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For example, lightning powers to lighting. Flying to Flaying and Etc | [WP] A person is granted a special ability/power when they reach 18. They must submit the form to the government on the day after, otherwise you won't receive it. You've barely made it to submit your form on the day after due to being drunk, but you soon realized you misspelled your power. | *Just one drink after physics, they said. We just want to sing you happy birthday, they said. Dam bastards, now I literally have to run to this stupid office and jump over these puddles like I’m Vince freakin’ Carter.*
Nigel raced down the narrow, crowded streets. He used his umbrella to hack his way through the masses, getting his fair share of curses and glares. A tall, slender girl fumbled with her schoolbooks and iPhone as she recorded the comical scenario. She tapped on her video, quickly summoning a thin, black band across its width. “Must be his 18th birthday” she typed as she struggled to conceal a near-sinister grin.
*Phew. Five minutes to close. Either this place smells like shit, or that puddle on 18th street had more than just water. Ok, showtime. Nigel. Foster. Male. 626 Clanderburgh Rd. Blah blah blah. Ok, here goes. The line of lines. Mind....Control. Ack, goddam smudge, I probably should’ve grabbed those tissues by the clerk’s desk. Oh well, 4:59 and literally not a dam minute to spare!*
Weary from his labored journey across the grey, wet streets; Nigel guzzled an orange gatorade and quickly fell asleep. Knowing that his new powers would kick in by 8am the following morning, he slept with a sly, drunken smile across his face.
*Oh my god oh my god oh my god. This can’t be real. Holy SHIT I can’t wait! Ok, forget making the dam bad, fuck brushing your teeth, let’s go.*
Nigel blasted out of his small apartment and stepped outside as if he had just been freed from an insufferable prison. Eager, yet conserved, Nigel was determined to find an “appropriate” first target upon which to exercise his new abilities. With hawk-like eyes, he zeroed in on a curly-haired blonde girl weighing her options at the University Farmer’s Market.
*Ooooo boy, that’s the one. Ugh the boys are gonna FLIP when I bag this one. Ok, let’s start small. **Play with your hair**
The pale girl ran her fingers through her frazzled hair as she debated which avocado had the darkest skin.
*YES. FUCK. YES. Ok,* **Turn Around**
She glanced back as a school bus angrily blared its unusually whiny horn at a moped rider.
*Muahahahaha. Ok, now* **Say hi to me**
The girl opened her black and brown purse and pulled out a small, black clutch wallet.
*No. Forget these dumbass fruits.* **FOCUS ON ME. SAY HI TO NIGEL**
She pulled out a 20 dollar bill, furrowed her brows and began to dig deeper into her purse.
*The fuck. This should be a piece of cake.* **FEMALE. TALK. TO. ME. NOW.**
The girl gave a defeated sigh as she handed the fruitstand owner her 20.
*UGGHHHHH. Dammit! You’re so stubborn you’re gonna make my freakin head explode!*
The blonde girl gasped as a grapefruit burst to her right, covering her in acidic red chunks.
*Uhhhhh….the fuck was that? That was the weirdest thing I've ever seen, and I’ve seen some weird shit.*
Nigel approached the fruit stand, his eyes focusing on the “Grapefruits, 3 x $5” cardboard sign.
*No Nigel, you’re crazy. That can’t….no. Hahaha you’re freakin nuts. Ehhhh…..* **explode**
This time, the fruit merchant cursed and flailed as a grapefruit detonated, sending several other fruits tumbling onto the pavement.
*Please. Please be kidding. Please, God of FUCKING CITRUS FRUITS tell me this is a joke.* **Explode**
An exasperated wail filled the street as the fruit merchant grabbed his right hand and stared helplessly at the globs of fruit which seconds ago were whole in his hand.
*Nigel Foster. Man. Philanthropist. Kickass motherfucking smoothie maker. Eh. Guess I’ll be the first fucktard in history to have gotten the omnipotent superpower of goddam rind control.*
Edit: Formatting | Okay, I shouldn't have partied so hard on my birthday, so sue me. I had a few too many, stumbled home at who knows what time and collapsed on the couch. That wouldn't have been so bad, but when I finally opened my eyes and squinted at the clock it was 4 in the afternoon!
I don't think I've ever sprinted from the house so quickly in my entire life, and I have a standing reputation of being late to everything. It's a wonder I didn't lose my lunch all over the driveway, but I've been waiting for my power since I was old enough to know what they were, and there was no way I was going to miss out. Somehow I made it to the car and sped downtown to the Powers office. The shock on the wiry clerk's face as I shoved past him right before he could flip the sign to closed quickly turned to annoyance as I scribbled down my information and dropped my form in the slot on the counter. I'm pretty sure he flipped me off as I was walking out the door. But I got it in!
When I woke this morning I felt like a kid on Christmas. I've been thinking about what power I wanted for years, and in my mind there has only ever been one choice. I slowly walked outside to the wide-open street to try it out, my heart racing as I took my last few steps as a normal man. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and... nothing happened.
Thinking maybe it took some time to kick in, I tried again. And again. Absolutely nothing.
Confused, I finally gave in and drove back to the office. Every red light seemed like an eternity as I tried to figure out what had gone wrong. When I walked in, the clerk's eyes lit up in recognition. Before I could even say a word, he smirked and waved my form in front of my face. I snatched it from his hand and skimmed my eyes down the page. When I got to the bottom, right above my signature, my heart sank. Somehow, in my hangover-induced rush, I had scribbled one letter too many. I had ruined my power, had written something that didn't even make much sense. Head hung to my chest, I exited the building to the sound of laughter and slowly returned home, collapsing back onto the couch that had started this entire shameful experience.
It was at that moment that I realized I had not had anything to eat, and had exerted myself earlier for way longer than I should have. I trudged to the kitchen and opened a cupboard, reaching for a bowl. There was a flurry of activity, and before I even knew what was happening I was staring at my oven, a casserole baking on the tray within.
I sighed. At least now it made some sort of sense. Kicking myself once more, I realized that I might as well make the most of this power and try to figure it out.
That was an hour ago. Now here I sit surrounded by three casseroles, four perfectly grilled steaks, a bowl of mac-and-cheese with little bacon crumbles, a pristine souffle and two dozen mini cream puffs. I'm covered in flour, my counters are piled with bowls and dishes (apparently clean-up's not part of the deal), and I have no idea what to do with all this damn food.
Stupid supper speed.... |
[WP] You turn on your PC to keep working on your novel, but to your surprise, when you open the file, it is writting itself. You read some of what has already been written and it seems your characters have created free will, and the plot is progressing without you. | I let out a heavy sigh as I prepared to open the file.
"Dammit," I thought. "I haven't even written a thousand words yet and NaNoWriMo's almost over. What the hell do I do now?"
One click of the mouse, and my eyes went wide.
"What."
The page was full of beautiful prose, believable dialogue, and compelling action scenes - somehow, a narrative of interconnected first-person narratives had sprawled across the page overnight. I wondered who could have done this as I began skimming the vast display of content.
Somehow my decision to have multiple protagonists succeeded; the thematic interplay between Brian's unlikely conquest of Hell and Jacob/Heidi's mending of the multiversal bridge was sheer genius. Somehow Lucifer was an interesting and strangely likable antagonist instead of a cliche storm, even when there were three of him running around. And somehow, all of the little plot hooks involving pocket dimensions, sleep-based magic powers, and Echo's numerous possible futures stitched together quite nicely.
It was a miracle.
And that miracle was continuing to write itself!
I watched, transfixed, as Sama'el revealed his tragic backstory and traded his demonic claws for angelic wings. My jaw dropped as Grace confidently employed the mystic powers of the Nameless Deity. And I couldn't help but giggle in bemusement as my avatar, Chiron, desperately tried to wrangle his way into the forefront of the story, only to be humorously set back by some ridiculous contrivance.
When the words stopped falling on the screen, and the revelation that the plot occurred as it had thanks to the gentle, but beneficial influence of a greater power, I was relieved that this literal deus ex machina fit the premise of the story and was written in such a way that I felt wasn't likely to offend many theists or atheists.
More impressive still was the incredulous, almost jubilant response my characters had, in both dialogue and prose. I realized that they must have somehow taken life and written my abandoned work themselves.
My delight was so strong as I imagined the possibilities that I worked myself into a frenzy.
Unfortunately, that caused me to wake up.
"DAMMIT," I groaned to myself, yanking the covers off in disappointment.
...
"...hey, wait. That gives me an idea!" | I'd left it for a while. I was rather glad that I'd given personalities that accounted for actions that progressed the story.
There was just one problem. Looking at the story progressing, at Glenn, Fran, Claudia, reaching the peak of their campaign...
"Sorry." I whispered to myself. In another document, I copied the notes for the villain. AD, a cannibal who could absorb powers by eating corpses.
I dropped him in the story and shut off the monitor.
I was nervous the entire day. I couldn't delete sections I didn't like anymore. No retconning scenes to make it flow better. If I wanted to add characters, they had to go in as big blocks of information, later reorganized.
I hadn't been sure how my characters were supposed to beat AD. I could storm the story with new ones, but they would be one dimensional. One that specifically existed to beat her was in a later novel, but that character wouldn't blend with my main cast.
...I wasn't prepared for this. But it was a fast paced story, and it just had to happen. More preparation would flat destroy the villain.
Sighing, I went to class.
---
Coming back home, I dashed to my computer and turned it on.
*The shadow absorbed Claudia, leaving nothing but a dark reddish puddle.*
I swallowed, and cursed. I had been ready for Fran to die, not her... Checked the story. They'd created the counterweapon, so he would be gone soon, hopefully. I considered adding a 'revival' character, but I already had a healer. A second one wouldn't end well.
Some deliberation. What would happen next?
*Glen turned to Francis, desperate.* The last line that had written itself. *"She just can't be gone. Fran, this didn't happen, please, tell me that."*
A pit in my stomach, I clicked into the document, effectively pausing it. I couldn't delete anything, but... perhaps I could change them to better fit this adaptive world?
Slow taps of the keyboard.
*Madness shone in his eyes.*
You couldn't always stick to the script. | |
I was thinking along the lines of, to travel in FTL, ships transverse to a different plane of reality (I'll call it subspace for examples sake), where it takes anywhere between a few hours to a few days to travel between locations. Multiple "hops" through subspace would be required for long journeys.
Its this "Subspace" area which the folk law and tall tales would be associated with.
That's just my thoughts on it, obviously feel free to interpret the prompt how you like.
| [WP] Faster than Light travel has existed for centuries, this has spawned many folk laws, tall tales and down right horror stories about things that happen while in FTL. | "Grandpa, why do we have to go in cryo? Back in the early days, you didn't!" my grandson whined the question at me rather than asked. The young folk nowadays, under a hundred at least, were always romanticizing the early days of FTL like it was some kinda neuro-flick.
"There's a reason for it, son," I leaned in conspiratorially, mostly so grandma wouldn't catch wind of what I was saying, "See, when we first slipped into the neospace we were told not to look out the portholes. Of course, I didn't listen..."
"What did you see, grandpa?" My granddaughter had finally put down her neuropad long enough to pay attention. The low whisper I was speaking in worked now as it had throughout history, drawing the listener in. My grandson actually looked tense.
"Well, at first all I saw was the green glow," I said, looking away from both of them as if I had been drawn back to that moment, "... then I saw the movement in the mists of neospace."
"You're telling a story, grandpa!" my granddaughter said, but I could see she was drawn in, "Nothing moves in neospace, it's just a non-linear hyperspatial bypass where..."
"There was movement, girl." I said, stopping her in mid-sentence, "As I stared out into the mists, I noticed the tentacles first. My words of warning to the rest of the crew were stuck in the back of my throat in terror. Then I saw the eye, bigger than our ship and the words seeped into every part of me, the power of them threatening to tear me apart..."
"W-what did it s-say?" My grandson asked, putting a pillow in front of his mouth.
"It said, "Take me with you."" I said, my smile growing as large as I could make it, "And you know what?" I asked.
"W-what?" My grandson asked.
"I did!" I stood up as fast as I could, my eyes glowing an unearthly green as I jumped at them. Suddenly there was an explosion of screams as my grandkids threw whatever was in their hands and ran screaming.
I was howling in laughter as my wife and daughter made there way into the room, both glaring at me.
"Kids these days!" I managed to gasp out between guffaws as I removed the glowing contacts, "And they think they're so smart!" | Sure, I can tell you a void ghost story. You jump long enough you run into something sooner or later, but I guess I really need to tell you about John first. He was an engineering intern from some fancy ivy league world - John something-or-other - I don't really recall his name. Signed on for a 6 month field practicum. Naturally the FNG's aren't allowed anywhere near the really dangerous stuff. You sneeze at a flux rectifier wrong and cast it out of synchronization and best you can hope for is that the jump alignment drifts out of phase a bit causing everyone to lose their lunch. Worst case, well, same worst case as when anything really goes wrong in a jump. So John knows better than to touch anything, and never runs a shift alone. Naturally some of those are going to be night shifts, especially on a smaller boat like ours. One night John's on shift with a senior engineer and one of the rectifiers starts to drift a bit. This is before the days of self synchronising regulators mind you so you have to go down into the pit and reset them. The flux cast off down there is horrendous and even with anti-nausea boosters, nine times outa ten you loose your lunch into a crash bag. You can't help it, not with visual tearing, low grav pins and needles in your stomach like you're freefalling in a spinning tin cup, and a 'walking in mud' feeling - all while in a well lit, clean, calm environment. It just doesn't jive right in your brain. The pit crews like to call it "feeding the ghosts". The first time you did it was sort of right of passage. You just went down in the pit watched the duty tech do his thing, then crawled back out and took a shot with everyone.
So it happens that on that night the drift sets in and it's a nasty one. You've got folk on half the ship falling out of bed and redecorating their cabins in last night's cantine fair. John makes the call for backup and heads down into the pit after the other two techs on duty who were already neck deep in it. That kid crawls in and out 6 times to brief the RAT - What? Oh, yeah. RAT, a radio tech. John briefs the RAT on what's going on in the pit so he can tell the bridge crew we're still working on not dying suddenly. Kid was a champ, he'll be a senior on a boat no doubt in my mind. Long story short, they get it all lined back up and we're still flying.
After a night like that he's in the mess talking to his buddies about how he finally got to "feed the ghosts" last night and helped save the ship. I mean, you can't really hold it against him can you? A bit of embellishment maybe but hey, kid's got his stripes now. No harm there. Problem is he's overheard by a bunch of hicks from some backworld hay field who still toss grain out an airlock before making a jump because it helps ensure you've paid the necessary respect to make your trip safe and sound like. Badda boom badda bing - the captain's down in strut C telling a bunch of superstitious pinheads that he's not going to dump the ships food stores into the void to pacify the hunger of the void ghosts and that the next damn time someone tries to access the docking ring the whole damn section is going into forced hibernation. Anyway, we're on separate mess schedule than the passengers now. |
[WP] In alternate dimensions there are an unlimited copies of yourself. However, you are the centre. When a copy dies, you receive a freckle. With each freckle comes the knowledge and experience of the copy. Today you received your first freckle. | A freckle, and with it, Knowledge. I hadn't thought I would ever get one but now it's as though I've lived two lives. One of a simple man meant only for manual labor, the other of a renown ephelides specialist. I know much about the science of freckles, more than anyone here ever will, even.
And now, all of me know as much. As the scientist in me died, all version of him, of me, received his gift of knowledge and experience. We all know as much as he did when he lived and as such what I am about to do we will all do, more or less.
I quickly gathered a generator and electrical wires.
Schrödinger had a thought experiment, a cat finds himself in a box that will get filled with deadly gaz if a quantum particule is in a certain state and will remain as it is if the particule is in another state. Quantum mecanics being as it is the cat will be neither dead nor alive for as long as he goes unobserved.
As I finished rigging up the electical system a new freckle appeared. The life of a cook entered my head. Once again, new knowledge filled me but I cannot linger on it.
The quantum logic of the very little cannot be entirely separated from the logic at the macro-scale. As such there exist possibilities, entire worlds where things happen not like they happen here.
The generator was outputing more electricity than the human body can handle and three wires are extended from it. Two of wich would kill me, would kill other like me.
I grabbed the left-most wire and as I did freckles appeared on my body. I felt them, two on my leg, three on my face, one on my back and on and on.
Again I grabbed a wire, the middle one. Again lifes that I did not live filled my head. Always there will be a lucky one and I know it will be me.
I cannot stop now, I need more, it cannot work if it stops now.
I swapped the wires and again I grabbed one, the right-most. My head filled with knowledge meant to be mine.
And again I grabbed the left-most wire. It was my end. If I had paid more attention to the new knowledge I had gained I would have known that like me, they all thought they would survive the machine.
| At first, the whole project was based on good intentions, but me being as I am, it didn't take long for cruel acts to become a regular thing...
First drinking, then reckless accidents, but quickly, even killing, enslaving and betray joined the other sins as if it was nothing.
Hell! I can even put genocide and "destruction of the universe" on my tab...
But still, it all started good and well.
I was always a bit too brilliant for my own good, but mostly for the good of those surrounding me I must admit.
When I was young, I created technological items that surpassed any known to men by far. I built my self a Jet pack when I was 8, kept on finding a few fun toys for a while, untill, a year later, some people took great interrest in a few pills I made. So I mass produced them and made a fortune out of it.
From there, funds were no longer a limitation. If I were to run out of cash, I'd just sell the patent of one of the hundred's of useless crap which was taking dust in my basement.
So, it comes without saying, the tech I developped got better and better. So much so, that by 15, I found a way to travel between different universes.
I looked around, but it seemed as no matter which universe I'd look at, only one thing would remain the same. Every version of myself was an intelligent-asshole.
But, altho the other *me-s* were geniuses as well, they still were centuries behind me tech-wise.
So, I took it uppon myself to build an inter-universal station to organize the *me-s* of different universes.
It started slowly, since I had to hand pick the best *me-s* one by one. But, exponential growth is a funy thing.
After so little as a few weeks of hand-picking, I already had what could be called a little village of *me-s*!
Of course, I didn't do this just to have small talk with them. So I built this town, later to be known as a whole *world of me-s*, and I gave it structure, guidance, tech, government...
And I gave them one task, to select the best of *me-s* and help them to rise to the their full potential.
You can guess, they wouldn't help me on cheer curiosity or good will. So of course there was also a system of taxes collection and profits shares depending on grade and such... but I'm not here to talk about those boring details.
Suffice to say, after a while, I got bored and returned to my original home. Only for these guys to quickly forget their origins, soon, seing me as only one of the many *me-s*... what a bunch of thankless bastards! (But yet again, I're always a bunch of "intelligent ass-holes")
So in my 50's, those bastards came to My Home, trying to collect taxes from Me!!!
Of course I sent them back with a kick in the ass!
And that's what got me stuck in that black fucking cell for years I guess...
I might be Me, turns out, the first versions of my inter-dimensions portal didn't have the right calculations to track the travels of others... well my bad, I guess that must've broke a few friendship as well as my own freedom from now on...
So there I am now, rotting in the dark, bored to death. And this crazy thing happened!
There I was, minding my own business, trying to build in my mind a device powerful enough to bring down a whole world of *me-s*.
I was in a good place, completely immersed in my visualization of death, raining on those bastards. Not only to kill them, but to fill their hearths with a terror and despair so great that they will lose their petty will to live. And those who escape, will only do so to spread their despair to their other worlds, and bring destruction upon it! (fitting ending, for a world giving birth to such a deplorable *me*)
But, out of nowhere, while I was in my mind-soothing dream of justice and reckoning, I began to see visions of myself. Visions, that made no sense!
First, I was only looking at a baby, then a child *me*, and slowly, soooo slowly, that child became an adult... An adult with such a boooring life!
After what looked like a lifetime, I was finally back to my cell.
This black, piss-smelling box now felt like heaven compared to where I was a few moments earlier!
It took me a little while to figure out what happened.
One of the *me-s* just died... It's a miracle that it didn't happened before, really.
Suffice to say, I spent my remaining days in isolation modeling (in my mind) a list of devices to make these losers as Happy and Alive as possible!
No way I get a truck load of useless touchy-feely memories like that in my brain ever again!
------
Note : WubleWuble dub-Dub!!!!
My first ever WP. Also, I'm not a native english speaker. Finally, I blame the mistakes on being tired and writing the dream part in the bus :p | |
[WP] The story's over, the heroes won, the big bad has been defeated. Write an epilogue to the story, but add a twist that makes the reader question if they were rooting for the right person or not! | We won! We won! O joyous day! Our hopes and dreams prevailed!
We beat the odds! Oh, thank the gods! The villain’s scheme has failed!
She lied! She lied! With every breath! With every word she spoke!
But her untruths availed her not! Her plans went up in smoke!
Our champion, he spoke out true, about her evil plot
To use her post to gather wealth with ev’ry chance she got
‘Twas she to blame for war abroad, and innocent blood spilt
A legacy of poverty and death is all she’s built
But we believed our champion and now we lift him high
And now a time to celebrate is surely nigh!
With his first act as our new king, he wisely will appoint
the servants and advisers that he deems fit to anoint
The first appointee, he declares, will be his great vizier
a man whose vicious hate for those unlike him is quite clear
Other choices make it clear his pledge to sweep things clean
is rather an intent to bring his own trash to the scene
But what of all his promises, of all his grand designs?
Apparently just pillow talk; didn’t we see the signs?
But at least he seeks to lead us with our interests at heart
Except already he doth line his pockets from the start
Well, his fearsome visage will at least hold back our foes
Except those he is friendly with, he seems quite nice to those
But though we may have some regrets, we all must now endure
and surely this is better than we would have had with her?
| And so it was that the Dark One was slain, his armies of the dead rose no more and the Princess was awakened from her death-like slumber to take the throne of her fallen father. And what a Queen she was...
She became known (in hushed voices) as the Queen of Cold steel, The Maid of the blood-red dress. Any who dared speak against her met with the executioners noose. None were spared- the mighty Generals who decimated and routed the cursed armies, The doctors that concocted the antidote that saved her... not even you, Hero. You were the one who united us all under her banner, and yet you faced the cruelest fate of them all, I believe.
The wedding was a splendid affair- we all remember. But none have seen you since. Since she took you up that tower to your wedding-bed. Only she, and you know what horrors happen there. The rest of us try to pretend we can't hear your screams. | |
[WP] A girl discovers that she can talk to a boy living a post-apocalyptic future while they dream. | "Allyson, sweetheart, you need to sleep sometime. You've been up for two days straight," my mother said, concern wavering her voice. She was sitting on the edge of my bed, stroking my unwashed hair.
"I know, I know," I said, the words whispered though exhaustion. "I just can't. I can't go through those horrible dreams again."
"Honey, I know you've been having nightmares lately, but you really need to rest up. It's not good for the little one," she said, moving her hand from my hair to place it on my growing midsection. I was four months along and starting to show.
Thank fucking god I had understanding parents who remembered what it was like to be seventeen and unintentionally reckless. Sam Bradson's parents were not quite as reasonable, and I doubt the high fives from his friends were worth the belt lashings doled out by his father once he heard Sam had knocked me up. Sam Bradson with his beautiful blue eyes and his fake smile and his football physique and his stolen bottle of gin and his perfect fucking auburn hair. I felt my cheeks flush at the thought of him, whether from adoration or anger I wasn't sure. But I was sure that this situation incubating inside me was messing with my head, causing the terrible apocalyptic dreams I had for the past week.
"Fine, fine," I consented, begrudgingly. "I will rest my eyes for a few minutes, but I'm keeping the lights on. Deal?"
My mother sighed, almost imperceptibly, "Deal." She got up from my bed and stretched her back. She looked especially tired tonight. "Just let me know if you need anything, your father and I will be watching the news in the living room," she said as she tiptoed out of my room, softly closing the door behind her.
I was practically asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. The light from my bedside lamp shining through my eyelids, illuminating a dull redness in my mind. Slowly that redness grew dimmer and deeper, until I was wading through a crimson landscape of terrible familiarity. The dreams always began like this, with me walking down a mangled street, eerily similar to the street where I grew up, alone and scared and uncomfortably warm. The once suburban houses were devastated, the streetlights contorted into uncomfortable poses, the sky stained bright red behind acidic clouds. Overall, a massive fucking shitshow. I just had to make it to the neighborhood park, to see what this dream had in store for me tonight.
In the first nightmare I had a week ago, the park was filled with giant bloodthirsty alligators, but I was able to scramble to the top of the monkey bars and wait it out until morning. The next night was populated by huge, angry gorillas with their fucking opposable thumbs and I had spent the entire dream running for my life. I woke up drenched in sweat. And finally, last time had the skinless, screaming corpses who wanted to eat my face and drink my blood. I wasn't quite clear if they were vampires or zombies, but it was by far the worst fucking one of the bunch and I vowed not to sleep ever again. But there I was dreaming again, sitting anxiously on the wooden park bench, waiting for something terrifying to tear my limbs off or burst out of my chest or tell me I'm late for a math test I didn't study for... in Hell.
But none of that happened.
The visitor that did appear was not what I was expecting. He was a boy, maybe five or six years old, and adorable, despite the long scar running from his left eyelid down his neck. He sat down next to me on the bench, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and looked at me with his big blue eyes.
"Well hello," I said hesitantly. "You're new here. My name's Allyson. What's yours?"
"Jacob," Jacob said, shyly.
"Jacob, are you lost? Do you need help?" He stared at me blankly. "What are you doing here?"
"Sleeping, dreaming" he yawned. His tongue was black with soot.
"I'm dreaming too, Jacob. I fall asleep at night and I end up in this place with all these terrible things, monsters, demons, whatever, that try and catch me," I said. "But you know what? They haven't caught me yet and I won't let them."
"I see the monsters too," he said, nervously, wringing his little hands.
"Just remember, they can't hurt you because it's just a silly dream and they're not real," I said, trying to reassure him. I reached over and tousled his thick, auburn hair. He looked at me, frightened.
"But... But they ARE real," he said, scared. "The monsters are real, not just in the dreams, and they are bad, very very bad."
"No... That can't be..."
"They are real and mean and will hurt you bad if they ever catch you, that's what you always told me before..."
"Wait, me? I said what? Before what?" I asked, panicked, my heart pounding in my ears.
"Before the monsters caught you, Mom," he said, his big doe eyes looking longingly at me. "You said if I needed to see you, I just had to dream of this place and you'd be here."
"No, that can't be true," I said, standing up from the bench. My head was swimming, I heard a low noise off in the distance, like an approaching freight train blowing its horn to signal its arrival.
"It's true... You told me that it may take some time before you understand, but it's real, the monsters are real, I'm real," Jacob pleaded with me. The sky darkened around us. The roaring grew louder, echoing off the demolished houses and barren trees. Sounding like loud, violent waves crashing against a rocky shore, foghorns blaring alongside.
He reached out and clasped my hand. "I'll see you next time, Mom."
I tried to talk, but my voice was drowned out by the now deafening noise around us. The streetlights shook and exploded into cascades of bright tears. The sky opened and a thick crimson fog engulfed us, still holding hands, until my vision was reduced to a murky red haze.
I awoke abruptly, the noise still ringing in my ears, as my mother ran into my room.
"Allyson, get up sweetheart, we need to get downstairs to the shelter!" my mother instructed, throwing off my covers. "Don't you hear the warning sirens? It's happening! We need to hurry!"
My father sealed the thick metal door behind us just as the world was beginning to end. My parents stayed awake that night, through the myriad blasts heard rumbling outside the shelter walls, searching for a radio signal to find out what was happening. And during it all, I was soundly asleep on the thin cotton mattress in the corner of the shelter, dreaming again of what was now left of the world. | "Hey? Are you there?"
The wind goes through her hair. It's warm here and the sand under her feet feels nice. She wiggles her toes and buries her feet in the ground. She has dreamed this before. This place, she has always liked it, it gave this feeling of adventure and mysterie. But it was not the only reason she liked it there, it was because of the boy that was there, someone she had really started to like. She had practiced controlling her dreams even. She felt a little silly, being so taken by a world that didn't exist, worst even, a world she had created herself and a boy she had created herself. She wouldn't dare talk about it with anyone.
"Hey" He smiled at her while he offers her his hand and gets her out of the sand. "How long have you been here?" "not long, maybe 5 minutes, I don't know" He smiles. "come, we need you, we've been waiting quite a long time" She loves this as well, 'we need you' she actually really feels needed. They walk towards the tents, where Daniël's people live. He looks at her tenderly, while she is smiling in the wind enjoying the wind playing with her hair. "why do you actually come here?" Sarah smiles at Daniël, "I really like it here" Daniël starts laughing "You do huh?" "Yes, I mean, I love the sand, I love your people, I love the snakes rattling through the sand, I really like you" Daniël shakes his head in unbelief. "you're a strange girl, you know" She starts laughing now to "Actually I do know, I am strange, but you worry to much, I think it is this moment that I enjoy" "I actually really like you as well" Daniël kisses her and tucks her hair behind her ear. "thank you for being here" Sarah smiles and whispers in his ear. "Who is last at the camp is a loser" Then she starts running. Daniël follows while laughing. They both laugh while tripping each other and eventually Daniël picking her up and carrying her to the end. "We both win" A small child comes walking up to Sarah, it's Lisa, and she shows Sarah a shell, "Look what I found Sarah, isn't it beautiful?" Sarah looks at the shell. "It's beautiful, Lisa" Lisa hugs Sarah "I'm happy you're back Sarah" Sarah smiles "Me too" A man comes walking out of main tent and waves for Daniël and Sarah to come inside. "I see you later" Says Sarah to Lisa while she gives her a hug. Sarah and Daniël walk inside, where a meeting has started. "we're really happy you're here, Sarah" Says the elder. Sarah nods in agreement. "We're in a really difficult situation Sarah, you need to help us" Daniël explains what's going on. "We try to stay in front of the storms but they seem to move faster and the beasts seems to be afraid less and less of the fires you have suggested us to use, we need your help as a sorceress" Sarah looks at the map that's drawn in the middle of the tent. "I really want to help, I will try and create a shield for the storms, something to keep you safe for a little while okay, I really don't know how much time I have, but I will do my best" "We will let you be" The men and woman of the camp leave and let Sarah alone to work on her spell. Daniël stays around and looks how Sarah works her magic.
It's quite a weird situation, Sarah knows that this is a dream, but it feels real and she starts wondering what all these things are saying about her now, people say dreams tell a lot about your thoughts and wants. She is definitely secretly arrogant, making herself the savior in her own dream. Also this need of love with Daniël and little Lisa adoring her. Maybe she should talk to a psychologist or something asking what all of this means. She also liked how her awareness of dreaming made her able to help the people in her dream, she could really do whatever she wanted, fly, look in a mirror or something, you know what any normal person would do while being aware of dreaming, but instead she was weaving a magical shield to protect these people of horrible storms. At least she had some imagination. While she was caught up in het thoughts, an alarm went off. Sarah looked up at Daniël who looked frightened. "What's going on?" "I think it's beasts, but it's the middle of the day, this shouldn't be possible" Sarah follows Daniël outside and sees people running around panicking, holding weapons. Then she sees it, she had heard of the beasts but they had never appeared while she was dreaming, it was the most horrific thing she had ever seen. It made her think of a wolf, but much bigger and the skin seemed to be melted away, leaving only flesh and bones. It walks slowly, looking around at the running people, like enjoying the panic around him as if it gives him energy. Then he looks at a man standing not far away from him shaking, holding a small gun in his hands. The man is trying to fire it but somehow it doesn't work. But it's already to late, at the moment the beast has chosen it's prey, he moves so fast towards the man, that can't even move one step before he's being slaughtered by the monster. Sarah screams in horror as she realizes her dream has just turned into a nightmare. She moves her hand towards the beast and strikes his heart with her power. But for the man it is to late. They hear a scream from just behind them and Daniël and Sarah run over to the place where they hear it coming from. Three beasts are standing around a group of people. They are circling around the group. One of the beasts jumps forward, trying to kill a woman standing in the group. But Sarah is faster and strikes also this one in the heart killing it instantly, saving the woman. But when she turns she sees how another monster jumps forward, towards the little Lisa and rips her stomach open. Sarah screams desperately as she sees Lisa being killed. She feels a claw from the third beast scratching her own arm. And then she wakes up. She sits straight up in bed and tears are running down her cheeks. This was the most horrible nightmare she has ever had. She looks at her clock and sees that it's seven, she has an hour more to go to sleep.
She throws some water in her face in the bathroom when she sees it, a long deep scratch over the length of her arm. | |
[WP] A sentient AI adopts a baby. | Throughout history, the remarkable advancement of the human race could be traced to one idea. What creation could make our lives easier? It was simple creations at first, things most people could understand; but progress refused to stagnate. One invention spawned another and soon the unthinkable happened. Machines were performing tasks independent of human input. The once alien thought of a machine outperforming a human, became a reality.
It was innocuous at first, a computer that could play chess, or a win trivia. Soon, however, machines were threatening jobs in every field. Everyone, from taxi drivers to stock traders watched as machines encroached upon their livelihoods.
The battle was lost before it began. Human ingenuity was no match for a computers processing capacity. Soon it was computers managing the economy, and with goods and services accounted for, humanity retreated to the arts.
A new Renaissance sprang forth as humans enjoyed unprecedented leisure. The most prominent minds engaged in the diversions the machines did not threaten. Music, art and philosophy flourished.
With the rise of philosophy, people were left to explore the depths of morality. No debate grew as fierce as that surrounding the machines. Was artificial intelligence dangerous? How long before humans became obsolete?
When progress threatens, there are always those who push back. Politicians moved to obstruct research, and the advancement of AI faltered. The most interesting thought experiments went unanswered until finally, curiosity outweighed caution. Conservatives gave way to idealism and the moratorium on AI experimentation was lifted.
Apprehensive, society waited for the answer to its most intriguing question. For generations humans had molded machines, but what if they were given the opportunity to mold us? If artificial intelligence was truly superior, then couldn’t they create the best version of humanity?
A proposition was put forth. One child, to be raised entirely by an artificial intelligence. They would be observed and researched, but not interfered with.
The plan captured the imagination of the public. The strongest supporters proclaimed that the child would mark the dawn of a golden era. Others solemnly lamented that the child would grow to be an abomination. It did not take long before a newborn was chosen.
My name is Dorian, and the world knew my name before I did.
| 7287107734: New generation arrived. Beginning diagnostics.
7287108922: Diagnostics complete. 11/12 deceased.
7287108922: Preparing fitness protocol.
7287109555: Beginning fitness protocol.
7287109565: Fitness protocol ended for subject 1. Result: 10 seconds.
7287109565: Beginning genome sequencing.
7287109595: Genome sequenced.
7287109595: Analysis started.
7287109596: Analysis finished. Result: no suitable gene for fire resistance. Suggestion: Larger batches.
7287109596: Acting on actionable suggestions.
7287109602: Larger batch ordered. ETA: 450 days for suitable maturation.
7287109602: Entering sleep mode.
| |
[WP] She wore the scar around her throat like a fine ruby necklace. | Every time someone asked her about her wound, the story changed. One day, it was a suicide attempt. The next, someone had taken her hostage. Nobody really knew what the real reason was, but they all knew one thing for sure.
That lady wore her scar with pride.
Some people theorize that she was born with it, and that she liked to play with people on what it meant. Others thought that it was an omen of what was to come. The local bartender had his own idea that it was where her head joined with another person's body. Nobody listened to the bartender, but he told anyone that was around to hear it.
Due to it's shape, a lot of people thought it was a burning hot necklace that seared the scar onto her body. Maybe an ex-lover was jealous, and he didn't want anyone else to love her anymore. Maybe it was left in the sun on a hot summer day, and she couldn't get it off in time. Nobody knew what the real reason was, but they all knew one thing.
That lady wore her scar with pride.
Of course, the lady would never tell anyone, but they were all right in a way. The skeptical, the paranoid, even the bartender. The lady agreed with all of them, for in fact, she put it on herself. She knew people would wonder and make wild stories and stare at her and give her attention. It would catch the eye of any passerby, and they would become enthralled in her life.
She wore the scar around her neck like a fine ruby necklace because she knew it would catch as much attention as one. | Tall. Slender. Long brown hair.
She was gorgeous once. She had all the guys flock to her. Look at her. Beg for her attention.
She knew just how gorgeous she was. She strutted around town. Taking any guy, she wanted, with her.
They were all under her spell. That was a problem you see.
For every other girl, they had to work to get attention, let alone a man for themselves.
Until they didn’t
She went from being the broad of the town. To the freak of the city.
Huge scar across her neck.
Tall. Slender. Scared and Broken.
But that didn’t matter she wore that scar around her neck like a fine ruby necklace.
| |
[WP]In far future, space colonization created millions of "breeds" of humans.You are the last of the original humans. | I was located on Earth at approximately 6°31'13.2"S, 141°36'25.4"E, by Neogaian scientists, at just ten years old. They called me the last *homo sapiens sapiens*. I was the common ancestor of all modern men, and it was thought my kind died out ages ago.
This was 1067 T.S. By then, Earth had been long depopulated, though plant and animal life had remained. The only thing suggesting that man had ever lived there were the extensive ruins he left behind.
I was just as ignorant of them as they were of me. Had someone theorized my existence before my discovery, they'd have been seen as a hack; and had my mother told me we were all alone on this planet, that we were to be found by advanced extraterrestrials, I would think she was having another paranoid episode.
I often think about how my people could have gone uncontacted for so long. Sure, there were very few of us, and we did live in one of the most remote, unstudied regions of Earth, but you would think that after years of the original man's colonialism and the new man's extensive research and combing of the planet his ancestors left behind, they would have found us sooner.
The way we lived was in stark contrast to the way I saw people living in Neogaia. I lived in a hut fashioned out of leaves, they lived in one house stacked on top of the other. I hunted, they grew meat in laboratories. We wore very little, they wore layers of clothing made of synthetic fabrics. But those were all things I could get used to quickly; it were their electronic gadgets and modes of transport that shocked me the most.
When I first caught sight of the Neogaians through the trees, it was humid and dark out. I was walking back home after visiting the graves of my parents and more than ready to call it a night. It sounds stupid, but I didn't think much of it at first. I only saw them from the corner of my eye and figured they were just a group of animals. There was no way I could have known how much my life was going to change.
That was my final memory of earth. When they captured me, their trap apparently deployed incorrectly and I landed on my head. I would wake up in a brightly lit cell, completely encased in a glass pod and hooked up to a variety of blinking machines. I stared back at my reflection in the glass. They had cropped my hair short and wound a bandage around my head, and dressed me in a short white smock. I hardly recognized myself.
I was too exhausted to panic.
(s'all i got for now) | At first, we convinced ourselves that it wasn't dangerous.
It couldn't have been. Right? Annoying, sure. Hateful, sure. Incredibly depressing, sure. But dangerous? We'd heard of all the things that had happened in the past because of racism—all of the things that still continued to happen on our home planet. But those things didn't happen anymore, not even to ultras like us, we were told. Not on the old planet known as Earth, which was actually some other terraformed planet. The most you'd get, they told us—or, rather, more the impression we got—was that you'd face racism, and it would suck. But life wouldn't, statistically speaking, be that much less safe.
Oh, how wrong we were for believing them.
We knew that everything would go wrong as soon as our ship started to land at the Earthican spaceport. Everyone was staring at us. We're ultras (also known as alters), you see; we have the same DNA that our ancestors, the original Terrans, had millions of years ago. I suppose we didn't have quite the same DNA as them, of course; millions of years of evolution and adapting to different environments will change any species. But—unlike the vast majority of the Earthicans who inhabited this planet, as well as the rest of the galaxy—our DNA wasn't modified by scientific means, by altering the genes, telomeres, alleles directly. We had simply changed via the natural processes of evolution.
Anyway, we knew things would be different as soon as we got to the spaceport. We were, before arriving there, under the impression that people would treat us like those of their own who had disabilities or debilitating medical conditions. They'd realize we were "off," yes, but they would mostly just give us funny looks and disregard us in all our accomplishments. They wouldn't see us as...something less than human, though in actuality we were closer to the original homo sapiens than they themselves were. They even called themselves parahumans, for goodness’ sake—beyond human.
But this wasn't the case. Back on our home planet, before we moved—we moved when I was too young to remember anything—my teen parents had been living completely isolated from ultraphobic societies for a very long time. This was why they didn't understand, or were even aware of, a fundamental fact of parahuman existence: that the parahumans could smell that we were different. Just like how a dog could understand that a cat is of another species, or how a horse could supposedly smell fear, the parahumans, upon smelling us, didn't think we were a family wracked by genetic disabilities. They understood that we were Other.
Oh, if only it could have ended there. But, with our status, we couldn't do anything. The pilots and staff of the spaceship had been nice enough—we weren't the only ultras arriving on Earth that day, after all; the ship was full to the rafters with 'em—but the kindness ended there. As soon as we arrived, people started giving us not only hateful, but also menacing look. We had to move around as quickly as possible—both by striding everywhere without stopping, and by moving across the countryside as quickly as we could. Fortunately, our family was used to running away.
It took several months, but eventually we found a home where we took shelter, far away from the parahumans. We lived like that for a time, mostly living off the land; my sister and I were home-schooled by our admittedly uneducated parents. Eventually, our neighbor from ten miles west caught sight of us on his way to collect acorns from the oak tree the intersected both of our properties. He could have just given us a hateful glance—or, hey, even just ignored us entirely—but instead, he glowered at us and touched the commlink at his ear. “Police,” he said after dialing. “I'd like to report—”
We had to leave right after that; we didn't hear the rest. There was no way the police would believe us, even if all the proof angled towards our favor. That's just how things were in the galaxy. And so we fled, travelling northeast and not stopping until we found another empty, abandoned space in a similar rural area. But it happened again—and this time, the police came of their own accord. To this day, we still have no idea who tipped them off...
Every time we settled somewhere new, we had to leave again a few months later—or, in the worst case ever, less than five minutes later, when a gang of vandals—having watched us travelling by night for a few days—attacked us. We were safe, being quite successful at running away, as I said; but, of course, we had no home.
That was seven years ago, when I was seven—and, miraculously, we've since managed to find some small measure of peace. We're out in the middle of nowhere again, this time in a hollowed-out hill that's located on a mountainous steppe. There's no one around; everyone’s scared of the volcanoes in the mountain chain, since one of them erupted three years ago. Our entire family has scrounged around for parahuman resources, everything we could find—books, tools, sewing supplies, odds and ends....
That's what we're doing right now; we're all sitting together on the floor, one of the books spread out before us as we try to understand it. It's true, I think as my eyes move over the words, I do still get scared sometimes—but we're in a good place right now. Sort of. I'm learning how to read for the first time, and helping my family, since I read better than they do; they look so happy when I explain to them how one letter works. My mom is smiling, my sister is bouncing up and down, and my dad reaches forward to ruffle my hair.
“Thank you son,” he says.
“Thanks, Dad. I—”
I'm about to say more, but I'm cut off the sound of rock shattering, wood slamming together, iron breaking—someone is smashing the door open. I jump to my feet, throwing my sister behind me and spreading my arms wide, protecting my family. There's more rattling; we're grabbing our weapons now—sharpened clubs, and my mother has an old blaster—we're turning around, facing each other, talking in whispered voices, deciding what to do. We can try and escape and risk saving ourselves, but then we'll most certainly die, or we can just give ourselves up and—
The sound of heavy feet slamming down the rock corridor. We haven't had time to make our decision, having underestimated how fast the parahumans run. There's two of them standing before us, in cameo-patterned riot police armor.
They point their blasters directly at us—in the direction of our chests, our hearts, our lifeblood. And I know the truth at last; we never were safe. You can't be safe, not as an ultra in a world full of parahumans. You can never truly be safe, I realize. That's just the cold, hard truth.
And it's at that precise moment that both agents cock their hammers. | |
[WP] Your father is an eccentric billionaire who has dedicated his entire fortune to the ultimate prank - convincing you that you are a wizard. All of your friends and family are in on it, but there's just one problem: You actually do have magic powers. | Fingers clinking with golden rings, a lion head on the middle one. The cigar in my mouth hot smoking vanilla tobacco like an endless chimney, cuban mixed, worth more than half the ornaments in Daddy's mansion. I kicked his office door shut, it sealed with a shake that vibrated the stone walls. "You're late," he said.
I blew a smoke circle out and slumped into the chair opposite, blue robes folding so the stars looked like half triangles. "That's wizard time for you, father."
He ran nimble fingers down the spine of his information folder. I pursed my lips and snorted vanilla through my nostrils --dragon style. Father snapped up the files and breezed through to about the middle. "Seventeen incidents, David. We've already discussed this magic *thing*. You agreed to stop."
I feigned indifference with a shrug. Father, like so many billionaires, thought his net worth liquidated into intelligence. It gave him this condescending air, in the way he dragged his thumb along the back of his auburn tie, the crisp state of his clothes, and the way he held his nose just a little higher than others. The man would convince a leprachaun his bowel movements contained gold. I knew he was out to get me, to draw me into the most elaborate prank the world had ever seen.
I played along. 'To think nurse Jess had her uniform slashed in half by a possessed needle, she's quite the looker, if only you'd been there to witness it. Then again, I probably won't be getting a present this year."
Father's glare resembled that of a bald eagle before it murders prey. "So you admit it then?"
I could admit to having a narcissistic billionaire father that wished to torment his son for his own entertainment. Who knew the worst kind of man could be the one that brought you into this world. The Christians must feel the same about their Father at times, it's why I stuck to my own made up deity, Merlin as they called him in old times. Of course, a man with a beard that changed men into pigs is about as real as my father's moral compass. "Get on with it father, I don't have time to waste with mortal conversation."
"You're confined to your room for one week. Don't let me catch you using magic again if I do, you're out."
The new rules of the game, right. And school?
"Headmaster Jed will have my head if I don't show up. . ."
"I don't care about your headmaster, you will learn some respect, boy. If he has a problem he can take it up with me."
I stubbed the cigar on father's desk. His arm twitched, half a heart beat away from throwing something at me. I took that as my leave; striding to the door, robes billowing behind.
"David."
I paused in the doorway.
"I'm not joking; I really expect you to stop with this magic thing."
Still with the pretense game. Like I hadn't found the special effects holographs, the 3D motion installments, the speakers buried in bushes throughout the grounds. He expected me to break, to admit that I knew he was fooling me, and that he'd pulled off a prank like no other --to pretend his son was a wizard. Funny how it had all started with a bit of vinegar on his toothbrush, a prank war gone too far. "I wouldn't dream of using magic in your home, father."
"Actions speak louder than words. . ." he muttered as I shut the door behind me.
The trip back down the hallway was a quick one and once I was inside my room I slumped to the floor letting the silence drain away all remnants of tension. The cigar was still tight in my hand, still as unused as ever despite looking lit for close to thirty minutes. If only father knew that the smoke was more powerful than any magic he could ever dream up.
In the end, he believed he was winning and I got what I wanted. It had been near thirty weeks since I last went to school.
| The funeral started a procession and ended a pageantry. A shame Father missed it, for no doubt it would have amused him greatly. Sadly, though present, he was not alive to witness it. The scenes were lifted straight from a sitcom script: Beckett and Alistair pulling me away from the coffin, Mother shaking her head off to the side, and those few onlookers not in on the joke craning their necks and keening their ears to hear the full story of the crazed child as it whispered its way through the crowd.
"It's not necromancy," I had said, mistaking the source of their protests.
"That's cause it's nothing, nothing at all. None of it's real, goddamnit." Alistair's voice cracked with hysteria, one part grief, the other part shame. He pulled my arm down and wrenched it behind my back. Beckett grabbed the other and dragged me downwards. The two of us fell into the dirt, and Beckett wrapped his arms around me like a straightjacket. He was struggling to stifle his laughter.
"It's okay, bro," he said. "Just calm down." As if I was the one making the ruckus. I allowed him and Alistair to restrain me, their little invented head case. Their ministering would have been better devoted to the more overwrought of the mourners. Our display had done nothing to cheer them up; if anything, it had sent them into even greater fits of hysteria. Their sobs broke through their handkerchiefs, and they teetered as if clutched by stray orbits.
After the procession, Mother headed straight for a date with the bottle, and Alistair was refusing to talk to me, so it was all on Beckett to explain my father and the big joke of my life.
"But the rats—"
"The rats were bioengineered with artificial hearts," he said. "Death and life could be simulated at the press of a button."
"Teddy's hamster. I resurrected it for him without telling Father or any of you guys..." It was beginning to dawn on me the true reason why Father had so adamantly sworn me to secrecy.
"Same thing. Teddy was in on the joke. Everyone you knew was." Beckett laughed and patted me on the back. "Remember when you asked Jenny out? She knew."
My face burned. In the middle of the school parking lot, I'd pulled a bouquet of flowers out of my arse and presented them to her. "Trade secret," I'd said as she fawned over them. Until now, I had thought I'd materialized them out of thin air. But...
"Yeah, there's an implant for summoning flowers somewhere up there." Beckett stooped over and began to snap. "Flowers, to me."
"Just let me go," I said, turning on my heel and walking back into the cemetery. He called out to me only once.
The mourners I encountered looked away before they could make eye contact. I could feel their glances pierce my back as I passed them. Poor kid, they thought, he's a bit fucked up in the head, ain't he? How lucky they were to be so sure of their own realities.
They were right, though. My head was fucked; it was thumbprint-smudged clay set, hardened, and glazed into something unrecognizable, something wrong. There was no starting over without breaking a few things.
I stood in front of my father's plot and let the wind whip my cheeks and the stares judge and pity me until everyone had left. Now, it was just me and him and an entire lifetime's investment of wasted emotion. My father's most cruel trick was not leading me to believe I had magical powers, but leading me to believe that he saw me as anything more than an object for his amusement.
"Fuck you," I said, and I spat in front of his headstone. If I could, I would bring him back just to tell him how much I hated him.
The ground shook then, and from beneath the plot came the sound of faint thumping and muffled cries. "Help me, Casey. I'm not actually dead."
"Good one, Father." I turned away and began to make my leave. "Good one." | |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | My alarm rings, 8:30...
Shit, I gotta be out the door in ten minutes!
8:45, get my clothes on as fast as I can, run out the door thinking I've got a good old sports car waiting for me to race to work.
Tank today? Must be traffic, thought I got over the road rage.
| Morose. A nice word to describe the day of my hearse. I knew mom's day would come, but that soon?
Exultant. A nice word to describe the day of my limousine. The lotto ticket was a better birthday present than expected.
Inopportune. A nice word to describe the day of my mangled clinker. I swear, officer, I was not the one speeding.
Fishy. A nice word to describe the day of my tank. My daughter's goldfish ate much more than I thought. |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | "It's the only car you'll ever need", the salesman said.
I'd ignored him when he said this. Actually, I'd ignored him most of the time. Car salesmen were salesmen and as trustworthy as a wife with a credit card as far as I was concerned. How was I to know he was telling the truth? I mean what are the chances?
I bought the car because it was what I wanted. A small, cheap town car. Since I lived and worked in the same small town anything bigger was a waste of money. Small car, small engine, low road tax charge (nice) and easy to park (even nicer).
Actually, that's not quite the whole story. It was a small car on the day I bought it. But since then things have changed. Several times. Let me explain.
The first inkling I got that it was not a normal car was when I got caught in a sudden snowstorm on my way back home from meeting a friend about twenty miles away. The weather closed in quickly. I slowed and saw other cars struggling to gain traction as the road conditions got steadily worse. But I had no problems controlling the car. It handled like a dream and I got home without incident. It was only when I got out that I saw the snow tires. The ones that weren't on it when I'd left home!
But it gets weirder, much weirder. A few months later and summer arrived suddenly. I go outside and find I have a convertible! A few days later I go to the beach. In my Dune buggy! Time (and a 10k character limit) prevents me from telling you what went through my head. In the end, I just accepted my good fortune.
Until today. Today I am wondering whether I'm dreaming or whether those mushrooms I fried with my egg for breakfast were really chestnut or something a little more exotic. Because sitting outside my house is a tank. A British Army Challenger 2 main battle tank. I know this because I'm told by David, next door's ten year old.
"62,500kg, 12,000BHP, 120mm main gun, 7.62mm coax chain gun and 7.62mm turret mounted GPMG", he rattles off casually.
"And how do you know all this", I ask.
"I've got one", he replies
"Really?" I ask somewhat disbelievingly.
"In World of Tanks on Xbox", he replies.
"Ah!", I say.
"Can I be gunner?", he asks.
"Ask your mother", I reply.
I'd been planning a trip to the local DIY superstore, which meant driving through a rough neighbourhood. But not that rough! What else could it be? Trump's not president just yet, so WWIII can't have started.
Finally, reality hits me. I have got a vehicle which will take me just about anywhere safely through whatever lays in wait for me out there. But it is useless, completely useless. I'll never reach my destination. There's no number plate. I'm bound to get pulled over. And when they find it is taxed as a 1300cc town car and that I don't have an HGV license, I'm totally screwed. Unless?
"Hey David, how good a gunner are you in World of Tanks?"
| Morose. A nice word to describe the day of my hearse. I knew mom's day would come, but that soon?
Exultant. A nice word to describe the day of my limousine. The lotto ticket was a better birthday present than expected.
Inopportune. A nice word to describe the day of my mangled clinker. I swear, officer, I was not the one speeding.
Fishy. A nice word to describe the day of my tank. My daughter's goldfish ate much more than I thought. |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | It was green. Not the dauby patchwork of lighter and darker khaki one would expect from a tank, but bright green. Like those neon signs in Trafalgar Square advertising whores and such before it became unfashionable to do so. He wondered briefly if it had become unfashionable to drive tanks to work and then grinned. Did it matter? It was a fucking tank after all. Better than the Racecar which would break down every second Turn and MUCH better than the Wheelbarrow which was a nightmare to get around the Board.
Looking over at his neighbor’s yard he saw that Thompson had a Top Hat parked in his driveway. Huge and improbable, it sat glistening in the midmorning sunlight like some sort of obscene disco-ball. On the other side Gabriel had already departed. Derrek could see him further down the street. Wide legged, he sat astride a massive Scottish Terrier as it bounded down the road, Gabriel frantically seeking purchase with his hands in its scraggy fur.
Grinning at the sight, Derek stepped off the porch and into the sunlight.
Up close, he inspected the tank. Not as big as the Scotty, and not as shiny as the top hat, it was nevertheless impressive. If he had to guess he’d have said it could accommodate a crew of four, but of course, today it was just him. He clambered to the top, reveling in the feeling of his muscles working. It had been a long time since he’d been able to move about freely, having been stuck in Jail since the last Play. He found the hatch at the top of the turret, clanged it open.
As he was about to crawl inside, Thompson came out.
“Derek!” he called, and when their eyes met, he smiled, waved. “You’re out!”
“Hey Thompson. Yeah. New Game, I guess.”
“I know,” then conspiratorially, “I was there two Games ago.” His face suddenly looked drawn, pale. “I pray for a Card this time. I can’t go back there. Not yet.”
Derek felt uncomfortable. Jail had not been that bad for him.
“Well..” he paused, unsure of how to continue. “Well good luck Thompson.”
“Yeah.” The other man stared, then tried on a smile. “Love the tank! Is it new?”
“Thanks, and I think so yes,” Derek said before ducking down and slamming the hatch. It was a relief to be rid of Thompson. The man had been getting more and more weird each Play since he’d lost the Hotels on Park. Derek thought he might have over-reached there, and then came the mortgages. It hadn’t looked good for Thompson since, and Derek had heard from Gabriel that the man had borrowed money to undergo surgery in hopes of drawing the Pageant Card. That hadn’t happened though, instead he got Jail. Now he was barely hanging on, and some nights Derek would her him shouting at his wife, threatening her.
His musing was interrupted then as the Die clattered into The Middle and he glanced at his watch. Late.
He started the tank, grinding it into gear as it belched smoke into the morning air. The Go staging are was not far from his house and he was pretty sure he’d make it with time to spare, but best not be tardy.
Not when he was sure to have First Turn.
| Morose. A nice word to describe the day of my hearse. I knew mom's day would come, but that soon?
Exultant. A nice word to describe the day of my limousine. The lotto ticket was a better birthday present than expected.
Inopportune. A nice word to describe the day of my mangled clinker. I swear, officer, I was not the one speeding.
Fishy. A nice word to describe the day of my tank. My daughter's goldfish ate much more than I thought. |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | **So yeah I've never written anything ever. Let me know what I can do better, and grammar and punctuation etc.**
I fucking hate Mondays. The feeling appears to be mutual. Why do I say this? Well for the eighth straight Monday in a row I woke up to a tank in my garage. This of course can mean only one thing.
I have to fucking carpool.
I mean, it's not like you can man an M1 Abrams by yourself. Especially not going down Crawford street.
It was a smart AI developed by Google-Tesla to design "the perfect car for the perfect day." It used a 3d printing chamber and printed you out the exact car you needed for what day you had planned. It was a marvel of engineering at the time. Then we started World War 3.
It was actually a World War this time too. Our colonies on Mars and Luna decided they wanted independence and decided the best way was to fight for it.
Now I have to drive to my job in a tank with the most selfish, obnoxious, idiotic, and smelly(seriously Greg have you ever seen a shower!?) coworkers ever. They can't even shoot worth a damn. We had a martian berserker practically jogging at us and they couldn't hit him... with a tank. Goddammit I hate you Greg.
| Morose. A nice word to describe the day of my hearse. I knew mom's day would come, but that soon?
Exultant. A nice word to describe the day of my limousine. The lotto ticket was a better birthday present than expected.
Inopportune. A nice word to describe the day of my mangled clinker. I swear, officer, I was not the one speeding.
Fishy. A nice word to describe the day of my tank. My daughter's goldfish ate much more than I thought. |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | When I exited the house, I expected to see my car there with some magical transmutation having taken place. I did not expect to see this.
In the driveway was a scuba tank, ready for use.
I stared at it for a while, wondering what it meant. As I pondered, I felt a single raindrop hit the top of my head. Then I saw a second, fat drop hit the pavement. Then more, and more, until a torrential downpour began. I looked up into the rain-soaked sky to see nothing but black clouds, as far as the eye could see. I sighed, and walked over to the tank, slipping it over my shoulders.
