anything else I just can't stand. It's not exactly fear, just a deep sense of uneasiness and revulsion. Even just typing the word makes me very uncomfortable.
Obviously, this can be annoying. By far the most annoying thing is that if it ever comes up (and, believe you me, it will) people think it's funny to wave cheese in my face, throw it at me, you get the picture. *If I had a phobia of blood, you wouldn't fucking cut yourself in front of me!*
So, anyway. Scariest moment. I'm at a new job; trying to make a good impression. This will involve me grating cheese. Shit.
I have to do this, because if I tell them I've got a phobia of cheese they will think I'm insane.
But, oh God, it's got that tiny bit of give to it and I can see the slight *residue* it's leaving on the grater and I'm making fucking fingerprints in it and it's going to get under my nails oh my God -
Afterwards, I scrub my hands. Frantically. For a while.
They stopped calling me a few weeks later, anyway. Fuck them. |
Feel free to embellish a little, but don't go overboard. You can discuss whatever kind of fear you like, and whether or not you overcame it.
Happy writing! | [WP] Let's do something different: Write about a personal experience. When in your life have you felt most afraid? Why? | In high school, we had to practice a number of emergency drills unrelated to the usual fire variety. This was commonplace after a certain school in Colorado struck fear into the hearts of parents everywhere. These drills were mostly annoyances, albeit ones that delayed lectures, but at least they were grounded in reality. A number of students didn't understand why we needed to care, assuming that such an event couldn't happen in our town. I, on the other hand, took it very seriously. I, unlike my peers, had previously been in a school that was infiltrated by gunmen.
It was an assembly, so most students and even some parents, were gathered in the auditorium. We didn't hear the doors open or at least notice that the people who stepped in were there to listen. Everyone was focused on the stage until the gunmen were in position. I can't remember how many there were, in retrospect. There were at least three, probably more outside. All I knew was that they were angry and they were well-armed.
If I was scared, I can't even imagine the boy on stage. One of the men had stormed the stage and held him at gunpoint. Two more patroled the aisles. It's worth mentioning at this point that this was not like the school shootings you hear about on the news. Those tragic events are done at the hands of other students. These were professionals, an unsanctioned police force that simply disagreed with the direction of our school.
When they first arrived, one of the audience members had been recording the assembly with a video camera. He managed to escape via a side door and alert the proper authorities. I the video heard it made CNN, but I've never seen evidence of that. The police arrived at the school and talked the gunmen out without any shots getting fired.
If you've never had a gun pointed at you or in your general direction by an unstable individual(s) who has nonetheless been trained to use that weapon to kill, it is a difficult experience to describe. As a kid, there was always that misplaced sense of invulnerability. We'd play in traffic and fancy ourselves stuntmen. We'd improvise sports with high risk of injury. We were never really afraid, though. Staring at a rifle staring at you is a sobering experience. That shell, the armor of childhood, cracks. It abandoned me that day. I couldn't look at the barrel the same way I looked at the pool from a rooftop; I couldn't convince myself that I'd be fine.
"This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard of," shouted one student in my homeroom class as the color coded drill extended into its second hour. They sat at their desk in homeroom. I sat in a darkened auditorium, hoping that the police arrived quickly. | It was about eight years ago. Some friends and I traveled from Colorado to California to partake in "Nocturnal Wonderland" - a rave to end all raves, at least at the time. Hundreds of DJs, and the Orange County event center, with a little lagoon and 12 stages, both indoor and outdoor.
We had taken some ecstasy during the day and had a wonderful time. We went to the after party and it was a great time as well - however we were starting to run low. So I decided to buy some more from a stranger. She failed to mention that there was acid laced into the ones she gave me; since I was coming off of an ecstasy roll, I was not in the right mindset to be tripping balls.
I was okay for a while but then world started caving in on me. I saw people shaking and shivering when they weren't, they looked like they had massive teeth and were melting into the ground. My friends took me back to the hotel room where I tried to go to sleep but couldn't. The TV was turned on and for some reason, any time I started falling asleep, the sound of the TV would slow down and get deep and garbled, and I thought that if the TV went away, I would die.
I couldn't quite let go of this feeling to the point where I was panicking that I would die - I even remember telling my friends that if I did die, to dump by body because I couldn't have my parents knowing I died of an overdose or something. Things did not feel right.
The next thing I knew I was waking up in the hotel room, everything had worn off, and I felt alright, minus a splitting headache. That was the last time I did drugs. |
[WP] On a farm, the animals worship humanity as gods. Among the turkeys, being chosen for Thanksgiving dinner is seen as the highest possible honor. Write from the perspective of a male turkey who is jealous of his sister, who has been selected to be slaughtered. | Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble gobble gobble, gobble gobble! Gobble, gobble gobble Gobble gobble Gobble Gob Gobble gobble gobble gobble. Gobble gobble gobble? Gobble! Gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble; gobble gobble gobble!
Gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble, "Gobble gobble." gobble gobble, gobble. Gobble gobble gobble? Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble!! GOBBLE GOBBLE! Gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble GOBBLE GOBBLE!
Gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble, "Gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble, gobble gobble gobble," gobble gobble, "gobble gobble gobble!"
Gobble, gobble gobble?
Gobble.
| We all waited and watched in silent reverence. He snaked between us silently, and we made way as he passed. Not a sound came from a turkey's mouth. Every so often, he bent down and examined one of us, then left, moving on to another turkey. My heart leapt into my throat when he stopped at me. He leaned down, bringing his divine face close to mine. I trembled in his presence. He lifted my wings, examining them, then felt my throat glands with his thumb and forefinger. | |
[WP] On a farm, the animals worship humanity as gods. Among the turkeys, being chosen for Thanksgiving dinner is seen as the highest possible honor. Write from the perspective of a male turkey who is jealous of his sister, who has been selected to be slaughtered. | Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble gobble gobble, gobble gobble! Gobble, gobble gobble Gobble gobble Gobble Gob Gobble gobble gobble gobble. Gobble gobble gobble? Gobble! Gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble; gobble gobble gobble!
Gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble, "Gobble gobble." gobble gobble, gobble. Gobble gobble gobble? Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble!! GOBBLE GOBBLE! Gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble GOBBLE GOBBLE!
Gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble, "Gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble gobble, gobble gobble gobble," gobble gobble, "gobble gobble gobble!"
Gobble, gobble gobble?
Gobble.
| "Bitch," he gobbled from his place inside the pen. He watched with angry eyes as one of the gods, the one with the coveralls--selected his sister for this years tribute. He, like the others, had run around offering to be this years tribute, but the wrinkled God with the axe ignored him. He wasn't angry at the God. They moved in mysterious ways and their reasons for who they selected were beyond reasonings of his kind. "Bitch." He gobbled again. It was his sister's doing. It had to be. He'd been jealous of her ever since they'd hatched. "Bitch. Bitch. Bitch."
He ran at a few of the other turkey's puffing out his chest and fanning out his tail. His beard waggled angrily as he told off those who had agitated him.
"What's wrong, dude?" His best friend asked, sidling up to him.
"Why did the God choose her?" He whined.
"Same reason everyone chose her would be my guess." His friend replied. "Big breast. God's a boob guy." | |
Write about the conversation. The agent is there to dissuade you from a decision you're making that detrimental to the organization they are apart of. What are you thoughts? What do you do? | [WP] The NSA (or other shadow organization) sends a representative to talk with you. | Sitting on the barstool in the small hole in the wall, I sipped my beer. I glanced out the window out into the parking lot where the night's mist had set in. Turning back to glance at the TV, I heard the door sway open and the footsteps of a man behind me. He sat down on the barstool next to me and patted me on the shoulder.
"Excuse me man, I need a favor."
I turned to the man beside me.
"I need some help, I just need you to do something for me."
"Sure, depends what it is."
"I need you to memorize a number, don't write it down just memorize it."
My head went blank. What kind of favor is this? Why even bother helping this guy?
"Well here's the number 451. I just need you to remember that number. Next week there will be someone else coming to the bar and they will ask you personally what the number is."
"Is this a joke? Why don't you just come back next week or just write it down?" I blubbered. Laziness and alcohol were the only things inside me that cared to listen.
"You have to. You specifically. If I write it down, it might get lost or forgotten. If you memorize it things will be a lot easier. But please don't write it down. You have to memorize it."
"Sure man. 451 Got it." At this point I just wanted this guy out of my face.
"Good. The reason is-"
Red and Blue lights began to fill the bar. Outside in the parking lot police cars schreeched in behind the doors. A policeman stepped out of one of the cars, holding a mega phone.
"Would everyone in the bar please step out side."
The man panicked. He looked to the back of the bar only to see the doors to the bathroom. The bartender stepped out from the behind the bar and walked outside.
"Please just remember that number, 451. Remember 451."
"Sure"
We both slowly walked out the doors and into the flood lights that glared onto my eyes.
A man in a dark trench coat walked up to the man from the bar and yelled into his face.
"WHAT IS THE LAUNCH CODE STEVEN?" Another officer came forward and slammed his baton into the man's back sending him to his knees. He stayed silent.
"SEARCH THE BAR JOHN IT MIGHT BE INSIDE. TOM, SEARCH THESE TWO GUYS." I was frisked from head to toe as I stood there. They threw everything in my pockets to the floor and examined everything I had.
"TAKE STEVEN INTO THE CAR. WE'LL HANDLE HIM BACK IN THE STATION."
"NO!" the man begged, as he was dragged into the squad car.
The officer turned and stared me down as he walked up to me.
"Whats the launch code?" he asked.
I was to drunk for this. I didn't know what to say. Should I tell him the right thing? Was it the right thing?
"why..why do you need to know?"
"YOU KNOW DON'T YOU? WHAT IS IT? TELL IT TO ME NOW!"
A officer walked up to me and slammed his baton into my back. The pain sent me down to the floor. He slammed me again and again. I felt like my back was breaking into pieces. "ALRIGHT! I yelled." I couldn't take it.
"It's...451."
"Good." the officer smiled. He picked his phone out of his pocket and said into the phone. "Den, try 451" He paused. "Good." He said and hung up the phone.
"The war is now mine." he whispered.
I layed there on the cement floor. What had I done? I thought. I looked over to where the man had once stood. I could see a small badge amongst the stuff they had dropped on the floor. And then I saw it. The badge read FBI. | I was just about ready to call it a night. At about 1:30 in the morning I was just about ready to complete the hacking within the next few hours. However, I decided that I needed to get some sleep and that I would continue in the morning. I was making a lot of typos and errors, and didn't want to make a mistake, so that's how I defended my choice.
As I got up, I heard a buzzing sound on my desk. I looked at the caller ID, and saw "Bill". Bill was my next door neighbor. I had made the leap of faith to tell him about my project to steal the logs of unwarranted wiretaps on the NSA database after noticing he was an ultra conservative ex-marine, but the libertarian, afraid of government type. It turns out that he was a big supporter of what I was doing, and that over the past few days, he would sporadically bring me food and ask how things were going. I suspected he was calling me to get into the house as he had done previously, because my doorbell was broken.
I rushed downstairs, running across house, and opened the door. Only the man at the door was much bigger, and older than Bill, and was wearing a dark blue uniform, littered with medals. I looked at the back window of my house frantically. "Don't bother" he said. "I'm not here to hurt or threaten you". "Is there anyone else with you?" I trembled. "No" he said. "Swear?" I replied. "Swear". "I just want to chat with you for 15 minutes about something we're both interested in".
Before I could agree, he walked into the house, and took a seat on the couch. I took a seat at the chair across form him.
"I know what you're trying to release. The whole NSA knows.
"But...how-"
"You were meticulous for the most part. But how you think you thought that yoyu could evade us when you decided to chat about it on facebook with Bill Peters...that's where you slipped up. We've been keeping tabs on him for a while after he posted online against the wars he fought in".
"But..."
"Look. We're offering you an opportunity. Normally we would have thrown you and your buddy in prison for treason at this point. But I think we have a good, and pretty fair offer for you. You're unemployed. Your mortgage is underwater. You have backbreaking student loan debt."
"I'm not doing this for money..."
"Hold on. You're an incredibly smart guy. It says in our file that you graduated "cum laude" from MIT. You broke through what we thought was an impenetrable server. All of these problems you have will be gone. Just come and work for us. We'll set you up wherever you want, for life. And maybe if you're good we'll allow to release a few of the files that you hacked."
"And what happens if I say no?"
"I don't know why you would. I'll be back in a day to get your answer".
"You didn't answer my question. What happens?"
He walked away, leaving the door open behind him. I motioned to close the door.
"Oh yeah. Don't even try to escape. Your house has been bugged for a few days now. Just a courtesy to you."
|
[WP] A Zombie outbreak at a Walmart on Black Friday | Cletus and Earl sat in Earl's pickup across the street from Walmart. They watched the ebb and flow of bodies coming and going from the store. People bit each other, whether for food or to get the last $99 flat screen, neither man could tell.
"We's supposed to be shootin' zombies, right?" Cleatus asked, looking at his partner.
"Yup," Earl answered.
"Well, which one is the zombies?" | I was there. Thursday, November 28th, 2013. Thanksgiving Night. Lines started as Early as 4pm. Doors open at 6. Promises of 75% Discounts and more made even the sickest of people roll out of bed.
It was the perfect storm. The absolute chaos prevented authorities to act as fast as they needed to. The choke of the checkout lines prevented fast escape. None of the people in line had a chance. Some of those on the sidelines were able to slip out. We didn’t know it then, but they were already infected. It took minutes, but it was enough for the authorities to lock down the building, trapping everyone inside. This included me. I originally thought it was just a normal black Friday fight, so I continued shopping like everyone else.
Eventually they started going around the store. They looked like normal people who had been attacked. Most people tried to help them, getting in close to help with their wounds. It did not go well for them. The periodic screams, started to alert other customers at the far edges of the store. Almost as a collective, groups of people started going towards the front of the store to get out. It took a small group, a family, getting torn apart at the entrance for others to realize we were locked in. That’s when the second wave of panics started.
People either were paralyzed with fear, or made so much noise they attracted the main hordes. I grabbed the nearest 4 people and started moving to the Deli. I told them to stay silent, and to stay out of sight behind the counter. We sat there for an hour until there was nothing but silence in the store. It seemed that we were the only survivors. We would be there another five days.
| |
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | When tasked to write this dictum
I spat, complained, and then some.
What am I psychic?
What's a limerick?
Fuck it. I’m writing a poem. | Come friend, hear a tale
Of a girl in dress pale
And later that night
I saw her just right
Shoulda left on the veil
|
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | There was an old man from Peru,
who cooked all his kids in a stew.
He feasted all night,
then claimed with delight.
*I must make myself veal again soon!* | Come friend, hear a tale
Of a girl in dress pale
And later that night
I saw her just right
Shoulda left on the veil
|
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | You asked for a poem with twist,
No really, you said, I insist,
So I look and I nod,
As I check your hot bod,
Now THERE is an anus I'd fist! | Come friend, hear a tale
Of a girl in dress pale
And later that night
I saw her just right
Shoulda left on the veil
|
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | Addicted to coke all my life, see?
My symptoms would almost destroy me
But I'm gonna change
Get my life rearranged
From now on, I only drink Pepsi! | Come friend, hear a tale
Of a girl in dress pale
And later that night
I saw her just right
Shoulda left on the veil
|
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | On the van was written "Free Candy",
The man said his name was Andy,
He drove it near a school,
They thought he was a fool,
But the product he was testing was dandy! | Come friend, hear a tale
Of a girl in dress pale
And later that night
I saw her just right
Shoulda left on the veil
|
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | There was an old man
From Peru, whose lim'ricks all
Look'd like haiku; He
Said with a laugh, "I
cut them in half-- the pay is
much better for two." | Come friend, hear a tale
Of a girl in dress pale
And later that night
I saw her just right
Shoulda left on the veil
|
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | Addicted to coke all my life, see?
My symptoms would almost destroy me
But I'm gonna change
Get my life rearranged
From now on, I only drink Pepsi! | I first saw my true love in a glade
For her hand, any item I'd trade
"Who's her dad?" I did sigh
When I heard the reply:
"That statue? T'wern't born, it was made!" |
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | Addicted to coke all my life, see?
My symptoms would almost destroy me
But I'm gonna change
Get my life rearranged
From now on, I only drink Pepsi! | There once was a man named Dover
who went looking for a four leaf clover.
He thought it'd bring luck,
help him give a fuck,
but in searching, a truck ran him over.
|
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | Addicted to coke all my life, see?
My symptoms would almost destroy me
But I'm gonna change
Get my life rearranged
From now on, I only drink Pepsi! | There was an old writer named krymson,
Who lived with a roommate quite winsome
He ogled her nightly
And clutched very tightly
The money she gave him, and then some.
|
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | On the van was written "Free Candy",
The man said his name was Andy,
He drove it near a school,
They thought he was a fool,
But the product he was testing was dandy! | When tasked to write this dictum
I spat, complained, and then some.
What am I psychic?
What's a limerick?
Fuck it. I’m writing a poem. |
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | There was an old man
From Peru, whose lim'ricks all
Look'd like haiku; He
Said with a laugh, "I
cut them in half-- the pay is
much better for two." | When tasked to write this dictum
I spat, complained, and then some.
What am I psychic?
What's a limerick?
