post_text stringlengths 0 10k | post_title stringlengths 8 313 | chosen stringlengths 1 39.5k | rejected stringlengths 1 13.8k |
|---|---|---|---|
Just for a change and a little challenge, write us a story which is erotic/sensual in nature and write your own twist at the end of it. | [WP] Erotic Story with a twist | She sat on the porch, frustrated, and slowly started rubbing till her hand got tired.
She felt the juices flowing. Mouth salivated. She repeated her special technique again and again until she was ready. She slowly parted the pre-cut folds and inserted the cold, ribbed pestle.
She let it in and out with her whole body quivering. Hair spilling out of her ponytail. After she was done she gasped...
"Ugh...mom! Lemonade's ready!" | She was good. She felt good. Nobody ever felt quite like this before. She was *lithe*; she knew how to move against me just right. Perfect skin. She said she had stretch marks – didn't want to explain them, and I didn't ask. I didn’t notice 'em, so it wasn't a big deal to me. Not my business. I had stretch marks too - but she didn't mention it. I had other things to, you know, *attend to* - and damn were they nice things, so I wasn't really one to be concerned.
The shirts came off first. Some girls like to go for pants, first, but she'd made it pretty clear a long time ago what she was after, and I couldn't complain. She had a great waist - saw her in a crop top, once, is how I know; felt a bit jealous then, but I'm better now. Then our bras - unhooked at the same time, I think; she might have just waited a moment longer for me, though. Not my business. Worked out nice, alright; felt good. Nobody ever felt quite like this before.
She had nice lips. I felt her tongue. She was awfully fond of having my top off, and we spent a long time like that. I got pretty worked up. I was a bit open about it, too - (gasps) God, *please* just - (stops) but anyway. She touched my back a lot. Felt right at the time; like a back massage while you're rubbing up against a beautiful girl - I mean, the claws hadn't come out yet - you know the type; they make you *bleed*, I swear - but I probably wouldn't have minded. Pretty worked up, you know?
Next came the socks. She was a gymnast, she said - and she proved it pretty easily, I thought. God damn, could that girl move in all the right ways. She took them off what must've been half an hour, an hour - I mean, I don't think the sun was up by that point. It must have been ages between the talking and ... *that*. I wanted to know her secrets. She took off my socks for me - did that playful thing with the toes I like. She was a fucking tease. I loved it.
She said I looked nice. I said she looked better. She said she could make me feel better. I said something that I can't remember now because, you know, she was climbing on top of me and *damn* she felt good, you know? I'm excused about being just a little distracted. Nobody ever felt quite like this before. Like, they normally just kinda bounce, but on her - well, yeah, anyway. We kissed. Her lips on mine - her hands on my shoulders, and on my back, and on my sides. I didn't think about it.
We slowly worked across the couch, and my back was against the couch armrest, and her lips were on my neck and I'm pretty sure I couldn't see. It's like getting in a wreck, because you can only see stars, except it feels like you're going to die of pleasure because God's nine *fucks* it feels so *good* to have your neck touched *just like that*. I felt her hand on my back. Nobody ever felt quite like this before. She made me feel so different.
She put her hands on my chest. She liked that. She put her hands on my back, too. I felt like my entire body was being massaged by her entire body. I didn't realise how that worked, at the time, because, you know - neck. It's hard to think about it now, because it felt so good, but it felt so wrong, right then. Nobody ever felt quite like this before. She was touching me so much. I couldn't see.
I felt my insides churning - not that hot sort of feeling, when it's *just right*, but that feeling when something is wrong. And it didn't feel like quite the same feeling as it did before. I felt like I was moving inside. I felt like I was being moved inside. I couldn't see. I was moving - it was responsive, I think. I could feel her touching my spine.
I could feel her moving my spine.
I didn't cry then. I'm not a fighter - if you ever gave me fight or flight, I'd choose flight - but not this time. I was cornered, I couldn't see, and she was all around me. I didn't know what she was doing. I didn't know what she was. She had her hands inside of me - all of her hands, and I felt them. My bones shifted. I became longer. She turned my spine around - I could feel I was facing behind me, and I was being bent even more.
She gave me more skin. Stretch marks. I felt how I was being stretched, I was being screwed around. I'd joke about the verb, but it's not the time. My waist was thin after having been through a few diets, but my waist must have been thinner than any human I'd ever seen. I was being spun around, and my bones were all put end on end to make room for the skin she made me grow.
I'm stuck here, and can't stop thinking about her.
I'm all twisted up. |
Just for a change and a little challenge, write us a story which is erotic/sensual in nature and write your own twist at the end of it. | [WP] Erotic Story with a twist | She had eyes that you could explore a thousand years before finding the first sign of life, her sociopath behavior long since killing any visible sign of emotions. She had the voice of a fallen angel, a lilting, sultry voice that would wrap you in words and slit your throat while laughing.