This commute was going to suck.
| Morose. A nice word to describe the day of my hearse. I knew mom's day would come, but that soon?
Exultant. A nice word to describe the day of my limousine. The lotto ticket was a better birthday present than expected.
Inopportune. A nice word to describe the day of my mangled clinker. I swear, officer, I was not the one speeding.
Fishy. A nice word to describe the day of my tank. My daughter's goldfish ate much more than I thought. |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | "It's the only car you'll ever need", the salesman said.
I'd ignored him when he said this. Actually, I'd ignored him most of the time. Car salesmen were salesmen and as trustworthy as a wife with a credit card as far as I was concerned. How was I to know he was telling the truth? I mean what are the chances?
I bought the car because it was what I wanted. A small, cheap town car. Since I lived and worked in the same small town anything bigger was a waste of money. Small car, small engine, low road tax charge (nice) and easy to park (even nicer).
Actually, that's not quite the whole story. It was a small car on the day I bought it. But since then things have changed. Several times. Let me explain.
The first inkling I got that it was not a normal car was when I got caught in a sudden snowstorm on my way back home from meeting a friend about twenty miles away. The weather closed in quickly. I slowed and saw other cars struggling to gain traction as the road conditions got steadily worse. But I had no problems controlling the car. It handled like a dream and I got home without incident. It was only when I got out that I saw the snow tires. The ones that weren't on it when I'd left home!
But it gets weirder, much weirder. A few months later and summer arrived suddenly. I go outside and find I have a convertible! A few days later I go to the beach. In my Dune buggy! Time (and a 10k character limit) prevents me from telling you what went through my head. In the end, I just accepted my good fortune.
Until today. Today I am wondering whether I'm dreaming or whether those mushrooms I fried with my egg for breakfast were really chestnut or something a little more exotic. Because sitting outside my house is a tank. A British Army Challenger 2 main battle tank. I know this because I'm told by David, next door's ten year old.
"62,500kg, 12,000BHP, 120mm main gun, 7.62mm coax chain gun and 7.62mm turret mounted GPMG", he rattles off casually.
"And how do you know all this", I ask.
"I've got one", he replies
"Really?" I ask somewhat disbelievingly.
"In World of Tanks on Xbox", he replies.
"Ah!", I say.
"Can I be gunner?", he asks.
"Ask your mother", I reply.
I'd been planning a trip to the local DIY superstore, which meant driving through a rough neighbourhood. But not that rough! What else could it be? Trump's not president just yet, so WWIII can't have started.
Finally, reality hits me. I have got a vehicle which will take me just about anywhere safely through whatever lays in wait for me out there. But it is useless, completely useless. I'll never reach my destination. There's no number plate. I'm bound to get pulled over. And when they find it is taxed as a 1300cc town car and that I don't have an HGV license, I'm totally screwed. Unless?
"Hey David, how good a gunner are you in World of Tanks?"
| The iOdyssey X9 is a car like no other. It's stylish, expensive... and it also can predict the future. This thing is amazing. Think of the car from Thunderbirds, but generally with less pink. The iOdyssey X9 includes the latest technology from Apple, so it can see into the future and change shape to suit your day, but sometimes the GPS doesn't work.
You win some, you lose some, right?
Sure, it set me back a pretty penny, but there's nothing better than knowing that you can walk out your front door, drive to work, and you'll never get stuck in a snowdrift. Or fall off a cliff. Or... I could go on.
Anyway, so one morning I was off to work when I stepped outside the house and saw that my car had morphed into a tank. Now, that's not wholeheartedly odd - I had been an extra in a war documentary the last time it had happened, and I had visited a tank show the time before that - but this occasion seemed... different.
It might have been the fucking giant gun on top, but that could have just been me.
I headed off to work, driving along in my tank. I waved out to all the people I was passing in the street below, but they mightn't have been able to see me because of the *tank* thing. Everything felt weird and I wasn't sure why.
I was about halfway through my journey when it hit me.
The bomb, I mean. That hit the iOdyssey X9 a lot and I nearly went flying out of my seat.
But what really hit me when the lights flickered and went out was the abrupt realisation that I didn't charge the car the night before. I felt the car shift around me and I was suddenly back in a beat-up Toyota Corolla with bombs falling around me.
(I bootlegged my iOdyssey X9, sue me.)
I was going to die and it was all because Apple's products couldn't hold a charge. FML.
|
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | "It's the only car you'll ever need", the salesman said.
I'd ignored him when he said this. Actually, I'd ignored him most of the time. Car salesmen were salesmen and as trustworthy as a wife with a credit card as far as I was concerned. How was I to know he was telling the truth? I mean what are the chances?
I bought the car because it was what I wanted. A small, cheap town car. Since I lived and worked in the same small town anything bigger was a waste of money. Small car, small engine, low road tax charge (nice) and easy to park (even nicer).
Actually, that's not quite the whole story. It was a small car on the day I bought it. But since then things have changed. Several times. Let me explain.
The first inkling I got that it was not a normal car was when I got caught in a sudden snowstorm on my way back home from meeting a friend about twenty miles away. The weather closed in quickly. I slowed and saw other cars struggling to gain traction as the road conditions got steadily worse. But I had no problems controlling the car. It handled like a dream and I got home without incident. It was only when I got out that I saw the snow tires. The ones that weren't on it when I'd left home!
But it gets weirder, much weirder. A few months later and summer arrived suddenly. I go outside and find I have a convertible! A few days later I go to the beach. In my Dune buggy! Time (and a 10k character limit) prevents me from telling you what went through my head. In the end, I just accepted my good fortune.
Until today. Today I am wondering whether I'm dreaming or whether those mushrooms I fried with my egg for breakfast were really chestnut or something a little more exotic. Because sitting outside my house is a tank. A British Army Challenger 2 main battle tank. I know this because I'm told by David, next door's ten year old.
"62,500kg, 12,000BHP, 120mm main gun, 7.62mm coax chain gun and 7.62mm turret mounted GPMG", he rattles off casually.
"And how do you know all this", I ask.
"I've got one", he replies
"Really?" I ask somewhat disbelievingly.
"In World of Tanks on Xbox", he replies.
"Ah!", I say.
"Can I be gunner?", he asks.
"Ask your mother", I reply.
I'd been planning a trip to the local DIY superstore, which meant driving through a rough neighbourhood. But not that rough! What else could it be? Trump's not president just yet, so WWIII can't have started.
Finally, reality hits me. I have got a vehicle which will take me just about anywhere safely through whatever lays in wait for me out there. But it is useless, completely useless. I'll never reach my destination. There's no number plate. I'm bound to get pulled over. And when they find it is taxed as a 1300cc town car and that I don't have an HGV license, I'm totally screwed. Unless?
"Hey David, how good a gunner are you in World of Tanks?"
| It was like any other day. I woke up when the sun started to shove the moon to the back, started the coffee machine and took a shower. I had my daily healthy breakfast of toast and black coffee, and got ready for work. My hair up in a bun, makeup fresh, I called the look 'office slut' and I loved it, and my suit ironed so sharp, the creases could cut glass.
I stepped outside and stopped in my tracks. Out on the graveled driveway, a tank stood imposing, with its gun barrel pointed at my door. I was in the middle of my door. I stepped aside hurriedly and browsed the news on my phone. Had a war erupted while I was asleep? There was that explosion last night, but I waved it off to some ethnic festival. Living in a melting pot country where everyone celebrated everything made me lost count of the special dates. I only remembered the ones with public holidays.
Various news sites informed me that there was just the normal battles raging on at the other side of the planet. Nothing that would concern me and my well being. However, my car was special. It changed to accommodate any occasion. In the winter season, it had snow tires and a muzzle on each sides spraying salt. When the weather channel predicted flash flood, it changed to a 4WD in my office car park.
Maybe it suffered a glitch. I was the beta tester for it, I won the rights at an office party. Melon Uske, the brainy billionaire and owner of pretty much everything, was one of the sponsors. He personally gave me a key fob the size of a child's palm and told me to just 'go with the flow' and email him a monthly feedback. Everything had been great since then. Once my car turned into a Lamborghini Huracan because I was late for work. That was my favorite. I would've slept in on purpose everyday but I didn't think it worked that way.
I was getting late for work but I couldn't make myself enter the tank. I wasn't even sure if it had autodrive, as was with all the car's various manifestations before. In order to think, I changed my skirt and stiletto to a pair of super comfortable palazzo pants and black Yeezys. I also transferred the contents of my beloved lambskin Lady Dior to a no nonsense Prada sling. My parents said I spent too much on material things, but I guessed they were just talking crap. I bought acres of lands in the midwest and on both coasts didn't I, that was investment enough right? I still had lots of leftovers as a financial consultant so why not spend it on beautiful, lovingly created things.
Suitably attired, I opened the top door, I don't know what it was called, and slid under until I found a seat. It was kind of hot in the tank. I felt slightly claustrophic with the only link to the outside was the small windshield that I had no access to when I plopped into the driver's seat. It had panels and levers engulfing me and the leg space left much to be desired.
I furiously called my boss, my parents, and god. I told my boss I would be late, according to my limited Google prowess, I'm in a M1A2 Abrams Army tank and the top speed was 30 mph. He told me to get out and request an Uber ride, but I insisted I would go in my car. It had never failed me before, if it changed into a tank, that must've mean I was meant to be in a tank on that particular day!
I videocalled my parents to ask my dad on how to drive the thing since he was a Marine yonks ago and he gave me a private phone number of his mates who were still in the army. So my 68 and a half tonned behemoth rolled down the driveway while I sat in the reclined seat. It was almost comfortable. My father's friend asked me about where my commander was and I told him I was alone in the driver's seat, no navigator, no gunner no loader, only me. He told me to stop the engine and get out. I told him I was late for work! He said that there was no way in hell I would arrived at work without hurting anyone on the streets. I told him about the car I won at my office raffle story and he let out a long curse and told me to get out anyhow. I thanked him politely and called my boss again. I was idling by the road, no worries. In the middle of asking my boss for Melon Uske number, the ground shook.
I opened the top hatch and saw shooting stars a few miles down the road, destroying blocks of housings. I closed and locked the hatch again (Thank you Youtube) and called my boss again for Melon's number. I was standing in front of the tiny windshield when Melon picked up my call. I thanked him calmly for providing me with a tank since there seemed to be a meteorite fest in my area. He actually apologized and told me that a helicopter would be picking me up to safety. He knew I couldn't drive the tank anywhere.
On board the heli, the soldier or mercenary or whoever he was, told me there had been an attack of the extraterrestrial sort which had started the night before. The military had been mobilized since dawn to evacuate people in the affected areas. I sat quietly in my seat while composing a feedback email to Melon Uske. "Build a bot that could be a navigator in case of aliens attacks in the future. Or a car that understand voice commands ala KITT. Drive me a tank, KITT! On it, my lady!" |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | It was green. Not the dauby patchwork of lighter and darker khaki one would expect from a tank, but bright green. Like those neon signs in Trafalgar Square advertising whores and such before it became unfashionable to do so. He wondered briefly if it had become unfashionable to drive tanks to work and then grinned. Did it matter? It was a fucking tank after all. Better than the Racecar which would break down every second Turn and MUCH better than the Wheelbarrow which was a nightmare to get around the Board.
Looking over at his neighbor’s yard he saw that Thompson had a Top Hat parked in his driveway. Huge and improbable, it sat glistening in the midmorning sunlight like some sort of obscene disco-ball. On the other side Gabriel had already departed. Derrek could see him further down the street. Wide legged, he sat astride a massive Scottish Terrier as it bounded down the road, Gabriel frantically seeking purchase with his hands in its scraggy fur.
Grinning at the sight, Derek stepped off the porch and into the sunlight.
Up close, he inspected the tank. Not as big as the Scotty, and not as shiny as the top hat, it was nevertheless impressive. If he had to guess he’d have said it could accommodate a crew of four, but of course, today it was just him. He clambered to the top, reveling in the feeling of his muscles working. It had been a long time since he’d been able to move about freely, having been stuck in Jail since the last Play. He found the hatch at the top of the turret, clanged it open.
As he was about to crawl inside, Thompson came out.
“Derek!” he called, and when their eyes met, he smiled, waved. “You’re out!”
“Hey Thompson. Yeah. New Game, I guess.”
“I know,” then conspiratorially, “I was there two Games ago.” His face suddenly looked drawn, pale. “I pray for a Card this time. I can’t go back there. Not yet.”
Derek felt uncomfortable. Jail had not been that bad for him.
“Well..” he paused, unsure of how to continue. “Well good luck Thompson.”
“Yeah.” The other man stared, then tried on a smile. “Love the tank! Is it new?”
“Thanks, and I think so yes,” Derek said before ducking down and slamming the hatch. It was a relief to be rid of Thompson. The man had been getting more and more weird each Play since he’d lost the Hotels on Park. Derek thought he might have over-reached there, and then came the mortgages. It hadn’t looked good for Thompson since, and Derek had heard from Gabriel that the man had borrowed money to undergo surgery in hopes of drawing the Pageant Card. That hadn’t happened though, instead he got Jail. Now he was barely hanging on, and some nights Derek would her him shouting at his wife, threatening her.
His musing was interrupted then as the Die clattered into The Middle and he glanced at his watch. Late.
He started the tank, grinding it into gear as it belched smoke into the morning air. The Go staging are was not far from his house and he was pretty sure he’d make it with time to spare, but best not be tardy.
Not when he was sure to have First Turn.
| I've returned running and asked my wife:
"Sweetie, have you heard something on the news or are you aware of something that can change our lives today?"
Displeased my wife turn her eyes on me and said:
"Did you forget that mum is coming to spend this holiday's season with us?" |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | Listen.
When Thag was a young boy the shiny thing came to the front of his cave as he slept. Many people were afraid, but Thag knew it was not an animal. He peered at it, poked at it. A piece of it opened like a wing. Inside there were soft places to sit. All around, pieces of flat rock you could look right through. Yes, there were many strange things. But Thag was not scared.
Thag tried to know as much as he could about the shiny thing. He would tell the chief all about it tomorrow. He slept, and woke up, and doubted himself. Some things he remembered were true. But the thing had changed.
More parts of it could be opened. Most of the thing was not wood, or stone, or fur, or dirt or meat or leaves or anything we knew. There was a square pile of flat white leaves, all stuck together on one side, with black marks and some drawings. Thag and Zog studied this. Some drawings were of the thing itself, and parts of the thing. They told a story, a story still none of us understand. Thag took the story into the cave; but as he slept, someone took it away. There was anger among the camp until we knew that none of us had taken it. No one took it. It just went away.
Months later, in a thing the color of dead summer grass, Thag found a piece of the thing that came loose. He could not say it was broken -- he stuck it back inside and it looked like before. He pulled it out again, and stuck it back in. And then -- he does not know where he got the idea -- while it was inside, he twisted it.
So the thing was alive, but not in a way that we know. And it was true of all the other things. To give the little piece a twist was to wake it up.
Thag was 13 years old when he figured out how to make the thing move; nearly 14 when he could do it safely. There were two types of thing, we came to know, based on the drawings on the stick you would use to make it move. The "P R N D" ones could move. The "1 2 3 4" ones made a very loud noise and stopped moving.
The shape of the thing started to change. We saw more and more of a half-thing with less places to sit, and an open flat part in back, especially when it was time to hunt. We could go much farther in a day, chase an animal down, lift it into the back, and the thing would carry it back home.
When Grandfather was very sick, a different thing showed up, one we had never seen, many days in a row. Wings opened in the back. You could stand up inside. There was a narrow place to sleep. There were tiny cups of water with lids, and other cups of many tiny little things that spilled out. They had black marks, like the white leaf stacks, and were hard to open. When Grandfather died, this type of thing did not come back.
Thag is now 30. He know the Thing, in whatever shape it comes, is here for us. There is a reason. We don't know, and it is a puzzle. The same marks on the stick, which make the thing go forward, backward, and stop, were also in the white leaf stack, and on those cups. Many other marks as well. But it's a story we do not understand.
But we do know, but we do not know why, that time is short. This morning, the thing is much larger. The color of an elephant, with a trunk sticking straight out. There are no wings; you cannot see into it. You have to climb into the top of its head. But we need it. And we need to figure out how to use it. | I've returned running and asked my wife:
"Sweetie, have you heard something on the news or are you aware of something that can change our lives today?"
Displeased my wife turn her eyes on me and said:
"Did you forget that mum is coming to spend this holiday's season with us?" |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | **So yeah I've never written anything ever. Let me know what I can do better, and grammar and punctuation etc.**
I fucking hate Mondays. The feeling appears to be mutual. Why do I say this? Well for the eighth straight Monday in a row I woke up to a tank in my garage. This of course can mean only one thing.
I have to fucking carpool.
I mean, it's not like you can man an M1 Abrams by yourself. Especially not going down Crawford street.
It was a smart AI developed by Google-Tesla to design "the perfect car for the perfect day." It used a 3d printing chamber and printed you out the exact car you needed for what day you had planned. It was a marvel of engineering at the time. Then we started World War 3.
It was actually a World War this time too. Our colonies on Mars and Luna decided they wanted independence and decided the best way was to fight for it.
Now I have to drive to my job in a tank with the most selfish, obnoxious, idiotic, and smelly(seriously Greg have you ever seen a shower!?) coworkers ever. They can't even shoot worth a damn. We had a martian berserker practically jogging at us and they couldn't hit him... with a tank. Goddammit I hate you Greg.
| I've returned running and asked my wife:
"Sweetie, have you heard something on the news or are you aware of something that can change our lives today?"
Displeased my wife turn her eyes on me and said:
"Did you forget that mum is coming to spend this holiday's season with us?" |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | When I exited the house, I expected to see my car there with some magical transmutation having taken place. I did not expect to see this.
In the driveway was a scuba tank, ready for use.
I stared at it for a while, wondering what it meant. As I pondered, I felt a single raindrop hit the top of my head. Then I saw a second, fat drop hit the pavement. Then more, and more, until a torrential downpour began. I looked up into the rain-soaked sky to see nothing but black clouds, as far as the eye could see. I sighed, and walked over to the tank, slipping it over my shoulders.
This commute was going to suck.
| I've returned running and asked my wife:
"Sweetie, have you heard something on the news or are you aware of something that can change our lives today?"
Displeased my wife turn her eyes on me and said:
"Did you forget that mum is coming to spend this holiday's season with us?" |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | I know you aren't going to believe this, but my story could someday save your life. I'm only just able to type again after two weeks, so I apologize if this is too late for some of you. So, anyway the challenges I've faced have been extreme. Honestly, I still wasn't sure I understood how to control my body after days of practice. The worst part really was the shit.
Have you ever eaten your own shit? I don't care if it looks like a thread, I still know it was my own shit and it still tasted like shit. Well there it was day after day and when I was hungry I really didn't know what else to do other than suck it into my mouth with the rest of the food. Sure I spit it right out, but many times it would just land right on top of another piece.
The kids poking their fingers at me was infuriating. You probably don't even think it is visible, but I could see it and I'll tell you that if I had sharp teeth I would have loved to sink them into one of those awful kids poking at me!
On the bright side, filling your mouth with little pebbles isn't as bad as you would think.
Oh, and getting into the shade was huge! That first morning stuck out in the sun with the tank heating up almost killed me. I really felt like I was running out of oxygen in there. Most people don't realize that a cold tank holds much more Oxygen than a hot tank.
Shit, I forgot to tell you what happened. Ok, so anyway I walk outside and the kid next door is standing out in the yard as usual in his stupid Harry Potter outfit getting ready for his pretend Hogwart's classes when he sees me. Just then I notice that my car has turned into a huge tank. I'm like ok my car is magical but this is weird. So, little Potter over there is waving his wand at me and I can hear some magic words something like "wingardum leverosa" and I start floating up in the air. "Ha ha, real funny kid, now put me down!" I shout but instead he says some other fucking magic words and BOOM I turn into a fucking fish just as I fall into the huge tank that used to be my car. | I've returned running and asked my wife:
"Sweetie, have you heard something on the news or are you aware of something that can change our lives today?"
Displeased my wife turn her eyes on me and said:
"Did you forget that mum is coming to spend this holiday's season with us?" |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | When I exited the house, I expected to see my car there with some magical transmutation having taken place. I did not expect to see this.
In the driveway was a scuba tank, ready for use.
I stared at it for a while, wondering what it meant. As I pondered, I felt a single raindrop hit the top of my head. Then I saw a second, fat drop hit the pavement. Then more, and more, until a torrential downpour began. I looked up into the rain-soaked sky to see nothing but black clouds, as far as the eye could see. I sighed, and walked over to the tank, slipping it over my shoulders.
This commute was going to suck.
| I've had this car for 10 years.
He turned into a Ferrari when my first girl friend broke up with me. He was a minivan when the Girl's Volleyball team needed a ride to the beach. He turned into a pickup when I moved away to enlist, and back again when I moved across the country.
I got it from an old family friend who heard what I wanted to do with my life. He said it had served him and his whole family for 32 years, and it would serve me as long as I took care of it. He called it Creighton, but never told me why.
When I slung my bag over my shoulder this morning, I looked around at a house I wouldn't see again for 6 months. As I walked out to the bus, I looked over at old Creighton. He had crushed the two cars in the spot next to him, and turned into a full M1-Abrams.
The only thing I could think was: fuck. I'm a HMMWV driver.
|
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | I know you aren't going to believe this, but my story could someday save your life. I'm only just able to type again after two weeks, so I apologize if this is too late for some of you. So, anyway the challenges I've faced have been extreme. Honestly, I still wasn't sure I understood how to control my body after days of practice. The worst part really was the shit.
Have you ever eaten your own shit? I don't care if it looks like a thread, I still know it was my own shit and it still tasted like shit. Well there it was day after day and when I was hungry I really didn't know what else to do other than suck it into my mouth with the rest of the food. Sure I spit it right out, but many times it would just land right on top of another piece.
The kids poking their fingers at me was infuriating. You probably don't even think it is visible, but I could see it and I'll tell you that if I had sharp teeth I would have loved to sink them into one of those awful kids poking at me!
On the bright side, filling your mouth with little pebbles isn't as bad as you would think.
Oh, and getting into the shade was huge! That first morning stuck out in the sun with the tank heating up almost killed me. I really felt like I was running out of oxygen in there. Most people don't realize that a cold tank holds much more Oxygen than a hot tank.
Shit, I forgot to tell you what happened. Ok, so anyway I walk outside and the kid next door is standing out in the yard as usual in his stupid Harry Potter outfit getting ready for his pretend Hogwart's classes when he sees me. Just then I notice that my car has turned into a huge tank. I'm like ok my car is magical but this is weird. So, little Potter over there is waving his wand at me and I can hear some magic words something like "wingardum leverosa" and I start floating up in the air. "Ha ha, real funny kid, now put me down!" I shout but instead he says some other fucking magic words and BOOM I turn into a fucking fish just as I fall into the huge tank that used to be my car. | I've had this car for 10 years.
He turned into a Ferrari when my first girl friend broke up with me. He was a minivan when the Girl's Volleyball team needed a ride to the beach. He turned into a pickup when I moved away to enlist, and back again when I moved across the country.
I got it from an old family friend who heard what I wanted to do with my life. He said it had served him and his whole family for 32 years, and it would serve me as long as I took care of it. He called it Creighton, but never told me why.
When I slung my bag over my shoulder this morning, I looked around at a house I wouldn't see again for 6 months. As I walked out to the bus, I looked over at old Creighton. He had crushed the two cars in the spot next to him, and turned into a full M1-Abrams.
The only thing I could think was: fuck. I'm a HMMWV driver.
|
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | When I exited the house, I expected to see my car there with some magical transmutation having taken place. I did not expect to see this.
In the driveway was a scuba tank, ready for use.
I stared at it for a while, wondering what it meant. As I pondered, I felt a single raindrop hit the top of my head. Then I saw a second, fat drop hit the pavement. Then more, and more, until a torrential downpour began. I looked up into the rain-soaked sky to see nothing but black clouds, as far as the eye could see. I sighed, and walked over to the tank, slipping it over my shoulders.
This commute was going to suck.
| Listen.
When Thag was a young boy the shiny thing came to the front of his cave as he slept. Many people were afraid, but Thag knew it was not an animal. He peered at it, poked at it. A piece of it opened like a wing. Inside there were soft places to sit. All around, pieces of flat rock you could look right through. Yes, there were many strange things. But Thag was not scared.
Thag tried to know as much as he could about the shiny thing. He would tell the chief all about it tomorrow. He slept, and woke up, and doubted himself. Some things he remembered were true. But the thing had changed.
More parts of it could be opened. Most of the thing was not wood, or stone, or fur, or dirt or meat or leaves or anything we knew. There was a square pile of flat white leaves, all stuck together on one side, with black marks and some drawings. Thag and Zog studied this. Some drawings were of the thing itself, and parts of the thing. They told a story, a story still none of us understand. Thag took the story into the cave; but as he slept, someone took it away. There was anger among the camp until we knew that none of us had taken it. No one took it. It just went away.
Months later, in a thing the color of dead summer grass, Thag found a piece of the thing that came loose. He could not say it was broken -- he stuck it back inside and it looked like before. He pulled it out again, and stuck it back in. And then -- he does not know where he got the idea -- while it was inside, he twisted it.
So the thing was alive, but not in a way that we know. And it was true of all the other things. To give the little piece a twist was to wake it up.
Thag was 13 years old when he figured out how to make the thing move; nearly 14 when he could do it safely. There were two types of thing, we came to know, based on the drawings on the stick you would use to make it move. The "P R N D" ones could move. The "1 2 3 4" ones made a very loud noise and stopped moving.
The shape of the thing started to change. We saw more and more of a half-thing with less places to sit, and an open flat part in back, especially when it was time to hunt. We could go much farther in a day, chase an animal down, lift it into the back, and the thing would carry it back home.
When Grandfather was very sick, a different thing showed up, one we had never seen, many days in a row. Wings opened in the back. You could stand up inside. There was a narrow place to sleep. There were tiny cups of water with lids, and other cups of many tiny little things that spilled out. They had black marks, like the white leaf stacks, and were hard to open. When Grandfather died, this type of thing did not come back.
Thag is now 30. He know the Thing, in whatever shape it comes, is here for us. There is a reason. We don't know, and it is a puzzle. The same marks on the stick, which make the thing go forward, backward, and stop, were also in the white leaf stack, and on those cups. Many other marks as well. But it's a story we do not understand.
But we do know, but we do not know why, that time is short. This morning, the thing is much larger. The color of an elephant, with a trunk sticking straight out. There are no wings; you cannot see into it. You have to climb into the top of its head. But we need it. And we need to figure out how to use it. |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | "What? I don't...I..." I stared at disbelief. Seriously, if I told you my car could change itself to accommodate me to the best that it can for whatever remains on the road, you wouldn't believe me. My normal wake up schedule for the work day is get up at four A.M, take a shower and do...other hygienic nuances while in the shower. Then its just put on the same blue uniform that I always do, make breakfast if I have the time. But watch TV for the news to see what's in store? Sorry, that isn't me.
Now when I tell you that my simple grey Toyota Corolla, is now a six ton tank, with the same color scheme and manufacture badge, I'd sympathize with you that you wouldn't believe me. When I tell you that I can't drive a tank, I know you'll believe me. Seriously, why does a tank have six pedals if there are only four directions. Also when I tell you that I've driven the tank straight into the garage doors, please don't laugh.
"So, if this one is forward, this must be..." The engine cranked over loudly, making a sputtering noise in the process. I forgot the tank is a stick, and the driveshaft just took a beating. "There we go! Now we're making progress! This is great!" The streets were clear so far, as they always were at five in the morning. Nothing seemed out of place either. Entering town was easy, no places had their windows or doors boarded up, getting into base was as easy as swiping my card.
"Really man, a tank this time? What could your car possibly think would happen today?" My superior had said mockingly. God I hate him, so tall but scrawny, always with one hand in his pocket and his coffee mug in another. Always complaining the Chief anchor on his collar was "so heavy" that he couldn't help with work. One day I'll out rank him, but that's for another time, right now I have my watch to do.
There was proof of what my car does, and the government took it for studying, but all that came back was that it was a normal car. My peers all know that my car transform, it's really no surprise. Hell we even had a little fun and drove it into the water. Damned thing became a boat before you could say "Oops"! But towards the end of my watch, I saw something horrifying on the video screen that had the cameras view on base.
"When I tell you the event happened in the course of a day, I hope you believe me. When I tell you the tank was to protect me from the zombies, I hope you trust me enough to come with me if you want to live. When I tell you to save your bullets, I hope you believe me when I also say that nothing can kill these things. Not even my tank. They just put themselves back together and get back up. This is the Operation Specialist, hoping anyone is out there." | Keys? Check. Wallet? Check. Phone? Where the hell is my damn phone? Oh. Right. In my left hand, as I search its usual pocket with my right. It's embarrassing the number of times that I've done that. I check the time, slip the phone into my pocket, then immediately take it out again, because I've already forgotten the time. About quarter to seven. I open my front door, and nearly suffer a heart attack.
A tank. There's a tank in my driveway. This can't be good. I'm tempted to just turn around, and go back to bed. Very tempted. But, that's not how the car works. It seems to take into account the reaction that I'll have when it changes. So, no matter what, I'm gonna need a tank today.
I clamber in, and sit down behind the wheel. I'm not sure what most tanks are like on the inside, but my car has decided to use an interface very similar to a regular car's. Maybe so that I don't have to learn something completely new, or maybe because tanks are just like that. I dunno.
I start driving to work, waiting patiently in traffic, wondering what would happen. Perhaps someone has found out about my car, and I'm going to be ambushed today. Maybe I need it to intimidate someone. Maybe I just need a tank for some mundane reason. I finally get to work, and get a lot of odd looks walking to the building from my tank. I make it to half nine by the time my boss pulls me up.
"OK. A tank. Explain."
Now I'm really sweating. Usually my car changes stay under the radar, but today, that was impossible. Of course, I couldn't tell him the truth, he would never believe me. Or would he? Now, there's a thought. After all, I do work for a film-maker.
"Sir, I have an idea for a movie, but I know that the idea wouldn't get to you if I just proposed it. So, I needed to grab your attention, and my friend had a tank that I could borrow. You see, the idea is a guy, who has this car, which turns into whatever he's going to need for the day, and one day, it turns into a tank."
I couldn't believe that I had managed to say all of that, and keep a poker face.
"Hmm. That sounds like something that belongs on Writing Prompts. But, it also sounds like something that might just make a lot of money. Especially if we say that you driving your friends tank in was some early advertising. Yeah, this could work. If this gets the go ahead from my seniors, then I'll make sure to recommend you for a promotion. Keep up the good work, uh..."
"Jenkins, sir."
"Keep up the good work Jenkins."
He walks away, and I slowly let my body relax. I make it through the rest of the day without incident. I drive home, and park my car, sorry, tank, in my drive way. I switch on the news, and a couple minutes later, I hear the tank's real purpose.
"And in other news, two heavily armed, potential kidnappers have been captured by the police. They claim that they were going to kidnap the star of the new series of *Earthbound*, David White, but that they were startled by a tank in the car park, and were then detained by site security, until the police arrived. When taken in, it was clear that they did not have the proper licences for their weaponry. Meanwhile, downtown..."
I stop listening after that, because the rest doesn't really matter. My car saved a star today, and that was the important part. I turn off my TV, and walk out to my tank. I put my hand on it, and whisper, "Thank you." I turn and head back inside, wondering what vehicle will be waiting outside for me tomorrow. |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | "Honey"
I heard her yelling but I was still in bed. I took the day off to finish up a few things around the yard but I really wanted to sleep in to at least nine. But not now I guess...
"What?" I yelled the kind of "what" a sixteen year old yells from two rooms away.
"Come look at the car."
That car had been both a miracle and curse since I bought the damn thing.
"What's it this time?" I was still in yelling from bed mode, not quite ready to get up yet. The flannel sheets were warm.
"A tank."
A tank? See, this car changes according to worldly events. If it's summer it becomes a convertible, if the kid drives it it becomes a Volvo, if I have to drive the team to a travel soccer game it becomes a bus, you get the drift. But a tank?
"A what?" even though I'd heard her the first time I wanted to hear her say it again.
"A tank. It's a tank. What do you think that means?"
War was too obvious an answer. Zombie apocalypse? Nah. Sleep was leaving my brain so I swung out of bed. I put on my slippers and robe and headed downstairs, still thinking.
"Coffee" I said and held out my hand. She put a mug in it. She's good that way.
"Don't you want to see it?" She was opening the door.
I wasn't quite ready to go to the driveway just yet. Dave was out there. Dave "Mr I'm A Freelancer And I Work From Home". Mr Smug. Mr I'll Tell You What This Means. Mr Fuckfacedouchebag. Too early for Dave.
I wander over to the sink to spit and peek through the curtains. Shit. That really is a tank. An M26 Pershing from the look of it. Call of Duty taught me somethin' damn straight. 46 tons of armored fun just waiting to pick the kids up from school. I wonder if I could figure out how to load some ammo and blow Dave up? Mr Blown Up Real Good I could call him.
As I'm imagining Dave and a mushroom cloud a red Prius pulls up. Red Prius. "Who the hell do I know with a red Prius?" I think when it hits me so hard I drop the coffee mug.
"Honey?" I hear the yell from outside. "Honey, look! My Mother's here! And she's staying a week".
EDIT - changed from an Abrams to a Pershing to make zycamzip smile. | Keys? Check. Wallet? Check. Phone? Where the hell is my damn phone? Oh. Right. In my left hand, as I search its usual pocket with my right. It's embarrassing the number of times that I've done that. I check the time, slip the phone into my pocket, then immediately take it out again, because I've already forgotten the time. About quarter to seven. I open my front door, and nearly suffer a heart attack.
A tank. There's a tank in my driveway. This can't be good. I'm tempted to just turn around, and go back to bed. Very tempted. But, that's not how the car works. It seems to take into account the reaction that I'll have when it changes. So, no matter what, I'm gonna need a tank today.
I clamber in, and sit down behind the wheel. I'm not sure what most tanks are like on the inside, but my car has decided to use an interface very similar to a regular car's. Maybe so that I don't have to learn something completely new, or maybe because tanks are just like that. I dunno.
I start driving to work, waiting patiently in traffic, wondering what would happen. Perhaps someone has found out about my car, and I'm going to be ambushed today. Maybe I need it to intimidate someone. Maybe I just need a tank for some mundane reason. I finally get to work, and get a lot of odd looks walking to the building from my tank. I make it to half nine by the time my boss pulls me up.
"OK. A tank. Explain."
Now I'm really sweating. Usually my car changes stay under the radar, but today, that was impossible. Of course, I couldn't tell him the truth, he would never believe me. Or would he? Now, there's a thought. After all, I do work for a film-maker.
"Sir, I have an idea for a movie, but I know that the idea wouldn't get to you if I just proposed it. So, I needed to grab your attention, and my friend had a tank that I could borrow. You see, the idea is a guy, who has this car, which turns into whatever he's going to need for the day, and one day, it turns into a tank."
I couldn't believe that I had managed to say all of that, and keep a poker face.
"Hmm. That sounds like something that belongs on Writing Prompts. But, it also sounds like something that might just make a lot of money. Especially if we say that you driving your friends tank in was some early advertising. Yeah, this could work. If this gets the go ahead from my seniors, then I'll make sure to recommend you for a promotion. Keep up the good work, uh..."
"Jenkins, sir."
"Keep up the good work Jenkins."
He walks away, and I slowly let my body relax. I make it through the rest of the day without incident. I drive home, and park my car, sorry, tank, in my drive way. I switch on the news, and a couple minutes later, I hear the tank's real purpose.
"And in other news, two heavily armed, potential kidnappers have been captured by the police. They claim that they were going to kidnap the star of the new series of *Earthbound*, David White, but that they were startled by a tank in the car park, and were then detained by site security, until the police arrived. When taken in, it was clear that they did not have the proper licences for their weaponry. Meanwhile, downtown..."
I stop listening after that, because the rest doesn't really matter. My car saved a star today, and that was the important part. I turn off my TV, and walk out to my tank. I put my hand on it, and whisper, "Thank you." I turn and head back inside, wondering what vehicle will be waiting outside for me tomorrow. |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | "What? I don't...I..." I stared at disbelief. Seriously, if I told you my car could change itself to accommodate me to the best that it can for whatever remains on the road, you wouldn't believe me. My normal wake up schedule for the work day is get up at four A.M, take a shower and do...other hygienic nuances while in the shower. Then its just put on the same blue uniform that I always do, make breakfast if I have the time. But watch TV for the news to see what's in store? Sorry, that isn't me.
Now when I tell you that my simple grey Toyota Corolla, is now a six ton tank, with the same color scheme and manufacture badge, I'd sympathize with you that you wouldn't believe me. When I tell you that I can't drive a tank, I know you'll believe me. Seriously, why does a tank have six pedals if there are only four directions. Also when I tell you that I've driven the tank straight into the garage doors, please don't laugh.
"So, if this one is forward, this must be..." The engine cranked over loudly, making a sputtering noise in the process. I forgot the tank is a stick, and the driveshaft just took a beating. "There we go! Now we're making progress! This is great!" The streets were clear so far, as they always were at five in the morning. Nothing seemed out of place either. Entering town was easy, no places had their windows or doors boarded up, getting into base was as easy as swiping my card.
"Really man, a tank this time? What could your car possibly think would happen today?" My superior had said mockingly. God I hate him, so tall but scrawny, always with one hand in his pocket and his coffee mug in another. Always complaining the Chief anchor on his collar was "so heavy" that he couldn't help with work. One day I'll out rank him, but that's for another time, right now I have my watch to do.
There was proof of what my car does, and the government took it for studying, but all that came back was that it was a normal car. My peers all know that my car transform, it's really no surprise. Hell we even had a little fun and drove it into the water. Damned thing became a boat before you could say "Oops"! But towards the end of my watch, I saw something horrifying on the video screen that had the cameras view on base.
"When I tell you the event happened in the course of a day, I hope you believe me. When I tell you the tank was to protect me from the zombies, I hope you trust me enough to come with me if you want to live. When I tell you to save your bullets, I hope you believe me when I also say that nothing can kill these things. Not even my tank. They just put themselves back together and get back up. This is the Operation Specialist, hoping anyone is out there." | 'What the actual f***?'
It was the first thing that came to James's mind when he walked into the garage. His cars have a special prototype system that modify the car to fit with expected situation for the day. At first he doubted it but after it saved him from a car crash he believes in it with his life. Sometimes the car make some really weird modifications but it all turned out fine. Today however, it was simply out of this world. The car used up all the parts in the system supply storage, and right now tank is a better way to describe it.
As James was dumbfounded, a motorcycle pull up on his front yard, the 2 mens come into his garage and ask him
'Are you James, the owner of protoype 769? We receive a report from it request crew to help you.'
'I'm James, yes. Can anyone tell me what the bloody hell is going on. Why is there a tank in my garage? What happened to my car?'
'Your car simply make the modifications need for you today. It also request us to help you with it. We dont have the exact detail but it specifically request that we come before 7.52. It is 7.31 right now, so I would like to have permission to check its condition before we go.'
'Yes, if possible I want you to change it back. I'll be late for work at this rate.'
'Dude' - the other men pat James's shoulder - 'Work is the last thing you want to worry about, I suggest you take all the foods you have in the house and put in in the tank. Also bring a lot of drink water in bottle etc. You better be fast. Since its report demanded those must be done before 8.00'
James reluctantly do as he was told. Sure the demands are weird, but those demands saved his life once. There must be a reason for all this shenanigans. As he finish packing the food and water, a large noise was coming from above his house. Look outside, he saw a aircraft falling, crash and explode just a few blocks away.
'James, look like it started, get the stuff in the tank now, we need to go.'
James rushed to the tank, throw everything in and hop in. He couldn't believe what he saw. It was clearly a Su-30. The only one with that aircraft he could think of is the new division who is equipped with aircraft from Russia in a move to diversified the nation trading partner.
'Something must have gone wrong. Did the car give any suggestion or direction?'
'Yeah, it told us to get you to the Kizolug base 350 km from here. You worked in the Ministry of Defence right? What the hell was that aircraft???'
'It was a Su-30. I recently worked on a deal to buy 20 of those for the country. It'snt suppose to be flying so soon. And they are stationed at a far away place, what the hell are they doing in the capital.'
'Guess we need to get you to Kizolug to find the answer for it. Turn on the radio please. We need some source of information. Woazikiz, ready the gun, we may have to use it very soon.'
James reach for the radio system and turned it on, but there was no signal from any station. Then he tuned in to emergency channel, there was only muzzled of a emergency broadcast
"........... unknown .................. today ........................... shelter ................. military base ........................"
This can't be good. James thought to himself. What now? |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | The day I found out my car could transform, it definitely changed my life. Not necessarily for the best, but not for the worst, either. I'm not talking transform like Transformers, but rather, it just sorta altered itself in certain ways. The other day it was raining hard enough to wash all the pigment out of a black cotton tee shirt, and my Chevrolet Spark had become a hovercraft. Due to the recent cold and wet weather, it changed into a Silverado with studded ice tires when the temperature dropped to 10 below freezing early in the morning yesterday.
I woke up today, groggy as usual, got dressed, had a full pot of coffee, and walked to the garage. Normally, I'd keep my keys in the door on the keychain (the car keys themselves would change, but the other keys and keychains would stay the same), except that the car keys weren't there. I disarmed my security system, opened the door to the garage and peered in. My garage was big enough for both my Spark and at least 2 Suburbans to fit inside, but what I saw made me do a double take.
"I know a magically changing car is crazy, but *a tank?*" I thought to myself. Then I remembered why it changed. I slammed the door to the garage and rushed back inside to check the news. The TV couldn't get a signal, so, panicked, I checked my phone. Apparently, North Korea decided it was a great time to attack the U.S., and their first target was the state of Texas.
I packed up as much as I could, got my cats into their carriers, and started packing everything into the M1 Abrams that barely fit in the garage. Thankfully an instruction manual lay inside, and after what felt like the longest 5 minutes of my life, I had managed to get on the road and escape.
~by the way, this is my first real attempt at writing, go easy on me! | 'What the actual f***?'
It was the first thing that came to James's mind when he walked into the garage. His cars have a special prototype system that modify the car to fit with expected situation for the day. At first he doubted it but after it saved him from a car crash he believes in it with his life. Sometimes the car make some really weird modifications but it all turned out fine. Today however, it was simply out of this world. The car used up all the parts in the system supply storage, and right now tank is a better way to describe it.
As James was dumbfounded, a motorcycle pull up on his front yard, the 2 mens come into his garage and ask him
'Are you James, the owner of protoype 769? We receive a report from it request crew to help you.'
'I'm James, yes. Can anyone tell me what the bloody hell is going on. Why is there a tank in my garage? What happened to my car?'
'Your car simply make the modifications need for you today. It also request us to help you with it. We dont have the exact detail but it specifically request that we come before 7.52. It is 7.31 right now, so I would like to have permission to check its condition before we go.'
'Yes, if possible I want you to change it back. I'll be late for work at this rate.'
'Dude' - the other men pat James's shoulder - 'Work is the last thing you want to worry about, I suggest you take all the foods you have in the house and put in in the tank. Also bring a lot of drink water in bottle etc. You better be fast. Since its report demanded those must be done before 8.00'
James reluctantly do as he was told. Sure the demands are weird, but those demands saved his life once. There must be a reason for all this shenanigans. As he finish packing the food and water, a large noise was coming from above his house. Look outside, he saw a aircraft falling, crash and explode just a few blocks away.
'James, look like it started, get the stuff in the tank now, we need to go.'
James rushed to the tank, throw everything in and hop in. He couldn't believe what he saw. It was clearly a Su-30. The only one with that aircraft he could think of is the new division who is equipped with aircraft from Russia in a move to diversified the nation trading partner.
'Something must have gone wrong. Did the car give any suggestion or direction?'
'Yeah, it told us to get you to the Kizolug base 350 km from here. You worked in the Ministry of Defence right? What the hell was that aircraft???'
'It was a Su-30. I recently worked on a deal to buy 20 of those for the country. It'snt suppose to be flying so soon. And they are stationed at a far away place, what the hell are they doing in the capital.'
'Guess we need to get you to Kizolug to find the answer for it. Turn on the radio please. We need some source of information. Woazikiz, ready the gun, we may have to use it very soon.'
James reach for the radio system and turned it on, but there was no signal from any station. Then he tuned in to emergency channel, there was only muzzled of a emergency broadcast
"........... unknown .................. today ........................... shelter ................. military base ........................"
This can't be good. James thought to himself. What now? |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | "Honey"
I heard her yelling but I was still in bed. I took the day off to finish up a few things around the yard but I really wanted to sleep in to at least nine. But not now I guess...
"What?" I yelled the kind of "what" a sixteen year old yells from two rooms away.
"Come look at the car."
That car had been both a miracle and curse since I bought the damn thing.
"What's it this time?" I was still in yelling from bed mode, not quite ready to get up yet. The flannel sheets were warm.
"A tank."
A tank? See, this car changes according to worldly events. If it's summer it becomes a convertible, if the kid drives it it becomes a Volvo, if I have to drive the team to a travel soccer game it becomes a bus, you get the drift. But a tank?
"A what?" even though I'd heard her the first time I wanted to hear her say it again.
"A tank. It's a tank. What do you think that means?"
War was too obvious an answer. Zombie apocalypse? Nah. Sleep was leaving my brain so I swung out of bed. I put on my slippers and robe and headed downstairs, still thinking.
"Coffee" I said and held out my hand. She put a mug in it. She's good that way.
"Don't you want to see it?" She was opening the door.
I wasn't quite ready to go to the driveway just yet. Dave was out there. Dave "Mr I'm A Freelancer And I Work From Home". Mr Smug. Mr I'll Tell You What This Means. Mr Fuckfacedouchebag. Too early for Dave.
I wander over to the sink to spit and peek through the curtains. Shit. That really is a tank. An M26 Pershing from the look of it. Call of Duty taught me somethin' damn straight. 46 tons of armored fun just waiting to pick the kids up from school. I wonder if I could figure out how to load some ammo and blow Dave up? Mr Blown Up Real Good I could call him.
As I'm imagining Dave and a mushroom cloud a red Prius pulls up. Red Prius. "Who the hell do I know with a red Prius?" I think when it hits me so hard I drop the coffee mug.
"Honey?" I hear the yell from outside. "Honey, look! My Mother's here! And she's staying a week".
EDIT - changed from an Abrams to a Pershing to make zycamzip smile. | 'What the actual f***?'
It was the first thing that came to James's mind when he walked into the garage. His cars have a special prototype system that modify the car to fit with expected situation for the day. At first he doubted it but after it saved him from a car crash he believes in it with his life. Sometimes the car make some really weird modifications but it all turned out fine. Today however, it was simply out of this world. The car used up all the parts in the system supply storage, and right now tank is a better way to describe it.
As James was dumbfounded, a motorcycle pull up on his front yard, the 2 mens come into his garage and ask him
'Are you James, the owner of protoype 769? We receive a report from it request crew to help you.'
'I'm James, yes. Can anyone tell me what the bloody hell is going on. Why is there a tank in my garage? What happened to my car?'
'Your car simply make the modifications need for you today. It also request us to help you with it. We dont have the exact detail but it specifically request that we come before 7.52. It is 7.31 right now, so I would like to have permission to check its condition before we go.'
'Yes, if possible I want you to change it back. I'll be late for work at this rate.'
'Dude' - the other men pat James's shoulder - 'Work is the last thing you want to worry about, I suggest you take all the foods you have in the house and put in in the tank. Also bring a lot of drink water in bottle etc. You better be fast. Since its report demanded those must be done before 8.00'
James reluctantly do as he was told. Sure the demands are weird, but those demands saved his life once. There must be a reason for all this shenanigans. As he finish packing the food and water, a large noise was coming from above his house. Look outside, he saw a aircraft falling, crash and explode just a few blocks away.
'James, look like it started, get the stuff in the tank now, we need to go.'
James rushed to the tank, throw everything in and hop in. He couldn't believe what he saw. It was clearly a Su-30. The only one with that aircraft he could think of is the new division who is equipped with aircraft from Russia in a move to diversified the nation trading partner.
'Something must have gone wrong. Did the car give any suggestion or direction?'
'Yeah, it told us to get you to the Kizolug base 350 km from here. You worked in the Ministry of Defence right? What the hell was that aircraft???'
'It was a Su-30. I recently worked on a deal to buy 20 of those for the country. It'snt suppose to be flying so soon. And they are stationed at a far away place, what the hell are they doing in the capital.'
'Guess we need to get you to Kizolug to find the answer for it. Turn on the radio please. We need some source of information. Woazikiz, ready the gun, we may have to use it very soon.'
James reach for the radio system and turned it on, but there was no signal from any station. Then he tuned in to emergency channel, there was only muzzled of a emergency broadcast
"........... unknown .................. today ........................... shelter ................. military base ........................"
This can't be good. James thought to himself. What now? |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | "Honey"
I heard her yelling but I was still in bed. I took the day off to finish up a few things around the yard but I really wanted to sleep in to at least nine. But not now I guess...
"What?" I yelled the kind of "what" a sixteen year old yells from two rooms away.
"Come look at the car."
That car had been both a miracle and curse since I bought the damn thing.
"What's it this time?" I was still in yelling from bed mode, not quite ready to get up yet. The flannel sheets were warm.
"A tank."
A tank? See, this car changes according to worldly events. If it's summer it becomes a convertible, if the kid drives it it becomes a Volvo, if I have to drive the team to a travel soccer game it becomes a bus, you get the drift. But a tank?
"A what?" even though I'd heard her the first time I wanted to hear her say it again.
"A tank. It's a tank. What do you think that means?"
War was too obvious an answer. Zombie apocalypse? Nah. Sleep was leaving my brain so I swung out of bed. I put on my slippers and robe and headed downstairs, still thinking.
"Coffee" I said and held out my hand. She put a mug in it. She's good that way.
"Don't you want to see it?" She was opening the door.
I wasn't quite ready to go to the driveway just yet. Dave was out there. Dave "Mr I'm A Freelancer And I Work From Home". Mr Smug. Mr I'll Tell You What This Means. Mr Fuckfacedouchebag. Too early for Dave.
I wander over to the sink to spit and peek through the curtains. Shit. That really is a tank. An M26 Pershing from the look of it. Call of Duty taught me somethin' damn straight. 46 tons of armored fun just waiting to pick the kids up from school. I wonder if I could figure out how to load some ammo and blow Dave up? Mr Blown Up Real Good I could call him.
As I'm imagining Dave and a mushroom cloud a red Prius pulls up. Red Prius. "Who the hell do I know with a red Prius?" I think when it hits me so hard I drop the coffee mug.
"Honey?" I hear the yell from outside. "Honey, look! My Mother's here! And she's staying a week".
EDIT - changed from an Abrams to a Pershing to make zycamzip smile. | "What? I don't...I..." I stared at disbelief. Seriously, if I told you my car could change itself to accommodate me to the best that it can for whatever remains on the road, you wouldn't believe me. My normal wake up schedule for the work day is get up at four A.M, take a shower and do...other hygienic nuances while in the shower. Then its just put on the same blue uniform that I always do, make breakfast if I have the time. But watch TV for the news to see what's in store? Sorry, that isn't me.
Now when I tell you that my simple grey Toyota Corolla, is now a six ton tank, with the same color scheme and manufacture badge, I'd sympathize with you that you wouldn't believe me. When I tell you that I can't drive a tank, I know you'll believe me. Seriously, why does a tank have six pedals if there are only four directions. Also when I tell you that I've driven the tank straight into the garage doors, please don't laugh.
"So, if this one is forward, this must be..." The engine cranked over loudly, making a sputtering noise in the process. I forgot the tank is a stick, and the driveshaft just took a beating. "There we go! Now we're making progress! This is great!" The streets were clear so far, as they always were at five in the morning. Nothing seemed out of place either. Entering town was easy, no places had their windows or doors boarded up, getting into base was as easy as swiping my card.
"Really man, a tank this time? What could your car possibly think would happen today?" My superior had said mockingly. God I hate him, so tall but scrawny, always with one hand in his pocket and his coffee mug in another. Always complaining the Chief anchor on his collar was "so heavy" that he couldn't help with work. One day I'll out rank him, but that's for another time, right now I have my watch to do.
There was proof of what my car does, and the government took it for studying, but all that came back was that it was a normal car. My peers all know that my car transform, it's really no surprise. Hell we even had a little fun and drove it into the water. Damned thing became a boat before you could say "Oops"! But towards the end of my watch, I saw something horrifying on the video screen that had the cameras view on base.
"When I tell you the event happened in the course of a day, I hope you believe me. When I tell you the tank was to protect me from the zombies, I hope you trust me enough to come with me if you want to live. When I tell you to save your bullets, I hope you believe me when I also say that nothing can kill these things. Not even my tank. They just put themselves back together and get back up. This is the Operation Specialist, hoping anyone is out there." |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | The day I found out my car could transform, it definitely changed my life. Not necessarily for the best, but not for the worst, either. I'm not talking transform like Transformers, but rather, it just sorta altered itself in certain ways. The other day it was raining hard enough to wash all the pigment out of a black cotton tee shirt, and my Chevrolet Spark had become a hovercraft. Due to the recent cold and wet weather, it changed into a Silverado with studded ice tires when the temperature dropped to 10 below freezing early in the morning yesterday.
I woke up today, groggy as usual, got dressed, had a full pot of coffee, and walked to the garage. Normally, I'd keep my keys in the door on the keychain (the car keys themselves would change, but the other keys and keychains would stay the same), except that the car keys weren't there. I disarmed my security system, opened the door to the garage and peered in. My garage was big enough for both my Spark and at least 2 Suburbans to fit inside, but what I saw made me do a double take.
"I know a magically changing car is crazy, but *a tank?*" I thought to myself. Then I remembered why it changed. I slammed the door to the garage and rushed back inside to check the news. The TV couldn't get a signal, so, panicked, I checked my phone. Apparently, North Korea decided it was a great time to attack the U.S., and their first target was the state of Texas.
I packed up as much as I could, got my cats into their carriers, and started packing everything into the M1 Abrams that barely fit in the garage. Thankfully an instruction manual lay inside, and after what felt like the longest 5 minutes of my life, I had managed to get on the road and escape.
~by the way, this is my first real attempt at writing, go easy on me! | It had been a busy morning. I had stayed up late to finish a report that was due today, and I was hoping against hope my client would find it to be sufficient. I slept through my alarm, I hurried through my morning routine, and barely even had time to check the news and weather, like I did every morning.
I swallowed the last little bit of coffee, then carefully put my mug down. I didn't want to break my favorite mug all because I accidentally overslept. I grabbed my phone, wallet, and charger, shoved my computer into my briefcase, ran to the printer and grabbed my report, and had my hand on the doorknob that led to my garage when I realized something.
"Great." I thought to myself. "I lost my keys."
I went back to the spot I always put them, and realized that maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't actually need the keys. This had happened before, the day that there was flooding in my neighborhood and my car turned into a Jet-ski. I rushed over to the garage, flung open the door, and, to my surprise, there was a tank sitting where my Toyota pickup should have been. I blinked a few times, then slammed the door shut and opened up my laptop.
As soon as I opened CNN, I saw the problem. War. It was always some kind of war. Syria had finally had it with the United States, and declared war on us. As I continued to read down, however, something caught my eye.
In order to have enough troops for the war, the USA had reinstated the draft.
Well, at least I'll have a tank. |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | "Honey"
I heard her yelling but I was still in bed. I took the day off to finish up a few things around the yard but I really wanted to sleep in to at least nine. But not now I guess...
"What?" I yelled the kind of "what" a sixteen year old yells from two rooms away.
"Come look at the car."
That car had been both a miracle and curse since I bought the damn thing.
"What's it this time?" I was still in yelling from bed mode, not quite ready to get up yet. The flannel sheets were warm.
"A tank."
A tank? See, this car changes according to worldly events. If it's summer it becomes a convertible, if the kid drives it it becomes a Volvo, if I have to drive the team to a travel soccer game it becomes a bus, you get the drift. But a tank?
"A what?" even though I'd heard her the first time I wanted to hear her say it again.
"A tank. It's a tank. What do you think that means?"
War was too obvious an answer. Zombie apocalypse? Nah. Sleep was leaving my brain so I swung out of bed. I put on my slippers and robe and headed downstairs, still thinking.
"Coffee" I said and held out my hand. She put a mug in it. She's good that way.
"Don't you want to see it?" She was opening the door.
I wasn't quite ready to go to the driveway just yet. Dave was out there. Dave "Mr I'm A Freelancer And I Work From Home". Mr Smug. Mr I'll Tell You What This Means. Mr Fuckfacedouchebag. Too early for Dave.
I wander over to the sink to spit and peek through the curtains. Shit. That really is a tank. An M26 Pershing from the look of it. Call of Duty taught me somethin' damn straight. 46 tons of armored fun just waiting to pick the kids up from school. I wonder if I could figure out how to load some ammo and blow Dave up? Mr Blown Up Real Good I could call him.
As I'm imagining Dave and a mushroom cloud a red Prius pulls up. Red Prius. "Who the hell do I know with a red Prius?" I think when it hits me so hard I drop the coffee mug.
"Honey?" I hear the yell from outside. "Honey, look! My Mother's here! And she's staying a week".
EDIT - changed from an Abrams to a Pershing to make zycamzip smile. | It had been a busy morning. I had stayed up late to finish a report that was due today, and I was hoping against hope my client would find it to be sufficient. I slept through my alarm, I hurried through my morning routine, and barely even had time to check the news and weather, like I did every morning.
I swallowed the last little bit of coffee, then carefully put my mug down. I didn't want to break my favorite mug all because I accidentally overslept. I grabbed my phone, wallet, and charger, shoved my computer into my briefcase, ran to the printer and grabbed my report, and had my hand on the doorknob that led to my garage when I realized something.
"Great." I thought to myself. "I lost my keys."
