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[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | "I ate that bitch."
"Dude, it's fine, everyone hates somebody."
I just nodded at his ignorance and picked at my teeth, where chunks of skin and hair were stuck. | Bryan turned back towards me, wincing and cradling his left arm. A peculiar expression slowly broke across his face as he spilled to the floor, the dry erase marker rolled out from his palm, clicking softly across the tiles. Behind him, the whiteboard displayed in lazy handwriting: "Distribution wealth the average top for CEOs." | |
[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | The massive clock took up over half of my bedroom. Fucking hard-of-hearing genie. | Bryan turned back towards me, wincing and cradling his left arm. A peculiar expression slowly broke across his face as he spilled to the floor, the dry erase marker rolled out from his palm, clicking softly across the tiles. Behind him, the whiteboard displayed in lazy handwriting: "Distribution wealth the average top for CEOs." | |
[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | Parlez-vous français? Sprechen sie Deutsch? Do you speak English? | Bryan turned back towards me, wincing and cradling his left arm. A peculiar expression slowly broke across his face as he spilled to the floor, the dry erase marker rolled out from his palm, clicking softly across the tiles. Behind him, the whiteboard displayed in lazy handwriting: "Distribution wealth the average top for CEOs." | |
[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | "I ate that bitch."
"Dude, it's fine, everyone hates somebody."
I just nodded at his ignorance and picked at my teeth, where chunks of skin and hair were stuck. | Only two people left in the world, including me. I finally found that other man. If only I spoke Russian. | |
[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | The massive clock took up over half of my bedroom. Fucking hard-of-hearing genie. | Only two people left in the world, including me. I finally found that other man. If only I spoke Russian. | |
[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | Parlez-vous français? Sprechen sie Deutsch? Do you speak English? | Only two people left in the world, including me. I finally found that other man. If only I spoke Russian. | |
[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | She saw me shopping with my female cousin. I was buying her the ring. She didn't know that was my cousin. | "Can I smoke, do you mind?"
"No, please." The man responded, and immediately regretted, as he attempted to suppress a few hysterical fits of coughing. | |
[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | Parlez-vous français? Sprechen sie Deutsch? Do you speak English? | "Can I smoke, do you mind?"
"No, please." The man responded, and immediately regretted, as he attempted to suppress a few hysterical fits of coughing. | |
[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | My hands closed over hers, and I knew there was not much time left. She looked into my eyes and I stared back into hers, drinking them in for the final time. As I whispered goodbye her eyes closed, and to this day I do not know if she heard me. | "Can I smoke, do you mind?"
"No, please." The man responded, and immediately regretted, as he attempted to suppress a few hysterical fits of coughing. | |
[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | "You know I think we have a communication problem," I said.
No response from her still, she just keeps staring into the distance.
"Fine you can just stay there then," I yelled as I threw the corpse back into the coffin.
| "Can I smoke, do you mind?"
"No, please." The man responded, and immediately regretted, as he attempted to suppress a few hysterical fits of coughing. | |
[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | He could no longer bear the distance that had grown between them. "I hate this," he moaned.
Without looking up from breakfast, she mumbled, "Yeah, my eggs are runny, too." | "Can I smoke, do you mind?"
"No, please." The man responded, and immediately regretted, as he attempted to suppress a few hysterical fits of coughing. | |
[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | Parlez-vous français? Sprechen sie Deutsch? Do you speak English? | A man was horribly mutilated by a bus today on the corner of 5th Avenue. His name was Matthew Walters and he was 34 years old. His brother says that he was on his way to their usual meeting place several blocks over, even though they weren't meeting today. | |
[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | My hands closed over hers, and I knew there was not much time left. She looked into my eyes and I stared back into hers, drinking them in for the final time. As I whispered goodbye her eyes closed, and to this day I do not know if she heard me. | A man was horribly mutilated by a bus today on the corner of 5th Avenue. His name was Matthew Walters and he was 34 years old. His brother says that he was on his way to their usual meeting place several blocks over, even though they weren't meeting today. | |
[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | My hands closed over hers, and I knew there was not much time left. She looked into my eyes and I stared back into hers, drinking them in for the final time. As I whispered goodbye her eyes closed, and to this day I do not know if she heard me. | She saw me shopping with my female cousin. I was buying her the ring. She didn't know that was my cousin. | |
[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | He could no longer bear the distance that had grown between them. "I hate this," he moaned.
Without looking up from breakfast, she mumbled, "Yeah, my eggs are runny, too." | "You know I think we have a communication problem," I said.
No response from her still, she just keeps staring into the distance.
"Fine you can just stay there then," I yelled as I threw the corpse back into the coffin.
| |
[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | He could no longer bear the distance that had grown between them. "I hate this," he moaned.
Without looking up from breakfast, she mumbled, "Yeah, my eggs are runny, too." | "Force-fed cyanide?"
"No, coarse bread, fried."
"Strange choice, but you've ordered one weird suicide!" | |
[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | He could no longer bear the distance that had grown between them. "I hate this," he moaned.
Without looking up from breakfast, she mumbled, "Yeah, my eggs are runny, too." | We have finally made it gentleman. We are the first humans on Mars! Houston, do you copy....? | |
[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | He could no longer bear the distance that had grown between them. "I hate this," he moaned.
Without looking up from breakfast, she mumbled, "Yeah, my eggs are runny, too." | "We are surrounded, we can't get out.
Cancel the airstrike, I repeat cancel the Airstrike!
Hello, Can anyone Hear m-." | |
[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | He could no longer bear the distance that had grown between them. "I hate this," he moaned.
Without looking up from breakfast, she mumbled, "Yeah, my eggs are runny, too." | She cuddles. She's beautiful. She is mute. | |
[FF] Three sentences max: Failure to communicate. | He could no longer bear the distance that had grown between them. "I hate this," he moaned.
Without looking up from breakfast, she mumbled, "Yeah, my eggs are runny, too." | This is Lt. Magnus. I seem to have lost signal with Earth. Can anyone hear me? | |
[WP] A lone soldier stands at a bridge, knowing he must buy his people time with his life. | Well ain't this a pleasant day? I get to die. Hip Hip hooray. If you asked me when I was in college where I'd be twenty in years, I wouldn't have said playing fucking Horatio at the Bridge. But nooo. I had to draw the short straw. Just my luck. My CO's speech hadn't helped. "Valiant and noble sacrifice" my ass. Why isn't he the one here instead of me. I don't want to die a hero. I just want to get drunk and laid. Neither of which you can do six feet under. Normally I'd say to hell with it and desert, but they're expecting me to die. They even were so nice as to put a sniper up on the hill to help me in case I get cold feet. Generous my officers are.
Ah yes, the guests of honor have arrived. Hello boys! I'm sitting in the middle of bridge in a lawn chair drinking the worst whiskey in the county. The armored column halts for a moment. From the lead tank an officer's head pops up and surveys the bridge through his binoculars. I raise my bottle of hooch in salute. He looks puzzled for a moment, then gives the signal to advance. Must be a whole battalion. Terrific.
The tanks and APC's lumber forward. I just give them a look of half-drunken disdain. I take another swig from the bottle, letting it burn down my throat. Thank god I'm not going to be around to feel the hangover. Twenty feet away the commanders tank comes to a halt. He didn't run me over. My life's picking up it seems. He climbs down from his behemoth. "Can I help you?" I say, as if I am the paragon of innocence. "Who are you?" He asks. "Nemo." He laughs at that. "Nemo... so you are nobody?" I just shrug. "Well Nemo, we need you to step aside." "Nope. I'm not finished with my whiskey. Though, I tell you what, if you let me join your army, I'll let you pass." He laughs "How about I shoot you, and dump your carcass over the bridge?" "Yeah, I'm not too fond of that one. I'll just finish my drink and you can be on your merry way." He seems pleased with that answer. I tip the bottle to the sky and start downing it like a champ. I start to lean back in my lawn chair to aid in my binge. I lean back farther, and farther. It's only then he sees the wire attached to the chair. He dives to right me but it's too late. I fall of my chair with an empty bottle just as the explosions go off. As the chain of blast start towards the middle of the bridge, the officer looks at me with an expression of one realizing they're in an insane asylum. I smile at him with an face of unashamed glee. If I got to go, then I'm bringing company along! | Man, this would be so much easier if it was a rickety bridge in some Jungle somewhere. I'd just cut the rope and as they run against gravity, the bridge would lead to the cliff's long edge to the long drop where their cartoon explosion would occur.
What type of bridge is this? Do bridges have names? Hmm, I declare this a stone bridge. Suits it too.
Oh fuck, look at that silhouette of a bopping head ahead of me. Oh and another. And another... No bopping heads behind me though. I think that attack is going to be a bit, anything around me to help.
Stony town too, should be called Stone, Germany. Nothing really about, quite abandoned actually; quite depressing actually.
Volunteering yourself is like being too guilty to see someone else pull the short straw. Fucking hell, I'm the hero her- Oh fuck that's a bullet! They're getting quite closer now actually. I'll shoot back then.
If I was a kid soldier of the 1900's I'd have the shaky knees and the missing balls to finish this, but as a man who has never stepped up to be a hero, and as a man who has 20 years of experience under his belt, I'm ok.
Like fuck will I convince myself? I'm not ok, what have I got myself into? I wanted to save the others but now I want to save myself. I wonder if this is how Jesus felt on the cross; total regret? No, no - We're going through with this. And it's not like I can't win really is it? I'll stand out, I'll shoot this MG at all of them and I'll die a hero. Die a God. So I'll turn out from behind this bridge tower, look across the stepping-stone bridge and shoot every evil bastard I see. Yes. Ok. 1, 2, 3, go!
"Confirmed kill. No injuries to the twenty soldiers. Bring in reinforcements to search the town for survivors. Over and out."
"The mad man of the small town Merthyr shootings was shot dead early hours of this morning. It was believed he was provoked to cause this terrorism on his home town through his own beliefs. According to found evidence, in his own destroyed house, is several years of planning the attack.
Number of victims are unsure at the moment but every minute, a new innocent person is being found by our country's public service." | |
[WP] A Jewish man in a concentration camp has stolen a pistol, but it has only one round. | Who to shoot
Who will die
Who will get the boot
Who will cry
Maybe, in all this misery
The only one I want to kill is me
| The gas starts to creep into the room as the man kisses the end of the barrel. Tendrils of white creep around legs as those closest to the vents start to choke. A man holding his crying child spots the man with the gun. His eyes plead as he looks from the gun to the child. The man with the gun mouths the word, "sorry" and pulls the trigger. | |
[WP] A Jewish man in a concentration camp has stolen a pistol, but it has only one round. | ''One bullet. One. There were supposed to be 6 rounds in that damn revolver!'' thought Avi while gazing at others in the boiler room building the tunnel. He was visibly angry. Others clearly saw his unpatience. The tunel was behind the schedule - behind a a very time sensitive plan to potentially save hundreds of lives form this hell hole made for men. The gun wasn't needed for digging. The gun was a backup plan. In case anyone got spotted escaping the camp through the tunnel which was being dug day and night beneath the walls and guard towers, a diversion was needed on the other side of the camp by fellow prisoners who, when given the signal would run at the guards, killing them and making a clumsy escape. Now it all depended on one bullet and a couple of hand made knifes to create enough noise and distraction. Avi wasn't a risk taker, but life in this place made him one. He looked around the filthy bunk house. He knew he was an undeclared leader under that roof. He also knew that people here saw him as their last hope; their last light.
Tomorrow was the day. The day of the escape form the camp. Avi fell asleep. He had to keep sharp hereafter.
The night was disturbed by a noise of numerous executions. ''The tunel! they found the tunel!'' - said the boy who took the night shifts,observing the guards to make sure gurads they were following their patrol patterns. Suddenly everyone in the bunkhouse turned their terrified eyes to Avi, or so they thought. What they didn't know is that he used the tunel to make a run for it into the deep forest. Every soldier was on its feet by than, either searching for the escapist in the wild or watching the executions. Avi was smarter than this. He hid in the beast's belly, where he had an overview of the camp - a place where no soldier would look. It was a very tall and wide tree which made it impossible to be spotted. ''The best move to wait it out'' said Avi, and went to sleep on a tree.
Suddenly his friends and family appeared right there beside him. Each and everyone of them with a bullet would on a forehead'; execution style. He violently woke up, and knew what he had to do, because the guilt was too intense. The gun barrel was already in his mouth. The last bullet blew his brains out.
| The gas starts to creep into the room as the man kisses the end of the barrel. Tendrils of white creep around legs as those closest to the vents start to choke. A man holding his crying child spots the man with the gun. His eyes plead as he looks from the gun to the child. The man with the gun mouths the word, "sorry" and pulls the trigger. | |
[WP] A Jewish man in a concentration camp has stolen a pistol, but it has only one round. | Careless. The power had gone to their heads, and they didn't pay attention anymore. They knew they had beaten most of us into submission, and the others were so weakened from manual labor and malnutrition that they could easily over powered. When the guard left his post to socialize with another nearby, he left his pistol by his post. It was easy to just walk up and take it, concealing it in the waistband of my pants. The clothes they'd forced me to wear we're big enough to hide the shape.
That night I lay on my cot, awake late into the night, listening to the sounds of those around me. The sobs of those who had lost someone that day, or who hadn't gotten over a death long past. The quiet whispers of a father to his son. The even breathing of those who couldn't stand to be awake in this nightmare for a moment longer. When I was sure everyone near me was consumed in their own thoughts or had buried their worries temporarily in slumber, I pulled the pistol from my waistband. Slowly, slowly. Quietly. I opened the chamber and peered inside. Gently felt the inside compartments with the tip of my finger.
Just one. There was only one bullet left.
Not enough, that's not enough. It couldn't be used to make a stand. One bullet wouldn't make any difference. The regime would continue regardless of one guard's death.
So that was it then. It was useless. Unless... Unless it could be used to end my pain.
There was talk among us. Others would come soon. The English, Americans. Someone would find out, and they would come. But as the months passed and those around me died - from hunger, fatigue, beatings. From being made an example of. When there was no more hope, I decided. When there was no chance of being saved. When the hope of being saved was not worth the suffering, I would save myself.
It was weeks later when the time came. I guarded that pistol like gold. Surprisingly, it's absence was never mentioned by the guards. The day began as any other. Manual labor, this time digging trenches. At the end of the day, they divided us by barracks. Group by group, we were lead off. At first we assumed it was back to the barracks, but they detoured to the showers. It was far off, but I could see the front door. If I squinted, I could make out the outline, and see the others, like me, marching in. The odd thing was, the door was opened from the outside, but no one ever came out. The next group was brought over. A struggle ensued with one of guards. One of us tried to run, but was pushed in before they closed the door. And locked it from the outside.
Then I saw it. From the chimney. Not steam. They never gave hot showers. Nothing above freezing cold. It was gas.
"Gas."
I said it quietly, under my breath, but it was enough to get my neighbors' attention. Soon the word had spread, and with it a sense of unease. Gas? Were they gassing the prisoners? Just certain barracks?
When the guards signaled for our group to progress, the unease turned into a general panic. We were next. They out numbered us, they were armed. But these guards didn't prefer to kill you quickly. They liked to beat you within an inch of your life and watch the spirit leave your eyes. If you ran, you'd be tortured, not killed. But progressing meant certain death by the rumored gas chamber. It was said to kill within minutes. Fast enough to be efficient, slow enough to let you realize exactly what was happening. To try and claw your way out, to climb over others to breathe clean air, to bang against the door for escape. There was no way out.
Now was the time, I decided. The time to end it for myself.
I was set on this plan, confident. For once in this year of madness, I could have control. I could win back some authority in my last moments.
Then I saw him. No longer a boy, not yet a man. Thin and gangly, as if he had started a growth spurt before this hell and lack of nutrients has caused him to stunt. Instead of being athletic and wiry, he was stringy, bony, gaunt. But besides that I could see the terror in his eyes.
"No..." He whispered, horror-filled, stuck in his tracks. The others progressed around him, walking to their certain deaths.
Could I do anything? I couldn't save him. Attempt on my part would lead to the torture of us both. But I could... I could give him one last moment of peace.
I approached, but my hand on his back, and turned him in the direction of the showers. Hidden by those around me, I reached into my waistband and pulled out my stolen pistol. I pressed it meaningfully into his hand.
"There's just one." I whispered. "For you. You're in control. Don't let them take it from you."
He froze in his spot, but I continued on. One, two three.
Pop.
I didn't turn around, although i saw the ripple of reaction around me. I continued on, to my death, where they would take everything from me. It wasn't like I imagined it though. When they shut the door, I didn't claw. I didn't fight. I sat, with a smile on my face. Knowing that I had empowered that boy, if only for one moment. Maybe that had been my purpose. They were taking me, but I could go in peace. | The gas starts to creep into the room as the man kisses the end of the barrel. Tendrils of white creep around legs as those closest to the vents start to choke. A man holding his crying child spots the man with the gun. His eyes plead as he looks from the gun to the child. The man with the gun mouths the word, "sorry" and pulls the trigger. | |
[WP] A Jewish man in a concentration camp has stolen a pistol, but it has only one round. | My name is Dawid Eifermann. Dawid, it means beloved. Dawid, after the great king who slayed Goliath. It is a big name to live up to. I am not doing that.
Auschwitz is a terrifying place. Arbeit Macht Frei is over my head every day. I have worked for a very long time, and I do not feel free. I can see my bones. It can't go to sleep, because my breath rattles in my throat. I think my lungs are failing.
Abba-leh is in the same camp with me. He sings songs and it helps me sleep. He tells me to be strong, like Dawid, and I will live. He says it like I might die, and I am scared. He never looks at me when he says it, I think he is afraid that he will not make it. I am afraid too.
Today I found myself in the trenches again, working. I say found because I don't often know how I get there. One moment I am sleeping, the next I am digging. It is hard for me to focus. It is cold, the soil is hard, and my muscles are weak. I asked Abba-leh why we were digging. He said we were digging holes to plant beautiful things. I thought first we were digging holes for trees. This place needs trees.
But these holes are much too big for trees.
What day is it, I do not know. What month, what year, all of these things are outside of my head. All I know are the bunks, the smells, the dirt. Someone died last night. I don't know who. They drug him out, and I didn't see him any more. When I went to dig, my hole had been filled up. They told me to dig a new hole. They must be starting to plant the beautiful things.
My Abba-leh is sick, now. He is coughing, his eyes are yellow. He shakes all the time, even when he prays. He speaks in whispers, it is hard for me to hear him. He promised he was going to get us out. He was going to do something.
When the guards came in in the morning, Abba-leh attacked them. He screamed and bit and cursed. I have never heard him speak like that. But no one joined him. All of us were too scared. I was too weak. But I got up, and tried to get over to him. I tried telling him to stop, but I don't think he heard me. They beat my Abba-leh. They screamed words at him, and brought black sticks to his head. Abba-leh wasn't screaming any more, but they were still hitting him.
I saw a gun on the ground. I don't know why, but I picked it up. It was heavy in my hand, and smelt like oil. When they stopped, they turned and saw me. I'm not very big, I must have looked very tiny to them. They stopped yelling.
The gun pointed up at them. I don't remember doing that. It shook in my hand. I don't know if it was heavy, or if I was scared. I think I was scared. The Nazi's said something in German, I couldn't hear it. It was distant, and my heart was so loud.
Dawid. It means 'beloved'. Dawid, after the great king who slayed Goliath. It is a big name to live up to. I pulled the trigger very hard. It roared, my body shook, and one of them fell down, on top of my Abba-leh.
Click, click, click.
I knew I would die. I knew Abba-leh would die. He never convinced me otherwise. But he let me believe his lies. It made Hell a little easier to bear.
And as they beat me, I cried. Not because it hurt, I think. That soon passed. Because I finally lived up to my name. | The gas starts to creep into the room as the man kisses the end of the barrel. Tendrils of white creep around legs as those closest to the vents start to choke. A man holding his crying child spots the man with the gun. His eyes plead as he looks from the gun to the child. The man with the gun mouths the word, "sorry" and pulls the trigger. | |
[WP] A Jewish man in a concentration camp has stolen a pistol, but it has only one round. | Running through the camp, guards on my heels. I stole a gun. Right turn, right turn, left turn, slide under the table. Got away. I have a silencer. Check the ammo. Shit.
One shot. I’ve only got one shot.
I hold the gun in the folds of my beaten and bloodied clothing. The work is hard. The killing is worse Work or die. Now I get a chance to make them pay.
One shot. I’ve only got one shot.
I make my way to the nearest guards. Two stand together no more than 10 feet from me. It’s hard to get close, they always yell at you and draw more attention. Don’t want that. Not yet.
I slip into the back of the tent they are standing in front of. Track their shadows as they pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. Always stopping by the front entrance, backs turned to me. Both are holding guns. Both have knives.
Blood splatters the guards face. Turns. Knife protrudes from his eye. Leave them. Someone else will get blamed, not me. I have to fight back. I have a chance. Take the guns, take the other knife.
Other guards can be heard approaching. Too soon. Pull one body into the tent. Pull the other in as the guards pass around the corner. The rain washes away the blood.
I can hear the guards talking. About me. About the chase. “One of those pigs stole my gun. Bashed me over the head with a frying pan. Took it and ran. Got my silencer too. I’ll kill him. The guards from the towers on the South side of the camp were called in to help look. There’s only one guars in each of the guards towers there.”
That’s my chance. I have to get there. I slip out behind the tower, and walk down the street, hiding the weapons and ammo in my clothing again. Heading South. I can see the tower, maybe a half mile away. Directly above the entrance. “Arbeit macht frei.” I keep walking, duck around the corner as a patrol passes by. Still going South. Seems like an hour before I’m by the first set of gates. I need a way through.
Only way through is through the guard quarters. They’d never expect an attack from the inside. The Russians are approaching soon. The guards watch the outside. Not the inside as closely. I could get through.
Back door. Two guards. Two full clips for my gun. 60 rounds.
58 rounds. Two more corpses. Alarms raised. I hide behind the corner, expecting more to come out. The guards all run to the fences, expecting an attack from the outside. I slip into the guard quarters. Recently vacated. I slip through the building. I can see them all watching the outside, on the ground. I slip into one of the guard towers. Climb up to the top. One guard.
Bloody knife. Train approaching. I might be able to jump from the tower to the train. Blood pooling from the corpse. Dripping onto the guards below. Guards notice the blood. Start climbing the guard tower. Shooting. I shoot back.
One shot. I’ve only got one shot.
I jump from the guard tower, over the outer walls. The train is almost there. Falling. Blackout.
I may have lived a prisoner, but I died a free man. I died from the fall from the guard tower, on impact with the ground. My name lives in infamy as the man who died in the Holocaust from falling out of the guard tower. | The gas starts to creep into the room as the man kisses the end of the barrel. Tendrils of white creep around legs as those closest to the vents start to choke. A man holding his crying child spots the man with the gun. His eyes plead as he looks from the gun to the child. The man with the gun mouths the word, "sorry" and pulls the trigger. | |
[WP] A Jewish man in a concentration camp has stolen a pistol, but it has only one round. | Careless. The power had gone to their heads, and they didn't pay attention anymore. They knew they had beaten most of us into submission, and the others were so weakened from manual labor and malnutrition that they could easily over powered. When the guard left his post to socialize with another nearby, he left his pistol by his post. It was easy to just walk up and take it, concealing it in the waistband of my pants. The clothes they'd forced me to wear we're big enough to hide the shape.
That night I lay on my cot, awake late into the night, listening to the sounds of those around me. The sobs of those who had lost someone that day, or who hadn't gotten over a death long past. The quiet whispers of a father to his son. The even breathing of those who couldn't stand to be awake in this nightmare for a moment longer. When I was sure everyone near me was consumed in their own thoughts or had buried their worries temporarily in slumber, I pulled the pistol from my waistband. Slowly, slowly. Quietly. I opened the chamber and peered inside. Gently felt the inside compartments with the tip of my finger.
Just one. There was only one bullet left.
Not enough, that's not enough. It couldn't be used to make a stand. One bullet wouldn't make any difference. The regime would continue regardless of one guard's death.
So that was it then. It was useless. Unless... Unless it could be used to end my pain.
There was talk among us. Others would come soon. The English, Americans. Someone would find out, and they would come. But as the months passed and those around me died - from hunger, fatigue, beatings. From being made an example of. When there was no more hope, I decided. When there was no chance of being saved. When the hope of being saved was not worth the suffering, I would save myself.
It was weeks later when the time came. I guarded that pistol like gold. Surprisingly, it's absence was never mentioned by the guards. The day began as any other. Manual labor, this time digging trenches. At the end of the day, they divided us by barracks. Group by group, we were lead off. At first we assumed it was back to the barracks, but they detoured to the showers. It was far off, but I could see the front door. If I squinted, I could make out the outline, and see the others, like me, marching in. The odd thing was, the door was opened from the outside, but no one ever came out. The next group was brought over. A struggle ensued with one of guards. One of us tried to run, but was pushed in before they closed the door. And locked it from the outside.
Then I saw it. From the chimney. Not steam. They never gave hot showers. Nothing above freezing cold. It was gas.
"Gas."
I said it quietly, under my breath, but it was enough to get my neighbors' attention. Soon the word had spread, and with it a sense of unease. Gas? Were they gassing the prisoners? Just certain barracks?
When the guards signaled for our group to progress, the unease turned into a general panic. We were next. They out numbered us, they were armed. But these guards didn't prefer to kill you quickly. They liked to beat you within an inch of your life and watch the spirit leave your eyes. If you ran, you'd be tortured, not killed. But progressing meant certain death by the rumored gas chamber. It was said to kill within minutes. Fast enough to be efficient, slow enough to let you realize exactly what was happening. To try and claw your way out, to climb over others to breathe clean air, to bang against the door for escape. There was no way out.
Now was the time, I decided. The time to end it for myself.
I was set on this plan, confident. For once in this year of madness, I could have control. I could win back some authority in my last moments.
Then I saw him. No longer a boy, not yet a man. Thin and gangly, as if he had started a growth spurt before this hell and lack of nutrients has caused him to stunt. Instead of being athletic and wiry, he was stringy, bony, gaunt. But besides that I could see the terror in his eyes.
"No..." He whispered, horror-filled, stuck in his tracks. The others progressed around him, walking to their certain deaths.
Could I do anything? I couldn't save him. Attempt on my part would lead to the torture of us both. But I could... I could give him one last moment of peace.
I approached, but my hand on his back, and turned him in the direction of the showers. Hidden by those around me, I reached into my waistband and pulled out my stolen pistol. I pressed it meaningfully into his hand.
"There's just one." I whispered. "For you. You're in control. Don't let them take it from you."
He froze in his spot, but I continued on. One, two three.
Pop.
I didn't turn around, although i saw the ripple of reaction around me. I continued on, to my death, where they would take everything from me. It wasn't like I imagined it though. When they shut the door, I didn't claw. I didn't fight. I sat, with a smile on my face. Knowing that I had empowered that boy, if only for one moment. Maybe that had been my purpose. They were taking me, but I could go in peace. | Edgar clutched the cold handle of his Walther. He alternated his grip in increments of stern and slack, feeling his prize, affirming its reality. In a better time, he had been a hunter, and no stranger to firearms. The secrecy of night gave him time to inspect his piece, which he did meticulously.
His last year had been one marked with pervasively awful luck, and even in the midst of his notable and happy theft his misfortune reared its ugly head. It had but one round, one life stashed in its clip. It was a veritable free death on his part, and Edgar reveled in the knowledge that any and all around him were subject to his will. It was power, it was initiative, it was death.
Weeks passed, Edgar's one shot watching, waiting, and slowly the decision of who to kill dawned on him. Hansen, a high ranking S.S. commander. Arrogant, drunk on blood and power, he delighted in the camps abundant death, and he had discovered plethoric ways to carry it out.
Hanging was his favorite, and not the regular kind. Not the decisive drop and snap which had vague murmurs of mercy. Hansen didn't like mercy, not one bit; so a post was erected in the middle of camp, it ascended vertically and then split into a T formation ten feet up. The wood was black and gnarled, splintering yet strong. It was a menacing sight for an onlooker, and an unbearable one for a victim, but for a Nazi it was entertainment.
Two ropes dropped four and a half feet and tapered to nooses, these were slipped over the neck and tightened. From there the subject was forced to rear up on his toes to avoid strangulation, but his life from there was forfeit, soon his muscles would wear. Soon, amidst a sea of terror, tears, and laughter, the wretch would die, and Hansen would smile.
Edgar plodded to the outside, the bastard had placed a chair before his gallows, the surmization was quick. With no small amount of haste Edgar clambered back to the stone bunks and retrieved his Walther. Luckily his abode was adjacent to the gallows, and, from cover, he could make a swift execution.
The bunks outside walls provided ample shelter. Edgar watched the proceedings from around a corner, hidden from immediate sight. As always, security was light during the execution, and the whole ordeal was shaping up to be exceptionally easy.
Distantly, there was shouting, and it grew closer. Kicking and screaming and snapping arose on the air. It was not long before Edgar saw its source. On the horizon a conglomerate of organs roiled and churned before proximity allowed for correlation. Two Jews were being hauled forth by two guards, they were emaciated, wretched, unable to resist the snarling Aryan beasts dragging them to doom.
Edgar's eyes widened further. The leading Nazi bore a little girl. She looked sixty, and the innocent shine in the eyes of a youth that so distinguished them had been squashed out, and now panicked cynicism remained. She put up a fight, but her mother fought with twice the will. It was obvious to all on scene that this was not her own struggle, she merely wanted to save her daughter.
Yet of course she couldn't. The leather clad arms of the SS proved the mightier, and so all she could do was shout news of the paradisal afterlife which was drawing oh so near. Her bearer met this with a hefty slap that sent here reeling. She fell just below her noose, and was swiftly hauled to her feet.
The noose was slipped over her thin neck and tightened. So began her brief tenure in the rope. With bulging eyes, she turned and saw her daughter sharing a similar fate. Both stared into each others eyes, and tears began to roll forth. Edgar, too, was crying. He had seen many such executions, all the inmates had. Yet he had let his heart callus and shrivel. This pair re-endowed him with sorrow.
Hansen was sitting there laughing, laughing as the girls eyes reddened in her bald, dying skull. She gasped and weezed, but she wouldn't let herself die over fast.
**BANG**
For the first time, the camp fell silent. The little girl's head rocketed back, trailing a streamer of blood. Above the now saturated ground, her body fell limp, drizzling more of her vitality on the Earth.
The audience, Jews and Nazis alike, spun to face Edgar. His head was downcast, shadowing his countenance, his tears sparkling in the shade. Like an accusing finger the Walther stared down Hansen, held aloft by Edgar's emaciated yet erect arm.
"Freeze, fuckers!" He shouted. Immediately after the shot many of the SS began to wrestle there guns into aim, yet the armed threat halted them.
"Anyone moves I blow one of your own brains out!" His body was shaking, it was surely death, but it was cathartic. The guards exchanged a worried glance, none had readied a gun, the first to do so would surely die.
The barrel's path settled on Hansen. "Cut her down." He did so without a moments hesitation, the Jew tumbled to the ground, wracked with immense sobs.
Edgar fixated himself on Hansen, for a moment the pair locked eyes. The SS guard was crying, pitifully, the camp's tormentor was truly revealed. "Goodbye," Edgar said, and Hansen cringed in terror.
*click*
**BANG**................ "Dumb Jewish whore".........**BANG**
| |
[WP] A Jewish man in a concentration camp has stolen a pistol, but it has only one round. | My name is Dawid Eifermann. Dawid, it means beloved. Dawid, after the great king who slayed Goliath. It is a big name to live up to. I am not doing that.
Auschwitz is a terrifying place. Arbeit Macht Frei is over my head every day. I have worked for a very long time, and I do not feel free. I can see my bones. It can't go to sleep, because my breath rattles in my throat. I think my lungs are failing.
Abba-leh is in the same camp with me. He sings songs and it helps me sleep. He tells me to be strong, like Dawid, and I will live. He says it like I might die, and I am scared. He never looks at me when he says it, I think he is afraid that he will not make it. I am afraid too.
Today I found myself in the trenches again, working. I say found because I don't often know how I get there. One moment I am sleeping, the next I am digging. It is hard for me to focus. It is cold, the soil is hard, and my muscles are weak. I asked Abba-leh why we were digging. He said we were digging holes to plant beautiful things. I thought first we were digging holes for trees. This place needs trees.
But these holes are much too big for trees.
What day is it, I do not know. What month, what year, all of these things are outside of my head. All I know are the bunks, the smells, the dirt. Someone died last night. I don't know who. They drug him out, and I didn't see him any more. When I went to dig, my hole had been filled up. They told me to dig a new hole. They must be starting to plant the beautiful things.
My Abba-leh is sick, now. He is coughing, his eyes are yellow. He shakes all the time, even when he prays. He speaks in whispers, it is hard for me to hear him. He promised he was going to get us out. He was going to do something.
When the guards came in in the morning, Abba-leh attacked them. He screamed and bit and cursed. I have never heard him speak like that. But no one joined him. All of us were too scared. I was too weak. But I got up, and tried to get over to him. I tried telling him to stop, but I don't think he heard me. They beat my Abba-leh. They screamed words at him, and brought black sticks to his head. Abba-leh wasn't screaming any more, but they were still hitting him.
I saw a gun on the ground. I don't know why, but I picked it up. It was heavy in my hand, and smelt like oil. When they stopped, they turned and saw me. I'm not very big, I must have looked very tiny to them. They stopped yelling.
The gun pointed up at them. I don't remember doing that. It shook in my hand. I don't know if it was heavy, or if I was scared. I think I was scared. The Nazi's said something in German, I couldn't hear it. It was distant, and my heart was so loud.
Dawid. It means 'beloved'. Dawid, after the great king who slayed Goliath. It is a big name to live up to. I pulled the trigger very hard. It roared, my body shook, and one of them fell down, on top of my Abba-leh.
Click, click, click.
I knew I would die. I knew Abba-leh would die. He never convinced me otherwise. But he let me believe his lies. It made Hell a little easier to bear.
And as they beat me, I cried. Not because it hurt, I think. That soon passed. Because I finally lived up to my name. | Edgar clutched the cold handle of his Walther. He alternated his grip in increments of stern and slack, feeling his prize, affirming its reality. In a better time, he had been a hunter, and no stranger to firearms. The secrecy of night gave him time to inspect his piece, which he did meticulously.
His last year had been one marked with pervasively awful luck, and even in the midst of his notable and happy theft his misfortune reared its ugly head. It had but one round, one life stashed in its clip. It was a veritable free death on his part, and Edgar reveled in the knowledge that any and all around him were subject to his will. It was power, it was initiative, it was death.
Weeks passed, Edgar's one shot watching, waiting, and slowly the decision of who to kill dawned on him. Hansen, a high ranking S.S. commander. Arrogant, drunk on blood and power, he delighted in the camps abundant death, and he had discovered plethoric ways to carry it out.
Hanging was his favorite, and not the regular kind. Not the decisive drop and snap which had vague murmurs of mercy. Hansen didn't like mercy, not one bit; so a post was erected in the middle of camp, it ascended vertically and then split into a T formation ten feet up. The wood was black and gnarled, splintering yet strong. It was a menacing sight for an onlooker, and an unbearable one for a victim, but for a Nazi it was entertainment.
Two ropes dropped four and a half feet and tapered to nooses, these were slipped over the neck and tightened. From there the subject was forced to rear up on his toes to avoid strangulation, but his life from there was forfeit, soon his muscles would wear. Soon, amidst a sea of terror, tears, and laughter, the wretch would die, and Hansen would smile.
Edgar plodded to the outside, the bastard had placed a chair before his gallows, the surmization was quick. With no small amount of haste Edgar clambered back to the stone bunks and retrieved his Walther. Luckily his abode was adjacent to the gallows, and, from cover, he could make a swift execution.
The bunks outside walls provided ample shelter. Edgar watched the proceedings from around a corner, hidden from immediate sight. As always, security was light during the execution, and the whole ordeal was shaping up to be exceptionally easy.
Distantly, there was shouting, and it grew closer. Kicking and screaming and snapping arose on the air. It was not long before Edgar saw its source. On the horizon a conglomerate of organs roiled and churned before proximity allowed for correlation. Two Jews were being hauled forth by two guards, they were emaciated, wretched, unable to resist the snarling Aryan beasts dragging them to doom.
Edgar's eyes widened further. The leading Nazi bore a little girl. She looked sixty, and the innocent shine in the eyes of a youth that so distinguished them had been squashed out, and now panicked cynicism remained. She put up a fight, but her mother fought with twice the will. It was obvious to all on scene that this was not her own struggle, she merely wanted to save her daughter.
Yet of course she couldn't. The leather clad arms of the SS proved the mightier, and so all she could do was shout news of the paradisal afterlife which was drawing oh so near. Her bearer met this with a hefty slap that sent here reeling. She fell just below her noose, and was swiftly hauled to her feet.
The noose was slipped over her thin neck and tightened. So began her brief tenure in the rope. With bulging eyes, she turned and saw her daughter sharing a similar fate. Both stared into each others eyes, and tears began to roll forth. Edgar, too, was crying. He had seen many such executions, all the inmates had. Yet he had let his heart callus and shrivel. This pair re-endowed him with sorrow.
Hansen was sitting there laughing, laughing as the girls eyes reddened in her bald, dying skull. She gasped and weezed, but she wouldn't let herself die over fast.
**BANG**
For the first time, the camp fell silent. The little girl's head rocketed back, trailing a streamer of blood. Above the now saturated ground, her body fell limp, drizzling more of her vitality on the Earth.
The audience, Jews and Nazis alike, spun to face Edgar. His head was downcast, shadowing his countenance, his tears sparkling in the shade. Like an accusing finger the Walther stared down Hansen, held aloft by Edgar's emaciated yet erect arm.
"Freeze, fuckers!" He shouted. Immediately after the shot many of the SS began to wrestle there guns into aim, yet the armed threat halted them.
"Anyone moves I blow one of your own brains out!" His body was shaking, it was surely death, but it was cathartic. The guards exchanged a worried glance, none had readied a gun, the first to do so would surely die.
The barrel's path settled on Hansen. "Cut her down." He did so without a moments hesitation, the Jew tumbled to the ground, wracked with immense sobs.
Edgar fixated himself on Hansen, for a moment the pair locked eyes. The SS guard was crying, pitifully, the camp's tormentor was truly revealed. "Goodbye," Edgar said, and Hansen cringed in terror.
*click*
**BANG**................ "Dumb Jewish whore".........**BANG**
| |
[WP] A Jewish man in a concentration camp has stolen a pistol, but it has only one round. | My name is Dawid Eifermann. Dawid, it means beloved. Dawid, after the great king who slayed Goliath. It is a big name to live up to. I am not doing that.
Auschwitz is a terrifying place. Arbeit Macht Frei is over my head every day. I have worked for a very long time, and I do not feel free. I can see my bones. It can't go to sleep, because my breath rattles in my throat. I think my lungs are failing.
Abba-leh is in the same camp with me. He sings songs and it helps me sleep. He tells me to be strong, like Dawid, and I will live. He says it like I might die, and I am scared. He never looks at me when he says it, I think he is afraid that he will not make it. I am afraid too.
Today I found myself in the trenches again, working. I say found because I don't often know how I get there. One moment I am sleeping, the next I am digging. It is hard for me to focus. It is cold, the soil is hard, and my muscles are weak. I asked Abba-leh why we were digging. He said we were digging holes to plant beautiful things. I thought first we were digging holes for trees. This place needs trees.
But these holes are much too big for trees.
What day is it, I do not know. What month, what year, all of these things are outside of my head. All I know are the bunks, the smells, the dirt. Someone died last night. I don't know who. They drug him out, and I didn't see him any more. When I went to dig, my hole had been filled up. They told me to dig a new hole. They must be starting to plant the beautiful things.
My Abba-leh is sick, now. He is coughing, his eyes are yellow. He shakes all the time, even when he prays. He speaks in whispers, it is hard for me to hear him. He promised he was going to get us out. He was going to do something.
When the guards came in in the morning, Abba-leh attacked them. He screamed and bit and cursed. I have never heard him speak like that. But no one joined him. All of us were too scared. I was too weak. But I got up, and tried to get over to him. I tried telling him to stop, but I don't think he heard me. They beat my Abba-leh. They screamed words at him, and brought black sticks to his head. Abba-leh wasn't screaming any more, but they were still hitting him.
I saw a gun on the ground. I don't know why, but I picked it up. It was heavy in my hand, and smelt like oil. When they stopped, they turned and saw me. I'm not very big, I must have looked very tiny to them. They stopped yelling.
The gun pointed up at them. I don't remember doing that. It shook in my hand. I don't know if it was heavy, or if I was scared. I think I was scared. The Nazi's said something in German, I couldn't hear it. It was distant, and my heart was so loud.
Dawid. It means 'beloved'. Dawid, after the great king who slayed Goliath. It is a big name to live up to. I pulled the trigger very hard. It roared, my body shook, and one of them fell down, on top of my Abba-leh.
Click, click, click.
I knew I would die. I knew Abba-leh would die. He never convinced me otherwise. But he let me believe his lies. It made Hell a little easier to bear.
And as they beat me, I cried. Not because it hurt, I think. That soon passed. Because I finally lived up to my name. | Who to shoot
Who will die
Who will get the boot
Who will cry
Maybe, in all this misery
The only one I want to kill is me
| |
[WP] A Jewish man in a concentration camp has stolen a pistol, but it has only one round. | My name is Dawid Eifermann. Dawid, it means beloved. Dawid, after the great king who slayed Goliath. It is a big name to live up to. I am not doing that.
Auschwitz is a terrifying place. Arbeit Macht Frei is over my head every day. I have worked for a very long time, and I do not feel free. I can see my bones. It can't go to sleep, because my breath rattles in my throat. I think my lungs are failing.
Abba-leh is in the same camp with me. He sings songs and it helps me sleep. He tells me to be strong, like Dawid, and I will live. He says it like I might die, and I am scared. He never looks at me when he says it, I think he is afraid that he will not make it. I am afraid too.
Today I found myself in the trenches again, working. I say found because I don't often know how I get there. One moment I am sleeping, the next I am digging. It is hard for me to focus. It is cold, the soil is hard, and my muscles are weak. I asked Abba-leh why we were digging. He said we were digging holes to plant beautiful things. I thought first we were digging holes for trees. This place needs trees.
But these holes are much too big for trees.
What day is it, I do not know. What month, what year, all of these things are outside of my head. All I know are the bunks, the smells, the dirt. Someone died last night. I don't know who. They drug him out, and I didn't see him any more. When I went to dig, my hole had been filled up. They told me to dig a new hole. They must be starting to plant the beautiful things.
My Abba-leh is sick, now. He is coughing, his eyes are yellow. He shakes all the time, even when he prays. He speaks in whispers, it is hard for me to hear him. He promised he was going to get us out. He was going to do something.
