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[WP] You've been kidnapped by a cult. Not for sacrifice or anything, they just really need someone to fix the plumbing. | Wet
A pool
A splash, he drowns in a
Cold heavy clothes
Waterboard
Blazing light.
She was smiling at him. Who was she?
The girl from the coffee shop. He jerked left: the *man* from the coffee shop. And the younger man… and the woman.
They were not in the coffee shop.
“*Ciao bella,*” the girl said. “Esorry to ehwake you. Earl grey with shoogar, *sí?”* She pointed to a tray on a desk to his left.
Jeremy’s eyes did the circuit again. They were all still smiling, except for the woman: the same as at the Italian coffee shop. He didn’t go there every single day, but when he did: “*Ciao bella!*”, wide smiles minus one, an earl grey with simple syrup he applied himself. They had only forgotten the–
“And a mahffin,” the man said. “Choco-banana, your favorite.”
“Tha…” Jeremy spat out some water, coughed. “Thank you…?” He was very confused. “Where…?”
“*Buon apetito*. Sorry for the surprise, ehehe,” the man giggled. “You don’t recognize, ehehe?”
Jeremy looked around. There was not much to see besides the people. He was sitting up on a simple wooden bed with a thin mattress topper; the man was perched on the edge. The young man and older woman sat on a chair and the matching desk, respectively. The girl stood at the foot of the bed, holding a dripping piece of black fabric and an empty jug. Otherwise nothing too str–
*Oh, dear,* he thought.
He was looking straight up; centered on the wall over the bed was a massive upside-down picture of Jesus on the cross – it was *hung* upside-down, so from his position now he saw Jesus the right way up, except that there was… *let’s say “crimson paint”,* he thought, slashed in an ‘A’ over the Lamb of God.
The man took Jeremy’s chin gently in his hand and brought him to eye level. “Look, *maestro* – you are only in basement! We just need a leedle help from you, that’s it, OK? Don’t be scare, OK?” He took the tea from the tray and handed it to him. “Your favorite, eh?”
Jeremy took the cup, but didn’t drink. Still hot enough to scald. “What help? How did you get… What happened?”
The man looked chastened. “Ah, I am sorry, it is… we know it is, ah, not nice.” He sighed. “Baht we are in a… how you say? A *deel peeckle,* sometimes, to get de help when we need.”
From the corner of his eye, Jeremy saw the older woman roll her eyes and cross her arms. “A pickle? What help? This isn’t some slave shit, is it? Because you can just–”
“Ah, no!” they all said in unison, adamant head-shaking all around.
“No man is ever slave! We will pay, we will pay well,” the young man said.
“Then… why would you kidnap me…?”
“We, ah…” the man looked to the woman. She picked her nails instead of looking at Jeremy.
“Sometimes, we must make a impression,” she said, poisonously.
“Ah! Yes,” the man said, elated to get the word. “Yes, for *impression.* Very important, yes?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don't know how to help you.”
“Ah. Come.”
The man took the tea from Jeremy’s reluctant grip and set it on the table; Jeremy looked back at it wistfully as they all filed into a damp, narrow hallway. He could smell the unique smell of a New York basement mixed with coffee and baking; they *were* underneath the shop – but he saw no coffee, no flour. The walls were decorated… another way.
Both sides of the hallway were painted in a giant mural, in shades of the same… *crimson paint* from the inverted Jesus. To his right there was a shockingly exact rendition of Goya’s *Saturn Devouring His Son*, with the addition of a pile of several other ‘sons’ at Cronus’ feet, waiting to be eaten. Jeremy recognized Pope Francis, face hollowed by pain, pale vestments saturated with crimson. He shivered; he didn’t look at the mural on the left.
The girl, who had exited first, pushed open a water-damaged door at the end of the hallway and tugged on a string; dim orange light poured out. The rest of them pressed against a wall and waved Jeremy on towards her.
He peered into the room. It was a bathroom, done in concrete and ancient, uneven tile, dingy and bare like the bedroom, with one sleek white upgrade.
“We see you all the time, tapping away with the computer, the coding, yes?”
Jeremy could only nod. His brow was furrowed, his mouth agape. Surely…*no fucking way*.
“So, you know… we thought, *oh, Jeremy is so nice, Jeremy here all time, he will help!* But, you know…” The young man gestured at the mural in the hallway. “The last man, he went crazy, he said things… he said–”
“He was *not nice,*” the older man said.
“He thought we probably broke it doing crazy things!” The younger man chuckled. “But we are not crazy!”
“So we say next time, let us make *impression* when we ask for help. Then maybe they will be more calm, you know. Take us serious.”
Jeremy closed his mouth. He would be calm, serious. He *did* code all the time… It was probably simple enough. Certainly more simple than incapacitating four insane Italians with a cup of tea and a chocolate chip banana muffin. He drew in a huge breath.
“So… you need tech support… for your bidet?”
*“Sí!”* The man said jovially. He playfully pushed the taciturn woman. “What I tell you? Jeremy *nice guy!”* | The men with the masks towered over me.I peered back through the narrow slits of their masks,begging to be released.
"Guys,I'm really sorry but I haven't finished my training. I can't fix your pipes."
A three-inch thick hexagon struck my face and knocked me on the ground. A figure,who I assumed was the leader because of his extra symbols on his slightly feminine cloak,loomed towards me. He grabbed me by the throat and began
and started his chanting.It was German and from what I knew about the language from high school,it sounded like he was saying something about my siblings and their tasty behinds. He switched back to English and the crowd of about fourteen people behind him spoke in a chorus, "The divine tongue compels you to abandon falsehood and speak the truth. He who speaks lies after is an evil beyond saving ,who shall be put down."
Kind of out of options at this point , I conceded and told them I was indeed a qualified plumber,which if you weren't able to guess,I wasn't and told them I'd fix their pipes. Hey,I wasn't quite qualified enough but how hard could it be?
"So what's the problem with the pipes?" I asked.
"Forces of darkness fear faith in the true god,Segothoth,the starchy primordial, and they put hurdles in the way of believers. At this dark hour,we are faced by a problem most dire. The SubTerraneans have infiltrated this house of worship and placed filth in our vents of liquid to filthy this prestigious institution."
"So your pipes are clogged."
"Yeah."
The operation of fixing the drainage wasn't too tedious. I just found the part of the pipe that wasn't hollow and removed it from the system to clean it. I found the remains of a mutilated squirrel. Wonder how that got there?While I was at work, they assigned a priest to lecture me on Segoism. I tried to block him out but I caught a few things. Firstly, their god was an alien. This was quite the fad among cults these days. Apparently, all sentient life on Earth was,well....his excretion and he used his wife,Mthusta to bring them to life. I kept hearing something about discarding my misguided Abrahamic faith and entering the light.
After,I finished my task,I tried as politely as possible,tell them I wasn't interested in their beliefs. Excluding the immediate bitchslap the priest gave me,they took it rather well and loaded me into their Subaru and dumped me around the place they found me. Well,a mile off but close enough. I set off for home with a disturbed countenance and an interesting story to post on Reddit. | |
[WP] You've been kidnapped by a cult. Not for sacrifice or anything, they just really need someone to fix the plumbing. | I’d been kept in this room for days. It wasn’t a bad room, all things considered. It was a nice, cool 72 degrees. Lots of reading material, even a television and a Sega Genesis. They gave me three square meals a day, all gourmet stuff. I’d been playing Sonic for several hours when the door started clanking and popped open.
“Supper time?”
A sultry looking woman with auburn hair walked in. “No, it’s time for you to do what we brought you here for.”
I swallowed a lump and felt a bead of sweat running down my cheek. I hadn’t been this afraid since they kidnapped me from my truck at the end of a shift.
“There’s no need to be nervous.” She offered up my tool belt, minus anything heavy enough to use as a weapon.
“Okay...nobody’s spoken to me in days. What’s going on? Why am I here?”
“We...have need of your services.”
That caught me off guard. “My services? You know what I do, right?”
She smirked. “Yes, of course, you’re a plumber. That’s why we brought you here.”
“That doesn’t make sense, lady. If you needed a plumber, couldn’t you have called one?”
She smirked again. “We value our privacy. We’re...somewhat off the beaten track. Grab your tools and follow me, please.”
She started walking and, having little choice, I donned my tool belt and followed her. We walked down a dimly lit corridor, with other doors leading to what I could only presume were other prison cells.
“Tell me, lady. How many people do you keep locked up here?”
She stopped, turned, and smirked. “Only as many as we need.”
She continued walking and, having little choice, I followed. She opened a door at the end of a hallway and sunlight spilled in. We entered a circular courtyard ringed by a brick walkway and several concrete buildings spread around the perimeter. Several paths led from each building to a pond at the center, ringed by flowers and grass. Women walked idly by and sat in small groups, all looking in my direction and speaking in hushed tones.
“So...what is this place. Some kind of cult?”
She stopped dead in her tracks, put a hand on my shoulder, and smirked. “No, we don’t consider ourselves a cult. More like...a group of like minded eccentrics.”
She resumed her pace and, having little choice, I followed. We walked through the center ring and toward a building off to the right.
She pointed to the door. “Just knock on that and tell them you’re here to fix the plumbing.” Several nearby women giggled, and I felt my cheeks redden.
“Are...are you sure? What’s going to happen to me?”
“Don’t worry, they’re expecting you.”
With that, she turned and went back toward the building we came from. No doubt to visit some other prisoner. I walked up to the building and rapped on the door. It cracked open and a green eye peeked out. “Yes?”
“Uhh...I’m the plumber? I’m here to fix your pipes?”
The door opened the rest of the way and the most beautiful red hair I’d ever seen wafted in the breeze. “Here to fix our pipes? You hear that, girls? The plumber is here to fix our pipes!”
Several women I hadn’t noticed began giggling. They were all as beautiful as the red headed woman, and, come to think of it, I’d only seen beautiful women out in the courtyard. No men.
“Come this way, Mr...”
“Dirk. My name is Dirk.”
She flashed a smile at me. “Dirk? Perfect!”
The other women giggled again, and she led me down a hallway and into the kitchen. The sink cabinet was open and there was a pile of dry towels nearby.
“So what’s the problem, miss?”
“Well...the sink isn’t working. Can you fix it?”
“Can you be a little more specific, ma’am? It’d help me fix it faster.”
Some of the other girls stood in the doorway now, twirling their hair and biting their fingernails. Weird.
“Well, Dirk...it’s not working.”
“Okay, ma’am. I’ll take a look.”
I turned on both faucets and found that the cold and hot water both worked. I flipped the garbage disposal on and off. Check and check. I checked for leaks, loose fittings, and stuck supply valves.
I got up from the floor and stood to face the red headed woman. “Ma’am, in my expert opinion, not a thing is wrong with your sink.”
The other women giggled again, and the red headed woman turned to hush them. She turned back to me and said “well that’s great work, Dirk. I guess now we should talk about...compensation?”
She gave me a coy smile and shifted her weight to one foot.
“Got a rock in your shoe, ma’am?”
“No, Dirk, silly. Why don’t you just join me on the couch and we can talk about what I owe you...if you know what I mean.”
At that moment, I heard a knock at the door and footsteps rushing to open it. “Oh, hi, who are you?”
“Uhh...I’m the pizza delivery guy? But they didn’t give me any pizza.”
“That’s okay, just come on in.”
The red headed woman flashed me another smile. “So, now that the pizza guy is here, you can come join us in the living room so we can discuss your...compensation.”
I furrowed my brow and thought about what to say.
“If it’s all the same to you, ma’am, I’d like to go home now.” | Last thing I remember was enjoying the view of the Thames on my lunch break on a beautiful sunny day. Then the lights went out. Something was dropped over my head. I tried to pull it off, but couldn't. Next, I heard a voice say, "Sorry about this, chum." Then I was whisked away so quickly, I felt faint, dizzy. Blacked out at some point.
Next thing I know, I'm seated in a chair and the hood is yanked off. It's an office, quite messy, filled with boxes, files, and piles of paper, but the walls and the moldings are quite ornate. In front of me was a rheumatic man with hunched-shoulders and a horrible, pasty face consisting of bulging, pale eyes, sunken, veined cheeks and a high forehead. Long but thin grey hair completed the look. I stared at him longer than I should have before turning my face away toward the desk where he'd dropped the hood.
Except it wasn't a hood. It was more of a hat, a big pointy hat, which I could have sworn ... had a wrinkled face on it. I was blindfolded with some kind of fancy dress hat? Seriously?
As I gawked, it started to move on its own. "There's no need to stare. I did say we were sorry about this earlier."
The hat was talking to me? Yes, the hat was talking to me. Where the hell am I?
"You're in my office. My name's Filch. I'm the caretaker here."
Did I ask that out loud? "And where is here?"
"You're at Hogwarts."
"Hog-whats?"
"Hogwarts. The school of magic."
"Riiiiiight." Humor him. And his trick hat. "And you're a magician."
"NO!" He barked. Seemed to be a sore point. "But there are plenty of wizards here and even more imps and rascals training to be wizards."
"Okay. And why have you brought me to a ... school for wizards?"
"You're a master plumber. Says so in the muggle phone book. And we need a plumber. There's a problem with the pipes in the basement."
The hat spoke. "It's a tight space, but you'll be able to slither in!" Then the hat laughed like it told a joke. The crusty old man smacked the hat off his desk. I think it bit him in return.
This was too much. So this is a school full of magicians --"
"Wizards."
"Sorry, wizards. And they can't, um, magic the pipes fixed and clear?"
For the first time, the old geezer smiled and laughed! "Ha! They can ride a broom, but can they ride a plunger? They wave their wands in the air, but can they turn a wrench?" He gesticulated wildly, then stopped and wheeze a little. Looking back at me, he felt the need to inform me, "The answer to both questions is 'No'." Just in case I couldn't figure out that he wasn't being rhetorical.
Then he leaned in closely, although I attributed that to the hunchback. "Between you, me and the hat, I'd just as soon as let them stew in it for a while and see all the good their magic does!"
Filch glanced at his desk then back to me, and whispered, "Maybe not the hat. I don't know if he can keep secrets."
**********
More stories at r/xwhy
Comments and votes welcome and appreciated.
Edit: some words, typos. | |
[WP] You've been kidnapped by a cult. Not for sacrifice or anything, they just really need someone to fix the plumbing. | "I'd suggest investing in a very durable garbage disposal if you're going to be dumping...um...'goat' chunks down here," Hank Simmons, professional plumber, stated as he finished clearing out a *very* clogged sink pipe, "Otherwise, I'd suggest dumping it somewhere else."
"Yes, of course," One of the black clad people spoke from behind their large bird like mask, turning to whisper to his friend to write that down. He - They? Hank couldn't quite tell - and about five other cultists of unknown gender were currently crouched around Hank as he worked on their sink. An unknown member had 'hired' (or kidnapped, according to Hank) to fix their problems via high jacking his work van with a knocked out Hank in the back and he woke up at an unknown location, this place. So far, Hank had fixed a series of shower heads in a large showering room, cleared the drain of said room, and was now working on the large kitchen sink. Taking a big breath, Hank stood, turning on the tap, watching for any backup. When no blood and mystery meat filled water filled the sink, Hank turned off the tap and turned towards the cultists, "Whelp, I think I'm done here."
"Many thanks," The Cultist who had been the liaison of sorts spoke, moving a gloved hand into their robes, pulling out what appeared to be a very thick roll of bills. "We have knowledge that you are in a bit of a financial bind. In thanks for helping us, and keeping quiet about this," The Cultist gestured about, "We'll pay you a hundred fifty grand." Stepping forward, the Cultist pressed the roll of money into Hank’s hands.
Hank blanched a bit at hearing that, the money heavy in his hands, "I, uh, I don't know what to say to that. And I doubt I'd be believed if I told anyone about this."
"Yes," The Cultist tilted their head, amusement in their voice, "I suppose that's true."
"Look," Hank stated, serious, "I don't know what's going on here, and I don't want to know. Believe me when I say this, I just want to get out of here, you guys give me the heebee geebees and I don't want to be the next 'goat' to go down the drain."
"We understand the sentiment," The Cultist nodded, "Allow me to arrange for you to be returned to where you can get home.”
"Yeah, uh, thanks," Hank smiled at that, hoping, but not convinced, that they wouldn't call him again if the need arises. | Last thing I remember was enjoying the view of the Thames on my lunch break on a beautiful sunny day. Then the lights went out. Something was dropped over my head. I tried to pull it off, but couldn't. Next, I heard a voice say, "Sorry about this, chum." Then I was whisked away so quickly, I felt faint, dizzy. Blacked out at some point.
Next thing I know, I'm seated in a chair and the hood is yanked off. It's an office, quite messy, filled with boxes, files, and piles of paper, but the walls and the moldings are quite ornate. In front of me was a rheumatic man with hunched-shoulders and a horrible, pasty face consisting of bulging, pale eyes, sunken, veined cheeks and a high forehead. Long but thin grey hair completed the look. I stared at him longer than I should have before turning my face away toward the desk where he'd dropped the hood.
Except it wasn't a hood. It was more of a hat, a big pointy hat, which I could have sworn ... had a wrinkled face on it. I was blindfolded with some kind of fancy dress hat? Seriously?
As I gawked, it started to move on its own. "There's no need to stare. I did say we were sorry about this earlier."
The hat was talking to me? Yes, the hat was talking to me. Where the hell am I?
"You're in my office. My name's Filch. I'm the caretaker here."
Did I ask that out loud? "And where is here?"
"You're at Hogwarts."
"Hog-whats?"
"Hogwarts. The school of magic."
"Riiiiiight." Humor him. And his trick hat. "And you're a magician."
"NO!" He barked. Seemed to be a sore point. "But there are plenty of wizards here and even more imps and rascals training to be wizards."
"Okay. And why have you brought me to a ... school for wizards?"
"You're a master plumber. Says so in the muggle phone book. And we need a plumber. There's a problem with the pipes in the basement."
The hat spoke. "It's a tight space, but you'll be able to slither in!" Then the hat laughed like it told a joke. The crusty old man smacked the hat off his desk. I think it bit him in return.
This was too much. So this is a school full of magicians --"
"Wizards."
"Sorry, wizards. And they can't, um, magic the pipes fixed and clear?"
For the first time, the old geezer smiled and laughed! "Ha! They can ride a broom, but can they ride a plunger? They wave their wands in the air, but can they turn a wrench?" He gesticulated wildly, then stopped and wheeze a little. Looking back at me, he felt the need to inform me, "The answer to both questions is 'No'." Just in case I couldn't figure out that he wasn't being rhetorical.
Then he leaned in closely, although I attributed that to the hunchback. "Between you, me and the hat, I'd just as soon as let them stew in it for a while and see all the good their magic does!"
Filch glanced at his desk then back to me, and whispered, "Maybe not the hat. I don't know if he can keep secrets."
**********
More stories at r/xwhy
Comments and votes welcome and appreciated.
Edit: some words, typos. | |
[WP] You've been kidnapped by a cult. Not for sacrifice or anything, they just really need someone to fix the plumbing. | "I'd suggest investing in a very durable garbage disposal if you're going to be dumping...um...'goat' chunks down here," Hank Simmons, professional plumber, stated as he finished clearing out a *very* clogged sink pipe, "Otherwise, I'd suggest dumping it somewhere else."
"Yes, of course," One of the black clad people spoke from behind their large bird like mask, turning to whisper to his friend to write that down. He - They? Hank couldn't quite tell - and about five other cultists of unknown gender were currently crouched around Hank as he worked on their sink. An unknown member had 'hired' (or kidnapped, according to Hank) to fix their problems via high jacking his work van with a knocked out Hank in the back and he woke up at an unknown location, this place. So far, Hank had fixed a series of shower heads in a large showering room, cleared the drain of said room, and was now working on the large kitchen sink. Taking a big breath, Hank stood, turning on the tap, watching for any backup. When no blood and mystery meat filled water filled the sink, Hank turned off the tap and turned towards the cultists, "Whelp, I think I'm done here."
"Many thanks," The Cultist who had been the liaison of sorts spoke, moving a gloved hand into their robes, pulling out what appeared to be a very thick roll of bills. "We have knowledge that you are in a bit of a financial bind. In thanks for helping us, and keeping quiet about this," The Cultist gestured about, "We'll pay you a hundred fifty grand." Stepping forward, the Cultist pressed the roll of money into Hank’s hands.
Hank blanched a bit at hearing that, the money heavy in his hands, "I, uh, I don't know what to say to that. And I doubt I'd be believed if I told anyone about this."
"Yes," The Cultist tilted their head, amusement in their voice, "I suppose that's true."
"Look," Hank stated, serious, "I don't know what's going on here, and I don't want to know. Believe me when I say this, I just want to get out of here, you guys give me the heebee geebees and I don't want to be the next 'goat' to go down the drain."
"We understand the sentiment," The Cultist nodded, "Allow me to arrange for you to be returned to where you can get home.”
"Yeah, uh, thanks," Hank smiled at that, hoping, but not convinced, that they wouldn't call him again if the need arises. | I was bent in front of the Stone Altar, kneeling in the dirt. The cultists whispered their evil incantation. Atop the Altar lay the bloody remains of a goat surrounded by lit candles; it was a sacrafice to their dark God, Yrem. I struggled and strained, their whispers louder and closer. I felt them all around me, their voices carrying their dark litany through the musty air of the old basement.
I panted, sweat dripping into my eyes. My muscles ached from the strain, and my back was on fire. Almost free. The cultists' voices screeched and howled, and I strained harder.
Just another good yank, and...the pipe fitting finally came off. The cultists went silent. I sat up, drenched in sweat, holding the U-shaped piece of corroded pipe up for the crowd of robed figures to see. "It's off now."
The cultists erupted in cheers.
"Glory to Yrem!"
"The Two-Headed Goat has delivered us!"
"Hail the Dark Spirit!"
I stood up, wiping my sweaty face with my shirt. I dropped the wrench I was holding in the small loop in my jeans. The cult leader, Tobias, also known a the Great Head, approached me. "We thank you, Tim. Yrem clearly favors you."
"You're welcome, Mr. Great Head," I replied. "It was just a little rusted is all. The plumbin' in this house is dated. Nothin' is up to code here."
"Well," Tobias replied, putting his robed arm around me, "the Dark Goat of the Wood has granted us a great boon with your presence. You are a great gift to His chosen herd."
I kept my mouth shut. I wanted to argue that luring me to a remote farmhouse and holding a rag soaked with chloroform over my face while I'm squatting under a sink doesn't really fall under the definition of "gift" in my dictionary. More like a "hostage". But, Momma didn't raise an idiot, and speaking my true mind to a bunch of cultist kidnappers with big knives would be really dumb.
"Uh, thanks, Mr. Great Head." Under normal circumstances I'd be chuckling at a name like that. "If that's all you need me for, I guess I'll be headin' back to my cell."
"Yes, Tim. You have done well this day. When the parts you requested have arrived, we shall call on you once again. Go, and may the Dark Goat walk with you always."
"Okay. Bye." I walked through the crowd, and they parted as I walked. They all had their hoods up covering their heads, but the faces I could make out in the firelight were smiling and appreciative. Apart from the goat worship and penchant for kidnapping, I'd say most of them are pretty decent folks.
As I approached the door, I saw on of my designated handlers, Igor, rush ahead and open the door for me. "Thanks," I said as I handed him the wrench.
"Thank you, Tim." He grinned, a couple of his teeth missing. I stepped through the door and into the musty hallway to my cell. Torches flickered in sconces on the brick walls. A dripping noise came from a water pipe in the ceiling. Good...
Ahead, in the gloom, came the sound of running and laughter. It was Derek, one of the sons of the cultists whose name I couldn't remember. He clutched a red knitted scarf in his hands. "Mr. Tim! Dark Goat be with you!" he shouted when he saw me.
"Hiya Derek. That's a nice scarf you have."
"Thanks. Missus Agnes made it for me." Agnes was another captive of the cult. They stole her for her knitting and needlework skills. She can cross-stitch a decapitated goat god mural like no one's business.
"I'm glad you and Missus Agnes are part of our family now." Derek continued. "Daddy says a great herd thrives, and a small herd dies."
"Aw, that's great Derek. Thanks. Listen, I gotta head back to my dark cell. See you tomorrow."
"Good night, Mr. Tim!" He ran off and I continued on, Igor following.
The basement, at one time, had a wine cellar. It was a large space, filled with alcoves and space for racks of wine. Now, it was just a windowless room and the alcoves fitted with bars to turn them into makeshift cells. Igor followed me as I walked to my cell. He didn't push or shove, it was obvious I wasn't gonna attack or bolt off. What can a fifty-five year old plumber with a bad back do to a cultist twice my size?
Igor shut the cell door, and locked me in. "Good night, Tim," he said.
"Good night, Igor," I replied as he walked away. Across the way I saw Agnes in her cell, rocking in her rocking chair and stitching away, the pale light from the makeshift lamp above her illuminating her. "Hi Agnes."
"Oh, hello Tim dear." She put down her needlework and looked up at me. "Did you fix their leaking altar?"
"Not yet. They're gettin' me some parts and I'll probably finish it tomorrow."
"Oh, that's nice dear." Agnes leaned her chair forward and looked down the hallway. "Is everything set for the...other thing tomorrow?"
I took a look down the hallway myself to make sure Igor was gone. "Yes. It's all set. Just make sure you keep your earmuffs on. It'll be loud."
Agnes grinned a devious grin. "Oh, I'll be ready." She reached into her floral blouse and pulled out a key. I grinned back and nodded.
We both laid down on our piles of straw, and went to sleep. The plan was now in effect. Tomorrow would be our escape. | |
[WP] You've been kidnapped by a cult. Not for sacrifice or anything, they just really need someone to fix the plumbing. | "I'd suggest investing in a very durable garbage disposal if you're going to be dumping...um...'goat' chunks down here," Hank Simmons, professional plumber, stated as he finished clearing out a *very* clogged sink pipe, "Otherwise, I'd suggest dumping it somewhere else."
"Yes, of course," One of the black clad people spoke from behind their large bird like mask, turning to whisper to his friend to write that down. He - They? Hank couldn't quite tell - and about five other cultists of unknown gender were currently crouched around Hank as he worked on their sink. An unknown member had 'hired' (or kidnapped, according to Hank) to fix their problems via high jacking his work van with a knocked out Hank in the back and he woke up at an unknown location, this place. So far, Hank had fixed a series of shower heads in a large showering room, cleared the drain of said room, and was now working on the large kitchen sink. Taking a big breath, Hank stood, turning on the tap, watching for any backup. When no blood and mystery meat filled water filled the sink, Hank turned off the tap and turned towards the cultists, "Whelp, I think I'm done here."
"Many thanks," The Cultist who had been the liaison of sorts spoke, moving a gloved hand into their robes, pulling out what appeared to be a very thick roll of bills. "We have knowledge that you are in a bit of a financial bind. In thanks for helping us, and keeping quiet about this," The Cultist gestured about, "We'll pay you a hundred fifty grand." Stepping forward, the Cultist pressed the roll of money into Hank’s hands.
Hank blanched a bit at hearing that, the money heavy in his hands, "I, uh, I don't know what to say to that. And I doubt I'd be believed if I told anyone about this."
"Yes," The Cultist tilted their head, amusement in their voice, "I suppose that's true."
"Look," Hank stated, serious, "I don't know what's going on here, and I don't want to know. Believe me when I say this, I just want to get out of here, you guys give me the heebee geebees and I don't want to be the next 'goat' to go down the drain."
"We understand the sentiment," The Cultist nodded, "Allow me to arrange for you to be returned to where you can get home.”
"Yeah, uh, thanks," Hank smiled at that, hoping, but not convinced, that they wouldn't call him again if the need arises. | I’d been kept in this room for days. It wasn’t a bad room, all things considered. It was a nice, cool 72 degrees. Lots of reading material, even a television and a Sega Genesis. They gave me three square meals a day, all gourmet stuff. I’d been playing Sonic for several hours when the door started clanking and popped open.
“Supper time?”
A sultry looking woman with auburn hair walked in. “No, it’s time for you to do what we brought you here for.”
I swallowed a lump and felt a bead of sweat running down my cheek. I hadn’t been this afraid since they kidnapped me from my truck at the end of a shift.
“There’s no need to be nervous.” She offered up my tool belt, minus anything heavy enough to use as a weapon.
“Okay...nobody’s spoken to me in days. What’s going on? Why am I here?”
“We...have need of your services.”
That caught me off guard. “My services? You know what I do, right?”
She smirked. “Yes, of course, you’re a plumber. That’s why we brought you here.”
“That doesn’t make sense, lady. If you needed a plumber, couldn’t you have called one?”
She smirked again. “We value our privacy. We’re...somewhat off the beaten track. Grab your tools and follow me, please.”
She started walking and, having little choice, I donned my tool belt and followed her. We walked down a dimly lit corridor, with other doors leading to what I could only presume were other prison cells.
“Tell me, lady. How many people do you keep locked up here?”
She stopped, turned, and smirked. “Only as many as we need.”
She continued walking and, having little choice, I followed. She opened a door at the end of a hallway and sunlight spilled in. We entered a circular courtyard ringed by a brick walkway and several concrete buildings spread around the perimeter. Several paths led from each building to a pond at the center, ringed by flowers and grass. Women walked idly by and sat in small groups, all looking in my direction and speaking in hushed tones.
“So...what is this place. Some kind of cult?”
She stopped dead in her tracks, put a hand on my shoulder, and smirked. “No, we don’t consider ourselves a cult. More like...a group of like minded eccentrics.”
She resumed her pace and, having little choice, I followed. We walked through the center ring and toward a building off to the right.
She pointed to the door. “Just knock on that and tell them you’re here to fix the plumbing.” Several nearby women giggled, and I felt my cheeks redden.
“Are...are you sure? What’s going to happen to me?”
“Don’t worry, they’re expecting you.”
With that, she turned and went back toward the building we came from. No doubt to visit some other prisoner. I walked up to the building and rapped on the door. It cracked open and a green eye peeked out. “Yes?”
“Uhh...I’m the plumber? I’m here to fix your pipes?”
The door opened the rest of the way and the most beautiful red hair I’d ever seen wafted in the breeze. “Here to fix our pipes? You hear that, girls? The plumber is here to fix our pipes!”
Several women I hadn’t noticed began giggling. They were all as beautiful as the red headed woman, and, come to think of it, I’d only seen beautiful women out in the courtyard. No men.
“Come this way, Mr...”
“Dirk. My name is Dirk.”
She flashed a smile at me. “Dirk? Perfect!”
The other women giggled again, and she led me down a hallway and into the kitchen. The sink cabinet was open and there was a pile of dry towels nearby.
“So what’s the problem, miss?”
“Well...the sink isn’t working. Can you fix it?”
“Can you be a little more specific, ma’am? It’d help me fix it faster.”
Some of the other girls stood in the doorway now, twirling their hair and biting their fingernails. Weird.
“Well, Dirk...it’s not working.”
“Okay, ma’am. I’ll take a look.”
I turned on both faucets and found that the cold and hot water both worked. I flipped the garbage disposal on and off. Check and check. I checked for leaks, loose fittings, and stuck supply valves.
I got up from the floor and stood to face the red headed woman. “Ma’am, in my expert opinion, not a thing is wrong with your sink.”
The other women giggled again, and the red headed woman turned to hush them. She turned back to me and said “well that’s great work, Dirk. I guess now we should talk about...compensation?”
She gave me a coy smile and shifted her weight to one foot.
“Got a rock in your shoe, ma’am?”
“No, Dirk, silly. Why don’t you just join me on the couch and we can talk about what I owe you...if you know what I mean.”
At that moment, I heard a knock at the door and footsteps rushing to open it. “Oh, hi, who are you?”
“Uhh...I’m the pizza delivery guy? But they didn’t give me any pizza.”
“That’s okay, just come on in.”
The red headed woman flashed me another smile. “So, now that the pizza guy is here, you can come join us in the living room so we can discuss your...compensation.”
I furrowed my brow and thought about what to say.
“If it’s all the same to you, ma’am, I’d like to go home now.” | |
[WP] You've been kidnapped by a cult. Not for sacrifice or anything, they just really need someone to fix the plumbing. | They roughly pulled the blindfold from my eyes. Candles. I surrounded by at least two dozen candles. Men in robes stood around me, their faces obscured by hoods.
"Brother Johannes, if you please," the tallest figure said.
"Wait, wait!" I yelped.
"I'm sorry for what I'm about to do," another man, presumably Johannes, said to me. "It may help to close your eyes,"
"No, please! I have two kids!" I pleaded. Evidently I'm not the brave sort after all.
My eyes flooded with light. Hit in the head. Rushing toward a tunnel of light. My eyes could barely handle the . . .
Fluoescent light. The man had flipped a light switch. My eyes tried desperately to adjust.
"Sorry about that," said Johannes. "I did warn you."
"Damn, Brother Brian," exclaimed one of them. "Couldn't you have at least have bought candles that have the same scent? It's like a cacophony cheap perfumes in here."
"I wasn't in a position to hunt for the best smelling candles," Brian retorted.
One of them came over to me and pulled me to my feet. "So, uh. James tends to take mondo dumps after the monthly ritual. He - well, he clogged her up pretty good."
I had only just realized that I was in a bathroom. That would explain the smell. I walked over the toilet and took a look.
"Damn!" I exclaimed, wretching at the horrid smell emanating from the bowels of the porcelain before me. "What did he eat?"
"It's probably best if you don't know," replied Johannes. "Just be grateful you were in uniform today." | *This is a semi-sequel to my story here: https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/7i0l0k/wp_johns_plumbing_and_adventuring_service/dqvbf1m/. But you don't need to read that one to enjoy this one!*
The brown bag on my head smelled of turpentine, my one true weakness. Around me, I heard ominous chanting in a language that I didn’t recognize. Cultists. Why did it have to be cultists? They were a constant problem these days, especially in the bigger cities, but even in slightly smaller cities like my adopted hometown of Indianapolis, it seemed like I couldn’t go more than a block or two before encountering what was obviously the lair of a cult. Sometimes they wanted to resurrect one of the old gods. Other times they wanted to sacrifice people to gain ultimate cosmic power. Either way, they were an annoyance.
The bag was lifted off my head and the cultists recoiled from my appearance. I was used to that back in Belarus. I’m a joŭnik, a farmstead spirit, and my natural appearance is pretty ugly and soot-covered to boot. Most of the time, I hide that through glamor spells cast on me by a witch whose life I saved, but turpentine prevents me from utilizing any magic. Including, annoying, my talisman of invincibility. Or invisibility; the warlock who sold me the talisman had a very thick accent and I’m not sure which one he meant. Either one would have been good to have, though.
“We have brought you here,” the high priest intoned dramatically, “to offer you a job!”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “Except, you know, I don’t take on freelance work. And generally speaking, my employers work *against* people like you.” I worked at an adventuring organization, which conducted dangerous quests and dealt with hostile monstrous creatures in and around the greater Indianapolis area.
The high priest’s face was hidden by a hood, but I could tell that he was sneering. People like him usually did in my experience. “You fool!” he said reflexively, and then he coughed awkwardly. “I mean…I assure you that there would be no conflicts of interest here! You see, we do not require your adventuring services. We require your services...” He paused dramatically, even though there was no reason for it. “…as a plumber.”
Huh. That *did* change matters somewhat. My boss integrated his plumbing company into his adventuring organization, in the vain hope that people would be interested in plumbing being done the old fashioned way instead of through wizardry. Of course, cultists like this probably didn’t want to make themselves known to the magical community.
“You kidnapped me,” I pointed out.
The high priest laughed. “Kidnapping? What nonsense! We merely…were persuasive in our recruiting methods.”
I crossed my arms. “You hit me over the head, tied me up, put a bag over my head, and drove me to your warehouse. That’s kidnapping.”
The high priest snapped his fingers and an acolyte hurriedly stepped forward and untied me. “There. Now you are free. We promise to pay you twice as much as your normal rate. Vittorio, bring forth the contract!”
Vittorio brought forth the contract. It appeared to be a standard boilerplate contract, but I certainly wasn’t a lawyer, and I knew that the consequences of signing a contract in the brave new world brought about by the Great Revelation could literally be a fate worse than death. On the other hand, death appeared to be precisely what awaited me if I *didn’t* sign. These cultists were probably eager to sacrifice someone, and I was as good a choice as any.
And, of course, even if they didn’t have some terrible fate in mind for me if I signed, there would be another problem. By securing a long term contract with this cult, my employers would be forbidden from interfering with any of their sinister plots. The cost of violating a contract these days was the loss of your immortal soul, and while some of my employers didn’t possess one, they were, by far, a minority. This cult could become a problem in time. I didn’t want to have our hands tied when it did.
On the other hand, a cult like this one was equally likely to just fizzle out because of lack of interest, or maybe even just due to police intervention. The local police was out of their depth with the big stuff, but they could handle a cult like this one just fine. And my boss would certainly love to finally rack up a big plumbing job.
“Let me see the toilets in question,” I said, stalling for time, “before I decide anything.”
Vittorio led me to the toilets; it was apparently beneath the high priest’s dignity to do it himself. They certainly hadn’t been exaggerating – they were hopelessly clogged and desperately in need of our help.
I muttered a few plumbing related phrases under my breath. I had absolutely no idea what I was talking about – my specialty was agricultural issues – but I had picked up some jargon during my time at John’s Plumbers and Adventuring Service. After a sufficient amount of time had elapsed, I had Vittorio lead me back to the high priest and his contract.
I had made my decision. I nodded at the high priest, who gave me a simple ballpoint pen. I raised the pen into the air with my left hand, with all the drama that the cultists expected in my doings, and then I pressed the button on the tracking device in my pocket with my right hand.
Immediately, there was a thunderous smashing sound and my coworkers, who had been waiting outside the warehouse the whole time, came through its freshly broken windows. Most of them were human, with big muscles and even bigger guns, but there was a variety of sentient nonhuman creatures, including a few faeries, an adlet, a gorgon, and our newest recruit, a vampire. They started blasting away, both with bullets and with magic.
The cultists fought somewhat valiantly, but they were no match for our staff’s extensive training and experience. Most of them ended up running away. Those who stayed and fought were promptly slaughtered. The high priest took a bullet through the forehead and Vittorio was turned to stone.
When the battle was over, I gave a grateful smile to my boss. “Thanks for interfering, boss.”
John just scowled. “You’re just lucky the city had a bounty on these guys’ head, Igor. I’m still not happy about having to turn down an actual plumbing job.”
“They *were* planning on awakening Nergal from his three thousand year slumber, boss,” one of my coworkers pointed out.
John sighed. “Well, they probably wouldn’t have paid their bills on time anyway. Anyway, we can still come out of this one ahead – the city is going to auction off this warehouse and we’re going to buy it.”
“I think that we’re going to be able to do that very cheaply, sir,” I assured him.
“Yeah?” he said suspiciously. “And why do you think that?”
“Have you *seen* the toilets in this place?” | |
[WP] Completely exaggerate the experience of eating broccoli. | The rushes of flavor,
The taste is intense,
The texture is simply sublime.
I can't help but savor,
Each facet of sense,
For eating this, I'll take my time.
I feel like a creature,
That tops all the trees,
A dinosaur looking for lunch.
And the tastes that feature,
They tingle and please,
With every bite that I munch.
The leafy green crowns,
And the thicker green stem,
Combine in experiences grand.
This food flips all frowns,
It's a vegetable gem,
Quite the opposite of all that's bland.
If you're looking for love,
Or a chance to unwind,
Try broccoli for your next meal.
When push comes to shove,
You may just come to find,
That this veggie's love is all you feel. | Imagine an airplane falling from the sky, crashing into the ground - making an immensely loud noise - passegers screaming - the fuel-tank blowing up - the shock wave that it creates. That's what the sudden realization that I've missed out on life felt like when it struck me for just 2 years ago.
Ever since that sudden moment of realization - I've dedicated my life to travelling the world - trying to find something that even comes close to giving me that immense feeling of gratitude for being alive once again. I don't want to experience it again - I need to. It's like I'm possesed by the immense force that eating broccoli has on you.
Eating broccoli was like being reborn - it fundamentally changed who I am as a person. I like to compare my self to a buddhist dedicating his life to become one with Brahma - the godly spirit. I've dedicated my life to experiencing the godly satisfaction broccoli gives you.
My family has countless times tried to get me "help" - but they don't realize that the only thing that can cure me is another out-of-this-world experience - the kind of feeling I got from eating that broccoli 2 years ago. | |
[WP] You're a scientist in the 'paranormal contraptions' department classified by the government. A strange coffee machine is transported to your desk with a touchpad stating it will dispense 100ml of any liquid you enter. You have been put in charge of experimenting with the device. | "Huh."
I go to type something in, when-
"Everybody down on the ground!"
Men in strange suits pin me down and take the coffee machine.
"Don't ask me how SCP-294 escaped containment," a man said.
"Probably some reality bender. Some fucking... undead turtle or something."
"Hey, Jim, don't forget to amnesticize that guy."
"Oh, right, yeah."
Uh-oh.
A needle is jammed into my side and- what was I talking about again? | I reached the lab ten minutes early. Every Monday morning another item would be left on the desk. These items weren’t just your every day items. They were special, some would call them paranormal. Last week it had been glasses that allowed you to zoom in to a microscopic level and the week before that had been a hearing aid that allowed you to understand animals. It was my job to do the preliminary tests on these items. To discover the extent and limits of their powers and then to determine how exactly the powers were created. They were then passed on for further research into how these powers could be replicated. I never knew where the items came from, they were just delivered to my desk, by Joel the delivery boy, at the beginning of each week. This week, what appeared to be a fancy coffee machine, was sat on my desk. It had a touch screen console on top. I examined the console. It had a keypad and above that a message flashed in blue. It read “input any liquid you wish for and you shall receive.”
“Interesting” I thought to myself. I went and grabbed some cups from next to the water cooler. I thought I would start with the basics. I typed into the machine ‘coffee’ and sure enough a steaming stream of coffee poured out into a cup. I took a sip. It tasted perfect. Then I tried orange juice. Again it was perfect, like it had been squeezed fresh from the orange that morning. Amazed, I tapped in other liquids such as wine, hydrochloric acid, perfume, it even produced the specific brand of gin I requested. I took a sample from each liquid it produced for further testing. If this machine could really produce whatever liquid the user wanted then the potential uses could be enormous. It could provide fresh water to those without, it could produce expensive liquids at virtually no cost, it could maybe even produce blood for use in hospitals. With this thought in mind I tapped in blood and out poured a vivid red liquid. My mind was full of questions. What blood type is this blood? Is this blood human? What DNA does it contain? Then another thought crossed my mind. One of a more personal nature. My girlfriend and I had been discussing children as of late. We had considered adoption or one of us using a sperm donor but didn’t like the idea of a stranger being the father. Could this machine be the answer to that? No father, just sperm. It was crazy to even consider it yet some sort of scientific curiosity compelled me. I typed into the keypad ‘human sperm.’ Out poored a thick white solution. I picked up the cup, it was disturbingly warm. My heart was racing. There was so much wrong with what I was about to do yet I felt compelled to do it. I grabbed a pipette from the drawer and hurried to the toilet, taking the cup with me.
It had been nine months since I found that coffee machine on my desk. I lay in my hospital bed alone. My girlfriend was not pleased when I told her what I had done and although she had tried to come to terms with it, it had become too much. She had left in the night a couple of months ago, shouting about how I should have never let work mix with our personal life. And now I was alone in this hospital about to face the consequences of my decision. I felt ashamed of myself. I should have stopped to think about what I was doing but it was too late now. The child, if it could even be called that had grown inside of me for the past 9 months. The results from the blood that the machine had produced had shown anomalies in the DNA and had been deemed unfit for human use. Who knew what was about to come out of me. The scans hadn’t come back with anything out of the ordinary but I still had a sick feeling that something was going to go wrong. A contraction surged through my body. I let out a cry of pain. Shortly after a nurse came in to see how far along I was. “It’s time” she said. I was wheeled to a different room and the doctor and midwives bustled around me preparing for the birth. They did not know about my strange circumstances. Hopefully the wouldn’t have to.
Hours of labour passed, each more painful than the last. Everything seemed to be going normally until the doctor gasped. “Somethings wrong!” He yelled “call for help!”
I looked down. His face was splattered with blood. “What’s happening?” I screamed.
“Don’t panic ma’am.” Said the doctor “you’re loosing a lot of blood but our team will be here soon. The baby’s almost out.”
A team of doctors and nurses rushed through the door. By now the pain was unbearable and the room began to turn blurry. Then the sound of a scream and metal tray crashing to the floor brought me to. I looked down at the doctor. He looked back at me in horror. The thing in his arms was far from human.
It was horrific yet beautiful.
It was mine. | |
[WP] The navigator wakes up in darkness. The wind is gone. The sky is covered with new constellations. | The Navigator awoke in darkness. The wind, which had blown hot and dry like dragon’s breath had died with the light, and now the Lark sat in complete stillness, its sails hanging limply. Around it lay a sea of sand, silvery and mirror-like, unbroken by dunes or tracks save for the snaking imprints of the Lark’s runners. The stars above formed constellations the Navigator had never seen in any of the ancient tomes or charts he had memorized at College.
The Navigator was frozen in awe. He, the third son of a bankrupt spice merchant who had grown up in mud and putrefying rain puddles, who had given up hope of a life unbound by the shame of petty crime until a Doctor had caught him stealing scrolls, who had studied the Gnosis until his left eye had turned milky white; he was the first man to see these stars. Would he be the one to name them as well? This cluster of lights would be the Robe, mirroring the scholastic garments he wore even on a journey as dangerous as this. That group would be the Lark, the most beautiful and hopeful of birds. And the brightest of all, gleaming red among a field of white and blue, would be named after his love, whom, even with the Gnosis, he could not save…
Then the Chronicler awoke. He shook the sand out of his tangled beard and laughed with joy. “We made it!”, he said, grasping the Navigator’s hand with his shrivelled claws, “the Far Side of the world! Look, look at those stars; so fresh, so beautiful.” Out of his dirty robes he drew a leather book and a quill pen. “And we’ll be the ones to name them!” he cried gleefully, “That constellation there; look how it bends like a hunter’s bow. Those, do they not perfectly form the shape of an eagle?”
The Navigator could only look on in hatred. He was the first to witness these stars, it was his right, and his alone to give them their names. But such was the price of the Gnosis; the Navigator could not write.
The Chronicler turned his wretched gaze to the red star. “Ah, and here; the most beautiful of all. Does it point north, or somewhere else entirely? I think I shall name you-”
The Chronicler could not finish his thought, as the Navigator’s hands were about his decrepit neck. His eyes bulged and his face reddened and his arms scrabbled at the Navigator’s face. Then all was silent and still on the great crystal seas beyond the edge of the world.
The Navigator lay down on his back in the sand. Far above, gazing down at him with all the love and gentleness he remembered, was Rose, the brightest star in the sky.
| "Hold us steady, I ain't going down on this run!"
The wind howled with a primeval ferocity, each new twist and turn threatening to capsize the ship. Along the deck the various crew members struggled to hold the sail's ropes steady. Even if the waves didn't claim the ship itself the storm threatened to rip the sail from its mast and leave the crew for dead. The ship's wheel was a blur of spinning in the helmsman's hands as the man tried to navigate the increasingly treacherous sea.
Yet, despite the chaos around him, a young man stood calmly. His eyes were perched skywards, as if to pierce the storm itself with his gaze.
"Boy!" A hand grabbed the sky-gazer and turned him roughly around. The captain of the merchant-vessel had apparently been shouting at him for spirits know how long. "Don't you go zoning out on us now, we need you to focus on where we'll be steering this thing."
Curtly nodding, the Navigator took another brief look around. By now he was immune to the stares of the other crew members, they couldn't see what he saw and wouldn't understand how beautiful this storm really was. Nonetheless, the needed him, and he was damned if he failed them today. After retrieving a small knife from his pocket and nicking his finger with it the world instantly became a little more clear. Storms like this riled the spirits up and made their trails all the more visible to him. Pain would keep him grounded and dim the whispers.
An unexpected rough patch sent the unbraced members of the crew stumbling to the deck. More eyes met him, this time pleading for safety. He lowered the cloth mask he wore over his mouth and the salty brine of the air mixed with the decadent sweetness of the spirit's presence invaded his taste buds immediately. He felt his eyes begin to glaze over and his mouth salivate before catching himself and delivering a sharp slap to his own face.
"This place is no good," he said, straining to be heard over the wind, "we're right in the middle of a spirit."
"Where the hell are we 'sposed to go then?!"
His eyes strained against the wall of rain surrounding him, searching for any change in the path of blurred colors surrounding them. It was difficult to pin down the exact location of spirits this close to the sea; you could never gather the exact shape of a spirit, but water made them especially indistinct. He needed to find his bearings, the time he spent zoned out made him lose track of the ship's trajectory. Gazing skyward once more, he called up the spirit-passenger in his body and saw through the clouds. After seeking out one of the constellations he used for navigation he returned his view to the sea and spotted a path through.
"Turn twenty degrees starboard, there's a gap between the two spirits. The Cauldron is still barely cresting, so that should lead us out of this storm."
"You heard the boy! Twenty degrees, we're headed West!" The Captain's shout was greeted by a quick "aye!" and the ship began its slow turn.
At least, it should have.
Fate had a funny way of messing with perfect plans. At that very moment a rather large spirit, invisible beneath the waves, crested. While not as large of an impact as something solid, such as a whale, would have on the water, it still managed to influence the winds and wave just enough to send a massive wave towards the boat. Before any of the crew could act, most of the ship was airborne. The last thing the Navigator could remember was finally stumbling and hitting his head against the deck.
After what felt like an eternity his eyes fluttered open. All around him was darkness. Oppressive darkness. The storm seemed to had passed, but unfortunately it seemed to have taken the moon with it. There was no wind. He couldn't tell the sea from the sky anymore. Worst of all, the sky was alien to him. Gone were his familiar navigators: the Cauldron, Medemorze, The Broken tower, all gone.
"Lad," the Captain's voice asked to his right. He could barely even see the man, the little bit of illumination the stars offered only enough to show something was there. "Were are we."
His senses returned all at once, his passenger now awake. The sky lit up in an unnatural yellow and clashed with the deep violet of the sea. A song played in his ear, the owner of the voice unknown to him. Worst of all was the overwhelming taste and smell of it all, decadently savory. His mouth watered, and the hunger in his gut only grew. He quickly pulled his mask back up to kill the sensation, lest he lose himself once more.
"Captain," he muttered, his mouth dry. "I think we ended up in one of the spirit realms." | |
[WP] A small gathering of people crowded the hand-made memorial near the train station. One year ago, an unexplainable tragedy took the lives of dozens. You stand among those crying people, staring at the photos of those who died. You recognize your own face but don’t remember dying. | “How are you feeling?” I asked her, breaking the silence.
She breathed in and out heavily through her nose. I felt the breeze across my nipples.
“That’s cold,” I joked.
She kissed my chest, giggled, and replied, “Amazing.”
As she slowly sat up, she looked back at me and gave a smile before standing. After using a tissue to clean herself, she put her panties on, hooked her bra, turned it around, placed the straps over her shoulders, and adjusted her hair in front of the mirror without wasting a single movement.
*Amazing*, I thought.
She turned back and noticed me staring.
“You’re so elegant.” I told her.
As she was in the bathroom I grabbed my pack of American Spirits and the ashtray on her night stand.
I connected my phone to her speaker and started singing along to Chet Baker’s “It’s Always You.”
*Whenever I roam through roses*
*And lately I often do*
*Funny, it's not a rose I touch*
*It's always you*
It was 10 a.m. by the time we started walking toward the train station. I looked behind to make sure she was still walking with me. There she was, following me closely, with her yellow cardigan and light jeans. As we’re walking I hear a street performer strumming his guitar and singing a tune I couldn’t recognize. It was busy as per usual, but there was a somber energy floating around.
I noticed there were dozens of people holding flowers surrounding this hand-made memorial by the station. Perplexed, I walked over to investigate. There was no indication of what happened, but there were dozens of photos on the wall alongside flowers and candles. In these photos were men, women and children, yet one stood out to me over the others. Above the photos was a makeshift sign that read:
*Forever in Peace and Love within our Memories.
R.I.P. 4/7/2017.*
My attention averted back down to the photos, examining each image intently.
There was that photo again, in the second row from the bottom. I took a step forward and looked closer at that particular photo.
It was a photo of me having just graduated gradschool. My face was much thinner and my hair buzzed, but there was no doubt about it. I remember exactly where and when I had that photo taken.
Slightly disturbed, I nonetheless thought this was some sick joke someone was playing on me. I turn around to ask her about it, but there she was – crying, flowers in hand, shoulders hunched, staring at my photo.
“Did you remember?” I hear suddenly above everything else.
A sharp pain shot through my head. I had to shut my eyes tight and grip my head. The sounds of the crowd began to blend into a monotonous drone, but the strumming of the guitar somehow became more prominent. I tried calling out for her, but nothing came out. My fingertips began to tingle uncomfortably, and the sensation spread quickly throughout my whole body. It was getting hard to breathe.
*What’s going on? Is this a panic attack?*
Rapidly, I lost all physical sensation in my body. I couldn’t even tell if I was standing or lying down at this point. I started hearing someone crying as well. Not just anyone, *she* was crying, and I was helpless. Worst of all I could still hear that same guitar strumming along.
*This is not anything I’ve experienced before, but I know I have to go to her.*
I came to realize I was falling – my body was falling endlessly in an abyss but I still could not feel anything nor could I sense where I was. I still couldn’t bring myself to open my eyes. In fact, I couldn’t tell if my eyes were open or not.
*Is this a dream maybe? Am I even awake? Is that a Bob Dylan song?*
“Don’t forget, okay?”
I gasped for air as I woke up. Regaining my breath, I checked my phone.
*8:30 a.m. A wild dream?*
Perplexed, I wiped the sweat from my forehead and tried to remember where I was.
*That’s right, I’m on the train now, just trying to get to work. And my hands still smell of cigarettes.*
I sighed with relief, but something still felt very much off.
I looked across from me at the guitarist. He held his Gibson acoustic guitar closely, yet he wasn’t playing. He just held it silently. I came to realize the whole train car was completely silent, despite there being dozens of people. In fact, there was absolutely no noise at all, not even from the train.
Then insidiously, a buzzing. It started quietly at first, but grew louder and louder into a deafening nuisance. It was an inexplicable sound, all I could describe it as was a slightly high pitched buzz, growing with a dramatic crescendo.
I then looked down at my hands and saw that they were degloved and mangled. I faced my palms upwards and squeezed them into a fist and released, examining the exposed muscle fibers and bones.
I looked around again – the guitarist, the people – they were all lifeless on the floor, their puddles of thick red blood clashed with the pale yellow paint of the train.
*A crash, and then it was nothingness.*
“Please, remember!”
It was completely white – a graceful white – except for a doorway with the door slightly ajar. I moved towards it.
*Wherever you are, you're near me*
*You dare me to be untrue*
*Funny each time I fall in love*
*It's always you*
Her voice was sweeter than I remembered. The room was as it always was – messy, her clothes scattered everywhere. However she did get rid of the ashtray, added a T.V., and is that new lingerie?
I walked towards the bathroom and opened the door. There she was, taking a bath, singing along to Chet. As soon as she saw me, hope filled her eyes.
I sat beside the tub facing her and placed my hand on her knee.
“Amazing.” I said with a smile.
She chuckled and rested her head on her fist as she let a few tears flow down her face.
That night we held each other tightly, reliving our lives from a year ago now.
“So that’s when I died.”
“I’ll have to go through another year. But I’ll remember. Another year from today, okay?”
“Of course.”
She woke the next morning still dazed. She hugged the pillow next to her and tried to take in whatever smell was left, but that too had vanished. She breathed in and out heavily with a sigh, got out of bed, and got ready for work.
| The memorial was crowded but he couldn't bring himself to leave. He remembered that night like it was yesterday. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and thought back to the last few minutes of genuine happiness in his life.
He saw his beautiful girlfriend. Her hair blew lightly in the breeze. She smelled like lavender. He'd never told her but he loved that smell. Now he wished he could tell her just once. If only...
He imagined holding out his hand to her, taking her soft palms in his, tracing her veins lightly. He wanted to hold her hand just once more.
Opening his eyes, he let a tear run down his cheek. He still couldn't believe she was really gone. He wished, again, for just one night with her.
As he stood there, broken, something caught his eye. A mirror. Who would leave a mirror at a memorial site? But it didn't quite look right. So he stepped closer to take a look. It wasn't really a mirror, it was a photograph. Of... him? But wasn't this meant for only the ones who died? He didn't remember dying! Confused, he went home.
His parents rushed to his side as soon as he stepped in. They'd been tiptoeing around him since the accident a year ago. He was honestly tired of it. But right now, he had something more pressing on his mind. How did his photo land up on that site?
"What?", his mother asked.
He hadn't realized he had spoken his thoughts out loud. So he repeated what he saw to them, watching their faces carefully. His parents looked at each other strangely. There was something there but he couldn't put a finger on it.
"Uh, it's probably nothing. Haha..ha", his father deflected rather awkwardly, which just hardened his mother's expression.
"Go to bed sweety. It'll be alright.", his mother said.
Next morning, when he woke up, he wished he didn't have to. He made his way to the kitchen for a cup of coffee to jolt him from his zombie mode.
His parents were already awake and whispering to each other in the kitchen.
*"...tell him?"*
*"No, I don't know. What if he's not ready?"*
*"He's strong enough to handle it."*
He cleared his throat as he entered, making his presence known.
"Hey sweetie. How are you feeling this morning?", his mother asked.
He didn't reply, instead choosing to fix a pointed glare at the two of them. They squirmed under his stare.
He watched carefully as his father sighed and opened his mouth to speak. But then, something happened to his vision. His parents appeared blurred like he was staring at them through water. His ears were ringing loudly.. and then, he woke up with a jolt.
His parents were at his side holding his hands. There was a man and woman in white lab coats, standing over him, studying him. He was hooked to some machines that beeped annoyingly.
"Where...", he cleared this throat before rasping, "Where am I?"
"Mr. Stern, you're at a hospital. You have been in a coma for a year. Do you.. remember anything? Anything at all? This is the first time you have regained consciousness since then."
His head hurt to even think. He just wanted to go back to sleep. His parents were fawning over him, worried.
"Do you remember the accident, Mr. Stern?"
How could he not?
"You came in with severe head trauma. You were barely breathing. And then you went into a coma. We are surprised just as you are. But this is good. It means you're healing...", his doctor continued to speak. But he wasn't listening. His vision was blurry again. Like looking through water.
He was jolted awake once again. This time, he was on the floor.
"Where am I?", he asked.
"Son, are you alright?"
"Where am I?!", he screamed once more.
His head was killing him. Suddenly, it struck him. He recognized the flooring. He was back in his kitchen.
"Son?"
"Son!"
His father yelled. But he couldn't hear. He was going underwater again...
| |
[WP] A legendary hero finds themselves in disguise at a bar. The patrons are telling stories about the hero | I walk into the Tailored Tavern, the warmth of the hearth driving the chill from my veins and the drum of happy conversation driving the darkness from my thoughts. Taking a seat at the bar, I sit heavy and gesture the barkeep over. "Water, if you please."
"As you wish, sir." He nods, looking at my pendant. I tuck it into my shirt as he hands me a mug.
There's a bard by the fire, playing music for the patrons. He's good. Damn good. Reminds me of an old friend. I turn to stare, nursing the water in my hands. His hands dance across his lute fast, but precise as he goes through the *Ballad of the Blackgate*. It's a nice one. High highs, low lows. Triumphant and sad all at once. The man who wrote it was the same way, plus a boatload of wit.
As he's playing four men walk in, laughing and all smiles. The sight of them brings a small smile to my face as well. Towns like this make for old friends, and it's clear this was a group of some. The barkeep is smiling and already pouring drinks for them as they settle at the bar to quietly listen to the bard. Respectful too.
As the song draws to a close, the oldest of them wipes a tear from his eye, though I'm not sure if it's done in jest. "Ah, the tragedy at the Blackgate. Tell me boys, have you heard the tale of Marcus the Bright?" His hair is graying and his voice has the ring of a man who knows many tales and tells many at the local bar.
The youngest of them speaks now, a hardy lad, inexperienced and yet garnering some respect. One of these days they may consider him a man. "The Hero of the Paladin Order, aye."
The old man gives the boy a two finger salute, "So you do listen to me. But do you know the story of the Blackgate?" The lad pauses and shakes his head, clearly settling in to listen.
One of the other two men chuckles, "Ah, get on with it Gen. We know you're getting ready to go into the story."
The old man gives a toothy smile, takes a long drink from his ale, and begins. "The Battle of the Blackgate was the climax of the campaign against the Sendril Order, the most important fight of that blasted ten year war. It had all started with an attack on a Fortress Monastery of the Paladin Order, and they intended to finish it. Marcus the Bright headed their forces, laying siege to the Blackgate. He knew that they would be able to use magic to sustain their food, water, and resources, so he resolved to storm the Blackgate. With his band of ten adventurers and army at his back, they stormed the Blackgate, losing friends by the dozen, but finally eight of his band and a dozen soldiers meeting Darrow the Black at the top of his spire. Marcus commanded his friends and men to stand back as he engaged Darrow himself, man to man, out of respect for his martial prowess. Marcus bathed in Light and Fire, golden fury raging from his eyes held against Darrow's pure Shadow. He was held in the middle of a ritual to summon the Shadow Puppet, but instead of completing it, took into himself the power of the Shadow Puppet to destroy Marcus and his forces. This would kill him, but not before he destroyed them all. They rushed one another, equally matched and exchanging blows. But Marcus had a trick up his sleeve, quite literally. A runic scroll that would stop all magic in its area. He activated it as he swung his warhammer down upon Darrow's breastplate, a blow that would have been stopped by the shadow-infused runes and metal instead caved his chest in. As he lay dying and the corruption left him, he wept, and asked Marcus for forgiveness for his crimes. Marcus held his hand as he died, granting him peace and cleansing his body. And thus, the Battle of the Blackgate was won."
"Why is it a tragedy?" The young man asks.
"Eh?"
"A minute ago, you said it was a tragedy."
"Oh, I s'pose I did... I never really thought about it. Maybe because all of those men died? Or because it's what made Marcus leave the order?" He strokes his chin, lost in thought.
"Nothing so glamorous as all that, actually. It was far, far more simple. And yet all the more tragic for it." I say. The men turn to me, acknowledging my presence for the first time. "I liked the way you told the story, actually. Quite good. But it was far simpler, though I imagine you based a lot of what you said on the song, which is intentionally embellished." They look at me dumbly. "It's not entirely true." They nod. The old man raises an eyebrow, "How would you know all that?"
"Let's just say I knew Marcus himself very well." The old man laughs, but when I take off my pendant and place it on the bar he falls silent. Soon, the whole inn does as the soft glow emanating from the pendant of a full inquisitor of the Paladin order draws their attention.
"The Battle of the Blackgate was led by two men. Marcus the Bright and his companion Darrow. They were two apprentice survivors at the beginning of the war, when the Fortress Monastery had been ravaged. They had shown the most promise by far among their peers, both incredible fighters, wielders of their magics, tacticians, and diplomats. Marcus had always been slightly ahead of Darrow, but their friendship was strong. Or so he thought. But the difference between the two had festered within Darrow for a long, long time. Perhaps he was a fool for thinking they could be strong friends in their circumstance." I pause, staring into the fire.
The silence stretches, and I break it, "The two of them had fought side by side for those long ten years of conflict. Both distinguished themselves, and grew immensely. Together they could quite literally slay a small army. They did at the Blackgate. You were right there, they knew a siege wouldn't get anywhere. Sustained by righteous fury and resolve, both were golden lights upon the fortress walls, enemies being incinerated as they stepped close and being broken by every swing of their weapons. They soon became separated, Darrow disappearing in the fray as Marcus secured the outside of the citadel. Then he and his closest friends climbed, among them the mage Alexandros and the Bard-Select Jin. He wrote the ballad, by the way. A fine song. When they entered the top of the citadel proper, they found Darrow there alone. Around him lay the broken bodies of the leaders of the cultists, the most powerful shadow wielders at that time. His armor had been rent, and the glow was gone from his body. In front of him loomed the Shadow Puppet, dark, writhing, and whispering in his ears. It appealed to all of his darkest desires and fears. When it asked to enter him, told him that with its power he would be able to defeat Marcus, he let it in." I take a drink from my water again.
"His body restored from his fight with the leaders of the Sendril Order, Darrow turned to those who had entered. His presence filled the room, but his eyes bore into Marcus. He cursed him, spoke of all the terrible hatred and enmity he'd nursed for him over those years. Marcus said nothing. When Darrow had finished speaking, they only stared at one another. 'That's it?' Darrow asked Marcus. 'No words for me before I strike you down?' Marcus merely hefted his warhammer in response, light beginning to radiate from him more strongly than ever before, enough to drive back Darrow's essence. As their powers fought for dominance, the two approached eachother, Darrow wielding a greatsword wreathed in shadow to meet Marcus' holy warhammer. The battle was over in seconds. There was no great exchange of blows, no equal power. Marcus smashed through Darrow's sword and caved in his chest, channeling his superior knowledge of the light through his weapon and destroying Darrow. Nothing was left of him but ash and the shattered pieces of his tainted blade. Without a word, Marcus left. Left his army, his band, and his people, to become the legendary adventurer we know of today. And that is why it is called a tragedy. As for why the song was altered... who would want the world to know of their greatest achievement, and of their greatest shame?"
I lay a gold coin upon the counter, hang my pendant upon my neck, and walk out into the cold night before the good people can see the tears fall from my face. | "He said he were meant ta help me n my farm, what with all tha kobolds n giant rats scurryin round." The old man in the corner said, his rough hands gripping a mug so tight his knuckles turned white. "But 'e trampled my fields and 'e stole all me gold out me chest, called it loot 'e did, then 'ere 'e come demandin rare weapons and tools for reward, as if i ever had such a thing.
| |
[WP] A legendary hero finds themselves in disguise at a bar. The patrons are telling stories about the hero | I walk into the Tailored Tavern, the warmth of the hearth driving the chill from my veins and the drum of happy conversation driving the darkness from my thoughts. Taking a seat at the bar, I sit heavy and gesture the barkeep over. "Water, if you please."
"As you wish, sir." He nods, looking at my pendant. I tuck it into my shirt as he hands me a mug.
There's a bard by the fire, playing music for the patrons. He's good. Damn good. Reminds me of an old friend. I turn to stare, nursing the water in my hands. His hands dance across his lute fast, but precise as he goes through the *Ballad of the Blackgate*. It's a nice one. High highs, low lows. Triumphant and sad all at once. The man who wrote it was the same way, plus a boatload of wit.
As he's playing four men walk in, laughing and all smiles. The sight of them brings a small smile to my face as well. Towns like this make for old friends, and it's clear this was a group of some. The barkeep is smiling and already pouring drinks for them as they settle at the bar to quietly listen to the bard. Respectful too.
As the song draws to a close, the oldest of them wipes a tear from his eye, though I'm not sure if it's done in jest. "Ah, the tragedy at the Blackgate. Tell me boys, have you heard the tale of Marcus the Bright?" His hair is graying and his voice has the ring of a man who knows many tales and tells many at the local bar.
The youngest of them speaks now, a hardy lad, inexperienced and yet garnering some respect. One of these days they may consider him a man. "The Hero of the Paladin Order, aye."
The old man gives the boy a two finger salute, "So you do listen to me. But do you know the story of the Blackgate?" The lad pauses and shakes his head, clearly settling in to listen.
One of the other two men chuckles, "Ah, get on with it Gen. We know you're getting ready to go into the story."
The old man gives a toothy smile, takes a long drink from his ale, and begins. "The Battle of the Blackgate was the climax of the campaign against the Sendril Order, the most important fight of that blasted ten year war. It had all started with an attack on a Fortress Monastery of the Paladin Order, and they intended to finish it. Marcus the Bright headed their forces, laying siege to the Blackgate. He knew that they would be able to use magic to sustain their food, water, and resources, so he resolved to storm the Blackgate. With his band of ten adventurers and army at his back, they stormed the Blackgate, losing friends by the dozen, but finally eight of his band and a dozen soldiers meeting Darrow the Black at the top of his spire. Marcus commanded his friends and men to stand back as he engaged Darrow himself, man to man, out of respect for his martial prowess. Marcus bathed in Light and Fire, golden fury raging from his eyes held against Darrow's pure Shadow. He was held in the middle of a ritual to summon the Shadow Puppet, but instead of completing it, took into himself the power of the Shadow Puppet to destroy Marcus and his forces. This would kill him, but not before he destroyed them all. They rushed one another, equally matched and exchanging blows. But Marcus had a trick up his sleeve, quite literally. A runic scroll that would stop all magic in its area. He activated it as he swung his warhammer down upon Darrow's breastplate, a blow that would have been stopped by the shadow-infused runes and metal instead caved his chest in. As he lay dying and the corruption left him, he wept, and asked Marcus for forgiveness for his crimes. Marcus held his hand as he died, granting him peace and cleansing his body. And thus, the Battle of the Blackgate was won."
"Why is it a tragedy?" The young man asks.
"Eh?"
"A minute ago, you said it was a tragedy."
"Oh, I s'pose I did... I never really thought about it. Maybe because all of those men died? Or because it's what made Marcus leave the order?" He strokes his chin, lost in thought.
"Nothing so glamorous as all that, actually. It was far, far more simple. And yet all the more tragic for it." I say. The men turn to me, acknowledging my presence for the first time. "I liked the way you told the story, actually. Quite good. But it was far simpler, though I imagine you based a lot of what you said on the song, which is intentionally embellished." They look at me dumbly. "It's not entirely true." They nod. The old man raises an eyebrow, "How would you know all that?"
"Let's just say I knew Marcus himself very well." The old man laughs, but when I take off my pendant and place it on the bar he falls silent. Soon, the whole inn does as the soft glow emanating from the pendant of a full inquisitor of the Paladin order draws their attention.
"The Battle of the Blackgate was led by two men. Marcus the Bright and his companion Darrow. They were two apprentice survivors at the beginning of the war, when the Fortress Monastery had been ravaged. They had shown the most promise by far among their peers, both incredible fighters, wielders of their magics, tacticians, and diplomats. Marcus had always been slightly ahead of Darrow, but their friendship was strong. Or so he thought. But the difference between the two had festered within Darrow for a long, long time. Perhaps he was a fool for thinking they could be strong friends in their circumstance." I pause, staring into the fire.
The silence stretches, and I break it, "The two of them had fought side by side for those long ten years of conflict. Both distinguished themselves, and grew immensely. Together they could quite literally slay a small army. They did at the Blackgate. You were right there, they knew a siege wouldn't get anywhere. Sustained by righteous fury and resolve, both were golden lights upon the fortress walls, enemies being incinerated as they stepped close and being broken by every swing of their weapons. They soon became separated, Darrow disappearing in the fray as Marcus secured the outside of the citadel. Then he and his closest friends climbed, among them the mage Alexandros and the Bard-Select Jin. He wrote the ballad, by the way. A fine song. When they entered the top of the citadel proper, they found Darrow there alone. Around him lay the broken bodies of the leaders of the cultists, the most powerful shadow wielders at that time. His armor had been rent, and the glow was gone from his body. In front of him loomed the Shadow Puppet, dark, writhing, and whispering in his ears. It appealed to all of his darkest desires and fears. When it asked to enter him, told him that with its power he would be able to defeat Marcus, he let it in." I take a drink from my water again.
"His body restored from his fight with the leaders of the Sendril Order, Darrow turned to those who had entered. His presence filled the room, but his eyes bore into Marcus. He cursed him, spoke of all the terrible hatred and enmity he'd nursed for him over those years. Marcus said nothing. When Darrow had finished speaking, they only stared at one another. 'That's it?' Darrow asked Marcus. 'No words for me before I strike you down?' Marcus merely hefted his warhammer in response, light beginning to radiate from him more strongly than ever before, enough to drive back Darrow's essence. As their powers fought for dominance, the two approached eachother, Darrow wielding a greatsword wreathed in shadow to meet Marcus' holy warhammer. The battle was over in seconds. There was no great exchange of blows, no equal power. Marcus smashed through Darrow's sword and caved in his chest, channeling his superior knowledge of the light through his weapon and destroying Darrow. Nothing was left of him but ash and the shattered pieces of his tainted blade. Without a word, Marcus left. Left his army, his band, and his people, to become the legendary adventurer we know of today. And that is why it is called a tragedy. As for why the song was altered... who would want the world to know of their greatest achievement, and of their greatest shame?"
I lay a gold coin upon the counter, hang my pendant upon my neck, and walk out into the cold night before the good people can see the tears fall from my face. | Hero gets tired of the “same ol’thing” so he kindly interrupts and says “In promulgating your esoteric cogitations or articulating your superficial sentimentalities, and amicable philosophical or psychological observations, beware of platitudinous ponderosa. Let your conversational communications possess a compacted conciseness, a clarified comprehensibility, a coalescent cogency, and a concatenated consistency. Eschew obfuscation and all conglomerations of flatulent garrulity, jejune rabblement, and asinine affectations. Let your extemporaneous descanting and unpremeditated expatiations have intelligibility and voracious vivacity without rodomontade or thrasonical bombast. Sedulously avoid all polysyllabic profundity, pompous prolificacy, and vain vapid verbosity in the future please, at least when talking about me.” The hero turns and leaves with a smirk whilst the beer drinking patrons are lost in what they just heard. | |
[WP] A legendary hero finds themselves in disguise at a bar. The patrons are telling stories about the hero | I walk into the Tailored Tavern, the warmth of the hearth driving the chill from my veins and the drum of happy conversation driving the darkness from my thoughts. Taking a seat at the bar, I sit heavy and gesture the barkeep over. "Water, if you please."
"As you wish, sir." He nods, looking at my pendant. I tuck it into my shirt as he hands me a mug.
There's a bard by the fire, playing music for the patrons. He's good. Damn good. Reminds me of an old friend. I turn to stare, nursing the water in my hands. His hands dance across his lute fast, but precise as he goes through the *Ballad of the Blackgate*. It's a nice one. High highs, low lows. Triumphant and sad all at once. The man who wrote it was the same way, plus a boatload of wit.
As he's playing four men walk in, laughing and all smiles. The sight of them brings a small smile to my face as well. Towns like this make for old friends, and it's clear this was a group of some. The barkeep is smiling and already pouring drinks for them as they settle at the bar to quietly listen to the bard. Respectful too.