Fuck it. I’m writing a poem. |
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | There was an old man
From Peru, whose lim'ricks all
Look'd like haiku; He
Said with a laugh, "I
cut them in half-- the pay is
much better for two." | On the van was written "Free Candy",
The man said his name was Andy,
He drove it near a school,
They thought he was a fool,
But the product he was testing was dandy! |
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | There was an old man
From Peru, whose lim'ricks all
Look'd like haiku; He
Said with a laugh, "I
cut them in half-- the pay is
much better for two." | There once was a lad from Japan
Whose poetry, they never would scan
When I asked him why
He said with a sigh
I don't know maybe it's because I always cram as many syllables into the last line as I possibly, possibly can.
*(I can't remember where I heard this, but I definitely didn't write it myself.)* |
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | I have quite a stunning confession
Involving a lasting obsession:
I squeeze out a fart
And then do my part
To frame *you* for my own transgression ☜(ﾟヮﾟ☜) | Wasting away on a page
Based on advice that's unsage
Drop proud tradition
Swap rhyme's position
Placed at line's start not the end |
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | It was such a lovely occasion
With folks of every persuasion
Mary made pie
Scott baked french rye
And Christopher murdered an Asian | Wasting away on a page
Based on advice that's unsage
Drop proud tradition
Swap rhyme's position
Placed at line's start not the end |
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | There was an old man
From Peru, whose lim'ricks all
Look'd like haiku; He
Said with a laugh, "I
cut them in half-- the pay is
much better for two." | Wasting away on a page
Based on advice that's unsage
Drop proud tradition
Swap rhyme's position
Placed at line's start not the end |
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | I wept as I buried my wife
Far too soon, the end of her life
For just this past night
We had a big fight
And I murdered that bitch with a knife | Wasting away on a page
Based on advice that's unsage
Drop proud tradition
Swap rhyme's position
Placed at line's start not the end |
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | I have quite a stunning confession
Involving a lasting obsession:
I squeeze out a fart
And then do my part
To frame *you* for my own transgression ☜(ﾟヮﾟ☜) | There once was a beast named Reddit,
A site so good people fed it,
Grammar Nazis unbound,
They're always around,
So, you better be quick with your edit. |
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | It was such a lovely occasion
With folks of every persuasion
Mary made pie
Scott baked french rye
And Christopher murdered an Asian | There once was a beast named Reddit,
A site so good people fed it,
Grammar Nazis unbound,
They're always around,
So, you better be quick with your edit. |
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | There was an old man
From Peru, whose lim'ricks all
Look'd like haiku; He
Said with a laugh, "I
cut them in half-- the pay is
much better for two." | There once was a beast named Reddit,
A site so good people fed it,
Grammar Nazis unbound,
They're always around,
So, you better be quick with your edit. |
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | There was an old man
From Peru, whose lim'ricks all
Look'd like haiku; He
Said with a laugh, "I
cut them in half-- the pay is
much better for two." | I have quite a stunning confession
Involving a lasting obsession:
I squeeze out a fart
And then do my part
To frame *you* for my own transgression ☜(ﾟヮﾟ☜) |
It can be about anything, but it must have a twist at the end! | [WP] A limerick with a twist | There was an old man
From Peru, whose lim'ricks all
Look'd like haiku; He
Said with a laugh, "I
cut them in half-- the pay is
much better for two." | It was such a lovely occasion
With folks of every persuasion
Mary made pie
Scott baked french rye
And Christopher murdered an Asian |
[WP] "How much of a hero are you, if all you've managed to save is yourself?" | "That's what they call me...the hero. The one who ended the Time War," said The Doctor.
"How much of a hero are you, if all you've managed to save is yourself?" asked his companion.
The Doctor lifted his head, his expression morose. "I didn't just save myself. I wiped out the Dalek race. The most notorious murderers in the cosmos, gone. All it cost was my people. I didn't save myself, I saved all of creation."
"How does that make you a hero?"
"I did what everyone considered enough to be classified as a hero; I won." | He didn't mean it.
But now as I sat looking down on the park from the top of a block of flats I couldn't think of anything else.
He was as upset as I was that she had passed, he had just snapped and said what he wanted to say. But he didn't mean it.
That wasn't making things easier.
I had tried so hard. Even as I fought off depression I tried to help her out, give her the love she deserved. She couldn't read my mind like everyone else, she needed a place of solitude. Somewhere she could go without getting upset by people's thoughts.
Now she was dead. And it was my fault.
My heart twisted in my chest. It still hurt even now. I loved her like a sister, oh if only I had left her and let them, no then... Argh...
I felt the anger building up inside me again. All the frustration and pain, focusing in on one singular point.
Everyone kept telling me I should feel lucky. WHY? I'm a Monster that has been given form. A criminal locked up in a cage then handed a gun.
With my head in my hands I didn't hear the chant start, only as it was getting louder and the crowd started to move out from the park did I hear. It was a pathetic chant 'MUTANTS MUTANTS MUTANTS'. Was that the best they could muster?
I stood up. "How much of a hero are you, if all you've managed to save is yourself?"
I guess I know the answer. I took a step forward and fell straight down crashing into the pavement where people screamed as I landed. They didn't scream as I turned into a cloud of smoke, only as I started to take form and rise above them. Then they panicked. Then they ran. I lifted up my hand and dozens of protestors were thrown away, as if I was brushing dust off a table.
The answer is simple. I'm not the hero. I'm the villian
---
(Kinda cheated and used the prompt to tie in with the story I'm writing :) ) | |
I'm excited! This is my first prompt! Looking forward to great stories!
EDIT: I am absolutely stunned with the power of the writers in this community. You are phenomenal, and I hope to one day feel capable of joining your ranks with an answer!
Just amazing. Thank you for a successful post! | [WP] Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time. | **Sorry, it's long**
“You know, when I got the message to meet Santa at this address, I almost thought someone was screwing with me.”
Death adjusted the wrist cuff on his charcoal gray suit as he turned toward the fireplace. Santa had just landed and was stepping from his usual entryway. St. Nick let out a soft, ho-esque chuckle as he shook the snow from his coat. The sound brought a curl to the corners of Death’s mouth; he really was as jolly as they claimed.
“I imagine it must have struck you rather odd indeed – but thank you for agreeing on such short notice.” Santa’s face turned more solemn as he spoke. This was not lost on Death.
“Not a problem Santa. I, like you, have all the time in the world. This being your big night, I assumed it must be urgent.”
Santa nodded and turned to his bag. He pulled out a couple of presents that belonged to the children of the meeting house, along with a red file folder. He passed the folder to Death as he went about the duties for the house.
“I have a peculiar wish to grant this year… and it’s something for which your expertise would be greatly appreciated. Oh, and please call me Nick.” he said with a smile
“Sa… Nick, you know I can’t bring back a lost loved one or anything like that. It’s not how things work.” Death had a suspicion that it was something deeper than that. Being called to a stop for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve had to be for something more. It’s a tight schedule. They say Death runs on a timetable, try getting to that many houses in one night. Plus cookie pickups. He had joked about having all the time in the world, truth was even they had limits.
“No, I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that” Nick said, over his shoulder as he placed the toys. “The file explains it all.”
Death opened the folder and looked through its contents. There were letters from several children, but they weren’t the usual I’ve-been-good-all-year variety. What they spoke of chilled even Death’s core. The supporting information supplied by the North Pole made it worse. They had all been victimized by the same man dressed as Santa. Death had seen the worst in people. He had also been surprised by the good. There were some things, however, that not even he was prepared for.
“Are you sure this is correct?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” Santa replied heavily “we take intelligence very seriously at the Pole, what with the naughty and nice list and all. We really do know when they’ve been bad or good. This time we focused our efforts on this man. All of the usual verification measures were seen to.”
“Well then Nick, I believe we have a wish to grant.” Death said, closing the folder. He followed Santa up to his sleigh.
____________________________________________________________
Zed Miller was well on his way to sloppy drunk, and had no intention of stopping until he got there. His beer bottle rang empty as it hit the floor. Looked like it was time to head to the kitchen and grab another. He got to his feet, swayed, and then made his way into the hall. The kitchen was just ahead, opposite the living room. He staggered down the hall, still in the red pants from his cheap Santa suit. As he reached the kitchen door, he heard him name called from the living room behind him. He stopped short and turned. There was St. Nick, seated on his recliner. A man in a charcoal gray suit leaned against the wall next to him.
“Who the hell are you?!?” a rapidly sobering Zed asked.
“I’m Santa Claus, please come have a seat” Nick said, motioning to the couch.
“Pfft, *I’m* Santa Claus” Zed said.
“No, you’re a drunk in a cheap costume. Now SIT!” Death was surprised at how booming Nick’s voice could be when desired.
“Look in my eyes and you will see I am the true Father Christmas. Zed Miller, I’ve seen what you do using my name; those children have asked me to make sure it never happens to anyone again. I fully intend on granting that Christmas wish.”
Zed looked Nick in the eyes, against his better judgment. He was suddenly filled with warmth and holiday cheer. He couldn’t believe it.
“No, there’s no fucking way. You’re not real!”
“Oh I’m very real Zed. And you have darkened my good name.” Nick sat forward as he spoke. Death watched Zed’s realization setting in. There was no question Nick meant business. He was rotund for sure, but his arms and chest were thick with muscle. The head elf definitely did his fair share of the heavy lifting at the North Pole. Death was fairly sure Santa had the capability of filling this all on his own, but still enjoyed the thought of being the one to do so. It was fulfilling when his collections truly deserved the end they came to.
“You will never harm another child wearing my garb – or that of anyone else.” With that Nick rose to his feet. He walked toward the door but stopped short next to Zed. He landed a solid right cross smack into Zed’s chin. Zed’s world went fuzzy for a second, flirting with unconsciousness. Nick flexed his hand as he settled himself. The thick leather of his glove creaking softly when his fingers closed.
“That was for the children. Goodbye Zed.”
As Nick exited the room he looked over at Death. He nodded softly, letting the Reaper know it was his turn. Normally Death comes quietly, but he decided this time to speak.
“My jolly friend isn’t much for this type of thing. I can see even now, despite what you’ve done, it weighs on him. You see I, on the other hand, am much more suited for it. You could even say it was my calling. And I do intend on enjoying myself.”
With that, he moved. In a flash his visage changed from the gray suit to that which most are familiar with. He sprang toward Zed, robe billowing, bony fingers extended, howling as they collided. Santa heard Zed’s howl join Death’s as he pulled away in his sleigh.
Each of those children woke up the next morning to a special snow globe, so meticulously crafted by the elves with a note: “Worry not my child; he’ll never harm you or anyone else again. With love, the real Santa.”
| The brisk wind whipped on the universally recognized beard of Santa Claus as he materialized on top of Jimmy- the good kid but bad home-Stewart. With a smug look on his face Santa pulled out his list checker 3000,"check surroundings and then prepare for gifting". Whizz, deet, deet, deet-three souls and an anomaly found. "Identify anomaly" Santa was stern the snow on his brow started to melt. The device whizzed a bit, Santa looked around. Crunch. Shuffle. There, by the chimney, "You there-", anomaly identified, "-come out here". Reaper/death/ender in vicinity. "Hello Santa Claus" a grey voice stated from the thickening shadow. "Only the cosmic card dealer would summon me here with you, he is random like that". With his booming voice Santa exclaimed, "I will not let you take this child. " Death's shoulders, if that is what they were, shrugged, "I have no opinion on the matter. " "Leave this house you vile thing, you being here is a poison to this boys soul, " Santa stood as if he were mount everest itself." "I will leave as you requested", death left like dicipating smoke. A pause, "Horrible thing, good riddance, damn thief", Santa remembered his list checker 3000," again, check surroundings and prepare for gifting. " whix, deet, deet deet-two souls found. |
I'm excited! This is my first prompt! Looking forward to great stories!
EDIT: I am absolutely stunned with the power of the writers in this community. You are phenomenal, and I hope to one day feel capable of joining your ranks with an answer!
Just amazing. Thank you for a successful post! | [WP] Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time. | **Sorry, it's long**
“You know, when I got the message to meet Santa at this address, I almost thought someone was screwing with me.”
Death adjusted the wrist cuff on his charcoal gray suit as he turned toward the fireplace. Santa had just landed and was stepping from his usual entryway. St. Nick let out a soft, ho-esque chuckle as he shook the snow from his coat. The sound brought a curl to the corners of Death’s mouth; he really was as jolly as they claimed.
“I imagine it must have struck you rather odd indeed – but thank you for agreeing on such short notice.” Santa’s face turned more solemn as he spoke. This was not lost on Death.
“Not a problem Santa. I, like you, have all the time in the world. This being your big night, I assumed it must be urgent.”
Santa nodded and turned to his bag. He pulled out a couple of presents that belonged to the children of the meeting house, along with a red file folder. He passed the folder to Death as he went about the duties for the house.
“I have a peculiar wish to grant this year… and it’s something for which your expertise would be greatly appreciated. Oh, and please call me Nick.” he said with a smile
“Sa… Nick, you know I can’t bring back a lost loved one or anything like that. It’s not how things work.” Death had a suspicion that it was something deeper than that. Being called to a stop for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve had to be for something more. It’s a tight schedule. They say Death runs on a timetable, try getting to that many houses in one night. Plus cookie pickups. He had joked about having all the time in the world, truth was even they had limits.
“No, I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that” Nick said, over his shoulder as he placed the toys. “The file explains it all.”
Death opened the folder and looked through its contents. There were letters from several children, but they weren’t the usual I’ve-been-good-all-year variety. What they spoke of chilled even Death’s core. The supporting information supplied by the North Pole made it worse. They had all been victimized by the same man dressed as Santa. Death had seen the worst in people. He had also been surprised by the good. There were some things, however, that not even he was prepared for.
“Are you sure this is correct?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” Santa replied heavily “we take intelligence very seriously at the Pole, what with the naughty and nice list and all. We really do know when they’ve been bad or good. This time we focused our efforts on this man. All of the usual verification measures were seen to.”
“Well then Nick, I believe we have a wish to grant.” Death said, closing the folder. He followed Santa up to his sleigh.
____________________________________________________________
Zed Miller was well on his way to sloppy drunk, and had no intention of stopping until he got there. His beer bottle rang empty as it hit the floor. Looked like it was time to head to the kitchen and grab another. He got to his feet, swayed, and then made his way into the hall. The kitchen was just ahead, opposite the living room. He staggered down the hall, still in the red pants from his cheap Santa suit. As he reached the kitchen door, he heard him name called from the living room behind him. He stopped short and turned. There was St. Nick, seated on his recliner. A man in a charcoal gray suit leaned against the wall next to him.
“Who the hell are you?!?” a rapidly sobering Zed asked.
“I’m Santa Claus, please come have a seat” Nick said, motioning to the couch.
“Pfft, *I’m* Santa Claus” Zed said.
“No, you’re a drunk in a cheap costume. Now SIT!” Death was surprised at how booming Nick’s voice could be when desired.
“Look in my eyes and you will see I am the true Father Christmas. Zed Miller, I’ve seen what you do using my name; those children have asked me to make sure it never happens to anyone again. I fully intend on granting that Christmas wish.”
Zed looked Nick in the eyes, against his better judgment. He was suddenly filled with warmth and holiday cheer. He couldn’t believe it.
“No, there’s no fucking way. You’re not real!”
“Oh I’m very real Zed. And you have darkened my good name.” Nick sat forward as he spoke. Death watched Zed’s realization setting in. There was no question Nick meant business. He was rotund for sure, but his arms and chest were thick with muscle. The head elf definitely did his fair share of the heavy lifting at the North Pole. Death was fairly sure Santa had the capability of filling this all on his own, but still enjoyed the thought of being the one to do so. It was fulfilling when his collections truly deserved the end they came to.
“You will never harm another child wearing my garb – or that of anyone else.” With that Nick rose to his feet. He walked toward the door but stopped short next to Zed. He landed a solid right cross smack into Zed’s chin. Zed’s world went fuzzy for a second, flirting with unconsciousness. Nick flexed his hand as he settled himself. The thick leather of his glove creaking softly when his fingers closed.
“That was for the children. Goodbye Zed.”
As Nick exited the room he looked over at Death. He nodded softly, letting the Reaper know it was his turn. Normally Death comes quietly, but he decided this time to speak.
“My jolly friend isn’t much for this type of thing. I can see even now, despite what you’ve done, it weighs on him. You see I, on the other hand, am much more suited for it. You could even say it was my calling. And I do intend on enjoying myself.”
With that, he moved. In a flash his visage changed from the gray suit to that which most are familiar with. He sprang toward Zed, robe billowing, bony fingers extended, howling as they collided. Santa heard Zed’s howl join Death’s as he pulled away in his sleigh.
Each of those children woke up the next morning to a special snow globe, so meticulously crafted by the elves with a note: “Worry not my child; he’ll never harm you or anyone else again. With love, the real Santa.”
| The house sat in the center of a neihborhood, surrounded by houses that looked just the same. The snow fell lightly in the cold, dark hours of the night as two figures walked along the sidewalk from opposite ends. They met in front of the driveway in front of the house and stood in silence, facing eachother.
"Chris," said Death. Tall and thin, with skin as white as the snow falling around him. He wore a black suit, black shirt and tie with a long overcoat that fell near his ankles.
"Grim," said Santa. He wore the traditional getup, red coat and pants trimmed in white fur. He continued to stare at Death, and the cold from his presence washed over him. Santa usually doesn't feel the cold but tonight he was chilled to his very bones.
"Move on Chris, you don't have to be there for this. You got a busy night ahead of you. Go make kids happy," Death said with a detached tone. He wasn't used to company, and since time began he had kept to himself.
"Can't do that Grim. They belong to me tonight and this one doesn't deserve to go alone," Santa said with a sigh. He turned to look at the window on the second floor. The dim glow of a nightlight cast a soft light upon the curtains.