When the guards came in in the morning, Abba-leh attacked them. He screamed and bit and cursed. I have never heard him speak like that. But no one joined him. All of us were too scared. I was too weak. But I got up, and tried to get over to him. I tried telling him to stop, but I don't think he heard me. They beat my Abba-leh. They screamed words at him, and brought black sticks to his head. Abba-leh wasn't screaming any more, but they were still hitting him.
I saw a gun on the ground. I don't know why, but I picked it up. It was heavy in my hand, and smelt like oil. When they stopped, they turned and saw me. I'm not very big, I must have looked very tiny to them. They stopped yelling.
The gun pointed up at them. I don't remember doing that. It shook in my hand. I don't know if it was heavy, or if I was scared. I think I was scared. The Nazi's said something in German, I couldn't hear it. It was distant, and my heart was so loud.
Dawid. It means 'beloved'. Dawid, after the great king who slayed Goliath. It is a big name to live up to. I pulled the trigger very hard. It roared, my body shook, and one of them fell down, on top of my Abba-leh.
Click, click, click.
I knew I would die. I knew Abba-leh would die. He never convinced me otherwise. But he let me believe his lies. It made Hell a little easier to bear.
And as they beat me, I cried. Not because it hurt, I think. That soon passed. Because I finally lived up to my name. | ''One bullet. One. There were supposed to be 6 rounds in that damn revolver!'' thought Avi while gazing at others in the boiler room building the tunnel. He was visibly angry. Others clearly saw his unpatience. The tunel was behind the schedule - behind a a very time sensitive plan to potentially save hundreds of lives form this hell hole made for men. The gun wasn't needed for digging. The gun was a backup plan. In case anyone got spotted escaping the camp through the tunnel which was being dug day and night beneath the walls and guard towers, a diversion was needed on the other side of the camp by fellow prisoners who, when given the signal would run at the guards, killing them and making a clumsy escape. Now it all depended on one bullet and a couple of hand made knifes to create enough noise and distraction. Avi wasn't a risk taker, but life in this place made him one. He looked around the filthy bunk house. He knew he was an undeclared leader under that roof. He also knew that people here saw him as their last hope; their last light.
Tomorrow was the day. The day of the escape form the camp. Avi fell asleep. He had to keep sharp hereafter.
The night was disturbed by a noise of numerous executions. ''The tunel! they found the tunel!'' - said the boy who took the night shifts,observing the guards to make sure gurads they were following their patrol patterns. Suddenly everyone in the bunkhouse turned their terrified eyes to Avi, or so they thought. What they didn't know is that he used the tunel to make a run for it into the deep forest. Every soldier was on its feet by than, either searching for the escapist in the wild or watching the executions. Avi was smarter than this. He hid in the beast's belly, where he had an overview of the camp - a place where no soldier would look. It was a very tall and wide tree which made it impossible to be spotted. ''The best move to wait it out'' said Avi, and went to sleep on a tree.
Suddenly his friends and family appeared right there beside him. Each and everyone of them with a bullet would on a forehead'; execution style. He violently woke up, and knew what he had to do, because the guilt was too intense. The gun barrel was already in his mouth. The last bullet blew his brains out.
| |
[WP] A Jewish man in a concentration camp has stolen a pistol, but it has only one round. | My name is Dawid Eifermann. Dawid, it means beloved. Dawid, after the great king who slayed Goliath. It is a big name to live up to. I am not doing that.
Auschwitz is a terrifying place. Arbeit Macht Frei is over my head every day. I have worked for a very long time, and I do not feel free. I can see my bones. It can't go to sleep, because my breath rattles in my throat. I think my lungs are failing.
Abba-leh is in the same camp with me. He sings songs and it helps me sleep. He tells me to be strong, like Dawid, and I will live. He says it like I might die, and I am scared. He never looks at me when he says it, I think he is afraid that he will not make it. I am afraid too.
Today I found myself in the trenches again, working. I say found because I don't often know how I get there. One moment I am sleeping, the next I am digging. It is hard for me to focus. It is cold, the soil is hard, and my muscles are weak. I asked Abba-leh why we were digging. He said we were digging holes to plant beautiful things. I thought first we were digging holes for trees. This place needs trees.
But these holes are much too big for trees.
What day is it, I do not know. What month, what year, all of these things are outside of my head. All I know are the bunks, the smells, the dirt. Someone died last night. I don't know who. They drug him out, and I didn't see him any more. When I went to dig, my hole had been filled up. They told me to dig a new hole. They must be starting to plant the beautiful things.
My Abba-leh is sick, now. He is coughing, his eyes are yellow. He shakes all the time, even when he prays. He speaks in whispers, it is hard for me to hear him. He promised he was going to get us out. He was going to do something.
When the guards came in in the morning, Abba-leh attacked them. He screamed and bit and cursed. I have never heard him speak like that. But no one joined him. All of us were too scared. I was too weak. But I got up, and tried to get over to him. I tried telling him to stop, but I don't think he heard me. They beat my Abba-leh. They screamed words at him, and brought black sticks to his head. Abba-leh wasn't screaming any more, but they were still hitting him.
I saw a gun on the ground. I don't know why, but I picked it up. It was heavy in my hand, and smelt like oil. When they stopped, they turned and saw me. I'm not very big, I must have looked very tiny to them. They stopped yelling.
The gun pointed up at them. I don't remember doing that. It shook in my hand. I don't know if it was heavy, or if I was scared. I think I was scared. The Nazi's said something in German, I couldn't hear it. It was distant, and my heart was so loud.
Dawid. It means 'beloved'. Dawid, after the great king who slayed Goliath. It is a big name to live up to. I pulled the trigger very hard. It roared, my body shook, and one of them fell down, on top of my Abba-leh.
Click, click, click.
I knew I would die. I knew Abba-leh would die. He never convinced me otherwise. But he let me believe his lies. It made Hell a little easier to bear.
And as they beat me, I cried. Not because it hurt, I think. That soon passed. Because I finally lived up to my name. | Careless. The power had gone to their heads, and they didn't pay attention anymore. They knew they had beaten most of us into submission, and the others were so weakened from manual labor and malnutrition that they could easily over powered. When the guard left his post to socialize with another nearby, he left his pistol by his post. It was easy to just walk up and take it, concealing it in the waistband of my pants. The clothes they'd forced me to wear we're big enough to hide the shape.
That night I lay on my cot, awake late into the night, listening to the sounds of those around me. The sobs of those who had lost someone that day, or who hadn't gotten over a death long past. The quiet whispers of a father to his son. The even breathing of those who couldn't stand to be awake in this nightmare for a moment longer. When I was sure everyone near me was consumed in their own thoughts or had buried their worries temporarily in slumber, I pulled the pistol from my waistband. Slowly, slowly. Quietly. I opened the chamber and peered inside. Gently felt the inside compartments with the tip of my finger.
Just one. There was only one bullet left.
Not enough, that's not enough. It couldn't be used to make a stand. One bullet wouldn't make any difference. The regime would continue regardless of one guard's death.
So that was it then. It was useless. Unless... Unless it could be used to end my pain.
There was talk among us. Others would come soon. The English, Americans. Someone would find out, and they would come. But as the months passed and those around me died - from hunger, fatigue, beatings. From being made an example of. When there was no more hope, I decided. When there was no chance of being saved. When the hope of being saved was not worth the suffering, I would save myself.
It was weeks later when the time came. I guarded that pistol like gold. Surprisingly, it's absence was never mentioned by the guards. The day began as any other. Manual labor, this time digging trenches. At the end of the day, they divided us by barracks. Group by group, we were lead off. At first we assumed it was back to the barracks, but they detoured to the showers. It was far off, but I could see the front door. If I squinted, I could make out the outline, and see the others, like me, marching in. The odd thing was, the door was opened from the outside, but no one ever came out. The next group was brought over. A struggle ensued with one of guards. One of us tried to run, but was pushed in before they closed the door. And locked it from the outside.
Then I saw it. From the chimney. Not steam. They never gave hot showers. Nothing above freezing cold. It was gas.
"Gas."
I said it quietly, under my breath, but it was enough to get my neighbors' attention. Soon the word had spread, and with it a sense of unease. Gas? Were they gassing the prisoners? Just certain barracks?
When the guards signaled for our group to progress, the unease turned into a general panic. We were next. They out numbered us, they were armed. But these guards didn't prefer to kill you quickly. They liked to beat you within an inch of your life and watch the spirit leave your eyes. If you ran, you'd be tortured, not killed. But progressing meant certain death by the rumored gas chamber. It was said to kill within minutes. Fast enough to be efficient, slow enough to let you realize exactly what was happening. To try and claw your way out, to climb over others to breathe clean air, to bang against the door for escape. There was no way out.
Now was the time, I decided. The time to end it for myself.
I was set on this plan, confident. For once in this year of madness, I could have control. I could win back some authority in my last moments.
Then I saw him. No longer a boy, not yet a man. Thin and gangly, as if he had started a growth spurt before this hell and lack of nutrients has caused him to stunt. Instead of being athletic and wiry, he was stringy, bony, gaunt. But besides that I could see the terror in his eyes.
"No..." He whispered, horror-filled, stuck in his tracks. The others progressed around him, walking to their certain deaths.
Could I do anything? I couldn't save him. Attempt on my part would lead to the torture of us both. But I could... I could give him one last moment of peace.
I approached, but my hand on his back, and turned him in the direction of the showers. Hidden by those around me, I reached into my waistband and pulled out my stolen pistol. I pressed it meaningfully into his hand.
"There's just one." I whispered. "For you. You're in control. Don't let them take it from you."
He froze in his spot, but I continued on. One, two three.
Pop.
I didn't turn around, although i saw the ripple of reaction around me. I continued on, to my death, where they would take everything from me. It wasn't like I imagined it though. When they shut the door, I didn't claw. I didn't fight. I sat, with a smile on my face. Knowing that I had empowered that boy, if only for one moment. Maybe that had been my purpose. They were taking me, but I could go in peace. | |
[WP] - A Suicide Hotline Operator slowly realizes the man who called is Death. | "Hello, Suicide Prevention Hotline, how can I help?"
"Hi, I'd like to file a complaint."
"I-I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"
"I want to file a complaint."
"..."
"What?"
"Nothing, it's just we - well, we don't get many complaints round here. Can I take your name?"
"Death."
"How, er, do you spell that?"
"D-E-A-T-H. Death."
"I'm sorry, I couldn't quite catch th-"
"For fuck's sake, I'm Death! I'm the destroyer of worlds, the light at the end of the tunnel, the guy with the black cloak and the garden tool! Do you understand now?!"
"I don't - is this a joke?"
"AAHHH!"
"Please calm down!"
"I'm sorry, I've had a bad day. My roommate kicked me out, because apparently it's MY fault that the place stinks of rotting meat! Says the guy with holes in his hands!"
"Do you need a shelter? I can find one if -"
"No, no, it's quite alright. Look, do you believe I'm Death?"
"Well, you may be, I can get you some people to help you."
"What do you mean, help me?"
"This may be a shock, but you could be suffering from multiple personality disorder."
"Wow, I don't even...look, what's the name of the person next to you?"
"Susan?"
"Full name."
"Erm, Susan Dent?"
"Is she wearing a red pullover with jeans?"
"How did you know?"
"Hehehe, now check her pulse."
"I don't - oh my god. Susan? SUSAN?!?!"
"Calm down, it's only temporary. Believe me now?"
"What do you *sniff* what do you want?"
"I'd like to file a complaint. It's MY JOB to push people over the edge. To make them want to end it all. For centuries, it was a walk in the park, and then you COMPLETE BASTARDS come and make it a whole lot more difficult. For the love of God, I've spent a whole week trying to get this stupid kid to stand under some faulty scaffolding, but every night he calls you twats! Please, just FUCK OFF!
Hello?
Are you there?"
"Yeah, it's just I, I can't, I..."
"Did I upset you?"
"...you've done terrible things, haven't you?"
"Honestly? Yes."
"*sniff* How do you cope?"
"By doing this. This is how I unwind. Sorry for doing this."
"It's alright, we all have those days. Do you want me to put your complaint forward?"
"No, it's fine. Just delete this call after I hang up."
"Sure. Erm, can I ask...?"
"Fire away."
"My mother's in hospital, and I -"
"Two minutes ago."
"I'm sorry?"
"I took her two minutes ago, and i found this number on her phone. I thought I would just fuck with you. Seriously, though, this was hilarious. This is *so* going on YouTube."
"YOU FUCKING - "
"Bye."
*beep* | Jenny looks at the pink slip in her hands over and over. Flipping it, folding it, unfolding it, re-reading it. The look on her face is one of shock and surprise as her supervisor looks on.
"Sorry Jen, but you're a liability. Almost every call you've taken has ended in a suicide. I know you're a good person, but this is making the board worried and if the press gets a hint of this, we're screwed" says the supervisor, a tired looking middle aged woman with bright white hair and wearing a "suicide is no solution" pin.
"but but, I was following the training! Its just rotten luck. This isn't fair!" explains Jenny.
"I know, I know, but I really need you gone. You're good people. Don't ever forget it" she says as she reaches over and gives Jenny a hug.
Jenny sighs, smacks the desk with her palm, grabs her purse, and makes her way towards the door. Why did I tell the girl for Oregon that life gets better but only after lots of hard work? Why did I go off script? What is the matter with me? Or the boy from Chicago. Or the old man from Florida. Or at my last job, when I was flirting with the foreman and that accident happened. Or when I got into that car crash last year.
"You're just a stupid klutz" she yells in her car as she sits in the parking lot thinking about the events of the past few months over and over again. After several minutes, a security guard walks up, knocks on the glass and says "Sorry, but you best be leaving now" as she quickly puts the car into drive and says "fuck you" under her breath.
On her way home, she hears a truck honk, looks over, and gets distracted for a moment. She looks back onto the road, slams on the breaks, and feels a bump. She gets out of the car to find a dead squirrel under her wheel. Its little broken body still twitching and its eyes darting around. Fifth time this year she thinks to herself as she sighs. As she pulls out, she glances at her rearview mirror, only to see her eyes. She reaches over to adjust it, and for a moment her face looks thin and transparent, and almost skull-like. She briefly looks at her, now suddenly, bony hands and begins weeping at the awful realization of the truth.
| |
[WP] - A Suicide Hotline Operator slowly realizes the man who called is Death. | Operator: Hello, Suicide Prevention Hotline. My name is Brian. What's your name?
Death: My name isn't important.
Operator: You don't have to tell me your name, but you should know that this call and all details will remain private. Are you sure you'd rather not say?
Death: ...
Operator: Sir, are you still there?
Death: You can call me Max.
Operator: Alright, Max. How old are you?
Death: Brian, are you good at your job?
Operator: I'm sorry?
Death: Do you believe yourself to be adequate at this job?
Operator: I'd like to think so, Max. Are you worried that I can't help you?
Death: No. I suppose I'm worried that you're making *my* job harder than it needs to be.
Operator: I'm not sure I understand.
Death: That's fine, Brian. I don't take it personally.
Operator: Would you like to talk me through why you called tonight?
Death: Sometimes I feel like people are eager to meet me, but then suddenly all contact drops off.
Operator: Are you lonely, Max? Loneliness isn't always easy to cope with.
Death: No, no, I have plenty of company.
Operator: Do you find it difficult to relate to others?
Death: I have no need to relate to others.
Operator: And why do you say that?
Death: My job is my life.
Operator: What is it that you do, Max?
Death: I'm a guide.
Operator: So you lead tours?
Death: In a way, sure.
Operator: Do you enjoy it?
Death: It's all I've ever known.
Operator: So maybe it's feeling stale?
Death: No, it's the same as it's ever been. It's what I was made for.
Operator: You feel you were destined for it, you mean?
Death: Sure, Brian. Sure.
Operator: What exactly is troubling you then?
Death: Some parts of my job require less... pursuit than others. It's the only sense of ease I've ever been familiar with. As of recently, people like you have worked diligently to take that away from me.
Operator: I'm sorry, Max, but what could someone like me have done to make your job harder?
Death: Most people are cowards, Brian. When faced with my... expertise, they try, in vain, to escape it.
Operator: Max, I'm trying very hard to understand what it is you're going through, but you need to help me understand before I can help you.
Death: I don't want your *help*, Brian. Your *help* has only succeeded in taking away the only thing I've grown to love.
Operator: And what is that, Max?
Death: Willing participants. Those who would see my face as rescue instead of catastrophe. Those who would not become filled with terror, howling childish pleas for another chance. Those who would embrace me with tears in their eyes, awaiting peace. Tell me, Brian, why did you choose your job?
Operator: Because I wanted to give back what was once given to me.
Death: You mean to deny others what you once grew too fearful to grasp. I remember the moment you sought me out, Brian. In your eyes were the tears of acceptance, but you, with the help of one of your predecessors, wiped them away in ignorance.
Operator: Max, I must ask you not to grow hostile. I have the responsibility to send help your way in that case.
Death: Don't you remember? You wanted me. We could have been together. Without pretense, without struggle, without the chase. You, myself, and Kelly.
Operator: How...
Death: Yes. She stood beside me, waiting for you. And you led her along. Led me along. Only to continue on pointlessly, keeping others with you. Keeping them from me. And for that, I will never forgive you. I wanted you to hear this. Goodbye, Brian.
Operator: Wait! I don't understand!
Death: And you never will. I abandon you. Enjoy your time. All of it.
*click* | "Hi" he said trying to sound as cheerful, upbeat and all that other nonsense that they wanted him to. The voice on the phone was heavy,spackled with accent and when he, at least that what was Mat thought, said hi it sounded strange. "You know, most people want me gone. They curse me and say that without me everything could be possible" Mat tried to reassure him by telling him about the times he too had felt that way, about the times that he felt as Atlas. "It feels as if I don't smile the world will judge me for it. But you get it right, that's why I talk to people like you, to try and show them that they are not alone".
Mat could hear the breathing on phone continue in the same steady rhythm as before. Then the voice spoke again, well actually it laughed first. "I always heard a rumor that the people on here were supposed to be kind, not selfish as you seem to be. But maybe that's why you are still trying to talk to people, even after everything" Mats pulse started to quicken and when he asked what the man meant his throat was dry and felt sore.
"Oh, you know, your friend and the countless people on here, all that you tried to save". He couldn't speak, it was as if he had swallowed glue and his tears stung, finally, quieter than a whisper he squeak out a single word "How?"
"You mean "how do you know all of that?",easy, I was there, lurking in the shadows waiting for what might happen, I'm always watching, you see, I'm what you call the great sleep, the final destination, shitty movies by the way, the last bell toll or ,less poetic, Death" The phone was glued to his ear and he was sweating now. "Why me then?" Mat managed to stammer out, he wanted to ask other things but it was the one thought that flashed through his mind.
"You see, everyone that I asked said that when they talked to you. It made them happy, in their final moments before shaking my hand, they felt as if the world had more people like you then you it would be alright. So for once in my existence I wanted to feel that. I wanted to feel needed and wanted but not in anger or hate. I wanted someone to care about me" he could hear Death sobbing as a child. He dragged his fingers across his head, through his hair and massaged his neck. "Can you die?" he whispered in the phone. The answer arrived in a heartbeat "No".
Then Death continued "Death can't die as it must live on but I might be able to...if someone takes my place". Mat was shocked at the words that streamed from his mouth, yet at peace when he heard himself say,
"Now,I have become Death,the destroyer of worlds". | |
[WP] - A Suicide Hotline Operator slowly realizes the man who called is Death. | Operator: Hello, Suicide Prevention Hotline. My name is Brian. What's your name?
Death: My name isn't important.
Operator: You don't have to tell me your name, but you should know that this call and all details will remain private. Are you sure you'd rather not say?
Death: ...
Operator: Sir, are you still there?
Death: You can call me Max.
Operator: Alright, Max. How old are you?
Death: Brian, are you good at your job?
Operator: I'm sorry?
Death: Do you believe yourself to be adequate at this job?
Operator: I'd like to think so, Max. Are you worried that I can't help you?
Death: No. I suppose I'm worried that you're making *my* job harder than it needs to be.
Operator: I'm not sure I understand.
Death: That's fine, Brian. I don't take it personally.
Operator: Would you like to talk me through why you called tonight?
Death: Sometimes I feel like people are eager to meet me, but then suddenly all contact drops off.
Operator: Are you lonely, Max? Loneliness isn't always easy to cope with.
Death: No, no, I have plenty of company.
Operator: Do you find it difficult to relate to others?
Death: I have no need to relate to others.
Operator: And why do you say that?
Death: My job is my life.
Operator: What is it that you do, Max?
Death: I'm a guide.
Operator: So you lead tours?
Death: In a way, sure.
Operator: Do you enjoy it?
Death: It's all I've ever known.
Operator: So maybe it's feeling stale?
Death: No, it's the same as it's ever been. It's what I was made for.
Operator: You feel you were destined for it, you mean?
Death: Sure, Brian. Sure.
Operator: What exactly is troubling you then?
Death: Some parts of my job require less... pursuit than others. It's the only sense of ease I've ever been familiar with. As of recently, people like you have worked diligently to take that away from me.
Operator: I'm sorry, Max, but what could someone like me have done to make your job harder?
Death: Most people are cowards, Brian. When faced with my... expertise, they try, in vain, to escape it.
Operator: Max, I'm trying very hard to understand what it is you're going through, but you need to help me understand before I can help you.
Death: I don't want your *help*, Brian. Your *help* has only succeeded in taking away the only thing I've grown to love.
Operator: And what is that, Max?
Death: Willing participants. Those who would see my face as rescue instead of catastrophe. Those who would not become filled with terror, howling childish pleas for another chance. Those who would embrace me with tears in their eyes, awaiting peace. Tell me, Brian, why did you choose your job?
Operator: Because I wanted to give back what was once given to me.
Death: You mean to deny others what you once grew too fearful to grasp. I remember the moment you sought me out, Brian. In your eyes were the tears of acceptance, but you, with the help of one of your predecessors, wiped them away in ignorance.
Operator: Max, I must ask you not to grow hostile. I have the responsibility to send help your way in that case.
Death: Don't you remember? You wanted me. We could have been together. Without pretense, without struggle, without the chase. You, myself, and Kelly.
Operator: How...
Death: Yes. She stood beside me, waiting for you. And you led her along. Led me along. Only to continue on pointlessly, keeping others with you. Keeping them from me. And for that, I will never forgive you. I wanted you to hear this. Goodbye, Brian.
Operator: Wait! I don't understand!
Death: And you never will. I abandon you. Enjoy your time. All of it.
*click* | Mary-"Crisis Hotline, my name is Mary what seems to be the problem?"
Jack-"I just want it to end. It's been going on to long and I just can't bear this weight anymore."
Mary- "What's your name?"
Jack-"Jack"
Mary- "Well, Jack tell me more about what's going on?"
Jack- "I've done things, seen things that people aren't supposed to see. I've seen war. I've seen men blown apart. I can't keep doing this anymore."
Mary- "Are you a veteran, Jack?"
Jack- "I guess you could say that."
Mary- "Have you tried getting help from the VA?"
Jack- "I don't think they would want me around."
Mary- "Don't ever give up hope, Jack"
Jack- "How can you say that I've seen what hope can do in this world. Does that bring people back? Does that stop the mothers and wives from crying? The only thing that's left is death. People die. We all die. What's the point? Why should I keep holding on to this burden?"
Mary- "What burden?"
Jack- "My duty. I have to watch them die. I have to be there. I always have to be there. I wonder who will come for me."
Mary- "You don't have to die to end this, we can talk this out. Don't you have anyone that will miss you."
Jack- "I don't think you understand. This isn't something I can walk away from and people would thank me if I were gone. Ever since I started people have been cursing me or trying to cheat me. They've been scorning my existence. I never wanted this! I just had a job. I was good at it too but it looks like it just isn't enough."
Mary- "But people need you. They don't know it and few will thank you but its true. You are important. People need you around."
Jack- "I guess you're right. Thank you. I need to think somethings over but I think you might have helped. It's nice to have someone to talk to." | |
[WP] The king of a xenophobic and isolated kingdom makes the decision to send out scouts and envoys. | “It’s time.”
The king had heard the counsel enough. All of the royal advisors had told him it was time for him to set out. They had shut themselves off to the world once The Great War started. Old alliances fell apart as kingdoms scrambled to cobble together new trusts that would ultimately be broken as well. Bah. He had no need for it. His kingdom was small and far enough away that they posed no real threat and could offer no advantage to any side. Only one envoy had bothered to come asking for allegiance, but he was turned away. Who knew what happened to him.
And now his council was telling him it was time to reach out. Seventeen years had passed since the war had started, and the latest news they had received had come from the envoy fifteen years ago. He had appeared to come from the losing side. When the king refused to join his cause, the envoy hadn’t even bothered to threaten him with retribution. He had just dejectedly left. So for fifteen years, the king sat his small throne and his people had gone on with lives much unchanged from before the war. He was content to live out his days in isolation, keeping only to those in his land.
His son was not of the same mind. He was put on the council at eighteen, a year before the war started. That headstrong boy wanted to fight as soon as they heard wind of the war. Every meeting he advised they take up arms.
“And which side do we join?”
“ANY!”
He was summarily ignored. His consistent badgering to go outside the kingdom became white noise. The council was largely a reflection of the king. Comfortable. Sedentary. The son realized his brashness was interpreted as immaturity and as such anything out of his mouth would be dismissed. He sought to become a wiser councilor and deferred as much as possible, not giving voice to any opinions for a year or so, opting rather just to listen. When the envoy came, he bit his tongue, though he wanted to scream that they should do something, anything.
A years after the envoy left, he finally broached the subject. “My King, perhaps it is time to venture out and gather news.”
“Bah, and for what reason? Why does it matter to us what happens outside of our walls? It is of no importance to us.”
“But surely we should see where things stand?”
“And what if the war still wages? We don’t want to put ourselves at risk. It is folly and I will hear no more of it. We are better off alone.”
His son didn’t bring up leaving the kingdom for two more years. The same response from the king.
“We have no need to know what has happened.”
“But aren’t you at least…curious?”
The king stared at his son. “Curiosity serves no purpose for the maintenance of the kingdom.” He then turned away from his son and asked for an update on the progress of replacing the tapestries in the great hall.
His son began to slowly win over other councilors to his side in private discussions, but year after year, all requests to leave were refused.
Then the famine hit.
“My king. We need to go out. We need to find resources. We need to establish trade. This is not a desire. It is a need. It is time.”
He finally conceded. His son was to lead the party of four. They gathered what provisions they could and set off.
The old maps had the nearest town around three days away on horse. They got there and saw that it was overrun with weeds, a desolate place. They soldiered on to the nearest stronghold a little farther out. After two days, they reached a great keep, or rather, the ruins of one.
“We haven’t come across a single living thing,” the king’s son whispered.
“It’s strange, isn’t it? Not one man, woman or child.”
“No. Not just that. *A single living thing*. No birds chirping. No creatures rooting about in the bush. Nothing.”
The three other men looked at each other and tried to remember if they had seen anything. They had been traveling hard and hadn’t bothered to hunt, simply relying on their stores.
“We should go back…”
“No,” the king’s son said. “No. Let’s head to the nearest kingdom this time. It’s only a couple more days of hard riding away. Keep on the lookout for…anything living.”
They moved. The grim realization fueled their movements. They dared not stop lest they found themselves overcome with fear. They made good time and the silence of their trip just accentuated the fact that they were still the only living beings around.
They arrived. The kingdom before them easily dwarfed their own. The massive walls remained intact. The gates were closed, though there was no one to man them.
“GOOD DAY!” the king’s son cried out. No response. “WE WOULD VERY MUCH WELCOME A MEETING WITH YOUR KING!” Silence responded.
“We’ll just let ourselves in then,” he said to his companions.
The gate was locked. They were unfamiliar with this kingdom so they had no idea of any other entrance.
“I shall climb over and open the gates for you.” The king’s son took a rope and hook to scale the wall.
He climbed up and up, his arms burning from exertion, his mind burning from fear. He got to the top and heaved himself over. He looked down on the other side of the wall into the kingdom. He wept.
“Sir! What do you see?” came the cry from below.
The only response the men got from the king’s son was his body as he flung himself from the wall.
| The voice grew louder as it bellowed out orders, screaming about how the kingdom now needed to make contact. That what we had now was not enough, more things was needed. Contact had to be established, new faces had to be seen even if they were strange and weird, they had to be meet in anyway possible. Everything shaked in it's foundation, but it felt right, as if for the first time the king did the right thing.
The man looked into the mirror with red rimmed eyes and thought that every man is an island, no, a castle. His walls had been high enough to keep every one out but now he needed more, he needed to be more than a lonely king. | |
[WP] The king of a xenophobic and isolated kingdom makes the decision to send out scouts and envoys. | *Excerpts from the diary of **Sergeant Yuri Feodorovichi Samoylov** , 1st Regiment , 2nd Cavalry Division ,5th Shock Army*
**15th of March**
Today , Colonel Polinkov decided to open the last shipment of supplies scheduled for this month . The food section was half empty , and an inquiry was started . It was probably Vanya and his gang , selling it for hookers and booze . No patriotic spirit in that lot.The colonel says he expects the food to last for a week at most.
I wonder how much this Economic Crisis will last . It's been months already , and they never lasted this long. Maybe Grandfather was right , maybe it's our fault , and not the outsiders . If they are real .
New ragulation regarding paper usage was implemented this month - only artillery officers and crucial personnel will get their ration of paper , so i'm down to my last notebook . I'll try make these notes shorter and more to the point .
**17th of March**
The People's Peacekeepers took Vanya and his gang to the holding cells . They are scheduled for trial tomorrow , for stealing that food . I envy them - they will get a nice last meal before the executions .Good thing is , i got their pencils , and a bottle of vodka they were hiding . It's happy hour!
I heard some gunshots at night , but i didn't pay them much attention.The Peacekeepers got trigger-happy most likely
**18th of March**
We've got deployed ! They say that the outsiders have corrupted people in Krasnostav , and we have a riot on our hands. Half of the guys think it's bullshit , just to take our minds of the hunger . The other half , well , they finished polishing their Carbines .
I was sitting close to the door , so i get to ride shotgun. No turret-duty on this one!
**27th of March**
I haven't found time to write in the last week or so , with the revolution and all . The Great Leader is dead they say . I don't know what to believe any more , since the seconds the seat was empty , another one came in . Some Vasili Ivanovich Golovkin, a diplomat they say .
He keeps promising to get us food from the outsiders , and that we will establish contact with them . With him being a diplomat and all , he may just do it . But the border guard keeps getting reinforced every night.
**29th of March**
I signed up for a special program , asking for volunteers to go out and establish contact with the Outsiders . I never believed in them , or the propaganda fed to us about them being evil , so i signed up to satisfy my curiosity . And they gave out a free ration of meat for every signature , so i couldn't resist.
**30th of March**
I've been chosen to lead a small team , and sent to a training camp out in the countryside .They gave us new Avtomats , new uniforms , a new pair of leather boots and briefed us about how to act . We were to scout out the terrain , report back , and ,if conditions seem favourable , escort a diplomat to whatever they used as administrative centers .
We were given classified phrasebooks ( very short , mine was 15 pages , mostly insults , hellos and asking for food) , and ordered not to shoot unless directly endangered .
I even got a new notebook , and some kind of pen who did not need constant refilling with ink !
We were 6 in total , and we were given a new transport vehicle , with extra armor and a small cannon on top . Most of them were city folks like me , except Vitaly , who was a border guard , and Ivan , who was a peasant.
**1st of April**
We exited the country through checkpoint F . One of the few holes in the "Great Patriotic Border Wall" , and strangely, the only one where the wall was pink , instead of the usual grey . It wouldn't have been wise to ask , but i had my theory on why .
For a few hours , this looked like the old country . Then , after riding through fields and a hills , we got to some kind of road . Not a dirt road like the ones in our forest , but more like the Great National Highway back home . We followed it , and soon we laid eyes on what looked like another car . We got closer , but saw it was just a burned-out wreck .
Up to this point , we all imagined the Outside was some kind of utopia , or some kind of hell , as described in our books . But this car was a familiar sight - sure , it was bigger and looked sturdier than our little toad-like People's Car , but it was the same concept .
We decided it was safer to sleep in the armored vehicle , as Ivan spotted a bear earlier.
We all were a bit disapointed , except Vitaly . He was always very cynic , probably because his job implied killing civilians running towards what they hoped was freedom .
**2nd of April**
We kept heading across the road , and got to what must be one of the wonders of their civilization - a huge road , suspended above the ground , with six lanes on each sides.
As soon as we saw it on the horizon , we heard a deafening roar , and saw clouds of smoke pouring from it . We decided to head closer , but found no way of getting on . The radio was picking up all kinds of signals , mostly strange music resembling the sounds of the computer at the People's Science Institute i visited as a child . We decided to try speaking on the radio , but to no avail , so we fired of burst of tracer ammo into the night sky .
**3rd of April**
The tracers were of no effect . A group of young people dressed in skimpy , bright clothes , like the ones used by construction workers ,passed by us . We tried talking to them , but to no avail. We hypothesize they are deaf , as they have wires coming out of their ears . This would make communication difficult .
They stopped under the bridge , and started drinking from a brown bag . One also injected some form of medication in his arm , then promptly passed out . As good natured as he is , Ivan suggested he was sick , and that bringing him to a hospital or healing him ourselves would win us the natives approval .
We got close to them , but we were still ignored .
We suspected their eyesight was poor , and confounded our uniforms with the grey-green background. There may be more phisiological differences , our doctor proposed , as they differed greatly from us . They were short , fat , had dark skin and brightly coloured hair .
When we picked up the sick one , a female threw a bottle at us , but it fell short , and broke . We picked up the smell of alcohol , and suspected our first contact would be with inebriated individuals , so we quickly backed out .
Two of them tried to give chase , but strangely fainted after a few hundred yards . Physical activity does not seem their strong point.
**4th of April**
We returned after at dawn , but there was no-one left . We came to the conclusion that this was insufficient data to bring back home , so we kept going until we reached a small settlement . As our supplies drew low , we decided we should engage in a trade with the local population . Vanya proposed we give out bullets for food , but the cashier ignored us when he found out we did not have any of his currency.
Ivan kept banging at his transparent window , but he ignored us . Ivan pulled his pistol out , and shot the glass , but it was apparently invincible . The owner , visibly frightened , pushed a button which triggered a strange alarm noise , and pulled out his own rifle .
The reason he kept a rifle was beyond me , as he looked civilian , but i suppose their military uniform may be different , as he wore a strange , white dress like garment and a towel on his head .
We quickly ran away , but small , black and white cars not unlike those of the Peoples Peacekeepers gave chase , with howling sirens and bright lights . We cut it through the woods , and decided to shoot them with our cannons and return to the Homeland without further disturbing them
**8th of April** .
We reached the border , and were greeted back like heroes . After the debriefing , however , the general staff quickly sent us away , commenting on how we gave up too easily , and that our action may have endangered the Homeland. Further incursions into the Outside were banned , and it seemed the country returned to the conditions before the revolution .
I am scheduled for trial tomorrow , as are my teammates , but we suppose it is just a show trial , as we did nothing wrong . I am eager to return to my post with the 2nd Cav. Division .
*Sergeant Yuri Feodorovichi Samoylov was found guilty of the following*-**High Treason**
**-Incompetence**
**-Fraternizing with Outsiders**
**-Attempted Robbery**
*And was summarily executed on the 9th of April , by a firing squad of the People's Peacekeepers. All the other members were convicted to a Re-Education Labor Camp of their choice*
**This is my first time posting , and i am not a native english speaker , so any advice/criticism would be welcome!**
**I may have gone a bit off topic ,not having the king part , but i kind of like it !**
EDIT: My formatting sucked | The voice grew louder as it bellowed out orders, screaming about how the kingdom now needed to make contact. That what we had now was not enough, more things was needed. Contact had to be established, new faces had to be seen even if they were strange and weird, they had to be meet in anyway possible. Everything shaked in it's foundation, but it felt right, as if for the first time the king did the right thing.
The man looked into the mirror with red rimmed eyes and thought that every man is an island, no, a castle. His walls had been high enough to keep every one out but now he needed more, he needed to be more than a lonely king. | |
[WP] The king of a xenophobic and isolated kingdom makes the decision to send out scouts and envoys. | A pebble-strewn embankment, rolling slowly down toward Mossy Creek, its snow-dappled southern crest rounded to a crude lookout over churning melt-swollen water. Arlen Hedge-mouse stepped out upon this promontory and took in the uncharted land before him: a stand of white ash and pines grew to the north, wide branches curving up like flames toward the bright, fresh sky of spring; downstream the water rushed through a broken road of brick, the once-patterned pieces divested of their uniform angles and strewn fanlike across the small plain that descended into the sea. Beyond the creek and the pines, just visible through twigs and crosshatching needles, stood the Green Ape.
Arlen shrugged off his rucksack and took the inkpen and tablet from it. He drew what he could see of the ancient monolith from his position, the terrifying tribute to the grandeur of ages past: it was the figure of an ape outstretched to the sky, its skin a cold celadon and speckled with dirt and rust, and standing far taller than the highest tree. At its peak roosted a tribe of eagles. Arlen would bundle such drawings and his notes in a watertight pouch for safekeeping, and share them with King Frances upon his return.
The Island of the Green Ape was small, a tiny fraction of the size of Willowbrook, the mainland from which Arlen had been dispatched. He made his way across the rushing creek with the help of a fallen pine branch, and set to clambering up the embankment on the other side. Surmounting this, the young mouse found himself at a clearing. Further ruined brick mingled here with large, white flagstones and stalwart tufts of wintergrass; such was the open field that ran straight to the massive base of the monument. Ancient stonework rose 200 tails or more straight up, upon which base stood further rises and a cathedral of crenellated, pillared rock. Even the size of this was almost beyond reckoning; perhaps the height of three tall pines stacked up end-on-end. And then there was the ape figure atop it, as tall again as everything below and ancient looking as the sea itself.
Arlen clutched the sword hilt at his waist instinctively. As yet there was no sign of the gods who erected this monolith, although likely his meager weapon would not avail him much in any case. He made another quick sketch and shouldered his pack.
The trek across the wide stones and crumbling brick was difficult. Often the young mouse had to pause and catch his breath, keeping an eye out above for circling eagles. But the birds seemed to pay him no heed. Perhaps it was too far even for them to see. At long last he came to a muddy field strewn with bits of rock. The Green Ape towered over him now, its zenith approaching the very ceiling of the sky.
At the southeastern side of the monument’s base, wind and tide had driven a ramp of earth up to the second level, and Arlen made use of this. The view from the summit was dizzying: the forest which had taken him a day to cross seemed tiny and snubbed, ending abruptly at the southern waterline like a little shrub. Past this and the deep green-blue shimmer of the sea, he could just barely make out the pines and oak trees of Willowbrook in the distance. King Frances was awaiting his report there, no doubt pacing atop the lookout point at Harewood House this minute. Arlen smiled, and turned back to the monolith. Just around the corner, at another section in the wall and partly buried in silt, was a great sheet of metal, brass perhaps, which was inscribed with the runes of a language Arlen did not understand. Much of it was worn off or covered in dirt, but, dropping his pack excitedly beside him, Arlen took his pen and tablet and began to copy what he could make out:
*A NEW COLOSSUS.*
*NOT LIKE THE BRAZEN ----*
*WITH CONQUERING LIMBS ASTRI------*
*...*
*WITH SILENT LIPS. “GIVE ME Y------*
*POOR.*
*YOUR HUDDLED MASSES YEARN-----*
*THE WRETCHED REF---*
*...*
When he had finished, Arlen stepped back and examined the inscription. Somewhere high above, one of the nesting eagles let out a long, mournful cry. | The voice grew louder as it bellowed out orders, screaming about how the kingdom now needed to make contact. That what we had now was not enough, more things was needed. Contact had to be established, new faces had to be seen even if they were strange and weird, they had to be meet in anyway possible. Everything shaked in it's foundation, but it felt right, as if for the first time the king did the right thing.
The man looked into the mirror with red rimmed eyes and thought that every man is an island, no, a castle. His walls had been high enough to keep every one out but now he needed more, he needed to be more than a lonely king. | |
Does your character feel pain, or have they lived their entire life without realizing that they don't? Is your character indestructible or squishy and weak just like the rest of us? Can your character escape, or must they wait for emergency response? | [WP] An otherwise normal person discovers that they cannot die after being involved in a major car crash. | The taste of copper filled my mouth. My skin was white as snow with hands shaking like Parkinson's. I looked over to the side of the car. A scrambled mess of flesh spread across what once was my family. I gagged as my insides fell out from my esophagus. How was I still here? Sirens filled the air as I turned my head one joint at a time as if my bones had suddenly become gears. I was certain I was paralyzed somewhere, but I had to try to move. Arms were no good, though my hands had a mind of their own. I tried my legs. Left one was no good. I placed all bets on the right. Mustering up all my strength, I kicked down the door. The crowd stood in shock. I limped out of the car, feeling certain I was zombified. None of the bystanders said a word. They just stared at me like I was no longer human. The officer prompted me to stay still. I flung my body on the pavement, arms stretched out. The entrails oozed their liquids on the ground beside me. How was I still here? The crowd ran in horror sans the few who couldn't look away from the grief. The officer looked at me. "HOW THE FUCK IS THIS MAN STILL BREATHING?" I couldn't take it. "Shoot me," I moaned to the officer. Without hesitation, he shot. Still alive, I sat with my jaw now unhinged. I didn't ask for this. I knew I'd never see my family again. | I can faintly hear the scrambling of doctors and nurses coming in and out of my room. I can't see. I can slightly move my head around, and I can make quiet grunting noises. I still can't see. One of the nurses noticed that I was starting to wake up and called attention over to one of the doctors. My whole body was numb and felt entrapped in...*casting?* What the hell happened? My thoughts must have came out in my groggy grumbles, as one of the doctors took attention to me.
"It's a miracle you can even speak, Mr. Raymond. You were involved in a serious car accident. Some idiot hit you head on, at least 80+. Had a BAC of almost .1. He only got a couple cuts and bruises, but rest assured he's in custody now."
*80+???* How can anyone stay alive from a hit like that? How can anyone survive a heart transplant? Or brain cancer? Or five suicide attempts? *How the hell am I still alive after all these years?* I am positive I am no Superman, but maybe...I am something *more than human?*
"How....long...b-be like.....th-th-this?" My god I could barely form words.
"Well, Mr. Raymond, about four more surgeries to go and you'll be out of here in as little as six months!"
Four surgeries? *Six months???* I can't afford another medical bill like that! I'm already neck-deep in medical debt, and my insurer dropped me years ago.
"Please doc....put me out....of this Hell.."
"The thing is, Mr. Raymond, is that we already tried that, at the request of your parents, but it didn't work! You don't even need life support to stay alive right now! You should be grateful for having such a superior body structure!" The doctor left the room after that, leaving me alone in this cold, sterile room.
Great, another six months in pure agony, and I can't even off myself? What kind of cruel curse is bestowed upon me? Living forever seems like a cool idea in theory, but in times like this, it makes life a living Hell.
...and I still can't see.