As the song draws to a close, the oldest of them wipes a tear from his eye, though I'm not sure if it's done in jest. "Ah, the tragedy at the Blackgate. Tell me boys, have you heard the tale of Marcus the Bright?" His hair is graying and his voice has the ring of a man who knows many tales and tells many at the local bar.
The youngest of them speaks now, a hardy lad, inexperienced and yet garnering some respect. One of these days they may consider him a man. "The Hero of the Paladin Order, aye."
The old man gives the boy a two finger salute, "So you do listen to me. But do you know the story of the Blackgate?" The lad pauses and shakes his head, clearly settling in to listen.
One of the other two men chuckles, "Ah, get on with it Gen. We know you're getting ready to go into the story."
The old man gives a toothy smile, takes a long drink from his ale, and begins. "The Battle of the Blackgate was the climax of the campaign against the Sendril Order, the most important fight of that blasted ten year war. It had all started with an attack on a Fortress Monastery of the Paladin Order, and they intended to finish it. Marcus the Bright headed their forces, laying siege to the Blackgate. He knew that they would be able to use magic to sustain their food, water, and resources, so he resolved to storm the Blackgate. With his band of ten adventurers and army at his back, they stormed the Blackgate, losing friends by the dozen, but finally eight of his band and a dozen soldiers meeting Darrow the Black at the top of his spire. Marcus commanded his friends and men to stand back as he engaged Darrow himself, man to man, out of respect for his martial prowess. Marcus bathed in Light and Fire, golden fury raging from his eyes held against Darrow's pure Shadow. He was held in the middle of a ritual to summon the Shadow Puppet, but instead of completing it, took into himself the power of the Shadow Puppet to destroy Marcus and his forces. This would kill him, but not before he destroyed them all. They rushed one another, equally matched and exchanging blows. But Marcus had a trick up his sleeve, quite literally. A runic scroll that would stop all magic in its area. He activated it as he swung his warhammer down upon Darrow's breastplate, a blow that would have been stopped by the shadow-infused runes and metal instead caved his chest in. As he lay dying and the corruption left him, he wept, and asked Marcus for forgiveness for his crimes. Marcus held his hand as he died, granting him peace and cleansing his body. And thus, the Battle of the Blackgate was won."
"Why is it a tragedy?" The young man asks.
"Eh?"
"A minute ago, you said it was a tragedy."
"Oh, I s'pose I did... I never really thought about it. Maybe because all of those men died? Or because it's what made Marcus leave the order?" He strokes his chin, lost in thought.
"Nothing so glamorous as all that, actually. It was far, far more simple. And yet all the more tragic for it." I say. The men turn to me, acknowledging my presence for the first time. "I liked the way you told the story, actually. Quite good. But it was far simpler, though I imagine you based a lot of what you said on the song, which is intentionally embellished." They look at me dumbly. "It's not entirely true." They nod. The old man raises an eyebrow, "How would you know all that?"
"Let's just say I knew Marcus himself very well." The old man laughs, but when I take off my pendant and place it on the bar he falls silent. Soon, the whole inn does as the soft glow emanating from the pendant of a full inquisitor of the Paladin order draws their attention.
"The Battle of the Blackgate was led by two men. Marcus the Bright and his companion Darrow. They were two apprentice survivors at the beginning of the war, when the Fortress Monastery had been ravaged. They had shown the most promise by far among their peers, both incredible fighters, wielders of their magics, tacticians, and diplomats. Marcus had always been slightly ahead of Darrow, but their friendship was strong. Or so he thought. But the difference between the two had festered within Darrow for a long, long time. Perhaps he was a fool for thinking they could be strong friends in their circumstance." I pause, staring into the fire.
The silence stretches, and I break it, "The two of them had fought side by side for those long ten years of conflict. Both distinguished themselves, and grew immensely. Together they could quite literally slay a small army. They did at the Blackgate. You were right there, they knew a siege wouldn't get anywhere. Sustained by righteous fury and resolve, both were golden lights upon the fortress walls, enemies being incinerated as they stepped close and being broken by every swing of their weapons. They soon became separated, Darrow disappearing in the fray as Marcus secured the outside of the citadel. Then he and his closest friends climbed, among them the mage Alexandros and the Bard-Select Jin. He wrote the ballad, by the way. A fine song. When they entered the top of the citadel proper, they found Darrow there alone. Around him lay the broken bodies of the leaders of the cultists, the most powerful shadow wielders at that time. His armor had been rent, and the glow was gone from his body. In front of him loomed the Shadow Puppet, dark, writhing, and whispering in his ears. It appealed to all of his darkest desires and fears. When it asked to enter him, told him that with its power he would be able to defeat Marcus, he let it in." I take a drink from my water again.
"His body restored from his fight with the leaders of the Sendril Order, Darrow turned to those who had entered. His presence filled the room, but his eyes bore into Marcus. He cursed him, spoke of all the terrible hatred and enmity he'd nursed for him over those years. Marcus said nothing. When Darrow had finished speaking, they only stared at one another. 'That's it?' Darrow asked Marcus. 'No words for me before I strike you down?' Marcus merely hefted his warhammer in response, light beginning to radiate from him more strongly than ever before, enough to drive back Darrow's essence. As their powers fought for dominance, the two approached eachother, Darrow wielding a greatsword wreathed in shadow to meet Marcus' holy warhammer. The battle was over in seconds. There was no great exchange of blows, no equal power. Marcus smashed through Darrow's sword and caved in his chest, channeling his superior knowledge of the light through his weapon and destroying Darrow. Nothing was left of him but ash and the shattered pieces of his tainted blade. Without a word, Marcus left. Left his army, his band, and his people, to become the legendary adventurer we know of today. And that is why it is called a tragedy. As for why the song was altered... who would want the world to know of their greatest achievement, and of their greatest shame?"
I lay a gold coin upon the counter, hang my pendant upon my neck, and walk out into the cold night before the good people can see the tears fall from my face. | The dimly lit oil lamps of the street did little to illuminate the small grey building, but did wonders in concealing Percival’s face. His rich blonde hair was tied back in a knot and was further shrouded in a greasy hood that he had slung low over his hard brow. The dark cloak and thick riding boots he had dawned as his disguise gave the illusion of a simple, wayward traveler, giving no indication of his true status. The only thing that betrayed him were his two keen eyes, icy blue pools which pierced the night, scanning the buildings for the sign of the Gambler’s Grotto. His pupils were quite foreign in this land, yet he knew that, once inside the tavern, the thick haze of pipe smoke would cloud his face, making it impossible for any Entari Cultists to pick him out from the other dirty farmers and highwaymen.
Taking another scan of the street, his eyes finally landed on the worn sign with “Gambler’s Grotto” scrawled in dull, gold letters. *Ser Percival* he scoffed. *King’s Champion and Sentinel of the Highlands, stalking the streets of Dune like a common burglar*. Yet the king had commanded him to infiltrate the Entari, and he would be remiss in ignoring that order. So, with long strides, he pushed his way past the beggars on the street and opened the door of the Gambler’s Grotto.
As he strode into the room, he was greeted not by the barmen, but by the stench that wafted into his nostrils. A vile smelling mixture of cheap ale and vomit circulated in the air and buried itself in the very furniture of the room, permeating into the rotting oak floorboards. Percival choked back the urge to gag and wiped a tear from his eye as he moved toward the bar. *Such a repugnant place*, he thought to himself as he sat down on a crooked stool. *If these brigands are happy to roll around in their own piss, so be it, but I shan’t stay here long*. Delicately balancing himself on the stool, he motioned for the bartender to come over. The barman was a stout old man, maybe fifty in years, and what he lacked in height he more than made up for in girth. He smiled at Percival with a gaggle of motley, yellowed teeth and spat a thick jet of black liquid into a pewter bowl as he sauntered over.
“What’ll it be,” he croaked, drawing a grimy glass from underneath the counter and wiping it with an equally dirty cloth. Percival looked at the brown rag with disgust, but made no outward motion that he was put off.
“Some honeyed mead, if you have any that passes for more than just backwash,” Percival replied curtly.
“Mead?!” the barman chuckled. “Does this look like a whorehouse to you? We’ve got ale,” he said, opening a keg and filling the glass with a thick, brown liquid. As the bilge spilled over the top of the glass, he restoppered the keg and passed the glass to Percival. “That’ll be ten silver shillings” he added. Percival fingered his pocket and tossed the coins into the bartender’s grubby hands, taking a hearty swig of the ale as he did. His lips puckered at the taste, *tis but another sacrifice for king and country, I suppose. Now, to open my ears.*
He remained facing the bar, head tucked low and covered by his thick hood, but he focused on the sounds of the room. He knew the Gambler’s Grotto was a frequented meeting place for the Entari Cultists, and he need do little more than wait to hear a few familiar names. In the meantime, he focused in on one particularly boisterous conversation among a dozen or so drunken farmers.
“Lemme tell you,” one of the rabble slurred, “that Ser Percival fellow, the king’s champin’ or whatnot, ‘ees one hell of a man.” Percival smiled, he liked to hear his name praised, even if it was from some simple farmfolk.
“That is,” the farmer continued, “if ‘ees a man at all!” This comment was met with thunderous laughter by the rest of the crowd, and they pounded their flagons on the hard tables. The din went on for a minute or so until the quieted down and another man stood up on a chair.
“I reckon,” he cried, “I reckon ‘ees a right dandy, the way he strides around in ‘is fancy ridin’ boots and dainty corset!”
*Drunken cretins*, Percival thought as his ears burned red. *That “corset” is none other than the tabard of King Duncan. I’d give them a proper whipping for their insolence should I not need to remain in cover*. He balled his hand into a fist and took another swig of ale, but made no movement toward the rabble, who continued to poke fun at the knight. The original farmer clapped his friend on the back, and took his place atop the chair.
“This one time, I got a knock on me ‘ouse, and I tinks to meself, ‘who in god’s name is this’ as I go to get the door. I open it up and it’s none other but Ser Percy ‘imself, looking in quite a huff. ‘Ee stands in front a me and goes ‘pardon me, sir, but I need a place to freshen up for the night, I’m weary and covered in mud.’” The rest of the crowd laughed at the farmer’s impression of Percival as he straightened up and lifted his chin, mocking the knight. “Can you believe such a thing, a little mud in ‘is briches and he comes crying to me!” Percival’s face glowed hot, knowing full well that this tale of the drunken farmer had no truth to it.
“It you ask me,” another man of the group began, taking the place of the old farmer. “No man in his right mind would ride around on a milk white pony,” he scoffed. “That’s a horse for a pretty damsel, not some “brave” knight.” Percival’s hand flashed to the hilt of his sword that lay concealed in his cloak.
“And what does he call it?” another drunkard chimed in. “Morningstar?!” His question was answered with another round of laughter, and Percival fingered the iron pommel on his hilt. *Morningstar is a gift from the High Priest of Karas, I doubt these donkeyfuckers have seen blood half as pure*. He resisted every urge to unseam the simpleton that dared to challenge his authority and instead took another sip from his tinkered. In the meantime, the bartender had walked over to the group of men, and was pouring another round of drinks.
“To me,” the bartender chuckled, “it’s those long, dainty blonde locks that fall about his head. Is he a knight or a butter-churning barmaiden! I reckon he’s got no more than a tight cooch below his trousers!” At this remark the tavern exploded with laughter, groups that had previously not been in on the conversation joining in on the fun. At the same time, Ser Percival cast aside his cloak and withdrew his sword, the cold steel hissing out of the jewel-incrusted scabbard.
“That’s it, poltroon!” he cried, madly brandishing his sword. “Who would like to be the first to taste my steel!”
Edit: Formatting, still getting used to it for I'm a simpleton
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[WP] A legendary hero finds themselves in disguise at a bar. The patrons are telling stories about the hero | "... and Sir Sagramore did leap upon the beast's back, and with his mighty blade did he swipe off its head at a single stroke!" intones the old man dramatically.
It never happened, of course. The putative beast was just a hound; it might as well have attacked a dragon as an armored knight. It was nothing I'm proud of, anyway, just a dispute with a crabby northern lord who didn't want to pay taxes.
"If Sir Sagramore were here now, things would be different, that's for sure," an old woman mutters. I shake my head and fill up her mug.
"And what would he do?" I ask her. "Ride up to the castle and toss King Constantine out on his ear? Raise old Arthur from the depths of the sea to rule us once again?"
She frowns at me. "I met Sir Sagramore once, young man, and you would do well to keep a civil tongue in your head in his regard."
"Met him?" I ask. I feel my lips twisting in a sardonic grin. "And what was he like, this great knight of the realm?"
"It was May Day," the woman says, her clouded eyes looking far away. The other patrons of the Shattered Lance gather round attentively. "The sun shone on his armor as he rode to the northern wastes to repel the Saxons. We threw flowers at his horse's hooves, and he saluted me."
The old man edges into the conversation. "Aye, I remember it well. He overthrew ten dozen knights by his own hand in the City of the Legion. And they broke their ranks and fled by terror of his arm and the Holy Virgin upon his shield!"
He's not wrong, even if he does exaggerate. "That was a long time ago," I murmur. "The Heathen Wars... that was a long time ago."
"Not so long," the man says. "I was there -- a lowly footsoldier, yes, but I saw it. The stink of battle lay heavy on the field, but none stood so high as Sir Sagramore le Desirous unless it were the King himself! And none laid so low as those who thought to face him."
I look around the Shattered Lance. The pub is dimly lit by the smoky torches on the walls, but I can see the shining faces of the listening youths. They believe every word their elders tell them about this mythical Sir Sagramore... but there is one thing their elders have not told them.
"And what about Camlann?" I ask, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. "How did this great hero comport himself there?"
The old woman lowers her voice respectfully. "There he died, so they say. Cut down by the forces of traitor Mordred."
"Though he took ever so many of their number with him," pipes up the old man. "Would that I had been at his side that day -- he must have fought like a bear beset by hornets, destroying his foe though he himself were struck down."
I snort derisively. "Aye, is that what happened?" I ask. "He fought, did he? Did battle with the traitor -- perhaps struck him down with his own hands, hmm?"
The crowd stands in shock at my blasphemous words. Finally, the old woman tosses down a coin to pay for her drinks, and strides out of the Shattered Lance. She stands tall with the courage of her convictions, as does the old man when he exits after her.
The bar falls to quiet conversation, though I can feel the patrons' odd looks. I pay no heed to them, staring down instead at the coin on the table. I stroke the cold, weathered metal, shapen into the image of the man I failed.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. | The dimly lit oil lamps of the street did little to illuminate the small grey building, but did wonders in concealing Percival’s face. His rich blonde hair was tied back in a knot and was further shrouded in a greasy hood that he had slung low over his hard brow. The dark cloak and thick riding boots he had dawned as his disguise gave the illusion of a simple, wayward traveler, giving no indication of his true status. The only thing that betrayed him were his two keen eyes, icy blue pools which pierced the night, scanning the buildings for the sign of the Gambler’s Grotto. His pupils were quite foreign in this land, yet he knew that, once inside the tavern, the thick haze of pipe smoke would cloud his face, making it impossible for any Entari Cultists to pick him out from the other dirty farmers and highwaymen.
Taking another scan of the street, his eyes finally landed on the worn sign with “Gambler’s Grotto” scrawled in dull, gold letters. *Ser Percival* he scoffed. *King’s Champion and Sentinel of the Highlands, stalking the streets of Dune like a common burglar*. Yet the king had commanded him to infiltrate the Entari, and he would be remiss in ignoring that order. So, with long strides, he pushed his way past the beggars on the street and opened the door of the Gambler’s Grotto.
As he strode into the room, he was greeted not by the barmen, but by the stench that wafted into his nostrils. A vile smelling mixture of cheap ale and vomit circulated in the air and buried itself in the very furniture of the room, permeating into the rotting oak floorboards. Percival choked back the urge to gag and wiped a tear from his eye as he moved toward the bar. *Such a repugnant place*, he thought to himself as he sat down on a crooked stool. *If these brigands are happy to roll around in their own piss, so be it, but I shan’t stay here long*. Delicately balancing himself on the stool, he motioned for the bartender to come over. The barman was a stout old man, maybe fifty in years, and what he lacked in height he more than made up for in girth. He smiled at Percival with a gaggle of motley, yellowed teeth and spat a thick jet of black liquid into a pewter bowl as he sauntered over.
“What’ll it be,” he croaked, drawing a grimy glass from underneath the counter and wiping it with an equally dirty cloth. Percival looked at the brown rag with disgust, but made no outward motion that he was put off.
“Some honeyed mead, if you have any that passes for more than just backwash,” Percival replied curtly.
“Mead?!” the barman chuckled. “Does this look like a whorehouse to you? We’ve got ale,” he said, opening a keg and filling the glass with a thick, brown liquid. As the bilge spilled over the top of the glass, he restoppered the keg and passed the glass to Percival. “That’ll be ten silver shillings” he added. Percival fingered his pocket and tossed the coins into the bartender’s grubby hands, taking a hearty swig of the ale as he did. His lips puckered at the taste, *tis but another sacrifice for king and country, I suppose. Now, to open my ears.*
He remained facing the bar, head tucked low and covered by his thick hood, but he focused on the sounds of the room. He knew the Gambler’s Grotto was a frequented meeting place for the Entari Cultists, and he need do little more than wait to hear a few familiar names. In the meantime, he focused in on one particularly boisterous conversation among a dozen or so drunken farmers.
“Lemme tell you,” one of the rabble slurred, “that Ser Percival fellow, the king’s champin’ or whatnot, ‘ees one hell of a man.” Percival smiled, he liked to hear his name praised, even if it was from some simple farmfolk.
“That is,” the farmer continued, “if ‘ees a man at all!” This comment was met with thunderous laughter by the rest of the crowd, and they pounded their flagons on the hard tables. The din went on for a minute or so until the quieted down and another man stood up on a chair.
“I reckon,” he cried, “I reckon ‘ees a right dandy, the way he strides around in ‘is fancy ridin’ boots and dainty corset!”
*Drunken cretins*, Percival thought as his ears burned red. *That “corset” is none other than the tabard of King Duncan. I’d give them a proper whipping for their insolence should I not need to remain in cover*. He balled his hand into a fist and took another swig of ale, but made no movement toward the rabble, who continued to poke fun at the knight. The original farmer clapped his friend on the back, and took his place atop the chair.
“This one time, I got a knock on me ‘ouse, and I tinks to meself, ‘who in god’s name is this’ as I go to get the door. I open it up and it’s none other but Ser Percy ‘imself, looking in quite a huff. ‘Ee stands in front a me and goes ‘pardon me, sir, but I need a place to freshen up for the night, I’m weary and covered in mud.’” The rest of the crowd laughed at the farmer’s impression of Percival as he straightened up and lifted his chin, mocking the knight. “Can you believe such a thing, a little mud in ‘is briches and he comes crying to me!” Percival’s face glowed hot, knowing full well that this tale of the drunken farmer had no truth to it.
“It you ask me,” another man of the group began, taking the place of the old farmer. “No man in his right mind would ride around on a milk white pony,” he scoffed. “That’s a horse for a pretty damsel, not some “brave” knight.” Percival’s hand flashed to the hilt of his sword that lay concealed in his cloak.
“And what does he call it?” another drunkard chimed in. “Morningstar?!” His question was answered with another round of laughter, and Percival fingered the iron pommel on his hilt. *Morningstar is a gift from the High Priest of Karas, I doubt these donkeyfuckers have seen blood half as pure*. He resisted every urge to unseam the simpleton that dared to challenge his authority and instead took another sip from his tinkered. In the meantime, the bartender had walked over to the group of men, and was pouring another round of drinks.
“To me,” the bartender chuckled, “it’s those long, dainty blonde locks that fall about his head. Is he a knight or a butter-churning barmaiden! I reckon he’s got no more than a tight cooch below his trousers!” At this remark the tavern exploded with laughter, groups that had previously not been in on the conversation joining in on the fun. At the same time, Ser Percival cast aside his cloak and withdrew his sword, the cold steel hissing out of the jewel-incrusted scabbard.
“That’s it, poltroon!” he cried, madly brandishing his sword. “Who would like to be the first to taste my steel!”
Edit: Formatting, still getting used to it for I'm a simpleton
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[WP] A legendary hero finds themselves in disguise at a bar. The patrons are telling stories about the hero | The man who called himself Kote settled in at the counter, fingers tapping against the rosewood surface, a beat that held no semblance of rhythm.
He uncorked the bottles with the practiced motion of an artist, a resigned perfection that only came through experience. One continuous arcing motion set the wine in the glasses without a drop spilled.
Kote manufactured a half smile to his customers, new arrivals from
faraway lands.
One of the more vocal ones, a leathery and weathered fellow named Makin, began to tell a story through his half-drunk slur.
The famous legend of Kvothe the Arcane, Kvothe the Bloodless, Kvothe Kingkiller.
"He had eyes of sunlit crashing waves, a sharp endless green that saw through you. His hair was the frozen instant of a lit fire, just before it spreads. And in a sense he *was* fire. Lit, banking and blazing, a divine force of nature.
Behind the counter, a man with windswept bitter-grass eyes and hair the dull-red of a light bruise smiled wistfully.
"One day he rolled into a ravaged village on a horse as black as soot. It was a gift given by a gracious tinker, in return for music. He was tracking a demon, Kvothe was, so he had chased it all the way to a remote part of the land. Unfortunately, the demon had already killed a mother and father from the town, with their little daughter next in line.
Just as the poor little soul was about to be devoured, Kvothe swooped in and hammered the beast with thunder and lightning."
"Oi, Kvothe knew name-magic, didn't he? Why didn't he use the demon's name to destroy him?"
"This was in his early days, when he was just a pup. In any case demons don't have names. Trying to name one would be like trying to name one of the Fae, impossible."
Makin gestured for more wine at the serving boy, a light skinned foreigner with oddly feminine features, and held out his cup.
"What're you grinning about?"
Bast glanced back at the innkeeper and gave a small chuckle.
"Just a story I heard a while ago. You mind if I join you? Next bottle is on me, nothing more then 2 silvers mind."
"As long as you're paying. Where was I? Ah yes, Kvothe had driven back the beast from the girl, but this demon was massive and protected. Enraged, the demon charged towards him and began battle with him. For three days they fought, each side unable to topple the other."
Makin paused to take a swig of his red.
"Eventually the demon foresaw that he was no match for Kvothe and limped to destroy the village and escape.
Kvothe was strong, but not at the height of his powers. His usual magics could only injure and wear the demon down, so he pulled new strength from above. With the last vestiges of power, he called upon Telhu, and a divine iron wheel came from the sky and drove the demon into the earth."
The innkeeper toyed with two lodestones, pulling them apart with non-calloused slim hands. He watched them snap back together with eyes that were far, far away.
"He fainted from exhaustion, and when he awoke the unsuspecting townsfolk took him in for questioning. After he incinerated the ropes that bound him, he burned down a local store as punishment for their insolence.
But before he left, he visited the little girl and gave her his amulet of protection. His amulet made the owner impervious to harm and misfortune, only vulnerable to the great old demons. It took him two years of crafting and artificing at the university."
"And he gave it away?"
"Of course he did. Back in the day, he was still young and prided himself as a hero. It was only when he grew older that he...."
The old man stopped, his flow disrupted, eyes downcast.
"Well, there's no sense on dwelling on the past is there?" Bast nudged Makin's elbow.
The storyteller looked up and gave a small grin
"Course not. Now, about that drink..."
The Waystone devolved into festive drinking and revels as it usually did, all the while the man at the counter drank little and talked less.
If you listened closely, sat and waded through the chatter and the nonsense of the drunk, you would be able to hear the solemn beat of a distant drum. The sound of sand flowing through the hourglass, the silent frenzy of inaction. The innkeeper smiled and laughed, but none of it went to his eyes.
His eyes had the patient, cut-flower melancholy of a man waiting to die.
Disclaimer: Written in the world of The Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss. References slaying of the Draccus in *Name of the Wind.*
| He sat there looking at the blood on his hands and his hands on the bar. Condensation pooled around the glass of whiskey between them that he hadn't touched. There had been a time when all he could do after a day like today was get roaring drunk, but now the stuff made him sick to look at. All that he had done... Did it matter?
Of course, there was no blood, just the faint red stain that never went away, no matter how much he scrubbed.
“You doing all right there, friend?”
It took him a moment to realize that the bartender was talking to him. He looked toward the man, through him. The bartender stood with a towel in his hand, eyeing him warily. Sometimes people did that. They could sense the danger in him, though they wouldn't know why. They didn't recognize him without the mask. Neither did he, anymore.
“Leave me alone.” He bit the words as they came out of his mouth. The bartender took a step back, then quickly moved to the other end of the bar, trying to look busy. The place wasn't crowded. It never was. He hadn't meant to snap at the man. He was still on edge.
“Hey, Matt,” a man cried toward the bartender. He was looking wide-eyed at his phone. “Turn on the news!”
The television above the bar came on louder than expected, startling a few bleary eyed patrons. A newscaster was in the middle of her sentence, behind her an image of the capitol building on fire.
“-dozens dead, maybe more. The explosion rocked the capitol just minutes ago, destroying the west wing and setting fire to the rest. Responsibility for the blast has already been claimed by master criminal Kyle Anderson, also known as The Raven. Anderson claims to be holding the Mayor hostage, threatening to kill him if his demands aren't met. This comes after the attack he perpetrated earlier today against the McMillan containment facility.”
The image on the television switched to the wreckage of McMillan Air Force Base, the embers there still smoldering. The entire western side of the complex had been destroyed, evidence of a massive explosion. Several surrounding buildings were also crumbling.
“Early reports indicate that the attack there was foiled by none other than the popular vigilante Dynamo, who once again saved hundreds of lives. The mayor's office has issued a statement thanking Dynamo for his efforts and asking that he rescue the mayor.”
Lies. All lies. The Raven was dead. The men guarding him were dead. The families in the apartment buildings adjacent to the base were dead. He hadn't meant to. He'd tried to hold back but The Raven was too strong. He'd had to go all out in the fight, and things had gotten out of hand. Everyone close enough to see that Dynamo had been the source of the explosion was incinerated. The survivors had only seen him pulling them out of the wreckage as he tried to mitigate the damage.
Who was it this time, then? There were so many enemies now. They piled their weight against him, and beneath it he was wavering.
“Dynamo will save him,” the bartender was saying, “he always comes.”
Wasn't that the problem? He always came. He always won. But instead of bringing peace and justice to the city, he'd only brought more destruction. Things escalated. Where once men had robbed banks with guns, now they did it with poison gas. Crimelords now peddled superpowers instead of drugs. They'd grown stronger in the fear of him, and the city suffered.
“He won't come.” His voice was hoarse, throat seared from the smoke. With a trembling hand he picked up the glass.
The man at the bar turned to him. “What do you mean? He always comes. There is only one thing we can rely on in this city, and that's Dynamo.”
Dynamo drained the glass and set it on the bar. “Not anymore.”
He turned and walked away. | |
[WP] A legendary hero finds themselves in disguise at a bar. The patrons are telling stories about the hero | The Stargande, named after its infamous owner, was quite a gathering place, not only for the ale made by the secret recipes, but also for the location. Every adventurers, big or small, must pass through here before they could get to the Wandering Land, and the Wandering Land was a dog eats dog world, beyond the Corp's jurisdiction. It was not to say that the Wandering Land did not have bars of its own, but most of them were handled by adventurers-turned-barkeepers. Those, either by choice or injuries, didn't participate in large scale hunts or demon's lair raid. They thrived by selling information, renting armors and weapons, setting up a place to stay the night, tending to the wounded, and lastly, preparing passable drinks for the weary travellers. And the weary travellers, after a long day of futility, could not care if his ale contained several droplets of blood from the man upstair that the barkeep just finished patching, or if it belonged to a contaminated batch which would give the traveller a stomache that he would later blame on the moldy bread he ate for breakfast. No, the only traveller drank only to fill his weakened heart, to survive another day in Wandering Land. Thus, it was safe to say that Stargrande provided its patrons with the last taste of peace.
Iris was an average mage, at least on the outside, and she arrived at the Stargrande looking for some fellow adventurers for a quest to hunt down the notorious dragon Shadow Wings.
Stargrande was quite the gathering place, let it be reminded, so should anyone want to make it big, the bar would be an excellent choice to start. After all, everyone knew the road to become a hero involved a lot of contacts and networking. To be in the right place at the right time.
But Iris was out on her luck that night, for all the groups she found had had their mage, and the few that didn't would prefer one not so reserved. The story of an adventurer wasn't filled with only foul beasts and heroic acts, but also with a side dish of romance. Naturally, if you take out the romance, the physical part, mind you, chances were that you would find few who would want to be a fellow traveller.
It was near closing hours, a half-drunken, half-desperate Iris stood by the counter after long weeks of failed party search. The few remaining patrons were mostly regulars, people who lived inside the city and didn't have to get a last check before entering the Wandering Land. The barkeeper, Massle Stargrande, a man the age of her father, had begun to clean up the place when he took the mug out of her hand.
"Miss, you might have drunk a little too much. I'm gonna need your address and Helen will take you back. Can't have you riding in this condition."
"Let me drink!" - she groaned - "It might be my last night here."
"Heading off into the Wandering Land, are we?"
"I wish." - she dipped her finger into the mug, drawing incomprehensible images on the counter - "I couldn't even find a party to join today, either. Maybe I'm not suited for this, after all."
"Try again tomorrow, things will change." - he wiped away all the drawings. - "You look like you have some potentials."
"You don't know nothing!" - she frowned - "Back in the countryside I could handle goblin and slime easily, but when I got here... Well, there are classes on fighting orges and golems. I haven't seen a real one outside of the textbook. I thought they only existed in super dangerous dungeons or such... But I still had some hope that I'd be able to improve myself. I mean, I took Potion-making classes and even Basic Sword fighting. Then I realized I had nobody to form a party with. I tried sending my details to Agencies and visit bars frequently... Look where I am now."
"It's a vain dream, the Amirest Dream," - Massle shrugged his shoulders - "Who doesn't want to carve their names on the Hall of Heroes, slay the dragon and reclaim the treasure? Few actually make it, though."
"Are you encouraging me or discouraging me?"
"How fragile can a resolution be if you have to rely on a stranger for it?"
"I don't know... I thought you're a knowledgeable man." - she rest one arm on the counter slovenly, pointing a finger at the barkeeper - "Like somebody who only knows how to tell people what to do."
"Well," - said Massle, serious all of the sudden - "I do know a few things about heroes."
He gestured at a man sitting by the door, the man with a wooden leg.
"One-legged Jerry was a mate of Thomas the Terminator, who took down the giant Golem Harsk. The party, consisted of eight elites, returned with two. While people cheered for Thomas, Jerry and his friends got a few columns in the daily paper. And just like his leg, Jerry left the adventurous life behind."
"That's... "
"Oh, but I'm not finished yet. See that woman in the corner? The one who sat there all night without even a refill? Her name is Sally. Her husband used to be a famous hero, his kill count included thousands demon of all kinds. He was never the faithful man, no, cheating on her on his journeys while poor Sally tended to their children at home. And now when he is all washed-up, he spent his days at the whorehouse where the prostitutes' flatters bring him an image of the past."
"Is she waiting for him?"
"No, they got divorced. She's waiting for his son, who was supposed to be here five hours ago. It seems the Wandering Land was too harsh for him. She begged me to talk some sense to him when he left, but I didn't, for I understand the allure of the title hero. Remember to write your parents letters regularly, young miss. They'll be there for you when all others don't."
"I... I will." - Iris straightened her back, like a student being lectured.
"The hero is not the best, they're just those who survive. Not in the Wandering Land, but in this world too. Every generations we hail the rise of many and forget no less than such. It's all but an illusion. Legends to keep the dream alive. If we underglorified heroes and overglorified scholars and scientists, maybe we will have steam car for everyone."
"Steam car?"
"Yeah, it's a kind of carriage that draw energy from steam. Completely magic-free."
"Really?" - she raised her eyebrows.
"On paper for now. We can also find a way to settle the dispute with the demon kingdom. Maybe one day we'll be able to fight for what we believe in, but shed not a single drop of blood doing so. But that's out of the point. The point is that we're living in a world full of heroes, and we look for them at the wrong place. For example, see that man over there?"
He pointed at an old man in rag sitting with Jerry.
"Him? Look like a normal farmer to me."
"He's a lengendary hero. 25 years ago doing the Great Drought, the man devised a method to minimize water used in agriculture. This ale you've been drinking couldn't have been made if I had starved that year. How many of your so-called 'heroes' can save thousands of lives like that?"
"That's just pure luck. I mean, out of so many farmers, there must be one who figure out a way."
"Sure. But I prefer this kind of hero more. Maybe if you still don't have a clue on what to do next, you should relax and observe life itself. You're young, and I've met many like you, driven into the path of an adventurer because of its glamour. One day you'll understand, that you don't have to be somebody to the world, you only need to be somebody to the selected few." | He sat there looking at the blood on his hands and his hands on the bar. Condensation pooled around the glass of whiskey between them that he hadn't touched. There had been a time when all he could do after a day like today was get roaring drunk, but now the stuff made him sick to look at. All that he had done... Did it matter?
Of course, there was no blood, just the faint red stain that never went away, no matter how much he scrubbed.
“You doing all right there, friend?”
It took him a moment to realize that the bartender was talking to him. He looked toward the man, through him. The bartender stood with a towel in his hand, eyeing him warily. Sometimes people did that. They could sense the danger in him, though they wouldn't know why. They didn't recognize him without the mask. Neither did he, anymore.
“Leave me alone.” He bit the words as they came out of his mouth. The bartender took a step back, then quickly moved to the other end of the bar, trying to look busy. The place wasn't crowded. It never was. He hadn't meant to snap at the man. He was still on edge.
“Hey, Matt,” a man cried toward the bartender. He was looking wide-eyed at his phone. “Turn on the news!”
The television above the bar came on louder than expected, startling a few bleary eyed patrons. A newscaster was in the middle of her sentence, behind her an image of the capitol building on fire.
“-dozens dead, maybe more. The explosion rocked the capitol just minutes ago, destroying the west wing and setting fire to the rest. Responsibility for the blast has already been claimed by master criminal Kyle Anderson, also known as The Raven. Anderson claims to be holding the Mayor hostage, threatening to kill him if his demands aren't met. This comes after the attack he perpetrated earlier today against the McMillan containment facility.”
The image on the television switched to the wreckage of McMillan Air Force Base, the embers there still smoldering. The entire western side of the complex had been destroyed, evidence of a massive explosion. Several surrounding buildings were also crumbling.
“Early reports indicate that the attack there was foiled by none other than the popular vigilante Dynamo, who once again saved hundreds of lives. The mayor's office has issued a statement thanking Dynamo for his efforts and asking that he rescue the mayor.”
Lies. All lies. The Raven was dead. The men guarding him were dead. The families in the apartment buildings adjacent to the base were dead. He hadn't meant to. He'd tried to hold back but The Raven was too strong. He'd had to go all out in the fight, and things had gotten out of hand. Everyone close enough to see that Dynamo had been the source of the explosion was incinerated. The survivors had only seen him pulling them out of the wreckage as he tried to mitigate the damage.
Who was it this time, then? There were so many enemies now. They piled their weight against him, and beneath it he was wavering.
“Dynamo will save him,” the bartender was saying, “he always comes.”
Wasn't that the problem? He always came. He always won. But instead of bringing peace and justice to the city, he'd only brought more destruction. Things escalated. Where once men had robbed banks with guns, now they did it with poison gas. Crimelords now peddled superpowers instead of drugs. They'd grown stronger in the fear of him, and the city suffered.
“He won't come.” His voice was hoarse, throat seared from the smoke. With a trembling hand he picked up the glass.
The man at the bar turned to him. “What do you mean? He always comes. There is only one thing we can rely on in this city, and that's Dynamo.”
Dynamo drained the glass and set it on the bar. “Not anymore.”
He turned and walked away. | |
[WP] A legendary hero finds themselves in disguise at a bar. The patrons are telling stories about the hero | The man who called himself Kote settled in at the counter, fingers tapping against the rosewood surface, a beat that held no semblance of rhythm.
He uncorked the bottles with the practiced motion of an artist, a resigned perfection that only came through experience. One continuous arcing motion set the wine in the glasses without a drop spilled.
Kote manufactured a half smile to his customers, new arrivals from
faraway lands.
One of the more vocal ones, a leathery and weathered fellow named Makin, began to tell a story through his half-drunk slur.
The famous legend of Kvothe the Arcane, Kvothe the Bloodless, Kvothe Kingkiller.
"He had eyes of sunlit crashing waves, a sharp endless green that saw through you. His hair was the frozen instant of a lit fire, just before it spreads. And in a sense he *was* fire. Lit, banking and blazing, a divine force of nature.
Behind the counter, a man with windswept bitter-grass eyes and hair the dull-red of a light bruise smiled wistfully.
"One day he rolled into a ravaged village on a horse as black as soot. It was a gift given by a gracious tinker, in return for music. He was tracking a demon, Kvothe was, so he had chased it all the way to a remote part of the land. Unfortunately, the demon had already killed a mother and father from the town, with their little daughter next in line.
Just as the poor little soul was about to be devoured, Kvothe swooped in and hammered the beast with thunder and lightning."
"Oi, Kvothe knew name-magic, didn't he? Why didn't he use the demon's name to destroy him?"
"This was in his early days, when he was just a pup. In any case demons don't have names. Trying to name one would be like trying to name one of the Fae, impossible."
Makin gestured for more wine at the serving boy, a light skinned foreigner with oddly feminine features, and held out his cup.
"What're you grinning about?"
Bast glanced back at the innkeeper and gave a small chuckle.
"Just a story I heard a while ago. You mind if I join you? Next bottle is on me, nothing more then 2 silvers mind."
"As long as you're paying. Where was I? Ah yes, Kvothe had driven back the beast from the girl, but this demon was massive and protected. Enraged, the demon charged towards him and began battle with him. For three days they fought, each side unable to topple the other."
Makin paused to take a swig of his red.
"Eventually the demon foresaw that he was no match for Kvothe and limped to destroy the village and escape.
Kvothe was strong, but not at the height of his powers. His usual magics could only injure and wear the demon down, so he pulled new strength from above. With the last vestiges of power, he called upon Telhu, and a divine iron wheel came from the sky and drove the demon into the earth."
The innkeeper toyed with two lodestones, pulling them apart with non-calloused slim hands. He watched them snap back together with eyes that were far, far away.
"He fainted from exhaustion, and when he awoke the unsuspecting townsfolk took him in for questioning. After he incinerated the ropes that bound him, he burned down a local store as punishment for their insolence.
But before he left, he visited the little girl and gave her his amulet of protection. His amulet made the owner impervious to harm and misfortune, only vulnerable to the great old demons. It took him two years of crafting and artificing at the university."
"And he gave it away?"
"Of course he did. Back in the day, he was still young and prided himself as a hero. It was only when he grew older that he...."
The old man stopped, his flow disrupted, eyes downcast.
"Well, there's no sense on dwelling on the past is there?" Bast nudged Makin's elbow.
The storyteller looked up and gave a small grin
"Course not. Now, about that drink..."
The Waystone devolved into festive drinking and revels as it usually did, all the while the man at the counter drank little and talked less.
If you listened closely, sat and waded through the chatter and the nonsense of the drunk, you would be able to hear the solemn beat of a distant drum. The sound of sand flowing through the hourglass, the silent frenzy of inaction. The innkeeper smiled and laughed, but none of it went to his eyes.
His eyes had the patient, cut-flower melancholy of a man waiting to die.
Disclaimer: Written in the world of The Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss. References slaying of the Draccus in *Name of the Wind.*
| "You'll not speak that name in here again, traveler," the innkeeper said. He had the puffy face of an old mongrel, but the eyes were sharp, lean. The inn fell into a hush, and for a moment there was naught but the rain thrashing against the lighthouse and a distant clap of thunder.
The traveler met his gaze. He was slight, dressed in the simple black livery coat and vest of a coachman, his features made more delicate by his top hat. But he matched the innkeeper's gaze and held firm. "Don't tell me you lot are a'feared o' the Palace Guard? Way out here on the coast?"
The innkeeper shot a quick glance at the other patrons, their faces flush-pink and pinched as they watched in the flickering candlelight. "Nay, but we respect the crown, and that shit-festered son of a whore is like to get us all drawn and quartered."
"Then say it," the traveler said, voice soft as a feather. His green eyes sparkled with cheer, and the innkeeper wondered if this fellow might secretly be versed in the ways of mesmerism. "Speak his name if you have the stones."
"I'll not be put to the test in my own inn, you foul cur! Much less by a stable boy!"
The traveler said nothing, but lay his cane across the bar and stood tall.
"Vane!" a patron shouted. "That's the name!"
The others murmured, wincing at the mention. And indeed, as if to punctuate their foreboding, a storm-churned wave broke hard at the rocks below, spraying the east-facing wall of the inn and setting the whole place asway like a schooner. The floorboards creaked, the saltpeter lamps sputtered in fright.
A barmaid, easily the oldest woman in the whole of the empire, cleared a few pint glasses and began to mop the bar. "Word is he walked straight into the keep and laid ten of the Guard flat," she said, impervious to the rising tension in the room. "Then the little sapsucker wrote a message on the walls to the Empress, scrawled in their blood."
"I heard it tell he's a warlock! In cahoots with Satan hisself!" said another, encouraged.
"Aye, I believe it..."
"Enough!" the innkeeper bellowed. "Get out, the lot of you! And wench, quiet your tongue before I cut it out of your worm-cursed mouth. I don't pay you for such rabble!"
It was so fast. No one even saw it at first. They kept on with their drinking and bickering, unaware of the gleam of steel and the *schink* of penetration. But then realization dawned, and it was as if a gale had swept all breath from the establishment. The traveler--in a lightning strike of efficiency--had drawn a blade from his cane and plunged it hilt-deep into the innkeeper's chest.
Thick, dark blood pooled around the wound, leaking onto the traveler's felt glove. "Hush now," Vane said, as the innkeeper grunted in shock. "You will die well, which is more than you deserve."
The old man gasped for breath, then his knees gave out and he crumpled into a heap behind the bar. The wench screamed.
Vane turned to address the patrons. He reached up and removed his hat, revealing the infamous white streak through his jet black hair. He sighed, sounding very tired. "This man was an imperial spy. He was feeding information about any and all incoming ships directly to the crown. If any man here should--"
"You killed him!" someone shouted. The same patron who'd shouted Vane's namesake. A first mate, by the looks of him. He and two others leapt to their feet, chairs scraping the hardwood floor. The first mate withdrew a blunderbuss from under the table and aimed it square at Vane's head.
Already the pocket watch was in Vane's hand. A click, a whir of gears, and it popped open, spitting out three miniature silver discs with holes in their centers. One flick of the wrist and they were zipping across the room. The first disc struck home in the first mate's jugular and sprouted a fine stream of arterial blood. The second disc winged off another's shoulder and produced a gasp of pain. The last went wide and missed, thunking into a wooden beam. The intended target promptly sat back down in his chair and exhaled in astonishment.
"The reign of the Empress and her wicked Guard is finished," Vane said, and now his voice was booming powerful, larger even than the raging winds. He replaced his pocket watch, donned his hat, and snatched up his cane from the bar. "Erry crew that meets these shores, tell them what occurred 'ere. Vane is always watching from the dark."
And then he strode out of the inn into the storm and was gone.
| |
[WP] A legendary hero finds themselves in disguise at a bar. The patrons are telling stories about the hero | The Stargande, named after its infamous owner, was quite a gathering place, not only for the ale made by the secret recipes, but also for the location. Every adventurers, big or small, must pass through here before they could get to the Wandering Land, and the Wandering Land was a dog eats dog world, beyond the Corp's jurisdiction. It was not to say that the Wandering Land did not have bars of its own, but most of them were handled by adventurers-turned-barkeepers. Those, either by choice or injuries, didn't participate in large scale hunts or demon's lair raid. They thrived by selling information, renting armors and weapons, setting up a place to stay the night, tending to the wounded, and lastly, preparing passable drinks for the weary travellers. And the weary travellers, after a long day of futility, could not care if his ale contained several droplets of blood from the man upstair that the barkeep just finished patching, or if it belonged to a contaminated batch which would give the traveller a stomache that he would later blame on the moldy bread he ate for breakfast. No, the only traveller drank only to fill his weakened heart, to survive another day in Wandering Land. Thus, it was safe to say that Stargrande provided its patrons with the last taste of peace.
Iris was an average mage, at least on the outside, and she arrived at the Stargrande looking for some fellow adventurers for a quest to hunt down the notorious dragon Shadow Wings.
Stargrande was quite the gathering place, let it be reminded, so should anyone want to make it big, the bar would be an excellent choice to start. After all, everyone knew the road to become a hero involved a lot of contacts and networking. To be in the right place at the right time.
But Iris was out on her luck that night, for all the groups she found had had their mage, and the few that didn't would prefer one not so reserved. The story of an adventurer wasn't filled with only foul beasts and heroic acts, but also with a side dish of romance. Naturally, if you take out the romance, the physical part, mind you, chances were that you would find few who would want to be a fellow traveller.
It was near closing hours, a half-drunken, half-desperate Iris stood by the counter after long weeks of failed party search. The few remaining patrons were mostly regulars, people who lived inside the city and didn't have to get a last check before entering the Wandering Land. The barkeeper, Massle Stargrande, a man the age of her father, had begun to clean up the place when he took the mug out of her hand.
"Miss, you might have drunk a little too much. I'm gonna need your address and Helen will take you back. Can't have you riding in this condition."
"Let me drink!" - she groaned - "It might be my last night here."
"Heading off into the Wandering Land, are we?"
"I wish." - she dipped her finger into the mug, drawing incomprehensible images on the counter - "I couldn't even find a party to join today, either. Maybe I'm not suited for this, after all."
"Try again tomorrow, things will change." - he wiped away all the drawings. - "You look like you have some potentials."
"You don't know nothing!" - she frowned - "Back in the countryside I could handle goblin and slime easily, but when I got here... Well, there are classes on fighting orges and golems. I haven't seen a real one outside of the textbook. I thought they only existed in super dangerous dungeons or such... But I still had some hope that I'd be able to improve myself. I mean, I took Potion-making classes and even Basic Sword fighting. Then I realized I had nobody to form a party with. I tried sending my details to Agencies and visit bars frequently... Look where I am now."
"It's a vain dream, the Amirest Dream," - Massle shrugged his shoulders - "Who doesn't want to carve their names on the Hall of Heroes, slay the dragon and reclaim the treasure? Few actually make it, though."
"Are you encouraging me or discouraging me?"
"How fragile can a resolution be if you have to rely on a stranger for it?"
"I don't know... I thought you're a knowledgeable man." - she rest one arm on the counter slovenly, pointing a finger at the barkeeper - "Like somebody who only knows how to tell people what to do."
"Well," - said Massle, serious all of the sudden - "I do know a few things about heroes."
He gestured at a man sitting by the door, the man with a wooden leg.
"One-legged Jerry was a mate of Thomas the Terminator, who took down the giant Golem Harsk. The party, consisted of eight elites, returned with two. While people cheered for Thomas, Jerry and his friends got a few columns in the daily paper. And just like his leg, Jerry left the adventurous life behind."
"That's... "
"Oh, but I'm not finished yet. See that woman in the corner? The one who sat there all night without even a refill? Her name is Sally. Her husband used to be a famous hero, his kill count included thousands demon of all kinds. He was never the faithful man, no, cheating on her on his journeys while poor Sally tended to their children at home. And now when he is all washed-up, he spent his days at the whorehouse where the prostitutes' flatters bring him an image of the past."
"Is she waiting for him?"
"No, they got divorced. She's waiting for his son, who was supposed to be here five hours ago. It seems the Wandering Land was too harsh for him. She begged me to talk some sense to him when he left, but I didn't, for I understand the allure of the title hero. Remember to write your parents letters regularly, young miss. They'll be there for you when all others don't."
"I... I will." - Iris straightened her back, like a student being lectured.
"The hero is not the best, they're just those who survive. Not in the Wandering Land, but in this world too. Every generations we hail the rise of many and forget no less than such. It's all but an illusion. Legends to keep the dream alive. If we underglorified heroes and overglorified scholars and scientists, maybe we will have steam car for everyone."
"Steam car?"
"Yeah, it's a kind of carriage that draw energy from steam. Completely magic-free."
"Really?" - she raised her eyebrows.
"On paper for now. We can also find a way to settle the dispute with the demon kingdom. Maybe one day we'll be able to fight for what we believe in, but shed not a single drop of blood doing so. But that's out of the point. The point is that we're living in a world full of heroes, and we look for them at the wrong place. For example, see that man over there?"
He pointed at an old man in rag sitting with Jerry.
"Him? Look like a normal farmer to me."
"He's a lengendary hero. 25 years ago doing the Great Drought, the man devised a method to minimize water used in agriculture. This ale you've been drinking couldn't have been made if I had starved that year. How many of your so-called 'heroes' can save thousands of lives like that?"
"That's just pure luck. I mean, out of so many farmers, there must be one who figure out a way."
"Sure. But I prefer this kind of hero more. Maybe if you still don't have a clue on what to do next, you should relax and observe life itself. You're young, and I've met many like you, driven into the path of an adventurer because of its glamour. One day you'll understand, that you don't have to be somebody to the world, you only need to be somebody to the selected few." | "You'll not speak that name in here again, traveler," the innkeeper said. He had the puffy face of an old mongrel, but the eyes were sharp, lean. The inn fell into a hush, and for a moment there was naught but the rain thrashing against the lighthouse and a distant clap of thunder.
The traveler met his gaze. He was slight, dressed in the simple black livery coat and vest of a coachman, his features made more delicate by his top hat. But he matched the innkeeper's gaze and held firm. "Don't tell me you lot are a'feared o' the Palace Guard? Way out here on the coast?"
The innkeeper shot a quick glance at the other patrons, their faces flush-pink and pinched as they watched in the flickering candlelight. "Nay, but we respect the crown, and that shit-festered son of a whore is like to get us all drawn and quartered."
"Then say it," the traveler said, voice soft as a feather. His green eyes sparkled with cheer, and the innkeeper wondered if this fellow might secretly be versed in the ways of mesmerism. "Speak his name if you have the stones."
"I'll not be put to the test in my own inn, you foul cur! Much less by a stable boy!"
The traveler said nothing, but lay his cane across the bar and stood tall.
"Vane!" a patron shouted. "That's the name!"
The others murmured, wincing at the mention. And indeed, as if to punctuate their foreboding, a storm-churned wave broke hard at the rocks below, spraying the east-facing wall of the inn and setting the whole place asway like a schooner. The floorboards creaked, the saltpeter lamps sputtered in fright.
A barmaid, easily the oldest woman in the whole of the empire, cleared a few pint glasses and began to mop the bar. "Word is he walked straight into the keep and laid ten of the Guard flat," she said, impervious to the rising tension in the room. "Then the little sapsucker wrote a message on the walls to the Empress, scrawled in their blood."
"I heard it tell he's a warlock! In cahoots with Satan hisself!" said another, encouraged.
"Aye, I believe it..."
"Enough!" the innkeeper bellowed. "Get out, the lot of you! And wench, quiet your tongue before I cut it out of your worm-cursed mouth. I don't pay you for such rabble!"
It was so fast. No one even saw it at first. They kept on with their drinking and bickering, unaware of the gleam of steel and the *schink* of penetration. But then realization dawned, and it was as if a gale had swept all breath from the establishment. The traveler--in a lightning strike of efficiency--had drawn a blade from his cane and plunged it hilt-deep into the innkeeper's chest.
Thick, dark blood pooled around the wound, leaking onto the traveler's felt glove. "Hush now," Vane said, as the innkeeper grunted in shock. "You will die well, which is more than you deserve."
The old man gasped for breath, then his knees gave out and he crumpled into a heap behind the bar. The wench screamed.
Vane turned to address the patrons. He reached up and removed his hat, revealing the infamous white streak through his jet black hair. He sighed, sounding very tired. "This man was an imperial spy. He was feeding information about any and all incoming ships directly to the crown. If any man here should--"
"You killed him!" someone shouted. The same patron who'd shouted Vane's namesake. A first mate, by the looks of him. He and two others leapt to their feet, chairs scraping the hardwood floor. The first mate withdrew a blunderbuss from under the table and aimed it square at Vane's head.
Already the pocket watch was in Vane's hand. A click, a whir of gears, and it popped open, spitting out three miniature silver discs with holes in their centers. One flick of the wrist and they were zipping across the room. The first disc struck home in the first mate's jugular and sprouted a fine stream of arterial blood. The second disc winged off another's shoulder and produced a gasp of pain. The last went wide and missed, thunking into a wooden beam. The intended target promptly sat back down in his chair and exhaled in astonishment.
"The reign of the Empress and her wicked Guard is finished," Vane said, and now his voice was booming powerful, larger even than the raging winds. He replaced his pocket watch, donned his hat, and snatched up his cane from the bar. "Erry crew that meets these shores, tell them what occurred 'ere. Vane is always watching from the dark."
And then he strode out of the inn into the storm and was gone.
| |
[WP] A legendary hero finds themselves in disguise at a bar. The patrons are telling stories about the hero | The Stargande, named after its infamous owner, was quite a gathering place, not only for the ale made by the secret recipes, but also for the location. Every adventurers, big or small, must pass through here before they could get to the Wandering Land, and the Wandering Land was a dog eats dog world, beyond the Corp's jurisdiction. It was not to say that the Wandering Land did not have bars of its own, but most of them were handled by adventurers-turned-barkeepers. Those, either by choice or injuries, didn't participate in large scale hunts or demon's lair raid. They thrived by selling information, renting armors and weapons, setting up a place to stay the night, tending to the wounded, and lastly, preparing passable drinks for the weary travellers. And the weary travellers, after a long day of futility, could not care if his ale contained several droplets of blood from the man upstair that the barkeep just finished patching, or if it belonged to a contaminated batch which would give the traveller a stomache that he would later blame on the moldy bread he ate for breakfast. No, the only traveller drank only to fill his weakened heart, to survive another day in Wandering Land. Thus, it was safe to say that Stargrande provided its patrons with the last taste of peace.
Iris was an average mage, at least on the outside, and she arrived at the Stargrande looking for some fellow adventurers for a quest to hunt down the notorious dragon Shadow Wings.
Stargrande was quite the gathering place, let it be reminded, so should anyone want to make it big, the bar would be an excellent choice to start. After all, everyone knew the road to become a hero involved a lot of contacts and networking. To be in the right place at the right time.
But Iris was out on her luck that night, for all the groups she found had had their mage, and the few that didn't would prefer one not so reserved. The story of an adventurer wasn't filled with only foul beasts and heroic acts, but also with a side dish of romance. Naturally, if you take out the romance, the physical part, mind you, chances were that you would find few who would want to be a fellow traveller.
It was near closing hours, a half-drunken, half-desperate Iris stood by the counter after long weeks of failed party search. The few remaining patrons were mostly regulars, people who lived inside the city and didn't have to get a last check before entering the Wandering Land. The barkeeper, Massle Stargrande, a man the age of her father, had begun to clean up the place when he took the mug out of her hand.
"Miss, you might have drunk a little too much. I'm gonna need your address and Helen will take you back. Can't have you riding in this condition."
"Let me drink!" - she groaned - "It might be my last night here."
"Heading off into the Wandering Land, are we?"
"I wish." - she dipped her finger into the mug, drawing incomprehensible images on the counter - "I couldn't even find a party to join today, either. Maybe I'm not suited for this, after all."
"Try again tomorrow, things will change." - he wiped away all the drawings. - "You look like you have some potentials."
"You don't know nothing!" - she frowned - "Back in the countryside I could handle goblin and slime easily, but when I got here... Well, there are classes on fighting orges and golems. I haven't seen a real one outside of the textbook. I thought they only existed in super dangerous dungeons or such... But I still had some hope that I'd be able to improve myself. I mean, I took Potion-making classes and even Basic Sword fighting. Then I realized I had nobody to form a party with. I tried sending my details to Agencies and visit bars frequently... Look where I am now."
"It's a vain dream, the Amirest Dream," - Massle shrugged his shoulders - "Who doesn't want to carve their names on the Hall of Heroes, slay the dragon and reclaim the treasure? Few actually make it, though."
"Are you encouraging me or discouraging me?"
"How fragile can a resolution be if you have to rely on a stranger for it?"
"I don't know... I thought you're a knowledgeable man." - she rest one arm on the counter slovenly, pointing a finger at the barkeeper - "Like somebody who only knows how to tell people what to do."
"Well," - said Massle, serious all of the sudden - "I do know a few things about heroes."
He gestured at a man sitting by the door, the man with a wooden leg.
"One-legged Jerry was a mate of Thomas the Terminator, who took down the giant Golem Harsk. The party, consisted of eight elites, returned with two. While people cheered for Thomas, Jerry and his friends got a few columns in the daily paper. And just like his leg, Jerry left the adventurous life behind."
"That's... "
"Oh, but I'm not finished yet. See that woman in the corner? The one who sat there all night without even a refill? Her name is Sally. Her husband used to be a famous hero, his kill count included thousands demon of all kinds. He was never the faithful man, no, cheating on her on his journeys while poor Sally tended to their children at home. And now when he is all washed-up, he spent his days at the whorehouse where the prostitutes' flatters bring him an image of the past."
"Is she waiting for him?"
"No, they got divorced. She's waiting for his son, who was supposed to be here five hours ago. It seems the Wandering Land was too harsh for him. She begged me to talk some sense to him when he left, but I didn't, for I understand the allure of the title hero. Remember to write your parents letters regularly, young miss. They'll be there for you when all others don't."
"I... I will." - Iris straightened her back, like a student being lectured.
"The hero is not the best, they're just those who survive. Not in the Wandering Land, but in this world too. Every generations we hail the rise of many and forget no less than such. It's all but an illusion. Legends to keep the dream alive. If we underglorified heroes and overglorified scholars and scientists, maybe we will have steam car for everyone."
"Steam car?"
"Yeah, it's a kind of carriage that draw energy from steam. Completely magic-free."
"Really?" - she raised her eyebrows.
"On paper for now. We can also find a way to settle the dispute with the demon kingdom. Maybe one day we'll be able to fight for what we believe in, but shed not a single drop of blood doing so. But that's out of the point. The point is that we're living in a world full of heroes, and we look for them at the wrong place. For example, see that man over there?"
He pointed at an old man in rag sitting with Jerry.
"Him? Look like a normal farmer to me."
"He's a lengendary hero. 25 years ago doing the Great Drought, the man devised a method to minimize water used in agriculture. This ale you've been drinking couldn't have been made if I had starved that year. How many of your so-called 'heroes' can save thousands of lives like that?"
"That's just pure luck. I mean, out of so many farmers, there must be one who figure out a way."
"Sure. But I prefer this kind of hero more. Maybe if you still don't have a clue on what to do next, you should relax and observe life itself. You're young, and I've met many like you, driven into the path of an adventurer because of its glamour. One day you'll understand, that you don't have to be somebody to the world, you only need to be somebody to the selected few." | Sometimes you just have to have a drink. Laurie Shaw thought so too. The cold Autumn day couldn't have ached any more after a grating, tumultuous couple of high-stake events that tore through her patience and left her clutching at hairs that she pulled out when it was all over. There was nothing glorious about being a hero. The unending work, the repeating offenders of humanity, the corruption and injustice: it was far too much for a human to handle alone. How had so many things have exploded all at once? She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath and let it all go.
The bartender walked over to her, wiping the surface in a clumsy manner, clearly not in a pleasant mood. And not a mood Laurie wanted to deal with.
"What do you want?" The bartender practically snapped at her. Laurie was taken aback, unsure of what tone would be appropriate to answer. She pursed her lips for a second and sucked in some more air, deciding that losing her shit over a tone after so many stressful incidents would be embarrassing to remember.
"Long Island iced tea," she said, not moving her gaze from his bored eyes.
"Okay then," he said and walked off as she flicked out her card from her coat pocket to pay.
Shivers rolled down at her back and she had to remind herself that she was not going to snap at the civilian. She had taken down the group of terrorising criminals-- some cranky man with a bad taste in his mouth could not even touch the aura of evil that had evaporated from their beings.
He came back just as three other people reached the bar, two men and a woman, giggling and muttering between themselves. Laurie couldn't help but feel outcasted and alienated from people. Didn't matter that she was legendary, the master of disguise and had a loyal following. She was alone, lonely. Friendless. Because her life was taxing, unpredictable. Too far away from the daily bustles of a working life.
"Here." The bartender brought her back to reality. She blinked a few times, recovering from her pining daze.
"My card is contactless," she yawned, touching the screen. The beep went through and the drink was hers.
"Johnny!" One of the people beside her high fived the bartender.
"Been a long day, good you're all here," the bartender leaned over the bar.
~~fml I got things to do, will continue later... update: I gave up. Life hectic rn sorry to anyone who is possibly seeing this~~ | |
[WP] A legendary hero finds themselves in disguise at a bar. The patrons are telling stories about the hero | "I heard that he killed a Weeping Cliff giant all by himself!"
"Yeah? Well I heard that he made it through Ghoul-run Pass with nothing but a torch and a knife!"
"That's nothing! *I* heard that he once wrangled a silver-backed dragon with his bare hands. No magic rope or daggers at all!"
Samuel Garith smiled as he took another sip of his mead. It was always fun to hear the many stories that drunken men slurred through their yellowing teeth. Many of the tales they "remembered" were not close to the truth at all, but it still warmed his heart to hear people believing that he had achieved such feats of incredible strength. It was true that he had in fact slain a dragon, but he had not wrangled it. And there had been a bit of magical help.
Still, those days were over. He was no longer the hero. One fatal mistake had turned him from ally to foe in the eyes of the King, and now he was an enemy to all. That was why he had to be in disguise, even in such a place as a bar in the middle of a small village far from any kingdoms. If one person recognized him, it could mean the end of his freedom.
The Four Kingdoms did not want him dead. They wanted Samuel very much alive so that he could be shown just how much suffering he could endure before his mind and body gave out.
"You want another one, sir?" The bartender snapped Samuel out of his thoughts, pointing at his now-empty mug.
Samuel shook his head and dropped some money onto the bar, thanking the man as he got up to leave. He wrapped his robes tighter around himself when he neared the exit, already feeling the chill of the outside air as it threw itself against the door. His disguise today was that of an old man, a beggar that most figured wouldn't bother them if they didn't bother him, and Samuel liked it that way. He spoke when he needed to, and that was it.
When he stepped outside, Samuel shivered uncontrollably. Winter had arrived in full force, granting no mercy to the land and its denizens. A light snow had begun to fall, blanketing the land in a sheet of glistening white. Samuel started for his home, the shed in the back of a local farmer's house. He let Samuel stay there for only a week, and his time was running out already. He only had three days before he'd have to move on or risk being turned into the guards. *If only the farmer knew just who I was,* Samuel thought, *then he could turn me into the guards and never have to work another day in his life.*
He shook the thoughts away and continued on. As he ventured further through the village, he heard the unmistakable whinnying of several stallions, their hooves clipping and clopping on the cobblestone road. Samuel swallowed hard and pushed himself into the darkness, intent on letting them pass, but as more and more horses poured into the small village, he couldn't deny the curiosity that held him still. What were they here for?
Villagers exited their homes, sleep keeping their eyelids low. They glanced at the knights swaying back and forth on their horses, awaiting news from one of the Four Kingdoms.
"Do not be alarmed, citizens," one of the knights spoke up, "but the King has issued a warning to the Four Kingdoms and their surrounding villages."
The citizens looked at one another curiously, and Samuel's stomach twisted in on itself. Surely this warning was not about him?
"He fears that the Black Riders have returned."
The crowd gasped, and Samuel's stomach twisted even tighter. That wasn't possible. Samuel had defeated the Black Riders, a rebel group of devil-worshiping bandits that believed themselves to be the deciders of fate. He had *killed* their leader, burned their home to a crisp. There was no possible way they could have recovered from such a catastrophe.
"What is the King going to do?" A woman shouted from the crowd, her voice a sickly mix of fear and anger.
The knight raised his hand in a calming gesture. "As I said, do not be alarmed. The King is working on a solution as we speak, but he has requested aid. Anyone who knows anything of value about the Black Riders are to report to the Eastern Kingdom immediately. If the Riders truly have returned, there is no time to waste."
No one dared to move. Samuel felt something in his gut, something that urged him to step forward into the torchlight, to present himself to the guards, but his own fear kept him still. There was no way the Black Riders could have recovered so quickly, Samuel had made sure of that. But that thought left an even heavier question in his mind: What was the King trying to do? What was his move in announcing the arrival of the very group of bandits that Samuel had strategically annihilated?
It was nothing good, he was sure of that, and that was what kept him concealed in the darkness. Still, a seed had been planted. The desire of his hands to feel the cool metal of his blade itched ferociously, and a steady doubt was already taking root. Would the King truly lie about such a threat as the Black Riders? Was he that eager to suss Samuel out?
Everything he didn't know pushed itself to the forefront of his mind, and Samuel sighed aloud. The blood that he had spilled in his time as the hero still called to him. The lust for battle shouted his name. He was a hero. People still believed him to be, as the men in the bar had proved. Maybe the world still needed him.
As he let one of his robes fall to the ground, soaking up the trash-ridden water, Samuel took a deep breath. Heroes never stopped being heroes, they simply lost sight of who they were supposed to protect. Perhaps there was hope for him. Maybe, if he saved the land once again, he could be forgiven. | Sometimes you just have to have a drink. Laurie Shaw thought so too. The cold Autumn day couldn't have ached any more after a grating, tumultuous couple of high-stake events that tore through her patience and left her clutching at hairs that she pulled out when it was all over. There was nothing glorious about being a hero. The unending work, the repeating offenders of humanity, the corruption and injustice: it was far too much for a human to handle alone. How had so many things have exploded all at once? She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath and let it all go.
The bartender walked over to her, wiping the surface in a clumsy manner, clearly not in a pleasant mood. And not a mood Laurie wanted to deal with.
"What do you want?" The bartender practically snapped at her. Laurie was taken aback, unsure of what tone would be appropriate to answer. She pursed her lips for a second and sucked in some more air, deciding that losing her shit over a tone after so many stressful incidents would be embarrassing to remember.
"Long Island iced tea," she said, not moving her gaze from his bored eyes.
"Okay then," he said and walked off as she flicked out her card from her coat pocket to pay.
Shivers rolled down at her back and she had to remind herself that she was not going to snap at the civilian. She had taken down the group of terrorising criminals-- some cranky man with a bad taste in his mouth could not even touch the aura of evil that had evaporated from their beings.
He came back just as three other people reached the bar, two men and a woman, giggling and muttering between themselves. Laurie couldn't help but feel outcasted and alienated from people. Didn't matter that she was legendary, the master of disguise and had a loyal following. She was alone, lonely. Friendless. Because her life was taxing, unpredictable. Too far away from the daily bustles of a working life.
"Here." The bartender brought her back to reality. She blinked a few times, recovering from her pining daze.
"My card is contactless," she yawned, touching the screen. The beep went through and the drink was hers.
"Johnny!" One of the people beside her high fived the bartender.
"Been a long day, good you're all here," the bartender leaned over the bar.
~~fml I got things to do, will continue later... update: I gave up. Life hectic rn sorry to anyone who is possibly seeing this~~ | |
[WP] A legendary hero finds themselves in disguise at a bar. The patrons are telling stories about the hero | When you step inside the King's Arms, you're not hit by a wave of despair, but of something worse. The stench of resignation has, along with urine, beer, and tobacco, permeated the very brickwork of the tavern. Resignation is to me, much graver a sin than despair. Desperate people will do something about their situation, you see. Anything, in order to change it. Resignated people however, are content with their fate, and I find that unforgivable.
Lean men with blonde hair and faces that fall from their blue eyes as sharp as glaciers, play cards on one of the ancient maple tables. They don't play for money, but trinkets. Rings, teeth, even an ear. It's all they have, for there's no work to be found this far north. Not since the Ice Maiden's hand squeezed it, suffocating its peoples and animals and its very soul.
Besides them, a girl and what looks to be her mother, sit quietly, sipping from half filled drinks. They share not only the same noses, but the same forlorn look. A resignation to whatever it is they believe their fate to be.
There is an old man in a cloak in one of the corners. His face is shrouded by his cowl, as he hunches over and reads from a thick leather book. A story teller, perhaps. Maybe even a lesser wizard, not yet hunted down and hanged from the gallows. If he is indeed a wizard, he is too brazen to last in this world for long.
A tall man sits with his friend whose fingers are splayed against the table's surface, and he stabs a knife between the gaps, finding only the wood of the table.
His head turns as I walk past, followed a moment later by a scream and a litany of foul northern cursing.
"How goes it, traveller?" says the man behind the bar, ignoring the scene behind me as if it is an everyday occurrence. It probably is.
"It goes," I reply, reaching for my purse. "Ale, please."
"What brings a fine lady like you to Corkstone?"
"What makes you think I'm a fine lady?"
"You're a lady, at any rate," he says. There's a leer in his eyes, and a grin on his lips. He pours me the thick brown drink and hands it over.
"If you say so." I take a long swig, and wipe my mouth with my sleeve.
"Will you be needing a room?"
"No. I won't be here for long. I just needed some refreshments. I plan to make it to Rowchester before the week closes."
His eyebrows raise. "You must have a fine horse and an even finer death-wish. No one travels that far north no more. Least, no one who returns and tells us of it."
"All the same, I am going. I intend to do something about our current situation."
"If you mean seeing the Maiden, your signing your own death warrant. And that would be silly thing for such a pretty lady to do."
I take my drink and retire to a table near the blonde haired men. They talk too loud for their own good.
"...Kay, they called her," says one.
"Ke, you mean," says another. "Like 'Ke' to the door."
"Kay, Ke, what's the difference?"
"I think if you ever ran into her, she'd teach you the difference."
"You think a woman could teach me anything?"
"I heard she once kill a firebear with nothing more than her hands."
"Bullshit!"
"Murdered a legion of the Maiden's elite guards too, just to send her a message."
I sip my drink and listen, amused at how the stories of 'Ke' have spread even this far north.
"Well I heard she's dead now, anyway, so I suppose it doesn't matter. Her message got delivered to the Maiden all right, 'cause she ended up dying at the Maiden's hands. Was touched and turned to ice, then shattered to a billion little crystals."
"What was she doing, fighting the Maiden? Lost all common sense. She might have some magic in her, but that's a whole different level of magic."
"'Spose she thought she could win. Be the big hero, like all the stories said she was. But that, all that she had done before, was just child's play."
"Women, ey?"
Laughter. I grip my glass until a crack ran up it.
The cloaked man has stopped reading his book and is facing my direction now. In the deep shadows of his cowl I wonder if I can perhaps see two eyes watching me.
I can't be certain.
"She should have known better," the men continue. "There ain't no freein-"
The doors to the tavern burst open, letting in an icy chill and three of the Maiden's elite guards.
"There she is!" says one, pointing at the girl sitting with her mother. Another guard runs over to her, grabbing her arm and dragging off her stool and onto the floor. "You're coming with me, missy!"
The mother is up. "Please! Cathy did nothing wrong. Ple-"
She's smacked with the back of a hand for her efforts, and sent sprawling to the floor. Blood trickles out of her mouth and nose.
"She stole from the Maiden's land," sneers one. "Now she will hang in the Maiden's land, as will you for interfering."
The tavern is silent.
I rise and draw my dagger from my side.
"Leave her be," I say, my teeth gritted. "Take her daughter if you must, but her mother has done nothing wrong."
The guards look at me, sneering. Laughing.
"Sit down!" hisses one of the men next to me. Cowards, the lot of them.
"Looks like we'll have a triple hanging tonight, Rufus," one guard says patting his friend on the shoulder.
"Aye, and plenty of fun first." He licks his lips.
The one called Rufus runs over to me; I swing at him but do little more than scratch his sleeve. I try again, but he grabs my arm and twists it, sending me to my knees. My dagger falls from my hand.
"Stupid bitch," he spits. "This was my best shirt!"
I feel my arm crack as he twists further. I refuse to scream but my eyes water.
Then there is a mighty blast of white light.
The man lets go of my arm, covering his eyes with his sleeve.
The figure in the corner is standing. Their cloak is on the table, and I see them properly for the first time. It hadn't been a man at all, but a woman. Her face is scarred, but her hair is blonde and brilliant. Her right arm is... is a deep blue. Ice.
Rufus runs at her, his sword drawn.
She deflects the blow with her crystallised arm, then clutches his neck with her hand. Squeezing. Squeezing.
"You can thank the Maiden for your death," says the woman, as the man falls limp. "This arm was given to me by her."
The other two men are upon her now.
She raises her other hand. There is a second flash, and as my eyes recover, I see one guard lying on the floor, a hole running clean through his stomach.
The final guard stops dead in his tracks. "I--"
"Tell the Maiden, I will see her again soon."
"I--"
"Go!" she screams.
The guard turns, fleeing to the door as fast as his legs can carry him.
She lowers an icy hand down to me. I can feel a chill in the air, as Ke pulls me to my feet.
| Sometimes you just have to have a drink. Laurie Shaw thought so too. The cold Autumn day couldn't have ached any more after a grating, tumultuous couple of high-stake events that tore through her patience and left her clutching at hairs that she pulled out when it was all over. There was nothing glorious about being a hero. The unending work, the repeating offenders of humanity, the corruption and injustice: it was far too much for a human to handle alone. How had so many things have exploded all at once? She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath and let it all go.
The bartender walked over to her, wiping the surface in a clumsy manner, clearly not in a pleasant mood. And not a mood Laurie wanted to deal with.
"What do you want?" The bartender practically snapped at her. Laurie was taken aback, unsure of what tone would be appropriate to answer. She pursed her lips for a second and sucked in some more air, deciding that losing her shit over a tone after so many stressful incidents would be embarrassing to remember.
"Long Island iced tea," she said, not moving her gaze from his bored eyes.
"Okay then," he said and walked off as she flicked out her card from her coat pocket to pay.
Shivers rolled down at her back and she had to remind herself that she was not going to snap at the civilian. She had taken down the group of terrorising criminals-- some cranky man with a bad taste in his mouth could not even touch the aura of evil that had evaporated from their beings.
He came back just as three other people reached the bar, two men and a woman, giggling and muttering between themselves. Laurie couldn't help but feel outcasted and alienated from people. Didn't matter that she was legendary, the master of disguise and had a loyal following. She was alone, lonely. Friendless. Because her life was taxing, unpredictable. Too far away from the daily bustles of a working life.