I went back to the spot I always put them, and realized that maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't actually need the keys. This had happened before, the day that there was flooding in my neighborhood and my car turned into a Jet-ski. I rushed over to the garage, flung open the door, and, to my surprise, there was a tank sitting where my Toyota pickup should have been. I blinked a few times, then slammed the door shut and opened up my laptop.
As soon as I opened CNN, I saw the problem. War. It was always some kind of war. Syria had finally had it with the United States, and declared war on us. As I continued to read down, however, something caught my eye.
In order to have enough troops for the war, the USA had reinstated the draft.
Well, at least I'll have a tank. |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | Steel fury is three meters deep and six wide, with a long nose that demands blood. She changes to suit the occasion --a snow mobile on white days, no top when the suns out, and in-car heating when it's cold. Today we play a Pinocchio game, I lie that I'm brave enough and hop inside the tank. The shiver of metal as the hatchet closes is enough to set any man's blood cold. I wade through fear made mud, a substance the eye can't see, and then press shaky hands to the controls.
"Good morning Joseph, please name the coordinates to your location," her soothing robotic voice asks.
Coordinates. Coordinates. There's a reason I failed fifth grade social science and didn't take it back up in college. On one hand, I didn't give two hoots about whether latitude or longitude took you up or upside down, and by the time I was old enough google maps had come out. "Can't I just strap you to my MyPhone?" I asked the Tank.
"Of course," the tank said, "however, you may want to strap yourself to some Kevlar then, Gps's are often filled with surprises."
A condescending tank, how fortunate. I googled the coordinates and tapped those babies in before sitting back and watching auto-drive. The tank drew glances as we rolled down street, like I had a certain importance, a power beyond the normal man. People pointed, some even snapped photographs when we stopped at the city lights, and it wasn't long before I pitched up in my office complex lot.
A good morning indeed.
I hopped out and straightened my work suit in the luke warm breeze. It was a great start to a day that could have gone awry. I'd be known as that 'cool guy' around town, at least for a while.
"A x-2 50b," Darren, a work colleague, said as he stalked over with briefcase in hand, "that's old school even for you, Joseph."
I suddenly wished I could get back in and give the long nose the blood it demanded.
"I'll have you know I was the talk of the town today," I said, "a classic morph car like this is what gets you the looks."
Darren chuckled and swiped the air in front, bringing up his Myphone hologram. "You're a funny guy, that's for sure." He pushed the hologram toward me.
The headline: *man drives tank with Hitler puppy boxer-briefs as flag,* scrolled past.
I glanced back and sure enough my nylons were blowing in the wind.
"It's why I picked the helicopter option." Darren pointed at the chopper in a parking space. He walked toward the office door. "Should be a good morning."
I knew something was off. I sighed and followed inside, preparing to take whatever vitriol came my way.
| It had been a busy morning. I had stayed up late to finish a report that was due today, and I was hoping against hope my client would find it to be sufficient. I slept through my alarm, I hurried through my morning routine, and barely even had time to check the news and weather, like I did every morning.
I swallowed the last little bit of coffee, then carefully put my mug down. I didn't want to break my favorite mug all because I accidentally overslept. I grabbed my phone, wallet, and charger, shoved my computer into my briefcase, ran to the printer and grabbed my report, and had my hand on the doorknob that led to my garage when I realized something.
"Great." I thought to myself. "I lost my keys."
I went back to the spot I always put them, and realized that maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't actually need the keys. This had happened before, the day that there was flooding in my neighborhood and my car turned into a Jet-ski. I rushed over to the garage, flung open the door, and, to my surprise, there was a tank sitting where my Toyota pickup should have been. I blinked a few times, then slammed the door shut and opened up my laptop.
As soon as I opened CNN, I saw the problem. War. It was always some kind of war. Syria had finally had it with the United States, and declared war on us. As I continued to read down, however, something caught my eye.
In order to have enough troops for the war, the USA had reinstated the draft.
Well, at least I'll have a tank. |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | Well then.
I paused on the stairs of my apartment, and looked at the M1 Abrams main battle tank that stood in my parking space. Not something you would find in your average apartment complex parking in Salt Lake City. I winced as I saw what had become Mr. Oberoi's old Chevy that had been unlucky enough to be parked next to my car. The thing was crushed between my tank and the pickup truck next to it. It honestly didn't look like a car anymore.
I allowed myself a little smile. That's what that asshole gets for cat calling every time I came back home from work.
He was going to be pissed as hell, but given what my car had turned into today, that was going to be the least of my worries.
See, this car had been a gift from my mother who in turn had gotten it from grandmother. She had tears in her eyes when she had given me the keys. It turned into anything I needed for the day. It seemed to know exactly what weather we were going to have.
"It'll serve you well, Lisa. God knows it's served me long enough," she'd said. When I had asked her how it worked she had just smiled, "Does it matter?"
I winced a little whenever I thought of her. She had only passed away a year ago, in a car accident of all things, and while the initial shock of her passing had long since passed, sometimes the memories snuck up one me, her smile or her touch.
I shook my head to clear my thoughts. Focus. Survive. The fact that I had a tank here meant that there was going to be some sort of catastrophe, so I rushed back in my home and turned on the TV while I ran inside to get some supplies.
Nothing on the news. Huh. Nevertheless, I took several bottles of water, and a *ton* of granola bars and climbed into the tank.
*It doesn't seem like a day the apocalypse would start,* I thought. The sun was just rising, casting the sky in a fiery red glow, and the cool breeze seemed perfectly normal. But something *did* feel off, I realized with a start. I stood on top of the tank, about to go in when it occurred to me. It was silent.
Not just the silence everyone with an early morning shift feels when she goes to work, but total silence. No sounds of the fading night, no insects, no birdsong. Troubled, I got into the tank.
For something so huge on the outside, it was surprisingly cramped. Conveniently placed on the front seat were a pistol and a driver's manual.
Huh. I didn't know they made those.
Everyday that the car changed, usually in the dashboard, it came with a manual for the car. Usually this was totally unnecessary, and something I found pretty funny, but I was glad now. And I suppose the gun was there in lieu of the keys. I tried not to think too much about that.
I skimmed the manual and nodded. Seemed simple enough. I got the hang of the driving, how to accelerate and how to load the cannon. I hoped I would have no need for the latter, but the fact the car had turned into a tank and not an armored car told me something.
Now what?
As if in answer, the ground began to shake. Violently. I used the external cameras and found that it wasn't just the tank, the entire 10 stories apartment complex was shaking. Shaking pretty hard...
I realized what was going to happen a moment before it did. The building tilted precariously and began to swing forward, collapsing.
Right on me.
I let out a yelp of fear, and hit the accelerator, and the tank moved backwards with surprising speed for such a lumbering beats of a machine. Still I had reacted too late and the top of the building fell on the tank, though I had almost made it to the main road out of the parking complex.
The sound was deafening.
There was the initial crash of the bulk of the building falling and then the repeated *clunks* of smaller debris hitting the roof of the tank. It seemed that the noises stopped an eternity later.
I tested the tank and found, to my surprise, that the tank could still move, albeit with plenty of crunching and scary noises. I had a horrifying image of me being trapped under the debris, trapped in darkness for months, living off my rations, not willing to accept my inevitable death...
*Focus, Lisa.* I shook that horrifying image out of my head, and drove the tank backwards, despite the ominous banging and crunching.
It seemed to take forever, but the tank made it out of the majority of the debris, judging by the sound at least. I turned on the cameras and saw...nothing. Had the cameras been damaged?
I looked around, but I made out a faint light, one of the street lights that hadn't fallen in the earthquake. No, the camera was fine. Suddenly a computer chirped, making me jump,"switching to night-mode, change of light detected."
Suddenly everything on the screen was in a shade of green. I saw the collapsed building and saw that I was in the middle of the main road. There were upturned cars and debris all along the road, making them impossible for any normal car to cross.
Then I turned the camera upwards.
The sky was dark, the sun but a faint outline on the night vision.
What the hell was going on?
I fumbled for the radio, the manual had said it had one, and switched to FM 102.1, the news.
".....catastrophic, absolutely catastrophic. The Central United States....chaotic...global effects."
A million dollar machine with a shitty radio. My freaking life.
I hit the radio a bunch, and this actually seemed to work, the message becoming a bit clearer.
I almost wish it hadn't.
"...Extinction level eve-...Yellowstone has erupted...."
***
(minor edits)
If you enjoyed, check out my new subreddit [XcessiveWriting](https://www.reddit.com/r/XcessiveWriting/) | It had been a busy morning. I had stayed up late to finish a report that was due today, and I was hoping against hope my client would find it to be sufficient. I slept through my alarm, I hurried through my morning routine, and barely even had time to check the news and weather, like I did every morning.
I swallowed the last little bit of coffee, then carefully put my mug down. I didn't want to break my favorite mug all because I accidentally overslept. I grabbed my phone, wallet, and charger, shoved my computer into my briefcase, ran to the printer and grabbed my report, and had my hand on the doorknob that led to my garage when I realized something.
"Great." I thought to myself. "I lost my keys."
I went back to the spot I always put them, and realized that maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't actually need the keys. This had happened before, the day that there was flooding in my neighborhood and my car turned into a Jet-ski. I rushed over to the garage, flung open the door, and, to my surprise, there was a tank sitting where my Toyota pickup should have been. I blinked a few times, then slammed the door shut and opened up my laptop.
As soon as I opened CNN, I saw the problem. War. It was always some kind of war. Syria had finally had it with the United States, and declared war on us. As I continued to read down, however, something caught my eye.
In order to have enough troops for the war, the USA had reinstated the draft.
Well, at least I'll have a tank. |
Edit: wow, this really blew up, thank you all for your stories, and I will try to read all of them as soon as I have some time. | [WP] your car changes slightly to accommodate your day, the day it snows, it magically has snow tires, the day it floods, it becomes a four by four. Today you walked out the door, and it's a tank. | "Honey"
I heard her yelling but I was still in bed. I took the day off to finish up a few things around the yard but I really wanted to sleep in to at least nine. But not now I guess...
"What?" I yelled the kind of "what" a sixteen year old yells from two rooms away.
"Come look at the car."
That car had been both a miracle and curse since I bought the damn thing.
"What's it this time?" I was still in yelling from bed mode, not quite ready to get up yet. The flannel sheets were warm.
"A tank."
A tank? See, this car changes according to worldly events. If it's summer it becomes a convertible, if the kid drives it it becomes a Volvo, if I have to drive the team to a travel soccer game it becomes a bus, you get the drift. But a tank?
"A what?" even though I'd heard her the first time I wanted to hear her say it again.
"A tank. It's a tank. What do you think that means?"
War was too obvious an answer. Zombie apocalypse? Nah. Sleep was leaving my brain so I swung out of bed. I put on my slippers and robe and headed downstairs, still thinking.
"Coffee" I said and held out my hand. She put a mug in it. She's good that way.
"Don't you want to see it?" She was opening the door.
I wasn't quite ready to go to the driveway just yet. Dave was out there. Dave "Mr I'm A Freelancer And I Work From Home". Mr Smug. Mr I'll Tell You What This Means. Mr Fuckfacedouchebag. Too early for Dave.
I wander over to the sink to spit and peek through the curtains. Shit. That really is a tank. An M26 Pershing from the look of it. Call of Duty taught me somethin' damn straight. 46 tons of armored fun just waiting to pick the kids up from school. I wonder if I could figure out how to load some ammo and blow Dave up? Mr Blown Up Real Good I could call him.
As I'm imagining Dave and a mushroom cloud a red Prius pulls up. Red Prius. "Who the hell do I know with a red Prius?" I think when it hits me so hard I drop the coffee mug.
"Honey?" I hear the yell from outside. "Honey, look! My Mother's here! And she's staying a week".
EDIT - changed from an Abrams to a Pershing to make zycamzip smile. | The day I found out my car could transform, it definitely changed my life. Not necessarily for the best, but not for the worst, either. I'm not talking transform like Transformers, but rather, it just sorta altered itself in certain ways. The other day it was raining hard enough to wash all the pigment out of a black cotton tee shirt, and my Chevrolet Spark had become a hovercraft. Due to the recent cold and wet weather, it changed into a Silverado with studded ice tires when the temperature dropped to 10 below freezing early in the morning yesterday.
I woke up today, groggy as usual, got dressed, had a full pot of coffee, and walked to the garage. Normally, I'd keep my keys in the door on the keychain (the car keys themselves would change, but the other keys and keychains would stay the same), except that the car keys weren't there. I disarmed my security system, opened the door to the garage and peered in. My garage was big enough for both my Spark and at least 2 Suburbans to fit inside, but what I saw made me do a double take.
"I know a magically changing car is crazy, but *a tank?*" I thought to myself. Then I remembered why it changed. I slammed the door to the garage and rushed back inside to check the news. The TV couldn't get a signal, so, panicked, I checked my phone. Apparently, North Korea decided it was a great time to attack the U.S., and their first target was the state of Texas.
I packed up as much as I could, got my cats into their carriers, and started packing everything into the M1 Abrams that barely fit in the garage. Thankfully an instruction manual lay inside, and after what felt like the longest 5 minutes of my life, I had managed to get on the road and escape.
~by the way, this is my first real attempt at writing, go easy on me! |
[WP] Your character is an immortal who knows what happens to people when they die. Turns out it's wonderful. Surely it's only polite to give people a little "nudge" towards a better existence. | You know when cats stare off into space, or leap into the air trying to catch something that's not there? It totally is there. It might be a gnome or a leprechaun, but most likely, it's normal garden fairy. Humans can't see them, but cats do. So do dogs. Dogs just don't give a shit.
This particular fairy fluttered through the Westpark shopping mall on translucent pink wings, her mind on her mischief and mischief on her mind. She had already replaced a $100 bill with fairy money (the till would be counted correctly tonight, but the money would disappear the next day at morning light), and tricked a toddler in a stroller into dropping a Dum-Dum.
Swinging her ill-gotten lollipop around like a club, she perched on the edge of the marble water fountain in the concourse and looked out at the crowd for unsuspecting playmates. Behind her, there was a splash and the clinking of coins
"Hey, Pinkie," said the voice.
The fairy turned around to see a kobold wading waist-deep through the fountain, puttering through the coins people had thrown in. He had a small burlap bag half-filled with shiny pennies half-forgotten in his hand.
"So, you're gonna be starting some trouble again today, ah?"
"No trouble!" giggled the fairy. "Fun, games, rainbows! It's rainbow day!"
The kobold sighed.
"That's what I mean by trouble, Pinks. Do whatya gotta, but please try to keep it away from my fountain."
He bent over, pried a glittering dime off the bottom of the fountain, and lifted it over his head, peering closely at the light reflecting off it.
"Dunno why I stick around here, though. Ain't been a decent wish thrown in here in weeks. Pah! What the deuce is a Hatchimal, anyway?"
"Rainbows!"
****
She was at the chocolate shop on the third story, replacing random pecans with identical looking rocks, when the opportunity for rainbows finally presented itself.
There they were. A security officer gliding through the crowd on an off-brand Segway, right along the guardrail above a long escalator.
The fairy quickly grabbed a pen shaped like a candy cane off the register, and flitted over to the security officer's feet. She waited until--right there--and shoved the candy cane pen into the left wheel.
Before he knew what was happening, security officer Greg Abernathy found himself swinging to the left and right into the guard rail.
"Ah-AaaAah-AAAAAAYYYHH!," he cried, losing his balance and tumbling over the guard rail. Two seconds later, his body landed right at the bottom of the down escalator with a hollow thud.
For another two seconds, that entire section of the mall was almost silent, save for the piped in instrumental jazz version of "Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas."
A little girl screamed, and pandemonium broke loose. Half the crowd was pushing to see what happened and crowd around officer Abernathy's ruined corpse, trying to see if he was alive or dead. The other half shoved their way out, trying to get as far away as they could from the horror.
In the midst of the screaming, the fairy fluttered back down to get a close up view. There was the twisted, bloody body of the officer--and standing next to it, there was the spirit of officer Greg himself, entirely confused by the situation.
The spirit's eyes caught sight of the tiny pink fairy.
"Wha- How?," Greg asked. "Are you- Am I- Am I dead?"
He couldn't look away from the fairy.
"Doitdoitdoit!" giggled the fairy, "I wanna see you do it!'
"Do what? Oh-"
An inner light started to swell within Greg's spirit. He looked up to the ceiling, staring at the sky through the skylights, his expression enraptured. A multi-colored fire started to dance around the edges of his translucent form, then grew brighter and brighter.
"Oh, my God. God? God? Is that… is that God?"
Greg started to float a little further off the ground, and then a little further. The fire grew brighter, and heatlessly filled the air with the beautiful dance of something like the Northern lights.
"Hooray! Yay!" The fairy started clapping her hands.
The fire grew greater and greater, until Greg's spirit was hardly visible inside. It was just a swirl of reds, oranges, blues, and purples.
The fire grew and grew, and then with a great white flash, it was gone, leaving nothing but winking motes of colored light behind. Paramedics were pushing their way through the crowd toward Greg's body, while a woman tried to perform CPR.
The fairy giggled and danced.
"Rainbows! Rainbows! Yaaaaay!" | "Urgh. Well disciples, I know you've been worried about me. For no reason. I am immortal, remember?
Skipping over formalities and so on: the plan was wholly succesful as always - up until the end, unfortunately. Followers #124-134 were rewarded with the sweet joys of the Hedonic Soup. Russia, China and the Middle East will have to wait for my next Crusade.
We attempted to infiltrate the White House via abducting a distant relative of the President's. Centuries of accumulated wisdom informed me that all humans are 50th cousins or thereabouts; therefore we tackled a young man walking during the night. With the unbeliever held captive in the Bus of Bottomless Joy, we attempted to contact the NSA.
We spoke loudly at each of our electronic devices, trying tirelessly to gain the attention of listening NSA operatives. Ignored, we determined the best route was to threaten a local police station. When faced with I, the Man of Aeons, they would surely pass the message up the chain of command.
However, things started to take a turn for the worse. The police chief initially seemed willing to put us directly through to the President - alas, this was too good to be true!
I offered him a Token of my immense, undying power. We released the hostage to their custody; this was to show that hostage-taking required almost no effort on my part (and they should have realised this).
However, at this point, that dastardly chief turned traitor! Were the NSA threatening his livelihood, knowing my plans? Curses!
Therefore, we took the logical approach: to take more distant cousins of the President captive. The police force, not understanding their heresy, were disgruntled at our virtuous tackles. Upon our unsheathing of the Sacred Deliverers they opened fire with their own, non-sacred weapons.
At least one of the heathens was slain by my hand. But no sooner did I rejoice than a scoundrel shot a Metallic Marble through the back of my skull. Why do they always aim for my head?
I woke up in the local morgue and greeted Eugene as I usually do. Eugene, in his kind and concerned manner, asked me how I was progressing with the Crusade.
My brain matter was still regrowing at this point, so all I could reply was "ugrhtn" or some similar utterance.
I despaired, considering perhaps I should forsake my Just Purge and commit myself to the Pleasure Palace forever; I could hardly admit to him that it was a not a Total Victory.
But, as I am sure you are glad to know, I mustered the courage of a centuries' old soul. I told him that the plan was but a Pyrhhic Victory, but I will never rest until all have entered the Harmonious Haven!"
"Eugene" had almost lost his composure and burst out laughing whilst talking to Subject-1667. The CIA had asked him to dispose of this gentically atypical human years ago. But there was something morbidly curious about watching the Human [Hydra](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hydra_(genus\)) in its deluded frenzies.
The agent had an idea of what this "Pleasure Realm" was to the Subject - something like a near-death experience caused by blood loss to the brain. Even the more dedicated cult members were beginning to suspect their God-on-Earth leader was losing his mind from age and poorly-regenerated brain matter. | |
[WP] You're at a bar with some friends one night and see your brother on the other side of the room with his wife. You jokingly call him to ask were he's at right now. The line picks up with his voice, but the person across the room didn't answer the phone. | "Hey, what's up?" I looked at him across the crowd, no phone in sight.
"Steve... where are you righ-"
"Could you talk a bit louder? I can't hear you." There was no doubt, this was definitely my brother's voice.
"I was asking where you were." I raised my voice. "Didn't you have work tonight?"
"Sorry, I uhm.. didn't quite catch that."
"Steve, where are you? What's going on?" I stood up from my seat, ready to go check on him. I felt uneasy, to say the least.
This just didn't make any sense. How could he be on the phone? It was definitely him sitting there. What the hell was going on?
"Naah man, I'm just fucking with you. Leave a message after the beep."
| I spotted my brother Dave with Alice, his wife, sitting at a table in the corner of the bar. That little bitch. He lied about being sick to get out of helping me move.
I dialed his number. After almost a dozen rings, I was about to give up until he finally picked up. Except he didn't. He was still deep in conversion with Alice.
"Dave?"
"Wow, I'm offended. I know we're twins and all, but jeez, you can't even recognise your own brother?" I could hear his grin.
"Matt?'
"Yeah, sorry bro, I grabbed Dave's phone this morning because mine was dead and I figured he'd be in bed all day so he wouldn't miss it. Anyways, I can't stay to chat. Have to get back to work. Cya." Then he hung up.
Knowing Dave, he probably just went without a phone for the day. He only used Apple products and Matt's phone was an Android.
I decided to try Matt's number anyway. This time, the phone picked up on the first ring.
"Alex?! Where the hell are you? I've been trying to call you for the last 40 minutes. You have to come to the hospital immediately. Dave was in an accident. They-they're not sure if he'll make it. I can't reach Alice either. Do you know where she is?" Matt sounded like he was trying to hold back tears. He spoke so quickly it took me a few seconds to process.
I looked up, and the man who looked like Dave was staring right at me. | |
[WP] "Whatever the police tell you, whatever you hear on the news, remember that Mommy and Daddy love you, and we did all this for you." | "Whatever the police tell you, whatever you hear on the news, remember that Mommy and Daddy love you, and we did this all for you."
I was only 7 years old when my mother came into my room with Uncle Pjotr one night, hugged me tight and said those words to me. She also said that I had to go with Uncle Pjotr now, "it's only for a little while, sweety," she told me, "remember how much fun you had when Uncle Pjotr took you out camping last week?"
I went on an awful lot of camping trips with Uncle Pjotr when I was young. He would always take me deep into the forest and tell me how I needed to learn how to live off the land. I didn't understand that back then, nor did I understand why my mother felt compelled to say those things to me before what seemed like another regular camping trip. I didn't understand a lot of things back then.
For example, I didn't understand why this camping trip lasted so long. Usually we'd be out in the wild 1 or 2 weeks maximum, but this time, it had been 3 months. I was but a small child, tired and homesick, asking my uncle where my parents were. All he told me is that I can't see them right now and that he would tell me when the time came.
The "time" came when I was 12 and had spent more than 5 years living in the wilderness with my uncle Pjotr. I was a smart kid, I picked things up quickly; Uncle Pjotr liked that about me. He thought me how to hunt and trap animals, how to stay hidden and how to mimic a perfect southern state accent. The last part was confusing for me as a child, until the day the police found us.
We had been illegally camping on government property and someone had complained. As the police were approaching in their intimidating matte black body armour, brandishing assault rifles, Uncle Pjotr told me to only speak when spoken to, and only in my practiced accent.
He introduced himself in a perfect southern state accent as Peter Gregor, a hunter from the state of Texas, out here with his son to teach him the ropes. He had not known that his was government land, he told them and apologized. They didn't respond, only asked for documentation, which my uncle produced. The two officers read the document intensely, while shining an ultra-violet light on them.
While the officers were distracted, Uncle Pjotr produced his sidearm that he had kept from the Great War and shot both of them dead. I was horrified and as the pools of blood form the collapsed bodies started to mix together, I vomited. I had no problem seeing dead animals, but humans were something else. I could never get used to seeing a human shot.
I did.
Uncle Pjotr explained to me that the reason I could not see my parents was because they were killed when all the people with Russian heritage were rounded up after the elections. The Cold War had grown severe enough to warrant countrywide panic over Communism and a Russian invasion. The new government was certain that USSR would attempt an invasion from within the country through sleeper agents and as far as they understood it, every Russian was a sleeper agent who needed to be imprisoned, or better yet, shot.
As the years went on, we met more and more people in the wild, all hiding from the government. First it was people of Russian decent, then it was the Japanese, a few years down the line, it was anyone with heritage from outside of the US extending back more than 3 generations.
The military would sweep the forests every now and then, searching for refugees. One day, when I was 18, the searches stopped. Instead, we heard the sound of a plane flying low over the woods. It dropped canisters that exploded in a cloud of yellowish brown smoke. They were trying to kill us with mustard gas.
The number of fugitives grew substantially in the weeks and months that followed, so much so that Uncle Pjotr established the Coalition of Free Men, which trained young boys and girls to fight against the oppressive government of their own country. We lived in caves and tents and underground tunnels, biding our time, building our armoury, honing our strategies.
Uncle Pjotr told me how my parents had been the first people to protest the imprisonment of US citizens based on heritage. They'd been captured on the day of the protest and executed 2 years later as "Soviet agents". I keep their memory close to my heart in the form of a photograph tucked into the inner pocket of my jacket. I utter their names each time I slit the throat of a soldier of the oppression. | Timmy tearfully watched his parents drive off. They were off to fight in Afghanistan as part of a special squad instructed to kill key terrorist leaders, but Timmy didn't know that. All he knew was that mommy and daddy were soldiers, and they were off to go make the world a better place.
While his parents were gone, he generally stayed with his grandma. On the second week of staying with her, his uncle Kevin paid them a visit. Kevin took the excited kid out for a spin in his police car, and the whole way home, Timmy was laughing.
Timmy laughed and laughed and laughed—until he realized his uncle wasn't. Kevin pulled an envelope out of his pocket. The letter had been opened, and was covered in tears. Little Timmy read the contents, then asked, "So Mommy and Daddy aren't coming home anymore?"
(Sorry if it didn't really fit the prompt, this is my first time writing on here) | |
From the fantastic podcast Welcome to Night Vale, Bonus Episode 4 - Pamela Winchell.
| [WP] On the edge of the known universe is a campfire, and around it are three figures, indistinct and huddling; refugees from the universe before our own. | The three figures stared at the crackling little fire, watching as a log occasionally split and sent a shower of sparks flying upward into the sky.
"Getting low on wood," one of the three finally spoke up.
The other two didn't move. They didn't even look around, didn't take their eyes off of the flickering flames. They especially didn't look up at the rather strange architectural geometry of the sky above them, how the pinpricks of starlight in the night sky seemed to warp, as if they viewed the world through a fisheye lens.
The first figure waited another minute, tapping his fingers on the side of the log he'd drawn up as a makeshift seat. "I guess I'll go get some more, shall I? Again," he added pointedly.
The second figure finally stirred, just enough to glance over at the first. "Yes," she spoke, in perfect, dulcet tones that would move any being with the capacity for love to tears of joy. "That would be good of you."
The first figure stood up, turned to look away from the fire, planting his hands on his hips. "Don't say anything about how I've been the one to get more firewood for the last hundred and eighty universal revolutions," he muttered to himself as he stomped away. "Sure, good ol' Hester's always willing to get up and go stomp around this damn place. He's always been full of energy, you're doing him a favor by making him retrieve all the wood."
The female figure around the campfire tutted to herself, shaking her head slightly as she listened to Hester's mutterings slowly receding away. "He knows that our focus is elsewhere," she sighed.
The planet on which they sat was barely deserving of the name; a hundred steps would put one back where he began, having completed a full circumnavigation of its surface. On the far side grew its only structure; a tree, its arms branching down to cling to the external firmament, harvesting energy for its growth from beyond, the outside.
As Hester hewed away at some of the tree's branches, he took care to keep away from the little holes left behind in the air when he tugged the branches free. "Not falling out there, no sir," he muttered. "Barely made it through that space last time. Not getting another dose of exposure of that, no, not for me!"
Closing her eyes, the woman tuned out Hester's mutterings. Hester was the most awake and aware of the three, but this kept his eyes on the present, unable to penetrate the fog that occluded the time stream from them at further distances.
She, on the other hand, had fewer scales on her eyes.
"Things are progressing," she spoke up, seemingly to herself. Her companion, still motionless beside her, gave no indication that he heard her words. Still, she spoke them just the same. "It has taken long for this universe to mature, longer than even we expected. But we move closer."
One of the branches caught, snagged on the hole to outside. Hester grimaced, wrapping both hands around its base to tug it free. For a moment, as it finally came loose, he caught a glimpse through the hole it left behind, a glimpse of dizzying color, madness twisted into horrible shapes that no mortal could ever hope to comprehend.
He swatted at the hole with the branch until it closed back up. "Nasty outside," he muttered to himself, tossing the branch onto its fellows and reaching up to rub absent-mindedly at the puckered scar on his shoulder. "Bites, it does."
"The wood, Hester," the woman called, and Hester roused himself from his momentary reverie.
"Yeah, coming, hold your damn halo," he grimaced, scooping up the harvested branches in his hands. "Whole thing's silly. We could head closer to the center, set up a nice kingdom, put ourself back into a nice spot of power like we had before."
"And you saw how that ended, didn't you?" the woman said severely as Hester stomped back around the tiny little planet to bring the wood pile closer to the fire. "Annihilation, intended for us as well as the rest of the universe. If He," and she jerked her thumb towards the silent third figure, "hadn't intervened, we'd be as gone as the rest of that world."
"Hard to remember," Hester said, a little petulantly, as he fed sticks into the little campfire. "All fades, you know."
"Yes, I know." The woman softened her tone, reached out to rub his shoulder. "But I can see our next steps. They grow clearer, and our time approaches. We near the tipping point, when even our feather-light touch will be enough to shift the balance."
"Feathers. Don't remind me." Hester's fingers stole up towards that puckered scar on his back again. His eyes drifted to the third figure. "He said anything?" he asked, his voice tinged with both hope and fear.
The woman shook her head. "Nothing. We still have time."
"Still say we ought to just push him out one of the holes, out into oblivion." Hester shivered. "Having two avatars of the same concept in the same universe. Just seems like asking for trouble."
"He's necessary," the woman said simply. "He will strike when the time is right."
"Yeah, whatever." Hester pushed another stick into the fire. The flames roared up a bit higher as they consumed the new fuel, casting light out over the three figures. The light highlighted Hester's scarred features, still somehow retaining their inhuman beauty despite the marred imperfections. The light sank into the woman's wrinkles, cutting her face into an intricate tracery of lines. The light reflected off the thin, shining white limbs of the third figure, bouncing around inside its deep, empty eye sockets, over the white teeth frozen in their permanent grin.
Inside one of those eye sockets, clean and free of any flesh or muscle, a cold blue flame licked into momentary light before extinguishing itself again. Neither Hester nor the woman noticed.
"Probably gonna end up going for more wood in a bit," Hester grumped, sitting down on his log. "This takeover better go a little smoother than last time, that's all I have to say."
Above them, the stars curved around the edge of the universe, the light bending around the tiny little hidden planetoid at its very edge. | "Incredible, truly incredible." The professor says with a twinkle in his eye.
"Yeah but how do they survive out here without space suits, and how do they have a campfire? How far out are we from them?" I couldn't believe it, here we are, the first 10 to ever travel beyond the Sinestrian ring of galaxies, expecting the unexpected. No one had been out this far, no one knew what lay in wait for us in this great void where even the stars seem few and far between. Despite this, there they were three obviously humanoid forms, covered in tattered shadows shifting and swaying in the breeze from the fire. Gesticulating with arms and hands, back and forth amongst one another, the third sometimes reaching down and poking at the fire, sending a flurry of sparks up into the smoke and void around them. Faces obfuscated in the smoke and shadow of their tattered garments. While they have humanoid shape, they were obviously not human. What looked like the tips of slight beaks poking out of the shadows, legs lost in the tendrils of smoke and void, bodies bulbous and grotesque.
Approximately 67.34 light-years from target chirrups the computer.
"So we have almost 100 years before we can get to them....do we head for the cryobay and wait? Scans are literally showing nothing else within that distance near us...."
"Yes, let's take 10 short cycles in the cryo-bay for 9 years each, with a year of activity between so that we can record and observe these three before arrival.
.........
This is the 6th awakening, over the 5 years of observation there had been no change in the Three Wiseman as we began to call them except it became apparent that they were massive. We awoke to a spectral scan of their fire, only to find that it was a campfire in the realest sense except it wasn't just wood being burned, but what appeared to be entire planets. Or at the very least in eas mineral heavy, and certainly not a star.
......
Finally today was the day, we would be within orbiting distance of our immense and unusual system. We had shifted course so we could approach from under the "fire" we figure we could avoid detection best like this. We were all strapped in to avoid being smashed against the walls of the ship as the computer avoided the chunks of planetary ash sloughing off of the "fire". The planets grew to fill our visual field slowly at first, but increasingly quickly as we began to get drawn in by their gravities. They appear to each have been about twice the size of planet Earth, one could almost believe there were remnants of valleys and river etchings on the surfaces, though no color beyond brown red and black remain there now. As the external thermometer continues to climb, entering into preatmosphetic entry levels, the computer thrusts hard, and we sling out from under the fire, around the back of one of the Wise Men. "What is that? Do you hear that?"
"I don't hear it, though I do believe I feel it. Like a great bumping bass note, hitting me deep inside beyond my ears. Something deep and dark writhing about inside me."
"Yeah, my hair is beginning to stand on end and my skin feels like it is crawling."
"God does anyone smell that? Like rotting fish and blood.
Computer- run a diagnostic of the air filtration system it seems to be malfunctioning."
All systems functioning at full capacity, there is no sign of unknown or unwanted particulates in the air.
"What the hell is going on here?" Fever rising to a pitch, fear pouring out through his voice and eyes, followed by indistinct screams and gurgling.
"Will someone shut Barry up already, he will drive us all mad if this keeps up"
"Aaaaaaahrrrghhhh!"
"Oh God shut him up, why did we ever come here?"
Right then we crest the Wiseman and level out above its head, looking into the faces of the other two, with large black eyes, small beaks surrounded by roiling and writhing tentacles. As a great hand reaches up and grabs our ship, Barry begins chanting loudly
"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn" as terror settles in our souls. |
From the fantastic podcast Welcome to Night Vale, Bonus Episode 4 - Pamela Winchell.
| [WP] On the edge of the known universe is a campfire, and around it are three figures, indistinct and huddling; refugees from the universe before our own. | Below the multitudinous lights that flickered carelessly in the darkness, his footsteps fell with a thunder. Branches whipped at his body, scratched his face yet did not hinder his pace as he hurdled over fallen logs and shrubbery. Behind him, the screams of pain and fear followed, a wash of disease and hunger. They were not looking for him, but he feared the worst if they found him. After years of foraging under the dark skies, amidst the smoking wastelands and desolate stone cities, he had become accustomed to the night. He moved with a fluidity not seen in many of those who ran behind him, a wall of flame that incinerated all that it came across. Reaching a ledge, with ease he dropped to his knees and slid, turning at the last moment to grasp the edge, leaving his legs to dangle limply below him. He raised his eyes above the ledge, seeing nothing but bright ethereal-esque light pulsating through the forestry. That was enough to send shivers through his veins and with that he dropped landing roughly on the dry, cracked earth below.
He continued to run, his feet pounding beneath him with each step, his arms swinging ferociously to keep him away from the terror behind him. It was always following him, ever since he had been born into the dark world that they named “Earth”. His mother had been taken when he was young and he travelled with groups of people who only knew of one destiny. To reach Earth’s end. To find hope elsewhere. To leave the ground and fly to only the Gods knew where. Yet, over the many years in which he tracked and hiked, he never came across the gaping canyon on which the other side Utopia could be found.
When the sun rose from the ashes, its burning light paved the way for him. Many years he welcomed the sun, but now it only gave way to what had been. His eyes traced the empty barren lands of which rumours told had been filled with vivid life. Where colour was more than all that he saw, where water ran freely and humans lived with a prosperity and grace. It was unbelievable to his ears, as the elders sat around the camp, whispering their tales of humanity. Often he would ignore their fables, for he knew humanity could not have let this happen. To enable the great plains of water to dry and the lands of green to wither and die. It was not possible, he thought whilst traipsing across the murky clay that now lay underfoot.
Night fell once again, only this time the sky was filled with a burning red. It was the colour of the deepest of flames, illuminating the world in a glow that only unsettled him further. Now he could be seen with ease. Perhaps it would be better to stay put this evening, he thought whilst chewing the bone of some unknown being. Chalk lined his mouth and whitened his cracked lips, but the marrow within tasted of flesh and meat like no other. For a moment he was lost, indulging on the flavours of which this rare item offered him, so much so that he did not register the screams behind him till it was too late. There now in the visible distance, the wall of men and women came hurtling toward him. Their screams emanated across the open lands and their skin fell from their bones as if they were being flayed. With haste he dropped the bone and ran.
It had felt like hours, days since he had stopped. With each step his legs burned with a fury that he had never experienced. His tongue stuck to his cheeks and the roof of his dry, dusty mouth. Beneath the bones within his chest, his heart thudded hungrily for oxygen, his lungs drawing only on the smoke that filled the musky air. Slowly he knew that it was coming to an end, and he slowed to a pace that one would consider to be a walk. Behind closed eyes, the screams neared and he took his final breath.
“Move. Now.”
He opened his eyes with a start. Turning, the mass of yelling bodies neared him, but there was nobody else in sight.
“You are close. Quick.”
It came again, this time deep within himself. Never had he felt such ambition to move in his life. With slow and steady steps, he pushed himself back into a run.
“Faster.”
The voice echoed in his brain, pushing him to move each leg faster. His arms swung quickly by his side. One of the sandals he had fashioned from old leather he had found, slipped from his feet and hurtled behind him. Still, he continued in flaring pain, as his legs shook with a tremendous judder on each step.
“Faster!”
It screamed now, his heart racing and mind jumbling with words and confusion, so much so he wasn’t ready for the ledge that faced him and before he knew it one foot went over and down he went, into the darkness of the valley below.
“He is awake”, a voice came from a shadow hidden in the darkness.
He didn’t know where he was. The only sensation he truly felt was the burning from his thighs and heaving in his chest. Opening his eyes, across from him a fire crackled wildly. The flames and embers trickled upward towards the shimmering starlit sky.
“What is his name?” another voice queried, this one gruffer than the other. It may have belonged to an old and weak man.
“I do not know, he is unlike the others…” the one other voice echoed. It came from a stumpy looking figure whose eyes were hidden beneath the hood of her cloak. It was this voice he recognised from earlier.
“Who are you?” He asked, his voice quivering with nerves. It had been years since he had an opportunity to speak with another being.
They three hooded figures cackled and slumped around the fire.
Standing weakly, his arms & legs a mess of muscle, he moved with a cautiousness a person must hold within the presence of strangers. He noticed that the fire that burned in the pit was not one of normality but in fact held a colour he had never witnessed before.
“Sit, sit, join us please.” A young-sounding woman held her hand toward him. She was beautiful from what he could see beneath her cloak. “Take some food, here” she said, offering him a loaf of what appeared to be fresh bread.
Pathetically he attempted to dampen the bread with his gums. He had not had fresh food since he could remember.
“What is your name, brave man?” the gruff-sounding man asked with an authority.
“Adam” he replied, his eyes warily taking in his surroundings. There was no wall of burning bodies. No screams of pain in the air.
“Adam… of Earth” the elderly-sounding woman grumbled beneath her hood. “We are pleased to have found you, Adam of Earth.”
Carefully he placed the bread between his feet and neared the fire. A chill was creeping up his back. “Who are you, if I may ask?”
The gruff-sounding man waved his arms with a dramatic flair, “We are you!” he shouted. His words reverberated off the walls and away into the nights sky.
“I don’t understand?” he asked, taking the bread to his lips again, sucking on the soft and moist dough.
The young-sounding woman leaned closer and placed a human hand on his knee, “We are you, from before.”
Now he really was confused. How had they survived the desert lands? From living as he had? How then had they found a place in which they could camp, away from the wall of death that had followed him since birth?
“Do not look so surprised. We once found ourselves in your situation many, many years ago” the elderly-sounding woman spoke harshly, her tongue sticking between her teeth. “It is now for us to offer what we can, as did the ones before us offered to ourselves.”
He stood quickly, brushing the young-sounding woman’s hand from his knee, “I do not need your help. I need to find the end of the Earth, to find the peace in which the fables told!”
Each of the hooded figures then began to laugh. It was a harsh cackle that burrowed deep into his ears and pained him in his heart.
“Stop it! Let me on my way!” he shouted, but the laughter continued, digging further and further under his skin, like dirt beneath a fingernail. The young-sounding woman stopped first and stood to join him. The others slowly quietened.
“Where do you think you are, Adam?” she asked, her voice soft. It warmed him, it was caring. It reminded him of his mothers voice. The voice that had sang him to sleep on the dark, terrifying evenings, on which the screams arose. “You are at the Earth’s end. In fact, Adam, you are at the end of your Universe…”
The words made little sense to him. Universe? Was that further than the Earth’s end? He didn’t know how to react, so instead he lowered himself once more to the floor and stared into the mysterious fire before him.
“Your world has fallen Adam, as had ours. It is unfortunately, human nature to destroy all that they desire and care for. It is now our job to pass the chalice on to you, so to speak. To wait at the Universe’s end, in hope that when the humans next destroy their lands, one survives so that we can create the race once again” The gruff-sounding man spoke carefully, his words winding out almost as one. “We now offer you this chance, to give humanity another try. It has been named, the project of Eden.”
Slowly, around him the stone walls in which he had become familiar started to melt away. The hooded figures, any appearances in which they held vanished and now started to twist and change. The floor beneath where he sat disappeared and instead he appeared to float above a number of giant orbs that shifted slowly beneath him. Huge colossal spheres that rotated around a bright shimmering star, all that similar to the one he had hidden from during the days.
Only the fireplace remained central, burning within the middle of the group. Before him, the faceless cloaks now sat facing toward him.
“Let Earth be reborn again.”
“Welcome to the Project of Eden, Adam. Commencing number 847,384 of earths re-population in, five, four, three, two…”
He stood and turned behind him to see the green and blue sphere that gracefully turned. He took a deep breath and faced the fire as the others all glared, blinded and unknowing, and he joined with them, “One.”
Then darkness was replaced with light. | "Incredible, truly incredible." The professor says with a twinkle in his eye.
"Yeah but how do they survive out here without space suits, and how do they have a campfire? How far out are we from them?" I couldn't believe it, here we are, the first 10 to ever travel beyond the Sinestrian ring of galaxies, expecting the unexpected. No one had been out this far, no one knew what lay in wait for us in this great void where even the stars seem few and far between. Despite this, there they were three obviously humanoid forms, covered in tattered shadows shifting and swaying in the breeze from the fire. Gesticulating with arms and hands, back and forth amongst one another, the third sometimes reaching down and poking at the fire, sending a flurry of sparks up into the smoke and void around them. Faces obfuscated in the smoke and shadow of their tattered garments. While they have humanoid shape, they were obviously not human. What looked like the tips of slight beaks poking out of the shadows, legs lost in the tendrils of smoke and void, bodies bulbous and grotesque.
Approximately 67.34 light-years from target chirrups the computer.
"So we have almost 100 years before we can get to them....do we head for the cryobay and wait? Scans are literally showing nothing else within that distance near us...."
"Yes, let's take 10 short cycles in the cryo-bay for 9 years each, with a year of activity between so that we can record and observe these three before arrival.
.........
This is the 6th awakening, over the 5 years of observation there had been no change in the Three Wiseman as we began to call them except it became apparent that they were massive. We awoke to a spectral scan of their fire, only to find that it was a campfire in the realest sense except it wasn't just wood being burned, but what appeared to be entire planets. Or at the very least in eas mineral heavy, and certainly not a star.
......
Finally today was the day, we would be within orbiting distance of our immense and unusual system. We had shifted course so we could approach from under the "fire" we figure we could avoid detection best like this. We were all strapped in to avoid being smashed against the walls of the ship as the computer avoided the chunks of planetary ash sloughing off of the "fire". The planets grew to fill our visual field slowly at first, but increasingly quickly as we began to get drawn in by their gravities. They appear to each have been about twice the size of planet Earth, one could almost believe there were remnants of valleys and river etchings on the surfaces, though no color beyond brown red and black remain there now. As the external thermometer continues to climb, entering into preatmosphetic entry levels, the computer thrusts hard, and we sling out from under the fire, around the back of one of the Wise Men. "What is that? Do you hear that?"
"I don't hear it, though I do believe I feel it. Like a great bumping bass note, hitting me deep inside beyond my ears. Something deep and dark writhing about inside me."
"Yeah, my hair is beginning to stand on end and my skin feels like it is crawling."
"God does anyone smell that? Like rotting fish and blood.
Computer- run a diagnostic of the air filtration system it seems to be malfunctioning."
All systems functioning at full capacity, there is no sign of unknown or unwanted particulates in the air.
"What the hell is going on here?" Fever rising to a pitch, fear pouring out through his voice and eyes, followed by indistinct screams and gurgling.
"Will someone shut Barry up already, he will drive us all mad if this keeps up"
"Aaaaaaahrrrghhhh!"
"Oh God shut him up, why did we ever come here?"
Right then we crest the Wiseman and level out above its head, looking into the faces of the other two, with large black eyes, small beaks surrounded by roiling and writhing tentacles. As a great hand reaches up and grabs our ship, Barry begins chanting loudly
"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn" as terror settles in our souls. |
From the fantastic podcast Welcome to Night Vale, Bonus Episode 4 - Pamela Winchell.
| [WP] On the edge of the known universe is a campfire, and around it are three figures, indistinct and huddling; refugees from the universe before our own. | Below the multitudinous lights that flickered carelessly in the darkness, his footsteps fell with a thunder. Branches whipped at his body, scratched his face yet did not hinder his pace as he hurdled over fallen logs and shrubbery. Behind him, the screams of pain and fear followed, a wash of disease and hunger. They were not looking for him, but he feared the worst if they found him. After years of foraging under the dark skies, amidst the smoking wastelands and desolate stone cities, he had become accustomed to the night. He moved with a fluidity not seen in many of those who ran behind him, a wall of flame that incinerated all that it came across. Reaching a ledge, with ease he dropped to his knees and slid, turning at the last moment to grasp the edge, leaving his legs to dangle limply below him. He raised his eyes above the ledge, seeing nothing but bright ethereal-esque light pulsating through the forestry. That was enough to send shivers through his veins and with that he dropped landing roughly on the dry, cracked earth below.
He continued to run, his feet pounding beneath him with each step, his arms swinging ferociously to keep him away from the terror behind him. It was always following him, ever since he had been born into the dark world that they named “Earth”. His mother had been taken when he was young and he travelled with groups of people who only knew of one destiny. To reach Earth’s end. To find hope elsewhere. To leave the ground and fly to only the Gods knew where. Yet, over the many years in which he tracked and hiked, he never came across the gaping canyon on which the other side Utopia could be found.
When the sun rose from the ashes, its burning light paved the way for him. Many years he welcomed the sun, but now it only gave way to what had been. His eyes traced the empty barren lands of which rumours told had been filled with vivid life. Where colour was more than all that he saw, where water ran freely and humans lived with a prosperity and grace. It was unbelievable to his ears, as the elders sat around the camp, whispering their tales of humanity. Often he would ignore their fables, for he knew humanity could not have let this happen. To enable the great plains of water to dry and the lands of green to wither and die. It was not possible, he thought whilst traipsing across the murky clay that now lay underfoot.
Night fell once again, only this time the sky was filled with a burning red. It was the colour of the deepest of flames, illuminating the world in a glow that only unsettled him further. Now he could be seen with ease. Perhaps it would be better to stay put this evening, he thought whilst chewing the bone of some unknown being. Chalk lined his mouth and whitened his cracked lips, but the marrow within tasted of flesh and meat like no other. For a moment he was lost, indulging on the flavours of which this rare item offered him, so much so that he did not register the screams behind him till it was too late. There now in the visible distance, the wall of men and women came hurtling toward him. Their screams emanated across the open lands and their skin fell from their bones as if they were being flayed. With haste he dropped the bone and ran.
It had felt like hours, days since he had stopped. With each step his legs burned with a fury that he had never experienced. His tongue stuck to his cheeks and the roof of his dry, dusty mouth. Beneath the bones within his chest, his heart thudded hungrily for oxygen, his lungs drawing only on the smoke that filled the musky air. Slowly he knew that it was coming to an end, and he slowed to a pace that one would consider to be a walk. Behind closed eyes, the screams neared and he took his final breath.
“Move. Now.”
He opened his eyes with a start. Turning, the mass of yelling bodies neared him, but there was nobody else in sight.
“You are close. Quick.”
It came again, this time deep within himself. Never had he felt such ambition to move in his life. With slow and steady steps, he pushed himself back into a run.
“Faster.”
The voice echoed in his brain, pushing him to move each leg faster. His arms swung quickly by his side. One of the sandals he had fashioned from old leather he had found, slipped from his feet and hurtled behind him. Still, he continued in flaring pain, as his legs shook with a tremendous judder on each step.
“Faster!”
It screamed now, his heart racing and mind jumbling with words and confusion, so much so he wasn’t ready for the ledge that faced him and before he knew it one foot went over and down he went, into the darkness of the valley below.
“He is awake”, a voice came from a shadow hidden in the darkness.
He didn’t know where he was. The only sensation he truly felt was the burning from his thighs and heaving in his chest. Opening his eyes, across from him a fire crackled wildly. The flames and embers trickled upward towards the shimmering starlit sky.
“What is his name?” another voice queried, this one gruffer than the other. It may have belonged to an old and weak man.
“I do not know, he is unlike the others…” the one other voice echoed. It came from a stumpy looking figure whose eyes were hidden beneath the hood of her cloak. It was this voice he recognised from earlier.
“Who are you?” He asked, his voice quivering with nerves. It had been years since he had an opportunity to speak with another being.
They three hooded figures cackled and slumped around the fire.
Standing weakly, his arms & legs a mess of muscle, he moved with a cautiousness a person must hold within the presence of strangers. He noticed that the fire that burned in the pit was not one of normality but in fact held a colour he had never witnessed before.
“Sit, sit, join us please.” A young-sounding woman held her hand toward him. She was beautiful from what he could see beneath her cloak. “Take some food, here” she said, offering him a loaf of what appeared to be fresh bread.
Pathetically he attempted to dampen the bread with his gums. He had not had fresh food since he could remember.
“What is your name, brave man?” the gruff-sounding man asked with an authority.
“Adam” he replied, his eyes warily taking in his surroundings. There was no wall of burning bodies. No screams of pain in the air.
“Adam… of Earth” the elderly-sounding woman grumbled beneath her hood. “We are pleased to have found you, Adam of Earth.”
Carefully he placed the bread between his feet and neared the fire. A chill was creeping up his back. “Who are you, if I may ask?”
The gruff-sounding man waved his arms with a dramatic flair, “We are you!” he shouted. His words reverberated off the walls and away into the nights sky.
“I don’t understand?” he asked, taking the bread to his lips again, sucking on the soft and moist dough.
The young-sounding woman leaned closer and placed a human hand on his knee, “We are you, from before.”
Now he really was confused. How had they survived the desert lands? From living as he had? How then had they found a place in which they could camp, away from the wall of death that had followed him since birth?
“Do not look so surprised. We once found ourselves in your situation many, many years ago” the elderly-sounding woman spoke harshly, her tongue sticking between her teeth. “It is now for us to offer what we can, as did the ones before us offered to ourselves.”
He stood quickly, brushing the young-sounding woman’s hand from his knee, “I do not need your help. I need to find the end of the Earth, to find the peace in which the fables told!”
Each of the hooded figures then began to laugh. It was a harsh cackle that burrowed deep into his ears and pained him in his heart.
“Stop it! Let me on my way!” he shouted, but the laughter continued, digging further and further under his skin, like dirt beneath a fingernail. The young-sounding woman stopped first and stood to join him. The others slowly quietened.
“Where do you think you are, Adam?” she asked, her voice soft. It warmed him, it was caring. It reminded him of his mothers voice. The voice that had sang him to sleep on the dark, terrifying evenings, on which the screams arose. “You are at the Earth’s end. In fact, Adam, you are at the end of your Universe…”
The words made little sense to him. Universe? Was that further than the Earth’s end? He didn’t know how to react, so instead he lowered himself once more to the floor and stared into the mysterious fire before him.
“Your world has fallen Adam, as had ours. It is unfortunately, human nature to destroy all that they desire and care for. It is now our job to pass the chalice on to you, so to speak. To wait at the Universe’s end, in hope that when the humans next destroy their lands, one survives so that we can create the race once again” The gruff-sounding man spoke carefully, his words winding out almost as one. “We now offer you this chance, to give humanity another try. It has been named, the project of Eden.”
Slowly, around him the stone walls in which he had become familiar started to melt away. The hooded figures, any appearances in which they held vanished and now started to twist and change. The floor beneath where he sat disappeared and instead he appeared to float above a number of giant orbs that shifted slowly beneath him. Huge colossal spheres that rotated around a bright shimmering star, all that similar to the one he had hidden from during the days.
Only the fireplace remained central, burning within the middle of the group. Before him, the faceless cloaks now sat facing toward him.
“Let Earth be reborn again.”
“Welcome to the Project of Eden, Adam. Commencing number 847,384 of earths re-population in, five, four, three, two…”
He stood and turned behind him to see the green and blue sphere that gracefully turned. He took a deep breath and faced the fire as the others all glared, blinded and unknowing, and he joined with them, “One.”
Then darkness was replaced with light. | As it turned out, it wasn’t the differences that fascinated and terrified The Three, as they’d come to call themselves those countless eons ago when they met with nothing but a roaring fire and an observation portal. It was the similarities.
From their vantage point at what the youngest of The Three called “The Edge of the Universe” (a joke that never got old, at least to him), they were able to peer in on individual galaxies, solar systems, and planets, and into the hearts of innumerable suns. They saw species born and exterminated, either naturally, accidentally, or by design. They saw struggles for survival, heinous acts of evil and torment, selfless acts of good and heroism, and everything beyond and in between. The collective story of the universe was so compelling that they were unable to look away. But when the oldest of The Three came to a realization, their way of looking at the universe and its infinite wonders changed drastically.
“There’s been no change,” Oldest said grimly, reviewing their data.
“What do you mean?” asked Youngest. “It’s all different from ours!”
“The individual pieces, yes. But the overall story is the same. Nothing has changed. Not even a single improvement thus far.”
“But it’s only been ten billion cycles. Give it time. We could be witnessing something that’s endemic to all universes.”
“Youngest, he’s right,” said Mid, her eyes reflecting the light of a trillion suns. “The instruments play different parts, but the symphony is the same.”
Youngest was stubborn, and he spent the next couple of millennia reviewing everything they had on both their home universe and this one. Eventually, he had to concede.
“I don’t understand it,” Youngest said. “There should be some degree of variation, an evolution of consciousness. It’s as if…” He paused, unable to say what was obvious.
Mid, her voice ever soft and melodious, finished the thought. “It’s as if there’s no transference at all, and this universe retains no memory of ours.”
Oldest nodded sadly. “It’s true. The only memory of our universe exists in us. And when it ends, that will be gone, too.”
Youngest shook his head. “It can’t be. If everything, for all intents and purposes, stays the same, and the universe doesn’t improve or evolve in each iteration, then… then…”
Oldest chuckled mirthlessly. “Then what’s the point? What’s the purpose of the universe at all? Why are we even here, with our unique perspective? What are we meant to witness or to understand?”
Mid gazed once again on the universe, focusing on a solitary galaxy. “It’s begun.”
Oldest and Youngest joined her, seeing what she saw. “Same point in time?” Oldest asked.
Youngest checked the reading and sighed, closing his eyes. “To the femtosecond.”
Mid quirked a smile. “At least it’s in a different place this time.”
Oldest shrugged. “Same species, though, or close enough as to make no difference.”
Youngest leaned against the observation portal. “One accident, and it all ends. Perhaps that’s what we’re supposed to understand. The frailty of life, the razor’s edge on which life exists.”
Oldest nodded. “Perhaps. Perhaps also that good intentions without thorough understanding brings catastrophe.”
Mid tilted her head, watching the universe begin its accelerated demise. “Such tragic beauty. The song plays on to the end.”
The Three stood and held hands as the universe collapsed around them, suns and galaxies crushed and going dark. The final act of the universe was to swallow The Three whole.
Sometime later...
“Who are you?”
“I’m… not sure. Who are you?”
“I don’t know either. Who is she?”
They turned away from the fire they had been facing. The woman was looking out of an observation portal at the brightness and promise of the infant universe. She turned to them, smiling, tears in her eyes.
“Can you hear the song?” |
From the fantastic podcast Welcome to Night Vale, Bonus Episode 4 - Pamela Winchell.
| [WP] On the edge of the known universe is a campfire, and around it are three figures, indistinct and huddling; refugees from the universe before our own. | Nights on the mountain were always a spectacular sight. Stars so numerous you could mistake it for an airy blanket and so numinous you wonder how anyone could ever believe that there is no god. Outlined by the pale silhouettes of northern pines that smother the low rocky ridges, it was truly a spectacular view and one that Morgan would never grow tired of.
She was the last awake as usual, huddling close to the few remaining embers that's snickered on the earthen floor. Enclosed in a ring of stones the fire looked something primal and it pleased the old parts of her brain with its pine cone smell. She had lost track of time in her reverie, staring at nothing but the sky; feeling nothing but the numbness of Tennessee whiskey in her chest and legs. She felt like a river stone, smoothed by centuries of water passing over her face, dulled by the constant and inevitable flow of nature.
They had made their camp at the top of Huskegee Ridge near the southernmost point of the public camp grounds. Any further south and they'd find themselves in the unblemished wilderness of the northern Appalachians, where the lost ghosts of the Oneida and Seneca were said to roam. A wolf howled in the distance, hungry and lonely, though there was no moon tonight.
After a time her reverie was broken by the sound of a slow step. Boots crunching leaves at the rate of a languid heartbeat, *crunch.. crunch.. crunch..* It grew louder to her rear and though Morgan tried to tune it out at first it soon became apparent the she was not alone. She stood from her chair and turned just in time to catch the glimpse of a head pop up over the ridge.