***
-005 |
In case anyone is unclear on what an adult escort service is, it's basically *technically* legal prostitution. | [WP] A person really wants a certain kind of car, and finds that they can afford it if they get an advertisement paint job. When the car arrives, it has an advertisement for an adult escort service. Hijinks ensue. | Jim was a great family man. He lived at 223 Westover Lane, Baltimore, Maryland. There he had a beautiful house in the suburbs, along with a wife, Jennifer, and three kids; Tina, Robert, and Susie. He also had a dog, Pete. He had a great job at a law office in the big city, and made a rather comfortable amount of money. So when he decided to treat himself to a sports car, he was surprised when he saw that he could afford a Lamborghini Aventador for the small add-on of having an advertisement paint job.
When the truck came to his house, it was a joyous occasion. He and his family stood outside proudly, as well as many of the neighbors. Naturally he had told everybody on the street.
Cue his surprise when the car rolled out with a large buxom lady painted on the hood, and the name "EXOTIC ADVENTURES" painted in neon yellow jagged lines above a phone number. The street was quiet.
That was a year ago.
Today, Jim, or J-Qwal as he goes by now, can be found at many of the larger, more extravagant strip clubs downtown. A pimp to many, he has built an empire out the adult escort world. Sadly his wife left him after he offered her a job, "But," he reasoned, "Winners can't be choosers!" He eventually plans to go statewide with his services. And sometimes, early in the morning, Jim goes to his mansion, and enters his garage. There he drinks a bottle of whiskey and admires his Lamborghini Aventador. Not the one with the escort service advertisement. Or the blue one.
He likes 'em black. | While Dan's face slammed against the hood of Sergeant Macready's police cruiser, he caught a glimpse of his jet-black Viper being loaded onto the flatbed tow truck in the parking lot. He began to cry.
Years earlier, the Viper had been languishing in the same tiny dealer's lot for months. Sitting right by his bus stop, Dan couldn't HELP but look at it.
"Nobody's bought it?" he thought, "That's THE American roadster!" It was even the same color as the model Dan had as a poster on his childhood bedroom wall.
The dealer saw Dan every day — the kid always had questions. "How fast can it go?" "How many miles does it have?" Who was the last owner?" Yet the kid would never ask "How much does it cost?"
The dealer slicked back his hair and pounced.
"We both know you couldn't afford this car in a million years, but you *could* earn it. Drive it around every day for three years with my ads on it, and it's yours."
Dan's hand was shaking as he signed the lease. He didn't even read it.
When the car arrived the following week, Dan found himself staring at the words.
> "TEMPORARILY YOURS: WHAT'S UNDER YOUR HOOD?"
"That's a strange name for a dealership," Dan thought. "I guess he does a lot of rentals."
For the first month, Dan couldn't be pulled from the driver's seat. In fact, he had probably had a little too much fun after he got busted twice in the same week for speeding. Still, it didn't take too long for Dan to figure out that he wasn't welcome in certain parts of town anymore. Women in fishnets were throwing bottles at his ride. A brightly dressed man who called himself 'Diamond D' broke into Dan's office with a switchblade — Dan was fired after that. All the while, Dan was always followed on the road by an unmarked, white van and a Ford Crown Victoria with searchlight attachment.
Worse still, after the Viper had its windows broken in, tires slashed and hood grafitti'd with, "STAY AWAY FROM MY BITCHES," in bright, orange paint. The dealer subsequently informed Dan that he was responsible for any and all damages.
"Thirty-five more months," the dealer said as he tapped the paperwork on his desk.
As the year went on, Dan plunged into debt. Jobless and constantly being harassed by men with canes, feather boas and top hats, as well as women with leather shorts, tube tops and stilettos heels, Dan was evicted from his apartment and now slept in the Viper. The dealer wouldn't break his lease. Dan turned to drink.
After finding a certain amount of liquid courage one night, Dan decided to return the Viper. Driving at high speeds, the coupe burst through the dealership’s glass pane walls and into the showroom. Before the airbag knocked him unconscious, Dan caught a glimpse of a room full of scantily clad women screaming at a slightly lower octave than that of the dealer himself.
When Dan awoke, he saw police everywhere and heard the dealer screaming something about “technically legal” as he was led to a paddy wagon. Sergeant Macready proceeded to throw Dan against the hood of his police cruiser as the Viper was loaded onto the flatbed tow truck.
“Third strike, pimp! Looks like you’ll be taking the bus for a loooooong time!”
As Dan heard this, he began to cry. Cry and laugh. |
[WP] It's 300 years after a nuclear war and a survivor finds something out of place... | August 22nd, 2322
Ran into some Skinners today. Killed one, but two others made off with my water supply. I have to go back out West to go find some more. What a shitstorm that will be. It's a long, dangerous path, and teeming with cracked up Skinners out there, but I will certainly die if I don't try. Hopefully I can make it there without too much trouble.
-Hartwell
August 25th, 2332.
I don't know if I'm gonna make it. My body has just given up on me. I made it just outside New Seattle before I slipped and banged my leg up pretty good. Might not be able to go anymore. Just pushing this pencil to paper hurts. This might be it for me.
-Hartwell
August 26th, 2332.
I managed to make my way to an old abandoned house on the outskirts of the Wall. I found some drops left in the water tank, but with this leg infected, I don't have much time.
The previous owners of this house didn't have much, but they did have a library. Books piled to the ceiling, books written by great men. I'm happy at least these are untouched by those lowlife, illiterate Skinners.
The best of all was a collection of encyclopedias, in alphabetical order. I read through them all, soaking in the past. A better time, before all this. I hope what comes after death is like that.
To whoever may find this, I pass on only one message: Knowledge should be revered, not belittled like it is today. Embrace knowledge, share it, and with that comes true power.
-Hartwell
september 1, 2332
i found some old shit broken down house. no water or crystal in here, only a bunch of books and some dead guy in a chair. a lotta books, put up like a to z. but this dead asshole put it wrong. he thought it was j then k. i fixed it up though.
-dez.
| I looked into the distance as I removed the sunglasses from my face. The sun shot into my eyes like a bullet piercing my skin.
Ever since the nuclear war hundreds of years ago the sun is so much stronger than it was before, and people thought global warming was going to do it, little did they know the real destructive capabilities of humans.
Scavenging the barren wasteland that was once the Amazon jungle has become the norm. Generally mice and other vermin are the only beings alive.
But today something caught my eye, in the distance I see a shimmer in the sun line.
Blinding I start sprinting at the strange sight.
As I reach closer I notice it is a quiet small object on the ground.
As I reach only a few steps away from it I begin to approach with caution.
To my shock and bewilderment i realise what it is.
A Mars bar.
| |
[WP] It's 300 years after a nuclear war and a survivor finds something out of place... | August 22nd, 2322
Ran into some Skinners today. Killed one, but two others made off with my water supply. I have to go back out West to go find some more. What a shitstorm that will be. It's a long, dangerous path, and teeming with cracked up Skinners out there, but I will certainly die if I don't try. Hopefully I can make it there without too much trouble.
-Hartwell
August 25th, 2332.
I don't know if I'm gonna make it. My body has just given up on me. I made it just outside New Seattle before I slipped and banged my leg up pretty good. Might not be able to go anymore. Just pushing this pencil to paper hurts. This might be it for me.
-Hartwell
August 26th, 2332.
I managed to make my way to an old abandoned house on the outskirts of the Wall. I found some drops left in the water tank, but with this leg infected, I don't have much time.
The previous owners of this house didn't have much, but they did have a library. Books piled to the ceiling, books written by great men. I'm happy at least these are untouched by those lowlife, illiterate Skinners.
The best of all was a collection of encyclopedias, in alphabetical order. I read through them all, soaking in the past. A better time, before all this. I hope what comes after death is like that.
To whoever may find this, I pass on only one message: Knowledge should be revered, not belittled like it is today. Embrace knowledge, share it, and with that comes true power.
-Hartwell
september 1, 2332
i found some old shit broken down house. no water or crystal in here, only a bunch of books and some dead guy in a chair. a lotta books, put up like a to z. but this dead asshole put it wrong. he thought it was j then k. i fixed it up though.
-dez.
| The darkness clings to me like my tattered clothing. It's always dark here, even when the sun rises, everything is shrouded in that terrible blackness. I can't escape it. None of us can. It's that kind of sticky blackness too, the one that makes everything around you sticky and stagnant, like somebody's scooped out a thousand jars of molasses and smeared the entire sky with the stuff...I've never seen a blue sky, not once, no one has around here. They say the sky hasn't been blue in 300 years. That's all I want though, to look at the bright blue sky! Can you imagine that? A *blue* sky? It just doesn't make sense...Nothing is naturally bright right? That can't be natural. Everything around here is sorted of hosed down in the same brown overtone...We all melt into everything. I feel it does well to show off our insignificance. Sometimes, I like to pretend that the drones that fly over head can see me waving, just sometimes, though. I mean it's good to feel noticed sometimes, even if it's just for a while, even if it's all made up...Hey, at least you're listening to me right? But something's off about you...the clothes, that intrigued expression...Are you sure you're from around here?
........No?....Well tell me stranger, what does your sky look like? | |
[WP] You figure out how to stop time for everyone but yourself. You don't know how to start it again. | "Son of a bitch. I've really done it this time."
Honestly I hadn't even tried to stop time. I mean, who wouldn't want to? To punch that asshole coworker in the face while he just sat there staring straight ahead, not aware that I was beating the shit out of him with that pink coffee mug he gave me, that son of a bitch knew I didn't like pink or coffee, he just did it to be a...
Sorry, I got a little off topic there. What I was saying is that while I was at work I got an email. It was in my spam folder, I know, I know, who checks spam? Sorry I like to see the "Doctors Hate Him!" Banner ads across the top, it's humorous and sometimes I forward them to Grace, the gullible secretary. But this time it was different. The subject line said
435Undefined
So I clicked on it, sorry. I mean wouldn't you? I hardly get email as it is, I just wanted to see what the damn thing was. Well, all it was, was a little box with two options. One said, 'Stop Time', the other said 'Connect To Admin'. Just out of curiosity I clicked on the 'Stop Time' button. Fuck me right? I mean wouldn't you? You know what they say, curiosity killed the cat, or in my case, curiosity stopped everyone on the planet for 36 years. Or was it 37? Oh hell, I don't know, I stopped caring after the first two. The novelty wears off pretty quickly. Theres only so many things you can do after a while.
I mean, think about it. What would you do that would keep you entertained for 37 years? I mean thank god for Netflix and YouTube, I would have killed myself long ago if the Internet didn't work. I mean sure there was no *new* content but still, theres some quality shit on YouTube. *Breaking Bad* was good, I finally finished watching the second year time stopped. Watched *Lost* after that, that was good. I read a lot too. Finally read *Enders Game*, maybe Austin will shut up now. I've read basically every book I ever wanted to (and didn't want too, I'm looking at you Twilight), and every TV show I ever wanted to.
Sometimes I talk with the people frozen in time. I'll set them up and play poker or chess or some other thing like that. I always win. Sometimes I'll have long conversations with them. The clerk behind Gamestop always had a good game to recommend. The pretty brunette with the scar on her mouth outside of McDonalds was always fun to talk to. But most of all, Darcy was the best to talk to. I mean she was my wife after all. The bodies were easy to move around, so I took Darcy on lots of dates. Our first date was at the movies, we saw Catching Fire. Darcy loved it, I thought it was alright but I loved Jennifer Lawrence. After the movies I took her to the park where I had my first kiss. We sat on the beach and looked out at the ocean. I loved looking out at the ocean, It was a reminder of how the world used to be. The waves still went in and out, It was just everything living that stopped. Darcy loved it at the park too. She and I had our first kiss there too. She told me she loved me and she gave me her heart. It had a heart on it with a place for a picture. I threw out the other picture and put one of hers in the heart. Over 37 years she hasn't aged a bit. Not even changed her facial expression, except for when I move her face around so we can talk and kiss. I on the other hand have aged, older than I ever thought I would be. My hands are wrinkly, my hair is either fallen out or become gray, the beard I began last year reaches my chest. I don't move as quickly as I used to. But that's fine. Sometimes I go back to my office, and look around. Everyone still where they were when I clicked that email.
As I walk by Grace at the front of the Office I think I see movement where my desk used to be. I walk over and look at the empty spot is where my desk was.
"What in the fuck, where the hell is my desk."
And that's when I saw him.
| It was embarrassing being at the gym. I was so fat and gross-looking, and I felt like everyone was sneaking looks at me...judging me. I tried to focus, pushed the start button on my new PulseMinder wrist strap, and started up the treadmill. I was still trying to avoid thinking about the other people around me, but you can only go so long without noticing that no one else in the room is moving at all. It was stop motion. A man bench pressing a weight was halfway to an erect position...and absolutely still. The girl on the treadmill next to me was in a running stance with one leg slightly above the mat...not moving but perfectly balanced. I saw the same things everywhere I looked. It took me awhile to wonder if I might have stopped time for all of these people when I started my wrist band. Stepping carefully off the treadmill, I clicked it off expecting everyone to start up again. Nothing. I started it again. Nothing. I tried getting back on the treadmill to start the wrist band and treadmill in the same order I had before. Still no result. My heart was pounding with anxiety. What had I done and how could I undo it? But then it occurred to me. I could work out for weeks while they were frozen in time, and then when I did figure out how to wake them up again I'd look great and feel fit and they would be amazed. Not bad, I thought, and started the treadmill once more to continue my workout. | |
[WP] You figure out how to stop time for everyone but yourself. You don't know how to start it again. | How long had it been? Months? Seconds? Time was now only relative to how much I accomplish; how much I affect other things. Completed tasks are the only way to know time has passed. The only way for me to tell for certain at least.
The house had been still. I’d been sitting on my couch, a pizza in the oven. Bryan in his study, editing a client’s work. I couldn’t hear him; I was reading, in my own world, and he liked to work in silence.
I would know the pizza was finished when I smelled it. It’s what I always did. And as engrossing a novel it was, I still knew that Page 167 (as it declared in the top left-hand corner) was too far along. I'd started at Page 90. The pizza should’ve been close to burning at that point.
I leapt up, worrying as I did so that my disturbance in the air would cause the smell of smoky crust to hit my nose. It didn’t. I could feel the heat from the oven as I looked through the door. The pizza wasn’t nearly finished. In the middle grated cheese lay, hardly melted.
I checked the clock. 6:12. Huh. I’d have sworn it was closer to 7:00. It was already dark out when I put the pizza in at 6:05. How did I read so much that fast?
I shut the door and went to tell Bryan the pizza might not be finished before his meeting.
“Bryan?” I called out as I strode through the condominium. “You might have to wait ‘til after your meeting for dinner-“
He was in his room, at the computer. Something looked funny about him. Usually he was full of so much energy it annoyed me; constantly jumping up when I came into a room or needlessly talking. But he hadn’t turned around. His finger poised above the keyboard.
“Bryan?” I said walking towards him. “Are you ignoring me?” I said, trying to sound playful. The place was quiet. Usually the kids on our block were outside making a racket. Nothing seemed to stir.
“What’s with you?” I asked, and shook his shoulder. He tottered. Swayed softly like a piece of pottery.
Didn’t blink. No response. His hand hit the keys as he swayed softly too and fro.
Terror.
“Bryan?!” I screamed and shook him, hard. I kissed his lips, only to feel nothing in return. I’d slapped him, hit him, begged him to stop fooling around. When I ran for my phone I couldn’t call 911. I couldn’t call anybody.
The time on my cell read 6:12.
I ran outside. Tripped on the concrete. Picking myself up, I noticed a man about fifty feet ahead.
“Hey!” I shouted, running towards him. “Help me! Please!”
A sob escaped my throat. The man was mid-stride. One food hovered above the pavement, caught in the streetlight, waiting to be placed down. In front of him, a small white dog was on a leash, its head bent, sniffing a spot on the ground.
Neither moved.
I put my face in my hands as I turned around. Sobs broke through my fingers. From here I could see the kids in the grass area. Two boys playing catch, the ball hanging between them in the moonlight. Jumping from the branch of a tree was a young girl, elation on her face, her shirt turned up slightly at the bottom, revealing a pale stomach. Seconds had to have passed but she never touched the ground.
I couldn’t hear the shout she was obviously emitting. Couldn’t hear the cars on the roads nearby. No breeze stirred the loud, crunchy fall leaves.
I blacked out.
When I came to, it was still dark. Or maybe it was the next night. Or some other night altogether. I’d never know; my phone still read October 25th, 6:12. It still does.
I’d checked on Bryan. He hadn’t moved. Fearing the worst, my hand checked his chest for a heartbeat. There was none. What had once been the lullaby to all my nights was now silent. But his skin was still warm.
I blew into his eyes to force a blink, cried on him, tried to get him aroused. Nothing worked. I then thought of my family, of the fact that maybe one of them was doing the same thing I was. An hour’s drive told me I was wrong. Cars littered the roads, drivers inside, waiting to turn, waiting for a light that would never again turn green, partners stuck in mid-conversation; dark leaves falling off oats, caught in the street lamps, sticking to my windshield as I drove through them, never to hit the ground.
When I reached their house, I’d found my family at the table, in the middle of a meal of half-chewed potatoes and roast whose steam hung in tendrils in the air. In the bathroom stood my brother, hips jutted out, a stream of piss hitting the water. But there was no splash; no mortified look and shout of outrage from the teenager.
On my way back home, I hit a car. Reversed and hit it again, and again. Then clipped a few more on my way home just to hear something break.
I lost all sense of time. The moon never sank. The sun never rose. Occasionally I’d venture out, searching for movement, listening for sounds other than my own, endlessly scanning the radio. I’d seen candles caught mid-flicker; sports fans glued to a game that never reached fourth quarter; dogs caught mid-jump in play.
It didn’t take long to see that if I touched things I could affect them, but nothing moved on its own. I wheeled Bryan, still sitting, from his study to our room. I tipped him on to the bed. Worked up a sweat moving his head up to the pillow and unbending his knees. I cuddle him and cry sometimes. Tell him about my night (it’s always night now), about the fish that don’t move at the aquarium and the funny positions I’ve caught people in while out looking for someone like me. He always looks slightly bored. No matter what I try I still haven’t been able to change his expression.
I'm terribly lonely.
I only know how much time has passed by what I’ve done. Eight cars have run out of gas. I’ve visited my family only once more. At first it had went alright; I was happy to see other people I recognized. People who at one point had loved me. But no one laughed at my corny jokes about what was taking Beau so long in the bathroom. No one protested when I ate the food off their plate. I’d mistakenly tried to move them, to put them into poses more conducive to conversation, and only ended up depressing myself. I never went back.
And here I am again, stiffly pulling Bryan’s arm around me, playing conversations between us in my head. Hearing the sound of his voice in my memories. His skin is still warm. The oven is still warm, also, in the kitchen. I never took out the pizza. The cheese hasn’t melted.
Things don’t move but I can move things. I still use the bathroom; I still need to eat; my systems still work. People have no pulse but their skin is still warm.
Somehow time stopped. I tried to re-create everything. I re-read the book’s pages up to 167; checked on the pizza; called out to Bryan, who I had spent a considerable amount of time getting back in the study. I screamed; became giddy; shouted at gods I’d never believed in. The only rational discourse I could come to was that I was stuck in a moment. Time had stopped, yet I had continued. Trapped in the moment between peoples’ heartbeats.
The stress had made me physically ill 17 times. I wondered if there was something I hadn’t done that I should have, or something that I had done and was being punished for. No enlightenment came; no breath of wisdom stirred.
But I can move pen across paper. I can write out an explanation of what happened to me. Of my purgatory. Of how I’d looked and found no one; screamed and was not heard. And if this moment continues for them as if no time has passed, I hope Bryan understands why he lays in the bed beside me instead of editing as he was a moment before. I hope he believes the words I wrote out for him.
The drugstore was stocked on sleeping pills and cheap wine. I took a bottle of both and slept.
| It was embarrassing being at the gym. I was so fat and gross-looking, and I felt like everyone was sneaking looks at me...judging me. I tried to focus, pushed the start button on my new PulseMinder wrist strap, and started up the treadmill. I was still trying to avoid thinking about the other people around me, but you can only go so long without noticing that no one else in the room is moving at all. It was stop motion. A man bench pressing a weight was halfway to an erect position...and absolutely still. The girl on the treadmill next to me was in a running stance with one leg slightly above the mat...not moving but perfectly balanced. I saw the same things everywhere I looked. It took me awhile to wonder if I might have stopped time for all of these people when I started my wrist band. Stepping carefully off the treadmill, I clicked it off expecting everyone to start up again. Nothing. I started it again. Nothing. I tried getting back on the treadmill to start the wrist band and treadmill in the same order I had before. Still no result. My heart was pounding with anxiety. What had I done and how could I undo it? But then it occurred to me. I could work out for weeks while they were frozen in time, and then when I did figure out how to wake them up again I'd look great and feel fit and they would be amazed. Not bad, I thought, and started the treadmill once more to continue my workout. | |
[WP] You figure out how to stop time for everyone but yourself. You don't know how to start it again. | How long had it been? Months? Seconds? Time was now only relative to how much I accomplish; how much I affect other things. Completed tasks are the only way to know time has passed. The only way for me to tell for certain at least.
The house had been still. I’d been sitting on my couch, a pizza in the oven. Bryan in his study, editing a client’s work. I couldn’t hear him; I was reading, in my own world, and he liked to work in silence.
I would know the pizza was finished when I smelled it. It’s what I always did. And as engrossing a novel it was, I still knew that Page 167 (as it declared in the top left-hand corner) was too far along. I'd started at Page 90. The pizza should’ve been close to burning at that point.
I leapt up, worrying as I did so that my disturbance in the air would cause the smell of smoky crust to hit my nose. It didn’t. I could feel the heat from the oven as I looked through the door. The pizza wasn’t nearly finished. In the middle grated cheese lay, hardly melted.
I checked the clock. 6:12. Huh. I’d have sworn it was closer to 7:00. It was already dark out when I put the pizza in at 6:05. How did I read so much that fast?
I shut the door and went to tell Bryan the pizza might not be finished before his meeting.
“Bryan?” I called out as I strode through the condominium. “You might have to wait ‘til after your meeting for dinner-“
He was in his room, at the computer. Something looked funny about him. Usually he was full of so much energy it annoyed me; constantly jumping up when I came into a room or needlessly talking. But he hadn’t turned around. His finger poised above the keyboard.
“Bryan?” I said walking towards him. “Are you ignoring me?” I said, trying to sound playful. The place was quiet. Usually the kids on our block were outside making a racket. Nothing seemed to stir.
“What’s with you?” I asked, and shook his shoulder. He tottered. Swayed softly like a piece of pottery.
Didn’t blink. No response. His hand hit the keys as he swayed softly too and fro.
Terror.
“Bryan?!” I screamed and shook him, hard. I kissed his lips, only to feel nothing in return. I’d slapped him, hit him, begged him to stop fooling around. When I ran for my phone I couldn’t call 911. I couldn’t call anybody.
The time on my cell read 6:12.
I ran outside. Tripped on the concrete. Picking myself up, I noticed a man about fifty feet ahead.
“Hey!” I shouted, running towards him. “Help me! Please!”
A sob escaped my throat. The man was mid-stride. One food hovered above the pavement, caught in the streetlight, waiting to be placed down. In front of him, a small white dog was on a leash, its head bent, sniffing a spot on the ground.
Neither moved.
I put my face in my hands as I turned around. Sobs broke through my fingers. From here I could see the kids in the grass area. Two boys playing catch, the ball hanging between them in the moonlight. Jumping from the branch of a tree was a young girl, elation on her face, her shirt turned up slightly at the bottom, revealing a pale stomach. Seconds had to have passed but she never touched the ground.
I couldn’t hear the shout she was obviously emitting. Couldn’t hear the cars on the roads nearby. No breeze stirred the loud, crunchy fall leaves.
I blacked out.
When I came to, it was still dark. Or maybe it was the next night. Or some other night altogether. I’d never know; my phone still read October 25th, 6:12. It still does.
I’d checked on Bryan. He hadn’t moved. Fearing the worst, my hand checked his chest for a heartbeat. There was none. What had once been the lullaby to all my nights was now silent. But his skin was still warm.
I blew into his eyes to force a blink, cried on him, tried to get him aroused. Nothing worked. I then thought of my family, of the fact that maybe one of them was doing the same thing I was. An hour’s drive told me I was wrong. Cars littered the roads, drivers inside, waiting to turn, waiting for a light that would never again turn green, partners stuck in mid-conversation; dark leaves falling off oats, caught in the street lamps, sticking to my windshield as I drove through them, never to hit the ground.
When I reached their house, I’d found my family at the table, in the middle of a meal of half-chewed potatoes and roast whose steam hung in tendrils in the air. In the bathroom stood my brother, hips jutted out, a stream of piss hitting the water. But there was no splash; no mortified look and shout of outrage from the teenager.
On my way back home, I hit a car. Reversed and hit it again, and again. Then clipped a few more on my way home just to hear something break.
I lost all sense of time. The moon never sank. The sun never rose. Occasionally I’d venture out, searching for movement, listening for sounds other than my own, endlessly scanning the radio. I’d seen candles caught mid-flicker; sports fans glued to a game that never reached fourth quarter; dogs caught mid-jump in play.
It didn’t take long to see that if I touched things I could affect them, but nothing moved on its own. I wheeled Bryan, still sitting, from his study to our room. I tipped him on to the bed. Worked up a sweat moving his head up to the pillow and unbending his knees. I cuddle him and cry sometimes. Tell him about my night (it’s always night now), about the fish that don’t move at the aquarium and the funny positions I’ve caught people in while out looking for someone like me. He always looks slightly bored. No matter what I try I still haven’t been able to change his expression.
I'm terribly lonely.
I only know how much time has passed by what I’ve done. Eight cars have run out of gas. I’ve visited my family only once more. At first it had went alright; I was happy to see other people I recognized. People who at one point had loved me. But no one laughed at my corny jokes about what was taking Beau so long in the bathroom. No one protested when I ate the food off their plate. I’d mistakenly tried to move them, to put them into poses more conducive to conversation, and only ended up depressing myself. I never went back.
And here I am again, stiffly pulling Bryan’s arm around me, playing conversations between us in my head. Hearing the sound of his voice in my memories. His skin is still warm. The oven is still warm, also, in the kitchen. I never took out the pizza. The cheese hasn’t melted.
Things don’t move but I can move things. I still use the bathroom; I still need to eat; my systems still work. People have no pulse but their skin is still warm.
Somehow time stopped. I tried to re-create everything. I re-read the book’s pages up to 167; checked on the pizza; called out to Bryan, who I had spent a considerable amount of time getting back in the study. I screamed; became giddy; shouted at gods I’d never believed in. The only rational discourse I could come to was that I was stuck in a moment. Time had stopped, yet I had continued. Trapped in the moment between peoples’ heartbeats.
The stress had made me physically ill 17 times. I wondered if there was something I hadn’t done that I should have, or something that I had done and was being punished for. No enlightenment came; no breath of wisdom stirred.
But I can move pen across paper. I can write out an explanation of what happened to me. Of my purgatory. Of how I’d looked and found no one; screamed and was not heard. And if this moment continues for them as if no time has passed, I hope Bryan understands why he lays in the bed beside me instead of editing as he was a moment before. I hope he believes the words I wrote out for him.
The drugstore was stocked on sleeping pills and cheap wine. I took a bottle of both and slept.
| "Son of a bitch. I've really done it this time."
Honestly I hadn't even tried to stop time. I mean, who wouldn't want to? To punch that asshole coworker in the face while he just sat there staring straight ahead, not aware that I was beating the shit out of him with that pink coffee mug he gave me, that son of a bitch knew I didn't like pink or coffee, he just did it to be a...
Sorry, I got a little off topic there. What I was saying is that while I was at work I got an email. It was in my spam folder, I know, I know, who checks spam? Sorry I like to see the "Doctors Hate Him!" Banner ads across the top, it's humorous and sometimes I forward them to Grace, the gullible secretary. But this time it was different. The subject line said
435Undefined
So I clicked on it, sorry. I mean wouldn't you? I hardly get email as it is, I just wanted to see what the damn thing was. Well, all it was, was a little box with two options. One said, 'Stop Time', the other said 'Connect To Admin'. Just out of curiosity I clicked on the 'Stop Time' button. Fuck me right? I mean wouldn't you? You know what they say, curiosity killed the cat, or in my case, curiosity stopped everyone on the planet for 36 years. Or was it 37? Oh hell, I don't know, I stopped caring after the first two. The novelty wears off pretty quickly. Theres only so many things you can do after a while.
I mean, think about it. What would you do that would keep you entertained for 37 years? I mean thank god for Netflix and YouTube, I would have killed myself long ago if the Internet didn't work. I mean sure there was no *new* content but still, theres some quality shit on YouTube. *Breaking Bad* was good, I finally finished watching the second year time stopped. Watched *Lost* after that, that was good. I read a lot too. Finally read *Enders Game*, maybe Austin will shut up now. I've read basically every book I ever wanted to (and didn't want too, I'm looking at you Twilight), and every TV show I ever wanted to.
Sometimes I talk with the people frozen in time. I'll set them up and play poker or chess or some other thing like that. I always win. Sometimes I'll have long conversations with them. The clerk behind Gamestop always had a good game to recommend. The pretty brunette with the scar on her mouth outside of McDonalds was always fun to talk to. But most of all, Darcy was the best to talk to. I mean she was my wife after all. The bodies were easy to move around, so I took Darcy on lots of dates. Our first date was at the movies, we saw Catching Fire. Darcy loved it, I thought it was alright but I loved Jennifer Lawrence. After the movies I took her to the park where I had my first kiss. We sat on the beach and looked out at the ocean. I loved looking out at the ocean, It was a reminder of how the world used to be. The waves still went in and out, It was just everything living that stopped. Darcy loved it at the park too. She and I had our first kiss there too. She told me she loved me and she gave me her heart. It had a heart on it with a place for a picture. I threw out the other picture and put one of hers in the heart. Over 37 years she hasn't aged a bit. Not even changed her facial expression, except for when I move her face around so we can talk and kiss. I on the other hand have aged, older than I ever thought I would be. My hands are wrinkly, my hair is either fallen out or become gray, the beard I began last year reaches my chest. I don't move as quickly as I used to. But that's fine. Sometimes I go back to my office, and look around. Everyone still where they were when I clicked that email.
As I walk by Grace at the front of the Office I think I see movement where my desk used to be. I walk over and look at the empty spot is where my desk was.
"What in the fuck, where the hell is my desk."
And that's when I saw him.
| |
Inspired by [this comment](http://www.reddit.com/r/gaming/comments/1utc3a/i_know_im_one_behind_but_im_still_excited/celpedw) and the resulting child comments | [WP] Write about a modern video game/movie/book as if it were a Greek myth or an epic poem | Gather round children, for I must tell you the tale of a great man, as we remember him from the scriptures of old. Now we know much about the life of this man, and we know that he was for a long time, an ordinary man like all of you will grow up to be. He had a wonderful family, a challenging profession, but most of all he was in love. Now children, we know from the scriptures that he wasn’t a violent man, but remember this, for their may come a time when you must pass the knowledge on to your children. Great men are not born. There comes a point in each man’s life when he is thrown into the furnace of love, to be melted down and reformed, turned into something different entirely. Most men emerge broken down husks of their former selves, but a select few, only those great enough will re-emerge glowing with pure radiance, brighter than the combined light of a million suns. These are the truly great men, the ones who face the challenges, the trials and tribulations of the world, and all its inhabitants, only to emerge victorious. For this man would never give up after his love was taken from him. He ventured on forever, and will continue for eternity, until he checks every last castle and finally rescue’s his princess. | and then sora took the bladed key, leaping into the fray to rescue his companions
edit: sorry its bad |
Inspired by [this comment](http://www.reddit.com/r/gaming/comments/1utc3a/i_know_im_one_behind_but_im_still_excited/celpedw) and the resulting child comments | [WP] Write about a modern video game/movie/book as if it were a Greek myth or an epic poem | LO, laud and lament the prowess and passing of Heroes
Of princesses of light and beauty in time lost.
Hear, loyal and traitor! Hear, O mighty and weak
Of the battles these did wage against the dark
Against foes strong in will and strong of arm!
Beseech did princesses of old erst the Heroes lay
Alone in darkness until awakened by ladies' cry.
Trials upon tribulations faced a hero indeed, he!
The Hero of Time praised in time past and time to come
Rises to turn his old eyes upon a new world
For lady and land he travels finding sword and hook,
Shield and lantern! Finding staff and boomerang,
Slingshot and bottles! For lady and land he goes
Temple to temple, forest to forest and when enemy be found
Charges he into the fray. Cries of rage and determination
His only speech!
Went forth did the Hero into the the dawning
And into the lair of the beast, the betrayer, Ganondorf,
Feared. Name whispered only among the bravest.
A night terror known to misbehaving children by
Their parents' mouths.
Combat! They did clash! Light and sword! The hero's shield
Like a bell rang as blow and tiring blow pressed
Further into despair! Woe! Woe to all living! Woe to the Hero!
Woe to the princess! Woe to our land of Hyrule and worlds beyond!
Responsibility and fatigue did press upon him.
His lady's face, the companions of childhood, comrades
In arms haunt his sight as it fades, but look!
See! A weakness! The hero, tables turning, slashed
With sword and did send the light back to the Betrayer!
Surging power did renew him! Purpose rushed to fill the
Hopeless void! Over and again light and lightning flashed!
Finally, once more approaching strength's end an opening!
A leap and the Hero plunged his sword deep into the body
Of Ganondorf. For Lady and Land a victory struck!
Sorry, this got a little longer than I meant for it to and I'm going to stop there. | and then sora took the bladed key, leaping into the fray to rescue his companions
edit: sorry its bad |
Inspired by [this comment](http://www.reddit.com/r/gaming/comments/1utc3a/i_know_im_one_behind_but_im_still_excited/celpedw) and the resulting child comments | [WP] Write about a modern video game/movie/book as if it were a Greek myth or an epic poem | (I went more for biblical, because that's where my head's been at recently in terms of old-timey writing)
Chapter I: Verse I, Testament of the New Lands
In the midst of the great tundra of the capital were the doors of that sacred place out from which our ancestors did venture. And when the doors of that sacred place were opened there ventured he that was called The Father and released unto the wasteland his progeny by no intention of his own. And when the father released his progeny, the progeny was a boy and was scared, but did many deeds of strength. And upon entry unto the wasteland, the progeny did stray and in his wake did change unto greatness many things in his time. And among those great many things that were changed by he, the progeny of The Father was the water of the land, which was cleansed and purified by the sacrifice of the progeny. And when you shall ask, "what shall I call this progeny of The Father," you shall call him "The Lone Wanderer." | and then sora took the bladed key, leaping into the fray to rescue his companions
edit: sorry its bad |
Inspired by [this comment](http://www.reddit.com/r/gaming/comments/1utc3a/i_know_im_one_behind_but_im_still_excited/celpedw) and the resulting child comments | [WP] Write about a modern video game/movie/book as if it were a Greek myth or an epic poem | A boy of the forest by fate chosen
A kingdom's future from darkness to save
Armed with sword and garbed simply in green
Set out in earnest many trials to brave.
Relics he uncovered, treasures obtained.
Undeterred by fire, water, or shadow
Through dungeons various boldly he passed
And to monsters killing strokes did bestow.
Unvanquished with sages' blessing he fought
And at last beyond reach evil he sealed.
Time itself subverted, back to youth sent
Unthanked he lived, deeds ever unrevealed. | and then sora took the bladed key, leaping into the fray to rescue his companions
edit: sorry its bad |
Inspired by [this comment](http://www.reddit.com/r/gaming/comments/1utc3a/i_know_im_one_behind_but_im_still_excited/celpedw) and the resulting child comments | [WP] Write about a modern video game/movie/book as if it were a Greek myth or an epic poem | LO, laud and lament the prowess and passing of Heroes
Of princesses of light and beauty in time lost.
Hear, loyal and traitor! Hear, O mighty and weak
Of the battles these did wage against the dark
Against foes strong in will and strong of arm!
Beseech did princesses of old erst the Heroes lay
Alone in darkness until awakened by ladies' cry.
Trials upon tribulations faced a hero indeed, he!
The Hero of Time praised in time past and time to come
Rises to turn his old eyes upon a new world
For lady and land he travels finding sword and hook,
Shield and lantern! Finding staff and boomerang,
Slingshot and bottles! For lady and land he goes
Temple to temple, forest to forest and when enemy be found
Charges he into the fray. Cries of rage and determination
His only speech!
Went forth did the Hero into the the dawning
And into the lair of the beast, the betrayer, Ganondorf,
Feared. Name whispered only among the bravest.
A night terror known to misbehaving children by
Their parents' mouths.
Combat! They did clash! Light and sword! The hero's shield
Like a bell rang as blow and tiring blow pressed
Further into despair! Woe! Woe to all living! Woe to the Hero!
Woe to the princess! Woe to our land of Hyrule and worlds beyond!
Responsibility and fatigue did press upon him.
His lady's face, the companions of childhood, comrades
In arms haunt his sight as it fades, but look!
See! A weakness! The hero, tables turning, slashed
With sword and did send the light back to the Betrayer!
Surging power did renew him! Purpose rushed to fill the
Hopeless void! Over and again light and lightning flashed!
Finally, once more approaching strength's end an opening!
A leap and the Hero plunged his sword deep into the body
Of Ganondorf. For Lady and Land a victory struck!
Sorry, this got a little longer than I meant for it to and I'm going to stop there. | Gather round children, for I must tell you the tale of a great man, as we remember him from the scriptures of old. Now we know much about the life of this man, and we know that he was for a long time, an ordinary man like all of you will grow up to be. He had a wonderful family, a challenging profession, but most of all he was in love. Now children, we know from the scriptures that he wasn’t a violent man, but remember this, for their may come a time when you must pass the knowledge on to your children. Great men are not born. There comes a point in each man’s life when he is thrown into the furnace of love, to be melted down and reformed, turned into something different entirely. Most men emerge broken down husks of their former selves, but a select few, only those great enough will re-emerge glowing with pure radiance, brighter than the combined light of a million suns. These are the truly great men, the ones who face the challenges, the trials and tribulations of the world, and all its inhabitants, only to emerge victorious. For this man would never give up after his love was taken from him. He ventured on forever, and will continue for eternity, until he checks every last castle and finally rescue’s his princess. |
Inspired by [this comment](http://www.reddit.com/r/gaming/comments/1utc3a/i_know_im_one_behind_but_im_still_excited/celpedw) and the resulting child comments | [WP] Write about a modern video game/movie/book as if it were a Greek myth or an epic poem | (I went more for biblical, because that's where my head's been at recently in terms of old-timey writing)
Chapter I: Verse I, Testament of the New Lands
In the midst of the great tundra of the capital were the doors of that sacred place out from which our ancestors did venture. And when the doors of that sacred place were opened there ventured he that was called The Father and released unto the wasteland his progeny by no intention of his own. And when the father released his progeny, the progeny was a boy and was scared, but did many deeds of strength. And upon entry unto the wasteland, the progeny did stray and in his wake did change unto greatness many things in his time. And among those great many things that were changed by he, the progeny of The Father was the water of the land, which was cleansed and purified by the sacrifice of the progeny. And when you shall ask, "what shall I call this progeny of The Father," you shall call him "The Lone Wanderer." | Gather round children, for I must tell you the tale of a great man, as we remember him from the scriptures of old. Now we know much about the life of this man, and we know that he was for a long time, an ordinary man like all of you will grow up to be. He had a wonderful family, a challenging profession, but most of all he was in love. Now children, we know from the scriptures that he wasn’t a violent man, but remember this, for their may come a time when you must pass the knowledge on to your children. Great men are not born. There comes a point in each man’s life when he is thrown into the furnace of love, to be melted down and reformed, turned into something different entirely. Most men emerge broken down husks of their former selves, but a select few, only those great enough will re-emerge glowing with pure radiance, brighter than the combined light of a million suns. These are the truly great men, the ones who face the challenges, the trials and tribulations of the world, and all its inhabitants, only to emerge victorious. For this man would never give up after his love was taken from him. He ventured on forever, and will continue for eternity, until he checks every last castle and finally rescue’s his princess. |
Inspired by [this comment](http://www.reddit.com/r/gaming/comments/1utc3a/i_know_im_one_behind_but_im_still_excited/celpedw) and the resulting child comments | [WP] Write about a modern video game/movie/book as if it were a Greek myth or an epic poem | A boy of the forest by fate chosen
A kingdom's future from darkness to save
Armed with sword and garbed simply in green
Set out in earnest many trials to brave.
Relics he uncovered, treasures obtained.
Undeterred by fire, water, or shadow
Through dungeons various boldly he passed
And to monsters killing strokes did bestow.
Unvanquished with sages' blessing he fought
And at last beyond reach evil he sealed.
Time itself subverted, back to youth sent
Unthanked he lived, deeds ever unrevealed. | Gather round children, for I must tell you the tale of a great man, as we remember him from the scriptures of old. Now we know much about the life of this man, and we know that he was for a long time, an ordinary man like all of you will grow up to be. He had a wonderful family, a challenging profession, but most of all he was in love. Now children, we know from the scriptures that he wasn’t a violent man, but remember this, for their may come a time when you must pass the knowledge on to your children. Great men are not born. There comes a point in each man’s life when he is thrown into the furnace of love, to be melted down and reformed, turned into something different entirely. Most men emerge broken down husks of their former selves, but a select few, only those great enough will re-emerge glowing with pure radiance, brighter than the combined light of a million suns. These are the truly great men, the ones who face the challenges, the trials and tribulations of the world, and all its inhabitants, only to emerge victorious. For this man would never give up after his love was taken from him. He ventured on forever, and will continue for eternity, until he checks every last castle and finally rescue’s his princess. |
I would like it to be something horror-esque! | [WP] It's night. The fog is thick. You're alone, on foot. The city is oddly silent. You feel a shiver down your spine. What's going on? | "The city is empty."
He kept thinking those words as he ran trying to find someone to talk to; to find someone who could prove that he wasn't crazy. The heavy fog made finding his way through the streets of New York near impossible, but he kept running. There were no cars, people, or even planes. Steadily, desperation and fear were settling in and he could not shake the idea that something was terribly wrong.
Suddenly, James could not move. His lungs were screaming and he was brought to the ground in a painful fit of coughing.
"This is about the only thing that makes sense right now" he thought to himself. He had been in the hospital for several weeks with an unknown infection, and it had left him weak. The last thing he remembered was that he was given medicine to help him sleep through his fever.
"Just how long have I been asleep?" Surely he couldn't have been forgotten; his room in the hospital was right by the lobby. "Impossible to miss." James struggled to say, as he forced himself onto his feet and over to the nearest trash bin.
"3 days." Another fit of coughing forced James onto the ground again, red specs of blood painting the pavement. The paper's date showed that he had been asleep for three days, and now everyone was gone. James' head was spinning from his recent fit, but he continued staring at the paper. The headline was hard to miss:
-*CONTAMINATION SPREADS AT ALARMING RATE*-
As if on cue, the sound of deafening sirens broke the stillness of the night. Covering his ears, James was struggling to understand what was happening to him when he saw a single pair of blinking lights racing toward him in the sky. "Not towards me," he thought "towards the city."