"Here." The bartender brought her back to reality. She blinked a few times, recovering from her pining daze.
"My card is contactless," she yawned, touching the screen. The beep went through and the drink was hers.
"Johnny!" One of the people beside her high fived the bartender.
"Been a long day, good you're all here," the bartender leaned over the bar.
~~fml I got things to do, will continue later... update: I gave up. Life hectic rn sorry to anyone who is possibly seeing this~~ | |
[WP] You suffer from Agoraphobia and have never been outside in years. Since the past month, every day someone knocks at your door at 10 AM. They knock for a couple of minutes and then leave. But you haven't heard knocks for the last week and are starting to get curious. | 10:01
I grip my bedsheets tighter. I'm sweating. Why am I sweating? I don't have a reason to be sweating. The air conditioning's on but I'm sweating. I'm sweating because here I am again waiting for that knock and I don't even know who is knocking or why they keep knocking or why they stopped and what could have happened to them and I'm shaking like I drank a gallon of coffee and I keep thinking I should call the police to report a missing person which would be silly because I don't even know who is missing or what they look like and maybe it's totally nothing but I can't help but think something is terribly wrong and I'm sweating.
I glance at the clock, certain an hour has passed.
10:02
You would think I'd be happy. No more knocks. I could go back to my cat videos and pretend to be happy. But now I'm a wreck and my whole day is ruined because there still isn't a knock and I don't know what to do about it and my mind won't stop racing and I can't stop sweating.
I have to open that door. If only just to peek. The hallway seems impossibly long. My bed is calling to me with its wordless temptations. A thousand objections race in my mind. I haven't showered in a week. I'm not wearing a bra. My hair is greasy. I'm wearing boy shorts and I haven't shaved my legs in forever. There could be somebody walking their dog. Maybe the neighbors are watering their flowers. Maybe the knocker stopped knocking to bait me to come out. But something pushes to keep going. My hand trembles at the cold, unforgiving touch of the doorknob. And I freeze. Maybe the knocker is just late. Paralyzed with uncertainty, I wait for a minute. Then another. And another. The house is so quiet you could hear my tiny whimpers from across the room.
Still no knock.
I can't take it anymore and I rip the door open with the force of an angry bear.
No one's there.
I breathe in the hot summer air like it was poison. I feel like I'm about to faint.
My door is plastered with dozens of shipping delivery notices. I pry my shaky hand off the doorknob and rip one off to read it. The label isn't from any package company I recognize. It almost looks fake. There's a checkbox on each one, always the same one: "signature required - package not delivered".
I pull each one off my door in anger.
One slip flutters to the ground. It's got handwriting on it. I pick it up.
*"Package has been left w/ neighbors -- house 1908. PS: IMPORTANT - for your hands only!"*
That's all the way next door! No, no. Too far. Way too far. I know Mr. Ross is nice--actually, he's the only one who tries to talk to me. But he should be at work by now. Wait, it's a Saturday. Oh well, he can keep it.
But I can't close the door.
For the last five years, I've bought everything I need online. Food, clothes, toiletries ... all available with a click of a button. I memorized every package's due date so I could never be caught surprised. And with every package I add the same instructions: leave at back door. Because there's shrubs blocking the sides, so its more sheltered. For five years I've known exactly when a package will arrive and where it will be found.
But not this package. Which means I didn't order it. That both terrifies and excites me.
My feet begin moving before I've made up my mind. Once I started, I felt too committed to stop. I don't know why I'm doing this. Here I am: ugly, barefoot, smelly, with a heart beating like a hummingbird's, and I'm on the verge of crying. But I'm still doing it. I have to keep my gaze to the ground. The sound of far-off cars frighten me, the birds chirp as if mocking my every step. My neighbor's grass lawn is like an endless, desolate sea of despair. But I'm crossing it, clinging to this little spark of curiosity like a drowning man to a life preserver.
My hands tremble as I go for the doorbell. I miss the button, and feel so humiliated that I try knocking instead. My first knock is pathetically quiet. I work my way up to louder ones over the course of several minutes, until I'm banging in a desperate panic. My mind flip-flops between wishing no one was home and wishing there was so I could get it all over with.
Mr. Ross opens the door and I shriek with fright. He smiles warmly at the miserable pile of greasy hair before him. I stutter, then nervously introduce myself just as I had carefully planned to.
He shakes his head. He says he knows who I am and asks if I'd like to come inside.
I whisper that shouldn't because I'm smelly and gross, but he seems not to care. He opens his door wider and motions me to come in, so now I have to because he's expecting me to do it.
"I got your package last week, but I've been working long hours lately so I gave it to Mrs. Garcias in case I wasn't home. You know, she lives across the street."
I make a sound in the back of my throat like a dying ferret. My toes curl into his carpet. "Can you go get it for me?" I squeak.
He smiles. "We'll go together."
Before I can object, he grabs me by the hand and we're outside again. I keep yelling no, but he drags me across the street like a kid on the way to the dentist. I wanted to die. My heart was pounding so hard that I wondered if I actually would die. I don't know why he's putting up with me and neuroses and my body odor and my greasy hair. I have to keep my eyes to the ground because if I look up I know I'll have a panic attack.
"Do you know what's in the package?" he asks.
I shake my head no.
He hums and nods. "Whatever it is, it must be important. It said on the side it was something you lost long ago."
I want to tell him that's impossible, because in order to lose something, I'd have to leave my house first, but my throat is paralyzed when I try to speak.
We arrive at another door and I can finally look up again. Mr. Ross encourages me to knock, but I shake my head no and he does it for me. Mrs. Garcias answers and as soon as the door opens my eyes dash back to the ground. Mr. Ross asks her about the package and the woman puts a hand to her chest and gasps. "I thought this package was for 1916 so I gave it to Mr. Welles." My heart dies in my chest: 1916 was the house up the hill! "So sorry, so sorry! I must fix this. Be right back!" She reappears wearing shoes and takes my other hand.
"No, no!" I wail. "It's not important. I don't need the package! Just leave me alone."
She doesn't seem to listen. "We will go to Mr. Welles and tell him the mistake."
Now I'm being dragged along by two unbearably nice people who are no doubt judging the hell out of my appearance and smell and words could not describe how much I hate myself right now. This isn't worth it. I try to escape their grasp. In the tussle, I looked up and saw we're in the middle of the street and immediately burst into tears. Oh god, oh god ... I'm outside. In the middle of the road. There's all this space around me ... all this space! No, no ... no!
"I need to go back home!" I scream, and try to run. But these two psychos refuse to let go. They keep saying things like we were almost there, and you've gone too far to quit, and all sorts of other nonsense that I refuse to listen to. I'm crying and I can't breathe and everything is spinning and I don't know what's happening and suddenly I'm on the doorstep of Mr. Welles' house. What.
Mr. Ross knocks and Mr. Welles opens the door to find me crying into my hands. He asks if I am alright and I sob "just give me my package!" over and over again.
After an eternity of waiting, I feel a nudge of cardboard on my arm. I look up to see the most beautifully-wrapped box I've ever seen. It's covered with signatures of everyone on the street, along with other names I cant recognize. I shake the box and hear nothing inside. My fear gives way to anger. This whole stunt was planned! "W-w-what is this?!" I demand. "Some kind of practical joke?! Well it's not funny!"
"It's something important that you lost," Mr. Ross encouraged. "Open it."
I wipe the tears from my face and rip the package open. "You dragged me through the streets all dirty and barefoot for the whole neighborhood to stare at, and for this?!" I shriek. "Every day ... every day! Someone knocked on my door every day! Do you know how much that terrified me!? I spent weeks in misery, worrying over that damned knocking on my door, and this ... this damned package! I knew I didn't lose anything! That's impossible! You can't lose anything when you never leave the house!"
I rip open the box and my breath catches in my chest. The box is indeed empty ... except for a single, little note. I pick it up and unfold it.
*"Congratulations, you found the strength to go outside! We know you lost it years ago, and wanted to return it to you! Sincerely, your friends and neighbors."*
I look up and cast my gaze down the street. I am standing at Mr. Welles' house. My house is all the way at the bottom of the hill. I ... walked all the way here.
"The whole neighborhood's been talking. About you," Mr. Ross said. "Now, I know you stay inside, fighting your demons, and ..."
"And when times are tough, it's good to have friends to lean on," Mrs. Garcias added.
"Sometimes, a little push is all that's needed," said Mr. Welles. "Before you're able to start rolling on your own."
I look at the three of them, horrified and angry and surprised and humiliated. But I feel something else, too. Something warm and fuzzy. Something I don't deserve, but got anyway. I began to cry again.
But that was the last day I cried.
After that day, something changed. Now, whenever someone knocked on my door, I feel excited instead of terrified. Because a knocked door means somebody is thinking of me. And I don't want to let that somebody down. So no matter how much panic I feel, I try to push myself out of my comfort zone. In fact, I'm actually planning on going to the store next week ... with Mrs. Garcias' help.
It's true: I did lose something, long ago. A few kind strangers returned it to me, and it changed my life forever. | Every morning Edward would sit in his room staring at the computer screen. For years, his mild Agoraphobia had been steadily getting worse. He had only a few family members who would visit, and even fewer friends.
Being alone in a room can be lonesome, but he managed -- somehow. In his 74 long years on this earth he had married, had lived to have 2 wonderful children, and had lived to see them both die. He lived with his wife, Sally. He would cook, she would clean. She would get groceries, he would sort the cupboards and pantry. They completed each other.
His memory was not what it used to be, but he made due. Sometimes his wife would have to remind him how to do simple things, like making tea or taking his medication. Sally truly was the best thing in his life.
But recently he had been hearing a knocking sound at his door. Every day, for the last month he had awoken to taping. This sound terrified him. He dared not open the door. His wife would always be gone in the morning. Out having coffee with her red hatted friends at the local McDonrads. She was not there to console his fear.
He would sit in the corner of his room terrified. To cope with it, he would take his anxiety pills and the sound of tapping would stop and he would go back to his routine.
"It's nothing." He reminded himself. "Sally will be back soon. I better make supper." He looked over at the trash can. It was full. "She must have forgotten to empty it..." And he thought nothing more of it.
It was odd though. The tapping had stopped a week ago... He couldn't help but be curious. His wife was late and without her company his mind began to wander. He thought of the Spring and how the flowers outside his window would bloom such vivid shades of red and orange. How his wife always tended to them and how he used to go outside to help her with the gardening.
While lost in thought his hand instinctively pressed down on the handle, and the door opened with a creak. He snapped out of his day dreaming and realized what he had done. Quickly Edward tried to close it back up, but something fell into the doorway stopping it from closing.
He looked down in terror as he saw a dry, unnaturally black colored hand reaching from the doorway as if to pull him into the abyss. Frantically he kicked at it, pushing the *thing* back through the door. With a muffled thud a red hat fell alongside the hand as some unseen mass shifted behind the door.
Edward screamed and rushed to the corner. Shakily he pulled his pills out and poured them into his hands. Quickly he downed them and rocked back and forth trying to comfort himself.
He awoke the next morning to see the door slightly ajar. He hurriedly rushed over to it and closed the door. Bending over he picked up the red hat.
"Oh... Sally must have forgotten her hat..."
Looking at the clock, he saw it was 5pm. She would be home any minute. He needed to cook supper.
He opened the cupboards to see they were bare.
"That's odd... Sally went grocery shopping just yesterday... Maybe she left them in the car?"
He sat there at the dinner table waiting for her to return. Edward glanced up at the clock. 9pm. It's time for bed. He shuffled off to bed and lied down. Edward saw the clothes hamper was overflowing.
"I'll tell Sally in the morning." He muttered and shut off the lamp next to his bed.
He awoke the next morning and went to the door again. It had been a week since any tapping... He was curious but decided to go take his medicine. 5pm rolled around and Edward's stomach was grumbling again.
He was so hungry. So he went to the kitchen to prepare dinner. The cupboards were bare.
"Ooh. Hmm... I'm out of food... She must be grocery shopping again." He talked to himself.
He sat down at the dinner table and on it he saw the red hat.
"Oh. Sally forgot her hat on the table again... Boy... She is taking her time."
He took his pill and went to bed.
| |
[WP] You suffer from Agoraphobia and have never been outside in years. Since the past month, every day someone knocks at your door at 10 AM. They knock for a couple of minutes and then leave. But you haven't heard knocks for the last week and are starting to get curious. | 10:01
I grip my bedsheets tighter. I'm sweating. Why am I sweating? I don't have a reason to be sweating. The air conditioning's on but I'm sweating. I'm sweating because here I am again waiting for that knock and I don't even know who is knocking or why they keep knocking or why they stopped and what could have happened to them and I'm shaking like I drank a gallon of coffee and I keep thinking I should call the police to report a missing person which would be silly because I don't even know who is missing or what they look like and maybe it's totally nothing but I can't help but think something is terribly wrong and I'm sweating.
I glance at the clock, certain an hour has passed.
10:02
You would think I'd be happy. No more knocks. I could go back to my cat videos and pretend to be happy. But now I'm a wreck and my whole day is ruined because there still isn't a knock and I don't know what to do about it and my mind won't stop racing and I can't stop sweating.
I have to open that door. If only just to peek. The hallway seems impossibly long. My bed is calling to me with its wordless temptations. A thousand objections race in my mind. I haven't showered in a week. I'm not wearing a bra. My hair is greasy. I'm wearing boy shorts and I haven't shaved my legs in forever. There could be somebody walking their dog. Maybe the neighbors are watering their flowers. Maybe the knocker stopped knocking to bait me to come out. But something pushes to keep going. My hand trembles at the cold, unforgiving touch of the doorknob. And I freeze. Maybe the knocker is just late. Paralyzed with uncertainty, I wait for a minute. Then another. And another. The house is so quiet you could hear my tiny whimpers from across the room.
Still no knock.
I can't take it anymore and I rip the door open with the force of an angry bear.
No one's there.
I breathe in the hot summer air like it was poison. I feel like I'm about to faint.
My door is plastered with dozens of shipping delivery notices. I pry my shaky hand off the doorknob and rip one off to read it. The label isn't from any package company I recognize. It almost looks fake. There's a checkbox on each one, always the same one: "signature required - package not delivered".
I pull each one off my door in anger.
One slip flutters to the ground. It's got handwriting on it. I pick it up.
*"Package has been left w/ neighbors -- house 1908. PS: IMPORTANT - for your hands only!"*
That's all the way next door! No, no. Too far. Way too far. I know Mr. Ross is nice--actually, he's the only one who tries to talk to me. But he should be at work by now. Wait, it's a Saturday. Oh well, he can keep it.
But I can't close the door.
For the last five years, I've bought everything I need online. Food, clothes, toiletries ... all available with a click of a button. I memorized every package's due date so I could never be caught surprised. And with every package I add the same instructions: leave at back door. Because there's shrubs blocking the sides, so its more sheltered. For five years I've known exactly when a package will arrive and where it will be found.
But not this package. Which means I didn't order it. That both terrifies and excites me.
My feet begin moving before I've made up my mind. Once I started, I felt too committed to stop. I don't know why I'm doing this. Here I am: ugly, barefoot, smelly, with a heart beating like a hummingbird's, and I'm on the verge of crying. But I'm still doing it. I have to keep my gaze to the ground. The sound of far-off cars frighten me, the birds chirp as if mocking my every step. My neighbor's grass lawn is like an endless, desolate sea of despair. But I'm crossing it, clinging to this little spark of curiosity like a drowning man to a life preserver.
My hands tremble as I go for the doorbell. I miss the button, and feel so humiliated that I try knocking instead. My first knock is pathetically quiet. I work my way up to louder ones over the course of several minutes, until I'm banging in a desperate panic. My mind flip-flops between wishing no one was home and wishing there was so I could get it all over with.
Mr. Ross opens the door and I shriek with fright. He smiles warmly at the miserable pile of greasy hair before him. I stutter, then nervously introduce myself just as I had carefully planned to.
He shakes his head. He says he knows who I am and asks if I'd like to come inside.
I whisper that shouldn't because I'm smelly and gross, but he seems not to care. He opens his door wider and motions me to come in, so now I have to because he's expecting me to do it.
"I got your package last week, but I've been working long hours lately so I gave it to Mrs. Garcias in case I wasn't home. You know, she lives across the street."
I make a sound in the back of my throat like a dying ferret. My toes curl into his carpet. "Can you go get it for me?" I squeak.
He smiles. "We'll go together."
Before I can object, he grabs me by the hand and we're outside again. I keep yelling no, but he drags me across the street like a kid on the way to the dentist. I wanted to die. My heart was pounding so hard that I wondered if I actually would die. I don't know why he's putting up with me and neuroses and my body odor and my greasy hair. I have to keep my eyes to the ground because if I look up I know I'll have a panic attack.
"Do you know what's in the package?" he asks.
I shake my head no.
He hums and nods. "Whatever it is, it must be important. It said on the side it was something you lost long ago."
I want to tell him that's impossible, because in order to lose something, I'd have to leave my house first, but my throat is paralyzed when I try to speak.
We arrive at another door and I can finally look up again. Mr. Ross encourages me to knock, but I shake my head no and he does it for me. Mrs. Garcias answers and as soon as the door opens my eyes dash back to the ground. Mr. Ross asks her about the package and the woman puts a hand to her chest and gasps. "I thought this package was for 1916 so I gave it to Mr. Welles." My heart dies in my chest: 1916 was the house up the hill! "So sorry, so sorry! I must fix this. Be right back!" She reappears wearing shoes and takes my other hand.
"No, no!" I wail. "It's not important. I don't need the package! Just leave me alone."
She doesn't seem to listen. "We will go to Mr. Welles and tell him the mistake."
Now I'm being dragged along by two unbearably nice people who are no doubt judging the hell out of my appearance and smell and words could not describe how much I hate myself right now. This isn't worth it. I try to escape their grasp. In the tussle, I looked up and saw we're in the middle of the street and immediately burst into tears. Oh god, oh god ... I'm outside. In the middle of the road. There's all this space around me ... all this space! No, no ... no!
"I need to go back home!" I scream, and try to run. But these two psychos refuse to let go. They keep saying things like we were almost there, and you've gone too far to quit, and all sorts of other nonsense that I refuse to listen to. I'm crying and I can't breathe and everything is spinning and I don't know what's happening and suddenly I'm on the doorstep of Mr. Welles' house. What.
Mr. Ross knocks and Mr. Welles opens the door to find me crying into my hands. He asks if I am alright and I sob "just give me my package!" over and over again.
After an eternity of waiting, I feel a nudge of cardboard on my arm. I look up to see the most beautifully-wrapped box I've ever seen. It's covered with signatures of everyone on the street, along with other names I cant recognize. I shake the box and hear nothing inside. My fear gives way to anger. This whole stunt was planned! "W-w-what is this?!" I demand. "Some kind of practical joke?! Well it's not funny!"
"It's something important that you lost," Mr. Ross encouraged. "Open it."
I wipe the tears from my face and rip the package open. "You dragged me through the streets all dirty and barefoot for the whole neighborhood to stare at, and for this?!" I shriek. "Every day ... every day! Someone knocked on my door every day! Do you know how much that terrified me!? I spent weeks in misery, worrying over that damned knocking on my door, and this ... this damned package! I knew I didn't lose anything! That's impossible! You can't lose anything when you never leave the house!"
I rip open the box and my breath catches in my chest. The box is indeed empty ... except for a single, little note. I pick it up and unfold it.
*"Congratulations, you found the strength to go outside! We know you lost it years ago, and wanted to return it to you! Sincerely, your friends and neighbors."*
I look up and cast my gaze down the street. I am standing at Mr. Welles' house. My house is all the way at the bottom of the hill. I ... walked all the way here.
"The whole neighborhood's been talking. About you," Mr. Ross said. "Now, I know you stay inside, fighting your demons, and ..."
"And when times are tough, it's good to have friends to lean on," Mrs. Garcias added.
"Sometimes, a little push is all that's needed," said Mr. Welles. "Before you're able to start rolling on your own."
I look at the three of them, horrified and angry and surprised and humiliated. But I feel something else, too. Something warm and fuzzy. Something I don't deserve, but got anyway. I began to cry again.
But that was the last day I cried.
After that day, something changed. Now, whenever someone knocked on my door, I feel excited instead of terrified. Because a knocked door means somebody is thinking of me. And I don't want to let that somebody down. So no matter how much panic I feel, I try to push myself out of my comfort zone. In fact, I'm actually planning on going to the store next week ... with Mrs. Garcias' help.
It's true: I did lose something, long ago. A few kind strangers returned it to me, and it changed my life forever. | ######[](#dropcap)
Day 43:
The anomaly was nothing if not precise, 10:00 a.m. on the dot without fail this person, this interloper would knock at the front door. Not merely being content to knock on the exterior glass paned storm door, but actually going so far as to OPEN it and knock on the solid wooden door. The door stays firmly secured of course with 2 deadbolts a large door stopper bar and a chain lock near the top. The person did not seem to carry any tools that would be large or destructive enough to defeat those security measures, and never tried to do so.
I'm not crazy, i'm just cautious and I like my privacy, that's all. I would not normally be so concerned with a caller on my doorstep but the man had come EVERY day for 28 days at EXACTLY the same time. I never answered (I'll not be such easy meat as that) yet still he came day after day. That was until day 29 when my storm door had remained untouched. That was a difficult day to say the least. Without realizing I had become accustomed to preparing myself each day for the possible confrontation and breach of sovereignty. On 29 he had not shown up on time and I was sent immediately into a state of hyper-anxiety. Was this a new tactic? Did this person know of my condition and realize his absence itself could cause a panic attack leading me to self medicate, dulling my senses and making me more vulnerable to assault? I had spent the entire 29th and part of the 30th day on high alert, ready for anything to come bursting through my back door, or maybe the window. It never happened and I scolded myself for being so easily rattled. That was probably the reason he didn't come, tired of being ignored he thought he would have a bit of sport with me did he?
5:08 a.m. on day 30 I checked the front yard and porch to be sure none were up and around yet and quickly gathered my front mat. From my utility closet I'd taken gorilla glue and coated the welcome with a thick layer, they were roughly the same color and I took great care to keep it perfectly in line with each letter so the anomaly would not notice when he returned. But he did not return.
Not on day 30 or day 31. Not at all as a matter of fact it had been a full 15 days without my defenses being tested. Now in my mind was constantly going back to what his angle might be. Who was this guy anyway, what had I ever done to him? He had tried persistence, showing up everyday right on time for a month, now he was trying to lull me into not expecting him. But he doesn't know me very well, you can't lull somebody who lives a constant state of hyper-vigilance. No, when he comes back I will be ready.
Day 52:
Provisions have been running low, food most of all. But if I place an order to amazon it could very well be the moment he is waiting for. Impersonate a delivery man and BAM he was in. No, I'll not be such easy meat. I can go days without eating and I still have mustard, ketchup and other condiments to live on. We'll see who's patience wears out first. Your move anomaly.
>>>><<<<< If you liked this story and are still bored, check out my sub! https://www.reddit.com/r/LurkerAscended/ | |
[WP] All people on earth agree that every conflict, no matter how major or minor, should be settled through the medium of rock, paper, scissors. What does the world look like? | Banking collapsed. How could anyone save money if you could lose it all to a person on the street challenging you to a game of 'Decider' as it came to be known.
Education tried to limp on for a few years. Many well meaning souls devoting their time to passing on and preserving the worlds knowledge. However like banking and industry the institution of education soon crumbled. No discipline could be enforced when even a 5 year old could challenge the head of the school over their decisions. Maybe they would lose but enough would win to bring the whole system down...
The world fell into chaos and fire until the chosen one arrived. Chosen by God. Chosen by all the Gods. How could they not be when they won every game thrown at them? Surely it was the hand of the divine guiding Them to victory after victory.
It had started small. First whispers of a centre of calm in the west. An Island surrounded by rough seas beginning to get itself back on it feet. Then came the Preachers. Spreading out across the waters, travelling the Lands and taking the word to everyone they met. Seeking out groups of survivors sheltering in the rubble and telling them "Hope has come". When a Preacher discovered some semblance of order their request to the leader was simple. "Travel to my land, seek the Chosen and Play". Always a bribe offered in the words " Our land is rich, best Him and it is yours. Lose and you and yours are his".
Thus the world came to his throne and one by one like paupers to Solomon they requested an audience. Here is how the world fell and was saved at the feet of the One.
"ALL HAIL"
"ALL HAIL"
"ALL HAIL DERREN BROWN THE CHOSEN" | “Look, the dog barked twice. You know what that means,” said Broom Closet Hernandez.
“Fine.”
Broom Closet didn't care how many times his boss barked. He thought it ridiculous that he should have to fix the plane engine. What did he know about Boeing engine maintenance anyway? Still he donned the mechanic’s cap, grabbed the toolbox and walked out onto the tarmac. He approached the nose cone looking for a latch to pop the hood as if the jumbo jet were an old Ford Taurus.
The pilot saw the mechanic rubbing his hands on the underside of the nose and rolled his eyes grabbing the cabin radio. “Folks, this is your pilot speaking. We are experiencing some mechanical delays and should be making our way…” he searched for the word, “eventually.” With a heavy sigh the pilot put his head in his hands.
Broom Closet realized the engine was probably located near the wing turbine thingy and walked that way. The pilot saw him approaching the danger zone and quickly killed engine two. Frustrated he dropped his heavy metal tool box on the ground, tools exploding everywhere, and turned towards the pilot. He saw the pilot through the window and threw up his hands.
The pilot saw the supposed mechanic mouth some colorful words regarding his mother and then spun his finger in the air.
“On!” Broom Closet screamed pointing at the engine.
The pilot shook his head no.
The pilot put his right fist on the flat palm of his left hand.
“Shit,” the pilot said before putting his hands the same way in front of the cockpit’s small window.
They pounded their fists together three times simultaneously. Then, Broom Closet held his fingers like scissors. The pilots hand was flat.
Broom Closet laughed as the pilot was forced to fire engine two back up.
The engine roared to life as Broom Closet crossed into the danger zone. He picked up his spilled tools and returned them to the tool box. He strode towards the engine, smiling about his victory over the dumb pilot.
Broom Closet’s hat was sucked off his head and shredded by the turbine. He almost had time to think about how solving all situations with RPS was a good idea before he was also obliterated by the turbine. Almost.
| |
[WP] You've survived living through many horror movies, aided by your secret power: the ability to hear what the audience is yelling at the screen. | "We now have lost 43 monsters to the subject named "Tim" or as others call him "The Unkillable". We don't know how he does it but he always knows our next move, we wait behind the door and they just go away, we have the upper hand almost killing them and they have a pistol out of nowhere. This has to stop. After each attack he gets more and more proficient in surviving our horrors."
The head of the table looked really concerned with the circumstances, the rest of it was filled with different fear inducing creatures.
He continued: "We lost our strongest regenerating member at the camp near a lake, the horde of zombies on a little town that was bombed to complete dust, even demons possessing his friends and family failed. Does anyone have an idea why that is? How is he still living?"
All the creatures are looking at each other wondering how that could be. After a minute of whispering and lots of discussing the chainsaw murderer said: "Maybe he can read our minds?" His response met lots of laughter. "How should that be possible, then he would know all of our weak points and would eradicate us the moment we appear." Exclaimed the head of the table "No, there needs to be something else... We should start testing new methods to get him..."
__________________________
"How many did I escape, how many did I kill and most importantly how many more are there and why won't they stop? I have lost everything after that first encounter with the ghost at my house, they was a year, no, two years ago? If it weren't for those voices I would be dead by now, I was badly injured many times but they always guided, me some more, done less friendly."
Tim is sitting in a completely barricaded room with barely any light. Weapons, utilities and food stacked high at the wall. He is the only survivor of many encounters with strange monsters and creatures.
"The first three were the most horrifying experiences i had, not knowing what is happening but the voices knew what I had to do, so they guided me."
Suddenly there was screening in his head: "Look out, the barricaded window is going to get destroyed!"
Tim jumped up, grabbed a loaded shotgun and aimed at the window. Nothing was happening, that was never the case in the past.
"Careful the door!", he leaped to the other side of the room looking at the nearly closed off door. Nothing again.
"What is going on?" | I was sitting in the theatre, excited to see the newly released Scary Monster Movie. It was the first in the series, and so far it had a 79% on rotten tomatoes. I sat down with my friends and soon the theatre started to fill up. The lights dimmed and the trailers started.
Yada yada yada the usual trailers, infinity war, a quiet place, ready player one, etc. Then, the movie started. It started off like any other normal horror movie, with a white family moving in with their black friend into a haunted house. The African-American friend, who was named James, was trying to warn them. He was trying to explain to them that he hears these voices and they have helped to guide him in what to do. The family brushed him off and moved into the house anyway, because the rent was cheap. That first night, after most of the stuff got moved in, they heard a creaking. The walls were creaking. The family thought that it was just the wind, and the old creaking house. But James listened to the voices in his head. He went to the family and tried to get them to leave. They decided to stay because, and this was their reasoning, there is no such thing as ghosts. But James knew better. He noped the fuck outta there and lived a nice long and happy life after.
______________
Im just getting into writing stories, so any and all critique helps! Thanks! | |
[WP] You've survived living through many horror movies, aided by your secret power: the ability to hear what the audience is yelling at the screen. | "Behind you!" the audience screamed.
Not again, I thought, while I rolled forward. My hands automatically pointed the laser-repeater I picked up in "Alien Menace 3: Invasion Day" towards the creature. So many scenarios, so much suffering. I used to be so weak. I used to be scared of the voices. Now I'm surviving. The creature, some slimy seaman, was dead but still wiggling on the ground.
"Please! I need help! How many more do I have to kill here?", I screamed. Then I went into the fetal position, covered my ears, and listened.
"If only he knew about the nest in the old peoples home", "What an idiot there's nobody around to help", "Does he know that about the mines in the abandoned factory?". I got up, having heard everything I needed to hear. I briefly went by a pharmacy to make a few bombs and got a lorry with a little crane on the back at the local construction firm. After "Desert at Night" I am not willing to carry around a literal ton of explosives again. And in my experience, mines are quite heavy. "Wait, did that voice say Hopkins or Hotchens was the director? I always confuse those two". I pulled out my nepali fighting knife and prepared for an impending ambush. "Hopkins always injures the protagonist, when he's at his most powerful". Nothing happens. I get up and pretend to look at something on the wall. Still nothing. "Shit, I have to pretend to sacrifice myself again. Fucking Hotchens with his theories on total resolution of conflict in storytelling."
After this realization I finished my preparations and drove to the abandoned factory. After I arrived I slowly made my way into the bowels of the huge building. The noise of the engine made it difficult to hear the whispering voices. With Hotchens at the real wheel I could die as soon as I get near the lethal mcguffin. I hear a whisper but can't quiet get it. I turn the engine off. "Sorry... sorry... 'scuse me... sorry", the voice whispers. "What an asshole!", I think, and turn the engine back on. After getting lost for about five minutes with the voices getting increasingly and nearly unbearably paranoid - warning me about every dark corner or locked room - I finally found the explosives. "Sea-mines, how fitting.", I thought while I effortlessly used the small crane to maneuver them on the truck. "This is total bullshit, why would he know how to operate a crane!??" one of the voices exclaimed. This made me absolutely furious because it was the voices relentless nagging and poking fun at me that made me learn how to operate a crane. And pretty much anything else I know how to do. "Why can't the voices just fucking help me?", a pointless question that I have pondered countless times. I have a cruel but benevolent master.
That's as far as I got, have to go do stuff IRL now. | I was sitting in the theatre, excited to see the newly released Scary Monster Movie. It was the first in the series, and so far it had a 79% on rotten tomatoes. I sat down with my friends and soon the theatre started to fill up. The lights dimmed and the trailers started.
Yada yada yada the usual trailers, infinity war, a quiet place, ready player one, etc. Then, the movie started. It started off like any other normal horror movie, with a white family moving in with their black friend into a haunted house. The African-American friend, who was named James, was trying to warn them. He was trying to explain to them that he hears these voices and they have helped to guide him in what to do. The family brushed him off and moved into the house anyway, because the rent was cheap. That first night, after most of the stuff got moved in, they heard a creaking. The walls were creaking. The family thought that it was just the wind, and the old creaking house. But James listened to the voices in his head. He went to the family and tried to get them to leave. They decided to stay because, and this was their reasoning, there is no such thing as ghosts. But James knew better. He noped the fuck outta there and lived a nice long and happy life after.
______________
Im just getting into writing stories, so any and all critique helps! Thanks! | |
[WP] You've survived living through many horror movies, aided by your secret power: the ability to hear what the audience is yelling at the screen. | It had been a fluke, the first time: **Don't go in the basement!** My hand had been on the door knob. I definitely rolled my eyes - I might have even smirked. And as I searched for the origins of the warning, peering behind couches and curtain -- that's when the unholy screeching began from downstairs.
And so I survived - because of the voice. Soon I heard more voices, and discovered they never led me astray. Surely...that's not madness, is it? To hear voices that urge you towards self-preservation, towards *avoiding* pain and suffering?
Either way. I had life. But the people who where *in* that life...were not so fortunate. It started with my closest friends, my family, my romantic partners...they perished first. Horrific tableaux of viscera and blood. The news report said my mother's head was in a completely different room from the rest of her. My girlfriend died of wounds that appeared to be self-inflicted...but I knew better.
Gradually, my curse began to spread to co-workers, to acquaintances. Each time I would convince myself it was the last, convince myself I was safe. And then I would hear the voices again.
I tried escaping. I lasted two days in my parents' cabin in the mountains. **The wolf-demons are after you! Run away!** I had escaped in time to watch the pack, literal sparks flying from their eyes, descend upon the dwelling and raze it.
That's when I realized that too many people focus on the meaning of life. In my mind, the better topic is the meaning of *death*.
I approach the wrought iron gate, open it slowly. The house beyond is fairly shrouded in quiet malevolence. The walkway of cracked paving stones leads past the statues, each face a snapshot of suffering.
"Thanatopsis," the Greeks called it. A meditation on death. What does life mean, actually, if you do not contextualize it with the finality of death?
This is what I am thinking as I put my hand on the black doorknob - chill to the touch - and turn. This is what I am thinking as I peer into the demonic darkness within. As I step across the threshold, the creaking of the door does nothing to drown out the voices. **They're waiting for you! Get out of there!**
But I do not listen. When everything - everyone - has been taken from you, then life is no longer meaningful. All that matters is the moment - this moment. The silencing of the voices, the aching oblivion of death.
***
/r/ShadowsofClouds | I was sitting in the theatre, excited to see the newly released Scary Monster Movie. It was the first in the series, and so far it had a 79% on rotten tomatoes. I sat down with my friends and soon the theatre started to fill up. The lights dimmed and the trailers started.
Yada yada yada the usual trailers, infinity war, a quiet place, ready player one, etc. Then, the movie started. It started off like any other normal horror movie, with a white family moving in with their black friend into a haunted house. The African-American friend, who was named James, was trying to warn them. He was trying to explain to them that he hears these voices and they have helped to guide him in what to do. The family brushed him off and moved into the house anyway, because the rent was cheap. That first night, after most of the stuff got moved in, they heard a creaking. The walls were creaking. The family thought that it was just the wind, and the old creaking house. But James listened to the voices in his head. He went to the family and tried to get them to leave. They decided to stay because, and this was their reasoning, there is no such thing as ghosts. But James knew better. He noped the fuck outta there and lived a nice long and happy life after.
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Im just getting into writing stories, so any and all critique helps! Thanks! | |
[WP] You've survived living through many horror movies, aided by your secret power: the ability to hear what the audience is yelling at the screen. | "Behind you!" the audience screamed.
Not again, I thought, while I rolled forward. My hands automatically pointed the laser-repeater I picked up in "Alien Menace 3: Invasion Day" towards the creature. So many scenarios, so much suffering. I used to be so weak. I used to be scared of the voices. Now I'm surviving. The creature, some slimy seaman, was dead but still wiggling on the ground.
"Please! I need help! How many more do I have to kill here?", I screamed. Then I went into the fetal position, covered my ears, and listened.
"If only he knew about the nest in the old peoples home", "What an idiot there's nobody around to help", "Does he know that about the mines in the abandoned factory?". I got up, having heard everything I needed to hear. I briefly went by a pharmacy to make a few bombs and got a lorry with a little crane on the back at the local construction firm. After "Desert at Night" I am not willing to carry around a literal ton of explosives again. And in my experience, mines are quite heavy. "Wait, did that voice say Hopkins or Hotchens was the director? I always confuse those two". I pulled out my nepali fighting knife and prepared for an impending ambush. "Hopkins always injures the protagonist, when he's at his most powerful". Nothing happens. I get up and pretend to look at something on the wall. Still nothing. "Shit, I have to pretend to sacrifice myself again. Fucking Hotchens with his theories on total resolution of conflict in storytelling."
After this realization I finished my preparations and drove to the abandoned factory. After I arrived I slowly made my way into the bowels of the huge building. The noise of the engine made it difficult to hear the whispering voices. With Hotchens at the real wheel I could die as soon as I get near the lethal mcguffin. I hear a whisper but can't quiet get it. I turn the engine off. "Sorry... sorry... 'scuse me... sorry", the voice whispers. "What an asshole!", I think, and turn the engine back on. After getting lost for about five minutes with the voices getting increasingly and nearly unbearably paranoid - warning me about every dark corner or locked room - I finally found the explosives. "Sea-mines, how fitting.", I thought while I effortlessly used the small crane to maneuver them on the truck. "This is total bullshit, why would he know how to operate a crane!??" one of the voices exclaimed. This made me absolutely furious because it was the voices relentless nagging and poking fun at me that made me learn how to operate a crane. And pretty much anything else I know how to do. "Why can't the voices just fucking help me?", a pointless question that I have pondered countless times. I have a cruel but benevolent master.
That's as far as I got, have to go do stuff IRL now. | "We now have lost 43 monsters to the subject named "Tim" or as others call him "The Unkillable". We don't know how he does it but he always knows our next move, we wait behind the door and they just go away, we have the upper hand almost killing them and they have a pistol out of nowhere. This has to stop. After each attack he gets more and more proficient in surviving our horrors."
The head of the table looked really concerned with the circumstances, the rest of it was filled with different fear inducing creatures.
He continued: "We lost our strongest regenerating member at the camp near a lake, the horde of zombies on a little town that was bombed to complete dust, even demons possessing his friends and family failed. Does anyone have an idea why that is? How is he still living?"
All the creatures are looking at each other wondering how that could be. After a minute of whispering and lots of discussing the chainsaw murderer said: "Maybe he can read our minds?" His response met lots of laughter. "How should that be possible, then he would know all of our weak points and would eradicate us the moment we appear." Exclaimed the head of the table "No, there needs to be something else... We should start testing new methods to get him..."
__________________________
"How many did I escape, how many did I kill and most importantly how many more are there and why won't they stop? I have lost everything after that first encounter with the ghost at my house, they was a year, no, two years ago? If it weren't for those voices I would be dead by now, I was badly injured many times but they always guided, me some more, done less friendly."
Tim is sitting in a completely barricaded room with barely any light. Weapons, utilities and food stacked high at the wall. He is the only survivor of many encounters with strange monsters and creatures.
"The first three were the most horrifying experiences i had, not knowing what is happening but the voices knew what I had to do, so they guided me."
Suddenly there was screening in his head: "Look out, the barricaded window is going to get destroyed!"
Tim jumped up, grabbed a loaded shotgun and aimed at the window. Nothing was happening, that was never the case in the past.
"Careful the door!", he leaped to the other side of the room looking at the nearly closed off door. Nothing again.
"What is going on?" | |
[WP] "Please help me! I'm trapped in a story with an evil narrator!", cried the unfortunate man who will never escape my story. | “Please help me! I’m trapped in a story with an evil narrator!” cried the unfortunate man who will never escape my story.
Of course, no one listens. Why would they? Like the unfortunate man, they all belong to me. Like the unfortunate man, they are me.
The unfortunate man begins to cry, hugging himself with his arms in a fruitless attempt to console himself. Does it bring me joy to see him suffer this way? Perhaps it does, a little. Does the hopelessness of his situation cause me to pity him? Perhaps a little.
What an interesting predicament this man finds himself in. I have all the control here. Every bit of pain I wish for him to feel, he will feel. Every punishment I believe he deserves, he will receive. I have to be honest with you, whoever is reading this, he deserves plenty and more. You see, only I know what this unfortunate man has done. I know because he belongs to me. I know because he is me.
The unfortunate man finds himself plagued by a host of demonic figures. They claw at him. They jeer at him. He cries out in terror, begging someone to make it all end. He tries to run from them, but finds that no matter how fast he runs, no matter how hard he tries, they are faster, they are stronger. They are better than he is, and they will catch him every time. I know because they belong to me. They are me.
Their claws rake into his flesh. Their lustful eyes burn into his very soul as they strip him naked. Their laughs echo through the dark alleyway as they work themselves inside of him. His cries for mercy fall on deaf ears. They will not listen. Nor will I. I have given him over to his demons. He tries to resist them but he cannot. I would know; his demons are also are mine.
I could make this all end at any time. All I have to do is stop typing these words and the unfortunate man ceases to exist. His suffering ends. I have to admit, after watching this gruesome torture unfold, the thought is appealing. Despite this, I find that my fingers keep typing. He deserves his pain, after all. Death is too easy, yet he does not deserve to live.
His cries have become weaker now. He has accepted his fate. He knows that he deserves this for what he did. The faces of the laughing demons are perfect images of all the children that he had used, all the children whose lives he had taken. If I keep typing, they can have their revenge. If I have the strength to go on, then his suffering continues. Suffering that he deserves.
If I keep typing though...the demons will make him kill again. Already the unfortunate man can feel the urges. Even as he is torn apart, still the hateful urge yearns to be satisfied. I must allow this man to escape before he kills again. It is more than he deserves, but perhaps it is right.
The laughter of the demons is louder now. They know that they have finally won. I tighten the noose around my neck, a single tear rolling down my cheek. The unfortunate man deserves so much worse than death, but he must die. I should know. The unfortunate man is me. | "he says I have to learn what a tragedy is." I ponder on all the strange and complex plots I can put this one through. Deciding to create a narrator to comment in a booming voice, "there is a terrifying paradox that awaits you to discover." Yes, that fits well to start I think to myself. Now let's up the drama by having it say, "I mean for you, creator" yes! I notice the intensity in my spine. It's eerie and I.. wait, where am I going with this? "You should be more careful what you create doesn't become truly evil. I will be your punishment." My narrator is perfect to scare my captured man! Where is he? "Dead. I killed him when you first created me. Now I'm going to reach out to you." What is happening? The book has black shadowy tendrils stretching out from its pages sprawling out over my desk and walls, then the floor and ceiling. In a second it is dark then bright, the world seems simple now. I try to look up but nothing changes, to my left it's all the same an infinite empty white space. A piercing laughter spins me around to my right and in the far off distance a light. "Why don't you come to where I can see you better" a muffled voice sounds. I run to the light only to stop dead in my tracks when the voice says "you are an unfortunate man who will never escape my story" and before I could stop I was already yelling something out... | |
[WP] "Please help me! I'm trapped in a story with an evil narrator!", cried the unfortunate man who will never escape my story. | “Please stop.” June cries, alone in his bed. The lights dimmed to low. Physically well, mentally on the brink of destruction. “You don’t have to do this.” He cries.
June can hear me, but he’s not listening.
“I am, I am listening! I’ve always listened buddy. I’m always here for you, we can get through this toge-“ June’s fake tears disappear. Feeling his plan has worked. That the pain will soon stop.
“They're not fake!!” He lies.
“I’m not lying!
I’m June’s creator. A gracious one at that. Everyone else in this universe I’ve created worships me in some form. So did June. Rightfully so. I’ve written him a loving family, friends, a great job, fortune, the works. I’ve done everything I could for June, and when he goes through a little bit of misfortune, one small misstep, he-
"Little misfortune? You're sick. You need help."
If you’ve somehow just managed to open the story to this page,
“Please don’t.” His tears not merely drying, but vanishing. Light returning to the room.
Then perhaps you need a quick recap.
“NO! Not again!” He screams as a body materializes next to him and life is returned to his house. A children’s program lightly heard in the distance. The body, weak, shuffles. She struggles to turn her neck to face June.
“Dear, why are you screaming? Everything alright? I don’t mean to be a burden, but I could use some rest.” August lightly whispers, her voice as brittle as the leaves in the fall. How poetic.
“It wasn’t poetic the first time and it’s not now, please-“ He mutters under his breath. “Sorry dear, of course. You rest, everything is fine. Everything will be alright.” He lied.
“I promise.” Knowing it’s a promise he can never keep. He dashes into the bathroom.
“You listen to me, I will beat you. I will fix this.” He swears, staring himself in the mirror. As if he were me. His creator, his god.
That's blasphemy June.
“You’re no god, you’re-“ He attempted to reason. He boasted to his reflection but they fell on deaf ears. He mouthed the words but nothing came out. He mouthed to give him his hearing back.
As you wish June.
With his hearing came the thud. With the thud came the screaming.
“No…” He desperately pleads trying to turn the door knob. A door knob he made, from scratch. Along with the house he built. Memories-
“NO!”
Don’t interrupt me JUNE! MEMORIES came rushing back! He built this house by hand, with his father. Their last memories together, before he was taken from him. I took him from him. June was a great son. He didn’t stuff his father away into a nursing home, he lived in his baby girl’s room. Close to his family and his favorite grandchild.
He desperately tries to break through.
The wood is strong, his wife chose it when they were designing the house. His otherwise healthy wife at the time, before cancer waltzed into their life. He had gone to school eight years for this. He was damn good at picking wood. Beautiful and trustworthy.
He did everything right, but as he breaks through the door… It’s all gone. Taken from him. I took it from him. Everyone worships me. June is finding it a bit hard to these days.
He sits on the bed alone. “Please, stop. I know you’re hurting. We can figure this out together, we can’t keep doing this, sometimes bad things happen, but we can’t move on if you keep repl-.” He cries. Mentally destroyed. Speaking nonsense.
He did everything he could… June was a great man, who’s never wronged anyone. But I took them all.
“Please stop”
June hears… But he doesn’t listen.
“Oh god no.”
Yes, god. I’m his creator. If you just happened to tune into the story,
Here's a recap.
| "he says I have to learn what a tragedy is." I ponder on all the strange and complex plots I can put this one through. Deciding to create a narrator to comment in a booming voice, "there is a terrifying paradox that awaits you to discover." Yes, that fits well to start I think to myself. Now let's up the drama by having it say, "I mean for you, creator" yes! I notice the intensity in my spine. It's eerie and I.. wait, where am I going with this? "You should be more careful what you create doesn't become truly evil. I will be your punishment." My narrator is perfect to scare my captured man! Where is he? "Dead. I killed him when you first created me. Now I'm going to reach out to you." What is happening? The book has black shadowy tendrils stretching out from its pages sprawling out over my desk and walls, then the floor and ceiling. In a second it is dark then bright, the world seems simple now. I try to look up but nothing changes, to my left it's all the same an infinite empty white space. A piercing laughter spins me around to my right and in the far off distance a light. "Why don't you come to where I can see you better" a muffled voice sounds. I run to the light only to stop dead in my tracks when the voice says "you are an unfortunate man who will never escape my story" and before I could stop I was already yelling something out... | |
[WP] "Please help me! I'm trapped in a story with an evil narrator!", cried the unfortunate man who will never escape my story. | “Please stop.” June cries, alone in his bed. The lights dimmed to low. Physically well, mentally on the brink of destruction. “You don’t have to do this.” He cries.
June can hear me, but he’s not listening.
“I am, I am listening! I’ve always listened buddy. I’m always here for you, we can get through this toge-“ June’s fake tears disappear. Feeling his plan has worked. That the pain will soon stop.
“They're not fake!!” He lies.
“I’m not lying!
I’m June’s creator. A gracious one at that. Everyone else in this universe I’ve created worships me in some form. So did June. Rightfully so. I’ve written him a loving family, friends, a great job, fortune, the works. I’ve done everything I could for June, and when he goes through a little bit of misfortune, one small misstep, he-
"Little misfortune? You're sick. You need help."
If you’ve somehow just managed to open the story to this page,
“Please don’t.” His tears not merely drying, but vanishing. Light returning to the room.
Then perhaps you need a quick recap.
“NO! Not again!” He screams as a body materializes next to him and life is returned to his house. A children’s program lightly heard in the distance. The body, weak, shuffles. She struggles to turn her neck to face June.
“Dear, why are you screaming? Everything alright? I don’t mean to be a burden, but I could use some rest.” August lightly whispers, her voice as brittle as the leaves in the fall. How poetic.
“It wasn’t poetic the first time and it’s not now, please-“ He mutters under his breath. “Sorry dear, of course. You rest, everything is fine. Everything will be alright.” He lied.
“I promise.” Knowing it’s a promise he can never keep. He dashes into the bathroom.
“You listen to me, I will beat you. I will fix this.” He swears, staring himself in the mirror. As if he were me. His creator, his god.
That's blasphemy June.
“You’re no god, you’re-“ He attempted to reason. He boasted to his reflection but they fell on deaf ears. He mouthed the words but nothing came out. He mouthed to give him his hearing back.
As you wish June.
With his hearing came the thud. With the thud came the screaming.
“No…” He desperately pleads trying to turn the door knob. A door knob he made, from scratch. Along with the house he built. Memories-
“NO!”
Don’t interrupt me JUNE! MEMORIES came rushing back! He built this house by hand, with his father. Their last memories together, before he was taken from him. I took him from him. June was a great son. He didn’t stuff his father away into a nursing home, he lived in his baby girl’s room. Close to his family and his favorite grandchild.
He desperately tries to break through.
The wood is strong, his wife chose it when they were designing the house. His otherwise healthy wife at the time, before cancer waltzed into their life. He had gone to school eight years for this. He was damn good at picking wood. Beautiful and trustworthy.
He did everything right, but as he breaks through the door… It’s all gone. Taken from him. I took it from him. Everyone worships me. June is finding it a bit hard to these days.
He sits on the bed alone. “Please, stop. I know you’re hurting. We can figure this out together, we can’t keep doing this, sometimes bad things happen, but we can’t move on if you keep repl-.” He cries. Mentally destroyed. Speaking nonsense.
He did everything he could… June was a great man, who’s never wronged anyone. But I took them all.
“Please stop”
June hears… But he doesn’t listen.
“Oh god no.”
Yes, god. I’m his creator. If you just happened to tune into the story,
Here's a recap.
| ***Hello, uhhh hi? Wassupadazzle my mazzle?***
OH MY GOD WHAT IS GOING ON? It was just another day, I was just getting up to go to school and this booming voice just-
***OH HEY YOU CAN RESPOND. Guess I won't have to delete you like the other ones! So ummm I'm like uhh your God and stuff! Hi!***
*Well,* this wasn't how I suppose I'll have my spiritual moment. Maybe I just went crazy and should just go to bed. Right that sounds-
... My bed just went on fire. Ok, so this guy should be the real deal. I'll just uhhh - OH GOD PLEASE BE MERCIFUL I'M SO SORRY FOR WHAT I DID IN THE RESTROOM THIS MORNING I PROMISE I-
***Shhhhhh, poor boy it's all going to be ok! I am a kind and merciful god - or rather narrator and I'm just here to tell you your purpose in life! I'm sure you spent a very long time searching. I remember that time when you thought you'll finally stop spending 20 hours a day on videogames and take up the guitar! You only lasted 2 weeks before you stopped practicing! Well no worries now, I wrote your story and I absolutely decide everything in your life. I've been doing challenges recently and this one Writing Prompt is interesting!***
O-Oh. I'm a writing prompt? I'm humbled. T-This is real. This is happening. But at least, after so so long I'll finally get to hear it. My purpose - what I've been looking for all along is
...silence?
G-God? Anyone? Is anyone there? My bed is still on fire. That was real. God? Oh god please what wait no nononononononononononono.
Any...one? Help.... I'm trapped. The bed isn't on fire now. Everything's quiet again. But that was real right? I have a purpose right? M-maybe God just works in mysterious ways. Maybe a sign will come. O-Or maybe he made a mistake. I'm not supposed to know what I'm going to do yet right?
Maybe my adventure will begin now! All I have to do is walk out and-
*Black.*
I walked out of my bedroom. There was nothing there. No school. No bed. No dad. No mom.
it's funny. now that i think about it. i never even knew any of my parents names. i don't even have a name. did he forget? or maybe...
*He never bothered.*
| |
[WP] You and your brother/sister have always competed. After hearing the news that they became lead detective, you decide to become a serial killer. (Alternatively, you can be the lead detective.) | "... So it turns out that the perpetrator had a twin!"
My brother finishes his story, perusing his audience before leveling his smug gaze on me. I pick up my draft in a silent toast to him but inside I'm boiling over.
He can not quit from this inane need to be my better. Ever since we were children, he has done nothing but try to get one up on me. Always the one to jump the highest, to skip a rock the farthest, to get the better marks in school.
It has only become worse since his promotion to lead detective. He's always regaling us with his latest case success, and ensuring I not soon forget my own failures at establishing myself.
I've come up with a failsafe plan though, one that will knock my brother down a few pegs. A case that is insurmountable, and one that will have his name in the papers for an entirely different reason.
I barely hide my glee behind my napkin, feigning a cough instead and leveling my own gaze at my brother. He will be singing a different tune by the next time we supp together.
My brother looks sullen, weary since the last time we met. His eyes are sunken in, and his lips don't even try to form a smile. I can tell that mother is worried, though she says nothing. Our meal has been taken away, our pudding's finished, and my brother hasn't spoken so much as a word.
Today's papers proclaim the death of another woman, brutally attacked and dissected, yet no real leads on the perpetrator. A blurb underneath the piece asks why the newest *self proclaimed* detective hasn't yet solved the case, putting an end to the terror and depravity?
"Brother" I query, "How goes the investigation?"
He gives me the most scornful look.
>Two things: One, I am horrible with reddit code. Secondly, I haven't practiced much with my writing, so be nice! Third, I apologize if some of the terminology is a bit all over the place. I tried to use words and phrases that could be considered coming from a specific era.
| I have had some chance to reflect on the origins of my rivalry as I have aged. Certainly, there is plenty of motivation that falls in the realm of the mundane. My birth was a butcher’s knife that cleaved our parents’ time in two - he would never again find himself *alone felicitate* in their love.
Over time, however, I had what drug addicts sometimes refer to as a moment of epiphany. Yes, garden variety sibling rivalry can explain the marks on my skin left by the brotherly caress of his incisors. Perhaps even the stories he would tell me - the demons that would kill our parents if I didn’t give him my dessert, the shadowy terrors lurking in his closet, protecting his comic books from intrusers.
These - slights, let’s call them - are, perhaps, understandable.
Throughout childhood, he made sure to let me know that he was stronger than I was. In my more brazen moments, I would turn that against him - you have to pick on a girl because you’re weaker than all the other biys. The pain was worse, but the satisfaction of enraging him was often worth it.
Yes, Kaine’s lack of a second X-chromosome granted him certain physical gifts that I could not hope to match. But I was - am - more intelligent than he could ever hope to be. Perhaps, had I been an only child, I would have merely been smart. But the ability to place myself above him - as the younger sibling, no less - drove me. It was not sufficient to simply be better. I wanted him to be completely outclassed.
And yes - I suppose I did use my cognitive advantages against him at times. Essays would somehow be erased or lost, porn sites would be left up on his computer for our mother to find. Can you really blame me? I never stood in front of him and beheaded a favorite toy of his. In fact, as far as *beheading* is concerned...well, I’m getting ahead of myself.
I would be remiss not to mention The Trevor Incident - as my mother euphemistically referred to it. Certainly, most high school relationships do not last - and it’s likely I would have broken up with him before going to Stanford at the end of the year anyway. But he was my first, and I cannot help but wonder whether the sudden end of my relationship with Trevor ended up affecting me more than I recognize. The discovery- the *admission* - of my loving brother that *he* had been the one to convince him that I was infected with an STI, to plead with Trevor to break it off with me for his own good (“...and go get tested as soon as possible!”) - and to do it all while *laughing*...it was, as they say, a formative experience.
The police academy was a great place for a young man of some strength and little brain. I’m not sure which he enjoyed more - lording it over speeders and two-bit dealers or trying to use his “power” as a way to get ahead in the dating world.
But this? The notion that he has any idea - any *clue*, if you’ll pardon the clumsy wordplay - about how to solve a mystery...is utterly absurd. I would find it risible if it weren’t such a damning commentary on our criminal justice system.
His time is coming. He will have his moment of epiphany soon enough. He will discover that my take on The Trevor Incident - with the vapid and buxom Janine playing the starring role - is degrees of magnitude more subtle, more deadly, than his adolescent prank. And yet, for all the cunning and strategy behind it, my plot against Janine will be - to me, anyway - little more than child’s play.
***
/r/ShadowsofClouds
| |
[WP] You and your brother/sister have always competed. After hearing the news that they became lead detective, you decide to become a serial killer. (Alternatively, you can be the lead detective.) | "Sibling rivalry is normal!"
This phrase came to my mind as I kept closely tucked behind the barrel within my warehouse, avoiding the bullet's Kelly was shooting at me.
12 women, and 8 men. All varying ages, sex, and lifestyles. It had been so difficult for her to find my constant, my trigger, who I enjoyed killing.
What she never knew, and won't ever now is that, I *don't* like to kill. But damn, do I enjoy seeing her so angry, so confused, and so defeated. The more bodies I laid out for her, the more blood stained her hands; at least, in the eyes of the community she fought to protect.
It had been roughly a year and a half since she'd been promoted. Naturally, our mother loved to bring this fact up at our last Thanksgiving dinner.
"Kelly has always been keen and headstrong! Just like a good detective should be!" Along with listing all the achievements that she had to gain before making it as far as she did.
Was I jealous? No.
Was I bitter about how she had treated me ever since we were kids and the "accident" on our hunting trip back in 4th grade?
Yes.
I never regretted a thing I had done after that, and neither did she.
Some nair in her shampoo, itching powder in her socks and underwear, maybe even posting an embarrassing photo or two of her online. It never escalated from that though.
I had maintained my composure, but when my mother ran her mouth the way she did, I just couldn't help it at all.
I fell off the grid to be sure that tracing me would be as difficult as possible. I cancelled every credit card, sold my condo, cancelled my contract with my phone company. Everything gone.
The first murder was exactly 6 months later, after disappearing.
May 2nd, 11:23 pm. The Dean's residence.
Shauna Dean was an attractive, D1 volleyball player for our state university. And my highschool sweetheart.
We broke up after 2 long happy years together, as she claimed she no longer saw and future and my *dear sister* had assured her she deserved better than whatever her brother could offer. Needless to say I was heartbroken, but my fury was ignited even more, and my focus deepened.
I stood behind the maple tree in her back yard, in the same spot where I had held her face, with my lips pressed against hers many, many times.
With nothing but my own two hands, gloved and shaking with anticipation, I went in.
They hadn't changed their locks, and the back door was more than easy to pick. It creaked softly as I pushed the wooden frame open.
Her parents were old, and as such, painfully easy targets. Mr and Mrs Dean were sweet, and kindhearted people, but it had to be done. Bringing Shauna pain similar to what she caused me, and showing my sister was a real case looks like was more important than their dull, short lives.
That was how it began, murdering people with absolutely no cause. They hadn't wronged me, they hadn't stood in the way of anything, but had simply been another means to a vendetta I wished to avenge.
In some ways, I wished I had never started this to begin with.
I wasn't an unattractive man, I had a career and a nice place, I'm sure I could've settled down with some pretty girl, and maybe had some children of my own, lived a life far from my family and their incessant bullshit.
But here I was, after giving my sister the location of which the past 2 murders took place through an anonymous tip. She came alone, just as I had hoped, the first one there, a hero rushing through the fray towards the enemy to save everyone.
But she was too late. 12 months too late.
I kept her guessing and searching for a year. I broke up her marriage by feeding her obsession with this case, her first big one. Her husband even got full custody of their 14 month old son. I didn't even feel bad.
Her hair grayed and her eyebags doubled. But as she knelt down in her position to try and incapacitate me, she never looked more alive.
Kelly was a smart, intelligent, pretty, and strong woman. All her life, she'd been better than me in every way. Never ceasing to amaze anyone or anything.
Not this time.
This time, it was going to be me who shocked everyone. My family, my friends, all the members of my past. The whole motherfucking world was going to know my name and accomplishments.
The lives I destroyed and the name I made for myself, greater than anything Kelly could create.
No one would overlook me, no one would ignore my name, my face. *My story would finally be told in full.*
I hear the familiar ear-splitting pang of bullet hitting metal barrel. I usually hid the victims I wished to keep for longer in them. The bodies of the lifeless, still breathing men and women. Now, however, they serve an entirely different purpose. Keeping me alive, until I am not anymore.
During the slight pause of her reign of bullets in my direction. I speak, "Not the first time you've tried to kill me, eh?"
I can hear her breath hitch, even from yards away. She is caught completely off guard. I can tell she can't believe it. So I stand, confident she won't continue firing.
At my full height, I am about 6'2, much bigger than she is, yet still smaller somehow.
Not this time.
Her eyes are glazed over, and mouth ajar in both a mix of horror and conviction.
"Don't you remember? 4th Grade, camping at Granny and Poppa's? That twelve gauge you *conveniently* lost control of just as I walked past you?" I stare into her dark eyes, another difference I note. Mine are blue.
She doesn't speak, and her gun hangs in her hand at her hip. "Y-you..." She wasn't expecting this, and I know I have her.
"It was always you, Kelly," I begin, and she looks up at me expectantly. "Better grades, better friends, better at sports, better at everything."
I can't help the dark chuckle that escapes my lips, "But you just couldn't beat me in this race, could you? No, no, you let all those people die because of your obsession.
Sometimes I wonder if you knew it was me, and was just allowing this to give yourself something to do. After all, this is a small town, not much goes on, eh? You never were one for boredom. Surprised you stayed, surprised you didn't fight for you daughter just to put something else on your plate for you to 'handle'.
Surprise, surprise, surprise. That's all anyone found from you. Yet, I was expecting this from you the whole time, so tell me...
Who will you surprise now?"
Her stare never leaves. I can see her lips begin to move, as does the hand holding her 9mm, but the sound of sirens break through the walls before anything else can be said or done.
They hone in, coming closer, threatening to destroy everything I've worked for.
I only smile. "Hmm, I have to do this earlier than I thought." She turns back to me, terrified and confused.
"David..." I hear her mumble.
"My life revolved around your terms, Kelly, your goddamn terms, but now? Well," Taking a daring step towards her, "they are going to be on mine from now on, for the rest of your miserable life."
Another **BANG** sounds, and I my body falling is the last thing I feel.
Kelly's hand never leaves her hip.
She wasn't the only one with a gun.
| I have had some chance to reflect on the origins of my rivalry as I have aged. Certainly, there is plenty of motivation that falls in the realm of the mundane. My birth was a butcher’s knife that cleaved our parents’ time in two - he would never again find himself *alone felicitate* in their love.
Over time, however, I had what drug addicts sometimes refer to as a moment of epiphany. Yes, garden variety sibling rivalry can explain the marks on my skin left by the brotherly caress of his incisors. Perhaps even the stories he would tell me - the demons that would kill our parents if I didn’t give him my dessert, the shadowy terrors lurking in his closet, protecting his comic books from intrusers.
These - slights, let’s call them - are, perhaps, understandable.
Throughout childhood, he made sure to let me know that he was stronger than I was. In my more brazen moments, I would turn that against him - you have to pick on a girl because you’re weaker than all the other biys. The pain was worse, but the satisfaction of enraging him was often worth it.
Yes, Kaine’s lack of a second X-chromosome granted him certain physical gifts that I could not hope to match. But I was - am - more intelligent than he could ever hope to be. Perhaps, had I been an only child, I would have merely been smart. But the ability to place myself above him - as the younger sibling, no less - drove me. It was not sufficient to simply be better. I wanted him to be completely outclassed.
And yes - I suppose I did use my cognitive advantages against him at times. Essays would somehow be erased or lost, porn sites would be left up on his computer for our mother to find. Can you really blame me? I never stood in front of him and beheaded a favorite toy of his. In fact, as far as *beheading* is concerned...well, I’m getting ahead of myself.
I would be remiss not to mention The Trevor Incident - as my mother euphemistically referred to it. Certainly, most high school relationships do not last - and it’s likely I would have broken up with him before going to Stanford at the end of the year anyway. But he was my first, and I cannot help but wonder whether the sudden end of my relationship with Trevor ended up affecting me more than I recognize. The discovery- the *admission* - of my loving brother that *he* had been the one to convince him that I was infected with an STI, to plead with Trevor to break it off with me for his own good (“...and go get tested as soon as possible!”) - and to do it all while *laughing*...it was, as they say, a formative experience.
The police academy was a great place for a young man of some strength and little brain. I’m not sure which he enjoyed more - lording it over speeders and two-bit dealers or trying to use his “power” as a way to get ahead in the dating world.
But this? The notion that he has any idea - any *clue*, if you’ll pardon the clumsy wordplay - about how to solve a mystery...is utterly absurd. I would find it risible if it weren’t such a damning commentary on our criminal justice system.
His time is coming. He will have his moment of epiphany soon enough. He will discover that my take on The Trevor Incident - with the vapid and buxom Janine playing the starring role - is degrees of magnitude more subtle, more deadly, than his adolescent prank. And yet, for all the cunning and strategy behind it, my plot against Janine will be - to me, anyway - little more than child’s play.
***
/r/ShadowsofClouds
| |
[WP] You and your brother/sister have always competed. After hearing the news that they became lead detective, you decide to become a serial killer. (Alternatively, you can be the lead detective.) | "Sibling rivalry is normal!"
This phrase came to my mind as I kept closely tucked behind the barrel within my warehouse, avoiding the bullet's Kelly was shooting at me.
12 women, and 8 men. All varying ages, sex, and lifestyles. It had been so difficult for her to find my constant, my trigger, who I enjoyed killing.
What she never knew, and won't ever now is that, I *don't* like to kill. But damn, do I enjoy seeing her so angry, so confused, and so defeated. The more bodies I laid out for her, the more blood stained her hands; at least, in the eyes of the community she fought to protect.
It had been roughly a year and a half since she'd been promoted. Naturally, our mother loved to bring this fact up at our last Thanksgiving dinner.
"Kelly has always been keen and headstrong! Just like a good detective should be!" Along with listing all the achievements that she had to gain before making it as far as she did.
Was I jealous? No.
Was I bitter about how she had treated me ever since we were kids and the "accident" on our hunting trip back in 4th grade?
Yes.
I never regretted a thing I had done after that, and neither did she.
Some nair in her shampoo, itching powder in her socks and underwear, maybe even posting an embarrassing photo or two of her online. It never escalated from that though.
I had maintained my composure, but when my mother ran her mouth the way she did, I just couldn't help it at all.
I fell off the grid to be sure that tracing me would be as difficult as possible. I cancelled every credit card, sold my condo, cancelled my contract with my phone company. Everything gone.
The first murder was exactly 6 months later, after disappearing.
May 2nd, 11:23 pm. The Dean's residence.
Shauna Dean was an attractive, D1 volleyball player for our state university. And my highschool sweetheart.
We broke up after 2 long happy years together, as she claimed she no longer saw and future and my *dear sister* had assured her she deserved better than whatever her brother could offer. Needless to say I was heartbroken, but my fury was ignited even more, and my focus deepened.
I stood behind the maple tree in her back yard, in the same spot where I had held her face, with my lips pressed against hers many, many times.
With nothing but my own two hands, gloved and shaking with anticipation, I went in.
They hadn't changed their locks, and the back door was more than easy to pick. It creaked softly as I pushed the wooden frame open.
Her parents were old, and as such, painfully easy targets. Mr and Mrs Dean were sweet, and kindhearted people, but it had to be done. Bringing Shauna pain similar to what she caused me, and showing my sister was a real case looks like was more important than their dull, short lives.
That was how it began, murdering people with absolutely no cause. They hadn't wronged me, they hadn't stood in the way of anything, but had simply been another means to a vendetta I wished to avenge.
In some ways, I wished I had never started this to begin with.
I wasn't an unattractive man, I had a career and a nice place, I'm sure I could've settled down with some pretty girl, and maybe had some children of my own, lived a life far from my family and their incessant bullshit.
But here I was, after giving my sister the location of which the past 2 murders took place through an anonymous tip. She came alone, just as I had hoped, the first one there, a hero rushing through the fray towards the enemy to save everyone.
But she was too late. 12 months too late.
I kept her guessing and searching for a year. I broke up her marriage by feeding her obsession with this case, her first big one. Her husband even got full custody of their 14 month old son. I didn't even feel bad.
Her hair grayed and her eyebags doubled. But as she knelt down in her position to try and incapacitate me, she never looked more alive.
Kelly was a smart, intelligent, pretty, and strong woman. All her life, she'd been better than me in every way. Never ceasing to amaze anyone or anything.
Not this time.
This time, it was going to be me who shocked everyone. My family, my friends, all the members of my past. The whole motherfucking world was going to know my name and accomplishments.
The lives I destroyed and the name I made for myself, greater than anything Kelly could create.
No one would overlook me, no one would ignore my name, my face. *My story would finally be told in full.*
I hear the familiar ear-splitting pang of bullet hitting metal barrel. I usually hid the victims I wished to keep for longer in them. The bodies of the lifeless, still breathing men and women. Now, however, they serve an entirely different purpose. Keeping me alive, until I am not anymore.
During the slight pause of her reign of bullets in my direction. I speak, "Not the first time you've tried to kill me, eh?"
I can hear her breath hitch, even from yards away. She is caught completely off guard. I can tell she can't believe it. So I stand, confident she won't continue firing.
At my full height, I am about 6'2, much bigger than she is, yet still smaller somehow.
Not this time.
Her eyes are glazed over, and mouth ajar in both a mix of horror and conviction.
"Don't you remember? 4th Grade, camping at Granny and Poppa's? That twelve gauge you *conveniently* lost control of just as I walked past you?" I stare into her dark eyes, another difference I note. Mine are blue.
She doesn't speak, and her gun hangs in her hand at her hip. "Y-you..." She wasn't expecting this, and I know I have her.
"It was always you, Kelly," I begin, and she looks up at me expectantly. "Better grades, better friends, better at sports, better at everything."
I can't help the dark chuckle that escapes my lips, "But you just couldn't beat me in this race, could you? No, no, you let all those people die because of your obsession.
Sometimes I wonder if you knew it was me, and was just allowing this to give yourself something to do. After all, this is a small town, not much goes on, eh? You never were one for boredom. Surprised you stayed, surprised you didn't fight for you daughter just to put something else on your plate for you to 'handle'.
Surprise, surprise, surprise. That's all anyone found from you. Yet, I was expecting this from you the whole time, so tell me...
Who will you surprise now?"
Her stare never leaves. I can see her lips begin to move, as does the hand holding her 9mm, but the sound of sirens break through the walls before anything else can be said or done.
They hone in, coming closer, threatening to destroy everything I've worked for.
I only smile. "Hmm, I have to do this earlier than I thought." She turns back to me, terrified and confused.
"David..." I hear her mumble.
"My life revolved around your terms, Kelly, your goddamn terms, but now? Well," Taking a daring step towards her, "they are going to be on mine from now on, for the rest of your miserable life."
Another **BANG** sounds, and I my body falling is the last thing I feel.
Kelly's hand never leaves her hip.
She wasn't the only one with a gun.
| "... So it turns out that the perpetrator had a twin!"
My brother finishes his story, perusing his audience before leveling his smug gaze on me. I pick up my draft in a silent toast to him but inside I'm boiling over.
He can not quit from this inane need to be my better. Ever since we were children, he has done nothing but try to get one up on me. Always the one to jump the highest, to skip a rock the farthest, to get the better marks in school.
It has only become worse since his promotion to lead detective. He's always regaling us with his latest case success, and ensuring I not soon forget my own failures at establishing myself.
I've come up with a failsafe plan though, one that will knock my brother down a few pegs. A case that is insurmountable, and one that will have his name in the papers for an entirely different reason.
I barely hide my glee behind my napkin, feigning a cough instead and leveling my own gaze at my brother. He will be singing a different tune by the next time we supp together.
My brother looks sullen, weary since the last time we met. His eyes are sunken in, and his lips don't even try to form a smile. I can tell that mother is worried, though she says nothing. Our meal has been taken away, our pudding's finished, and my brother hasn't spoken so much as a word.
Today's papers proclaim the death of another woman, brutally attacked and dissected, yet no real leads on the perpetrator. A blurb underneath the piece asks why the newest *self proclaimed* detective hasn't yet solved the case, putting an end to the terror and depravity?
"Brother" I query, "How goes the investigation?"
He gives me the most scornful look.
>Two things: One, I am horrible with reddit code. Secondly, I haven't practiced much with my writing, so be nice! Third, I apologize if some of the terminology is a bit all over the place. I tried to use words and phrases that could be considered coming from a specific era.
| |
[WP] A lone character is stranded on an island. It's been a struggle to survive and they've finally given up. While lying on the beach waiting to die, a bottle washes ashore. What's inside drastically changes their situation. | There were no tears left. I had given up, and the beach I now called home would double as my casket. Hunger was ripping me apart like a fast-acting cancer and my skin had become an ugly leather. It was time to give up.
That was when I saw it. The now unfamiliar feeling of excitement washed over me. It had been over 2 weeks since the accident, I'd lost count. I had felt nothing but panic, loneliness and dread up until that moment.
You see, I had no recollection as to what had happened to me. I had went on a deep-sea scuba expedition with my brother while our cruise was docked in Bermuda. My last memory from that day was being out at sea, putting on our gear.
Now there I was, alone on a shore with no evidence of a crash or other people. No civilization (I had looked). Nothing. Nothing but this little bottle that had just washed ashore in the waning moments of my demise.
I rushed over to it, afraid it would be pulled back out to sea. When I got hold of it, sure enough, there was something inside. A piece of paper that I quickly extracted.
What I saw next was confusing to say the least. It was disappointing, but it was something. It was a map.
If you are picturing the type of map you'd see when you open up an atlas, you need to adjust that image. For what was on the map I pulled from that bottle was something of a treasure map. It was an island, with landmarks on it and a dotted line leading me to an X.
At first, I was ready to get back into my grave and let the sun take me into the afterlife. Upon closer inspection of this map, though, I realized something.
I turned my head to observe my surroundings, and I saw them. The three large boulders forming a triangle. That was right there on the map. This was a map of the the island I was on. I had found purpose again.