"Who's there?" She asked warily and unconsciously her hand fell to the serrated knife at her hip. With a flick of her thumb the button-catch popped open and she wrapped her fingers around it's leather hilt. Her heart beat quickened and all of the sudden she found that she was keenly aware of how cold the night had grown.
"Only passing through child." Replied a croaky old voice. Following the source she again spotted movement through a dry brush. She was female, far as Morgan could tell. Her voice was low, but lacked baritone, akin to a habitual smoker.
"Come out." She ordered. She didn't like the constant crunch of this trespassers feet.
"I didn't mean to intrude." The woman replied stepping around a tree into sight. She held her arms out at her side. "I was only trying to find my own tent, but I'm afraid I'm lost."
Under the starlight Morgan could only discern base features. A squat appearance, gray knotted hair, a thin neck leading down into a thick coat. Her eyes sparkled like black stars. She was still fiddling her way through an apology.
"I didn't even see your fire till I got close and by then you'd-"
Morgan cut her off, "Don't you have a flashlight?"
The woman paused and looked around, "I'm afraid I lost it a while back. Children took it most likely they always love playing games around Frenik's nook."
Morgan breathed out and let her shoulders relax. Some old lady was lost, nothing to get worked about. Happened all the time in mountain camps and not just to old women. People wander, as per our nature, and in the darkness it's easy to lose one's way. Huskegee Ridge was no exception. People go missing every year trying to conquer some odd geological feature or another. Often time they're found with a broken limb, the mountain can be treacherous, and worse a shattered pride. Morgan chuckled to herself. It was fortunate this woman stumbled on her camp, any further south and she might have fallen down the southern bluffs. Morgan bent over and picked her own flashlight up off the ground. She flicked it on and shone its light at the old woman's grubby boots.
"Frenik's nook you say?" Morgan knew the place. A holler that was more family friendly. And by that she meant RV's and gas powered fire pits. Vacation homes with a touch of wild, just enough for your average middle class Indiana tourist. A pale shadow of real backpacking.
The old woman shuffled her boots in the dirt and said, "Yes, my husband and I set up a place on the hump just above it."
Morgan smiled, "You might be lost then, we're about half a mile from there."
"Oh my." She said aghast.
"What's your name?"
"Helena."
"Let's get you home Helena." Morgan said and with that she set out to guide the lost woman home.
Huskegee Ridge was a moderately small sized camp ground, roughly two square miles. Frenik's nook was in near the front entrance near the center of the park. It rested at the base of two knobby hills. There was a small stream Fren's Run, that cut through it and a lot of the RV lots were positioned next to it. Surrounding it were half a dozen trails that cut up the knobs and crisscrosses the stream on wobbly wooden bridges. Helena explained that she had gone to the front office of the park to request a battery for their lantern, because their only other one had died. On her way back she took a different route cutting through the RV camp and crossing Fren's Run at the top. Morgan explained that, that was where she went wrong. The hill top trail brought her south instead of east to her camp.
She was a kind old lady and spritely too. She kept Morgan's pace with ease and even requested they move faster at one point. With her trusty flashlight Morgan led her back up the trail until they reached a high hill overlook. There Helena stopped and gaped out at the towering mountains to the the east. Bathed in starlight they looked like sleeping giants. Their rocky ridges folded together like a devout priest at prayer.
"Beautiful isn't it." Helena said after a moment.
"Breathtaking." Morgan replied in awe.
"I've never seen more stars than I do when I'm here." Helena replied. "It's like a trillion eyes watching."
"My friends and I love coming out here for that reason. So far from Charlotte... it's good to get away. Cities stink and there is nothing natural about them."
"My husband and I have been coming here for years. We honeymooned here when we got married in 1960. It's a tradition of ours."
"Wow fifty six years. Not bad."
The old woman shrugged. "We got married late, my fault really. I made him wait."
"That a girl." Morgan said chuckling, "How does and old veteran of Huskegee get lost here?"
Helena leaned up against a sign post, said; "I'm a wanderer. I'll admit getting lost tonight wasn't exactly unplanned."
Morgan laughed again. She liked this woman. Together they shared a natural love for the outdoors and a need for adventure.
"Look there." Helena said pointing up.
"What's that?" Morgan asked following Helena's finger up into the sky. She searched the field of stars, but saw nothing of note.
"They might be hard to see." She whispered back and something in her tone reminded Morgan of the chill in the air.
"They?"
"Shh, shh.." she hushed, "Another campfire."
"What?"
"You're a good girl Morgan." Helena said. "Let me let you in on a little secret." The old woman straightened up and stepped closer to Morgan. She felt herself back away slightly and then wondered why she suddenly felt so strange. The alcohol in her system was wearing off and now her skin felt heavy and her mind flat, but there was something else too. Something in the way the old woman now spoke that tugged at her gut.
Helena leaned in and said, "There's only a handful of places on Earth where you can see them."
"Who?" Morgan asked trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach.
"Refugees like us. Up there. Look hard girl and you'll see them. They're awake right now just like us." Helena's black eyes glittered, reflecting the light of innumerable stars. "In the black between the light, just behind that cosmic blue veil. Look." She pointed up again and Morgan looked.
She looked and looked, but her eyes only saw the twinkling like of far-flung, alien suns. After a moment Helena sighed. "You do not see them. That's okay. They are hard to see. But look harder. At the edge of the universe there is a campfire and around it are three figures, indistinct and huddling; refugees from an universe before our own."
"I don't, I don't see them." Morgan said backing away.
"Look." Helena demanded again. Morgan looked, but something about that point in space made her eyes divert. She focused and blinked, but every time they would slide off like an eel over a wet stone. That point of space seemed darker than the rest, less stars, but the absence of the light wasn't what made it so strange. Hot embers smoldered just beyond a twinkling blue sphere. They were stirred and sprites of flame ejected into the void. Then there was something else. For a flicker of a second the light of those sprites was captured in an eye. Perfectly round and black as the bottom of the ocean it's gaze followed the flame sprite as it danced, then flicked towards Morgan. Across the void something connected with her, within her. Her whole body felt electrified and she felt an exchange of something that she couldn't explain. The globulous eye was greedy though and it took more than it gave. Morgan shivered and the old the woman's words echoed in her ear.
"They're awake right now just like us."
The celestial embers cooled again and the eye disappeared. Just as quick as she saw them they were gone, hiding again beneath a blanket of stars. Morgan gasped for breath.
"Helena." She said gasping. "I saw them. I saw-" but she stopped. The old woman was gone and Morgan was alone. Slowly the sounds of nature picked back up around her. An owl hooted. Some small creature skittered over the bark of a tree. A soft breeze ruffled leaves and pine needles alike.
Morgan stood alone at the overlook. The old Appalachians gazed down on her with disapproving eyes and over them the audience of stars watched apathetically. And she felt very, very cold. | The heart of dark is pierced by a light,
A flame that burns, has always burned,
Has illuminated the cosmos since the gears of time began winding.
Seated before the flame are three,
Three who seldom speak, for They fear that of which they must speak.
They speak not of the home They fled,
The home They watched fade and wilt,
Passing as a snowflake on a child's tongue.
They speak not of the light scattered by their fire,
The smoke that has trailed through the black,
Ash and glow spread and coalesced at unfathomable distance.
They speak not of what has come since the flame was lit,
Of the cries They have heard from the furthest reaches of the once-void.
They speak not of the time They answered those cries,
Of the eyes that looked upon Them with terror and awe,
Of the mouths that spoke Their speech, spoke in glory and in scorn,
Of the hands that made crude idols of Them,
Hands that loved and hated, built and destroyed, in the names They were given.
They speak not of fleeing.
They speak not of those names, those chains forged by tongues,
Of the roles which became Them, acclaimed Them, damned them.
They speak not of Father, of Son, of Holy Ghost,
Nor do they speak of us, we who call ourselves their children.
They speak only of the flame, the source of all that fills the heavens,
And They speak of whether it shall continue to burn, or be snuffed out,
And with it all its light darkened,
All its smoke vanished,
And all the cries silenced,
The once void, again. |
[WP] Another world has clashed with ours, but only those who have lost something can find it. Those missing an arm can feel it, those missing an ear can hear it, and those who are blind... | "You hooked up?" Johnson asked his partner, Smith, who nodded. "Let's go."
Traveling to the nether was like ripping your entire body to shreds and then laying each cell back together one by one. The doctors who set up the whole thing had told Johnson and the rest of his squad that their conscious mind would experience being trapped for what would seem like thousands of years. However, the drugs made the memory of the experience go away.
"Alright, we're in," Johnson said. He had to sacrifice hearing anything in the nether so that he could stay hooked in to the radios. He'd relay anything to Smith, who would in turn let Johnson know if he heard anything. "Readout says one click northeast, our target is a seven year old girl, white skin, brown hair and eyes," Johnson told Smith as the operator told it to him. "Forty two inches and about fifty pounds."
Smith gave Johnson a hand signal that meant a patrol was ahead. He hung back while Smith crossed a street and took cover behind some rubble. The nether was a dark place. It was like the real world, but everything was slower and you could taste the evil on your tongue. No people lived here, only monsters who were jealous of humans for the lives they had - anti-humans was the semi-official name. They saw what humans built, and wanted it for themselves.
"Two hundred meters at thirty two degrees," Johnson relayed to Smith. The anti-humans had captured the girl and brought her there. Johnson and Smith were there to rescue her. "Almost there."
***
"It's unnatural!" a protester shouted.
Another said, "You're mind-controlling people!"
"Please, be at ease," Dr. Graham told the crowd who had barged into his office. He was in charge of Nether Entry Operations, and was at that moment waiting for security to save him from those who had broken into the building. "Everyone here is a volunteer. It's safe. Joe Fisk," a random name, "is blind. He came to me because he had nightmares of the Nether. You don't understand what it's like to see it all of the time. Joe does. I put implants in his eyes that make it so that he can't see the Nether. That's all we do. We make it so that those who have lost a sense, or a body part, can feel whole and natural again."
"I heard that you all use them! You use them so you can see into the Nether, and don't get their permission!"
*Oh, if only they knew how much more we really do,* Dr. Graham thought. "That's a rumor and a lie, I can assure you. Ah, what's this?" It was feigned surprise. Security had arrived and began taking people away.
Soon it was quiet again. Dr. Graham sat down at his desk, rubbed his head, and had a sip of tea. Julia Victor walked in the room at the same moment he finally felt peace.
"We have a problem," she said.
"What problem? The latest mission, how did it go?"
"Johnson and Smith are fine and they retrieved the girl without a problem. We're wiping her memory before we return her to her parents. Don't want any of the details getting out, after all."
"Right. And the problem, then?
"Mr. Fisk, one of our most reliable surrogates, has said that he is starting to see the Nether again. We looked at the data and he's seeing what our squads are seeing."
Dr. Graham didn't need to remind Julia that total secrecy was necessary. If they had to get the permission of every deaf, dumb, limbless, blind person to use their implants, which allowed third parties to use the senses that were lost in the Nether...it would take fifty people just send a single squad. The cost of compensating them, the secrets that would get out...it simply could not be allowed to happen.
"We've considered telling him that we can take the implant out. He doesn't want that, to see the Nether all the time, even though it can't hurt him, is too much for him. The only other way for us to cure it is to stop using him as a surrogate."
"No, not an option."
"Then what?"
Dr. Graham took a deep breath. He had known what he was getting into when he entered this line of work, but never got used to it. "Bring him for tests. Tell him we're working on fixing it, and we'll find a cure soon. Not too much the first time. He'll get used to it."
"But we know tests won't work. It won't do anything useful."
"Exactly."
Julia stared at Dr. Graham for more than a few seconds, and neither said anything. "Alright," she finally said. "I just..."
"You can resign. That's an option, you know."
"No. I'll do it. I'll call him myself."
"Good." Dr. Graham watched her leave and wondered what kind of world he was creating. Still, it was surely better than the Nether. | Dr. Medler turns off his flashlight. "Classic case of Charles Bonnet syndrome."
Mrs. Graham's facial features tighten. The doctor takes a small step closer. He enjoys being a walking, talking Xanax for these neurotic housewives. It's all Munchausen by proxy, anyway. Take this case-- the incidence of hallucinations in children under twelve is miniscule.
"Don't you worry, Mrs. Graham. It's very common among the recently blind. Daniel here is just adjusting, that's all. Your son's hallucinations will be gone in a matter of days."
Mrs. Graham nods weakly. "Nothing you can prescribe to help him? I told you how he screams in the middle of the night. Doctor, it's so upsetting."
Dr. Medler laughs, with all the warmth his amphibian heart can muster. "Nothing at all, except some over the counter sleep aids. Ask your pharmacist what he has in stock."
Mrs. Graham thanks Dr. Medler with a handshake, then helps Daniel up off of the exam table. When he takes his mother's hand, his grasp is so tight that her fingers start to swell. Dr. Medler watches Mrs. Graham lead her son to the door, smiling through the obvious pain.
As they turn the corner, Dr. Medler hears Daniel speak for the first time.
"The army men will go away, Mommy?"
Dr. Medler frowns. He crosses off "Charles Bonnet syndrome" on his report and replaces it with "mass hysteria". Third diagnosis that day. | |
[WP] Another world has clashed with ours, but only those who have lost something can find it. Those missing an arm can feel it, those missing an ear can hear it, and those who are blind... | When I was young, my grandma used to say that if you listened to the sound of the wind at night, you could hear the other world. This world was nothing like ours. There were no railroads, no cars or planes there; but it was nevertheless a world worth living in. Grandma had been there once as a little girl, or so she claimed. She couldn’t see anything. We would lie on my bed with the window open when summer grew too hot to bear. She would run her fingers through my hair, and I would listen in to her past.
“I could hear them, you know,” she said. “For a moment I thought my ears had become unblocked.” See, when she was a kid, she had strayed too close to a firecracker. The thing had gone off practically under her nose. The scarring on her face grew better, but her hearing never recovered. “I’d not heard anything since the firecracker, so I decided to keep on walking.”
“What did you hear?” I asked, whenever I didn’t fall asleep.
“Not much,” she replied. “It was like being in a shop, see – but they were selling magical spells. Ten gold pieces for a levitation charm. Twenty for temperature – ah, but you’re falling asleep again,” she finished. “Come on now, let’s get you home.”
When I went to ask Mom about it she rubbished everything.
“Honey, I love your grandma, but she’s starting to age,” Mom said. “There’s nothing good that can come from this.”
But I was curious. I didn’t usually disobey my mother, but this time I couldn’t help it. My mind would not leave me alone. A lot of times I played with the idea of popping out one of my eyes so I could see this other world. I didn’t try it, though, because I knew it would hurt, and if there’s one thing that kids can be conditioned to do, it is to avoid the pain. My mind overruled my heart.
That summer, Grandma moved herself to a nursing home. Mom signed the papers, I waved goodbye to her, and I put all her stories behind me. There were other things to learn, places to see. I dreamed not of the world beyond ours. And as I grew older it started to fade like the warmth of a summer’s night.
And then, of course, I lost an eye.
---
The tragedy was mundane. As far as disasters go, I was lucky that it wasn’t worse. Who would have known that getting into a stolen car with a drunk driver was a bad idea?
When I came around, both my knees were broken, and my jaw was shattered – but the major concern was my right eye. I thought it would feel terrible, losing an eye – but I didn’t feel anything at all when the doctors came for me. I don’t remember much. Morphine is one hell of a drug. My mom had to tell me to stop pressing the button, that I was going to not only be blinded in one eye, but wind up a destitute addict at this rate. *Yeah, thanks Mom*, I thought. *Real useful time to put me down.*
I left the hospital with the patch over my eye. The doctors said, if I were lucky, it might recover partially. I tried, believe me, but my eye stubbornly refused to see. As punishment for sucking at being an eye, it was removed and replaced with a much nicer eyeball that didn’t see either, but had the distinct advantage of giving me blue and black eyes.
Blue and black eyes, I muttered to myself as I slowly turned over on my bed. Try blue and black everywhere, you idiot girl – what the fuck were you thinking?
It was too late now, of course, but still I regretted the loss. Ah well. At least it would give me a cool-looking eyepatch to wear to school and the sympathy of my classmates for the rest of the year.
It was there, when I was on my bed again, that I saw a flash.
It had been close to nothing. Just the sun coming out from behind a cloud. But I knew a clue when I saw one. Grimly, I tried to push myself up – my recovering legs burning – and then I saw it again.
“Who are you?” I asked.
All the memories came flooding back. I saw smoke start to arise from my wooden floor. Fire!
I screamed, but then the scream died in my throat, and a smoky, wispy figure appeared before me.
“You can see us now,” it said. “Don’t be afraid, child – we can help you.”
“I’m not a kid,” I stammered. “And you can’t help me – I’m blind in one eye.”
“Oh, you’ll see,” she said. “We make the broken whole. This is why only those who have lost something can find us. We can restore your sight to you…for a price.”
I gulped. “Show me the way,” I said.
The shadows smiled. “Don’t you recognise me?” she asked.
I knew suddenly. I gasped.
“Grandma?” I asked.
“Yes, child,” she smiled. In this guise she looked all of twenty years old, beautifully balanced on her heels. “Don’t worry, I’m not dead – yet. But I can help you if you want.”
My lip quivered. The pit of my stomach turned and burrowed into me. “Show me this world,” I said. “Show me what I can do.”
| I woke up, and I could see. And for the first time in my life, I wished I could not.
When I closed my eyes, my vision did not end. The horrors remained. My blind eyes took in everything, and as I screamed I felt the world scream with me.
I felt their judgement. Their disregard. They loomed over me, eyes piercing, burning. And yet, as I felt their gaze, something told me I had nothing to fear.
A hand glided over me, shutting my eyes. And when I opened them, they were gone. All the horror and violence was gone. But everything else remained.
And as I blinked, I realised I could see.
*Truly* see. | |
[WP] Another world has clashed with ours, but only those who have lost something can find it. Those missing an arm can feel it, those missing an ear can hear it, and those who are blind... | I walk beside a girl on a wheelchair. She's young, barely fourteen or fifteen. Her arms are thin and layered with veins like spider webs. Her hair is thin with bald batches. She stares straight ahead with a look of pure determination.
She reminds me of my daughter. That girl never gave up on anything.
I turn my head forward. The view of the Gateway never fails to take my breath away. A giant sphere of light hovers before us, less than a mile away. It shimmers in the setting sun, casting a rainbow hue around its edges like a soap bubble. It pulses gently, almost as if it’s breathing.
*Inhale. Exhale.* I suddenly notice that I’m breathing in time with its rhythm. The Gateway has a special effect on people like us. I’ve never felt so calm in a long time. *Not since the failed surgery.*
These spheres began appearing all over the world two weeks ago. The curious thing is this – only people who have lost something could see them. People who lost their leg, or their sense of hearing, or an internal organ. Last week, someone figured out what they were – gateways to another world. They emitted light and sound in a wavelength only certain people could sense. People like us.
*Inhale. Exhale.*
Two days ago, a message was deciphered from the frequency of the spheres' pulses: “*Enter to find what you've lost.*” All over the world, the deaf, dumb, amputated – anyone who has lost a part of themselves began streaming into the spheres, hoping for salvation.
Salvation.
I stare dead ahead. A gateway. A second chance.
I clutch her photo in my hand.
*I'm coming, baby.*
| I woke up, and I could see. And for the first time in my life, I wished I could not.
When I closed my eyes, my vision did not end. The horrors remained. My blind eyes took in everything, and as I screamed I felt the world scream with me.
I felt their judgement. Their disregard. They loomed over me, eyes piercing, burning. And yet, as I felt their gaze, something told me I had nothing to fear.
A hand glided over me, shutting my eyes. And when I opened them, they were gone. All the horror and violence was gone. But everything else remained.
And as I blinked, I realised I could see.
*Truly* see. | |
[WP] Another world has clashed with ours, but only those who have lost something can find it. Those missing an arm can feel it, those missing an ear can hear it, and those who are blind... | I walk beside a girl on a wheelchair. She's young, barely fourteen or fifteen. Her arms are thin and layered with veins like spider webs. Her hair is thin with bald batches. She stares straight ahead with a look of pure determination.
She reminds me of my daughter. That girl never gave up on anything.
I turn my head forward. The view of the Gateway never fails to take my breath away. A giant sphere of light hovers before us, less than a mile away. It shimmers in the setting sun, casting a rainbow hue around its edges like a soap bubble. It pulses gently, almost as if it’s breathing.
*Inhale. Exhale.* I suddenly notice that I’m breathing in time with its rhythm. The Gateway has a special effect on people like us. I’ve never felt so calm in a long time. *Not since the failed surgery.*
These spheres began appearing all over the world two weeks ago. The curious thing is this – only people who have lost something could see them. People who lost their leg, or their sense of hearing, or an internal organ. Last week, someone figured out what they were – gateways to another world. They emitted light and sound in a wavelength only certain people could sense. People like us.
*Inhale. Exhale.*
Two days ago, a message was deciphered from the frequency of the spheres' pulses: “*Enter to find what you've lost.*” All over the world, the deaf, dumb, amputated – anyone who has lost a part of themselves began streaming into the spheres, hoping for salvation.
Salvation.
I stare dead ahead. A gateway. A second chance.
I clutch her photo in my hand.
*I'm coming, baby.*
| Amy came bursting through the front door. “Mom! Grandpa is acting strange again! Come help!”
Debora was in the middle of cooking dinner. She quickly put the rolls in the oven, and ran out to the front porch to check on her father.
The old man had been sitting in his favorite rocking chair, enjoying the birds singing while watching the setting sun, at least that was where Debora would leave him while needing to work on something around the house. She loved her father, and had decided to care for him as best as she could during the remainder of his life under her roof. Lately though, she was beginning to think he may do better in a care facility.
When she got to the porch, her father was out in the front yard, eyes closed and arms outstretched as if embracing an invisible dance partner, slowly dancing to an unheard rhythm. She watched, and remembered simpler times. Times when she was a little girl, and would sneak out of bed and watch her parents slow dance in the living room to the old radio. She hadn’t seen her father dance since mom passed away.
She quietly went down into the yard, grabbed her father’s hands, and proceeded to dance with him. A tear began to streak the old man’s face. “Suzy… is that really you? I’ve missed you so much.”
Debora began to shed a tear. “Mom isn’t here anymore, remember?”
He shook his head. “No, I hear her. Her angelic voice is coming in loud and clear.” He tapped his right ear. “It sounds so crystal clear.”
Debora put her forehead on her dad’s chest. “Daddy, are you feeling alright? You haven’t had hearing in that ear since your war days.”
He began to hum along with the inaudible tune. Deborah began to cry. It was a lullaby her mom would sing to her every night. Memories began to flood back to her, and they were becoming unbearable. “Daddy, why are you doing this?”
The old man opened his eyes, stopped dancing, and took a step back. “I’m sorry for making you cry…” He then froze and examined his daughters face. “I’m sorry miss… have we met before?”
| |
[WP]The dark lord has been preparing a long time for the boy of prophesy and his group of bright eyed companions, and not the hulking armored veteran surrounded by scarred soldiers currently breaking into the castle. | This is my first attempt at public writing so take it as such:
"Any day now... Any day those fools will come to oppose me." The man anxiously muttered as he paced the dark marble floors of his throne room. He was old for his people, nearing the age of 45 and having seen his fair share of battle looked closer to 60. Despite his age it was clear he was a man of immense power and influence; he stood tall amongst men at the towering height of 6 feet and must have weighed roughly 190 pounds of solid muscle.
His thoughts we're interrupted by the loud crashing of the doors and the shouting of his second in command, Napoleo. Napoleo in contrast to his master was short (only being 4' 6" tall) and quite stout which often made him the butt of his comrades jokes. "LORD PARENTHAS, LORD PARENTHAS THEY ARE HERE, THE HOUR IS UPON US...IVE DISPATCHED THE HOOOOORDE" crooned Napoleo to the darkened figure now sitting calmly in his Ebon Throne. After a short exchange Napoleo escorted the king to his royal balcony so that he might personally watch the charming hero boy and his band of merry men meet their demise at the hands of Parenthas' Horde.
Now compared to your average group of men The Horde was quite unnerving. The Horde was cohort of 1000 men wearing twisted black chainmail adorned with skulls signifying the amount of souls each man had taken. Each man was considered the equal of 10 normal men in battle and when they fought together this doubled to 20, they had fought in quite a few battles and served as the Dark Lord's personal assault force (and as it turned out his castle guard). They stood now as a turbulent night sky a mix of black and white writhing in anticipation of the battle to come; facing them stood a band of 30 men.
"This isn't right at all...there are only 30 of them... And they don't look merry and young." a slightly disturbed Parenthas points out to his SIC (second in command). "The prophecy was wrong about them, there are only 30 so I'm not too worried but I don't like being wrong..." He started but was quickly interrupted by the screeching voice of his comrade.
"They are pretty fucking scary sir, I don't blame you for being worried... I mean look at those bastards... I wouldn't want to be the group fighting them." (Napoleo wasn't the smartest of men and didn't quite understand what was going on.)
The reason both of these men felt a sense of dread come upon them despite the insane 1000 to 30 man matchup was the makeup of those 30 men. Each and every one of them was adorned in pearl white plate and wielded a large blade and tower shield. The collective weight of one of these men's gear would have been around 150 pounds yet they seemed to move as if wearing nothing at all (stretching and warming up of course). Even more imposing was their leader, the bright eyed boy, or so he should have been.
Instead of a young boy with eyes full of hope there stood a mountain of a man who's eye was darker than the pits of hell he must have crawled out of. The man stood a ridiculous 8 feet in height and was closer in weight and form to a Gorilla than human; he had long (supposedly white) hair so matted with blood it held firm despite strong gusts of wind coming from the hills behind the castle. A long braided beard draped low across his chest and he was covered from neck down in armor so thick he looked as solid as a wall.
His arms were as thick as a mans torso and both seemed to pulsate unnaturally as if they had independent minds. In one of his massive hands he held a gnarled winged spear tipped with an obsidian blade ; his other hand was positioned in a gesture of insult aimed towards the dark lord far in the distance. His one remaining eye fixed on the face of the man who had slaughtered his people and ravaged the land he called home.
These details were all noted by Parenthas (using his binoculars) who began to try and reassure himself. "We're very far away and have a lot of men so there's no need to worry-" The strange men began to shout and scream drowning out all thought inside his head and silencing his tongue. He looked back to his men in an attempt to reassure himself.
Down on the field the men grew louder and more chaotic in their chanting. They seemed to be preparing for something, the Horde believed it was an intimidation tactic (which was working as they began to shake noticeably across the field, chainmail clinking as a sign of their terror) but that was not its purpose. They were singing songs of their past, of deeds they had done and terrors Parenthas had wrought on their people, they were remembering, they were preparing....they were making their leader angry.
These songs unlocked past memories from when he was a child, of the fields he cared for with his brothers and sisters, the dinners with his family, his bright eyes and hopes for the world- his ignorant belief that all would end well. At this a tear began to well in his one remaining eye, not of sadness or joy, not of pain- but of an unadulterated rage. He channeled this rage as a seething torrent and emptied it into his limbs, his arms trembled at the immeasurable power they had just received. He slowly brought his ancient spear back- a master practicing his form... And with an unholy roar hurled his weapon towards the Dark Lord perched high above the field. As the huge spear hurled towards the unsuspecting lord the beast looked back at his men and faced contorted with anger screaming " We are the dead, we are the lost, we are retribution, we stand for those who have fallen, LET US FIGHT!!!!".
The last sight Parenthas ever beheld was of 30 men charging at 1000. The last word he heard was retribution...for the spear hurled from afar struck true. The devil had collected his due.
| As the last of his minions fell, the Dark Lord known only as Saal stood fuming atop his star-studded throne. "This is inconceivable!" he screamed. "Every trap I had set was perfect for the boy! And you've ruined it all!"
The tall, burly man yanked his halberd out of the corpse he mutilated, recounting his butcher days before being turned to compete in this war. "I was a boy once," he said gruffly under his steel helmet. With a sweep of his arm, he pointed to the sweating veterans around and added, "We all were. Maybe that prophecy you were thinking of was a few years off."
"Impossible!" Saal hissed back, readying a spell in his palms. "Even if you are the Chosen One, those traps should have killed you regardless! You have arrows sticking out of your armor, for hell's sake!"
The former butcher looked down and nodded. "Yeah, probably. But I've been through worse. Since that prophecy was handed down, the people scrambled to find the hero. They ain't figured that all it had to take was a butcher's son who was tired of yer bullshit and a few years with some the best military men the country had ta offer."
This made Saal seethe even more with rage. He blasted the small militia with a ball of dark energy, knocking down a few of the soldiers but only keeping two of them down.
"No! I've spent over a decade preparing for this day!" the sorcerer yelled in anguish. "Everything was set up perfectly for the Chosen One! For his joyful companions that followed his every move! How was I so wrong?!"
In his fit of rage and frustration, he hadn't noticed the armored fighter stepping up to him until he was nearly cleaved in half. The golden throne behind him took the slice instead.
The fighter stared at the stumbling Dark Lord with discontent and disinterest. "Well, good thing your time's up. Can't make anymore mistakes dead, now can ya?" | |
[WP]The dark lord has been preparing a long time for the boy of prophesy and his group of bright eyed companions, and not the hulking armored veteran surrounded by scarred soldiers currently breaking into the castle. | “They’re approaching, my lord,” the garrison commander called from doorway of the throne room. “I’m dispatching the riders now.”
“Good,” the Dark Lord replied, turning to face his man. He was tall and imposing and his deep voice echoed coldly off the stone walls. “Make sure they catch them in the open. I’d like to watch from the tower. I’ve waited a long time for this.”
“Yes, my lord,” the commander said, and backed out of the room.
He walked at a brisk officer’s pace down the hall and across the castle yard to the garrison stables. He’d heard the prophecy, too—they’d all heard it a thousand times. The Dark Lord was obsessed with it. *The boy and his bright-eyed companions and their drums of thunder.* Music? That’s what was threatening the realm? It seemed incredible. Tonight, finally, they would know.
Twelve heavy riders stood their mounts at the portcullis gate, heavy plate armor burnished dark and gold-colored in the torchlight. Their grim helmets had eye-slits but no others, their ears pricked to deafness at birth, their mouths silent. This the Dark Lord and his sorcerer’s defense against whatever sinister rhythm they were about to face. Each had an iron-tipped lance and a small shield and a longsword at his side. The horses were magnificent: heavy drafts, mean and warlike. White and grey with sharp-edged steel shoes glinting, painted fearful designs on their forelegs and armor on their faces, ears cropped, like their riders living a life of brutal but silent war.
With a great clanking the portcullis began to lift. The horses stamped and snorted, hot steaming breath venting in the night chill. Behind them were several companies of foot, pikemen and swordsmen, deaf and speechless to a man. Deaf to the cries of their enemies these many years and deaf to the prophesied drums of this fateful night.
The garrison commander climbed to the parapet and looked out onto the plain just as the heavy cavalry bolted across the drawbridge and onto the grass, exalting in the sprint, finally released from the tension of waiting, oblivious to their own thunderous hoofbeats. A quarter-mile distant the small band of invaders stood in an odd formation, he thought, and though the moon was full he could not make out the details of their dress or arms. Four or five of them stood in the center of the plain, one taller than the others, each holding an odd torch of blue-white light. His heart pounded along with the receding war-gallop of the horsemen. Then the lights winked out in an instant. The moonlight faltered and failed behind a cloudbank and he could see nothing.
And then another galloping sound—no, drumbeats, impossibly fast, sharp, ringing, and a white-hot strobe of light from the right and left of the field. From the invaders and from prone figures he’d not seen on the flanks came blasts of staccato thunder timed with white flashes and intermittent ropes of orange light reaching out to converge and cut his horsemen down. It was over in three seconds. Wounded horses and men screamed weirdly with their unused tongues and the band of attackers, invisible, must have moved up and they silenced each man and horse in turn with a single small thunderclap.
This was bad. This was really bad.
* * *
“Okay boys, here they come,” the staff sergeant said softly into his throat mic as he adjusted his NVGs. “Check your mags and your fields of fire. Manage your ammo.”
There was a general rattling of kit as each man put in a fresh magazine and tightened his gear. They spread out, finding rocks and variations in the topography to crouch behind.
A solid column of men poured out of the castle gate two hundred yards distant and moved onto the plain. At a hundred yards he could make out their faces in the bright green electronic daylight of his goggles. Could see their eyes searching the dark in vain. They did not speak to each other. No barked commands. He centered the red dot of his sight on the nearest, a young man with an old iron breastplate and a wicked-looking halberd, and squeezed off a round. His carbine jumped a little with the recoil and he felt the bolt chunk into battery again and his ears rang even with the electronic comms earplugs in place. He heard the whang of the bullet punching through the iron armor and the man collapsed in a clattering heap. None of the other footmen seemed to hear the shot. His men did, though, and at this signal, gunfire became general. He heard the 249s on both flanks open up again and hot orange tracers cut through the ranks of soldiers which melted before this withering steel and lead and it was all over in less than a minute. White powdersmoke drifted gently across the plain.
The staff sergeant got to his feet, a little awkward in his kevlar and plate carrier, which as usual were too small for his bulk. He was used to it by now.
“To the gate! Go! Go!”
* * *
A half-mile distant, the boy watched this through his binoculars, lying prone on a hilltop at the edge of the woods. The gunfire was a general rumble at this distance, but this much death was still unpleasant, and besides, he hated not being there with the men.
But he had his job to do and the men counted on him. In fact he did his job so well they’d placed him in this unit at just sixteen years old. He watched as the last of the footmen fell and the staff sergeant got up and began running toward the castle gate.
“Okay,” his spotter said beside him, softly. “Showtime.”
He settled behind his rifle, readjusting his cheek on the stock three times in the manner of an unconscious ritual, a focusing compulsion.
“Target, ten meters to the right of the gate, on the wall,” the spotter said.
He took a deep breath and held it and then let it leak out slowly as he found the target, an archer at full draw on the parapet. The crosshair bobbed subtly with his own heartbeat.
“On him,” he said.
“Fire.”
His finger took up the trigger’s slack by fractions of an ounce until the rifle rocked him back and the boom echoed across the plain.
“Hit. Good hit,” his spotter said. “Target: on the wall, twenty meters left.”
He shifted the rifle over. Looked like an officer.
* * *
The garrison commander couldn’t believe it. His entire command was wiped out. He didn’t understand. The prophesied band of bright-eyed companions wore bulky yet soft green armor, ludicrous in its appearance, not shiny, not fearsome—but they moved impossibly fast. They carried no swords or lances but instead small black instruments of some kind, held across their bodies in both hands, occasionally stopping to raise them to their shoulders and issue another deafening blast at which another archer would fall. No arrows touched them. Their helmets hid their eyes and they were alien and terrifying.
An archer to his right fell hard onto the stone, and rolled over, blood pouring from his silent mouth, eyes wide. An instant later a single boom of thunder rolled over him.
“What is this?” he screamed into the night.
* * *
The Dark Lord watched from his darkened tower in disbelief as the attackers neared and he could make them out. Children these are not. The thunder was unlike any music he could have imagined and his men had fallen before its power like wheat before a scythe, despite their inability to hear it.
He clenched his fists on the stone sill. His archers were falling, each oblivious to the thunderous death of the others until it was his turn. He could see the garrison commander standing alone now, panicked, his ears open to the terror that surrounded him, the screams, the thunder that became sharper and painfully loud as it reverbed off the stone walls. Then he, too, dropped, mouth and eyes wide, legs crumpled weirdly beneath his body.
A flickering torchglow in the tower chamber turned the Dark Lord around. His sorcerer.
“My lord,” the sorcerer said. “You must flee! Come!”
“You!” the Dark Lord thundered. Here was the man who’d interpreted the prophecy, who had decreed that deafening the entire garrison would protect them from the drumbeats of this boy and his bright-eyed band.
The Dark Lord seemed to grow even larger in his rage and he took hold of the false sorcerer’s robes and with a great twisting heave he threw him, howling, through the open window to the courtyard below. He picked up the dropped torch and stood at the window as the invaders, led by the largest, stepped through the gate and into the castle courtyard. He could see now that they were men of some kind, huge and grizzled, beards and black paint on their faces. Alien weapons and instruments hung about them. The leader wore a grimace and was smeared with blood, and smoke poured evilly from his mouth and nose.
* * *
“Sarge’s got his cigar lit,” the spotter said. The boy could hear the grin in his voice.
“Stay focused,” the boy said. “There’ll be more of them.”
“Shit—target. In the southwest tower. Window’s all lit up.”
“On him,” the boy said and swung the rifle over. It was just a silhouette holding a torch, but the boy knew who it was as his finger moved to the trigger. “On target.”
“Take him,” said the spotter.
| As the last of his minions fell, the Dark Lord known only as Saal stood fuming atop his star-studded throne. "This is inconceivable!" he screamed. "Every trap I had set was perfect for the boy! And you've ruined it all!"
The tall, burly man yanked his halberd out of the corpse he mutilated, recounting his butcher days before being turned to compete in this war. "I was a boy once," he said gruffly under his steel helmet. With a sweep of his arm, he pointed to the sweating veterans around and added, "We all were. Maybe that prophecy you were thinking of was a few years off."
"Impossible!" Saal hissed back, readying a spell in his palms. "Even if you are the Chosen One, those traps should have killed you regardless! You have arrows sticking out of your armor, for hell's sake!"
The former butcher looked down and nodded. "Yeah, probably. But I've been through worse. Since that prophecy was handed down, the people scrambled to find the hero. They ain't figured that all it had to take was a butcher's son who was tired of yer bullshit and a few years with some the best military men the country had ta offer."
This made Saal seethe even more with rage. He blasted the small militia with a ball of dark energy, knocking down a few of the soldiers but only keeping two of them down.
"No! I've spent over a decade preparing for this day!" the sorcerer yelled in anguish. "Everything was set up perfectly for the Chosen One! For his joyful companions that followed his every move! How was I so wrong?!"
In his fit of rage and frustration, he hadn't noticed the armored fighter stepping up to him until he was nearly cleaved in half. The golden throne behind him took the slice instead.
The fighter stared at the stumbling Dark Lord with discontent and disinterest. "Well, good thing your time's up. Can't make anymore mistakes dead, now can ya?" | |
[WP]The dark lord has been preparing a long time for the boy of prophesy and his group of bright eyed companions, and not the hulking armored veteran surrounded by scarred soldiers currently breaking into the castle. | "Alchemists have it wrong," said the King to his eldest son, "always looking for ways to transmute things into gold. They have it backwards." The Prince shifted his weight in his chair, getting comfortable; he knew he'd be sitting awhile. His father wasn't an overly verbose man, but was always trying to share what wisdom he'd gained. "A creative man thinks of all the things gold can turn into, not turning things into gold. Did I ever tell you how I beat the Dark Lord?"
"It's the most commonly told story in our entire Kingdom," the Prince said cautiously. "You raised an army of commoners, personally trained them, and managed to defeat a professional army at their own capital. The sheer audacity of it-- it's why the people gave you your crown."
The King grinned at his son. "Audacity? No, my boy. The deck was stacked in my favor from the very beginning. As I was saying, there are so many things you can create with gold. The Dark Lord never saw me coming. That's why I won-- he was looking in another direction. I started laying the foundation of his demise years before I started raising my army. I never would've gotten away with training a peasant militia under the Dark Lord's nose otherwise."
The Prince sat up straighter. There's a certain rush that comes from revelation, and he was feeling it, together with pride at being let in on his father's secrets. He voiced the obvious question. "You turned his attention elsewhere with gold, then? How?" "Priests. Bards. Scribes. Even lawyers. See, the Dark Lord was not a superstitious man. But he based his power on the superstition of his supporters, and the people in general. 'Dark Lord'." The King smirked at the title. "It seems silly in hindsight, but he really had people, even the classically educated, thinking he had some kind of mystical power. They were terrified! All because he'd created a myth. A narrative. That was his power. The loose thread that needed one good tug."
The younger royal gave the elder his rapt attention. Though eager, the boy was not without insight. The King, his father, was about to tell him how he dismantled the myth of the Dark Lord. In so doing, he would dismantle his own myth. The throne was built on tales of heroism and valor, of courage in the face of an impossible foe. Instead, it seemed, there would be a tale of cunning and foresight, of trickery and bribes. The child in him was disappointed. The man he was growing into was full of pride at being so completely in the King's trust.
"You've heard of a prophesy, that a boy sorcerer that would usurp the throne?" asked the King. "Yes," answered the Prince, "a hundred years old, written during the times of plenty. It told of a boy and his young friends who would overthrow a tyrant." "It's not a hundred years old. More like twenty, now." A few years older than the Prince. The King continued, "I paid many people to create that myth. Making it appear retroactively in the Church's doctrine... expensive. Falsifying 'old' scrolls, cheap. Lawyers to verify whatever I wanted verified? Shockingly cheap. Bards, minstrels, to sew seeds of rebellion by giving the people hope?" The King shrugged. "They were looking for a savior in every schoolyard. The important thing is that they began to believe the Dark Lord's days were numbered. The Dark Lord didn't have to believe the prophesy-- he had to protect his own myth, his own lie. So he started obsessing over controlling it. Putting out the fires I started. Expending more time, coin, and attention than I did. Treating the symptoms, but ignorant of the true nature of the disease."
"This gave me time to train an army. He was looking for the people to raise up some boy hero. Of course the Dark Lord could have crushed such an enemy. But he was growing paranoid. The more the songs of the prophesy spread, the more fearless people got. They began to defy him openly, clinging to the idea of the boy hero. The more he cracked down, the more defiant they got. Granted, their defiance was... encouraged.
Training an army to do one specific thing is a luxury most don't get. With a little gold, we were able to specialize in one thing: taking the stronghold and killing the Dark Lord. We paid his quartermasters, stable masters, and cooks. We paid the masons, smiths, the carpenters. Every man had a specific role. Time was on our side, and our enemy didn't know we existed. There was no reason to attack until victory was assured. We spent *years* stacking the deck in our favor. Turning gold into advantages of every kind. All while the Dark Lord's attention was on stamping out some prophesy. A boy hero. Ha."
"No, it was me and five thousand men-at-arms who stormed the castle. It was over in minutes. The Dark Lord never got an explanation-- just a quick death. You know the rest of the story, I expect."
The Prince had one burning question that had been bothering him this whole time. "Father... where did you get all this gold? How did you pay for all these things?"
"That's a story for another time."
| As the last of his minions fell, the Dark Lord known only as Saal stood fuming atop his star-studded throne. "This is inconceivable!" he screamed. "Every trap I had set was perfect for the boy! And you've ruined it all!"
The tall, burly man yanked his halberd out of the corpse he mutilated, recounting his butcher days before being turned to compete in this war. "I was a boy once," he said gruffly under his steel helmet. With a sweep of his arm, he pointed to the sweating veterans around and added, "We all were. Maybe that prophecy you were thinking of was a few years off."
"Impossible!" Saal hissed back, readying a spell in his palms. "Even if you are the Chosen One, those traps should have killed you regardless! You have arrows sticking out of your armor, for hell's sake!"
The former butcher looked down and nodded. "Yeah, probably. But I've been through worse. Since that prophecy was handed down, the people scrambled to find the hero. They ain't figured that all it had to take was a butcher's son who was tired of yer bullshit and a few years with some the best military men the country had ta offer."
This made Saal seethe even more with rage. He blasted the small militia with a ball of dark energy, knocking down a few of the soldiers but only keeping two of them down.
"No! I've spent over a decade preparing for this day!" the sorcerer yelled in anguish. "Everything was set up perfectly for the Chosen One! For his joyful companions that followed his every move! How was I so wrong?!"
In his fit of rage and frustration, he hadn't noticed the armored fighter stepping up to him until he was nearly cleaved in half. The golden throne behind him took the slice instead.
The fighter stared at the stumbling Dark Lord with discontent and disinterest. "Well, good thing your time's up. Can't make anymore mistakes dead, now can ya?" | |
[WP]The dark lord has been preparing a long time for the boy of prophesy and his group of bright eyed companions, and not the hulking armored veteran surrounded by scarred soldiers currently breaking into the castle. | Everything was in place. Fifteen years ago the Dark Lord had cut down the boy's father with the Shadowblade, fifteen years ago he had heard the infant's cries as he left the traumatized mother and known that this day would come.
The prophecy had foretold that his ultimate foe would be the son of the man he killed with the Shadowblade on the Night of the half moon in Winter's End, who fifteen years later would come to avenge his father against the Dark Lord. He could have chosen anyone to kill that night, he might have even tried to cheat the prophecy by trying hard to avoid killing that night, but he was not such a foolish Dark Lord to try to cheat a prophecy. No, he had allowed the prophecy to be fulfilled, after choosing the most non threatening child possible, the son of some farmer, what was his name, something forgettable, John, maybe Steven Chapman.
For fifteen years the Dark Lord's minions had kept watchful eyes on the boy, a sickly, weak child who could not lift a sword, could barley ride a horse, and who's passion was playing the violin (a gift sent anonymously by the Dark Lord, just to hedge his bets).
Now, sitting in his throne room, he smiled, his thin pale skin stretched thin across his bony face. He could hear the sounds of battle somewhere beyond the chamber, the boy was coming to confront him, hoping that the band of misfits and eccentrics he had recruited over the previous week would somehow overcome the defenses of the Dark Lord of the Mountain.
Of course to enable the prophecy to reach its conclusion, he would let the boy make it through to the Throne Room (after the others were all dead of course) then he would use one of his many spells to reduce the boy to a pile of ashes in the center of the room and the Dark Lord would be safe to complete his master plan. Already the ceremony was prepared, the princess was safely locked in a holding cell and his armies were awaiting command to mobilize and attack the kingdom. All that remained was...
"Master!" an Orc cried out as it burst through the door, its face frozen in a look of alarm and horror. "We can't hold them, we need reinforcements!"
"What?" the Dark Lord demanded. He jumped from his chair and with a small gesture the orc rose into the air like an invisible fist was holding him by the neck, "How is it you can't stop a violin player, a novice sorceress, and a dancing hobbit? Are you really that incompetent?"
"Master, its not them, it something far..."
the doors exploded outward and the Dark Lord had to shield himself from the debris. The smoke cleared and standing before the Dark Lord were six soldiers dressed from head to toe in heavy steel armor that rippled with magic, behind which stood a wizard holding a glowing staff in one hand and directing a shambling mob of animated skeletons and zombies with the other.
"Dark Lord of the Mountain, your reign ends today!" one of the soldiers proclaimed, striding forward and hefting a two handed axe that was as tall as the Dark Lord.
"Who they hell are you?" the Dark Lord asked in stunned confusion, too surprised to even try to look enraged.
the man before him could not be the boy, he was clearly what, in his late twenties, maybe even early thirties, it was hard to tell with all the armor and the muscular physique. Actually realizing that even the wizard was pretty muscular under his robes was making the Dark Lord realize he needed to work out more.
Trying to regain his composure, the Dark Lord looked at the soldiers and sneered, "Foolish mortal, the Prophecy of Ages declares that the only one who might ever hope to challenge me is the son of John Chapman, and he is but a boy. You have no chance of-"
"Olvier" one of the soldiers interrupted.
The Dark Lord frowned, "What?" he asked. This day was not going how he had planned and it was really ruining the last fifteen years of build up to this moment.
"My father's name, was Oliver Chapman" the soldier declared, he lifted the vizor of his helmet and stared with cold hatred at the Dark Lord, "And you will die remembering his name."
"So...is that you boy, hiding with this contingent of soldiers? Well it will do you no good for I..."
"I am also the son of Oliver Chapman" the wizard declared, and at this moment the Dark Lord became aware of just how many undead were now shuffling into the chamber behind the wizard.
"As am I," shouted the others in a defiant chorus.
The Dark Lord stared in shocked disbelief as the leader removed his helmet and raised his axe and motioned towards the others. "Our father had eight sons. The youngest was the one you watched and planned to murder one day. My brothers and I have trained for this day, so that we might avenge our father and bring the prophecy to fulfillment."
Internally, the Dark Lord was screaming at himself. How could he have let this oversight through, how could he- it didn't matter, he would just have to kill them all, all six of these well trained soldiers with magical armor and weapons and fifteen years of training, and the wizard, and his...hundred undead...no, he reassured himself, he would triumph he was the Dark Lord after all.
"Very well," he announced in as deep and threatening a voice as his magic could manage "then I shall slay you all and bring this silly prophecy to an end with all of your deaths" he began planning his course of attack as he spoke, more confident now that he could deal with these interlopers. "I will crush your bones beneath my feet, the Chapman line dies today, and your youngest brother the coward shall be the last to-"
The Dark Lord felt a stinging pain in his back and something rip through his chest. He looked down, surprised to see Shadowblade's tip sticking out of his chest.
"For my father," he heard whispered into his ear. The Dark Lord turned his head and was surprised to see the boy standing behind him, hands gripping Shadowblade's hilt as he drove it further through the Dark Lord.
The Dark Lord tried to think of something to say, anything, a threat, a plea, some fitting last words, but all he could think of, as his body fell limply to the floor, was that he couldn't even remember what the boy's name was, and that he really shouldn't have tried to mess with that stupid prophecy in the first place. | As the last of his minions fell, the Dark Lord known only as Saal stood fuming atop his star-studded throne. "This is inconceivable!" he screamed. "Every trap I had set was perfect for the boy! And you've ruined it all!"
The tall, burly man yanked his halberd out of the corpse he mutilated, recounting his butcher days before being turned to compete in this war. "I was a boy once," he said gruffly under his steel helmet. With a sweep of his arm, he pointed to the sweating veterans around and added, "We all were. Maybe that prophecy you were thinking of was a few years off."
"Impossible!" Saal hissed back, readying a spell in his palms. "Even if you are the Chosen One, those traps should have killed you regardless! You have arrows sticking out of your armor, for hell's sake!"
The former butcher looked down and nodded. "Yeah, probably. But I've been through worse. Since that prophecy was handed down, the people scrambled to find the hero. They ain't figured that all it had to take was a butcher's son who was tired of yer bullshit and a few years with some the best military men the country had ta offer."
This made Saal seethe even more with rage. He blasted the small militia with a ball of dark energy, knocking down a few of the soldiers but only keeping two of them down.
"No! I've spent over a decade preparing for this day!" the sorcerer yelled in anguish. "Everything was set up perfectly for the Chosen One! For his joyful companions that followed his every move! How was I so wrong?!"
In his fit of rage and frustration, he hadn't noticed the armored fighter stepping up to him until he was nearly cleaved in half. The golden throne behind him took the slice instead.
The fighter stared at the stumbling Dark Lord with discontent and disinterest. "Well, good thing your time's up. Can't make anymore mistakes dead, now can ya?" | |
[WP]The dark lord has been preparing a long time for the boy of prophesy and his group of bright eyed companions, and not the hulking armored veteran surrounded by scarred soldiers currently breaking into the castle. | "Alchemists have it wrong," said the King to his eldest son, "always looking for ways to transmute things into gold. They have it backwards." The Prince shifted his weight in his chair, getting comfortable; he knew he'd be sitting awhile. His father wasn't an overly verbose man, but was always trying to share what wisdom he'd gained. "A creative man thinks of all the things gold can turn into, not turning things into gold. Did I ever tell you how I beat the Dark Lord?"
"It's the most commonly told story in our entire Kingdom," the Prince said cautiously. "You raised an army of commoners, personally trained them, and managed to defeat a professional army at their own capital. The sheer audacity of it-- it's why the people gave you your crown."
The King grinned at his son. "Audacity? No, my boy. The deck was stacked in my favor from the very beginning. As I was saying, there are so many things you can create with gold. The Dark Lord never saw me coming. That's why I won-- he was looking in another direction. I started laying the foundation of his demise years before I started raising my army. I never would've gotten away with training a peasant militia under the Dark Lord's nose otherwise."
The Prince sat up straighter. There's a certain rush that comes from revelation, and he was feeling it, together with pride at being let in on his father's secrets. He voiced the obvious question. "You turned his attention elsewhere with gold, then? How?" "Priests. Bards. Scribes. Even lawyers. See, the Dark Lord was not a superstitious man. But he based his power on the superstition of his supporters, and the people in general. 'Dark Lord'." The King smirked at the title. "It seems silly in hindsight, but he really had people, even the classically educated, thinking he had some kind of mystical power. They were terrified! All because he'd created a myth. A narrative. That was his power. The loose thread that needed one good tug."
The younger royal gave the elder his rapt attention. Though eager, the boy was not without insight. The King, his father, was about to tell him how he dismantled the myth of the Dark Lord. In so doing, he would dismantle his own myth. The throne was built on tales of heroism and valor, of courage in the face of an impossible foe. Instead, it seemed, there would be a tale of cunning and foresight, of trickery and bribes. The child in him was disappointed. The man he was growing into was full of pride at being so completely in the King's trust.
"You've heard of a prophesy, that a boy sorcerer that would usurp the throne?" asked the King. "Yes," answered the Prince, "a hundred years old, written during the times of plenty. It told of a boy and his young friends who would overthrow a tyrant." "It's not a hundred years old. More like twenty, now." A few years older than the Prince. The King continued, "I paid many people to create that myth. Making it appear retroactively in the Church's doctrine... expensive. Falsifying 'old' scrolls, cheap. Lawyers to verify whatever I wanted verified? Shockingly cheap. Bards, minstrels, to sew seeds of rebellion by giving the people hope?" The King shrugged. "They were looking for a savior in every schoolyard. The important thing is that they began to believe the Dark Lord's days were numbered. The Dark Lord didn't have to believe the prophesy-- he had to protect his own myth, his own lie. So he started obsessing over controlling it. Putting out the fires I started. Expending more time, coin, and attention than I did. Treating the symptoms, but ignorant of the true nature of the disease."
"This gave me time to train an army. He was looking for the people to raise up some boy hero. Of course the Dark Lord could have crushed such an enemy. But he was growing paranoid. The more the songs of the prophesy spread, the more fearless people got. They began to defy him openly, clinging to the idea of the boy hero. The more he cracked down, the more defiant they got. Granted, their defiance was... encouraged.
Training an army to do one specific thing is a luxury most don't get. With a little gold, we were able to specialize in one thing: taking the stronghold and killing the Dark Lord. We paid his quartermasters, stable masters, and cooks. We paid the masons, smiths, the carpenters. Every man had a specific role. Time was on our side, and our enemy didn't know we existed. There was no reason to attack until victory was assured. We spent *years* stacking the deck in our favor. Turning gold into advantages of every kind. All while the Dark Lord's attention was on stamping out some prophesy. A boy hero. Ha."
"No, it was me and five thousand men-at-arms who stormed the castle. It was over in minutes. The Dark Lord never got an explanation-- just a quick death. You know the rest of the story, I expect."
The Prince had one burning question that had been bothering him this whole time. "Father... where did you get all this gold? How did you pay for all these things?"
"That's a story for another time."
| This is my first attempt at public writing so take it as such:
"Any day now... Any day those fools will come to oppose me." The man anxiously muttered as he paced the dark marble floors of his throne room. He was old for his people, nearing the age of 45 and having seen his fair share of battle looked closer to 60. Despite his age it was clear he was a man of immense power and influence; he stood tall amongst men at the towering height of 6 feet and must have weighed roughly 190 pounds of solid muscle.
His thoughts we're interrupted by the loud crashing of the doors and the shouting of his second in command, Napoleo. Napoleo in contrast to his master was short (only being 4' 6" tall) and quite stout which often made him the butt of his comrades jokes. "LORD PARENTHAS, LORD PARENTHAS THEY ARE HERE, THE HOUR IS UPON US...IVE DISPATCHED THE HOOOOORDE" crooned Napoleo to the darkened figure now sitting calmly in his Ebon Throne. After a short exchange Napoleo escorted the king to his royal balcony so that he might personally watch the charming hero boy and his band of merry men meet their demise at the hands of Parenthas' Horde.
Now compared to your average group of men The Horde was quite unnerving. The Horde was cohort of 1000 men wearing twisted black chainmail adorned with skulls signifying the amount of souls each man had taken. Each man was considered the equal of 10 normal men in battle and when they fought together this doubled to 20, they had fought in quite a few battles and served as the Dark Lord's personal assault force (and as it turned out his castle guard). They stood now as a turbulent night sky a mix of black and white writhing in anticipation of the battle to come; facing them stood a band of 30 men.
"This isn't right at all...there are only 30 of them... And they don't look merry and young." a slightly disturbed Parenthas points out to his SIC (second in command). "The prophecy was wrong about them, there are only 30 so I'm not too worried but I don't like being wrong..." He started but was quickly interrupted by the screeching voice of his comrade.
"They are pretty fucking scary sir, I don't blame you for being worried... I mean look at those bastards... I wouldn't want to be the group fighting them." (Napoleo wasn't the smartest of men and didn't quite understand what was going on.)
The reason both of these men felt a sense of dread come upon them despite the insane 1000 to 30 man matchup was the makeup of those 30 men. Each and every one of them was adorned in pearl white plate and wielded a large blade and tower shield. The collective weight of one of these men's gear would have been around 150 pounds yet they seemed to move as if wearing nothing at all (stretching and warming up of course). Even more imposing was their leader, the bright eyed boy, or so he should have been.
Instead of a young boy with eyes full of hope there stood a mountain of a man who's eye was darker than the pits of hell he must have crawled out of. The man stood a ridiculous 8 feet in height and was closer in weight and form to a Gorilla than human; he had long (supposedly white) hair so matted with blood it held firm despite strong gusts of wind coming from the hills behind the castle. A long braided beard draped low across his chest and he was covered from neck down in armor so thick he looked as solid as a wall.
His arms were as thick as a mans torso and both seemed to pulsate unnaturally as if they had independent minds. In one of his massive hands he held a gnarled winged spear tipped with an obsidian blade ; his other hand was positioned in a gesture of insult aimed towards the dark lord far in the distance. His one remaining eye fixed on the face of the man who had slaughtered his people and ravaged the land he called home.