His coughing stopped long enough for a shiver to run down his spine. | *"I'll take your hand and then your worries too."*
At 7 in the afternoon all stores were closed. The gates and doors locked tight. The city was shut down.
As if the inhabitants of Innsmouth weren't well aware of the fact that there are some things locks and chains can't keep out.
"Shit" David kept checking his watch. 7:15. 7:15. 7:16. He hoped to see 7:14, 7:13...
He was striding along the main street, ignoring it's row of abandoned buildings, sounds of rats fighting near walls, high pitched and angry as they were eating and killing each other, dogs barking far away.
The night was uncharacteristically clear. In the distance he could see the mountains, usually covered by fog even on the brightest day. He actually stopped a little, on the top of a hill, looked at them and thought of Jerry, the dude he met a year ago. From this distance you could be fooled and think those were real woods.
He didn't think of Jerry a lot these days.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he cursed himself again, this time for stopping. He kept looking back, searching for whomever was watching him, getting colder and colder, his teeth clattering, looking back every few steps and seeing nothing.
"Hey! Over here!" a young woman, in just shorts and a t-shirt was waving at him from a back alley. His shivers intensified just by looking at her.
"Do you need shelter? Come on, I will bring you to safety. Just take my hand." she walked towards him, her hand extended in invitation.
He opened his mouth to ask if she wasn't cold when he noticed her hair and clothes were wet. He slowly closed it back and tried to swallow. It hurt; there was no saliva.
Dave carefully weighted all his options. His house was still a ways to go and, besides, some things you can't keep out with thick doors and strong locks.
He turned and start running.
------
opening line is from [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6QUmPZmkr4I)
story is related to [this one](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/1uszga/wp_write_an_enormously_long_piece_about_someone/cellrd4) where Dave meets Jerry
-014 |
I would like it to be something horror-esque! | [WP] It's night. The fog is thick. You're alone, on foot. The city is oddly silent. You feel a shiver down your spine. What's going on? | I pulled out my knife and tried to cut my way throught he fog. My knife sliced away tuft after tuft, which swirled away.
"Damn thick fog tonight." I observed.
"Yeah. It kind of is. The street lights aren't even helping." Dallas, my longest and most beloved friend, replied.
He was right. The tall lights we could see lit up, but in the fog, they cast very little illumination. They resembled nothing less that some giant gothic breed of dandelion. I cut off another tuft of fog to give me a better view. It was brief. The fog I sliced away, regrew in seconds.
We marched through the fog, trying to get our bearings but every thing looked alien, like Stephen King had designed it. The normal sounds were silent. The recognizable landscape, hidden. We soldiered on. Me slicing the fog with my knife. My best friend watching my idiocy.
We moved out beyond the dandelions. We'd lost the street. We turned about and tried to find it again. What we found was a iron gate. We both recognized it. The bar we were heading for was on the other side. We were going through the lichyard. There were two pints with our names on them, and we would not disappoint our bartender. We squeezed through the gap in the gate, and marched past the service road.
It was dark. It was cold. It was limbo. We passed the first grave stones. *Paul Elliot. Beloved son and father. 1919 -1963.* The old graves were the ones closest to the gate. I sliced through the fog. My knife occassionally clipping stones and ringing out in muted song. I stumbled over a short marker I'd missed in the darkness. I bent low to read. *Fifer McGill. Son. 1961 - 1974.* He'd died young. I didn't know why that filled me with such sorrow. It just did.
"Hey, it's Gilly's grave." Dallas called. I went over to see. Gilly had been our best friend in high school. He'd died in a fire during college when his room mate had fallen asleep with a cigarette in bed. They had both attended the funeral. *Gilly Simon. Beloved Son. 1974 - 1996.*
"I miss the kid. He was a good egg, that one." I shook my head and pulled at Dallas's sleeve. We stumbled away toward the bar. We stopped to rest, taking seats on the tombstones of two twins who'd died. Marvin and Jerry Pinkman was what the grave stones read. They'd died young as well.
"It's depressing as hell walking through a cemetary at night in this fog." Dallas muttered.
"Kind of is. Well hell, the bar is just a little further on. That side of the grave yard has lamp post. We'll at least be out of this murk." I said, re-doubling my efforts. My strides were longer. I tripped more often.
"Lamp post." Dallas called, pointing toward ahead. There were people near it, gathered around.
"Who the hell would be out in this mess." I quipped.
"Yeah. Only an idiot would come into graveyard willingly." Dallas muttered. I turned to see his mocking smile. I returned it.
"Lets go see what brings them out here." I said, starting forward once again.
We weaved through the stones and though it was still far off, a couple of the people were recognizable.
"That Elizabeth?" Dallas asked, pointing toward the woman on the right. "It is Elizabeth. What is she doing out here. I told her I'd only be gone for a couple hours. That untrusting little . . ." He didn't finish it. He loved her. He wouldn't call her vile things. Not for coming out to find her husband in this mess.
"I think it is Elizabeth." I replied, recognizing my son and daughter near her.
"I don't mean to be talking bad about your wife, but she shouldn't have brought Garland with her. He has really weak immune system. This fog is really dangerous to someone with that kind of ailment. He could get pneumonia and die." Dallas bobbed his head realizing the truth of it.
"I'm going to have to get that drink with you some other time. I have to get him and my daughter home. She shouldn't have brought them out. He marched through the stones and stopped. His way was blocked by fresh red clay and soil. Dallas stopped too. I was looking for a way around. Elizabeth and the kids hadn't noticed their approach in the fog. They were to busy watching the ground in front of them.
Dallas cried out suddenly. It was a terrible shriek. A shiver of dread ran down my spine. Dallas would never cry out like that without cause. I turned to find him on his knees with his hands over his face. He was crying.
"What the hell, man. You nearly made me leap out of my skin." I told him. That made him cry harder.
"Dead." He sobbed, pointing at me. He backed away in fear still pointing like he'd caught me in bed with his Elizabeth. Like I betrayed him.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I snapped, taking a step towards him. He turned and fled back into the darkness of the fog. I started after, tripping over a stone. I went down hard, crunching my knee cap on the unyielding rock. I glanced down to see what it was I had tripped over. They were grave stones, two of them, laid out flat beside the mound of clay. *Dallas Cecil Coburn. Beloved Son, Husband, and Father. 1974 - 2014.* I looked at it in disbelief and read the one laid out beside it. *Michael V. Cardnalli. Beloved Son and Father.* I fell away staring at the writing before me. I looked around at the faces gathered beyond the mound of dirt. Tearful faces. Loving faces. Familiar faces. I looked toward the lamp post, but it wasn't a lamp post. It was a man with a white collar. The light was coming from the book he brought. From the book he held. From the book he read.
I picked myself up and staggered around the mound of dirt to where my children stood, dressed in black. Tears stood in their eyes. The held momentos I had given them in their hands. A locket for June. A whistle for Garland. The light dimmed as the priest closed his bible and said the last rites.
"Ashes to ashes. Dust to Dust. Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return." The priest intoned solemnly. With a nod of his head, the coffins were lowered into the grave.
"We're really dead, aren't we?" Dallas sniffled.
"I think we are." I replied. "I think we need to say our good-byes." Dallas just nodded and shuffled over to his wife.
He tried to take her hand, but it made her shiver and pull her hand away. She looked around, looking through him like he wasn't there.
"Dallas?" The question wasn't audible, but it was shaped by her lips. He touched her hands again in reply. She shivered again and fresh tears fell. "Are you here?" She asked in a barely audible whisper. He touched her hands again.
"I love you, Elizabeth." He whispered back. She wept and smiled with relief.
I walked up to my children and knelt between them. Garland was crying horribly. June turned and hugged him tightly, unaware she had included their father in the hug. She held it for a moment. The two weeping hysterically. Their eyes were closed tight and it didn't look like they were ever going to let each other go.
"I love you, kids." The both stopped crying and opened their eyes in surprise and looked around. "I'm going to miss you." They didn't react the second time. He thought about it and realized what the problem was. "Close your eyes, kids." The kept looking around. He reached up and tried to close their eyes himself. The shivered and closed their eyes as if there was dust on the wind trying to get into their eyes.
"Keep your eyes closed kids. I don't know how long I have to say what needs saying." I whispered.
"Daddy?" They said in unison. Garland opened his eyes and looked around.
"Tell him to close his eyes, June." June heard and obeyed, instructing him to keep his eyes closed.
"I love you both. I don't know how I died, but I'm sorry I left you alone. You only have each other now. Be strong and make me proud. Find happiness. Find love. I'm going to miss you." I broke down then.
"We love you daddy. Please don't go." They pleaded.
"I'm not going. I'm already gone. Just know I love you." I whispered. Dallas was there in that moment and tapped my shoulder. I stood and turned to regard our graves. They were calling to us. Dallas walked to the edge of the pit where his coffin was resting and fell into the light. I took a moment longer watched as Elizabeth lead my children away. The broke away then, running back to my grave. Before anyone could stop them, they tossed in the locket and the whistle.
I wept unashamed and fell back into the light. I fell feeling loved. The fog dissapated quickly as I fell and realized it had never been. The blue sky beckoned to me, and as I fell, I rose. | *"I'll take your hand and then your worries too."*
At 7 in the afternoon all stores were closed. The gates and doors locked tight. The city was shut down.
As if the inhabitants of Innsmouth weren't well aware of the fact that there are some things locks and chains can't keep out.
"Shit" David kept checking his watch. 7:15. 7:15. 7:16. He hoped to see 7:14, 7:13...
He was striding along the main street, ignoring it's row of abandoned buildings, sounds of rats fighting near walls, high pitched and angry as they were eating and killing each other, dogs barking far away.
The night was uncharacteristically clear. In the distance he could see the mountains, usually covered by fog even on the brightest day. He actually stopped a little, on the top of a hill, looked at them and thought of Jerry, the dude he met a year ago. From this distance you could be fooled and think those were real woods.
He didn't think of Jerry a lot these days.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he cursed himself again, this time for stopping. He kept looking back, searching for whomever was watching him, getting colder and colder, his teeth clattering, looking back every few steps and seeing nothing.
"Hey! Over here!" a young woman, in just shorts and a t-shirt was waving at him from a back alley. His shivers intensified just by looking at her.
"Do you need shelter? Come on, I will bring you to safety. Just take my hand." she walked towards him, her hand extended in invitation.
He opened his mouth to ask if she wasn't cold when he noticed her hair and clothes were wet. He slowly closed it back and tried to swallow. It hurt; there was no saliva.
Dave carefully weighted all his options. His house was still a ways to go and, besides, some things you can't keep out with thick doors and strong locks.
He turned and start running.
------
opening line is from [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6QUmPZmkr4I)
story is related to [this one](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/1uszga/wp_write_an_enormously_long_piece_about_someone/cellrd4) where Dave meets Jerry
-014 |
I would like it to be something horror-esque! | [WP] It's night. The fog is thick. You're alone, on foot. The city is oddly silent. You feel a shiver down your spine. What's going on? | "The city is empty."
He kept thinking those words as he ran trying to find someone to talk to; to find someone who could prove that he wasn't crazy. The heavy fog made finding his way through the streets of New York near impossible, but he kept running. There were no cars, people, or even planes. Steadily, desperation and fear were settling in and he could not shake the idea that something was terribly wrong.
Suddenly, James could not move. His lungs were screaming and he was brought to the ground in a painful fit of coughing.
"This is about the only thing that makes sense right now" he thought to himself. He had been in the hospital for several weeks with an unknown infection, and it had left him weak. The last thing he remembered was that he was given medicine to help him sleep through his fever.
"Just how long have I been asleep?" Surely he couldn't have been forgotten; his room in the hospital was right by the lobby. "Impossible to miss." James struggled to say, as he forced himself onto his feet and over to the nearest trash bin.
"3 days." Another fit of coughing forced James onto the ground again, red specs of blood painting the pavement. The paper's date showed that he had been asleep for three days, and now everyone was gone. James' head was spinning from his recent fit, but he continued staring at the paper. The headline was hard to miss:
-*CONTAMINATION SPREADS AT ALARMING RATE*-
As if on cue, the sound of deafening sirens broke the stillness of the night. Covering his ears, James was struggling to understand what was happening to him when he saw a single pair of blinking lights racing toward him in the sky. "Not towards me," he thought "towards the city."
His coughing stopped long enough for a shiver to run down his spine. | It's night. The fog is thick. Jason is alone, on foot. The city is oddly silent. He feels a shiver down the spine. He checks the rip of notebook paper in his palm for the tenth time for the address. He is going in the right direction. His mother and father insisted he attend their book club's quarterly dinner party. Jason often suspected something wasn't quite right about it, given the odd stench that jumped off his parents clothes when they would return home from meetings. He agreed to their plea to attend mostly out of curiosity. "It's a Richardson tradition, son", "Your Grandfather would be heart broken if you didn't go." As Jason walked the silent streets he pictured the various christmas cards from book club members. He cringed at their picture perfect smiles, perfect comb overs, dockers, and bow ties. "Why me?" he thought.
He turned left and saw his destination. An imposing white colonial home lit up the otherwise dark and lonely road. Laughter, piano, and a joyous vibe could be felt from outside the home. Jason took a deep breath and rang the door bell. It was one of those exaggerated door bells, that reminded Jason of a Grandfather clock signaling the new hour.
Mrs. Bartley answered the door. "So nice of you to join us, Jason." "
"how does she know my name?" he thought.
"Your mother and father and the rest of us are right here in the den. Would you like to take off your jacket?"
"No thanks" shaking his head "What book are you reading tonight?"
"Oh, Jason. The same book we always read. The book." In swift and hardened movements, Mrs. Bartley swung a thick golden book out of a small table and whacked Jason in the head. His vision went black.
Jason woke up and quickly squirmed his arms only to find he had been tied down to a wooden board. The board sat at an angle and he noticed the crowd of book club members standing in front of him. He felt delirious and drugged. "Jason," his mother started, "can you see me Jason?" I want you to look down now, honey, and don't be too startled." Jason looked down in confusion and nearly vomited at the sight of his left leg sawed off. The blood had been controlled, but it was still oozing. He looked left and noticed his father and three men from the neighborhood biting into it, blood dripping from their teeth. His dad gave a friendly smile and nod, before digging in for another bite. Mr. Bartley stood in front of him now reading from the same golden book that had knocked him out "On the quarterly month, the lord of the book demand blood, demand sacrifice, You Jason shall live in the book forever and ever. May your blood spill onto page 57, and may we rejoice in the taste of your young blood, forever and ever."
"dude, what the fuck?" Jason looked up and watched the blade make way for his neck. Seconds later his head rolled on the floor. |
I would like it to be something horror-esque! | [WP] It's night. The fog is thick. You're alone, on foot. The city is oddly silent. You feel a shiver down your spine. What's going on? | I pulled out my knife and tried to cut my way throught he fog. My knife sliced away tuft after tuft, which swirled away.
"Damn thick fog tonight." I observed.
"Yeah. It kind of is. The street lights aren't even helping." Dallas, my longest and most beloved friend, replied.
He was right. The tall lights we could see lit up, but in the fog, they cast very little illumination. They resembled nothing less that some giant gothic breed of dandelion. I cut off another tuft of fog to give me a better view. It was brief. The fog I sliced away, regrew in seconds.
We marched through the fog, trying to get our bearings but every thing looked alien, like Stephen King had designed it. The normal sounds were silent. The recognizable landscape, hidden. We soldiered on. Me slicing the fog with my knife. My best friend watching my idiocy.
We moved out beyond the dandelions. We'd lost the street. We turned about and tried to find it again. What we found was a iron gate. We both recognized it. The bar we were heading for was on the other side. We were going through the lichyard. There were two pints with our names on them, and we would not disappoint our bartender. We squeezed through the gap in the gate, and marched past the service road.
It was dark. It was cold. It was limbo. We passed the first grave stones. *Paul Elliot. Beloved son and father. 1919 -1963.* The old graves were the ones closest to the gate. I sliced through the fog. My knife occassionally clipping stones and ringing out in muted song. I stumbled over a short marker I'd missed in the darkness. I bent low to read. *Fifer McGill. Son. 1961 - 1974.* He'd died young. I didn't know why that filled me with such sorrow. It just did.
"Hey, it's Gilly's grave." Dallas called. I went over to see. Gilly had been our best friend in high school. He'd died in a fire during college when his room mate had fallen asleep with a cigarette in bed. They had both attended the funeral. *Gilly Simon. Beloved Son. 1974 - 1996.*
"I miss the kid. He was a good egg, that one." I shook my head and pulled at Dallas's sleeve. We stumbled away toward the bar. We stopped to rest, taking seats on the tombstones of two twins who'd died. Marvin and Jerry Pinkman was what the grave stones read. They'd died young as well.
"It's depressing as hell walking through a cemetary at night in this fog." Dallas muttered.
"Kind of is. Well hell, the bar is just a little further on. That side of the grave yard has lamp post. We'll at least be out of this murk." I said, re-doubling my efforts. My strides were longer. I tripped more often.
"Lamp post." Dallas called, pointing toward ahead. There were people near it, gathered around.
"Who the hell would be out in this mess." I quipped.
"Yeah. Only an idiot would come into graveyard willingly." Dallas muttered. I turned to see his mocking smile. I returned it.
"Lets go see what brings them out here." I said, starting forward once again.
We weaved through the stones and though it was still far off, a couple of the people were recognizable.
"That Elizabeth?" Dallas asked, pointing toward the woman on the right. "It is Elizabeth. What is she doing out here. I told her I'd only be gone for a couple hours. That untrusting little . . ." He didn't finish it. He loved her. He wouldn't call her vile things. Not for coming out to find her husband in this mess.
"I think it is Elizabeth." I replied, recognizing my son and daughter near her.
"I don't mean to be talking bad about your wife, but she shouldn't have brought Garland with her. He has really weak immune system. This fog is really dangerous to someone with that kind of ailment. He could get pneumonia and die." Dallas bobbed his head realizing the truth of it.
"I'm going to have to get that drink with you some other time. I have to get him and my daughter home. She shouldn't have brought them out. He marched through the stones and stopped. His way was blocked by fresh red clay and soil. Dallas stopped too. I was looking for a way around. Elizabeth and the kids hadn't noticed their approach in the fog. They were to busy watching the ground in front of them.
Dallas cried out suddenly. It was a terrible shriek. A shiver of dread ran down my spine. Dallas would never cry out like that without cause. I turned to find him on his knees with his hands over his face. He was crying.
"What the hell, man. You nearly made me leap out of my skin." I told him. That made him cry harder.
"Dead." He sobbed, pointing at me. He backed away in fear still pointing like he'd caught me in bed with his Elizabeth. Like I betrayed him.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I snapped, taking a step towards him. He turned and fled back into the darkness of the fog. I started after, tripping over a stone. I went down hard, crunching my knee cap on the unyielding rock. I glanced down to see what it was I had tripped over. They were grave stones, two of them, laid out flat beside the mound of clay. *Dallas Cecil Coburn. Beloved Son, Husband, and Father. 1974 - 2014.* I looked at it in disbelief and read the one laid out beside it. *Michael V. Cardnalli. Beloved Son and Father.* I fell away staring at the writing before me. I looked around at the faces gathered beyond the mound of dirt. Tearful faces. Loving faces. Familiar faces. I looked toward the lamp post, but it wasn't a lamp post. It was a man with a white collar. The light was coming from the book he brought. From the book he held. From the book he read.
I picked myself up and staggered around the mound of dirt to where my children stood, dressed in black. Tears stood in their eyes. The held momentos I had given them in their hands. A locket for June. A whistle for Garland. The light dimmed as the priest closed his bible and said the last rites.
"Ashes to ashes. Dust to Dust. Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return." The priest intoned solemnly. With a nod of his head, the coffins were lowered into the grave.
"We're really dead, aren't we?" Dallas sniffled.
"I think we are." I replied. "I think we need to say our good-byes." Dallas just nodded and shuffled over to his wife.
He tried to take her hand, but it made her shiver and pull her hand away. She looked around, looking through him like he wasn't there.
"Dallas?" The question wasn't audible, but it was shaped by her lips. He touched her hands again in reply. She shivered again and fresh tears fell. "Are you here?" She asked in a barely audible whisper. He touched her hands again.
"I love you, Elizabeth." He whispered back. She wept and smiled with relief.
I walked up to my children and knelt between them. Garland was crying horribly. June turned and hugged him tightly, unaware she had included their father in the hug. She held it for a moment. The two weeping hysterically. Their eyes were closed tight and it didn't look like they were ever going to let each other go.
"I love you, kids." The both stopped crying and opened their eyes in surprise and looked around. "I'm going to miss you." They didn't react the second time. He thought about it and realized what the problem was. "Close your eyes, kids." The kept looking around. He reached up and tried to close their eyes himself. The shivered and closed their eyes as if there was dust on the wind trying to get into their eyes.
"Keep your eyes closed kids. I don't know how long I have to say what needs saying." I whispered.
"Daddy?" They said in unison. Garland opened his eyes and looked around.
"Tell him to close his eyes, June." June heard and obeyed, instructing him to keep his eyes closed.
"I love you both. I don't know how I died, but I'm sorry I left you alone. You only have each other now. Be strong and make me proud. Find happiness. Find love. I'm going to miss you." I broke down then.
"We love you daddy. Please don't go." They pleaded.
"I'm not going. I'm already gone. Just know I love you." I whispered. Dallas was there in that moment and tapped my shoulder. I stood and turned to regard our graves. They were calling to us. Dallas walked to the edge of the pit where his coffin was resting and fell into the light. I took a moment longer watched as Elizabeth lead my children away. The broke away then, running back to my grave. Before anyone could stop them, they tossed in the locket and the whistle.
I wept unashamed and fell back into the light. I fell feeling loved. The fog dissapated quickly as I fell and realized it had never been. The blue sky beckoned to me, and as I fell, I rose. | It's night. The fog is thick. Jason is alone, on foot. The city is oddly silent. He feels a shiver down the spine. He checks the rip of notebook paper in his palm for the tenth time for the address. He is going in the right direction. His mother and father insisted he attend their book club's quarterly dinner party. Jason often suspected something wasn't quite right about it, given the odd stench that jumped off his parents clothes when they would return home from meetings. He agreed to their plea to attend mostly out of curiosity. "It's a Richardson tradition, son", "Your Grandfather would be heart broken if you didn't go." As Jason walked the silent streets he pictured the various christmas cards from book club members. He cringed at their picture perfect smiles, perfect comb overs, dockers, and bow ties. "Why me?" he thought.
He turned left and saw his destination. An imposing white colonial home lit up the otherwise dark and lonely road. Laughter, piano, and a joyous vibe could be felt from outside the home. Jason took a deep breath and rang the door bell. It was one of those exaggerated door bells, that reminded Jason of a Grandfather clock signaling the new hour.
Mrs. Bartley answered the door. "So nice of you to join us, Jason." "
"how does she know my name?" he thought.
"Your mother and father and the rest of us are right here in the den. Would you like to take off your jacket?"
"No thanks" shaking his head "What book are you reading tonight?"
"Oh, Jason. The same book we always read. The book." In swift and hardened movements, Mrs. Bartley swung a thick golden book out of a small table and whacked Jason in the head. His vision went black.
Jason woke up and quickly squirmed his arms only to find he had been tied down to a wooden board. The board sat at an angle and he noticed the crowd of book club members standing in front of him. He felt delirious and drugged. "Jason," his mother started, "can you see me Jason?" I want you to look down now, honey, and don't be too startled." Jason looked down in confusion and nearly vomited at the sight of his left leg sawed off. The blood had been controlled, but it was still oozing. He looked left and noticed his father and three men from the neighborhood biting into it, blood dripping from their teeth. His dad gave a friendly smile and nod, before digging in for another bite. Mr. Bartley stood in front of him now reading from the same golden book that had knocked him out "On the quarterly month, the lord of the book demand blood, demand sacrifice, You Jason shall live in the book forever and ever. May your blood spill onto page 57, and may we rejoice in the taste of your young blood, forever and ever."
"dude, what the fuck?" Jason looked up and watched the blade make way for his neck. Seconds later his head rolled on the floor. |
I would like it to be something horror-esque! | [WP] It's night. The fog is thick. You're alone, on foot. The city is oddly silent. You feel a shiver down your spine. What's going on? | "The city is empty."
He kept thinking those words as he ran trying to find someone to talk to; to find someone who could prove that he wasn't crazy. The heavy fog made finding his way through the streets of New York near impossible, but he kept running. There were no cars, people, or even planes. Steadily, desperation and fear were settling in and he could not shake the idea that something was terribly wrong.
Suddenly, James could not move. His lungs were screaming and he was brought to the ground in a painful fit of coughing.
"This is about the only thing that makes sense right now" he thought to himself. He had been in the hospital for several weeks with an unknown infection, and it had left him weak. The last thing he remembered was that he was given medicine to help him sleep through his fever.
"Just how long have I been asleep?" Surely he couldn't have been forgotten; his room in the hospital was right by the lobby. "Impossible to miss." James struggled to say, as he forced himself onto his feet and over to the nearest trash bin.
"3 days." Another fit of coughing forced James onto the ground again, red specs of blood painting the pavement. The paper's date showed that he had been asleep for three days, and now everyone was gone. James' head was spinning from his recent fit, but he continued staring at the paper. The headline was hard to miss:
-*CONTAMINATION SPREADS AT ALARMING RATE*-
As if on cue, the sound of deafening sirens broke the stillness of the night. Covering his ears, James was struggling to understand what was happening to him when he saw a single pair of blinking lights racing toward him in the sky. "Not towards me," he thought "towards the city."
His coughing stopped long enough for a shiver to run down his spine. | Jean woke up in the middle of the night. At least, she thought it was the middle of the night; the city still sounded asleep and she couldn’t see the sun. She looked at her alarm clock. It read 10:00, which was odd considering that her clock was a 24 hour one. Perhaps it had died? She checked her phone and it read 10:00, she turned her computer on and saw the same time, even the clock in her car, although she heard nothing over the radio, which was odd, she thought she always had it on. And why was there this fog at 10:00 in the morning? Melbourne experienced at lot of different weather, even in the same day, but never fog, at least, not in summer.
Jean stepped onto the road, at least what felt like the road under her bare foot, she couldn’t really see her feet. She began walking towards her university, it wouldn’t be far and someone would definitely know what was going on, or at least create a conspiracy theory. Jean shivered, she didn’t think she would have needed a jumper, although with Melbourne weather you just never know she mused. “Ouch!” she cried, she had hit head on the metal gates that lead into the university, although normally they were open, even on public holidays, let alone during the semester. She nursed the sore spot on her forehead and cursed. She was startled at the loudness of her own voice, it was then that she realised she had heard nothing. She wasn’t sure if the fog was muffling the sounds or if… Jean shivered. She had heard rumours, whisperings on the dark Net, people shouting from corner streets, people in aluminium hats asking her to sign things. But she didn’t think it was true. Perhaps the war had turned dire. She didn’t think the government would actually ever use it. It didn’t really make sense; why wipe us all out? Had they issued a warning? Maybe Jean had missed the announcement. But why was Jean even thinking about this in the first place? It was all rumours!
It made sense though, the deathly silence, the lack of people, the closed university, the thick fog… the fog! Jean covered her mouth, she hoped the virus hadn’t gotten in, how much time had she spent out here? Jean began to feel woozy, she was having trouble breathing and the panic was starting to set in. “I’m going to die” she thought. She screamed, hoping the sound waves would penetrate the fog and land on some kind ears. She ran, hoping to find an open building, anything to get away from the virus. She could feel stinging in her throat. She wondered how she would die. Nobody mentioned symptoms.
*Thud.* Jean had collided into some thick, glass doors. Stickered onto the front of them Jean could just make out “…ospital…” A hospital! She was saved! She pulled at the door but it wouldn’t budge, then she tried pulling it and it didn’t move either. Jean was now getting desperate, she could feel her legs going numb. She tried rattling the doors, hitting them with her hands, screaming at the people inside, she could see people inside. But they just ignored her. “Please…” Jean mumbled, she was now lying against the door, her legs had given way and her arms were losing strength as well. “Please…” she tried again, but everyone ignored the hand pressed up against the glass; they wouldn’t let her in, if they let her in, they would let the fog in and then everyone in the hospital would die, besides there was no cure.
Jean felt her vision tunnelling, she lips were cold and she curled into the foetal position trying to conserve her strength. “At least it wasn’t too painful.” she thought, “At least the government was killing the aliens in a humane way, I haven’t been torn limb to limb, no bleeding or anything.” Jean closed her eyes and drew her last breath. But somewhere in the fog, Jean heard chattering and chirping. Something grabbed her arm and flung her into a sack. “Well,” Jean thought, “if I’m getting kidnapped by aliens, they chose the wrong person.”
-014
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I would like it to be something horror-esque! | [WP] It's night. The fog is thick. You're alone, on foot. The city is oddly silent. You feel a shiver down your spine. What's going on? | I pulled out my knife and tried to cut my way throught he fog. My knife sliced away tuft after tuft, which swirled away.
"Damn thick fog tonight." I observed.
"Yeah. It kind of is. The street lights aren't even helping." Dallas, my longest and most beloved friend, replied.
He was right. The tall lights we could see lit up, but in the fog, they cast very little illumination. They resembled nothing less that some giant gothic breed of dandelion. I cut off another tuft of fog to give me a better view. It was brief. The fog I sliced away, regrew in seconds.
We marched through the fog, trying to get our bearings but every thing looked alien, like Stephen King had designed it. The normal sounds were silent. The recognizable landscape, hidden. We soldiered on. Me slicing the fog with my knife. My best friend watching my idiocy.
We moved out beyond the dandelions. We'd lost the street. We turned about and tried to find it again. What we found was a iron gate. We both recognized it. The bar we were heading for was on the other side. We were going through the lichyard. There were two pints with our names on them, and we would not disappoint our bartender. We squeezed through the gap in the gate, and marched past the service road.
It was dark. It was cold. It was limbo. We passed the first grave stones. *Paul Elliot. Beloved son and father. 1919 -1963.* The old graves were the ones closest to the gate. I sliced through the fog. My knife occassionally clipping stones and ringing out in muted song. I stumbled over a short marker I'd missed in the darkness. I bent low to read. *Fifer McGill. Son. 1961 - 1974.* He'd died young. I didn't know why that filled me with such sorrow. It just did.
"Hey, it's Gilly's grave." Dallas called. I went over to see. Gilly had been our best friend in high school. He'd died in a fire during college when his room mate had fallen asleep with a cigarette in bed. They had both attended the funeral. *Gilly Simon. Beloved Son. 1974 - 1996.*
"I miss the kid. He was a good egg, that one." I shook my head and pulled at Dallas's sleeve. We stumbled away toward the bar. We stopped to rest, taking seats on the tombstones of two twins who'd died. Marvin and Jerry Pinkman was what the grave stones read. They'd died young as well.
"It's depressing as hell walking through a cemetary at night in this fog." Dallas muttered.
"Kind of is. Well hell, the bar is just a little further on. That side of the grave yard has lamp post. We'll at least be out of this murk." I said, re-doubling my efforts. My strides were longer. I tripped more often.
"Lamp post." Dallas called, pointing toward ahead. There were people near it, gathered around.
"Who the hell would be out in this mess." I quipped.
"Yeah. Only an idiot would come into graveyard willingly." Dallas muttered. I turned to see his mocking smile. I returned it.
"Lets go see what brings them out here." I said, starting forward once again.
We weaved through the stones and though it was still far off, a couple of the people were recognizable.
"That Elizabeth?" Dallas asked, pointing toward the woman on the right. "It is Elizabeth. What is she doing out here. I told her I'd only be gone for a couple hours. That untrusting little . . ." He didn't finish it. He loved her. He wouldn't call her vile things. Not for coming out to find her husband in this mess.
"I think it is Elizabeth." I replied, recognizing my son and daughter near her.
"I don't mean to be talking bad about your wife, but she shouldn't have brought Garland with her. He has really weak immune system. This fog is really dangerous to someone with that kind of ailment. He could get pneumonia and die." Dallas bobbed his head realizing the truth of it.
"I'm going to have to get that drink with you some other time. I have to get him and my daughter home. She shouldn't have brought them out. He marched through the stones and stopped. His way was blocked by fresh red clay and soil. Dallas stopped too. I was looking for a way around. Elizabeth and the kids hadn't noticed their approach in the fog. They were to busy watching the ground in front of them.
Dallas cried out suddenly. It was a terrible shriek. A shiver of dread ran down my spine. Dallas would never cry out like that without cause. I turned to find him on his knees with his hands over his face. He was crying.
"What the hell, man. You nearly made me leap out of my skin." I told him. That made him cry harder.
"Dead." He sobbed, pointing at me. He backed away in fear still pointing like he'd caught me in bed with his Elizabeth. Like I betrayed him.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I snapped, taking a step towards him. He turned and fled back into the darkness of the fog. I started after, tripping over a stone. I went down hard, crunching my knee cap on the unyielding rock. I glanced down to see what it was I had tripped over. They were grave stones, two of them, laid out flat beside the mound of clay. *Dallas Cecil Coburn. Beloved Son, Husband, and Father. 1974 - 2014.* I looked at it in disbelief and read the one laid out beside it. *Michael V. Cardnalli. Beloved Son and Father.* I fell away staring at the writing before me. I looked around at the faces gathered beyond the mound of dirt. Tearful faces. Loving faces. Familiar faces. I looked toward the lamp post, but it wasn't a lamp post. It was a man with a white collar. The light was coming from the book he brought. From the book he held. From the book he read.
I picked myself up and staggered around the mound of dirt to where my children stood, dressed in black. Tears stood in their eyes. The held momentos I had given them in their hands. A locket for June. A whistle for Garland. The light dimmed as the priest closed his bible and said the last rites.
"Ashes to ashes. Dust to Dust. Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return." The priest intoned solemnly. With a nod of his head, the coffins were lowered into the grave.
"We're really dead, aren't we?" Dallas sniffled.
"I think we are." I replied. "I think we need to say our good-byes." Dallas just nodded and shuffled over to his wife.
He tried to take her hand, but it made her shiver and pull her hand away. She looked around, looking through him like he wasn't there.
"Dallas?" The question wasn't audible, but it was shaped by her lips. He touched her hands again in reply. She shivered again and fresh tears fell. "Are you here?" She asked in a barely audible whisper. He touched her hands again.
"I love you, Elizabeth." He whispered back. She wept and smiled with relief.
I walked up to my children and knelt between them. Garland was crying horribly. June turned and hugged him tightly, unaware she had included their father in the hug. She held it for a moment. The two weeping hysterically. Their eyes were closed tight and it didn't look like they were ever going to let each other go.
"I love you, kids." The both stopped crying and opened their eyes in surprise and looked around. "I'm going to miss you." They didn't react the second time. He thought about it and realized what the problem was. "Close your eyes, kids." The kept looking around. He reached up and tried to close their eyes himself. The shivered and closed their eyes as if there was dust on the wind trying to get into their eyes.
"Keep your eyes closed kids. I don't know how long I have to say what needs saying." I whispered.
"Daddy?" They said in unison. Garland opened his eyes and looked around.
"Tell him to close his eyes, June." June heard and obeyed, instructing him to keep his eyes closed.
"I love you both. I don't know how I died, but I'm sorry I left you alone. You only have each other now. Be strong and make me proud. Find happiness. Find love. I'm going to miss you." I broke down then.
"We love you daddy. Please don't go." They pleaded.
"I'm not going. I'm already gone. Just know I love you." I whispered. Dallas was there in that moment and tapped my shoulder. I stood and turned to regard our graves. They were calling to us. Dallas walked to the edge of the pit where his coffin was resting and fell into the light. I took a moment longer watched as Elizabeth lead my children away. The broke away then, running back to my grave. Before anyone could stop them, they tossed in the locket and the whistle.
I wept unashamed and fell back into the light. I fell feeling loved. The fog dissapated quickly as I fell and realized it had never been. The blue sky beckoned to me, and as I fell, I rose. | Jean woke up in the middle of the night. At least, she thought it was the middle of the night; the city still sounded asleep and she couldn’t see the sun. She looked at her alarm clock. It read 10:00, which was odd considering that her clock was a 24 hour one. Perhaps it had died? She checked her phone and it read 10:00, she turned her computer on and saw the same time, even the clock in her car, although she heard nothing over the radio, which was odd, she thought she always had it on. And why was there this fog at 10:00 in the morning? Melbourne experienced at lot of different weather, even in the same day, but never fog, at least, not in summer.
Jean stepped onto the road, at least what felt like the road under her bare foot, she couldn’t really see her feet. She began walking towards her university, it wouldn’t be far and someone would definitely know what was going on, or at least create a conspiracy theory. Jean shivered, she didn’t think she would have needed a jumper, although with Melbourne weather you just never know she mused. “Ouch!” she cried, she had hit head on the metal gates that lead into the university, although normally they were open, even on public holidays, let alone during the semester. She nursed the sore spot on her forehead and cursed. She was startled at the loudness of her own voice, it was then that she realised she had heard nothing. She wasn’t sure if the fog was muffling the sounds or if… Jean shivered. She had heard rumours, whisperings on the dark Net, people shouting from corner streets, people in aluminium hats asking her to sign things. But she didn’t think it was true. Perhaps the war had turned dire. She didn’t think the government would actually ever use it. It didn’t really make sense; why wipe us all out? Had they issued a warning? Maybe Jean had missed the announcement. But why was Jean even thinking about this in the first place? It was all rumours!
It made sense though, the deathly silence, the lack of people, the closed university, the thick fog… the fog! Jean covered her mouth, she hoped the virus hadn’t gotten in, how much time had she spent out here? Jean began to feel woozy, she was having trouble breathing and the panic was starting to set in. “I’m going to die” she thought. She screamed, hoping the sound waves would penetrate the fog and land on some kind ears. She ran, hoping to find an open building, anything to get away from the virus. She could feel stinging in her throat. She wondered how she would die. Nobody mentioned symptoms.
*Thud.* Jean had collided into some thick, glass doors. Stickered onto the front of them Jean could just make out “…ospital…” A hospital! She was saved! She pulled at the door but it wouldn’t budge, then she tried pulling it and it didn’t move either. Jean was now getting desperate, she could feel her legs going numb. She tried rattling the doors, hitting them with her hands, screaming at the people inside, she could see people inside. But they just ignored her. “Please…” Jean mumbled, she was now lying against the door, her legs had given way and her arms were losing strength as well. “Please…” she tried again, but everyone ignored the hand pressed up against the glass; they wouldn’t let her in, if they let her in, they would let the fog in and then everyone in the hospital would die, besides there was no cure.
Jean felt her vision tunnelling, she lips were cold and she curled into the foetal position trying to conserve her strength. “At least it wasn’t too painful.” she thought, “At least the government was killing the aliens in a humane way, I haven’t been torn limb to limb, no bleeding or anything.” Jean closed her eyes and drew her last breath. But somewhere in the fog, Jean heard chattering and chirping. Something grabbed her arm and flung her into a sack. “Well,” Jean thought, “if I’m getting kidnapped by aliens, they chose the wrong person.”
-014
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I would like it to be something horror-esque! | [WP] It's night. The fog is thick. You're alone, on foot. The city is oddly silent. You feel a shiver down your spine. What's going on? | It happened gradually, really. There was no sudden realisation, no one moment I was blah and then blah. It came in increments, so slowly and so gradually that it put me in mind of that old joke- or tale, or whatever- about how to boil a frog. You know, where you increase the heat so slowly that it doesn't realise it's too hot until boom, the little amphibious bastard's dead.
That's what happened with the fog.
I was on my way home from a party. Well, it wasn't a party, per se, so much as a gathering of people that had ended up going way too long, and way too late, with far too much booze and not enough food. Even though I'd had enough alcohol to pretty much replace every drop of blood in my body with vodka, I was still just sober enough to realise that driving home would not have been the best of ideas at all. So I gathered my flimsy excuse for a jacket around myself, thrust my hands into my pockets, and carried on.
As I walked, I began to notice just how quiet it was, just how utterly silent everything was around me. There were no ambient sounds of traffic, no distant sounds of trains, not even the low buzz of electricity. Oh sure, there was the sound of *me*; of *my* footsteps, of *my* breathing, but there was nothing else.
It was almost eerie how silent it was, and on a whim I stopped, clenched my fists, and let out a cry into the air- just a shout, a noise, a nonspecific utterance intended to remind myself I wasn't deaf.
And I wasn't, thankfully. But as the echo came back to me, I realised that what I was, was rapidly sobering up.
I walked a few more steps, blinking into the darkness as I noticed that the light in front of me, some fifteen feet away or so, was suddenly...muted, as though there were some translucent blanket over it. I began to walk faster, but it wasn't until I'd taken ten steps or so- with my long legs, it was further than it might have been- before the light came back as it should have done. The light beyond that, though, was nothing but a demonic glow in the mists.
And then it struck me. There'd been a fog developing all this time, insidiously forming and reforming, thickening and solidifying until it was almost a wall of white in front of my eyes. I let out a strangled cry and began to walk faster now, the sounds of my feet on the surface muffled and muted, as though the clouds around me had snaked into my ears, deafening me to the sound of myself.
I shivered, violently, and mis-stepped, stumbling a little. Again I cried out, again I walked faster, almost running this time, my mind so panicked by the events that I was barely conscious of what was going on around me. I was deafened, blinded, almost hobbled, and the fear rose rapidly, oh-so-rapidly, making me panic even more.
Now I ran, oh I ran, my arms swinging, my chest heaving, my heart pounding. I ran as fast as I could manage down the street, somehow aware that there was another sound now, behind me, the sound of footsteps echoing mine almost perfectly, of breath matching mine nearly simultaneously, of the feeling of another figure within arm's reach behind me.
I ran, and I ran, and I ran, until, just as I felt I could run no more, I burst out of the maddening cloud and into a cacophony of noise. Startled into stillness, I stopped suddenly, staring suspiciously. Sounds roared from all around as cars and people and movement happened all around. Relieved, I chanced a look back the way I'd come, and saw nothing but an innocent little street, devoid of anything out of the ordinary at all. I could even see, when I narrowed my eyes and peered carefully, a knot of people I knew to be my friends; one of them must have spotted me, and they raised their hand in a wave. I raised mine back, and stepped towards the street, walking towards another of the streetlamps.
And yet, as I walked, the fog seemed to billow around me once again, the sound dulled to nothingness. I stopped, took three steps back, and darted back out onto the street.
As I glanced back over my shoulder, the last thing I saw was the fog roiling and boiling, as though pushing against a window.
And inside that fog, banging with clenched fists and silently-screaming mouth, was a figure; a figure as dark as shadows, as terrible as a nightmare, as pale as a corpse.