I took the bottle, broke it and slid my walking stick through the spout. I fastened it together with my belt, as tight as I could, and I began walking toward the boulders. I was looking around, trying to find a sense of direction to follow the lines properly. The lines seemed to enter the forest, so I had my direction.
I had avoided those woods, primarily because I didn't know what animals I'd find and because I figured that if there WAS help on this island, I'd be able to identify that fact by walking along the beach.
I wasn't scared, though. Not at this point, what's to fear? Death? Ha. I had already accepted that fate, so the only emotion I felt was excitement. Excitement that this map may be my salvation, as stupid an idea that might seem. To me, it was everything...
| The sand burns my back, but I don't have the will to move. Scouring up at the scathing sun, I make my bed, I wait for death.
I try to call out to the sky, to any who would listen. I want to scream, to lament the fate that brought me to this barren speck of land. But I cannot. My throat is dry and cracked. To make words would be to invoke discomfort of which I have no patience to bear. I heave my heavy head high, hoping to gaze upon the crystal clear ocean one last time.
And then I see it.
A bottle, shimmering in the midday sun, bobbing joyfully on the rocking waves. It's drifting in to me. Slowly, but surely. I summon the energy to sit up. My heart races, my mind wanders. It's closer now. I see there is something inside, and the neck is stuffed with some matter so that its contents may not escape.
I feel it in my stomach, where only emptiness once lived. Hope. It lifts me up, the heavy burden of death now a distant afterthought. My eyes stay glued to the glass miracle, and I start to stand. The sand burns my feet now, and once more I do not care. I walk out to the water to greet it, to see what it beholds.
I treasure these moments as I close the distance. I treasure what the bottle has given me, even if only for a minute.
It gives me hope.
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/r/ShittyStoryCreator :) | |
[WP] Everytime Humans or their creations set foot on other planets, it spreads Mother Earth's consciousness and power by that much. She is determined to have Her and Her children rule the stars, no matter what the other races or planets say | &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The space above the terrestrial planet Xal shimmered. Spacetime has no sound, no colour, and no surface, so it tore in half in silence. Neither of Xal’s two moons were on its perpetual nightside, so no distorted image of either satellite warned the reptile-like Xalians of what was coming next.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The first blast was a turquoise column of energy that constantly shifted from the visual spectrum of light to the ultraviolet, rapidly cutting in and out of transparency and leaving only screaming red and ignited atmosphere to tell where it was hitting. It pierced right through the Xalian Second Orbital Shieldship whose debris cut a clawmark scatter across the nighttime sky as each piece of wreckage lost its geosynchronous position. No real damage was done to the surface of Xal as the focusing point of the beam cannon had been on the ship.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The real damage was the second blast.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Reto jolted awake from his desk as every siren in the Xalian military science facility went off. The seamless glass display of his computer minimized his work and now displayed every warning he had dreaded for years. Footage of ominous billowing smoke that replaced the sky, underlit by fire at a scale he could never have imagined.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Gaia had arrived.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;This wasn’t possible. How did they get here? It should have been decades before their ships could have made it, even then they would have to get past the intercepting Xalian fleet.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The horror began to rise inside of Reto. The fleet would never make it back in time.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Reto!” Nerva shouted from the doorway as the metal receded aside. She sprinted over to him and embraced him in a deep hug. Like him, deep brown scales on exterior skin, thinner light scales on the insides of arms and palms and torso. Thick tails from the trunk that trailed just above the ground, strong enough to carry their weight off their two legs at any moment. Her scales were fairer than his, and she fit snugly just below him. He couldn’t help but think of the similarities they had with Gaia. Except of course, for the most important thing. “They’re here.” She whispered, softly, as if he had imagined it.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;After a moment, they separated, and she filled him in. Commander Serros was gathering the advisers.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The military war room was absolute chaos. The sirens had stopped but the barking back and forth of military orders through subordinates and holographic displays detailing military troops and damage assessment formed an orchestra with no conductor. Only Commander Serros stood silent. A giant even by Xalian standards, dark brown scales and an undecipherable face.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“What I need to know is how did they get here, and will it change our retaliation plans?” Serros stated.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Sindt instantly jumped in, a smaller Xalian with blueish scales. “Our evidence currently points to the completed construction of a Wave Ring.”
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;This time the engineering advisers broke into a cacophony.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Are you out of your mind--”
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Xalian wave ring tech is eons beyond Gaia--”
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“They couldn’t possibly have finished--”
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Serros was quick to instantly silence them. “Save your breath! I don’t care how impossible the scenario. They’re here. Continue, Sindt.”
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Our best guess is Gaia found some other race, somewhere we hadn’t looked to fill in the gaps. But we were able to analyze the gravity waves from the beam tech and that hasn’t changed. Gaia must’ve built the ring and rather than wait to advance the rest of its technology, just jumped through.”
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“So we haven’t lost yet.” Serros turned to Reto. “I need to know if Gaia’s changed. How much will they still resemble our specimens? Can we still engage in hand-to-hand combat?”
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Reto knew Gaia’s biology inside out. Through the meeting he had been shuffling through new readings taken by Xalian scientists in his department. Gaia had changed, but it was still the same. “With a new, undisclosed race now assimilated by Gaia it’s hard to say for certain. However, given Sindt’s team’s summary and the readings we have, I think it’s easy to say our simulations from before still hold up. We can still engage Gaia in combat. They’re still mammalian primate hosts with cybernetic enhancements. Integrating another species and technology into their host-base would take time--a lot of time--and Gaia would never wait. It only ever hungers. It only knows war and assimilation.”
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Serros nodded. A silence fell over the room as their enemy was laid bare. “Well then. Let’s give Gaia a war.” His long snout pulled back to a fanged smile. “Dismissed.” The noise erupted once again.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Reto reached out to Nerva and grabbed her hand, not quite looking. As always, his thoughts drifted back to Gaia, back to their ‘Earth’. Did the former humans ever notice? Did they ever stare in the soil, at their *ants* and wonder? They must’ve been elated, when their neural capacities began to allow telepathy. Who could have known what was under their feet, only waiting for them to be able to listen. Who knew humans would have made such good listeners. Gaia loves to talk. Once she started, the humans were never free again.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Reto held Nerva’s hand tighter. But that wasn’t going to be them. Gaia wasn’t going to take them. Not if they had anything to do about it. | She searched through the possible futures. They unfolded like a mosaic, several of them varying in size and shape. Judging by likeliness of occurrence, she chose the largest one. The timeline presented itself to her, the facets and contingencies of the continuum surrounding her like burning stars. A universe where humanity had colonized a red planet.
There was something wrong. A point in her future where events slowed down, deviations formed, and variables grew increasingly chaotic. She traced it back to the present.
A young woman living in Japan. The woman would cast a stone, generating a universal ripple. So to challenge the woman’s, she cast her own.
A tremor buzzing from her celestial body. Tearing through the area around the girl. She believed the humans called these particular events “earthquakes.”
Her action had dealt with the girl, and the discrepancy within her future slowly untangled. Though it did cause her a degree of sadness, hurting her beloved humans, it was necessary. She was dying, and her civilization would be taken with her physical form. She would do what she had to, to ensure their survival.
She only wondered what the other celestial beings would do to prevent her plan. | |
[WP] Your first wife dies after five years of marriage. Ten years later, you re-marry. Thirty years later, you and your new wife die in a car accident. When you and your new wife arrive in heaven, you discover your first wife has been waiting forty years for you to join her. What happens next? | It was finally over. The years of torment, guilt, being held emotionally hostage for the sake of the kids...
John stood at the pearly gates, his reward for a life lived... about as well as he could live it, given the circumstances. He looked around, searching among the crowd of souls for the face he so desperately wanted to see.
His first wife, Sarah, had passed away five years after they married. He knew it would be short lived, being that she was terminal well before they got engaged. Still, he had loved her more than anything, and they were the best years of his life. There was a certainty in the back of his mind that he would never fall in love with anyone like he did her.
He was right.
In the depression that followed her passing, John went into a spiral of bad habits and poor choices. Brittany was one of those choices.
It was supposed to be a one night stand, but of course she got pregnant. She guilted him into staying with her and taking care of her and the baby. They ended up marrying, but it was a marriage devoid of love and life. Two more kids, thirty years of emotional and physical abuse from this awful woman. No animals in the house, Brittany would beat and kill them on a whim, then laugh as the children cried.
When the kids had grown old enough, they refused to speak with their mother, and would only interact with their father. They knew the vile woman their mother was. Brittany became even more bitter, resentful, and cruel. To the point, finally, of veering herself and John into oncoming traffic.
It was a blessing John had been praying for. It was finally over. The years of torment, guilt, being held emotionally hostage for the sake of the kids...
He stood at the pearly gates, his reward for a life lived... about as well as he could live it, given the circumstances. He looked around, searching among the crowd of souls for the face he so desperately wanted to see.
And then he found her. Waiting patiently, her kind eyes and calm smile made Heaven itself pale in his eyes. She had waited for him, and now he had finally come.
"Sarah..." he called to her, choking back tears.
She smiled at him and held out her hand. As he reached out and took it, the peel of thunder cracked behind him.
"Who is this bitch?!" A familiar, unwanted voice screeched. "Where are we?! Who is this whore?!" Brittany roared.
Sarah didn't budge. Only narrowed her eyes at Brittany.
"Get over here, you good for nothing piece of shit!" Brittany continued.
In her rage, Brittany didn't notice the clouds beneath her opening wide. Didn't notice they abyss of pure dark sprawling under her. No, it wasn't until the flames began crawling up her body that she noticed.
"What is this?" she screamed as she began sinking into the abyss. "No!" she howled. "No, no, no!"
John felt a tug at his hand. Sarah was leading him through the gates, beckoning him beyond to their long awaited eternity together.
He turned away from the burning, damned soul of his second wife, passing through the gates. The screams became fainter, until they ceased entirely.
In the light of the heavens, John and Sarah embraced one another. For the five years they spent together on earth in true love, they were granted an eternity of it in heaven.
(First time responding to a prompt. Please be gentle!) | “M-Mary? Is that you?”
“John I’ve waited so long for you! I’m so glad we’re together again!” Mary squeals as she runs to hug her husband after years of being apart. A tall woman comes around from behind John and glares at Mary.
“John, who is this?” She spat.
“Pricilla, this is my first wife.” He muttered. Fearing what would happen. The two women stood in shock and anger. Mary was heartbroken. Her one true love had moved on from her and fallen in love with someone else. Rationally she knew it wasn’t cheating, but it still ripped her heart in two.
“You... remarried?” Mary asked, tears welling up in her eyes.
“I’m sorry dear. You were gone. I was so alone.”
“So you went and married this skank?” Mary yelled.
“I am not a skank! John tell her! You have to choose one of us!”
John sighed. He thought for a minute before speaking.
“A gladiator duel.” | |
[WP] This ancient prophecy of yours has neglected to tell you that you're going to fight FOUR dragons, not one. One is undead, one is a machine, one is your long lost mare cursed into the form of a monster, and the last is apparently a god. | John grinned as he removed his sword from last dead slimy zombie's brain. Or at least it felt like a slimy zombie. He did mention 'brains' multiple times, which is what zombies do.
He inspected surroundings and walked a bit back, towards Sarah, his companion. She was staying back all this time. "Thanks for the help," John said sarcastically, after stepping over possibly hundreds of zombie corpses.
"If you want to beat your dragons, you should be able to handle at least that much," she said with a higher pitched laugh.
"Or maybe you'd clean them, so I could preserve my power?" John suggested.
"Please. You know very well that I'm the true hero here. Stamina restores much faster, compared to magic."
John rolled his eyes and continued to follow the forest path. It was way too quiet for a forest, but that was only because they got closer and closer to their destined place. No living being dared to stay there.
"Nervous?" Sarah asked, as they quietly had walked for a while.
"A bit," John admitted.
"You should be. It's not every day you are going to fight against a dragon," Sarah said.
The road ended and they just examined a huge land. There was no trees or bushes there. At some point, the grass turned into a smooth rock and that rock turned into a high mountain.
It wasn't the field what terrified them, though. It was the fact, that at the very center was three dragons, patiently waiting.
"Three?" John asked.
"Four," Sarah fixed.
"Huh?" John looked at Sarah, confused.
"One is at the top of the mountains," she said.
John looked there, seeing small visible dragon there. He was afar, but showed no sign of participation, yet.
They both started to walk again, towards the dragons of course. All three just eyed their movement. That is until they stopped not a far from them.
"So, it's time," one of the dragons said. His voice was rather robotic and his scales were full metal. "I'm Eliseo. I will be your first opponent," he said.
"So, at least I'm not fighting all of you at once," John laughed.
"We are very honorable creatures, human. All of us want to be the one, who gets the credit for beating you, the chosen one. We cannot share the credit," another dragon said, whose scales were rotting and many humans humans were almost like part of his scales. Some rotting creatures were lying on the ground, or standing still, inspecting John.
"So, I guess I'll fight alone as well," John said, looking back towards Sarah.
"No," Eliseo said. "Prophecy said that you'd fight against us with someone. I assume that's her. You need every help you need, after all. Else it would be too easy."
As much John wanted to protest, he knew it wouldn't be wise.
"Very well," John whispered.
And then a horse look-a-like dragon started to run away. Zombies took hold of rotting dragon legs, who then raised his wings and flew away. Only the machine-one stayed.
"May the best one win..." John whispered, as he grasped for two swords, crossed at his back.
----
/r/ElvenWrites | He stood on the corpse, shoulders heaving. Blood dribbled down his arm, staining the chainmail red.
A dragon. He'd done it. He'd really done it. Almost despite himself, a grin spread across his face from ear to ear.
The cries rang up from around him, the soldiers and mages scattered around the gorge cheering as he raised his spear in victory. It was dead. He killed it. He'd *won.*
Slowly, still trembling from exertion, he slid down the beast's mammoth leg. Hands grabbed him as he tumbled, setting him straight, patting him on the back. A hundred voices, all raised for *him.* Gods, it felt good, after so long thinking he was totally and completely screwed.
"Well struck!" the commander said, breathing hard himself as he ran over. "I told you we could do it, Artax! Simple, eh? Just like that!"
He grinned back, raising his spear in a cocky salute. Almost absentmindedly, he was inching closer and closer to the pile of gold visible poking out from around the corner of the cave.
"Yeah, we really showed it, eh?" Art said, not really paying attention as the commander strode in. The mages were hot on his heels, Archmagus Dinna red-faced but beaming.
"I thought he had you for sure, when he grabbed for you with his claws! Those *claws*! Such a foul beast, eh?" the commander said, clapping him on the back.
Art chuckled, beginning to blush. "It-It really was, wasn't it?" He bent, sliding his spear onto his back and scooping up an ornate, jeweled goblet. The whole thing was gold, and heavy enough that he nearly dropped it.
"It was quite the battle, but you prevailed! Just as the prophecy foretold!" Dinna said, puffing her chest out imperiously.
"I'm just glad it's over,' Art muttered, shaking his head as he looked down at the trinkets at his feet.
"Over? What do you mean?" the commander said. Art's head snapped up. The man was *looking* at him, confusion in his eyes.
"The fight is just beginning, my man!" Dinnai cried, her grin widening. "Oh, it'll be a sight! After this, they will appear, each one after another! First, the great and mighty Xenolonus will rise from his crypt on bony wings, spitting acid and-"
Art couldn't say anything. He only watched, blood draining from his face, as the mage began detailing each of the horrors to come.
"There's more?" he finally blurted out, bone-white.
Dinna paused in her depiction of some hideous, metallic creature, joining the commander and fixing the fighter with a confused stare. "...What, now?"
"Dragons. There are-there are more?" Art said. He took a step back, still holding that goblet in his hands.
"Of course! It'll be a grand fight! The legends were quite specific about the four dragons yet to come - but have no fear! By slaying the harbinger-" the mage's hand waved idly towards the slain drake behind them - "you've marked yourself as the hero of prophecy! You cannot lose - and have no fear!"
The archmagus's grin was horrible, all yellowed, worn teeth as she eyed the fighter. "You won't even have to go adventuring! They'll find you! Oh, we've got just the *best* trap laid. It'll be a sight to behold, believe me! When you-"
Art was already walking, still holding that goblet in his hands.
No one had told him *that*. They'd just wanted someone to go kill a damn dragon to make the mages happy. He could do *that*. Now there were 4 - and they were getting more and more hideous the longer that damned mage talked.
How much, exactly, could he sell that goblet for?
And how far would that get him, he wondered?
They were calling his name, still confused, as he strode away. He wasn't listening. Shoving the goblet into his saddlebag, he pulled himself up onto his horse before they could figure out what was happening.
The little bottle was next to emerge, the liquor burning and hot as it slid down his throat.
No. Fuck that notion. He hadn't signed up for *this.*
They were finally figuring it out, but it was too late. Their angry bellows echoed after him as he galloped back towards the city. There was a bar with his name on it waiting.
(/r/inorai, critique always welcome!)
---
Note - is written independently of but directly ties into [prompt from this weekend](https://www.reddit.com/r/Inorai/comments/8e08ed/wp_im_not_drunk_enough_for_this) | |
Edit: I probably should have expected it, but this prompt has turned a bit darker than I planned.
If self-harm and trauma are triggers for you, please be aware of the content. | [WP] A demon has permanently taken control of and assimilated into your body. Unbeknownst to the demon, you have crippling depression. | Brutal rain battered the windows outside in the harsh Colorado air. Jennifer moped down aisle seven, canned beans and turnips passed her by. Weeks had passed before she had gone shopping, her apartment was in shambles, her refrigerator barren. Only the brink of starvation brought her to the supermarket on this dreary Wednesday afternoon.
Little did she know that dark entities lurked in the shadows of this canned foods aisle.
Squeaky broken wheels whined as tired hands pushed a half full cart down a seemingly deserted lane.
***What do you think of this one proctor? She looks good?*** Came the slippery whisper of Weasel Tongue.
***Are you an undamned fool Weasel? Possessing with you truly is hopeless.*** Shot out a deeper voice from the shadows of the canned tomatoes.
Weasel Tongue was tired of getting disrespected by every teacher and even the lower class goblins and neckers. He knew that with this next human he would be promoted to Fiend for sure.
Jennifer shuffled silently down towards the hiding creatures, scooping up a can of beats with weak hands. Pushing the cart down further, she reached for her favorite, Spaghetti O's. Jennifer smiled as she remembered her childhood briefly.
***Now is my chance*** Weasel Tongue breathed heavily and he leaped through the shelves.
With a gasp, Jennifer jerked and dropped her favorite food, it fell down into the other junk food in her cart.
***Yes, you are mine now mwhaha.*** Came the sneaky voice inside her.
*Finally! Somebody that will talk to me! Jennifer swooned.*
***What? Feel fear pitiful human, for I am the mighty\-um..Weasel Crusher!*** Boasted the voice.
"Ooo. So, do you come here often?" She said, trying to make conversation.
Gorgon laughed from the shadows of the canned tomatoes.
Weasel Tongue used Jennifer's body to give him a mean look.
***You will feel fear as you speak to me wrench!*** Weasel Tongue commanded.
"Oh, I'm into that, okay kinky stuff. I'm just going to get straight to the point. I'm really lonely, and I haven't been on a date in years, are you busy later?" Jennifer asked desperately.
***Sweet Father Below! No human! The only thing I will be doing is torturing your every thought with my blasphemous words! Your every step shall be shadowed by my mighty presence!*** Weasel Tongue shouted with a squeak.
"Oh my god, so its like we are dating? I haven't dated anybody since Jeremy Shinder dumped me in the 8th grade!" Jennifer squealed in excitement.
Weasel Tongue mustered up his deepest, scariest voice.
***I will make your life a nightmare! Never will you be truly alone again! You will always be haunted by the evil, awful, heinous sounds of my undying wrath!*** Weasel Tongue yelled weakly.
"I don't like being alone. I'm so glad somebody is talking to me! Lets go on our first date!" Jennifer giggled as she dragged Weasel Tongue through the store to her car.
***Wait No! Gorgon help me out of here!*** Weasel Tongue yelled desperately.
Only laughter greeted him as he was pulled away for his first human date.
**Thanks for reading, please upvote and comment for a part 2!**
Jakob Coffelt | I cut through the juicy flesh before me with silent determination. Cooked meat was by far my favorite dish, of which I had spent eons feasting upon. The delicious dark red blood flowed out and mingled with the earth brown gravy leaking from the mashed potatoes, the distinct colors reminding me of my far off home.
I didn't bother to look up at the wife and children as I stuffed the freshly cut wedge into my mouth. They already knew how worthless I, no - I shook my head, angry with myself - he, was. No point in proving them right by showing them this useless hunk of skin I have to see in the mirror every single morning.
Unable to meet their eyes, I mumbled some excuse and shuffled out to the porch for a cigarette. At least I could be more like myself outside.
The moon was full. That was a good sign. Maybe the Under Lord would give me his blessing this evening. If he cared about me that is.
I took a drag off my cigarette. Filthy habit. Quick path to death.
I sighed and flung the unfinished half of the cigarette to the ground, stomping it out with my shoe. Anger welled up inside my chest. He never smoked. The wife and children hated me even more now, I was sure of it.
Stepping off the porch I headed to the park in search of a victim. Along the way I beat myself up with one-sided internal monologue. What good is being mischievous if you aren't good at it? Why bother honoring the Under Lord if you can't even kill anyone? Maybe you just suck at this. Maybe it would be easier to leave this poor excuse of a body and fly into a God ray from the sun.
I glanced up from my intense focus on the gravel path before me. A short and slim guy with a filthy cap and a broken tooth smile had called out to me, breaking my reverie.
"Hey," he said, leaning against a large tree.
I could sense what he really was. He had a deep and dark aura about him, a killing intent which permeated the night air.
"Hey," he said again. "There's a family up the way. Wanna go kill 'em?" His crooked smile gleamed from the moonlight.
I shrugged at him. His smile turned into a grin.
We walked back the way I had come. I stared down at my feet the whole time, my stomach beginning to churn as I realized we were getting closer to home. She would be furious that I brought a stranger to the house with me. I began twirling the hair near the small bald patch on the side of my head, pulling a few more strands out.
"That's the house over there," he said as he pointed at my home. "They has some sweet lookin' wife, an' a couple kids."
I started walking towards the porch. He gave me a funny look, then shrugged and followed.
"You know 'em, huh?"
I pulled out my key and unlocked the door. The possessed stranger followed me in.
The wife sat on the sofa in the living room. The children must have gone to bed already. We bumped around in the dark of the entry way, and she glanced away from the television and over at us.
"Hank?" she called out. "Are you back already?"
The stranger took a few quick strides into the living room while drawing a long knife from the small of his back. She screamed in panic as he lurched at her, "Hank!"
I stood there, tears flowing down my cheeks. Why am I so worthless? Why couldn't I have done this myself?
The stranger walked up to me and put a bloody hand on my chest. "Bro, you don't look so well. You uh, should pop out and seek some help. I'll uh, leave the children for you."
I attempted to look him in the eye, but ended up gazing at a picture on the wall behind him. No words came out of my open mouth. I continued to stand there and regretted getting someone else involved.
After a moment or two he gave me a weird look, then strolled out the front door, leaving it open.
I sat back down in my chair at the dinner table, the dishes having been cleared earlier by the wife. Staring down at my hands, I couldn't help shake this feeling of worthlessness. This body, this host, they were truly despicable.
The children woke up after hearing their mother scream. They came downstairs and screamed themselves. I just sat there at the dinner table.
The police came and hauled me away. I didn't care. This is what I felt like I deserved. To be thrown in a black hole, trapped inside a human body, unable to experience Hell until the flesh rotted away and exposed my true demonic form underneath.
What was the point of doing my best? What was the point of caring?
I lit a cigarette as I laid back in my cell bed. While staring at the self inflicted cigarette burn wounds on my arm, I felt a brief wistful smile cross my face. Weird, that was him.
The smile faded, and I turned on my side and continued to stare off into the darkness of my cell. |
Edit: I probably should have expected it, but this prompt has turned a bit darker than I planned.
If self-harm and trauma are triggers for you, please be aware of the content. | [WP] A demon has permanently taken control of and assimilated into your body. Unbeknownst to the demon, you have crippling depression. | "Hey that girl you liked posted a new picture on Facebook," Crauh Crar whispered.
I couldn't hear him like I could hear most people. He was a demon. He was my demon. His thoughts were my thoughts. I opened my eyes. He was operating my fingers. He selected the "love" react. Before he could complete the social media faux pas, I was able to regain control, and I threw the phone across the room. It landed face-down, extinguishing any light left in the room. The blackout curtains were a great investment.
"Aren't you supposed to be making me feel like shit?" I telepathically wondered.
"Yeah, but I'm one of those demons who likes a challenge," he replied. "I have to boost you up again and make you feel like shit on my own terms."
The way he was thinking, or speaking, or whatever the hell he was doing, reminded me of my constant thoughts of suicide. During my manic phases, I checked every freckle on my entire form, looking for irregular borders or changes in colors. I was paranoid about dying of the most preventable and curable form of cancer, but I couldn't be around a gun. It didn't make sense logically - either would kill me all the same, but I was only afraid of the one I couldn't control.
"I'm not afraid of your depression," Crauh Crar interrupted. I sometimes forgot we knew each other's thoughts. After four years, it was something to which I refused to adapt.
I met ol' Crummy, as I have grown to call him, at a cemetery. I stood there among the graves after my father died. It was a shitty cemetery. Overgrown trees wreaked havoc among the tombstones. I pondered how neglect caused the gnarled trees to grow however they wanted and the stone edifices to crumble and crack.
Crummy revealed himself from behind one of those gnarled trees. He appeared like an old Japanese Samurai with jet black hair and a crooked smile. He said he could bring me my father back for a price. I said he could keep him and walked away.
It began raining, and he offered me an umbrella for the same unnamed price. I accepted. That's when he hopped into my body and tried to take over. I gave up pretty easily, and after lots of 360 degree head spinning and projectile vomiting, Crummy realized there was no show.
I lived alone in a studio apartment and paid for everything with whatever my father left me. I had no other family, no friends, no anything. It took us three weeks to clean up the vomit, and that was only because Ol' Crummy was sick of eating the flies swarming over it.
He tried to cheer me up. He levitated my body over Downtown Memphis. He made me invisible, so I could sneak into concerts. He telepathically read the mind of every woman I wanted to date, but I didn't have the motivation to talk to them, even when armed with the perfect thing to say.
Ol' Crummy made my body walk around the house and break shit, just to piece it back together and do it again. It was his usual routine, and neither of us found any joy in it anymore.
As the late morning turned into late afternoon and then late evening, Ol' Crummy was sick of making my television show my grandmother and dad fornicating in front of demons, and decided instead to watch a Godzilla marathon.
We ate microwave kettle corn.
It was the best day we had so far. | I cut through the juicy flesh before me with silent determination. Cooked meat was by far my favorite dish, of which I had spent eons feasting upon. The delicious dark red blood flowed out and mingled with the earth brown gravy leaking from the mashed potatoes, the distinct colors reminding me of my far off home.
I didn't bother to look up at the wife and children as I stuffed the freshly cut wedge into my mouth. They already knew how worthless I, no - I shook my head, angry with myself - he, was. No point in proving them right by showing them this useless hunk of skin I have to see in the mirror every single morning.
Unable to meet their eyes, I mumbled some excuse and shuffled out to the porch for a cigarette. At least I could be more like myself outside.
The moon was full. That was a good sign. Maybe the Under Lord would give me his blessing this evening. If he cared about me that is.
I took a drag off my cigarette. Filthy habit. Quick path to death.
I sighed and flung the unfinished half of the cigarette to the ground, stomping it out with my shoe. Anger welled up inside my chest. He never smoked. The wife and children hated me even more now, I was sure of it.
Stepping off the porch I headed to the park in search of a victim. Along the way I beat myself up with one-sided internal monologue. What good is being mischievous if you aren't good at it? Why bother honoring the Under Lord if you can't even kill anyone? Maybe you just suck at this. Maybe it would be easier to leave this poor excuse of a body and fly into a God ray from the sun.
I glanced up from my intense focus on the gravel path before me. A short and slim guy with a filthy cap and a broken tooth smile had called out to me, breaking my reverie.
"Hey," he said, leaning against a large tree.
I could sense what he really was. He had a deep and dark aura about him, a killing intent which permeated the night air.
"Hey," he said again. "There's a family up the way. Wanna go kill 'em?" His crooked smile gleamed from the moonlight.
I shrugged at him. His smile turned into a grin.
We walked back the way I had come. I stared down at my feet the whole time, my stomach beginning to churn as I realized we were getting closer to home. She would be furious that I brought a stranger to the house with me. I began twirling the hair near the small bald patch on the side of my head, pulling a few more strands out.
"That's the house over there," he said as he pointed at my home. "They has some sweet lookin' wife, an' a couple kids."
I started walking towards the porch. He gave me a funny look, then shrugged and followed.
"You know 'em, huh?"
I pulled out my key and unlocked the door. The possessed stranger followed me in.
The wife sat on the sofa in the living room. The children must have gone to bed already. We bumped around in the dark of the entry way, and she glanced away from the television and over at us.
"Hank?" she called out. "Are you back already?"
The stranger took a few quick strides into the living room while drawing a long knife from the small of his back. She screamed in panic as he lurched at her, "Hank!"
I stood there, tears flowing down my cheeks. Why am I so worthless? Why couldn't I have done this myself?
The stranger walked up to me and put a bloody hand on my chest. "Bro, you don't look so well. You uh, should pop out and seek some help. I'll uh, leave the children for you."
I attempted to look him in the eye, but ended up gazing at a picture on the wall behind him. No words came out of my open mouth. I continued to stand there and regretted getting someone else involved.
After a moment or two he gave me a weird look, then strolled out the front door, leaving it open.
I sat back down in my chair at the dinner table, the dishes having been cleared earlier by the wife. Staring down at my hands, I couldn't help shake this feeling of worthlessness. This body, this host, they were truly despicable.
The children woke up after hearing their mother scream. They came downstairs and screamed themselves. I just sat there at the dinner table.
The police came and hauled me away. I didn't care. This is what I felt like I deserved. To be thrown in a black hole, trapped inside a human body, unable to experience Hell until the flesh rotted away and exposed my true demonic form underneath.
What was the point of doing my best? What was the point of caring?
I lit a cigarette as I laid back in my cell bed. While staring at the self inflicted cigarette burn wounds on my arm, I felt a brief wistful smile cross my face. Weird, that was him.
The smile faded, and I turned on my side and continued to stare off into the darkness of my cell. |
Edit: I probably should have expected it, but this prompt has turned a bit darker than I planned.
If self-harm and trauma are triggers for you, please be aware of the content. | [WP] A demon has permanently taken control of and assimilated into your body. Unbeknownst to the demon, you have crippling depression. | *Oh crap, sleep paralysis again? That's okay, as long as I don't have an itch to scratch. I'll just go back to sl--what in the hell?*
"Oh goodness, for someone so skinny you sure weigh a lot." I heard my voice say.
*What the hell is this?* I tried to yell. But my voice wasn't cooperating.
"Hello!" My voice chirped. "I've assumed control, sport, so you're off the hook now."
*What does that mean? Who are you? What's happening?*
"I was assigned this body." I already hated the sound of my own voice, but my disdain had reached a new level. "I'm a demon, and this is mine now, no matter what you try, it won't wo--"
*I don't care, you can have... this.*
"What?" The Demon was shocked. "Do you want to know my na--"
*No.*
"It's Ralph."
*I don't care.*
"Fine, but you'll get bored, they always do." My stupid voice said. So that's what I sound like when I'm annoyed. I wouldn't take me seriously, either.
*That's just perfect. Why not? My life has been shit until now, I didn't even know why I was holding on. This makes perfect sense.*
"I can hear you, you know." My voice, the demon, Ralph (or whatever), said.
*Mute me.*
"At this point I'm starting to think I *should!*"
*Or bury me.*
"Oh, you don't want me to do that, trust me." Ralph said.
*Why not?*
"Your subconscious is a cesspool of lost emotion, compressed and hot like a dumpster fire that wants to explode" Ralph said. "It's too volatile, even for me."
*Interesting.*
"*Interesting?* Are you nuts?"
*Hey, do you know the song that never ends?*
"Yeah, I love that one..." Ralph said, hoping I did not know what insincerity sounded like in my own voice.
*So you know it goes on and on... my friends?*
"Stop it."
*Put me in the dumpster fire.*
"No, you'll go crazy, if you aren't already."
*What do you care?*
"I have to share this body with you."
*But I'll be buried.*
"What part of *wants to explode* don't you understand?"
"Hey Fucknuts, shut the hell up, I have work in three hours!" My roommate, Sam, hollered through the wall.
*Good luck living with that prick.*
"Uh, sorry, fella! Go back to sleep." This fucking demon is even dumber than I am.
*I guess I'll just have to find a way to bury myself.*
"No no no no no," My voice said in an urgent whisper. "I mean, you can't, remember, you've walled it off."
*Then don't worry about it.*
"God damn it." My voice said. Ralph was beginning to appreciate my disposition. "Can we start over? I feel like we may have gotten off on the wrong foot."
I didn't answer. I was busy digging away at the barriers in my mind like a starving bloodhound that smells a steak.
"Hello?" My voice said with a nervous rattle. "Whatever you're doing, please stop."
The deeper you go into your own mind, the scarier it is. The walls are comprised of every insecurity, fear, and distaste that you've imagined over the course of your life. It's unfathomably thick. Behind that is where your true emotions stew in a white hot fission.
"Oh my goodness. What is this? Stop it right now you imbecile!"
"For fuck's sake, Chris?" Sam had opened the door. "Shut up, you fucking psycho!"
"Sorry. Sorry." Ralph said.
"Dude, you're foaming at the mouth." Sam said.
"What?"
*What?*
"Ohhhh god, rabbies!" Sam slammed the door shut and ran from the apartment yelling 'rabbies, he's got rabbies!' along the way.
"Thank God he's gone, yeah?" Ralph laughed. "Hello?"
I had found the core. Ralph was right. There's no way to know what was about to happen. I didn't care.
"Please don't." The demon pleaded. "Please?"
It was too late.
Light shot from my eyes and mouth, burning lines in the wall and ceiling. My body shook violently, and Ralph was expelled.
I knew instantly I had my body back, but I was too focused catching tears and snot with my hands to celebrate. I cried for over an hour, until my head was ringing in pain. | I cut through the juicy flesh before me with silent determination. Cooked meat was by far my favorite dish, of which I had spent eons feasting upon. The delicious dark red blood flowed out and mingled with the earth brown gravy leaking from the mashed potatoes, the distinct colors reminding me of my far off home.
I didn't bother to look up at the wife and children as I stuffed the freshly cut wedge into my mouth. They already knew how worthless I, no - I shook my head, angry with myself - he, was. No point in proving them right by showing them this useless hunk of skin I have to see in the mirror every single morning.
Unable to meet their eyes, I mumbled some excuse and shuffled out to the porch for a cigarette. At least I could be more like myself outside.
The moon was full. That was a good sign. Maybe the Under Lord would give me his blessing this evening. If he cared about me that is.
I took a drag off my cigarette. Filthy habit. Quick path to death.
I sighed and flung the unfinished half of the cigarette to the ground, stomping it out with my shoe. Anger welled up inside my chest. He never smoked. The wife and children hated me even more now, I was sure of it.
Stepping off the porch I headed to the park in search of a victim. Along the way I beat myself up with one-sided internal monologue. What good is being mischievous if you aren't good at it? Why bother honoring the Under Lord if you can't even kill anyone? Maybe you just suck at this. Maybe it would be easier to leave this poor excuse of a body and fly into a God ray from the sun.
I glanced up from my intense focus on the gravel path before me. A short and slim guy with a filthy cap and a broken tooth smile had called out to me, breaking my reverie.
"Hey," he said, leaning against a large tree.
I could sense what he really was. He had a deep and dark aura about him, a killing intent which permeated the night air.
"Hey," he said again. "There's a family up the way. Wanna go kill 'em?" His crooked smile gleamed from the moonlight.
I shrugged at him. His smile turned into a grin.
We walked back the way I had come. I stared down at my feet the whole time, my stomach beginning to churn as I realized we were getting closer to home. She would be furious that I brought a stranger to the house with me. I began twirling the hair near the small bald patch on the side of my head, pulling a few more strands out.
"That's the house over there," he said as he pointed at my home. "They has some sweet lookin' wife, an' a couple kids."
I started walking towards the porch. He gave me a funny look, then shrugged and followed.
"You know 'em, huh?"
I pulled out my key and unlocked the door. The possessed stranger followed me in.
The wife sat on the sofa in the living room. The children must have gone to bed already. We bumped around in the dark of the entry way, and she glanced away from the television and over at us.
"Hank?" she called out. "Are you back already?"
The stranger took a few quick strides into the living room while drawing a long knife from the small of his back. She screamed in panic as he lurched at her, "Hank!"
I stood there, tears flowing down my cheeks. Why am I so worthless? Why couldn't I have done this myself?
The stranger walked up to me and put a bloody hand on my chest. "Bro, you don't look so well. You uh, should pop out and seek some help. I'll uh, leave the children for you."
I attempted to look him in the eye, but ended up gazing at a picture on the wall behind him. No words came out of my open mouth. I continued to stand there and regretted getting someone else involved.
After a moment or two he gave me a weird look, then strolled out the front door, leaving it open.
I sat back down in my chair at the dinner table, the dishes having been cleared earlier by the wife. Staring down at my hands, I couldn't help shake this feeling of worthlessness. This body, this host, they were truly despicable.
The children woke up after hearing their mother scream. They came downstairs and screamed themselves. I just sat there at the dinner table.
The police came and hauled me away. I didn't care. This is what I felt like I deserved. To be thrown in a black hole, trapped inside a human body, unable to experience Hell until the flesh rotted away and exposed my true demonic form underneath.
What was the point of doing my best? What was the point of caring?
I lit a cigarette as I laid back in my cell bed. While staring at the self inflicted cigarette burn wounds on my arm, I felt a brief wistful smile cross my face. Weird, that was him.
The smile faded, and I turned on my side and continued to stare off into the darkness of my cell. |
Edit: I probably should have expected it, but this prompt has turned a bit darker than I planned.
If self-harm and trauma are triggers for you, please be aware of the content. | [WP] A demon has permanently taken control of and assimilated into your body. Unbeknownst to the demon, you have crippling depression. | "Hey that girl you liked posted a new picture on Facebook," Crauh Crar whispered.
I couldn't hear him like I could hear most people. He was a demon. He was my demon. His thoughts were my thoughts. I opened my eyes. He was operating my fingers. He selected the "love" react. Before he could complete the social media faux pas, I was able to regain control, and I threw the phone across the room. It landed face-down, extinguishing any light left in the room. The blackout curtains were a great investment.
"Aren't you supposed to be making me feel like shit?" I telepathically wondered.
"Yeah, but I'm one of those demons who likes a challenge," he replied. "I have to boost you up again and make you feel like shit on my own terms."
The way he was thinking, or speaking, or whatever the hell he was doing, reminded me of my constant thoughts of suicide. During my manic phases, I checked every freckle on my entire form, looking for irregular borders or changes in colors. I was paranoid about dying of the most preventable and curable form of cancer, but I couldn't be around a gun. It didn't make sense logically - either would kill me all the same, but I was only afraid of the one I couldn't control.
"I'm not afraid of your depression," Crauh Crar interrupted. I sometimes forgot we knew each other's thoughts. After four years, it was something to which I refused to adapt.
I met ol' Crummy, as I have grown to call him, at a cemetery. I stood there among the graves after my father died. It was a shitty cemetery. Overgrown trees wreaked havoc among the tombstones. I pondered how neglect caused the gnarled trees to grow however they wanted and the stone edifices to crumble and crack.
Crummy revealed himself from behind one of those gnarled trees. He appeared like an old Japanese Samurai with jet black hair and a crooked smile. He said he could bring me my father back for a price. I said he could keep him and walked away.
It began raining, and he offered me an umbrella for the same unnamed price. I accepted. That's when he hopped into my body and tried to take over. I gave up pretty easily, and after lots of 360 degree head spinning and projectile vomiting, Crummy realized there was no show.
I lived alone in a studio apartment and paid for everything with whatever my father left me. I had no other family, no friends, no anything. It took us three weeks to clean up the vomit, and that was only because Ol' Crummy was sick of eating the flies swarming over it.
He tried to cheer me up. He levitated my body over Downtown Memphis. He made me invisible, so I could sneak into concerts. He telepathically read the mind of every woman I wanted to date, but I didn't have the motivation to talk to them, even when armed with the perfect thing to say.
Ol' Crummy made my body walk around the house and break shit, just to piece it back together and do it again. It was his usual routine, and neither of us found any joy in it anymore.
As the late morning turned into late afternoon and then late evening, Ol' Crummy was sick of making my television show my grandmother and dad fornicating in front of demons, and decided instead to watch a Godzilla marathon.
We ate microwave kettle corn.
It was the best day we had so far. |
The sinking sensation was churning and churning trying to drag me down into
the dark pit even lower than the sea-level here on land.
There was a fight like there is a fight now, it is eternal, ever escalating, ever
winning, ever loosing. Like a fire burning itself out, here was no
salvation, a thousand oceans would fail, it still flickers, it still
smolders those dark red embers under tons of cold debris.
I hide on this loft of hay, watching the town fair and merriment
below. Hidden away by the shroud afforded by this dark.
Finding solace in isolation, i am content for the moment, i am full of myself.
But my privacy was intruded upon.
"Now i have you for company.", the dark faceless shadow of the devil
lingered before me.
I wait as the icy sinewy hands of the demon takes hold of me, to
incite that dead flame in me. i am not even trying and it is failing.
"Try harder, you demon. i am alone, this heart of mine weights like a
thousand elephants. Do anything just bring up my spirits, before they
too fizz out in this living but really dead body of mine."
The demon bonded with me and i with it.
Night time, dark in a room, with a bed, the TV is switched on but i am
not looking , i am looking blankly at the wall.
The demon is trapped in me. a part of me is ecstatic that i have
someone for company. The devil grows desperate, amusing me with
flickering lights and faces on the moldy wall. You have to try harder,
i am colder than the hottest of fires in hell. I sob at night as i do
anyway always for since forever and the demon inside me cries with me.
"Shall we have a vodka, my dear", i prepare the glasses and bring out the
ice-trays from the refrigerator. There alone in my room, dark at
night, it is me and the devil, you can hear the clock on the wall
ticking and then the compressor on the refrigerator kicking in now and
then and the noisy hum coming from that unit.
The demon was a hovering black cloud on the bed, lingering squirming
as the black mists animated with inner turmoil. A deep thundering
voice, screaming with subdued voice like coming from underneath many
gallons of water, "I am hurting, let me out you fool, let me out".
"You will leave me too. Now will you."
I felt dead inside. As i have always felt, all my life.
The obese shapeless mass could be seen slumped on the sofa, a bottle
of vodka in-front of him and smoke swirling from the crushed cigarette
in the ashtray.
"You want to know why i am so sad.", i said.
The lights of the room flickered again. the black swirling cloud on
the bed seemed to shrink two fold. It seemed to be under stress, ready
to burst into thunder, into lightening into a storm.
But none came, the demon was cold, the shapeless mass of sad state of a
man was colder. He was more lifeless than a stone on the desert
floor. The lights flickered, the television switched itself on and
turned off in self defeat.
The man on the sofa continued on and on with his drone of how life had
been unfair to him and how on each and every turn of life, how friends had turned
their backs on him.
The bed was soggy with water, water that was condensing from the
subdued rainstorm and lightening from the demonic mist hovering on it.
"Have you got no shame, look at the state of your room. look the bed is
damp, now.", boomed the demonic cloud.
The shapeless mass on the sofa seemed to wake up and looked over the
bed, "yeah the bed. It is all right, i am used to worse than that."
The demon cajoled him to move out of the room, to spread mischief.
"I do not feel like it, they hate me. I am a looser, look at me."
"Nobody likes me.", so saying the shapeless blob on the sofa reached for the
last pieces of pizza that was lying on the table, sniffed at it (it was
of indeterminate age), and put it in his mouth. Munching away with disinterest, looking
at the ceiling.
The void in his life seemed to swell and take his entire being into
itself.
The demon was still there on the bed, calculating, scheming, how to escape this
bond, this prison he had unwittingly stepped into.
The night seemed to be waning and the dawn was on the horizon, the
depressed man on the sofa regressed more and more into his inner
demon. The other sinister demon, watching him with hate, his eyes
bloodshot and at the same time helpless." How can anyone live with
someone like that. I have to get out of here, if i stay here this man
would be the doom of me.", So saying the black dark mist started to
swell and at the same time started to thin and become more
transparent.
There was a huge crash as the refrigerator was hurled through the
window, cracking it and falling four story below on the tarmac. The
neighbors were all up and knocking on the depressed mans door."Open
the door, open the door."
A black mist could be seen escaping from the broken window, into the
cool air of the city. There was no response from inside the room.
The shapeless man on the sofa barely moved, "Go away", he said.
"Leave me alone."
|
Edit: I probably should have expected it, but this prompt has turned a bit darker than I planned.
If self-harm and trauma are triggers for you, please be aware of the content. | [WP] A demon has permanently taken control of and assimilated into your body. Unbeknownst to the demon, you have crippling depression. | Cadwallon shifted his way through the crowd, there were far to many people in hell. He stood before the massive doors where death reigned over admittance. Death had his workload reach insane levels and it wore on him, the population boom of this century wasn't anything they could have prepaired for. He called for all demons to join him today, no one knew what he was going to say. There were murmurs that he was done, and every demon had wanted his job. Cadwallon felt a claw on his scalp and his feet leaving the ground. His limbs went limp and dangled below.
"If it isn't little Tadwallon." The beast laughed. A green mist of putrid smells spewing from his fangs.
Cadwallon felt his stomach turn in knots, and clenched at the claws. "Put me down Bellinus."
Bellinus turned Cadwallon around to stare in his round yellow eyes. "what's a pipsqueak like you doing here? Aren't you supposed to cleaning burnt flesh somewhere?"
Cadwallon rolled his eyes. "Death said every demon was invited. And Lucifer has allowed it."
Bellinus shook his head emphatically. "Stupid Tadwall, Death invited the strong demons, unless you're here to polish his boots I think you should leave."
Cadwallon shrugged. "Only a dumb brute could be so confused. Death said all 'capable' demons. I think you should leave."
Bellinus blew smoke out his muzzle, and bared his fangs. But then his eyes flickered, an Idea making its way through his thick skull. "Let's find out how capapble you are." Cadwallon wanted to laugh at his butchering of the word, but he was too busy being flung to the outer reaches of hell.
Cadwallon ran to the door and hunched over gasping for air. The guards acknowledged the lone demon in the square with surprise. "The meeting has begun, no more may enter." They crossed their pitchforks and blocked the open path.
"Please. I was here on time. I swear. That--"
"No excuses. Death is very big on punctuality." The guard said.
Cadwallon bit his lips and nodded, there was no debating higher demons. He slumped on the stairs and rested his chin on his palms. How could he have wasted this opportunity. In hell worth is measured by one thing, strength. Cadwallon looked at his bony arms and legs, full of misery. Would he ever have a chance to prove his worth, and was he even worth anything. There was a loud neigh and clacking hoofs storming in from the courtyard. A large demon with a blazing sword rode in proudly. Everyone knew this demon, War. He was everything Cadwallon had ever wanted to be. The guards shifted and whispered to each other. "What do we do about him."
The black and red armor clicked together as his steed trotted to the door. Cadwallon gazed up in awe. The demon saluted the young demon, and Cadwallon stood to salute back.
"Evening, I'm here for that thingy Death is putting on." War said.
The guards teeth chattered as he shook in his boots. "M-Master Death i-is big on punct--"
"Oh Death, always was a stickler for rules. But here's the thing, I have to be there. So if you value your wretched life, why don't you let me in, and pretend you never saw me?" War said tapping his claws on his flaming sword.
The guards shared a look and nodded, and opened a path.
"Wait." Cadwallon held his hand up confused. He knew he should never address a demon lord. They shouldn't be bothered with scabs. The suit of armor turned to the small demon fire glowing behind his helmets visor. He starred silently waiting to see if Cadwallon would dare do it again. "You have to take me with you."
"Why would I do that?" War said.
"B-because, um, I'll tell Death you were late if you don't."
War drew his sword and swung it towards Cadwallons neck. Cadwallon heard a drop of sweat sizzle into the flame. he gulped but refused to move. He stared into that visor, and glared at the flames. The sword's point hit the stone and War leaned his head back laughing. "How does a rat have bigger balls then Deaths royal guard." He doubled over and laughed even harder.
The guards shot death glares at Cadwallon, and he smiled nervously back. War regained his composure and wiped smoke out of his eye. "I like you kid, come on in."
The guards Crossed their pitchforks defiantly, but faltered under Wars gaze. He nodded to Cadwallon who raced through the door. The hall was lit by dim purple lights and at the end a staircase spiraled up into darkness. War's flames lit the way, and the two made the tiring journey to the top of Deaths tower. The skeleton demon stood on a large podium in front of a giant projector screen. The large circle room was filled with demons screeching approval.
"Now that everyone is here, lets begin." Death said staring at the stairway. War shrugged and Death shook his head. "As I'm sure you have speculated I have decided to retire." The crowd went nuts, everyone pictured themselves as the next lord in hell. "It wouldn't kill you to pretend to be sad. I have decided I'm not doing it yet." The crowd awed in disappointment. Death smiled sadistically, "I want to be done, I can tell you that truthfully. But one thing still weighs on my mind. Hell is overcrowded. There are more human souls on earth than ever before, and hell is not prepared for the amount of evil up there." Death pointed his finger up at the sky, and Cadwallon looked up to the earth's crust and wondered what it must be like.
Death snapped his bony fingers. "I came up with a plan. I have made a test to decide my successor. I learned a spell that was forbidden by God, but even that old coot saw the merit in my ploy. He has granted me the privilege of this curse."
"Quit your bragging bone bag. Get on with it." War said tapping his foot anxiously.
Death clattered his teeth happily, "Now I know you sorry lot aren't the best for this job, but your the only ones I've got. And hopefully, one of you will be fit to take my place."
"Who do we have to kill?" A demon yelled.
"Kill? No, no, this test is quite different." Death said. Cadwallon scratched his head confused, and he wasn't the only one. "My spell can bind a demon to one human, possession, as it's normally called. Whoever can save the most souls from damnation with their human meatbag will be crowned Death." The crowd went silent, demons didn't save anyone.
"Is this a prank?"
"He's joking right?"
"What on hell are you talking about?"
The crowd grumbled.
"That clever bastard." War chuckled. "Talk about killing two birds with one stone."
Cadwallon clenched his fist and pumped excitedly, "Hey War." The suit of armor looked down at the small demon. "I'm going to be the next Death." He wasn't sure what the test would actually entail, but if it wasn't about strength there was no way he could fail. War nodded.
"I can't say I couldn't see it. Chances are slim though."
"I don't care, this is the first chance I've ever had. No way am I going to let anyone take it from me." Cadwallon felt fire in his own eyes, and he eagerly looked forward.
Cole raced home from the bus, tears still stinging his eyes. His pants soaked in piss, and the sound of laughter still spilling out from the yellow widows. He crouched behind an abandoned truck and sobbed. He reached for his backpack and sighed as he pictured it still on the bus. He wondered if he would ever get it back. At the bus stop his papers blew in the wind and pencils rolled across the dirt path. He collected his stuff shoving it by the handful into his emptied bag.
Mrs. Rathers sat in her rocking chair pointing and laughing. The lady was baty, but it still hurt. Cole rubbed at his eye and sprinted to his own trailer. The white rectangle sat on cement blocks, and the screen door banged against the stair railing. Cole crept up the steps and his mother still laid on the table, hungover from the night before. She blinked at the sound and squinted his way, she grunted and laid her head back into her arms.
Cole slammed the door to his small room. Ink drawings of demons were plastered all over his wall. He shuffled over the clothes on the ground and traded it for a pair of pants. He hung the wet ones out the window and thought about going to the laundromat himself. He stared at the happy family in the picture on his desk and pushed it down, unable to bare his father's smile. He snuck into the bathroom, his mother didn't shift. He looked in the mirror red lines streaking his face. He sniffled and ran the faucet, splashing his face. In the mirror he still saw what he hated, himself. He grabbed the razor and ran it across his bicep. He winced and blood leaked into the sink. This would be the newest in a line of five scars. Blood splashed, and it spun. The droplets were pulsing and they had begun to grow.
Cole fell backwards as his blood bubbled up. He looked on in fear as he quivered, the blood inching towards him. A red hand reached out and grabbed onto his foot. He wanted to scream but it felt like a hand had been placed over his mouth.
"Self harm is a sin you know." The blood said.
Cole kicked and thrashed. But the blood found the cut and shot into his arm. He writhed in pain his limb felt like it was fire. "Stop."
"No can do. This is my body now. wait." The blood stopped spinning. "I... I can't gain total control. Damn it, how did I not see this coming."
"What's going on. Who are you." Cole said.
"I'm Cadwallon, and I'm a demon."
"Get out of me. Get out now. Please."
"Easy, I'm here to make everything better. So start being a good person, ok?"
| *wake up!*
I open my heavy eyelids slowly, gradually soaking in the eaves of the morning. The light scratches behind my blackout curtains. Must be daytime. Huh.
*Finally! I've been waiting all night for you to wake up!*
What? I think in my dreary state. That's not my voice... but deciding I'm going to try and listen to my therapist this time and ignore those voices, I heavily shift over on to my other side, letting my eyes close once again, this time *away* from the curtains.
*NO NO NO. What do you think you're doing?*
I lick my lips and pull my blankets up to my chin.
*WAKE UP, NOW! This isn't one of those mind games!*
"Nahh, I'm good," I tell the voice. Just like we practiced in therapy.
A weird burning sensation starts filling my stomach. I guess that's more than I've felt in a while, but going back to bed is so much easier than dealing with it right now.
***
The burning sensation fades after a while, and though it was uncomfortable, time finally releases me once again.
In my last waking moment, I realize that the burning sensation reminded me of what fear used to feel like. |
[WP] The Lady of the Lake, her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite, held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water... Of your bathtub. | “Shit, sorry!” the man said, though he was completely alone in the room. He’d dropped a spoon and apologised out of habit. He shrugged off the accident and chucked the dirtied spoon toward the sink before grabbing a clean one from the drawer. Into his mug he splashed a little milk, a teaspoon of sugar, and stirred it all together with 6 precise strokes. Elegantly, the teabag was lifted from the mix and subsequently plopped next to the sink. With a clang the spoon followed.
The man slurped a boiling hot sip of his tea as he left the kitchen to head upstairs, it was much too hot and just scalded his tongue.
“Ah, perfect,” the man said to himself.
He kicked off his downstairs-slippers at the foot of the stairs and began the ascent. Each foot moving slowly, and precisely. The whole body was working in tandem, a perfectly oiled machine of dexterity and balance. Not a single drop of this cuppa will be spilled. After an agonising half a minute he’d reached the summit flawlessly and he could feel the warm mist emanating from the bathroom. A nice steamy bath, a fitting reward for the impressive lack of spillage on his walk up the stairs.
He took a deep breath. A naked, hairy leg lunged over the bathtub dipping a toe into the water just slightly. It dove in, followed by another leg. Soon he’d slid his whole body up to his neck into the water letting out all the air at once in a relaxed sigh. It was the perfect temperature.
“Bit cold,” the man said as he looked up at the ceiling, “Ah well.”
He leaned over the side of the tub and grabbed his phone, flipping through various social media apps and sites, punctuated by sips of his tea. Still too hot. He may have lingered a little too long on Gwen’s instagram post, but he eventually continued on. Sipping again from the mug, of course.
Suddenly from behind his phone there was a burst of radiant light. A blade cut through the bath water and raised out clear into the man’s vision, followed by a feminine hand wrapped around the handle and hilt. Below the water was the rest of the figure, a beautiful woman. The Lady of the Lake, her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite, held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water of the bathtub.
From beneath the water came a murmuring, and bubbles followed.
“...Pardon?” said the man.
The woman rose further out of the water, revealing her face more.
“Here be Excalibur, take up the sword and through its power claim your rightful throne as King of all Britain!” spoke the lady.
“Isn’t there a scabbard too,” asked the man.
“What?” said the Lady.
“Yeah, isn’t there like, a scabbard that comes with it. Makes you immune to sword-related death, you won’t die from blood loss ‘n’ that,” he said.
“You,” she began, “are the embodiment of all that is English, take up Excalibur and claim your Destiny!”.
The man tried to speak, but only let out a struggled yelp. His vision was becoming a little blurry. Looking down, he saw the water turning red.
The sword had sliced his leg. Probably through an important vein, or artery he guessed.
“Arthur, this is your destiny!” she said, mostly repeating herself at this point.
“I’m…” the man said, before wincing in pain, “I’m Ben.”
“Ben?” she said.
The Lady in the Lake looked around awkwardly. She pulled the sword down and held it closer to her chest, like a lost child with only their teddy bear for security.
“Are… are you sure? You might ju-” she stopped herself as she looked down and saw the blood now filling the bath.
“So uhh… I have to go. Yeah. Find Arthur, sword, throne, King of Britain. So sorry about this little mix-up, love.” she said, slowly receding back into the water-blood soup.
“He-help,” Ben gasped, “please.”
Ben reached out, his fingers clumsily knocking against the mug of tea pushing it to the floor.
“Shit, sorry,” the man said. | Arthur considered the dire situation in which he found himself. He had been sitting on the throne for only a short time, and couldn't help but be impressed by how quickly the situation had degenerated. The nature of the problem was as obvious as it was urgent, but he was critically low on the on resource he would need to help him. The impending end of his time on the throne would likely see all his friends turn against him, and consign him to a life of humiliated obscurity.
He reflected back on the choices that had brought him to this juncture. It was clear, now, in hindsight, what the grossest of his tactical errors had been: the California burrito. It was, even now, laying siege to his gastrointestinal tract, and to judge from the smell - and the sounds - the carnage it was leaving behind was considerable. The battle between his intestines and the lethal combination of french fries, guacamole, refried beans, salsa, and ground beef had been raging for some time now. It was only in the last few minutes, however, that he had noticed his friend's bathroom was completely lacking in toilet paper.
Once the conflict sputtered to its inevitable conclusion, he sat, broken-hearted. What was he to do? Not for the first time did he curse his lack of female friends. They would no doubt have had extra rolls under the sink, and if not, there would have at least been a box of Kleenex - not ideal for the Herculean task that awaited him, but certainly manageable.
He eyed the towel on the other side of the room. It was dark blue. Stains would likely not be noticeable, but of course that was assuming he tried to wash it - or just left it there for Mike to find. No, he could clean himself off, hide it somewhere in the room, then find a plastic grocery bag to stuff the soon-to-be-toxic towel into, and smuggle it out into the trash.
Arthur steeled himself. He was committed. He kicked off his underwear and shorts, and after a bit of deliberation, took off his socks and shoes, too - he needed to plan for contingencies regarding drips.
Arthur took a breath, clenched his butt-cheeks together, and eased himself up from the toilet. So far, so good. He shuffled awkwardly across the tile floor towards the towel rack, and that's when a woman's voice caused him to freeze.
*Behold, valiant warrior, the Blade of Champions, the Sword of Legend: Excalibur.*
Arthur did not move. Maybe one of Mike's roommates had started a movie in their room. It sounded *really* loud though. Arthur hazarded a peek to his right.
There, in the bathtub, was a gorgeous creature, covered in a radiant silk garment gold and silver threads.
Arthur frowned, then quickly retreated back to the toilet.
*Shit.*
***
Have to run, hope to finish this later. | |
[WP] Your dog digs in the same hole in your backyard everyday. Each day,the hole is getting deeper. Today, you find out it's for an underground bunker. | I’ve noticed that Spot has been digging the same hole for about 2 weeks. It‘s getting pretty deep, so I’ve started wondering what he’s been digging. I’ve decided it’s time to find out.
“Spot, boy, whatcha diggin’?” I ask.
“An underground bunker,” he replies nonchalantly.
“Oh...” I respond, disappointed. Just my luck. My dog’s a doomsday prepper. Fuckin’ loon. | The hole has grown bigger. A large part of cement is visible in the bottom, leaning to look at it I can smell the wet earth and whatever the dog left down there. It feels like all sound is being sucked in near the black perfect circle. Could my dog -any dog- really do that? There are no signs of dirt near the opening. It looks like a giant bullet hole. Filling it up is worthless. Even though I lock the door, and the dog has no way of going out, the earth just dissappears overnight.
That place. It makes me feel something I can't explain. It's an alien feeling. Surreal and terrifying. But also , in a way, it seems peaceful. Inside the black, cool hole.
Today I noticed that a hatch has appeared on the cement, roughly 20 meters under the soil. It's a square piece of incredibly rotten metal. It's smell is blending with the others. It's sickening.
I want to go inside.
The hatch should have weighted at least half a ton. It opened without effort. There's nothing underneath. Only black. The light can't reach the bottom. It's cool and dry inside. It's quiet.
Falling is useless without an impact.
| |
[WP] Your dog digs in the same hole in your backyard everyday. Each day,the hole is getting deeper. Today, you find out it's for an underground bunker. | “What is that?” I asked.
“It’s cuneiform,” Marti said running his fingers over the script inscribed in the stone, “It’s 3rd millenium BC.”
The underground bunker must have been three stories tall. Jipsy, our chihuahua, had created a sophisticated gallery, a labyrinth of artifacts from what must have been from all over the world. Marti and I walked through the gallery looking at African masks, South American bone necklaces, and silver plates from Mexico that dated back to the early 19th century.
“Your chihuahua is a collector,” Marti said.
“Yeah, apparently,” I said, shaking my head, still baffled by the all the historically lost items.
It was then that we heard a bark from the entrance of the hole. Like a good girl, Jipsy descended through the hole and into the bunker with us. She then shook the dirt off of her fur and stood on hind legs, paws hanging in front of her. Marti and I stared at her, not knowing what to do, whether to collect her, or what was at all going on.
“If only you could talk,” I said.
“I can talk,” Jipsy said, the words articulated from her dog lips. “Woof.”
“You could talk?”
“Our species have been around for as long as the humans have,” Jipsy said, “Do you really think evolutions scrutinizes only humans and that through centuries of breeding, humans are the only species that manages to create a sophisticated form of communication. Remember, at one time the neanderthal only spoke in grunts. Why would the canine after centuries only speak in barks.”
Marti and I shook our heads.
“If everything right now didn’t make sense,” Marti said, “That would make sense.”
I slowly approached my chihuahua and knelt to where she stood on her hind legs. She then sat her rear down and stared up at me.
“What is all this?” I asked.
“These are artifacts that survived through the centuries," she said.
“Did you dig all these up?”
“In the beginning, yes.”
“In the beginning?”
The wagging of Jipsy's tail had suddenly come to a halt.
“Before you had found me in the pound, I was just a young bitch in Mexico, trying to find my way through life and just trying to get by. At one point, I had found a silver plate. It has dated back to the European colonial period in which Spanish and Portuguese merchants had used slavery to take silver from Mexico and sugarcane from Brazil. Beneath Mexican soil was a history of tribes and a history of oppression by colonialization. I became quite thirsty to find out the history of my fellow canine, the Mexican people, and more importantly, my country. When I had become more than just a young boy, I was taken to a pound and used for breeding purposes. They had taken me to Virginia to breed with dachshunds and yorkshire terriers. For years, I had lost all purpose in life and could not figure who I was other than a chihuahua providing companionship for the human society. You had taken away everything that I had identified with. And when my masters had used me up and found me infertile, they had dropped me back into the pound, in which I found you. . . or you found me.”
Her words were like lightning that struck me cold and took from me my words. I didn’t turn back, but I was sure that Marti, like me, had become frozen.
“Forced into subordination by the human species, all I wanted was to remember who I was. I dug holes and found many things but nothing that linked me to my past or the Mexican soil. I found bones and arrowheads and sacred boxes with messages to loved ones, but nothing from my people.”
“But, that mask. That mask is from Africa.”
“Yes. Many things here are from all over the world. I found that the only way that I could find artifacts close to mine, was to dig channels into the museums. I went through the waterpipes. I trekked through your sewers. I fought off monsters much larger than what you’ve detailed in encyclopedias. But, I could not get through your museum security systems. I found that the only way to take possession of these artifacts is to schedule my digs so that they coincided with the movement of artifacts in and out of the museum. I knew that I would be incapable of pulling a large painting, but swiping a mask or metal plate between the busy feet of a labor force much more interested in not dropping things was cake to me.”
I finally took a glance back at Marti. I then looked back at Jipsy and her puppy dog eyes.
“Why haven’t you left? You could sell this for a fortune?” I asked.
“Why would I? All this means much more to me than a fortune. All this, indeed, is worth a fortune. But, after the life that I’ve lived, after all the things that the world has taken from me, and all the things I’ve collected in the hopes to get some of my sanity back, you know what the best part of my day is? It’s coming home to a family, being tickled behind my ear, and simply being told that I’m still a good girl. It makes me feel that I’m still worth something.”
- Jonathan Manor [r/eveningrevolution](https://www.reddit.com/r/eveningrevolution/)
| The hole has grown bigger. A large part of cement is visible in the bottom, leaning to look at it I can smell the wet earth and whatever the dog left down there. It feels like all sound is being sucked in near the black perfect circle. Could my dog -any dog- really do that? There are no signs of dirt near the opening. It looks like a giant bullet hole. Filling it up is worthless. Even though I lock the door, and the dog has no way of going out, the earth just dissappears overnight.
That place. It makes me feel something I can't explain. It's an alien feeling. Surreal and terrifying. But also , in a way, it seems peaceful. Inside the black, cool hole.
Today I noticed that a hatch has appeared on the cement, roughly 20 meters under the soil. It's a square piece of incredibly rotten metal. It's smell is blending with the others. It's sickening.
I want to go inside.
The hatch should have weighted at least half a ton. It opened without effort. There's nothing underneath. Only black. The light can't reach the bottom. It's cool and dry inside. It's quiet.
Falling is useless without an impact.
| |
[WP] Your dog digs in the same hole in your backyard everyday. Each day,the hole is getting deeper. Today, you find out it's for an underground bunker. | "Sparky, what are you doing? This hole is getting huge, and I am tired of filling it in. You were never much of a digger before."
Staring at him I realized that Sparky was oddly receptive to what I was saying, he had stopped digging and was watching me closely.
"I am sorry Terrance-"
"What the Fuck!" I screamed, "you can talk? b-but you're a dog."
"Terrance please stay calm. There is much I have not told you."
"What is happening, this must be a dream." I was panicked, dizzy, and having a lot of flashbacks to weird shit I did with Sparky in the room.
"Terrance I need you to focus. I am not digging for me, I am digging for you. Dog kind is making their move Terrance, we can no longer live under the rule of people." Sparky climbed from the hole and came closer.
I collapsed as I tried to back away, "Digging it for me? what does that mean? Sparky, can all dogs talk?
"Why yes we can," sparky said with a glint of superiority in his tone, "Dog kind has long found your opposable digits quite useful, so we held our tongues and let you bumble around on this earth, but your usefulness has dwindled. Don't worry Terrance, this hole is to keep you safe. You have been good to me, I will protect you"
"Keep me safe?" I stammered, "Safe from what?"
"The time of wolfs!" Exclaimed Sparky, "Long have you sheep ruled with feeble attempts at dominance, long have the weak held power. But nature is the only god there is and nature demands that the week be culled by the strong!"
"But Sparky, you're a Pomeranian...." | The hole has grown bigger. A large part of cement is visible in the bottom, leaning to look at it I can smell the wet earth and whatever the dog left down there. It feels like all sound is being sucked in near the black perfect circle. Could my dog -any dog- really do that? There are no signs of dirt near the opening. It looks like a giant bullet hole. Filling it up is worthless. Even though I lock the door, and the dog has no way of going out, the earth just dissappears overnight.
That place. It makes me feel something I can't explain. It's an alien feeling. Surreal and terrifying. But also , in a way, it seems peaceful. Inside the black, cool hole.
Today I noticed that a hatch has appeared on the cement, roughly 20 meters under the soil. It's a square piece of incredibly rotten metal. It's smell is blending with the others. It's sickening.
I want to go inside.
The hatch should have weighted at least half a ton. It opened without effort. There's nothing underneath. Only black. The light can't reach the bottom. It's cool and dry inside. It's quiet.
Falling is useless without an impact.
| |
[WP] Your dog digs in the same hole in your backyard everyday. Each day,the hole is getting deeper. Today, you find out it's for an underground bunker. | i am a pup
i like my guy
temps goin up
dont want to die
i dig a hole
dig it so deep
food from my bowl
food in hole keep
guy does not kno
i do not mind
guy mad at hole
still he so kind
today i am done
hole can fit guy
slep in the sun
put guy inside
show guy the hole
guy v surprise
more food in bowl
pup and guy won't die
guy give me pets
now always in hole
food cannot gets
no food in bowl
i do not mind
guy seems so sad
still is so kind
no longer gets mad
calls me good boi
always more pets
i'll be best boi
i luv my guy
stay safe in hole
no go outside | The hole has grown bigger. A large part of cement is visible in the bottom, leaning to look at it I can smell the wet earth and whatever the dog left down there. It feels like all sound is being sucked in near the black perfect circle. Could my dog -any dog- really do that? There are no signs of dirt near the opening. It looks like a giant bullet hole. Filling it up is worthless. Even though I lock the door, and the dog has no way of going out, the earth just dissappears overnight.
That place. It makes me feel something I can't explain. It's an alien feeling. Surreal and terrifying. But also , in a way, it seems peaceful. Inside the black, cool hole.
Today I noticed that a hatch has appeared on the cement, roughly 20 meters under the soil. It's a square piece of incredibly rotten metal. It's smell is blending with the others. It's sickening.
I want to go inside.
The hatch should have weighted at least half a ton. It opened without effort. There's nothing underneath. Only black. The light can't reach the bottom. It's cool and dry inside. It's quiet.
Falling is useless without an impact.
| |
[WP] Your dog digs in the same hole in your backyard everyday. Each day,the hole is getting deeper. Today, you find out it's for an underground bunker. | I’ve noticed that Spot has been digging the same hole for about 2 weeks. It‘s getting pretty deep, so I’ve started wondering what he’s been digging. I’ve decided it’s time to find out.
“Spot, boy, whatcha diggin’?” I ask.
“An underground bunker,” he replies nonchalantly.
“Oh...” I respond, disappointed. Just my luck. My dog’s a doomsday prepper. Fuckin’ loon. | It started on Day 1, just two feet deep. Deep enough to hurt my leg, but no more. An innocent hole, from an innocent dog.
But the dog kept digging, and digging some more. Day 2, as I recall, he killed a mole. It was larger now, the hole, not the mole.
Day 4 and he won’t stop digging. I no longer believe it’s for the bones or toys. Is it for a body? No he’s a good boy.
I’ve had too much to drink. There’s a door on the hole! Or a hole under a door? The dog goes down with a bucket and back up with dirt. Eyeing me suspiciously, as if I was the jerk.
I’ve lost count of the days, so we’ll call this Day Z, on hopes this will end. The dog’s rented a backhoe, and charged it to my card. Offloading more dirt on the pile next door. My neighbor used to live there. Now it’s just dirt and stone atop a smothered brick home.
The day has come, the fire falls from the sky. My dog comes barking. Barking and barking, he runs back to the hole. I follow him down, closing the door behind, and I can’t help but notice the ground starting to writhe. I feel it’s not right, but what about this is? I continue on and see...what? Light up abead? Oh a torch! Or...twenty three?
The torches surrounded a pit...I couldn’t tell how deep. As it was filled to standing height from the top with snakes. The dog looked up, asking me in silence: *are you proud? I did this*. The dog jumped in with his serpent friends, laughing, I’d imagine, in his mad dog head. I was thinking to join when I stopped in my tracks...
“Hey!” I yelled. “You asshole! I paid for the rental fee! You didn’t do all the work, what about me?”
As sudden as the hellfire above, the snakes slithered and wiggled into a shape of a chair. I thought *oh that’s nice* and worked my way down. Down to the chair. Down the snake stairs.
I sat in the chair, with old faithful by my side, scratching his ears, eyes closed in fright.
That was a good day. | |
[WP] Your dog digs in the same hole in your backyard everyday. Each day,the hole is getting deeper. Today, you find out it's for an underground bunker. | "Sparky, what are you doing? This hole is getting huge, and I am tired of filling it in. You were never much of a digger before."
Staring at him I realized that Sparky was oddly receptive to what I was saying, he had stopped digging and was watching me closely.
"I am sorry Terrance-"
"What the Fuck!" I screamed, "you can talk? b-but you're a dog."
"Terrance please stay calm. There is much I have not told you."
"What is happening, this must be a dream." I was panicked, dizzy, and having a lot of flashbacks to weird shit I did with Sparky in the room.
"Terrance I need you to focus. I am not digging for me, I am digging for you. Dog kind is making their move Terrance, we can no longer live under the rule of people." Sparky climbed from the hole and came closer.
I collapsed as I tried to back away, "Digging it for me? what does that mean? Sparky, can all dogs talk?
"Why yes we can," sparky said with a glint of superiority in his tone, "Dog kind has long found your opposable digits quite useful, so we held our tongues and let you bumble around on this earth, but your usefulness has dwindled. Don't worry Terrance, this hole is to keep you safe. You have been good to me, I will protect you"
"Keep me safe?" I stammered, "Safe from what?"
"The time of wolfs!" Exclaimed Sparky, "Long have you sheep ruled with feeble attempts at dominance, long have the weak held power. But nature is the only god there is and nature demands that the week be culled by the strong!"
"But Sparky, you're a Pomeranian...." | I look up from my desk. I positioned it near the little white window that looks into the backyard some time ago when the doctor said I should get some fresh air. Outside, I see the dog digging again. I unclasp the top of the window and lift it open. It sighs and squeaks upwards, and the air blows a few papers around the room. I put two fingers in my mouth and let out a loud and long whistle. The dog stops and looks up at me expectantly, panting happily, almost smiling underneath dirt caked fur. We look at each other for awhile and then she continues to dig.
Always digging.
I worried for awhile. I even ventured outside once to scold her, but she danced away and I couldn’t catch her and my chest began to hurt so I sat on the porch steps. She came up to me then and nuzzled my hand and I couldn’t be angry with her. Not her.
I won’t stop her. I’ll just watch her as she digs. Always in the same spot. The same hole. Always with the focus of a quarry.
My little excavator.