Death looked toward the window as well. He could feel the subtle pull as the child's fate drew him closer. "You know I can't stop it, right? There is no joy in this for me, I'm called to the innocent and wicked alike. The naughty and nice I suppose."
Santa glanced back at Death and exhaled, long and hard. His breath turned to fog on front of him and he nodded to affirm Death's question. "I know Grim, I know. Now let's go."
They both turned and walked toward the house together, entering the front door and walking straight up the stairs to the girl's room. Santa laid his hand on the door and walked in, followed by Death.
As Death entered the room he approached the nightlight and extended his arm toward the light. The room started to grow dim, his work was done in the dark afterall.
"No, Grim," Santa whispered hastily. "Please...she's afraid of the dark." His voice was choked with a sob as he watched death return the light to the bulb.
Death nodded and approached the girl. "I'm so sorry, Chris." He laid his right hand on the girl's chest and she gently stirred as her last breath left her body. He opened and closed his hand. "We don't get to choose, and they don't get to ask. That's the way of things."
Santa watched as Death turned and left the room. "Merry Christmas, Grim," he said at Death's back. Death paused for a moment, his body stiffening from the comment.
"Merry Christmas," Death echoed before disappearing into the shadows of the hallway, back into the night.
Santa turned to the girl's body. He removed his thick black glove and took her hand in his. She was still warm to the touch. He bent down and laid a soft kiss on her forehead, tears falling onto her face. "I'm sorry, Allie. You just rest now." After a moment, he stood and walked back out into the street. He shivered in the cold before disappearing back into the night, to finish his role in things. He thought of Death as he returned to his duty for the night. He didn't have a choice, this was the way of things. |
I'm excited! This is my first prompt! Looking forward to great stories!
EDIT: I am absolutely stunned with the power of the writers in this community. You are phenomenal, and I hope to one day feel capable of joining your ranks with an answer!
Just amazing. Thank you for a successful post! | [WP] Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time. | Santa hoisted the bag of toys over his shoulders as he readied himself for the next delivery. We walked past Dasher, Dance, Prancer and all the others, gently scratching their ears. If it wasn't for them he wouldn't be here after all. He made his way to the chimney, but as he approached he felt the temperature change. While the cold, brisk winter air was something he was used to, it was the warm breeze that caught him off guard.
When most people sense death, it's a cold grasp they feel. But Death, like so many other people in a macabre profession, shares a love of humor and theatrics. So while St. Nick made his way closer to the shadowy figure he felt a warm breeze, almost gentle and serene. It smelled faintly of coconuts and beach.
"And What brings you to my neck of the woods, gentleman Death?" St. Nick asked.
"Oh you know, thought I'd drop off some gifts." Death said.
"Ha. Clever. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do" St. Nick's words were strained. It's always hard to hold a conversation with a gentleman like Death.
Death simply said three words, "So do I."
Regardless of the calming air surrounding the spectre, St. Nick could not help but feel the slightest bit of anxiety. It was a feeling that weighed heavily on St. Nick. He knew why Death was here this evening, but that didn't stop him. Maybe it was denial or maybe it was blind hope, whatever the case, St. Nick made his way into the home with his bag of toys. Death slowly followed.
The cold reality hit him as he stepped inside. As St. Nick's eyes swept across the living room he could see a tree, but no lights. No stockings were up, and no plate of cookies and milk. He put his bag down and made his way down the hall. He headed over to Jonny's room and slowly open the door.
"Oh no."
Death stood behind St. Nick, never whispering a word. The room was empty, and it looked like it had been for some time. The sheets were perfectly made, the toys that littered the floor last year were no longer around. The planes and trains that once decorated the walls had been taken down. Instead, all St. Nick saw was a cold, empty gray room. No little boys had set foot in here for some time. Nor would they again.
"This never gets any easier," St. Nick said, his voice weary. "I envy you sometimes gentleman Death, to be able to let go so easily."
Death, being ever the gentleman, sought out the most comfortable words it could, "At least you brought them joy, even for a small time. My job is simply to take, but yours, yours is to give. That is something I could never do."
St. Nick let out a deep sigh, "How's the family. How are they dealing?"
Death thought for a moment, and against his better judgement he motioned to St. Nick. "Come and see."
Death made its way outside and around the house. St. Nick slowly followed.
They found the window into the parent's room, and Death moved aside. St. Nick could see them. He saw the parents, sitting on the edge of the bed within each others embrace. And at their feet, he saw little Jonny playing with a new puppy. He had grown up quite a bit in the last year.
"Are you ok with what we just told you honey? The truth about Santa?" the mother asked, as she held the father's hand.
Jonny barely noticed, his full attention on the puppy.
"Your mother and I talked about it, and we decided it was best if you knew. We found out when we were your age, and there's no point in believing in something that isn't real. Everyone has to grow up some time"
Jonny looked up for a moment and his eyes met with St. Nick's. But the familiarity that was once there had gone. Jonny's attention just went back to the puppy like he had seen nothing at all.
It was at that moment that a calming warmth surround St. Nick as he felt Death's embrace.
"Come on old friend, this isn't the first time you've died to a child."
| She didn't have a chimney, not that it mattered, which was good because if he was still bound by the mere corporeal then the heavy padlock on the outside of her door would have kept him out just as much as it kept her in.
He stood there outside the door ankle deep in the trash of empty bottles and needles, he watched the pair of them as they swore and screamed at each other in the room across from hers, some type of twisted version of a Christmas party no doubt. A bottle smashed against the wall next to him and there was a cacophany of laughter and screams but he knew they weren't aiming at him. You can't see what you don't believe in.
He turned back to the door and then he was inside with her as she slept a fitful sleep, on the floor in that dark room that reeked of excrement and filth. He watched her eyes flicker as she drew ragged breaths into her sunken chest, she was so thin he could count the bones in her body, and if he grew bored he could count her bruises instead.
“This is a strange turn of events.” The voice came from nowhere and at the same time everywhere, for most it would be dismissed as the wind or the mind playing tricks for it was not meant for most of us to hear.
“It is, I was wondering if you would show to be honest.”
“Why wouldn't I? I have a job to do just as you do? This isn't the first time that we've been in this position is it not? There are many who have wished for this however I will give you that you are not exactly the one most of them ask to deliver it”
“She didn't ask for this exactly she asked for release, to escape the pain, the fear”
“She shall have that, after all that is the gift that I give, I release them from all that is painful, from all that they fear for they will never have need of either ever again.”
He bent down and stroked her matted hair, “How long does she have?”
“As long as you want.”
He turned and looked quizzically at the shadows in the corner, “I don't understand”
The shadows seemed to look back “Come now, but you must. I am only here because you seek to fufil her wish, to give her my gift, were you not to have called me then I would not be here. When you decide it is time then I will do what is necessary.”
“So what if I decide never to decide that it is time?”
“Come now, you know your time is limited to this night, eventually it won't be up to you”
He stood and faced the shadows, “No, I guess it won't be up to me anymore and you'll be free to do as you want”
“You know I don't have the luxury of choice, I simply do that which is asked of me. You have a choice what you do with it is up to you.” it was strange, he thought he could detect the slightest tone of regret in the otherwise neutral voice.
His shoulders slumped “I'm sorry, you are right. It's just something that I don't ever get used to, It's not supposed to be like this, it's supposed to be filling stockings and perhaps the occassional lump of coal.”
The shadows stirred and thickened, “I cannot say that I understand yet that is why I see clearly enough that perhaps you have failed to see that there is more than one way to fill a stocking”
“What?”
He waited for an answer yet all he got in return was silence. Silence, that was wrong somehow. Then he was in the other room watching the pair of them, slumped over as the life ebbed out of their eyes, a tourniquet still wrapped on one, a needle on the floor next to the other.
“It seems you won't have to make the choice after all. I will leave it to you to work out what to do with the lock on the door. Merry Christmas Nicholas.” |
I'm excited! This is my first prompt! Looking forward to great stories!
EDIT: I am absolutely stunned with the power of the writers in this community. You are phenomenal, and I hope to one day feel capable of joining your ranks with an answer!
Just amazing. Thank you for a successful post! | [WP] Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time. | "Well, this is awkward." Death whispered, leaning on his scythe near the tree.
"Hello, Death. You're early." Santa responded, stepping from the fireplace.
"You knew I'd be here? The Dark Lord of Despair asked, testing the edge of his reaver with boney thumb. "Why am I not surprised."
"You've always been at the top of my naughty list, Death. I always know where you're at. It's Christmas eve. Shouldn't you be collecting drunks out on the interstate?" St. Nick asked without a trace of his normally jovial demeanor.
"You know, I go where I'm needed, and tonight, I'm needed upstairs." Death said. He looked toward the ceiling, above which, slept the child Death had come to collect.
"Couldn't persuade you," Santa began, setting down his bag, "to wait; to give the kid one more day with her loved ones. Call it a favor and next time, I'll owe you one."
"No can do, elf. I either take her tonight, or take them all tomorrow. If I don't take her . . ." Death shrugged. "She's going to change the design. You, who counts every snowflake, understands why I can't wait. At some point, a single flake proves to be too much for the limb. Same with the souls I come to collect. I leave here, she changes the design. People who weren't meant to die, will be put on my list early. I can't do that. I can't change the design." Death apologized, turning toward the stairs, scythe in hand.
"A moment more," Santa called, bringing Death up short. "I know all about the ripples. It happens up at the North Pole too. This kid ask for something. This kid ask for something that contradicts what the first kid ask for. It's why some kids don't get what they ask for. The elves call it the Christmas Paradox. I can't grant one kids wish if it nullifies another. It creates a problem. However, that particular problem doesn't apply to her. There is no Christmas wish nullifying hers. I have to grant her wish. She asked for one more day. You will give her one more day." The look in Santa's eye were the eyes of a sad old man forced to do the unthinkable.
"Santa--Kris, I like you, but this can't happen. You're killing them all. Please don't make me do this." Death pleaded. "You know I can't be stopped."
"No. But, you can be forestalled. She just asked for one more day. Give her that. Please. Give me this one. She was better than all the rest. She made the top of my good list. She's beautiful, and kind, and compassionate, and selfless. Even now, the only selfish thing she has ever asked for was this; one more day. I have to stop you." Santa said, extending his hands pleadingly.
"I'm sorry." Death whispered, starting up the stairs.
"Me too." Santa said, rushing forward. He grabbed Death's robes and pulled him from the stairs. Wisps of smoke rose from Santa's mittens. He let go of the robe hurriedly and grabbed Death's cowl with the other hand.
"Stop this," Death rumbled, striking Santa across the shoulder with the shaft of his scythe.
"I can't." Santa responded, rolling away from the feel of Death's reaver. Blackness followed the sweep of the scythe, but Santa refused to give in.
"Santa! Stop this. You're going to get hurt." Death warned. "If I accidentally touch you, you die. Just like the humans. This isn't you."
"It is tonight," Santa cried, a tear spilling from his eye into his snowy beard. "You can't have her."
Death stopped fighting and turned to face Santa squarely. "You can't stop me from climbing the stairs. You can't stop me for doing my duty." Death slashed the air, cutting a gash with his scythe. Through the gash was the little girl asleep in her bed. She was hooked up to heart monitor. Her head was bald and even though she slept, dark circles stained her eyes. "I have to do this. She is suffering."
"That is her choice," Santa argued. "It was her wish. It was her wish to suffer one more day. For them."
"I'm sorry." Death apologized, leaping through the gash he'd made. Santa rushed to follow, but the tear closed behind him. Santa raced up the stairs two at a time and burst into the room, tackling Death as he gently reached out with his scythe to touch the girl's brow.
Santa and Death barreled into the wall, knocking pictures from the wall and knick-knacks from the dresser. The mirror shattered under the force of their collision.
"Enough," Death demanded, grabbing Santa's suit and flinging his mythical form away. "It has to be." A gasp from the bed, drew Death's attention. "I'm sorry. I wanted to do it while you were asleep." The little girl wasn't looking at him though. She was watching Santa with wonder as he climbed to his feet.
"Daddy?" She asked, tears in her eyes.
"Yeah. It's me, honey." Santa said, removing the hat and beard.
"You have to stop, daddy. You have to let me go." She pleaded.
"I can't. I don't want you to go. I don't want to be alone." He sobbed, his shoulders rose and fell as stepped over to the bed.
"It hurts too much, daddy. Just let me go. Please. So I can be with mommy." She said, reaching up to touch his face and rub away his tears. "It hurts, daddy." He studied her bright blue eyes, shaking his head.
"Okay." He whispered, bending low to kiss her head. Death reached out and took her hand and when her father's lips left her brow, she was gone.
"No." He cried, falling across his daughter. "I just wanted one more day."
"You would always want one more day." Death told him quietly. "Her pain is over."
"Take me too."
"I can't." Death replied.
"Why not?" He demanded.
"Because, she left you this." Death used the tip of his scythe to lift edge of the little girl's pillow. Beneath it lay her diary. "Tonight it'll save your life. If I had waited till tomorrow, it wouldn't have. I'm sorry. Read it and live. She wanted you to." Death turned away, renting the air with his scythe. He stepped through and was gone. The portal closing behind him.
Santa opened the diary, rubbing tears away with the back of his hand.
*Dear Daddy, don't cry . . ."* | She didn't have a chimney, not that it mattered, which was good because if he was still bound by the mere corporeal then the heavy padlock on the outside of her door would have kept him out just as much as it kept her in.
He stood there outside the door ankle deep in the trash of empty bottles and needles, he watched the pair of them as they swore and screamed at each other in the room across from hers, some type of twisted version of a Christmas party no doubt. A bottle smashed against the wall next to him and there was a cacophany of laughter and screams but he knew they weren't aiming at him. You can't see what you don't believe in.
He turned back to the door and then he was inside with her as she slept a fitful sleep, on the floor in that dark room that reeked of excrement and filth. He watched her eyes flicker as she drew ragged breaths into her sunken chest, she was so thin he could count the bones in her body, and if he grew bored he could count her bruises instead.
“This is a strange turn of events.” The voice came from nowhere and at the same time everywhere, for most it would be dismissed as the wind or the mind playing tricks for it was not meant for most of us to hear.
“It is, I was wondering if you would show to be honest.”
“Why wouldn't I? I have a job to do just as you do? This isn't the first time that we've been in this position is it not? There are many who have wished for this however I will give you that you are not exactly the one most of them ask to deliver it”
“She didn't ask for this exactly she asked for release, to escape the pain, the fear”
“She shall have that, after all that is the gift that I give, I release them from all that is painful, from all that they fear for they will never have need of either ever again.”
He bent down and stroked her matted hair, “How long does she have?”
“As long as you want.”
He turned and looked quizzically at the shadows in the corner, “I don't understand”
The shadows seemed to look back “Come now, but you must. I am only here because you seek to fufil her wish, to give her my gift, were you not to have called me then I would not be here. When you decide it is time then I will do what is necessary.”
“So what if I decide never to decide that it is time?”
“Come now, you know your time is limited to this night, eventually it won't be up to you”
He stood and faced the shadows, “No, I guess it won't be up to me anymore and you'll be free to do as you want”
“You know I don't have the luxury of choice, I simply do that which is asked of me. You have a choice what you do with it is up to you.” it was strange, he thought he could detect the slightest tone of regret in the otherwise neutral voice.
His shoulders slumped “I'm sorry, you are right. It's just something that I don't ever get used to, It's not supposed to be like this, it's supposed to be filling stockings and perhaps the occassional lump of coal.”
The shadows stirred and thickened, “I cannot say that I understand yet that is why I see clearly enough that perhaps you have failed to see that there is more than one way to fill a stocking”
“What?”
He waited for an answer yet all he got in return was silence. Silence, that was wrong somehow. Then he was in the other room watching the pair of them, slumped over as the life ebbed out of their eyes, a tourniquet still wrapped on one, a needle on the floor next to the other.
“It seems you won't have to make the choice after all. I will leave it to you to work out what to do with the lock on the door. Merry Christmas Nicholas.” |
I'm excited! This is my first prompt! Looking forward to great stories!
EDIT: I am absolutely stunned with the power of the writers in this community. You are phenomenal, and I hope to one day feel capable of joining your ranks with an answer!
Just amazing. Thank you for a successful post! | [WP] Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time. | Santa hoisted the bag of toys over his shoulders as he readied himself for the next delivery. We walked past Dasher, Dance, Prancer and all the others, gently scratching their ears. If it wasn't for them he wouldn't be here after all. He made his way to the chimney, but as he approached he felt the temperature change. While the cold, brisk winter air was something he was used to, it was the warm breeze that caught him off guard.
When most people sense death, it's a cold grasp they feel. But Death, like so many other people in a macabre profession, shares a love of humor and theatrics. So while St. Nick made his way closer to the shadowy figure he felt a warm breeze, almost gentle and serene. It smelled faintly of coconuts and beach.
"And What brings you to my neck of the woods, gentleman Death?" St. Nick asked.
"Oh you know, thought I'd drop off some gifts." Death said.
"Ha. Clever. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do" St. Nick's words were strained. It's always hard to hold a conversation with a gentleman like Death.
Death simply said three words, "So do I."
Regardless of the calming air surrounding the spectre, St. Nick could not help but feel the slightest bit of anxiety. It was a feeling that weighed heavily on St. Nick. He knew why Death was here this evening, but that didn't stop him. Maybe it was denial or maybe it was blind hope, whatever the case, St. Nick made his way into the home with his bag of toys. Death slowly followed.