These details were all noted by Parenthas (using his binoculars) who began to try and reassure himself. "We're very far away and have a lot of men so there's no need to worry-" The strange men began to shout and scream drowning out all thought inside his head and silencing his tongue. He looked back to his men in an attempt to reassure himself.
Down on the field the men grew louder and more chaotic in their chanting. They seemed to be preparing for something, the Horde believed it was an intimidation tactic (which was working as they began to shake noticeably across the field, chainmail clinking as a sign of their terror) but that was not its purpose. They were singing songs of their past, of deeds they had done and terrors Parenthas had wrought on their people, they were remembering, they were preparing....they were making their leader angry.
These songs unlocked past memories from when he was a child, of the fields he cared for with his brothers and sisters, the dinners with his family, his bright eyes and hopes for the world- his ignorant belief that all would end well. At this a tear began to well in his one remaining eye, not of sadness or joy, not of pain- but of an unadulterated rage. He channeled this rage as a seething torrent and emptied it into his limbs, his arms trembled at the immeasurable power they had just received. He slowly brought his ancient spear back- a master practicing his form... And with an unholy roar hurled his weapon towards the Dark Lord perched high above the field. As the huge spear hurled towards the unsuspecting lord the beast looked back at his men and faced contorted with anger screaming " We are the dead, we are the lost, we are retribution, we stand for those who have fallen, LET US FIGHT!!!!".
The last sight Parenthas ever beheld was of 30 men charging at 1000. The last word he heard was retribution...for the spear hurled from afar struck true. The devil had collected his due.
| |
[WP]The dark lord has been preparing a long time for the boy of prophesy and his group of bright eyed companions, and not the hulking armored veteran surrounded by scarred soldiers currently breaking into the castle. | Everything was in place. Fifteen years ago the Dark Lord had cut down the boy's father with the Shadowblade, fifteen years ago he had heard the infant's cries as he left the traumatized mother and known that this day would come.
The prophecy had foretold that his ultimate foe would be the son of the man he killed with the Shadowblade on the Night of the half moon in Winter's End, who fifteen years later would come to avenge his father against the Dark Lord. He could have chosen anyone to kill that night, he might have even tried to cheat the prophecy by trying hard to avoid killing that night, but he was not such a foolish Dark Lord to try to cheat a prophecy. No, he had allowed the prophecy to be fulfilled, after choosing the most non threatening child possible, the son of some farmer, what was his name, something forgettable, John, maybe Steven Chapman.
For fifteen years the Dark Lord's minions had kept watchful eyes on the boy, a sickly, weak child who could not lift a sword, could barley ride a horse, and who's passion was playing the violin (a gift sent anonymously by the Dark Lord, just to hedge his bets).
Now, sitting in his throne room, he smiled, his thin pale skin stretched thin across his bony face. He could hear the sounds of battle somewhere beyond the chamber, the boy was coming to confront him, hoping that the band of misfits and eccentrics he had recruited over the previous week would somehow overcome the defenses of the Dark Lord of the Mountain.
Of course to enable the prophecy to reach its conclusion, he would let the boy make it through to the Throne Room (after the others were all dead of course) then he would use one of his many spells to reduce the boy to a pile of ashes in the center of the room and the Dark Lord would be safe to complete his master plan. Already the ceremony was prepared, the princess was safely locked in a holding cell and his armies were awaiting command to mobilize and attack the kingdom. All that remained was...
"Master!" an Orc cried out as it burst through the door, its face frozen in a look of alarm and horror. "We can't hold them, we need reinforcements!"
"What?" the Dark Lord demanded. He jumped from his chair and with a small gesture the orc rose into the air like an invisible fist was holding him by the neck, "How is it you can't stop a violin player, a novice sorceress, and a dancing hobbit? Are you really that incompetent?"
"Master, its not them, it something far..."
the doors exploded outward and the Dark Lord had to shield himself from the debris. The smoke cleared and standing before the Dark Lord were six soldiers dressed from head to toe in heavy steel armor that rippled with magic, behind which stood a wizard holding a glowing staff in one hand and directing a shambling mob of animated skeletons and zombies with the other.
"Dark Lord of the Mountain, your reign ends today!" one of the soldiers proclaimed, striding forward and hefting a two handed axe that was as tall as the Dark Lord.
"Who they hell are you?" the Dark Lord asked in stunned confusion, too surprised to even try to look enraged.
the man before him could not be the boy, he was clearly what, in his late twenties, maybe even early thirties, it was hard to tell with all the armor and the muscular physique. Actually realizing that even the wizard was pretty muscular under his robes was making the Dark Lord realize he needed to work out more.
Trying to regain his composure, the Dark Lord looked at the soldiers and sneered, "Foolish mortal, the Prophecy of Ages declares that the only one who might ever hope to challenge me is the son of John Chapman, and he is but a boy. You have no chance of-"
"Olvier" one of the soldiers interrupted.
The Dark Lord frowned, "What?" he asked. This day was not going how he had planned and it was really ruining the last fifteen years of build up to this moment.
"My father's name, was Oliver Chapman" the soldier declared, he lifted the vizor of his helmet and stared with cold hatred at the Dark Lord, "And you will die remembering his name."
"So...is that you boy, hiding with this contingent of soldiers? Well it will do you no good for I..."
"I am also the son of Oliver Chapman" the wizard declared, and at this moment the Dark Lord became aware of just how many undead were now shuffling into the chamber behind the wizard.
"As am I," shouted the others in a defiant chorus.
The Dark Lord stared in shocked disbelief as the leader removed his helmet and raised his axe and motioned towards the others. "Our father had eight sons. The youngest was the one you watched and planned to murder one day. My brothers and I have trained for this day, so that we might avenge our father and bring the prophecy to fulfillment."
Internally, the Dark Lord was screaming at himself. How could he have let this oversight through, how could he- it didn't matter, he would just have to kill them all, all six of these well trained soldiers with magical armor and weapons and fifteen years of training, and the wizard, and his...hundred undead...no, he reassured himself, he would triumph he was the Dark Lord after all.
"Very well," he announced in as deep and threatening a voice as his magic could manage "then I shall slay you all and bring this silly prophecy to an end with all of your deaths" he began planning his course of attack as he spoke, more confident now that he could deal with these interlopers. "I will crush your bones beneath my feet, the Chapman line dies today, and your youngest brother the coward shall be the last to-"
The Dark Lord felt a stinging pain in his back and something rip through his chest. He looked down, surprised to see Shadowblade's tip sticking out of his chest.
"For my father," he heard whispered into his ear. The Dark Lord turned his head and was surprised to see the boy standing behind him, hands gripping Shadowblade's hilt as he drove it further through the Dark Lord.
The Dark Lord tried to think of something to say, anything, a threat, a plea, some fitting last words, but all he could think of, as his body fell limply to the floor, was that he couldn't even remember what the boy's name was, and that he really shouldn't have tried to mess with that stupid prophecy in the first place. | This is my first attempt at public writing so take it as such:
"Any day now... Any day those fools will come to oppose me." The man anxiously muttered as he paced the dark marble floors of his throne room. He was old for his people, nearing the age of 45 and having seen his fair share of battle looked closer to 60. Despite his age it was clear he was a man of immense power and influence; he stood tall amongst men at the towering height of 6 feet and must have weighed roughly 190 pounds of solid muscle.
His thoughts we're interrupted by the loud crashing of the doors and the shouting of his second in command, Napoleo. Napoleo in contrast to his master was short (only being 4' 6" tall) and quite stout which often made him the butt of his comrades jokes. "LORD PARENTHAS, LORD PARENTHAS THEY ARE HERE, THE HOUR IS UPON US...IVE DISPATCHED THE HOOOOORDE" crooned Napoleo to the darkened figure now sitting calmly in his Ebon Throne. After a short exchange Napoleo escorted the king to his royal balcony so that he might personally watch the charming hero boy and his band of merry men meet their demise at the hands of Parenthas' Horde.
Now compared to your average group of men The Horde was quite unnerving. The Horde was cohort of 1000 men wearing twisted black chainmail adorned with skulls signifying the amount of souls each man had taken. Each man was considered the equal of 10 normal men in battle and when they fought together this doubled to 20, they had fought in quite a few battles and served as the Dark Lord's personal assault force (and as it turned out his castle guard). They stood now as a turbulent night sky a mix of black and white writhing in anticipation of the battle to come; facing them stood a band of 30 men.
"This isn't right at all...there are only 30 of them... And they don't look merry and young." a slightly disturbed Parenthas points out to his SIC (second in command). "The prophecy was wrong about them, there are only 30 so I'm not too worried but I don't like being wrong..." He started but was quickly interrupted by the screeching voice of his comrade.
"They are pretty fucking scary sir, I don't blame you for being worried... I mean look at those bastards... I wouldn't want to be the group fighting them." (Napoleo wasn't the smartest of men and didn't quite understand what was going on.)
The reason both of these men felt a sense of dread come upon them despite the insane 1000 to 30 man matchup was the makeup of those 30 men. Each and every one of them was adorned in pearl white plate and wielded a large blade and tower shield. The collective weight of one of these men's gear would have been around 150 pounds yet they seemed to move as if wearing nothing at all (stretching and warming up of course). Even more imposing was their leader, the bright eyed boy, or so he should have been.
Instead of a young boy with eyes full of hope there stood a mountain of a man who's eye was darker than the pits of hell he must have crawled out of. The man stood a ridiculous 8 feet in height and was closer in weight and form to a Gorilla than human; he had long (supposedly white) hair so matted with blood it held firm despite strong gusts of wind coming from the hills behind the castle. A long braided beard draped low across his chest and he was covered from neck down in armor so thick he looked as solid as a wall.
His arms were as thick as a mans torso and both seemed to pulsate unnaturally as if they had independent minds. In one of his massive hands he held a gnarled winged spear tipped with an obsidian blade ; his other hand was positioned in a gesture of insult aimed towards the dark lord far in the distance. His one remaining eye fixed on the face of the man who had slaughtered his people and ravaged the land he called home.
These details were all noted by Parenthas (using his binoculars) who began to try and reassure himself. "We're very far away and have a lot of men so there's no need to worry-" The strange men began to shout and scream drowning out all thought inside his head and silencing his tongue. He looked back to his men in an attempt to reassure himself.
Down on the field the men grew louder and more chaotic in their chanting. They seemed to be preparing for something, the Horde believed it was an intimidation tactic (which was working as they began to shake noticeably across the field, chainmail clinking as a sign of their terror) but that was not its purpose. They were singing songs of their past, of deeds they had done and terrors Parenthas had wrought on their people, they were remembering, they were preparing....they were making their leader angry.
These songs unlocked past memories from when he was a child, of the fields he cared for with his brothers and sisters, the dinners with his family, his bright eyes and hopes for the world- his ignorant belief that all would end well. At this a tear began to well in his one remaining eye, not of sadness or joy, not of pain- but of an unadulterated rage. He channeled this rage as a seething torrent and emptied it into his limbs, his arms trembled at the immeasurable power they had just received. He slowly brought his ancient spear back- a master practicing his form... And with an unholy roar hurled his weapon towards the Dark Lord perched high above the field. As the huge spear hurled towards the unsuspecting lord the beast looked back at his men and faced contorted with anger screaming " We are the dead, we are the lost, we are retribution, we stand for those who have fallen, LET US FIGHT!!!!".
The last sight Parenthas ever beheld was of 30 men charging at 1000. The last word he heard was retribution...for the spear hurled from afar struck true. The devil had collected his due.
| |
[WP] An ancient immortal, known as The Dark Lord, is very bored. One day he finds out a new band of heroes is coming for him, yet again. "Hope they are fun enough", thought The Dark Lord, disguised as an average dweller, while approaching the team: "So, I heard you need a guide?" | "There they are." I whispered to myself, "I hope these guys are more fun than that last group. So much drama with that crew, right up to their painful deaths."
I quickly transformed my body to appear more frail, and trustworthy.
"Oh don't mind me, I'm just a tired old villager looking to help strangers on their quest for no clear reason." I chuckled to myself. "Alright, showtime."
I emerged from my hiding place in the shadows and approached the group.
"Good evening adventurers, I heard you are in need of a guide?" I announced to my future victims.
The largest member of the group lept to her feet, and took a defensive stance with her sword pointed towards me.
"Stop where you are stranger." She said in a surprisingly deep voice, "Make your identity known or suffer the consequences."
I put my hands in the air, in mock terror.
"Oh please, no miss! I am but a humble villager looking for adventure. I've spent countless years at home with no aspirations, or excitement. I believe I know what you seek, and I intend to aid you on your journey, should you permit me."
That sounded pretty good, I thought to myself. The massive woman put her sword in its sheath and stepped forward.
"I trust no man, and I allow no weak chains in my group." She said as she stared down into my eyes. "Ask yourself carefully if this is what you desire, for where we are going there may be no return."
I forced my lip to quiver.
"I am not afraid of death." I said with all sincerity.
An eerie smirk came across the warrior woman's face, and I felt something I hadn't felt in years...
Doubt.
"Come this way then, guide." She said to me. "Make yourself warm by the fire, and introduce yourself to the rest of the Elite."
I fought hard to hide my amusement. They called themselves 'The Elite', oh this was going to be fun. | Day 1,
Well, this adventurers are a _raw_ batch of complete and utter **lunatics**. Their leader is a half idiot paladin named Volzer. I think he took a head injury some time ago because he's gormless. He is, however, stunningly strong and occasionally quite experienced about things.
Then there's the group scout. The rouge little bastard Radick. This slimey little fellow already though he could go through my pockets not one, not twice, but forty different times. When we found the tavern. When we entered the tavern. When we ordered drinks. _When_ I _ordered drinks_. On the way to bed. While I was trying to sleep. While I'm writing now, in fact.
The real brains of the operation seems to be the bard, but I hesitate to call them the brains. They play the lute like a cat plays the ocarina. Never the less, they've a silver tongue and a great... Figure. She's quite fetching. Or at least I hope it's a woman. I find myself a little confused when I peer at them.
Lastly is the group mum. There's always one. This little cleric fellow, pious and quite silent. He follows the group around with a fair amount of discipline but then will suddenly explode with life and hunger and...he keeps poking at the bard with as much curiosity as me.
We make for the Black Forest tommorow and the Kabold den shortly after. We'll see how that madmen do.
Day 2,
((The page is filthy with what look like splatters))
I may have to alter the path some more. The bard smashed a Kabold lord over the skull with his lute. Oh. Yes, the bard is male. They managed to flirt and charm their way into the _middle of the Kabold camp_ before springing the trap. The cleric and paladin swept in with me tagging along behind. The cleric would smash the poor bastards towards the paladin and Volzer would spray me with their poor guts with a giant slash.
Meanwhile Raddick went through every pocket and satchel as they hit the ground and then _went through my pockets again_. Little bastard almost found my journal. When the onslaught was done the bard, whose name _I still don't know_ was playing a set of Kabold war drums between his knees, declaring the instrument a set of bongos.
I don't know what bongos are but it feels like how crazy this is. This group is bongos.
They're going to head into the Dark Caverns tomorrow and I'll have to do well to stall them at the Basilisk. | |
[WP] A terrorist group has been infiltrated by so many agencies that it is now run by spies, unbeknownst to the spies themselves. This fact becomes apparent to an actual extremist who joins their ranks. | "What's the status on Operation Siberian Tiger?" Lotus asks, checking his Status Sheet.
"Pending," says Dora Sue. "Actually, we're going to have to keep that to inactive."
"Ok," says Lotus. "Inactive. Operation Harambe?" he asks.
"We're going to have to move that to red. Inactive," says Zarathustra.
"Oh yeah? What happened there?" asks Lotus.
"Well, Department of Homeland Security got wind of it, apparently," says Zarathustra.
Feathers, the new guy, can see Dora Sue smile to herself.
Lotus looks up from his Status Sheet with sudden annoyance. "It's already been leaked? I mean, it's been leaked?"
"I heard from my guy inside at FBI," says Zarathustra.
"I thought you said Homeland Security?" asks Lotus.
"Yeah, that's what I meant."
"Wait so Homeland Security or FBI got credit for that?" asks Lotus. "I mean, figured it out."
Feathers watches in amusement. Every time something goes on the Status Sheet it gets leaked to either the FBI, or Homeland Security, or the Distract Attorneys office. Feathers needs Dora Sue, Zarathustra, and Lotus for their expertise in the field. Despite being covert government operatives, they have a surprising amount of expertise, as well as contacts in the Animal Liberation Front.
"Homeland Security," says Zarathustra. "Hey, what's going on with that sting operation on Pfizer's animal testing facility?" he asks Lotus.
"Well you know, we haven't been able to pull all the pieces together yet, but it's in motion," says Lotus.
"So that's inactive too?" says Zarathustra.
"Yup," says Lotus.
"Wait so do we have anything in the pipeline at this point?" asks Dora Sue. "Anything on green?"
It reminds Feathers of when he worked at an actual corporation.
"Feathers?" Lotus asks.
Feathers looks up. "Lotus, you knew Rod Coronado when he liberated the 'Three Thousand' from that UC Davis lab right?"
"The rats? sure did," says Lotus. "What, you got a plan?"
"How'd he do it?"
"Well, it's not that complicated. I mean, there's an Intrusion Detection and Isolation Protocol at most of these labs, which you can hack pretty easily with a signal detector, you know, one of those ISM jammers. They're not hard to build, you just need a few things from Best Buy. I can write you a list. Why? You got a project in mind?"
Feathers keeps on thinking about those turkey poults in the nephrotoxins lab at the University, the way the researchers know their kidneys are ready for testing by the amount of soft down they've grown on their wings, and the way the little birds shriek when they're put under. He looks at Lotus, Zarathustra, and Dora Sue, all waiting for him expectantly, Lotus with a pen and his Status Sheet at the ready.
"Nope," says Feathers. "I got nothing. See y'all next week?" | "Don't trust any of them." My grandfather had sternly admonished.
I wanted to talk to my mother about it, but he explicitly said no.
"Keep her out of it
Keep all of us out of it.
Don't trust any of them"
I hated them. Well, not us them, but them. Those ones who ruled us economically from afar. Not us, those I know. And love. Life here was as barren as the dusty fields that surrounded my home. If i cold call it that. Nothing warm about the empty hearth, or my mother's empty bed. This was why I wanted to join them. No, not us and not those. Them. The productive outlet for my youthful anger. This resistance that resisted. Well, except for George,who had joined then left. He was not my favorite, I was glad he was out. And Michael. Michael was gone. I never heard where he went. My mother lightly grieved the loss for her friend's sake - but I don't know where he lives now.
My grandfather was adamant that I not trust them. I knew I wouldn't, and wouldn't let him down. Or mom. Or dad
Before early shift, which had been had taken months ago to give my mother some respite, it boiled over. The cold morning hunger pushed me. Well, I wanted to be pushed, i wanted to push. My mother weighed less, much less than I. And much less than she should. When father died in the mines she tried to protect us, to feed us, to protect from the hunger. grandfather still worked, and my shift extended. She died, my sister, less than 2. They are to blame, because my father's death. No, i told you, not them, those.
We quickly moved somewhere deeper I had never seen before, behind doors never opened. He had been my detail leader. Never had mentioned them, but I knew he knew. How could someone so angry, reflect the dissatisfaction I felt not know. So we went deeper.
"this way. We have to be careful, for nowhere is safe"
His stride quickened.
More doors, more hallways. The fresh earth smell all around us.
"I want to help. They killed my dad"
"I know. And worse for your mother"
"she is hungry"
"No, they" "they...you will know someday"
We sped up. Until this door. Heavier looking that all the rest. We had to stop.
It creaked open a bit.
"Who, why" was barked.
"I have the recruit" was his curt reply.
As the door swung open my arm was gripped by his iron hand.
Cold eyes locked onto mine as my arm was pulled forward.
"This is the cell leader?"
"He is the recruit"
A scoff, a laugh gently escaped from this large, furrowed man. My shift leader cowed a bit, but his had stayed tight. Escape was not possible.
I was shoved inside and the door closed with a soft click.
A ring of men and one bright woman surrounded us.
They all started to laugh. Deep hearty laughter that crushed everything I knew.
"Homeland and this is what you get?"
"Piss off internal inves! You cunts havn't caught anything in months"
"like you DFI faggots get anything!" yelled the tallest, brownhaired guy at the end.
She interjected loudly "All of you. quiet. This is our lead"
I could not follow the explosion of shouts.
Him blaming him while the guy shouted at, all of them?
My detail leader looked grim. It quickly became apparent that everyone here was those, or part of those. I was alone. And so would be my mother. well, she had grandfather. Had, because I did tell them he told me to stay quiet. | |
[WP] A terrorist group has been infiltrated by so many agencies that it is now run by spies, unbeknownst to the spies themselves. This fact becomes apparent to an actual extremist who joins their ranks. | A bright light. That's how it ends.
He knew from the very beginning his partners were weirdos. At first, he felt immersed in a Hollywood production. The gadgets, the computers, the equipment, everything was amazing! He felt empowered, and his goals were within reach. But after too many failed field actions, he was demoralized.
On a dark evening, he suddenly opened his eyes. He realized what was going on. There was a saboteur inside. It was not him. Who? who was in a position to mess with the operations? The technicians! of course! they were the ones! a lot of technology, manuals, tutorials, education, and no results?
He went to the mountains, and after a little digging went inside the old cave, where his uncle told him about the cause, and went to the very end of the tunnel. There it was. The old wood box. He didn't recognize the Cyrillic but knew what was inside.
He went back to the base, and straight to the lab. The techs were talking and when he opened the door they all looked at him. He smiled back, and they kept talking.
He was blind, how he didn't noticed? too many clues in front of him. They never asked for money, they have everything you can dream of. Good boots, warm jackets, new weapons, satellite access, it was a dream. But they never killed a single infidel. Never. They were always away, gathering information, and then, building the IEDs with precision. At some locations, there was too many soldiers, like expecting them. Aborted mission. At some others, they were practically ambushed. His cousin went to Heaven at a tourist hotel near the ruins. Everything was clear. They were all traitors. He was looking at one beautiful watch at a traitor's wrist when he realized what he was doing.
He looked around and found the plastic explosives box. He tossed a grenade there and the other he held it in front of him. The 5 technicians reacted with surprise, knowing there was no chance of escaping the explosion that was coming.
He closed his eyes, and felt peace. No more mistakes, no more sabotage, he was going to Heaven, and he was sure his replacement was destined to be successful.
A bright light. That's how it ended.
At Langley, at Pulach, "La Piscine", the SIS building, at Lubyanka, at the Federal Palace in Bern, even in Ryad, the following days some people were closing files, destroying documents, and mourning lost friends.
//
ps: please forgive my grammar and spelling. Edited to remove the name and use "he". | "Don't trust any of them." My grandfather had sternly admonished.
I wanted to talk to my mother about it, but he explicitly said no.
"Keep her out of it
Keep all of us out of it.
Don't trust any of them"
I hated them. Well, not us them, but them. Those ones who ruled us economically from afar. Not us, those I know. And love. Life here was as barren as the dusty fields that surrounded my home. If i cold call it that. Nothing warm about the empty hearth, or my mother's empty bed. This was why I wanted to join them. No, not us and not those. Them. The productive outlet for my youthful anger. This resistance that resisted. Well, except for George,who had joined then left. He was not my favorite, I was glad he was out. And Michael. Michael was gone. I never heard where he went. My mother lightly grieved the loss for her friend's sake - but I don't know where he lives now.
My grandfather was adamant that I not trust them. I knew I wouldn't, and wouldn't let him down. Or mom. Or dad
Before early shift, which had been had taken months ago to give my mother some respite, it boiled over. The cold morning hunger pushed me. Well, I wanted to be pushed, i wanted to push. My mother weighed less, much less than I. And much less than she should. When father died in the mines she tried to protect us, to feed us, to protect from the hunger. grandfather still worked, and my shift extended. She died, my sister, less than 2. They are to blame, because my father's death. No, i told you, not them, those.
We quickly moved somewhere deeper I had never seen before, behind doors never opened. He had been my detail leader. Never had mentioned them, but I knew he knew. How could someone so angry, reflect the dissatisfaction I felt not know. So we went deeper.
"this way. We have to be careful, for nowhere is safe"
His stride quickened.
More doors, more hallways. The fresh earth smell all around us.
"I want to help. They killed my dad"
"I know. And worse for your mother"
"she is hungry"
"No, they" "they...you will know someday"
We sped up. Until this door. Heavier looking that all the rest. We had to stop.
It creaked open a bit.
"Who, why" was barked.
"I have the recruit" was his curt reply.
As the door swung open my arm was gripped by his iron hand.
Cold eyes locked onto mine as my arm was pulled forward.
"This is the cell leader?"
"He is the recruit"
A scoff, a laugh gently escaped from this large, furrowed man. My shift leader cowed a bit, but his had stayed tight. Escape was not possible.
I was shoved inside and the door closed with a soft click.
A ring of men and one bright woman surrounded us.
They all started to laugh. Deep hearty laughter that crushed everything I knew.
"Homeland and this is what you get?"
"Piss off internal inves! You cunts havn't caught anything in months"
"like you DFI faggots get anything!" yelled the tallest, brownhaired guy at the end.
She interjected loudly "All of you. quiet. This is our lead"
I could not follow the explosion of shouts.
Him blaming him while the guy shouted at, all of them?
My detail leader looked grim. It quickly became apparent that everyone here was those, or part of those. I was alone. And so would be my mother. well, she had grandfather. Had, because I did tell them he told me to stay quiet. | |
[WP] A terrorist group has been infiltrated by so many agencies that it is now run by spies, unbeknownst to the spies themselves. This fact becomes apparent to an actual extremist who joins their ranks. | "YOU MEAN TO TELL ME ALL OF YOU ARE SPIES??" The Jihadi boss screamed to all his men. He had been admonishing them for a raid gone wrong, and a select group for losing a major stronghold. He was so furious, and a little confused. I mean, he was sure there were *some* spies, but ALL of them? No one was loyal to him? Like- really?
"Yes, sir," one of the men said at the front.
"Sami! You- you were my most trusted adviser."
"You were an idiot," Sami told him with a slight shrug. "I'd have thought my betrayal was quite clear when I advised you to load a missile with jamming signals before firing at the Israeli Nuclear Power Plant."
"But- but that plan worked! It caused months of mayhem in Israel!"
"But you forget what happened afterwards! Our entire commando section for wiped out by Mossad and CIA and I am responsible! That decision got attention, and made the world more serious about getting rid of us, thereby costing lives. Lives who were otherwise loyal to you."
"What about- ok, what about Ali? He's definitely waging a true Jihad! He led the attack into Texas sending our men disguised as Mexicans to quietly take over! We have an American Emirate thanks to him!"
"Should we- should we tell him?" they ask one another.
"He'll find out sooner or later," they agreed. "Sir... Ali IS Mexican. His real name is Jesus, and the Mexicans who took over were just honest immigrants, most of whom moved to California."
"Hah, joke's on you!" the boss yelled. "Ali was a school friend. You can't possibly have used him, he's a spy for me!"
The spies were a little confused at first. "Do a background check on one named Ali Shishani. Went to Toni Georges High School."
"Ah, yes... he was killed in action in the aforementioned raid after Operation Humpback Whale ended in the nuclear explosion."
"WHAT? YOU MURDERERS! YOU KILLED MY FRIEND!"
"How many have you killed so far?" one asked testily.
"This isn't the point!" he said meekly.
"Sorry, sir, but you're coming with us. This group is finished."
"You think you can hold me? You can't just- end this you know."
"We'll continue holding operations," another answered. "Admittedly, this group has been a useful, and convenient enemy. Nice to have under control. Sorry, sir, your whole enterprise is over."
"I'll have your heads for this! Joke's on you!" And the spies step back as he strips his jacket off, revealing a vest laden with bombs. "If I can't have this group, nobody can, certainly not the Great Satan America!"
"You- you think we're all American?"
"I'm French."
"Australian here."
"Royal Agent for her Majesty the Queen."
"Your Queen is a figurehead!"
"That's what YOU think!" the British Agent yelled, making the boss sit back down.
"And I'm Saudi!" one youth said happily.
"You're WHAT?" the boss was beside himself. "You funded our existence!"
"You swore to demolish our country and you think we *funded* you?"
The agents all laughed at him as they led him away. So funny was this, the boss began laughing too. Laughing at his own stupidity. | "Don't trust any of them." My grandfather had sternly admonished.
I wanted to talk to my mother about it, but he explicitly said no.
"Keep her out of it
Keep all of us out of it.
Don't trust any of them"
I hated them. Well, not us them, but them. Those ones who ruled us economically from afar. Not us, those I know. And love. Life here was as barren as the dusty fields that surrounded my home. If i cold call it that. Nothing warm about the empty hearth, or my mother's empty bed. This was why I wanted to join them. No, not us and not those. Them. The productive outlet for my youthful anger. This resistance that resisted. Well, except for George,who had joined then left. He was not my favorite, I was glad he was out. And Michael. Michael was gone. I never heard where he went. My mother lightly grieved the loss for her friend's sake - but I don't know where he lives now.
My grandfather was adamant that I not trust them. I knew I wouldn't, and wouldn't let him down. Or mom. Or dad
Before early shift, which had been had taken months ago to give my mother some respite, it boiled over. The cold morning hunger pushed me. Well, I wanted to be pushed, i wanted to push. My mother weighed less, much less than I. And much less than she should. When father died in the mines she tried to protect us, to feed us, to protect from the hunger. grandfather still worked, and my shift extended. She died, my sister, less than 2. They are to blame, because my father's death. No, i told you, not them, those.
We quickly moved somewhere deeper I had never seen before, behind doors never opened. He had been my detail leader. Never had mentioned them, but I knew he knew. How could someone so angry, reflect the dissatisfaction I felt not know. So we went deeper.
"this way. We have to be careful, for nowhere is safe"
His stride quickened.
More doors, more hallways. The fresh earth smell all around us.
"I want to help. They killed my dad"
"I know. And worse for your mother"
"she is hungry"
"No, they" "they...you will know someday"
We sped up. Until this door. Heavier looking that all the rest. We had to stop.
It creaked open a bit.
"Who, why" was barked.
"I have the recruit" was his curt reply.
As the door swung open my arm was gripped by his iron hand.
Cold eyes locked onto mine as my arm was pulled forward.
"This is the cell leader?"
"He is the recruit"
A scoff, a laugh gently escaped from this large, furrowed man. My shift leader cowed a bit, but his had stayed tight. Escape was not possible.
I was shoved inside and the door closed with a soft click.
A ring of men and one bright woman surrounded us.
They all started to laugh. Deep hearty laughter that crushed everything I knew.
"Homeland and this is what you get?"
"Piss off internal inves! You cunts havn't caught anything in months"
"like you DFI faggots get anything!" yelled the tallest, brownhaired guy at the end.
She interjected loudly "All of you. quiet. This is our lead"
I could not follow the explosion of shouts.
Him blaming him while the guy shouted at, all of them?
My detail leader looked grim. It quickly became apparent that everyone here was those, or part of those. I was alone. And so would be my mother. well, she had grandfather. Had, because I did tell them he told me to stay quiet. | |
[WP] A terrorist group has been infiltrated by so many agencies that it is now run by spies, unbeknownst to the spies themselves. This fact becomes apparent to an actual extremist who joins their ranks. | *Somewhere in Europe, in an apartment, a tattooed punk knocks on the door. Three men in Islamic garb are inside*
"Hello comrades! Let's crush some yankees - bash the fash, right?"
"Do you not understand? We are a Salafi Jihad organization - we are not an anarchist commune."
"Hmm...that's not what the texts said."
"Texts?"
"Yeah, you left a flyer with a poster of Trump crossed out and a phone number. I'm the guy you've been messaging with to discuss our plans to 'hit' the American Embassy in Berlin."
"And by hit you mean...Could you please make sense? What number did you text?"
"+__ __________, comrade."
"Well then you've got the wrong number. Sorry."
"Wait one second...what is the likelihood that I call an anarchist cell and get a terrorist cell instead? Methinks you are spies."
*One of the other three men intrudes in the conversation*
Jihadist 2: Nigel, stop it. You're screwing up.
Jihadist 3: Nigel? *Who the fuck is NIGEL?* Wisam, this has to be some sort of a prank.
Jihadist 1: That was my kuffar name before I converted.
Jihadist 3: *Converted?* I thought you said you were Lebanese.
Jihadist 1: Lebanese - um - Catholic.
Jihadist 3: You mean Maronite? It shouldn't take you time to remember your upbringing.
*A door opens, and a woman in a niqab emerges*
Jihadist 4: Boys, what is this going on? If you don't shut up I'll...
*she grabs a bomb*
...hmm, this is too light.
*points to Jihadist 3*
Jihadist 4: Why is this bomb so light? It's a dummy, right?
Jihadist 3: I never said we were going to actually kill anyone....
Jihadist 4: What...are you some kind of cop? (in an accusatory tone)
Jihadist 3 (perplexed): A...Aicha?
Jihadist 4: Driss? You remind me of a Sûreté nationale agent I went out with in Casablanca?
Jihadist 3: Yes...we were in the same class together!
*another knock at the door*
Punk: I guess you won't be wanting the bacon pizza I ordered for our collective....
*Punk slinks out, and sounds of argument can be heard while he pays for the pizza dejectedly using currency stamped with far-left symbols*
*Some time later, shots ring out as the British and Moroccan spies get into a fight and one of the Moroccans fires a warning shot into the ceiling* | "Don't trust any of them." My grandfather had sternly admonished.
I wanted to talk to my mother about it, but he explicitly said no.
"Keep her out of it
Keep all of us out of it.
Don't trust any of them"
I hated them. Well, not us them, but them. Those ones who ruled us economically from afar. Not us, those I know. And love. Life here was as barren as the dusty fields that surrounded my home. If i cold call it that. Nothing warm about the empty hearth, or my mother's empty bed. This was why I wanted to join them. No, not us and not those. Them. The productive outlet for my youthful anger. This resistance that resisted. Well, except for George,who had joined then left. He was not my favorite, I was glad he was out. And Michael. Michael was gone. I never heard where he went. My mother lightly grieved the loss for her friend's sake - but I don't know where he lives now.
My grandfather was adamant that I not trust them. I knew I wouldn't, and wouldn't let him down. Or mom. Or dad
Before early shift, which had been had taken months ago to give my mother some respite, it boiled over. The cold morning hunger pushed me. Well, I wanted to be pushed, i wanted to push. My mother weighed less, much less than I. And much less than she should. When father died in the mines she tried to protect us, to feed us, to protect from the hunger. grandfather still worked, and my shift extended. She died, my sister, less than 2. They are to blame, because my father's death. No, i told you, not them, those.
We quickly moved somewhere deeper I had never seen before, behind doors never opened. He had been my detail leader. Never had mentioned them, but I knew he knew. How could someone so angry, reflect the dissatisfaction I felt not know. So we went deeper.
"this way. We have to be careful, for nowhere is safe"
His stride quickened.
More doors, more hallways. The fresh earth smell all around us.
"I want to help. They killed my dad"
"I know. And worse for your mother"
"she is hungry"
"No, they" "they...you will know someday"
We sped up. Until this door. Heavier looking that all the rest. We had to stop.
It creaked open a bit.
"Who, why" was barked.
"I have the recruit" was his curt reply.
As the door swung open my arm was gripped by his iron hand.
Cold eyes locked onto mine as my arm was pulled forward.
"This is the cell leader?"
"He is the recruit"
A scoff, a laugh gently escaped from this large, furrowed man. My shift leader cowed a bit, but his had stayed tight. Escape was not possible.
I was shoved inside and the door closed with a soft click.
A ring of men and one bright woman surrounded us.
They all started to laugh. Deep hearty laughter that crushed everything I knew.
"Homeland and this is what you get?"
"Piss off internal inves! You cunts havn't caught anything in months"
"like you DFI faggots get anything!" yelled the tallest, brownhaired guy at the end.
She interjected loudly "All of you. quiet. This is our lead"
I could not follow the explosion of shouts.
Him blaming him while the guy shouted at, all of them?
My detail leader looked grim. It quickly became apparent that everyone here was those, or part of those. I was alone. And so would be my mother. well, she had grandfather. Had, because I did tell them he told me to stay quiet. | |
[WP] A terrorist group has been infiltrated by so many agencies that it is now run by spies, unbeknownst to the spies themselves. This fact becomes apparent to an actual extremist who joins their ranks. | Special agent Micheal Scarn has successfully infiltrated the terrorist organization ran by his archnemesis goldenface. He knows they are planning on destroying the worlds supply of paper. He then shoots all the terrorists, only to find out that they were all actually his friends. Even Goldenface himself was his great friend Jim Balbert.
A single tear runs down his cheek. | "Don't trust any of them." My grandfather had sternly admonished.
I wanted to talk to my mother about it, but he explicitly said no.
"Keep her out of it
Keep all of us out of it.
Don't trust any of them"
I hated them. Well, not us them, but them. Those ones who ruled us economically from afar. Not us, those I know. And love. Life here was as barren as the dusty fields that surrounded my home. If i cold call it that. Nothing warm about the empty hearth, or my mother's empty bed. This was why I wanted to join them. No, not us and not those. Them. The productive outlet for my youthful anger. This resistance that resisted. Well, except for George,who had joined then left. He was not my favorite, I was glad he was out. And Michael. Michael was gone. I never heard where he went. My mother lightly grieved the loss for her friend's sake - but I don't know where he lives now.
My grandfather was adamant that I not trust them. I knew I wouldn't, and wouldn't let him down. Or mom. Or dad
Before early shift, which had been had taken months ago to give my mother some respite, it boiled over. The cold morning hunger pushed me. Well, I wanted to be pushed, i wanted to push. My mother weighed less, much less than I. And much less than she should. When father died in the mines she tried to protect us, to feed us, to protect from the hunger. grandfather still worked, and my shift extended. She died, my sister, less than 2. They are to blame, because my father's death. No, i told you, not them, those.
We quickly moved somewhere deeper I had never seen before, behind doors never opened. He had been my detail leader. Never had mentioned them, but I knew he knew. How could someone so angry, reflect the dissatisfaction I felt not know. So we went deeper.
"this way. We have to be careful, for nowhere is safe"
His stride quickened.
More doors, more hallways. The fresh earth smell all around us.
"I want to help. They killed my dad"
"I know. And worse for your mother"
"she is hungry"
"No, they" "they...you will know someday"
We sped up. Until this door. Heavier looking that all the rest. We had to stop.
It creaked open a bit.
"Who, why" was barked.
"I have the recruit" was his curt reply.
As the door swung open my arm was gripped by his iron hand.
Cold eyes locked onto mine as my arm was pulled forward.
"This is the cell leader?"
"He is the recruit"
A scoff, a laugh gently escaped from this large, furrowed man. My shift leader cowed a bit, but his had stayed tight. Escape was not possible.
I was shoved inside and the door closed with a soft click.
A ring of men and one bright woman surrounded us.
They all started to laugh. Deep hearty laughter that crushed everything I knew.
"Homeland and this is what you get?"
"Piss off internal inves! You cunts havn't caught anything in months"
"like you DFI faggots get anything!" yelled the tallest, brownhaired guy at the end.
She interjected loudly "All of you. quiet. This is our lead"
I could not follow the explosion of shouts.
Him blaming him while the guy shouted at, all of them?
My detail leader looked grim. It quickly became apparent that everyone here was those, or part of those. I was alone. And so would be my mother. well, she had grandfather. Had, because I did tell them he told me to stay quiet. | |
[WP] A terrorist group has been infiltrated by so many agencies that it is now run by spies, unbeknownst to the spies themselves. This fact becomes apparent to an actual extremist who joins their ranks. | Getting recognition in the international terrorism community through hard work is akin to getting noticed in entertainment for sheer talent alone. Sure, theoretically speaking, it's quite possible. With enough passion, anyone can leave their mark on the world. In practice though, 'could be's don't really hold up. You're more likely to get back-stabbed by someone you trust before you achieve anything. Or blow up at the least convenient moment, fading out as quickly you made yourself known.
It's a tough life for both entertainers and terrorists. Even the life expectancy is more or less the same! In all honesty, the only difference between the two of them is that when you commit suicide in terrorism, you do it for your ideals, not because you hate your life. Sergei felt relieved, and even pride, because he had the opposite problem now. He didn't have to stage ambushes in the desert, or smuggle prostitutes out of Eastern Europe. He certainly didn't have to wear a bomb vest anymore. No, Sergei had the best problem he could have. He finally had a steady job in terrorism, only it was the most banal thing he could imagine. He was a janitor for E.V.I.L., the new organization he'd just been recruited into.
His gray overalls were very stylish, with a logo of a blown up Earth engraved on its back. It was the kind of thing an evil henchman would wear, just like he dreamed of as a child. Sergei sighed, moping the metallic floors of the lair's corridor. Who was he kidding? He's a failure. Even when he'd been the best student at the training schools, even when he recruited some of the best suicide bombers ever seen in the middle east, the only job he could get after a botched mission in Turkey was this, a cleaning position. Sergei told himself it was alright, he was still working on his field of choice. He was like Madonna now, who worked as a waitress before hitting it big. Part of him hated Madonna, because she represented the very capitalists ideals he fought against, but another respected her for what she'd accomplished. Plus, "Like a Virgin" is a song he enjoyed, even if it was just about a guy with a big dick.
Sergei lifted the mop and strained it above a yellow bucket. He then wheeled it along the hallway, stopping at a dry spot to continue his work. Sergei shook his head, taking a deep breath. He needed to focus. Self-loathing wouldn't get him anywhere. He needed get noticed by a big boss to launch his career again, just like Madonna. It was this damn underground lair that had him so depressed. Everything was metal. The walls, the floors, the doors. It's a miracle people can remain motivated here. No windows meant that only fluorescent lights illuminated the lair, which, by some godforsaken reason, were too dim and bright at the same time. They even buzzed when turned on for too long! It wasn't all bad, though. Sergei felt grateful for the migraine they gave him, because at least it distracted him from his pathetic life.
The janitor finished cleaning around a corner, strained his mop again, and looked down the hallway with a grin. Aside from his many skills pertaining to international terrorism, he was also proud of his cleaning skills. He could make a floor sparkle really damn well. Shouting echoed down the hallway, causing Sergei to furrow his brow. This part of the lair was near the computer servers. No one worked around here, so it was normally quiet during these hours. A gunshot then made him flinch. This wasn't good. Sergei hunched and hid behind the corner, dragging his bucket along.
An Asian man wearing a black turtleneck sweater then ran through the wet hallway, slipped on the floor, and slid on it until stopping in front of Sergei. The man groaned. He gripped his left shoulder with a strained face. It was bleeding from gunshot wound. Sergei cursed under his breath and rolled his eyes. A streak of blood trailed along the path he slid on, meaning that Sergei would have to mop this hallway again. A bearded man then ran into the hallway and shouted:
"Stop him! That man is a traitor!"
Sergei nodded. "I get credit for his capture, right comrade?"
"Yes," said the man, getting closer while lowering his Walther PPK handgun. "I'll make sure to mention you in the report."
"No," said the bleeding man, "he's lying! *He's* the traitor! I saw him talking into a video comm while hidden in the server room! Now he's trying to kill me!"
"Don't listen to the traitor. He's an Interpol spy. He's known as 'The Cyber-Dragon of the East'. I caught him filling up a pen drive with every operation we've planned for the next month."
Sergei squinted his eyes, shifting his gaze between the two men. He then said:
"I see. I will not listen to him, then. You can go and alert the other guards. I'll dispose of this scum for you. As janitor, it is my duty to clean up these messes."
The bearded smiled. "Thank you. You've been a great asset. I'm sure the boss will be pleased with your work."
The bearded man then turned around and started walking away. Sergei sneaked up behind him, locking him in a choke hold with his forearm. The bearded man struck Sergei's ribs with his elbows, struggling break free, but failed. Sergei just endured the pain, laughing loudly the more his victim fought back. The bearded man then ran backwards, smashing Sergei into the nearest wall.
He widened his eyes when he realized he dropped his gun. He lunged for it, but Sergei already anticipated his movement. Sergei grabbed his mop, ran towards the bearded man, and broke the wooden handle on his head. He then dragged his dazed opponent to his bucket, submerging his head into the dirty water until he flailed no more. Silence. The bearded man was dead.
Sergei sighed in relief and walked towards the gun, picking it up. He then turned around and said:
"Sergei misses many things about field work. The smell of gun powder. The traveling. Meeting all kinds of people all over the world. But one thing I don't miss is the traitors."
The Asian man smiled. "Thank you. You saved my life! Not that I'm not grateful, but how did you know I wasn't lying?"
"Easy." Sergei raised the gun and gestured at it. "He used Walther PPK. Only MI6 use pathetic peashooter. They all think they are James Bond or something. A real terrorist uses weapon with stopping power. We can't afford to leave target alive, like happen to you. Also, it's because I believe comrade's words."
"Lucky me, then."
"That is to say," Sergei aimed the gun at the Asian man and cocked it, "I believe other comrade's words, too. Give pen drive, and I let you live."
"I-I don't know what..."
"Don't test me. I know lie when I see it. Reach into pocket, slowly, and slide it across the floor."
The Asian man reached behind his back. He drew a gun. Sergei shot him before he could do anything with it. Sergei then walked up to his body and found the pen drive. A small part of him dreaded being wrong, but his years of experience told him his hunch was right. He then looked at the two bodies and sighed. He needed to dispose of the bodies and clean the hallway. Again. Now that his mop was broken, he also had to get another mop handle. Sergei smiled. Maybe this was the last time he needed to clean in this lair. Maybe he didn't even need to clean this up. Maybe, just maybe, it was his lucky day. He then walked through the hallways with light feet, whistling to himself "Like a Virgin".
--------------------------------------------
The boss' office was the fanciest room in the lair. Its floor was carpeted with purple rug and its walls were covered with polished oak. The lighting was warm, comfortable, the complete opposite of the rest of the lair. Sergei waited for his boss on one of the chair in from of his desk. Once his boss entered the room, Sergei stood up to meet him.
"No," said the Boss, "please, remain seated."
Sergei nodded and sat back down. "I hope I didn't cause much trouble. But Sergei misses the field. I will not lie, killing those men was enjoyable."
"Yes, yes." The boss sat on his leather office chair. " I think we can all relate to the thrill of killing a traitor."
"I'm happy I was useful then. Could I stop being janitor now?"
The boss raised an eyebrow. "Are you serious? You expect a promotion after what you just did?"
"Yes! I did good, no?"
"No! No you didn't! Months of planning down the toilet because of an idiot janitor."
Sergei squinted his eyes in confusion. "I don't understand problem."
"Of course you don't!" The boss slammed his fist into his desk. "That's because you did something above your pay grade and expected to be useful. I don't pay you to stop traitors, I pay you to clean the bathrooms. That man was supposed to get away with the plans! They were decoys I made to throw off Interpol! Now I have to wait a couple of months before those Interpol fucks send another of their men!"
"Send another traitor? How do you know they will? How are you okay with that?!?"
"Because half the staff here are spies! Everyone knows it! Except for them, that is. And apparently you! Hell, my head of Human Resources sends all of our employee files to the CIA! Thankfully, I only give info on other spies. Only the janitorial staff are terrorist! Our real operatives are never here!"
"Oh..." Sergei lowered his gaze. "I apologize."
"You're damned right you apologize! You're lucky I don't fire you! Now go back and clean the mess you made!"
"Yes, boss."
Sergei stood up and walked towards the door. Maybe he would have a better shot in Hollywood. He could be a stunt double or a special effects guy. Sergei shook his head. That wouldn't work. The last time he worked with bombs, the suicide vests didn't go off. This was his career. Terrorism was his thing, and he couldn't just quit now. He opened the door and shut it behind him. Once outside, he whispered to himself:
"*Cyka blyat.*"
-------------------------------
> If you enjoyed this, you can check out more of my stories over at /r/WeirdEmoKidStories! | "Don't trust any of them." My grandfather had sternly admonished.
I wanted to talk to my mother about it, but he explicitly said no.
"Keep her out of it
Keep all of us out of it.
Don't trust any of them"
I hated them. Well, not us them, but them. Those ones who ruled us economically from afar. Not us, those I know. And love. Life here was as barren as the dusty fields that surrounded my home. If i cold call it that. Nothing warm about the empty hearth, or my mother's empty bed. This was why I wanted to join them. No, not us and not those. Them. The productive outlet for my youthful anger. This resistance that resisted. Well, except for George,who had joined then left. He was not my favorite, I was glad he was out. And Michael. Michael was gone. I never heard where he went. My mother lightly grieved the loss for her friend's sake - but I don't know where he lives now.
My grandfather was adamant that I not trust them. I knew I wouldn't, and wouldn't let him down. Or mom. Or dad
Before early shift, which had been had taken months ago to give my mother some respite, it boiled over. The cold morning hunger pushed me. Well, I wanted to be pushed, i wanted to push. My mother weighed less, much less than I. And much less than she should. When father died in the mines she tried to protect us, to feed us, to protect from the hunger. grandfather still worked, and my shift extended. She died, my sister, less than 2. They are to blame, because my father's death. No, i told you, not them, those.
We quickly moved somewhere deeper I had never seen before, behind doors never opened. He had been my detail leader. Never had mentioned them, but I knew he knew. How could someone so angry, reflect the dissatisfaction I felt not know. So we went deeper.
"this way. We have to be careful, for nowhere is safe"
His stride quickened.
More doors, more hallways. The fresh earth smell all around us.
"I want to help. They killed my dad"
"I know. And worse for your mother"
"she is hungry"
"No, they" "they...you will know someday"
We sped up. Until this door. Heavier looking that all the rest. We had to stop.
It creaked open a bit.
"Who, why" was barked.
"I have the recruit" was his curt reply.
As the door swung open my arm was gripped by his iron hand.
Cold eyes locked onto mine as my arm was pulled forward.
"This is the cell leader?"
"He is the recruit"
A scoff, a laugh gently escaped from this large, furrowed man. My shift leader cowed a bit, but his had stayed tight. Escape was not possible.
I was shoved inside and the door closed with a soft click.
A ring of men and one bright woman surrounded us.
They all started to laugh. Deep hearty laughter that crushed everything I knew.
"Homeland and this is what you get?"
"Piss off internal inves! You cunts havn't caught anything in months"
"like you DFI faggots get anything!" yelled the tallest, brownhaired guy at the end.
She interjected loudly "All of you. quiet. This is our lead"
I could not follow the explosion of shouts.
Him blaming him while the guy shouted at, all of them?
My detail leader looked grim. It quickly became apparent that everyone here was those, or part of those. I was alone. And so would be my mother. well, she had grandfather. Had, because I did tell them he told me to stay quiet. | |
[WP] A terrorist group has been infiltrated by so many agencies that it is now run by spies, unbeknownst to the spies themselves. This fact becomes apparent to an actual extremist who joins their ranks. | A bright light. That's how it ends.
He knew from the very beginning his partners were weirdos. At first, he felt immersed in a Hollywood production. The gadgets, the computers, the equipment, everything was amazing! He felt empowered, and his goals were within reach. But after too many failed field actions, he was demoralized.
On a dark evening, he suddenly opened his eyes. He realized what was going on. There was a saboteur inside. It was not him. Who? who was in a position to mess with the operations? The technicians! of course! they were the ones! a lot of technology, manuals, tutorials, education, and no results?
He went to the mountains, and after a little digging went inside the old cave, where his uncle told him about the cause, and went to the very end of the tunnel. There it was. The old wood box. He didn't recognize the Cyrillic but knew what was inside.
He went back to the base, and straight to the lab. The techs were talking and when he opened the door they all looked at him. He smiled back, and they kept talking.
He was blind, how he didn't noticed? too many clues in front of him. They never asked for money, they have everything you can dream of. Good boots, warm jackets, new weapons, satellite access, it was a dream. But they never killed a single infidel. Never. They were always away, gathering information, and then, building the IEDs with precision. At some locations, there was too many soldiers, like expecting them. Aborted mission. At some others, they were practically ambushed. His cousin went to Heaven at a tourist hotel near the ruins. Everything was clear. They were all traitors. He was looking at one beautiful watch at a traitor's wrist when he realized what he was doing.
He looked around and found the plastic explosives box. He tossed a grenade there and the other he held it in front of him. The 5 technicians reacted with surprise, knowing there was no chance of escaping the explosion that was coming.
He closed his eyes, and felt peace. No more mistakes, no more sabotage, he was going to Heaven, and he was sure his replacement was destined to be successful.
A bright light. That's how it ended.
At Langley, at Pulach, "La Piscine", the SIS building, at Lubyanka, at the Federal Palace in Bern, even in Ryad, the following days some people were closing files, destroying documents, and mourning lost friends.
//
ps: please forgive my grammar and spelling. Edited to remove the name and use "he". | "my division is doing something very interesting"
"So is mine" replied Cathy
"I don't want to say but it has something to do with dogs" marks eyes shone.
"Neat, I am a dog person too" she winked.
" Well I have to go." Mark sauntered off.
Cathy reached for her phone and dailed her contact " if they are doing dogs , we can't just do cats. I guess we settle for cogs" Cathy put her phone away and walked down the hall. | |
[WP] A terrorist group has been infiltrated by so many agencies that it is now run by spies, unbeknownst to the spies themselves. This fact becomes apparent to an actual extremist who joins their ranks. | "YOU MEAN TO TELL ME ALL OF YOU ARE SPIES??" The Jihadi boss screamed to all his men. He had been admonishing them for a raid gone wrong, and a select group for losing a major stronghold. He was so furious, and a little confused. I mean, he was sure there were *some* spies, but ALL of them? No one was loyal to him? Like- really?
"Yes, sir," one of the men said at the front.
"Sami! You- you were my most trusted adviser."
"You were an idiot," Sami told him with a slight shrug. "I'd have thought my betrayal was quite clear when I advised you to load a missile with jamming signals before firing at the Israeli Nuclear Power Plant."
"But- but that plan worked! It caused months of mayhem in Israel!"
"But you forget what happened afterwards! Our entire commando section for wiped out by Mossad and CIA and I am responsible! That decision got attention, and made the world more serious about getting rid of us, thereby costing lives. Lives who were otherwise loyal to you."
"What about- ok, what about Ali? He's definitely waging a true Jihad! He led the attack into Texas sending our men disguised as Mexicans to quietly take over! We have an American Emirate thanks to him!"
"Should we- should we tell him?" they ask one another.
"He'll find out sooner or later," they agreed. "Sir... Ali IS Mexican. His real name is Jesus, and the Mexicans who took over were just honest immigrants, most of whom moved to California."
"Hah, joke's on you!" the boss yelled. "Ali was a school friend. You can't possibly have used him, he's a spy for me!"
The spies were a little confused at first. "Do a background check on one named Ali Shishani. Went to Toni Georges High School."
"Ah, yes... he was killed in action in the aforementioned raid after Operation Humpback Whale ended in the nuclear explosion."
"WHAT? YOU MURDERERS! YOU KILLED MY FRIEND!"
"How many have you killed so far?" one asked testily.
"This isn't the point!" he said meekly.
"Sorry, sir, but you're coming with us. This group is finished."
"You think you can hold me? You can't just- end this you know."
"We'll continue holding operations," another answered. "Admittedly, this group has been a useful, and convenient enemy. Nice to have under control. Sorry, sir, your whole enterprise is over."
"I'll have your heads for this! Joke's on you!" And the spies step back as he strips his jacket off, revealing a vest laden with bombs. "If I can't have this group, nobody can, certainly not the Great Satan America!"
"You- you think we're all American?"
"I'm French."
"Australian here."
"Royal Agent for her Majesty the Queen."
"Your Queen is a figurehead!"
"That's what YOU think!" the British Agent yelled, making the boss sit back down.
"And I'm Saudi!" one youth said happily.
"You're WHAT?" the boss was beside himself. "You funded our existence!"
"You swore to demolish our country and you think we *funded* you?"
The agents all laughed at him as they led him away. So funny was this, the boss began laughing too. Laughing at his own stupidity. | "my division is doing something very interesting"
"So is mine" replied Cathy
"I don't want to say but it has something to do with dogs" marks eyes shone.
"Neat, I am a dog person too" she winked.
" Well I have to go." Mark sauntered off.
Cathy reached for her phone and dailed her contact " if they are doing dogs , we can't just do cats. I guess we settle for cogs" Cathy put her phone away and walked down the hall. | |
[WP] A terrorist group has been infiltrated by so many agencies that it is now run by spies, unbeknownst to the spies themselves. This fact becomes apparent to an actual extremist who joins their ranks. | *Somewhere in Europe, in an apartment, a tattooed punk knocks on the door. Three men in Islamic garb are inside*
"Hello comrades! Let's crush some yankees - bash the fash, right?"
"Do you not understand? We are a Salafi Jihad organization - we are not an anarchist commune."
"Hmm...that's not what the texts said."
"Texts?"
"Yeah, you left a flyer with a poster of Trump crossed out and a phone number. I'm the guy you've been messaging with to discuss our plans to 'hit' the American Embassy in Berlin."
"And by hit you mean...Could you please make sense? What number did you text?"
"+__ __________, comrade."
"Well then you've got the wrong number. Sorry."
"Wait one second...what is the likelihood that I call an anarchist cell and get a terrorist cell instead? Methinks you are spies."
*One of the other three men intrudes in the conversation*
Jihadist 2: Nigel, stop it. You're screwing up.
Jihadist 3: Nigel? *Who the fuck is NIGEL?* Wisam, this has to be some sort of a prank.
Jihadist 1: That was my kuffar name before I converted.
Jihadist 3: *Converted?* I thought you said you were Lebanese.
Jihadist 1: Lebanese - um - Catholic.
Jihadist 3: You mean Maronite? It shouldn't take you time to remember your upbringing.
*A door opens, and a woman in a niqab emerges*
Jihadist 4: Boys, what is this going on? If you don't shut up I'll...
*she grabs a bomb*
...hmm, this is too light.
*points to Jihadist 3*
Jihadist 4: Why is this bomb so light? It's a dummy, right?
Jihadist 3: I never said we were going to actually kill anyone....
Jihadist 4: What...are you some kind of cop? (in an accusatory tone)
Jihadist 3 (perplexed): A...Aicha?