I root for her now. I gave her a new toy after she jumped in the hole and the lip was higher than her head. I almost cried from the window. It’s a powerful thing to watch someone work towards something. To watch someone head somewhere. I head into different rooms from time to time, but I don’t like leaving the house. She does that for me. She comes back covered in dirt from a foreign land. She brings back earthy smells I would never have known. I got that toy for her a month ago.
Nowadays she disappears for ten minutes at a time before resurfacing, the yellow fur matted brown and black. Tail always wagging. Three days ago she dragged her water bowl into the hole, along with that toy. I’m glad she likes it.
Yesterday we had another tornado warning. There have been a lot of them lately, but that’s not too uncommon for Nebraska. I wonder if we’ll have another one today. One touched down just two towns away. The news talked about a local tractor that was deposited 50 miles west.
I’m just starting to shift around the antennae on the TV when she starts barking. Maybe a neighbor? I slowly walk towards the back door, relying heavily on the various counter\-tops as I make my way over.
She’s standing in front of the hole, wagging her tail excitedly, barking at me.
*“Woof”* I say to her, leaning against the door frame.
She circles around the hole and barks at me again. She walks into the pit and disappears for a few seconds and then comes back out and barks at me. I stand in the doorway and frown.
“I can’t go outside with you, you know that” I give a helpless shrug.
She barks again, and runs into the hole again, disappearing for around a minute this time. When she reemerges she is clutching the toy between her teeth. Her tail is wagging and she drops it in front of me. And she barks.
“I’m sorry, I can’t play with you.” And I am sorry for that. It’s not her fault.
She whines and circles the hole once more. Whining.
“I’m sorry” I call to her “I can’t.”
She whines again and picks up her toy, she looks sad as she disappears into the hole. I wait for about half an hour, but she doesn’t come back up. The sky looks dark and grey.
Maybe it’ll storm. | |
[WP] Your dog digs in the same hole in your backyard everyday. Each day,the hole is getting deeper. Today, you find out it's for an underground bunker. | i am a pup
i like my guy
temps goin up
dont want to die
i dig a hole
dig it so deep
food from my bowl
food in hole keep
guy does not kno
i do not mind
guy mad at hole
still he so kind
today i am done
hole can fit guy
slep in the sun
put guy inside
show guy the hole
guy v surprise
more food in bowl
pup and guy won't die
guy give me pets
now always in hole
food cannot gets
no food in bowl
i do not mind
guy seems so sad
still is so kind
no longer gets mad
calls me good boi
always more pets
i'll be best boi
i luv my guy
stay safe in hole
no go outside | I look up from my desk. I positioned it near the little white window that looks into the backyard some time ago when the doctor said I should get some fresh air. Outside, I see the dog digging again. I unclasp the top of the window and lift it open. It sighs and squeaks upwards, and the air blows a few papers around the room. I put two fingers in my mouth and let out a loud and long whistle. The dog stops and looks up at me expectantly, panting happily, almost smiling underneath dirt caked fur. We look at each other for awhile and then she continues to dig.
Always digging.
I worried for awhile. I even ventured outside once to scold her, but she danced away and I couldn’t catch her and my chest began to hurt so I sat on the porch steps. She came up to me then and nuzzled my hand and I couldn’t be angry with her. Not her.
I won’t stop her. I’ll just watch her as she digs. Always in the same spot. The same hole. Always with the focus of a quarry.
My little excavator.
I root for her now. I gave her a new toy after she jumped in the hole and the lip was higher than her head. I almost cried from the window. It’s a powerful thing to watch someone work towards something. To watch someone head somewhere. I head into different rooms from time to time, but I don’t like leaving the house. She does that for me. She comes back covered in dirt from a foreign land. She brings back earthy smells I would never have known. I got that toy for her a month ago.
Nowadays she disappears for ten minutes at a time before resurfacing, the yellow fur matted brown and black. Tail always wagging. Three days ago she dragged her water bowl into the hole, along with that toy. I’m glad she likes it.
Yesterday we had another tornado warning. There have been a lot of them lately, but that’s not too uncommon for Nebraska. I wonder if we’ll have another one today. One touched down just two towns away. The news talked about a local tractor that was deposited 50 miles west.
I’m just starting to shift around the antennae on the TV when she starts barking. Maybe a neighbor? I slowly walk towards the back door, relying heavily on the various counter\-tops as I make my way over.
She’s standing in front of the hole, wagging her tail excitedly, barking at me.
*“Woof”* I say to her, leaning against the door frame.
She circles around the hole and barks at me again. She walks into the pit and disappears for a few seconds and then comes back out and barks at me. I stand in the doorway and frown.
“I can’t go outside with you, you know that” I give a helpless shrug.
She barks again, and runs into the hole again, disappearing for around a minute this time. When she reemerges she is clutching the toy between her teeth. Her tail is wagging and she drops it in front of me. And she barks.
“I’m sorry, I can’t play with you.” And I am sorry for that. It’s not her fault.
She whines and circles the hole once more. Whining.
“I’m sorry” I call to her “I can’t.”
She whines again and picks up her toy, she looks sad as she disappears into the hole. I wait for about half an hour, but she doesn’t come back up. The sky looks dark and grey.
Maybe it’ll storm. | |
[WP] Your dog digs in the same hole in your backyard everyday. Each day,the hole is getting deeper. Today, you find out it's for an underground bunker. | i am a pup
i like my guy
temps goin up
dont want to die
i dig a hole
dig it so deep
food from my bowl
food in hole keep
guy does not kno
i do not mind
guy mad at hole
still he so kind
today i am done
hole can fit guy
slep in the sun
put guy inside
show guy the hole
guy v surprise
more food in bowl
pup and guy won't die
guy give me pets
now always in hole
food cannot gets
no food in bowl
i do not mind
guy seems so sad
still is so kind
no longer gets mad
calls me good boi
always more pets
i'll be best boi
i luv my guy
stay safe in hole
no go outside | “What is that?” I asked.
“It’s cuneiform,” Marti said running his fingers over the script inscribed in the stone, “It’s 3rd millenium BC.”
The underground bunker must have been three stories tall. Jipsy, our chihuahua, had created a sophisticated gallery, a labyrinth of artifacts from what must have been from all over the world. Marti and I walked through the gallery looking at African masks, South American bone necklaces, and silver plates from Mexico that dated back to the early 19th century.
“Your chihuahua is a collector,” Marti said.
“Yeah, apparently,” I said, shaking my head, still baffled by the all the historically lost items.
It was then that we heard a bark from the entrance of the hole. Like a good girl, Jipsy descended through the hole and into the bunker with us. She then shook the dirt off of her fur and stood on hind legs, paws hanging in front of her. Marti and I stared at her, not knowing what to do, whether to collect her, or what was at all going on.
“If only you could talk,” I said.
“I can talk,” Jipsy said, the words articulated from her dog lips. “Woof.”
“You could talk?”
“Our species have been around for as long as the humans have,” Jipsy said, “Do you really think evolutions scrutinizes only humans and that through centuries of breeding, humans are the only species that manages to create a sophisticated form of communication. Remember, at one time the neanderthal only spoke in grunts. Why would the canine after centuries only speak in barks.”
Marti and I shook our heads.
“If everything right now didn’t make sense,” Marti said, “That would make sense.”
I slowly approached my chihuahua and knelt to where she stood on her hind legs. She then sat her rear down and stared up at me.
“What is all this?” I asked.
“These are artifacts that survived through the centuries," she said.
“Did you dig all these up?”
“In the beginning, yes.”
“In the beginning?”
The wagging of Jipsy's tail had suddenly come to a halt.
“Before you had found me in the pound, I was just a young bitch in Mexico, trying to find my way through life and just trying to get by. At one point, I had found a silver plate. It has dated back to the European colonial period in which Spanish and Portuguese merchants had used slavery to take silver from Mexico and sugarcane from Brazil. Beneath Mexican soil was a history of tribes and a history of oppression by colonialization. I became quite thirsty to find out the history of my fellow canine, the Mexican people, and more importantly, my country. When I had become more than just a young boy, I was taken to a pound and used for breeding purposes. They had taken me to Virginia to breed with dachshunds and yorkshire terriers. For years, I had lost all purpose in life and could not figure who I was other than a chihuahua providing companionship for the human society. You had taken away everything that I had identified with. And when my masters had used me up and found me infertile, they had dropped me back into the pound, in which I found you. . . or you found me.”
Her words were like lightning that struck me cold and took from me my words. I didn’t turn back, but I was sure that Marti, like me, had become frozen.
“Forced into subordination by the human species, all I wanted was to remember who I was. I dug holes and found many things but nothing that linked me to my past or the Mexican soil. I found bones and arrowheads and sacred boxes with messages to loved ones, but nothing from my people.”
“But, that mask. That mask is from Africa.”
“Yes. Many things here are from all over the world. I found that the only way that I could find artifacts close to mine, was to dig channels into the museums. I went through the waterpipes. I trekked through your sewers. I fought off monsters much larger than what you’ve detailed in encyclopedias. But, I could not get through your museum security systems. I found that the only way to take possession of these artifacts is to schedule my digs so that they coincided with the movement of artifacts in and out of the museum. I knew that I would be incapable of pulling a large painting, but swiping a mask or metal plate between the busy feet of a labor force much more interested in not dropping things was cake to me.”
I finally took a glance back at Marti. I then looked back at Jipsy and her puppy dog eyes.
“Why haven’t you left? You could sell this for a fortune?” I asked.
“Why would I? All this means much more to me than a fortune. All this, indeed, is worth a fortune. But, after the life that I’ve lived, after all the things that the world has taken from me, and all the things I’ve collected in the hopes to get some of my sanity back, you know what the best part of my day is? It’s coming home to a family, being tickled behind my ear, and simply being told that I’m still a good girl. It makes me feel that I’m still worth something.”
- Jonathan Manor [r/eveningrevolution](https://www.reddit.com/r/eveningrevolution/)
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[WP] Your dog digs in the same hole in your backyard everyday. Each day,the hole is getting deeper. Today, you find out it's for an underground bunker. | Trying to get my feet wet with writing. PLEASE feel free to offer feedback!
...
...
"I've kept my silence long enough," grumbled Jax.
I turned around, trying to place the voice. It was one I have never heard before yet still seemed so familiar. There was no one there.
"Over here." I heard it again. *Where was it coming from?*
"It's me. Jax."
"How in the world? You can talk?"
"There's a lot you don't know, Luna. Follow me."
Flabbergasted, I walked out the back door, passing each tree in my yard until I know where he's leading me. His hole. He does this everyday. I have to refill it everyday.
"Not again, Jax! I don't have time to refill it today. We're supposed to go over Sarah's house so you can play with..." I trailed off. *Why am I explaining this now? I should be asking the questions, like, why can my dog talk? Why did this just start now?*
Jax's shepherd tail was a blur. He had this smug look on his face that I didn't know was possible for a dog.
"It can wait. I promise." His grumbled voice was somehow familiar.
Disappearing around the giant oak, Jax's tail vanishes from sight. *Here it goes again.* I rounded the corner and the hole is much larger than usual. Before even having time to think about refilling this one, something caught my eye. There was a steel door the size of a kennel underneath the giant oak!
"Uh..." is all I could get out.
"Open it. I'll explain everything inside." As soon as the door was open, Jax walked in without hesitation. I couldn't say the same for me. I took a few deep breaths before crouching down and crossing the boundary.
Closing the door behind us, I can only describe the room as a war bunker before the room falls to darkness. Thankfully, the bunker's ceiling was of normal height, despite the small door. All I was able hear was the sound of Jax's nails tapping along the floor. There's a thud as the lights came on. My eyes adjusted to the light. I saw Jax in the middle of the bunker up on his hind quarters with both front paws resting on a large button with both front paws. Turning around, I saw a beam across the back of the door. *That must've been the thud.*
Continuing to turn around, I saw large bags of food - *typical for a dog bunker, I guess* - and a much larger door on the other side of the room.
"What is that other door for?" I couldn't help but ask.
"That's what we're here for. It's past time that you learned a little more about me, Luna. My parents sent me here to protect you."
"Protect me from who? From what?"
"I'll let my parents explain. This is just the portal room to go back to my homeland. They're waiting for us through the door, but I can't go without you." He looked up at me with those puppy eyes he'd perfected the week after I adopted him.
"Oh-okay, I guess. But, how could they be on the other side of the door? We're underground, for goodness' sake!"
"Once we go through that door, it'll make a bit more sense. I promise."
Hesitantly, I walked across the bunker and reach out for the door handle. Jax trotted up next to me. Looking down at him, knowing the bond we've formed over the last two years, I saw that trust in his eyes still. I turned the knob to open the door.
The sight took my breath away. I was blown away by this unexpected landscape.
"Welcome to Kuri, the land of my kind." | I leaned over the windowsill and stared at my backyard. Ruffy's hole had grown massive. If I had his same will to do anything, I would probably start by covering his creation. It was ruining the beauty of my dead grass.
I was having my coffee when the bell rang. I opened the door and found Annie, my beautiful neighbor with tear-soaked eyes.
"Heey...don't cry," I said and hugged her. Every opportunity must be seized, they say. "What happened?
She frowned. How red her face was. It suited her, I must admit, the blue of her irises shone much brighter. "You haven't heard the news? Or the chaos outside?"
I rubbed my chin. "Not really. I've heard screams," I said, "but that's an everyday thing. Ruffy is, however, acting strangely."
Annie grabbed me by the arm and took me outside. "There's a bomb aimed at us. It will impact in fifteen minutes," she said as she pushed me toward the hole. I fought to not spill my coffee. "Ruffy is already waiting for us."
"What? Where's Ruffy? How do you know he's waiting for us," I asked, bewildered. When had she befriended Ruffy?
"He barked at me," Annie said and sniffed, "and I followed him. He foresaw everything. That dog."
"He often sits when I tell him to," I said, proudly. "I'm a great teacher."
Annie sighed and gestured for me to jump into the hole. I finished my coffee and obliged. I'll be damned, but I didn't expect such a long fall. Neither did I expect such a perfectly carved bunker, nor Ruffy blocking the underground entrances with my old fridge.
Soon, it was me, Annie and Ruffy, waiting for a bomb to demolish the city. And as Ruffy cried, and we petted him, I saw something in the dog's eyes. A wink.
I scanned the place. There was no coffee machine in here, but I found something else. Her golden ringlets and blue eyes. Ruffy had always wanted a mom.
I smiled. It was my turn not to ruin this. Ruffy had already proven the best wingman a man could ask for.
------------------------------------
/r/therobertfall For more stories!
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[WP] Your dog digs in the same hole in your backyard everyday. Each day,the hole is getting deeper. Today, you find out it's for an underground bunker. | "Sparky, what are you doing? This hole is getting huge, and I am tired of filling it in. You were never much of a digger before."
Staring at him I realized that Sparky was oddly receptive to what I was saying, he had stopped digging and was watching me closely.
"I am sorry Terrance-"
"What the Fuck!" I screamed, "you can talk? b-but you're a dog."
"Terrance please stay calm. There is much I have not told you."
"What is happening, this must be a dream." I was panicked, dizzy, and having a lot of flashbacks to weird shit I did with Sparky in the room.
"Terrance I need you to focus. I am not digging for me, I am digging for you. Dog kind is making their move Terrance, we can no longer live under the rule of people." Sparky climbed from the hole and came closer.
I collapsed as I tried to back away, "Digging it for me? what does that mean? Sparky, can all dogs talk?
"Why yes we can," sparky said with a glint of superiority in his tone, "Dog kind has long found your opposable digits quite useful, so we held our tongues and let you bumble around on this earth, but your usefulness has dwindled. Don't worry Terrance, this hole is to keep you safe. You have been good to me, I will protect you"
"Keep me safe?" I stammered, "Safe from what?"
"The time of wolfs!" Exclaimed Sparky, "Long have you sheep ruled with feeble attempts at dominance, long have the weak held power. But nature is the only god there is and nature demands that the week be culled by the strong!"
"But Sparky, you're a Pomeranian...." | I leaned over the windowsill and stared at my backyard. Ruffy's hole had grown massive. If I had his same will to do anything, I would probably start by covering his creation. It was ruining the beauty of my dead grass.
I was having my coffee when the bell rang. I opened the door and found Annie, my beautiful neighbor with tear-soaked eyes.
"Heey...don't cry," I said and hugged her. Every opportunity must be seized, they say. "What happened?
She frowned. How red her face was. It suited her, I must admit, the blue of her irises shone much brighter. "You haven't heard the news? Or the chaos outside?"
I rubbed my chin. "Not really. I've heard screams," I said, "but that's an everyday thing. Ruffy is, however, acting strangely."
Annie grabbed me by the arm and took me outside. "There's a bomb aimed at us. It will impact in fifteen minutes," she said as she pushed me toward the hole. I fought to not spill my coffee. "Ruffy is already waiting for us."
"What? Where's Ruffy? How do you know he's waiting for us," I asked, bewildered. When had she befriended Ruffy?
"He barked at me," Annie said and sniffed, "and I followed him. He foresaw everything. That dog."
"He often sits when I tell him to," I said, proudly. "I'm a great teacher."
Annie sighed and gestured for me to jump into the hole. I finished my coffee and obliged. I'll be damned, but I didn't expect such a long fall. Neither did I expect such a perfectly carved bunker, nor Ruffy blocking the underground entrances with my old fridge.
Soon, it was me, Annie and Ruffy, waiting for a bomb to demolish the city. And as Ruffy cried, and we petted him, I saw something in the dog's eyes. A wink.
I scanned the place. There was no coffee machine in here, but I found something else. Her golden ringlets and blue eyes. Ruffy had always wanted a mom.
I smiled. It was my turn not to ruin this. Ruffy had already proven the best wingman a man could ask for.
------------------------------------
/r/therobertfall For more stories!
| |
[WP] Your dog digs in the same hole in your backyard everyday. Each day,the hole is getting deeper. Today, you find out it's for an underground bunker. | i am a pup
i like my guy
temps goin up
dont want to die
i dig a hole
dig it so deep
food from my bowl
food in hole keep
guy does not kno
i do not mind
guy mad at hole
still he so kind
today i am done
hole can fit guy
slep in the sun
put guy inside
show guy the hole
guy v surprise
more food in bowl
pup and guy won't die
guy give me pets
now always in hole
food cannot gets
no food in bowl
i do not mind
guy seems so sad
still is so kind
no longer gets mad
calls me good boi
always more pets
i'll be best boi
i luv my guy
stay safe in hole
no go outside | I leaned over the windowsill and stared at my backyard. Ruffy's hole had grown massive. If I had his same will to do anything, I would probably start by covering his creation. It was ruining the beauty of my dead grass.
I was having my coffee when the bell rang. I opened the door and found Annie, my beautiful neighbor with tear-soaked eyes.
"Heey...don't cry," I said and hugged her. Every opportunity must be seized, they say. "What happened?
She frowned. How red her face was. It suited her, I must admit, the blue of her irises shone much brighter. "You haven't heard the news? Or the chaos outside?"
I rubbed my chin. "Not really. I've heard screams," I said, "but that's an everyday thing. Ruffy is, however, acting strangely."
Annie grabbed me by the arm and took me outside. "There's a bomb aimed at us. It will impact in fifteen minutes," she said as she pushed me toward the hole. I fought to not spill my coffee. "Ruffy is already waiting for us."
"What? Where's Ruffy? How do you know he's waiting for us," I asked, bewildered. When had she befriended Ruffy?
"He barked at me," Annie said and sniffed, "and I followed him. He foresaw everything. That dog."
"He often sits when I tell him to," I said, proudly. "I'm a great teacher."
Annie sighed and gestured for me to jump into the hole. I finished my coffee and obliged. I'll be damned, but I didn't expect such a long fall. Neither did I expect such a perfectly carved bunker, nor Ruffy blocking the underground entrances with my old fridge.
Soon, it was me, Annie and Ruffy, waiting for a bomb to demolish the city. And as Ruffy cried, and we petted him, I saw something in the dog's eyes. A wink.
I scanned the place. There was no coffee machine in here, but I found something else. Her golden ringlets and blue eyes. Ruffy had always wanted a mom.
I smiled. It was my turn not to ruin this. Ruffy had already proven the best wingman a man could ask for.
------------------------------------
/r/therobertfall For more stories!
| |
[WP] Your dog digs in the same hole in your backyard everyday. Each day,the hole is getting deeper. Today, you find out it's for an underground bunker. | "Sparky, what are you doing? This hole is getting huge, and I am tired of filling it in. You were never much of a digger before."
Staring at him I realized that Sparky was oddly receptive to what I was saying, he had stopped digging and was watching me closely.
"I am sorry Terrance-"
"What the Fuck!" I screamed, "you can talk? b-but you're a dog."
"Terrance please stay calm. There is much I have not told you."
"What is happening, this must be a dream." I was panicked, dizzy, and having a lot of flashbacks to weird shit I did with Sparky in the room.
"Terrance I need you to focus. I am not digging for me, I am digging for you. Dog kind is making their move Terrance, we can no longer live under the rule of people." Sparky climbed from the hole and came closer.
I collapsed as I tried to back away, "Digging it for me? what does that mean? Sparky, can all dogs talk?
"Why yes we can," sparky said with a glint of superiority in his tone, "Dog kind has long found your opposable digits quite useful, so we held our tongues and let you bumble around on this earth, but your usefulness has dwindled. Don't worry Terrance, this hole is to keep you safe. You have been good to me, I will protect you"
"Keep me safe?" I stammered, "Safe from what?"
"The time of wolfs!" Exclaimed Sparky, "Long have you sheep ruled with feeble attempts at dominance, long have the weak held power. But nature is the only god there is and nature demands that the week be culled by the strong!"
"But Sparky, you're a Pomeranian...." | Trying to get my feet wet with writing. PLEASE feel free to offer feedback!
...
...
"I've kept my silence long enough," grumbled Jax.
I turned around, trying to place the voice. It was one I have never heard before yet still seemed so familiar. There was no one there.
"Over here." I heard it again. *Where was it coming from?*
"It's me. Jax."
"How in the world? You can talk?"
"There's a lot you don't know, Luna. Follow me."
Flabbergasted, I walked out the back door, passing each tree in my yard until I know where he's leading me. His hole. He does this everyday. I have to refill it everyday.
"Not again, Jax! I don't have time to refill it today. We're supposed to go over Sarah's house so you can play with..." I trailed off. *Why am I explaining this now? I should be asking the questions, like, why can my dog talk? Why did this just start now?*
Jax's shepherd tail was a blur. He had this smug look on his face that I didn't know was possible for a dog.
"It can wait. I promise." His grumbled voice was somehow familiar.
Disappearing around the giant oak, Jax's tail vanishes from sight. *Here it goes again.* I rounded the corner and the hole is much larger than usual. Before even having time to think about refilling this one, something caught my eye. There was a steel door the size of a kennel underneath the giant oak!
"Uh..." is all I could get out.
"Open it. I'll explain everything inside." As soon as the door was open, Jax walked in without hesitation. I couldn't say the same for me. I took a few deep breaths before crouching down and crossing the boundary.
Closing the door behind us, I can only describe the room as a war bunker before the room falls to darkness. Thankfully, the bunker's ceiling was of normal height, despite the small door. All I was able hear was the sound of Jax's nails tapping along the floor. There's a thud as the lights came on. My eyes adjusted to the light. I saw Jax in the middle of the bunker up on his hind quarters with both front paws resting on a large button with both front paws. Turning around, I saw a beam across the back of the door. *That must've been the thud.*
Continuing to turn around, I saw large bags of food - *typical for a dog bunker, I guess* - and a much larger door on the other side of the room.
"What is that other door for?" I couldn't help but ask.
"That's what we're here for. It's past time that you learned a little more about me, Luna. My parents sent me here to protect you."
"Protect me from who? From what?"
"I'll let my parents explain. This is just the portal room to go back to my homeland. They're waiting for us through the door, but I can't go without you." He looked up at me with those puppy eyes he'd perfected the week after I adopted him.
"Oh-okay, I guess. But, how could they be on the other side of the door? We're underground, for goodness' sake!"
"Once we go through that door, it'll make a bit more sense. I promise."
Hesitantly, I walked across the bunker and reach out for the door handle. Jax trotted up next to me. Looking down at him, knowing the bond we've formed over the last two years, I saw that trust in his eyes still. I turned the knob to open the door.
The sight took my breath away. I was blown away by this unexpected landscape.
"Welcome to Kuri, the land of my kind." | |
[WP] Your dog digs in the same hole in your backyard everyday. Each day,the hole is getting deeper. Today, you find out it's for an underground bunker. | i am a pup
i like my guy
temps goin up
dont want to die
i dig a hole
dig it so deep
food from my bowl
food in hole keep
guy does not kno
i do not mind
guy mad at hole
still he so kind
today i am done
hole can fit guy
slep in the sun
put guy inside
show guy the hole
guy v surprise
more food in bowl
pup and guy won't die
guy give me pets
now always in hole
food cannot gets
no food in bowl
i do not mind
guy seems so sad
still is so kind
no longer gets mad
calls me good boi
always more pets
i'll be best boi
i luv my guy
stay safe in hole
no go outside | Trying to get my feet wet with writing. PLEASE feel free to offer feedback!
...
...
"I've kept my silence long enough," grumbled Jax.
I turned around, trying to place the voice. It was one I have never heard before yet still seemed so familiar. There was no one there.
"Over here." I heard it again. *Where was it coming from?*
"It's me. Jax."
"How in the world? You can talk?"
"There's a lot you don't know, Luna. Follow me."
Flabbergasted, I walked out the back door, passing each tree in my yard until I know where he's leading me. His hole. He does this everyday. I have to refill it everyday.
"Not again, Jax! I don't have time to refill it today. We're supposed to go over Sarah's house so you can play with..." I trailed off. *Why am I explaining this now? I should be asking the questions, like, why can my dog talk? Why did this just start now?*
Jax's shepherd tail was a blur. He had this smug look on his face that I didn't know was possible for a dog.
"It can wait. I promise." His grumbled voice was somehow familiar.
Disappearing around the giant oak, Jax's tail vanishes from sight. *Here it goes again.* I rounded the corner and the hole is much larger than usual. Before even having time to think about refilling this one, something caught my eye. There was a steel door the size of a kennel underneath the giant oak!
"Uh..." is all I could get out.
"Open it. I'll explain everything inside." As soon as the door was open, Jax walked in without hesitation. I couldn't say the same for me. I took a few deep breaths before crouching down and crossing the boundary.
Closing the door behind us, I can only describe the room as a war bunker before the room falls to darkness. Thankfully, the bunker's ceiling was of normal height, despite the small door. All I was able hear was the sound of Jax's nails tapping along the floor. There's a thud as the lights came on. My eyes adjusted to the light. I saw Jax in the middle of the bunker up on his hind quarters with both front paws resting on a large button with both front paws. Turning around, I saw a beam across the back of the door. *That must've been the thud.*
Continuing to turn around, I saw large bags of food - *typical for a dog bunker, I guess* - and a much larger door on the other side of the room.
"What is that other door for?" I couldn't help but ask.
"That's what we're here for. It's past time that you learned a little more about me, Luna. My parents sent me here to protect you."
"Protect me from who? From what?"
"I'll let my parents explain. This is just the portal room to go back to my homeland. They're waiting for us through the door, but I can't go without you." He looked up at me with those puppy eyes he'd perfected the week after I adopted him.
"Oh-okay, I guess. But, how could they be on the other side of the door? We're underground, for goodness' sake!"
"Once we go through that door, it'll make a bit more sense. I promise."
Hesitantly, I walked across the bunker and reach out for the door handle. Jax trotted up next to me. Looking down at him, knowing the bond we've formed over the last two years, I saw that trust in his eyes still. I turned the knob to open the door.
The sight took my breath away. I was blown away by this unexpected landscape.
"Welcome to Kuri, the land of my kind." | |
[WP] Your dog digs in the same hole in your backyard everyday. Each day,the hole is getting deeper. Today, you find out it's for an underground bunker. | "Sparky, what are you doing? This hole is getting huge, and I am tired of filling it in. You were never much of a digger before."
Staring at him I realized that Sparky was oddly receptive to what I was saying, he had stopped digging and was watching me closely.
"I am sorry Terrance-"
"What the Fuck!" I screamed, "you can talk? b-but you're a dog."
"Terrance please stay calm. There is much I have not told you."
"What is happening, this must be a dream." I was panicked, dizzy, and having a lot of flashbacks to weird shit I did with Sparky in the room.
"Terrance I need you to focus. I am not digging for me, I am digging for you. Dog kind is making their move Terrance, we can no longer live under the rule of people." Sparky climbed from the hole and came closer.
I collapsed as I tried to back away, "Digging it for me? what does that mean? Sparky, can all dogs talk?
"Why yes we can," sparky said with a glint of superiority in his tone, "Dog kind has long found your opposable digits quite useful, so we held our tongues and let you bumble around on this earth, but your usefulness has dwindled. Don't worry Terrance, this hole is to keep you safe. You have been good to me, I will protect you"
"Keep me safe?" I stammered, "Safe from what?"
"The time of wolfs!" Exclaimed Sparky, "Long have you sheep ruled with feeble attempts at dominance, long have the weak held power. But nature is the only god there is and nature demands that the week be culled by the strong!"
"But Sparky, you're a Pomeranian...." | “Come on, boy...” Marcus said, sighing at the sight of the hole.
The neighbors weren’t happy with how his backyard looked. It didn’t conform the neat and proper image of the neighborhood. Before he broke out of the slums at the lower levels of the city, he’d always thought that life would be pristine here.
He shook his head and kicked at the mound of dirt. For the last week, Logan had been coming inside with his paws dirty. He’d also been a lot more whiny lately. Perhaps he, too, wasn’t overly pleased with the new neighborhood.
A few steps closer to the edge. Logan had dug deep into the lawn. Nothing better to do during the days, Marcus supposed. He lit a cigar, and inhaled deeply.
The flash of the lighter caught something down in the hole. A gleam of metal beneath the dirt.
“What the...” he mumbled and knelt down in the grass to get a better look.
The flat surface of a dark rock met his eyes. And on it, a circular golden symbol with lines shooting away from its edges. The symbol looked a bit like a sun, with a two\-pronged fork at the top.
Marcus scratched his head. He’d never seen anything like it. He hurried off to the shed and grabbed a shovel. Whatever Logan had found here was making him nervous. Marcus had always thought that not knowing is always worse. It wasn’t a very popular view to hold, but he mostly kept it to himself.
It took him a couple of hours to widen the hole. Every take of the shovel revealing more of the strange dark rock. Whatever this thing was \-\- it was a lot bigger than he’d thought. He tried to find the edges, but after several feet, it was still a floor below his yard.
Marcus wiped the sweat from his brow and bent down to get a closer look at the golden symbol. He touched it with his hand, and to his surprise it radiated a little bit of heat. A sudden rumble made the ground shake, and the dark rock parted. Marcus slipped as the ground was pulled out from under him. A hole opened, and he went tumbling right into it.
Darkness caressed him from all sides.The air smelled of dust and staleness. He fumbled on the hard floor for the lighter. Finally, his hands found the tool and flipped it open. The warm light scattered the darkness.
The room was box\-shaped and relatively small. A bunker of some sort, perhaps. He traced the dark rock and discovered more of the strange symbols etched into the floor.
He swallowed hard. This had to be some sort of secret government technology. He definitely shouldn’t be here.
The light from the surface shone into the hole, and he was just about to make his way up again when he noticed something in the wall. A nook that held a…
“By the holy emperor...” he mumbled and brought the lighter closer.
A skeleton made of metal gleamed in the strange light. Despite his hammering heart, Marcus crept closer. It was covered in dust and cobweb, but had a strange sheen to it. A chill roll up his back.
Without thinking, Marcus reached out and touched the forehead of the skull. It, too, emanated that strange faint heat. The design was masterful, elegant, sleek \-\- out of this world.
A sound behind pulled him out of his reverie. Metal and some sort of hydraulics. He turned his head and noticed that several pairs of green light had appeared in the darkness.
A sudden click snapped his focus back to the skeleton. Sharp green lights stared at him from within in its eye sockets.
***
More stories: r/Lilwa_Dexel | |
[WP] Your dog digs in the same hole in your backyard everyday. Each day,the hole is getting deeper. Today, you find out it's for an underground bunker. | i am a pup
i like my guy
temps goin up
dont want to die
i dig a hole
dig it so deep
food from my bowl
food in hole keep
guy does not kno
i do not mind
guy mad at hole
still he so kind
today i am done
hole can fit guy
slep in the sun
put guy inside
show guy the hole
guy v surprise
more food in bowl
pup and guy won't die
guy give me pets
now always in hole
food cannot gets
no food in bowl
i do not mind
guy seems so sad
still is so kind
no longer gets mad
calls me good boi
always more pets
i'll be best boi
i luv my guy
stay safe in hole
no go outside | “Come on, boy...” Marcus said, sighing at the sight of the hole.
The neighbors weren’t happy with how his backyard looked. It didn’t conform the neat and proper image of the neighborhood. Before he broke out of the slums at the lower levels of the city, he’d always thought that life would be pristine here.
He shook his head and kicked at the mound of dirt. For the last week, Logan had been coming inside with his paws dirty. He’d also been a lot more whiny lately. Perhaps he, too, wasn’t overly pleased with the new neighborhood.
A few steps closer to the edge. Logan had dug deep into the lawn. Nothing better to do during the days, Marcus supposed. He lit a cigar, and inhaled deeply.
The flash of the lighter caught something down in the hole. A gleam of metal beneath the dirt.
“What the...” he mumbled and knelt down in the grass to get a better look.
The flat surface of a dark rock met his eyes. And on it, a circular golden symbol with lines shooting away from its edges. The symbol looked a bit like a sun, with a two\-pronged fork at the top.
Marcus scratched his head. He’d never seen anything like it. He hurried off to the shed and grabbed a shovel. Whatever Logan had found here was making him nervous. Marcus had always thought that not knowing is always worse. It wasn’t a very popular view to hold, but he mostly kept it to himself.
It took him a couple of hours to widen the hole. Every take of the shovel revealing more of the strange dark rock. Whatever this thing was \-\- it was a lot bigger than he’d thought. He tried to find the edges, but after several feet, it was still a floor below his yard.
Marcus wiped the sweat from his brow and bent down to get a closer look at the golden symbol. He touched it with his hand, and to his surprise it radiated a little bit of heat. A sudden rumble made the ground shake, and the dark rock parted. Marcus slipped as the ground was pulled out from under him. A hole opened, and he went tumbling right into it.
Darkness caressed him from all sides.The air smelled of dust and staleness. He fumbled on the hard floor for the lighter. Finally, his hands found the tool and flipped it open. The warm light scattered the darkness.
The room was box\-shaped and relatively small. A bunker of some sort, perhaps. He traced the dark rock and discovered more of the strange symbols etched into the floor.
He swallowed hard. This had to be some sort of secret government technology. He definitely shouldn’t be here.
The light from the surface shone into the hole, and he was just about to make his way up again when he noticed something in the wall. A nook that held a…
“By the holy emperor...” he mumbled and brought the lighter closer.
A skeleton made of metal gleamed in the strange light. Despite his hammering heart, Marcus crept closer. It was covered in dust and cobweb, but had a strange sheen to it. A chill roll up his back.
Without thinking, Marcus reached out and touched the forehead of the skull. It, too, emanated that strange faint heat. The design was masterful, elegant, sleek \-\- out of this world.
A sound behind pulled him out of his reverie. Metal and some sort of hydraulics. He turned his head and noticed that several pairs of green light had appeared in the darkness.
A sudden click snapped his focus back to the skeleton. Sharp green lights stared at him from within in its eye sockets.
***
More stories: r/Lilwa_Dexel | |
[WP] Your dog digs in the same hole in your backyard everyday. Each day,the hole is getting deeper. Today, you find out it's for an underground bunker. | "Sparky, what are you doing? This hole is getting huge, and I am tired of filling it in. You were never much of a digger before."
Staring at him I realized that Sparky was oddly receptive to what I was saying, he had stopped digging and was watching me closely.
"I am sorry Terrance-"
"What the Fuck!" I screamed, "you can talk? b-but you're a dog."
"Terrance please stay calm. There is much I have not told you."
"What is happening, this must be a dream." I was panicked, dizzy, and having a lot of flashbacks to weird shit I did with Sparky in the room.
"Terrance I need you to focus. I am not digging for me, I am digging for you. Dog kind is making their move Terrance, we can no longer live under the rule of people." Sparky climbed from the hole and came closer.
I collapsed as I tried to back away, "Digging it for me? what does that mean? Sparky, can all dogs talk?
"Why yes we can," sparky said with a glint of superiority in his tone, "Dog kind has long found your opposable digits quite useful, so we held our tongues and let you bumble around on this earth, but your usefulness has dwindled. Don't worry Terrance, this hole is to keep you safe. You have been good to me, I will protect you"
"Keep me safe?" I stammered, "Safe from what?"
"The time of wolfs!" Exclaimed Sparky, "Long have you sheep ruled with feeble attempts at dominance, long have the weak held power. But nature is the only god there is and nature demands that the week be culled by the strong!"
"But Sparky, you're a Pomeranian...." | "Buddy, not again," James frowned as he walked into his garden. "The hole is so big again."
It was a weird dog of his. He had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Still, he looked a cute and friendly one anyway, so he took the dog as his own. Even so, the dog had been spending most of the time digging this very hole.
"Come on, Buddy. I'm tired of putting the dirt back all the... time," as he reached the hole, he saw a door at the end of the hole.
Buddy tail was swinging like crazy and he was making circles around the door. The door had a valve.
"I'm not sure I should be messing with it, Buddy," James whispered. Something felt wrong. Buddy, however, started barking.
"Fine, Buddy. Fine. If that makes you leave my garden alone," James sighed and got himself down into the hole. He was surprised when the Valve actually rotated pretty easily and the door opened.
Buddy entered the bunker without any hesitation.
"Buddy! Hey. Stupid dog. We don't know what's down there!" he was already thinking of radioactive things or such could be hidden there. He removed his phone and turned on its built-in flashlight.
He looked now down the ladder and saw nothing there. It wasn't a long wall, else buddy wouldn't have launched down there.
With a deep breath, he convinced himself to go down. He took hold of the ladder and made the tiny climb down. It was a simple room, leading to another room. It was empty. All of it. He opened the other door and peeked inside. In there was an empty bed.
*Bang.*
James spun around, all confused. There was much less light suddenly. He quickly walked towards the exit, but the door was shut.
As he got himself top of the ladder, he tried to push the door open. After all, it was probably just a wind.
The door, however, was locked. There was a tiny window, from where he could peek outside. Even as he tried to peek out, there was nothing to be seen. The window was also dirty, which made it extra hard. Sweat gathered around James like crazy.
Barking. A sudden barking. Except, it came outside. Suddenly Buddy looked through the window towards James.
"Bloody hell. How did you get back up there, Buddy?" James asked, laughing nervously. Buddy just barked.
"You closed it? Be a good dog and open it," he didn't even understand why he asked that. Buddy was a dog. A dumb dog who dug one spot all the time.
A dirt fell on the window.
"Buddy?" James shouted.
More dirt fell on it. As he stopped breathing, he could hear it. Buddy was clawing dirt back on the door.
"Buddy? What are you doing! Stop!"
He quickly opened the phone to call an emergency number, but there was no signal.
"Buddy? What are you doing? Stop it!" James screamed. "Stop it, Buddy!"
Slowly, his shouts got more and more murmured. At one point, nothing came through. Buddy was walking over the dug land to push dirt in more and more.
He barked last few times and then walked towards his nearby kennel. He lied down and started chewing a nearby bone. A skeleton hand at the end of the bone now and then got shaken around while Buddy was chewing the main bone. Behind the kennel, there was also a small dug up spot. A tiny bit of a skull was still visible.
---
Never piss off human's best friend!
/r/ElvenWrites - if you're interested my past or future written stuff. | |
[WP] Your dog digs in the same hole in your backyard everyday. Each day,the hole is getting deeper. Today, you find out it's for an underground bunker. | i am a pup
i like my guy
temps goin up
dont want to die
i dig a hole
dig it so deep
food from my bowl
food in hole keep
guy does not kno
i do not mind
guy mad at hole
still he so kind
today i am done
hole can fit guy
slep in the sun
put guy inside
show guy the hole
guy v surprise
more food in bowl
pup and guy won't die
guy give me pets
now always in hole
food cannot gets
no food in bowl
i do not mind
guy seems so sad
still is so kind
no longer gets mad
calls me good boi
always more pets
i'll be best boi
i luv my guy
stay safe in hole
no go outside | "Buddy, not again," James frowned as he walked into his garden. "The hole is so big again."
It was a weird dog of his. He had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Still, he looked a cute and friendly one anyway, so he took the dog as his own. Even so, the dog had been spending most of the time digging this very hole.
"Come on, Buddy. I'm tired of putting the dirt back all the... time," as he reached the hole, he saw a door at the end of the hole.
Buddy tail was swinging like crazy and he was making circles around the door. The door had a valve.
"I'm not sure I should be messing with it, Buddy," James whispered. Something felt wrong. Buddy, however, started barking.
"Fine, Buddy. Fine. If that makes you leave my garden alone," James sighed and got himself down into the hole. He was surprised when the Valve actually rotated pretty easily and the door opened.
Buddy entered the bunker without any hesitation.
"Buddy! Hey. Stupid dog. We don't know what's down there!" he was already thinking of radioactive things or such could be hidden there. He removed his phone and turned on its built-in flashlight.
He looked now down the ladder and saw nothing there. It wasn't a long wall, else buddy wouldn't have launched down there.
With a deep breath, he convinced himself to go down. He took hold of the ladder and made the tiny climb down. It was a simple room, leading to another room. It was empty. All of it. He opened the other door and peeked inside. In there was an empty bed.
*Bang.*
James spun around, all confused. There was much less light suddenly. He quickly walked towards the exit, but the door was shut.
As he got himself top of the ladder, he tried to push the door open. After all, it was probably just a wind.
The door, however, was locked. There was a tiny window, from where he could peek outside. Even as he tried to peek out, there was nothing to be seen. The window was also dirty, which made it extra hard. Sweat gathered around James like crazy.
Barking. A sudden barking. Except, it came outside. Suddenly Buddy looked through the window towards James.
"Bloody hell. How did you get back up there, Buddy?" James asked, laughing nervously. Buddy just barked.
"You closed it? Be a good dog and open it," he didn't even understand why he asked that. Buddy was a dog. A dumb dog who dug one spot all the time.
A dirt fell on the window.
"Buddy?" James shouted.
More dirt fell on it. As he stopped breathing, he could hear it. Buddy was clawing dirt back on the door.
"Buddy? What are you doing! Stop!"
He quickly opened the phone to call an emergency number, but there was no signal.
"Buddy? What are you doing? Stop it!" James screamed. "Stop it, Buddy!"
Slowly, his shouts got more and more murmured. At one point, nothing came through. Buddy was walking over the dug land to push dirt in more and more.
He barked last few times and then walked towards his nearby kennel. He lied down and started chewing a nearby bone. A skeleton hand at the end of the bone now and then got shaken around while Buddy was chewing the main bone. Behind the kennel, there was also a small dug up spot. A tiny bit of a skull was still visible.
---
Never piss off human's best friend!
/r/ElvenWrites - if you're interested my past or future written stuff. | |
[WP] Your dog digs in the same hole in your backyard everyday. Each day,the hole is getting deeper. Today, you find out it's for an underground bunker. | i am a pup
i like my guy
temps goin up
dont want to die
i dig a hole
dig it so deep
food from my bowl
food in hole keep
guy does not kno
i do not mind
guy mad at hole
still he so kind
today i am done
hole can fit guy
slep in the sun
put guy inside
show guy the hole
guy v surprise
more food in bowl
pup and guy won't die
guy give me pets
now always in hole
food cannot gets
no food in bowl
i do not mind
guy seems so sad
still is so kind
no longer gets mad
calls me good boi
always more pets
i'll be best boi
i luv my guy
stay safe in hole
no go outside | "Sparky, what are you doing? This hole is getting huge, and I am tired of filling it in. You were never much of a digger before."
Staring at him I realized that Sparky was oddly receptive to what I was saying, he had stopped digging and was watching me closely.
"I am sorry Terrance-"
"What the Fuck!" I screamed, "you can talk? b-but you're a dog."
"Terrance please stay calm. There is much I have not told you."
"What is happening, this must be a dream." I was panicked, dizzy, and having a lot of flashbacks to weird shit I did with Sparky in the room.
"Terrance I need you to focus. I am not digging for me, I am digging for you. Dog kind is making their move Terrance, we can no longer live under the rule of people." Sparky climbed from the hole and came closer.
I collapsed as I tried to back away, "Digging it for me? what does that mean? Sparky, can all dogs talk?
"Why yes we can," sparky said with a glint of superiority in his tone, "Dog kind has long found your opposable digits quite useful, so we held our tongues and let you bumble around on this earth, but your usefulness has dwindled. Don't worry Terrance, this hole is to keep you safe. You have been good to me, I will protect you"
"Keep me safe?" I stammered, "Safe from what?"
"The time of wolfs!" Exclaimed Sparky, "Long have you sheep ruled with feeble attempts at dominance, long have the weak held power. But nature is the only god there is and nature demands that the week be culled by the strong!"
"But Sparky, you're a Pomeranian...." | |
[WP] The reason why we don't hear from aliens is because broadcasting your presence into space is a bad idea. Why? The humans will find you. | The Igrox were unrivalled in their corner of the Galaxy, they had spread forth from their homeworld with greed and merciless speed.
By their very nature they were vicious, only unified by their hunger for more worlds.
If a world suited their needs, it was theirs. They extinguished hundreds of civilisations in their conquest, from primitive tribal worlds to subordinate space faring worlds.
The Igrox had yet to encounter any real resistance to their power.
Even when challenged, the Igrox had the edge, Those unfortunate species who had met their end taking their first steps into the cosmos, they never thought to be ready for war, they had no weapons or contingencies ready. Too late they realised their folly.
One by one. species after species fell to the all consuming Igrox war machine. Their empire now spanning hundreds of worlds.
They would fight, war with one another, then civilise and unify their worlds as one, laying down their weapons and taking their hopeful first steps into space, foolishly thinking others would have.
The survivors of one particular fledgling race were pushed back to their homeworld by the superior military and tech of the Igrox, having lost what few colonies they had to the invaders, they opted for one last act of defiance.
There was no hope for victory or survival. But there was for vengeance, to let the Igrox taste their own medicine.
They perished. But not before drawing the gaze of a far off beast to their portion of the galaxy and dooming their enemies to the same fate.
In their final moments, they transmitted the location of their homeworld to what we know as the Virgo Supercluster, to a world that served as the birthplace for the single most powerful species this Galaxy has ever known.
#"Humanity."
Unlike the others, they never relinquished war from their forefront of their civilisations, alliances and peace were possible within themselves, but all while they developed their weapons and strengthened their positions in quiet preparation for any eventuality and the collapse of any short lived peace between their own.
Their greatest ally and enemy was themselves, forging the Humans into the warriors they were destined to be. Their self destructive behaviour was their greatest source of progress, they built weapons other species would not even fathom, only rarely would Human science not have a weaponized equivalent. They leapt evermore forward.
A cycle of chaos and order.
They ventured into space, split off and for centuries they fought with themselves in the silence. Every war honing their weapons further, building their fleets larger and their domain bigger. All of this before even a single first contact event.
The quiet dark did nothing to quell their conflicts at first, interstellar civil wars, endless colony disputes, rival Superpowers. But after every victory against themselves, their collective might grew, and the faction known as the United Terran Empire came into being.
Mankind stabilised themselves as they did in their past, this was the combined might of the Humans.
Unlike the Igrox, the Humans never took their power for granted, it was untested, so they kept building and building.
While the two races developed within the same time frame, the Human's overtook the Igrox by the 21st Century.
The Igrox grew complacent, sure that were no beings out there that were a threat to their primacy. Slowed in their technological prowess. Made arrogant by their apparent invincibility. They had made no progress for almost half a century other than their colonisation efforts, they saw no need when it was so easy.
The Humans, in their isolation had no such thoughts so their hunger for new technology never faltered. In their own bubble of solitude, they worked tirelessly, as was their nature.
One sword sharpened, the other rusted.
And like a pack of lions fighting amongst themselves, a cry turned the predators' focus, squarely onto the unsuspecting Igrox.
During a routine invasion of a helpless world, the Igrox Fleet detected several FTL jumps into the system, revealing a sizeable force
"Impossible" they thought "none exist to stand against us!"
For the first time, the conquerors suddenly did not feel so invincible in light of this new enemy.
Centuries of unabated supremacy was about to be violently dismantled.
For the first time. The Igrox felt fear.
The United Terran Navy Fleet moves to face off against the Igrox Armada
A volley of fire and energy lights up the sky above the planet, the natives on the planet are in awe of this battle between Gods. unable to comprehend it fully.
The Human's have not fired a single shot yet. But the Igrox have fired everything they have.
Yet not a single Human ship seems damaged, the blasts absorbed comfortably by their energy shielding
The UTN fire back, effortlessly crippling the alien fleet, the Igrox begin to flee, and the Humans follow them, all the way back to their homeworld.
For the Igrox, it was a cataclysmic apocalyptic Armageddon that spelled the end of their existence and dethroned them to extinction.
For Humanity? It was just a weapons test.
| The citizens of Garth stood in Dictum Square, staring up in fascination at the trelliced tower of twisted metals soaring into the heavens. The emperor’s finest sorcerers had promised a show of unprecedented wizardry. They had created a device to send words directly through the air, a machina which could whisper across the lands at the speed of thought, a clockwerk to bring the words of the emperor, leagues and leagues afar in the capital, directly to the people.
The pounding church bells rung Terce, the afternoon prayer, the echoing thuds galvanizing the skin. As the ringing wore to a close, a strange, scratchy, watery noise filled the air, emanating from the hundreds of golden horns arrayed about the base of the mystical monstrosity.
“Is it on? What do I do with thi--“ a series of clatters preceded a piercing, unearthly scream.
The peasants flinched back from the screeching voice of the ensemble, clutching hats and wringing hands and looking askance of each other. The master of ceremonies waved his hands in a concilliatory, hushing gesture.
“Yes, your benificence, you just need to--“
“Oh confound this, what are all these strings everywhere? Who came up with this devilry?”
“Your royalness, those are 'wires,' they carry the magic of your divine voice to the--”
“Ugh, more sorcery talk, you pointy hats are so interminably boring, just stop talking and tell me where to speak, let’s get this over with.”
“Of course magnificence, just speak into this box here an--”
A ground-shaking roar tore through the air, the sun was eclipsed and shadow covered the square of Garth. Peasants screamed in terror, pointing to the sky as thousands of monstrous gleaming birds appeared, floating on the air, immovable, rents in reality.
The roar faded away slowly, giving way to a pulsing, blood-chilling anthem.
“Boom... Boom... Clap... Boom.. Boom.. Clap..”
“What in the six tortures is going on? Is this part of your wizardry? You never told me about this part.”
“No, your majesticness... I don’t know what... Oh, my, your lordship, look to the skies.”
“Boom. Boom. Clap. Boom Boom Clap. Boom-Boom-Clap.”
“Get that out of my skies. How dare you!”
“Your regality, I--”
“BoomBoomClap. BoOmBoOmClAp. BOOMBOOMCLAP”
“WHAT’S UP PEOPLE OF XANDAR!?!”
Screaming filled the air, the metal objects in the sky shot lights out to each other, creating a latticework of heavenly brilliance. Flashing beams of red and green and blue gyrated toward the ground as the sky began to fill with an image. A hazy, distorted cloud of an image. Slowly it sharpened.
There on the sky appeared a vision, a sandy colored castle, towers and parapets reaching majestically to the skies, purple banners flapping in the breeze. The peasantry fell to their knees, knuckles white as they grasped desperately at their clothestuffs, marking out prayers to the six above and one below. Was this the sorcerers show? They’d gone too far this time, surely this would anger the Gods.
“Pointy hat, what’s the meaning of this? Is that the palace? Is that...?”
The image in the skies flew forward at a dizzying speed, enlarging on a rather rotund and rosy faced man leaning out of a window, a foppish hat on his head and a foppish look on a foppish face.
“LET’S MEET CONTESTANT NUMBER ONE! All the way here from the capital city of Xandar, Emperor Dudlums comes to us from the mining province of Mendra! After killing his way to an impressive career in city mismanagement, Dudlums began a sometimes frothy reign as Emperor of Xandar. Between intrigues and plots, he enjoys long walks on the beach, dark ales and dogs named after politicians!”
“Now, hear me, turn this off! I’ll not have my-- “
“SO! Contestant One, Emperor Dudlums, mind if I call you Duds?”
“H-h-how dare you! I’ll have your head!”
“Okaaaay then! Let’s give it up for Duds!”
Another roaring spread out through the air. Most had stopped their prayers and now stared in wide-eyed fascination at their emperor etched on the sky, jowels quivvering, red faced, and a good 50 pounds heavier than the face on the coinage.
“Alright! Question number one! If you could have one wish and know it would be granted, but to a random person instead of yourself, what would it be?”
The emperor seemed to ponder this for a moment. Confusion plain on his face, fingers tracing through a patchy beard. He stared off into the distance, over his lands, his people.
“I suppose I would--”
A horrific tone screeched through the air and a red “X” flew up in the sky.
“I’m sorry, time’s up! Try to be a little faster next time. Question number two! This is an easy one. If you take a glove off of your right hand and turn it inside out, which hand does it fit on?”
“Right! No, left! No, I mean right!”
Another X shape appeared next to the first.
“Sorry, only one answer Duds! Try to think it through first next time”
The emperor scowled out the window.
“Last question! Let’s say you’re the first person to meet a traveler from another planet, what kind of cake do you serve at the party and why?”
The emperor gazed off into the distance, face screwed up in concentration, tongue slightly outstretched, mouth mumbling unheard calculations.
“Chocolate. Definitely Chocolate”
A third X appeared.
“Ooooh, bad luck Duds, that’s the wrong answer. Thanks for trying though!”
A strange orange creature appeared in the sky, an ocean of brilliantly golden mane stretched atop his head ruffling softly in the breeze. Stern eyes looked down over the landscape as he raised a finger pointing directly at the enraptured audience.
“You’re fired!” | |
[WP] The reason why we don't hear from aliens is because broadcasting your presence into space is a bad idea. Why? The humans will find you. | The Igrox were unrivalled in their corner of the Galaxy, they had spread forth from their homeworld with greed and merciless speed.
By their very nature they were vicious, only unified by their hunger for more worlds.
If a world suited their needs, it was theirs. They extinguished hundreds of civilisations in their conquest, from primitive tribal worlds to subordinate space faring worlds.
The Igrox had yet to encounter any real resistance to their power.
Even when challenged, the Igrox had the edge, Those unfortunate species who had met their end taking their first steps into the cosmos, they never thought to be ready for war, they had no weapons or contingencies ready. Too late they realised their folly.
One by one. species after species fell to the all consuming Igrox war machine. Their empire now spanning hundreds of worlds.
They would fight, war with one another, then civilise and unify their worlds as one, laying down their weapons and taking their hopeful first steps into space, foolishly thinking others would have.
The survivors of one particular fledgling race were pushed back to their homeworld by the superior military and tech of the Igrox, having lost what few colonies they had to the invaders, they opted for one last act of defiance.
There was no hope for victory or survival. But there was for vengeance, to let the Igrox taste their own medicine.
They perished. But not before drawing the gaze of a far off beast to their portion of the galaxy and dooming their enemies to the same fate.
In their final moments, they transmitted the location of their homeworld to what we know as the Virgo Supercluster, to a world that served as the birthplace for the single most powerful species this Galaxy has ever known.
#"Humanity."
Unlike the others, they never relinquished war from their forefront of their civilisations, alliances and peace were possible within themselves, but all while they developed their weapons and strengthened their positions in quiet preparation for any eventuality and the collapse of any short lived peace between their own.
Their greatest ally and enemy was themselves, forging the Humans into the warriors they were destined to be. Their self destructive behaviour was their greatest source of progress, they built weapons other species would not even fathom, only rarely would Human science not have a weaponized equivalent. They leapt evermore forward.
A cycle of chaos and order.
They ventured into space, split off and for centuries they fought with themselves in the silence. Every war honing their weapons further, building their fleets larger and their domain bigger. All of this before even a single first contact event.
The quiet dark did nothing to quell their conflicts at first, interstellar civil wars, endless colony disputes, rival Superpowers. But after every victory against themselves, their collective might grew, and the faction known as the United Terran Empire came into being.
Mankind stabilised themselves as they did in their past, this was the combined might of the Humans.
Unlike the Igrox, the Humans never took their power for granted, it was untested, so they kept building and building.
While the two races developed within the same time frame, the Human's overtook the Igrox by the 21st Century.
The Igrox grew complacent, sure that were no beings out there that were a threat to their primacy. Slowed in their technological prowess. Made arrogant by their apparent invincibility. They had made no progress for almost half a century other than their colonisation efforts, they saw no need when it was so easy.
The Humans, in their isolation had no such thoughts so their hunger for new technology never faltered. In their own bubble of solitude, they worked tirelessly, as was their nature.
One sword sharpened, the other rusted.
And like a pack of lions fighting amongst themselves, a cry turned the predators' focus, squarely onto the unsuspecting Igrox.
During a routine invasion of a helpless world, the Igrox Fleet detected several FTL jumps into the system, revealing a sizeable force
"Impossible" they thought "none exist to stand against us!"
For the first time, the conquerors suddenly did not feel so invincible in light of this new enemy.
Centuries of unabated supremacy was about to be violently dismantled.
For the first time. The Igrox felt fear.
The United Terran Navy Fleet moves to face off against the Igrox Armada
A volley of fire and energy lights up the sky above the planet, the natives on the planet are in awe of this battle between Gods. unable to comprehend it fully.
The Human's have not fired a single shot yet. But the Igrox have fired everything they have.
Yet not a single Human ship seems damaged, the blasts absorbed comfortably by their energy shielding
The UTN fire back, effortlessly crippling the alien fleet, the Igrox begin to flee, and the Humans follow them, all the way back to their homeworld.
For the Igrox, it was a cataclysmic apocalyptic Armageddon that spelled the end of their existence and dethroned them to extinction.
For Humanity? It was just a weapons test.
| "Sir, We have something on radar," said one of the analysts.
"What country is it from?" said Major Charlies.
"Not a country," said the analyst. "It's coming in from the Space Survelience Network."
"Is this another one of your jokes Corporal Tot?" said the Major.
"No sir," said the corporal. "The object is passing between the moons as we speak."
"Why haven't we detected it until now?" said the Major.
"It's small, sir," said the corporal. "Ground based survelience is having trouble locking onto it."
"Re-task the orbital survelience grid," said the Major. "We need to get an eye on this thing before it hits the inner moons."
"Yes sir, we're already on it," said the Corporal.
The Major nodded his approval.
He walked to the window and looked out at the Plains of Celesti beyond the borders of the base. One of the suns had begun to sink below the horizon. The day had moved into it's third quarter.
"Get me a line to the senior staff," said the Major.
His staff responded in an affirmative. Hurried commotion filled the room as they responded to this latest event.
"Sir," said one of his assistants. "The line's open."
"General Michaels," said the Major. "We have a situation. Are you tracking on your end?"
"Hello Major," said the General. "Yes, well done. You were the first station to track the object. We've since had reports of three more. It is a shame we couldn't get the lunar bases up and running before now. What's your assessment?"
"Sir, I don't think the satelittes can be reposition in time," said the Major. "The object is small, but it's moving at quite a pace."
"Any indication that it's slowing?" said the General.
Major looked to the Corporal who had reported the phenomenon. He shook his head.
"Not yet sir," said the Major.
"Its trajectory," said the General. "Could it be natural?"
"We have people working on that," said the Major. "It doesn't appear to be effected by the moon's gravity. Normally they would shield us from any errant asteroids that threatened the planet."
"So," said the General "We are really talking intelligent life."
"Yes sir," said the Major. "If it doesn't slow General?"
"You are thinking the same then Major," said the General. "A missle?"
"Given the precision in which it has been working under," said the Major. "It seems likely."
"Have your teams discuss alternative possibilities," said the General. "We will begin preperations."
"Preperations sir?" said the Major.
"Of course," said the General. "If it's a missle, we're going to shoot it down."
The General signed off leaving Major Charlies to wonder whether this was the beginnings of a war, or the swift end of one they hadn't even realised had started.
"Sir," said the Corporal. "I'm seeing reports of missle launches."
"They can't have made a decision this quickly," said the Major. "I've only just spoken to the General."
"It appears to be originating from the Kingdom of Kvathia," said the Corporal.
"They don't have any ASAT technology that could fire a warhead that far into space," said the Major.
"The missles are on an intercept course with the object currenty predicted trajectory," said the Coporal.
"They must have spotted it before us," said the Major. "Either that, or the Kingdom is making a seriously rash decision."
"Sir," said the Corporal. "The object is changing course to intercept the Kingdom's warheads... Its speed is also increasing."
"Get the General back on the line," said the Major. "Now."
"Sir, sir, shockwave approaching," said the Coporal.
"Shockwave? From space?" said the Major. The audio-link opened with the General.
"What is it Major?" said the General. "We're busy over here."
"Sorry sir," said the Major. "Signs indicate the Kingdom opened-"
The line went dead.
"Technician," said the Major. "What's happening over here?"
"Brace *yourselves*," the Corporal lost control of his voice lost control on the final word. It was released in a strangled squeak.
Harsh light filled the room, the silhouette of the divides between the window's panes seared into the walls of the command centre. The Major and his staff lost consciousness.
-
"Major," said a voice. "Sir, get up."
The Major groaned. He was on the floor. A lump streched across his forehead where he had landed.
"Status report," said the Major.
"No damage reported," said the Corporal from back at his station.
"What the hell was that?" said the Major.
"We're not sure," said the Corporal.
"Sir," said another of his staff. "We're picking up a transmission."
"Let's here it," said the Major.
Static filled the room before an electronic voice cut through it.
>
> Thank you, for choosing Ama-Coca-Cola-Zon for your intergalactic resupply needs.
>
> We received your request for *~~static~~* and have opened an account in your planet's name.
>
> We regret the need for the extermination of your neighbouring principality. The security of the supply chain is paramount.
>
> Any further hostilities will be in breach of our terms and conditions. All resources, living or mineral will be immediately forfeit.
>
> Have a nice day.
> | |
[WP] You wake up as the last video game character you played as. | I found myself in a classroom filled with students. What in the world was going on? The teacher called out names as I tried to figure out my surroundings. The classroom seemed similar to the ones in middle school or high school, so this wasn't a university. And everyone was wearing uniform, so this was a school with some kind of policy...
As I wondered where I was, I saw a notification. "You are in the game you last played." The message said. I struggled to remember what it was; it had been years since I last played a game. Suddenly, the room was silent and a student poked me in the ribs beside me. The teacher coughed and I realized it was my turn. "Here!" I nervously announced, suddenly aware of my girly voice. So the main character was a girl, huh... some classmates in the back giggled and laughed until the teacher shut them down with a glare. I glanced down at my hands and saw that they were a light tan color. My nails were unpolished and I was wearing leggings and shoes along with the usual school uniform. I scratched my head, my exceptionally long hair reaching near my waist. I then suddenly saw that I had brown hair and then it clicked-- I was Monika from Doki Doki Literature Club! I quickly checked my bag and saw a mirror, which confirmed my suspicions. My emerald green eyes were very clear and my facial features matched my memory exactly.
I sighed a breath of relief. I had complete control of the game after all. But I was still a little confused. Why wasn't I the actual main character? Where was Natsuki, Yuri, and Sayori, none of who I saw in the classroom with me? I furrowed my brows, looking more carefully, but I still didn't recognize anyone, not even someone who vaguely resembled the true main character. I tried using Monika's skills to see if I could access the files, but I had no idea what I had to do. I visualized the computer files, but what could I even do if I could delete a character?
I thought things over, and the bell that signaled the class end startled me. We all packed up and went our way home. The scene transitioned as we walked out of school, which was natural, after all, there was no scene in-between that was like real life. But wait... where was the club? Shouldn't there always be a meeting after school? The details were coming back as I remembered the game, but I still couldn't place a finger on what was missing...
I sat in front of a desk in what I presumed was Monika's bedroom. This was most confusing of all. This bedroom didn't exist in the game. How was it possible that I was here? Suddenly, I thought back to when the teacher called me by my name. Did she really say "Monika"? Or was it... something else? Surely not my real name? I looked around the room for clues. There were clothes which did not even appear in the game. In addition, the graphics were slightly different from the game. Though it had been years, surely it did not change much... unless I was within project libitina? I shuddered to think of what problems could occur if the Third Eye was secretly within the school and having involved us. Maybe it was too late. Maybe the others were captured and only my initial awareness as club leader prevented my own capture. I slumped down in defeat. Then suddenly I realized what was wrong, as I recalled what the teacher had called me as...
Ayano. I wasn't Monika... I was just a modded look... of the main character of Yandere simulator! This was much worse than I thought. I could only hope that I wouldn't have to kill the beautiful rivals of senpai-chan.... Alas, if only I was in DDLC. | Slowly I move to the edge, peering down at my enemies. No one knows I'm here. This is it, the spectacle of their lives. I wait until I hear the call. Its going to be glorious, a wave of death that hasn't been seen in this small African town in years.
***Ogon’ po gotovnosti!***
I jump off the ledge, with a smirk behind my mask. If only the Valkyrie had looked up before she flew to the fat Australian. DIE! DIE DIE! I scream as I spin wildly firing my shot guns into the enemy team. Doub\- Tripl\- Quad\- Quint\- ***SEX\-TUPLE KILL! TEAM KILL!*** the Announcer yells. | |
[WP] You wake up as the last video game character you played as. | I found myself in a classroom filled with students. What in the world was going on? The teacher called out names as I tried to figure out my surroundings. The classroom seemed similar to the ones in middle school or high school, so this wasn't a university. And everyone was wearing uniform, so this was a school with some kind of policy...
As I wondered where I was, I saw a notification. "You are in the game you last played." The message said. I struggled to remember what it was; it had been years since I last played a game. Suddenly, the room was silent and a student poked me in the ribs beside me. The teacher coughed and I realized it was my turn. "Here!" I nervously announced, suddenly aware of my girly voice. So the main character was a girl, huh... some classmates in the back giggled and laughed until the teacher shut them down with a glare. I glanced down at my hands and saw that they were a light tan color. My nails were unpolished and I was wearing leggings and shoes along with the usual school uniform. I scratched my head, my exceptionally long hair reaching near my waist. I then suddenly saw that I had brown hair and then it clicked-- I was Monika from Doki Doki Literature Club! I quickly checked my bag and saw a mirror, which confirmed my suspicions. My emerald green eyes were very clear and my facial features matched my memory exactly.
I sighed a breath of relief. I had complete control of the game after all. But I was still a little confused. Why wasn't I the actual main character? Where was Natsuki, Yuri, and Sayori, none of who I saw in the classroom with me? I furrowed my brows, looking more carefully, but I still didn't recognize anyone, not even someone who vaguely resembled the true main character. I tried using Monika's skills to see if I could access the files, but I had no idea what I had to do. I visualized the computer files, but what could I even do if I could delete a character?
I thought things over, and the bell that signaled the class end startled me. We all packed up and went our way home. The scene transitioned as we walked out of school, which was natural, after all, there was no scene in-between that was like real life. But wait... where was the club? Shouldn't there always be a meeting after school? The details were coming back as I remembered the game, but I still couldn't place a finger on what was missing...
I sat in front of a desk in what I presumed was Monika's bedroom. This was most confusing of all. This bedroom didn't exist in the game. How was it possible that I was here? Suddenly, I thought back to when the teacher called me by my name. Did she really say "Monika"? Or was it... something else? Surely not my real name? I looked around the room for clues. There were clothes which did not even appear in the game. In addition, the graphics were slightly different from the game. Though it had been years, surely it did not change much... unless I was within project libitina? I shuddered to think of what problems could occur if the Third Eye was secretly within the school and having involved us. Maybe it was too late. Maybe the others were captured and only my initial awareness as club leader prevented my own capture. I slumped down in defeat. Then suddenly I realized what was wrong, as I recalled what the teacher had called me as...
Ayano. I wasn't Monika... I was just a modded look... of the main character of Yandere simulator! This was much worse than I thought. I could only hope that I wouldn't have to kill the beautiful rivals of senpai-chan.... Alas, if only I was in DDLC. | I wake up on the floor of...somewhere. It was hard to describe. the floor was made out of identical white squares, but after about 2 feet, the floor disappeared. around me were blurbs of data for who knows what. I stood up and tried to walk to the edge, but more square rose up from nowhere and one behind me sank.
Before I could get my bearings, everything went white. when the blinding light went away, I stood on a roof. I was in London, but 19th century London.
"well that's odd," I said to myself. My voice sounded different, it was deeper and surely. It was at this point I figured out who I was, but to make sure I looked at my left wrist. sure enough, a hidden blade, right where it should be.
I was Jacob Frye, a member of the Assassins brotherhood. | |
[WP] You're on Trial for Murder. The only evidence is a horribly photoshopped picture of you shooting a gun from Halo at the victim. Unfortunately, you seem to be the only person who realizes this. | Mr. Hope... Mr. Hope... Mr. Hope...
I've always hated my last name, especially now that it was draining any from within me after each monotonous repetition. The courtroom was starting to feel like it was its own prison, as if I was guilty simply by being here.
A distant television screen in a waiting room reads "Television host Charlie Hope on trial for Murder"
Perhaps it was a poor choice to represent myself but I wasn't sure I could trust anyone else at this point, or ever again for that matter. Everyone that I thought I could trust had turned on me. The police, my neighbors, my friends, my family...
As I sat in the seat of the defendant, the long drawn out boredom I felt was offset by the anxious restlessness of trying to understand what was happening to me. I glanced around the room for the umpteenth time in the last 3 weeks which had mostly become a blur. Behind me was an audience of about 30 people, close enough for them to hear what was happening but too far away to cause any distractions. To my right sat a tired looking jury, and an obnoxious camera branded with the logo of the state run media in\-between us. In front of me sat the judge and the woman that I supposedly turned into a widow.
My throat was dry and my eyes were starting to water as I took a small sip from a clear glass of water, it tasted stale.
A dark green ill\-fitting suit hung from the prosecutors shoulders as he leaned over a microphone.
"Mrs. Hall I would like you to look at the photograph that's been marked Exhibit B2 for identification. Do you recognize what's contained in that photograph?"
"Yes I do."
Elizabeth Hall was my next door neighbor, or at least had been for the last 2 months after arriving with a neatly packed moving truck.
I always thought something seemed a little "off" about her but I could never seem to pinpoint it.
"Tell the jury please what is contained in that photograph."
"It's a photograph of Charlie Hope before he murdered my husban..."
Tears began forming in the corner of Mrs. Halls eyes while mine narrowed as my cheeks began to burn with anger. For all I knew she didn't even have a husband, she was the only one I ever saw at her house apart from workers that took care of any physical labor. I hated her guts for doing this to me.
"Your honor at this time I offer this photograph into evidence."
The judge peered down at the photograph without much expression.
She was an older woman with ash brown hair and glasses that that were barely holding on to the end of her nose.
"Mr. Hope do you have any objections?"
As I took the photograph from the assistant my anger and anxiety turned into disbelief and shock.
What was handed to me was a poorly photoshopped photograph of me holding a pistol from the game Halo: Combat Evolved.
"Is this some kind of joke?" I finally blurted out.
"Excuse me?" Replied the judge.
"This is clearly a photoshopped picture. I am holding a gun from a god damn video game for crying out loud!"
"Do you recognize the game that the gun is from?"
"How the hell does that make a difference!? And yes, it's from Halo!"
The judge and the prosecutor glanced at each other nervously.
"I see, and do you frequently play the Halo?"
In more mundane situations I would have been irritated by the phrasing.
"Yes I play it all the time, how is any of this relevant? Why are you not saying anything about this ridiculous photoshop?"
When I glanced down my head dropped and I began to feel dizzy, the photograph was no longer there, taken back by the assistant. I began to feel confused. Why are the lights so bright? Why is that damn camera so close to my face, and why were they talking so slowly?
As my eyes darted back and forth I saw a figure in green slowly creep into my vision, which I then began to realize wasn't the prosecutor. Standing in front of me was Master Chief. The jury instead of being comprised of people was now made up of grunts. Mrs. Hall's face now seemingly resembled an Elite more than a human, her head was down in her hands and she was audibly crying.
"Wort wort wort"
The lights in the courtroom glowed with an unusual intensity and a deep voice boomed from the air "Slayer."
Pt. 2 / Epilogue
Only once I came out of the hallucination did I understand its gravity. Was I crazy? Am I dangerous? Had I killed Mr. Hall?
Maybe it was better that I was locked up after all...
The next day I struck a plea deal with the prosecution. I didn't exactly get the better end of the stick, but life in a state mental institution sounded a lot better than life in prison.
I've always been critical of the government running all of these programs themselves but I can't deny the strides they've made in medication and hypnosis. Maybe they can actually help me.
A black and silver phone began to ring in an unlisted office high above the city street.
"Justice Caroline Higbee speaking" a voice answered.
"I see the trial went well" crackled the response
"Oh yes, both lawfully and medically. The in\-game hypnotics and taste trigger worked very well, your team really does wonderful work. I doubt Mr. Hope will be broadcasting any more criticisms any time soon."
The End. Directed by M. Night Shamaladingdong. | Your honor, I wish to speak with a representative of the united states government. My body is human but I am an alien sent here to infiltrate your planet and analyze its potential for induction into the galactic federation. Using my advanced knowledge I constructed a medical application device using crystalline technology from my planet, which had the completely unforeseen effect of interacting negatively with your carbon based biology.
I henceforth shall halt all manufacturing of alien technology, and ask that I be given access to the materials necessary to construct subspace communications equipment for the purpose of checking in with my kind. In one year, if no signal is sent from me, my mission will be deemed a failure and met with a hostile invasion and terraforming force. This planet will be expunged of all life and dismantled for its rare elements for dispersion on the galactic market.
... This should land me a cushy job sitting on my ass where all I have to do is talk into a frog spinning on a record player once a year. Oops did I say that out loud. That was just me speaking my kind's language without thinking. It would sound to your kind as simple words and random nouns strung together. Retards. | |
[WP] You're on Trial for Murder. The only evidence is a horribly photoshopped picture of you shooting a gun from Halo at the victim. Unfortunately, you seem to be the only person who realizes this. | "Your Arbiter," the lawyer said, his high pitched voice spitting between the slit in the mouth of his plastic mask. The face appeared to be a knock-off of Ronald Regan. "Let it be entered into the record that the defendant is stupid."