Inside that fog, trapped, caught, caged, was something that looked just. like. me. | Jean woke up in the middle of the night. At least, she thought it was the middle of the night; the city still sounded asleep and she couldn’t see the sun. She looked at her alarm clock. It read 10:00, which was odd considering that her clock was a 24 hour one. Perhaps it had died? She checked her phone and it read 10:00, she turned her computer on and saw the same time, even the clock in her car, although she heard nothing over the radio, which was odd, she thought she always had it on. And why was there this fog at 10:00 in the morning? Melbourne experienced at lot of different weather, even in the same day, but never fog, at least, not in summer.
Jean stepped onto the road, at least what felt like the road under her bare foot, she couldn’t really see her feet. She began walking towards her university, it wouldn’t be far and someone would definitely know what was going on, or at least create a conspiracy theory. Jean shivered, she didn’t think she would have needed a jumper, although with Melbourne weather you just never know she mused. “Ouch!” she cried, she had hit head on the metal gates that lead into the university, although normally they were open, even on public holidays, let alone during the semester. She nursed the sore spot on her forehead and cursed. She was startled at the loudness of her own voice, it was then that she realised she had heard nothing. She wasn’t sure if the fog was muffling the sounds or if… Jean shivered. She had heard rumours, whisperings on the dark Net, people shouting from corner streets, people in aluminium hats asking her to sign things. But she didn’t think it was true. Perhaps the war had turned dire. She didn’t think the government would actually ever use it. It didn’t really make sense; why wipe us all out? Had they issued a warning? Maybe Jean had missed the announcement. But why was Jean even thinking about this in the first place? It was all rumours!
It made sense though, the deathly silence, the lack of people, the closed university, the thick fog… the fog! Jean covered her mouth, she hoped the virus hadn’t gotten in, how much time had she spent out here? Jean began to feel woozy, she was having trouble breathing and the panic was starting to set in. “I’m going to die” she thought. She screamed, hoping the sound waves would penetrate the fog and land on some kind ears. She ran, hoping to find an open building, anything to get away from the virus. She could feel stinging in her throat. She wondered how she would die. Nobody mentioned symptoms.
*Thud.* Jean had collided into some thick, glass doors. Stickered onto the front of them Jean could just make out “…ospital…” A hospital! She was saved! She pulled at the door but it wouldn’t budge, then she tried pulling it and it didn’t move either. Jean was now getting desperate, she could feel her legs going numb. She tried rattling the doors, hitting them with her hands, screaming at the people inside, she could see people inside. But they just ignored her. “Please…” Jean mumbled, she was now lying against the door, her legs had given way and her arms were losing strength as well. “Please…” she tried again, but everyone ignored the hand pressed up against the glass; they wouldn’t let her in, if they let her in, they would let the fog in and then everyone in the hospital would die, besides there was no cure.
Jean felt her vision tunnelling, she lips were cold and she curled into the foetal position trying to conserve her strength. “At least it wasn’t too painful.” she thought, “At least the government was killing the aliens in a humane way, I haven’t been torn limb to limb, no bleeding or anything.” Jean closed her eyes and drew her last breath. But somewhere in the fog, Jean heard chattering and chirping. Something grabbed her arm and flung her into a sack. “Well,” Jean thought, “if I’m getting kidnapped by aliens, they chose the wrong person.”
-014
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I would like it to be something horror-esque! | [WP] It's night. The fog is thick. You're alone, on foot. The city is oddly silent. You feel a shiver down your spine. What's going on? | It was late. Too late to be alone in this part of town. The damp pavement was oily in the dim light. I stopped a moment to look around and get my bearings, but the fog was so thick I could barely see a few feet in front of me. There was a laundrette and a kebab shop behind me, and a small off-licence across the narrow street. All closed. Nothing out of the ordinary. And nothing to help me find my way.
I pulled out the frayed napkin from my jacket pocket, squinting at the directions scrawled onto it. I’d definitely gotten off at the right stop, but it looked as though the Doctor’s shop was a bit further away still. There was an alleyway nearby that I could cut through, which would probably get me there quicker, but one look at the deep black shadows within was enough to convince me to take the long way around. A violent shiver ran down my spine, but I dismissed it. I let out a deep breath, watching it mingle with the dense fog around me. I stuffed my hands into my pockets and was about to move on when something occurred to me; I hadn’t heard a single sound since stepping onto this street, other than the ones I was making. Nor had I, in fact, seen any sign of life. My chest tightened. I was running out of time. They’d be here soon. I had to get to the Doctor’s shop, and fast. He’d be able to set everything right. I felt a surge of nausea as I looked again down the alleyway, and hurried into it’s black embrace.
I kept my head down, and my feet moving. The darkness was constant, unrelenting. Up ahead there was a sickly yellow light, illuminating a rusty door. It shook as I passed it, causing me to yelp. I picked up the pace. How long did this path go? Surely I should have come out the other end by now. Voices filled my head, voices that I didn’t recognise, laughing and jeering. Footsteps now, from behind me, approaching fast, building up into a run. I ran too. I ran until my breath was ragged and my feet were sore, and all the while the voices in my head grew louder to an insane clamour. Several times, I passed the rusty door with the yellow light, and only after the sixth time, did I come to a stop.
“Off somewhere, are we?” came a voice like the swell of putrid water in a dark, tangled swamp. A voice I recognised. “Off to finish our deal, perhaps?”
The other voices in my head were gone now, and I opened my mouth to speak, but could only stammer. From the shadows around me, luminous eyes appeared, bright and inhuman. Dozens, at first, then hundreds, all different sizes, all filled with lunatic glee. From somewhere, there was a steady beating of ancient drums.
“No time. Out of time. Now. We take it *now*. *NOW*.
I was foolish to think I could run from them, I did so nonetheless, racing through the shadows and then, jarringly, emerging from the alley after just a few steps. I nearly toppled to the ground as I came to a halt on the edge of the road. I immediately spotted the Doctor’s shop, a small antiques store, it’s lights glowing in the fog just a short distance away. I took a step towards it and stumbled over something. I looked down and terror filled me, spreading out from my chest to consume me utterly. A homeless man, curled up on a tattered sheet of cardboard, his dirty eyes blinking open, looking up at me, confused. The voices filled my head again.
*Now, now, now, now, now, NOW*
There was a knife in my hand, and I didn’t try to think where it’d come from. The wretched man and I screamed together as I fell on him, stabbing again and again, until the screaming came only from me. My body shook, my eyes watered, and there was a rich sickness in my bowels that felt like damnation. With my trembling, blood drenched hands I took the small totem, a grinning monkey with an upraised sword, from my trouser pocket, and held it over the ruin of the man. Instantly it glowed, throbbing with a black-red light. I thought I heard a cry of terrible pain on the air, but it could’ve just been me. Eventually, I rose to my feet and paced wearily back to the alley. The shadows felt oddly safe and comforting now. At the yellow light by the rusty door, the eyes appeared again, now wide and expectant. I held up the totem and there was a sound of wind, or perhaps, a thousand creatures inhaling deeply. They exhaled with a deep, satisfied sigh, and one by one, the eyes closed.
“The debt is paid,” said the swamp voice, “for now.”
The light above the door turned off with a quiet click and, as I stood alone in the darkness, I laughed, and laughed, and screamed. | Jean woke up in the middle of the night. At least, she thought it was the middle of the night; the city still sounded asleep and she couldn’t see the sun. She looked at her alarm clock. It read 10:00, which was odd considering that her clock was a 24 hour one. Perhaps it had died? She checked her phone and it read 10:00, she turned her computer on and saw the same time, even the clock in her car, although she heard nothing over the radio, which was odd, she thought she always had it on. And why was there this fog at 10:00 in the morning? Melbourne experienced at lot of different weather, even in the same day, but never fog, at least, not in summer.
Jean stepped onto the road, at least what felt like the road under her bare foot, she couldn’t really see her feet. She began walking towards her university, it wouldn’t be far and someone would definitely know what was going on, or at least create a conspiracy theory. Jean shivered, she didn’t think she would have needed a jumper, although with Melbourne weather you just never know she mused. “Ouch!” she cried, she had hit head on the metal gates that lead into the university, although normally they were open, even on public holidays, let alone during the semester. She nursed the sore spot on her forehead and cursed. She was startled at the loudness of her own voice, it was then that she realised she had heard nothing. She wasn’t sure if the fog was muffling the sounds or if… Jean shivered. She had heard rumours, whisperings on the dark Net, people shouting from corner streets, people in aluminium hats asking her to sign things. But she didn’t think it was true. Perhaps the war had turned dire. She didn’t think the government would actually ever use it. It didn’t really make sense; why wipe us all out? Had they issued a warning? Maybe Jean had missed the announcement. But why was Jean even thinking about this in the first place? It was all rumours!
It made sense though, the deathly silence, the lack of people, the closed university, the thick fog… the fog! Jean covered her mouth, she hoped the virus hadn’t gotten in, how much time had she spent out here? Jean began to feel woozy, she was having trouble breathing and the panic was starting to set in. “I’m going to die” she thought. She screamed, hoping the sound waves would penetrate the fog and land on some kind ears. She ran, hoping to find an open building, anything to get away from the virus. She could feel stinging in her throat. She wondered how she would die. Nobody mentioned symptoms.
*Thud.* Jean had collided into some thick, glass doors. Stickered onto the front of them Jean could just make out “…ospital…” A hospital! She was saved! She pulled at the door but it wouldn’t budge, then she tried pulling it and it didn’t move either. Jean was now getting desperate, she could feel her legs going numb. She tried rattling the doors, hitting them with her hands, screaming at the people inside, she could see people inside. But they just ignored her. “Please…” Jean mumbled, she was now lying against the door, her legs had given way and her arms were losing strength as well. “Please…” she tried again, but everyone ignored the hand pressed up against the glass; they wouldn’t let her in, if they let her in, they would let the fog in and then everyone in the hospital would die, besides there was no cure.
Jean felt her vision tunnelling, she lips were cold and she curled into the foetal position trying to conserve her strength. “At least it wasn’t too painful.” she thought, “At least the government was killing the aliens in a humane way, I haven’t been torn limb to limb, no bleeding or anything.” Jean closed her eyes and drew her last breath. But somewhere in the fog, Jean heard chattering and chirping. Something grabbed her arm and flung her into a sack. “Well,” Jean thought, “if I’m getting kidnapped by aliens, they chose the wrong person.”
-014
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The prophecy ends with a pure and absolute prohibition against directly revealing this fact to anyone. What happens next? | [WP] Our protagonist has just been gifted with a divine vision: precisely one year from now, if there are fewer than 100,000 people still keeping their butter in the refrigerator, all humanity will be saved. Otherwise, all humanity shall suddenly and violently perish. | "This is bullshit" Geoffrey uttered as he messed his hair up and bit his tongue as he often did under a lot of stress."Butter, fucking butter? how do I get rid of all of the fucking butter in the fucking world? " Geoffrey is not normally okay with swearing, but this felt different, felt right. "Fuck you god and your shitty arse messages,fuck" Geoffrey continued to scream into the mirror with toothpaste foaming out of his mouth like a rabid dog, or a rabid cow. At that moment, thinking about the somewhat ridiculous image of him talking to himself, he decided to calm down. "Maybe i'm not thinking of it rationally, maybe I can do it, maybe I need to do it, the only way I know how" Geoffrey once again uttered to himself, as he reached for his suit and car keys.
Geoffrey walked into the meeting on the 54th floor of 15 Anderson Street. As the chain smoking Doppelganger for the penguin, Geoffries boss Mr. Paulson, sat down onto the large rectangular mahogany table with a cider trim, he asked "so, does anybody have any ideas for our next product that will make us all millionaires?". Geoffrey stood up, looked Mr. Paulson in the eyes and said"I have an idea for a product, and I can already tell it will be used by millions worldwide" Mr. Paulson's eyes widened as he said "You have my attention, hurry up what is it". Beads of sweat were dripping from Geoffries brow as he confidently stated the words that may well save the universe "It's called I can't believe it's not butter ". | Sometimes, to save the world, you have to break a few eggs. Or in this case, drive to extinction a species we'd domesticated for thousands of years.
It wasn't easy, but we'd finally engineered the ultimate antibiotic resistant pathogen and gotten it into the food supply of every dairy farmer on the planet. And we were three months ahead of schedule.
"So", I pointed at the whiteboard, presenting the final analysis of Project Obligate Vegan, "at least two months prior to The Date all cows will be dead. That means no fresh milk, no new butter, and it's only a matter of time before people have to throw any rotting leftovers out of their fridge."
"I'm sorry, Dave, but butter doesn't go off that quickly."
"What?" I glared at Ted. "You told me that side of things was all worked out!"
"It has, but ... we also had to feed the pathogen to every power plant worker on earth." He shook his head at my gaping jaw. "It's a harsh price to pay, but we can't take any chances. Hopefully most of the plants will deactivate safely."
I nodded. "I guess you're right. Still ... all these deaths. It's a good thing we're not *actually* evil, isn't it?"
Ted chuckled half-heartedly. "Yeah. Thank goodness for that. Still, the World Trade Center, then Fukushima, then butter? I don't get it. I hope that fucking angel is done with us."
"So do I, Ted. So do I." |
[WP] Write a love poem in slam format. | A love Like
I want a love
Like when we meet I have so many words, but so little courage to speak them
I want a love
Like when I’m falling asleep, I smile because I’m imagining the face she makes when she’s waking up
A Love
Like I want to buy boxes of lucky charms so I can take out all the hearts and spell out love notes on the dining room table
I want a love
Like I see her at her best, even when she sees herself as at her worst
And that’s reciprocal
And that’s honest
And that’s the type of love you hold on to
I want a love
Like at any given moment I can realize a thousand different reasons to be happy about her, and they are all, lucid in my mind
A love
Like I write the most beautiful things about you and you don’t even know
Well… I mean… you do now, but, I wanted you to know this even when you didn’t
A love
Like where she does not treat me as an option because I am her priority
I want a love like
Like us being tangled is the sheets is a bondage I could live with forever, even if she steals the comforter late at night-
A love---Like I wouldnt mind that
I want a love
Like at an award show some dude get up to talk about the latest romance movie and Kayne busts in saying “These two have one of the best loves of all TIME”
A love
Like she realizes she cant please everyone, but she makes the effort to please me
I want a love
Like a gallon of nitro glycerin so strong, volatile, fragile, liquid, viscous, clear, capable, constructive, destructive, potent, productive and passionate that I’m afraid to handle it, but do because I know if I don’t, someone else will, and ill be careful and use that capability to create something beautiful.
I had a love like this, and I miss her everyday. I’m envious of all of you who have love, I sympathize with all of you who lost it, and have advice to all of you who seek it. Don’t, it will find you, when you are content with dating yourself, and when you least expect it.
(In the Style of Shihan)
| This advice is free,
That when you love someone, young man,
you give up your everything to that person, rich man,
and as you learn more about that person, smart man,
nothing new is a surprise or matters, witty man.
You'll argue and fight and gnarl and bite, tough man,
but you can't stop trusting your heart, sensitive man.
Finally when time has caught up to you, old man,
you'll be happy to have them by your side, lonely man,
to be by there side when times are rough, tense man,
and especially knowing that you've grown old, elderly man.
It's not enough to be loved, young man.
| |
[WP] "This is no place for a girl like you" | "This is no place for a girl like you." he said to the girl. They'd never break the Guinness World Record for Most People Inside a Phone Booth if they let any of the girls from the basketball team inside.
"You're 6'2" and this is fixed volume game." he said unapologetically and turned back to the line of interested participants. | A labyrinth of hallways and doors surround me, and I can't stop myself from doing a quick 360 survey of the area. I take a deep breath; in through the nose, out through the mouth. I had formed a very strange personality during high school, one that consisted of giggles and gossip about who the latest couple was and cliques. So many cliques, too many cliques.
I tossed that life up and away, just like I did with my graduation cap. I donated all the froofy dresses, something that had amassed after weekly shopping trips with the basketball team. I returned all the stilettos and pumps that were still in good condition. I framed all of my senior pictures throughout my parents' and relatives' houses, but I kept none for myself. I made sure to distribute the wallet pictures to those who only liked me for what was on the card. That was her, she's gone now.
This is now. I take my first step and try to remember the campus map handed to me at the beginning of the day. A left here, stairs here, no...maybe it was a right? Two rights, go straight, left... Here we are, the weight room. A few track girls were doing squats, others using the yoga mats or stationary exercise bike.
I shrug off my backpack and wave my arms in circles before mounting the treadmill. Just as my finger insert the plastic card, another hand knocks it out.
"Are you Marissa Steins?" I glance up at the woman, perhaps the captain of the girl's track team.
"Yes."
She wedges a small headshot into the spot where the plastic treadmill key should have gone. It was taken during the only time I've attended any party with alcohol, and in the picture, I was laughing at a joke. From the surroundings, it would be hard to tell. From the surroundings, it would be even harder to argue my case.
"Get out of my gym. This is no place for a girl like you." | |
[WP] "This is no place for a girl like you" | "Mama, please..." I whined to my mother, giving her the puppy face. "Let me go to school by myself."
"No, sweetie. It's too dangerous to go outside at this time of the day. You're waiting for the bus and that's that." My mother growled, having enough of my nonsense. "You are an eight year old girl, when you're twelve. Then I'll consider it."
"Fine..." I groaned, watching my mother drive away down the road to the point where I could no longer hear the purring of her car. Smiling wickedly, I knew she had to be at work, and the bus won't come for another half an hour. Thus I turned toward the forest line at the edge of the neighborhood and started walking to it. The flat concrete sidewalk quickly changed into difficult uneven terrain, I had to watch where I'm walking, but I was smiling regardless.
The forest was quite dark, as if there was a gloomy cloudy day above, but it was sunny with no hint of clouds anywhere, but I continued on. My mother was an overprotective mother, the school was right across the forest. Hardly an half an hour walk. By the time the school bus would arrive would be the time I would be walking through the front gate of my school.
A breeze blew through the forest, picking up my long black hair. It made me smile, I always loved it when the breeze do that. A sound of a twig snapped caught my attention, I wasn't moving so I couldn't make that sound. I looked around and called out "Hello?"
Nothing replied. I started walking hastily, could see the white color of the fence around the school. But a creature walked in front of me. It stood on all fours, it looked like an over sized dog, its fur was black and bluish in color. The creature licked its chops. I took a step back and noticed more of this creature started to surround me. "Can you move." I asked, just only realizing I sounded rude.
It sighed its foul rotted meat breath. "This is no place for a girl like you." It spoke, nearly whispering it.
"I'm just taking a shortcut. Can you please move?"
A hissing laughter sound emitted from all of them. "No." The creature smiled. "You see, this forest is off limits. Anyone who dare tread inside would surely die." It dipped down, holding its hind up, then jumped onto me, teeth baring.
-022 | *Stop. Stop! This is going to get her killed!*
Hikaru gritted his teeth, knowing that the nagging voice inside his head was right. He wanted her, but if she couldn't keep up then there was no use for her.
"I'm sorry," Raiko said, panting. Her shirt clung to her body, drenched in sweat. "I'm sorry, let's try again."
"No," Hikaru said shortly. "There's no point. You're too young and too weak. This is a waste of time."
"I'm as old as you!" Raiko argued indignantly. "And I'm not weak, just give me a chance!"
Hikaru sighed, running his hands through his hair. "Look, Raiko. I like you. I want to keep you around. But no one trusts you, and if you can't prove that you're strong enough to be part of the team, no one ever will. It's just a fact. This is no place for a girl like you."
Hikaru began walking away, resigning himself to go back to his team empty-handed, but he stopped after a few steps. The hair on the back of his neck rose, feeling a terrifying power behind him. He tried to call on his power to defend himself, but he found himself unable. He turned, staring wide-eyed at the girl behind him.
"What did you do to me?" Hikaru asked. "Why can't I access my Ryoku?"
"You don't get it yet? You can't leave me behind. You need me, and I'm every bit as strong as you are! I'm not some little girl you can just brush aside."
It took time for Hikaru to process what was happening. He had no access to his power, and Raiko was displaying strength well beyond her usual potential. "You're... you're using my own power against me?"
Raiko released her Ryoku, settling down. Hikaru embraced his just to be able to feel it again. "It's something I can only do with you, Hikaru. We share our Ryoku. You need me, and I need you, don't you see it? I won't let you brush me aside just because I'm not that strong on my own. I may be a girl, I may be weak, but this is the only place for me." | |
[WP] A dying soldier realizes that soon he is going to be part of a statistic. | I signed up to be a hero. I wanted to fight for what I thought was right and have people look up to me as something to aspire to, but as I lay here I realize I'm barely a living object to these people. I'm a number and nothing more. I have a number next to my last name hanging above my medical cot but they just ignore "Johnson" and refer to me as "867". I hear "did you give 867 his meds yet" from the corpsmen at least 10 times a day and I wouldn't be surprised that when its all over I'll get tossed into the same grave that my "enemies" were tossed in.
I signed my own death certificate disguised as a dotted line. We are losing the war and since I won't leave this bed until I actually pass I spend a lot of time reading the papers. Headlines such as "300 US troops killed today" cover the front page, and not once have I learned of any of their names, however I see the president's name littered throughout the articles when he describes how grateful he is of their service. I wish I could read the article that describes how grateful he was of the service of 867.
| I'd heard friends say "that was some mean bush". They didn't know shit. The new maw where my sternum used to be slowly opened and closed as my lungs struggled to fill themselves, at once both agreeing with the assessment and laughing at the fact that a third-gen army brat was now the last of the last generation. "An inglorious end to the glorious Pikes" rasped from my lips. The asphalt was cold and wet beneath me, the water from the cannons washing my viscous crimson life into the gutter, down to the sewers. I watched the first droplets of Henry Pike Jr. lazily make their descent into hell, and snorted with derision, wincing as the movement shook the shrapnel that the back panel of my bulletproof vest stopped after the first failed. Around me, the sounds of battle still roared, the guns and grenades of the army against the bats, pistols, and Molotovs of the rebels. Flames roared in the storefronts to my right, cleansing the slandered honor of the once great capital. Should I have turned? Was the King really right? Is the honor, the dignity, the structure of the kingdom worth my life? Sure as hell doesn't feel like it. I could justify the death in the jungle, where we were fighting men not our own, where the enemy wanted death, brutal and swift, but what about the rebels? Are these people, today vicious and violent, not the same people who only yesterday served me coffee at the diner? Who helped me pick out the suit I was going to wear to my date tonight? Who I fought to protect when it was us against the world, and not us against... us? I had pulled the trigger on my fellow man hundreds of times. Not till today had I pulled the trigger on my fellow citizen. Perhaps this end, the end swathed in red, is the only end for someone like me, for even if that bomb hadn't hit me, even had I gone to barracks tonight, and every night after, I don't think I could ever walk away from this day, this battle, this street. Perhaps should my vision not darken, should my lifeblood cease to fall from my body, should my lungs find the drive to fill again, I would be more dead than I am sitting here, on a cold street, lost in the remnants of a cold war, with a cold heart. | |
I'd like to see your ideas before you check this out, but here's [my inspiration](http://www.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/1vw6e3/if_you_woke_up_one_morning_and_everyone_else_in/cewfnue) for this prompt. | [WP] Everyone on Earth has inexplicably and suddenly perished. Except for one person. This person somehow manages to single-handedly repopulate our planet. Make up a religion or write some lore that revolves around this person 5,000 years after the incident. | "The DNA back-projection results are in. As expected, evidence of a genetic bottleneck was found."
"Date? 5000 years ago?"
"Yup, around the time of the mythical Engineered Plagues."
"Have you started writing a paper with these results?"
"There's just one problem... the bottleneck was much steeper than we thought."
"What, how many? 50? 20?"
"Well... One."
"ONE? How's that even possible? What sort of repopulation could occur with one person? Not unless that person was capable of binary fission- which is inconceivable, even with the impossibly advanced technologies of that age."
"There's always the Axotol tank theory, which is quite plausible."
"What, surrogate birthing tanks?"
"One male, in an engineered organism-free safe house with surrogate birthing tanks, could potentially fertilize sufficient numbers to single-handedly repopulate the planet."
"Single-handedly... what a great way to put it. So modern humanity owes its existence to one massive wanker. We can't write that into the history books!"
"He was a wanker with a mission, though. What else can we write, then? Make up some religion or lore?"
***
Sorry, couldn't help but post this joke. *Single-handedly* was too much of a trap prompt... | Oh God, I hope this story makes sense. If not... new writer here! *waves* Please be forgiving!
Edit: Yes I just realized it only fulfills the prompt in the most basic of terms. But, anyway, enjoy.
***
"ALL HAIL JIM, THE WISEST OF THE GREAT GODS." The crowd chanted in reverence, undulating back and forth to form a ripple surrounding the central idol they were all facing. The mass of bodies chattered and whispered, creating a distant hum of noise that rung clearly in the air through the box stadium. Already, they were segregated, with the young and old stranded in the outmost rings of the circle, as the fine standing warriors of the population pushed to the front in order to get closer to their beloved one.
Amongst the fickle infants left stranded at the fringes of the population were three young siblings by the names of Mary, Peter and Tazul the Fifth. Currently, the two eldest were engaged in heated discussion about common folklore.
"The Great God Jim is without a doubt the mightiest of all!" Peter's eyes shone beadily, gleaming in the dim green light. "In his lifetime He has trampled those who oppose Him, rescuing our ancestors from fire and hail. Legend has it that He is the finest warrior this planet has ever seen. His enemies tremble at the sound of His footsteps, and even though He has been sorely bitten by the sting of enemy weapons He still remains magnanimous in victory."
"What does mag-ah-ne-mouse mean?" Tazul the Fifth piped in. As the smallest of the three by far, and having been cursed with the most annoyingly common name in the history of nomenclature, he felt that he had a lot to prove.
"Shut up Tazul." His sister was feisty for a female, and being the eldest of the trio, she often competed with Peter for control. This debate was just the latest stage in their ongoing battle for dominance. "You're wrong Peter, the Great God is mag-NA-nimous, yes, but never violent. He would never be violent! Do not forget, He saw the downfall of civilizations, He has the nobility in Him born of tragedy and loss. He is kind and generous, not a warrior. He nurtured our world from the ashes. Ashes! He is an architect - A visionary! Not a warrior."
After this precocious display of verbosity Mary paused, preening slightly. Behind her back, Tazul the Fifth twitched as he considered these statements carefully. Despite his size and age he was much more intelligent than others gave him credit for, and had a knack for remembering bits and bobs of old tales.
Behind all three of them, the gargantuan idol loomed into the sky, as the figure smiled down, gaze benevolent and wise.
Peter, not to be outdone, drew himself to his full length, showing off the length of his glossy coat. He was always complimented for its particularly shiny texture, and hoped this reminder of his natural beauty would impress Mary enough to subdue her. If he couldn't impress her now, he would be stuck for ages before another fine enough female specimen would consent to the preliminary mating rituals. If only his annoying kid brother could get out of the way so that the adults could conduct important business. "Dear sister, I agree that the Great God is kind and generous to **US**, His beloved brethren, but to his enemies He is a fierce soldier! Do you not remember the battle in the room of the notorious Dineng, where He crafted missiles of bread from His own supplies and air-bombed them with such a military precision that they killed several of our enemies on impact and fed our troops for several generations? That, my dear lady, is the work of a supreme military commander, not of a mild savior."
Mary frowned. The battle of Dineng was an impressive historical example, for sure, and was a good card to pull this late into the mating procedures. Humming in amusement to herself, she recalled the mating rituals of the ancient generations and preened slightly at the thought of how their population had elevated out of such barbary. Perhaps she would give Peter a chance after all.
"You're both wrong!" The sound of Tazul the Fifth's tinny voice disturbed the pair from their daydreams. Despite having two hundred and thirteen siblings that never hesitated to brutally tease him, Tazul always spoke freely about his opinions - perhaps sometimes too freely. "The Great God... Jim... **I** think he's not a warrior OR a saint. In fact I've heard that he's not actually that impressive. Actually... I don't even think he's a god!"
At this, a ripple of noise erupted around him, with antennae quickly turning around to point at him. "HERETIC!" The first voice yelled, and suddenly there was a mass stampede of blurred bodies, all charging towards the poor larvae who just never knew how to shut up. And then, as the crowd reached the outermost corners of the stadium, all felt the most curious tipping sensation and light flooded the room...
***
"Those damn cockroaches!" Jim screeched, looking with dismay at the rotting milk carton to the right of his front porch. Taking a broom, he swept a wave of tiny brown bodies off the ledge in one practiced motion.
"Must have been festering under there for a few months now." He muttered to himself, hobbling back to his rocking-chair as his old bones protested at the effort.
"It figures. The entire human race is wiped out... But even after so many years, those damn cockroaches never know when to die!" |
I'd like to see your ideas before you check this out, but here's [my inspiration](http://www.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/1vw6e3/if_you_woke_up_one_morning_and_everyone_else_in/cewfnue) for this prompt. | [WP] Everyone on Earth has inexplicably and suddenly perished. Except for one person. This person somehow manages to single-handedly repopulate our planet. Make up a religion or write some lore that revolves around this person 5,000 years after the incident. | "Come my children, gather and hear my words."
The assorted children of various ages ambled over to Elder Lana, circling around her seat in the community hall.
"Hear this, the story of the rising phoenix of humanity, the rebirth of that which was all but lost."
The children sat abruptly, their attentions caught. All eyes were riveted upon Elder Lana as she began to weave her tale.
"In the time before the One, before unity and true life, there were many factions and beliefs, governments and wars, weapons and killings-"
A horrified gasp went up from the back as one of the younger children heard the forbidden word.
"We must recognize some sad truths. Man was bad. Women were just as bad. But heed my speaking or you'll face a dark path, a repetition of the ultimate misery."
The crowd grew silent, and the Elder resumed the story.
"The greatest war of all wars happened. One group eradicated another. And the fungal weapons they used obliterated entire continents. There was one left. Of all the people, 9.2 billion people, one was alive. The Only One. Our father."
One of the young men tugged nervously at his facial hair, grooming it to lay flat along his cheeks and neck.
"The One was not pretty. He looked nothing like what the paintings depict him as. His face was pockmarked, and had a scruffy, curly beard. His hair was long and greasy, and pulled back into a ponytail. His body was overweight and weak. The only strength he had was his name, Dovahkiin. Somehow he survived."
"For years he wandered the earth, immune to the cancerous spores their mushroom weapons released, and watched as the last remnants of his people died. The One wondered constantly at what he would have to do to bring mankind back from the brink."
The cadre of youth grew restless, anxious to hear the one part of the old tale always kept from them, the missing pages from their storybooks, the ones censored from them; they waited to hear the Elder answer *how* he had repopulated.
"One day while traveling the ruins of a menagerie of sorts, he came across another immune being, still alive, and most importantly, female."
Not one person dared move or breathe now, already they were learning more than they had ever known of their origins.
"Deedee the Chimpanzee was a healthy female who was conveniently trained in a language of hand signals, one which was studied by the One in his years of education. The two became inseparable, and within months, she bore the first of our new humanity."
Shocked silence sat upon the sequestered children. A cacophony of quietude filtered through the air, and many a green faces were seen. Some lost their lunches, others finally understood the hair on their backs and necks. The strength, agility, and love of bananas which were previously nonsensical became inherently understandable in that moment.
Clarity comes at a cost | "All hail the holy one, born of the old gods. For he was the first of us, and the last of them" the priest cried.
"All hail, all hail" the crowd replied.
"All remember the first one, who crafted merfolk from fish and werefolk from beasts. Who crafted machines from steel, and ghosts from the abyss"
"All remember, all remember"
"All fight for the great one, for the humans we decend. For the otherkin are inferior, for we are created in the image of this new god."
"All fight, all fight."
"All weep for the peaceful one, who died to keep us together. Who created equality above all, who reminded us of the history of the elder days."
"All weep, all weep."
"All praise the wise one, who brought us back from the end of time. And the one who saved life."
"All praise the holy one."
"And we do not repeat the old ways, for that would lead to destruction."
"And we keep ourselves from the darkness, and find safety in the light."
"Now go, dear ones, and pick up my gift to you."
"What is it?" one cried out, from amoung the masses.
"The food which the saviour savoured, as a reward for our hard tolls. Chocolate."
The crowd left the church quickly. |
I'd like to see your ideas before you check this out, but here's [my inspiration](http://www.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/1vw6e3/if_you_woke_up_one_morning_and_everyone_else_in/cewfnue) for this prompt. | [WP] Everyone on Earth has inexplicably and suddenly perished. Except for one person. This person somehow manages to single-handedly repopulate our planet. Make up a religion or write some lore that revolves around this person 5,000 years after the incident. | Joff's shovel was the one that finally broke through to the cavern. The last ten years of careful excavation culminating in this moment. The others gathered around, making sure their filters were in place.
More pieces of the wall were removed and Professor Ira was designated as the first one to get to step inside since it was her expedition. She carefully entered and shone her hand light around. "I think we will have to revise more than a few of the history books" she said after returning outside.
Later
"As you can see these photographs clearly show that there was only one artist who created these pictures. And from the analysis of the tome the individual we found inside did in fact enclose herself inside." Ira explained, continuing the rather shocking announcement.
"But professor that sounds similar to the ending of the... The Mother Myth" stated a rather perturbed looking reporter for the Science of Now magazine.
"Well as many people have theorized over the years it appears that although some of the more fantastical stories were entirely made up, the basis of the Mother Myth seems to be true" she replied.
The world was shaken, the Mother Myth true? There had nearly been wars fought over smaller disagreements in the newest of laws. But the oldest? The tenants that had kept those wars from happening came from the Ten Requirements laid down by Her. Could this new information change things for the worse?
Committees and councils were called, eventually they all concluded that they would abide by The Third Requirement:
If Something Is New You Must Study It, Even If You are Afraid, Only By Looking At The New Can We Understand The Old, And Change Accordingly.
Many people saw the irony that they were actually looking at the old to discover something new, but they were curious anyway. This was Truth and they had been taught to always seek that.
-----------------------------------------------
(As an aside I would appreciate any constructive criticism as this is part of a story I've had rolling around in my head for awhile that I'd like to someday complete,
thank you CAFFEINE_ENEMA for doing this prompt, it finally gave me a virtual kick in the pants)
| "All hail the holy one, born of the old gods. For he was the first of us, and the last of them" the priest cried.
"All hail, all hail" the crowd replied.
"All remember the first one, who crafted merfolk from fish and werefolk from beasts. Who crafted machines from steel, and ghosts from the abyss"
"All remember, all remember"
"All fight for the great one, for the humans we decend. For the otherkin are inferior, for we are created in the image of this new god."
"All fight, all fight."
"All weep for the peaceful one, who died to keep us together. Who created equality above all, who reminded us of the history of the elder days."
"All weep, all weep."
"All praise the wise one, who brought us back from the end of time. And the one who saved life."
"All praise the holy one."
"And we do not repeat the old ways, for that would lead to destruction."
"And we keep ourselves from the darkness, and find safety in the light."
"Now go, dear ones, and pick up my gift to you."
"What is it?" one cried out, from amoung the masses.
"The food which the saviour savoured, as a reward for our hard tolls. Chocolate."
The crowd left the church quickly. |
I'd like to see your ideas before you check this out, but here's [my inspiration](http://www.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/1vw6e3/if_you_woke_up_one_morning_and_everyone_else_in/cewfnue) for this prompt. | [WP] Everyone on Earth has inexplicably and suddenly perished. Except for one person. This person somehow manages to single-handedly repopulate our planet. Make up a religion or write some lore that revolves around this person 5,000 years after the incident. | Joff's shovel was the one that finally broke through to the cavern. The last ten years of careful excavation culminating in this moment. The others gathered around, making sure their filters were in place.
More pieces of the wall were removed and Professor Ira was designated as the first one to get to step inside since it was her expedition. She carefully entered and shone her hand light around. "I think we will have to revise more than a few of the history books" she said after returning outside.
Later
"As you can see these photographs clearly show that there was only one artist who created these pictures. And from the analysis of the tome the individual we found inside did in fact enclose herself inside." Ira explained, continuing the rather shocking announcement.
"But professor that sounds similar to the ending of the... The Mother Myth" stated a rather perturbed looking reporter for the Science of Now magazine.
"Well as many people have theorized over the years it appears that although some of the more fantastical stories were entirely made up, the basis of the Mother Myth seems to be true" she replied.
The world was shaken, the Mother Myth true? There had nearly been wars fought over smaller disagreements in the newest of laws. But the oldest? The tenants that had kept those wars from happening came from the Ten Requirements laid down by Her. Could this new information change things for the worse?
Committees and councils were called, eventually they all concluded that they would abide by The Third Requirement:
If Something Is New You Must Study It, Even If You are Afraid, Only By Looking At The New Can We Understand The Old, And Change Accordingly.
Many people saw the irony that they were actually looking at the old to discover something new, but they were curious anyway. This was Truth and they had been taught to always seek that.
-----------------------------------------------
(As an aside I would appreciate any constructive criticism as this is part of a story I've had rolling around in my head for awhile that I'd like to someday complete,
thank you CAFFEINE_ENEMA for doing this prompt, it finally gave me a virtual kick in the pants)
| "Come my children, gather and hear my words."
The assorted children of various ages ambled over to Elder Lana, circling around her seat in the community hall.
"Hear this, the story of the rising phoenix of humanity, the rebirth of that which was all but lost."
The children sat abruptly, their attentions caught. All eyes were riveted upon Elder Lana as she began to weave her tale.
"In the time before the One, before unity and true life, there were many factions and beliefs, governments and wars, weapons and killings-"
A horrified gasp went up from the back as one of the younger children heard the forbidden word.
"We must recognize some sad truths. Man was bad. Women were just as bad. But heed my speaking or you'll face a dark path, a repetition of the ultimate misery."
The crowd grew silent, and the Elder resumed the story.
"The greatest war of all wars happened. One group eradicated another. And the fungal weapons they used obliterated entire continents. There was one left. Of all the people, 9.2 billion people, one was alive. The Only One. Our father."
One of the young men tugged nervously at his facial hair, grooming it to lay flat along his cheeks and neck.
"The One was not pretty. He looked nothing like what the paintings depict him as. His face was pockmarked, and had a scruffy, curly beard. His hair was long and greasy, and pulled back into a ponytail. His body was overweight and weak. The only strength he had was his name, Dovahkiin. Somehow he survived."
"For years he wandered the earth, immune to the cancerous spores their mushroom weapons released, and watched as the last remnants of his people died. The One wondered constantly at what he would have to do to bring mankind back from the brink."
The cadre of youth grew restless, anxious to hear the one part of the old tale always kept from them, the missing pages from their storybooks, the ones censored from them; they waited to hear the Elder answer *how* he had repopulated.
"One day while traveling the ruins of a menagerie of sorts, he came across another immune being, still alive, and most importantly, female."
Not one person dared move or breathe now, already they were learning more than they had ever known of their origins.
"Deedee the Chimpanzee was a healthy female who was conveniently trained in a language of hand signals, one which was studied by the One in his years of education. The two became inseparable, and within months, she bore the first of our new humanity."
Shocked silence sat upon the sequestered children. A cacophony of quietude filtered through the air, and many a green faces were seen. Some lost their lunches, others finally understood the hair on their backs and necks. The strength, agility, and love of bananas which were previously nonsensical became inherently understandable in that moment.
Clarity comes at a cost |
Bonus points if the kids experienced the same thing. | [WP] Two kids stay in an abandoned house overnight. In the morning, one believes in the supernatural while the other doesn't. | Ben's arm knocked over a beer can, causing it to spiral down the hallway, disturbing the dirt that hadn't been touched in years. He laughed nervously as his eyes were glued to the fog of dust, rolling and touching each corner. Karen's eyes were glued to Ben, taking in the gum stuck to his Nike shoes to the one strand of black hair that wouldn't stay out of his sharp eyes.
"Party foul," Karen teased, "You gotta drink another."
"Hey, hey. It was empty. You're not gonna trick me to chug another." He laughed again, this time with more spirit, causing his nose to wrinkle at the edges. Karen, a slender brunette with an obviously stuffed bra, was silent. "You alright?," he asked, "Are you scared to be at a *haaaaaunted* mansion?"
Karen snorted, "Yeah, right. Like *ghosts* are real. Do you actually believe this stuff? Sarah was trying to tell me someone really died here, and I just, like, I couldn't even try to act interested."
"I don't know, maybe. You know my Dad's a cop. He said the owner was stabbed by his daughter. Fucking crazy."
Karen rubbed her fingers into the dirt, marking a heart into the hardwood floor. Without looking up she mumbled, "Well, if I get scared you'll have to hold me."
Ben's face turned bright red as he was able to get out, "Don't worry. I'll protect you."
Both of them were silent now, two teenagers, sitting on a dirty floor of an abandoned house, worrying about their virginity. Karen created more dusty hearts, as Ben cracked open another Pabst. The sound echoed through the empty rooms, reverberating against the broken wood.
"Do you believe in the Devil?", Karen whispered, still refusing to look up, even with her blonde hair in her eyes.
"The real question is," Ben replied, "Do you believe in God?" He took his hand and physically raised her chin, bringing her closer to him. The two spent the night disturbing the dust, creating new figures in the hardwood floor.
-----------------------------------------------------------
"I'm late." Karen's voice trembled, her face bright red. Exactly one month after the night at the abandoned house. Ben stared. In one sentence, he heard his life turn to dust. Karen continued to stammer, "You asked me if I believed in God. I do now. I do. I didn't before but this has to be a sign. We're meant to be together. We're meant to have this baby."
Ben carefully chose his next words, "Karen, we're only sixteen, this isn't meant to happen so early." She stared at him, her fingers grasping her arm a little tighter. "Couldn't you...couldn't you get an abortion?" Karen's arm seemed almost white now.
"I can't believe you," she stated in a poisonous voice, "This is a child from GOD."
"Karen, this...this isn't a child from God. God wouldn't do this to us. He wouldn't ruin my-our life like this! God can't be real if he would do this to us!"
Karen's left eye twitched. Her fingers tapped against her white arm. Karen's pink mouth formed the words, "I hate you." as she stormed off, leaving Ben standing alone in the school hallway.
Ben yelled after her, "He can't be real, Karen! He can't be real if he would do this to us!", his eyes kept following her as he cried louder, "This isn't a baby from God!"
Karen's steps echoed across the hallway.
--------------------------------------------------------------
I kind of took your prompt in another direction. I've never been good at ghost stories. Loved the prompt, though! | When I was younger, there was an old abandoned cranberry farm where we used to play. The ponds outside that made up the cranberry fields had long been abandoned and turned to a sour muck that carried the smell of rotting vegetation and vinegar throughout the farming compound. On a hillside, above the gooey swamps of stench, stretched a dilapidated farmhouse that seemed to grow out of monolith chunk of bedrock that supported a few other buildings as well.
On one unusually warm night just before Halloween, I decided to take my then girlfriend Karen, up to the farmhouse for an adventure and camping. I admit that I had other motives but I could tell that she did too. Before dark, we scoured the old buildings, sifting through layers of abandoned detritus, looking for anything at all of value but we found nothing.