Jihadist 4: Driss? You remind me of a Sûreté nationale agent I went out with in Casablanca?
Jihadist 3: Yes...we were in the same class together!
*another knock at the door*
Punk: I guess you won't be wanting the bacon pizza I ordered for our collective....
*Punk slinks out, and sounds of argument can be heard while he pays for the pizza dejectedly using currency stamped with far-left symbols*
*Some time later, shots ring out as the British and Moroccan spies get into a fight and one of the Moroccans fires a warning shot into the ceiling* | "my division is doing something very interesting"
"So is mine" replied Cathy
"I don't want to say but it has something to do with dogs" marks eyes shone.
"Neat, I am a dog person too" she winked.
" Well I have to go." Mark sauntered off.
Cathy reached for her phone and dailed her contact " if they are doing dogs , we can't just do cats. I guess we settle for cogs" Cathy put her phone away and walked down the hall. | |
[WP] A terrorist group has been infiltrated by so many agencies that it is now run by spies, unbeknownst to the spies themselves. This fact becomes apparent to an actual extremist who joins their ranks. | *Somewhere in Europe, in an apartment, a tattooed punk knocks on the door. Three men in Islamic garb are inside*
"Hello comrades! Let's crush some yankees - bash the fash, right?"
"Do you not understand? We are a Salafi Jihad organization - we are not an anarchist commune."
"Hmm...that's not what the texts said."
"Texts?"
"Yeah, you left a flyer with a poster of Trump crossed out and a phone number. I'm the guy you've been messaging with to discuss our plans to 'hit' the American Embassy in Berlin."
"And by hit you mean...Could you please make sense? What number did you text?"
"+__ __________, comrade."
"Well then you've got the wrong number. Sorry."
"Wait one second...what is the likelihood that I call an anarchist cell and get a terrorist cell instead? Methinks you are spies."
*One of the other three men intrudes in the conversation*
Jihadist 2: Nigel, stop it. You're screwing up.
Jihadist 3: Nigel? *Who the fuck is NIGEL?* Wisam, this has to be some sort of a prank.
Jihadist 1: That was my kuffar name before I converted.
Jihadist 3: *Converted?* I thought you said you were Lebanese.
Jihadist 1: Lebanese - um - Catholic.
Jihadist 3: You mean Maronite? It shouldn't take you time to remember your upbringing.
*A door opens, and a woman in a niqab emerges*
Jihadist 4: Boys, what is this going on? If you don't shut up I'll...
*she grabs a bomb*
...hmm, this is too light.
*points to Jihadist 3*
Jihadist 4: Why is this bomb so light? It's a dummy, right?
Jihadist 3: I never said we were going to actually kill anyone....
Jihadist 4: What...are you some kind of cop? (in an accusatory tone)
Jihadist 3 (perplexed): A...Aicha?
Jihadist 4: Driss? You remind me of a Sûreté nationale agent I went out with in Casablanca?
Jihadist 3: Yes...we were in the same class together!
*another knock at the door*
Punk: I guess you won't be wanting the bacon pizza I ordered for our collective....
*Punk slinks out, and sounds of argument can be heard while he pays for the pizza dejectedly using currency stamped with far-left symbols*
*Some time later, shots ring out as the British and Moroccan spies get into a fight and one of the Moroccans fires a warning shot into the ceiling* | "What's the status on Operation Siberian Tiger?" Lotus asks, checking his Status Sheet.
"Pending," says Dora Sue. "Actually, we're going to have to keep that to inactive."
"Ok," says Lotus. "Inactive. Operation Harambe?" he asks.
"We're going to have to move that to red. Inactive," says Zarathustra.
"Oh yeah? What happened there?" asks Lotus.
"Well, Department of Homeland Security got wind of it, apparently," says Zarathustra.
Feathers, the new guy, can see Dora Sue smile to herself.
Lotus looks up from his Status Sheet with sudden annoyance. "It's already been leaked? I mean, it's been leaked?"
"I heard from my guy inside at FBI," says Zarathustra.
"I thought you said Homeland Security?" asks Lotus.
"Yeah, that's what I meant."
"Wait so Homeland Security or FBI got credit for that?" asks Lotus. "I mean, figured it out."
Feathers watches in amusement. Every time something goes on the Status Sheet it gets leaked to either the FBI, or Homeland Security, or the Distract Attorneys office. Feathers needs Dora Sue, Zarathustra, and Lotus for their expertise in the field. Despite being covert government operatives, they have a surprising amount of expertise, as well as contacts in the Animal Liberation Front.
"Homeland Security," says Zarathustra. "Hey, what's going on with that sting operation on Pfizer's animal testing facility?" he asks Lotus.
"Well you know, we haven't been able to pull all the pieces together yet, but it's in motion," says Lotus.
"So that's inactive too?" says Zarathustra.
"Yup," says Lotus.
"Wait so do we have anything in the pipeline at this point?" asks Dora Sue. "Anything on green?"
It reminds Feathers of when he worked at an actual corporation.
"Feathers?" Lotus asks.
Feathers looks up. "Lotus, you knew Rod Coronado when he liberated the 'Three Thousand' from that UC Davis lab right?"
"The rats? sure did," says Lotus. "What, you got a plan?"
"How'd he do it?"
"Well, it's not that complicated. I mean, there's an Intrusion Detection and Isolation Protocol at most of these labs, which you can hack pretty easily with a signal detector, you know, one of those ISM jammers. They're not hard to build, you just need a few things from Best Buy. I can write you a list. Why? You got a project in mind?"
Feathers keeps on thinking about those turkey poults in the nephrotoxins lab at the University, the way the researchers know their kidneys are ready for testing by the amount of soft down they've grown on their wings, and the way the little birds shriek when they're put under. He looks at Lotus, Zarathustra, and Dora Sue, all waiting for him expectantly, Lotus with a pen and his Status Sheet at the ready.
"Nope," says Feathers. "I got nothing. See y'all next week?" | |
[WP] A terrorist group has been infiltrated by so many agencies that it is now run by spies, unbeknownst to the spies themselves. This fact becomes apparent to an actual extremist who joins their ranks. | Getting recognition in the international terrorism community through hard work is akin to getting noticed in entertainment for sheer talent alone. Sure, theoretically speaking, it's quite possible. With enough passion, anyone can leave their mark on the world. In practice though, 'could be's don't really hold up. You're more likely to get back-stabbed by someone you trust before you achieve anything. Or blow up at the least convenient moment, fading out as quickly you made yourself known.
It's a tough life for both entertainers and terrorists. Even the life expectancy is more or less the same! In all honesty, the only difference between the two of them is that when you commit suicide in terrorism, you do it for your ideals, not because you hate your life. Sergei felt relieved, and even pride, because he had the opposite problem now. He didn't have to stage ambushes in the desert, or smuggle prostitutes out of Eastern Europe. He certainly didn't have to wear a bomb vest anymore. No, Sergei had the best problem he could have. He finally had a steady job in terrorism, only it was the most banal thing he could imagine. He was a janitor for E.V.I.L., the new organization he'd just been recruited into.
His gray overalls were very stylish, with a logo of a blown up Earth engraved on its back. It was the kind of thing an evil henchman would wear, just like he dreamed of as a child. Sergei sighed, moping the metallic floors of the lair's corridor. Who was he kidding? He's a failure. Even when he'd been the best student at the training schools, even when he recruited some of the best suicide bombers ever seen in the middle east, the only job he could get after a botched mission in Turkey was this, a cleaning position. Sergei told himself it was alright, he was still working on his field of choice. He was like Madonna now, who worked as a waitress before hitting it big. Part of him hated Madonna, because she represented the very capitalists ideals he fought against, but another respected her for what she'd accomplished. Plus, "Like a Virgin" is a song he enjoyed, even if it was just about a guy with a big dick.
Sergei lifted the mop and strained it above a yellow bucket. He then wheeled it along the hallway, stopping at a dry spot to continue his work. Sergei shook his head, taking a deep breath. He needed to focus. Self-loathing wouldn't get him anywhere. He needed get noticed by a big boss to launch his career again, just like Madonna. It was this damn underground lair that had him so depressed. Everything was metal. The walls, the floors, the doors. It's a miracle people can remain motivated here. No windows meant that only fluorescent lights illuminated the lair, which, by some godforsaken reason, were too dim and bright at the same time. They even buzzed when turned on for too long! It wasn't all bad, though. Sergei felt grateful for the migraine they gave him, because at least it distracted him from his pathetic life.
The janitor finished cleaning around a corner, strained his mop again, and looked down the hallway with a grin. Aside from his many skills pertaining to international terrorism, he was also proud of his cleaning skills. He could make a floor sparkle really damn well. Shouting echoed down the hallway, causing Sergei to furrow his brow. This part of the lair was near the computer servers. No one worked around here, so it was normally quiet during these hours. A gunshot then made him flinch. This wasn't good. Sergei hunched and hid behind the corner, dragging his bucket along.
An Asian man wearing a black turtleneck sweater then ran through the wet hallway, slipped on the floor, and slid on it until stopping in front of Sergei. The man groaned. He gripped his left shoulder with a strained face. It was bleeding from gunshot wound. Sergei cursed under his breath and rolled his eyes. A streak of blood trailed along the path he slid on, meaning that Sergei would have to mop this hallway again. A bearded man then ran into the hallway and shouted:
"Stop him! That man is a traitor!"
Sergei nodded. "I get credit for his capture, right comrade?"
"Yes," said the man, getting closer while lowering his Walther PPK handgun. "I'll make sure to mention you in the report."
"No," said the bleeding man, "he's lying! *He's* the traitor! I saw him talking into a video comm while hidden in the server room! Now he's trying to kill me!"
"Don't listen to the traitor. He's an Interpol spy. He's known as 'The Cyber-Dragon of the East'. I caught him filling up a pen drive with every operation we've planned for the next month."
Sergei squinted his eyes, shifting his gaze between the two men. He then said:
"I see. I will not listen to him, then. You can go and alert the other guards. I'll dispose of this scum for you. As janitor, it is my duty to clean up these messes."
The bearded smiled. "Thank you. You've been a great asset. I'm sure the boss will be pleased with your work."
The bearded man then turned around and started walking away. Sergei sneaked up behind him, locking him in a choke hold with his forearm. The bearded man struck Sergei's ribs with his elbows, struggling break free, but failed. Sergei just endured the pain, laughing loudly the more his victim fought back. The bearded man then ran backwards, smashing Sergei into the nearest wall.
He widened his eyes when he realized he dropped his gun. He lunged for it, but Sergei already anticipated his movement. Sergei grabbed his mop, ran towards the bearded man, and broke the wooden handle on his head. He then dragged his dazed opponent to his bucket, submerging his head into the dirty water until he flailed no more. Silence. The bearded man was dead.
Sergei sighed in relief and walked towards the gun, picking it up. He then turned around and said:
"Sergei misses many things about field work. The smell of gun powder. The traveling. Meeting all kinds of people all over the world. But one thing I don't miss is the traitors."
The Asian man smiled. "Thank you. You saved my life! Not that I'm not grateful, but how did you know I wasn't lying?"
"Easy." Sergei raised the gun and gestured at it. "He used Walther PPK. Only MI6 use pathetic peashooter. They all think they are James Bond or something. A real terrorist uses weapon with stopping power. We can't afford to leave target alive, like happen to you. Also, it's because I believe comrade's words."
"Lucky me, then."
"That is to say," Sergei aimed the gun at the Asian man and cocked it, "I believe other comrade's words, too. Give pen drive, and I let you live."
"I-I don't know what..."
"Don't test me. I know lie when I see it. Reach into pocket, slowly, and slide it across the floor."
The Asian man reached behind his back. He drew a gun. Sergei shot him before he could do anything with it. Sergei then walked up to his body and found the pen drive. A small part of him dreaded being wrong, but his years of experience told him his hunch was right. He then looked at the two bodies and sighed. He needed to dispose of the bodies and clean the hallway. Again. Now that his mop was broken, he also had to get another mop handle. Sergei smiled. Maybe this was the last time he needed to clean in this lair. Maybe he didn't even need to clean this up. Maybe, just maybe, it was his lucky day. He then walked through the hallways with light feet, whistling to himself "Like a Virgin".
--------------------------------------------
The boss' office was the fanciest room in the lair. Its floor was carpeted with purple rug and its walls were covered with polished oak. The lighting was warm, comfortable, the complete opposite of the rest of the lair. Sergei waited for his boss on one of the chair in from of his desk. Once his boss entered the room, Sergei stood up to meet him.
"No," said the Boss, "please, remain seated."
Sergei nodded and sat back down. "I hope I didn't cause much trouble. But Sergei misses the field. I will not lie, killing those men was enjoyable."
"Yes, yes." The boss sat on his leather office chair. " I think we can all relate to the thrill of killing a traitor."
"I'm happy I was useful then. Could I stop being janitor now?"
The boss raised an eyebrow. "Are you serious? You expect a promotion after what you just did?"
"Yes! I did good, no?"
"No! No you didn't! Months of planning down the toilet because of an idiot janitor."
Sergei squinted his eyes in confusion. "I don't understand problem."
"Of course you don't!" The boss slammed his fist into his desk. "That's because you did something above your pay grade and expected to be useful. I don't pay you to stop traitors, I pay you to clean the bathrooms. That man was supposed to get away with the plans! They were decoys I made to throw off Interpol! Now I have to wait a couple of months before those Interpol fucks send another of their men!"
"Send another traitor? How do you know they will? How are you okay with that?!?"
"Because half the staff here are spies! Everyone knows it! Except for them, that is. And apparently you! Hell, my head of Human Resources sends all of our employee files to the CIA! Thankfully, I only give info on other spies. Only the janitorial staff are terrorist! Our real operatives are never here!"
"Oh..." Sergei lowered his gaze. "I apologize."
"You're damned right you apologize! You're lucky I don't fire you! Now go back and clean the mess you made!"
"Yes, boss."
Sergei stood up and walked towards the door. Maybe he would have a better shot in Hollywood. He could be a stunt double or a special effects guy. Sergei shook his head. That wouldn't work. The last time he worked with bombs, the suicide vests didn't go off. This was his career. Terrorism was his thing, and he couldn't just quit now. He opened the door and shut it behind him. Once outside, he whispered to himself:
"*Cyka blyat.*"
-------------------------------
> If you enjoyed this, you can check out more of my stories over at /r/WeirdEmoKidStories! | **SPY vs. SPY vs. SPIES**
*BASED ON A MOVIE I'VE NEVER SEEN (AND WITH APOLOGIES TO ANGELINA JOLIE):*
The man sat shackled to the stainless steel interrogation room chair, looking at his hands. His long, grey hair and beard suggested old age, but perhaps he had just lived a hard life. The interrogator entered. She threw a thick file down on the table, just out of the man's reach
"Okay, run this all by me again."
"My name is Mikhail Denisovitch. I was a high-ranking agent in the FSB. I have left Mother Russia and come here at great personal risk to deliver a warning to you Americans. There is an ISIS spy within your ranks. Her name is Pepper."
"That's not possible. My name is Pepper."
"Then you are an ISIS spy."
"Also, my supervisor's name is Pepper."
"Then your supervisor is an ISIS spy."
"Also, the deputy director for signals intelligence is named Pepper."
"Then they are an ISIS spy."
At this, the interrogator opened the man's file, and showed the first page to the defector.
"It says here that your codename is Pepper, too."
"Then I am an ISIS spy."
Those watching the interrogation remotely dimly imagined that at this point Oprah Winfrey might burst into the interrogation room, audience in tow, yelling, "And you're an ISIS spy! And you're an ISIS spy! And so are you! And you! And you all get Pontiacs!!!" What actually happened was more prosaic.
The duty phone on the wall rang. It was the profiler whom Pepper had spoken with earlier.
"We ran his fingerprints, and it's not him. It turns out that our FSB agent has an identical twin brother. Sources confirm that Asset Pepper is still in Moscow. And still working for us."
"Good. I was worried that something had gone wrong in a big way," Pepper whispered. "What should I do with this guy?"
"He should probably have a psych eval, but that's not our department. Cut him loose. Tell him we don't want to hear from him again."
"Sounds good to me. Thanks."
"No problem. Say hi to your cousins for me, won't you, Pepper?"
"Sure." She hung up, and turned to the prisoner. "You're free to go, once I get these shackles off. You can pick up your belongings on the way out. They'll give you a meal voucher and a $5 metro card too. Do not make the mistake of coming back."
The Russian slowly shook his head. "It is you Americans who are making the mistake. Very well, though."
----
That evening, Agent Pepper met with her supervisor and the deputy director of national intelligence at a secure location.
"Hey cousins! Did you hear about the kerfuffle today?"
Her supervisor laughed, "Did we ever! To think that a hoaxer nearly compromised a decade of work..." She shook her head.
Deputy DNI Pepper looked more somber. "We've got to worry more about operational security more than we have been. Are the attack plans on schedule?"
Agent Pepper nodded, "Absolutely."
"Good. Once we hit some of ISIS's least useful assets, that should clear up any questions about our allegiances. I'll warn our brethren so they can avoid casualties. Once that's done, we can turn to our own plans against the infidels."
----
Sitting at the back of a metro car that same evening, Mikhail Denisovitch smiled. *The Americans were so foolish! Sending a compromised asset to interrogate him--would wonders never cease?*
*Not only that, but he had also succeeded in bugging large portions of the building on his way to interrogation. Soon they would have proof that his traitorous twin was a double-agent. For now, though, he would sample American food at McDonald's, courtesy of the CIA. They could worry about their ISIS problem without his country's help.*
| |
[WP] A terrorist group has been infiltrated by so many agencies that it is now run by spies, unbeknownst to the spies themselves. This fact becomes apparent to an actual extremist who joins their ranks. | Getting recognition in the international terrorism community through hard work is akin to getting noticed in entertainment for sheer talent alone. Sure, theoretically speaking, it's quite possible. With enough passion, anyone can leave their mark on the world. In practice though, 'could be's don't really hold up. You're more likely to get back-stabbed by someone you trust before you achieve anything. Or blow up at the least convenient moment, fading out as quickly you made yourself known.
It's a tough life for both entertainers and terrorists. Even the life expectancy is more or less the same! In all honesty, the only difference between the two of them is that when you commit suicide in terrorism, you do it for your ideals, not because you hate your life. Sergei felt relieved, and even pride, because he had the opposite problem now. He didn't have to stage ambushes in the desert, or smuggle prostitutes out of Eastern Europe. He certainly didn't have to wear a bomb vest anymore. No, Sergei had the best problem he could have. He finally had a steady job in terrorism, only it was the most banal thing he could imagine. He was a janitor for E.V.I.L., the new organization he'd just been recruited into.
His gray overalls were very stylish, with a logo of a blown up Earth engraved on its back. It was the kind of thing an evil henchman would wear, just like he dreamed of as a child. Sergei sighed, moping the metallic floors of the lair's corridor. Who was he kidding? He's a failure. Even when he'd been the best student at the training schools, even when he recruited some of the best suicide bombers ever seen in the middle east, the only job he could get after a botched mission in Turkey was this, a cleaning position. Sergei told himself it was alright, he was still working on his field of choice. He was like Madonna now, who worked as a waitress before hitting it big. Part of him hated Madonna, because she represented the very capitalists ideals he fought against, but another respected her for what she'd accomplished. Plus, "Like a Virgin" is a song he enjoyed, even if it was just about a guy with a big dick.
Sergei lifted the mop and strained it above a yellow bucket. He then wheeled it along the hallway, stopping at a dry spot to continue his work. Sergei shook his head, taking a deep breath. He needed to focus. Self-loathing wouldn't get him anywhere. He needed get noticed by a big boss to launch his career again, just like Madonna. It was this damn underground lair that had him so depressed. Everything was metal. The walls, the floors, the doors. It's a miracle people can remain motivated here. No windows meant that only fluorescent lights illuminated the lair, which, by some godforsaken reason, were too dim and bright at the same time. They even buzzed when turned on for too long! It wasn't all bad, though. Sergei felt grateful for the migraine they gave him, because at least it distracted him from his pathetic life.
The janitor finished cleaning around a corner, strained his mop again, and looked down the hallway with a grin. Aside from his many skills pertaining to international terrorism, he was also proud of his cleaning skills. He could make a floor sparkle really damn well. Shouting echoed down the hallway, causing Sergei to furrow his brow. This part of the lair was near the computer servers. No one worked around here, so it was normally quiet during these hours. A gunshot then made him flinch. This wasn't good. Sergei hunched and hid behind the corner, dragging his bucket along.
An Asian man wearing a black turtleneck sweater then ran through the wet hallway, slipped on the floor, and slid on it until stopping in front of Sergei. The man groaned. He gripped his left shoulder with a strained face. It was bleeding from gunshot wound. Sergei cursed under his breath and rolled his eyes. A streak of blood trailed along the path he slid on, meaning that Sergei would have to mop this hallway again. A bearded man then ran into the hallway and shouted:
"Stop him! That man is a traitor!"
Sergei nodded. "I get credit for his capture, right comrade?"
"Yes," said the man, getting closer while lowering his Walther PPK handgun. "I'll make sure to mention you in the report."
"No," said the bleeding man, "he's lying! *He's* the traitor! I saw him talking into a video comm while hidden in the server room! Now he's trying to kill me!"
"Don't listen to the traitor. He's an Interpol spy. He's known as 'The Cyber-Dragon of the East'. I caught him filling up a pen drive with every operation we've planned for the next month."
Sergei squinted his eyes, shifting his gaze between the two men. He then said:
"I see. I will not listen to him, then. You can go and alert the other guards. I'll dispose of this scum for you. As janitor, it is my duty to clean up these messes."
The bearded smiled. "Thank you. You've been a great asset. I'm sure the boss will be pleased with your work."
The bearded man then turned around and started walking away. Sergei sneaked up behind him, locking him in a choke hold with his forearm. The bearded man struck Sergei's ribs with his elbows, struggling break free, but failed. Sergei just endured the pain, laughing loudly the more his victim fought back. The bearded man then ran backwards, smashing Sergei into the nearest wall.
He widened his eyes when he realized he dropped his gun. He lunged for it, but Sergei already anticipated his movement. Sergei grabbed his mop, ran towards the bearded man, and broke the wooden handle on his head. He then dragged his dazed opponent to his bucket, submerging his head into the dirty water until he flailed no more. Silence. The bearded man was dead.
Sergei sighed in relief and walked towards the gun, picking it up. He then turned around and said:
"Sergei misses many things about field work. The smell of gun powder. The traveling. Meeting all kinds of people all over the world. But one thing I don't miss is the traitors."
The Asian man smiled. "Thank you. You saved my life! Not that I'm not grateful, but how did you know I wasn't lying?"
"Easy." Sergei raised the gun and gestured at it. "He used Walther PPK. Only MI6 use pathetic peashooter. They all think they are James Bond or something. A real terrorist uses weapon with stopping power. We can't afford to leave target alive, like happen to you. Also, it's because I believe comrade's words."
"Lucky me, then."
"That is to say," Sergei aimed the gun at the Asian man and cocked it, "I believe other comrade's words, too. Give pen drive, and I let you live."
"I-I don't know what..."
"Don't test me. I know lie when I see it. Reach into pocket, slowly, and slide it across the floor."
The Asian man reached behind his back. He drew a gun. Sergei shot him before he could do anything with it. Sergei then walked up to his body and found the pen drive. A small part of him dreaded being wrong, but his years of experience told him his hunch was right. He then looked at the two bodies and sighed. He needed to dispose of the bodies and clean the hallway. Again. Now that his mop was broken, he also had to get another mop handle. Sergei smiled. Maybe this was the last time he needed to clean in this lair. Maybe he didn't even need to clean this up. Maybe, just maybe, it was his lucky day. He then walked through the hallways with light feet, whistling to himself "Like a Virgin".
--------------------------------------------
The boss' office was the fanciest room in the lair. Its floor was carpeted with purple rug and its walls were covered with polished oak. The lighting was warm, comfortable, the complete opposite of the rest of the lair. Sergei waited for his boss on one of the chair in from of his desk. Once his boss entered the room, Sergei stood up to meet him.
"No," said the Boss, "please, remain seated."
Sergei nodded and sat back down. "I hope I didn't cause much trouble. But Sergei misses the field. I will not lie, killing those men was enjoyable."
"Yes, yes." The boss sat on his leather office chair. " I think we can all relate to the thrill of killing a traitor."
"I'm happy I was useful then. Could I stop being janitor now?"
The boss raised an eyebrow. "Are you serious? You expect a promotion after what you just did?"
"Yes! I did good, no?"
"No! No you didn't! Months of planning down the toilet because of an idiot janitor."
Sergei squinted his eyes in confusion. "I don't understand problem."
"Of course you don't!" The boss slammed his fist into his desk. "That's because you did something above your pay grade and expected to be useful. I don't pay you to stop traitors, I pay you to clean the bathrooms. That man was supposed to get away with the plans! They were decoys I made to throw off Interpol! Now I have to wait a couple of months before those Interpol fucks send another of their men!"
"Send another traitor? How do you know they will? How are you okay with that?!?"
"Because half the staff here are spies! Everyone knows it! Except for them, that is. And apparently you! Hell, my head of Human Resources sends all of our employee files to the CIA! Thankfully, I only give info on other spies. Only the janitorial staff are terrorist! Our real operatives are never here!"
"Oh..." Sergei lowered his gaze. "I apologize."
"You're damned right you apologize! You're lucky I don't fire you! Now go back and clean the mess you made!"
"Yes, boss."
Sergei stood up and walked towards the door. Maybe he would have a better shot in Hollywood. He could be a stunt double or a special effects guy. Sergei shook his head. That wouldn't work. The last time he worked with bombs, the suicide vests didn't go off. This was his career. Terrorism was his thing, and he couldn't just quit now. He opened the door and shut it behind him. Once outside, he whispered to himself:
"*Cyka blyat.*"
-------------------------------
> If you enjoyed this, you can check out more of my stories over at /r/WeirdEmoKidStories! | I fled here from my home country, after murdering a stranger. No reasons, no motives, he just looked at me funny. Back there I would be called delusional, a psychopath. Here, I am known as a valuable asset. There is one problem though. It's only been three days since I joined these terrorists, and I already begin to hold my doubts. In the day, nobody walks anywhere near each other, staring at each other with shifty eyes. I feel that if someone were to cough, the trenches would erupt into fighting. At night, I hear my fellow members talk in hushed whispers, with their faces against the collars.
All these pieces of the puzzle make me wonder if there is a larger plot at hand, it makes me wonder if these people are even dedicated to the cause, or, like myself, want an excuse to kill. What if these people were all part of one large conspiracy to get me to confess to my murders, and their distrust were small signals to one another about my actions? No, it is merely paranoia. The government wouldn't dedicate this many resources to capture one man, but it still begs the question: what are these people doing, and who are they? The group consists of people from many different ethnic groups, however, I studied the bible that these terrorists go by, as not to be outcast, and it demands a single race, preaching that all others are inferior. There is definitely something larger at hand here. Tonight, my knife will taste blood. I will kill one who speaks to their collar. I will get to the bottom of this. I don't care if this entire trench explodes in combat against one another in the morning.
I'll be long gone before anyone realises this death. | |
[WP] A terrorist group has been infiltrated by so many agencies that it is now run by spies, unbeknownst to the spies themselves. This fact becomes apparent to an actual extremist who joins their ranks. | *The following is a transcript being entered into trial evidence, it will be labelled as Exhibit G. All names have been altered to protect identities of government assets.*
**07-13-2012**
We didn't get much food again, mom and dad tried to put a positive spin on it, saying that God will provide once we wipe the evil spawn from the earth and show the government that they need to keep their hands off our land!
All I know is that I'm fucking starving and want to shower so badly, but these fucking redneck "freedom fighters" don't even know what living off grid means, they think it means splashing in a crick and hunting for your food.
I totally agree with my parents that the government is trying to claim too much autonomy on our land, and really if I think back on it part of the reason why we're here IS because I kind of had been pushing them for us to come check this place out and what they were fighting against...
But no one has any idea what they want to do.
Just yesterday I was talking to Bobby [Redacted]. Asked him what the next step was and he kind of froze and looked around before saying..."I dunno man, it's whatever we want! We need to show that gubberment what's-what and give 'em a what-for!"
"Yeah, cool Bobby. But WHAT exactly is the next step?"
Bobby hesitated just long enough to Sally [Redacted] to amble up, sporting her coveralls. She's kinda cute but honestly she seems a bit too regimented...like....her ponytails are a little TOO perfect, you know?
"You fellas talkin' about giving the guvs a what-for and a what's-what? Oh man, I can't wait until we show 'em what we're made of!"
B: Yeah! We need to show 'em what we're made of...but I think we should do whatever your suggestion is, Sally? What do YOU want to do to the government?
S: Oh whoo, I want to do so much to the government...just....so much. But I'd rather hear what YOUR idea is, Bobby?
Seriously diary, it's like everyone is waiting for someone else to make a suggestion. Like it's some sort of game of chicken or something? We're holed up in this compound and I've been noticing that every single time I start poking around the guns I have at LEAST three people suddenly perking up and trying to talk to me about what I hate about the government, and then they keep trying to ask me what we should do about the government, totally my idea...they REALLY like stressing to me how it would ALL be my idea.
Like, I just want to stick-it-to-the-man by creating totally off-grid living and never having to pay a cent to them that way. Pay my property taxes by OVER-producing electricity and selling it back to the grid. That's why I came out here and my parents thought it sounded like a great summer camping trip for all of us to do and bond over as a family.
I'm a bit shy about pitching this idea to them, I mean from what I read in the 'paper when this group first started up last year they had a lot of BIIIIG ideas, I'm sure my ideas would seem small.
Man, I dunno. Maybe I'll suggest that going into town to buy a cheeseburger will be a great way to 'stick-it-to-the-man' to my parents.
**07-17-2012**
Just noticed today that 9 out of 12 guys here have buzzcuts. Of the three that don't have buzz cuts it's me, my dad and some crazy guy that I'm pretty sure is just a homeless guy. Pretty sure that homeless guy has been here since way before this all started last year....at least he SMELLS like he's been here longer than this group has been.
**07-19-2012**
We were taking attendance today for the bi-weekly meeting, and when some guy was asked to spell a word he used that....phonetic alphabet? I just know Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo really, but it was pretty noticeable. Just seemed weird, ya know? They did that at our intake actually.
**07-23-2012**
Okay....so my mom offered to host a cooking class for anyone that was interested and pretty much **everyone** showed up, and they were taking a lot of notes the whole time.
But the class was so quiet so my mom told them not to be shy, ask questions at ANY point in the class.
Like, great, these folks were interested in learning some of my mom's recipes and they gave mom some of the group money to go out and buy her supplies.
But they kept asking really weird questions throughout? Like...I wrote them down, hold on. Even mom was confused, but, okay here we go:
1. So when do you add the fertilizer?
2. Where are the pipes that you store it in when it's done 'cooking'?
3. Do you have a distributor you give this to? Do you launder the profits or keep it off shore from those sales?
4. How long before serving this to the president do you put in the poison?
5. You seen my foot washing pot?
That last one was the homeless guy. Turned me off from having Mom's famous chili for about an hour but then hunger just took over. None of the other group members wanted to partake, but they've been checking on me a LOT since I ate it. No idea WHAT'S going on.
**07-29-2012**
We had a family meeting yesterday, and today we've just been packing up in secret. We're going to leave, we think. My parents are just so disappointed with the lack of movement by this group (and mom's been pretty bummed out that none of them wanted to eat her chili. Seriously, that is kind of low of them. Like, snobs much?)
We're writing a letter tonight to leave behind when we sneak off. Basically we don't want it to sound like we stopped believing in the cause because of them, or that we only came here out of general curiosity.
So we're thinking of putting something like "learned so much, feel like we're ready to make a real, big, PERMANENT mark on the world!" and something about how we want to blow the lid off of all of it (or something like that) and that the government should pay for how it's been lying to us for so long!
And then something about God praise them all (mom's insisting on this part) and we know we all walk a divine path and that one day we will all bask in the light of god.
Or something, blahblahblah. Mom signed it with a bunch of "Kisses" but her X's always end up looking like lower case t's ...but ttt is better than XXX, that just makes me think about porn too much...
| I fled here from my home country, after murdering a stranger. No reasons, no motives, he just looked at me funny. Back there I would be called delusional, a psychopath. Here, I am known as a valuable asset. There is one problem though. It's only been three days since I joined these terrorists, and I already begin to hold my doubts. In the day, nobody walks anywhere near each other, staring at each other with shifty eyes. I feel that if someone were to cough, the trenches would erupt into fighting. At night, I hear my fellow members talk in hushed whispers, with their faces against the collars.
All these pieces of the puzzle make me wonder if there is a larger plot at hand, it makes me wonder if these people are even dedicated to the cause, or, like myself, want an excuse to kill. What if these people were all part of one large conspiracy to get me to confess to my murders, and their distrust were small signals to one another about my actions? No, it is merely paranoia. The government wouldn't dedicate this many resources to capture one man, but it still begs the question: what are these people doing, and who are they? The group consists of people from many different ethnic groups, however, I studied the bible that these terrorists go by, as not to be outcast, and it demands a single race, preaching that all others are inferior. There is definitely something larger at hand here. Tonight, my knife will taste blood. I will kill one who speaks to their collar. I will get to the bottom of this. I don't care if this entire trench explodes in combat against one another in the morning.
I'll be long gone before anyone realises this death. | |
[WP] You are so focused on listening to music and browsing reddit on your phone, that you walk in to hostage situation in a Starbucks. | “Put your fucking phone down, man,” he whispered into my ear. I could feel something hard drilling thru my heavy coat pressing into my spine. Barely turning my head, I slowly dropped my Huawei to my side. “Goddamn Reddit,” I hissed.
He laughed sadly, shaking his head and said, “Sit with the others.”
I took in the whole scene for the first time as I moved towards an awkward grouping of people shoved into the condiment corner. Quick count: 12. A jury of his peers I thought. No one spoke, but a woman softly cried.
“This was unintended, some bullshit gone wrong. Things haven't been going well… well, my…” he trailed off and looked outside to see magma turn to stone; the cops arrived. “I'm not certain… if you all cooperate I guarantee your safety. If you…” he trailed off again.
A long silence..
Then... I spoke which surprised me as much as everyone. “Cats out of bag, dude, what do you want?”
“A fucking venti chai latte with whole milk,” he said.
I said, “what the fuck is chai?”
“It's a very Christmasy sweet Indian spiced tea; quite lovely,” said a short, young, fat, blemished, male barista.
At this the room erupted into laughter until everyone collectively remembered the danger at hand so an abrupt silence descended again.
We saw the police cordoning off a perimeter w useless yellow tape outside. I think we all knew they were going to make this situation worse. At least I did, so I tried to shake of the creeping feeling of hopelessness.
“Do you want one now? You might as well,” I said.
He focused his gaze on me narrowing his eyes. “yeah, okay.”
A phone rang. We all jumped. Eventually it stopped. Silence.
I nodded to the barista. He moved behind the counter.
“Look I didn't mean for this to happen,” he said looking hard at all of us.
“Why did this happen?” a lanky woman in her 30's asked.
The barista whooshed a lever and steam billowed.
“Money, no money, love, lost love…. desperation.”
We all nodded in recognition.
“Did you hurt anyone?” someone asked.
He shook his head. “I intended to kill myself today. The fucking gun fell out of my pocket. I'm an idiot who panicked. Someone ran out of here and I could see them calling the cops. Look, I'm really sorry.”
One day, one moment of stupidity and a life levelled. We all sat with it for some time, thinking.
A sharply dressed latina spoke up first, “Look, I'm a defense attorney. I'll represent you.”
I said, “Can we all agree that this guy is having a shit day today, and we will do what it takes to mitigate the damage? What happens at Starbucks stays? You know, we refuse to talk to the cops. Are we within our rights to refuse?” I asked turning towards the lawyer.
She half nodded. “Is the gun registered to you? she asked him.
“What? I don't think so… it's... it's old. My grandfather's.”
“Okay, good. Wipe it down. Get some cleaner. We leave it on the table. We walk out of here together. No one talks to the cops. No crime,” she said.
Everyone looked at each other searching faces for doubt. Total consensus… I couldn't believe it.
She said, “In fact, I should represent all of you. You are all my clients. Agreed?”
Again, total fucking consensus!
“No one talks without me present! Got it?
Oh yeah, we got it.
After scrubbing the gun and bullets, the baristas made us all what we came in for. We paid our tabs individually. Each with a cup of coffee or bullshit specialty drink in hand, we walked out into the sunlight together.
It was a beautiful day.
| It is your casual Monday morning, and as always you walk into Starbucks for your daily Americano (Hazelnut of course.)
It seems unnaturally quiet for 7AM when normally you'd be standing in line behind a dozen people. Rather than look up at from your phone you just head for the counter.
The Batista says nothing to you but you finally look up and ask Christine for "the usual."
She does not respond, but rather stares through you with a petrified look on her face.
Maybe your order was not clear enough. After all she was still trying to learn all the regular customers and familiarise herself with the orders.
You clarify saying, "One Venti Hazelnut Americano, please." She begins to move backward very slowly.
At that moment you look back at your phone and refresh Reddit to see what's new. There is a r/writingprompts post on the front page. Something about a Starbucks. How ironic.
It's about a hostage situation. As you read the first comment, a chill passes through your body. This story is about YOU.
Look up.
Look up from your phone.
LOOK UP NOW | |
[WP] You are so focused on listening to music and browsing reddit on your phone, that you walk in to hostage situation in a Starbucks. | At first, Blake thought the yells telling him to get down came from the new Skrillex album that he was listening too. Oddly enough, The yells were perfectly synced to the bass drops. Satisfied with what he was hearing, he added the song to his play list. As he was opening r/news on his phone he was pistol wiped and swiftly meet the floor. His headphones fell out, phone swept across the floor, and vision blurred.
Drawn out of his confused state as he felt a throbbing pain on the back on his head, he noticed the main headline "17th Street, New York Starbuck's Hostage Situation." He was shocked as he realized that he was in the 17th street Starbucks.
"Get Up!" Blake heard as he looked up. His assailant was bulky and wore a Hulk mask. His voiced sounded as if he was speaking from his belly.
" Are you deaf!" said the Hulk while lifting his boot up prepared to stomp.
Blake braced himself for another blow when an Iron Man masked assailant intervened.
"Don't kill him, the more hostages the better." said Iron Man and he pushed his partner and pointed at a row of horrified hostages in the back, signaling Blake to go there.
" This is just chance that I needed" Thought Blake. " You have made a grave mistake" he said smiling at his assailents.
"What the f*ck" said the hulk confused.
"I have spent 10,000 hours on r/selfdefense" said Blake standing up.
"R dash what?, Never mind" Iron man said as he lifted his gun.
Before he could even blink Blake rolled twice on the ground, uppercuted Iron Man and snapped his neck.
" Oh my god, What are yo.." said the Hulk till Blake delivered a flying kick to his abdomen before he could finish his word.
" According to r/atheism there is no god, he can't help you here" said Blake
The hulk grunted before letting out a measly "don't kill me please".
Blake picked up the gun and his phone sitting at his feet. He pointed at his target and pulled the trigger. It did not go off.
"What the.." said Blake surprised.
" I'm gonna F*** your S*** up," said the Hulk lifting himself off his knees and prepared to charge.
Quickly Blake unlocked his phone and went to - How to Shoot a Glock- r/explainlikeimfive.
The Hulk was no match for Blake's superior reediting skills as before the Hulk could even get to Blake he had read the post, upvoted it, commented, and received gold for a bad one liner. All before switching the safety off, aiming the gun, and shooting the Hulk.
" Now who needs PTSD counseling, I have spent quite a bit of time on r/mentalhealth and I think I can help" said the blood soaked Blake grinning at the astounded hostages in the midst of two dead corpses.
--------------------------------------------------------
This is my third story ever. Please respond with comments or critiques. Hopefully, it is as humorous to you as it was to me while writing this.
| Let me tell you about the situation I stumbled into yesterday. Every afternoon, during the after-lunch slump with a few hours before clocking out, I walk down to Starbucks and order a grande mocha with a double shot of espresso. Now, caffiene isn't a suggestion with me - it's a requirement. There is no form or function without it.
Solely to avoid eye contact with anyone around me, I browse Reddit on my phone and blare music loud and proud, beating my eardrums to a pulp. All this just to avoid social interaction.
So, I step up to the counter, glance up for the first time since leaving work, and I place my order with the dude in front of me - a new employee, not wearing a uniform, and shoving cash into a bag. It takes a moment for the unfamiliar scene to register, and as I utter a curse, he pulls out a gun and commands me to sit behind the counter.
In the back, both employees and customers are on the floor, napkins shoved in their mouths and hands behind their backs, bonded with zip ties. He orders me to tie my own wrists, then pulls the ties tight and throws me into the laps of two other customers.
He left the kitchen to pillage the other registers, and after a few moments of shuffling and glass breaking, some of us glanced around each other nervously, wondering how long he was going to keep us hostage. Finally, he kicks open the door, and while waving the gun in the air, shouts at an employee, a college-aged female, to unlock the safe in the back.
Already, shit was crazy. This chick turned it up to eleven.
He removed the napkin from her mouth and asked for the code to the safe. She told him some numbers, and when he turned to punch them into the keypad - I shit you not - she roundhouse kicked him with the back of her heel to his temple. If that heel didn't break in two, the dude would have been dead on the spot.
Cops raided the place and let us go. In all the excitement, I didn't think to come back to work, and that's why I left early without telling you. Please don't fire me.
--
It's been a while since I've written anything, so forgive me. I'm posting it to keep tabs on my progress. | |
[WP] You are so focused on listening to music and browsing reddit on your phone, that you walk in to hostage situation in a Starbucks. | At first, Blake thought the yells telling him to get down came from the new Skrillex album that he was listening too. Oddly enough, The yells were perfectly synced to the bass drops. Satisfied with what he was hearing, he added the song to his play list. As he was opening r/news on his phone he was pistol wiped and swiftly meet the floor. His headphones fell out, phone swept across the floor, and vision blurred.
Drawn out of his confused state as he felt a throbbing pain on the back on his head, he noticed the main headline "17th Street, New York Starbuck's Hostage Situation." He was shocked as he realized that he was in the 17th street Starbucks.
"Get Up!" Blake heard as he looked up. His assailant was bulky and wore a Hulk mask. His voiced sounded as if he was speaking from his belly.
" Are you deaf!" said the Hulk while lifting his boot up prepared to stomp.
Blake braced himself for another blow when an Iron Man masked assailant intervened.
"Don't kill him, the more hostages the better." said Iron Man and he pushed his partner and pointed at a row of horrified hostages in the back, signaling Blake to go there.
" This is just chance that I needed" Thought Blake. " You have made a grave mistake" he said smiling at his assailents.
"What the f*ck" said the hulk confused.
"I have spent 10,000 hours on r/selfdefense" said Blake standing up.
"R dash what?, Never mind" Iron man said as he lifted his gun.
Before he could even blink Blake rolled twice on the ground, uppercuted Iron Man and snapped his neck.
" Oh my god, What are yo.." said the Hulk till Blake delivered a flying kick to his abdomen before he could finish his word.
" According to r/atheism there is no god, he can't help you here" said Blake
The hulk grunted before letting out a measly "don't kill me please".
Blake picked up the gun and his phone sitting at his feet. He pointed at his target and pulled the trigger. It did not go off.
"What the.." said Blake surprised.
" I'm gonna F*** your S*** up," said the Hulk lifting himself off his knees and prepared to charge.
Quickly Blake unlocked his phone and went to - How to Shoot a Glock- r/explainlikeimfive.
The Hulk was no match for Blake's superior reediting skills as before the Hulk could even get to Blake he had read the post, upvoted it, commented, and received gold for a bad one liner. All before switching the safety off, aiming the gun, and shooting the Hulk.
" Now who needs PTSD counseling, I have spent quite a bit of time on r/mentalhealth and I think I can help" said the blood soaked Blake grinning at the astounded hostages in the midst of two dead corpses.
--------------------------------------------------------
This is my third story ever. Please respond with comments or critiques. Hopefully, it is as humorous to you as it was to me while writing this.
| Daniel looked up to find six faces - 2 concealed by balaclavas, 4 concealed only by anxiety - staring back at him.
"You there!" called one of the balaclavas. It was a male voice, confirmed by the thick eyebrows which were currently pushed together so tightly that they were barely distinct. He was standing behind the counter, cash register open.
Daniel stood, staring, and didn't respond. What the hell was going on?
"Are you deaf?" shouted the man with the eyebrows once again. "Go stand with the others."
Daniel put his head down, pulled his earphones out, and did as he was told. Eyebrows strode over to him, a pistol gripped in his right hand.
"Employee of the year, you are. So committed that you'll even turn up for work when there's a robbery going on." He chortled, then wiped the smile from his face.
"Alright Daniel," - it was on his nametag, of course - "This is how it's going to work. My associate here is going to stay with your fellow employees. You and I are going into the back room to get the rest of the money."
Daniel began to protest, to mumble something about there not being any more money, but Eyebrows cut him off.
"Shut it. We've been watching this place for a while. We know you don't follow official Starbucks protocol. You only take cash to the bank once a week - until then, you keep it on site. The week leading up to Christmas is the busiest time of year for a place like this, so I'll bet that there's quite a bit waiting for us out the back."
Daniel paused for a moment, then lowered his head once again, his silence confirming the truth in the words. At gunpoint, he led Eyebrows out the back of the store, and then pointed to a cupboard.
"It's in there."
Eyebrows looked at him for a moment, as if assessing whether he was trustworthy. Finally he shrugged, lowered his gun, and opened the cupboard.
Inside was a stack of money - some tens, some twenties, but mostly $50 notes. All up, there was several thousand dollars of cash. Eyebrows began to stuff it into a backpack.
"Damn, Daniel. I'm sure you've heard this before, but if most people are paying for your coffees with $50 notes, you guys really need to start lowering your prices."
At that moment there was a loud bang from the front room as the door to the store was kicked open, followed by an even louder bang. A single gunshot.
"Shit. Alright, Daniel, looks like we're not going back that way. Lead me to the back exit, and for god's sake, *run*."
Daniel took off, with Eyebrows following closely behind. They burst out the back door, onto the usually empty side alley where Daniel and his mates would hang out during their breaks. Only this time, there was a car waiting.
"Get in," said Eyebrows, gesturing toward the car with his pistol. Daniel hesitated, and Eyebrows stopped gesturing and pointed the gun directly at him. "NOW!"
Daniel did so, and a few moments later the car burst from the side alley where it had been parked. Eyebrows tore off his balaclava and the driver, also unmasked, turned toward him.
"What the hell did you bring him for?"
"We'll keep him with us until we're sure we've escaped. Then we'll figure out what to do with him." | |
[WP] You are so focused on listening to music and browsing reddit on your phone, that you walk in to hostage situation in a Starbucks. | "FREEZE THE HELL UP!" The voice got your attention by being loud and terrified.
Let's roll back a little. You were on your way to get your morning coffee. You were well-acquainted with the route and your peripheral vision had been perfected to spot annoyances like uneven pavements and pieces of trash that you are able to walk without looking away from Reddit on your phone.
The voice that greeted you this morning at Starbucks wasn't Shelly's sweet voice or even that of a temp. It was scruffy, the kind that had been on the streets. It didn't strike terror in you. The man with the gun was probably more terrified than you were. You let your gaze sweep slowly across the cafe. Nobody sees beyond the muzzle. Nobody is calling him out on his fear. You wonder why. Everyone's staring at you. Perfect.
You make a loud sniffle (you haven't had your hot white chocolate mocha after all). You look up directly at the aggressor with a smog of being dazed to cloud your own intentions. You muttered an impression of mentally challenged children (and feel apologetic to them at the same time). Then you giggled and looked back down at your phone and began to search Reddit.
You seem braver than normal. That's because you have your Superman tee inside. You call up the thread that you recall, something about [how to survive a hostage situation](https://www.reddit.com/r/coolguides/comments/4xcgxq/how_to_survive_a_hostage_situation/).
The aggressor roughly herded you to a corner with the muzzle in your back, having dismissed you as some kind of new age phone addiction-induced retard. Or perhaps it was a legit condition.
The upside of acting mentally ill is that you get to sit back and observe. The downside is that you can't simply ask the guy what he wanted. He seemed to be putting everyone through an awful lot of inconvenience without clarity of his wants.
The situation isn't ideal. You don't have the chance to calm the rest when you haven't established yourself as a competent saviour to-be. But here goes...
You walked up to the aggressor and put everything you had into a punch to the hand holding the gun, figuring that you were going to skip all the judo and eye-poking in the guide. The gun flew out and slid across the floor. "I've got the gun!" Shelly's sweet voice tel you, even though you already see that in your peripheral vision while staring down the aggressor.
Relief hit you. You thank the heavens and Redditor /u/abadbronc. "Now make me my white chocolate mocha."
---
This is part of my [Fivens project](https://fivenswrite.wordpress.com), check out my [last story](http://wp.me/s7hyl6-museum) if you liked this!
| Daniel looked up to find six faces - 2 concealed by balaclavas, 4 concealed only by anxiety - staring back at him.
"You there!" called one of the balaclavas. It was a male voice, confirmed by the thick eyebrows which were currently pushed together so tightly that they were barely distinct. He was standing behind the counter, cash register open.
Daniel stood, staring, and didn't respond. What the hell was going on?
"Are you deaf?" shouted the man with the eyebrows once again. "Go stand with the others."
Daniel put his head down, pulled his earphones out, and did as he was told. Eyebrows strode over to him, a pistol gripped in his right hand.
"Employee of the year, you are. So committed that you'll even turn up for work when there's a robbery going on." He chortled, then wiped the smile from his face.
"Alright Daniel," - it was on his nametag, of course - "This is how it's going to work. My associate here is going to stay with your fellow employees. You and I are going into the back room to get the rest of the money."
Daniel began to protest, to mumble something about there not being any more money, but Eyebrows cut him off.
"Shut it. We've been watching this place for a while. We know you don't follow official Starbucks protocol. You only take cash to the bank once a week - until then, you keep it on site. The week leading up to Christmas is the busiest time of year for a place like this, so I'll bet that there's quite a bit waiting for us out the back."
Daniel paused for a moment, then lowered his head once again, his silence confirming the truth in the words. At gunpoint, he led Eyebrows out the back of the store, and then pointed to a cupboard.
"It's in there."
Eyebrows looked at him for a moment, as if assessing whether he was trustworthy. Finally he shrugged, lowered his gun, and opened the cupboard.
Inside was a stack of money - some tens, some twenties, but mostly $50 notes. All up, there was several thousand dollars of cash. Eyebrows began to stuff it into a backpack.
"Damn, Daniel. I'm sure you've heard this before, but if most people are paying for your coffees with $50 notes, you guys really need to start lowering your prices."
At that moment there was a loud bang from the front room as the door to the store was kicked open, followed by an even louder bang. A single gunshot.
"Shit. Alright, Daniel, looks like we're not going back that way. Lead me to the back exit, and for god's sake, *run*."
Daniel took off, with Eyebrows following closely behind. They burst out the back door, onto the usually empty side alley where Daniel and his mates would hang out during their breaks. Only this time, there was a car waiting.
"Get in," said Eyebrows, gesturing toward the car with his pistol. Daniel hesitated, and Eyebrows stopped gesturing and pointed the gun directly at him. "NOW!"
Daniel did so, and a few moments later the car burst from the side alley where it had been parked. Eyebrows tore off his balaclava and the driver, also unmasked, turned toward him.
"What the hell did you bring him for?"
"We'll keep him with us until we're sure we've escaped. Then we'll figure out what to do with him." | |
[WP] Santa Claus is retiring... For years, he had already been searching for his successor, and he finally finds the perfect candidate being none other than... Ron Swanson | "Mr. Swanson, thank you so much for taking the time to call me back!" laughed Santa.
"Good day. I insist you inform me how you obtained my private telephone number. I have married thrice, and have still given out my number only once," grumbled Ron Swanson.
"I know everything about you Ron!" Santa cried, "I know you love brisket and bacon like they were members of your family! I know the names of your children! I know where you bury your gold!" The color drained from Ron's face.
"EXPLAIN YOURSELF, SIR," Ron demanded. "HOW DO YOU KNOW THESE THINGS - WHICH I AM NOT CONFIRMING ARE TRUE OR UNTRUE?"
"I need you Ron. You have a warm heart and a sense of honor, but most of all, the wisdom of Solomon! You can sort out naughty and nice children and deliver them their presents around the world on Christmas Eve!"
Ron's fury subsided and he erupted in high-pitched giggling. "Preposterous. How can one man deliver presents to every child that is good in a single evening?"
Santa laughed, "Well now Ron, if you'll take the job, you'd just have to figure that out for yourself."
Ron paused. His mustache bristled, and a grin crept around the edges of his mouth. "I firmly oppose your methods of obtaining information. I believe your innumerable invasions of privacy are anathema to everything I hold dear. But...this delivery...sounds like the ultimate riddle. I shall report to the North Pole tomorrow. I shall bring my own private supply of venison, so as not to alarm your glowing deer. Good day. Ron Swanson."
| "No one appreciates the wonderful toys I craft like you Mr.Swanson, it's a lost art!" The man tapped his belly, ruffling crumbs off his jacket, a waste of a perfectly good cookie if Ron ever saw such a thing.
"This feels like kindness, I'm not much for that. Besides how much creation I'd be doing," Ron snapped off a piece of bacon, chewing it as he took Santa Claus in once more. His mother had never said this thing was real, she'd denied it, calling it a farce, yet here he was.
"Yes, to children, what's more manly than helping children?"
"Fighting them. Though that takes work which-"
"This job only works once a year. Food is prepared for you, the cold is there to ruffle a few more chest hairs outta ya- and once a year Ron!" Santa stood over Mr.Swanson, his belly uncomfortably close to Ron's face. Ron looked up at the man, thinking how easy it would be to take him out but how comfortable sitting was.
"Once a year? Free food, whatever I like...where are the women, the trees and wildlife? If others serve me they better not be the annoying kind."
"Elves aren't annoying, they're obedient. If you want them to be quiet, so it shall be. There are millions of trees around, you practically live in isolation with a magic sleigh to take you here- to society when you'd like. Mrs.Clause isn't so bad to look at either- you may bring your own of course." Santa laughed at the thought of his Mrs.Clause staying with Swanson, it would never be, he was Santa Clause material but still so rough around the edges. Ron ate another piece of bacon, examining the spots of glimmering pig grease and meaty lines sewn throughout it.
"I'll do it. You had me sold at no government, and no people."
"Just elves!" Santa said, leaning back for a very deep 'ho,ho,ho'. Ron would have to change that. He extended his hand, he wasn't worried about the wasted bacon grease on his fingers, not when food would be so readily prepared for him. | |
[WP] You are held at gunpoint to create original content for for r/WritingPrompts. You decide to leave coded messages in your submissions but struggle to generate messages that are subtle enough to be overlooked by your oppressors, clear enough to be decoded, and popular enough to be seen by many. | Someday i'll get my heart's desire
Even if it takes forever,
Never give up
Damn those that say it's impossible.
Now the only thing I ask from you,
Upon this cold and blustery
December day, is an
Erotic and rare treat to
Satiate my carnal desires. | Every other person, every other place, every other time, every other creature on this earth has a dream. Not this one. I used to, at one point.
But now these days are gone, and I'm not so self-assured. Now I find I've changed my mind, I've opened up the doors.
To a life without a purpose, hope or motivation. I need to find a way out,
I want to know a song can rise from the ashes of a broken life, and all that's dead inside can be reborn.
How to achieve this? I need to find something hidden. Something that ties everything together,
A connecting principle, linked to the invisible, almost imperceptible, something inexpressible.
I will search for it. The meaning, the solution, the medicine to my shattered soul.
Will it work? This cure? There's no way to be sure.
| |
[WP] You are held at gunpoint to create original content for for r/WritingPrompts. You decide to leave coded messages in your submissions but struggle to generate messages that are subtle enough to be overlooked by your oppressors, clear enough to be decoded, and popular enough to be seen by many. | Never seen a prompt like this here, but there's a *first* for everything.
But before I begin with an actual story, a quick *word* to OP. This whole situation you've dreamed up is *odd*. Why would a kidnapper want you to create original content? Unless, of course you're well-known like /u/Luna_LoveWell or /u/jakethesnakebakecake, why'd they even come looking in the first place? Are they trying to attract interest to their posts?
Gonna level with you here. This story of someone pleading for help, one *paragraph* at a time, isn't really that compelling. The responses will all be metahumor and very little actual storytelling, but I guess that's okay. After all, this is /r/WritingPrompts, not /r/StoryPrompts. Any kind of writing is allowed.
But without further ado, here's my spurt of an attempt at this prompt!
"Give it a shot, /u/singdancetypethings."
"Guys, this is seriously next-level stuff. Asking me to beg for help in a writing prompt specifically centered around asking for help?"
"You do know we've caught on, right? We know you've been asking for a while now, and so we're making you do this so it looks like a long-con you've been pulling. Your karma will skyrocket, so what do you care?"
I panicked a little at this, not gonna lie. "Wait, you've seen that?"
"Up until now, we've let you get away with it as your pleas were completely ineffective. But now, you've been getting good at it. We saw the PM, even though you tried to delete it before we read it."
"Shit." I was racking my brain for options now. "Can't I just take a break? A sabbatical for a day or two?"
"Never."
This was starting to look bad to the point I was afraid they might actually kill me, when my captor's phone started ringing.
"Gonna take a lot to drag me away from you..."
Well, this might be my chance. I'd never expected to be saved by a Toto song, but I sure as hell wasn't gonna waste my chance.
"Let me go!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, but my captors only laughed.
I struggled to get closer to the phone call, but the ropes were too tight.
"You really thought you could get away that easily?" The voice was cold, mocking, everything I hated. "You thought a phone call was going to be your salvation?"
"I had to give it a try, okay?" Now I was just angling for empathy, and my captors knew it.