The Judge nodded, his split jaw clearly visible behind the Groucho glasses. "The Defendant is indeed faithless, and of poor character. This shall be recorded in the the most sacred archives."
"Objection!" cried my attorney, refusing to lower the umbrella that he held in the direction of the prosecution at all times. "This is um," he turned to his protege, also concealed by an umbrella.
"Bad! Wrong!" the protege hissed.
The judge growled. "This court does not recognise the will of such puny and weak lawyers. Nevertheless, we shall show mercy and allow the defence to call their first witness!"
The lawyer stood. "The defence calls Mister A. Human!"
The doors to the courtroom swung open, admitting what appeared to be a latex suit of a human being filled with swarming worms. It lumbered down the aisle towards the stand, where it paused for a moment before contorting backwards over the rail in a way that would have severed a human spine.
"Mister Human," the judge said, as the creature twisted upright like a starfish spinning on a rock. "What have you to say of this honourless and faithless creature?"
"We -- we mean, uh *I*," it said, speaking as if with a thousand voices, "have known mister Robertson for some nine hundred years."
"And would you say that they are in fact innocent of being a murderous monster?"
The courtroom leaned forwards, eager to hear whatever it had to say of me.
"We -- *I* -- would say that the defendant is in fact **guilty!"**
A commotion erupted, as twenty high-pitched voices murmured about the audacity of it. At the far end of the room, a tiny and robust woman in victorian attire fainted, her lace fan falling across her face.
The judge slammed the mallet so hard that it shattered, his claws grasping the shards of wood as if nothing had happened. "Then we find the defendant guilty of the slaugher of literally millions, having flown across the cosmos to kill innocent people whose only crime was their devotion to their-"
I raised my shackled hands.
The judge stuttered. "Um, yes?"
"I have a question."
He looked down at his papers, as if trying to decide if this was a planned interruption. "Um, proceed. I suppose."
I stood. "Am I high?" | Your honor, I wish to speak with a representative of the united states government. My body is human but I am an alien sent here to infiltrate your planet and analyze its potential for induction into the galactic federation. Using my advanced knowledge I constructed a medical application device using crystalline technology from my planet, which had the completely unforeseen effect of interacting negatively with your carbon based biology.
I henceforth shall halt all manufacturing of alien technology, and ask that I be given access to the materials necessary to construct subspace communications equipment for the purpose of checking in with my kind. In one year, if no signal is sent from me, my mission will be deemed a failure and met with a hostile invasion and terraforming force. This planet will be expunged of all life and dismantled for its rare elements for dispersion on the galactic market.
... This should land me a cushy job sitting on my ass where all I have to do is talk into a frog spinning on a record player once a year. Oops did I say that out loud. That was just me speaking my kind's language without thinking. It would sound to your kind as simple words and random nouns strung together. Retards. | |
[WP] You're on Trial for Murder. The only evidence is a horribly photoshopped picture of you shooting a gun from Halo at the victim. Unfortunately, you seem to be the only person who realizes this. | "Sir, where were you on august 21st 2017?" The prosecutor asked me.
"I have answered this a dozen times already. I was playing HALO 5 WITH FRIENDS!!. I even have an achievement unlocked at the time you guys are claiming I murdered the victim!! Why am I still being framed for this" I replied agitated. For months now they're trying to pin this murder on me and all they have is a badly photoshopped picture. I could not take it anymore. Everyone believed it. Even my parents and my girlfriend.....well, ex-girlfriend as she dumped me after my arrest.... Said she couldn't date a murderer.
"Sir, you CLAIM to be playing Hello 5 but this picture clearly shows you shooting the poor, innocent victim. And the timestamp shows the exact same time as you claimed to be unlocking this so-called achieving". The Prosecutor continued.
"That timestamp is a picture of a clock, clearly pasted onto the picture. The "victim" is Adolf FUCKING Hitler! Everyone knows he commited suicide over 70 years ago! And the gun? GODFUCKINGDAMMIT!! Thats a gun from HALO...not hello, HA FUCKING LO!! They even copied the arm from the game. You can see both my arms hanging down the sides of my body....." I was fuming now.
"How the fuck doesnt anyone notice that? What kind of dumbfucks are we dealing with here? There's not even a fucking body.....only this monstrosity of a photoshopped picture." My face turned red as I spewed out this bit..
"Judge, the prosecution would like to ask the jury to ignore the rant of the murderer. Everyone can see this picture is real."
I could not believe my ears.... ignore the facts I just told them? What was going on here?
"granted" The judge replied. "After closely reviewing the picture one must conclude this is real".
My lawyer turned to me and whispered: "If you admit now we might still get a plea deal. They might give a humane execution"
"Admit? Admit? What the fuck man!! You cant be real! I DID NOT DO IT!! There isnt a murder, its a horrible photoshop and someone is framing me here"
"Sir! You HAVE to be quit or else....." The judge interrupted me by hammering his gavel.
"I think we all heard enough. The jury will now retreat to come to a verdict"
"WHAT?!?" I yelled "After a laughable questioning? My Lawyer didnt even get to question me! And where are the alleged cops that investigated the crime..." BANG BANG BANG!! The judge slammed his gavel and ordered me to be silent.
I was dumbfounded. The whole period leading up to this trial has been a travesty but the trial itself really takes the cake. I tried to look at my parents but they quickly turned their heads away. My ex was in the room, surprisingly, but she didnt want to look at me either.
I still couldnt believe no-one saw that the picture was clear photoshop. Fuck, photoshop? More like MS paint. Done by a mentally retarded halfwit..... like our president..... hah... that actually made me chuckle for a second..... but seriously! How could anyone believe this? This has been the most broadcasted trial, worldwide. Not even OJ's trial got this much attention.... There where multiple cameras in the courtroom.
Before we could leave the courtroom the jury came to a verdict. How long have they been gone? Not even 5 minutes.....
"Jury, did you come to an unanimous verdict?" The judge asked them.
"we have your honor" The first juror said as he handed the verdict to the bailiff.
The judge reviewed the verdict and asked me to stand up.
"we the jury find the defendant guilty of......" My jaw dropped as he said that word. "...being the first victim of ABC's new hidden camera show Smile, your on a mock trial." As those words where said the crowd cheered and applauded as Andy Dick walked up to me with my parents and ex-girlfriend.
| Your honor, I wish to speak with a representative of the united states government. My body is human but I am an alien sent here to infiltrate your planet and analyze its potential for induction into the galactic federation. Using my advanced knowledge I constructed a medical application device using crystalline technology from my planet, which had the completely unforeseen effect of interacting negatively with your carbon based biology.
I henceforth shall halt all manufacturing of alien technology, and ask that I be given access to the materials necessary to construct subspace communications equipment for the purpose of checking in with my kind. In one year, if no signal is sent from me, my mission will be deemed a failure and met with a hostile invasion and terraforming force. This planet will be expunged of all life and dismantled for its rare elements for dispersion on the galactic market.
... This should land me a cushy job sitting on my ass where all I have to do is talk into a frog spinning on a record player once a year. Oops did I say that out loud. That was just me speaking my kind's language without thinking. It would sound to your kind as simple words and random nouns strung together. Retards. | |
[WP] You're on Trial for Murder. The only evidence is a horribly photoshopped picture of you shooting a gun from Halo at the victim. Unfortunately, you seem to be the only person who realizes this. | “Look, kid. As much as I try to keep a cool head in these situations, I gotta level with you. This looks bad.”
“Yeah, no kidding”, I responded. “They didn’t even bother to cut it out of the white background. How’s anyone buying this?”
My lawyer buried his sweaty face in his hands. “Look. Miguel, was it? I can appreciate you getting your story straight and sticking to it. Really, your commitment is admirable. But if I’m gonna defend you at all, I at least need you to be honest with ME. Now, if we move to a plea bargain now, we may be able to skirt the death penalty. But you’re gonna do hard time. Let’s just get that straight now.”
I stared at my so-called lawyer in bewilderment. I was still half in disbelief, but the handcuffs and stands full of disgusted onlookers felt gut-punching-ly real. When I’d first woken up to a bedroom full of cops, I’d made the logical assumption that they were all going to take off their pants and start dancing, followed by my roommate running in from the next room to catch it on camera. But there’s no way Larry had the money to hire this many seasoned actors, much less to rent out an actual court room. The only thing that didn’t seem real was the photograph being used to convict me. It was of me, crudely photoshopped out of a group picture and placed onto a still from the columbine massacre, with a partially neon gun (and matching white background) from Halo 3 where my hand would be. Even for a meme this would’ve looked bad.
The opposing lawyer stood up impatiently. “Your honor, could we put a stop to this circus and get on with the conviction? I’m sure the members of the jury have places to be.” The jurors nodded.
“Are you guys serious?” I said in disbelief. “I mean for fucks sake, the gun is glowing orange, and it’s still got a white box around it! Not to mention the fact that my whole body is turned to face a security camera that’s in the ceiling!”
“Mr Schwartz, I don’t know how you managed to contort your body like that, just like I don’t know how you managed to murder an entire high school full of innocent children and two officers, before going home to your warm bed and sleeping the night away. And if the smile on your face in that picture is any indication of the kind of person we’re dealing with, I’d recommend nothing less than the death penalty.” Murmurs of agreement could be heard from the jurors. “Shameful”, remarked the judge. “Simply repulsive.”
“But the me in that picture is clearly from a different photo! I mean you can see my friend Larry’s arm right there!”
The whole room gasped in horror. The Bailiff’s eyes widened as his hand instinctively moved closer to his gun.
“So not only was it necessary to murder a building full of children”, the lawyer continued, “but you felt the need to amputate the arm of someone who called you a friend, and take it with you as some sort of sick good luck charm?!” The jurors shrieked. My lawyer banged his head on the desk a few times and started packing his things. This was bad. Whatever kind of fever dream this was, I wasn’t waking up. I grabbed my lawyer’s iPad and pulled up an image of the gun from the game. “Guys, the gun is from a video game!” I turned the screen to face the room. The jurors screamed and scrambled in terror. “Gun!” Yelled the bailiff.
And that’s how I died. | Your honor, I wish to speak with a representative of the united states government. My body is human but I am an alien sent here to infiltrate your planet and analyze its potential for induction into the galactic federation. Using my advanced knowledge I constructed a medical application device using crystalline technology from my planet, which had the completely unforeseen effect of interacting negatively with your carbon based biology.
I henceforth shall halt all manufacturing of alien technology, and ask that I be given access to the materials necessary to construct subspace communications equipment for the purpose of checking in with my kind. In one year, if no signal is sent from me, my mission will be deemed a failure and met with a hostile invasion and terraforming force. This planet will be expunged of all life and dismantled for its rare elements for dispersion on the galactic market.
... This should land me a cushy job sitting on my ass where all I have to do is talk into a frog spinning on a record player once a year. Oops did I say that out loud. That was just me speaking my kind's language without thinking. It would sound to your kind as simple words and random nouns strung together. Retards. | |
[WP] You're on Trial for Murder. The only evidence is a horribly photoshopped picture of you shooting a gun from Halo at the victim. Unfortunately, you seem to be the only person who realizes this. | "Your Arbiter," the lawyer said, his high pitched voice spitting between the slit in the mouth of his plastic mask. The face appeared to be a knock-off of Ronald Regan. "Let it be entered into the record that the defendant is stupid."
The Judge nodded, his split jaw clearly visible behind the Groucho glasses. "The Defendant is indeed faithless, and of poor character. This shall be recorded in the the most sacred archives."
"Objection!" cried my attorney, refusing to lower the umbrella that he held in the direction of the prosecution at all times. "This is um," he turned to his protege, also concealed by an umbrella.
"Bad! Wrong!" the protege hissed.
The judge growled. "This court does not recognise the will of such puny and weak lawyers. Nevertheless, we shall show mercy and allow the defence to call their first witness!"
The lawyer stood. "The defence calls Mister A. Human!"
The doors to the courtroom swung open, admitting what appeared to be a latex suit of a human being filled with swarming worms. It lumbered down the aisle towards the stand, where it paused for a moment before contorting backwards over the rail in a way that would have severed a human spine.
"Mister Human," the judge said, as the creature twisted upright like a starfish spinning on a rock. "What have you to say of this honourless and faithless creature?"
"We -- we mean, uh *I*," it said, speaking as if with a thousand voices, "have known mister Robertson for some nine hundred years."
"And would you say that they are in fact innocent of being a murderous monster?"
The courtroom leaned forwards, eager to hear whatever it had to say of me.
"We -- *I* -- would say that the defendant is in fact **guilty!"**
A commotion erupted, as twenty high-pitched voices murmured about the audacity of it. At the far end of the room, a tiny and robust woman in victorian attire fainted, her lace fan falling across her face.
The judge slammed the mallet so hard that it shattered, his claws grasping the shards of wood as if nothing had happened. "Then we find the defendant guilty of the slaugher of literally millions, having flown across the cosmos to kill innocent people whose only crime was their devotion to their-"
I raised my shackled hands.
The judge stuttered. "Um, yes?"
"I have a question."
He looked down at his papers, as if trying to decide if this was a planned interruption. "Um, proceed. I suppose."
I stood. "Am I high?" | Mr. Hope... Mr. Hope... Mr. Hope...
I've always hated my last name, especially now that it was draining any from within me after each monotonous repetition. The courtroom was starting to feel like it was its own prison, as if I was guilty simply by being here.
A distant television screen in a waiting room reads "Television host Charlie Hope on trial for Murder"
Perhaps it was a poor choice to represent myself but I wasn't sure I could trust anyone else at this point, or ever again for that matter. Everyone that I thought I could trust had turned on me. The police, my neighbors, my friends, my family...
As I sat in the seat of the defendant, the long drawn out boredom I felt was offset by the anxious restlessness of trying to understand what was happening to me. I glanced around the room for the umpteenth time in the last 3 weeks which had mostly become a blur. Behind me was an audience of about 30 people, close enough for them to hear what was happening but too far away to cause any distractions. To my right sat a tired looking jury, and an obnoxious camera branded with the logo of the state run media in\-between us. In front of me sat the judge and the woman that I supposedly turned into a widow.
My throat was dry and my eyes were starting to water as I took a small sip from a clear glass of water, it tasted stale.
A dark green ill\-fitting suit hung from the prosecutors shoulders as he leaned over a microphone.
"Mrs. Hall I would like you to look at the photograph that's been marked Exhibit B2 for identification. Do you recognize what's contained in that photograph?"
"Yes I do."
Elizabeth Hall was my next door neighbor, or at least had been for the last 2 months after arriving with a neatly packed moving truck.
I always thought something seemed a little "off" about her but I could never seem to pinpoint it.
"Tell the jury please what is contained in that photograph."
"It's a photograph of Charlie Hope before he murdered my husban..."
Tears began forming in the corner of Mrs. Halls eyes while mine narrowed as my cheeks began to burn with anger. For all I knew she didn't even have a husband, she was the only one I ever saw at her house apart from workers that took care of any physical labor. I hated her guts for doing this to me.
"Your honor at this time I offer this photograph into evidence."
The judge peered down at the photograph without much expression.
She was an older woman with ash brown hair and glasses that that were barely holding on to the end of her nose.
"Mr. Hope do you have any objections?"
As I took the photograph from the assistant my anger and anxiety turned into disbelief and shock.
What was handed to me was a poorly photoshopped photograph of me holding a pistol from the game Halo: Combat Evolved.
"Is this some kind of joke?" I finally blurted out.
"Excuse me?" Replied the judge.
"This is clearly a photoshopped picture. I am holding a gun from a god damn video game for crying out loud!"
"Do you recognize the game that the gun is from?"
"How the hell does that make a difference!? And yes, it's from Halo!"
The judge and the prosecutor glanced at each other nervously.
"I see, and do you frequently play the Halo?"
In more mundane situations I would have been irritated by the phrasing.
"Yes I play it all the time, how is any of this relevant? Why are you not saying anything about this ridiculous photoshop?"
When I glanced down my head dropped and I began to feel dizzy, the photograph was no longer there, taken back by the assistant. I began to feel confused. Why are the lights so bright? Why is that damn camera so close to my face, and why were they talking so slowly?
As my eyes darted back and forth I saw a figure in green slowly creep into my vision, which I then began to realize wasn't the prosecutor. Standing in front of me was Master Chief. The jury instead of being comprised of people was now made up of grunts. Mrs. Hall's face now seemingly resembled an Elite more than a human, her head was down in her hands and she was audibly crying.
"Wort wort wort"
The lights in the courtroom glowed with an unusual intensity and a deep voice boomed from the air "Slayer."
Pt. 2 / Epilogue
Only once I came out of the hallucination did I understand its gravity. Was I crazy? Am I dangerous? Had I killed Mr. Hall?
Maybe it was better that I was locked up after all...
The next day I struck a plea deal with the prosecution. I didn't exactly get the better end of the stick, but life in a state mental institution sounded a lot better than life in prison.
I've always been critical of the government running all of these programs themselves but I can't deny the strides they've made in medication and hypnosis. Maybe they can actually help me.
A black and silver phone began to ring in an unlisted office high above the city street.
"Justice Caroline Higbee speaking" a voice answered.
"I see the trial went well" crackled the response
"Oh yes, both lawfully and medically. The in\-game hypnotics and taste trigger worked very well, your team really does wonderful work. I doubt Mr. Hope will be broadcasting any more criticisms any time soon."
The End. Directed by M. Night Shamaladingdong. | |
[WP] You're on Trial for Murder. The only evidence is a horribly photoshopped picture of you shooting a gun from Halo at the victim. Unfortunately, you seem to be the only person who realizes this. | "Sir, where were you on august 21st 2017?" The prosecutor asked me.
"I have answered this a dozen times already. I was playing HALO 5 WITH FRIENDS!!. I even have an achievement unlocked at the time you guys are claiming I murdered the victim!! Why am I still being framed for this" I replied agitated. For months now they're trying to pin this murder on me and all they have is a badly photoshopped picture. I could not take it anymore. Everyone believed it. Even my parents and my girlfriend.....well, ex-girlfriend as she dumped me after my arrest.... Said she couldn't date a murderer.
"Sir, you CLAIM to be playing Hello 5 but this picture clearly shows you shooting the poor, innocent victim. And the timestamp shows the exact same time as you claimed to be unlocking this so-called achieving". The Prosecutor continued.
"That timestamp is a picture of a clock, clearly pasted onto the picture. The "victim" is Adolf FUCKING Hitler! Everyone knows he commited suicide over 70 years ago! And the gun? GODFUCKINGDAMMIT!! Thats a gun from HALO...not hello, HA FUCKING LO!! They even copied the arm from the game. You can see both my arms hanging down the sides of my body....." I was fuming now.
"How the fuck doesnt anyone notice that? What kind of dumbfucks are we dealing with here? There's not even a fucking body.....only this monstrosity of a photoshopped picture." My face turned red as I spewed out this bit..
"Judge, the prosecution would like to ask the jury to ignore the rant of the murderer. Everyone can see this picture is real."
I could not believe my ears.... ignore the facts I just told them? What was going on here?
"granted" The judge replied. "After closely reviewing the picture one must conclude this is real".
My lawyer turned to me and whispered: "If you admit now we might still get a plea deal. They might give a humane execution"
"Admit? Admit? What the fuck man!! You cant be real! I DID NOT DO IT!! There isnt a murder, its a horrible photoshop and someone is framing me here"
"Sir! You HAVE to be quit or else....." The judge interrupted me by hammering his gavel.
"I think we all heard enough. The jury will now retreat to come to a verdict"
"WHAT?!?" I yelled "After a laughable questioning? My Lawyer didnt even get to question me! And where are the alleged cops that investigated the crime..." BANG BANG BANG!! The judge slammed his gavel and ordered me to be silent.
I was dumbfounded. The whole period leading up to this trial has been a travesty but the trial itself really takes the cake. I tried to look at my parents but they quickly turned their heads away. My ex was in the room, surprisingly, but she didnt want to look at me either.
I still couldnt believe no-one saw that the picture was clear photoshop. Fuck, photoshop? More like MS paint. Done by a mentally retarded halfwit..... like our president..... hah... that actually made me chuckle for a second..... but seriously! How could anyone believe this? This has been the most broadcasted trial, worldwide. Not even OJ's trial got this much attention.... There where multiple cameras in the courtroom.
Before we could leave the courtroom the jury came to a verdict. How long have they been gone? Not even 5 minutes.....
"Jury, did you come to an unanimous verdict?" The judge asked them.
"we have your honor" The first juror said as he handed the verdict to the bailiff.
The judge reviewed the verdict and asked me to stand up.
"we the jury find the defendant guilty of......" My jaw dropped as he said that word. "...being the first victim of ABC's new hidden camera show Smile, your on a mock trial." As those words where said the crowd cheered and applauded as Andy Dick walked up to me with my parents and ex-girlfriend.
| Mr. Hope... Mr. Hope... Mr. Hope...
I've always hated my last name, especially now that it was draining any from within me after each monotonous repetition. The courtroom was starting to feel like it was its own prison, as if I was guilty simply by being here.
A distant television screen in a waiting room reads "Television host Charlie Hope on trial for Murder"
Perhaps it was a poor choice to represent myself but I wasn't sure I could trust anyone else at this point, or ever again for that matter. Everyone that I thought I could trust had turned on me. The police, my neighbors, my friends, my family...
As I sat in the seat of the defendant, the long drawn out boredom I felt was offset by the anxious restlessness of trying to understand what was happening to me. I glanced around the room for the umpteenth time in the last 3 weeks which had mostly become a blur. Behind me was an audience of about 30 people, close enough for them to hear what was happening but too far away to cause any distractions. To my right sat a tired looking jury, and an obnoxious camera branded with the logo of the state run media in\-between us. In front of me sat the judge and the woman that I supposedly turned into a widow.
My throat was dry and my eyes were starting to water as I took a small sip from a clear glass of water, it tasted stale.
A dark green ill\-fitting suit hung from the prosecutors shoulders as he leaned over a microphone.
"Mrs. Hall I would like you to look at the photograph that's been marked Exhibit B2 for identification. Do you recognize what's contained in that photograph?"
"Yes I do."
Elizabeth Hall was my next door neighbor, or at least had been for the last 2 months after arriving with a neatly packed moving truck.
I always thought something seemed a little "off" about her but I could never seem to pinpoint it.
"Tell the jury please what is contained in that photograph."
"It's a photograph of Charlie Hope before he murdered my husban..."
Tears began forming in the corner of Mrs. Halls eyes while mine narrowed as my cheeks began to burn with anger. For all I knew she didn't even have a husband, she was the only one I ever saw at her house apart from workers that took care of any physical labor. I hated her guts for doing this to me.
"Your honor at this time I offer this photograph into evidence."
The judge peered down at the photograph without much expression.
She was an older woman with ash brown hair and glasses that that were barely holding on to the end of her nose.
"Mr. Hope do you have any objections?"
As I took the photograph from the assistant my anger and anxiety turned into disbelief and shock.
What was handed to me was a poorly photoshopped photograph of me holding a pistol from the game Halo: Combat Evolved.
"Is this some kind of joke?" I finally blurted out.
"Excuse me?" Replied the judge.
"This is clearly a photoshopped picture. I am holding a gun from a god damn video game for crying out loud!"
"Do you recognize the game that the gun is from?"
"How the hell does that make a difference!? And yes, it's from Halo!"
The judge and the prosecutor glanced at each other nervously.
"I see, and do you frequently play the Halo?"
In more mundane situations I would have been irritated by the phrasing.
"Yes I play it all the time, how is any of this relevant? Why are you not saying anything about this ridiculous photoshop?"
When I glanced down my head dropped and I began to feel dizzy, the photograph was no longer there, taken back by the assistant. I began to feel confused. Why are the lights so bright? Why is that damn camera so close to my face, and why were they talking so slowly?
As my eyes darted back and forth I saw a figure in green slowly creep into my vision, which I then began to realize wasn't the prosecutor. Standing in front of me was Master Chief. The jury instead of being comprised of people was now made up of grunts. Mrs. Hall's face now seemingly resembled an Elite more than a human, her head was down in her hands and she was audibly crying.
"Wort wort wort"
The lights in the courtroom glowed with an unusual intensity and a deep voice boomed from the air "Slayer."
Pt. 2 / Epilogue
Only once I came out of the hallucination did I understand its gravity. Was I crazy? Am I dangerous? Had I killed Mr. Hall?
Maybe it was better that I was locked up after all...
The next day I struck a plea deal with the prosecution. I didn't exactly get the better end of the stick, but life in a state mental institution sounded a lot better than life in prison.
I've always been critical of the government running all of these programs themselves but I can't deny the strides they've made in medication and hypnosis. Maybe they can actually help me.
A black and silver phone began to ring in an unlisted office high above the city street.
"Justice Caroline Higbee speaking" a voice answered.
"I see the trial went well" crackled the response
"Oh yes, both lawfully and medically. The in\-game hypnotics and taste trigger worked very well, your team really does wonderful work. I doubt Mr. Hope will be broadcasting any more criticisms any time soon."
The End. Directed by M. Night Shamaladingdong. | |
[WP] You're on Trial for Murder. The only evidence is a horribly photoshopped picture of you shooting a gun from Halo at the victim. Unfortunately, you seem to be the only person who realizes this. | “Look, kid. As much as I try to keep a cool head in these situations, I gotta level with you. This looks bad.”
“Yeah, no kidding”, I responded. “They didn’t even bother to cut it out of the white background. How’s anyone buying this?”
My lawyer buried his sweaty face in his hands. “Look. Miguel, was it? I can appreciate you getting your story straight and sticking to it. Really, your commitment is admirable. But if I’m gonna defend you at all, I at least need you to be honest with ME. Now, if we move to a plea bargain now, we may be able to skirt the death penalty. But you’re gonna do hard time. Let’s just get that straight now.”
I stared at my so-called lawyer in bewilderment. I was still half in disbelief, but the handcuffs and stands full of disgusted onlookers felt gut-punching-ly real. When I’d first woken up to a bedroom full of cops, I’d made the logical assumption that they were all going to take off their pants and start dancing, followed by my roommate running in from the next room to catch it on camera. But there’s no way Larry had the money to hire this many seasoned actors, much less to rent out an actual court room. The only thing that didn’t seem real was the photograph being used to convict me. It was of me, crudely photoshopped out of a group picture and placed onto a still from the columbine massacre, with a partially neon gun (and matching white background) from Halo 3 where my hand would be. Even for a meme this would’ve looked bad.
The opposing lawyer stood up impatiently. “Your honor, could we put a stop to this circus and get on with the conviction? I’m sure the members of the jury have places to be.” The jurors nodded.
“Are you guys serious?” I said in disbelief. “I mean for fucks sake, the gun is glowing orange, and it’s still got a white box around it! Not to mention the fact that my whole body is turned to face a security camera that’s in the ceiling!”
“Mr Schwartz, I don’t know how you managed to contort your body like that, just like I don’t know how you managed to murder an entire high school full of innocent children and two officers, before going home to your warm bed and sleeping the night away. And if the smile on your face in that picture is any indication of the kind of person we’re dealing with, I’d recommend nothing less than the death penalty.” Murmurs of agreement could be heard from the jurors. “Shameful”, remarked the judge. “Simply repulsive.”
“But the me in that picture is clearly from a different photo! I mean you can see my friend Larry’s arm right there!”
The whole room gasped in horror. The Bailiff’s eyes widened as his hand instinctively moved closer to his gun.
“So not only was it necessary to murder a building full of children”, the lawyer continued, “but you felt the need to amputate the arm of someone who called you a friend, and take it with you as some sort of sick good luck charm?!” The jurors shrieked. My lawyer banged his head on the desk a few times and started packing his things. This was bad. Whatever kind of fever dream this was, I wasn’t waking up. I grabbed my lawyer’s iPad and pulled up an image of the gun from the game. “Guys, the gun is from a video game!” I turned the screen to face the room. The jurors screamed and scrambled in terror. “Gun!” Yelled the bailiff.
And that’s how I died. | Mr. Hope... Mr. Hope... Mr. Hope...
I've always hated my last name, especially now that it was draining any from within me after each monotonous repetition. The courtroom was starting to feel like it was its own prison, as if I was guilty simply by being here.
A distant television screen in a waiting room reads "Television host Charlie Hope on trial for Murder"
Perhaps it was a poor choice to represent myself but I wasn't sure I could trust anyone else at this point, or ever again for that matter. Everyone that I thought I could trust had turned on me. The police, my neighbors, my friends, my family...
As I sat in the seat of the defendant, the long drawn out boredom I felt was offset by the anxious restlessness of trying to understand what was happening to me. I glanced around the room for the umpteenth time in the last 3 weeks which had mostly become a blur. Behind me was an audience of about 30 people, close enough for them to hear what was happening but too far away to cause any distractions. To my right sat a tired looking jury, and an obnoxious camera branded with the logo of the state run media in\-between us. In front of me sat the judge and the woman that I supposedly turned into a widow.
My throat was dry and my eyes were starting to water as I took a small sip from a clear glass of water, it tasted stale.
A dark green ill\-fitting suit hung from the prosecutors shoulders as he leaned over a microphone.
"Mrs. Hall I would like you to look at the photograph that's been marked Exhibit B2 for identification. Do you recognize what's contained in that photograph?"
"Yes I do."
Elizabeth Hall was my next door neighbor, or at least had been for the last 2 months after arriving with a neatly packed moving truck.
I always thought something seemed a little "off" about her but I could never seem to pinpoint it.
"Tell the jury please what is contained in that photograph."
"It's a photograph of Charlie Hope before he murdered my husban..."
Tears began forming in the corner of Mrs. Halls eyes while mine narrowed as my cheeks began to burn with anger. For all I knew she didn't even have a husband, she was the only one I ever saw at her house apart from workers that took care of any physical labor. I hated her guts for doing this to me.
"Your honor at this time I offer this photograph into evidence."
The judge peered down at the photograph without much expression.
She was an older woman with ash brown hair and glasses that that were barely holding on to the end of her nose.
"Mr. Hope do you have any objections?"
As I took the photograph from the assistant my anger and anxiety turned into disbelief and shock.
What was handed to me was a poorly photoshopped photograph of me holding a pistol from the game Halo: Combat Evolved.
"Is this some kind of joke?" I finally blurted out.
"Excuse me?" Replied the judge.
"This is clearly a photoshopped picture. I am holding a gun from a god damn video game for crying out loud!"
"Do you recognize the game that the gun is from?"
"How the hell does that make a difference!? And yes, it's from Halo!"
The judge and the prosecutor glanced at each other nervously.
"I see, and do you frequently play the Halo?"
In more mundane situations I would have been irritated by the phrasing.
"Yes I play it all the time, how is any of this relevant? Why are you not saying anything about this ridiculous photoshop?"
When I glanced down my head dropped and I began to feel dizzy, the photograph was no longer there, taken back by the assistant. I began to feel confused. Why are the lights so bright? Why is that damn camera so close to my face, and why were they talking so slowly?
As my eyes darted back and forth I saw a figure in green slowly creep into my vision, which I then began to realize wasn't the prosecutor. Standing in front of me was Master Chief. The jury instead of being comprised of people was now made up of grunts. Mrs. Hall's face now seemingly resembled an Elite more than a human, her head was down in her hands and she was audibly crying.
"Wort wort wort"
The lights in the courtroom glowed with an unusual intensity and a deep voice boomed from the air "Slayer."
Pt. 2 / Epilogue
Only once I came out of the hallucination did I understand its gravity. Was I crazy? Am I dangerous? Had I killed Mr. Hall?
Maybe it was better that I was locked up after all...
The next day I struck a plea deal with the prosecution. I didn't exactly get the better end of the stick, but life in a state mental institution sounded a lot better than life in prison.
I've always been critical of the government running all of these programs themselves but I can't deny the strides they've made in medication and hypnosis. Maybe they can actually help me.
A black and silver phone began to ring in an unlisted office high above the city street.
"Justice Caroline Higbee speaking" a voice answered.
"I see the trial went well" crackled the response
"Oh yes, both lawfully and medically. The in\-game hypnotics and taste trigger worked very well, your team really does wonderful work. I doubt Mr. Hope will be broadcasting any more criticisms any time soon."
The End. Directed by M. Night Shamaladingdong. | |
[WP] You're on Trial for Murder. The only evidence is a horribly photoshopped picture of you shooting a gun from Halo at the victim. Unfortunately, you seem to be the only person who realizes this. | "Sir, where were you on august 21st 2017?" The prosecutor asked me.
"I have answered this a dozen times already. I was playing HALO 5 WITH FRIENDS!!. I even have an achievement unlocked at the time you guys are claiming I murdered the victim!! Why am I still being framed for this" I replied agitated. For months now they're trying to pin this murder on me and all they have is a badly photoshopped picture. I could not take it anymore. Everyone believed it. Even my parents and my girlfriend.....well, ex-girlfriend as she dumped me after my arrest.... Said she couldn't date a murderer.
"Sir, you CLAIM to be playing Hello 5 but this picture clearly shows you shooting the poor, innocent victim. And the timestamp shows the exact same time as you claimed to be unlocking this so-called achieving". The Prosecutor continued.
"That timestamp is a picture of a clock, clearly pasted onto the picture. The "victim" is Adolf FUCKING Hitler! Everyone knows he commited suicide over 70 years ago! And the gun? GODFUCKINGDAMMIT!! Thats a gun from HALO...not hello, HA FUCKING LO!! They even copied the arm from the game. You can see both my arms hanging down the sides of my body....." I was fuming now.
"How the fuck doesnt anyone notice that? What kind of dumbfucks are we dealing with here? There's not even a fucking body.....only this monstrosity of a photoshopped picture." My face turned red as I spewed out this bit..
"Judge, the prosecution would like to ask the jury to ignore the rant of the murderer. Everyone can see this picture is real."
I could not believe my ears.... ignore the facts I just told them? What was going on here?
"granted" The judge replied. "After closely reviewing the picture one must conclude this is real".
My lawyer turned to me and whispered: "If you admit now we might still get a plea deal. They might give a humane execution"
"Admit? Admit? What the fuck man!! You cant be real! I DID NOT DO IT!! There isnt a murder, its a horrible photoshop and someone is framing me here"
"Sir! You HAVE to be quit or else....." The judge interrupted me by hammering his gavel.
"I think we all heard enough. The jury will now retreat to come to a verdict"
"WHAT?!?" I yelled "After a laughable questioning? My Lawyer didnt even get to question me! And where are the alleged cops that investigated the crime..." BANG BANG BANG!! The judge slammed his gavel and ordered me to be silent.
I was dumbfounded. The whole period leading up to this trial has been a travesty but the trial itself really takes the cake. I tried to look at my parents but they quickly turned their heads away. My ex was in the room, surprisingly, but she didnt want to look at me either.
I still couldnt believe no-one saw that the picture was clear photoshop. Fuck, photoshop? More like MS paint. Done by a mentally retarded halfwit..... like our president..... hah... that actually made me chuckle for a second..... but seriously! How could anyone believe this? This has been the most broadcasted trial, worldwide. Not even OJ's trial got this much attention.... There where multiple cameras in the courtroom.
Before we could leave the courtroom the jury came to a verdict. How long have they been gone? Not even 5 minutes.....
"Jury, did you come to an unanimous verdict?" The judge asked them.
"we have your honor" The first juror said as he handed the verdict to the bailiff.
The judge reviewed the verdict and asked me to stand up.
"we the jury find the defendant guilty of......" My jaw dropped as he said that word. "...being the first victim of ABC's new hidden camera show Smile, your on a mock trial." As those words where said the crowd cheered and applauded as Andy Dick walked up to me with my parents and ex-girlfriend.
| "Your Arbiter," the lawyer said, his high pitched voice spitting between the slit in the mouth of his plastic mask. The face appeared to be a knock-off of Ronald Regan. "Let it be entered into the record that the defendant is stupid."
The Judge nodded, his split jaw clearly visible behind the Groucho glasses. "The Defendant is indeed faithless, and of poor character. This shall be recorded in the the most sacred archives."
"Objection!" cried my attorney, refusing to lower the umbrella that he held in the direction of the prosecution at all times. "This is um," he turned to his protege, also concealed by an umbrella.
"Bad! Wrong!" the protege hissed.
The judge growled. "This court does not recognise the will of such puny and weak lawyers. Nevertheless, we shall show mercy and allow the defence to call their first witness!"
The lawyer stood. "The defence calls Mister A. Human!"
The doors to the courtroom swung open, admitting what appeared to be a latex suit of a human being filled with swarming worms. It lumbered down the aisle towards the stand, where it paused for a moment before contorting backwards over the rail in a way that would have severed a human spine.
"Mister Human," the judge said, as the creature twisted upright like a starfish spinning on a rock. "What have you to say of this honourless and faithless creature?"
"We -- we mean, uh *I*," it said, speaking as if with a thousand voices, "have known mister Robertson for some nine hundred years."
"And would you say that they are in fact innocent of being a murderous monster?"
The courtroom leaned forwards, eager to hear whatever it had to say of me.
"We -- *I* -- would say that the defendant is in fact **guilty!"**
A commotion erupted, as twenty high-pitched voices murmured about the audacity of it. At the far end of the room, a tiny and robust woman in victorian attire fainted, her lace fan falling across her face.
The judge slammed the mallet so hard that it shattered, his claws grasping the shards of wood as if nothing had happened. "Then we find the defendant guilty of the slaugher of literally millions, having flown across the cosmos to kill innocent people whose only crime was their devotion to their-"
I raised my shackled hands.
The judge stuttered. "Um, yes?"
"I have a question."
He looked down at his papers, as if trying to decide if this was a planned interruption. "Um, proceed. I suppose."
I stood. "Am I high?" | |
[WP] You're on Trial for Murder. The only evidence is a horribly photoshopped picture of you shooting a gun from Halo at the victim. Unfortunately, you seem to be the only person who realizes this. | **Idiots...**
Judge. Jury. My attorney. The prosecutor. Even the bailiff looks at me like I am a monster and the trial hasn't even started.
I cannot believe this. They're all **blithering idiots.** And I'm going to prison because they believe that *this* picture is real.
Bailiff: "All stand for the honorable presiding judge..."
But, is there a way I can use this situation to my advantage?
Judge: "/u/taypace, you are on trial for murder. The evidence that has been presented is overwhelmingly in favor of a finding of guilt, but even the most obviously guilty man is afforded a trial, so let us begin. How to you plead?"
"Your honor, I could not have committed this crime. I am inside of a penny."
Judge: "What?"
Prosecutor: "Objection, your honor. Instruct the accused to enter a proper plea."
"I am telling you, your honor. I was inside of a penny the entire time. I could not have committed this crime."
Judge: "Okay fine, you were in a penny. I don't see how this pertains to these hearings."
"You see, your honor... I am in-a-cent."
Never before had an entire community been so apologetic for falsely accusing a man of murder.
| "Ladies and gentlemen of the court, I would like to present the evidence against Michael Evans." The state's defense attorney said as he pressed a button on the remote in his hand, triggering a rather large projector screen to descend from the ceiling. Anxious to see what they could possibly have against me, it was nearly impossible to wait while he took his sweet time trying to 'woo' the jury.
"Get on with it," I thought to myself, "this is getting ridiculous."
As the screen finally finished its descent, the lights in the courtroom dimmed and a bright stream of light was shown onto the projector screen. As everyone's eyes started to adapt, there were gasps all around the room in reaction to the grotesque image displayed on the screen. A picture of me, piercing one of those energy swords from halo into the chest of my best friend. The sight was almost comical, especially in this setting. I couldn't help but let out a chuckle.
"You're laughing? What a monster!" One of the jury members yelled.
Suddenly, my lawyer nudged me and whispered "Dude, cool it! You'll never get off if you keep acting like this!" I was in disbelief, how was everyone so apalled by this?
"What do you mean?" Was all I could make out.
"What do I mean? I *mean* that there's a picture of you murdering some guy being displayed to the entire court. Now I'm thinking we can plead insanity, but that's gonna be..." He tried to continue, but I cut him off.
"That's a weapon from a video game!" I yelled, laughing. He must be crazy, right?
"Excuse me Mr. Evans," the judge asked, "will you please be quiet?"
"What?" I questioned, only to have her snap back.
"I said quiet Mr. Evans!" She yelled back in a demanding tone.
"Your honor, that picture is clearly photoshopped. It doesn't even look real, you can see the pixels around the wounds!" I tried to rebut, but she wasn't having it.
"You killed this man in cold blood, and you're trying to dismiss it by saying the photo was faked?" She asked me, curious to my response.
"Killed him, he's at this trial! Look, he's in the back right there!"
"You're sick Mike!" I heard Jason, the supposed 'victim' in this trial yell back. "I can't believe we were friends!"
"What the hell is happening?" I thought to myself. "There's no way this is real, it has to be a dream." All of the sudden, I felt a rush of comfort come over me. It was just a dream, none of this is real. Without warning, I erupted into laughter as the court stared on.
"A dream, it's only a dream." I kept repeating to myself through the bits of laughter. As I started to calm down, I looked up to see the judge staring at me, wide-eyed.
"Are you done, Mr. Evans?" The judge asked, and as I looked around the room at all the horrified faces I realized; *this isn't a dream.* Scrambling to say something, my defense saw the opportunity and jumped.
"Your honor, we would like to plead insanity on the grounds my client can't seem to tell reality from video games. He confessed to me earlier he believes the murder weapon to be from one of his Xbox games. Clearly my client is not capable of making decisions on his own."
My jaw dropped, was he really going to convince all these people I was insane?
"I'm not crazy!" I yelled, "That's an energy sword, from Halo, it doesn't even exist! Please, tell me one of you sees how absurd this is!"
"It's those video games, they're making kids think killing is okay!" A spectator of the trial yelled back in response.
"Order!" The judge proclaimed, slamming her hammer into the table. "Now, let's get on with the case. Is there anything that the State's defense would like to add?"
"No ma'am, after this outburst be believe Michael Evans is infact clinically insane and should be committed immediately."
"Alright, that being said we will let the jury break and come to a conclusion." The judge informed the court, but I was *livid*.
"A conclusion on what? You can't possibly believe I'm guilty!" I yelled to the judge.
"Calm down Mr. Evans, or we'll be forced to hold you in contempt."
"Calm down? How the hell can you expect me to stay calm when this entire court room is fucking crazy!" I shouted.
"Enough!" She demanded, and as she did so a door in the front opened and the members of the jury came out in a single file line, taking their seats.
"Has the jury come to a verdict?" The judge asked, to which one of them answered.
"Yes your honor, we find Michael Evans guilty of murder in the first degree."
"Wait.." I tried to say, but it came out in a whisper.
"Alright, I sentence Mr. Evans to 20 years in a psychiatric ward for the mentally ill. Bail set at $500,000." And with that, she slammed the hammer onto the table, sealing your fate.
| |
[WP] You're on Trial for Murder. The only evidence is a horribly photoshopped picture of you shooting a gun from Halo at the victim. Unfortunately, you seem to be the only person who realizes this. | 'What an absolutely incompetent piece of shit' was all I kept thinking to myself as we stood outside the door of the courtroom. John Cantone had been droning on for what seemed like years now, totally oblivious to the truth.
"Listen Tom, I get it. An AR isn't a 'real gun'" - the asshole was using air quotes around the words 'real gun - "but the prosecution, judge, and, most importantly the jury just don't buy it. They see a young kid with a history of psychotherapy sessions under his belt, a member of the NRA, and a clear as day picture of you holding a weapon and gunning down Jason Carter as he runs away. That's it. So if you want to avoid going to prison for the rest of your life, we need to seriously consider a plea deal."
I just stared back at him. I couldn't even find the words. A fucking history of psychotherapy? Is he serious? He does realize that someone going to therapy to help them get over social anxiety typically isn't a warning sign for manslaughter, right? Unbelievable. His, and by extension everyone else around us, falsehoods about me personally weren't even the worst part of this whole trial. No - the worst part was that the picture that they were all using as damning evidence was a fake.
And not just any fake, possibly the most obvious and pathetic attempt at a photoshop I had ever seen. Have these assholes never been on the internet? Am I being tried in a goddam Amish village?!
"John, listen. This is ridiculous." It was all I could muster up to say in response.
"I know, I know. But just look at this image. You could have the greatest lawyer in the world on your side but trust me; there's no getting around this."
He shoved the image at my face, as if I hadn't already seen it a hundred times. On the left side of the photo you can clearly see something horrible. Dark red blood spraying out the front of a black hoodie and scattering every which way like heavy raindrops, a slight forward lean from the impact of the bullets, and Jason's, my best friend's, head cocked back towards the right half of the picture, eyes wide and mouth screaming in horror. It was truly awful.
Once I looked past the horror and scanned to the right side of the picture, I saw myself. However, if you looked real closely....OK I'm kidding. You don't have to look close at all. Any idiot can clearly see the bold white lines around my entire form, the obvious transfer of a background from another photo. It was like a 10 year old kid was combining pictures with Microsoft paint. You would be forgiven for thinking I was facing Jason to the left side of the photo with a weapon outstretched in my hand, just after firing. That would be logical - that's the kind of thing that lands you in prison.
Oh no, that's not what we have here folks. I'm facing the fucking camera, smiling like an idiot. Wearing bright orange swim trunks, no shirt, sunglasses, with no shoes on, in the dead of winter in Manhattan. On top of all that, I'm smiling like a jackass with my hands outstretched to either side of me. So, all in all, we have a terrifying image of young man fleeing to the left side of the image, dressed in a warm hoodie and jeans, and a beach bum having the day of his life looking towards the camera and smiling on the right.
"John, seriously. How many times do we need to go over this? I remember the day the actual picture of me that you see here was taken. This was on vacation in Florida three years ago. I don't even look like this anymore! Did I gain 25 pounds of belly fat in the 3 weeks it took to get to this trial? Better yet, wouldn't it make sense that I would at least be facing the person I'm shooting?"
"Then where did the gun come from Tom? You just happened to be holding a sophisticated assault rifle while you're on vacation? You have to see why no one believes this fabrication you keep telling!"
This fucking guy. All these fucking people. In the famous words of Mugatu, 'I feel like I'm taking freaking crazy pills!'
"John, the gun...it's from a video game. A very popular video game. Called Halo. It was obviously and crudely photoshopped to look like I'm holding it. Look! You can even see the space-glove on the hand holding it!"
My attorney sighed and ran his hand through his slicked back hair. "Listen, you know I believe you. I really do. But it just makes sense - of course you would wear a glove to keep from getting fingerprints on the weapon. A space glove though? Come on, it's just us talking here. I've seen those gloves on the rack at Home Depot, and so has everyone else in that courtroom."
I looked back at the picture. It's so obvious it's ridiculous. Master Chief's hand, haphazardly pasted over my own, is about 2 times bigger than my other hand in the picture. The entire gun, which, I might add, is a very large and futuristic assault rifle that I'm somehow managing to hold and fire not only with one hand but also from my hip, also has a white border around it. It couldn't be a more obvious photoshop.
"Alright fuck it. Let's get back in there and see what the jury decided."
"You're really not going to consider a plea deal? It could save you 20 years or more in the big house just to swallow your pride here, Tom."
"No, John, no plea deal. Let's just hope someone in this state has common sense."
I turned to the door, pulled it open, and started the long walk back to our bench to hear the jury's decision. I looked out among the empty benches where spectators would normally sit, and felt a painful tinge of sadness at the reminder that even my parents didn't believe me. They saw the photo, dismissed my protests the same way my attorney had, and turned away from me. The last thing I heard my father say was, "I guess I don't have a son anymore. He's lost to a life of crime." My dad - always overdramatic.
I sit down at my bench next to my incompetent lawyer, and the second my ass hits the wood the jury comes walking back in.
"All rise!" the bailiff calls out.
The middle aged woman with the tight bun and wrinkled blouse stands at the head of the jury with a piece of paper in her shaking hands.
"We the jury find the defendant," she gulped and took a deep breath, "guilty of all charges." She nervously glanced at me, looked down, and sat.
I couldn't fucking believe it.
The judge furrowed his brow and looked me directly in the eyes. "Son, the jury has found you guilty of manslaughter of the first degree. Do you have anything to say for yourself before we move to sentencing?"
I cleared my throat, stared back at the Honorable Judge Callahan, and said, "I don't want to live on this planet anymore." | "Ladies and gentlemen of the court, I would like to present the evidence against Michael Evans." The state's defense attorney said as he pressed a button on the remote in his hand, triggering a rather large projector screen to descend from the ceiling. Anxious to see what they could possibly have against me, it was nearly impossible to wait while he took his sweet time trying to 'woo' the jury.
"Get on with it," I thought to myself, "this is getting ridiculous."
As the screen finally finished its descent, the lights in the courtroom dimmed and a bright stream of light was shown onto the projector screen. As everyone's eyes started to adapt, there were gasps all around the room in reaction to the grotesque image displayed on the screen. A picture of me, piercing one of those energy swords from halo into the chest of my best friend. The sight was almost comical, especially in this setting. I couldn't help but let out a chuckle.
"You're laughing? What a monster!" One of the jury members yelled.
Suddenly, my lawyer nudged me and whispered "Dude, cool it! You'll never get off if you keep acting like this!" I was in disbelief, how was everyone so apalled by this?
"What do you mean?" Was all I could make out.
"What do I mean? I *mean* that there's a picture of you murdering some guy being displayed to the entire court. Now I'm thinking we can plead insanity, but that's gonna be..." He tried to continue, but I cut him off.
"That's a weapon from a video game!" I yelled, laughing. He must be crazy, right?
"Excuse me Mr. Evans," the judge asked, "will you please be quiet?"
"What?" I questioned, only to have her snap back.
"I said quiet Mr. Evans!" She yelled back in a demanding tone.
"Your honor, that picture is clearly photoshopped. It doesn't even look real, you can see the pixels around the wounds!" I tried to rebut, but she wasn't having it.
"You killed this man in cold blood, and you're trying to dismiss it by saying the photo was faked?" She asked me, curious to my response.
"Killed him, he's at this trial! Look, he's in the back right there!"
"You're sick Mike!" I heard Jason, the supposed 'victim' in this trial yell back. "I can't believe we were friends!"
"What the hell is happening?" I thought to myself. "There's no way this is real, it has to be a dream." All of the sudden, I felt a rush of comfort come over me. It was just a dream, none of this is real. Without warning, I erupted into laughter as the court stared on.
"A dream, it's only a dream." I kept repeating to myself through the bits of laughter. As I started to calm down, I looked up to see the judge staring at me, wide-eyed.
"Are you done, Mr. Evans?" The judge asked, and as I looked around the room at all the horrified faces I realized; *this isn't a dream.* Scrambling to say something, my defense saw the opportunity and jumped.
"Your honor, we would like to plead insanity on the grounds my client can't seem to tell reality from video games. He confessed to me earlier he believes the murder weapon to be from one of his Xbox games. Clearly my client is not capable of making decisions on his own."
My jaw dropped, was he really going to convince all these people I was insane?
"I'm not crazy!" I yelled, "That's an energy sword, from Halo, it doesn't even exist! Please, tell me one of you sees how absurd this is!"
"It's those video games, they're making kids think killing is okay!" A spectator of the trial yelled back in response.
"Order!" The judge proclaimed, slamming her hammer into the table. "Now, let's get on with the case. Is there anything that the State's defense would like to add?"
"No ma'am, after this outburst be believe Michael Evans is infact clinically insane and should be committed immediately."
"Alright, that being said we will let the jury break and come to a conclusion." The judge informed the court, but I was *livid*.
"A conclusion on what? You can't possibly believe I'm guilty!" I yelled to the judge.
"Calm down Mr. Evans, or we'll be forced to hold you in contempt."
"Calm down? How the hell can you expect me to stay calm when this entire court room is fucking crazy!" I shouted.
"Enough!" She demanded, and as she did so a door in the front opened and the members of the jury came out in a single file line, taking their seats.
"Has the jury come to a verdict?" The judge asked, to which one of them answered.
"Yes your honor, we find Michael Evans guilty of murder in the first degree."
"Wait.." I tried to say, but it came out in a whisper.
"Alright, I sentence Mr. Evans to 20 years in a psychiatric ward for the mentally ill. Bail set at $500,000." And with that, she slammed the hammer onto the table, sealing your fate.
| |
[WP] You're on Trial for Murder. The only evidence is a horribly photoshopped picture of you shooting a gun from Halo at the victim. Unfortunately, you seem to be the only person who realizes this. | I didn't understand what was happening. Did I run through my neighborhood with a gun from Halo and kill all the neighborhood cats? Yes, of course, I did. Was that a picture of ME doing it? No...
It didn't even look like me. The crudely thrown together photoshop job not only featured what looked like an octogenarian in a rocking chair holding a Halo gun (that was not cut out from its original picture), but every single element still had iStockphoto watermarks over them.
I slid the photo back across the table in my dimly lit holding cell. After being yelled at by detectives for the past two hours, my heart finally returned to its normal cadence. I felt a faint, but familiar, countenance of peace return to my face.
"So..." I finally collected my thoughts enough to utter, "This is all they have?"
"All they have? Son... do you not understand the tsunami of beetle dung you're in?"
"Tsunami of..." Seriously, who says that? "No, I really don't. Please explain."
"Their case couldn't be any more concrete. They have the Taj Ma-fuckin-hal of evidence against you."
"Okay, before you continue, I'm going to have to ask you not to make any more stupid metaphors or references."
"I'm just trying to help you son. I'm like the..."
"Please," Very annoyed at this point, I cut him off, "No similes either."
"Fine. But your only option is to take the plea chief."
The irony of my lawyer, a pimple-faced man-boy that looked to be 14, wearing a trench coat and Dick Tracy hat, addressing me as son and chief, was not lost on me. What really perplexed me was why someone went to the effort of making such a poorly constructed photoshop as evidence when... Well, let's not mince words here. I definitely killed all those cats. Every single one. In fact, I was caught in the act. There is video evidence from the dash cam of the cop cars that showed up, proving unequivocally that I, John Masters, used a gun from the best-selling video game, Halo, to brutally murder 7 cats.
I picked up the pen that lay on the empty table before me, still pondering the oddity of the situation.
"Um...," My attention turned back to my prepubescent lawyer, "What exactly is the plea deal?"
"Finally, some common sense." He breathed a sigh of relief and rifled through papers in a briefcase as he scratched his clean-shaven face. I could tell this guy probably had the type of beard that looked like a poorly shaved vagina. I'd shave it off too. "Ah! Here it is. You just sign here and you admit that you used a Halo Needler to kill seven c..."
"Did you say Needler?
"Yes, the affidavit says 'Needler'."
"Nope." I crossed my arms in defiance and put the pen down. I leaned back in my wooden chair - a rather uncomfortable chair I assume was pulled from the waiting room for Hell. It let out a high pitched squeak as my back rested against it. "I'm not signing shit. I would NEVER use a Needler. That's a noob weapon. I used a Gauss Cannon. I fuckin' WRECKED those cats."
I refused to go down as the punk that shot a bunch of cats with a Needler.
"That's fine and dandy Mr. Masters, but the picture clearly shows you holding a Needler with the brand name iStockphoto."
"That's not the bra... whatever. The point is, it was a Gauss Cannon. Period."
"Mr. Masters, if you can prove that, then we may have a case after all."
I rolled my eyes and reached into my pocket. Out came a fully functional M555 Gauss Cannon from the video game Halo 5: Guardians, available now on Xbox One X and PC. My crackly-voiced, hormonal lawyer gazed at the weapon that now covered the entire expanse of the holding cell table. He averted his gaze to the picture to make a comparison for some reason I will never understand. A comparison that should have taken less than a second actually took him two seconds - which still thoroughly placed him in idiot territory.
"Huh," He exclaimed in a 'surprised they weren't the same gun, but not surprised he pulled a fucking Halo gun out of his pocket', kind of tone. "You're right, they aren't the same gun. Yours is made by the Misriah Armory and the one in the picture is manufactured by iStockphoto. I sense foul play."
I decided not to say anything. My lawyer motioned to me with one finger - the 'one sec' gesture - and left the room. I could see him conferring with the detectives through the narrow window of my holding cell door. Their body language slowly changed from that of tension to embarrassment. The bigger of the two detectives actually mouthed the word 'misunderstanding'. I once again leaned back in my crap-tacular demon chair and awaited my apology, aching back and all.
My casual demeanor soon changed as I noticed the smaller detective grab the 'evidence' from my lawyer. My lawyer, with his dumb-looking face, did nothing but guffaw as the detectives used scissors and glue to print, cut and paste various things to the image. Dumbface stood on his tippy-toes trying to see over the detectives' shoulders, to no avail. After what felt like five minutes, the detectives handed the mangled evidence back to my lawyer. He pored over the image (I swear his eyes blinked out of sync at one point) and exclaimed "OH!"
He burst back into the room, where I sat hunched forward in anticipation, and slammed the altered photo down on the only part of the table that wasn't covered by the Gauss Cannon from Halo 5, now available on Xbox One X and PC. I picked it up and after only a brief moment of looking at it, I smiled.
"Well, you got me." I put my hands out to be cuffed. There really was no arguing this time. The photo had a crudely cut out speech balloon next to the octogenarians mouth. In it, scrawled in green crayon, were the words, "I am John Masters and I definitely shot these cats with the Needler from Halo TM."
To this day, I have no idea how they knew I said that. | "Ladies and gentlemen of the court, I would like to present the evidence against Michael Evans." The state's defense attorney said as he pressed a button on the remote in his hand, triggering a rather large projector screen to descend from the ceiling. Anxious to see what they could possibly have against me, it was nearly impossible to wait while he took his sweet time trying to 'woo' the jury.
"Get on with it," I thought to myself, "this is getting ridiculous."
As the screen finally finished its descent, the lights in the courtroom dimmed and a bright stream of light was shown onto the projector screen. As everyone's eyes started to adapt, there were gasps all around the room in reaction to the grotesque image displayed on the screen. A picture of me, piercing one of those energy swords from halo into the chest of my best friend. The sight was almost comical, especially in this setting. I couldn't help but let out a chuckle.
"You're laughing? What a monster!" One of the jury members yelled.
Suddenly, my lawyer nudged me and whispered "Dude, cool it! You'll never get off if you keep acting like this!" I was in disbelief, how was everyone so apalled by this?
"What do you mean?" Was all I could make out.
"What do I mean? I *mean* that there's a picture of you murdering some guy being displayed to the entire court. Now I'm thinking we can plead insanity, but that's gonna be..." He tried to continue, but I cut him off.
"That's a weapon from a video game!" I yelled, laughing. He must be crazy, right?
"Excuse me Mr. Evans," the judge asked, "will you please be quiet?"
"What?" I questioned, only to have her snap back.
"I said quiet Mr. Evans!" She yelled back in a demanding tone.
"Your honor, that picture is clearly photoshopped. It doesn't even look real, you can see the pixels around the wounds!" I tried to rebut, but she wasn't having it.
"You killed this man in cold blood, and you're trying to dismiss it by saying the photo was faked?" She asked me, curious to my response.
"Killed him, he's at this trial! Look, he's in the back right there!"
"You're sick Mike!" I heard Jason, the supposed 'victim' in this trial yell back. "I can't believe we were friends!"
"What the hell is happening?" I thought to myself. "There's no way this is real, it has to be a dream." All of the sudden, I felt a rush of comfort come over me. It was just a dream, none of this is real. Without warning, I erupted into laughter as the court stared on.
"A dream, it's only a dream." I kept repeating to myself through the bits of laughter. As I started to calm down, I looked up to see the judge staring at me, wide-eyed.
"Are you done, Mr. Evans?" The judge asked, and as I looked around the room at all the horrified faces I realized; *this isn't a dream.* Scrambling to say something, my defense saw the opportunity and jumped.
"Your honor, we would like to plead insanity on the grounds my client can't seem to tell reality from video games. He confessed to me earlier he believes the murder weapon to be from one of his Xbox games. Clearly my client is not capable of making decisions on his own."
My jaw dropped, was he really going to convince all these people I was insane?
"I'm not crazy!" I yelled, "That's an energy sword, from Halo, it doesn't even exist! Please, tell me one of you sees how absurd this is!"
"It's those video games, they're making kids think killing is okay!" A spectator of the trial yelled back in response.
"Order!" The judge proclaimed, slamming her hammer into the table. "Now, let's get on with the case. Is there anything that the State's defense would like to add?"
"No ma'am, after this outburst be believe Michael Evans is infact clinically insane and should be committed immediately."
"Alright, that being said we will let the jury break and come to a conclusion." The judge informed the court, but I was *livid*.
"A conclusion on what? You can't possibly believe I'm guilty!" I yelled to the judge.
"Calm down Mr. Evans, or we'll be forced to hold you in contempt."
"Calm down? How the hell can you expect me to stay calm when this entire court room is fucking crazy!" I shouted.
"Enough!" She demanded, and as she did so a door in the front opened and the members of the jury came out in a single file line, taking their seats.
"Has the jury come to a verdict?" The judge asked, to which one of them answered.
"Yes your honor, we find Michael Evans guilty of murder in the first degree."
"Wait.." I tried to say, but it came out in a whisper.
"Alright, I sentence Mr. Evans to 20 years in a psychiatric ward for the mentally ill. Bail set at $500,000." And with that, she slammed the hammer onto the table, sealing your fate.
| |
[WP] You're on Trial for Murder. The only evidence is a horribly photoshopped picture of you shooting a gun from Halo at the victim. Unfortunately, you seem to be the only person who realizes this. | I didn't understand what was happening. Did I run through my neighborhood with a gun from Halo and kill all the neighborhood cats? Yes, of course, I did. Was that a picture of ME doing it? No...
It didn't even look like me. The crudely thrown together photoshop job not only featured what looked like an octogenarian in a rocking chair holding a Halo gun (that was not cut out from its original picture), but every single element still had iStockphoto watermarks over them.
I slid the photo back across the table in my dimly lit holding cell. After being yelled at by detectives for the past two hours, my heart finally returned to its normal cadence. I felt a faint, but familiar, countenance of peace return to my face.
"So..." I finally collected my thoughts enough to utter, "This is all they have?"
"All they have? Son... do you not understand the tsunami of beetle dung you're in?"
"Tsunami of..." Seriously, who says that? "No, I really don't. Please explain."
"Their case couldn't be any more concrete. They have the Taj Ma-fuckin-hal of evidence against you."
"Okay, before you continue, I'm going to have to ask you not to make any more stupid metaphors or references."
"I'm just trying to help you son. I'm like the..."
"Please," Very annoyed at this point, I cut him off, "No similes either."
"Fine. But your only option is to take the plea chief."
The irony of my lawyer, a pimple-faced man-boy that looked to be 14, wearing a trench coat and Dick Tracy hat, addressing me as son and chief, was not lost on me. What really perplexed me was why someone went to the effort of making such a poorly constructed photoshop as evidence when... Well, let's not mince words here. I definitely killed all those cats. Every single one. In fact, I was caught in the act. There is video evidence from the dash cam of the cop cars that showed up, proving unequivocally that I, John Masters, used a gun from the best-selling video game, Halo, to brutally murder 7 cats.
I picked up the pen that lay on the empty table before me, still pondering the oddity of the situation.
"Um...," My attention turned back to my prepubescent lawyer, "What exactly is the plea deal?"
"Finally, some common sense." He breathed a sigh of relief and rifled through papers in a briefcase as he scratched his clean-shaven face. I could tell this guy probably had the type of beard that looked like a poorly shaved vagina. I'd shave it off too. "Ah! Here it is. You just sign here and you admit that you used a Halo Needler to kill seven c..."
"Did you say Needler?
"Yes, the affidavit says 'Needler'."
"Nope." I crossed my arms in defiance and put the pen down. I leaned back in my wooden chair - a rather uncomfortable chair I assume was pulled from the waiting room for Hell. It let out a high pitched squeak as my back rested against it. "I'm not signing shit. I would NEVER use a Needler. That's a noob weapon. I used a Gauss Cannon. I fuckin' WRECKED those cats."
I refused to go down as the punk that shot a bunch of cats with a Needler.
"That's fine and dandy Mr. Masters, but the picture clearly shows you holding a Needler with the brand name iStockphoto."
"That's not the bra... whatever. The point is, it was a Gauss Cannon. Period."
"Mr. Masters, if you can prove that, then we may have a case after all."
I rolled my eyes and reached into my pocket. Out came a fully functional M555 Gauss Cannon from the video game Halo 5: Guardians, available now on Xbox One X and PC. My crackly-voiced, hormonal lawyer gazed at the weapon that now covered the entire expanse of the holding cell table. He averted his gaze to the picture to make a comparison for some reason I will never understand. A comparison that should have taken less than a second actually took him two seconds - which still thoroughly placed him in idiot territory.
"Huh," He exclaimed in a 'surprised they weren't the same gun, but not surprised he pulled a fucking Halo gun out of his pocket', kind of tone. "You're right, they aren't the same gun. Yours is made by the Misriah Armory and the one in the picture is manufactured by iStockphoto. I sense foul play."
I decided not to say anything. My lawyer motioned to me with one finger - the 'one sec' gesture - and left the room. I could see him conferring with the detectives through the narrow window of my holding cell door. Their body language slowly changed from that of tension to embarrassment. The bigger of the two detectives actually mouthed the word 'misunderstanding'. I once again leaned back in my crap-tacular demon chair and awaited my apology, aching back and all.
My casual demeanor soon changed as I noticed the smaller detective grab the 'evidence' from my lawyer. My lawyer, with his dumb-looking face, did nothing but guffaw as the detectives used scissors and glue to print, cut and paste various things to the image. Dumbface stood on his tippy-toes trying to see over the detectives' shoulders, to no avail. After what felt like five minutes, the detectives handed the mangled evidence back to my lawyer. He pored over the image (I swear his eyes blinked out of sync at one point) and exclaimed "OH!"
He burst back into the room, where I sat hunched forward in anticipation, and slammed the altered photo down on the only part of the table that wasn't covered by the Gauss Cannon from Halo 5, now available on Xbox One X and PC. I picked it up and after only a brief moment of looking at it, I smiled.
"Well, you got me." I put my hands out to be cuffed. There really was no arguing this time. The photo had a crudely cut out speech balloon next to the octogenarians mouth. In it, scrawled in green crayon, were the words, "I am John Masters and I definitely shot these cats with the Needler from Halo TM."
To this day, I have no idea how they knew I said that. | "Why is this happening to me, how can people be so blind?" I thought to myself contemplating calling everyone in court a fucking idiot.
The Jury was made up of a colorful variety of Sunday football dads, Seniors with nothing better to do, and middle aged suburban moms with a thirst for gossip to take them out of their mundane life.
The victim, a 21 year old male. The kind that with a good heart that everyone loved. He volunteered as a physician in the CAR saving poor African children. He was a better man than me.
Now I was never the brightest person. What was happening was just bizarre. My defense attorney just told me to pledge guilty. My best friend who has been by my side for my hole life called me a murderer.
The murder gun was never found. The Prosecutor appealed to the jury emotionally. "The killer used large, metallic, advanced weaponry. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we cannot let this man walk away.. no, he shouldn't be allowed to live after this."
I tried to defend my case. Oh believe me I did. "This is obviously photoshopped" I yelled at a perplexed judge. "I would never harm anyone, I have never fired a gun in my life. This must be some sick joke".
The judge scribbles something down as he yawns. He looks me straight in the eye "You might not think this is fair, although you remember being a good person, you weren't one in *real life*" He pulls back his wig to reveal two red horns as everything goes up in flames. | |
[WP] You're on Trial for Murder. The only evidence is a horribly photoshopped picture of you shooting a gun from Halo at the victim. Unfortunately, you seem to be the only person who realizes this. | "The gun is fictional, FICTIONAL I TELL YOU!" I screamed out.
The judge made a simple statement, "prove it."
I pulled out my phone and showed him the halo wiki page for the gun and I pointed out the white cutout around the gun, the judge finally conceded that the picture was photoshopped.
"So John, why are you in prison?"
"Well instead of talking about how 'he photoshopped it', I, well..."
Mark guessed it right, "You said I." | "Why is this happening to me, how can people be so blind?" I thought to myself contemplating calling everyone in court a fucking idiot.
The Jury was made up of a colorful variety of Sunday football dads, Seniors with nothing better to do, and middle aged suburban moms with a thirst for gossip to take them out of their mundane life.
The victim, a 21 year old male. The kind that with a good heart that everyone loved. He volunteered as a physician in the CAR saving poor African children. He was a better man than me.
Now I was never the brightest person. What was happening was just bizarre. My defense attorney just told me to pledge guilty. My best friend who has been by my side for my hole life called me a murderer.
The murder gun was never found. The Prosecutor appealed to the jury emotionally. "The killer used large, metallic, advanced weaponry. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we cannot let this man walk away.. no, he shouldn't be allowed to live after this."
I tried to defend my case. Oh believe me I did. "This is obviously photoshopped" I yelled at a perplexed judge. "I would never harm anyone, I have never fired a gun in my life. This must be some sick joke".
The judge scribbles something down as he yawns. He looks me straight in the eye "You might not think this is fair, although you remember being a good person, you weren't one in *real life*" He pulls back his wig to reveal two red horns as everything goes up in flames. | |
[WP] When you die you have a chance to appear in someone else's dream. You are struggling to choose between the dream of your loved one or the nightmare of your killer. | Light. Surrounding me, piercing me, was an endless, unimaginably bright light. I could feel it coursing through my veins, coercing my muscles to relax and my body to simply let go of whatever state I found myself in. It became clear to me what was happening. I was dying.
The instance of my life before this point seemed hazy to me now, like that of a dream quickly forgotten after waking up. I recalled pain, darkness, anger, and fear. Only the feelings persisted, the rest simply faded away. What was happening to me now seemed so much more real, so much more important.
The brightness began to give way while beneath me, a solid marble floor met my feet. In front of me, a monolithic white wall housing two doors of different design. The door to my left was exquisite, bearing a silver trim with ornate gold filigree details covering every inch. In the center a large, white marble door with similar gold and silver inlaid decor and a beautiful silver doorknob. A white mist seemed to be cascading down from the top, pouring from the sides and crawling outward from the bottom.
The door to my right was far less inviting. A solid black door, surrounded by a deep black ebony frame that looked warped and burned. Glowing embers crackled and popped from the wood, while a thick black fluid oozed down the sides. Even though I was standing several feet from it, I could feel a great chill coming from the door.
I went to stroke my beard, as I often did when I was anxious, and no sooner than my fingers met my chin I felt the rustle of a small piece of paper sliding its way into my hand. It was a note, hand written on a small scrap of antique-looking paper, rolled into a makeshift scroll. On the outside, my name was written. It was my own handwriting. I unrolled it to read the rest.
"Casey," it read, "Before you are two doors. These doors will grant you access to one of the dreams of two people. You may only choose once. The door to your left will take you to the dream of your wife, Hannah. The door to your right will take you to the dream of the man who killed you. Please, I beg of you, choose wisely."
The note crumbled into dust and was carried away by a gentle breeze.
I looked up at the two doors once more. This choice seemed easy, at least initially. I took a few steps forward to the white door, where the mist showered me in a fog that had a familiar, comforting scent. It was Hannah's perfume. I closed my eyes to take it in, to remember every date we went on that she wore this scent, every night we spent together where I fell asleep to it. I pressed my forehead to the door the way we used to do to each other when we were together. I missed her so much, even though it was only moments ago that I'd seen her.
I heard a familiar sound coming from the other side of the white door. It was muffled at first, but was becoming clearer. It was Hannah's voice, and it sounded like she was walking toward the white door from the other side. The words were jumbled and I couldn't make them out. It was as if she was speaking every word we'd ever spoken to each other all at once. Faster and faster the voice spoke, so many words being exchanged. Suddenly, it stopped. Everything became deathly silent.
"Casey," the voice said, clearer than ever, "I love you so much."
I let out a painful sigh of grief, "I love you too, baby."
"Then choose me."
I was startled. Was I speaking with my wife? Were we somehow communicating beyond life and death itself?
"Choose me, Casey. Take your chance to say goodbye to me. I need you to say goodbye."
"NO!" echoed a deep, gritty, almost demonic voice from the black door, "Chooose usss."
I slowly crept to the black door, where the odor of gunpowder stung my nostrils. "Who are you?" I asked.
The voice from the black door spoke slowly, with an almost reptilian quality, "Chooose usss. Chooose vengeance. Chooose rage. We can make him fear. We can make him suffer. We want to hurt the man who killed usss."
A part of me wanted to find out what we could do to the man who stole me from my wife. I felt a wave of anger swell up inside of me. Why should he get to sleep soundly while my wife is left alone? Why not take this opportunity to punish him? We could do monstrous things to him. We could tear his mind apart bit by bit from the inside. We could make him suffer.
I quickly snapped back to my senses, realizing my hand was on the ice-cold handle of the black door. I pulled my hand away quickly.
"Casey, don't do it, please!" The white door begged, "This could be the last time we get to spend together."
"No, chooose usss," the black door fired back, "We can give him a nightmare he will never awaken from. Let usss hurt him... Let us rip him apart."
I stood before the two doors as they argued for their cause. It seemed they were fighting for control of me, for control of my soul.
"I'm sorry," I spoke softly, the two doors quickly falling silent, "I have to do this."
Both doors were eerily still, the white mist and black ooze suddenly freezing in time, anticipating my decision. I had, indeed, made a decision.
I opened the white door.
"NO!" shouted the black door, "WE WILL NEVER GET ANOTHER CHANCE!"
"I'm sorry. But my soul belongs to her. It always has. It always will."
I stepped into the golden glow of the open white door, the floor falling away from me while a rush of warmth washed over me. The white door began to dissolve away behind me, and the echo of the black door's cries quickly faded into silence.
I floated in the warm glow for a few moments before another floor rose up to meet me. This one was a glossy wooden parquet floor that was strangely familiar to me. I noticed my shoes had changed as well, from my old sneakers to a pair of shiny dress shoes. I scanned over the rest of me and saw that I was wearing a dark gray suit with a white tie. A purple and blue orchid was pinned to my lapel.
The rest of the room appeared to lift itself, wall by wall, out of the warm glow until I was in a large ballroom with a beautiful chandelier hanging above me. This place was instantly recognizable. I was at my wedding.
"Hey there, handsome," a light, breathy voice spoke behind me, "You clean up nicely."
Those were the exact words Hannah spoke to me when she first saw me at our wedding. The words hit me hard. Tears instantly poured from my eyes. "Hannah?"