The cold reality hit him as he stepped inside. As St. Nick's eyes swept across the living room he could see a tree, but no lights. No stockings were up, and no plate of cookies and milk. He put his bag down and made his way down the hall. He headed over to Jonny's room and slowly open the door.
"Oh no."
Death stood behind St. Nick, never whispering a word. The room was empty, and it looked like it had been for some time. The sheets were perfectly made, the toys that littered the floor last year were no longer around. The planes and trains that once decorated the walls had been taken down. Instead, all St. Nick saw was a cold, empty gray room. No little boys had set foot in here for some time. Nor would they again.
"This never gets any easier," St. Nick said, his voice weary. "I envy you sometimes gentleman Death, to be able to let go so easily."
Death, being ever the gentleman, sought out the most comfortable words it could, "At least you brought them joy, even for a small time. My job is simply to take, but yours, yours is to give. That is something I could never do."
St. Nick let out a deep sigh, "How's the family. How are they dealing?"
Death thought for a moment, and against his better judgement he motioned to St. Nick. "Come and see."
Death made its way outside and around the house. St. Nick slowly followed.
They found the window into the parent's room, and Death moved aside. St. Nick could see them. He saw the parents, sitting on the edge of the bed within each others embrace. And at their feet, he saw little Jonny playing with a new puppy. He had grown up quite a bit in the last year.
"Are you ok with what we just told you honey? The truth about Santa?" the mother asked, as she held the father's hand.
Jonny barely noticed, his full attention on the puppy.
"Your mother and I talked about it, and we decided it was best if you knew. We found out when we were your age, and there's no point in believing in something that isn't real. Everyone has to grow up some time"
Jonny looked up for a moment and his eyes met with St. Nick's. But the familiarity that was once there had gone. Jonny's attention just went back to the puppy like he had seen nothing at all.
It was at that moment that a calming warmth surround St. Nick as he felt Death's embrace.
"Come on old friend, this isn't the first time you've died to a child."
| The Reaper stood silently outside of the Johnson's home. He had arrived only moments after St. Nick.
He had no list to check, it did not matter if you were naughty or nice, death comes to all.
Santa was packing the last stocking, it read "Max" in bright red glitter, St. Nick flicked the glitter from his black glove as he felt a cold chill run through him. The lights of the christmas tree grew dim as an icy shadow passed through the room.
Time seemed to stop as the two approached one another.
"It has been a while, hasn't it Grim?"
*"Yesss, a while indeed"*
"How have you been Grim? It has been too long...."
*"I don't miss it... if that is what you are asking Nicholas....I have never missed it..."*
"Not even the cookies? The Milk? The smiles and warmth you feel from the happiness you used to bring?.... what happened to you Nic .. I mean Grim?"
*"You know you can't call me that anymore little brother, I am not St. Nick anymore..."*
"I know, I am sorry, it is just... I miss you, you never have time to visit, the ....reindeer miss you.. I miss you."
*"That is not my life anymore, I have a job to do. You know what? This is why I don't visit, this is why I never come to the North to see you and the elves... You always bring this up! Why can't you let it go? I made mistakes, we all did back then... It could have been any one of us! But I WAS CHOSEN!"* The anger raising in The Reaper Of Soul's voice.
"I know, please don't be mad brother, I am sorry. I know it wasn't your choice, it could have been any one of us... Have you talked to Patrick recently?" Santa trying to change the subject.
*"It has been long time, he is just a drunk, it won't be long before I harvest him too."*
"Mother wouldn't like you saying that about your brother, Grim. You know you could visit on All Saint's Day! She would love to see you, I know you don't think so because of the way you... look... now, but she would love to see you."
*"Enough of this Nick, we may have been brothers... twins.. once, and I may have once worn that silly outfit and delivered those stupid gifts, but now... now the only thing I deliever are souls into the afterlife, and I have a job to do here..., You know something? It was supposed to be YOU... I volunteered so you wouldn't have to!!!"* Grim's cold black eyes seemed to glow as red as rudolph's bright nose. *"He chose you, but I loved you too much and I made the choice. You were always more jolly than me anyways an we both know that."*
"...I ...I didn't know.... I always thought it was out of your hands, I thought it was .HIS. choice...We were spaired from the great flood to do our duty for .. HIM... what we were back then does not matter, it is forgotten, I forgive you .. my brother.."
Grim drifted away and up the stairs. Ben Johnson was sleeping, a middle aged father of two, an overall good person. Ben would have a heart attack in his sleep, holding onto his wife.
Santa silently waited, sending images of joy and dreams of wonder to the Johnson family, knowing their lives would never be the same, he thought of his older brother, of the life they once had and how their lives would also never be the same.
"I miss you." Santa whispered as sleigh bells rang into the cold winter night.
|
I'm excited! This is my first prompt! Looking forward to great stories!
EDIT: I am absolutely stunned with the power of the writers in this community. You are phenomenal, and I hope to one day feel capable of joining your ranks with an answer!
Just amazing. Thank you for a successful post! | [WP] Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time. | "Well, this is awkward." Death whispered, leaning on his scythe near the tree.
"Hello, Death. You're early." Santa responded, stepping from the fireplace.
"You knew I'd be here? The Dark Lord of Despair asked, testing the edge of his reaver with boney thumb. "Why am I not surprised."
"You've always been at the top of my naughty list, Death. I always know where you're at. It's Christmas eve. Shouldn't you be collecting drunks out on the interstate?" St. Nick asked without a trace of his normally jovial demeanor.
"You know, I go where I'm needed, and tonight, I'm needed upstairs." Death said. He looked toward the ceiling, above which, slept the child Death had come to collect.
"Couldn't persuade you," Santa began, setting down his bag, "to wait; to give the kid one more day with her loved ones. Call it a favor and next time, I'll owe you one."
"No can do, elf. I either take her tonight, or take them all tomorrow. If I don't take her . . ." Death shrugged. "She's going to change the design. You, who counts every snowflake, understands why I can't wait. At some point, a single flake proves to be too much for the limb. Same with the souls I come to collect. I leave here, she changes the design. People who weren't meant to die, will be put on my list early. I can't do that. I can't change the design." Death apologized, turning toward the stairs, scythe in hand.
"A moment more," Santa called, bringing Death up short. "I know all about the ripples. It happens up at the North Pole too. This kid ask for something. This kid ask for something that contradicts what the first kid ask for. It's why some kids don't get what they ask for. The elves call it the Christmas Paradox. I can't grant one kids wish if it nullifies another. It creates a problem. However, that particular problem doesn't apply to her. There is no Christmas wish nullifying hers. I have to grant her wish. She asked for one more day. You will give her one more day." The look in Santa's eye were the eyes of a sad old man forced to do the unthinkable.
"Santa--Kris, I like you, but this can't happen. You're killing them all. Please don't make me do this." Death pleaded. "You know I can't be stopped."
"No. But, you can be forestalled. She just asked for one more day. Give her that. Please. Give me this one. She was better than all the rest. She made the top of my good list. She's beautiful, and kind, and compassionate, and selfless. Even now, the only selfish thing she has ever asked for was this; one more day. I have to stop you." Santa said, extending his hands pleadingly.
"I'm sorry." Death whispered, starting up the stairs.
"Me too." Santa said, rushing forward. He grabbed Death's robes and pulled him from the stairs. Wisps of smoke rose from Santa's mittens. He let go of the robe hurriedly and grabbed Death's cowl with the other hand.
"Stop this," Death rumbled, striking Santa across the shoulder with the shaft of his scythe.
"I can't." Santa responded, rolling away from the feel of Death's reaver. Blackness followed the sweep of the scythe, but Santa refused to give in.
"Santa! Stop this. You're going to get hurt." Death warned. "If I accidentally touch you, you die. Just like the humans. This isn't you."
"It is tonight," Santa cried, a tear spilling from his eye into his snowy beard. "You can't have her."
Death stopped fighting and turned to face Santa squarely. "You can't stop me from climbing the stairs. You can't stop me for doing my duty." Death slashed the air, cutting a gash with his scythe. Through the gash was the little girl asleep in her bed. She was hooked up to heart monitor. Her head was bald and even though she slept, dark circles stained her eyes. "I have to do this. She is suffering."
"That is her choice," Santa argued. "It was her wish. It was her wish to suffer one more day. For them."
"I'm sorry." Death apologized, leaping through the gash he'd made. Santa rushed to follow, but the tear closed behind him. Santa raced up the stairs two at a time and burst into the room, tackling Death as he gently reached out with his scythe to touch the girl's brow.
Santa and Death barreled into the wall, knocking pictures from the wall and knick-knacks from the dresser. The mirror shattered under the force of their collision.
"Enough," Death demanded, grabbing Santa's suit and flinging his mythical form away. "It has to be." A gasp from the bed, drew Death's attention. "I'm sorry. I wanted to do it while you were asleep." The little girl wasn't looking at him though. She was watching Santa with wonder as he climbed to his feet.
"Daddy?" She asked, tears in her eyes.
"Yeah. It's me, honey." Santa said, removing the hat and beard.
"You have to stop, daddy. You have to let me go." She pleaded.
"I can't. I don't want you to go. I don't want to be alone." He sobbed, his shoulders rose and fell as stepped over to the bed.
"It hurts too much, daddy. Just let me go. Please. So I can be with mommy." She said, reaching up to touch his face and rub away his tears. "It hurts, daddy." He studied her bright blue eyes, shaking his head.
"Okay." He whispered, bending low to kiss her head. Death reached out and took her hand and when her father's lips left her brow, she was gone.
"No." He cried, falling across his daughter. "I just wanted one more day."
"You would always want one more day." Death told him quietly. "Her pain is over."
"Take me too."
"I can't." Death replied.
"Why not?" He demanded.
"Because, she left you this." Death used the tip of his scythe to lift edge of the little girl's pillow. Beneath it lay her diary. "Tonight it'll save your life. If I had waited till tomorrow, it wouldn't have. I'm sorry. Read it and live. She wanted you to." Death turned away, renting the air with his scythe. He stepped through and was gone. The portal closing behind him.
Santa opened the diary, rubbing tears away with the back of his hand.
*Dear Daddy, don't cry . . ."* | The Reaper stood silently outside of the Johnson's home. He had arrived only moments after St. Nick.
He had no list to check, it did not matter if you were naughty or nice, death comes to all.
Santa was packing the last stocking, it read "Max" in bright red glitter, St. Nick flicked the glitter from his black glove as he felt a cold chill run through him. The lights of the christmas tree grew dim as an icy shadow passed through the room.
Time seemed to stop as the two approached one another.
"It has been a while, hasn't it Grim?"
*"Yesss, a while indeed"*
"How have you been Grim? It has been too long...."
*"I don't miss it... if that is what you are asking Nicholas....I have never missed it..."*
"Not even the cookies? The Milk? The smiles and warmth you feel from the happiness you used to bring?.... what happened to you Nic .. I mean Grim?"
*"You know you can't call me that anymore little brother, I am not St. Nick anymore..."*
"I know, I am sorry, it is just... I miss you, you never have time to visit, the ....reindeer miss you.. I miss you."
*"That is not my life anymore, I have a job to do. You know what? This is why I don't visit, this is why I never come to the North to see you and the elves... You always bring this up! Why can't you let it go? I made mistakes, we all did back then... It could have been any one of us! But I WAS CHOSEN!"* The anger raising in The Reaper Of Soul's voice.
"I know, please don't be mad brother, I am sorry. I know it wasn't your choice, it could have been any one of us... Have you talked to Patrick recently?" Santa trying to change the subject.
*"It has been long time, he is just a drunk, it won't be long before I harvest him too."*
"Mother wouldn't like you saying that about your brother, Grim. You know you could visit on All Saint's Day! She would love to see you, I know you don't think so because of the way you... look... now, but she would love to see you."
*"Enough of this Nick, we may have been brothers... twins.. once, and I may have once worn that silly outfit and delivered those stupid gifts, but now... now the only thing I deliever are souls into the afterlife, and I have a job to do here..., You know something? It was supposed to be YOU... I volunteered so you wouldn't have to!!!"* Grim's cold black eyes seemed to glow as red as rudolph's bright nose. *"He chose you, but I loved you too much and I made the choice. You were always more jolly than me anyways an we both know that."*
"...I ...I didn't know.... I always thought it was out of your hands, I thought it was .HIS. choice...We were spaired from the great flood to do our duty for .. HIM... what we were back then does not matter, it is forgotten, I forgive you .. my brother.."
Grim drifted away and up the stairs. Ben Johnson was sleeping, a middle aged father of two, an overall good person. Ben would have a heart attack in his sleep, holding onto his wife.
Santa silently waited, sending images of joy and dreams of wonder to the Johnson family, knowing their lives would never be the same, he thought of his older brother, of the life they once had and how their lives would also never be the same.
"I miss you." Santa whispered as sleigh bells rang into the cold winter night.
|
I'm excited! This is my first prompt! Looking forward to great stories!
EDIT: I am absolutely stunned with the power of the writers in this community. You are phenomenal, and I hope to one day feel capable of joining your ranks with an answer!
Just amazing. Thank you for a successful post! | [WP] Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time. | Santa hoisted the bag of toys over his shoulders as he readied himself for the next delivery. We walked past Dasher, Dance, Prancer and all the others, gently scratching their ears. If it wasn't for them he wouldn't be here after all. He made his way to the chimney, but as he approached he felt the temperature change. While the cold, brisk winter air was something he was used to, it was the warm breeze that caught him off guard.
When most people sense death, it's a cold grasp they feel. But Death, like so many other people in a macabre profession, shares a love of humor and theatrics. So while St. Nick made his way closer to the shadowy figure he felt a warm breeze, almost gentle and serene. It smelled faintly of coconuts and beach.
"And What brings you to my neck of the woods, gentleman Death?" St. Nick asked.
"Oh you know, thought I'd drop off some gifts." Death said.
"Ha. Clever. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do" St. Nick's words were strained. It's always hard to hold a conversation with a gentleman like Death.
Death simply said three words, "So do I."
Regardless of the calming air surrounding the spectre, St. Nick could not help but feel the slightest bit of anxiety. It was a feeling that weighed heavily on St. Nick. He knew why Death was here this evening, but that didn't stop him. Maybe it was denial or maybe it was blind hope, whatever the case, St. Nick made his way into the home with his bag of toys. Death slowly followed.
The cold reality hit him as he stepped inside. As St. Nick's eyes swept across the living room he could see a tree, but no lights. No stockings were up, and no plate of cookies and milk. He put his bag down and made his way down the hall. He headed over to Jonny's room and slowly open the door.
"Oh no."
Death stood behind St. Nick, never whispering a word. The room was empty, and it looked like it had been for some time. The sheets were perfectly made, the toys that littered the floor last year were no longer around. The planes and trains that once decorated the walls had been taken down. Instead, all St. Nick saw was a cold, empty gray room. No little boys had set foot in here for some time. Nor would they again.
"This never gets any easier," St. Nick said, his voice weary. "I envy you sometimes gentleman Death, to be able to let go so easily."
Death, being ever the gentleman, sought out the most comfortable words it could, "At least you brought them joy, even for a small time. My job is simply to take, but yours, yours is to give. That is something I could never do."
St. Nick let out a deep sigh, "How's the family. How are they dealing?"
Death thought for a moment, and against his better judgement he motioned to St. Nick. "Come and see."
Death made its way outside and around the house. St. Nick slowly followed.
They found the window into the parent's room, and Death moved aside. St. Nick could see them. He saw the parents, sitting on the edge of the bed within each others embrace. And at their feet, he saw little Jonny playing with a new puppy. He had grown up quite a bit in the last year.
"Are you ok with what we just told you honey? The truth about Santa?" the mother asked, as she held the father's hand.
Jonny barely noticed, his full attention on the puppy.
"Your mother and I talked about it, and we decided it was best if you knew. We found out when we were your age, and there's no point in believing in something that isn't real. Everyone has to grow up some time"
Jonny looked up for a moment and his eyes met with St. Nick's. But the familiarity that was once there had gone. Jonny's attention just went back to the puppy like he had seen nothing at all.
It was at that moment that a calming warmth surround St. Nick as he felt Death's embrace.
"Come on old friend, this isn't the first time you've died to a child."
| Twas the night before Christmas, and dreams were of glee
For soon there'd be gifts underneath the tree.
The stockings were filled by the chimney with care
Good ol' Saint Nick was already there!
With the children nestled all snug in their beds
Santa felt a chill run by his cold head
"Why, hello Kris Kringle" the dark man half shouted
"Funny you're here, this house is too crowded"
"Why are YOU here, on my brightest of days?"
"Surely tonight, I'M the bringer of slays!"
"You just stay back" The jolly man whispered
"The boy was just born, you can't take his sister.."
"Well, you are half right, big and red man
But like you, I have a job that's on hand
The sister is fine, she I can't take
But the boy has to go and must go post haste"
"That's just crazy, I want to speak to your boss!"
Cause with this reveal, dear Santa was lost
"Sorry my friend, but jobs we must do
The boss says right now, no hullabaloo"
"Can't we do something, some change can be made
Its Christmas for gods sake, you can't take the babe!"
"I'm afraid not fat man, the book says 'take Nick'
No other name will do, not even a bit"
"The kids name is Nick? That makes this much sadder!"
Santa was loud now, causing a clatter
"You can't slay my namesake, I cannot allow it
"I'll offer another instead. I'm Nick, how bout it?"
"Silly Santa" Death hissed, invoking some fear
"What of the others, your mission of good cheer?"
"My elves have instructions in case of my passing"
Santa was sad now, his mood was quick sapping
"I'll take the deal you gave, just finish your work
Have you filled all the stockings? Come on you jerk."