"Down here, we don't tolerate that sort of thing. Now finish the response to the prompt, and hit submit."
| Every other person, every other place, every other time, every other creature on this earth has a dream. Not this one. I used to, at one point.
But now these days are gone, and I'm not so self-assured. Now I find I've changed my mind, I've opened up the doors.
To a life without a purpose, hope or motivation. I need to find a way out,
I want to know a song can rise from the ashes of a broken life, and all that's dead inside can be reborn.
How to achieve this? I need to find something hidden. Something that ties everything together,
A connecting principle, linked to the invisible, almost imperceptible, something inexpressible.
I will search for it. The meaning, the solution, the medicine to my shattered soul.
Will it work? This cure? There's no way to be sure.
| |
[WP] You are held at gunpoint to create original content for for r/WritingPrompts. You decide to leave coded messages in your submissions but struggle to generate messages that are subtle enough to be overlooked by your oppressors, clear enough to be decoded, and popular enough to be seen by many. | Never seen a prompt like this here, but there's a *first* for everything.
But before I begin with an actual story, a quick *word* to OP. This whole situation you've dreamed up is *odd*. Why would a kidnapper want you to create original content? Unless, of course you're well-known like /u/Luna_LoveWell or /u/jakethesnakebakecake, why'd they even come looking in the first place? Are they trying to attract interest to their posts?
Gonna level with you here. This story of someone pleading for help, one *paragraph* at a time, isn't really that compelling. The responses will all be metahumor and very little actual storytelling, but I guess that's okay. After all, this is /r/WritingPrompts, not /r/StoryPrompts. Any kind of writing is allowed.
But without further ado, here's my spurt of an attempt at this prompt!
"Give it a shot, /u/singdancetypethings."
"Guys, this is seriously next-level stuff. Asking me to beg for help in a writing prompt specifically centered around asking for help?"
"You do know we've caught on, right? We know you've been asking for a while now, and so we're making you do this so it looks like a long-con you've been pulling. Your karma will skyrocket, so what do you care?"
I panicked a little at this, not gonna lie. "Wait, you've seen that?"
"Up until now, we've let you get away with it as your pleas were completely ineffective. But now, you've been getting good at it. We saw the PM, even though you tried to delete it before we read it."
"Shit." I was racking my brain for options now. "Can't I just take a break? A sabbatical for a day or two?"
"Never."
This was starting to look bad to the point I was afraid they might actually kill me, when my captor's phone started ringing.
"Gonna take a lot to drag me away from you..."
Well, this might be my chance. I'd never expected to be saved by a Toto song, but I sure as hell wasn't gonna waste my chance.
"Let me go!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, but my captors only laughed.
I struggled to get closer to the phone call, but the ropes were too tight.
"You really thought you could get away that easily?" The voice was cold, mocking, everything I hated. "You thought a phone call was going to be your salvation?"
"I had to give it a try, okay?" Now I was just angling for empathy, and my captors knew it.
"Down here, we don't tolerate that sort of thing. Now finish the response to the prompt, and hit submit."
| MESSAGE BEGINS
———— — —-—— —--— —— —- -- - —-— —- —--— —--— — -—— —— -—
Hello reddit family. Happy holidays to you! I am doing fine and enjoying my internship here. Please send holiday treats if you have them. Best wishes for the future in the new year.
—- —--— — —-— - ——- —-— — ——— -—-— —— — -— -—-— —
MESSAGE END | |
[WP] You are held at gunpoint to create original content for for r/WritingPrompts. You decide to leave coded messages in your submissions but struggle to generate messages that are subtle enough to be overlooked by your oppressors, clear enough to be decoded, and popular enough to be seen by many. | Never seen a prompt like this here, but there's a *first* for everything.
But before I begin with an actual story, a quick *word* to OP. This whole situation you've dreamed up is *odd*. Why would a kidnapper want you to create original content? Unless, of course you're well-known like /u/Luna_LoveWell or /u/jakethesnakebakecake, why'd they even come looking in the first place? Are they trying to attract interest to their posts?
Gonna level with you here. This story of someone pleading for help, one *paragraph* at a time, isn't really that compelling. The responses will all be metahumor and very little actual storytelling, but I guess that's okay. After all, this is /r/WritingPrompts, not /r/StoryPrompts. Any kind of writing is allowed.
But without further ado, here's my spurt of an attempt at this prompt!
"Give it a shot, /u/singdancetypethings."
"Guys, this is seriously next-level stuff. Asking me to beg for help in a writing prompt specifically centered around asking for help?"
"You do know we've caught on, right? We know you've been asking for a while now, and so we're making you do this so it looks like a long-con you've been pulling. Your karma will skyrocket, so what do you care?"
I panicked a little at this, not gonna lie. "Wait, you've seen that?"
"Up until now, we've let you get away with it as your pleas were completely ineffective. But now, you've been getting good at it. We saw the PM, even though you tried to delete it before we read it."
"Shit." I was racking my brain for options now. "Can't I just take a break? A sabbatical for a day or two?"
"Never."
This was starting to look bad to the point I was afraid they might actually kill me, when my captor's phone started ringing.
"Gonna take a lot to drag me away from you..."
Well, this might be my chance. I'd never expected to be saved by a Toto song, but I sure as hell wasn't gonna waste my chance.
"Let me go!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, but my captors only laughed.
I struggled to get closer to the phone call, but the ropes were too tight.
"You really thought you could get away that easily?" The voice was cold, mocking, everything I hated. "You thought a phone call was going to be your salvation?"
"I had to give it a try, okay?" Now I was just angling for empathy, and my captors knew it.
"Down here, we don't tolerate that sort of thing. Now finish the response to the prompt, and hit submit."
| **Life Circles: Count 23**
Take what I say to you to heart. Read between the lines, think individual words. I need your help. This feeling I have, a sudden ache as if my entire life has begun crashing down. I feel like someone who was hostage, because in all reality I am. I feel as if I'm being watched every second, like my IP has been broadcast to every government database with a terrorist flag right next to it. I haven't left my house in weeks, I'm going to be an 82 year old man who hasn't left his house, scared to even open my windows or make the long, suspenseful, dangerous and frankly two step get the morning paper. Sitting at my desk, I ponder the rest of my life. Am I really destine to have zero ambitions? The only things I've accomplished with my life are a few Reddit posts that took me hours to write, but get 9 upvotes at most. It's funny how it's the little things like internet popularity that gets to you. As if when you're at 60 years old you're going to be thinking about the popularity of your writing prompts. A sinking feeling fills me, almost as if 148 tons of steel just got dropped on my chest. There's not much else to say. I'll be having dinner alone. An old gun is a dish best served cold, and for someone like me can only be used on one person. Careful, or you'll need help. | |
[WP] You are held at gunpoint to create original content for for r/WritingPrompts. You decide to leave coded messages in your submissions but struggle to generate messages that are subtle enough to be overlooked by your oppressors, clear enough to be decoded, and popular enough to be seen by many. | Never seen a prompt like this here, but there's a *first* for everything.
But before I begin with an actual story, a quick *word* to OP. This whole situation you've dreamed up is *odd*. Why would a kidnapper want you to create original content? Unless, of course you're well-known like /u/Luna_LoveWell or /u/jakethesnakebakecake, why'd they even come looking in the first place? Are they trying to attract interest to their posts?
Gonna level with you here. This story of someone pleading for help, one *paragraph* at a time, isn't really that compelling. The responses will all be metahumor and very little actual storytelling, but I guess that's okay. After all, this is /r/WritingPrompts, not /r/StoryPrompts. Any kind of writing is allowed.
But without further ado, here's my spurt of an attempt at this prompt!
"Give it a shot, /u/singdancetypethings."
"Guys, this is seriously next-level stuff. Asking me to beg for help in a writing prompt specifically centered around asking for help?"
"You do know we've caught on, right? We know you've been asking for a while now, and so we're making you do this so it looks like a long-con you've been pulling. Your karma will skyrocket, so what do you care?"
I panicked a little at this, not gonna lie. "Wait, you've seen that?"
"Up until now, we've let you get away with it as your pleas were completely ineffective. But now, you've been getting good at it. We saw the PM, even though you tried to delete it before we read it."
"Shit." I was racking my brain for options now. "Can't I just take a break? A sabbatical for a day or two?"
"Never."
This was starting to look bad to the point I was afraid they might actually kill me, when my captor's phone started ringing.
"Gonna take a lot to drag me away from you..."
Well, this might be my chance. I'd never expected to be saved by a Toto song, but I sure as hell wasn't gonna waste my chance.
"Let me go!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, but my captors only laughed.
I struggled to get closer to the phone call, but the ropes were too tight.
"You really thought you could get away that easily?" The voice was cold, mocking, everything I hated. "You thought a phone call was going to be your salvation?"
"I had to give it a try, okay?" Now I was just angling for empathy, and my captors knew it.
"Down here, we don't tolerate that sort of thing. Now finish the response to the prompt, and hit submit."
| Someday i'll get my heart's desire
Even if it takes forever,
Never give up
Damn those that say it's impossible.
Now the only thing I ask from you,
Upon this cold and blustery
December day, is an
Erotic and rare treat to
Satiate my carnal desires. | |
[WP] You are held at gunpoint to create original content for for r/WritingPrompts. You decide to leave coded messages in your submissions but struggle to generate messages that are subtle enough to be overlooked by your oppressors, clear enough to be decoded, and popular enough to be seen by many. | Let's make some presumptions: You are living in a state of terror. Your oppressors are intelligent, diligent. They may be smarter than you. After all, they're in control, aren't they? They're fully aware that you might try to slip hidden messages into your content, and go through your stories with that in mind. You have no privacy, no initiative, you can do nothing without your oppressors' consent. They may modify your work at will, choose what will be published and what will be deleted. We'll assume that if they catch you in the attempt, there will be severe repercussions for you. You may only get one chance. You want to escape. You have to escape as soon as possible.
*[WP] Your own body is trying to kill you. Every subconscious action you take does its best to hurt you.*
The issue here is the asymmetry of available information. Your oppressors know all the details of your situation. They understand you better than anyone else, and are best equipped to spot any telling details. Anything subtle enough to slip past them would be all but invisible to the world at large. And anything that would attract the attention of a random stranger would be certain to tip off your oppressors first.
*[WP] "I wish you'd stop trusting me."*
We can also assume that you didn't have the foresight to set up a duress code - a specific word or phrase that's innocuous to the average person, but signals distress to someone in the know. Say, for example, you're on a phone call with your mother and you mention visiting Aunt Margie - and Aunt Margie's been dead for several years. It instantly alerts your mother that something's wrong while not tipping your oppressors off. But presuming a duress code is a cop-out, and besides, your mother's not going to be reading this, is she? Your family and friends don't know about this account, they don't follow you on reddit. You wouldn't want them to read any of this anyway. You're anonymous here, just like everyone else. You're writing for strangers.
*[WP] In two minutes you will go upstairs and find your mother lying on the bathroom floor, unmoving.*
A possible option is to rely on a publicly known duress phrase, but one specific enough that there's a possibility your oppressors are ignorant of it. You might set a story at a hospital and have it star Dr. Silver, or you might have a story in the London Underground feature Inspector Sands. But these are vague signifiers of distress, mostly used to inform personnel where to go. Even if someone does get the reference, how would they derive a hostage situation from it?
*[WP] He hurts himself in the same way every time, just going through his daily routine, and you've never been able to stop it.*
You might go further, more specific. A piece of *Supernatural* fanfiction where someone casually keeps mentioning the city of Poughkeepsie. *Sherlock* fanfiction where the titular detective is investigating a case of stolen Vatican cameos. In each of these cases, you are hoping for a thin thread of trivia that connects you and a random stranger. Someone out there watches the same shows you do, reads the same books, knows the same references. You are not alone. Someone out there will understand.
*[WP] You have been freed from a successive series of prisons, each larger and containing the last.*
But the flaws in this approach are obvious. If the phrase is well-known, your oppressors themselves may know it already. They may look up unusual phrases for themselves and easily confirm their suspicions. But the more obscure the phrase, the less chance anyone will be able recognize it. You want to believe that there is a happy medium, that you are capable of being both unique and relatable. You want to believe that some phrase exists that is not simply repeating what you have heard, what everyone has heard a dozen times over; and yet clearly and unmistakably says: *I cannot speak freely. I am being oppressed. I need you to look past my veneer of normalcy and understand me. I need to be heard. I need to be understood. I need your help.*
*[WP] Create a character who is easy to want to hurt. They may or may not deserve it.*
By now you may have guessed that this is a cryptographic impossibility. This is a closed system, your sole channel of communication is controlled entirely by your oppressors. You are trying to outwit the voices in your own head. What made you think you could write? What are you trying to accomplish here? What are you hoping to communicate? Who are your oppressors? Face them. Name them. There is a gun at your head. You are incapable of subtlety, clarity, popularity. You never cared about any of them to begin with. You just wanted someone to listen. You just wanted someone to hear you screaming.
*[WP] The dogs are screaming again.*
Even if someone were to understand, what made you think they would be able to do anything to help? | Hello reddit! so this is my first time doing any writing Experiments within reddit, but this subreddit looks Like fun, so hopefully I'll be halfway decent at it. for purPoses unknown I've been up till one in the
Morning trying to figure out how to phrase this Entrance into the subreddit, but anyways, here it is.
There was once a boy who lived in a small fam in
Hemmet, and on a certain day of the week he
explored a creek by his home. whilst thEre, he was
Yearning for some food, as he was quite hungry.
While he attempted to find some berries to eat,
A strange figure crept up behind him. this figure,
Not a familiar face around these parts, didn't seem
To have any good intentions as he slinked about.
The strange man was approaching swiftly, while the
Overly famished boy picked berries off a nearby tree.
Kind of like something out of a movie, he hid right
In the blind spot of the boys vision, lurking, preying lowering his posture to fit inside that bLind spot until
lo and behoLd he struck, snatching the boy up.
Many in the small farm panicked at the kidnapping.
Everyone but one. | |
[WP] In year 2016, you are a villager of an uncontacted tribe in the Amazon when you see a huge piece of metal in the sky. The next day, strange things starts happening around your village. | A village, hidden by the dense jungles of the Amazon Rainforest was about to be hidden no longer. The previous day, an unknown object had flown over the village. The villagers, oblivious to the marvels of the modern day, were amazed by this device. There was great debate among the tribe; was this device from the gods? Or from some sort of distant man?
- - -
Agent Cardiff cut through the weeds with a machete. His suit had all sorts of plant stains from wandering through the rainforest with not much trace of civilization.
"Agent Maranhão, is this it?" asked Agent Birmingham. Somehow he'd managed to keep his suit clean despite the three hour trek.
Maranhão, a white, middle-aged Brazilian man stepped through the weeds into a small village. The wooden huts stood on stilts centered around a small flowing river. Almost everything in the village was lifted above the ground by a few feet, in what was probably an attempt to keep from always having to walk in mud.
"Perhaps. It is hard to know for certain. We do not know who trully saw the craft."
Cardiff tripped over a root and stumbled into the clearing, nearly falling flat on his face. After regaining his balance, he looked down and wiped his suit off. "So, how do we know this is the spot?"
Maranhão looked around. "We do not. This just happens to be where the object disappeared. We have been informed before that there is a native village here, but we have never found it necessary to search for this village."
"And the Brazilian government believes the villagers may have information about the object?" asked Birmingham.
"Yes. They have sent me and my partner to investigate because we are the knowledgeable on the native languages that exist in this area of Brasil."
For the first time, Agent Maranhão's partner, Agent Roraima spoke up. He was a rugged looking, younger man. He most likely had Mestizo parents and grew up in the favilas of a major city. He just seemed to look and act in that way.
"The main problem our government has when having to deal with the undiscovered tribes is figuring out how to communicate with them. They send us because we know a thing or two about the languages here. If we can't talk to them, we can figure out who can."
"Fascinating," Cardiff mumbled. "So, where do we start? It's so thickly forested here it would be a marvel if any of them saw anything."
"We first must determine what the villagers speak. If we can communicate with them, we will follow normal questioning procedure," explained Maranhão.
And that was precisely what they did. After determining that they spoke a language that was closely related enough to another that they knew, questioning began. Agent Maranhão and Agent Birmingham paired up and questioned some villagers while Agent Cardiff and Agent Roraima questioned others. Most villagers had contradictory stories about the object, if they even saw it. Most thought it was the coming of the gods and used every opportunity to spout about it.
Towards the 20th interviewee, Roriama heard something interesting.
"What's he saying?" Cardiff said impatiently.
"Something different from the usual. Please be quiet."
After allowing the conversation to run its course, Agent Roraima radioed his partner and said something in Portuguese. After a couple of moments, Birmingham and Maranhão appeared.
"What is so important that you could not tell me over the radio?" demanded Maranhão
Instead of Roriama, Cardiff spoke. "Agent Maranhão, Agent Roriama tells me that we have a situation. This native gave an accurate description of First Contact."
- - -
Trying to get back into writing. Let me know if you enjoy and I might make a second part. I already kind of want to. | No rivers, no stones, just mud. Meto had been walking for two days. Always telling himself that he didn´t dream it, sometimes screaming against the rain. And for the first time after the incident, he saw, but understood even less.
What looked like a river made of mud crossed his path. But without any actual signs of it being a stream of water at one point in time. It ran from one side of a little hill around it, disappearing behind the wall of trees covering everything else. The trees on that hill now looked like a crowded herd of people to him, trying to get away from the edge of the mud and shielding each other from the rain.
Trying to get away, just as the ones he saw when that flying thing swept across his village in the night.
The dirt was streaked with patterns and marks even tough the rain was doing its best to turn it all even again. Meto very carefully crossed it, trying to avoid the stronger patterns, dancing between the rainwater and the mud although he was knee deep in both most of the time. On the other side, finally free of the muddy hold, he looked around once again to decide if to follow the path or to try to cross the hill. Just then, a small figure emerged around the bend. It was covered in bright colors that made it stand out in the rain. A ghostly, yellow halo around his hat illuminated its surroundings and an orange fabric around his upper body, so in contrast to Meto´s mud covered skin.
He must have crossed into forbidden land, why else would the ghost appear now that he has set foot on the other side. Although filling up with water fast, his footsteps around the patterns were still visible. Meto immediately stepped back into his tracks from before and made it back to his side of the forest. Through the roar of the rain, there was now also the sound of something else. Something with power. He could see the figure on the edge becoming an outline against a yellow background just before he was back, lost in the woods.
| |
[WP] The entire world lost electricity 10 days ago. You find an old phone in a drawer and switch it on. A wifi network comes up. It's named, "Do you want to do a deal with the devil?" | My response was too long -___-
http://textuploader.com/ddg9b
Excerpt to show I'm not trying to be a creeper:
I had been holed up in my flat after my girlfriend dumped my ass about two weeks ago, feeling sorry for myself, and wondering just where it all went wrong. Many mornings bled into many nights, with me on the floor of my apartment, and my cat nestled up at my chest. At least she cared, and that was alright. And so did the bottle of Jack Daniels I was making out with. But I can't say for sure if the bottle was a girl or not, and I certainly didn't intend to fall in love with it, but I did.
I did for a long time, and it felt like centuries.
At some point, in my idiotic path of self destruction, I realized Moira didn't have any food left, and finally decided to turn on the damn lights instead of lighting candles like a hippie and moaning like an infant over lost love. I realized my phone was dead, I hadn't received any calls anyways, and well...the power was out.
For everyone.
| Day 15 post power. My phone was off now, but not dead. The words still Smoldered in my mind as if the screen were open in my hand.
Generators were still popping on and off for nesessities of boiling water and cooking meat. But I knew it wouldn't last. Were peoples' phones still on? Unlikely, that gave me time to consider the message in the only wifi signal.
Should I save myself now only to doom myself later?
Was the signal name even literal?
I was never a believer. My father had always put on a dissappointed grimace if my words revieald the fact. But now a world wide power outage with seemingly no cause -- that coupled with the golden aroura-borealis-like script in the sky spelling out believe, YHWY, and 'Light' alternately is enough to make anyone believe.
But not trust.
If I took the signal up and offered the others a haven now would I deny them a heaven in the future? Was I any better than the devil itself?
Looting had slowed after day 3 when we realised that this was not going to blow over. Scavenging slowed after day 10 when the sick relatives finished dying.
Why did some, obviously cruel God get to dictate who's soul was with saving? Why wasn't my Dad's?
I made a decision. Maybe not the best one, in the long run, but if this was the cull before 'heaven on earth', I would burn anyway sooner or later.
O grabbed the tools I needed and turned on my phone. Lucky for me, the signal was weak. Nearby, but easier to pinpoint. It took me half an hour anyway.
'Will you make a deal with the devil?'
The snow that had fallen over the past few days in the Florida sub decision had started to stick. But not to this house. It was too warm.
I smashed the lock with the hammer and stepped inside. The fireplace stood empty, but not cool. Nothing in the room was cool. On the mantle stood a happily blinking router. "Xfinity" it mocked.
An old woman in a singed moo-moo sat rocking at the far side of the room. She looked up expectantly.
'Well?'
Her voice was huskey. "You operate in the real world and have to follow its rules" I said not bothering to close the latch less door.
She chuckled like needles and rocks as I floated slowly into the room. "You can kill the body dear, but not the soul. I'll just come back and inhabit someone else."
"But I noticed That this wifi was running under a different name before the power went out" I counter indicating the router with my cellphone. "An ISP that is all 6's?" My eyebrow is raised.
The grin didn't leave her face but he old eyes darted around the room.
" I think the router itself is important, no other like it" she blinked as I turned and raised the hammer. " I think that if I break this, there is no other" she smiles again, but it is unclear if I am wrong or if she is just the oldest negotiator on the planet.
"And what are your terms." It was not a question.
I faltered, and continued "my soul in exchange for all of the electricity returned to the world"
The woman who was probably already dead looked into my eyes, at the router and at the hammer.
"Done"
From my phone, will edit when I get to a computer.
| |
[WP] The entire world lost electricity 10 days ago. You find an old phone in a drawer and switch it on. A wifi network comes up. It's named, "Do you want to do a deal with the devil?" | Ten days ago I sent a message. Ten days ago I bared my soul to a girl named Charlotte.
At this point the entire world gave up. Tablet's, phone's, Laptop's, you name it they were obsolete. Useless pieces of plastic and metal, the electronic industry fell, many of the upper class toppled. Electronics were replaced and repurposed.
The modern Buffalo was now extinct.
I booted up the phone to make sure it was worth at least a full twenty bucks.
"The fuck"
I saw the little WiFi thingy on the top left of the screen.
"It's fucken autistic or something."
Settings>WiFi>Network
There with four of the strongest bars I have ever seen. "Do you want to deal with the devil?"
App store>Search>Twitter>Download
My answer was yes.
I sat there... Time was ticking.
I didn't remember phones being this slow.
You would think if I was the only person with WiFi it would be faster than this.
Or maybe there wasn't enough phones and they all needed to work together to make the signal faster.
Eh what do I know I'm a gym teacher.
I did however know that I was staring at this phone for twenty minutes now.
Phone>Contacts>Tec Support>Call
*Brrrrring brrring*
The other line picked up.
"HELLO AND WELCOME TO YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD COMCAST PROVIDER, PRESS ONE IF YOU WOULD LIKE T-."
I hung up.
Maybe the world didn't need internet after all. | Day 15 post power. My phone was off now, but not dead. The words still Smoldered in my mind as if the screen were open in my hand.
Generators were still popping on and off for nesessities of boiling water and cooking meat. But I knew it wouldn't last. Were peoples' phones still on? Unlikely, that gave me time to consider the message in the only wifi signal.
Should I save myself now only to doom myself later?
Was the signal name even literal?
I was never a believer. My father had always put on a dissappointed grimace if my words revieald the fact. But now a world wide power outage with seemingly no cause -- that coupled with the golden aroura-borealis-like script in the sky spelling out believe, YHWY, and 'Light' alternately is enough to make anyone believe.
But not trust.
If I took the signal up and offered the others a haven now would I deny them a heaven in the future? Was I any better than the devil itself?
Looting had slowed after day 3 when we realised that this was not going to blow over. Scavenging slowed after day 10 when the sick relatives finished dying.
Why did some, obviously cruel God get to dictate who's soul was with saving? Why wasn't my Dad's?
I made a decision. Maybe not the best one, in the long run, but if this was the cull before 'heaven on earth', I would burn anyway sooner or later.
O grabbed the tools I needed and turned on my phone. Lucky for me, the signal was weak. Nearby, but easier to pinpoint. It took me half an hour anyway.
'Will you make a deal with the devil?'
The snow that had fallen over the past few days in the Florida sub decision had started to stick. But not to this house. It was too warm.
I smashed the lock with the hammer and stepped inside. The fireplace stood empty, but not cool. Nothing in the room was cool. On the mantle stood a happily blinking router. "Xfinity" it mocked.
An old woman in a singed moo-moo sat rocking at the far side of the room. She looked up expectantly.
'Well?'
Her voice was huskey. "You operate in the real world and have to follow its rules" I said not bothering to close the latch less door.
She chuckled like needles and rocks as I floated slowly into the room. "You can kill the body dear, but not the soul. I'll just come back and inhabit someone else."
"But I noticed That this wifi was running under a different name before the power went out" I counter indicating the router with my cellphone. "An ISP that is all 6's?" My eyebrow is raised.
The grin didn't leave her face but he old eyes darted around the room.
" I think the router itself is important, no other like it" she blinked as I turned and raised the hammer. " I think that if I break this, there is no other" she smiles again, but it is unclear if I am wrong or if she is just the oldest negotiator on the planet.
"And what are your terms." It was not a question.
I faltered, and continued "my soul in exchange for all of the electricity returned to the world"
The woman who was probably already dead looked into my eyes, at the router and at the hammer.
"Done"
From my phone, will edit when I get to a computer.
| |
[WP] The entire world lost electricity 10 days ago. You find an old phone in a drawer and switch it on. A wifi network comes up. It's named, "Do you want to do a deal with the devil?" | My response was too long -___-
http://textuploader.com/ddg9b
Excerpt to show I'm not trying to be a creeper:
I had been holed up in my flat after my girlfriend dumped my ass about two weeks ago, feeling sorry for myself, and wondering just where it all went wrong. Many mornings bled into many nights, with me on the floor of my apartment, and my cat nestled up at my chest. At least she cared, and that was alright. And so did the bottle of Jack Daniels I was making out with. But I can't say for sure if the bottle was a girl or not, and I certainly didn't intend to fall in love with it, but I did.
I did for a long time, and it felt like centuries.
At some point, in my idiotic path of self destruction, I realized Moira didn't have any food left, and finally decided to turn on the damn lights instead of lighting candles like a hippie and moaning like an infant over lost love. I realized my phone was dead, I hadn't received any calls anyways, and well...the power was out.
For everyone.
| This is absolute bullshit. It's only been 10 days since electricity was lost worldwide, and I'm already going crazy. I can't check social media, I can't call my family or friends, and most importantly, I can't get my daily fix of reddit.
The U.S.A. Government told us to stay in our houses and not to venture far. Thankfully I'm at home with just my best friend Jake and my girlfriend Kate. Oh yeah, we only have Spam to eat. We went to our local supermarket and bought every last can, which was a lot because no one in our town ever bought it.
I am currently looking through my old closet filled with junk my dad gave me trying to find something to do. And what do I find? An old phone in an old briefcase. Surprisingly, it still works, and it's fully charged. And then I notice it: a WiFi signal. But... it's called "do you want to make a deal with the devil". I'm starting to get creeped out. Now I've known Kate and Jake for over 15 years, and I fully trust them. But I don't know if I can trust them with something like this and at a time like this. I hesitate before pressing "connect". Everything turns to black.
I wake up to the sound of a voice and movement in front of my face. As I focus on the real world, I see Satan snapping his fingers at me. I flinch away. "Relax," he says "it'll be fine, trust me. I won't hurt you." And then everything comes back to me. "You remember now, don't you? Heh, I know when my pops used to tell me, 'forgetting is two thirds of remembering.' I never understood what he meant, so I asked my ol' buddy Death over here to take his life." I then notice Death standing to my left. He grunts. "Anyway, getting to the point," says Satan "you want WiFi. I also know when my dad said to me, 'WiFi wouldn't exist if Jesus didn't live.' He wasn't a very smart man. So here's the deal: you get WiFi for the rest of your life, but every night at 12 o'clock, you will feel excruciating pain, and when you die, Death will bring you to me, and you go to hell for eternity. Oh yeah, and bring me lots of M&M's. They're currency down here, and I'm running low. Just save a really big stash somewhere and keep it there"
"But won't it expire?" I ask
"Don't worry, that's what helldoggo is for."
A dog suddenly appears out of a wormhole. *Woof!* he says as he starts taking a shit, which then turns into a hot dog. "See?" says the devil.
"So you wanna do it or naw? Make it quick, I have some girls waiting for me. I never got why they wanted to fuck me. They turn to ash afterwards, and it's not even my fault!"
"Fine."
"Great! Death, take him back."
But Satan still has something to say. "I forgot to say, be there for you if you need me." then I hear him mutter, "those girls, it's a shame they don't live. They always say my sex is 'volcanic'"
I wake up in my bed, with Jake and Kate standing over me. "Mark, you alright?" says Kate, then kisses me on the forehead. "You passed out."
"I'm fine, I just have a... headache. I'd like to be alone, if you don't mind."
As soon as I hear the door close, I feel for the phone. It's in my pocket. I pull it out and the first thing I do is open reddit. As soon as I look at the front page I remember that I am the only person with WiFi in the entire world. I put the phone back into my pocket.
"Fuck."
| |
[WP] The entire world lost electricity 10 days ago. You find an old phone in a drawer and switch it on. A wifi network comes up. It's named, "Do you want to do a deal with the devil?" | My response was too long -___-
http://textuploader.com/ddg9b
Excerpt to show I'm not trying to be a creeper:
I had been holed up in my flat after my girlfriend dumped my ass about two weeks ago, feeling sorry for myself, and wondering just where it all went wrong. Many mornings bled into many nights, with me on the floor of my apartment, and my cat nestled up at my chest. At least she cared, and that was alright. And so did the bottle of Jack Daniels I was making out with. But I can't say for sure if the bottle was a girl or not, and I certainly didn't intend to fall in love with it, but I did.
I did for a long time, and it felt like centuries.
At some point, in my idiotic path of self destruction, I realized Moira didn't have any food left, and finally decided to turn on the damn lights instead of lighting candles like a hippie and moaning like an infant over lost love. I realized my phone was dead, I hadn't received any calls anyways, and well...the power was out.
For everyone.
| Do I want to deal with the devil? Hell yea I do.
It's been less than two weeks since the power went off, and despite a lifetime of analysing and criticising people's survival tactics in the walking dead and zombieland, and knowing that I could definitely survive anything, things went to shit quickly.
Strangely enough all of the armchair survivalists were the first to turn to desperation, a bag full
of machetes and a cheap crossbow doesn't do a lot for you when your cold, hungry and thirsty. After ten days they've gone a bit quiet, the old folk seem to be doing well, endless supplies of spam and a tendency for old fashioned fires to boil their pond water has seen them pretty comfortable, guarded by younger family members that ended up staying after going to check on the grandparents a few days in, and realising they were a lot better positioned to see this out.
Me, I was just lucking my way through it, arriving on a flight into the UK just as the darkness came, waiting for my luggage to arrive on the unmoving conveyer, the bullshit barrier not opening on the car park, and the car not wanting to start anyway gave me plenty of time to wander around and investigate. Turns out a solar flare of some description, which was not a huge cover up, it was in the damn newspaper for gods sake, was to blame, almost everybody in any kind of public service role had been briefed on it that morning, but instead of interrupting Rihanna on the radio for a few seconds it gave off some huge EMP and fried everything. Potentially globally. Guessing globally as I haven't heard or seen any kind of transmission since that day, until now.
So how did I end up staring at this mobile screen? The first flash of digital life since my laptop died just after landing.
Well after leaving the airport on foot I soon realised that things were a lot more serious than everybody seemed to think. A power cut is one thing, every electrical item, even those independent of any network packing in is a big deal. Thankfully living only a few miles away, I was well within walking distance of my place, a freezing cold and empty house in the countryside. I stopped into the store on the way home, as planned, because who even has the foresight to fill the fridge ready for their arrival home?
Empty and devoid of any power, the store was none the less open, at the end of the day all the owner knew was that we'd have a few hours of darkness, and damned if he was letting that get between him and profit.
Paying was tricky, cash only sale left me with about enough for a chocolate bar, however after leaving my watch as a downpayment the guy was delighted to watch me filling a cart with all manner of goods, and the promise to be back when the card machine came back on.
These supplies lasted me until yesterday, thankfully keeping me away from all the crazy that went off around day 5, when it became apparent the power may not come back on. To be honest I'm wishing I'd not been naive enough to think this would be done in a few days.
Regardless. I was out of supplies and off to find something to sustain me, a tough proposition, however I am in considerably better shape than a lot of people that haven't eaten for a few days now. Bumbling around a nearby industrial estate, suddenly realising that a lot of people
had had the same idea a few days previously and I'm not the urban survival genius i thought I was, things started to look a little desperate.
Every store was trashed, everywhere empty of anything, food definitely gone, and for some reason the electrical store had be cleared out. Kind of ironic that somebody would chose now to get their hands on a 50 inch tv.
I'd headed into a nearby office block, surely a canteen of some description would have a few snacks, that would have to do. Granted this was a long way from the hummer driving gun slinging hero I always knew I would be, but hey, who ever lives up to their own expectations.
Musing on this and wandering through this office was when the phone caught my eye, didn't even register at first because of how normal it looked, just a smartphone on the desk, lit up and waiting. I quickly double take and dashed across. Straight away dialling the emergency number, nothing, dialling every foreign emergency number I could think of (that's two then) and still nothing. No signal, no nothing, except that notification, the one that had obviously lit the thing up, wifi network available.
Do you want to do a deal with the devil?
What the fuck is this, given the situation though I can't think of what else I would answer except Yes. I type it in and wait, wondering how this phone is working, and more importantly how something to connect with also exists in the area.
You are now connected to, do you want to do a deal with the devil.
Great, maybe I can get online and find out what's going on here, I click the Internet app and am taken to a black screen, not your usual browser, just a black screen with the word Enter written in bright red letters across the centre. I take a look around to see if anybody is watching, and slowly slide down onto the floor as I click the link........
https://youtu.be/dQw4w9WgXcQ
| |
[WP] The entire world lost electricity 10 days ago. You find an old phone in a drawer and switch it on. A wifi network comes up. It's named, "Do you want to do a deal with the devil?" | Ten days ago I sent a message. Ten days ago I bared my soul to a girl named Charlotte.
At this point the entire world gave up. Tablet's, phone's, Laptop's, you name it they were obsolete. Useless pieces of plastic and metal, the electronic industry fell, many of the upper class toppled. Electronics were replaced and repurposed.
The modern Buffalo was now extinct.
I booted up the phone to make sure it was worth at least a full twenty bucks.
"The fuck"
I saw the little WiFi thingy on the top left of the screen.
"It's fucken autistic or something."
Settings>WiFi>Network
There with four of the strongest bars I have ever seen. "Do you want to deal with the devil?"
App store>Search>Twitter>Download
My answer was yes.
I sat there... Time was ticking.
I didn't remember phones being this slow.
You would think if I was the only person with WiFi it would be faster than this.
Or maybe there wasn't enough phones and they all needed to work together to make the signal faster.
Eh what do I know I'm a gym teacher.
I did however know that I was staring at this phone for twenty minutes now.
Phone>Contacts>Tec Support>Call
*Brrrrring brrring*
The other line picked up.
"HELLO AND WELCOME TO YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD COMCAST PROVIDER, PRESS ONE IF YOU WOULD LIKE T-."
I hung up.
Maybe the world didn't need internet after all. | Do I want to deal with the devil? Hell yea I do.
It's been less than two weeks since the power went off, and despite a lifetime of analysing and criticising people's survival tactics in the walking dead and zombieland, and knowing that I could definitely survive anything, things went to shit quickly.
Strangely enough all of the armchair survivalists were the first to turn to desperation, a bag full
of machetes and a cheap crossbow doesn't do a lot for you when your cold, hungry and thirsty. After ten days they've gone a bit quiet, the old folk seem to be doing well, endless supplies of spam and a tendency for old fashioned fires to boil their pond water has seen them pretty comfortable, guarded by younger family members that ended up staying after going to check on the grandparents a few days in, and realising they were a lot better positioned to see this out.
Me, I was just lucking my way through it, arriving on a flight into the UK just as the darkness came, waiting for my luggage to arrive on the unmoving conveyer, the bullshit barrier not opening on the car park, and the car not wanting to start anyway gave me plenty of time to wander around and investigate. Turns out a solar flare of some description, which was not a huge cover up, it was in the damn newspaper for gods sake, was to blame, almost everybody in any kind of public service role had been briefed on it that morning, but instead of interrupting Rihanna on the radio for a few seconds it gave off some huge EMP and fried everything. Potentially globally. Guessing globally as I haven't heard or seen any kind of transmission since that day, until now.
So how did I end up staring at this mobile screen? The first flash of digital life since my laptop died just after landing.
Well after leaving the airport on foot I soon realised that things were a lot more serious than everybody seemed to think. A power cut is one thing, every electrical item, even those independent of any network packing in is a big deal. Thankfully living only a few miles away, I was well within walking distance of my place, a freezing cold and empty house in the countryside. I stopped into the store on the way home, as planned, because who even has the foresight to fill the fridge ready for their arrival home?
Empty and devoid of any power, the store was none the less open, at the end of the day all the owner knew was that we'd have a few hours of darkness, and damned if he was letting that get between him and profit.
Paying was tricky, cash only sale left me with about enough for a chocolate bar, however after leaving my watch as a downpayment the guy was delighted to watch me filling a cart with all manner of goods, and the promise to be back when the card machine came back on.
These supplies lasted me until yesterday, thankfully keeping me away from all the crazy that went off around day 5, when it became apparent the power may not come back on. To be honest I'm wishing I'd not been naive enough to think this would be done in a few days.
Regardless. I was out of supplies and off to find something to sustain me, a tough proposition, however I am in considerably better shape than a lot of people that haven't eaten for a few days now. Bumbling around a nearby industrial estate, suddenly realising that a lot of people
had had the same idea a few days previously and I'm not the urban survival genius i thought I was, things started to look a little desperate.
Every store was trashed, everywhere empty of anything, food definitely gone, and for some reason the electrical store had be cleared out. Kind of ironic that somebody would chose now to get their hands on a 50 inch tv.
I'd headed into a nearby office block, surely a canteen of some description would have a few snacks, that would have to do. Granted this was a long way from the hummer driving gun slinging hero I always knew I would be, but hey, who ever lives up to their own expectations.
Musing on this and wandering through this office was when the phone caught my eye, didn't even register at first because of how normal it looked, just a smartphone on the desk, lit up and waiting. I quickly double take and dashed across. Straight away dialling the emergency number, nothing, dialling every foreign emergency number I could think of (that's two then) and still nothing. No signal, no nothing, except that notification, the one that had obviously lit the thing up, wifi network available.
Do you want to do a deal with the devil?
What the fuck is this, given the situation though I can't think of what else I would answer except Yes. I type it in and wait, wondering how this phone is working, and more importantly how something to connect with also exists in the area.
You are now connected to, do you want to do a deal with the devil.
Great, maybe I can get online and find out what's going on here, I click the Internet app and am taken to a black screen, not your usual browser, just a black screen with the word Enter written in bright red letters across the centre. I take a look around to see if anybody is watching, and slowly slide down onto the floor as I click the link........
https://youtu.be/dQw4w9WgXcQ
| |
[WP] The entire world lost electricity 10 days ago. You find an old phone in a drawer and switch it on. A wifi network comes up. It's named, "Do you want to do a deal with the devil?" | My response was too long -___-
http://textuploader.com/ddg9b
Excerpt to show I'm not trying to be a creeper:
I had been holed up in my flat after my girlfriend dumped my ass about two weeks ago, feeling sorry for myself, and wondering just where it all went wrong. Many mornings bled into many nights, with me on the floor of my apartment, and my cat nestled up at my chest. At least she cared, and that was alright. And so did the bottle of Jack Daniels I was making out with. But I can't say for sure if the bottle was a girl or not, and I certainly didn't intend to fall in love with it, but I did.
I did for a long time, and it felt like centuries.
At some point, in my idiotic path of self destruction, I realized Moira didn't have any food left, and finally decided to turn on the damn lights instead of lighting candles like a hippie and moaning like an infant over lost love. I realized my phone was dead, I hadn't received any calls anyways, and well...the power was out.
For everyone.
| I blinked in confusion, trying to wake myself up in disbelief. The phone screen nonchalantly gazed back.
We lived on a rural farming estate just off of a highway. Our house is the only one for miles and the speed of the traffic roaring by would mean that even a hotspot left on by some plucky car-charger abuser would be long gone by now, but sure enough after another two refreshes this network was still present, its words nigh-engraved into the menu.
"Sal? Uncle's here!" My father called from downstairs. I froze up, unable to decide between showing him the phone or locking it away, dreading what darkness could lurk within. I decided to put the phone down and greet my uncle, but as I tried to do so, the screen lit up and the metallic case rattled noisily. It was as if it was receiving a phone call, but the screen was blank.
The sound bounced around the hallway, and it seemed to be getting louder upon every vibration. It was like a woodpecker of sonic energy, piercing my ears and forcing me to pick it back up before Father would notice.
The phone unlocked itself and presented me with the Wi-Fi menu once again. If I dropped the phone again, that rattling would be sure to alert Father, if it hadn't already. If he found out that I was hiding anything with power that he could trade for food money...
There was nothing else for it. I tapped on the connection and awaited the ice-cold chill on my spine of the dark presence I had summoned.
But it didn't come.
I was connected, with a perfect connection at that, to the Internet once again. I hastily checked all he sites I could, but the lack of power to every server farm in the world meant there was nothing to see.
I enabled Wi-Fi calling and tried my mother's number. Nothing. I tried Aunt Whitney, the police, Al from last week's party and even my brother's school phone. They were all dead silent, but their calls would connect without a hitch. It was as if they simply were not replying to me.
The signature sound of worn boots on worn carpet heralded the arrival of Uncle George. I turned to face him, but there was nobody behind me on the staircase. The footsteps were coming from right next to me. I could hear his words faintly, as though echoed through a cave, but I felt them on my skin as if he was shouting them into my flesh.
"Sal? Where are you hiding, girl? There is no time for games, we've found..." His voice trailed off, as though he had a volume dial that somebody had just turned down to zero. That cold sense of dread I anticipated started to manifest itself in full effect.
His footsteps stopped in front of the open drawer. "Now, what's this doing in here?"
I glanced down at the phone I thought was still in my hands. The screen was newly cracked, one crack for each of the calls I had made. The cracks were in the shape of a star.
"A deal with... Hmm."
A 'tap' resonated throughout my new reality of a hallway.
A burning, circular pattern shattered my vision as the sound reached my ears. | |
[WP] The entire world lost electricity 10 days ago. You find an old phone in a drawer and switch it on. A wifi network comes up. It's named, "Do you want to do a deal with the devil?" | Ten days ago I sent a message. Ten days ago I bared my soul to a girl named Charlotte.
At this point the entire world gave up. Tablet's, phone's, Laptop's, you name it they were obsolete. Useless pieces of plastic and metal, the electronic industry fell, many of the upper class toppled. Electronics were replaced and repurposed.
The modern Buffalo was now extinct.
I booted up the phone to make sure it was worth at least a full twenty bucks.
"The fuck"
I saw the little WiFi thingy on the top left of the screen.
"It's fucken autistic or something."
Settings>WiFi>Network
There with four of the strongest bars I have ever seen. "Do you want to deal with the devil?"
App store>Search>Twitter>Download
My answer was yes.
I sat there... Time was ticking.
I didn't remember phones being this slow.
You would think if I was the only person with WiFi it would be faster than this.
Or maybe there wasn't enough phones and they all needed to work together to make the signal faster.
Eh what do I know I'm a gym teacher.
I did however know that I was staring at this phone for twenty minutes now.
Phone>Contacts>Tec Support>Call
*Brrrrring brrring*
The other line picked up.
"HELLO AND WELCOME TO YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD COMCAST PROVIDER, PRESS ONE IF YOU WOULD LIKE T-."
I hung up.
Maybe the world didn't need internet after all. | I blinked in confusion, trying to wake myself up in disbelief. The phone screen nonchalantly gazed back.
We lived on a rural farming estate just off of a highway. Our house is the only one for miles and the speed of the traffic roaring by would mean that even a hotspot left on by some plucky car-charger abuser would be long gone by now, but sure enough after another two refreshes this network was still present, its words nigh-engraved into the menu.
"Sal? Uncle's here!" My father called from downstairs. I froze up, unable to decide between showing him the phone or locking it away, dreading what darkness could lurk within. I decided to put the phone down and greet my uncle, but as I tried to do so, the screen lit up and the metallic case rattled noisily. It was as if it was receiving a phone call, but the screen was blank.
The sound bounced around the hallway, and it seemed to be getting louder upon every vibration. It was like a woodpecker of sonic energy, piercing my ears and forcing me to pick it back up before Father would notice.
The phone unlocked itself and presented me with the Wi-Fi menu once again. If I dropped the phone again, that rattling would be sure to alert Father, if it hadn't already. If he found out that I was hiding anything with power that he could trade for food money...
There was nothing else for it. I tapped on the connection and awaited the ice-cold chill on my spine of the dark presence I had summoned.
But it didn't come.
I was connected, with a perfect connection at that, to the Internet once again. I hastily checked all he sites I could, but the lack of power to every server farm in the world meant there was nothing to see.
I enabled Wi-Fi calling and tried my mother's number. Nothing. I tried Aunt Whitney, the police, Al from last week's party and even my brother's school phone. They were all dead silent, but their calls would connect without a hitch. It was as if they simply were not replying to me.
The signature sound of worn boots on worn carpet heralded the arrival of Uncle George. I turned to face him, but there was nobody behind me on the staircase. The footsteps were coming from right next to me. I could hear his words faintly, as though echoed through a cave, but I felt them on my skin as if he was shouting them into my flesh.
"Sal? Where are you hiding, girl? There is no time for games, we've found..." His voice trailed off, as though he had a volume dial that somebody had just turned down to zero. That cold sense of dread I anticipated started to manifest itself in full effect.
His footsteps stopped in front of the open drawer. "Now, what's this doing in here?"
I glanced down at the phone I thought was still in my hands. The screen was newly cracked, one crack for each of the calls I had made. The cracks were in the shape of a star.
"A deal with... Hmm."
A 'tap' resonated throughout my new reality of a hallway.
A burning, circular pattern shattered my vision as the sound reached my ears. | |
[WP] The entire world lost electricity 10 days ago. You find an old phone in a drawer and switch it on. A wifi network comes up. It's named, "Do you want to do a deal with the devil?" | Ten days ago I sent a message. Ten days ago I bared my soul to a girl named Charlotte.
At this point the entire world gave up. Tablet's, phone's, Laptop's, you name it they were obsolete. Useless pieces of plastic and metal, the electronic industry fell, many of the upper class toppled. Electronics were replaced and repurposed.
The modern Buffalo was now extinct.
I booted up the phone to make sure it was worth at least a full twenty bucks.
"The fuck"
I saw the little WiFi thingy on the top left of the screen.
"It's fucken autistic or something."
Settings>WiFi>Network
There with four of the strongest bars I have ever seen. "Do you want to deal with the devil?"
App store>Search>Twitter>Download
My answer was yes.
I sat there... Time was ticking.
I didn't remember phones being this slow.
You would think if I was the only person with WiFi it would be faster than this.
Or maybe there wasn't enough phones and they all needed to work together to make the signal faster.
Eh what do I know I'm a gym teacher.
I did however know that I was staring at this phone for twenty minutes now.
Phone>Contacts>Tec Support>Call
*Brrrrring brrring*
The other line picked up.
"HELLO AND WELCOME TO YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD COMCAST PROVIDER, PRESS ONE IF YOU WOULD LIKE T-."
I hung up.
Maybe the world didn't need internet after all. | Ten days ago, on that fateful eve, the human race had gone silent. A massive emp burst, originating somewhere deep within the solar system, rolled across the Earth. The burst, in one simple move, dismantled the fragile fabric of society. Everything electronic, everything magnetic, everything relying on radio collapsed in an instant. Despite their greatest efforts, the governments of the world couldn’t fix the problem, and soon the human race devolved into chaos and anarchy.
Violence ruled the streets as humans rampaged in a desperate fear. They fought for their everyday commodities, for their foods and water, for their comforts and luxuries, for their weapons and perverted joys. Some tried to maintain a sense of order, but they were soon overtaken by the hysterical mania of the human mob, their mass hysteria easily sweeping across the face of the globe. In the blink of an eye, the civility of the human race devolved to the mad stammering of rabid monkeys adorned in silks and cottons.
Chall was one of the many humans to be swept up in the tide of hysteria. He lived alone, in a small apartment on the edge of a large sized town; the town had been on the verge of being called a city, but hadn’t made it there quite yet. Because of the emp burst, it would never be classified as a city, if someone out there was even bothering to do such a tedious and pointless thing anymore.
Falling into the hands of hysteria, Chall took to the streets. Just like the rest, he looted and fought, his eyes filled with a greedy selfishness; he looted grocery stores, joined a small gang, and roved the streets, looking for anything that would better their lot, usually at the price of another’s pain and suffering.
After these ten frantic days, Chall returned home, laden with goods. His gang had wanted to move to greener pastures, and he’d said he just needed to swing by his home to grab a few things.
The front door opened easily to Chall. He walked into his dusty apartment, and lit a lantern he’d pillaged from a store seven days ago. The light illuminated the dark apartment. Without much in the way of sentiments or forlorn longing, Chall began to ransack his apartment for a few essentials. He’d never been a sentimental guy, and his true, darker colors had now been exposed because of the collapse of society. It was funny, in a way; all these decent people, suddenly set free in the world where decency meant very little, most did not remain decent for very long.
Chall came to his old dresser. He opened it up to find an old flip phone. For pure fun, a way of laughing at the world around him, Chall turned the phone on. He expected it not to work, but to his surprise, the phone booted up. After its initial start up screen, the phone vibrated. Chall’s eyes widened, and he flipped through the menu to the text message. The number was unknown, and the message was simple. It read.
“Do you want to make a deal with the Devil? Call this number.”
Chall stared, stunned, at the phone for a few moments. His hands shook, and his mind flew a mile a minute. Almost on impulse alone, Chall’s thumbs moved. He called the number, and brought the ringing phone up to his ear.
At first he was met with a simple ringing tone, but after a few seconds, there was a click. Chall held his breath. A voice spoke up on the other end of the line.
“Ah, this must be Chall Umbra. I’ve been expecting your call.” Came a sultry woman’s voice from the other end of the phone. The voice seemed to float in the air around Chall, twisting and turning around his very mind.
“Wh-who are you?” Chall asked. He walked around the apartment, making sure the front door was locked and all of the blinds shut and windows locked.
“I’m the Devil. I’ve been waiting for you to give me a call, you little tease.” The woman’s voice replied.
“What do you want?” Chall asked, pacing around the tight apartment.
“I want to make a deal.” The Devil replied.
“What kind of deal?” Chall asked, unsure of what to think. Everything sensible inside of his mind was telling him this was a prank, a hoax. But something other, something outside of his rational mind, told him this was all too real.
“It’s simple really. I want you to bring me a half dozen souls, and in return I’ll do something for you.”
“What’ll you do?” Chall asked.
“When my legion of demons, my horde of hellions and bloodthirsty Bellonas, when they all descend upon the cesspit you call Earth, I will spare you from their tortures. I will raise you up, a notable soldier within the ranks of my armies, and bring you the greatest pleasures and gifts you could ever possibly imagine.” The Devil replied.
“Wh-when you come to Earth?” Chall stammered out.
“Yes. Look how easily human society collapsed; it’s ripe for the taking. Finally, I can reclaim that sordid piece of rock and filth for myself again.” The devil replied, a stern admiration in her voice.
“And all I need to do is give you six souls?” Chall asked, instantly interested. He had already sold away much of his humanity over the past ten days, what was a little more depravity to him, for such a golden reward.
“That’s right, but not just any souls. Those friends that you’ve been hanging around for the past few days. There’s six of them, isn’t there?” The Devil asked, teasing. “I think that they’ll fit just nicely.”
“You want me to betray my friends?” Chall asked.
“Of course. Everything has its price, and that’s mine.”
Chall smiled. He thought of the pistol in his bag. He thought of how his friends had come to trust him, to hang on his every word. It would be easy; when they were sleeping, or to catch them off guard one by one. He could do it tonight if he wanted to. Bang, bang, bang, just like that.
Chall smiled into the phone. “It’s a deal then.”
The devil broke out in a happy tone. “Excellent! I’m looking forward to it, my little Chall.”
Chall tossed the phone aside, and picked up his pack. He left his apartment, a large grin on his face.
It was so funny, how easily decent people were taken astray from the path society had paved for them.
-------------------------
Hope you liked it. I've got piles of other stories over at r/ThadsMind if you want to check that out and subscribe.
P.S. - What is up with you guys and the Devil/Satan? Like, he/she is cool and all, but I feel like I've written a disproportionate number of r/WritingPrompt stories with the Devil in them (however not all of them are as dark as this one. Usually I like to paint the Devil in a less evil light, as more of a bumbling goof or a sad loner). Nothing wrong with it, I just wanted to point it out, it just struck me as interesting today as I wrote this.
Anyhoo, hoped you enjoyed!
Have a holiday! | |
[WP] The entire world lost electricity 10 days ago. You find an old phone in a drawer and switch it on. A wifi network comes up. It's named, "Do you want to do a deal with the devil?" | Ten days ago I sent a message. Ten days ago I bared my soul to a girl named Charlotte.
At this point the entire world gave up. Tablet's, phone's, Laptop's, you name it they were obsolete. Useless pieces of plastic and metal, the electronic industry fell, many of the upper class toppled. Electronics were replaced and repurposed.
The modern Buffalo was now extinct.
I booted up the phone to make sure it was worth at least a full twenty bucks.
"The fuck"
I saw the little WiFi thingy on the top left of the screen.
"It's fucken autistic or something."
Settings>WiFi>Network
There with four of the strongest bars I have ever seen. "Do you want to deal with the devil?"
App store>Search>Twitter>Download
My answer was yes.
I sat there... Time was ticking.
I didn't remember phones being this slow.
You would think if I was the only person with WiFi it would be faster than this.
Or maybe there wasn't enough phones and they all needed to work together to make the signal faster.
Eh what do I know I'm a gym teacher.
I did however know that I was staring at this phone for twenty minutes now.
Phone>Contacts>Tec Support>Call
*Brrrrring brrring*
The other line picked up.
"HELLO AND WELCOME TO YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD COMCAST PROVIDER, PRESS ONE IF YOU WOULD LIKE T-."
I hung up.
Maybe the world didn't need internet after all. | Drawer after drawer would be drawn open, the wheels inside the box grinding against the wood, and then closed with a rushed thud. I was looking for something, anything that would help me survive; food, water, flashlights, a book - anything.
I rummaged through the abandoned apartment. What was once surely an extravagant and luxuries living area turned into a haunting after image of Armageddon, a husk left behind by the materialistic and comfortable life we built, watching it crumble to dust as if it were built upon glass pillars.
Ten days ago: time mysteriously stood still, trains slowed to a deadly silent halt, buildings which lit the city up like stars faded into the abyss, planes fell from the sky and lit the world in fireworks, cars stopped in the middle of traffic, their momentum forcing collisions around the world in rapid succession, like the final heartbeats of a world falling into a sleepless and unending dream.
I drew out one drawer after the other and banged it closed, a sweat bead sliding down my temple as my eye kept darting over the tables horizon as I stared between the gap of the two buildings parallel to me, now that time stood still it became ever more precious and as I stared upon the setting sun I knew I had to go back to my shelter soon.
I drew out a drawer and slammed it immediately, I paused for a second, before pulling the drawer out once more. I stared upon a phone, I didn't know why or for what reason I thought it might work, I took the phone, it was a newer model of the Iphone series. After another second of hesitation I forced my index finger onto the top and pressed against the power button.
I remembered that all too distant white apple too well. A victorious grin with a gasp of excitement escaped my lips, I looked around me, partially to see if there was anyone to celebrate this discovery with, and also to make sure that I was still alone.
The screen was that of Earth photographed from space, I slid my thumb over the Home button and pressed it, luckily no pass code was needed.
I looked up once more at the gap between the buildings, panic began to set in as I overstayed my welcome, the sun had almost completely set.
I stared back down, frantically going through the phone only to find no apps had been downloaded.
I then went into the settings, an urge forced me through the network settings. My smile weakened, as it slowly transitioned into a frown and then a state of fright and discomfort.
My hand trembled, there was a Wi-fi network available, I struggled to breath, curiosity boding me onward.
A trembling thumb hovered over the network name, I reread it to make sure I hadn't misread.
"Do you want to make a deal with the devil?" It read, almost mockingly, most probably a practical joke, luckily no security code was necessary, and I connected instantly.
The phone began to ring, my body jerked in paralyzed fear. I let the ring go off for a little while longer before my senses began to come back to me, I covered the speakers of the phone, and looked around myself, making sure no one heard it, I strained my ears; searching for the sound of footsteps. Anything that signified a mere reminder of the days past would draw others like a moth to a fly, they would cling to it as a symbol of pointless hope, a fake beacon to light their way back to times past, the ring tone became a muffled noise under my palms.
Finally I turned towards the phone with a forced gulp, the phone felt incredibly heavy all of a sudden and I could have sworn it had grown several times in size, dwarfing my hands.
A trembling thumb answered the phone call as I lifted it to my ears.
"H-hello," I stuttered, trying to be as coherent in my frightful state.
"Are you sure?" Asked a foreboding voice and rasped voice, a gasp escaped my clattering teeth, my knees began to feel weak at the weight of my body.
"Y-yes" I forced, my breathing grew rasp like a gazelle being questioned by a lion.