The moon was starting it's nightly journey across the sky without it's usual accompaniment of stars to help cheer and encourage it on. Karen and I decided to make camp inside the house before it got too late to see what we were doing. There was an old stove we lit just to hear the fire crackle. After our sleeping bags were spread out across the floor, Karen fished around in her backpack and produced a bottle of gin. I took one shot because I've never been much of a drinker. Karen was a little more exuberant and plowed through almost half a bottle. Before you knew it, she was stripping off her top and bra and I must admit, I've never seen such nice tits before. It didn't take long for some kissing, then we stripped each others clothes to the floor. Her inhibitions had been replaced with an arousing, drunken comfort of being naked. I had only been with one other girl and the only sexual experienced I have ever had, had been an awkward session of just the tip.
Karen and I started going at it like wild monkeys in the abandoned house. I wasn't really sure what I was doing but she was on top so I just wiggled around and flailed my hips as much as I could. Sweat glued our skin together while we bucked and clawed passionately at each other. For over an hour, we clung together, every second growing more intense. Just before climax, a bright cloud of yellowish smoke that carried the same smell as the run down bog, appeared. The cloud hovered above our heads and as if looking through a screen, you could just make out a figure. An evil, slender looking entity that seemed to be masturbating was watching us. My sudden and erratic movements, trying to get up and flee were halted by the screaming orgasm of Karen, whipping her head back and bracing both of her hands on my legs. In a loud ecstatic scream she yells, " Oh man, oh my shit! It feels so good, I can see heaven." And with that, I could feel the warmth of her ejaculate spread across my legs. The entity had vanished. Intoxicated and fulfilled, Karen rolled on to her bedding and fell asleep. I put my arm around her and nuzzled close, keeping my eyes open the whole night.
We didn't talk much the next day. I think she was embarrassed and I was still scared shitless. We ended up going our separate ways before Thanksgiving. I never would go back to that creepy ass house. I know what I saw but I someone told me that Karen went back a lot with other guys and even had an orgy there the next summer. |
[WP] Write about an extremely ordinary situation (walking down a hall, or eating lunch) where nothing extraordinary happens, but the writing style makes it interesting. | Damn son, this morning be chill as fuck. Oh, now I'm at the bus stop. | The sun was shinning in the distance, a couple red colored clouds, all those shades of blue, purple and red mixed with one another in the sky. I had been all day sitting down, how energetic it was to finally be let out of another day of school. Another day of doing the same thing I had been doing all my life.
Day after day after day, sitting down with thousands upon thousands of books open in front of me, "Chemimancy for Dummies" by Samuel L. Platt, "Stellar Attractions of Stellarity" by Lord Gray the thirtieth and what had become my bible "The Beginning and End of Sterniculture" by Ian M. Stern.
My mom would've dinner ready by now, my mouth started watering at the thought of her reheated stew, all that had remained from lunch, put together on a pot and left to heat and recook until everyone made it home. My dad would probably do one of his signature ice-creams and it would all come to a close with a coffee while we talked about what we had done along the day, before going to sleep only for exactly the same thing tomorrow. | |
The first interstellar ship to leave the solar system has just crossed the final boundary, when it is approached by a craft much larger and more powerful than itself. The vessel transmits something to the effect of "This system is quarantined - Leave or you will be destroyed" | [WP]Our first interstellar ship exits the solar system, only to be confronted by a border-guard (more inside) | The cottage I grew up in was built between mountain and rock, but the stars were always friendlier to me. I could sit all night watching their clear, unpolluted voyages across the skies. Interstellar guardians patrolling the cosmos and calling to those who would adventure towards these tiny specks of flame millions of miles from home.
This wasn't my home in the mountains but I found it just as peaceful. When I slept I could disable all the LEDs on the dash, leaving me alone with the giants and dwarfs, resting in only their light. Here it was always a night under the stars. I was on a one-man, one-way trip towards the edge of the dark unknown but I was anything but a lonely man.
"Houston. Douglas here. Video log for day 4,381. Continuing at target speed. Shuttle showing no signs of malfunction or degradation. No new bodies since DF-132 on day 4,150. Out."
I went through the procedure of sending the missive to Earth as I had done each day since I left the planet, coordinates included. The place must have changed a bit. They might have built a faster ship. Maybe in a day or two some other solo spaceman will float by, wave at me through the screen and continue past. I hoped not. I guess I would be famous now, too. Either as a hero or a fool. The whole world could be watching each of my video diaries each day, waiting eagerly for them to arrive. Wouldn't make for much interesting TV. Same time, nobody could be seeing them now. Didn't matter to me.
I ditched the lights, stretched out in the pilots seat and threw my hands behind my head. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the blackness of space, and once again I could make out each and every one of my interstellar companions. Big, small, bright, dim, red, white. When you really sat there for a few minutes, they come out. Start to trust you, like frightened animals. I shut my eyes and said goodnight.
A light had come on. I blinked. It hadn't been lit since I was grounded on Earth. The ship was dead in space. Not moving anywhere, after staying the same speed for twelve years. There was quiet, as always but for my breathing the recycled oxygen. I hit the power for the display and the bridge was light again. My instruments were the same but for the one tiny light. I looked outside.
The stars had shifted. They were not the same as when I had fallen to sleep. They were arranged unlike anything I had seen in my voyage but there was a glimmer of recognition about them I couldn't place. My friends had changed clothes on me, disguised themselves while I rested. I squinted at this new sky. Then the silence was broken.
"Human."
There was nothing on board which could have made the sound. No speakers. No radios. I never needed them. My diaries never played back.
"Human. Speak." The voice was high pitched and electronic.
"Hello."
"You are human. Is this correct?"
The voice remained flat when it asked the question. I could not tell where it was coming from. I nodded.
"Thank you."
The thing had seen me nod. I swung the seat around but there was nothing behind me.
"Did you stop me?"
"Yes, Human. We are also responsible for your relocation."
"How far have I been moved?"
"You have been turned back the way you came. There were locations which we would not allow you to see."
The familiarity of the stars now made sense. I had never seen these systems from this side.
"Who am I speaking too?
The voice answered rapidly to every question. "A guard."
"Of what?"
"A civilization and its worlds."
I had observed no visible planets for years. "How far from these worlds are we? I have seen none."
"Close. You have seen them from afar."
I nodded once more. The voice continued.
"You are to be left to die, Human. There is transmission equipment on board your vessel. Our location must not be compromised."
"Ok."
"Your vessel will be disabled. Goodbye, Human."
I sat in the silence for several seconds before the lights in the bridge once more turned dark. I would breath out the oxygen in a few hours with the power out. Out the screen were the stars I had not seen for a very long time, left behind by the front-facing spacecraft. I flipped the map I had in my head, naming the largest I could see out loud.
"TC-135. White. TD-3094. Red. DE-321. White. DW-091. Blue."
I could have named them anything. I found them. I was the only human they had ever known, and now they were to watch me die.
"Hello?"
"I am here, Human."
"Do you live on the stars?"
Finally the voice paused.
"Yes."
"What are they like?"
"They are home."
"Thank you."
My ship floated among the warm blackness of space, being lit by the distant light of my fiery giants. Eventually it became hard to breath. It didn't matter. I was sitting at the top of man's greatest rocky mountain, basking in the gifts of the greatest climb we had ever made. The lights were off, I was with my friends. | "By god...Sir... I have something!"
"What is it?"
"It's a radio signal... and it's not from Earth."
"Impossible. Double check and then check again."
"I have sir."
"...We have a first contact? We've barely exited the Kuiper belt. What the hell is-"
"The signals changing... beeps. Morse code..."
"What does it say?"
"Turn back... or destruction awaits... quarantine... It repeats, sir."
"Are you sure that's what it means? Can you- no, you have to trace the location of the signal!"
"Calculating triple receiver delay input... It's... Right above us. Five-... five hundred meters."
"How-...Get some cameras up there NOW! We are transmitting this, and the signal too! Get it to Earth!"
"Yes sir! But what about the w-warning? Are we going to turn around?"
"We've hurled past Jupiter and Neptune, and are going over 300,000 KmH. This thing doesn't turn on a dime."
"...Sir, w-we have cameras live, feeding to E-Earth and main screen."
"Good, let's get a look at this history."
"We aren't receiving the signal a-anymore...That light... Its g-getting brighter."
"...It's been an honor serving with you."
_________________________________________________________________________________
In an instant, the view of the universe shifted.
The recording of 3-NTE *Reprise* was transmitted live to every news site and interrupted every possible internet broadcast. Though only lasting scant seconds, the first contact event immediately caused worldwide disruption, skepticism, and panic. Political leaders from across the world quickly gathered in the most important meeting of the UN to have ever taken place. Once legitimacy of the recordings were established, proceeding then went on which course of action to take. Should another ship be sent to ascertain what exactly happened, and perhaps communicate again? This view was largely held by the United States and Japan, yet the EU and China wanted to focus on maintaining order in the world, as rioting had broken out in several countries and a full-scale revolution was happening on Mars.
Think tanks were assembled to try and decipher greater meaning behind the transmissions from the vessel, how it knew Morse code, and to discern how it destroyed the *Reprise*. None were wholly successful, and all that was discovered that the Sol system was under Quarantine by some Other, highly advanced race. Some proposals as to why we hadn't heard their transmissions go so far as to say they use quantum entanglement as communication, or have erected an invisible Dyson sphere to block radio waves and let light through. Other theories addressed the speculation of why we are quarantined, from being an experiment to being excluded from some sort of galactic council or being deemed dangerous by supposed council. No one had any concrete information. The destruction of The *Reprise* and all of it's crew was simply assumed to be a high powered laser.
Eventually, an agreed upon plan was made: After much of the world quieted down into a state of awe, there was to be a marketing campaign to unify the people of the Earth. Select astronauts from all over the world were trained in diplomacy and were to be sent on a mission to the edge of the solar system for second contact. They became celebrities. Talk shows, interviews, and biographies were created in the billions.
Launch day came with great celebrations, as 4-NTS *Chorus* lifted off into local stellar space and set off for the outer regions of the solar system, with the intent of forming a large orbit on the edges of the Kuiper belt and slowly expanding outwards until contact was made again. They would then follow orders and contract their orbit whilst trying to maintain contact with the others. The "Second Contact" web series was the most watched broadcast ever, even though recordings came in 10 minute bursts that got farther and farther apart as it drifted away from the Earth.
Contact was made 116 days into the mission. The same response, only the *Chorus* wasn't destroyed. Questions were asked, messages were sent in every language, and yet, there was no reply. Images of the alien craft were captured by secret cameras, and never release to the public. The crew stayed in outer orbit for 35 days, until it was decided that, to get a better response, they had go beyond the Kuiper belt again, though the danger of instant annihilation still existed. Nothing happened. *Chorus* received no further transmissions.
At all. |
The first interstellar ship to leave the solar system has just crossed the final boundary, when it is approached by a craft much larger and more powerful than itself. The vessel transmits something to the effect of "This system is quarantined - Leave or you will be destroyed" | [WP]Our first interstellar ship exits the solar system, only to be confronted by a border-guard (more inside) | On all the stars in the galaxy-They were going to get in trouble if they went any further. I was pretty bored of humans trying to escape. We captured their probes, fed false data- tried to convince them that interstellar travel was impossible with the readings. But no, they found ways around it. You had to admire their persistence. This time they had made it to The Boundary, as we called it- our last line of quarantine. There was an office pool on what would happen. It started some several hundred years ago. Most of us bet that they wouldn't make it into space, including me. We lost. Then there was making it to the edge of their solar system. I had moved up in rank since that first bet, and as technical officer in charge of human communications monitoring, I had seen what they could do. I won that time, and I bet ever since then that they would make it here. The pool was illegal and as a commanding officer I should crack down on it and demote anyone taking part. But if you stick hundreds of techies and officers out in the middle of nowhere, they get bored. It's better to keep excitement and morale up with harmless gambling than to discover your best science officers had created a miniature black hole in your office. That's what happened to the last guy who tried to issue punishment for the bets. He didn't last long. Now the humans were here, and the new pool was onwhat action we would take. Would the council tell us to destroy them? To trap them in a specially prepared chamber and keep them for experimentation?
I hadn't bet on this one. I had given my advice to the interstellar council. They had toured my ship, all of them, from each represented galaxy to give advice on the human containment. It had been frustrating. They didn't know humans, I did. I had spent my entire career watching them, working my way up from an observance tech to the head of the department and now commander of the ship. Hundreds of years of listening, watching, that they ignored. I told them containment wouldn't work like it did for other species that were known to be environmentally destructive. Humans were stubborn, and though they fought amongst themselves they had an innate sense of self unique to their species. It was not a shared intelligence. It was a self righteousness, a belief that the universe somehow owed them and waited for their taking. It was written in their myths and woven into their society. They would not be dissuaded. The council did not believe me, and now I waited for them to direct me on my next action. I watched the human ship, so small and fragile in my view. All their technology, in a pipe dream. I shook my head. No time to think of that now. I should buzz Scomar. I touched a button on my desk and opened the comm link
| "By god...Sir... I have something!"
"What is it?"
"It's a radio signal... and it's not from Earth."
"Impossible. Double check and then check again."
"I have sir."
"...We have a first contact? We've barely exited the Kuiper belt. What the hell is-"
"The signals changing... beeps. Morse code..."
"What does it say?"
"Turn back... or destruction awaits... quarantine... It repeats, sir."
"Are you sure that's what it means? Can you- no, you have to trace the location of the signal!"
"Calculating triple receiver delay input... It's... Right above us. Five-... five hundred meters."
"How-...Get some cameras up there NOW! We are transmitting this, and the signal too! Get it to Earth!"
"Yes sir! But what about the w-warning? Are we going to turn around?"
"We've hurled past Jupiter and Neptune, and are going over 300,000 KmH. This thing doesn't turn on a dime."
"...Sir, w-we have cameras live, feeding to E-Earth and main screen."
"Good, let's get a look at this history."
"We aren't receiving the signal a-anymore...That light... Its g-getting brighter."
"...It's been an honor serving with you."
_________________________________________________________________________________
In an instant, the view of the universe shifted.
The recording of 3-NTE *Reprise* was transmitted live to every news site and interrupted every possible internet broadcast. Though only lasting scant seconds, the first contact event immediately caused worldwide disruption, skepticism, and panic. Political leaders from across the world quickly gathered in the most important meeting of the UN to have ever taken place. Once legitimacy of the recordings were established, proceeding then went on which course of action to take. Should another ship be sent to ascertain what exactly happened, and perhaps communicate again? This view was largely held by the United States and Japan, yet the EU and China wanted to focus on maintaining order in the world, as rioting had broken out in several countries and a full-scale revolution was happening on Mars.
Think tanks were assembled to try and decipher greater meaning behind the transmissions from the vessel, how it knew Morse code, and to discern how it destroyed the *Reprise*. None were wholly successful, and all that was discovered that the Sol system was under Quarantine by some Other, highly advanced race. Some proposals as to why we hadn't heard their transmissions go so far as to say they use quantum entanglement as communication, or have erected an invisible Dyson sphere to block radio waves and let light through. Other theories addressed the speculation of why we are quarantined, from being an experiment to being excluded from some sort of galactic council or being deemed dangerous by supposed council. No one had any concrete information. The destruction of The *Reprise* and all of it's crew was simply assumed to be a high powered laser.
Eventually, an agreed upon plan was made: After much of the world quieted down into a state of awe, there was to be a marketing campaign to unify the people of the Earth. Select astronauts from all over the world were trained in diplomacy and were to be sent on a mission to the edge of the solar system for second contact. They became celebrities. Talk shows, interviews, and biographies were created in the billions.
Launch day came with great celebrations, as 4-NTS *Chorus* lifted off into local stellar space and set off for the outer regions of the solar system, with the intent of forming a large orbit on the edges of the Kuiper belt and slowly expanding outwards until contact was made again. They would then follow orders and contract their orbit whilst trying to maintain contact with the others. The "Second Contact" web series was the most watched broadcast ever, even though recordings came in 10 minute bursts that got farther and farther apart as it drifted away from the Earth.
Contact was made 116 days into the mission. The same response, only the *Chorus* wasn't destroyed. Questions were asked, messages were sent in every language, and yet, there was no reply. Images of the alien craft were captured by secret cameras, and never release to the public. The crew stayed in outer orbit for 35 days, until it was decided that, to get a better response, they had go beyond the Kuiper belt again, though the danger of instant annihilation still existed. Nothing happened. *Chorus* received no further transmissions.
At all. |
...whichever one is the more interesting story to you. | [WP] There exists a phone line that will correctly answer any question asked to it. Write about either someone calling the line, or the person answering the question... |
I leaned back in my chair, feet up on my filing cabinet, sipping a soda and playing solitaire. I liked working the afternoon shift. It was slow, and the calls, when they came in, were easy. Most people were busy with their lives, working, studying, picking the kids up after school. Most of the questions were things like “What’s the traffic like on the 205?” and “What time is my son’s baseball game tonight?” Those were easy. It was the late night shift, when people started worried about their lives, when their girlfriend/boyfriend had broken up with them, when they discovered the cheating or the body or thought about suicide themselves… those were the hard ones.
The phone rang. I sighed, flopped my feet back on to the floor and pulled on my headset. I hit the button, took the call.
“Thank you for calling Life Line. My name is Lily. Can I have your name and birthdate please?”
“Carl Sanders, 2/7/1970.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sanders,” I said as I typed in the information.
*Dangit* I thought. There were two people with the same name born on the same day. I hated when that happened. “Is that Carl with a ‘C’ or with a ‘K’?”
“Carl with a ‘C.’”
I selected the name, pressed the “find” button and skimmed the information while the video loaded, searching for the chip embedded in his neck.
“Thank you, and can you verify your location, please?” The information looked pretty normal. Business degree, working for a consulting firm, had a wife, a nice house, a standard vehicle.
“Springfield”
“Than you, and the nearest cross street and location type please?”
The video feed zoomed in on a man in a suite sitting on a concrete bench talking on a cellphone. He was downtown, curbside, near a green space in a business district. At least he didn’t look nervous or squirrely
“Um… Washington Street… near the intersection with Fifth Street. What do you mean location type?”
“Are you inside, outside, in a residence or a business, in your Buick….” Of course I didn’t really need to ask, I already knew, but protocol was protocol. I hit “mute” and took a gulp of my soda.
“Man, I wish people would just say where they are. It’s not like it’s difficult.”
“I know, right?” Mark rolled his eyes.
Mr. Sanders had started talking again.
“Um, outside, by the street. The closest store is a Wallgreens.”
I hit the “mute” button again.
“Perfect. Now, what can I answer for you today, Mr. Sanders?”
“I – I need to know where my kids are.”
My heart sank. I didn’t like these kinds of calls. I didn’t like them at all.
“What is your relationship with your children?” I checked the video screen. He was now slumped over, his elbows on his knees. One hand held the cell phone up to his ear. The other was over his head.
“I – I haven’t see – seen them in a while. My wife – no, my – my ex-wife, she – she took them.”
He was stuttering. Also not a good sign.
“Mr. Sanders, do you have a current relationship with your children?”
“No – no, not really. I send them birthday cards to – to my ex-wife’s parents’ house. I’m not – not allowed to see them, and that – that’s just not right. It’s Tommy’s birthday to – tomorrow.”
I gave Mark a panicked look, and hit “mute” again while Mr. Sanders continued talking.
“This might be a bad one. I might need a supervisor here. Sounds like a bad custody issue, possibly a mental breakdown.” I started to generate a ticket. I had a good feeling this one was going to be escalated. Sometimes, you just have a gut instinct. Unmute.
“Mr. Sanders, do you have a history of violence toward your children or of drug or alcohol abuse?”
“Well, yes, no, I mean, yes, but not anymore. I used to – to drink quite a bit. There were some… incidents, but nothing toward the kids. It was never toward the kids, but she took them anyway. One night, I – I was drinking, and she was just going crazy about it, throwing things, saying I was such a disappointment and worthless, and – and she – she tol – told me she was having an affair and she – she was lea – leaving me. I just saw red, that’s it, and I – I hit her. Well, I – I tried to strangle her a little bit. Not to actually kill her, you – you understand that, right?”
I pulled up the image, zoomed in and flipped the infrared filter, then the X-ray. I checked his briefcase, then his pockets. It was in his left pocket. *Odd, he must be left-handed* I took a screenshot, opened a chat window to my supervisor.
You sound nice. I bet you understand. I was just so – so mad. Then she – she called the police, and I didn’t even get to say ‘good-bye’ to the kids, they were just gone. Gone where I don’t know. I don’t know where they are, and I don’t get to talk to them, not even on Christmas. And I just – I just can’t take that anymore. It’s – it’s been al –almost a year, you see, and – “
I pulled up a picture of his ex-wife. Her name was Molly. She was living in the next city over. She had a restraining order out against him.
“ – and I had a really rough spot after they left – I – I feel into the drinking really – really bad. I – I tried to kill myself, I had a car accident, got a DUI, almost lost my job. It was bad. Really bad… and, and I was doing better. I joined AA. I was sober for 44 days. Then, then I saw her. This morning. With a guy. She wasn’t even trying to hide it. I snuck up behind them and just listened. She’s trying to give him parental rights to my kids. She can’t do that. He can’t adopt them. I’m still their father, no matter what that bitch says.”
I pulled up the instant message, updated a quick description. This was not good. Michael was a good supervisor. He responded almost immediately. ”They’re on standby”
“Mr. Sanders?”
He stopped speaking for a moment.
“Yes,” he answered, quietly. On the video, the man was rubbing his head and moving constantly. He was nervous, relieved to be telling his story, but he hadn’t hit the climax yet. I closed my eyes. I hated calls like this.
“Mr. Sanders, have you done something you regret?” He stopped moving and sat up straight. *Not. A. Good. Sign.*
“No.”
“Why do you need to see your children right now?”
“To let them know everything is going to be OK. I’m going to be in their lives again.”
“Why is that Mr. Sanders?”
“Because that bitch can’t take them anymore. She’s going to be a bit… indisposed. Permanently. “
I moved the ticket to a response queue and saved it. I pulled up the chat window: *”Dispatch. Potential double homicide. Caller unstable.:* I hit send.
“Mr. Sanders, where is your wife?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I don’t want anyone to ever find her. Or that bastard she was with.”
“Mr. Sanders, is your wife dead?”
“Yep.” My video feed was still zoomed in. I could see the smile on his face. Dark bags hung under his cold eyes, sparking with a hint of crazy and more than a dab of unstable.
“Mr. Sanders, with this information, I cannot tell you where your children are via the second-party safety clause. Do you understand that?”
I could see him nod, and he moved the phone to his right side and then put his left hand into his left pocket.
“It was worth a try.”
He placed the phone on the bench and lifted the gun out of his pocket. The black flew into view, skidding up to the curb just as he placed the gun to the side of his head. I braced for the sound of the gunshot, but one of the responders tackled Mr. Sanders just in time. They picked him up, struggling, and threw him into the back of the car. In seconds, it was gone again.
I could hear chatter from bystanders through the phone, still open and connected. I checked the display on my phone. Eighteen minutes. The seconds were still ticking away.
“Thank you for calling Life Line. Your ticket number is 000987654321. You can reference that at any time on the Life Line website. Have a nice day.”
I hung up the call and pulled off my headset. I leaned forward, my elbows on the desk and rubbed my eyes. This one was going to have a lot of paperwork.
I reached over to log out for paperwork, but the phone rang again before I could. *Crap.*
“Thank you for calling Life Line. My name is Lily. Can I have your name and birth date please?”
----
-028
| Jenny let the phone ring twice before picking it up.
"Hello, welcome to the Apple AnswerLine, how can I be of assistance?...no, Sir, that will not be happening. May I remind you that you are kindly requested to refrain from sexually explicit questions if possible when using the Apple AnswerLine, as per the Apple AnswerLine Terms and Conditions. Have a good day."
The call centre had been open for 5 years now, and the all-female group of operators still attracted a daily barrage of drunken, horny men who thought they were clever. Jenny had quickly learnt to suppress her disgust; she had seen more than one of her colleagues terminated for allowing themselves an angry retort or witty remark. She was obliged only to answer questions, not to think for herself; a point which management pounded home at any opportunity.
Jenny let the phone ring twice before picking it up. This was protocol. She didn't care why.
"Hello, welcome to the Apple AnswerLine, how can I be of assistance?"
The caller took a deep, rasping breath, but then spoke in an oddly soft tone, as if singing a lullaby to a child.
"Tell me, dear. What is death?"
This was a rare one. She was asked for the meaning of life almost hourly. It was on page one of her handbook, but she had memorised it anyway. This one took a minute of page turning for her to find.
"Death is the end of life, Sir. Have a good day."
Jenny pressed the blue "End Call" button, and a moment later jumped as the caller's breath rattled through her headset once more. For the first time in nearly half of a decade, she was outside of her comfort zone.
"Bullshit. I didn't need to ring a phone line to be told that. Tell me yourself."
Jenny took a second to compose herself. She was a little startled, but she knew she was safe, and that this strange little episode would be easily explained away by her supervisor, who was listening in as always. For the first time in her adult life, she truly answered a question.
"When the heart stops beating."
"And is your heart still beating?"
A chill ran down Jenny's back, as if the cold finger of some supernatural entity were tracing its way down her spine. She knew that she ought to feel threatened, that she ought to throw down her headset and fetch a superior. But as almost every fibre of her being pulled her away, she felt a deep yearning within her, as if she needed to respond as naturally as she needed to breathe.
"Yes. Of course."
A deep, throaty chuckle echoed through her ears. The soft voice, though comforting, took on a patronising tone.
"You are not alive though, are you, Jenny?"
At the mention of her name, Jenny felt a sudden coursing of anger through her veins. Who was this person, who knew her name, and had the sheer arrogance to answer her back? How the hell did they know her? She sharpened her tongue, ready to respond. But was cut off before she could begin.
"You have sat at that desk, for years, I'm sure. Speaking. Drinking. Typing. That cannot be life. If you had any ounce of true life left in your body, you would leave right now, and never come back. But you won't. You are nothing but a pathetic shell of your former self. You have all of the answers, but you don't know a damned thing."
There followed only a low, electronic tone, as the caller left her as abruptly as they had come to her. Jenny struggled for her breath. Her head was a hive of activity, but she couldn't pin down a single thought. She gripped the armrests of her chair.
Jenny let the phone ring.
|
...whichever one is the more interesting story to you. | [WP] There exists a phone line that will correctly answer any question asked to it. Write about either someone calling the line, or the person answering the question... |
I leaned back in my chair, feet up on my filing cabinet, sipping a soda and playing solitaire. I liked working the afternoon shift. It was slow, and the calls, when they came in, were easy. Most people were busy with their lives, working, studying, picking the kids up after school. Most of the questions were things like “What’s the traffic like on the 205?” and “What time is my son’s baseball game tonight?” Those were easy. It was the late night shift, when people started worried about their lives, when their girlfriend/boyfriend had broken up with them, when they discovered the cheating or the body or thought about suicide themselves… those were the hard ones.
The phone rang. I sighed, flopped my feet back on to the floor and pulled on my headset. I hit the button, took the call.
“Thank you for calling Life Line. My name is Lily. Can I have your name and birthdate please?”
“Carl Sanders, 2/7/1970.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sanders,” I said as I typed in the information.
*Dangit* I thought. There were two people with the same name born on the same day. I hated when that happened. “Is that Carl with a ‘C’ or with a ‘K’?”
“Carl with a ‘C.’”
I selected the name, pressed the “find” button and skimmed the information while the video loaded, searching for the chip embedded in his neck.
“Thank you, and can you verify your location, please?” The information looked pretty normal. Business degree, working for a consulting firm, had a wife, a nice house, a standard vehicle.
“Springfield”
“Than you, and the nearest cross street and location type please?”
The video feed zoomed in on a man in a suite sitting on a concrete bench talking on a cellphone. He was downtown, curbside, near a green space in a business district. At least he didn’t look nervous or squirrely
“Um… Washington Street… near the intersection with Fifth Street. What do you mean location type?”
“Are you inside, outside, in a residence or a business, in your Buick….” Of course I didn’t really need to ask, I already knew, but protocol was protocol. I hit “mute” and took a gulp of my soda.
“Man, I wish people would just say where they are. It’s not like it’s difficult.”
“I know, right?” Mark rolled his eyes.
Mr. Sanders had started talking again.
“Um, outside, by the street. The closest store is a Wallgreens.”
I hit the “mute” button again.
“Perfect. Now, what can I answer for you today, Mr. Sanders?”
“I – I need to know where my kids are.”
My heart sank. I didn’t like these kinds of calls. I didn’t like them at all.
“What is your relationship with your children?” I checked the video screen. He was now slumped over, his elbows on his knees. One hand held the cell phone up to his ear. The other was over his head.
“I – I haven’t see – seen them in a while. My wife – no, my – my ex-wife, she – she took them.”
He was stuttering. Also not a good sign.
“Mr. Sanders, do you have a current relationship with your children?”
“No – no, not really. I send them birthday cards to – to my ex-wife’s parents’ house. I’m not – not allowed to see them, and that – that’s just not right. It’s Tommy’s birthday to – tomorrow.”
I gave Mark a panicked look, and hit “mute” again while Mr. Sanders continued talking.
“This might be a bad one. I might need a supervisor here. Sounds like a bad custody issue, possibly a mental breakdown.” I started to generate a ticket. I had a good feeling this one was going to be escalated. Sometimes, you just have a gut instinct. Unmute.
“Mr. Sanders, do you have a history of violence toward your children or of drug or alcohol abuse?”
“Well, yes, no, I mean, yes, but not anymore. I used to – to drink quite a bit. There were some… incidents, but nothing toward the kids. It was never toward the kids, but she took them anyway. One night, I – I was drinking, and she was just going crazy about it, throwing things, saying I was such a disappointment and worthless, and – and she – she tol – told me she was having an affair and she – she was lea – leaving me. I just saw red, that’s it, and I – I hit her. Well, I – I tried to strangle her a little bit. Not to actually kill her, you – you understand that, right?”
I pulled up the image, zoomed in and flipped the infrared filter, then the X-ray. I checked his briefcase, then his pockets. It was in his left pocket. *Odd, he must be left-handed* I took a screenshot, opened a chat window to my supervisor.
You sound nice. I bet you understand. I was just so – so mad. Then she – she called the police, and I didn’t even get to say ‘good-bye’ to the kids, they were just gone. Gone where I don’t know. I don’t know where they are, and I don’t get to talk to them, not even on Christmas. And I just – I just can’t take that anymore. It’s – it’s been al –almost a year, you see, and – “
I pulled up a picture of his ex-wife. Her name was Molly. She was living in the next city over. She had a restraining order out against him.
“ – and I had a really rough spot after they left – I – I feel into the drinking really – really bad. I – I tried to kill myself, I had a car accident, got a DUI, almost lost my job. It was bad. Really bad… and, and I was doing better. I joined AA. I was sober for 44 days. Then, then I saw her. This morning. With a guy. She wasn’t even trying to hide it. I snuck up behind them and just listened. She’s trying to give him parental rights to my kids. She can’t do that. He can’t adopt them. I’m still their father, no matter what that bitch says.”
I pulled up the instant message, updated a quick description. This was not good. Michael was a good supervisor. He responded almost immediately. ”They’re on standby”
“Mr. Sanders?”
He stopped speaking for a moment.
“Yes,” he answered, quietly. On the video, the man was rubbing his head and moving constantly. He was nervous, relieved to be telling his story, but he hadn’t hit the climax yet. I closed my eyes. I hated calls like this.
“Mr. Sanders, have you done something you regret?” He stopped moving and sat up straight. *Not. A. Good. Sign.*
“No.”
“Why do you need to see your children right now?”
“To let them know everything is going to be OK. I’m going to be in their lives again.”
“Why is that Mr. Sanders?”
“Because that bitch can’t take them anymore. She’s going to be a bit… indisposed. Permanently. “
I moved the ticket to a response queue and saved it. I pulled up the chat window: *”Dispatch. Potential double homicide. Caller unstable.:* I hit send.
“Mr. Sanders, where is your wife?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I don’t want anyone to ever find her. Or that bastard she was with.”
“Mr. Sanders, is your wife dead?”
“Yep.” My video feed was still zoomed in. I could see the smile on his face. Dark bags hung under his cold eyes, sparking with a hint of crazy and more than a dab of unstable.
“Mr. Sanders, with this information, I cannot tell you where your children are via the second-party safety clause. Do you understand that?”
I could see him nod, and he moved the phone to his right side and then put his left hand into his left pocket.
“It was worth a try.”
He placed the phone on the bench and lifted the gun out of his pocket. The black flew into view, skidding up to the curb just as he placed the gun to the side of his head. I braced for the sound of the gunshot, but one of the responders tackled Mr. Sanders just in time. They picked him up, struggling, and threw him into the back of the car. In seconds, it was gone again.
I could hear chatter from bystanders through the phone, still open and connected. I checked the display on my phone. Eighteen minutes. The seconds were still ticking away.
“Thank you for calling Life Line. Your ticket number is 000987654321. You can reference that at any time on the Life Line website. Have a nice day.”
I hung up the call and pulled off my headset. I leaned forward, my elbows on the desk and rubbed my eyes. This one was going to have a lot of paperwork.
I reached over to log out for paperwork, but the phone rang again before I could. *Crap.*
“Thank you for calling Life Line. My name is Lily. Can I have your name and birth date please?”
----
-028
| My head falls into my chest as I feel that sharp boiling pain rise through my spine. I judder into the air to find I’m handcuffed to the radiator once again. I examine my shackles with a rattle, I’m cuffed in good. As I look around the broken apartment to find an escape I only find a dirty butchers knife at my left foot and a mobile phone at my right, items which remind me, I swallowed the key. Bullets sweat from my brows and land in my yellow sullen cheeks. My bowels cramp and the nausea rise through my gullet. I know why I ended up here, I had screwed up again. I couldn’t stay off them, not even for one night, no wonder she left me. I might as well finish what I started.
I waver my foot back and forth to try and grasp the bag of capsules at my heel but they are just out of my reach. I look at the mobile phone once again. I should maybe call her, maybe I can make it work, maybe if she sees the state I'm in maybe she’ll understand, we can patch things up, we always do. I drag the mobile along with my foot until it reaches my free hand; I thumb the digits and stop before I press the last number. What was I to say, what could I possibly say that could change this? In despair I sink my forehead into the butt of the phone and as I do I catch a glance at the phone number written on the back of my hand. 0800-2677, who the hell does this belong to? Out of curiosity I call the number.
‘Ello, Charlie here from epiphany hotlines, if we can’t answer it; no one can. How can I help?’
‘What?’
‘Just ask us a bleeding question.’
‘Awright, what’s two plus two?’
‘Four’
‘Hmm, who was the last British king to die in battle?’
‘James IV’
‘Interesting, can you tell me napoleons nationality?’
‘Corsican.’
‘Okay –‘
‘Son, we can answer any question in the universe and you are seriously asking these questions?’
‘What else is there to ask?’
‘Well most people ask questions like: Is there a God? Is there a meaning to life? Will I survive the tumour growing out my arse, and then there’s you, asking questions like the dunce at the back of the class-‘
‘Okay, okay I’ll be serious now – what underwear am I wearing’
'The white ones with the love hearts on them and the hole under the elastic, you got them from you’re mum on Christmas five years ago, you should really think about throwing them out now.’
The gravity of my situation sank in as my mouth went dry and I realised this guy was for real. And with that, I thought of the perfect question.
‘How do I win my girlfriend back? I don’t know how to do it any more, I’ve tried everything, and I can’t think of life without her, I feel we’re meant to be, but we just keep going back and forth - ’
‘Woah, woah, woah simmer down their sparky, let me answer. Do you remember the floods?’
‘What?’
‘The floods, down south, you remember them?’
‘Yeah…but I don’t see how this-’
‘Do you remember the boy that got his foot stuck in the drain and the river kept rising and rising and eventually he drowned?’
‘Yeah’
‘Well all I’m saying is – that wouldn’t have been me. Do you know why?
‘Why?’
‘Cos I wouldda said ‘cut it off - now!’
‘Em…’
‘Look, what I’m tryna’ say is that sometimes you have cut a little bit of yourself off in order to grow, in order to move on. You understand me?’
‘Yeah. I understand’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah just one more question – ‘and before I finish my sentence, my mobile dies. I suddenly remember where I am. My heart rate rises, the sweat pours and my colon cramps once again. I needed those pills even if it killed me, but they are still out of my reach. The closest item beside me was the butcher’s knife. I hold it in my left hand and look at my shackled right hand.
In hindsight, I probably took Charlie’s advice too literally.
|
...whichever one is the more interesting story to you. | [WP] There exists a phone line that will correctly answer any question asked to it. Write about either someone calling the line, or the person answering the question... | Carl was sitting on the kitchen floor, staring blankly at the wall. He had the phone in his hand but was mentally at war. Aurora had answers for everything, it was the planet's encyclopedia. Carl just wasn't sure if this was something he wanted the answer to. He let out a deep sigh and dialed the number.
"Good afternoon Carl, this is Elizabeth on behalf of Aurora. How can we be of assistance?"
"Elizabeth, I need to know if my daughter is actually mine."
"...OK Carl, please give me a minute..."
Elizabeth kneaded her forehead as information about Carl and his family populated the screen in front of her. She hated such requests. Her childhood had been spent in an orphanage and she truly felt for anyone potentially having to go through the same.
"Carl, may I request further information? What exactly will you do with the information?"
"Uh yeah, yeah, sure... My wife was recently in an accident. She's in a coma now and she's pregnant and expecting any day now. I don't know what to do. We'd been growing distant for a long time before that and I believe she may have cheated on me."
"Well, you know that Aurora offers no advice, only facts? You will have to decide on your own how to proceed."
"Yes, yes I understand. I just don't know if I can raise someone else's child. It's terrible to say, but I just don't know if I can. I just want to know the truth before I do anything."
Elizabeth clutched her hands together tightly. She was trying her absolute best to keep her emotions under control but she wanted to scream at this man. How dare he consider abandoning this child?
She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.
"You're the father Carl."
| Fred rolled over in his bed and grabbed at his fags. He stuck one in his mouth and lit up, hanging off the bed and letting the ash float over his nose and eyes, sitting in his fringe in a most ridiculous position. With his lighter he reached back onto the bed and burned the corner of one of the tax forms lying beside him. He sighed and grabbed for the phone.
"Hello," said a somewhat more cheerful and womanly voice than Fred's, "Molly here. How can I help you?"
"That the one that can answer any question?"
The lady on the other end, in a cramped office with a hundred other call centre workers, listened to the man's stumbled breathing. She knew how he felt. Hopeless at times.
"Yes."
"Great..." said Fred, brightening up a bit, realizing that Molly had a beautiful voice. She reminded him of his girlfriend who had been killed by a lorry two years prior. "Can you help me with tax forms?"
Molly chuckled. "I think that's a bit too much for me. Even if I should know everything."
Fred snapped out of it. There was no sense talking to a stranger on some prank line about his taxes... speaking of such, there was also no flame on his cigarette either. But he could still smell smoke.
"Sir?"
Fred scrambled up off the bed just as it caught fire. He threw the bed over but it only served to engulf more of his things with flame.
He headed to the window of his fifteenth storey flat. The door was burning, the smoke around his head, and the fire heading toward him.
"What is the meaning of life?" He asked, a poet in his final moments.
Molly listened- was that burning? She took her own packet off her desk and lit up at her workstation. Other workers gave strange looks.
"Please..."
She exhaled. "Death."
Fred jumped. |
...whichever one is the more interesting story to you. | [WP] There exists a phone line that will correctly answer any question asked to it. Write about either someone calling the line, or the person answering the question... | He looks like the Marlboro Man and smokes like him, too. He holds a Red in his lips, a lighter in his hands. A dull flick and a spark and the smoke spills like whispers from the tip. He taps the ashes, takes another drag. The cherry red like heated steel. The phone dandles on his lap, its pig-tail cord looping down to his calf. He leers down at it, eyes expectant. He holds the receiver in his hand.
A jest, he tells himself. A jest was all it was. A little idle fun in the little idle hours of a little idle morning. He caught wind of this fabled line by accident earlier that night when, while purchasing the pack that he presently smokes, he heard the cashier converse with a greasy string bean of a boy -- something about answers, something about solace. And the conditions thereof? A mere phone call, and you would have your audience.
A fantastical lot, no doubt. But he was bored and nevertheless etched the number down and as the night wore on and he waxed restless still, he wagered it wouldn't hurt to indulge it a moment -- but not a moment more.
He reaches down and thumbs the number with five flakes of ash on the back of his hand and raises the receiver to his ear. Silence at first. Then that distant first ring. He had an answer at the third.
"How can I help you?" A soft voice. A voice like a priest in confession. He has no idea how to respond with this, so he responds as dully as he can.
"What?"
"You have a question, yes? Go on. Ask it."
He mulls it over, masticates the thought of it far longer than he really should. A test question, he reasons.
"Where am I?"
"At home, sitting on your bedside. The blinds behind you are half open and cherry swathes of light are cutting through. There's a desk at the other end of the room and a desk lamp with an emerald lampshade."
He looks over his shoulder, glances out the window. He cranes his neck and peers down the hall but finds no figure in the shadows. Goosebumps run like frost over his skin, but he sits back down and asks again.
"What am I doing?"
"Talking to me. Smoking, too -- Marlboros, right? Bad habit. Shouldn't do that."
Silence just then. "Right," he says as he scrubs out the cigarette.
"Skeptical?"
"A little."
A chuckle from the other end. "Is there something else you'd like to ask? Or would you like me to describe some more of your home furnishings?"
He pauses, reaches for his smokes. He pulls back, though, fearing the man on the other end might reprimand him. He'll smoke later, he reasons. But questions. What questions? Too many to choose from. His health? He might be better off not asking. God? Same case as the former. With all the inquiries and all the wonders and all the musings in his life, how could he settle on one? What would be best to ask? He has no answer. But soon he settles on something.
"Do dreams come true?"
"Sometimes. More than you'd think, but less than you'd hope."
"Does she ever think of me?"
"Sometimes. Not very often, but sometimes."
He hesitates. "Where did I go wrong?"
"Several places. Would you like a play-by-play?"
"No," he says with an exhale. "No, that won't be necessary."
"Anything else?"
He wonders at this a while, not sure what to say. His natural inclination is yes, but every time he tries to summon up the words, they fall like feathers freshly shed. This gives him an idea
"Sure," he says. "Why can't I think of any questions? I want to ask them, but I can't get any good ones. I can't get them out. Why is that?"
"Because you don't want answers," the voice replied. "You want peace."
"And how do I find that?"
"Once you stop worrying about the questions." | Fred rolled over in his bed and grabbed at his fags. He stuck one in his mouth and lit up, hanging off the bed and letting the ash float over his nose and eyes, sitting in his fringe in a most ridiculous position. With his lighter he reached back onto the bed and burned the corner of one of the tax forms lying beside him. He sighed and grabbed for the phone.
"Hello," said a somewhat more cheerful and womanly voice than Fred's, "Molly here. How can I help you?"
"That the one that can answer any question?"
The lady on the other end, in a cramped office with a hundred other call centre workers, listened to the man's stumbled breathing. She knew how he felt. Hopeless at times.
"Yes."