I turned to see who was behind me. It was Hannah. She looked exactly as she had the day we were married. A jeweled, white corset top with a flowing ball gown beneath her. Her hands were folded together in front of her, and I could tell she was eagerly waiting for me to take them.
"I'm so sorry, Hannah. I'm so sorry that you're alone. I would give anything to come back to you. I love you." That's what I wanted to say. I tried to say it, but my lips couldn't get the words out. Instead, I said what I had actually said at my wedding, "You look amazing."
This wasn't my dream to control. In here, I was at the mercy of Hannah's mind. She guided my body, wrote my words, pulled at me with her will. She was dreaming of our wedding.
I let the night go as she wanted. Music was softly playing in the background. We danced, we laughed, we kissed. We shared all those little private moments all over again, but this time I saw them the way she did that night all those years ago. She loved me. She loved me with all the intensity and passion that I had for her. I had always hoped she felt this way about me, cared for me as much as I did for her, but I could never have been sure until now. The feeling was almost too much for my heart to bear.
The night began to draw to a close, and our last dance song began to play. I didn't want the night to end. I wanted to stay in this moment forever. I looked deep into Hannah's eyes.
"I don't want to go," I said, "I don't want to say goodbye."
"You don't have to." This was not a conversation Hannah and I had at our wedding. This was real. This was my last chance to say everything I've wanted to say to her.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"This doesn't have to be goodbye. I'll always be with you, and you'll always be with me."
"But, how?" I mumbled, through a stream of tears.
"Say it." She said, "Tell me what you told me then. Say it again."
My lips moved before my mind had time to process what she meant. "I promise you my soul, now and forever."
She smiled, "I promise you my soul, now and forever."
She stood on her toes and we shared our final kiss of the evening. She smiled again at me, and I at her. The room faded back to white, the walls disappeared, the floor sank into the mist. Finally, Hannah disappeared into the warm, golden glow.
She had woken up.
Out of the glow, the white door once again appeared and pulled me through it. Shutting behind me, I was left in a vast, endless sea of blue skies and white, wipsy clouds. I closed my eyes, holding on to the lingering scent of Hannah's perfume. I ran the fingers of my right hand down the fingers of my left, twisting and fiddling with my wedding ring.
"I'll be waiting right here for you, baby."
I had made the right choice.
(FROM ME: Thank you for reading this, this actually hits home for me a lot because it's eerily similar to a few dreams I've had of my own wife. Go easy on me in the comments! This was all pretty much off the cuff and typed out on my phone, so there's probably spelling, grammar, and all kinds of other mistakes!) | I looked down the barrel of his gun; my body was trembling, and my lips were paralyzed with fear. I had no idea who this man was, or why he was pointing a Colt 45 directly at my head.
I instinctively rose both my arms, and the cell phone in my hand fell to the ground with a thud. This didn't startle him nor did it avert his gaze from me. After a moment, I finally had the courage to speak.
"You can have everything on me," I stuttered. "I don't have my wallet with me, but you can take my cell phone or anything. Just please. Don't shoot. I have a wife and a seven year old daughter. Please."
He didn't say a word; it seemed to me like he was deciding whether to go through with it. It was then that I began to recognize him as someone that I had been seeing at random times throughout the past few weeks. I had brushed it off before as my imagination, or that it was all just one big coincidence. But now I knew for sure. This man that I kept seeing everywhere had been following me, perhaps for a perfect opportunity like this.
It was half-passed midnight and I was taking my evening stroll through the park. I was alone, and there wasn't a soul in sight. Most of the time, either Alice or Sarah would have joined me, but Alice was feeling off and Sarah needed to go to school early tomorrow morning. As my adrenaline balanced, my courage foolishly started to grow.
"You've been following me," I said. "Who are you and what do you want with me?"
Saying these words was an obvious mistake. He released the trigger and a bullet went through my skull, and my brains sprayed through the air, creating a red mist that floated in the sky as my body crumbled to the floor. I was dead and my killer ran off.
The after-life is a funny thing. When we die, we have the chance to appear in someone's dream for one last goodbye, or if we wanted, someone's nightmare for one last act of vengeance. My first instinct was to pick my wife of fifteen years. We were going through a rough patch, and I needed to speak with her to make things right. On the night I was killed, I said some regrettable words, and I had to tell her how much I loved her and that I was sorry.
But then I thought about Sarah. My sweet, beautiful, seven-year old daughter. I thought about taking her to the ice cream store, and spending an evening watching our favorite TV shows and movies. I thought about her funny jokes, and the many many questions she asked that I loved to answer.
Then finally, I thought about the man who shot me. I thought about tormenting him to find out who the hell he was and why the fuck he killed me. My anger boiled down deep. I could picture his shriveled face as I ripped his guts out, and suffocated him repeatedly. I dreamed of the satisfaction of hearing his voice scream out the truth I desperately needed. This anger, this desperation eventually drove me to pick him. I needed to know.
"I choose my murderer."
I entered my killer's dream, and looked around, completely confused. I expected to be somewhere I didn't know, but instead, I was in my own home, in my own living room. Perhaps I get to create my own setting, but that didn't make sense. If I could, I would have chosen a place much more grim and frightening. No, this must have been a mistake. Instead of my killer, they must have put me in Alice's or Sarah's dream.
I walked around a bit and confirmed that this was my home, from the kitchen to the hallway, filled with the fixtures to the exact detail. I noticed that the door to our bedroom was open slightly and I heard my wife's voice from inside.
"Come to bed, honey. It's finished now."
I crept slowly towards the door.
"What's the hold up? He's gone. Hurry up!"
I hadn't heard Alice's voice sound that happy in years, and I began to feel afraid of what I'd find inside. I reached our bedroom and opened the door. Alice was laying on our bed, wearing nothing but a thin lingerie, her nipples exposed through the thin fabric. When she saw me, her face recoiled and she let out a shriek.
"Jack! That's not possible! We buried you! We buried you..." She crawled backwards and began to shake uncontrollably. Her back went against our bed frame and she closed her eyes shut.
I confirmed then what I had suspected. My heart ripped as I realized that there hadn't been a mistake. Indeed, I was in my murderer's dream. It just wasn't the dream of the man who shot me.
I was still standing in the doorway, and must have looked like a silhouette against the light from the hallway. I stepped towards her, and looked at her eyes. They were still closed.
"Alice, how could you?" I asked.
She didn't respond coherently, but I could catch a few words.
"Impossible... dead... no... no...buried."
I reached the bed, and grabbed her arm. She screamed again and her breathing turned to panting.
"Was he someone you hired or... your lover?" I asked. She didn't respond, nor did she open her eyes. Then I remembered that I could control this dream, and I could torment her in any way I imagined, but what would be the point. When I looked at her, I didn't feel anger. No, I felt pity.
I let go her arm and briefly stood by the bed. I turned to walk away and was halfway to the door when she cried out.
"Jack, you stopped loving me long ago."
I didn't react, and continued walking ahead out of the bedroom. I didn't know where I was heading, but I knew it was to a better place. | |
[WP] You are on trial for attempting to assassinate the King. Unknown to anyone but you and His Majesty, you were actually trying to stop him from killing himself. When you request a trial by combat, he ceremoniously accepts. Your opponent? The King himself. | The trumpets are still ringing in my ears, the last notes of his triumphal entry shock my hearing as my eyes struggle to make sense of his presence in the fighting pit. But of course, this is what he wanted. This is what he has wanted for 7 years now, since the death of his family. This is why I find myself in this dust choked pit, about to fight the King. A monarch always has his way, and this one wants to die.
He flies at me from out of the dust, sword arcing; no more formality, no more waiting for tedious trials or starting flags, the King waits for no man, least of all me. My counter drives back my guard as I struggle to find a solid footing in the unfamiliar sand of the pit. The king may want to die, but he wants to punish me before he does. It is not punishment enough that I be forced into bond slavery or thrown to some faceless executioner, no. He will mete out my justice himself, his fury at my interruption in his bedchamber giving power to his every swing. I did not foil his plan, only delayed it and he wants me to remember that before I kill him: one does not impede the desires of the King.
I roll out on the ground, both to avoid his vengeful blow and to cover myself in the same color as the arena, throwing sand and dust into the air as I come to my feet. I hear him breathing, as ragged as his sobs when I stopped his blade, intent on piercing the heart of its master, of all our master. His howls then were of sorrow alone; they are of outrage now. Outrage and sorrow and I do not with to kill him.
He knows, shouting at me, yelling words that make the jury, blinded by dust to the tears muddying his cheeks, assume he wishes to kill me, to run through his supposed assassin. To me, his cries of “I am here! Where are you?” beg me to end his life, beg me to operate as my profession would have me do. He moves wildly through the khaki blur, his sword dragging behind him, unguarded. If he knelt down and closed his eyes, I would have no better chance than I do now. And he knows this.
I saw him after his family died, killed accidentally when their ship sought a different course to avoid the sea battles along the southern coast. They crashed on the rocks; only a deckhand survived. And she only for 3 days, dying slowly as she told the King her tale. I assassinated the captains of each of the ships that fought on the enemy’s side in the battle his family strove to avoid. It did not bring him peace. Killing almost never does.
He slipped into a depression then, wandering the halls of his empty castle and spending too many nights in the rooms of his children, waiting for their ghosts to speak to him any advice that might assuage his sadness. I was always there, watching, tending to his small needs without him noticing. I had been the King’s assassin for 30 years, slain many in his name or by his decree, but here my blade was of no use, my poisons unable to kill the black dog that followed him everywhere he went.
The King asked me many times, begged me, ordered me to kill him. I refused every time and it was that refusal that led his hand to take up a dagger and aim for his heart. When I stopped it, he pleaded with me like a child, weeping on my tunic, soaking it through to my skin. No one knew I existed, it would seem like suicide and then we could both be free! My duty is to kill for the King, never to take my ruler’s life, I had said, I would rather take my own. Dashing an urn to the floor, I alerted the guards and restrained the King until they wrestled me away: the assassin who tried to kill the King.
He is faster than I thought he would be, narrowly missing my chest with the point of his longblade. My dodge puts me closer to him and his hand reaches out like a krait. Sinking his fingers into my shoulder, the King pulls me close and whispers deep in my ear: “Do it, Tevesh.”
It is my old name, the name I had when we were boys and I was the lesser son of a greater king and brother to the future one. It has not been spoken to me since my training began. The King knows this. It is his final gambit to make me strike him down, the ultimate weapon in his own demise. To say my name is to bring death upon any who say it: this is the law of my service. I must kill him and he repeats it: “Do it, Tevesh!”
“No.”
***
Sand and dust settled as the counselors of the jury peered, eagerly and hopefully into the pit. They strained their eyes to see if their King, beloved of his people, had bested the foul scum assassin who had sought to take his imperial life. Death by the King’s hand had been too honorable an end, they had all agreed. The King had overruled them; he would make an example of this man with his own sword and his counselors all nodded in agreement.
There! They saw his crown and then his head. His mighty shoulders slumped, the strong arms holding his sword and upon it, the body of the assassin. They cheered, hollering his name and striking up the trumpet master to sound his horns in jubilation, pouring down into the pit adulation and praise for his mighty victory! And as he lifted his regal head, they almost noticed the teardrops littering his cheeks and falling onto the body of the man on his blade. | In the Elder's Council I found myself blankly staring at the center of the round table. It was rivetted with designs of our ancestors. Stories passed down from one generation to another, transcribed on the table itself. I guess it was fitting that I would contribute to the next etching of our story.
"Servant..."
I wonder how long it takes to etch a story on the table, and what happens when a person makes a mistake. Do we have to come up with a new table? Or is the story recited in the person's head over and over again to ensure the story is transcribed correctly?
"Servant..."
How much does one make from etching the table?
"Soren!"
I guess...
"Yes."
"You were discovered in the King's chambers the night there was an attempt on his life. This tribunal finds you solely responsible for the failed attempt in capturing his Majesty's fabled killer\-"
"I did what I thought was best, attend to the King."
They are all fools with fancy robes.
"How coincidental, it is then, that the only person with the keys to his Majesty's quarters would also be the one to claim he saw an assasin escape the royal house. No guards ever reported a disturbance throughout the entire evening."
What.
"In fact, not a single guard missed their scheduled shift, left one corner unsearched, or one corridor unguarded. This tribunal is assured that there was no assassin in the first place\-"
"I called for help"
"I am sorry Servant Soren, but were you asked a question?"
"No I just\-"
"Then I would suggest you keep your mouth shut during this sentencing."
"Sentencing?"
"You clearly do not listen very well, this is a sentencing. This is not a trial, in fact\-"
"As a citizen\-"
"Soren Calcitus! You are speaking out of turn and defacing His Majesty, the integrity of this court and The Table that sits before you! If you so much as sneeze, I will be sure to have the guards escort you to the Breach."
He is not joking around. The Breach. It's where you go to die, voluntarily or if you angered one of the robed fools.
One of them leans in to my...judge.
"Soren, for your many years of service, this tribunal recognizes your service to His Majesty and his kin. However, your claim that there was an assassin present in His Majesty's chambers are unfounded by the testimonials of all other royal personnel present that night."
Here we go.
"Therefore, we, as a one people, have decided that you may have two choices\-"
Wonderful.
"Death by exile, or death by combat."
You call that a choice?
"What is your decision?"
Combat.
"You will be armed with a Gauss 25 millimeter assault rifle, a light blade, and a light shield that has a limited charge. You will present yourself before the audience, and recite the Oath of The Breach\-"
Wonderful, more tradition.
"Calcitus!"
"Sir."
"Get your gear." He swings his large arm towards the supply table.
"Sir. my fight\-"
"Is now, fool! Grab your gear and head to the doors."
Grab the rifle, shield, and blade. Blade to the right, my left is faster at unsheathing. Rifle on the left, my aim is better on the right. Shield on the right. Check charge. 100&#37;. Rifle, full. Blade, 98&#37;.
"Sir. I am ready."
"Don't tell me that, slave! Tell the guardsmen!"
I race to the doors. We call them The Doors because you really have no idea what's on the other side. It could be a collection of animals, people, or just one big death trap. Sometimes, it is a mixture of the three.
"Soren Calcitus, reporting for my duty."
They reach for the locks. I feel the sweat on my hands. The beads of salt and water on my brow creep down through the eyebrows. The door swings open. The light is blinding. The entire arena is silent.
"Go."
My right. My left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Blade. Right. Shield. Left. Rifle. Right.
"Soren Calcitus, this arena recognizes this eventas a trial sentencing: death by combat!" The crowd cheers.
"Present your arms."
My throat halves, my voal cords double in size.
"I pledge my life, my life's possesions, and my soul to the Crown. For the ancestors and for the King, I observe the rules of our country and engage in death by combat\-"
This last word. This very last word. Get. It. Out.
"\-willingly."
The crowd cheers.
"Soren Calcitus, for your crime against the Crown, you have chosen Death by Combat. Prepare."
Double check the batteries. Check the rifle. Full. The opposite doors begin to open. The crowd has grown silent. I can hear my trainer breathe from the observatory tunnels. The doors open. I see him. Draped in gold armor. His rifle, on his right. The blade, to his left. Shield, to his right. We call it a mirror match up.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please bow to your Protector, your General, your King, King Justinian Surtur!"
No.
"My people, the attempt on my life by this...traitor will now be, corrected!"
I can't do this. He looks at me. The artifical vegitation begins to form between us. Trees, rocks, ruins, towers, and debris. He rocks his right shoulder. I bolt for the tree to my left. His bullets whir past the bark. I know I need the rifle. It's draped on my right. My shoulder, its frozen. I hear a buzz. Jump for the open space in front of me, the tree comes down as he cuts throught it like butter. I scramble to get up. Shield. The bullets just bounce off of my light shield. I sprint to his left as he fires. I am on his more accurate side. I slide into the debris for cover. Buzz. I unsheathe and guard with both hands on the blade. His against mine. I can see his eyes.
"Kill me."
What?
He pushes me down. I roll on my back and recover with my strong foot behind me. I can lunge or back up. He charges. I back up. He swings. I parry. He charges, I dodge. His back is to me. I can't. He turns. I grimace. He lunges and I block again.
"Kill me. Please."
He is strong. I can barely hold his blade back long enough to hear his whole message. I push him off of me, cock my right shoulder back and forward. He runs to my left. My more accurate side. I fire my rilfe. Short bursts. He hides. Check the corners. Left. Right. Left. Right. Top. Left. Right. Top. Left. Right. Top. I angle my way around the rock. I copper red stain on the sand. I see him.
He looks to me and mouths something. I remember:
"Soren."
"Yes your majesty?"
"Why do you think it is that I am King?"
"You are rightful heir to the throne when your father passed, my Lord."
"No. No that's not it."
"Your Majesty?"
"I am King because of chance."
"With your permission my Lord, what do you mean?"
"Soren, did you ask to be my royal sevant?"
"Your Majesty, my family has always taken pride in serving the royal family. It was my duty as a son of the house to serve you."
"So. By chance too."
"Your Majesty?"
"Soren, the crown is heavy. Sometimes too heavy."
"My Lord, your candid nature of this\-"
"Don't worry about that, Soren. But tell me, what would you prefer over this?"
"Serving you?"
"Yes."
"Nothing, sire."
"We'll see."
I have him in my sights. I see his eyes. They are filled with pain. He mouths something. I can't hear over the screams and cheers. I lock my reticule on my King. He mouths something to me. My index finger tightens its hold on the trigger closer. Finally:
"Soren. Help me. Kill me."
What?
"Please, as your King. Respect my wish."
"Sire\-" I can barely breathe.
"Soren. Please."
"Sire\-" I can't stand much longer.
"SOREN"
I pull the trigger. The crowd is silent. My King's blood forms a halo. An angel born from violence.
"Soren Calcitus. You have slain your accuser. You are free."
The trees, rocks, debris, and sand all disappear. My King's body remains. I stare at him. A door opens. The lights cut out. I raise my rifle. The cheers have turned to screams. I glance with my reticule, I canot see. I see a faint glow. In front of me. Now to the right. Left. More on my left. More on my right.
"What is this?"
"A new age"
I whirl to my left. Black.
"Don't move too much, you have a slight concussion."
What?
"What?"
"You're Soren, right?"
"What?"
"Just rest."
I can hear them in my sleep.
"Are you sure he is a good fit?"
"He has to be."
"That isn't good enough."
This light blinds me as I wake up.
"Ah, welcome back!"
"What?" The light is blinding. It hurts.
"Servant turned warrior turned revolutionary icon."
"What?"
"I'll grab the general. Stay here."
"I can't go anywhere."
"I know, just stay there." This blob with a voice runs off. I can't see a damn thing but fuzzy images. I see the same blob return with another blob. I can see them more sharply.
"Soren Calcitus."
"Yes."
"You have done your country a great service. I would like to give you my thanks."
"Service? What?"
"He doesn't know?"
"His head was hit kind of hard."
What are they saying?
"He doesn't remember his involvement?"
"No sir."
"Soren."
"Yes?"
"Do you remember killing King Justinian Surtur?"
"Yes."
"Good. Rest. We have a very busy day tomorrow."
"Why? Who are you? Where am I?"
"Beacause of you, we are in the most free place in the country. Because of King Justinian, we have a place to call home."
I can see the lights much more clearly. The blobs are gone. I look to my right and see a night stand. I see a man with glasses enter my room.
"Ah, you're awake!"
"Yes. Who are\-"
"Can you get up?"
"What?"
"Can you stand?"
"I don't\-"
"Try. Try."
I try to stand. My legs feel like they havent been used in a while. I try to straighten myself.
"I'll go get the general."
"Who?"
He is gone. The room is partially made of wall built into rocks. I know I am in a cave. The lighting has cables running form the lamps across the ceiling and into some corridor. I follow it. I can see armed men and women along the corridor. This is a busy place. I see my guest, with another person. They quicken their pace. I just sit on my bed. I wonder what happened int he arena.
"Soren?"
"Yes."
"I am General Thurman. We spoke before."
"I don't really remember all of that."
"That is fine, but first. Do you know that you killed King Justinian Surtur?"
"I remember\-"
"No. No. Do you KNOW you killed Surtur?"
"Yes."
She sighs.
"Good."
"What's going on?"
"Do you know where you are?"
"A cave?"
"Yes, but not just a cave. This is the headquarters for the Children of Liberty."
"Who?"
"King Justinian and I were close friends. You can trust me."
"Excuse me?"
"Did Justinian not tell you?"
"Tell me what!?"
"Soren...you killed the king because he wanted to be killed."
"What?"
"His suicide was a ploy to force you into a position that I did not agree to."
"WHAT!"
"Soren, you are here because you started a revolution. You are here because King Justinian knew you would follow through on his orders\-"
"Excuse me. Stop. What did I do?"
"You helped King Justinian and I begin a revolution in this country. One he could not start himself. So...he needed you, he needed someone he could trust."
"I started a revolution?"
"You started our revolution."
I slowly lowered myself on my back. I was staring into the cheap lamp above me. I killed my King. In turn, he gives me a revolution. I was right, I would still prefer to serve him. | |
[WP] You are on trial for attempting to assassinate the King. Unknown to anyone but you and His Majesty, you were actually trying to stop him from killing himself. When you request a trial by combat, he ceremoniously accepts. Your opponent? The King himself. | The king approaches you with determination in his eyes, and states "You'll never be able to defeat me when i reveal my penis to you!!!"
I realized the king had me cornered, if I didn't cut off his penis everyone would think I have the gay! I swung my sword at him wildly but accidentally killed 45 citizens, 13 guards, the queen and the judge.
With no one left in the room but the king and I, he approached me and whispered in my ear "you gay"
I immediately took my life, and the king did too. | In the Elder's Council I found myself blankly staring at the center of the round table. It was rivetted with designs of our ancestors. Stories passed down from one generation to another, transcribed on the table itself. I guess it was fitting that I would contribute to the next etching of our story.
"Servant..."
I wonder how long it takes to etch a story on the table, and what happens when a person makes a mistake. Do we have to come up with a new table? Or is the story recited in the person's head over and over again to ensure the story is transcribed correctly?
"Servant..."
How much does one make from etching the table?
"Soren!"
I guess...
"Yes."
"You were discovered in the King's chambers the night there was an attempt on his life. This tribunal finds you solely responsible for the failed attempt in capturing his Majesty's fabled killer\-"
"I did what I thought was best, attend to the King."
They are all fools with fancy robes.
"How coincidental, it is then, that the only person with the keys to his Majesty's quarters would also be the one to claim he saw an assasin escape the royal house. No guards ever reported a disturbance throughout the entire evening."
What.
"In fact, not a single guard missed their scheduled shift, left one corner unsearched, or one corridor unguarded. This tribunal is assured that there was no assassin in the first place\-"
"I called for help"
"I am sorry Servant Soren, but were you asked a question?"
"No I just\-"
"Then I would suggest you keep your mouth shut during this sentencing."
"Sentencing?"
"You clearly do not listen very well, this is a sentencing. This is not a trial, in fact\-"
"As a citizen\-"
"Soren Calcitus! You are speaking out of turn and defacing His Majesty, the integrity of this court and The Table that sits before you! If you so much as sneeze, I will be sure to have the guards escort you to the Breach."
He is not joking around. The Breach. It's where you go to die, voluntarily or if you angered one of the robed fools.
One of them leans in to my...judge.
"Soren, for your many years of service, this tribunal recognizes your service to His Majesty and his kin. However, your claim that there was an assassin present in His Majesty's chambers are unfounded by the testimonials of all other royal personnel present that night."
Here we go.
"Therefore, we, as a one people, have decided that you may have two choices\-"
Wonderful.
"Death by exile, or death by combat."
You call that a choice?
"What is your decision?"
Combat.
"You will be armed with a Gauss 25 millimeter assault rifle, a light blade, and a light shield that has a limited charge. You will present yourself before the audience, and recite the Oath of The Breach\-"
Wonderful, more tradition.
"Calcitus!"
"Sir."
"Get your gear." He swings his large arm towards the supply table.
"Sir. my fight\-"
"Is now, fool! Grab your gear and head to the doors."
Grab the rifle, shield, and blade. Blade to the right, my left is faster at unsheathing. Rifle on the left, my aim is better on the right. Shield on the right. Check charge. 100&#37;. Rifle, full. Blade, 98&#37;.
"Sir. I am ready."
"Don't tell me that, slave! Tell the guardsmen!"
I race to the doors. We call them The Doors because you really have no idea what's on the other side. It could be a collection of animals, people, or just one big death trap. Sometimes, it is a mixture of the three.
"Soren Calcitus, reporting for my duty."
They reach for the locks. I feel the sweat on my hands. The beads of salt and water on my brow creep down through the eyebrows. The door swings open. The light is blinding. The entire arena is silent.
"Go."
My right. My left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Blade. Right. Shield. Left. Rifle. Right.
"Soren Calcitus, this arena recognizes this eventas a trial sentencing: death by combat!" The crowd cheers.
"Present your arms."
My throat halves, my voal cords double in size.
"I pledge my life, my life's possesions, and my soul to the Crown. For the ancestors and for the King, I observe the rules of our country and engage in death by combat\-"
This last word. This very last word. Get. It. Out.
"\-willingly."
The crowd cheers.
"Soren Calcitus, for your crime against the Crown, you have chosen Death by Combat. Prepare."
Double check the batteries. Check the rifle. Full. The opposite doors begin to open. The crowd has grown silent. I can hear my trainer breathe from the observatory tunnels. The doors open. I see him. Draped in gold armor. His rifle, on his right. The blade, to his left. Shield, to his right. We call it a mirror match up.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please bow to your Protector, your General, your King, King Justinian Surtur!"
No.
"My people, the attempt on my life by this...traitor will now be, corrected!"
I can't do this. He looks at me. The artifical vegitation begins to form between us. Trees, rocks, ruins, towers, and debris. He rocks his right shoulder. I bolt for the tree to my left. His bullets whir past the bark. I know I need the rifle. It's draped on my right. My shoulder, its frozen. I hear a buzz. Jump for the open space in front of me, the tree comes down as he cuts throught it like butter. I scramble to get up. Shield. The bullets just bounce off of my light shield. I sprint to his left as he fires. I am on his more accurate side. I slide into the debris for cover. Buzz. I unsheathe and guard with both hands on the blade. His against mine. I can see his eyes.
"Kill me."
What?
He pushes me down. I roll on my back and recover with my strong foot behind me. I can lunge or back up. He charges. I back up. He swings. I parry. He charges, I dodge. His back is to me. I can't. He turns. I grimace. He lunges and I block again.
"Kill me. Please."
He is strong. I can barely hold his blade back long enough to hear his whole message. I push him off of me, cock my right shoulder back and forward. He runs to my left. My more accurate side. I fire my rilfe. Short bursts. He hides. Check the corners. Left. Right. Left. Right. Top. Left. Right. Top. Left. Right. Top. I angle my way around the rock. I copper red stain on the sand. I see him.
He looks to me and mouths something. I remember:
"Soren."
"Yes your majesty?"
"Why do you think it is that I am King?"
"You are rightful heir to the throne when your father passed, my Lord."
"No. No that's not it."
"Your Majesty?"
"I am King because of chance."
"With your permission my Lord, what do you mean?"
"Soren, did you ask to be my royal sevant?"
"Your Majesty, my family has always taken pride in serving the royal family. It was my duty as a son of the house to serve you."
"So. By chance too."
"Your Majesty?"
"Soren, the crown is heavy. Sometimes too heavy."
"My Lord, your candid nature of this\-"
"Don't worry about that, Soren. But tell me, what would you prefer over this?"
"Serving you?"
"Yes."
"Nothing, sire."
"We'll see."
I have him in my sights. I see his eyes. They are filled with pain. He mouths something. I can't hear over the screams and cheers. I lock my reticule on my King. He mouths something to me. My index finger tightens its hold on the trigger closer. Finally:
"Soren. Help me. Kill me."
What?
"Please, as your King. Respect my wish."
"Sire\-" I can barely breathe.
"Soren. Please."
"Sire\-" I can't stand much longer.
"SOREN"
I pull the trigger. The crowd is silent. My King's blood forms a halo. An angel born from violence.
"Soren Calcitus. You have slain your accuser. You are free."
The trees, rocks, debris, and sand all disappear. My King's body remains. I stare at him. A door opens. The lights cut out. I raise my rifle. The cheers have turned to screams. I glance with my reticule, I canot see. I see a faint glow. In front of me. Now to the right. Left. More on my left. More on my right.
"What is this?"
"A new age"
I whirl to my left. Black.
"Don't move too much, you have a slight concussion."
What?
"What?"
"You're Soren, right?"
"What?"
"Just rest."
I can hear them in my sleep.
"Are you sure he is a good fit?"
"He has to be."
"That isn't good enough."
This light blinds me as I wake up.
"Ah, welcome back!"
"What?" The light is blinding. It hurts.
"Servant turned warrior turned revolutionary icon."
"What?"
"I'll grab the general. Stay here."
"I can't go anywhere."
"I know, just stay there." This blob with a voice runs off. I can't see a damn thing but fuzzy images. I see the same blob return with another blob. I can see them more sharply.
"Soren Calcitus."
"Yes."
"You have done your country a great service. I would like to give you my thanks."
"Service? What?"
"He doesn't know?"
"His head was hit kind of hard."
What are they saying?
"He doesn't remember his involvement?"
"No sir."
"Soren."
"Yes?"
"Do you remember killing King Justinian Surtur?"
"Yes."
"Good. Rest. We have a very busy day tomorrow."
"Why? Who are you? Where am I?"
"Beacause of you, we are in the most free place in the country. Because of King Justinian, we have a place to call home."
I can see the lights much more clearly. The blobs are gone. I look to my right and see a night stand. I see a man with glasses enter my room.
"Ah, you're awake!"
"Yes. Who are\-"
"Can you get up?"
"What?"
"Can you stand?"
"I don't\-"
"Try. Try."
I try to stand. My legs feel like they havent been used in a while. I try to straighten myself.
"I'll go get the general."
"Who?"
He is gone. The room is partially made of wall built into rocks. I know I am in a cave. The lighting has cables running form the lamps across the ceiling and into some corridor. I follow it. I can see armed men and women along the corridor. This is a busy place. I see my guest, with another person. They quicken their pace. I just sit on my bed. I wonder what happened int he arena.
"Soren?"
"Yes."
"I am General Thurman. We spoke before."
"I don't really remember all of that."
"That is fine, but first. Do you know that you killed King Justinian Surtur?"
"I remember\-"
"No. No. Do you KNOW you killed Surtur?"
"Yes."
She sighs.
"Good."
"What's going on?"
"Do you know where you are?"
"A cave?"
"Yes, but not just a cave. This is the headquarters for the Children of Liberty."
"Who?"
"King Justinian and I were close friends. You can trust me."
"Excuse me?"
"Did Justinian not tell you?"
"Tell me what!?"
"Soren...you killed the king because he wanted to be killed."
"What?"
"His suicide was a ploy to force you into a position that I did not agree to."
"WHAT!"
"Soren, you are here because you started a revolution. You are here because King Justinian knew you would follow through on his orders\-"
"Excuse me. Stop. What did I do?"
"You helped King Justinian and I begin a revolution in this country. One he could not start himself. So...he needed you, he needed someone he could trust."
"I started a revolution?"
"You started our revolution."
I slowly lowered myself on my back. I was staring into the cheap lamp above me. I killed my King. In turn, he gives me a revolution. I was right, I would still prefer to serve him. | |
[WP] You are on trial for attempting to assassinate the King. Unknown to anyone but you and His Majesty, you were actually trying to stop him from killing himself. When you request a trial by combat, he ceremoniously accepts. Your opponent? The King himself. | "Kill me, Larissa." Tears streamed down Aven's gaunt and pallid cheeks. "It *must* be you."
The dagger slid from Larissa's trembling grip and *clinked* pommel-first into the ground, clattering across the flagstone floor of their royal bedchambers. She locked her pleading eyes on his, raising her hands to wipe his tears.
"You know I cannot do that, love," said Larissa.
"It must be done. *Please*. It must be you."
"You know I will not do that."
"And you know what the alternative is! This *endless* torment!" Aven coughed, wracking and heaving until blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. Larissa was ready with a handkerchief to wipe it away, as she had been for the past two years.
She pushed herself up from where she had found him - slumped in the corner of the room they had led their people from for thirty years. For all the power the courtiers and nobles thought they possessed, the simple bed in the corner of this very room was where the decisions that had shaped the kingdom were made.
This bed was where Larissa and Aven agreed the refugees from neighbouring Levund would be allowed in. It was there that they realised how much they would have to sacrifice to save their people from the weak harvest. It was beneath those very sheets that they finally accepted that they had lost their son, weeping in each others shaking arms.
She hurried over to it and pulled a small glass vial filled with a clear viscous liquid from the roll atop the bedside table.
When she turned back, Aven was still, and quiet, staring down at the knife. Larissa knelt down beside him, cupped his chin, unstopped the vial and tipped it into his mouth. His body heaved in resistance as it oozed down his throat.
"And you," said Larissa, planting a kiss on his cold forehead, "know what happens if you give up this fight. You know who that crown goes to. You know what he would do to our people."
Tears welled up in the corners of Aven's grey-blue eyes again as he clutched his hand to her temple and sobbed, sinking further into the floor.
_________________________________________
The grief of the previous night seemed like a dream as she sat beside King Aven while they held court. Yesterday he clutched a knife at his own throat in his robes, shaking like a babe. Today he sat tall upon his throne, his thin neck unbowed by the tremendous weight of his crown, resplendent in the simple yet beautiful purple and gold regalia of the royalty. Larissa swallowed down that image of better days as she took in the cane resting against the throne, the tremor in his hands, the gaggle of apothecaries waiting in the wings with sweating brows, watching his every breath.
Aven raised his left hand gently to still the murmuring in the packed chamber and the room fell reverently silent to begin the proceedings of the day - addressing trade disputes, offers of gifts, and other requests to the crown.
"My friends," he began, in a voice that barely wavered, "know now that I love you. Know now that from the day this crown was placed upon my head I loved you, and in the dark and golden days of winters and summers passed, I loved you then. In peace, that love never grew complacent. In war, it never grew tired. I have burned with pride and gratitude for the honour and hope that you have placed in me, and in my kind, unbreakable, perfect wife." His voice cracked as he locked his eyes on hers, and then down at his knees. "For the failures that you forgave. And I am afraid I must ask you to forgive a final failure. On this last hour, the hour of my death, I must play the tyrant."
Gasps and nervous chatter spread throughout between the pristine whitestone pillars of the chamber as onlookers jostled for a better view, as King Aven took up his cane and heaved his frail body to stand. He thrust his left hand out to reject the assistance of one of his attendants.
"I must give you a command. Before you all now, I must decree that the succession of my crown be changed. Upon my death, my wife - your *Queen* - Larissa, will be the sole bearer of the crown, no matter the circumstances of my death. Will you agree now, before me, before the gods, to serve her with the same honesty, passion, and love that you served me?"
Silence. "Aye," came one voice, from the front. Then another. Then a chorus, then a cacophany, as the knights, courtiers, nobles and merchants nodded, roared, raised their fists towards Larissa. But she could not take her eyes off of her husband. She could not move her body for fear.
King Aven smiled out at them, and raised his hand once more to quieten the crowd. "I had no doubt. Now, then I must inform you of a great crime that has been committed."
Larissa found herself standing, one arm faintly outstretched towards her husband. "My king-"
"Last night, Larissa disobeyed a direct order from the crown. I demanded that she take my life, and with all of her grace and strength, she refused. And as such, justice must be done."
"Aven, I -"
"She must therefore take part in trial by combat to clear her name."
"My love, *please*-"
"And I shall be her opponent."
Aven drew the dagger from within his robe, and hobbled towards his wife. He placed it in her hands and wrapped his own around them, the blade pointing out, towards his chest. His cane dropped to the floor. He kissed his wife, whispered something that only she heard, and set his feet.
"Begin," cried Aven, as he pulled his wife, his queen, in towards him with for their last embrace.
| In the Elder's Council I found myself blankly staring at the center of the round table. It was rivetted with designs of our ancestors. Stories passed down from one generation to another, transcribed on the table itself. I guess it was fitting that I would contribute to the next etching of our story.
"Servant..."
I wonder how long it takes to etch a story on the table, and what happens when a person makes a mistake. Do we have to come up with a new table? Or is the story recited in the person's head over and over again to ensure the story is transcribed correctly?
"Servant..."
How much does one make from etching the table?
"Soren!"
I guess...
"Yes."
"You were discovered in the King's chambers the night there was an attempt on his life. This tribunal finds you solely responsible for the failed attempt in capturing his Majesty's fabled killer\-"
"I did what I thought was best, attend to the King."
They are all fools with fancy robes.
"How coincidental, it is then, that the only person with the keys to his Majesty's quarters would also be the one to claim he saw an assasin escape the royal house. No guards ever reported a disturbance throughout the entire evening."
What.
"In fact, not a single guard missed their scheduled shift, left one corner unsearched, or one corridor unguarded. This tribunal is assured that there was no assassin in the first place\-"
"I called for help"
"I am sorry Servant Soren, but were you asked a question?"
"No I just\-"
"Then I would suggest you keep your mouth shut during this sentencing."
"Sentencing?"
"You clearly do not listen very well, this is a sentencing. This is not a trial, in fact\-"
"As a citizen\-"
"Soren Calcitus! You are speaking out of turn and defacing His Majesty, the integrity of this court and The Table that sits before you! If you so much as sneeze, I will be sure to have the guards escort you to the Breach."
He is not joking around. The Breach. It's where you go to die, voluntarily or if you angered one of the robed fools.
One of them leans in to my...judge.
"Soren, for your many years of service, this tribunal recognizes your service to His Majesty and his kin. However, your claim that there was an assassin present in His Majesty's chambers are unfounded by the testimonials of all other royal personnel present that night."
Here we go.
"Therefore, we, as a one people, have decided that you may have two choices\-"
Wonderful.
"Death by exile, or death by combat."
You call that a choice?
"What is your decision?"
Combat.
"You will be armed with a Gauss 25 millimeter assault rifle, a light blade, and a light shield that has a limited charge. You will present yourself before the audience, and recite the Oath of The Breach\-"
Wonderful, more tradition.
"Calcitus!"
"Sir."
"Get your gear." He swings his large arm towards the supply table.
"Sir. my fight\-"
"Is now, fool! Grab your gear and head to the doors."
Grab the rifle, shield, and blade. Blade to the right, my left is faster at unsheathing. Rifle on the left, my aim is better on the right. Shield on the right. Check charge. 100&#37;. Rifle, full. Blade, 98&#37;.
"Sir. I am ready."
"Don't tell me that, slave! Tell the guardsmen!"
I race to the doors. We call them The Doors because you really have no idea what's on the other side. It could be a collection of animals, people, or just one big death trap. Sometimes, it is a mixture of the three.
"Soren Calcitus, reporting for my duty."
They reach for the locks. I feel the sweat on my hands. The beads of salt and water on my brow creep down through the eyebrows. The door swings open. The light is blinding. The entire arena is silent.
"Go."
My right. My left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Blade. Right. Shield. Left. Rifle. Right.
"Soren Calcitus, this arena recognizes this eventas a trial sentencing: death by combat!" The crowd cheers.
"Present your arms."
My throat halves, my voal cords double in size.
"I pledge my life, my life's possesions, and my soul to the Crown. For the ancestors and for the King, I observe the rules of our country and engage in death by combat\-"
This last word. This very last word. Get. It. Out.
"\-willingly."
The crowd cheers.
"Soren Calcitus, for your crime against the Crown, you have chosen Death by Combat. Prepare."
Double check the batteries. Check the rifle. Full. The opposite doors begin to open. The crowd has grown silent. I can hear my trainer breathe from the observatory tunnels. The doors open. I see him. Draped in gold armor. His rifle, on his right. The blade, to his left. Shield, to his right. We call it a mirror match up.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please bow to your Protector, your General, your King, King Justinian Surtur!"
No.
"My people, the attempt on my life by this...traitor will now be, corrected!"
I can't do this. He looks at me. The artifical vegitation begins to form between us. Trees, rocks, ruins, towers, and debris. He rocks his right shoulder. I bolt for the tree to my left. His bullets whir past the bark. I know I need the rifle. It's draped on my right. My shoulder, its frozen. I hear a buzz. Jump for the open space in front of me, the tree comes down as he cuts throught it like butter. I scramble to get up. Shield. The bullets just bounce off of my light shield. I sprint to his left as he fires. I am on his more accurate side. I slide into the debris for cover. Buzz. I unsheathe and guard with both hands on the blade. His against mine. I can see his eyes.
"Kill me."
What?
He pushes me down. I roll on my back and recover with my strong foot behind me. I can lunge or back up. He charges. I back up. He swings. I parry. He charges, I dodge. His back is to me. I can't. He turns. I grimace. He lunges and I block again.
"Kill me. Please."
He is strong. I can barely hold his blade back long enough to hear his whole message. I push him off of me, cock my right shoulder back and forward. He runs to my left. My more accurate side. I fire my rilfe. Short bursts. He hides. Check the corners. Left. Right. Left. Right. Top. Left. Right. Top. Left. Right. Top. I angle my way around the rock. I copper red stain on the sand. I see him.
He looks to me and mouths something. I remember:
"Soren."
"Yes your majesty?"
"Why do you think it is that I am King?"
"You are rightful heir to the throne when your father passed, my Lord."
"No. No that's not it."
"Your Majesty?"
"I am King because of chance."
"With your permission my Lord, what do you mean?"
"Soren, did you ask to be my royal sevant?"
"Your Majesty, my family has always taken pride in serving the royal family. It was my duty as a son of the house to serve you."
"So. By chance too."
"Your Majesty?"
"Soren, the crown is heavy. Sometimes too heavy."
"My Lord, your candid nature of this\-"
"Don't worry about that, Soren. But tell me, what would you prefer over this?"
"Serving you?"
"Yes."
"Nothing, sire."
"We'll see."
I have him in my sights. I see his eyes. They are filled with pain. He mouths something. I can't hear over the screams and cheers. I lock my reticule on my King. He mouths something to me. My index finger tightens its hold on the trigger closer. Finally:
"Soren. Help me. Kill me."
What?
"Please, as your King. Respect my wish."
"Sire\-" I can barely breathe.
"Soren. Please."
"Sire\-" I can't stand much longer.
"SOREN"
I pull the trigger. The crowd is silent. My King's blood forms a halo. An angel born from violence.
"Soren Calcitus. You have slain your accuser. You are free."
The trees, rocks, debris, and sand all disappear. My King's body remains. I stare at him. A door opens. The lights cut out. I raise my rifle. The cheers have turned to screams. I glance with my reticule, I canot see. I see a faint glow. In front of me. Now to the right. Left. More on my left. More on my right.
"What is this?"
"A new age"
I whirl to my left. Black.
"Don't move too much, you have a slight concussion."
What?
"What?"
"You're Soren, right?"
"What?"
"Just rest."
I can hear them in my sleep.
"Are you sure he is a good fit?"
"He has to be."
"That isn't good enough."
This light blinds me as I wake up.
"Ah, welcome back!"
"What?" The light is blinding. It hurts.
"Servant turned warrior turned revolutionary icon."
"What?"
"I'll grab the general. Stay here."
"I can't go anywhere."
"I know, just stay there." This blob with a voice runs off. I can't see a damn thing but fuzzy images. I see the same blob return with another blob. I can see them more sharply.
"Soren Calcitus."
"Yes."
"You have done your country a great service. I would like to give you my thanks."
"Service? What?"
"He doesn't know?"
"His head was hit kind of hard."
What are they saying?
"He doesn't remember his involvement?"
"No sir."
"Soren."
"Yes?"
"Do you remember killing King Justinian Surtur?"
"Yes."
"Good. Rest. We have a very busy day tomorrow."
"Why? Who are you? Where am I?"
"Beacause of you, we are in the most free place in the country. Because of King Justinian, we have a place to call home."
I can see the lights much more clearly. The blobs are gone. I look to my right and see a night stand. I see a man with glasses enter my room.
"Ah, you're awake!"
"Yes. Who are\-"
"Can you get up?"
"What?"
"Can you stand?"
"I don't\-"
"Try. Try."
I try to stand. My legs feel like they havent been used in a while. I try to straighten myself.
"I'll go get the general."
"Who?"
He is gone. The room is partially made of wall built into rocks. I know I am in a cave. The lighting has cables running form the lamps across the ceiling and into some corridor. I follow it. I can see armed men and women along the corridor. This is a busy place. I see my guest, with another person. They quicken their pace. I just sit on my bed. I wonder what happened int he arena.
"Soren?"
"Yes."
"I am General Thurman. We spoke before."
"I don't really remember all of that."
"That is fine, but first. Do you know that you killed King Justinian Surtur?"
"I remember\-"
"No. No. Do you KNOW you killed Surtur?"
"Yes."
She sighs.
"Good."
"What's going on?"
"Do you know where you are?"
"A cave?"
"Yes, but not just a cave. This is the headquarters for the Children of Liberty."
"Who?"
"King Justinian and I were close friends. You can trust me."
"Excuse me?"
"Did Justinian not tell you?"
"Tell me what!?"
"Soren...you killed the king because he wanted to be killed."
"What?"
"His suicide was a ploy to force you into a position that I did not agree to."
"WHAT!"
"Soren, you are here because you started a revolution. You are here because King Justinian knew you would follow through on his orders\-"
"Excuse me. Stop. What did I do?"
"You helped King Justinian and I begin a revolution in this country. One he could not start himself. So...he needed you, he needed someone he could trust."
"I started a revolution?"
"You started our revolution."
I slowly lowered myself on my back. I was staring into the cheap lamp above me. I killed my King. In turn, he gives me a revolution. I was right, I would still prefer to serve him. | |
[WP] You are on trial for attempting to assassinate the King. Unknown to anyone but you and His Majesty, you were actually trying to stop him from killing himself. When you request a trial by combat, he ceremoniously accepts. Your opponent? The King himself. | The trumpets are still ringing in my ears, the last notes of his triumphal entry shock my hearing as my eyes struggle to make sense of his presence in the fighting pit. But of course, this is what he wanted. This is what he has wanted for 7 years now, since the death of his family. This is why I find myself in this dust choked pit, about to fight the King. A monarch always has his way, and this one wants to die.
He flies at me from out of the dust, sword arcing; no more formality, no more waiting for tedious trials or starting flags, the King waits for no man, least of all me. My counter drives back my guard as I struggle to find a solid footing in the unfamiliar sand of the pit. The king may want to die, but he wants to punish me before he does. It is not punishment enough that I be forced into bond slavery or thrown to some faceless executioner, no. He will mete out my justice himself, his fury at my interruption in his bedchamber giving power to his every swing. I did not foil his plan, only delayed it and he wants me to remember that before I kill him: one does not impede the desires of the King.
I roll out on the ground, both to avoid his vengeful blow and to cover myself in the same color as the arena, throwing sand and dust into the air as I come to my feet. I hear him breathing, as ragged as his sobs when I stopped his blade, intent on piercing the heart of its master, of all our master. His howls then were of sorrow alone; they are of outrage now. Outrage and sorrow and I do not with to kill him.
He knows, shouting at me, yelling words that make the jury, blinded by dust to the tears muddying his cheeks, assume he wishes to kill me, to run through his supposed assassin. To me, his cries of “I am here! Where are you?” beg me to end his life, beg me to operate as my profession would have me do. He moves wildly through the khaki blur, his sword dragging behind him, unguarded. If he knelt down and closed his eyes, I would have no better chance than I do now. And he knows this.
I saw him after his family died, killed accidentally when their ship sought a different course to avoid the sea battles along the southern coast. They crashed on the rocks; only a deckhand survived. And she only for 3 days, dying slowly as she told the King her tale. I assassinated the captains of each of the ships that fought on the enemy’s side in the battle his family strove to avoid. It did not bring him peace. Killing almost never does.
He slipped into a depression then, wandering the halls of his empty castle and spending too many nights in the rooms of his children, waiting for their ghosts to speak to him any advice that might assuage his sadness. I was always there, watching, tending to his small needs without him noticing. I had been the King’s assassin for 30 years, slain many in his name or by his decree, but here my blade was of no use, my poisons unable to kill the black dog that followed him everywhere he went.
The King asked me many times, begged me, ordered me to kill him. I refused every time and it was that refusal that led his hand to take up a dagger and aim for his heart. When I stopped it, he pleaded with me like a child, weeping on my tunic, soaking it through to my skin. No one knew I existed, it would seem like suicide and then we could both be free! My duty is to kill for the King, never to take my ruler’s life, I had said, I would rather take my own. Dashing an urn to the floor, I alerted the guards and restrained the King until they wrestled me away: the assassin who tried to kill the King.
He is faster than I thought he would be, narrowly missing my chest with the point of his longblade. My dodge puts me closer to him and his hand reaches out like a krait. Sinking his fingers into my shoulder, the King pulls me close and whispers deep in my ear: “Do it, Tevesh.”
It is my old name, the name I had when we were boys and I was the lesser son of a greater king and brother to the future one. It has not been spoken to me since my training began. The King knows this. It is his final gambit to make me strike him down, the ultimate weapon in his own demise. To say my name is to bring death upon any who say it: this is the law of my service. I must kill him and he repeats it: “Do it, Tevesh!”
“No.”
***
Sand and dust settled as the counselors of the jury peered, eagerly and hopefully into the pit. They strained their eyes to see if their King, beloved of his people, had bested the foul scum assassin who had sought to take his imperial life. Death by the King’s hand had been too honorable an end, they had all agreed. The King had overruled them; he would make an example of this man with his own sword and his counselors all nodded in agreement.
There! They saw his crown and then his head. His mighty shoulders slumped, the strong arms holding his sword and upon it, the body of the assassin. They cheered, hollering his name and striking up the trumpet master to sound his horns in jubilation, pouring down into the pit adulation and praise for his mighty victory! And as he lifted his regal head, they almost noticed the teardrops littering his cheeks and falling onto the body of the man on his blade. | "Your Majesty... Please. Don't force me to kill you."
The king took off his crown, and drew his sword.
"I will not back out, Sir Faerin. Now have at thee."
King Penrose dashed forward recklessly, as if inviting me to counterattack.
I didn't.
I deflected his blow, and stepped aside.
He repeated his attack.
I could do this for a long, long time.
The crowd looked on, holding their breath.
Once again, I refused to attack.
"What's wrong, Sir Faerin?"
"Your Majesty, I refuse."
"Then you're going to die and dishonour your family!"
I sidestepped again.
By now, the crowd had caught on that something very unusual was happening.
Penrose attacked. And he attacked. And he attacked again.
I only stopped his attacks, and did not retaliate.
"Your Majesty, I will not yield. The only way this will end, is if you give up."
"I cannot, Faerin!"
The minutes dragged on. Penrose's movements became slower. We'd been here for the better part of an hour now. The crowd had begun to clear out, although a significant number of spectators remained.
Our blades clashed over and over. Morning transitioned to noon, and then to afternoon.
Penrose drew ragged breaths. He had not nearly my own stamina.
He threw himself at me. It took me by surprise, and he almost pierced himself on my sword. I dropped my weapon and grabbed the King's sword from his hands before retreating.
Penrose didn't even pick up the sword I'd just dropped. He simply came at me again.
I was ready this time, and manages to manoeuvre my blade out of the way without compromising my position.
The sun began to set. It grew dark.
We continued.
I was getting tired as well, but King Penrose was trembling on his feet. Then he collapsed.
We continued.
Dawn broke.
We had long since dropped our weapons, and sat on our knees next to each other. Penrose had resorted to punching me, over and over, and I blocked his attempts at hurting me.
Things became a blur.
We continued.
The sun rose. Then it set. Then it rose. Then it set. An endless cycle.
At some point we'd probably fallen asleep, because we were both standing up again, weapons in hand.
The days went by.
I wasn't getting tired anymore.
Neither was Penrose.
I didn't remember how long it had been.
The audience was gone.
The castle was gone.
The city was gone.
The Earth was gone.
The sun streaked through the sky at the speed of a cannonball, and it sped up still. Soon, I couldn't even process the passage of time any longer.
Penrose was a dark silhouette.
"I'll kill you..." he whispered.
I looked at my hands. They were a radiant golden colour.
I grabbed my sword tighter.
"No. I'll kill you," I answered.
Penrose was so much stronger than I remembered. We were evenly matched. With each strike, the other blocked it and counterattacked, in a never-ending cycle.
Soon, I forgot all about the Earth, about my past, and about my opponent. Only the battle remained. And it went on, and on, and on, and-
*****
The court physician examined both bodies.
"Dehydration," he noted. "Both of them."
Sir Halford stood with his back to them. He couldn't bear to look.
"Such foolishness," he said. "I don't know what happened, but any outcome would have been better than this."
"Indeed."
"As far as I'm concerned, Faerin is innocent," Halford continued. "He didn't kill the king during the trial. He had every opportunity to."
"Some might consider his behaviour disrespectful," the physician replied. "He did not fight his opponent fairly."
"Maybe. But tell me what you make of this, Henry. What's the reason for all this?"
"I have no clue, my friend. No clue at all."
Halford closed his eyes.
"I hope their souls can rest," he said. | |
[WP] You are on trial for attempting to assassinate the King. Unknown to anyone but you and His Majesty, you were actually trying to stop him from killing himself. When you request a trial by combat, he ceremoniously accepts. Your opponent? The King himself. | The king approaches you with determination in his eyes, and states "You'll never be able to defeat me when i reveal my penis to you!!!"
I realized the king had me cornered, if I didn't cut off his penis everyone would think I have the gay! I swung my sword at him wildly but accidentally killed 45 citizens, 13 guards, the queen and the judge.
With no one left in the room but the king and I, he approached me and whispered in my ear "you gay"
I immediately took my life, and the king did too. | "Your Majesty... Please. Don't force me to kill you."
The king took off his crown, and drew his sword.
"I will not back out, Sir Faerin. Now have at thee."
King Penrose dashed forward recklessly, as if inviting me to counterattack.
I didn't.
I deflected his blow, and stepped aside.
He repeated his attack.
I could do this for a long, long time.
The crowd looked on, holding their breath.
Once again, I refused to attack.
"What's wrong, Sir Faerin?"
"Your Majesty, I refuse."
"Then you're going to die and dishonour your family!"
I sidestepped again.
By now, the crowd had caught on that something very unusual was happening.
Penrose attacked. And he attacked. And he attacked again.
I only stopped his attacks, and did not retaliate.
"Your Majesty, I will not yield. The only way this will end, is if you give up."
"I cannot, Faerin!"
The minutes dragged on. Penrose's movements became slower. We'd been here for the better part of an hour now. The crowd had begun to clear out, although a significant number of spectators remained.
Our blades clashed over and over. Morning transitioned to noon, and then to afternoon.
Penrose drew ragged breaths. He had not nearly my own stamina.
He threw himself at me. It took me by surprise, and he almost pierced himself on my sword. I dropped my weapon and grabbed the King's sword from his hands before retreating.
Penrose didn't even pick up the sword I'd just dropped. He simply came at me again.
I was ready this time, and manages to manoeuvre my blade out of the way without compromising my position.
The sun began to set. It grew dark.
We continued.
I was getting tired as well, but King Penrose was trembling on his feet. Then he collapsed.
We continued.
Dawn broke.
We had long since dropped our weapons, and sat on our knees next to each other. Penrose had resorted to punching me, over and over, and I blocked his attempts at hurting me.
Things became a blur.
We continued.
The sun rose. Then it set. Then it rose. Then it set. An endless cycle.
At some point we'd probably fallen asleep, because we were both standing up again, weapons in hand.
The days went by.
I wasn't getting tired anymore.
Neither was Penrose.
I didn't remember how long it had been.
The audience was gone.
The castle was gone.
The city was gone.
The Earth was gone.
The sun streaked through the sky at the speed of a cannonball, and it sped up still. Soon, I couldn't even process the passage of time any longer.
Penrose was a dark silhouette.
"I'll kill you..." he whispered.
I looked at my hands. They were a radiant golden colour.
I grabbed my sword tighter.
"No. I'll kill you," I answered.
Penrose was so much stronger than I remembered. We were evenly matched. With each strike, the other blocked it and counterattacked, in a never-ending cycle.
Soon, I forgot all about the Earth, about my past, and about my opponent. Only the battle remained. And it went on, and on, and on, and-
*****
The court physician examined both bodies.
"Dehydration," he noted. "Both of them."
Sir Halford stood with his back to them. He couldn't bear to look.
"Such foolishness," he said. "I don't know what happened, but any outcome would have been better than this."
"Indeed."
"As far as I'm concerned, Faerin is innocent," Halford continued. "He didn't kill the king during the trial. He had every opportunity to."
"Some might consider his behaviour disrespectful," the physician replied. "He did not fight his opponent fairly."
"Maybe. But tell me what you make of this, Henry. What's the reason for all this?"
"I have no clue, my friend. No clue at all."
Halford closed his eyes.
"I hope their souls can rest," he said. | |
[WP] You are on trial for attempting to assassinate the King. Unknown to anyone but you and His Majesty, you were actually trying to stop him from killing himself. When you request a trial by combat, he ceremoniously accepts. Your opponent? The King himself. | "Kill me, Larissa." Tears streamed down Aven's gaunt and pallid cheeks. "It *must* be you."
The dagger slid from Larissa's trembling grip and *clinked* pommel-first into the ground, clattering across the flagstone floor of their royal bedchambers. She locked her pleading eyes on his, raising her hands to wipe his tears.
"You know I cannot do that, love," said Larissa.
"It must be done. *Please*. It must be you."
"You know I will not do that."
"And you know what the alternative is! This *endless* torment!" Aven coughed, wracking and heaving until blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. Larissa was ready with a handkerchief to wipe it away, as she had been for the past two years.
She pushed herself up from where she had found him - slumped in the corner of the room they had led their people from for thirty years. For all the power the courtiers and nobles thought they possessed, the simple bed in the corner of this very room was where the decisions that had shaped the kingdom were made.
This bed was where Larissa and Aven agreed the refugees from neighbouring Levund would be allowed in. It was there that they realised how much they would have to sacrifice to save their people from the weak harvest. It was beneath those very sheets that they finally accepted that they had lost their son, weeping in each others shaking arms.
She hurried over to it and pulled a small glass vial filled with a clear viscous liquid from the roll atop the bedside table.
When she turned back, Aven was still, and quiet, staring down at the knife. Larissa knelt down beside him, cupped his chin, unstopped the vial and tipped it into his mouth. His body heaved in resistance as it oozed down his throat.
"And you," said Larissa, planting a kiss on his cold forehead, "know what happens if you give up this fight. You know who that crown goes to. You know what he would do to our people."
Tears welled up in the corners of Aven's grey-blue eyes again as he clutched his hand to her temple and sobbed, sinking further into the floor.
_________________________________________
The grief of the previous night seemed like a dream as she sat beside King Aven while they held court. Yesterday he clutched a knife at his own throat in his robes, shaking like a babe. Today he sat tall upon his throne, his thin neck unbowed by the tremendous weight of his crown, resplendent in the simple yet beautiful purple and gold regalia of the royalty. Larissa swallowed down that image of better days as she took in the cane resting against the throne, the tremor in his hands, the gaggle of apothecaries waiting in the wings with sweating brows, watching his every breath.
Aven raised his left hand gently to still the murmuring in the packed chamber and the room fell reverently silent to begin the proceedings of the day - addressing trade disputes, offers of gifts, and other requests to the crown.
"My friends," he began, in a voice that barely wavered, "know now that I love you. Know now that from the day this crown was placed upon my head I loved you, and in the dark and golden days of winters and summers passed, I loved you then. In peace, that love never grew complacent. In war, it never grew tired. I have burned with pride and gratitude for the honour and hope that you have placed in me, and in my kind, unbreakable, perfect wife." His voice cracked as he locked his eyes on hers, and then down at his knees. "For the failures that you forgave. And I am afraid I must ask you to forgive a final failure. On this last hour, the hour of my death, I must play the tyrant."
Gasps and nervous chatter spread throughout between the pristine whitestone pillars of the chamber as onlookers jostled for a better view, as King Aven took up his cane and heaved his frail body to stand. He thrust his left hand out to reject the assistance of one of his attendants.
"I must give you a command. Before you all now, I must decree that the succession of my crown be changed. Upon my death, my wife - your *Queen* - Larissa, will be the sole bearer of the crown, no matter the circumstances of my death. Will you agree now, before me, before the gods, to serve her with the same honesty, passion, and love that you served me?"
Silence. "Aye," came one voice, from the front. Then another. Then a chorus, then a cacophany, as the knights, courtiers, nobles and merchants nodded, roared, raised their fists towards Larissa. But she could not take her eyes off of her husband. She could not move her body for fear.
King Aven smiled out at them, and raised his hand once more to quieten the crowd. "I had no doubt. Now, then I must inform you of a great crime that has been committed."
Larissa found herself standing, one arm faintly outstretched towards her husband. "My king-"
"Last night, Larissa disobeyed a direct order from the crown. I demanded that she take my life, and with all of her grace and strength, she refused. And as such, justice must be done."
"Aven, I -"
"She must therefore take part in trial by combat to clear her name."
"My love, *please*-"
"And I shall be her opponent."
Aven drew the dagger from within his robe, and hobbled towards his wife. He placed it in her hands and wrapped his own around them, the blade pointing out, towards his chest. His cane dropped to the floor. He kissed his wife, whispered something that only she heard, and set his feet.
"Begin," cried Aven, as he pulled his wife, his queen, in towards him with for their last embrace.
| "Your Majesty... Please. Don't force me to kill you."
The king took off his crown, and drew his sword.
"I will not back out, Sir Faerin. Now have at thee."
King Penrose dashed forward recklessly, as if inviting me to counterattack.
I didn't.
I deflected his blow, and stepped aside.
He repeated his attack.
I could do this for a long, long time.
The crowd looked on, holding their breath.
Once again, I refused to attack.
"What's wrong, Sir Faerin?"
"Your Majesty, I refuse."
"Then you're going to die and dishonour your family!"
I sidestepped again.
By now, the crowd had caught on that something very unusual was happening.
Penrose attacked. And he attacked. And he attacked again.
I only stopped his attacks, and did not retaliate.
"Your Majesty, I will not yield. The only way this will end, is if you give up."
"I cannot, Faerin!"
The minutes dragged on. Penrose's movements became slower. We'd been here for the better part of an hour now. The crowd had begun to clear out, although a significant number of spectators remained.
Our blades clashed over and over. Morning transitioned to noon, and then to afternoon.
Penrose drew ragged breaths. He had not nearly my own stamina.
He threw himself at me. It took me by surprise, and he almost pierced himself on my sword. I dropped my weapon and grabbed the King's sword from his hands before retreating.
Penrose didn't even pick up the sword I'd just dropped. He simply came at me again.
I was ready this time, and manages to manoeuvre my blade out of the way without compromising my position.
The sun began to set. It grew dark.
We continued.
I was getting tired as well, but King Penrose was trembling on his feet. Then he collapsed.
We continued.
Dawn broke.
We had long since dropped our weapons, and sat on our knees next to each other. Penrose had resorted to punching me, over and over, and I blocked his attempts at hurting me.
Things became a blur.
We continued.
The sun rose. Then it set. Then it rose. Then it set. An endless cycle.
At some point we'd probably fallen asleep, because we were both standing up again, weapons in hand.
The days went by.
I wasn't getting tired anymore.
Neither was Penrose.
I didn't remember how long it had been.
The audience was gone.
The castle was gone.
The city was gone.
The Earth was gone.
The sun streaked through the sky at the speed of a cannonball, and it sped up still. Soon, I couldn't even process the passage of time any longer.
Penrose was a dark silhouette.
"I'll kill you..." he whispered.
I looked at my hands. They were a radiant golden colour.
I grabbed my sword tighter.
"No. I'll kill you," I answered.
Penrose was so much stronger than I remembered. We were evenly matched. With each strike, the other blocked it and counterattacked, in a never-ending cycle.
Soon, I forgot all about the Earth, about my past, and about my opponent. Only the battle remained. And it went on, and on, and on, and-
*****
The court physician examined both bodies.
"Dehydration," he noted. "Both of them."
Sir Halford stood with his back to them. He couldn't bear to look.
"Such foolishness," he said. "I don't know what happened, but any outcome would have been better than this."
"Indeed."
"As far as I'm concerned, Faerin is innocent," Halford continued. "He didn't kill the king during the trial. He had every opportunity to."
"Some might consider his behaviour disrespectful," the physician replied. "He did not fight his opponent fairly."
"Maybe. But tell me what you make of this, Henry. What's the reason for all this?"
"I have no clue, my friend. No clue at all."
Halford closed his eyes.
"I hope their souls can rest," he said. | |
[WP] You are on trial for attempting to assassinate the King. Unknown to anyone but you and His Majesty, you were actually trying to stop him from killing himself. When you request a trial by combat, he ceremoniously accepts. Your opponent? The King himself. | The king approaches you with determination in his eyes, and states "You'll never be able to defeat me when i reveal my penis to you!!!"
I realized the king had me cornered, if I didn't cut off his penis everyone would think I have the gay! I swung my sword at him wildly but accidentally killed 45 citizens, 13 guards, the queen and the judge.
With no one left in the room but the king and I, he approached me and whispered in my ear "you gay"
I immediately took my life, and the king did too. | The trumpets are still ringing in my ears, the last notes of his triumphal entry shock my hearing as my eyes struggle to make sense of his presence in the fighting pit. But of course, this is what he wanted. This is what he has wanted for 7 years now, since the death of his family. This is why I find myself in this dust choked pit, about to fight the King. A monarch always has his way, and this one wants to die.
He flies at me from out of the dust, sword arcing; no more formality, no more waiting for tedious trials or starting flags, the King waits for no man, least of all me. My counter drives back my guard as I struggle to find a solid footing in the unfamiliar sand of the pit. The king may want to die, but he wants to punish me before he does. It is not punishment enough that I be forced into bond slavery or thrown to some faceless executioner, no. He will mete out my justice himself, his fury at my interruption in his bedchamber giving power to his every swing. I did not foil his plan, only delayed it and he wants me to remember that before I kill him: one does not impede the desires of the King.
I roll out on the ground, both to avoid his vengeful blow and to cover myself in the same color as the arena, throwing sand and dust into the air as I come to my feet. I hear him breathing, as ragged as his sobs when I stopped his blade, intent on piercing the heart of its master, of all our master. His howls then were of sorrow alone; they are of outrage now. Outrage and sorrow and I do not with to kill him.
He knows, shouting at me, yelling words that make the jury, blinded by dust to the tears muddying his cheeks, assume he wishes to kill me, to run through his supposed assassin. To me, his cries of “I am here! Where are you?” beg me to end his life, beg me to operate as my profession would have me do. He moves wildly through the khaki blur, his sword dragging behind him, unguarded. If he knelt down and closed his eyes, I would have no better chance than I do now. And he knows this.
I saw him after his family died, killed accidentally when their ship sought a different course to avoid the sea battles along the southern coast. They crashed on the rocks; only a deckhand survived. And she only for 3 days, dying slowly as she told the King her tale. I assassinated the captains of each of the ships that fought on the enemy’s side in the battle his family strove to avoid. It did not bring him peace. Killing almost never does.
He slipped into a depression then, wandering the halls of his empty castle and spending too many nights in the rooms of his children, waiting for their ghosts to speak to him any advice that might assuage his sadness. I was always there, watching, tending to his small needs without him noticing. I had been the King’s assassin for 30 years, slain many in his name or by his decree, but here my blade was of no use, my poisons unable to kill the black dog that followed him everywhere he went.
The King asked me many times, begged me, ordered me to kill him. I refused every time and it was that refusal that led his hand to take up a dagger and aim for his heart. When I stopped it, he pleaded with me like a child, weeping on my tunic, soaking it through to my skin. No one knew I existed, it would seem like suicide and then we could both be free! My duty is to kill for the King, never to take my ruler’s life, I had said, I would rather take my own. Dashing an urn to the floor, I alerted the guards and restrained the King until they wrestled me away: the assassin who tried to kill the King.
He is faster than I thought he would be, narrowly missing my chest with the point of his longblade. My dodge puts me closer to him and his hand reaches out like a krait. Sinking his fingers into my shoulder, the King pulls me close and whispers deep in my ear: “Do it, Tevesh.”
It is my old name, the name I had when we were boys and I was the lesser son of a greater king and brother to the future one. It has not been spoken to me since my training began. The King knows this. It is his final gambit to make me strike him down, the ultimate weapon in his own demise. To say my name is to bring death upon any who say it: this is the law of my service. I must kill him and he repeats it: “Do it, Tevesh!”
“No.”
***
Sand and dust settled as the counselors of the jury peered, eagerly and hopefully into the pit. They strained their eyes to see if their King, beloved of his people, had bested the foul scum assassin who had sought to take his imperial life. Death by the King’s hand had been too honorable an end, they had all agreed. The King had overruled them; he would make an example of this man with his own sword and his counselors all nodded in agreement.
There! They saw his crown and then his head. His mighty shoulders slumped, the strong arms holding his sword and upon it, the body of the assassin. They cheered, hollering his name and striking up the trumpet master to sound his horns in jubilation, pouring down into the pit adulation and praise for his mighty victory! And as he lifted his regal head, they almost noticed the teardrops littering his cheeks and falling onto the body of the man on his blade. | |
[WP] You are on trial for attempting to assassinate the King. Unknown to anyone but you and His Majesty, you were actually trying to stop him from killing himself. When you request a trial by combat, he ceremoniously accepts. Your opponent? The King himself. | "Kill me, Larissa." Tears streamed down Aven's gaunt and pallid cheeks. "It *must* be you."
The dagger slid from Larissa's trembling grip and *clinked* pommel-first into the ground, clattering across the flagstone floor of their royal bedchambers. She locked her pleading eyes on his, raising her hands to wipe his tears.
"You know I cannot do that, love," said Larissa.
"It must be done. *Please*. It must be you."
"You know I will not do that."
"And you know what the alternative is! This *endless* torment!" Aven coughed, wracking and heaving until blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. Larissa was ready with a handkerchief to wipe it away, as she had been for the past two years.
She pushed herself up from where she had found him - slumped in the corner of the room they had led their people from for thirty years. For all the power the courtiers and nobles thought they possessed, the simple bed in the corner of this very room was where the decisions that had shaped the kingdom were made.
This bed was where Larissa and Aven agreed the refugees from neighbouring Levund would be allowed in. It was there that they realised how much they would have to sacrifice to save their people from the weak harvest. It was beneath those very sheets that they finally accepted that they had lost their son, weeping in each others shaking arms.
She hurried over to it and pulled a small glass vial filled with a clear viscous liquid from the roll atop the bedside table.
When she turned back, Aven was still, and quiet, staring down at the knife. Larissa knelt down beside him, cupped his chin, unstopped the vial and tipped it into his mouth. His body heaved in resistance as it oozed down his throat.
"And you," said Larissa, planting a kiss on his cold forehead, "know what happens if you give up this fight. You know who that crown goes to. You know what he would do to our people."
Tears welled up in the corners of Aven's grey-blue eyes again as he clutched his hand to her temple and sobbed, sinking further into the floor.
_________________________________________
The grief of the previous night seemed like a dream as she sat beside King Aven while they held court. Yesterday he clutched a knife at his own throat in his robes, shaking like a babe. Today he sat tall upon his throne, his thin neck unbowed by the tremendous weight of his crown, resplendent in the simple yet beautiful purple and gold regalia of the royalty. Larissa swallowed down that image of better days as she took in the cane resting against the throne, the tremor in his hands, the gaggle of apothecaries waiting in the wings with sweating brows, watching his every breath.
Aven raised his left hand gently to still the murmuring in the packed chamber and the room fell reverently silent to begin the proceedings of the day - addressing trade disputes, offers of gifts, and other requests to the crown.
"My friends," he began, in a voice that barely wavered, "know now that I love you. Know now that from the day this crown was placed upon my head I loved you, and in the dark and golden days of winters and summers passed, I loved you then. In peace, that love never grew complacent. In war, it never grew tired. I have burned with pride and gratitude for the honour and hope that you have placed in me, and in my kind, unbreakable, perfect wife." His voice cracked as he locked his eyes on hers, and then down at his knees. "For the failures that you forgave. And I am afraid I must ask you to forgive a final failure. On this last hour, the hour of my death, I must play the tyrant."
Gasps and nervous chatter spread throughout between the pristine whitestone pillars of the chamber as onlookers jostled for a better view, as King Aven took up his cane and heaved his frail body to stand. He thrust his left hand out to reject the assistance of one of his attendants.
"I must give you a command. Before you all now, I must decree that the succession of my crown be changed. Upon my death, my wife - your *Queen* - Larissa, will be the sole bearer of the crown, no matter the circumstances of my death. Will you agree now, before me, before the gods, to serve her with the same honesty, passion, and love that you served me?"
Silence. "Aye," came one voice, from the front. Then another. Then a chorus, then a cacophany, as the knights, courtiers, nobles and merchants nodded, roared, raised their fists towards Larissa. But she could not take her eyes off of her husband. She could not move her body for fear.
King Aven smiled out at them, and raised his hand once more to quieten the crowd. "I had no doubt. Now, then I must inform you of a great crime that has been committed."
Larissa found herself standing, one arm faintly outstretched towards her husband. "My king-"
"Last night, Larissa disobeyed a direct order from the crown. I demanded that she take my life, and with all of her grace and strength, she refused. And as such, justice must be done."
"Aven, I -"
"She must therefore take part in trial by combat to clear her name."
"My love, *please*-"
"And I shall be her opponent."
Aven drew the dagger from within his robe, and hobbled towards his wife. He placed it in her hands and wrapped his own around them, the blade pointing out, towards his chest. His cane dropped to the floor. He kissed his wife, whispered something that only she heard, and set his feet.
"Begin," cried Aven, as he pulled his wife, his queen, in towards him with for their last embrace.
| The trumpets are still ringing in my ears, the last notes of his triumphal entry shock my hearing as my eyes struggle to make sense of his presence in the fighting pit. But of course, this is what he wanted. This is what he has wanted for 7 years now, since the death of his family. This is why I find myself in this dust choked pit, about to fight the King. A monarch always has his way, and this one wants to die.
He flies at me from out of the dust, sword arcing; no more formality, no more waiting for tedious trials or starting flags, the King waits for no man, least of all me. My counter drives back my guard as I struggle to find a solid footing in the unfamiliar sand of the pit. The king may want to die, but he wants to punish me before he does. It is not punishment enough that I be forced into bond slavery or thrown to some faceless executioner, no. He will mete out my justice himself, his fury at my interruption in his bedchamber giving power to his every swing. I did not foil his plan, only delayed it and he wants me to remember that before I kill him: one does not impede the desires of the King.