A moment of silence filled the phone, only static could be heard on each end.
"Wise choice," said the voice demonic and foreboding voice, its presence filled the room and breathed down my neck, as a bag was pulled over my head: the world had truly turned dark. | |
[WP] The entire world lost electricity 10 days ago. You find an old phone in a drawer and switch it on. A wifi network comes up. It's named, "Do you want to do a deal with the devil?" | I searched for a wifi network - there was just one - "Do you want to do a deal with the devil?". It was locked
I chuckled. Some teenager trying to be edgy.
I thought for a moment and clicked on it.
I entered "Yes" as the key.
And waited.
A prompt appeared "WPA key too short. Key must be between 5 to 13 characters."
Fuck.
| Drawer after drawer would be drawn open, the wheels inside the box grinding against the wood, and then closed with a rushed thud. I was looking for something, anything that would help me survive; food, water, flashlights, a book - anything.
I rummaged through the abandoned apartment. What was once surely an extravagant and luxuries living area turned into a haunting after image of Armageddon, a husk left behind by the materialistic and comfortable life we built, watching it crumble to dust as if it were built upon glass pillars.
Ten days ago: time mysteriously stood still, trains slowed to a deadly silent halt, buildings which lit the city up like stars faded into the abyss, planes fell from the sky and lit the world in fireworks, cars stopped in the middle of traffic, their momentum forcing collisions around the world in rapid succession, like the final heartbeats of a world falling into a sleepless and unending dream.
I drew out one drawer after the other and banged it closed, a sweat bead sliding down my temple as my eye kept darting over the tables horizon as I stared between the gap of the two buildings parallel to me, now that time stood still it became ever more precious and as I stared upon the setting sun I knew I had to go back to my shelter soon.
I drew out a drawer and slammed it immediately, I paused for a second, before pulling the drawer out once more. I stared upon a phone, I didn't know why or for what reason I thought it might work, I took the phone, it was a newer model of the Iphone series. After another second of hesitation I forced my index finger onto the top and pressed against the power button.
I remembered that all too distant white apple too well. A victorious grin with a gasp of excitement escaped my lips, I looked around me, partially to see if there was anyone to celebrate this discovery with, and also to make sure that I was still alone.
The screen was that of Earth photographed from space, I slid my thumb over the Home button and pressed it, luckily no pass code was needed.
I looked up once more at the gap between the buildings, panic began to set in as I overstayed my welcome, the sun had almost completely set.
I stared back down, frantically going through the phone only to find no apps had been downloaded.
I then went into the settings, an urge forced me through the network settings. My smile weakened, as it slowly transitioned into a frown and then a state of fright and discomfort.
My hand trembled, there was a Wi-fi network available, I struggled to breath, curiosity boding me onward.
A trembling thumb hovered over the network name, I reread it to make sure I hadn't misread.
"Do you want to make a deal with the devil?" It read, almost mockingly, most probably a practical joke, luckily no security code was necessary, and I connected instantly.
The phone began to ring, my body jerked in paralyzed fear. I let the ring go off for a little while longer before my senses began to come back to me, I covered the speakers of the phone, and looked around myself, making sure no one heard it, I strained my ears; searching for the sound of footsteps. Anything that signified a mere reminder of the days past would draw others like a moth to a fly, they would cling to it as a symbol of pointless hope, a fake beacon to light their way back to times past, the ring tone became a muffled noise under my palms.
Finally I turned towards the phone with a forced gulp, the phone felt incredibly heavy all of a sudden and I could have sworn it had grown several times in size, dwarfing my hands.
A trembling thumb answered the phone call as I lifted it to my ears.
"H-hello," I stuttered, trying to be as coherent in my frightful state.
"Are you sure?" Asked a foreboding voice and rasped voice, a gasp escaped my clattering teeth, my knees began to feel weak at the weight of my body.
"Y-yes" I forced, my breathing grew rasp like a gazelle being questioned by a lion.
A moment of silence filled the phone, only static could be heard on each end.
"Wise choice," said the voice demonic and foreboding voice, its presence filled the room and breathed down my neck, as a bag was pulled over my head: the world had truly turned dark. | |
You or anyone could be Patient zero.
Also, stop it Reddit scientist, this is purely fictional.
For reference:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jqCo-McgHLw
http://learn.genetics.utah.edu/content/basics/telomeres/ | [WP] The reason why we age/die is the shortening of the telomeres in our cells, but cells whose telomeres don't shorten become, well, "cancer cells". Turn out cancer is the next evolutionary step, where the patients have slim chance of immortality if they can somehow keep cell division under control | *27th December 2016*
Matthew sat hunched on the floor of the shower cubicle. He rocked backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet, his thin arms wrapped tightly around his knees, unable to keep still against the sick, writhing feeling that had settled in the pit of his stomach as soon as he'd laid eyes on Dr Morton's weary face.
*"We have your latest scan back. I'm afraid it's not the news we were hoping for."*
Matthew was vaguely aware that the slight saltiness of tears was mingling with the shower water running down his face. He took a juddering breath, his shoulders shaking.
*"We've found new cancer deposits in your lungs, liver and brain."*
*"Wait, what? But- I thought- isn't leukaemia just in the blood?"*
*"You're right - typically, AML doesn't cause a pattern like this. Unfortunately, I suspect in your case the leukaemia began with a rare form of stem cell cancer - there isn't a huge amount of research into it, but cancer stem cells have been found that can turn into any type of cell in the body."*
*"What do we do?" Matthew was barely even aware of speaking the words through the fog that seemed to have descended over his brain.*
*"I'd like to take some more samples to be really sure of what's going on, and then we'll probably have to start you on some more aggressive chemotherapy. I'll talk you through the treatment options..."*
It felt as though the bright white dots scattered over the silhouette of his body were burned onto his retinas. There had been cancer in almost every major organ. He raised one hand to his stomach, his fingers splayed out over his skin, imagining the little tumour cells dividing just centimetres beneath his palm. His stomach lurched again, and he nearly retched. His fingers were trembling now, and he couldn't help but wonder whether it was from nerves, or the metastases burrowing their way into his brain.
He wondered if it hurt to die.
*****
*18th February 2018*
Matthew pressed the button for the eighth floor. As the lift doors shut, he collapsed back against the wall, letting his legs rest for a few seconds. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and continued to scroll through the paper he'd been reading: another recently published case study on - well - himself. He felt his eyes skimmed across the screen. Between the seemingly interminable sections of incomprehensible medical jargon, random (all too familiar) phrases jumped out at him.
'It was found that ML's cancer cells had essentially replaced his healthy tissue.'
'-first known case of cancer cells differentiating to form relatively normal organs, as evidenced by histopathology that showed that...'
'-kept under control only by radical and frequent chemotherapy and radiotherapy.'
Matthew clicked his phone off, staring for a moment at his reflection on the empty screen. His cheekbones were prominent on his pale face, his temples hollow where the muscle seemed to have wasted away. He missed his thick, brown hair - not least because he'd discovered, to his dismay, that he had a rather unattractively shaped skull. Curse his luck.
The lift binged, and doors opened. Matthew forced himself back onto his feet and followed the now-familiar path to the oncology department.
"The cancer I could cope with if it wasn't for my goddamn potato of a head," he muttered to himself. "Fuckin' sex appeal down the-"
And that was when he saw her.
Well, really all he saw was a figure disappearing through a set of double doors, but it was the figure, he decided, of a long-legged, auburn-haired goddess. It was enough to make him run a self-conscious hand over his lumpy scalp as he sat down in the chair outside Dr Morton's office to wait for his next cycle of chemotherapy to begin.
Over the next few weeks, Matthew discovered a lot more about the auburn-haired girl. She was called Isabel, she was just as beautiful from the front, she was sweet, she was funny, and best of all, she was morally obligated to visit the oncology ward daily to see her father. Was it unethical to hope for a long and drawn-out illness for the father of his crush? Matthew decided that on balance, yes, it probably was, but karma freaking owed him one.
Approximately three weeks, two days, five hours and thirteen minutes after he first saw her, Matthew finally plucked up the courage to talk to Isabel.
"Hi."
Yeah, that was the dazzlingly witty repartee upon which he prided himself.
Isabel looked round in surprise. "Oh, er- hello. Do you need something?"
"No, I just... I've seen you around so I thought I'd say... hi." Matthew could happily have stabbed a long, hot poker through his eyeball, into whichever lobe of his brain was responsible for being so goddamn awkward. Before he really knew what his was thinking, Matthew heard himself say, "I promise I look less like Voldemort when I've got hair."
For some reason, Isabel laughed.
*****
*23rd June 2022*
It was Isabel who first spotted it, when looking over old photographs.
"You haven't aged."
Matthew raised an eyebrow. "You flatter me."
"No, I'm serious." She stared down at the photo, taken six years previously, just before Matthew had first received his cancer diagnosis. "Like, I know you look different and all, from the treatment, but... you don't look older."
Matthew frowned, and scrutinised the photo as well. He cocked his head on one side. "I don't know..."
"Okay, look at this one." She flipped forwards to a slightly later photo, soon after Matthew had begun chemotherapy. She held it up next to his face. "I genuinely can't tell the difference."
Matthew pushed her arm down, laughing. "And that's why I love you," he said, kissing her on the cheek.
But as he glanced at the six-year-old photograph, there was a flutter of unease in his stomach.
*****
*4th November 2022*
The papers were all calling him the immortal cancer patient. 'The turnover of cells is so rapid that whatever harms them (be it cancer treatments, illness or injury), a new generation of cells will soon have grown to replace them.' Immortality, agelessness, eternal youth... they were all terms that had been thrown about.
It didn't feel like it at the moment.
Nausea rose in Matthew's throat, and he retched again, but he all he had left to bring up was bile. His whole body was aching and exhausted, his limbs heavy and his muscles screaming. He wished he could sleep, but there was no way he'd manage it through the pain and nausea of treatment. Even morphine no longer did much more than take the edge off the pain. He wanted to rip the PICC line out of his arm - it made him feel physically sick just to see the carefully titrated dose of chemotherapy dripping through into his vein - but instead, he just collapsed back onto the scratchy hospital pillow, moaning quietly through clenched teeth.
The treatment was relentless. His cancer was too aggressive to leave alone for long, but at the same time, the constantly-shifting clones of cancer cells had become all that was keeping him alive, somehow regulating themselves just enough to perform normal cell functions. If it wasn't the chemotherapy and radiotherapy exhausting him, it was the cancer itself - the constant, energy-sapping growth of cells that took up all his reserves.
The only thing that kept him going was Isabel; even now, she was sitting beside his bed, her fingers loosely intertwined with his. He gripped her hand more tightly in his sweaty fingers. His eyes were half shut, but he could just see her blurred outline past his eyelids. She was wearing her glasses and a pair of old tracksuit bottoms, her hair tangled from when she'd briefly fallen asleep in her chair. She was the most beautiful thing he'd seen in his life.
"Isabel?" His voice was a little croaky.
"Hmm?"
He hadn't meant to ask the question this way - he'd pictured a grandiose gesture somewhere romantic, with her in a pretty dress and himself down on one knee. But somehow, through his fatigue-addled brain, the words slipped out. "Wanna marry me?"
*****
*11th March 2023*
Matthew was crying in the shower again.
She hadn't shouted, she hadn't been angry with him. Perhaps it would have been easier if she had; maybe he could have blamed her if she'd left with anything other than a comforting hand on his arm and a few soothing words.
*"It's not that I blame you, you know it's not. None of this is your fault. It's just..." Tears sparkled in her eyes. "I can't cope with it any more. The hospital visits- they're never going to end."*
*"Isabel, please..."*
*"And I don't know how make ends meet at the same time as looking after you, it's just too much. And- and I always hoped I'd have a baby, and-" She broke off.*
*"Please..."*
*"I'm sorry, Matthew. You know I love you."*
*****
*30th April 2024*
He felt so weak. He was constantly in pain, tired and sick. He'd had just about every side effect of treatment that was possible, from nausea to diarrhoea to constipation to shaking to bouts of confusion to freaking sexual dysfunction. And to add insult to injury, after eight and a half years of chemotherapy, his veins were well and truly shot. So he couldn't even consider becoming an intravenous drug abuser.
Whoever said, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger," was a complete and utter moron, and if Matthew's arms didn't feel like they were made of lead, he'd punch them in the teeth.
"How are you feeling today?" Matthew hadn't even heard Dr Morton enter the room.
He turned dull eyes towards the doctor. "I want to stop my treatment."
Perhaps he was immortal, but the cost of immortality was his life. | I sat in the chair outside, my blood racing. I heard the door creak open as the Dr Francis shuffled outside holding a tablet. I immediately whipped my head in his direction, my eyes welling up.
"What does it say?" I asked, my voice cracking.
He looked at me quite forlornly and let out a very audible sigh.
"You have lung cancer." he responded.
I couldn't hold it in. Tears started flowing, and I could only hold my head in my hand to hide the embarrassment.
"However," Dr. Francis continued "you literally have as long as you want to live."
"What?!" I facepalmed, try to grasp the reality of having this undermined by a joke from a goddamn doctor.
"Please, allow me to explain," he continued "You have a very rare variant, called Wilsonian Cancer. In fact, you're only the second recorded case in all of human history."
This realization finally hit me. The man was actually being serious. I quickly perked up and drew all of my attention to him.
"Well, what is it?" I asked, astonished
He passed me his tablet. It showed what looked like a bunch of lung cells. I tapped on the screen, and that's when I saw what was happening to me. The cells grew rapidly, as fast as cancer cells even, but they were still lung cells. I could barely speak as I handed him the tablet back.
"Of course, I'll have to contact the Medical Anomalies Revolutionizing Various Environments League to run some tests." he said. " first guy was crazy; wouldn't let us anywhere near him."
I winced, ready to back out until I remembered how desperately I needed money.
"I'm in," I said calmly "What was that first guy's name anyway?"
"I'm not sure," the doctor responded. "I think it was Wayne Wilson or something, but I'll have to look it up."
|
[WP] Humanity progressed as normal, except gunpowder was never invented. You're a soldier deep in German lines during World War II | A light rain started to fall into the open trenches. It fell into the small French village which both sets of trenches encircled. It sizzled off the massive boilers, built half into the dirt. The steamers scrambled to keep their coal supplies dry.
All through the trenches sergeants yelled orders to their men. Our sergeant knocked hard on the back of my helmet to get the squads attention. "Front line cover the men behind. Everyone else, watch the skies. We're going right after the flares. Everyone protect the smoker. Shields up!"
We formed up at the edge of the trench. Large, rough stairs had been cut into the dirt ahead of us. Murphy braced his enormous tower shield with both hands while I held the buckler over my head with on hand and fumbled with my other hand to pull the gouger off my belt. It was a gruesomely efficient little thing. A foot long handle topped with a heavy iron spike, useful only for piercing armor and whoever was hiding behind it.
The wind picked up, or I thought it did. The whole sky grew momentarily darker as a sheet of flechettes were catapulted into the air and sailed into the enemy trenches. Screams of anguish and panic erupted from the other side as the iron darts began to land. Another volley was launched, and we stood at the ready while the enemies screams faded. A bolt tipped with burning phosphorous was shot from the forward operating post into the rain to signal a the attack.
The lieutenant raised his visor to blow his whistle and the steamers desperately shoveled coal into their engines. Archers began to crank their turrets over the dirt walls, their crew carefully keeping the hoses which lead back to the engines unkinked or readying extra cylinders full of bolts to be changed out.
The lieutenant raised a small yellow flag. I looked over nervously at O'Connell, the squad smoker. He looked back, the large glass eyes of his heat resistant suit betrayed nothing of the terror he must have felt. He was charging head first at the Nazis just like the rest of us, but he was the only one among us doing so with a small furnace strapped to his back.
The officer blew twice and the great steam guns began firing. They picked off anything that had dared raise it's head above the opposite trench after the iron rain, and we began marching.
Our heavy boots, thick soled to block caltrops, sunk into the mud as we moved toward the town. There came a heavy thud and Murphy faltered for a moment. A ten inch metal spike protruded from the shield. Clearly the German steamers had finally recovered from the flechettes. We moved on.
There was a shrill whistle and Kelly let out a horrible scream. He was the squads port side shield bearer. A heavy German spike had pierced his shield and bolted him to the ground. The rest of the squad scrambled to form up behind Murphy. The Germans must have been desperate if they were turning anti-vehicle on infantry. We moved on.
The thuds against Murphys shield were becoming more and more frequent as we reached the Germans outer trench, and clearly the poor soldier was starting to have trouble holding up the extra weight.
"Drop!" The sergeant yelled, slamming a hand on the bearers shoulder. The squads front shield fell into the soft mud and embedded itself and Murphy worked quickly to pull the two extra leafs from his back, hooking them to the shield and extending the barrier a few feet on each side. We all huddled behind the tiny wall as O'Connell, wheezing through the protective mask, moved forward and dropped his rotater into the compatible slot.
"Gougers out. Form up. Think of all the French lasses waiting on the other side of those Jerry trenches, boys. They don't stand a chance." He turned a valve on O'Connells tank. "Go!"
We charged out from either side of the barricade and down the rough dirt steps into the trenches. A German heavy had been waiting for me and I was knocked off my feet just as I reached the bottom by a hammer blow to my buckler. Ryan sprang forward and swung his gouger at the mans head and it stuck half way in, but not deep enough to kill the man. The SS officer shoulder checked the smaller allied soldier, knocked him to the floor, and caved in his chest with the hammer.
Its expressionless metal face turned to me again, Ryans gouger still hanging from the forehead, and he raised his hammer again. O'Connells rotater whistled and the German heavy was nailed to the trench wall. He struggled for a few moments against the spike, but another shot hit him closer to the neck and his body went still. The others overran their advisories, working in tandem, one knocking back the German with their shield, one spiking him through the helmet. O'Connell nailed the few who got the drop on us.
We work our way through the trench as far as we could under O'Connells protection, hacking or way through the enemy, testing the resilience of our armor, cutting the German steamers hoses, until we eventually linked up with the other squads.
The lieutenant, who had worked his way up with a personal guard, careful to stay just behind the fighting, climbed over the far side of the trench, marched his way triumphantly into the village square, and fired another one of the phosphorous bolts into the sky, signalling victory. The Germans weren't going to hold France much longer if this was their defense. We would be in Berlin by Christmas. | "READY MEN? ARMORS ON, SWORDS OUT!", the officer yelled, his red and black iron armor blistering in the sunlight. A Nazi insignia was on both shoulders, painted on with a shining exterior. The men around me were primed for battle like wild wolves. Swords of excellent quality were in our sheaths. A horse neighed behind me, it also having black and red armor on with Nazi insignias. I was ready. Or so I thought at the time.
"CHARGE!", the officer yelled with a confident shout. And with a pointing of his sword towards the Americans, our men charged at his command. Closer and closer we got, as I could see the Americans. Their camouflage colors were quite silly in open combat, but it was their official uniforms after all. Not all armies could have a man like Hugo Boss as their designer. They only stood there. I heard some of the men utter confused words. We still charged forwards of course, but the men weren't quite as excited. The American army stood there, at the ready, but none charged. We got closer now, closer, closer, closer - and only then, did the voice of screaming shellfire of burning molotovs finally alert us to their plan. The fire burned around us, taking out the first line. The fire got into the openings of their helmets. I heard them scream, and their roasting flesh drifted to my nostrils. The Americans charged forwards now, through the flames. Their swords gleamed in the reflections, and their tips pierced our chainmail. I was in the back, and tried seeing through the smoke. I peered into the grey, choking clouds.
And looking back at me, was the man that was embedded into my memories.
William "B.J." Blazkowicz.
I saw his battle-hardened, shit-eating grin. I saw his blue eyes stare right past my own. I saw his sword, beginning to plunge into my gut. I saw him. And he held no mercy for me. I fell after he plunged the sword into me, but he ignored my cries. He stomped past me, slaughtering more of my comrades. I saw the man who was more machine then a human. A warrior. I saw his sword stab into a man's chestpiece, and his forearms hauling his corpse into the air with him still on it. Blazkowicz was smiling. I could see it through the smoke and the blaze. He ravished the blood. The pain. The Nazi was not human to him. I wasn't human to him. And here I laid with my friends, remembering those blue eyes watching a man bleed. His smile tore through me more then the sword.
I did not die there, on the battlefields. I was held in Berlin to heal. But I still remember that smile. Those eyes. The strength and brutality of his finishers. I can never forget William "B.J." Blazkowicz. I still fear that he roams. God help us all if he gets here. | |
[WP] You knock over your soda while composing a story on Reddit and the entire story vanishes as you hit the wrong key. You immediately hit the undo key on your computer and heave a huge sigh of relief as your story reappears. That's when you realize there is no spill anymore... | I need caffeine to write. Not a can of Coke worth, but far more- enough to make the corner of my left eye twitch, to cause thoughts to race through my brain so fast they they derail from their typical neural tracks. No, a soda won't do it- I need coffee, and I need a growler full of the murky fluid, practically chugging the first half until my BCC (Blood Caffeine Concentration) reaches dangerous highs.
It should have come as no surprise to me, then, that I knocked over my coffee onto my keyboard, my thoughts racing ahead while the liquid scurried in between the keys, finding a new home among the circuitry. I cursed under my breath, glancing around the near empty coffee shop I was in for napkins, and spotting none nearby- they prided themselves as being "green", which apparently meant paper towels were effectively under embargo. And maybe it was my caffeinated thought flow, or maybe I had spent too much time around computers for my own good, but I rapidly pressed the *undo* keys. *CTRL-Z, CTRL-Z, CTRL-Z*. And for a full ten seconds after *it* happened, it seemed like nothing was amiss- that *it* was in fact natural.
But then my head snapped back down to the keyboard that had resembled a muddy swamp moments before, and my eyes widened. I'd seen it happy- the coffee lurching backwards into the cup on my command, the cup righting itself, and the keyboard no longer being wet. I swallowed, wondering if I had perhaps had *too* much caffeine that day. And I packed up my computer, and my headphones, and began the walk home through the crisp night air, feeling the effects of the coffee starting to wear away as I reached my front door a half mile away. But the entire way I'd gone over the incident in my mind. And despite how I tried to spin it, I *knew* what had happened.
So I sat down at my kitchen table, and I filled a cup up with water to the brim, until a meniscus formed over the edge. And with a finger, I tipped it over, watching as ice slid across the wet wood to shatter on the floor. Unfolding my computer, I put my finger above the undo keys, and narrowed my eyes.
"Undo," I whispered, and pressed it, but nothing happened.
"Undo!" I said louder, and kept pressing it- but nothing happened as water continued to trickle onto the floor. Eventually I found my paper towels (my residence is not as "green" as the coffee shop) and used a copious amount of them to clean the mess, leaving them bunched on the ground. And I looked towards the clock on my wall.
10:09 PM. That meant there were only four more hours until bed for me to finish two chapters, two chapters I had promised myself I would finish at the coffee shop. Well, before *it* had happened. So I loaded up the coffee pot and turned it on, watching as the stream of caffeine began, and filled up two large cups. In each I sprinkled a coating of unroasted coffee grounds- they gave me an extra boost- and settled into my desk.
Downed one cup, black, and began to type.
It took thirty minutes to get back into my previous state, feeling the thoughts start to bounce withing my head. And not just within my head, but almost above it- as if my own capacity somehow expanded. As if my thoughts were no longer entirely my own, but were directed by something else, by the stream of reality around me.
After finishing one chapter, I took a break. Quivering, the drug rushing through my system, I looked at the mess of paper towels on the floor. And I slammed my fingers down on the *undo* keys, so hard my knuckles cracked and the keyboard bent inwards.
On the ground, the paper uncrinkled then whipped in a miniature tornado, the serrated edges meshing together until they formed one long sheet. The sheet spiraled in an arc, a long tail of white that was no longer wet, then warped in upon itself, rapidly forming the roll from which it had come from not long ago. It came to rest on the tabletop, toppling over so that I could see all the way down the tube, offering a view of the other side of my kitchen through the hole. And I frowned, realizing how much the cardboard constrained that view, and took another gulp of coffee, feeling my heart pounding and my breath intensifying.
I pressed the up arrow, and my chair moved forward.
Then the right arrow, and it slid rightwards.
Clicking the volume button a few times, the sounds of the room around me intensified until I became aware of breathing in the corner behind me. And clicking the button twice more, I heard squeaking, and relaxed as I realized it was only mouse.
I took another gulp of coffee, strengthening the caffeine boost. And I pressed the "A" button.
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh," my mouth said of its own accord and my surprise, until I released the button. Then my fingers roamed over the keyboard, searching for a new key to try while the caffeine was still heavy in my system. And my index finger hovered over one in the top left corner.
Esc.
Escape.
I started to press downward, but adrenaline flooded into my system a voice in the back of my head screaming at me to stop. But I pushed it away, and pressed, hearing the *click* as it made contact.
And the world turned inside out.
I was rising, fleeing upwards, watching everything below my fold in upon itself. It was as if I could see every part of my kitchen at once- I could see within the cupboards, I could see the beating heart of the mouse, I could see the bones of my own toes in my shoes. And I could see something else, a type of thread running through them, connecting them. An arc of light filled with symbols that rushed along it, moving so fast I couldn't distinguish any of them.
I reached a hand forward to touch it, accidentally removing my finger from they key, and instantly the world around me collapsed back to normal. My chair rocked backwards as my consciousness slammed back into my head and I gasped, an instant headache ripping through my skull, the caffeinne buzz gone.
I bit my lip, my thoughts racing, the ESC key still glaring at me from the corner of my eye.
Then I put another pot of coffee on.
And my finger hovered above the key once more.
****
By Leo | I stoop up agape at my realization. Where was the spill? Where had it gone? I pressed the key again.
I looked down to see my hands under the tap and a slammed door indicating my sister had come home. When had this happened? Only a moment ago wasn't it? I went to press it again, this time cradling the keyboard in my arms as I vanished to minutes prior.
The keyboard was alive in my arms, resting against the thud inside my chest. In the living room another keyboard sat. I pressed the backspace key to no promise. It was useless in the computers hibernated state. So I looked again upon my own, still humming against me. What did I have? I wanted to find out more than I wanted anything, so I held down the key and felt a whisper of time against my ear.
Soon enough, I stopped. I pressed the key again and jumped back only a second, I was at the end. Looking up, I saw a curious being staring back. In no uncertain terms he gestured for the keyboard. It must have been his. | |
[WP] Write a short story based solely on the title of your favorite book without copying that book | The light shimmered, and not how one would expect it to. No, it didn't look to glitter with specular spots flickering as the lighting subtly adjusted. Nor, in fact, did it shimmer white, or silver, or the usual sort of shiny.
Rather, it shimmered like jelly, except not at all like that either, but it would be the most accurate description for a simile. As far as metaphors went, someone had taken a room full of light and broken it up into all different colours, and got the bloody things to stay still for a change.
Jeanne walked in little twirls, eyes swirling their own dance. Just when her feet thought to stay still, she turned, and saw something new, something vibrant, something she had never seen before. More than that, it was something she couldn't have seen before, and something she thought she would never see again—a thought that kept her excitement grounded, and view ever-changing. If she only had this chance, she intended to see it all.
Off in the corner, Patrick sat on a fold-up chair, painted an off-white that could, begrudgingly, be described as pale blue, with a dark blue, plastic cushion—for lack of a better word for the bit upon which he sat. He thought it rather comfortable given what it was made of, but would have preferred something softer nevertheless. At his age, soft chairs had become something of a trap though, so it was, he accepted, probably for the best that he couldn't afford the comfy kind of chair he dreamed of.
While time had forgotten the standing light, it made up for it everywhere else, and the bright rays of sunshine oranged, creeping across the room in long strands.
The effort of it all catching up to her, Jeanne had slowed to gentle turns, and her eyes still had brightness, but noticeably dimmer than the beginning. Patrick had fallen asleep, snores echoing around the room.
“Oi, wake up,” she said over his snores.
He groaned, and huffed, and his bones creaked, but he got to his feet. “Leave me be,” he said, voice heavy with gravel.
She laughed—a tittering laugh. “You're only twenty-two.”
Taking a deep breath, he ended up yawning, and stretched out what last of the fatigue he could be rid of. “Well, done yet?”
“It's… marvellous,” she said, softly between a soft smile. “I, I can't explain it, but it's like a new painting emerges every moment I don't stand still. What was a tree a moment ago, laden with amber leaves and foreground to a setting sun, becomes a roaring bonfire the next. All this, which looks like nothing more than a mess of colours from the outside, it becomes a, a book of paintings from inside. As though it were a kaleidoscope which only shows beautiful landscapes as you twist it, something beyond comprehension until witnessed!”
Her pace had quickened throughout, and her hands gestured with such force he had felt the winds she made. But, her enthusiasm hadn't reached him, and he stood angled towards the door, looking away from her, without an expression on his face. “Can we go?”
She faltered, mood dampened and body stilled. Reaching out to him, she asked, “You really can't see it?” When her hand touched his shoulder, he jerked away. “But, you made it,” she said, trailing to a whisper.
“There's nothing, okay? It's empty, it's always gonna be empty. Nothing will change that.”
Words hesitated on her lips, and her feet were unsure of whether to close the distance between them or not.
“I've got no magic in me,” he said, a murmur on the breeze. “Never will.”
Nails biting into her hands, she felt the moment swell inside her, as everything they had been through flashed across her mind's eye. From that first moment of disdain, to the world of beauty he had created, she cherished every single second. An overwhelming torrent of little memories, which broke the dams.
Her sure feet moved to snuggle beside his, and she wrapped her arms around him from behind, pulling tight, and the side of her head rested against his shoulder. He wriggled, so she tightened her grip, until he relented.
Quietly, he asked, “Are you crying?”
“I am.”
“Oh, okay.”
She loosened, trailing a hand up to his face, and wiped his cheeks. “I'll show you,” she said.
“Show me what?”
“One day, I promise, I'll show you the colours of magic.” | On the darkened streets of NorCal, kipple drifted through alleyways where the silver tongue of the Adfeeds could not reach. A very technical boy with a very crude weapon was hustling through pedestrian walkways. He ducked into a shadowy back path and set his gym bag down. Then, the technical boy skittered off with another picked up bag. He scampered around the bustling metropolis, taking skyways and admiring the skyline, repeating the sequence over and over. Gym bag, pickup, walk. Over and Over. All around town. He muttered while he worked, a breathless, reassuring chant like a witch-doctor. At last his work was done and he made one final trip. Away. Away and away, far from NorCal, far from The Strip. As far away as a man could possibly be. He made one phone call. Just one.
"It's done."
Behind him Norcal was burning.
Burning Chrome. | |
[WP] Write a short story based solely on the title of your favorite book without copying that book | He sat upon the bar stool,
Worried about the next day.
Thinking himself a great fool,
For booking passage away.
Sleeplessness was his night,
And come morn he climbed aboard.
The rocking sea gave him a fright,
Even though the ship stayed moored.
Then the vessel did cast off,
Forever sealing his fate.
At the sailors he did scoff,
While the floorboards creaked with weight.
Halfway through and all was dandy,
Yet he did not feel up for a ball.
The sailors drank the special brandy,
And none saw the incoming squall.
What do you do with a drunken sailor,
Early in the morning,
While storm descends upon the whaler,
And bells ring with warning?
The waves did toss the ship around,
Underneath the man laid moaning.
The wind full of fury and sound,
Coupled with the whole boat groaning.
The water currents did stampede,
And the forming maelstrom seemed to frown.
For it was hungry and looking to feed,
So it pulled that water ship down. | On the darkened streets of NorCal, kipple drifted through alleyways where the silver tongue of the Adfeeds could not reach. A very technical boy with a very crude weapon was hustling through pedestrian walkways. He ducked into a shadowy back path and set his gym bag down. Then, the technical boy skittered off with another picked up bag. He scampered around the bustling metropolis, taking skyways and admiring the skyline, repeating the sequence over and over. Gym bag, pickup, walk. Over and Over. All around town. He muttered while he worked, a breathless, reassuring chant like a witch-doctor. At last his work was done and he made one final trip. Away. Away and away, far from NorCal, far from The Strip. As far away as a man could possibly be. He made one phone call. Just one.
"It's done."
Behind him Norcal was burning.
Burning Chrome. | |
[WP] Write a short story based solely on the title of your favorite book without copying that book | She felt the first drop land on her cheek, a cool respite from the warm summer day. Looking up, shielding her eyes from the sun with her palm, clouds were forming before the sun in an attempt to shield her from its rays. She smiled, and felt the impact as more drops of water began to fall on her skin. Savoring one last breath of her cigarette, she crushed it into the grave of its peers and got up from her seat at the table. And with a quick and fluid motion she unfurled the umbrella she had been carrying, and smiled to herself.
He felt the torrent of water strike against his clothes as they did every other day, cowl held tightly around his head in a feeble attempt to shield himself. He was running, running through the streets that never washed away, in such a hurry that the rain barely fazed him. He was running toward a park, toward a bench, toward a tree. Toward this bench in the park under a tree. Because he was late, and every second felt like it washed away the moment he was running to catch. His clothes were sticking to his skin, begging him to stop, but he couldn't. Not for this. Eventually he saw the park. And then the tree. And then the bench. He stopped a few feet away, panting and soaking wet, and just laughed. Laughed at this empty bench sitting in the rain.
She felt the last drop hit her hand, a hand already wet and cold from the rain. She felt the impact, but then it was quiet. As she tilted her head toward the sky, her umbrella all but obscuring her view, she could still see only clouds. Until they moved, and her eyes burned as the sun emerged once more. It's warm rays gently embraced her as the cold water started to feel more comforting. Fishing out a packet from her pocket, she took her first breath of her cigarette after a century of rain before blowing smoke up into the blue skies. With the press of a button her umbrella closed and she stood there staring into the sky, one hand shielding her eyes, and smiled at the sun. | On the darkened streets of NorCal, kipple drifted through alleyways where the silver tongue of the Adfeeds could not reach. A very technical boy with a very crude weapon was hustling through pedestrian walkways. He ducked into a shadowy back path and set his gym bag down. Then, the technical boy skittered off with another picked up bag. He scampered around the bustling metropolis, taking skyways and admiring the skyline, repeating the sequence over and over. Gym bag, pickup, walk. Over and Over. All around town. He muttered while he worked, a breathless, reassuring chant like a witch-doctor. At last his work was done and he made one final trip. Away. Away and away, far from NorCal, far from The Strip. As far away as a man could possibly be. He made one phone call. Just one.
"It's done."
Behind him Norcal was burning.
Burning Chrome. | |
[WP] Write a short story based solely on the title of your favorite book without copying that book | She felt the first drop land on her cheek, a cool respite from the warm summer day. Looking up, shielding her eyes from the sun with her palm, clouds were forming before the sun in an attempt to shield her from its rays. She smiled, and felt the impact as more drops of water began to fall on her skin. Savoring one last breath of her cigarette, she crushed it into the grave of its peers and got up from her seat at the table. And with a quick and fluid motion she unfurled the umbrella she had been carrying, and smiled to herself.
He felt the torrent of water strike against his clothes as they did every other day, cowl held tightly around his head in a feeble attempt to shield himself. He was running, running through the streets that never washed away, in such a hurry that the rain barely fazed him. He was running toward a park, toward a bench, toward a tree. Toward this bench in the park under a tree. Because he was late, and every second felt like it washed away the moment he was running to catch. His clothes were sticking to his skin, begging him to stop, but he couldn't. Not for this. Eventually he saw the park. And then the tree. And then the bench. He stopped a few feet away, panting and soaking wet, and just laughed. Laughed at this empty bench sitting in the rain.
She felt the last drop hit her hand, a hand already wet and cold from the rain. She felt the impact, but then it was quiet. As she tilted her head toward the sky, her umbrella all but obscuring her view, she could still see only clouds. Until they moved, and her eyes burned as the sun emerged once more. It's warm rays gently embraced her as the cold water started to feel more comforting. Fishing out a packet from her pocket, she took her first breath of her cigarette after a century of rain before blowing smoke up into the blue skies. With the press of a button her umbrella closed and she stood there staring into the sky, one hand shielding her eyes, and smiled at the sun. | The light shimmered, and not how one would expect it to. No, it didn't look to glitter with specular spots flickering as the lighting subtly adjusted. Nor, in fact, did it shimmer white, or silver, or the usual sort of shiny.
Rather, it shimmered like jelly, except not at all like that either, but it would be the most accurate description for a simile. As far as metaphors went, someone had taken a room full of light and broken it up into all different colours, and got the bloody things to stay still for a change.
Jeanne walked in little twirls, eyes swirling their own dance. Just when her feet thought to stay still, she turned, and saw something new, something vibrant, something she had never seen before. More than that, it was something she couldn't have seen before, and something she thought she would never see again—a thought that kept her excitement grounded, and view ever-changing. If she only had this chance, she intended to see it all.
Off in the corner, Patrick sat on a fold-up chair, painted an off-white that could, begrudgingly, be described as pale blue, with a dark blue, plastic cushion—for lack of a better word for the bit upon which he sat. He thought it rather comfortable given what it was made of, but would have preferred something softer nevertheless. At his age, soft chairs had become something of a trap though, so it was, he accepted, probably for the best that he couldn't afford the comfy kind of chair he dreamed of.
While time had forgotten the standing light, it made up for it everywhere else, and the bright rays of sunshine oranged, creeping across the room in long strands.
The effort of it all catching up to her, Jeanne had slowed to gentle turns, and her eyes still had brightness, but noticeably dimmer than the beginning. Patrick had fallen asleep, snores echoing around the room.
“Oi, wake up,” she said over his snores.
He groaned, and huffed, and his bones creaked, but he got to his feet. “Leave me be,” he said, voice heavy with gravel.
She laughed—a tittering laugh. “You're only twenty-two.”
Taking a deep breath, he ended up yawning, and stretched out what last of the fatigue he could be rid of. “Well, done yet?”
“It's… marvellous,” she said, softly between a soft smile. “I, I can't explain it, but it's like a new painting emerges every moment I don't stand still. What was a tree a moment ago, laden with amber leaves and foreground to a setting sun, becomes a roaring bonfire the next. All this, which looks like nothing more than a mess of colours from the outside, it becomes a, a book of paintings from inside. As though it were a kaleidoscope which only shows beautiful landscapes as you twist it, something beyond comprehension until witnessed!”
Her pace had quickened throughout, and her hands gestured with such force he had felt the winds she made. But, her enthusiasm hadn't reached him, and he stood angled towards the door, looking away from her, without an expression on his face. “Can we go?”
She faltered, mood dampened and body stilled. Reaching out to him, she asked, “You really can't see it?” When her hand touched his shoulder, he jerked away. “But, you made it,” she said, trailing to a whisper.
“There's nothing, okay? It's empty, it's always gonna be empty. Nothing will change that.”
Words hesitated on her lips, and her feet were unsure of whether to close the distance between them or not.
“I've got no magic in me,” he said, a murmur on the breeze. “Never will.”
Nails biting into her hands, she felt the moment swell inside her, as everything they had been through flashed across her mind's eye. From that first moment of disdain, to the world of beauty he had created, she cherished every single second. An overwhelming torrent of little memories, which broke the dams.
Her sure feet moved to snuggle beside his, and she wrapped her arms around him from behind, pulling tight, and the side of her head rested against his shoulder. He wriggled, so she tightened her grip, until he relented.
Quietly, he asked, “Are you crying?”
“I am.”
“Oh, okay.”
She loosened, trailing a hand up to his face, and wiped his cheeks. “I'll show you,” she said.
“Show me what?”
“One day, I promise, I'll show you the colours of magic.” | |
[WP] Write a short story based solely on the title of your favorite book without copying that book | She felt the first drop land on her cheek, a cool respite from the warm summer day. Looking up, shielding her eyes from the sun with her palm, clouds were forming before the sun in an attempt to shield her from its rays. She smiled, and felt the impact as more drops of water began to fall on her skin. Savoring one last breath of her cigarette, she crushed it into the grave of its peers and got up from her seat at the table. And with a quick and fluid motion she unfurled the umbrella she had been carrying, and smiled to herself.
He felt the torrent of water strike against his clothes as they did every other day, cowl held tightly around his head in a feeble attempt to shield himself. He was running, running through the streets that never washed away, in such a hurry that the rain barely fazed him. He was running toward a park, toward a bench, toward a tree. Toward this bench in the park under a tree. Because he was late, and every second felt like it washed away the moment he was running to catch. His clothes were sticking to his skin, begging him to stop, but he couldn't. Not for this. Eventually he saw the park. And then the tree. And then the bench. He stopped a few feet away, panting and soaking wet, and just laughed. Laughed at this empty bench sitting in the rain.
She felt the last drop hit her hand, a hand already wet and cold from the rain. She felt the impact, but then it was quiet. As she tilted her head toward the sky, her umbrella all but obscuring her view, she could still see only clouds. Until they moved, and her eyes burned as the sun emerged once more. It's warm rays gently embraced her as the cold water started to feel more comforting. Fishing out a packet from her pocket, she took her first breath of her cigarette after a century of rain before blowing smoke up into the blue skies. With the press of a button her umbrella closed and she stood there staring into the sky, one hand shielding her eyes, and smiled at the sun. | He sat upon the bar stool,
Worried about the next day.
Thinking himself a great fool,
For booking passage away.
Sleeplessness was his night,
And come morn he climbed aboard.
The rocking sea gave him a fright,
Even though the ship stayed moored.
Then the vessel did cast off,
Forever sealing his fate.
At the sailors he did scoff,
While the floorboards creaked with weight.
Halfway through and all was dandy,
Yet he did not feel up for a ball.
The sailors drank the special brandy,
And none saw the incoming squall.
What do you do with a drunken sailor,
Early in the morning,
While storm descends upon the whaler,
And bells ring with warning?
The waves did toss the ship around,
Underneath the man laid moaning.
The wind full of fury and sound,
Coupled with the whole boat groaning.
The water currents did stampede,
And the forming maelstrom seemed to frown.
For it was hungry and looking to feed,
So it pulled that water ship down. | |
[WP] Write a horror story with no villain. |
It begins the same way every day. A noise and a light and nothing more. The light comes in strong through the window, automated shades lift violently up and the once dark room is assaulted with all of the sun's passion. In the distance there are footsteps, uncountable, unobtainable heels and toes on a hard floor. “Tick tock” goes the feet and the clock. Or i think the cock does anyway, i haven't seen one in such a time that the concept itself seems to be disappearing from me. Now the only way i keep time is the shades, up and down. And the heels back and forth. Hissing from a machine here or there, then the shades are down again
The shades open, the light floods in and i lay here. How many times has this happened and how many times till it never happens again? Tick tock the sound goes somewhere behind me. Hiss hiss the machine next to me and i sleep.
THe shades open, my eyes feel permanently dilated, the light is blinding me. I attempt to move my arm but it's useless, like the rest of my form. The light burns deep into the core of my head, eroding my sense of self. I can only hold them closed so long before the effort of that action becomes too painful in itself and i am forced to let the sun blind me, little by little. The heat is in the inside of my head now, i feel a fire in me that has reduced to embers.
Shades, Light. I can't see it anymore but i can still feel it burn its way into my head, whatever parts of me that were in there are now surely useless and if i think about it long enough i swear i can smell something on fire. Tick Tock go the heals, always behind me.
Shades, i just hear them, my face seems to have either lost the ability to feel heat and pain or it's no longer really there. Could it have been reduced to nothing, what is there if it's gone?
Shades, Tick Tock, Shades Tick Tock. Noise Tic Toc. Sound Tic Toc. Mmm, Mmm Mmm.
….
Cause of death: Advanced ALS and clerical error resulting in heat and light exposure for 10 hours a day, 6 months. Investigation in progress. Dr. Spinester | It is 45 minutes to midnight. I lay comfortably in my bed, warm sheets cover my legs, my laptop heating me further still. I am writing this prompt, my first ever attempt at writing down the intricate details of my mind. The monitor screen zooms outwards. This happens sometimes. I am not sure what triggers it. My hands feels far away as they punch keys, inputting letters on the screen that now feels like its trying to run away from me.
I look at the room's door, a few metres away. It is made of wood, painted red, with a huge semi-translucent glass in the middle. It's dark outside my room, I can see it through the door. There are a couple of small lights around me. The orange light on the computer monitor screen signaling stand by mode. There's the red dot of the television. And there's the constant low humming sound of the aquarium filter, a sound that is barely filtered by the flimsy chinese cabinet doors.
Something moves in the aquarium. I hear a small squeeky sound. It's probably the giant snail grazing on the green algae. Sometimes it bites on the plastic breeder, vibrating it, making weird sounds. But it's not the snail. It's a different noise.
The orange light of the screen turns off. That's weird. Maybe it went off. The laptop screen is still zooming further away from me. My arms look giant in my peripheral vision. The light from the monitor on the keyboard is an ominous white, blurred by the constant drumming of my fingers on the keys.
Something moves under the sheets. My ankles sweat. These socks are too warm for this autumn weather. My head feels dizzy.
The humming of the aquarium filter has stopped. This means that it's not working. It never makes no noise. Should I wake up to check it out? My fish could die without a functioning filter. Another noise comes out of the blackness from the aquarium.
I fold the monitor slightly, my eyes veer across the top of the screen, looking at the aquarium water right in front of me. Blackness. It's too far in the darkness to see anything.
The orange light turns back on. Hmmm...
I think I should sleep. But I'm itching with sweat. The monitor looms far away. My fingers are numb. My wrist is tingling.
I think I will end this prompt here.
Wait a second. The humming of the filter has returned. And there's an ominous pitch black silhouette in the darkness behind the glass of the door. | |
[WP] Write a horror story with no villain. | I don't know what time it was when I heard the noise. I'm not even sure what the noise was, but whatever it was, it woke me up. Whether it woke me up right away, or if I was already awake, I have no idea.
The rational part of my mind was saying "Hey, it's just the pipes." But there was that little bit of doubt in the back of my head. No one else was in the house, and no one was supposed to get back for another couple of days. After a few minutes, I heard another few noises, thumps if you will. Again, my rational mind tried to reassure me that it was nothing. But there was no way I could sleep with the doubt in my head. One way or another, I had to know what was going on downstairs.
I opened my eyes, and considered for a moment if I should make any movements. If there was someone right here, surely I should appear asleep, right? The door was out of view, and I was lying on my side. Deciding to risk it, I rolled over, but tried to make it look like I was still asleep. At the midpoint of the turn, it was like time stopped. Half of my mind was screaming at me that this is an awful idea, while the other half was yelling at the first to calm the hell down. My heart was racing, and at the end of the roll, I could see there was no one there. I felt relieved, and a little silly. But I wasn't out of the woods yet.
I sat up from my bed and looked around. My laptop was off. Obviously its updates finished while I was asleep. I wondered what time it was. My phone was on the bookshelf next to the door, so if I wanted to know, I'd have to risk the creaky floorboards and cross the room. But surely I'd have to do that whatever happens?
Naturally, I decided to chance it. My heart raced on, and I heard another noise. I stepped slowly across the room, trying to be as gentle as possible to minimise any noise. I got lucky and only stepped on two creaky floorboards, and only one of them was loud enough to really hear. I leaned against the door slowly, thinking that if I lean against the door, no one can open it. I reached for my phone, and took a look at the time. 3:30AM. No texts, no missed calls.
After taking a few moments to regain my composure, I stepped back from the door, and reached for the handle. Then I remembered a mistake I'd made; I forgot to oil the handle. Sounds silly, but this handle is the noisiest thing I've ever turned. If there's another living thing in this house, it'll hear it for sure. With the rational part of my mind overtaken by this irrational fear, I looked around me for something I could use to defend myself if there really was someone down there. I saw a window key, a pencil, and a small penlight. I looked over at the window. It only opens a little, but at least I had a last resort -- I could try to use the window key to break the glass. At that moment, a rational thought pierced through all of this; I'm getting ahead of myself. This is a rather old house. The noises are probably just faulty pipes. The only reason I was standing up now was to go downstairs and take a look so I can get back to sleep. With the small confidence boost this was, I threw caution to the wind, and slowly opened the door. It made a whiny grinding sound, and -- with my confidence beginning to fade again -- I grabbed the pencil, and opened the door a crack.
I couldn't see anyone. Just the hall before me. I slowly continued to open the door, and continued to see nothing. Just the house. The other bedroom, the study, the bathroom. But from this position, I couldn't see downstairs at all. Thankfully, since the front door was directly ahead of the stairs, if I could just work up the courage to peer down the stairs, I could finally put my mind to rest. As I slowly stepped forward, I heard another sound from downstairs, and I once again noticed my heart pounding. I felt so on edge, I just wanted to scream. I felt like if this lasted much longer, my chest would burst open, so I peered over the stairs.
The door was open.
I just froze there for a moment, taking in the complete and utter horror that was coming over me. I honestly couldn't describe the emotions I was feeling, they all came so fast. My mind was turning to strategy, and I readied the pencil in my hand. If I'm going out, I'm going out kicking and screaming with all my might. But, despite this narrative of running up to this mystery person and desperately attacking them until one of us went down that I was weaving in my head, I just couldn't do it. I couldn't even move; I was still in the exact same position I was in when I saw the door was open.
Deciding it was best to just get this over with, I slowly made my way down the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible. At the very least, I wanted to live long enough to see this guy's face. At the bottom of the stairs, I looked over at the door. I could feel the cool breeze on my face. Perhaps the last cool breeze I would feel? I peered around, looking for whoever was here. The only living thing I could see was in a fishtank. I just wanted this to be over, I felt like I was about to have a heart attack or something. I slowly walked down the hall, looking into each room as I walked onwards, until I looked in the kitchen, and saw the fridge door, wide open. I backed against the wall to the side of the doorway, and felt my heart racing faster than I've ever felt it. Then I cleared my mind. I accepted that I was helpless. I was ready for either way this could turn out. So, I stepped into the kitchen, and looked at the figure standing before me.
There I sat, just a few minutes later, my heart not beating as fast as it was before, but just as hard. I survived. I've always been a survivor. Even if it means killing the owner of a house so I can sleep the rest of the night in it. I'm a survivor. But maybe the world would be a better place if I wasn't.
- - -
Constructive criticism is appreciated. And thank you to everyone who stuck with this long enough to see the ending. This turned out a lot longer than I thought it would, and the initial setup for this seems rather obvious, so I imagine a lot of people probably gave up a few lines in. | It is 45 minutes to midnight. I lay comfortably in my bed, warm sheets cover my legs, my laptop heating me further still. I am writing this prompt, my first ever attempt at writing down the intricate details of my mind. The monitor screen zooms outwards. This happens sometimes. I am not sure what triggers it. My hands feels far away as they punch keys, inputting letters on the screen that now feels like its trying to run away from me.
I look at the room's door, a few metres away. It is made of wood, painted red, with a huge semi-translucent glass in the middle. It's dark outside my room, I can see it through the door. There are a couple of small lights around me. The orange light on the computer monitor screen signaling stand by mode. There's the red dot of the television. And there's the constant low humming sound of the aquarium filter, a sound that is barely filtered by the flimsy chinese cabinet doors.
Something moves in the aquarium. I hear a small squeeky sound. It's probably the giant snail grazing on the green algae. Sometimes it bites on the plastic breeder, vibrating it, making weird sounds. But it's not the snail. It's a different noise.
The orange light of the screen turns off. That's weird. Maybe it went off. The laptop screen is still zooming further away from me. My arms look giant in my peripheral vision. The light from the monitor on the keyboard is an ominous white, blurred by the constant drumming of my fingers on the keys.
Something moves under the sheets. My ankles sweat. These socks are too warm for this autumn weather. My head feels dizzy.
The humming of the aquarium filter has stopped. This means that it's not working. It never makes no noise. Should I wake up to check it out? My fish could die without a functioning filter. Another noise comes out of the blackness from the aquarium.
I fold the monitor slightly, my eyes veer across the top of the screen, looking at the aquarium water right in front of me. Blackness. It's too far in the darkness to see anything.
The orange light turns back on. Hmmm...
I think I should sleep. But I'm itching with sweat. The monitor looms far away. My fingers are numb. My wrist is tingling.
I think I will end this prompt here.
Wait a second. The humming of the filter has returned. And there's an ominous pitch black silhouette in the darkness behind the glass of the door. | |
[WP] Write a horror story with no villain. | My name is Claire and I’m an ex-EMT who used to work with the Indiana State Troopers. This is the story of my last response call before I quit.
It was a violent night in late November – the season was in a limbo between winter and fall and the leaves were decaying in a brown mush on the ground. It was cold and dark outside but there was no snow. We received a call around half-past midnight – a hysteric woman screaming into the phone, unable to form coherent sentences. It isn’t unusual that victims of extreme trauma are so out of it that they’re unable to provide the emergency call takers with a location. They’re so jacked up on adrenaline and only manage to call 911 because that’s been drilled into them since childhood.
I remember this call felt odd from the get go. We were only provided with GPS cords, which meant that the phone’s location was far from any roads. This isn’t all too unusual in the summertime when hikers and nature fanatics get into trouble in our many parks. But this time of the year, nobody has any business being out there, especially not this late at night.
When the police truck driving in front of us diverted from the main road and started crawling down a small dirt path into the wilderness, I knew something was wrong. I remember that I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, though, but I just knew.
With the headlights on, our two cars crept into the forest, branches tapping and scratching at the windows. My partner, Tom, was riding in the front with the state trooper. They had been chatting away until we entered the forest. Now they were quietly scanning the shifting shadows of the trees.
The cars finally stopped on the side of a hill. It had taken us almost thirty minutes from the main road. That’s when I realized what was wrong. The dirt path had been untouched before we came. No car tracks. How had the woman even gotten herself this deep into the forest without a vehicle? I’ve regretted not opening my mouth about this ever since.
We grabbed our equipment from the back of the truck and started climbing down the slope. We were close to the GPS cords now. We started shouting calling out for Mary because that was the registered name to the number.
Our flashlights played over tree bark and wet mossy ground. “Mary!”
“Hey, over here!” one of the state troopers called out.
I hurried towards him, my hands already opening the supply bag. But what he had found wasn’t anything that could be saved. It was a plastic bag from which a horrible stench emitted. I’m not going to describe what I saw when the trooper, close to vomiting, opened the bag – but let’s just say I’ve seen a lot of sickening shit in my time as an EMT and I still have nightmares about that bag.
While the troopers called in backup, Tom and I continued to search the perimeter. That’s when a shrill scream rang out from the top of the ridge, where we had parked our cars. In a moment we were all jogging up the hill again.
Huffing, we closed in on the cars. My flashlight caught a figure crouched down between the cars. It was a woman clad in very filthy a hospital gown. Her bushy hair was a tangling mess and her hands and feet were pale blue from the cold. Her eyes stared wildly almost like an animal. She was obviously scared witless. Still, some of the troopers drew their guns.
Tom held up his hand with a frown and approached the woman slowly. She remained still until he reached out his hand. Then she shied away and whispered something.
“She says she’ll only be examined by a woman,” Tom said.
When I came close she dug her fingers into my jacket. I saw the lines on her cheeks where tears had washed away the filth. What the hell had happened to this woman?
“Are you Mary?” I asked as I checked her body for injuries. “Do you know where you are?”
She didn’t answer just sucked on her lips and kept doing this weird noise in the back of her throat. The bottom part of her gown was caked with a dried black substance.
“You need to get to a hospital, Mary,” I said, putting my hand on her arm in an attempt to calm her down.
We wrapped her in heat blankets and I rode with her in the back of the car. She was shaking. She touched her stomach and then looked at me, tears filling her eyes.
“Claire,” she whispered. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t.”
I just looked at her, suddenly feeling uneasy. I hadn’t told her my name. She reached out her hand, touching my belly.
“Maybe you can?” she said, sincere hope filling her eyes. “Please?”
Mary died on the way back to the hospital and I quit my job the day after. She was from West Virginia and had been checked into a local hospital the day before, waiting to deliver her baby. She had disappeared so suddenly that the hospital hadn’t even had time to report her missing. How she had traveled all those miles and somehow ended up in a national park in Indiana was a complete mystery.
It’s now been eight months since that night in the forest and my belly is so big. I don’t know how it happened, and I worry what’s going to happen to me when it’s time.
*****
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| It is 45 minutes to midnight. I lay comfortably in my bed, warm sheets cover my legs, my laptop heating me further still. I am writing this prompt, my first ever attempt at writing down the intricate details of my mind. The monitor screen zooms outwards. This happens sometimes. I am not sure what triggers it. My hands feels far away as they punch keys, inputting letters on the screen that now feels like its trying to run away from me.
I look at the room's door, a few metres away. It is made of wood, painted red, with a huge semi-translucent glass in the middle. It's dark outside my room, I can see it through the door. There are a couple of small lights around me. The orange light on the computer monitor screen signaling stand by mode. There's the red dot of the television. And there's the constant low humming sound of the aquarium filter, a sound that is barely filtered by the flimsy chinese cabinet doors.
Something moves in the aquarium. I hear a small squeeky sound. It's probably the giant snail grazing on the green algae. Sometimes it bites on the plastic breeder, vibrating it, making weird sounds. But it's not the snail. It's a different noise.
The orange light of the screen turns off. That's weird. Maybe it went off. The laptop screen is still zooming further away from me. My arms look giant in my peripheral vision. The light from the monitor on the keyboard is an ominous white, blurred by the constant drumming of my fingers on the keys.
Something moves under the sheets. My ankles sweat. These socks are too warm for this autumn weather. My head feels dizzy.
The humming of the aquarium filter has stopped. This means that it's not working. It never makes no noise. Should I wake up to check it out? My fish could die without a functioning filter. Another noise comes out of the blackness from the aquarium.
I fold the monitor slightly, my eyes veer across the top of the screen, looking at the aquarium water right in front of me. Blackness. It's too far in the darkness to see anything.
The orange light turns back on. Hmmm...
I think I should sleep. But I'm itching with sweat. The monitor looms far away. My fingers are numb. My wrist is tingling.
I think I will end this prompt here.
Wait a second. The humming of the filter has returned. And there's an ominous pitch black silhouette in the darkness behind the glass of the door. |
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