"Great..." said Fred, brightening up a bit, realizing that Molly had a beautiful voice. She reminded him of his girlfriend who had been killed by a lorry two years prior. "Can you help me with tax forms?"
Molly chuckled. "I think that's a bit too much for me. Even if I should know everything."
Fred snapped out of it. There was no sense talking to a stranger on some prank line about his taxes... speaking of such, there was also no flame on his cigarette either. But he could still smell smoke.
"Sir?"
Fred scrambled up off the bed just as it caught fire. He threw the bed over but it only served to engulf more of his things with flame.
He headed to the window of his fifteenth storey flat. The door was burning, the smoke around his head, and the fire heading toward him.
"What is the meaning of life?" He asked, a poet in his final moments.
Molly listened- was that burning? She took her own packet off her desk and lit up at her workstation. Other workers gave strange looks.
"Please..."
She exhaled. "Death."
Fred jumped. |
...whichever one is the more interesting story to you. | [WP] There exists a phone line that will correctly answer any question asked to it. Write about either someone calling the line, or the person answering the question... | He looks like the Marlboro Man and smokes like him, too. He holds a Red in his lips, a lighter in his hands. A dull flick and a spark and the smoke spills like whispers from the tip. He taps the ashes, takes another drag. The cherry red like heated steel. The phone dandles on his lap, its pig-tail cord looping down to his calf. He leers down at it, eyes expectant. He holds the receiver in his hand.
A jest, he tells himself. A jest was all it was. A little idle fun in the little idle hours of a little idle morning. He caught wind of this fabled line by accident earlier that night when, while purchasing the pack that he presently smokes, he heard the cashier converse with a greasy string bean of a boy -- something about answers, something about solace. And the conditions thereof? A mere phone call, and you would have your audience.
A fantastical lot, no doubt. But he was bored and nevertheless etched the number down and as the night wore on and he waxed restless still, he wagered it wouldn't hurt to indulge it a moment -- but not a moment more.
He reaches down and thumbs the number with five flakes of ash on the back of his hand and raises the receiver to his ear. Silence at first. Then that distant first ring. He had an answer at the third.
"How can I help you?" A soft voice. A voice like a priest in confession. He has no idea how to respond with this, so he responds as dully as he can.
"What?"
"You have a question, yes? Go on. Ask it."
He mulls it over, masticates the thought of it far longer than he really should. A test question, he reasons.
"Where am I?"
"At home, sitting on your bedside. The blinds behind you are half open and cherry swathes of light are cutting through. There's a desk at the other end of the room and a desk lamp with an emerald lampshade."
He looks over his shoulder, glances out the window. He cranes his neck and peers down the hall but finds no figure in the shadows. Goosebumps run like frost over his skin, but he sits back down and asks again.
"What am I doing?"
"Talking to me. Smoking, too -- Marlboros, right? Bad habit. Shouldn't do that."
Silence just then. "Right," he says as he scrubs out the cigarette.
"Skeptical?"
"A little."
A chuckle from the other end. "Is there something else you'd like to ask? Or would you like me to describe some more of your home furnishings?"
He pauses, reaches for his smokes. He pulls back, though, fearing the man on the other end might reprimand him. He'll smoke later, he reasons. But questions. What questions? Too many to choose from. His health? He might be better off not asking. God? Same case as the former. With all the inquiries and all the wonders and all the musings in his life, how could he settle on one? What would be best to ask? He has no answer. But soon he settles on something.
"Do dreams come true?"
"Sometimes. More than you'd think, but less than you'd hope."
"Does she ever think of me?"
"Sometimes. Not very often, but sometimes."
He hesitates. "Where did I go wrong?"
"Several places. Would you like a play-by-play?"
"No," he says with an exhale. "No, that won't be necessary."
"Anything else?"
He wonders at this a while, not sure what to say. His natural inclination is yes, but every time he tries to summon up the words, they fall like feathers freshly shed. This gives him an idea
"Sure," he says. "Why can't I think of any questions? I want to ask them, but I can't get any good ones. I can't get them out. Why is that?"
"Because you don't want answers," the voice replied. "You want peace."
"And how do I find that?"
"Once you stop worrying about the questions." | Carl was sitting on the kitchen floor, staring blankly at the wall. He had the phone in his hand but was mentally at war. Aurora had answers for everything, it was the planet's encyclopedia. Carl just wasn't sure if this was something he wanted the answer to. He let out a deep sigh and dialed the number.
"Good afternoon Carl, this is Elizabeth on behalf of Aurora. How can we be of assistance?"
"Elizabeth, I need to know if my daughter is actually mine."
"...OK Carl, please give me a minute..."
Elizabeth kneaded her forehead as information about Carl and his family populated the screen in front of her. She hated such requests. Her childhood had been spent in an orphanage and she truly felt for anyone potentially having to go through the same.
"Carl, may I request further information? What exactly will you do with the information?"
"Uh yeah, yeah, sure... My wife was recently in an accident. She's in a coma now and she's pregnant and expecting any day now. I don't know what to do. We'd been growing distant for a long time before that and I believe she may have cheated on me."
"Well, you know that Aurora offers no advice, only facts? You will have to decide on your own how to proceed."
"Yes, yes I understand. I just don't know if I can raise someone else's child. It's terrible to say, but I just don't know if I can. I just want to know the truth before I do anything."
Elizabeth clutched her hands together tightly. She was trying her absolute best to keep her emotions under control but she wanted to scream at this man. How dare he consider abandoning this child?
She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.
"You're the father Carl."
|
http://thinkzone.wlonk.com/PoemGen/PoemGen.htm (no affiliation!)
Generate a poem (without toggling the settings!) and use the first sentence OR last sentence for your poem (example if the generated poem's first sentence is "Merrily the fish does float", that will be your first sentence of your own poem) Try and make it for in with your poem and make it blend in and flow, no matter how goofy it may be!
I hope I haven't bored or confused anyone to death
! I eagerly await any and all replies! | [WP] Frankensteined poetry! Write a short poem that includes the first OR last sentence given to you by a poem generator. | Why does the shore endure?
In all my years of walking
along sea-blown coasts,
down rocky jetties,
across sandy beaches,
never once have I seen
the shore fight back. | **Travel swiftly like a rough wind**
Without hesitation or remorse
Forget the past and times you've sinned
Keep focused on your solemn course
Wipe the tears: they mean nothing now
Only remnants of a forgotten dream
Remember your will, your goal, your vow
Let them carry you across the grief-stricken stream
As you keep your eyes set upon your path
Have faith, the journey ends in peace
Replace with calm your misplaced wrath
And let your pains and troubles cease
---
Man, poetry was a lot easier when I was younger >.<
EDIT: I accidentally used the last line of my randomly generated poem as my first line. Darn.
|
http://thinkzone.wlonk.com/PoemGen/PoemGen.htm (no affiliation!)
Generate a poem (without toggling the settings!) and use the first sentence OR last sentence for your poem (example if the generated poem's first sentence is "Merrily the fish does float", that will be your first sentence of your own poem) Try and make it for in with your poem and make it blend in and flow, no matter how goofy it may be!
I hope I haven't bored or confused anyone to death
! I eagerly await any and all replies! | [WP] Frankensteined poetry! Write a short poem that includes the first OR last sentence given to you by a poem generator. | Death is a clear ship
sailing silently for eternity,
its deck amassed with cries of life,
of innocence.
Even Poseidon’s sea dare not tremble
under the wake of unseen,
forgotten
sailors.
*(Last sentence in the poem I got was "Death is a clear ship.")*
| Courage, death and life
If only it were I who suffered
There's this sick kind of feeling
When I realise she’s sad
Like all the waters of the anxiet-sea
Have broken their banks and drowned me
And I all the words I have in my mouth
I bite down on, hard
Because they can’t wash away
The marks she drew on her skin
In something I wish was red pen
But wasn't
I wish I could tell the universe
To hurt me instead,
Because at least I know that beast
Is one easily sated with three films and a cup of tea
I'm sorry I wasn't there
I'm sorry my words aren't good enough
Please
Girl with the blue hair
Live on
|
[WP] Dave is always right, TOO right. In fact, it seems like Dave has a way of seeing things happen before they actually occur. His paranoid friend Matt starts to suspect he is a time-traveler. | Matt watched in annoyance as Dave chatted up the blonde. "God damn his luck, how does he always end up on the right side of these broads?" He exclaimed to Ted as he downed his beer in one chug. Ted shook his head and looked around mournfully, "I could have caught her you know, when she slipped, if I hadn't gone to get the beer, I would have been sitting right there!”, he drunkenly pointed about a yard left of where Dave had actually caught the girl when she slipped. "
It's not just that, not just the girls, he gets lucky everywhere!" Matt said grabbing another bottle with his unsteady hand, “ Ever since I’ve met him, he never bothers to hold down a job, but falls into money anyway, goes to Vegas to play poker and comes back with a cool 15 grand”, he wracked his brain for more damning examples, “Never, ever gets a traffic ticket! Always knows which roads to avoid”, he pronounced with flourish, “Do you know how irritating it is to be friends with him?” He looked over to Ted for a response, but found him frowning, deeply engrossed in his phone.
“There’s been a fire,” Ted said flatly. “A fire?” Matt repeated, “A fire where?” Ted looked up at him, his face white, “ At work.. I mean our building”. He handed Matt his phone, his hands almost trembling.
“Ted, I am really hoping you and Matt played hookie from work and that’s why there was no one in the building, shoot me if I ever ask you guys to work late again, call back when you get this. -Bob”
Matt looked up at Ted, “The whole thing went up in ashes instantaneously”, Ted gulped, “gas leak apparently”.
Matt sat there, dumbfounded.
*“Guys come out tonight, I’m buying” Dave said over the phone, “ I’m almost at your building, lets go already!”*
*“We have to work Dave, unless you decide to pay me for drinking on a Tuesday, I still have to make my living.” Matt retorted.*
*“Just come, I’ve heard that this might Chad Brady’s last game, just come watch it if you don’t want to drink.”*
*“Who said so? Chad Brady is retiring? I did not hear anything about that!” Matt said confused, “Why are you so intent on going out tonight?”*
*Dave sighed, “ I wanna go watch the game, I’ll give you my tickets for the next home game, now come!”*
Dave arrived at his side as soon as Matt turned his head to find him. “I guess you found out about the fire then?” He said placidly.
Matt just stared at Dave, “Did you… How did you know?”
Dave smiled sadly, “Let’s go home… I’ll tell you on the way”.
Next morning, Dave woke up on the other side of town, “He looked up at the calendar and sighed, he slowly trudged across his living room, and opened the door to his apartment and waited by it.
Soon enough, a man carrying a huge box emerged from the stairwell, he looked at Dave over the top of his box.
“Sorry if I bothered you man, I’m just moving in.”
Dave looked at the man and smiled, “Oh no problem, I can help you out if you need, with the bigger boxes, the name’s Dave by the way”
“And I’m Matt” The man said as he put down his box and shook Dave’s hand.
| Wow, i usually wouldn't post something like this... but i just typed a really long story and I thought it was pretty damn good. But when i clicked submit... the comment just dissapeared.
WritingPrompts pro tip: copy your story before posting it i guess. | |
[WP] Dave is always right, TOO right. In fact, it seems like Dave has a way of seeing things happen before they actually occur. His paranoid friend Matt starts to suspect he is a time-traveler. | Waylon Jennings on the jukebox, a perpetual smoky haze above the bar nearly empty bar. One in the morning, two friends since fifth grade. Third whiskey, eighth beer. Inseparable since Matt grabbed Dave's arm in the lake behind their school in third grade and pulled him out of the muck, barely breathing.
"You know, I gotta know. You got that knack, don't ya."
"You're drunk Matt."
"Au revior, French club field trip I'd dreamed about but you get me suspended."
"An accident."
"Yeah, that plane ripping apart was an accident. Only I was suspended, wasn't I. Didn't join them on TWA 800."
"Let's get you home."
"My first real job, a semester internship at Morgan Stanley. Twin towers, fall semester, '01. You get me so drunk on a Monday night that I can't even get up for work."
"It was just a night."
"Cole Meyers, our friend, was up for work that morning, why wasn't he invited?"
Dave sat back, finished his beer and motioned to the bartender. He hoped Matt was sloshed enough to just drop it and forget it. Dave knew he couldn't let this go on any further.
"I'm not dumb, I've been paying attention. You make money on gambling, the super bowl, everything."
"Let's go."
"You know it. You're some kind of time travel guy. You have to be--nobody is this perfect."
"I'm just dumb lucky."
"Why didn't you tell me Sherri was getting cancer or my kid would be st-sti-stillborn. Or the divorce or my mom and dad and the car accident."
Matt grew agitated and gripped his bottle tighter.
"Why are we sitting in a dive bar in God-only-knows Pennsylvania instead of the beach in Tahiti. You could do it, couldn't you? Are you really from the future? Then why me? Why me?"
Matt gave in to almost twenty-five years of friendship and cried, cried his eyes out on Dave's shoulder. Dave evened out the tab and ushered his friend outside.
Matt woke up in his own bed in his dirty clothes.
Matt never saw Dave again, but once.
Matt discovered someone had been making large deposits into his checking account, soon clearing seven figures. An anonymous letter pointed Matt to an obscure clinician in Cleveland who diagnosed an otherwise suddenly fatal condition. A blind date set up by a stranger online led Matt to the green eyes that showed him the love he lost with Sherri. Matt cleaned himself up, gave that woman a good life and touched her belly as a new hope was created inside her.
Matt took three bullets for her, sparing her the fatal shot from her vengeful ex-boyfriend. She went into early labor and delivered a little boy. Matt could only open one eye to see his son but he held him for those final few seconds until the line went flat.
Dad would never believe the wonders his son would create. Time travel itself, impossible. Sending a consciousness back, it could be done, just takes some effort. Dave wanted the time with his father that he had been denied. Pouring through old newspapers he found the two boys who climbed under the fence and into the auxiliary pond at the school. Dave saw the face of his father, young and terrified, who was unable to hold onto the arm of his son's namesake.
Dave knew his stay wouldn't be permanent, each change would divert the 'parallel universe' theory further from the center line. A small change here, a small change there. Eventually they would add up and Dave's consciousness, like his present day body, would be no more. If his contemporaries knew, what would they tell him?
*Go kill Hitler.*
*Watch the crucifixion.*
*Nail a young Audrey Hepburn.*
*Make a killing on the stock market, live like a king.*
No thanks, he thought as he pushed the button, I just want to see my dad, spend the time with him.
....
....
....
**cough**
**cough**
"I got you, Dave, I got you."
| Wow, i usually wouldn't post something like this... but i just typed a really long story and I thought it was pretty damn good. But when i clicked submit... the comment just dissapeared.
WritingPrompts pro tip: copy your story before posting it i guess. | |
[WP] Dave is always right, TOO right. In fact, it seems like Dave has a way of seeing things happen before they actually occur. His paranoid friend Matt starts to suspect he is a time-traveler. | Matt watched in annoyance as Dave chatted up the blonde. "God damn his luck, how does he always end up on the right side of these broads?" He exclaimed to Ted as he downed his beer in one chug. Ted shook his head and looked around mournfully, "I could have caught her you know, when she slipped, if I hadn't gone to get the beer, I would have been sitting right there!”, he drunkenly pointed about a yard left of where Dave had actually caught the girl when she slipped. "
It's not just that, not just the girls, he gets lucky everywhere!" Matt said grabbing another bottle with his unsteady hand, “ Ever since I’ve met him, he never bothers to hold down a job, but falls into money anyway, goes to Vegas to play poker and comes back with a cool 15 grand”, he wracked his brain for more damning examples, “Never, ever gets a traffic ticket! Always knows which roads to avoid”, he pronounced with flourish, “Do you know how irritating it is to be friends with him?” He looked over to Ted for a response, but found him frowning, deeply engrossed in his phone.
“There’s been a fire,” Ted said flatly. “A fire?” Matt repeated, “A fire where?” Ted looked up at him, his face white, “ At work.. I mean our building”. He handed Matt his phone, his hands almost trembling.
“Ted, I am really hoping you and Matt played hookie from work and that’s why there was no one in the building, shoot me if I ever ask you guys to work late again, call back when you get this. -Bob”
Matt looked up at Ted, “The whole thing went up in ashes instantaneously”, Ted gulped, “gas leak apparently”.
Matt sat there, dumbfounded.
*“Guys come out tonight, I’m buying” Dave said over the phone, “ I’m almost at your building, lets go already!”*
*“We have to work Dave, unless you decide to pay me for drinking on a Tuesday, I still have to make my living.” Matt retorted.*
*“Just come, I’ve heard that this might Chad Brady’s last game, just come watch it if you don’t want to drink.”*
*“Who said so? Chad Brady is retiring? I did not hear anything about that!” Matt said confused, “Why are you so intent on going out tonight?”*
*Dave sighed, “ I wanna go watch the game, I’ll give you my tickets for the next home game, now come!”*
Dave arrived at his side as soon as Matt turned his head to find him. “I guess you found out about the fire then?” He said placidly.
Matt just stared at Dave, “Did you… How did you know?”
Dave smiled sadly, “Let’s go home… I’ll tell you on the way”.
Next morning, Dave woke up on the other side of town, “He looked up at the calendar and sighed, he slowly trudged across his living room, and opened the door to his apartment and waited by it.
Soon enough, a man carrying a huge box emerged from the stairwell, he looked at Dave over the top of his box.
“Sorry if I bothered you man, I’m just moving in.”
Dave looked at the man and smiled, “Oh no problem, I can help you out if you need, with the bigger boxes, the name’s Dave by the way”
“And I’m Matt” The man said as he put down his box and shook Dave’s hand.
| "Don't play dumb with me Dave!"
Dave smiled at Matt. He was staring at him the way he stared at a computer screen that didn't do just what it was supposed to do. Like he was pressing all the buttons that were meant to be pressed and nothing was happening. The screen merely repeating an error message over and over.
"I'm not playing anything, Matt. But understand what you're accusing me of. Think about it for a second and I'm sure you'll understand it's crazy."
Dave had always been the thinker of their duo. Matt was the brawn, or face man Dave supposed. Dave did the thinking, Matt took action. Dave had actually grown fond of the imbecile, they'd been partners for years now, and despite what he told himself Dave knew that there was some deep connection there between the two of them. Dave had finally made a friend, but that friend had started to question his near-perfect instinct.
"You always make the right bets. You always know the directions everywhere. You always know who to trust, and when someone's lying. You know how to beat every game, how to drive every car, and how to seduce any woman. And I've finally figured out how."
He took a swig from his beer. Liquid courage.
"You're a time traveller! You came from the future, for whatever reason, and now you're living your life like a criminal because it doesn't matter to you! You're poor here, but maybe in the future you're a millionaire! You can go anywhere! DO anything, hell, probably have DONE everything."
Dave started laughing at that. He'd known, of course, that Matt was going to suggest that he was a time traveler, but hearing it actually said out loud was just too much.
"Matt, buddy, I'm not a time traveler, but I'm going to level with you and be honest here."
"Oh, whatever man, if you're not going to tell me the truth I don't even want to hear it"
"But this is the truth. I'm not a time traveler: I'm a psychic."
"Oh yeah? Like, you can lift stuff in the air with your mind? Prove it!"
And then Matt was overcome by darkness. He awoke a few hours later, a beer on the ground next to him, his friend Dave standing above him.
"Get up Matt, you did it again."
Matt looked around. Sure enough he'd had another drunken black out. Probably the third or fourth since he'd met Dave. He stood up slowly, and started staggering with Dave down the street.
"I've got an awful head ache, and just the worst Deja vu." he said. | |
I thought it would be more entertaining to explore this through forensic process rather than heated debate/askreddit. Give us what you got :)
edit - These are really entertaining guys. I'm quite impressed. I'm new to the sub and just exploring things here...so upvotes for everyone on your hard (or effortless) work. | [WP] An atheist's effort to console a dying Christian child. | I was pedaling home from work after my second split shift of the week. My Bluetooth was on and Chili Peppers were jamming, making the ride home almost pleasant after almost twelve hours of work that day. Dusk was settling in while a warm spring breeze melted the last patches of snow on the road. It was a relief to not be dodging ice for once, and as I rode I sang along, not caring who might be listening. I was only a few blocks from my apartment when I saw my neighbor’s boy riding towards me from the other way, further down in the valley.
“He’s a ways from home,” I thought to myself, a little concerned, but it wasn’t too uncommon for the rambunctious 8 year old to get away from his parents for new adventures.
His parents, Keith and Janet Liam, were some of the nicest people I knew, in fact, they had just a few weeks ago invited me to church and dinner. I declined church, but I couldn’t miss out on Keith’s grilling. We’d had some good conversation, but towards the end it turned to their faith (as I’d feared it would, if there was one thing they couldn’t keep to themselves, it was their religion). I’d gotten a good free meal, so I listened, but it went in one ear and out the other, as it always did. Keith noticed and I noted a hint of pain in his smile as he bid me good night later that evening. I truly didn’t know what it was about these people that made them care so much, they should know that faith just wasn’t for me. I didn’t have anything against it, I just like my beliefs to be based on sound reason and judgment, not fairy tales from another millennium. I knew they meant well, so I kept that last bit to myself.
My thoughts on that evening were abruptly ended when I heard a horrifying noise: The squealing of brakes, followed by a sickening thud, and my heart sank. I looked up to the source of noise, and through the hazy dusk I could see smoke from where the tires had deposited themselves on the road, trailing behind a white car frozen in the middle of the intersection. Then, a split second later, the tires squealed again as the car sped off, leaving a small mound in the middle of the road.
It was the longest hundred yards of my life as I furiously pedaled down the hill to the intersection. I activated the voice control of my phone as I rode: “Emergency call!”
“911, what is your emergency?” a calm, female voice asked.
“8 year old boy, hit by car, corner of Maple and Oak!” I breathlessly spoke into the phone as I tried to pedal faster.
“What’s the status of the victim?”
“I don’t know yet, I’m not there, but please get someone out here!” I said. 20 more yards.
“I am dispatching an ambulance now, but please stay on the line” she said.
“Of course. Oh shit…”
I threw my bike down and ran the last few steps to where the boy was lying, eyes closed. His helmet had been thrown from his head, the bike flung in the opposite direction, and he didn’t appear to have moved since the impact. I remembered enough not to move him, but as I kneeled down and reached for his wrist, he opened his eyes and looked at me.
“Operator, he’s alive but he’s hurt bad, please tell me that ambulance is close.”
“It’s on its way, is he communicating?”
“Not that I… hold on” I paused, as he started to speak.
“Mr. Jack…what’s going on?”
“Hold on, Matt, you’ve been hurt, but the ambulance is coming for you.”
“Mr. Jack, everything hurts. I wasn’t supposed to go out, momma’s going to be mad at me!”
“No she’s not, Matt, she’s going to be glad if you’re ok.”
I was about to report back to the operator, when his next sentence caught me off guard.
“Mr. Jack, what if I’m not ok?”
“But you will be, don’t worry, good people are coming.”
“But what if I’m not…I broke a commandment, I disobeyed my parents.”
I was taken aback for a second, not quite sure how to respond to that one. Then something Keith had told me stuck out in my mind. I got in front of him, and kneeled down as close as I dared.
“Hey, Matt, remember what your dad says? Jesus forgives you. So when you see Jesus, and that won’t be today, I promise, but when you see Jesus, he’s going to say ‘it’s ok’, and he’s going to hug you, and it’s going to be ok.”
This seemed to satisfy him for a moment, and I relayed his status back to the operator, who thanked me. I could hear the ambulance sirens far in the distance, and it dawned on me I should call his parents. But before I could, I felt a hand grab mine. I looked down at Matt.
“Mr. Jack, can you pray for me?”
Damnit.
“Oh, ok Matt…”
I thought back to catholic school and all the prayers they said there. The only one that stood out was the Lord’s Prayer, I could remember that one, or most of it, and so I recited it to the best of my ability.
By the time I finished, Matt had closed his eyes, and his hand dropped to the pavement. From one end of the street, I could hear the sirens, and from the other, I heard shouting. I looked up and saw Keith and Janet running down the street. I stood and gingerly stepped around the boy, waving to his parents. Within a few seconds, the ambulance had arrived, I hung up with the operator, and stepped away from the ensuing controlled chaos.
They only had room for Janet in the back of the ambulance, so Keith and I half jogged/half sprinted back to his home. In the chaos I had mostly forgotten my bike laying on the corner of the intersection. As we drove to the hospital, I told Keith about what I’d seen, and what had transpired afterwards. I could see the pain in his face, and the anger at the driver who had fled the scene, but when we reached the hospital, he paused before going in, turned, hugged me, and said “Thanks Jack, you didn’t have to do that”. Before I could respond, he was sprinting into the ER.
A year has gone by since then. The Liams, Keith and Janet, have moved away, as the pain associated with that house, that street, that intersection, grew to be too much to bear. I modified my route so as to avoid that corner, but I still ride it every day. Reflecting on that evening, I realized that I could no more abstain from praying with the boy as I could tell a child that Santa wasn’t real. Anyone that takes pleasure from such pursuits is a truly sick individual, because if there’s anything still magical in the world, it’s the flight of fantasy that gives children dreams, and what monster could rob them of that?
| 'don't worry my child, God is up there waiting for you, and i swear by God's grace that st Stephen will let you straight through! You are meek, and you shall inherit the kingdom. Now i know you miss your parents, and it's tragic they died, but they will have got there just before you, and you can see them when you get there!'
At this the child opened his eyes. A smile slowly started to curl around his lips and his eyes lit up. The church bombing was terrible, and it was terrible that atheists had got so militant. It's amazing how far hypocrisy can reach. But in this moment of brief escapism he finally got his mind off it, and you could make out hope in his eyes for the first time in weeks.
'You'll be alright kid'.
He sneezed.
'God bless you kid, not that you need it!'
He laughed.
I left, i had to go check on the next patient. Sometimes can heal, even only as a painkiller. Faith can sometimes be the strongest drug a human can be influenced by: Faith in a lover, faith in the return of those close to you, faith in humanity: If any of these falter your entire mental wellbeing can come crushing around you, and so i like to think of faith as a foundation for those who need, a recourse to keep them sane. It's one of the best healing methods you can give when there really is no hope at all, not for them, not for any of us.
We're a product of a random chain of cause and effect, but why not let someone enjoy their last moments of the transient state that we call life? They may be kept in the dark, but Jesus lights the way to the destination, which is unavoidably going to be death, and that's all that really matters isn't it? |
I thought it would be more entertaining to explore this through forensic process rather than heated debate/askreddit. Give us what you got :)
edit - These are really entertaining guys. I'm quite impressed. I'm new to the sub and just exploring things here...so upvotes for everyone on your hard (or effortless) work. | [WP] An atheist's effort to console a dying Christian child. | His moist neck beard, drenched in tears, began falling in a slow *drip*, *drip*, *drip*, each one landing like God's tears upon the Christian's face.
Aalewis had dreamt of this moment, dreamt of it since he'd first felt his own enlightenment upon reading the works of his own Holy Men. Dawkins. Hitchens. deGrasse Tyson. He would make them proud, steadfast and unyielding in his belief, even in the face of another human's demise.
He would not sell snake-oil to the dying. He would not offer false comfort at the end of a man's life, even one so small as this, this *child*.
The boy's voice, a raspy tone, spoke up.
"Do you hear it now? Aalewis? I can hear God's Heavenly Host...I can see Grandma...she's waiting for me..."
A host all of his own, bellowed in his mind.
*Strike now boy, enlighten him with your intelligence!*
*Bring him the euphoria that only science brings!*
*Do it!*
The tears streamed down his cheeks, the *drip, drip, drip* continued, but they did not fall on tears of sadness. No, the tears that fell from the young child's face were of elation, Aalewis saw it now. *How can he be so euphoric? Even with a phony God's blessing?*
Seconds passed, each one feeling a lifetime.
"I hear them, Matthew, they're beautiful"
"Aren't they? I'm ready...I'll never forget you Aalewis...my friend".
Aalewis clutched him close, holding him tight, like The Lord would his own. There were no more tears to be shed...the young man passed, he could feel his life leaving the body, his soul ascending.
*This...this is how it feels, to be truly euphoric.*
Minutes passed...or hours, Aalewis couldn't tell. But finally, with a heavy sigh, he let go; but he would not forget young Matthew.
Walking from the ward, each step a step lighter than the last, he now knew his purpose in life.
"Mr Aalewis! You forgot your fedora!" a young nurse cried after him, her voice echoing down the pediatric wing.
"No Jane...no I didn't"
And with that, Aalewis began his journey. There were quotes to be written. Euphoria to be given. God's blessings to unleash. And this time, they weren't phony. | 'don't worry my child, God is up there waiting for you, and i swear by God's grace that st Stephen will let you straight through! You are meek, and you shall inherit the kingdom. Now i know you miss your parents, and it's tragic they died, but they will have got there just before you, and you can see them when you get there!'
At this the child opened his eyes. A smile slowly started to curl around his lips and his eyes lit up. The church bombing was terrible, and it was terrible that atheists had got so militant. It's amazing how far hypocrisy can reach. But in this moment of brief escapism he finally got his mind off it, and you could make out hope in his eyes for the first time in weeks.
'You'll be alright kid'.
He sneezed.
'God bless you kid, not that you need it!'
He laughed.
I left, i had to go check on the next patient. Sometimes can heal, even only as a painkiller. Faith can sometimes be the strongest drug a human can be influenced by: Faith in a lover, faith in the return of those close to you, faith in humanity: If any of these falter your entire mental wellbeing can come crushing around you, and so i like to think of faith as a foundation for those who need, a recourse to keep them sane. It's one of the best healing methods you can give when there really is no hope at all, not for them, not for any of us.
We're a product of a random chain of cause and effect, but why not let someone enjoy their last moments of the transient state that we call life? They may be kept in the dark, but Jesus lights the way to the destination, which is unavoidably going to be death, and that's all that really matters isn't it? |
I thought it would be more entertaining to explore this through forensic process rather than heated debate/askreddit. Give us what you got :)
edit - These are really entertaining guys. I'm quite impressed. I'm new to the sub and just exploring things here...so upvotes for everyone on your hard (or effortless) work. | [WP] An atheist's effort to console a dying Christian child. | The child's eyes bore into hers, as a cough escaped his lips. He looked so feeble sitting there at death's door. There was no way to help this poor child.
"Shh, you're okay, you'll be okay," she knew she was lying, but what was she supposed to say?
"I'll be okay. How can-" another rattling cough- "you say that?"
"Because I love you," her heart swelled with sadness. This child-- her own child-- was about to die, and she couldn't console him.
"Mom," he sighed, frowning, "you can't just say I'll be okay. You don't- don't believe it."
"Of course I do." She stroked his hair, trying desperately to comfort him.
"I'm going to die," he said, a tear leaking out his eye, "and you can't even tell me I'm going to Heaven."
Her brow furrowed, and she kept stroking his head. "Honey, you can believe--"
"But how can I believe it?" He yelled with a sudden burst of energy. "How can I stick to something if my own mom doesn't even have the heart to tell me it's true?"
"Shh, shh, lay down. Save your strength."
He obeyed, laying back down. His breathing was ragged, his heartbeat uneven. He had five minutes left, if that. He couldn't go on much longer.
"Colin, I love you very much," his mother said, gripping his hand. She bit her lip as hot, ugly tears ran down her cheeks. "And I just don't think someone as perfect and loving and gentle as you could go without an afterlife."
He closed his eyes, fighting back the pain that came with his death. They had given him morphine a while ago, but it had worn off, and his nerves stung, begging for more of the drug.
"Maybe there isn't a God, or a Buddha, or an Allah, but there has to be something, right?"
He nodded with the little strength he had left. His mother's heart tore in half, but she had to keep going.
"Maybe you'll go to Heaven. Maybe you'l be reincarnated as an animal. Maybe you''ll be a star."
"You think I could be a star?" his first smile in months crept onto his lips. She was both heartbroken and joyful at the same time. Her son was happy.
"The brightest one in the sky."
His grin widened, and his mother kissed his forehead. A tear slipped onto his head, and he just kept smiling.
"Don't cry about me. I'm gonna be a star!"
"That's right, honey." She took a deep breath.
His heart rate slowed to barely even beating, and with a last, struggling breath, he croaked, "Bye, Mommy."
"Goodbye, Colin," she said, squeezing his hand tight. the moniter beeped, signaling the end of his life. Quiet sobs ran out of her body, and a few minuts later a nurse rushed her out of the room.
"I'm sorry, it's time to go now."
She nodded, understanding. She walked slowly to her car, and she looked up at the sky. She saw the North star, shining brighter than any of the other stars.
"Goodnight, Colin," she whispered, and started her car engine. | 'don't worry my child, God is up there waiting for you, and i swear by God's grace that st Stephen will let you straight through! You are meek, and you shall inherit the kingdom. Now i know you miss your parents, and it's tragic they died, but they will have got there just before you, and you can see them when you get there!'
At this the child opened his eyes. A smile slowly started to curl around his lips and his eyes lit up. The church bombing was terrible, and it was terrible that atheists had got so militant. It's amazing how far hypocrisy can reach. But in this moment of brief escapism he finally got his mind off it, and you could make out hope in his eyes for the first time in weeks.
'You'll be alright kid'.
He sneezed.
'God bless you kid, not that you need it!'
He laughed.
I left, i had to go check on the next patient. Sometimes can heal, even only as a painkiller. Faith can sometimes be the strongest drug a human can be influenced by: Faith in a lover, faith in the return of those close to you, faith in humanity: If any of these falter your entire mental wellbeing can come crushing around you, and so i like to think of faith as a foundation for those who need, a recourse to keep them sane. It's one of the best healing methods you can give when there really is no hope at all, not for them, not for any of us.
We're a product of a random chain of cause and effect, but why not let someone enjoy their last moments of the transient state that we call life? They may be kept in the dark, but Jesus lights the way to the destination, which is unavoidably going to be death, and that's all that really matters isn't it? |
I thought it would be more entertaining to explore this through forensic process rather than heated debate/askreddit. Give us what you got :)
edit - These are really entertaining guys. I'm quite impressed. I'm new to the sub and just exploring things here...so upvotes for everyone on your hard (or effortless) work. | [WP] An atheist's effort to console a dying Christian child. | Hey, have you ever looked up at the sky on a dark, dark night? All those stars out there, hanging just above your head and if you could just reach a little higher, you'd be able to hold them in your hands? They're not so different than you or me, really - we just took different paths. We're both just star-stuff trying to understand itself, but the cool thing; the thing that's really neat, though, is that some day, we'll become star-stuff again, and people will look up at us in awe.
*You* are becoming star stuff again, and when I look up at the sky, for the rest of my life, I'll find the brightest star and wave at you. Look for me, okay? | 'don't worry my child, God is up there waiting for you, and i swear by God's grace that st Stephen will let you straight through! You are meek, and you shall inherit the kingdom. Now i know you miss your parents, and it's tragic they died, but they will have got there just before you, and you can see them when you get there!'
At this the child opened his eyes. A smile slowly started to curl around his lips and his eyes lit up. The church bombing was terrible, and it was terrible that atheists had got so militant. It's amazing how far hypocrisy can reach. But in this moment of brief escapism he finally got his mind off it, and you could make out hope in his eyes for the first time in weeks.
'You'll be alright kid'.
He sneezed.
'God bless you kid, not that you need it!'
He laughed.
I left, i had to go check on the next patient. Sometimes can heal, even only as a painkiller. Faith can sometimes be the strongest drug a human can be influenced by: Faith in a lover, faith in the return of those close to you, faith in humanity: If any of these falter your entire mental wellbeing can come crushing around you, and so i like to think of faith as a foundation for those who need, a recourse to keep them sane. It's one of the best healing methods you can give when there really is no hope at all, not for them, not for any of us.
We're a product of a random chain of cause and effect, but why not let someone enjoy their last moments of the transient state that we call life? They may be kept in the dark, but Jesus lights the way to the destination, which is unavoidably going to be death, and that's all that really matters isn't it? |
I thought it would be more entertaining to explore this through forensic process rather than heated debate/askreddit. Give us what you got :)
edit - These are really entertaining guys. I'm quite impressed. I'm new to the sub and just exploring things here...so upvotes for everyone on your hard (or effortless) work. | [WP] An atheist's effort to console a dying Christian child. | His moist neck beard, drenched in tears, began falling in a slow *drip*, *drip*, *drip*, each one landing like God's tears upon the Christian's face.
Aalewis had dreamt of this moment, dreamt of it since he'd first felt his own enlightenment upon reading the works of his own Holy Men. Dawkins. Hitchens. deGrasse Tyson. He would make them proud, steadfast and unyielding in his belief, even in the face of another human's demise.
He would not sell snake-oil to the dying. He would not offer false comfort at the end of a man's life, even one so small as this, this *child*.
The boy's voice, a raspy tone, spoke up.
"Do you hear it now? Aalewis? I can hear God's Heavenly Host...I can see Grandma...she's waiting for me..."
A host all of his own, bellowed in his mind.
*Strike now boy, enlighten him with your intelligence!*
*Bring him the euphoria that only science brings!*
*Do it!*
The tears streamed down his cheeks, the *drip, drip, drip* continued, but they did not fall on tears of sadness. No, the tears that fell from the young child's face were of elation, Aalewis saw it now. *How can he be so euphoric? Even with a phony God's blessing?*
Seconds passed, each one feeling a lifetime.
"I hear them, Matthew, they're beautiful"
"Aren't they? I'm ready...I'll never forget you Aalewis...my friend".
Aalewis clutched him close, holding him tight, like The Lord would his own. There were no more tears to be shed...the young man passed, he could feel his life leaving the body, his soul ascending.
*This...this is how it feels, to be truly euphoric.*
Minutes passed...or hours, Aalewis couldn't tell. But finally, with a heavy sigh, he let go; but he would not forget young Matthew.
Walking from the ward, each step a step lighter than the last, he now knew his purpose in life.
"Mr Aalewis! You forgot your fedora!" a young nurse cried after him, her voice echoing down the pediatric wing.
"No Jane...no I didn't"
And with that, Aalewis began his journey. There were quotes to be written. Euphoria to be given. God's blessings to unleash. And this time, they weren't phony. | I was pedaling home from work after my second split shift of the week. My Bluetooth was on and Chili Peppers were jamming, making the ride home almost pleasant after almost twelve hours of work that day. Dusk was settling in while a warm spring breeze melted the last patches of snow on the road. It was a relief to not be dodging ice for once, and as I rode I sang along, not caring who might be listening. I was only a few blocks from my apartment when I saw my neighbor’s boy riding towards me from the other way, further down in the valley.
“He’s a ways from home,” I thought to myself, a little concerned, but it wasn’t too uncommon for the rambunctious 8 year old to get away from his parents for new adventures.
His parents, Keith and Janet Liam, were some of the nicest people I knew, in fact, they had just a few weeks ago invited me to church and dinner. I declined church, but I couldn’t miss out on Keith’s grilling. We’d had some good conversation, but towards the end it turned to their faith (as I’d feared it would, if there was one thing they couldn’t keep to themselves, it was their religion). I’d gotten a good free meal, so I listened, but it went in one ear and out the other, as it always did. Keith noticed and I noted a hint of pain in his smile as he bid me good night later that evening. I truly didn’t know what it was about these people that made them care so much, they should know that faith just wasn’t for me. I didn’t have anything against it, I just like my beliefs to be based on sound reason and judgment, not fairy tales from another millennium. I knew they meant well, so I kept that last bit to myself.
My thoughts on that evening were abruptly ended when I heard a horrifying noise: The squealing of brakes, followed by a sickening thud, and my heart sank. I looked up to the source of noise, and through the hazy dusk I could see smoke from where the tires had deposited themselves on the road, trailing behind a white car frozen in the middle of the intersection. Then, a split second later, the tires squealed again as the car sped off, leaving a small mound in the middle of the road.
It was the longest hundred yards of my life as I furiously pedaled down the hill to the intersection. I activated the voice control of my phone as I rode: “Emergency call!”
“911, what is your emergency?” a calm, female voice asked.
“8 year old boy, hit by car, corner of Maple and Oak!” I breathlessly spoke into the phone as I tried to pedal faster.
“What’s the status of the victim?”
“I don’t know yet, I’m not there, but please get someone out here!” I said. 20 more yards.
“I am dispatching an ambulance now, but please stay on the line” she said.
“Of course. Oh shit…”
I threw my bike down and ran the last few steps to where the boy was lying, eyes closed. His helmet had been thrown from his head, the bike flung in the opposite direction, and he didn’t appear to have moved since the impact. I remembered enough not to move him, but as I kneeled down and reached for his wrist, he opened his eyes and looked at me.
“Operator, he’s alive but he’s hurt bad, please tell me that ambulance is close.”
“It’s on its way, is he communicating?”
“Not that I… hold on” I paused, as he started to speak.
“Mr. Jack…what’s going on?”
“Hold on, Matt, you’ve been hurt, but the ambulance is coming for you.”
“Mr. Jack, everything hurts. I wasn’t supposed to go out, momma’s going to be mad at me!”
“No she’s not, Matt, she’s going to be glad if you’re ok.”
I was about to report back to the operator, when his next sentence caught me off guard.
“Mr. Jack, what if I’m not ok?”
“But you will be, don’t worry, good people are coming.”
“But what if I’m not…I broke a commandment, I disobeyed my parents.”
I was taken aback for a second, not quite sure how to respond to that one. Then something Keith had told me stuck out in my mind. I got in front of him, and kneeled down as close as I dared.
“Hey, Matt, remember what your dad says? Jesus forgives you. So when you see Jesus, and that won’t be today, I promise, but when you see Jesus, he’s going to say ‘it’s ok’, and he’s going to hug you, and it’s going to be ok.”
This seemed to satisfy him for a moment, and I relayed his status back to the operator, who thanked me. I could hear the ambulance sirens far in the distance, and it dawned on me I should call his parents. But before I could, I felt a hand grab mine. I looked down at Matt.
“Mr. Jack, can you pray for me?”
Damnit.
“Oh, ok Matt…”
I thought back to catholic school and all the prayers they said there. The only one that stood out was the Lord’s Prayer, I could remember that one, or most of it, and so I recited it to the best of my ability.
By the time I finished, Matt had closed his eyes, and his hand dropped to the pavement. From one end of the street, I could hear the sirens, and from the other, I heard shouting. I looked up and saw Keith and Janet running down the street. I stood and gingerly stepped around the boy, waving to his parents. Within a few seconds, the ambulance had arrived, I hung up with the operator, and stepped away from the ensuing controlled chaos.
They only had room for Janet in the back of the ambulance, so Keith and I half jogged/half sprinted back to his home. In the chaos I had mostly forgotten my bike laying on the corner of the intersection. As we drove to the hospital, I told Keith about what I’d seen, and what had transpired afterwards. I could see the pain in his face, and the anger at the driver who had fled the scene, but when we reached the hospital, he paused before going in, turned, hugged me, and said “Thanks Jack, you didn’t have to do that”. Before I could respond, he was sprinting into the ER.