And laying his finger aside if his nose,
Grabbing santa quickly, up the chimney he rose
He drug him to slay, on the roof covered in snow
"Have you any last words, my jolly fellow?"
Santa exclaimed, with one tear in sight,
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good life."
|
I'm excited! This is my first prompt! Looking forward to great stories!
EDIT: I am absolutely stunned with the power of the writers in this community. You are phenomenal, and I hope to one day feel capable of joining your ranks with an answer!
Just amazing. Thank you for a successful post! | [WP] Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time. | "Well, this is awkward." Death whispered, leaning on his scythe near the tree.
"Hello, Death. You're early." Santa responded, stepping from the fireplace.
"You knew I'd be here? The Dark Lord of Despair asked, testing the edge of his reaver with boney thumb. "Why am I not surprised."
"You've always been at the top of my naughty list, Death. I always know where you're at. It's Christmas eve. Shouldn't you be collecting drunks out on the interstate?" St. Nick asked without a trace of his normally jovial demeanor.
"You know, I go where I'm needed, and tonight, I'm needed upstairs." Death said. He looked toward the ceiling, above which, slept the child Death had come to collect.
"Couldn't persuade you," Santa began, setting down his bag, "to wait; to give the kid one more day with her loved ones. Call it a favor and next time, I'll owe you one."
"No can do, elf. I either take her tonight, or take them all tomorrow. If I don't take her . . ." Death shrugged. "She's going to change the design. You, who counts every snowflake, understands why I can't wait. At some point, a single flake proves to be too much for the limb. Same with the souls I come to collect. I leave here, she changes the design. People who weren't meant to die, will be put on my list early. I can't do that. I can't change the design." Death apologized, turning toward the stairs, scythe in hand.
"A moment more," Santa called, bringing Death up short. "I know all about the ripples. It happens up at the North Pole too. This kid ask for something. This kid ask for something that contradicts what the first kid ask for. It's why some kids don't get what they ask for. The elves call it the Christmas Paradox. I can't grant one kids wish if it nullifies another. It creates a problem. However, that particular problem doesn't apply to her. There is no Christmas wish nullifying hers. I have to grant her wish. She asked for one more day. You will give her one more day." The look in Santa's eye were the eyes of a sad old man forced to do the unthinkable.
"Santa--Kris, I like you, but this can't happen. You're killing them all. Please don't make me do this." Death pleaded. "You know I can't be stopped."
"No. But, you can be forestalled. She just asked for one more day. Give her that. Please. Give me this one. She was better than all the rest. She made the top of my good list. She's beautiful, and kind, and compassionate, and selfless. Even now, the only selfish thing she has ever asked for was this; one more day. I have to stop you." Santa said, extending his hands pleadingly.
"I'm sorry." Death whispered, starting up the stairs.
"Me too." Santa said, rushing forward. He grabbed Death's robes and pulled him from the stairs. Wisps of smoke rose from Santa's mittens. He let go of the robe hurriedly and grabbed Death's cowl with the other hand.
"Stop this," Death rumbled, striking Santa across the shoulder with the shaft of his scythe.
"I can't." Santa responded, rolling away from the feel of Death's reaver. Blackness followed the sweep of the scythe, but Santa refused to give in.
"Santa! Stop this. You're going to get hurt." Death warned. "If I accidentally touch you, you die. Just like the humans. This isn't you."
"It is tonight," Santa cried, a tear spilling from his eye into his snowy beard. "You can't have her."
Death stopped fighting and turned to face Santa squarely. "You can't stop me from climbing the stairs. You can't stop me for doing my duty." Death slashed the air, cutting a gash with his scythe. Through the gash was the little girl asleep in her bed. She was hooked up to heart monitor. Her head was bald and even though she slept, dark circles stained her eyes. "I have to do this. She is suffering."
"That is her choice," Santa argued. "It was her wish. It was her wish to suffer one more day. For them."
"I'm sorry." Death apologized, leaping through the gash he'd made. Santa rushed to follow, but the tear closed behind him. Santa raced up the stairs two at a time and burst into the room, tackling Death as he gently reached out with his scythe to touch the girl's brow.
Santa and Death barreled into the wall, knocking pictures from the wall and knick-knacks from the dresser. The mirror shattered under the force of their collision.
"Enough," Death demanded, grabbing Santa's suit and flinging his mythical form away. "It has to be." A gasp from the bed, drew Death's attention. "I'm sorry. I wanted to do it while you were asleep." The little girl wasn't looking at him though. She was watching Santa with wonder as he climbed to his feet.
"Daddy?" She asked, tears in her eyes.
"Yeah. It's me, honey." Santa said, removing the hat and beard.
"You have to stop, daddy. You have to let me go." She pleaded.
"I can't. I don't want you to go. I don't want to be alone." He sobbed, his shoulders rose and fell as stepped over to the bed.
"It hurts too much, daddy. Just let me go. Please. So I can be with mommy." She said, reaching up to touch his face and rub away his tears. "It hurts, daddy." He studied her bright blue eyes, shaking his head.
"Okay." He whispered, bending low to kiss her head. Death reached out and took her hand and when her father's lips left her brow, she was gone.
"No." He cried, falling across his daughter. "I just wanted one more day."
"You would always want one more day." Death told him quietly. "Her pain is over."
"Take me too."
"I can't." Death replied.
"Why not?" He demanded.
"Because, she left you this." Death used the tip of his scythe to lift edge of the little girl's pillow. Beneath it lay her diary. "Tonight it'll save your life. If I had waited till tomorrow, it wouldn't have. I'm sorry. Read it and live. She wanted you to." Death turned away, renting the air with his scythe. He stepped through and was gone. The portal closing behind him.
Santa opened the diary, rubbing tears away with the back of his hand.
*Dear Daddy, don't cry . . ."* | Twas the night before Christmas, and dreams were of glee
For soon there'd be gifts underneath the tree.
The stockings were filled by the chimney with care
Good ol' Saint Nick was already there!
With the children nestled all snug in their beds
Santa felt a chill run by his cold head
"Why, hello Kris Kringle" the dark man half shouted
"Funny you're here, this house is too crowded"
"Why are YOU here, on my brightest of days?"
"Surely tonight, I'M the bringer of slays!"
"You just stay back" The jolly man whispered
"The boy was just born, you can't take his sister.."
"Well, you are half right, big and red man
But like you, I have a job that's on hand
The sister is fine, she I can't take
But the boy has to go and must go post haste"
"That's just crazy, I want to speak to your boss!"
Cause with this reveal, dear Santa was lost
"Sorry my friend, but jobs we must do
The boss says right now, no hullabaloo"
"Can't we do something, some change can be made
Its Christmas for gods sake, you can't take the babe!"
"I'm afraid not fat man, the book says 'take Nick'
No other name will do, not even a bit"
"The kids name is Nick? That makes this much sadder!"
Santa was loud now, causing a clatter
"You can't slay my namesake, I cannot allow it
"I'll offer another instead. I'm Nick, how bout it?"
"Silly Santa" Death hissed, invoking some fear
"What of the others, your mission of good cheer?"
"My elves have instructions in case of my passing"
Santa was sad now, his mood was quick sapping
"I'll take the deal you gave, just finish your work
Have you filled all the stockings? Come on you jerk."
And laying his finger aside if his nose,
Grabbing santa quickly, up the chimney he rose
He drug him to slay, on the roof covered in snow
"Have you any last words, my jolly fellow?"
Santa exclaimed, with one tear in sight,
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good life."
|
I'm excited! This is my first prompt! Looking forward to great stories!
EDIT: I am absolutely stunned with the power of the writers in this community. You are phenomenal, and I hope to one day feel capable of joining your ranks with an answer!
Just amazing. Thank you for a successful post! | [WP] Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time. | Santa hoisted the bag of toys over his shoulders as he readied himself for the next delivery. We walked past Dasher, Dance, Prancer and all the others, gently scratching their ears. If it wasn't for them he wouldn't be here after all. He made his way to the chimney, but as he approached he felt the temperature change. While the cold, brisk winter air was something he was used to, it was the warm breeze that caught him off guard.
When most people sense death, it's a cold grasp they feel. But Death, like so many other people in a macabre profession, shares a love of humor and theatrics. So while St. Nick made his way closer to the shadowy figure he felt a warm breeze, almost gentle and serene. It smelled faintly of coconuts and beach.
"And What brings you to my neck of the woods, gentleman Death?" St. Nick asked.
"Oh you know, thought I'd drop off some gifts." Death said.
"Ha. Clever. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do" St. Nick's words were strained. It's always hard to hold a conversation with a gentleman like Death.
Death simply said three words, "So do I."
Regardless of the calming air surrounding the spectre, St. Nick could not help but feel the slightest bit of anxiety. It was a feeling that weighed heavily on St. Nick. He knew why Death was here this evening, but that didn't stop him. Maybe it was denial or maybe it was blind hope, whatever the case, St. Nick made his way into the home with his bag of toys. Death slowly followed.
The cold reality hit him as he stepped inside. As St. Nick's eyes swept across the living room he could see a tree, but no lights. No stockings were up, and no plate of cookies and milk. He put his bag down and made his way down the hall. He headed over to Jonny's room and slowly open the door.
"Oh no."
Death stood behind St. Nick, never whispering a word. The room was empty, and it looked like it had been for some time. The sheets were perfectly made, the toys that littered the floor last year were no longer around. The planes and trains that once decorated the walls had been taken down. Instead, all St. Nick saw was a cold, empty gray room. No little boys had set foot in here for some time. Nor would they again.
"This never gets any easier," St. Nick said, his voice weary. "I envy you sometimes gentleman Death, to be able to let go so easily."
Death, being ever the gentleman, sought out the most comfortable words it could, "At least you brought them joy, even for a small time. My job is simply to take, but yours, yours is to give. That is something I could never do."
St. Nick let out a deep sigh, "How's the family. How are they dealing?"
Death thought for a moment, and against his better judgement he motioned to St. Nick. "Come and see."
Death made its way outside and around the house. St. Nick slowly followed.
They found the window into the parent's room, and Death moved aside. St. Nick could see them. He saw the parents, sitting on the edge of the bed within each others embrace. And at their feet, he saw little Jonny playing with a new puppy. He had grown up quite a bit in the last year.
"Are you ok with what we just told you honey? The truth about Santa?" the mother asked, as she held the father's hand.
Jonny barely noticed, his full attention on the puppy.
"Your mother and I talked about it, and we decided it was best if you knew. We found out when we were your age, and there's no point in believing in something that isn't real. Everyone has to grow up some time"
Jonny looked up for a moment and his eyes met with St. Nick's. But the familiarity that was once there had gone. Jonny's attention just went back to the puppy like he had seen nothing at all.
It was at that moment that a calming warmth surround St. Nick as he felt Death's embrace.
"Come on old friend, this isn't the first time you've died to a child."
| "Not tonight," he said.
Death gave him that funny crooked grin of his. "Not really your decision, I'm afraid." Death stood up from the armchair and brushed cookie crumbs of his hands. "I've been trying to catch up with you all night. Those little reindeer of yours have been working hard. Mind not to work them too hard," he added with a wink. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his dark suit pants and looked around the decorated living room. "Funny we should meet at this place, though," he said quietly.
"Is it?" Nick asked wearily. He set his bag of toys down. He was getting tired.
Death smiled again. He craned his neck to see behind the tree, and said gently, "Come on out, Sweetie."
A little girl crawled from behind the tree, a cookie clenched in her fist. She loved behind the tree - it was quiet, and the lights from the tree glowed on the white walls behind it, as well as the multicolored reflections of the baubles. As soon as her new friend told her she could have the cookies and milk ("But one for me!" he said with a smile and plucked one off the plate to make her giggle) she scampered to her special place to enjoy them.
She ran up to her new friend, but her eyes turned wide as she caught sight of Nick. She tugged her friend's pant leg and pointed to make sure he saw him too.
"Yes, Dear, I know," Death said with a quiet laugh. He crouched down in front of the girl. "You and Jolly Old Saint Nicholas and I are going now. Are you ready?"
The girl shoved the last of the cookie in her mouth. "What about Mommy and Daddy?" she asked, a bit muffled.
"Well," Death said, as he tapped her nose, "They aren't coming just yet. But they will, eventually."
"Soon?"
"We'll see." Death kissed the top of her head and stood. She slipped her hand easily into his.
Nick shook his head. He wanted to sit down, it was hard to breath. "The toys - Christmas!" he pleaded.
Death picked up the sack and swung it over his shoulder. "We can drop this off in the sleigh first. I'm sure the elves you bring along can handle the rest. I'm not trying to ruin Christmas. I do enjoy it too, you know."
"I..." Nick swayed. The edges of his vision was getting fuzzy.
"Come on, then," Death said with a warm smile as he walked towards him.
"You can hold my hand if you want," the little girl said.
"I... Yes, I... I believe I'd like that."
Death beamed at them, like a proud cat. He gave the girl's hand a gentle tug, and said, "It's time to go, Sweetheart." And the chain of them went out the door. |
I'm excited! This is my first prompt! Looking forward to great stories!
EDIT: I am absolutely stunned with the power of the writers in this community. You are phenomenal, and I hope to one day feel capable of joining your ranks with an answer!
Just amazing. Thank you for a successful post! | [WP] Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time. | "Well, this is awkward." Death whispered, leaning on his scythe near the tree.
"Hello, Death. You're early." Santa responded, stepping from the fireplace.
"You knew I'd be here? The Dark Lord of Despair asked, testing the edge of his reaver with boney thumb. "Why am I not surprised."
"You've always been at the top of my naughty list, Death. I always know where you're at. It's Christmas eve. Shouldn't you be collecting drunks out on the interstate?" St. Nick asked without a trace of his normally jovial demeanor.
"You know, I go where I'm needed, and tonight, I'm needed upstairs." Death said. He looked toward the ceiling, above which, slept the child Death had come to collect.
"Couldn't persuade you," Santa began, setting down his bag, "to wait; to give the kid one more day with her loved ones. Call it a favor and next time, I'll owe you one."
"No can do, elf. I either take her tonight, or take them all tomorrow. If I don't take her . . ." Death shrugged. "She's going to change the design. You, who counts every snowflake, understands why I can't wait. At some point, a single flake proves to be too much for the limb. Same with the souls I come to collect. I leave here, she changes the design. People who weren't meant to die, will be put on my list early. I can't do that. I can't change the design." Death apologized, turning toward the stairs, scythe in hand.
"A moment more," Santa called, bringing Death up short. "I know all about the ripples. It happens up at the North Pole too. This kid ask for something. This kid ask for something that contradicts what the first kid ask for. It's why some kids don't get what they ask for. The elves call it the Christmas Paradox. I can't grant one kids wish if it nullifies another. It creates a problem. However, that particular problem doesn't apply to her. There is no Christmas wish nullifying hers. I have to grant her wish. She asked for one more day. You will give her one more day." The look in Santa's eye were the eyes of a sad old man forced to do the unthinkable.
"Santa--Kris, I like you, but this can't happen. You're killing them all. Please don't make me do this." Death pleaded. "You know I can't be stopped."
"No. But, you can be forestalled. She just asked for one more day. Give her that. Please. Give me this one. She was better than all the rest. She made the top of my good list. She's beautiful, and kind, and compassionate, and selfless. Even now, the only selfish thing she has ever asked for was this; one more day. I have to stop you." Santa said, extending his hands pleadingly.
"I'm sorry." Death whispered, starting up the stairs.
"Me too." Santa said, rushing forward. He grabbed Death's robes and pulled him from the stairs. Wisps of smoke rose from Santa's mittens. He let go of the robe hurriedly and grabbed Death's cowl with the other hand.
"Stop this," Death rumbled, striking Santa across the shoulder with the shaft of his scythe.
"I can't." Santa responded, rolling away from the feel of Death's reaver. Blackness followed the sweep of the scythe, but Santa refused to give in.
"Santa! Stop this. You're going to get hurt." Death warned. "If I accidentally touch you, you die. Just like the humans. This isn't you."
"It is tonight," Santa cried, a tear spilling from his eye into his snowy beard. "You can't have her."
Death stopped fighting and turned to face Santa squarely. "You can't stop me from climbing the stairs. You can't stop me for doing my duty." Death slashed the air, cutting a gash with his scythe. Through the gash was the little girl asleep in her bed. She was hooked up to heart monitor. Her head was bald and even though she slept, dark circles stained her eyes. "I have to do this. She is suffering."
"That is her choice," Santa argued. "It was her wish. It was her wish to suffer one more day. For them."
"I'm sorry." Death apologized, leaping through the gash he'd made. Santa rushed to follow, but the tear closed behind him. Santa raced up the stairs two at a time and burst into the room, tackling Death as he gently reached out with his scythe to touch the girl's brow.
Santa and Death barreled into the wall, knocking pictures from the wall and knick-knacks from the dresser. The mirror shattered under the force of their collision.
"Enough," Death demanded, grabbing Santa's suit and flinging his mythical form away. "It has to be." A gasp from the bed, drew Death's attention. "I'm sorry. I wanted to do it while you were asleep." The little girl wasn't looking at him though. She was watching Santa with wonder as he climbed to his feet.
"Daddy?" She asked, tears in her eyes.
"Yeah. It's me, honey." Santa said, removing the hat and beard.
"You have to stop, daddy. You have to let me go." She pleaded.
"I can't. I don't want you to go. I don't want to be alone." He sobbed, his shoulders rose and fell as stepped over to the bed.