I roll out on the ground, both to avoid his vengeful blow and to cover myself in the same color as the arena, throwing sand and dust into the air as I come to my feet. I hear him breathing, as ragged as his sobs when I stopped his blade, intent on piercing the heart of its master, of all our master. His howls then were of sorrow alone; they are of outrage now. Outrage and sorrow and I do not with to kill him.
He knows, shouting at me, yelling words that make the jury, blinded by dust to the tears muddying his cheeks, assume he wishes to kill me, to run through his supposed assassin. To me, his cries of “I am here! Where are you?” beg me to end his life, beg me to operate as my profession would have me do. He moves wildly through the khaki blur, his sword dragging behind him, unguarded. If he knelt down and closed his eyes, I would have no better chance than I do now. And he knows this.
I saw him after his family died, killed accidentally when their ship sought a different course to avoid the sea battles along the southern coast. They crashed on the rocks; only a deckhand survived. And she only for 3 days, dying slowly as she told the King her tale. I assassinated the captains of each of the ships that fought on the enemy’s side in the battle his family strove to avoid. It did not bring him peace. Killing almost never does.
He slipped into a depression then, wandering the halls of his empty castle and spending too many nights in the rooms of his children, waiting for their ghosts to speak to him any advice that might assuage his sadness. I was always there, watching, tending to his small needs without him noticing. I had been the King’s assassin for 30 years, slain many in his name or by his decree, but here my blade was of no use, my poisons unable to kill the black dog that followed him everywhere he went.
The King asked me many times, begged me, ordered me to kill him. I refused every time and it was that refusal that led his hand to take up a dagger and aim for his heart. When I stopped it, he pleaded with me like a child, weeping on my tunic, soaking it through to my skin. No one knew I existed, it would seem like suicide and then we could both be free! My duty is to kill for the King, never to take my ruler’s life, I had said, I would rather take my own. Dashing an urn to the floor, I alerted the guards and restrained the King until they wrestled me away: the assassin who tried to kill the King.
He is faster than I thought he would be, narrowly missing my chest with the point of his longblade. My dodge puts me closer to him and his hand reaches out like a krait. Sinking his fingers into my shoulder, the King pulls me close and whispers deep in my ear: “Do it, Tevesh.”
It is my old name, the name I had when we were boys and I was the lesser son of a greater king and brother to the future one. It has not been spoken to me since my training began. The King knows this. It is his final gambit to make me strike him down, the ultimate weapon in his own demise. To say my name is to bring death upon any who say it: this is the law of my service. I must kill him and he repeats it: “Do it, Tevesh!”
“No.”
***
Sand and dust settled as the counselors of the jury peered, eagerly and hopefully into the pit. They strained their eyes to see if their King, beloved of his people, had bested the foul scum assassin who had sought to take his imperial life. Death by the King’s hand had been too honorable an end, they had all agreed. The King had overruled them; he would make an example of this man with his own sword and his counselors all nodded in agreement.
There! They saw his crown and then his head. His mighty shoulders slumped, the strong arms holding his sword and upon it, the body of the assassin. They cheered, hollering his name and striking up the trumpet master to sound his horns in jubilation, pouring down into the pit adulation and praise for his mighty victory! And as he lifted his regal head, they almost noticed the teardrops littering his cheeks and falling onto the body of the man on his blade. | |
[WP] You are on trial for attempting to assassinate the King. Unknown to anyone but you and His Majesty, you were actually trying to stop him from killing himself. When you request a trial by combat, he ceremoniously accepts. Your opponent? The King himself. | "I demand trial by combat!"
My own words echoed back to me through time. How long had it been? Days...weeks perhaps? There's no reference point when you're deprived of light, food and company. Only the maddening, monotonous drip beyond my cell door gives any indication that time is in motion at all.
The King accepted my demand; he fought me himself and lost. They say royalty are blue-blooded; his lifeblood was red like any other's.
Now I await execution. I am regicide. | "I accept. We duel at nightfall. The victor is crowned king." He said, his heavy dwarves voice boomed in the crowded room. The chains around my limbs and neck were pulled in one direction, forcing me to stand.
A trial by combat? From the king who wants to die? I don't know what he is doing but I can't be king. I was thrown into a dark room, a guard came in with a torch and lit the brazier in the center the room.
"By orders of his majesty, you are to have a final meal and time to prepare. If you have a next of kin you want to talk to before your death I advise you to inform me now so I may fulfill." The guard said, i stumbled into the room as one of my eyes had been cut out from them torturing me.
"My wife. Bring her and let me talk with her one last time. We live in the cabin at the very edge of the kingdom near wheat fields and grazing pastures. Please bring her." I begged, the guards gaze looked almost enchanted, as though he was under a spell to make him inhuman.
"As you request, your food will be here soon. Get ready for your last day in this land" He said, he turned his back and closed the door, the light from the brazier illuminated a grand portion of the room, the walls were scratched at and had stains that I could only imagine were blood. My food came and i was so starved from two days of captivity. How could I make them understand? The king had plans to take his own life and i was informed by bird, the sender unknown. My mind ran wild as I gorged myself on the meager feast.
Some time passed and my wife came through the door, her face was sunken in from lack of sleep, the worry in her eyes was presently known. She ran go me and embraced me
"What happened? You didn't tell me anything, all I had to keep my faith was that you had business to do. I begged you to stay." She said, crying as I held her, the cuts and bruises were barely healed from my nights here, but there was always something magical about her touch.
"My queen, I'm sorry to say but something willed me here, something powerful. Tonight I fight for my life and i need to know that if I dont make it you will leave our home, go to your sisters like we spoke of, there you will be safe." I said, the dread coming from the pit of my stomach filling me.
"I promise." She said, we embraced one last time and my desires got the better of me.
The next thing I knew I was standing behind a metal gate, my armor strapped on my body again, my swords at my side. The helmet in my hand looks foreign to me, i had not worn it for years, putting it on now felt like a curse was cast upon me once more.
I could see the king in the center of his arena, the whole kingdom was seated, all cheering at him, he in his luxurious armor, all gold and dragon scale, the helmet he wore had a crown on it, typical. The gate opened and I was pushed forward, stumbling to my feet I found my hands on the bolts of my swords, i was ready, i was ready to die.
As I walked out the crowd went from woo to boo, i could have sworn I heard something in the voice of the crowd, something calling me. My attention was drawn to the king.
"Are you ready, Ghallahad?." The king said, how did he know my name? How did he know my name!? My mind raced back to the note I received from a hawk. Nobody knew my real name.
He brought his claymore down, i barely had time to move out of the way and draw my blade, one slicing at his arm and the other at his wrist. Just like I was taught; Lesson 1, disable the target.
My blades missed just barely, I spun aroumd his punch and slashed his upper arm, the wound that opened up poured out black blood. Black... blood?... what was going on with the king? I felt a blow to the small of my back, knocking the wind out of me, that strike was much stronger than any human his size.
My blades spun out of my hands, too far to reach as the king came at me with the claymore once more. If the king was using some king of magic then so would I. The claymore was coming, so i closed my eye. All I saw was blue, mist framed out was was happening around me and it all slowed down. I called for mg blades, and they shot back into my hands. Time came back and i slashed at his side, cutting him deep, i twisted my blade and plunged the sword in slashing up,
I was knocked back again, my sword sticking out of the king, i called it back and it cleaved through him. Mist surrounded my blades as they turned to axes, tossing them with all my might they struck him and fizzled into mist, another axe appeared in my hand and i threw it, and another, and another.
There is was again, that sound in the crowd. One voice stuck out of them all. I've heard it before but I couldn't remember, it was like a siren, calling me to my death.
A near miss again as the claymore clipped the metal on my elbow, the king grabbed my head and tossed me across the arena, a dust cloud engulfing me. I cast aside me weapons, i cast aside me promises. A scythe appeared in my hand.
"That's what I was waiting for! That's what I was waiting for!! Are you ready to go back to your true nature. Ghallahad the Reaper! The last living member of the covenant of 9!." The king said, the crowd was silent.
I plunged the scythe blade into his chest, ripping it out and separating his soul from his body. The body fell onto it's knees, the soul was tormented, almost shreaded to prices inside the cursed body. My scythe flew again as the head came loose from that body. I walked over to the soul and it turned to me, it was the king.
"Thank you for freeing me. I made a deal with a witch, and I cursed my entire kingdom. You saved them all, I didn't know what I sacrificed back then but I do now. It's up to you now, don't make the same mistake I did. I dont have much time now, please do me one last favor?" The real king asked, i let my weapons dissipate into thin air, the armor on my body weighed heavy on me.
"Lead with your power, do not hide it. In time they will need you, the witch is coming for more, and I fear you may be the only one to stop it." He said as he disappeared.
"Let me hear you roar for your new king!" The announcer called out.
And the crowd roared, i heard thst voice again, more clearly this time.
"WAKE UP"
A rhythmic beeping filled my ears, was I dead? A mask covered my mouth, my eye sight was blurry.
"Please wake up..." a young ladies voice called, was she crying? For me?
"He's waking up, somebody get the doctor!" A man shouted.
"Dad! Your awake!" The young woman said, I was so groggy, how long was I asleep? My eye sight got better and I turned my head to see a picture on the bedside table.
The king? Who is that in the picture... was it me?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Forgive me I'm a r/writingprompts virgin | |
[WP] You are on trial for attempting to assassinate the King. Unknown to anyone but you and His Majesty, you were actually trying to stop him from killing himself. When you request a trial by combat, he ceremoniously accepts. Your opponent? The King himself. | The king approaches you with determination in his eyes, and states "You'll never be able to defeat me when i reveal my penis to you!!!"
I realized the king had me cornered, if I didn't cut off his penis everyone would think I have the gay! I swung my sword at him wildly but accidentally killed 45 citizens, 13 guards, the queen and the judge.
With no one left in the room but the king and I, he approached me and whispered in my ear "you gay"
I immediately took my life, and the king did too. | "I accept. We duel at nightfall. The victor is crowned king." He said, his heavy dwarves voice boomed in the crowded room. The chains around my limbs and neck were pulled in one direction, forcing me to stand.
A trial by combat? From the king who wants to die? I don't know what he is doing but I can't be king. I was thrown into a dark room, a guard came in with a torch and lit the brazier in the center the room.
"By orders of his majesty, you are to have a final meal and time to prepare. If you have a next of kin you want to talk to before your death I advise you to inform me now so I may fulfill." The guard said, i stumbled into the room as one of my eyes had been cut out from them torturing me.
"My wife. Bring her and let me talk with her one last time. We live in the cabin at the very edge of the kingdom near wheat fields and grazing pastures. Please bring her." I begged, the guards gaze looked almost enchanted, as though he was under a spell to make him inhuman.
"As you request, your food will be here soon. Get ready for your last day in this land" He said, he turned his back and closed the door, the light from the brazier illuminated a grand portion of the room, the walls were scratched at and had stains that I could only imagine were blood. My food came and i was so starved from two days of captivity. How could I make them understand? The king had plans to take his own life and i was informed by bird, the sender unknown. My mind ran wild as I gorged myself on the meager feast.
Some time passed and my wife came through the door, her face was sunken in from lack of sleep, the worry in her eyes was presently known. She ran go me and embraced me
"What happened? You didn't tell me anything, all I had to keep my faith was that you had business to do. I begged you to stay." She said, crying as I held her, the cuts and bruises were barely healed from my nights here, but there was always something magical about her touch.
"My queen, I'm sorry to say but something willed me here, something powerful. Tonight I fight for my life and i need to know that if I dont make it you will leave our home, go to your sisters like we spoke of, there you will be safe." I said, the dread coming from the pit of my stomach filling me.
"I promise." She said, we embraced one last time and my desires got the better of me.
The next thing I knew I was standing behind a metal gate, my armor strapped on my body again, my swords at my side. The helmet in my hand looks foreign to me, i had not worn it for years, putting it on now felt like a curse was cast upon me once more.
I could see the king in the center of his arena, the whole kingdom was seated, all cheering at him, he in his luxurious armor, all gold and dragon scale, the helmet he wore had a crown on it, typical. The gate opened and I was pushed forward, stumbling to my feet I found my hands on the bolts of my swords, i was ready, i was ready to die.
As I walked out the crowd went from woo to boo, i could have sworn I heard something in the voice of the crowd, something calling me. My attention was drawn to the king.
"Are you ready, Ghallahad?." The king said, how did he know my name? How did he know my name!? My mind raced back to the note I received from a hawk. Nobody knew my real name.
He brought his claymore down, i barely had time to move out of the way and draw my blade, one slicing at his arm and the other at his wrist. Just like I was taught; Lesson 1, disable the target.
My blades missed just barely, I spun aroumd his punch and slashed his upper arm, the wound that opened up poured out black blood. Black... blood?... what was going on with the king? I felt a blow to the small of my back, knocking the wind out of me, that strike was much stronger than any human his size.
My blades spun out of my hands, too far to reach as the king came at me with the claymore once more. If the king was using some king of magic then so would I. The claymore was coming, so i closed my eye. All I saw was blue, mist framed out was was happening around me and it all slowed down. I called for mg blades, and they shot back into my hands. Time came back and i slashed at his side, cutting him deep, i twisted my blade and plunged the sword in slashing up,
I was knocked back again, my sword sticking out of the king, i called it back and it cleaved through him. Mist surrounded my blades as they turned to axes, tossing them with all my might they struck him and fizzled into mist, another axe appeared in my hand and i threw it, and another, and another.
There is was again, that sound in the crowd. One voice stuck out of them all. I've heard it before but I couldn't remember, it was like a siren, calling me to my death.
A near miss again as the claymore clipped the metal on my elbow, the king grabbed my head and tossed me across the arena, a dust cloud engulfing me. I cast aside me weapons, i cast aside me promises. A scythe appeared in my hand.
"That's what I was waiting for! That's what I was waiting for!! Are you ready to go back to your true nature. Ghallahad the Reaper! The last living member of the covenant of 9!." The king said, the crowd was silent.
I plunged the scythe blade into his chest, ripping it out and separating his soul from his body. The body fell onto it's knees, the soul was tormented, almost shreaded to prices inside the cursed body. My scythe flew again as the head came loose from that body. I walked over to the soul and it turned to me, it was the king.
"Thank you for freeing me. I made a deal with a witch, and I cursed my entire kingdom. You saved them all, I didn't know what I sacrificed back then but I do now. It's up to you now, don't make the same mistake I did. I dont have much time now, please do me one last favor?" The real king asked, i let my weapons dissipate into thin air, the armor on my body weighed heavy on me.
"Lead with your power, do not hide it. In time they will need you, the witch is coming for more, and I fear you may be the only one to stop it." He said as he disappeared.
"Let me hear you roar for your new king!" The announcer called out.
And the crowd roared, i heard thst voice again, more clearly this time.
"WAKE UP"
A rhythmic beeping filled my ears, was I dead? A mask covered my mouth, my eye sight was blurry.
"Please wake up..." a young ladies voice called, was she crying? For me?
"He's waking up, somebody get the doctor!" A man shouted.
"Dad! Your awake!" The young woman said, I was so groggy, how long was I asleep? My eye sight got better and I turned my head to see a picture on the bedside table.
The king? Who is that in the picture... was it me?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Forgive me I'm a r/writingprompts virgin | |
[WP] You are on trial for attempting to assassinate the King. Unknown to anyone but you and His Majesty, you were actually trying to stop him from killing himself. When you request a trial by combat, he ceremoniously accepts. Your opponent? The King himself. | "Kill me, Larissa." Tears streamed down Aven's gaunt and pallid cheeks. "It *must* be you."
The dagger slid from Larissa's trembling grip and *clinked* pommel-first into the ground, clattering across the flagstone floor of their royal bedchambers. She locked her pleading eyes on his, raising her hands to wipe his tears.
"You know I cannot do that, love," said Larissa.
"It must be done. *Please*. It must be you."
"You know I will not do that."
"And you know what the alternative is! This *endless* torment!" Aven coughed, wracking and heaving until blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. Larissa was ready with a handkerchief to wipe it away, as she had been for the past two years.
She pushed herself up from where she had found him - slumped in the corner of the room they had led their people from for thirty years. For all the power the courtiers and nobles thought they possessed, the simple bed in the corner of this very room was where the decisions that had shaped the kingdom were made.
This bed was where Larissa and Aven agreed the refugees from neighbouring Levund would be allowed in. It was there that they realised how much they would have to sacrifice to save their people from the weak harvest. It was beneath those very sheets that they finally accepted that they had lost their son, weeping in each others shaking arms.
She hurried over to it and pulled a small glass vial filled with a clear viscous liquid from the roll atop the bedside table.
When she turned back, Aven was still, and quiet, staring down at the knife. Larissa knelt down beside him, cupped his chin, unstopped the vial and tipped it into his mouth. His body heaved in resistance as it oozed down his throat.
"And you," said Larissa, planting a kiss on his cold forehead, "know what happens if you give up this fight. You know who that crown goes to. You know what he would do to our people."
Tears welled up in the corners of Aven's grey-blue eyes again as he clutched his hand to her temple and sobbed, sinking further into the floor.
_________________________________________
The grief of the previous night seemed like a dream as she sat beside King Aven while they held court. Yesterday he clutched a knife at his own throat in his robes, shaking like a babe. Today he sat tall upon his throne, his thin neck unbowed by the tremendous weight of his crown, resplendent in the simple yet beautiful purple and gold regalia of the royalty. Larissa swallowed down that image of better days as she took in the cane resting against the throne, the tremor in his hands, the gaggle of apothecaries waiting in the wings with sweating brows, watching his every breath.
Aven raised his left hand gently to still the murmuring in the packed chamber and the room fell reverently silent to begin the proceedings of the day - addressing trade disputes, offers of gifts, and other requests to the crown.
"My friends," he began, in a voice that barely wavered, "know now that I love you. Know now that from the day this crown was placed upon my head I loved you, and in the dark and golden days of winters and summers passed, I loved you then. In peace, that love never grew complacent. In war, it never grew tired. I have burned with pride and gratitude for the honour and hope that you have placed in me, and in my kind, unbreakable, perfect wife." His voice cracked as he locked his eyes on hers, and then down at his knees. "For the failures that you forgave. And I am afraid I must ask you to forgive a final failure. On this last hour, the hour of my death, I must play the tyrant."
Gasps and nervous chatter spread throughout between the pristine whitestone pillars of the chamber as onlookers jostled for a better view, as King Aven took up his cane and heaved his frail body to stand. He thrust his left hand out to reject the assistance of one of his attendants.
"I must give you a command. Before you all now, I must decree that the succession of my crown be changed. Upon my death, my wife - your *Queen* - Larissa, will be the sole bearer of the crown, no matter the circumstances of my death. Will you agree now, before me, before the gods, to serve her with the same honesty, passion, and love that you served me?"
Silence. "Aye," came one voice, from the front. Then another. Then a chorus, then a cacophany, as the knights, courtiers, nobles and merchants nodded, roared, raised their fists towards Larissa. But she could not take her eyes off of her husband. She could not move her body for fear.
King Aven smiled out at them, and raised his hand once more to quieten the crowd. "I had no doubt. Now, then I must inform you of a great crime that has been committed."
Larissa found herself standing, one arm faintly outstretched towards her husband. "My king-"
"Last night, Larissa disobeyed a direct order from the crown. I demanded that she take my life, and with all of her grace and strength, she refused. And as such, justice must be done."
"Aven, I -"
"She must therefore take part in trial by combat to clear her name."
"My love, *please*-"
"And I shall be her opponent."
Aven drew the dagger from within his robe, and hobbled towards his wife. He placed it in her hands and wrapped his own around them, the blade pointing out, towards his chest. His cane dropped to the floor. He kissed his wife, whispered something that only she heard, and set his feet.
"Begin," cried Aven, as he pulled his wife, his queen, in towards him with for their last embrace.
| "I accept. We duel at nightfall. The victor is crowned king." He said, his heavy dwarves voice boomed in the crowded room. The chains around my limbs and neck were pulled in one direction, forcing me to stand.
A trial by combat? From the king who wants to die? I don't know what he is doing but I can't be king. I was thrown into a dark room, a guard came in with a torch and lit the brazier in the center the room.
"By orders of his majesty, you are to have a final meal and time to prepare. If you have a next of kin you want to talk to before your death I advise you to inform me now so I may fulfill." The guard said, i stumbled into the room as one of my eyes had been cut out from them torturing me.
"My wife. Bring her and let me talk with her one last time. We live in the cabin at the very edge of the kingdom near wheat fields and grazing pastures. Please bring her." I begged, the guards gaze looked almost enchanted, as though he was under a spell to make him inhuman.
"As you request, your food will be here soon. Get ready for your last day in this land" He said, he turned his back and closed the door, the light from the brazier illuminated a grand portion of the room, the walls were scratched at and had stains that I could only imagine were blood. My food came and i was so starved from two days of captivity. How could I make them understand? The king had plans to take his own life and i was informed by bird, the sender unknown. My mind ran wild as I gorged myself on the meager feast.
Some time passed and my wife came through the door, her face was sunken in from lack of sleep, the worry in her eyes was presently known. She ran go me and embraced me
"What happened? You didn't tell me anything, all I had to keep my faith was that you had business to do. I begged you to stay." She said, crying as I held her, the cuts and bruises were barely healed from my nights here, but there was always something magical about her touch.
"My queen, I'm sorry to say but something willed me here, something powerful. Tonight I fight for my life and i need to know that if I dont make it you will leave our home, go to your sisters like we spoke of, there you will be safe." I said, the dread coming from the pit of my stomach filling me.
"I promise." She said, we embraced one last time and my desires got the better of me.
The next thing I knew I was standing behind a metal gate, my armor strapped on my body again, my swords at my side. The helmet in my hand looks foreign to me, i had not worn it for years, putting it on now felt like a curse was cast upon me once more.
I could see the king in the center of his arena, the whole kingdom was seated, all cheering at him, he in his luxurious armor, all gold and dragon scale, the helmet he wore had a crown on it, typical. The gate opened and I was pushed forward, stumbling to my feet I found my hands on the bolts of my swords, i was ready, i was ready to die.
As I walked out the crowd went from woo to boo, i could have sworn I heard something in the voice of the crowd, something calling me. My attention was drawn to the king.
"Are you ready, Ghallahad?." The king said, how did he know my name? How did he know my name!? My mind raced back to the note I received from a hawk. Nobody knew my real name.
He brought his claymore down, i barely had time to move out of the way and draw my blade, one slicing at his arm and the other at his wrist. Just like I was taught; Lesson 1, disable the target.
My blades missed just barely, I spun aroumd his punch and slashed his upper arm, the wound that opened up poured out black blood. Black... blood?... what was going on with the king? I felt a blow to the small of my back, knocking the wind out of me, that strike was much stronger than any human his size.
My blades spun out of my hands, too far to reach as the king came at me with the claymore once more. If the king was using some king of magic then so would I. The claymore was coming, so i closed my eye. All I saw was blue, mist framed out was was happening around me and it all slowed down. I called for mg blades, and they shot back into my hands. Time came back and i slashed at his side, cutting him deep, i twisted my blade and plunged the sword in slashing up,
I was knocked back again, my sword sticking out of the king, i called it back and it cleaved through him. Mist surrounded my blades as they turned to axes, tossing them with all my might they struck him and fizzled into mist, another axe appeared in my hand and i threw it, and another, and another.
There is was again, that sound in the crowd. One voice stuck out of them all. I've heard it before but I couldn't remember, it was like a siren, calling me to my death.
A near miss again as the claymore clipped the metal on my elbow, the king grabbed my head and tossed me across the arena, a dust cloud engulfing me. I cast aside me weapons, i cast aside me promises. A scythe appeared in my hand.
"That's what I was waiting for! That's what I was waiting for!! Are you ready to go back to your true nature. Ghallahad the Reaper! The last living member of the covenant of 9!." The king said, the crowd was silent.
I plunged the scythe blade into his chest, ripping it out and separating his soul from his body. The body fell onto it's knees, the soul was tormented, almost shreaded to prices inside the cursed body. My scythe flew again as the head came loose from that body. I walked over to the soul and it turned to me, it was the king.
"Thank you for freeing me. I made a deal with a witch, and I cursed my entire kingdom. You saved them all, I didn't know what I sacrificed back then but I do now. It's up to you now, don't make the same mistake I did. I dont have much time now, please do me one last favor?" The real king asked, i let my weapons dissipate into thin air, the armor on my body weighed heavy on me.
"Lead with your power, do not hide it. In time they will need you, the witch is coming for more, and I fear you may be the only one to stop it." He said as he disappeared.
"Let me hear you roar for your new king!" The announcer called out.
And the crowd roared, i heard thst voice again, more clearly this time.
"WAKE UP"
A rhythmic beeping filled my ears, was I dead? A mask covered my mouth, my eye sight was blurry.
"Please wake up..." a young ladies voice called, was she crying? For me?
"He's waking up, somebody get the doctor!" A man shouted.
"Dad! Your awake!" The young woman said, I was so groggy, how long was I asleep? My eye sight got better and I turned my head to see a picture on the bedside table.
The king? Who is that in the picture... was it me?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Forgive me I'm a r/writingprompts virgin | |
[WP] You are on trial for attempting to assassinate the King. Unknown to anyone but you and His Majesty, you were actually trying to stop him from killing himself. When you request a trial by combat, he ceremoniously accepts. Your opponent? The King himself. | *What did I do to deserve this*, Jack thought to himself. *All I tried to do was save his life*
"Do you have any preference for how your trial shall take place," asked the judge.
*For this crime they thought I committed I will get killed. There is only one option*, he thought to himself.
"I have decided. I request a trial of combat," he said. He knew this would be his only chance at survival. Though slim it may be, at least I will die with dignity.
"Very well then. It is decided. We will take it up to his majesty to choose who you shall battle."
*They are taking it to him? Is he so low that he send me to my own demise just to protect his own image?*
So it was decided. They took Jack to his cell to await for his fate.
About 3 hours later, the guards arrived. They looked somewhat distressed and excited at the same time.
*Oh great, they probably found the greater fighter in the lands to come and kill me for my "crimes"*
They took him to the collesium. There were thousands in attendance and several weapons in the center of the arena. He suddenly heard a loud horn. The whole stadium went silent.
"This man has attempted to kill our high king and has chosen a warriors death," said the voice. "The king himself had chosen the challenger. He has also laid out specific rules." He began listing them off.
"You can use any weapon available to you. This is a fight to the death. There is no such thing as a dirty fight, use whatever mean necessary." He then began listing off other insignificant rules.
"Do you understand and accept these rules," the voice asked. "Yes," I replied.
"The king has stated no one shall know who this fighter is until he comes out after preparing," proclaimed the voice. So we waiting and waited for the challenger.
He got many boos, people throwing food, spitting at me, you name it. *What did I ever do to deserve this?*
After about five minutes the challenger came out. Jack had to clear his eyes just to make sure he was seeing straight. "No. It can't be," he said aloud.
The crowd grew silent. They were expecting the king to announce the fighter himself or for him to throw some choice words. He remained silent.
The announcer chimed in. "Certainly the king has came out here to get one last look at his would be assassin before he gets brutally slaughtered." The crowed laughed. The king then spoke, and the crowd went quiet immediately.
"I am your challenger. I order that if I shall lose this match, he is to be set free. Whoever attempts to intervene will get sentenced to death." There was a collective gasp from the crowd.
Jack just stood there in shock. After all he has went through to save him, now in order to preserve his own life he has to take the life of the king he saved.
He finally spoke up. "Why are you doing this? Send me to trial for saving your life and now you want to fight me to the death?"
The king gave no answer. Suddenly there was a giant horn signally the start of the match.
*I really have to go through with his. I lave to kill the king.*
He ran to the center and grabbed a sword. The king just stood there. There were confused whispers in the crowd. "Why won't you fight back? Why are you standing there?if you aren't going to fight back call an end to this fight. I don't want to kill you."
The king walked forward to him. He quiquietly said, "Please. You have to do this for me. I don't want my people to think I am weak. I wish to die with honor, and there is no greater honor in their eyes than to be killed by my would be assassin," He told jack.
"It doesn't have to be this way. You can work through your problems. I don't want to kill you. You have the power to end this," said Jack.
"Very well then," said the king. He then suddenly forced the sword into his chest, yet somehow made it appear that Jack had killed him. "You will be repaid for your bravery here." And the king died.
The announcer, shocked said, "The king... has lost... Here is your winner." The crowed was in total shock. The king was dead. His would be assassin had killed him, and according to the king, nothing will be done.
He was then set free. One of the royal guards came to him and gave him a note. "The king said that in the case he lost I were to give this to you."
Jack read the note. "Thank you for finally releasing me from my internal prison. I am forever to your debt in this life and after. In a special location I have left you enough coin to last you multiple lifetimes," the note read. It also had a location and specific instructions on what needed to be done to get the coin.
Jack went to the location and certainly enough there were vast riches left for him there. But none of these riches would ever take away the feeling of taking another life, especially that of a king.
| "I accept. We duel at nightfall. The victor is crowned king." He said, his heavy dwarves voice boomed in the crowded room. The chains around my limbs and neck were pulled in one direction, forcing me to stand.
A trial by combat? From the king who wants to die? I don't know what he is doing but I can't be king. I was thrown into a dark room, a guard came in with a torch and lit the brazier in the center the room.
"By orders of his majesty, you are to have a final meal and time to prepare. If you have a next of kin you want to talk to before your death I advise you to inform me now so I may fulfill." The guard said, i stumbled into the room as one of my eyes had been cut out from them torturing me.
"My wife. Bring her and let me talk with her one last time. We live in the cabin at the very edge of the kingdom near wheat fields and grazing pastures. Please bring her." I begged, the guards gaze looked almost enchanted, as though he was under a spell to make him inhuman.
"As you request, your food will be here soon. Get ready for your last day in this land" He said, he turned his back and closed the door, the light from the brazier illuminated a grand portion of the room, the walls were scratched at and had stains that I could only imagine were blood. My food came and i was so starved from two days of captivity. How could I make them understand? The king had plans to take his own life and i was informed by bird, the sender unknown. My mind ran wild as I gorged myself on the meager feast.
Some time passed and my wife came through the door, her face was sunken in from lack of sleep, the worry in her eyes was presently known. She ran go me and embraced me
"What happened? You didn't tell me anything, all I had to keep my faith was that you had business to do. I begged you to stay." She said, crying as I held her, the cuts and bruises were barely healed from my nights here, but there was always something magical about her touch.
"My queen, I'm sorry to say but something willed me here, something powerful. Tonight I fight for my life and i need to know that if I dont make it you will leave our home, go to your sisters like we spoke of, there you will be safe." I said, the dread coming from the pit of my stomach filling me.
"I promise." She said, we embraced one last time and my desires got the better of me.
The next thing I knew I was standing behind a metal gate, my armor strapped on my body again, my swords at my side. The helmet in my hand looks foreign to me, i had not worn it for years, putting it on now felt like a curse was cast upon me once more.
I could see the king in the center of his arena, the whole kingdom was seated, all cheering at him, he in his luxurious armor, all gold and dragon scale, the helmet he wore had a crown on it, typical. The gate opened and I was pushed forward, stumbling to my feet I found my hands on the bolts of my swords, i was ready, i was ready to die.
As I walked out the crowd went from woo to boo, i could have sworn I heard something in the voice of the crowd, something calling me. My attention was drawn to the king.
"Are you ready, Ghallahad?." The king said, how did he know my name? How did he know my name!? My mind raced back to the note I received from a hawk. Nobody knew my real name.
He brought his claymore down, i barely had time to move out of the way and draw my blade, one slicing at his arm and the other at his wrist. Just like I was taught; Lesson 1, disable the target.
My blades missed just barely, I spun aroumd his punch and slashed his upper arm, the wound that opened up poured out black blood. Black... blood?... what was going on with the king? I felt a blow to the small of my back, knocking the wind out of me, that strike was much stronger than any human his size.
My blades spun out of my hands, too far to reach as the king came at me with the claymore once more. If the king was using some king of magic then so would I. The claymore was coming, so i closed my eye. All I saw was blue, mist framed out was was happening around me and it all slowed down. I called for mg blades, and they shot back into my hands. Time came back and i slashed at his side, cutting him deep, i twisted my blade and plunged the sword in slashing up,
I was knocked back again, my sword sticking out of the king, i called it back and it cleaved through him. Mist surrounded my blades as they turned to axes, tossing them with all my might they struck him and fizzled into mist, another axe appeared in my hand and i threw it, and another, and another.
There is was again, that sound in the crowd. One voice stuck out of them all. I've heard it before but I couldn't remember, it was like a siren, calling me to my death.
A near miss again as the claymore clipped the metal on my elbow, the king grabbed my head and tossed me across the arena, a dust cloud engulfing me. I cast aside me weapons, i cast aside me promises. A scythe appeared in my hand.
"That's what I was waiting for! That's what I was waiting for!! Are you ready to go back to your true nature. Ghallahad the Reaper! The last living member of the covenant of 9!." The king said, the crowd was silent.
I plunged the scythe blade into his chest, ripping it out and separating his soul from his body. The body fell onto it's knees, the soul was tormented, almost shreaded to prices inside the cursed body. My scythe flew again as the head came loose from that body. I walked over to the soul and it turned to me, it was the king.
"Thank you for freeing me. I made a deal with a witch, and I cursed my entire kingdom. You saved them all, I didn't know what I sacrificed back then but I do now. It's up to you now, don't make the same mistake I did. I dont have much time now, please do me one last favor?" The real king asked, i let my weapons dissipate into thin air, the armor on my body weighed heavy on me.
"Lead with your power, do not hide it. In time they will need you, the witch is coming for more, and I fear you may be the only one to stop it." He said as he disappeared.
"Let me hear you roar for your new king!" The announcer called out.
And the crowd roared, i heard thst voice again, more clearly this time.
"WAKE UP"
A rhythmic beeping filled my ears, was I dead? A mask covered my mouth, my eye sight was blurry.
"Please wake up..." a young ladies voice called, was she crying? For me?
"He's waking up, somebody get the doctor!" A man shouted.
"Dad! Your awake!" The young woman said, I was so groggy, how long was I asleep? My eye sight got better and I turned my head to see a picture on the bedside table.
The king? Who is that in the picture... was it me?
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Forgive me I'm a r/writingprompts virgin | |
[WP] You are on trial for attempting to assassinate the King. Unknown to anyone but you and His Majesty, you were actually trying to stop him from killing himself. When you request a trial by combat, he ceremoniously accepts. Your opponent? The King himself. | The king approaches you with determination in his eyes, and states "You'll never be able to defeat me when i reveal my penis to you!!!"
I realized the king had me cornered, if I didn't cut off his penis everyone would think I have the gay! I swung my sword at him wildly but accidentally killed 45 citizens, 13 guards, the queen and the judge.
With no one left in the room but the king and I, he approached me and whispered in my ear "you gay"
I immediately took my life, and the king did too. | "I demand trial by combat!"
My own words echoed back to me through time. How long had it been? Days...weeks perhaps? There's no reference point when you're deprived of light, food and company. Only the maddening, monotonous drip beyond my cell door gives any indication that time is in motion at all.
The King accepted my demand; he fought me himself and lost. They say royalty are blue-blooded; his lifeblood was red like any other's.
Now I await execution. I am regicide. | |
[WP] You are on trial for attempting to assassinate the King. Unknown to anyone but you and His Majesty, you were actually trying to stop him from killing himself. When you request a trial by combat, he ceremoniously accepts. Your opponent? The King himself. | "Kill me, Larissa." Tears streamed down Aven's gaunt and pallid cheeks. "It *must* be you."
The dagger slid from Larissa's trembling grip and *clinked* pommel-first into the ground, clattering across the flagstone floor of their royal bedchambers. She locked her pleading eyes on his, raising her hands to wipe his tears.
"You know I cannot do that, love," said Larissa.
"It must be done. *Please*. It must be you."
"You know I will not do that."
"And you know what the alternative is! This *endless* torment!" Aven coughed, wracking and heaving until blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. Larissa was ready with a handkerchief to wipe it away, as she had been for the past two years.
She pushed herself up from where she had found him - slumped in the corner of the room they had led their people from for thirty years. For all the power the courtiers and nobles thought they possessed, the simple bed in the corner of this very room was where the decisions that had shaped the kingdom were made.
This bed was where Larissa and Aven agreed the refugees from neighbouring Levund would be allowed in. It was there that they realised how much they would have to sacrifice to save their people from the weak harvest. It was beneath those very sheets that they finally accepted that they had lost their son, weeping in each others shaking arms.
She hurried over to it and pulled a small glass vial filled with a clear viscous liquid from the roll atop the bedside table.
When she turned back, Aven was still, and quiet, staring down at the knife. Larissa knelt down beside him, cupped his chin, unstopped the vial and tipped it into his mouth. His body heaved in resistance as it oozed down his throat.
"And you," said Larissa, planting a kiss on his cold forehead, "know what happens if you give up this fight. You know who that crown goes to. You know what he would do to our people."
Tears welled up in the corners of Aven's grey-blue eyes again as he clutched his hand to her temple and sobbed, sinking further into the floor.
_________________________________________
The grief of the previous night seemed like a dream as she sat beside King Aven while they held court. Yesterday he clutched a knife at his own throat in his robes, shaking like a babe. Today he sat tall upon his throne, his thin neck unbowed by the tremendous weight of his crown, resplendent in the simple yet beautiful purple and gold regalia of the royalty. Larissa swallowed down that image of better days as she took in the cane resting against the throne, the tremor in his hands, the gaggle of apothecaries waiting in the wings with sweating brows, watching his every breath.
Aven raised his left hand gently to still the murmuring in the packed chamber and the room fell reverently silent to begin the proceedings of the day - addressing trade disputes, offers of gifts, and other requests to the crown.
"My friends," he began, in a voice that barely wavered, "know now that I love you. Know now that from the day this crown was placed upon my head I loved you, and in the dark and golden days of winters and summers passed, I loved you then. In peace, that love never grew complacent. In war, it never grew tired. I have burned with pride and gratitude for the honour and hope that you have placed in me, and in my kind, unbreakable, perfect wife." His voice cracked as he locked his eyes on hers, and then down at his knees. "For the failures that you forgave. And I am afraid I must ask you to forgive a final failure. On this last hour, the hour of my death, I must play the tyrant."
Gasps and nervous chatter spread throughout between the pristine whitestone pillars of the chamber as onlookers jostled for a better view, as King Aven took up his cane and heaved his frail body to stand. He thrust his left hand out to reject the assistance of one of his attendants.
"I must give you a command. Before you all now, I must decree that the succession of my crown be changed. Upon my death, my wife - your *Queen* - Larissa, will be the sole bearer of the crown, no matter the circumstances of my death. Will you agree now, before me, before the gods, to serve her with the same honesty, passion, and love that you served me?"
Silence. "Aye," came one voice, from the front. Then another. Then a chorus, then a cacophany, as the knights, courtiers, nobles and merchants nodded, roared, raised their fists towards Larissa. But she could not take her eyes off of her husband. She could not move her body for fear.
King Aven smiled out at them, and raised his hand once more to quieten the crowd. "I had no doubt. Now, then I must inform you of a great crime that has been committed."
Larissa found herself standing, one arm faintly outstretched towards her husband. "My king-"
"Last night, Larissa disobeyed a direct order from the crown. I demanded that she take my life, and with all of her grace and strength, she refused. And as such, justice must be done."
"Aven, I -"
"She must therefore take part in trial by combat to clear her name."
"My love, *please*-"
"And I shall be her opponent."
Aven drew the dagger from within his robe, and hobbled towards his wife. He placed it in her hands and wrapped his own around them, the blade pointing out, towards his chest. His cane dropped to the floor. He kissed his wife, whispered something that only she heard, and set his feet.
"Begin," cried Aven, as he pulled his wife, his queen, in towards him with for their last embrace.
| "I demand trial by combat!"
My own words echoed back to me through time. How long had it been? Days...weeks perhaps? There's no reference point when you're deprived of light, food and company. Only the maddening, monotonous drip beyond my cell door gives any indication that time is in motion at all.
The King accepted my demand; he fought me himself and lost. They say royalty are blue-blooded; his lifeblood was red like any other's.
Now I await execution. I am regicide. | |
[WP] You are on trial for attempting to assassinate the King. Unknown to anyone but you and His Majesty, you were actually trying to stop him from killing himself. When you request a trial by combat, he ceremoniously accepts. Your opponent? The King himself. | "Kill me, Larissa." Tears streamed down Aven's gaunt and pallid cheeks. "It *must* be you."
The dagger slid from Larissa's trembling grip and *clinked* pommel-first into the ground, clattering across the flagstone floor of their royal bedchambers. She locked her pleading eyes on his, raising her hands to wipe his tears.
"You know I cannot do that, love," said Larissa.
"It must be done. *Please*. It must be you."
"You know I will not do that."
"And you know what the alternative is! This *endless* torment!" Aven coughed, wracking and heaving until blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. Larissa was ready with a handkerchief to wipe it away, as she had been for the past two years.
She pushed herself up from where she had found him - slumped in the corner of the room they had led their people from for thirty years. For all the power the courtiers and nobles thought they possessed, the simple bed in the corner of this very room was where the decisions that had shaped the kingdom were made.
This bed was where Larissa and Aven agreed the refugees from neighbouring Levund would be allowed in. It was there that they realised how much they would have to sacrifice to save their people from the weak harvest. It was beneath those very sheets that they finally accepted that they had lost their son, weeping in each others shaking arms.
She hurried over to it and pulled a small glass vial filled with a clear viscous liquid from the roll atop the bedside table.
When she turned back, Aven was still, and quiet, staring down at the knife. Larissa knelt down beside him, cupped his chin, unstopped the vial and tipped it into his mouth. His body heaved in resistance as it oozed down his throat.
"And you," said Larissa, planting a kiss on his cold forehead, "know what happens if you give up this fight. You know who that crown goes to. You know what he would do to our people."
Tears welled up in the corners of Aven's grey-blue eyes again as he clutched his hand to her temple and sobbed, sinking further into the floor.
_________________________________________
The grief of the previous night seemed like a dream as she sat beside King Aven while they held court. Yesterday he clutched a knife at his own throat in his robes, shaking like a babe. Today he sat tall upon his throne, his thin neck unbowed by the tremendous weight of his crown, resplendent in the simple yet beautiful purple and gold regalia of the royalty. Larissa swallowed down that image of better days as she took in the cane resting against the throne, the tremor in his hands, the gaggle of apothecaries waiting in the wings with sweating brows, watching his every breath.
Aven raised his left hand gently to still the murmuring in the packed chamber and the room fell reverently silent to begin the proceedings of the day - addressing trade disputes, offers of gifts, and other requests to the crown.
"My friends," he began, in a voice that barely wavered, "know now that I love you. Know now that from the day this crown was placed upon my head I loved you, and in the dark and golden days of winters and summers passed, I loved you then. In peace, that love never grew complacent. In war, it never grew tired. I have burned with pride and gratitude for the honour and hope that you have placed in me, and in my kind, unbreakable, perfect wife." His voice cracked as he locked his eyes on hers, and then down at his knees. "For the failures that you forgave. And I am afraid I must ask you to forgive a final failure. On this last hour, the hour of my death, I must play the tyrant."
Gasps and nervous chatter spread throughout between the pristine whitestone pillars of the chamber as onlookers jostled for a better view, as King Aven took up his cane and heaved his frail body to stand. He thrust his left hand out to reject the assistance of one of his attendants.
"I must give you a command. Before you all now, I must decree that the succession of my crown be changed. Upon my death, my wife - your *Queen* - Larissa, will be the sole bearer of the crown, no matter the circumstances of my death. Will you agree now, before me, before the gods, to serve her with the same honesty, passion, and love that you served me?"
Silence. "Aye," came one voice, from the front. Then another. Then a chorus, then a cacophany, as the knights, courtiers, nobles and merchants nodded, roared, raised their fists towards Larissa. But she could not take her eyes off of her husband. She could not move her body for fear.
King Aven smiled out at them, and raised his hand once more to quieten the crowd. "I had no doubt. Now, then I must inform you of a great crime that has been committed."
Larissa found herself standing, one arm faintly outstretched towards her husband. "My king-"
"Last night, Larissa disobeyed a direct order from the crown. I demanded that she take my life, and with all of her grace and strength, she refused. And as such, justice must be done."
"Aven, I -"
"She must therefore take part in trial by combat to clear her name."
"My love, *please*-"
"And I shall be her opponent."
Aven drew the dagger from within his robe, and hobbled towards his wife. He placed it in her hands and wrapped his own around them, the blade pointing out, towards his chest. His cane dropped to the floor. He kissed his wife, whispered something that only she heard, and set his feet.
"Begin," cried Aven, as he pulled his wife, his queen, in towards him with for their last embrace.
| Part 1 of 2
The thing that struck him first was the NOISE. He had sat in the stands of this arena a hundred times since he was a boy, but he never FELT the noise before. He could feel the grains of coarse sand vibrating between his toes. He had always assumed it would be soft. Like the sand near the shore. It wasn’t. It might as well have been tiny burrs, cutting into the soft, bare soles of his feet, feet made soft from a life of privilege. Feet that had been gently cradled by the best sandals, caressed by the smoothly polished marble of the royal chambers.
He wasn’t royalty himself, but his upbringing was indistinguishable from the king that he looked upon as a brother. His mother died of consumption when he was young. His father wasn’t the best hunter in the village, but for some reason the old king liked his company and used him as a tracker when the wilds beckoned him from his throne. While tracking a ram along the cliff side, his father misstepped and plummeted into the mist below.
It wasn’t the old king who felt pity for the small orphan boy, kings can’t be bothered with orphan boys. But his wife wasn’t a king. The queen saw something in the quivering child as her court feigned grief for his father. He was given the final rites of a man far above his stature, and everyone knew it. But they also knew of the King’s fondness for the man and respectfully obliged.
The queen saw first saw the boy at the feet of a clergyman, fearfully clutching at the robes as they dangled near the dirt. He was near the age of her own son, but much smaller. She saw his eyes, searching the crowd through glistening tears for some sort of assurance, a glimmer of safety from anyone, as his realization grew that he would be alone forever. And she saw no one offer the boy as much as a warm glance.
She whispered to a hand maiden, and before the last shovel of dirt settled over the man’s casket, the boy was in the castle, well fed, and nestled into an endless, rolling pile of featherbed and silk, seemingly larger than the meager home he had shared with his father.
He would spend his formative years roaming the halls of the castle, side by side with the prince, being pampered and doted on by the servants as if he were their own progeny. In a way, they felt like he was. It was never spoke about in the open, but the story of the boy’s origin was no secret within the kitchens and servants quarters in the ancient castle. The boy and the prince were schooled together, bathed together, fed together, hoarded about from place to place together and always sat together, at the head table of stately functions, though the boys chair always had a few inches chopped from its legs.
On the first night his dirty feet touched those marble steps, the Boy was quite a bit smaller than the prince. But after a few years of royal pampering, the boy quickly filled out, surpassing the heir in size and muscle as they stumbled through their adolescence. It was also apparent to the servants that the boy surpassed the heir in intellect and compassion. This also was never spoken in the open, but it did not escape the king.
As the boy and the prince aged, so did the king. As they became men, he became frail. Nearing the end of a long life and a successful reign, he summoned his son to his side. His final kingly demand was that his son always trust the boy’s council. The king knew his son danced on the precipice of madness and hoped the boy’s influence would guide him out of darkness. As he took his last breaths, the king feared for his subjects, and cursed himself for not having a stronger hand in molding his successor.
As every king should be, but so few are, the old king was wise. As the new king settled into the throne, his mind drifted further and further from reason. He was short sighted and paranoid. He spent the kingdoms riches on unnecessary opulence. He sent his troops to fight ill conceived battles and lost the support of the populace who had so loved his father. They yearned in secret for the peasant boy to seize the throne.
But the peasant had no desire to rule. He did his best to offer guidance and stay the Kings hand, but as the years passed, his voice in the King’s ear was drowned out by the voices in his head.
When the queen mother finally passed, full of fear and regret for raising the monster that led the people she loved, the king turned on the peasant boy. His paranoia made him believe the peasant was plotting against him and he exiled the boy with whom he had grown into a man....(continued in comments)
| |
[WP] You are on trial for attempting to assassinate the King. Unknown to anyone but you and His Majesty, you were actually trying to stop him from killing himself. When you request a trial by combat, he ceremoniously accepts. Your opponent? The King himself. | *What did I do to deserve this*, Jack thought to himself. *All I tried to do was save his life*
"Do you have any preference for how your trial shall take place," asked the judge.
*For this crime they thought I committed I will get killed. There is only one option*, he thought to himself.
"I have decided. I request a trial of combat," he said. He knew this would be his only chance at survival. Though slim it may be, at least I will die with dignity.
"Very well then. It is decided. We will take it up to his majesty to choose who you shall battle."
*They are taking it to him? Is he so low that he send me to my own demise just to protect his own image?*
So it was decided. They took Jack to his cell to await for his fate.
About 3 hours later, the guards arrived. They looked somewhat distressed and excited at the same time.
*Oh great, they probably found the greater fighter in the lands to come and kill me for my "crimes"*
They took him to the collesium. There were thousands in attendance and several weapons in the center of the arena. He suddenly heard a loud horn. The whole stadium went silent.
"This man has attempted to kill our high king and has chosen a warriors death," said the voice. "The king himself had chosen the challenger. He has also laid out specific rules." He began listing them off.
"You can use any weapon available to you. This is a fight to the death. There is no such thing as a dirty fight, use whatever mean necessary." He then began listing off other insignificant rules.
"Do you understand and accept these rules," the voice asked. "Yes," I replied.
"The king has stated no one shall know who this fighter is until he comes out after preparing," proclaimed the voice. So we waiting and waited for the challenger.
He got many boos, people throwing food, spitting at me, you name it. *What did I ever do to deserve this?*
After about five minutes the challenger came out. Jack had to clear his eyes just to make sure he was seeing straight. "No. It can't be," he said aloud.
The crowd grew silent. They were expecting the king to announce the fighter himself or for him to throw some choice words. He remained silent.
The announcer chimed in. "Certainly the king has came out here to get one last look at his would be assassin before he gets brutally slaughtered." The crowed laughed. The king then spoke, and the crowd went quiet immediately.
"I am your challenger. I order that if I shall lose this match, he is to be set free. Whoever attempts to intervene will get sentenced to death." There was a collective gasp from the crowd.
Jack just stood there in shock. After all he has went through to save him, now in order to preserve his own life he has to take the life of the king he saved.
He finally spoke up. "Why are you doing this? Send me to trial for saving your life and now you want to fight me to the death?"
The king gave no answer. Suddenly there was a giant horn signally the start of the match.
*I really have to go through with his. I lave to kill the king.*
He ran to the center and grabbed a sword. The king just stood there. There were confused whispers in the crowd. "Why won't you fight back? Why are you standing there?if you aren't going to fight back call an end to this fight. I don't want to kill you."
The king walked forward to him. He quiquietly said, "Please. You have to do this for me. I don't want my people to think I am weak. I wish to die with honor, and there is no greater honor in their eyes than to be killed by my would be assassin," He told jack.
"It doesn't have to be this way. You can work through your problems. I don't want to kill you. You have the power to end this," said Jack.
"Very well then," said the king. He then suddenly forced the sword into his chest, yet somehow made it appear that Jack had killed him. "You will be repaid for your bravery here." And the king died.
The announcer, shocked said, "The king... has lost... Here is your winner." The crowed was in total shock. The king was dead. His would be assassin had killed him, and according to the king, nothing will be done.
He was then set free. One of the royal guards came to him and gave him a note. "The king said that in the case he lost I were to give this to you."
Jack read the note. "Thank you for finally releasing me from my internal prison. I am forever to your debt in this life and after. In a special location I have left you enough coin to last you multiple lifetimes," the note read. It also had a location and specific instructions on what needed to be done to get the coin.
Jack went to the location and certainly enough there were vast riches left for him there. But none of these riches would ever take away the feeling of taking another life, especially that of a king.
| Part 1 of 2
The thing that struck him first was the NOISE. He had sat in the stands of this arena a hundred times since he was a boy, but he never FELT the noise before. He could feel the grains of coarse sand vibrating between his toes. He had always assumed it would be soft. Like the sand near the shore. It wasn’t. It might as well have been tiny burrs, cutting into the soft, bare soles of his feet, feet made soft from a life of privilege. Feet that had been gently cradled by the best sandals, caressed by the smoothly polished marble of the royal chambers.
He wasn’t royalty himself, but his upbringing was indistinguishable from the king that he looked upon as a brother. His mother died of consumption when he was young. His father wasn’t the best hunter in the village, but for some reason the old king liked his company and used him as a tracker when the wilds beckoned him from his throne. While tracking a ram along the cliff side, his father misstepped and plummeted into the mist below.
It wasn’t the old king who felt pity for the small orphan boy, kings can’t be bothered with orphan boys. But his wife wasn’t a king. The queen saw something in the quivering child as her court feigned grief for his father. He was given the final rites of a man far above his stature, and everyone knew it. But they also knew of the King’s fondness for the man and respectfully obliged.
The queen saw first saw the boy at the feet of a clergyman, fearfully clutching at the robes as they dangled near the dirt. He was near the age of her own son, but much smaller. She saw his eyes, searching the crowd through glistening tears for some sort of assurance, a glimmer of safety from anyone, as his realization grew that he would be alone forever. And she saw no one offer the boy as much as a warm glance.
She whispered to a hand maiden, and before the last shovel of dirt settled over the man’s casket, the boy was in the castle, well fed, and nestled into an endless, rolling pile of featherbed and silk, seemingly larger than the meager home he had shared with his father.
He would spend his formative years roaming the halls of the castle, side by side with the prince, being pampered and doted on by the servants as if he were their own progeny. In a way, they felt like he was. It was never spoke about in the open, but the story of the boy’s origin was no secret within the kitchens and servants quarters in the ancient castle. The boy and the prince were schooled together, bathed together, fed together, hoarded about from place to place together and always sat together, at the head table of stately functions, though the boys chair always had a few inches chopped from its legs.
On the first night his dirty feet touched those marble steps, the Boy was quite a bit smaller than the prince. But after a few years of royal pampering, the boy quickly filled out, surpassing the heir in size and muscle as they stumbled through their adolescence. It was also apparent to the servants that the boy surpassed the heir in intellect and compassion. This also was never spoken in the open, but it did not escape the king.
As the boy and the prince aged, so did the king. As they became men, he became frail. Nearing the end of a long life and a successful reign, he summoned his son to his side. His final kingly demand was that his son always trust the boy’s council. The king knew his son danced on the precipice of madness and hoped the boy’s influence would guide him out of darkness. As he took his last breaths, the king feared for his subjects, and cursed himself for not having a stronger hand in molding his successor.
As every king should be, but so few are, the old king was wise. As the new king settled into the throne, his mind drifted further and further from reason. He was short sighted and paranoid. He spent the kingdoms riches on unnecessary opulence. He sent his troops to fight ill conceived battles and lost the support of the populace who had so loved his father. They yearned in secret for the peasant boy to seize the throne.
But the peasant had no desire to rule. He did his best to offer guidance and stay the Kings hand, but as the years passed, his voice in the King’s ear was drowned out by the voices in his head.
When the queen mother finally passed, full of fear and regret for raising the monster that led the people she loved, the king turned on the peasant boy. His paranoia made him believe the peasant was plotting against him and he exiled the boy with whom he had grown into a man....(continued in comments)
| |
[WP] You are on trial for attempting to assassinate the King. Unknown to anyone but you and His Majesty, you were actually trying to stop him from killing himself. When you request a trial by combat, he ceremoniously accepts. Your opponent? The King himself. | If you had told me that one day I would be locked in combat with King Lanther, the very person I had sworn to protect, I would have dismissed you as raving mad. I would have laughed at your suggestion that I would be *forced* into the duel, that I could neither defeat him nor surrender, and that death would be no solace, for I would have known that the enemy had won.
But that was exactly what happened.
"Sire," I said as we circled around each other in the arena, like the sun chasing the moon. Our audience ringed us, watching like hawks. I could not afford to let them hear us. "Sire, please, there has to be another way."
"There is none, Daymon. This is the best one. There is no other way to gaurantee his safety."
"You're the King! You shouldn't be... negotiating with them! Command your knights! Command your mages! Command me! Bid us find his kidnappers, and we will scorch the earth in our pursuit!"
King Lanther lunged forward, the sword a blur of silver as it sought to embed itself in me. He was fast for his age, definitely one of the more competent swordsmen to have passed the Armsmaster's training. But his heart wasn't in it, and it would take him many years yet to defeat this Blood Knight.
A single drop of blood was all I needed. I dug my nails into the delicate flesh of my left wrist, and a dome of shimmering pink cleanly deflected King Lanther's assault. I heard him snarl as he fell to the ground, and normally I would have rushed to help him up, but I couldn't afford any missteps here.
Not when so much was at stake.
"Calm yourself, Sire. There has to be a way out of this. I don't have to defeat you here, nor you me. Call it off! Pardon me! Then I'll work with you, and we'll bend the resources of this Kingdom to-"
"Don't you understand, fool? If they don't receive news of my death within the day, they will kill him! For all we know, they have eyes and ears in the audience, right now! I have to die!"
"No, you have to fight them! You have to-"
He was faster than I had given him credit for. He had waited until my stance was relaxed, and he pounced with a ferocity I could only respect. No time for blood magic - I drew my daggers, and the screech of steel on steel sent tingles through my teeth. He aimed a sharp kick at my left knee, and down I went. This was not how I imagined I would kneel before my King.
"He is the true King," he said, his breath reeking of desperation. "He is a hundred times the man I would ever be. He is the only one, the *only one*, fit to lead us. I would die a hundred times over just to have him safely returned. So if you don't strike me down now, I will kill you, then I will kill myself. Do not stop me again, do you hear?"
It would have been so easy to bite down on my cheek, and to summon the hemoblast to push him away. Then to command the scarlet lashes of power to hold him down, pin him the way he was doing to me now, and to take the victory.
But I didn't like easy.
And I certainly didn't like the idea that someone out there was still pulling the strings, toying with us like we were balls of yarn for a kitten.
There had to be another way.
"Listen," I said, my hands trembling under the strain. "Do you trust me? Do you trust that I can find a way to not defeat you here, to save your damn life, and yet to retrieve your brother for you?"
"You... Don't lie to me Daymon. If this is just a trick, then I will-"
"No tricks. I swear."
I didn't wait for him to agree - his eyes said it all for me. I loosened my grip, felt his blade tear through my scalp. The blood rushed forth, a screen of vermilion obscuring my vision. I clenched my fists, then completed the spell I had never found use for before...
---
"The traitor is dead! All hail the champion, King Lanther of Ankharra!"
I felt strong arms lead me away, and the Royal Physician fussed as he studied me for wounds. I wanted to push him away, for there were so many more important things to tend to.
I couldn't move though, of course.
*Sire,* I said. I felt my eyes open wide in surprise, so I plunged ahead before he let slip our secret. *Sire, I've melded with you. My consciousness is riding along, a passenger in your mind. If you understand, clench your right fist.*
I felt my body respond, and the Royal Physician swatted at me, reminding me to relax.
*Good,* I said. *You have until the end of the day to die, don't you? Now, let's see if I can teach you a thing or two about faking your death. Then we'll find your brother, I promise you.*
---
/r/rarelyfunny
| We danced, pointing swords at each other, measuring our distance. King Nevonir had chosen a low stance, which was dangerous to inexpert swordsmen, because as the moment you overextended or missed your blow, you would have a sword rammed through your chest.
I was known for my abilities with the sword and spear, yet at this very moment, I was trying to solve a conundrum. Nevonir had tried to commit suicide three days ago, and I had been wrongfully accused of attempted regicide, when in reality I had talked him out of the situation.
However, I had done nothing but delay a long since established decision. Nevonir accepting the trial by combat was his way of telling me to kill him. He was a fierce fighter, yet he was old. His glorious warring days lay in the past, and the only thing he had wielded in the last decade was a quill.
The eyes of hundreds were upon us. He had wanted this to be a public bout. Even children were in the crowd. Soon, they would witness the blood of their king staining the stone.
I surged forth, swinging my sword at the side. Nevonir did as expected. He dodged the blow and thrust his sword forward. I stepped to the side, shunning his attack, and struck his back with the pommel, throwing him onto the ground. He climbed to his feet. A wide grin adorned his face along with wild, feral eyes.
He wouldn't go down without a fight. That's what that hungry stare said. He had found a way to die with honor. Of course, I had to defeat him first. He wasn't as slow as I thought he would be, yet his left leg held him down--he had been injured heavily in war, and it never recovered properly.
"You are deft, but you lack thirst," he said. He had changed his stance now. His back was straight, his steps were slow and he held the sword in two hands.
"You aren't the old sack of bones I thought you were, Your Majesty," I said with a smirk.
I mimicked his stance. It was an invitation to prove who was the best swordsman. He darted toward me, sword aloft and swung it straight to my chest. I jumped back, barely avoiding the attack. I'll be damned, but he still had it. I had to capitalize on his leg.
I retaliated with another crossed blow. Our swords rang, yet the momentum of my sword pushed his' aside, exposing his shoulder. I battered his pauldron with two quick blows, until he moved to the side. It was hard to fight against armor, but that was a start. Going for the head felt too much of a risk.
He surged forth again, grunting. I sprung backward, and focused on his legs. He always attacked pushing his weight on the right leg. And so, when his left leg was at the front. I charged at him with my shoulder.
He froze in place, startled. The entire weight of the armor made his leg wobble and he lost balance. I struck him in chest, sending him staggering to the ground. His sword escaped his grip, and I loomed over him, sword pointed at his neck.
He grinned and nodded. The crowd went silent.
I took a deep breath, and held his gaze. Then, I buried my sword deep into the depths of his neck. Everyone gasped in unison. At last, the blood gushed out, staining the stone.
Soon, I found my heart throbbing in my throat. The realization of what came next dawned upon me like a divine war hammer.
I was king.
--------------------------------------------
/r/therobertfall for more
| |
[WP] Science has shown that everyone does, in fact, have a life purpose. A harmless test has been devised to determine what it is. You were skeptical, but, after seeing global happiness skyrocket, you get tested. Turns out your purpose simply reads: "To die". | "*Mary Einkel! You are going: To be a member of the team that cures cancer." "Brian O'Malley! You are going: To become a Michelin starred chef." "Joyce Lambert! You are going: To own a wildly successful business." "Ajit Sodhi! You are going: To be a famous singer.*"
&nbsp;
My friends all gathered around each other, showing and telling what they would be doing some day; sharing the moment they would peak in life. I sat apart re-reading mine quietly, trying to decide if this was a joke. It wasn't, and eventually the headteacher spotted me, ambling over to see why I was so unenthused. It wasn't so uncommon for people to be unhappy with their results. She probably thought that a few comforting words and encouragement would be enough to set me right again. Normally I bet she would have been right.
&nbsp;
“Finn Ackerly! You are going: To die."
&nbsp;
I was put out to say it lightly. The results were given to us during school, shortly before exams. The idea is a good one, buoy the students just before important exams that will decide their futures by giving them a snapshot of the possibilities. Usually that works, but not for me. I didn't do so well in those exams. It was a pretty heavy thing to lay on the shoulders of a sixteen year old that their greatest achievement will be to roll over and snuff it.
&nbsp;
For the longest time there was no doubt that I would be clinically defined as depressed. My friends drifted away over a few years in that slow way that high school friends do, and although I did graduate getting into university was basically impossible. Heading your personal statement with the little message from the Bright Future Foundation had become an unwritten tradition, because why wouldn't you show off your finest hour? I struggled to find a job as result to boot.
&nbsp;
I slept through life for years, just as that little piece of fucking paper said I would. Wasted my life sitting around and waiting to die, like I was told. Then I woke up one day, just like any other. I rolled out of bed in the late evening, before trudging away out of my parents house, with the money Mum left for me on the kitchen bench. On my walk to buy something fast and unhealthy I heard a scuffle, and saw movement out of the corner of my eye. A tall, skinny man was holding a smaller one at knife point, hiding in the shadows of the alley.
&nbsp;
It took me a moment to register what was happening. Everything up to that point had been in a monotone of colour and feeling since I received that little note in a sealed envelope. Then this moment comes along in a stunning clarity, so vivid that I can remember every single detail. From the brands of the garbage scattered around to the pockmarked and sallow skin of the tall man. And my steadily growing outrage; here was a person who had been given something to look forwards to, stealing from someone at the point of a knife?
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
The small man was leaning over me grinning when I woke up in the hospital. He started talking the moment he knew I was lucid. It turned out he was called Duncan, and he thanked me for the help, even if it was just a distraction while he beat the seven shades out of the guy for stabbing me. He took my number, telling me that I had free lessons for life in some martial art I'd never heard of before. I had achieved something greater than just expiring, and found what turned out to be a drinking buddy for life
&nbsp;
This got me thinking; the BFF had never ever been wrong, not even once. The only thing was that they didn't always show the entire picture. My Dad's message drove him to overwork, gifting him an aneurysm at the ripe old age of forty-eight. My Mum lost an arm to infection after an accident while working on the project she was destined to create. I had a lot of time to think about things like this while stuck in a hospital bed with a stab wound. I came to realisation.
&nbsp;
Years later, my training finished. My parachute held, as it always knew it would. I wasn't about to splatter into an unceremonious pile all over the forest floor because of some fault in the chute; nor would the smoke from the fire overwhelm me. I landed heavily, and sprinted towards the raging blaze through fire, smoke and hell. I wasn't afraid for a moment.
&nbsp;
The realisation I had was that I am going to die just like anyone else. Unlike everyone I know that when I die, it's going to be a *fucking* spectacle. The pinnacle of my life. | As I live here in a house another man built, under a blanket another has sewn, using technology others have engineered, reading words that other men wrote; I come to find my depression immeasurable. These men are of few and it is their lives that we come to cherish and believe. We use them as pedestals of examples, and instill that their fortune is your own: their path yours. And far too early or far too late (I have yet to come to a proper conclusion) did I realize that this is not true. That I am not the one of the lights that breaks from the Earth to contest the sun. That one may find himself recessed into a cavern so that all that surrounds him are the pointed demons of tumultuous shadows. I have found myself deceived to such an extent I no longer know which lie I have created for myself or which lie I adopted as my own.
| |
[WP] the demon looked confused as he found himself summoned into a pink room, covered in princess posters and unicorn stickers. In front of him was a girl that looked about 5 years old, hugging a teddy bear and jumping up and down excitedly saying "yay yay yay, it worked!" | I was going about my daily life. Torturing the sinners, bringing Master Satan reports on the current experiment, trying to get dogs that go the hell. When I got a call. This was unusual.
Satan’s voice boomed over the phone
“Somebody’s attempting to summon me, but I am very busy at the moment could you please see what it is they want and bring their soul down here to me”
I went over to Satan’s office and stepped onto the glowing pentagram. Flames swirled around and darkness clouded my vision. After a few seconds I could see again and the flames died down.
I blinked and blinked again. No this couldn’t be right. A pink room covered in princess and unicorn posters. We normally got summoned in dark basements surrounded by cultists but here stood a little girl about 5 years old. She stared into my eyes and smiled.
She started to jump and screeched “It worked! Yay yay yay yay! It worked!”
I stepped out of the pentagram and knelt down so that I was level with the child.
I spoke softly and asked “What do you want in return for you soul.”
She responded “Mr Satan could you please hide the bodies of my victims” she smiled evilly... | The incantation was read. The underworld shook as he was summoned. Through fire and brimstone, he rose and tore across the abyss. A vortex of fleshy colors swirled around him, formed, took shape and entered Him. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them he stood in a room that was far pinker than anything he had ever seen. Posters with various female humans in different poses were plastered to the walls, and sprinkled around them were colorful, shiny stickers of horses with horns, and tiny cherubs with glittery wings.
He looked down from the small table he stood upon, saw his sigil, the tiny, plastic knife blanched with red, a pain set next to it; there was a wrinkled sheet of paper on the floor, the incantation scribbled in red crayon.
"Yay! Yay, yay, yay! It worked! It worked!" A little female human cheered across the room, sitting on a plastic chair in a ring of stuffed animals. A small doll house stood in the center of them, partially open.
"You summoned me?" He asked, his voice grating, as if with every word his throat ground gravel to a fine dust.
She jumped up, throwing her hand in the air, which had a small, red mark across the palm, then pointed towards Him. "I did! I did!"
"For what purpose? Only those who require another human's death summon me."
"To play! Daddy's not home, and mommy's sleeping!"
"You summon me... to play?" A fine rest mist escaped his lipless mouth and slits for nostrils, rose and settled against the ceiling above Him. The plaster began to melt, drips of white fell on his shoulders, the table.
"Yes! I need someone to be Ken! Girls can't play as boys—"
His oval amber eyes glowed, and as if the a storm cloud passed over the sun, the room darkened. The lines that were etched up his body like snaking veins ebbed with fiery light, throwing light upon the room, the small girl who sat back down. More mist escaped him, through his pores, through his eyes, became a smog around him. The paint, the walls, the table beneath him, began to melt, burn, blacken.
"You summoned me!" he roared, stepping off the table that collapsed behind him. "To play? Do you know who I am child?" The carpet singed around his hoofed feet, the smell of burnt plastic filled the room.
A veil of tears covered her eyes, streamed down her chubby cheeks. She balled her shirt collar in her hand, and bit her lower lip. The little girl spoke in between sobs. "Yes... I wanted someone to play with... Daddy's— daddy's always gone, and— and mommy's always sleeping... she takes pills... We— we— we moved here for daddy's work. I have... I have no one to play with."
He loomed over the girl, peering down through the red mist. He balled his pincer-like claws into fists. The demon looked back at the table, saw the paper with his incantation, saw the plastic knife that must have been used to cut her palm, and saw his symbol, though now destroyed.
"You summoned me little human," he said, the ebbing colors of his eyes and body gradually dulled and disappeared. "Thus, I will do your bidding this once." Light fell into the room through the window once more, reflecting off the pink walls, filling the room with vibrance. The fine, rest mist quickly dissipated.
The demon crouched, took the doll that must have been Ken into his pincer-like claws, and asked, "How do we begin, then?" | |
[WP] the demon looked confused as he found himself summoned into a pink room, covered in princess posters and unicorn stickers. In front of him was a girl that looked about 5 years old, hugging a teddy bear and jumping up and down excitedly saying "yay yay yay, it worked!" | Lucifer shook his head of the strange visions. “This will not do, “he thought. And he looked down at the mortal child. Within seconds the girl was enveloped in spiders and insects. Black widows, ants, centipedes, and beetles blanketed the child as she collapsed to the floor. The lights dimmed as termites, roaches, and silverfish pulled themselves through the ceiling, walls, and floors. Windows shattered and hundreds more bees and wasps flew in to add to the mound of creatures. Thousands of tiny insects began to bite and sting the child. The girl’s screams choked and flies the size of quarters spat from her throat.
The Lord of Darkness did not let her die. Sensing the approach, he let the girl’s mother open the door. She could barely budge the door past the mass of creatures. But she could see enough. She recognized her baby’s eyes. Through the squirming and buzzing, the crawling of bugs, her baby was covered in horror, but she saw her eyes and knew her.
The mother screamed.
He pulled the woman into the room and laid her upon the mass of insects. In seconds, she was covered, and tiny bugs entered every orifice in her body. She felt them moving and could hear the clicking of their little legs and the buzzing of tiny wings.
As every fluid was drained from her body, she stared, unable to blink, at her child’s blue eyes in front of her.
Lucifer took them with him back to Hell. This was only the beginning of their punishment. | The incantation was read. The underworld shook as he was summoned. Through fire and brimstone, he rose and tore across the abyss. A vortex of fleshy colors swirled around him, formed, took shape and entered Him. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them he stood in a room that was far pinker than anything he had ever seen. Posters with various female humans in different poses were plastered to the walls, and sprinkled around them were colorful, shiny stickers of horses with horns, and tiny cherubs with glittery wings.
He looked down from the small table he stood upon, saw his sigil, the tiny, plastic knife blanched with red, a pain set next to it; there was a wrinkled sheet of paper on the floor, the incantation scribbled in red crayon.
"Yay! Yay, yay, yay! It worked! It worked!" A little female human cheered across the room, sitting on a plastic chair in a ring of stuffed animals. A small doll house stood in the center of them, partially open.
"You summoned me?" He asked, his voice grating, as if with every word his throat ground gravel to a fine dust.
She jumped up, throwing her hand in the air, which had a small, red mark across the palm, then pointed towards Him. "I did! I did!"
"For what purpose? Only those who require another human's death summon me."
"To play! Daddy's not home, and mommy's sleeping!"
"You summon me... to play?" A fine rest mist escaped his lipless mouth and slits for nostrils, rose and settled against the ceiling above Him. The plaster began to melt, drips of white fell on his shoulders, the table.
"Yes! I need someone to be Ken! Girls can't play as boys—"
His oval amber eyes glowed, and as if the a storm cloud passed over the sun, the room darkened. The lines that were etched up his body like snaking veins ebbed with fiery light, throwing light upon the room, the small girl who sat back down. More mist escaped him, through his pores, through his eyes, became a smog around him. The paint, the walls, the table beneath him, began to melt, burn, blacken.
"You summoned me!" he roared, stepping off the table that collapsed behind him. "To play? Do you know who I am child?" The carpet singed around his hoofed feet, the smell of burnt plastic filled the room.
A veil of tears covered her eyes, streamed down her chubby cheeks. She balled her shirt collar in her hand, and bit her lower lip. The little girl spoke in between sobs. "Yes... I wanted someone to play with... Daddy's— daddy's always gone, and— and mommy's always sleeping... she takes pills... We— we— we moved here for daddy's work. I have... I have no one to play with."
He loomed over the girl, peering down through the red mist. He balled his pincer-like claws into fists. The demon looked back at the table, saw the paper with his incantation, saw the plastic knife that must have been used to cut her palm, and saw his symbol, though now destroyed.
"You summoned me little human," he said, the ebbing colors of his eyes and body gradually dulled and disappeared. "Thus, I will do your bidding this once." Light fell into the room through the window once more, reflecting off the pink walls, filling the room with vibrance. The fine, rest mist quickly dissipated.
The demon crouched, took the doll that must have been Ken into his pincer-like claws, and asked, "How do we begin, then?" |
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