A year has gone by since then. The Liams, Keith and Janet, have moved away, as the pain associated with that house, that street, that intersection, grew to be too much to bear. I modified my route so as to avoid that corner, but I still ride it every day. Reflecting on that evening, I realized that I could no more abstain from praying with the boy as I could tell a child that Santa wasn’t real. Anyone that takes pleasure from such pursuits is a truly sick individual, because if there’s anything still magical in the world, it’s the flight of fantasy that gives children dreams, and what monster could rob them of that?
|
[WP] You just got home from school. Write me some bad teenage poetry. | *Fuck you*
Fuck you,
Fuck you,
Fuck you and you and you.
Fuck you all, worthless pieces of shit.
The end. Oh and fuck you too. | Roses are red, violets are divine. I'll be your six if you'll be my nine. | |
[WP] You just got home from school. Write me some bad teenage poetry. | Sarah, your name rhymes with Clara
I wish your name was Clara so I could rhyme it with Sarah
How I love ya,
Like a Man loves his dog,
or gay guys love buttsex
I wanna have sex
With you
Or your sister
because you're twins and she looks like you
which is why I want to have sex with her, by which I mean you
Though a threesome is fine, I'm down if you are too
| The blackest of nights, oh moonlit sky!
I do not dread death, for thine beauty shinest bright.
Throughout the night.
As I lie here, slumbering a dreamless dream.
Thinking of thou, thoughts most obscene.
As I caress my breasts, I let slip a sigh.
I lust for thee, will thy be mine? | |
Try not to be in first-person, and try describing your actions in a certain situation and how you react. No listing despicable traits, but make me feel as if I'm observing you.
edit: Not even four stories and I want to destroy a sandcastle. | [WP] Make me hate you. | Enter the Mimic. As for cubicle neighbors, one could likely do much worse, but you'll wanna tear your hair out just the same. Did you fuck up and drum your fingers on your desk while waiting for that site to load the other day? Good job. Now you can look forward to hearing it for the next six months, and it won't even realize it's doing it.
The Mimic is certainly a unique beast, but it ultimately shares the same fundamental characteristics of its unseemly brethren. It is blissfully oblivious of its own inherent unpleasantness. If you're not careful, it might even blend in for a while, at least until the day you pay just a little too much attention. Sooner or later you absolutely will, no matter what you might say to the contrary, and what you'll find is shocking and often vile.
"You know, the *thing*. It's not like I'm... I mean it's just that... Okay so the, the *thing* is in the *place* and, you know, has anyone ever really stopped and looked at it and gone *hey, what is this thing in this place?* I mean really, it's just that, well I mean, I guess I shouldn't...you know?"
Sound a little familiar? It's a bad Louis C.K. It's something Louis C.K. probably couldn't shit out on his worst day - the mannerisms, the weird sort of stuttering, the half-completed thoughts before giving up and moving on to some other trivial banality. Accidentally introduce the Mimic to any sort of new media and its personality will shift accordingly. It will become the shadow of Louis C.K.'s shit, and it will never stop.
Loathsome as this creature may be, you can't help but feel a bit of sympathy for it. More often than not it's only trying to fit in, and it has relied upon this malformed sort of defense mechanism for so long that it may not even know what it's doing anymore. It *snatches* vital things, makes them part of itself, *weakens* and *cheapens* them until there is no joy left to be found in them.
"Good god man, is that like, morning blend? Caffeine, you're my only friend. Fuck me! Did you see that? The coffee pot's gone feral! I am suddenly tragically aware of my own fragile mortality."
Shitty stoner movies, cult classics and pulp, novels everyone knows. It can be subtle, but it's *there*, and you must guard against it. It can build a sort of slow hate, something that slithers and slinks and grows fat in the shadows until the darkness can't contain it. You wake up bitter and you don't know why. You start drinking more soda at your desk. And how many cigarettes did you smoke yesterday? More than the day before, I bet.
Once it happens, there is no stopping it. One cannot contain the Mimic, however, it is sometimes possible to guide it. Think of the last movie you couldn't endure without nodding off. Think of the last book you sat down on the shelf in the bathroom and never picked up again, or maybe all those classics from high school you enjoyed once upon a time but can't really remember anymore. Think of a song you heard in the grocery store and couldn't place, a sitcom you'll never watch again, a comic strip you can't recall the name of, then offer these things up to the Mimic. Let it become the ordeal that is must be, the situation that has to be handled, and sacrifice these mediocre works to its monstrous appetite and try to forget again. Tune it out. Wish it away. Count backwards from ten and focus on your work as if the hope for freedom and democracy in the western world depends upon it. Only in this way may you find some semblance of peace again.
And for god's sake, remember not to hum.
______________________________
I swear to Christ this is heavily embellished. I would never say any of that shit. :) | "MAN U R SO FUKIN DUM IM REPRTIN U FO FOKIN COPIYNG POWDIOPOUI!!!" He typed into the computer. He grinned, A smile so small, yet creepy. "Oh man, This will get me views on my channel!'' he said, Pressing the enter button, Submitting his comment. He was an pink socking microbrained dildobucket, He was just a little slack cunted spunk ball licker, Or as the folks call 'em just an idiotic felching knob. But who cares about them? We call them hairy dick dildobuckets. He was one of them. Just another crusty dick munter.
((OOC: Edit: Forgot to add in a lil something.)) |
Try not to be in first-person, and try describing your actions in a certain situation and how you react. No listing despicable traits, but make me feel as if I'm observing you.
edit: Not even four stories and I want to destroy a sandcastle. | [WP] Make me hate you. | A Couple Days Ago, I Went To School And I Forgot My Homework LOL. There Was A Pop Quiz, So I Failed It. :) I Don't Even Care. I Just Wish My Parents Understood. They Act Like I'm Five, But Come On, Mom, I'm Twelve And A Half Years Old Now. | "MAN U R SO FUKIN DUM IM REPRTIN U FO FOKIN COPIYNG POWDIOPOUI!!!" He typed into the computer. He grinned, A smile so small, yet creepy. "Oh man, This will get me views on my channel!'' he said, Pressing the enter button, Submitting his comment. He was an pink socking microbrained dildobucket, He was just a little slack cunted spunk ball licker, Or as the folks call 'em just an idiotic felching knob. But who cares about them? We call them hairy dick dildobuckets. He was one of them. Just another crusty dick munter.
((OOC: Edit: Forgot to add in a lil something.)) |
Try not to be in first-person, and try describing your actions in a certain situation and how you react. No listing despicable traits, but make me feel as if I'm observing you.
edit: Not even four stories and I want to destroy a sandcastle. | [WP] Make me hate you. | Enter the Mimic. As for cubicle neighbors, one could likely do much worse, but you'll wanna tear your hair out just the same. Did you fuck up and drum your fingers on your desk while waiting for that site to load the other day? Good job. Now you can look forward to hearing it for the next six months, and it won't even realize it's doing it.
The Mimic is certainly a unique beast, but it ultimately shares the same fundamental characteristics of its unseemly brethren. It is blissfully oblivious of its own inherent unpleasantness. If you're not careful, it might even blend in for a while, at least until the day you pay just a little too much attention. Sooner or later you absolutely will, no matter what you might say to the contrary, and what you'll find is shocking and often vile.
"You know, the *thing*. It's not like I'm... I mean it's just that... Okay so the, the *thing* is in the *place* and, you know, has anyone ever really stopped and looked at it and gone *hey, what is this thing in this place?* I mean really, it's just that, well I mean, I guess I shouldn't...you know?"
Sound a little familiar? It's a bad Louis C.K. It's something Louis C.K. probably couldn't shit out on his worst day - the mannerisms, the weird sort of stuttering, the half-completed thoughts before giving up and moving on to some other trivial banality. Accidentally introduce the Mimic to any sort of new media and its personality will shift accordingly. It will become the shadow of Louis C.K.'s shit, and it will never stop.
Loathsome as this creature may be, you can't help but feel a bit of sympathy for it. More often than not it's only trying to fit in, and it has relied upon this malformed sort of defense mechanism for so long that it may not even know what it's doing anymore. It *snatches* vital things, makes them part of itself, *weakens* and *cheapens* them until there is no joy left to be found in them.
"Good god man, is that like, morning blend? Caffeine, you're my only friend. Fuck me! Did you see that? The coffee pot's gone feral! I am suddenly tragically aware of my own fragile mortality."
Shitty stoner movies, cult classics and pulp, novels everyone knows. It can be subtle, but it's *there*, and you must guard against it. It can build a sort of slow hate, something that slithers and slinks and grows fat in the shadows until the darkness can't contain it. You wake up bitter and you don't know why. You start drinking more soda at your desk. And how many cigarettes did you smoke yesterday? More than the day before, I bet.
Once it happens, there is no stopping it. One cannot contain the Mimic, however, it is sometimes possible to guide it. Think of the last movie you couldn't endure without nodding off. Think of the last book you sat down on the shelf in the bathroom and never picked up again, or maybe all those classics from high school you enjoyed once upon a time but can't really remember anymore. Think of a song you heard in the grocery store and couldn't place, a sitcom you'll never watch again, a comic strip you can't recall the name of, then offer these things up to the Mimic. Let it become the ordeal that is must be, the situation that has to be handled, and sacrifice these mediocre works to its monstrous appetite and try to forget again. Tune it out. Wish it away. Count backwards from ten and focus on your work as if the hope for freedom and democracy in the western world depends upon it. Only in this way may you find some semblance of peace again.
And for god's sake, remember not to hum.
______________________________
I swear to Christ this is heavily embellished. I would never say any of that shit. :) | Yo thanks for letting me chill. I know we just met when our friend of a friend of a friend invites me to your party, now I gotta go.
Also I fucked your sister and clogged the toilet. |
Try not to be in first-person, and try describing your actions in a certain situation and how you react. No listing despicable traits, but make me feel as if I'm observing you.
edit: Not even four stories and I want to destroy a sandcastle. | [WP] Make me hate you. | A Couple Days Ago, I Went To School And I Forgot My Homework LOL. There Was A Pop Quiz, So I Failed It. :) I Don't Even Care. I Just Wish My Parents Understood. They Act Like I'm Five, But Come On, Mom, I'm Twelve And A Half Years Old Now. | I'm the guy who'd steal candy from a baby. I care not for who you are. I most likely hate you, or will make a case to hate you. Unless, of course, you're rich and white. Then I'll treat you to a drink. The holy book is my moral guide. It's words are unflappable, exempt from criticism. I hate our president. He's black and illegitimate, and the true color of success is white. I store my millions, all of which I EARNED myself, unlike this lazy and good for naught generation, in a business where I launder it. Why should the government take my hard earned work. I did it, no one else. Talking about this generation, what's with this gay, racial, LGBwhogivesafuck equality movement? That's not the way the REAL world works. And by the way, immigrants shouldn't be allowed here, and illegal ones should be kicked out or locked away.
Oh, did I say my name? I'm Mitt Romney, former US Presidential candidate, and former Massachusetts governor. |
[WP] Because of ancient law, you are forced to marry the High Elven Queen, She is the fine age of 5272, you are a 18 year old farmers boy. How goes the marriage? | The ceremony was quick, and a bit familiar to Jed - just two months prior, he had stood as witness while his older brother married their cousin Harriet. His own wedding, held in the Queen's high tower, at the first sunrise of spring, was sparsely attended. He had hoped his parents could watch but that was forbidden. Only the high priest and the Queen's attendants had been present.
Jed stood at the edge of the royal bed, unsure of where to look. His bride lay on the bed before him, naked. He had seen ladders and wheelspokes and even a curved xylophone once, but they all paled in comparison to the skeletal frame before him. The elf queen just stared at him, her ribcage rising and falling with the steady rhythm of the gnomish breathing apparatus that stood beside the bed.
"M'lady," he gulped, "You sure are… uh… slim." Jed vaguely remembered his brother's advice when the family received the royal summons. "Jed," his brother has said, "whatever you do, don't call her fat. They hate that."
Jed looked around the royal bedchamber, desperately looking for a conversation starter. His eyes fell on the coat of arms of the queen's last husband.
"I was, uh, really sorry to hear about the king." He said, trying to smile politely while also giving some approximation of sincere condolences. He spread his hands at his waist.
The queen rolled her eyes. "You…" she croaked "…are *incredibly* awkward."
Jed laughed nervously. The queen beckoned for him to come closer.
"Come. It is time to consummate the union." She pulled the sheet from her hips, spreading her legs. Jed ducked back as a colony of bats erupted from the space between her thighs, their wings driving up a cloud of dust. Jed coughed as he took his place.
As the echoes of his coughing faded, Jed finally saw his wife in her fullness.
"My," he gasped, "this sure is nothin' like the sheep back home."
| "But, but, I'm a girl," explained Sarah. "I can't be this... elf's wife," she said as she slammed her palm on the thick wooden dining room table.
"Honey, I know, but it is the law. The Elusian pact must be maintained," said a middle aged woman sitting at the table holding her daughter's hand. "Blame your father, he registered you as a boy to avoid the female cull the elves demanded when you were born."
The man at the table furrow his brow, "What should I have done? Let them kill her? My baby girl! I could not allow this! Damned the consequences!"
Sarah stood up and ran her hand down her brown frock. "What now," she asked her eyes wide from fear. She wrung her hands as she looked at her parents.
"I've invited a... friend," said dad as someone knocked on the door. Mom ran up to answer the door. "Its him," she said with a worried look.
A tall man in a deep blue robe entered the room. He looked at Sarah and bowed, "Pleased to meet you, young miss, I am Relold, the Traveling Barrister-Mage." He tapped his staff onto the wooden floor and dozens of glowing butterflies surrounded him for a moment.
He sat himself down and urged Sarah to sit. "Legally, they will force you to marry that crone, but the gender of the groom is never specified," he said with a chuckle. "All we need you to do is to say 'I do,' and the deal is sealed. What happens after that is really of no consequence. You can simply run away."
Sarah gulped, "So.. I just marry her and run away? The elves will be forced to spare the village?"
"Exactly," said the barrister-mage with a magical twinkle in his eye. "We'll cut your hair and dress you like a boy. It might... should work. When you run away you'll dress as a girl and wear your cut off hair as a wig. No one will find this fictional son."
Mom and Dad exchanged glances. "What if it doesn't work," asked mom.
The barrister-mage laughed, "Then we all better run away! Legally and magically, we don't have much of a choice but to try this."
"Why should we do this anyway, we can send Sarah away and say that my son was killed," said dad.
"Because, I will give you this." He handed Sarah a small vial. "Its a strong poison. With it, you can kill the elf crone. Put it in her drink. No more elves, no more tithing, no more culling, no more anything!" He cackled as he spoke. "Anyway, they will come looking for your son. Your deception during the culling will be exposed. The village fathers will execute all of you for endangering the village."
"Fine," said Sarah apprehensively. "I'll do it. I must do it." She closed her eyes and sighed.
Two weeks later the elf queen's carriage descended onto the village. Her two escorts were tall elves armed with short swords and bows. They set up a small shrine in an ancient clearing and waited for the groom to arrive.
Sarah stepped out of the house and looked down at herself. She felt the back of her neck as the wind blew. "I'm not used to having such short hair!" She felt her chest and hoped her bindings held long enough. Her mother stood next to her with tears in her eyes. "Its okay, mom. We'll do this. We'll manage," said Sarah holding her mother's hand.
Sarah, Relold, and her parents walked towards the elf shrine. Sarah approached the elf queen. Her eyes were transfixed on the elf's immortal beauty. Relold poker her with his staff, "Beware her strong magicks," he whispered. Sarah snapped back to reality and nervously tried to stand like a man would.
"Is this the... groom," asked the queen. Sarah almost curtseyed but reminded herself to bow and said with a deep voice, "Yes, my queen." She rolled her eyes.
The queen waved her hand and a beam of light surrounded her, illuminating her. The family gasped. "What trickery is this," she demanded as her eyes turned red.
Relold suddenly threw his staff to the ground, "My queen! This is a farce! The groom is a girl. She holds poison for your doom! The villagers planned your demise!" The guards pulled out their short swords and stared at Sarah.
The family was too shocked to speak.
The queen examined Relold momentarily, "This is distressing news. Girl, give me the poison." Sarah walked up to her and handed her the vial. The queen examined it for a moment. "This is a love potion."
Relold picked up his staff, "I must confess my queen. I have been in love with you for as long as I can remember. I fooled this girl to give you the love potion instead of the poison so that we may be together. Clearly, this girl could not be your husband and my name was not picked in the lottery." He pushed Sarah back and she fell into a small patch of mud. "I can be your husband. I am a barrister-mage of the highest order! These simpletons could never appreciate you! Look at the so-called groom, she sits in a pit of filth like a pig! We could rule the kingdom together, king and queen!"
The elf queen smiled, "Yes... yes... I see." Her eyes glowed orange as she put her hand out for Relold to hold. He reached for her hand, "Pigs you are, indeed," she yelled as Relold double-overed in pain. He fell to the ground writhing.
"My goddess," said Sarah as she watch him magically transform. "He's.. he's... a pig," she exclaimed. The pig's eyes were wide and he snorted. He tried to run away but became tangled in his own robe.
Dad walked up the elf queen, "It was I that engineered this deception and falsely claimed my daughter was a man to avoid the culling. I owe you one soul. I submit myself to be your husband if you spare my family." He reached for her hand.
"Dad! No," yelled Sarah, her eyes filled with tears as mom held her back.
The elf queen reached over and took his hand, "I accept this compromise. I will take this man for my own." The guards put their swords away.
Dad looked back at his wife. She started weeping, "Oh Thomas," she said putting her head down.
The elf queen stepped into her carriage and Thomas followed her, he turned his head, "I'll always love you both. In time, Sarah, you'll understand. Please remember me as a loving father."
"I will dad, I will," cried Sarah as she watched the carriage drive away. Mom hugged Sarah, "He loved you so much he sacrificed himself for you."
Sarah wiped the tears from her eyes, "I know... I know..."
Mom bent over and picked up the little pig sitting in a crumpled blue robe. "Let us go home now and make a pork stew." The pig wiggled violently and snorted. Sarah laughed, "Yes, maybe a meal will take our minds off this day. Relold, that double crossing knave deserves no better! Father would have wanted it this way."
"Yes, he would," said mom as she and Sarah walked back to the village holding a loud squealing pig.
| |
[WP] Because of ancient law, you are forced to marry the High Elven Queen, She is the fine age of 5272, you are a 18 year old farmers boy. How goes the marriage? | "Kim?" I close the door behind me, its sound echoing throughout the hallway. I kick off my shoes and toss my Titans hat on the coat rack. The lack of noise in my house disturbs me. I've always been a nervous guy, but with everything's that happened in the past few weeks, my neurosis has been sent into overdrive. "Kim?"
I head up the stairs. My hand grips the rail firmly. Dad always teases me about still doing it at eighteen. The empty wall make me miss the dorky family photos I'm used to. After reaching the top, I turn left and go into the bedroom.
"Kim! Thank God." My wife is in our bedroom, sitting at her window side desk. She's dressed in sweatpants and one of my old Star Wars t-shirts. Her posture is regal as she writes on a scroll with a quill dipped in ink. As I approach with a goofy smile on my face, I notice a lock of her immaculate white hair tucked behind her pointy ear. "Why didn't you answer me?"
"My name is Lri'a'kimenna," she stated. "It has been for over 5000 years. I expect to be addressed as such."
I catch a glimpse of her letter, appreciating the beauty of the Elvish written language. I go to her bed stand and retrieve her phone. Putting in her code, 5272, I see my four missed texts.
"You could at least check your phone. When it makes the sound, just press the numbers I told you. I can see if you read my message."
"I was preoccupied, Steven." I love the way she mispronounces my name in her wonderful accent. "It is difficult to rule a kingdom. Even more so from another realm away."
"Yeah, but at least there's no night elves trying to assassinate me on Earth."
"There are no night elves," she responds, correcting my grammar. "Are you Oer'e'bettig the Brute?"
Kim smiles at her own reference. And I'm taken with the overwhelming drive to reach out and touch her. She can't be real and she can't be my wife. But she is.
"I'm going to order some Domino's for dinner. That okay with you?"
"I suppose so." I turn to leave the room. "Steven. Could you request a box of those . . . cinnamon sticks. I am quite fond of them."
I laugh, turning to see her red eyes looking at me.
"Anything for you, Your Majesty." | "But, but, I'm a girl," explained Sarah. "I can't be this... elf's wife," she said as she slammed her palm on the thick wooden dining room table.
"Honey, I know, but it is the law. The Elusian pact must be maintained," said a middle aged woman sitting at the table holding her daughter's hand. "Blame your father, he registered you as a boy to avoid the female cull the elves demanded when you were born."
The man at the table furrow his brow, "What should I have done? Let them kill her? My baby girl! I could not allow this! Damned the consequences!"
Sarah stood up and ran her hand down her brown frock. "What now," she asked her eyes wide from fear. She wrung her hands as she looked at her parents.
"I've invited a... friend," said dad as someone knocked on the door. Mom ran up to answer the door. "Its him," she said with a worried look.
A tall man in a deep blue robe entered the room. He looked at Sarah and bowed, "Pleased to meet you, young miss, I am Relold, the Traveling Barrister-Mage." He tapped his staff onto the wooden floor and dozens of glowing butterflies surrounded him for a moment.
He sat himself down and urged Sarah to sit. "Legally, they will force you to marry that crone, but the gender of the groom is never specified," he said with a chuckle. "All we need you to do is to say 'I do,' and the deal is sealed. What happens after that is really of no consequence. You can simply run away."
Sarah gulped, "So.. I just marry her and run away? The elves will be forced to spare the village?"
"Exactly," said the barrister-mage with a magical twinkle in his eye. "We'll cut your hair and dress you like a boy. It might... should work. When you run away you'll dress as a girl and wear your cut off hair as a wig. No one will find this fictional son."
Mom and Dad exchanged glances. "What if it doesn't work," asked mom.
The barrister-mage laughed, "Then we all better run away! Legally and magically, we don't have much of a choice but to try this."
"Why should we do this anyway, we can send Sarah away and say that my son was killed," said dad.
"Because, I will give you this." He handed Sarah a small vial. "Its a strong poison. With it, you can kill the elf crone. Put it in her drink. No more elves, no more tithing, no more culling, no more anything!" He cackled as he spoke. "Anyway, they will come looking for your son. Your deception during the culling will be exposed. The village fathers will execute all of you for endangering the village."
"Fine," said Sarah apprehensively. "I'll do it. I must do it." She closed her eyes and sighed.
Two weeks later the elf queen's carriage descended onto the village. Her two escorts were tall elves armed with short swords and bows. They set up a small shrine in an ancient clearing and waited for the groom to arrive.
Sarah stepped out of the house and looked down at herself. She felt the back of her neck as the wind blew. "I'm not used to having such short hair!" She felt her chest and hoped her bindings held long enough. Her mother stood next to her with tears in her eyes. "Its okay, mom. We'll do this. We'll manage," said Sarah holding her mother's hand.
Sarah, Relold, and her parents walked towards the elf shrine. Sarah approached the elf queen. Her eyes were transfixed on the elf's immortal beauty. Relold poker her with his staff, "Beware her strong magicks," he whispered. Sarah snapped back to reality and nervously tried to stand like a man would.
"Is this the... groom," asked the queen. Sarah almost curtseyed but reminded herself to bow and said with a deep voice, "Yes, my queen." She rolled her eyes.
The queen waved her hand and a beam of light surrounded her, illuminating her. The family gasped. "What trickery is this," she demanded as her eyes turned red.
Relold suddenly threw his staff to the ground, "My queen! This is a farce! The groom is a girl. She holds poison for your doom! The villagers planned your demise!" The guards pulled out their short swords and stared at Sarah.
The family was too shocked to speak.
The queen examined Relold momentarily, "This is distressing news. Girl, give me the poison." Sarah walked up to her and handed her the vial. The queen examined it for a moment. "This is a love potion."
Relold picked up his staff, "I must confess my queen. I have been in love with you for as long as I can remember. I fooled this girl to give you the love potion instead of the poison so that we may be together. Clearly, this girl could not be your husband and my name was not picked in the lottery." He pushed Sarah back and she fell into a small patch of mud. "I can be your husband. I am a barrister-mage of the highest order! These simpletons could never appreciate you! Look at the so-called groom, she sits in a pit of filth like a pig! We could rule the kingdom together, king and queen!"
The elf queen smiled, "Yes... yes... I see." Her eyes glowed orange as she put her hand out for Relold to hold. He reached for her hand, "Pigs you are, indeed," she yelled as Relold double-overed in pain. He fell to the ground writhing.
"My goddess," said Sarah as she watch him magically transform. "He's.. he's... a pig," she exclaimed. The pig's eyes were wide and he snorted. He tried to run away but became tangled in his own robe.
Dad walked up the elf queen, "It was I that engineered this deception and falsely claimed my daughter was a man to avoid the culling. I owe you one soul. I submit myself to be your husband if you spare my family." He reached for her hand.
"Dad! No," yelled Sarah, her eyes filled with tears as mom held her back.
The elf queen reached over and took his hand, "I accept this compromise. I will take this man for my own." The guards put their swords away.
Dad looked back at his wife. She started weeping, "Oh Thomas," she said putting her head down.
The elf queen stepped into her carriage and Thomas followed her, he turned his head, "I'll always love you both. In time, Sarah, you'll understand. Please remember me as a loving father."
"I will dad, I will," cried Sarah as she watched the carriage drive away. Mom hugged Sarah, "He loved you so much he sacrificed himself for you."
Sarah wiped the tears from her eyes, "I know... I know..."
Mom bent over and picked up the little pig sitting in a crumpled blue robe. "Let us go home now and make a pork stew." The pig wiggled violently and snorted. Sarah laughed, "Yes, maybe a meal will take our minds off this day. Relold, that double crossing knave deserves no better! Father would have wanted it this way."
"Yes, he would," said mom as she and Sarah walked back to the village holding a loud squealing pig.
| |
[WP] Because of ancient law, you are forced to marry the High Elven Queen, She is the fine age of 5272, you are a 18 year old farmers boy. How goes the marriage? | "Kim?" I close the door behind me, its sound echoing throughout the hallway. I kick off my shoes and toss my Titans hat on the coat rack. The lack of noise in my house disturbs me. I've always been a nervous guy, but with everything's that happened in the past few weeks, my neurosis has been sent into overdrive. "Kim?"
I head up the stairs. My hand grips the rail firmly. Dad always teases me about still doing it at eighteen. The empty wall make me miss the dorky family photos I'm used to. After reaching the top, I turn left and go into the bedroom.
"Kim! Thank God." My wife is in our bedroom, sitting at her window side desk. She's dressed in sweatpants and one of my old Star Wars t-shirts. Her posture is regal as she writes on a scroll with a quill dipped in ink. As I approach with a goofy smile on my face, I notice a lock of her immaculate white hair tucked behind her pointy ear. "Why didn't you answer me?"
"My name is Lri'a'kimenna," she stated. "It has been for over 5000 years. I expect to be addressed as such."
I catch a glimpse of her letter, appreciating the beauty of the Elvish written language. I go to her bed stand and retrieve her phone. Putting in her code, 5272, I see my four missed texts.
"You could at least check your phone. When it makes the sound, just press the numbers I told you. I can see if you read my message."
"I was preoccupied, Steven." I love the way she mispronounces my name in her wonderful accent. "It is difficult to rule a kingdom. Even more so from another realm away."
"Yeah, but at least there's no night elves trying to assassinate me on Earth."
"There are no night elves," she responds, correcting my grammar. "Are you Oer'e'bettig the Brute?"
Kim smiles at her own reference. And I'm taken with the overwhelming drive to reach out and touch her. She can't be real and she can't be my wife. But she is.
"I'm going to order some Domino's for dinner. That okay with you?"
"I suppose so." I turn to leave the room. "Steven. Could you request a box of those . . . cinnamon sticks. I am quite fond of them."
I laugh, turning to see her red eyes looking at me.
"Anything for you, Your Majesty." | The ceremony was quick, and a bit familiar to Jed - just two months prior, he had stood as witness while his older brother married their cousin Harriet. His own wedding, held in the Queen's high tower, at the first sunrise of spring, was sparsely attended. He had hoped his parents could watch but that was forbidden. Only the high priest and the Queen's attendants had been present.
Jed stood at the edge of the royal bed, unsure of where to look. His bride lay on the bed before him, naked. He had seen ladders and wheelspokes and even a curved xylophone once, but they all paled in comparison to the skeletal frame before him. The elf queen just stared at him, her ribcage rising and falling with the steady rhythm of the gnomish breathing apparatus that stood beside the bed.
"M'lady," he gulped, "You sure are… uh… slim." Jed vaguely remembered his brother's advice when the family received the royal summons. "Jed," his brother has said, "whatever you do, don't call her fat. They hate that."
Jed looked around the royal bedchamber, desperately looking for a conversation starter. His eyes fell on the coat of arms of the queen's last husband.
"I was, uh, really sorry to hear about the king." He said, trying to smile politely while also giving some approximation of sincere condolences. He spread his hands at his waist.
The queen rolled her eyes. "You…" she croaked "…are *incredibly* awkward."
Jed laughed nervously. The queen beckoned for him to come closer.
"Come. It is time to consummate the union." She pulled the sheet from her hips, spreading her legs. Jed ducked back as a colony of bats erupted from the space between her thighs, their wings driving up a cloud of dust. Jed coughed as he took his place.
As the echoes of his coughing faded, Jed finally saw his wife in her fullness.
"My," he gasped, "this sure is nothin' like the sheep back home."
| |
[WP] Because of ancient law, you are forced to marry the High Elven Queen, She is the fine age of 5272, you are a 18 year old farmers boy. How goes the marriage? | "Kim?" I close the door behind me, its sound echoing throughout the hallway. I kick off my shoes and toss my Titans hat on the coat rack. The lack of noise in my house disturbs me. I've always been a nervous guy, but with everything's that happened in the past few weeks, my neurosis has been sent into overdrive. "Kim?"
I head up the stairs. My hand grips the rail firmly. Dad always teases me about still doing it at eighteen. The empty wall make me miss the dorky family photos I'm used to. After reaching the top, I turn left and go into the bedroom.
"Kim! Thank God." My wife is in our bedroom, sitting at her window side desk. She's dressed in sweatpants and one of my old Star Wars t-shirts. Her posture is regal as she writes on a scroll with a quill dipped in ink. As I approach with a goofy smile on my face, I notice a lock of her immaculate white hair tucked behind her pointy ear. "Why didn't you answer me?"
"My name is Lri'a'kimenna," she stated. "It has been for over 5000 years. I expect to be addressed as such."
I catch a glimpse of her letter, appreciating the beauty of the Elvish written language. I go to her bed stand and retrieve her phone. Putting in her code, 5272, I see my four missed texts.
"You could at least check your phone. When it makes the sound, just press the numbers I told you. I can see if you read my message."
"I was preoccupied, Steven." I love the way she mispronounces my name in her wonderful accent. "It is difficult to rule a kingdom. Even more so from another realm away."
"Yeah, but at least there's no night elves trying to assassinate me on Earth."
"There are no night elves," she responds, correcting my grammar. "Are you Oer'e'bettig the Brute?"
Kim smiles at her own reference. And I'm taken with the overwhelming drive to reach out and touch her. She can't be real and she can't be my wife. But she is.
"I'm going to order some Domino's for dinner. That okay with you?"
"I suppose so." I turn to leave the room. "Steven. Could you request a box of those . . . cinnamon sticks. I am quite fond of them."
I laugh, turning to see her red eyes looking at me.
"Anything for you, Your Majesty." | You know, I think I'm starting to get used to her. I don't think she'll ever get used to me, though. It's been five years, but she's still practically an alien, for all she says she was born on earth.
Born five thousand-odd years ago, and she comes back and picks me for this farce of a marriage. She says her people left four thousand years ago. That's like, so long ago, *Jesus ever-loving Christ* was the *halfway point.* I might another seventy or so years, if I'm lucky. That's like ... I don't know, not even long enough to count as a *pet* to her.
I'm twenty-three now. If the fairies hadn't come back to Earth, I'd be out of school now, and probably using my Agricultural Science degree to help out the folks back on the farm. They kind of messed up those plans, though. The fairies own the farm now, and a lot of the land up and down the western side of the Appalachians. They came back, their ancient homeland was under the ocean, so they decided to resettle somewhere else, and they picked my family's farm.
My folks moved on down to Florida, but I'm here because of the deal they made. Ten generations, our family's worked this land, and I'm the only one left. Well. *She* says there will be children, in time, to carry on the name. *She* says that my blood's history with this piece of Earth is why they chose the family farm as the center of their new territory.
It took her and her people about five years to make a deal with the US government. It didn't help that the people running the negotiations on our side--er, the human side--kept changing every two or four years. If it had gone faster, maybe they would have found some other dazzled farmboy to glamour into their clutches.
I tried running once. They found me in about three days--and it only took that long because *She* thought it was hilarious that I believed I could get away and successfully hide from them.
Then I got a visit from the Secret Service, who told me in no uncertain terms that I'd best behave myself with the Elves, because they came back to Earth for a reason, and apparently me being this close makes me a valuable asset.
Except, you know, I haven't really learned anything. I never believed in magic until the Fairies came back. Either they've got some insane technology, or magic is real. I can't tell the difference, at least.
I got a call from an old friend--electricity still works, thank God--and he asked what it's like to be King of the Elves. I almost hung up on him. I'm not king of anything. I'm the Queen's pet, that's what I am, except I feel more like a pig being raised for slaughter.
She says no harm will come to me. I believe that, the fairies keep their promises.
But for her, my *entire life* is going to be no more than a long summer.
I wonder what it is like, to have kids that might live forever? | |
[WP] Because of ancient law, you are forced to marry the High Elven Queen, She is the fine age of 5272, you are a 18 year old farmers boy. How goes the marriage? | "Kim?" I close the door behind me, its sound echoing throughout the hallway. I kick off my shoes and toss my Titans hat on the coat rack. The lack of noise in my house disturbs me. I've always been a nervous guy, but with everything's that happened in the past few weeks, my neurosis has been sent into overdrive. "Kim?"
I head up the stairs. My hand grips the rail firmly. Dad always teases me about still doing it at eighteen. The empty wall make me miss the dorky family photos I'm used to. After reaching the top, I turn left and go into the bedroom.
"Kim! Thank God." My wife is in our bedroom, sitting at her window side desk. She's dressed in sweatpants and one of my old Star Wars t-shirts. Her posture is regal as she writes on a scroll with a quill dipped in ink. As I approach with a goofy smile on my face, I notice a lock of her immaculate white hair tucked behind her pointy ear. "Why didn't you answer me?"
"My name is Lri'a'kimenna," she stated. "It has been for over 5000 years. I expect to be addressed as such."
I catch a glimpse of her letter, appreciating the beauty of the Elvish written language. I go to her bed stand and retrieve her phone. Putting in her code, 5272, I see my four missed texts.
"You could at least check your phone. When it makes the sound, just press the numbers I told you. I can see if you read my message."
"I was preoccupied, Steven." I love the way she mispronounces my name in her wonderful accent. "It is difficult to rule a kingdom. Even more so from another realm away."
"Yeah, but at least there's no night elves trying to assassinate me on Earth."
"There are no night elves," she responds, correcting my grammar. "Are you Oer'e'bettig the Brute?"
Kim smiles at her own reference. And I'm taken with the overwhelming drive to reach out and touch her. She can't be real and she can't be my wife. But she is.
"I'm going to order some Domino's for dinner. That okay with you?"
"I suppose so." I turn to leave the room. "Steven. Could you request a box of those . . . cinnamon sticks. I am quite fond of them."
I laugh, turning to see her red eyes looking at me.
"Anything for you, Your Majesty." | I was chosen for the Marriage of Disinheritance, bonded to the High Elven Queen by the Elder Council. The day of our marriage was a somber one, with my wife crying throughout the ceremony at the pending loss of her throne, which came as soon as we said the words.
She hasn't adjusted well. Life on a simple farm, tending underweight cows and chickens is a bit different from life in a palace. There's more poop, for starters. And less food. Less trinkets. Less everything, except for poop.
She doesn't talk to me anymore. Just stays in bed all day while I tend the farm and run errands in the village. Gods, but I was a stupid boy. All eager and starry eyed at marrying the most beautiful woman in the world. Now I know. What good is beauty if she won't have sex with you? If she won't even look at you?
But there's nothing to be done about it. Breaking this marriage contract would earn us both a lengthy trip to the torturer's dungeon, followed by an eternity in a graveyard reserved for the realm's most heinous criminals.
Neither of us can even have sex with anyone else, even though we both want to, lest we risk the Council's displeasure. I will never have a son to leave the farm to, never have a half-elven son with a chance at a better life. This is true misery. | |
[WP] Because of ancient law, you are forced to marry the High Elven Queen, She is the fine age of 5272, you are a 18 year old farmers boy. How goes the marriage? | She turns to look at me. It's the first time I've seen her and it's our wedding day. She's standing beside me underneath a canopy of green saplings sung into an arch. The only thing she's wearing is a crown of forget-me-nots placed in her hair, dark as the rich earth. Elves marry naked. I'm dressed in green and white and my head is bare, the only blonde one amongst a sea of brown. One quick glance and she looks down. Her skin is the colour of moonlight, white arms and small breasts covered by tendrils of that hair. I am not her first husband.
We stand in the sun from dawn till sundown and after that she turns to me once more and tells me we are married.
We takes me to her bower and undresses me.
I am her husband tonight.
In the morning she will kill me and take another boy from my village to be her mate.
I hope I can keep my people safe for one more day.
Lord give me strength. | I was chosen for the Marriage of Disinheritance, bonded to the High Elven Queen by the Elder Council. The day of our marriage was a somber one, with my wife crying throughout the ceremony at the pending loss of her throne, which came as soon as we said the words.
She hasn't adjusted well. Life on a simple farm, tending underweight cows and chickens is a bit different from life in a palace. There's more poop, for starters. And less food. Less trinkets. Less everything, except for poop.
She doesn't talk to me anymore. Just stays in bed all day while I tend the farm and run errands in the village. Gods, but I was a stupid boy. All eager and starry eyed at marrying the most beautiful woman in the world. Now I know. What good is beauty if she won't have sex with you? If she won't even look at you?
But there's nothing to be done about it. Breaking this marriage contract would earn us both a lengthy trip to the torturer's dungeon, followed by an eternity in a graveyard reserved for the realm's most heinous criminals.
Neither of us can even have sex with anyone else, even though we both want to, lest we risk the Council's displeasure. I will never have a son to leave the farm to, never have a half-elven son with a chance at a better life. This is true misery. | |
Happy, uplifting, depressing, dark humor, see what you can make out of it! | [WP] A suicidal man who works day in and day out as a suicide hotline operator. | Edit: Trigger warnings for self harm and mentions of suicide.
"Hello, Helpline, how can we help you?" The phone always feels heavy in my hand. I refuse to put it down.
"Hello?" A quavering voice comes across the line and I rock back in my chair, minimising the tab I had open while waiting for a call. I wait for her to talk. It's a calm Tuesday afternoon and I'm sitting at my desk, yoghurt pot and cigarette pack lying open in front of me. I had been debating which one to have first when a call had been transferred through to me.
"I just wanted someone to talk to. Sometimes friends... sometimes friends just won't... They aren't the right people to talk to." Joe and Teddy went to a bar without me last night. Quiet drinks, couple rounds of darts. I wasn't invited.
"I know what you mean." I hum. "Well I'm here. What's been troubling you?"
"I'm just getting really down with work and stuff. I just can't seem to do well enough." Her voice cracks a bit and I hold the phone away from my ear in case she cries. I'm not good with tears. More often than not it'll set me off as well, which tends not to be a good thing if you're a suicide hotline operator.
"Yeah..." My boss is walking down the aisle of chairs and I huddle over, back to him. I make sure the phone is clearly visible as I nod vigorously. "What's happening with that?"
That releases the floodgates and she starts crying in earnest on the other side of the phone. My boss gives me a funny look as I shuffle a bit. I'm getting uncomfortable and my fingers are starting to itch.
"Just a huge project. I used to be so motivated. Now I want to stay in bed and never come out. I called in sick today, but if I keep calling in sick then they'll give the project to someone else and then they definitely won't think I'm good enough and-"
"It's okay, it's okay. Let's stay calm together." She's starting to panic, her voice rising on the other end of the phone. I can hear my own heart racing.
"I just feel so *muggy* all the time." She sobs. "Like there's some kind of fog in my brain, stopping me from what I want to do."
"Like a little cloud floating above you?" I suggest, reaching for my lighter, before realising I can't smoke indoors anymore.
"Just like that. I've been... I've been..." She whispers the next bit. "I've been *burning* myself. Just to feel something! I'm just *numb.*"
"Yeah." I say weakly. I'm scrabbling for the help sheet. What am I supposed to say here? Like I can help - me, the man with the scars up and down his legs and torso.
"I just want to be clear again. I want to stop being like this. What can I do?"
I'm thinking of a reply when she suddenly squeaks and the phone goes dead.
"Hello? Hello?"
I put the phone down, clicking the sweaty handset back into its plastic nest. *She sounded so young.* I look at my packet of cigarettes, my lighter and my stomach churns and I run to the bathroom.
Five minutes later I'm done vomiting. Resting my face against the cold porcelain bowl I break into noisy sobs, hiccuping and sniffing at the same time.
"Are you alright?" There's a knock at the door.
That's the thing about working at a suicide hotline. You can't be upset in peace. I grit my teeth and think about lying.
"No." I say tentatively.
Whoever it is on the other side of the door slides down to sit on the tiled floor. I can see the seat of their jeans under the crack in the door.
"Well I'm here." They say. "What's been troubling you?"
| Some might struggle to get their heads around this. They may feel it’s odd, or hypocritical, or downright dangerous. The blind leading the blind. Why does he come in every day, even though he can’t bear to talk to or see anyone on his way in? How does he get out of bed, when he’s exhausted and all his mind craves is the sweet release of the nothingness of sleep? Why does he come in to this tiny office, every evening, *every single evening,* and try to help others when he can’t even help himself?
To those wondering this, you have managed to both answer your questions and to let those answers pass you by. You can see the answers in everything he does. The way he walks purposefully through the crowds towards the office. Because that’s what he craves, a purpose. The way he holds the door open for those leaving on his way in, and forces a smile for the young girl sat behind the reception desk. Yes, he may have given up on himself, but he has not given up on you, or I, or anyone else. He is filled with self-loathing, but even the twisted negativity of his psyche cannot distort a genuine thank you. Yes, it may be the blind leading the blind. But who better knows the travails of the blind than one with no sight? His colleagues may be able to sympathise, but none of them can empathise like he can. Who better to talk down a person from a bridge, than he who was stood there last week? Who better to help you confront your demons, than one who battles them every day?
So he comes every evening. Walks purposefully, holds the door, and offers a smile. Because this is his sanctuary. Each person he reaches out to is his therapist, and offers more relief than any pill could. You may ask why a suicidal man tries to save the lives of others despite regularly attempting to take his own. I say it is because of this that he does it. If he wasn’t trying to save others, then he would be lost. |
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