"It hurts too much, daddy. Just let me go. Please. So I can be with mommy." She said, reaching up to touch his face and rub away his tears. "It hurts, daddy." He studied her bright blue eyes, shaking his head.
"Okay." He whispered, bending low to kiss her head. Death reached out and took her hand and when her father's lips left her brow, she was gone.
"No." He cried, falling across his daughter. "I just wanted one more day."
"You would always want one more day." Death told him quietly. "Her pain is over."
"Take me too."
"I can't." Death replied.
"Why not?" He demanded.
"Because, she left you this." Death used the tip of his scythe to lift edge of the little girl's pillow. Beneath it lay her diary. "Tonight it'll save your life. If I had waited till tomorrow, it wouldn't have. I'm sorry. Read it and live. She wanted you to." Death turned away, renting the air with his scythe. He stepped through and was gone. The portal closing behind him.
Santa opened the diary, rubbing tears away with the back of his hand.
*Dear Daddy, don't cry . . ."* | "Not tonight," he said.
Death gave him that funny crooked grin of his. "Not really your decision, I'm afraid." Death stood up from the armchair and brushed cookie crumbs of his hands. "I've been trying to catch up with you all night. Those little reindeer of yours have been working hard. Mind not to work them too hard," he added with a wink. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his dark suit pants and looked around the decorated living room. "Funny we should meet at this place, though," he said quietly.
"Is it?" Nick asked wearily. He set his bag of toys down. He was getting tired.
Death smiled again. He craned his neck to see behind the tree, and said gently, "Come on out, Sweetie."
A little girl crawled from behind the tree, a cookie clenched in her fist. She loved behind the tree - it was quiet, and the lights from the tree glowed on the white walls behind it, as well as the multicolored reflections of the baubles. As soon as her new friend told her she could have the cookies and milk ("But one for me!" he said with a smile and plucked one off the plate to make her giggle) she scampered to her special place to enjoy them.
She ran up to her new friend, but her eyes turned wide as she caught sight of Nick. She tugged her friend's pant leg and pointed to make sure he saw him too.
"Yes, Dear, I know," Death said with a quiet laugh. He crouched down in front of the girl. "You and Jolly Old Saint Nicholas and I are going now. Are you ready?"
The girl shoved the last of the cookie in her mouth. "What about Mommy and Daddy?" she asked, a bit muffled.
"Well," Death said, as he tapped her nose, "They aren't coming just yet. But they will, eventually."
"Soon?"
"We'll see." Death kissed the top of her head and stood. She slipped her hand easily into his.
Nick shook his head. He wanted to sit down, it was hard to breath. "The toys - Christmas!" he pleaded.
Death picked up the sack and swung it over his shoulder. "We can drop this off in the sleigh first. I'm sure the elves you bring along can handle the rest. I'm not trying to ruin Christmas. I do enjoy it too, you know."
"I..." Nick swayed. The edges of his vision was getting fuzzy.
"Come on, then," Death said with a warm smile as he walked towards him.
"You can hold my hand if you want," the little girl said.
"I... Yes, I... I believe I'd like that."
Death beamed at them, like a proud cat. He gave the girl's hand a gentle tug, and said, "It's time to go, Sweetheart." And the chain of them went out the door. |
I'm excited! This is my first prompt! Looking forward to great stories!
EDIT: I am absolutely stunned with the power of the writers in this community. You are phenomenal, and I hope to one day feel capable of joining your ranks with an answer!
Just amazing. Thank you for a successful post! | [WP] Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time. | Ere the eves were full of snow
A small amount falls off
There be no wind tonight to blow
The red man near the trough
He fiddles down the chimney fast
As silent as a mouse
And at the bottom knows at last
Another's in the house
One brings joy material
The other, sombre sorrow
The one in black, ethereal
Denies one their tomorrow
The man in red and spectre black
A fleeting glance they take
The red one's presents all will lack
From sadness Death will make
For one it's nice and naughty
To the other, matters not
He'll touch the father's body
And will send him to the plot
So Santa leaves an extra toy
A sad look on his face
Because tonight will see a special boy
Lose that he can't replace. | The fat man landed in the fireplace with a thump. He took a moment to stretch, and brush some of the ashes off of his bright red suit before turning to survey the room. He sw a tall thin figure standing in the middle of the room, back to him, seemingly studying the family's glowing Christmas tree. "And what do you think you are doing here?"
The figure turned with ponderous grace. AH, NICHOLAS. IT HAS BEEN A LONG TIME, HASN'T IT? DECEMBER 6TH, 343, THAT IS WHEN I REAPED YOU.
"A very long time ago. Death, I've thoroughly reviewed all of the letters I've received from this house. There is no illness here. Why do you visit now?"
I DO MY DUTY, WHETHER I LIKE IT OR NOT.
"But tonight? Who is it?"
MANY PEOPLE TONIGHT, ALL OVER THE WORLD. IT IS STILL JUST ANOTHER NIGHT, EVEN IF IT IS YOUR FAVORITE.
Santa stepped forward, closing the gap between the to figures. "Many dying? Even here? Will this whole family...?"
NOT ALL HERE, BUT MOST.
"It's the tree, isn't it? Family in the Christmas spirit, sometimes they leave the lights on for me, leave them on until they get too hot and start a fire."
Death only nodded in reply.
With a speed belying his great size, Santa snatched a cord out of the outlet. Death moved to stop him, but was too late. "Now?" Santa asked in the darkened room.
IT DOES NOT DO TO INTERFERE WITH MY WORK, NICHOLAS. YOU ONLY DELAY THE INEVITABLE.
"I know that. But I delay it for tonigh. Now get out. Without the tree, you have no purpose here."
Death drew himself to his full height, towering over the portly Santa Claus. An impression of a shape began to appear in his skeletal hands, the long handle and curved blade of his scythe. IT DOES NO-
"What are you going to do, Death? You've come for me once, and it didn't take. I'm beyond my mortal life, beyond your power. Now get out, or I'll see what I have in my bag for you." |
I'm excited! This is my first prompt! Looking forward to great stories!
EDIT: I am absolutely stunned with the power of the writers in this community. You are phenomenal, and I hope to one day feel capable of joining your ranks with an answer!
Just amazing. Thank you for a successful post! | [WP] Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time. | Santa hoisted the bag of toys over his shoulders as he readied himself for the next delivery. We walked past Dasher, Dance, Prancer and all the others, gently scratching their ears. If it wasn't for them he wouldn't be here after all. He made his way to the chimney, but as he approached he felt the temperature change. While the cold, brisk winter air was something he was used to, it was the warm breeze that caught him off guard.
When most people sense death, it's a cold grasp they feel. But Death, like so many other people in a macabre profession, shares a love of humor and theatrics. So while St. Nick made his way closer to the shadowy figure he felt a warm breeze, almost gentle and serene. It smelled faintly of coconuts and beach.
"And What brings you to my neck of the woods, gentleman Death?" St. Nick asked.
"Oh you know, thought I'd drop off some gifts." Death said.
"Ha. Clever. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do" St. Nick's words were strained. It's always hard to hold a conversation with a gentleman like Death.
Death simply said three words, "So do I."
Regardless of the calming air surrounding the spectre, St. Nick could not help but feel the slightest bit of anxiety. It was a feeling that weighed heavily on St. Nick. He knew why Death was here this evening, but that didn't stop him. Maybe it was denial or maybe it was blind hope, whatever the case, St. Nick made his way into the home with his bag of toys. Death slowly followed.
The cold reality hit him as he stepped inside. As St. Nick's eyes swept across the living room he could see a tree, but no lights. No stockings were up, and no plate of cookies and milk. He put his bag down and made his way down the hall. He headed over to Jonny's room and slowly open the door.
"Oh no."
Death stood behind St. Nick, never whispering a word. The room was empty, and it looked like it had been for some time. The sheets were perfectly made, the toys that littered the floor last year were no longer around. The planes and trains that once decorated the walls had been taken down. Instead, all St. Nick saw was a cold, empty gray room. No little boys had set foot in here for some time. Nor would they again.
"This never gets any easier," St. Nick said, his voice weary. "I envy you sometimes gentleman Death, to be able to let go so easily."
Death, being ever the gentleman, sought out the most comfortable words it could, "At least you brought them joy, even for a small time. My job is simply to take, but yours, yours is to give. That is something I could never do."
St. Nick let out a deep sigh, "How's the family. How are they dealing?"
Death thought for a moment, and against his better judgement he motioned to St. Nick. "Come and see."
Death made its way outside and around the house. St. Nick slowly followed.
They found the window into the parent's room, and Death moved aside. St. Nick could see them. He saw the parents, sitting on the edge of the bed within each others embrace. And at their feet, he saw little Jonny playing with a new puppy. He had grown up quite a bit in the last year.
"Are you ok with what we just told you honey? The truth about Santa?" the mother asked, as she held the father's hand.
Jonny barely noticed, his full attention on the puppy.
"Your mother and I talked about it, and we decided it was best if you knew. We found out when we were your age, and there's no point in believing in something that isn't real. Everyone has to grow up some time"
Jonny looked up for a moment and his eyes met with St. Nick's. But the familiarity that was once there had gone. Jonny's attention just went back to the puppy like he had seen nothing at all.
It was at that moment that a calming warmth surround St. Nick as he felt Death's embrace.
"Come on old friend, this isn't the first time you've died to a child."
| The fat man landed in the fireplace with a thump. He took a moment to stretch, and brush some of the ashes off of his bright red suit before turning to survey the room. He sw a tall thin figure standing in the middle of the room, back to him, seemingly studying the family's glowing Christmas tree. "And what do you think you are doing here?"
The figure turned with ponderous grace. AH, NICHOLAS. IT HAS BEEN A LONG TIME, HASN'T IT? DECEMBER 6TH, 343, THAT IS WHEN I REAPED YOU.
"A very long time ago. Death, I've thoroughly reviewed all of the letters I've received from this house. There is no illness here. Why do you visit now?"
I DO MY DUTY, WHETHER I LIKE IT OR NOT.
"But tonight? Who is it?"
MANY PEOPLE TONIGHT, ALL OVER THE WORLD. IT IS STILL JUST ANOTHER NIGHT, EVEN IF IT IS YOUR FAVORITE.
Santa stepped forward, closing the gap between the to figures. "Many dying? Even here? Will this whole family...?"
NOT ALL HERE, BUT MOST.
"It's the tree, isn't it? Family in the Christmas spirit, sometimes they leave the lights on for me, leave them on until they get too hot and start a fire."
Death only nodded in reply.
With a speed belying his great size, Santa snatched a cord out of the outlet. Death moved to stop him, but was too late. "Now?" Santa asked in the darkened room.
IT DOES NOT DO TO INTERFERE WITH MY WORK, NICHOLAS. YOU ONLY DELAY THE INEVITABLE.
"I know that. But I delay it for tonigh. Now get out. Without the tree, you have no purpose here."
Death drew himself to his full height, towering over the portly Santa Claus. An impression of a shape began to appear in his skeletal hands, the long handle and curved blade of his scythe. IT DOES NO-
"What are you going to do, Death? You've come for me once, and it didn't take. I'm beyond my mortal life, beyond your power. Now get out, or I'll see what I have in my bag for you." |
I'm excited! This is my first prompt! Looking forward to great stories!
EDIT: I am absolutely stunned with the power of the writers in this community. You are phenomenal, and I hope to one day feel capable of joining your ranks with an answer!
Just amazing. Thank you for a successful post! | [WP] Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time. | "Well, this is awkward." Death whispered, leaning on his scythe near the tree.
"Hello, Death. You're early." Santa responded, stepping from the fireplace.
"You knew I'd be here? The Dark Lord of Despair asked, testing the edge of his reaver with boney thumb. "Why am I not surprised."
"You've always been at the top of my naughty list, Death. I always know where you're at. It's Christmas eve. Shouldn't you be collecting drunks out on the interstate?" St. Nick asked without a trace of his normally jovial demeanor.
"You know, I go where I'm needed, and tonight, I'm needed upstairs." Death said. He looked toward the ceiling, above which, slept the child Death had come to collect.
"Couldn't persuade you," Santa began, setting down his bag, "to wait; to give the kid one more day with her loved ones. Call it a favor and next time, I'll owe you one."
"No can do, elf. I either take her tonight, or take them all tomorrow. If I don't take her . . ." Death shrugged. "She's going to change the design. You, who counts every snowflake, understands why I can't wait. At some point, a single flake proves to be too much for the limb. Same with the souls I come to collect. I leave here, she changes the design. People who weren't meant to die, will be put on my list early. I can't do that. I can't change the design." Death apologized, turning toward the stairs, scythe in hand.
"A moment more," Santa called, bringing Death up short. "I know all about the ripples. It happens up at the North Pole too. This kid ask for something. This kid ask for something that contradicts what the first kid ask for. It's why some kids don't get what they ask for. The elves call it the Christmas Paradox. I can't grant one kids wish if it nullifies another. It creates a problem. However, that particular problem doesn't apply to her. There is no Christmas wish nullifying hers. I have to grant her wish. She asked for one more day. You will give her one more day." The look in Santa's eye were the eyes of a sad old man forced to do the unthinkable.
"Santa--Kris, I like you, but this can't happen. You're killing them all. Please don't make me do this." Death pleaded. "You know I can't be stopped."
"No. But, you can be forestalled. She just asked for one more day. Give her that. Please. Give me this one. She was better than all the rest. She made the top of my good list. She's beautiful, and kind, and compassionate, and selfless. Even now, the only selfish thing she has ever asked for was this; one more day. I have to stop you." Santa said, extending his hands pleadingly.
"I'm sorry." Death whispered, starting up the stairs.
"Me too." Santa said, rushing forward. He grabbed Death's robes and pulled him from the stairs. Wisps of smoke rose from Santa's mittens. He let go of the robe hurriedly and grabbed Death's cowl with the other hand.
"Stop this," Death rumbled, striking Santa across the shoulder with the shaft of his scythe.
"I can't." Santa responded, rolling away from the feel of Death's reaver. Blackness followed the sweep of the scythe, but Santa refused to give in.
"Santa! Stop this. You're going to get hurt." Death warned. "If I accidentally touch you, you die. Just like the humans. This isn't you."
"It is tonight," Santa cried, a tear spilling from his eye into his snowy beard. "You can't have her."
Death stopped fighting and turned to face Santa squarely. "You can't stop me from climbing the stairs. You can't stop me for doing my duty." Death slashed the air, cutting a gash with his scythe. Through the gash was the little girl asleep in her bed. She was hooked up to heart monitor. Her head was bald and even though she slept, dark circles stained her eyes. "I have to do this. She is suffering."
"That is her choice," Santa argued. "It was her wish. It was her wish to suffer one more day. For them."
"I'm sorry." Death apologized, leaping through the gash he'd made. Santa rushed to follow, but the tear closed behind him. Santa raced up the stairs two at a time and burst into the room, tackling Death as he gently reached out with his scythe to touch the girl's brow.
Santa and Death barreled into the wall, knocking pictures from the wall and knick-knacks from the dresser. The mirror shattered under the force of their collision.
"Enough," Death demanded, grabbing Santa's suit and flinging his mythical form away. "It has to be." A gasp from the bed, drew Death's attention. "I'm sorry. I wanted to do it while you were asleep." The little girl wasn't looking at him though. She was watching Santa with wonder as he climbed to his feet.
"Daddy?" She asked, tears in her eyes.
"Yeah. It's me, honey." Santa said, removing the hat and beard.
"You have to stop, daddy. You have to let me go." She pleaded.
"I can't. I don't want you to go. I don't want to be alone." He sobbed, his shoulders rose and fell as stepped over to the bed.
"It hurts too much, daddy. Just let me go. Please. So I can be with mommy." She said, reaching up to touch his face and rub away his tears. "It hurts, daddy." He studied her bright blue eyes, shaking his head.
"Okay." He whispered, bending low to kiss her head. Death reached out and took her hand and when her father's lips left her brow, she was gone.
"No." He cried, falling across his daughter. "I just wanted one more day."
"You would always want one more day." Death told him quietly. "Her pain is over."
"Take me too."
"I can't." Death replied.
"Why not?" He demanded.
"Because, she left you this." Death used the tip of his scythe to lift edge of the little girl's pillow. Beneath it lay her diary. "Tonight it'll save your life. If I had waited till tomorrow, it wouldn't have. I'm sorry. Read it and live. She wanted you to." Death turned away, renting the air with his scythe. He stepped through and was gone. The portal closing behind him.
Santa opened the diary, rubbing tears away with the back of his hand.
*Dear Daddy, don't cry . . ."* | The fat man landed in the fireplace with a thump. He took a moment to stretch, and brush some of the ashes off of his bright red suit before turning to survey the room. He sw a tall thin figure standing in the middle of the room, back to him, seemingly studying the family's glowing Christmas tree. "And what do you think you are doing here?"
The figure turned with ponderous grace. AH, NICHOLAS. IT HAS BEEN A LONG TIME, HASN'T IT? DECEMBER 6TH, 343, THAT IS WHEN I REAPED YOU.
"A very long time ago. Death, I've thoroughly reviewed all of the letters I've received from this house. There is no illness here. Why do you visit now?"
I DO MY DUTY, WHETHER I LIKE IT OR NOT.
"But tonight? Who is it?"
MANY PEOPLE TONIGHT, ALL OVER THE WORLD. IT IS STILL JUST ANOTHER NIGHT, EVEN IF IT IS YOUR FAVORITE.
Santa stepped forward, closing the gap between the to figures. "Many dying? Even here? Will this whole family...?"
NOT ALL HERE, BUT MOST.
"It's the tree, isn't it? Family in the Christmas spirit, sometimes they leave the lights on for me, leave them on until they get too hot and start a fire."
Death only nodded in reply.
With a speed belying his great size, Santa snatched a cord out of the outlet. Death moved to stop him, but was too late. "Now?" Santa asked in the darkened room.
IT DOES NOT DO TO INTERFERE WITH MY WORK, NICHOLAS. YOU ONLY DELAY THE INEVITABLE.
"I know that. But I delay it for tonigh. Now get out. Without the tree, you have no purpose here."
Death drew himself to his full height, towering over the portly Santa Claus. An impression of a shape began to appear in his skeletal hands, the long handle and curved blade of his scythe. IT DOES NO-
"What are you going to do, Death? You've come for me once, and it didn't take. I'm beyond my mortal life, beyond your power. Now get out, or I'll see what I have in my bag for you." |
I'm excited! This is my first prompt! Looking forward to great stories!
EDIT: I am absolutely stunned with the power of the writers in this community. You are phenomenal, and I hope to one day feel capable of joining your ranks with an answer!
Just amazing. Thank you for a successful post! | [WP] Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time. | [In a dark chamber, in a chewed, wooden throne sat the end of all days, Death](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KFxLFDP0I64). The list he held troubled him, it had only one name. A trouble that would never show on his gleaming skull or constant grin. Death had the memories of doing the job since time began, but it was the first time he felt anything about what he did.
One name on Christmas eve. There was a time and place and all Death had to do was be there. It didn't trouble him that he was working on Christmas Eve, he did it every year. Knowing nothing but the weight of time on every life, dates didn't mean anything, only the finite amount of days given mattered to every person he met. But a single name, it never happened before. Death reached for the scythe by his chamber door and the blade tapped the wall. The chime echoed even after the door closed behind him.
As always, everything seemed to spread out from where he stood. It was another street with houses similar to all the others. People trying to fit in by showing little differences, but they were always the same. Shoveled their sidewalks the same, same cars, same lights, same lives. Death moved up the sidewalk in silence, all doors were open to him and he went inside.
The floor was covered with all manner of footwear. Of course, there had to be guests, of all the luck, all these people were to wake up to a day they'd want to forget. In the living room, nothing, nobody stretched out on couches, maybe a basement. Through darkness, he wandered room to room. Found guests wrestling sleep on top of uncomfortable guest beds in the basement. None of them matched the name. Up the stairs in silence, into the parents room. Nothing.
One last room, the door was closed and an old dog lay on the floor. Death could see that the dog's time was almost up, it would be the dog's the last Christmas. The old guardian, who could barely see anymore, pushed himself up to a sitting position and whined. Death only nodded, sorry that the dog understood what must have been happening. The dog lay back down and sniffed at the long black robe as Death walked past into the room.
Toys, the floor strewn wall to wall with the toys of a little boy. Death looked over and saw that the bed was occupied by three children, they looked to be about the same age. Death only stood and thought, mornings after were always hard, always a new day where someone who wouldn't be there again. Over and over and they would always remember to ask about it when it came their time. There was never an answer to give. Confusion struck, none of these names matched the one on his list.
Death walked out and past the dog, he saw that there was light coming from the living room. Down the stairs and when he rounded the corner, he saw something, someone he never thought he would ever see. A beard, a big white beard, rosy cheeks, and a set of eyes twinkled at him. Red hat, fur trim, and the rest of him matched.
"Santa Claus?"
"Yes, sir." Santa nodded and pulled another gift from a large red bag and put it under the tree.
"This can't be right. Without you, the world will never be the same." Death pulled out his cracked, yellowing list and looked.
"Nope, afraid I'm not on that list tonight." Santa grunted and slid a large package up against the wall. Santa froze when he heard the creek of a bed.
"I don't understand." Death pocketed his list and then thumped his scythe on the carpet, it wasn't loud, but it did make Santa wince. "I was sent here to take someone."
"All you do is take," Santa looked over his shoulder, up at the ceiling, "and take." Santa brought his finger to his lips then pointed up.
"You weren't sent here to take anything, Death. Those days are over." Santa took off his hat and plopped it onto Death's head.
"What?" Death didn't resist when Santa pulled the scythe out of his hands. "You? You can't do this job, I won't let you."
The deep rumble of muffled laughter came from Santa, from behind his giant mitten over his mouth. "Me? Good heavens, no. Someone else is already doing your job, don't worry about it." There was another loud creak from upstairs. Santa nodded towards the door, they had to leave.
Death had seen his share of oddities in the world, but the snuffling and thumping of reindeer on a roof, with a sleigh parked there, was something he couldn't stop looking at. He wanted to tell Santa that they had to be quiet, but Santa lifted his giant bag and put it in the back with a thump.
Santa read what was on Death's face. "Don't worry, we're outside, they can't hear us." Santa lifted the scythe into the back and set it down.
"Why am I here?" Death asked while Santa brushed his big mittens together.
"I'm retiring, friend." Santa looked up and took a long breath. "You've taken enough, and you've left enough sorrow, now it's time for you to take over."
"What?" Death never said a lot, but he always had the words if he needed them, now they all went missing. Something inside him began to shine when he heard an actual '*ho ho ho*'-like laugh come from Santa.
"All those memories rattling around in that head of yours, they aren't *all* yours. They muddled up your brain, trust me, it takes a while, but it comes back." Santa reached into one of the giant pockets of his coat and pulled on a long piece of paper. "Here, take a look. Last name on the list tonight."
Death leaned over to see, then he pulled out the yellowing parchment that was his own list, the names were the same. "Who is this?" Death's boney thumb rasped up and down the side of the crumbling paper.
"It's you!" Santa's belly shook as he laughed. "That man is gone tonight though. The last gift I have to give tonight is for you." Santa reached into his sleigh and pulled out a wrapped parcel.
When Santa held it out to Death, memories sprung off the wrapping, it shined and glittered. Death, who had been numb for so long, filled with a happiness he never thought he'd feel ever again. Memories of sitting and just watching the lights twinkle of a Christmas tree, of racing to the living room and the frenzied crinkle of wrapping flying into the air. Family, friends, and kind strangers, all of that washed back over him and left only warmth. Then the epiphany that he would now be able to bring that feeling to people, it released a near frantic laugh. Death didn't notice that tears rolled down his cheeks once again, rolled down into his bushy white beard.
"Merry Christmas, Death. Oop, sorry, Merry Christmas, Santa."
[The End.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5OhBeb4rlvw) | A rotund shadow darkens the alley next to little Jimmy Taylor's house. He's been good this year, or so he would claim. The kid that he's been ruthlessly bullying at school for the last few weeks would disagree, but Saint Nick's obesity is a burden on his omnipotence, so Jimmy will be spoiled all the same.
He enters via the front door, with a pick made by his elves. Those little ageless beauties can craft picks for anything. If he wasn't bound to this job for eternity, he would have made an excellent thief.
He creeps up the hallway, deftly missing the creaky floorboards. He remembers this house from last year because they had a Bichon Frise puppy that voraciously soiled his leg while he was raiding the fridge for snacks.
The presents are deposited quietly under the tree, and he makes his way slowly upstairs to Jimmy's bedroom to lay out a stocking. As he climbs the stairs he realises that something isn't quite right - is someone watching him? The air turns cold; the hairs on his arms begin to stand on end. He can see his warm breath flowing into the icy air, and when his eyes re-focus after reaching the top of the stairs a tall cloaked figure is stood before him, with a large silver scythe. The being grins - 32 well-kept, dazzling tombstone teeth; a smile that would happily shatter fragility. The figure turns and enters Jimmy's bedroom.
Saint Nick lurches from his fear as he realises what is about to happen. He moves astonishingly quick for a man of his size, and as he reaches the bedroom he sees Death standing over Jimmy's bed, his grin somehow widened.
"Don't do it" he says. "The boy doesn't deserve it".
A mocking laugh is returned; baritone humiliation that rumbles into the depths of the Earth.
"The boy?" comes his reply, as he approaches Nick. "It's YOU that I want". He raises his scythe into the air; suddenly Nick can see a thousand colours at once, he experiences joy, sadness, humility; every single emotion that can and has been experienced throughout his life. He watches his childhood and his maturity, touches his mother's golden hair, rides the awesome wind on his dad's seemingly giant shoulders.
And then he's back. The scythe hits, and he's free from this burden of a life, forever. |
I'm excited! This is my first prompt! Looking forward to great stories!
EDIT: I am absolutely stunned with the power of the writers in this community. You are phenomenal, and I hope to one day feel capable of joining your ranks with an answer!
Just amazing. Thank you for a successful post! | [WP] Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time. | “What can you help out with?” She was cross-armed interrogating.
“I have a couple dollars in change.”
“Your bedroom puppy dog eyes don’t work on me anymore. How are you helping?”
“Look, I’ll stay with her while she’s here. Please.”
“No, no. Well. I have a date tomorrow. I’ll stay here with her tonight, you come in the morning. I need you here at six AM so I can get cleaned up and go to work.”
“Six? I have to ride my bike. I mean, it’s usually no big deal, but the snow, you know?”
“Grow up. Seriously. And get a fucking job.”
“Uh, one more thing? What about Christmas?”
“I’m not doing it here. The doctor said two or three days. Maybe she’ll still be here and you’ll get to spend the holiday together after all. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some paperwork to fill out, since you can’t even manage to remember her information.”
*************************************************************************************
I had slept downstairs in the waiting area. I woke up, relieved the ex, washed my underwear in the sink and took a shower in the room’s adjoining bathroom.
I found a copy of Of Mice and Men in the waiting area. I read it aloud to her as she drifted in and out. She smiled when I pantomimed Lennie’s voice Bugs Bunny style.
I watched her finish her meals. Each time after I sang her to sleep. Then I'd eat the abandoned leftovers. I napped. I waited.
About 0200 a nurse came in for more blood samples.
“I’m gonna do this quick and quiet, she may sleep through it.”
She woke at the pinch. I stroked her forehead and cooed her back to sleep.
The nurse watched me smile down into her and said, "You're a good dad," and I said, "I'm tryin'," and I noticed, put a fuzzed memory to his voice, and he must've done the same coz we were looking at each other in the dim electric medicine.
I ventured, "Charlie Company? LAR?"
"Yeah. (my name)?"
"Holy shit, Doc! Doc (his name). I haven't seen you since..." And I flushed shame and looked at my laces.
"Yeah…”
We sat silent a moment, my head low.
“Doc, I heard…heard about it.”
“True story...” He tidied up his rolling phlebotomy station. “Got the peg leg to prove it.” He tapped a plastic THOK THOK.
“Doc, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, brother. You guys did what you could.” He snapped the gloves off and threw them in the trash.
“How do you…stay…? I know that sounds intrusive and harsh, but I heard…”
“Yeah. Pills. Hormone therapy.”
“And Doc J?”
He pushed the cart toward the door and stood weary. “He checked himself out this time last year.”
"..."
"..."
“Goddamn.” I cloudbursted a moment for the ruptured stores of guilt and failures.
And he came around and one arm hugged me cross my hunched shoulders and patted my head and walked out, closing the door slow and quiet, but right before I would never see him again, “It’s OK.”
*************************************************************************************
I washed up. I looked into her slumbered face. I exited and strolled over to the vending bank. Comfort candy and carbonated caffeine. Turned the corner back toward the room when I saw him, Sad Santa. He was miserable crying, snotting into his fake beard, wet and dried mucus streaked cheeks and I felt, ‘Self, that about sums it up.’ And he sorta floated beyond me and I stopped to chat up the chubby brunette reading a screen at the Nurses’ Station.
“St. Nick is all shook up. Isn’t it a bit early to be making rounds?” I trailed a finger after him.
“It’s his first holiday season here.” Matter of fact.
“Santas usually cry like that, though?”
“Well. Yes. Their first season, they’re all gung-ho. Most don’t come back.” She stopped typing a moment to glare emphasis into me.
“I don’t…” Shook my head and shrugged.
“This is a Children’s Hospital, right? Well, he just visited 516. 516 is checking out tonight. Before dawn. And that guy’s one of the stand-by Santas, come here to give the kid one last gift.” Terse and ice cold.
“Jesus Christ.”
“He’s the reason for the season. Now if you don’t mind, sir?”
*************************************************************************************
Scary was walking down toward 516. Scary was seeing them spilt into the hall, crowded and random, settling through the doorway, sifting sand grains until they all compressed into the room. I told myself not to rubberneck, but got caught by a few turned faces when I stopped to gawk at the fallen wrapping paper and I think a bald head and maybe a clutched teddy. It was all sobs and breathing machines. I hustled back.
*************************************************************************************
“Where did you go?”
“I went for a walk, baby.”
“I was afraid.”
“Me, too, baby. Sleep. Daddy loves you.”
LL | A rotund shadow darkens the alley next to little Jimmy Taylor's house. He's been good this year, or so he would claim. The kid that he's been ruthlessly bullying at school for the last few weeks would disagree, but Saint Nick's obesity is a burden on his omnipotence, so Jimmy will be spoiled all the same.
He enters via the front door, with a pick made by his elves. Those little ageless beauties can craft picks for anything. If he wasn't bound to this job for eternity, he would have made an excellent thief.
He creeps up the hallway, deftly missing the creaky floorboards. He remembers this house from last year because they had a Bichon Frise puppy that voraciously soiled his leg while he was raiding the fridge for snacks.
The presents are deposited quietly under the tree, and he makes his way slowly upstairs to Jimmy's bedroom to lay out a stocking. As he climbs the stairs he realises that something isn't quite right - is someone watching him? The air turns cold; the hairs on his arms begin to stand on end. He can see his warm breath flowing into the icy air, and when his eyes re-focus after reaching the top of the stairs a tall cloaked figure is stood before him, with a large silver scythe. The being grins - 32 well-kept, dazzling tombstone teeth; a smile that would happily shatter fragility. The figure turns and enters Jimmy's bedroom.
Saint Nick lurches from his fear as he realises what is about to happen. He moves astonishingly quick for a man of his size, and as he reaches the bedroom he sees Death standing over Jimmy's bed, his grin somehow widened.
"Don't do it" he says. "The boy doesn't deserve it".
A mocking laugh is returned; baritone humiliation that rumbles into the depths of the Earth.
"The boy?" comes his reply, as he approaches Nick. "It's YOU that I want". He raises his scythe into the air; suddenly Nick can see a thousand colours at once, he experiences joy, sadness, humility; every single emotion that can and has been experienced throughout his life. He watches his childhood and his maturity, touches his mother's golden hair, rides the awesome wind on his dad's seemingly giant shoulders.
And then he's back. The scythe hits, and he's free from this burden of a life, forever. |
I'm excited! This is my first prompt! Looking forward to great stories!
EDIT: I am absolutely stunned with the power of the writers in this community. You are phenomenal, and I hope to one day feel capable of joining your ranks with an answer!
Just amazing. Thank you for a successful post! | [WP] Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time. | Ere the eves were full of snow
A small amount falls off
There be no wind tonight to blow
The red man near the trough
He fiddles down the chimney fast
As silent as a mouse
And at the bottom knows at last
Another's in the house
One brings joy material
The other, sombre sorrow
The one in black, ethereal
Denies one their tomorrow
The man in red and spectre black
A fleeting glance they take
The red one's presents all will lack
From sadness Death will make
For one it's nice and naughty
To the other, matters not
He'll touch the father's body
And will send him to the plot
So Santa leaves an extra toy
A sad look on his face
Because tonight will see a special boy
Lose that he can't replace. | A rotund shadow darkens the alley next to little Jimmy Taylor's house. He's been good this year, or so he would claim. The kid that he's been ruthlessly bullying at school for the last few weeks would disagree, but Saint Nick's obesity is a burden on his omnipotence, so Jimmy will be spoiled all the same.
He enters via the front door, with a pick made by his elves. Those little ageless beauties can craft picks for anything. If he wasn't bound to this job for eternity, he would have made an excellent thief.
He creeps up the hallway, deftly missing the creaky floorboards. He remembers this house from last year because they had a Bichon Frise puppy that voraciously soiled his leg while he was raiding the fridge for snacks.
The presents are deposited quietly under the tree, and he makes his way slowly upstairs to Jimmy's bedroom to lay out a stocking. As he climbs the stairs he realises that something isn't quite right - is someone watching him? The air turns cold; the hairs on his arms begin to stand on end. He can see his warm breath flowing into the icy air, and when his eyes re-focus after reaching the top of the stairs a tall cloaked figure is stood before him, with a large silver scythe. The being grins - 32 well-kept, dazzling tombstone teeth; a smile that would happily shatter fragility. The figure turns and enters Jimmy's bedroom.
Saint Nick lurches from his fear as he realises what is about to happen. He moves astonishingly quick for a man of his size, and as he reaches the bedroom he sees Death standing over Jimmy's bed, his grin somehow widened.
"Don't do it" he says. "The boy doesn't deserve it".
A mocking laugh is returned; baritone humiliation that rumbles into the depths of the Earth.
"The boy?" comes his reply, as he approaches Nick. "It's YOU that I want". He raises his scythe into the air; suddenly Nick can see a thousand colours at once, he experiences joy, sadness, humility; every single emotion that can and has been experienced throughout his life. He watches his childhood and his maturity, touches his mother's golden hair, rides the awesome wind on his dad's seemingly giant shoulders.
And then he's back. The scythe hits, and he's free from this burden of a life, forever. |
I'm excited! This is my first prompt! Looking forward to great stories!
EDIT: I am absolutely stunned with the power of the writers in this community. You are phenomenal, and I hope to one day feel capable of joining your ranks with an answer!
Just amazing. Thank you for a successful post! | [WP] Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time. | Santa hoisted the bag of toys over his shoulders as he readied himself for the next delivery. We walked past Dasher, Dance, Prancer and all the others, gently scratching their ears. If it wasn't for them he wouldn't be here after all. He made his way to the chimney, but as he approached he felt the temperature change. While the cold, brisk winter air was something he was used to, it was the warm breeze that caught him off guard.
When most people sense death, it's a cold grasp they feel. But Death, like so many other people in a macabre profession, shares a love of humor and theatrics. So while St. Nick made his way closer to the shadowy figure he felt a warm breeze, almost gentle and serene. It smelled faintly of coconuts and beach.
"And What brings you to my neck of the woods, gentleman Death?" St. Nick asked.
"Oh you know, thought I'd drop off some gifts." Death said.
"Ha. Clever. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do" St. Nick's words were strained. It's always hard to hold a conversation with a gentleman like Death.
Death simply said three words, "So do I."
Regardless of the calming air surrounding the spectre, St. Nick could not help but feel the slightest bit of anxiety. It was a feeling that weighed heavily on St. Nick. He knew why Death was here this evening, but that didn't stop him. Maybe it was denial or maybe it was blind hope, whatever the case, St. Nick made his way into the home with his bag of toys. Death slowly followed.
The cold reality hit him as he stepped inside. As St. Nick's eyes swept across the living room he could see a tree, but no lights. No stockings were up, and no plate of cookies and milk. He put his bag down and made his way down the hall. He headed over to Jonny's room and slowly open the door.
"Oh no."
Death stood behind St. Nick, never whispering a word. The room was empty, and it looked like it had been for some time. The sheets were perfectly made, the toys that littered the floor last year were no longer around. The planes and trains that once decorated the walls had been taken down. Instead, all St. Nick saw was a cold, empty gray room. No little boys had set foot in here for some time. Nor would they again.
"This never gets any easier," St. Nick said, his voice weary. "I envy you sometimes gentleman Death, to be able to let go so easily."
Death, being ever the gentleman, sought out the most comfortable words it could, "At least you brought them joy, even for a small time. My job is simply to take, but yours, yours is to give. That is something I could never do."
St. Nick let out a deep sigh, "How's the family. How are they dealing?"
Death thought for a moment, and against his better judgement he motioned to St. Nick. "Come and see."
Death made its way outside and around the house. St. Nick slowly followed.
They found the window into the parent's room, and Death moved aside. St. Nick could see them. He saw the parents, sitting on the edge of the bed within each others embrace. And at their feet, he saw little Jonny playing with a new puppy. He had grown up quite a bit in the last year.
"Are you ok with what we just told you honey? The truth about Santa?" the mother asked, as she held the father's hand.
Jonny barely noticed, his full attention on the puppy.
"Your mother and I talked about it, and we decided it was best if you knew. We found out when we were your age, and there's no point in believing in something that isn't real. Everyone has to grow up some time"
Jonny looked up for a moment and his eyes met with St. Nick's. But the familiarity that was once there had gone. Jonny's attention just went back to the puppy like he had seen nothing at all.
It was at that moment that a calming warmth surround St. Nick as he felt Death's embrace.
"Come on old friend, this isn't the first time you've died to a child."
| A rotund shadow darkens the alley next to little Jimmy Taylor's house. He's been good this year, or so he would claim. The kid that he's been ruthlessly bullying at school for the last few weeks would disagree, but Saint Nick's obesity is a burden on his omnipotence, so Jimmy will be spoiled all the same.
He enters via the front door, with a pick made by his elves. Those little ageless beauties can craft picks for anything. If he wasn't bound to this job for eternity, he would have made an excellent thief.
He creeps up the hallway, deftly missing the creaky floorboards. He remembers this house from last year because they had a Bichon Frise puppy that voraciously soiled his leg while he was raiding the fridge for snacks.
The presents are deposited quietly under the tree, and he makes his way slowly upstairs to Jimmy's bedroom to lay out a stocking. As he climbs the stairs he realises that something isn't quite right - is someone watching him? The air turns cold; the hairs on his arms begin to stand on end. He can see his warm breath flowing into the icy air, and when his eyes re-focus after reaching the top of the stairs a tall cloaked figure is stood before him, with a large silver scythe. The being grins - 32 well-kept, dazzling tombstone teeth; a smile that would happily shatter fragility. The figure turns and enters Jimmy's bedroom.
Saint Nick lurches from his fear as he realises what is about to happen. He moves astonishingly quick for a man of his size, and as he reaches the bedroom he sees Death standing over Jimmy's bed, his grin somehow widened.
"Don't do it" he says. "The boy doesn't deserve it".
A mocking laugh is returned; baritone humiliation that rumbles into the depths of the Earth.
"The boy?" comes his reply, as he approaches Nick. "It's YOU that I want". He raises his scythe into the air; suddenly Nick can see a thousand colours at once, he experiences joy, sadness, humility; every single emotion that can and has been experienced throughout his life. He watches his childhood and his maturity, touches his mother's golden hair, rides the awesome wind on his dad's seemingly giant shoulders.
And then he's back. The scythe hits, and he's free from this burden of a life, forever. |
I'm excited! This is my first prompt! Looking forward to great stories!
EDIT: I am absolutely stunned with the power of the writers in this community. You are phenomenal, and I hope to one day feel capable of joining your ranks with an answer!
Just amazing. Thank you for a successful post! | [WP] Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time. | He paused in the course of his duties - something he never did, by tradition - and turned towards the fireplace.
"I said, hello, again, old friend.", the large man in the red suit said. He took a couple steps forward from the fireplace, leaving a trail of soot-prints on the ground, and removing black gloves. He reached up, and adjusted his glasses.
"Don't see each other too often any more, you and I, do we?", he said, proceeding to the milk and cookies that had been so carefully left for him, collecting the carrots there into his pocket.
The figure in the black hood, as was his way, only watched.
The man in the red suit turned back to him, and sighed. "You're here for the girl, right? Don't suppose it's one of the parents? A grandparent, over for the holiday?"
The figure in the black hood only watched.
"How long does she have?"
After pausing for a moment, the figure lifted an hourglass from beneath it's cloak. The hourglass was mostly empty overall, and barely any sand filled to top half; perhaps twenty minutes worth, at most, and probably less.
The jolly soul adjusted his glasses, again, and sighed. He nodded. "Alright. Alright. Well. Alright. I ... I know you have your way. I'll just be on mine, then?"
The figure in the black hood only watched.
Despite his bulk, the man in red's footfalls were quiet as a church-mouse, and he walked carefully towards the bedroom. He opened the door silently, as the figure in the black hood turned to watch.
Moments later, the excited sound of a child's voice came from the room. After half a minute, the man in red emerged again, with a cherub-faced girl, not even two yet, held by the hand. The jolly man lead her to the couch.
"Sit, now!", he said, a laugh to his voice. The girl, smiling broadly, nodded, and climbed onto the couch to obey. The jolly man winked.
"I'll leave just a little something. I'm not sure people are going to much care for opening gifts tomorrow ... but in time, perhaps.", he said. The little girl nodded, even if she was unsure what the mythical figure before her might mean.
She spared a glance towards the figure in the black hood, as the man in red paused to watch as she pointed. The young girl, without fear, smiled up towards him, and the man in red chuckled.
"Yes, yes. That's a good attitude, there, little one.", he said, his voice a laugh, and he walked to the couch, and sat.
The girl curled into him, yawning, and he chuckled again, then yawned himself.
The figure in the black hood only watched.
"It's just for a moment.", the man in red explained. "Just ... sitting, for a second. Letting her, well, you know. Let her have a moment."
The girl nodded off, her head on the jolly man's lap. Her gentle snores filled the room for a moment or two, and then, silence.
Santa sighed, and stroked her hair once, before easing himself up.
"Well. Didn't seem to hurt. Small mercies, hm? Small mercies.", he said, his eyes filling with tears.
The figure in the black hood glanced down, at the young girl holding his hand, that the man in red could no longer see. She looked up, her eyes bright, and shining.
"Small mercies.", the jolly man in red said.
Then, with sigh, and a twinkle in his eye,he laid a finger at the side of his nose, and gave a nod, and flew up the chimney.
The figure in the black hood only watched, then glanced down at his small charge.
"'ppy Chrissimast!", she said. | A rotund shadow darkens the alley next to little Jimmy Taylor's house. He's been good this year, or so he would claim. The kid that he's been ruthlessly bullying at school for the last few weeks would disagree, but Saint Nick's obesity is a burden on his omnipotence, so Jimmy will be spoiled all the same.
He enters via the front door, with a pick made by his elves. Those little ageless beauties can craft picks for anything. If he wasn't bound to this job for eternity, he would have made an excellent thief.
He creeps up the hallway, deftly missing the creaky floorboards. He remembers this house from last year because they had a Bichon Frise puppy that voraciously soiled his leg while he was raiding the fridge for snacks.
The presents are deposited quietly under the tree, and he makes his way slowly upstairs to Jimmy's bedroom to lay out a stocking. As he climbs the stairs he realises that something isn't quite right - is someone watching him? The air turns cold; the hairs on his arms begin to stand on end. He can see his warm breath flowing into the icy air, and when his eyes re-focus after reaching the top of the stairs a tall cloaked figure is stood before him, with a large silver scythe. The being grins - 32 well-kept, dazzling tombstone teeth; a smile that would happily shatter fragility. The figure turns and enters Jimmy's bedroom.
Saint Nick lurches from his fear as he realises what is about to happen. He moves astonishingly quick for a man of his size, and as he reaches the bedroom he sees Death standing over Jimmy's bed, his grin somehow widened.
"Don't do it" he says. "The boy doesn't deserve it".
A mocking laugh is returned; baritone humiliation that rumbles into the depths of the Earth.
"The boy?" comes his reply, as he approaches Nick. "It's YOU that I want". He raises his scythe into the air; suddenly Nick can see a thousand colours at once, he experiences joy, sadness, humility; every single emotion that can and has been experienced throughout his life. He watches his childhood and his maturity, touches his mother's golden hair, rides the awesome wind on his dad's seemingly giant shoulders.
And then he's back. The scythe hits, and he's free from this burden of a life, forever. |
I'm excited! This is my first prompt! Looking forward to great stories!
EDIT: I am absolutely stunned with the power of the writers in this community. You are phenomenal, and I hope to one day feel capable of joining your ranks with an answer!
Just amazing. Thank you for a successful post! | [WP] Santa and Death both arrive at a young child's house at the same time. | "Well, this is awkward." Death whispered, leaning on his scythe near the tree.
"Hello, Death. You're early." Santa responded, stepping from the fireplace.
"You knew I'd be here? The Dark Lord of Despair asked, testing the edge of his reaver with boney thumb. "Why am I not surprised."
"You've always been at the top of my naughty list, Death. I always know where you're at. It's Christmas eve. Shouldn't you be collecting drunks out on the interstate?" St. Nick asked without a trace of his normally jovial demeanor.
"You know, I go where I'm needed, and tonight, I'm needed upstairs." Death said. He looked toward the ceiling, above which, slept the child Death had come to collect.
"Couldn't persuade you," Santa began, setting down his bag, "to wait; to give the kid one more day with her loved ones. Call it a favor and next time, I'll owe you one."
"No can do, elf. I either take her tonight, or take them all tomorrow. If I don't take her . . ." Death shrugged. "She's going to change the design. You, who counts every snowflake, understands why I can't wait. At some point, a single flake proves to be too much for the limb. Same with the souls I come to collect. I leave here, she changes the design. People who weren't meant to die, will be put on my list early. I can't do that. I can't change the design." Death apologized, turning toward the stairs, scythe in hand.
"A moment more," Santa called, bringing Death up short. "I know all about the ripples. It happens up at the North Pole too. This kid ask for something. This kid ask for something that contradicts what the first kid ask for. It's why some kids don't get what they ask for. The elves call it the Christmas Paradox. I can't grant one kids wish if it nullifies another. It creates a problem. However, that particular problem doesn't apply to her. There is no Christmas wish nullifying hers. I have to grant her wish. She asked for one more day. You will give her one more day." The look in Santa's eye were the eyes of a sad old man forced to do the unthinkable.
"Santa--Kris, I like you, but this can't happen. You're killing them all. Please don't make me do this." Death pleaded. "You know I can't be stopped."
"No. But, you can be forestalled. She just asked for one more day. Give her that. Please. Give me this one. She was better than all the rest. She made the top of my good list. She's beautiful, and kind, and compassionate, and selfless. Even now, the only selfish thing she has ever asked for was this; one more day. I have to stop you." Santa said, extending his hands pleadingly.
"I'm sorry." Death whispered, starting up the stairs.
"Me too." Santa said, rushing forward. He grabbed Death's robes and pulled him from the stairs. Wisps of smoke rose from Santa's mittens. He let go of the robe hurriedly and grabbed Death's cowl with the other hand.
"Stop this," Death rumbled, striking Santa across the shoulder with the shaft of his scythe.
"I can't." Santa responded, rolling away from the feel of Death's reaver. Blackness followed the sweep of the scythe, but Santa refused to give in.
"Santa! Stop this. You're going to get hurt." Death warned. "If I accidentally touch you, you die. Just like the humans. This isn't you."
"It is tonight," Santa cried, a tear spilling from his eye into his snowy beard. "You can't have her."
Death stopped fighting and turned to face Santa squarely. "You can't stop me from climbing the stairs. You can't stop me for doing my duty." Death slashed the air, cutting a gash with his scythe. Through the gash was the little girl asleep in her bed. She was hooked up to heart monitor. Her head was bald and even though she slept, dark circles stained her eyes. "I have to do this. She is suffering."
"That is her choice," Santa argued. "It was her wish. It was her wish to suffer one more day. For them."
"I'm sorry." Death apologized, leaping through the gash he'd made. Santa rushed to follow, but the tear closed behind him. Santa raced up the stairs two at a time and burst into the room, tackling Death as he gently reached out with his scythe to touch the girl's brow.
Santa and Death barreled into the wall, knocking pictures from the wall and knick-knacks from the dresser. The mirror shattered under the force of their collision.
"Enough," Death demanded, grabbing Santa's suit and flinging his mythical form away. "It has to be." A gasp from the bed, drew Death's attention. "I'm sorry. I wanted to do it while you were asleep." The little girl wasn't looking at him though. She was watching Santa with wonder as he climbed to his feet.
"Daddy?" She asked, tears in her eyes.
"Yeah. It's me, honey." Santa said, removing the hat and beard.
"You have to stop, daddy. You have to let me go." She pleaded.
"I can't. I don't want you to go. I don't want to be alone." He sobbed, his shoulders rose and fell as stepped over to the bed.
"It hurts too much, daddy. Just let me go. Please. So I can be with mommy." She said, reaching up to touch his face and rub away his tears. "It hurts, daddy." He studied her bright blue eyes, shaking his head.
"Okay." He whispered, bending low to kiss her head. Death reached out and took her hand and when her father's lips left her brow, she was gone.
"No." He cried, falling across his daughter. "I just wanted one more day."
"You would always want one more day." Death told him quietly. "Her pain is over."
"Take me too."
"I can't." Death replied.
"Why not?" He demanded.
"Because, she left you this." Death used the tip of his scythe to lift edge of the little girl's pillow. Beneath it lay her diary. "Tonight it'll save your life. If I had waited till tomorrow, it wouldn't have. I'm sorry. Read it and live. She wanted you to." Death turned away, renting the air with his scythe. He stepped through and was gone. The portal closing behind him.
Santa opened the diary, rubbing tears away with the back of his hand.
*Dear Daddy, don't cry . . ."* | A rotund shadow darkens the alley next to little Jimmy Taylor's house. He's been good this year, or so he would claim. The kid that he's been ruthlessly bullying at school for the last few weeks would disagree, but Saint Nick's obesity is a burden on his omnipotence, so Jimmy will be spoiled all the same.
He enters via the front door, with a pick made by his elves. Those little ageless beauties can craft picks for anything. If he wasn't bound to this job for eternity, he would have made an excellent thief.
He creeps up the hallway, deftly missing the creaky floorboards. He remembers this house from last year because they had a Bichon Frise puppy that voraciously soiled his leg while he was raiding the fridge for snacks.
The presents are deposited quietly under the tree, and he makes his way slowly upstairs to Jimmy's bedroom to lay out a stocking. As he climbs the stairs he realises that something isn't quite right - is someone watching him? The air turns cold; the hairs on his arms begin to stand on end. He can see his warm breath flowing into the icy air, and when his eyes re-focus after reaching the top of the stairs a tall cloaked figure is stood before him, with a large silver scythe. The being grins - 32 well-kept, dazzling tombstone teeth; a smile that would happily shatter fragility. The figure turns and enters Jimmy's bedroom.
Saint Nick lurches from his fear as he realises what is about to happen. He moves astonishingly quick for a man of his size, and as he reaches the bedroom he sees Death standing over Jimmy's bed, his grin somehow widened.
"Don't do it" he says. "The boy doesn't deserve it".
A mocking laugh is returned; baritone humiliation that rumbles into the depths of the Earth.
"The boy?" comes his reply, as he approaches Nick. "It's YOU that I want". He raises his scythe into the air; suddenly Nick can see a thousand colours at once, he experiences joy, sadness, humility; every single emotion that can and has been experienced throughout his life. He watches his childhood and his maturity, touches his mother's golden hair, rides the awesome wind on his dad's seemingly giant shoulders.
And then he's back. The scythe hits, and he's free from this burden of a life, forever. |
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