We killed together for many years, making love with each other over or with the bodies of our victims, and life was good. I still remember our first one, the experience that had changed my life.
It was the body of a twenty-four year old college student, still in her full-body pajamas. We laid on either side of her and talked and stroked and murmured sweet words to each other, finding satisfaction in the building tension. She positioned the corpse on top of me and then sat behind it, maneuvering the corpse as I stroked it and told the dead student how much I loved her.
After I was properly stimulated, my love positioned the student over my face and then mounted me, both of us groaning and gyrating. I pleasured the dead student and reached up, fondling cold breasts.
My love and life shook and moaned and then hopped off, moving the student away and taking her place, positioning herself over my mouth. She reached back with her hand and we both moaned.
We finished together and then she laid next to me and pulled the student close, hugging us both. Gazing into her eyes, I began to see the first signs of life, she was beautiful, inside and out. "I love you," I whispered, my heart exploding.
She leaned in, moist lips pursed together as she breathed down my neck, and then she replied. "I need about tree fiddy."
It was about this time I realized this beautiful girl was an 8-story tall Crustacean from the Paleolithic era. | She was good. She felt good. Nobody ever felt quite like this before. She was *lithe*; she knew how to move against me just right. Perfect skin. She said she had stretch marks – didn't want to explain them, and I didn't ask. I didn’t notice 'em, so it wasn't a big deal to me. Not my business. I had stretch marks too - but she didn't mention it. I had other things to, you know, *attend to* - and damn were they nice things, so I wasn't really one to be concerned.
The shirts came off first. Some girls like to go for pants, first, but she'd made it pretty clear a long time ago what she was after, and I couldn't complain. She had a great waist - saw her in a crop top, once, is how I know; felt a bit jealous then, but I'm better now. Then our bras - unhooked at the same time, I think; she might have just waited a moment longer for me, though. Not my business. Worked out nice, alright; felt good. Nobody ever felt quite like this before.
She had nice lips. I felt her tongue. She was awfully fond of having my top off, and we spent a long time like that. I got pretty worked up. I was a bit open about it, too - (gasps) God, *please* just - (stops) but anyway. She touched my back a lot. Felt right at the time; like a back massage while you're rubbing up against a beautiful girl - I mean, the claws hadn't come out yet - you know the type; they make you *bleed*, I swear - but I probably wouldn't have minded. Pretty worked up, you know?
Next came the socks. She was a gymnast, she said - and she proved it pretty easily, I thought. God damn, could that girl move in all the right ways. She took them off what must've been half an hour, an hour - I mean, I don't think the sun was up by that point. It must have been ages between the talking and ... *that*. I wanted to know her secrets. She took off my socks for me - did that playful thing with the toes I like. She was a fucking tease. I loved it.
She said I looked nice. I said she looked better. She said she could make me feel better. I said something that I can't remember now because, you know, she was climbing on top of me and *damn* she felt good, you know? I'm excused about being just a little distracted. Nobody ever felt quite like this before. Like, they normally just kinda bounce, but on her - well, yeah, anyway. We kissed. Her lips on mine - her hands on my shoulders, and on my back, and on my sides. I didn't think about it.
We slowly worked across the couch, and my back was against the couch armrest, and her lips were on my neck and I'm pretty sure I couldn't see. It's like getting in a wreck, because you can only see stars, except it feels like you're going to die of pleasure because God's nine *fucks* it feels so *good* to have your neck touched *just like that*. I felt her hand on my back. Nobody ever felt quite like this before. She made me feel so different.
She put her hands on my chest. She liked that. She put her hands on my back, too. I felt like my entire body was being massaged by her entire body. I didn't realise how that worked, at the time, because, you know - neck. It's hard to think about it now, because it felt so good, but it felt so wrong, right then. Nobody ever felt quite like this before. She was touching me so much. I couldn't see.
I felt my insides churning - not that hot sort of feeling, when it's *just right*, but that feeling when something is wrong. And it didn't feel like quite the same feeling as it did before. I felt like I was moving inside. I felt like I was being moved inside. I couldn't see. I was moving - it was responsive, I think. I could feel her touching my spine.
I could feel her moving my spine.
I didn't cry then. I'm not a fighter - if you ever gave me fight or flight, I'd choose flight - but not this time. I was cornered, I couldn't see, and she was all around me. I didn't know what she was doing. I didn't know what she was. She had her hands inside of me - all of her hands, and I felt them. My bones shifted. I became longer. She turned my spine around - I could feel I was facing behind me, and I was being bent even more.
She gave me more skin. Stretch marks. I felt how I was being stretched, I was being screwed around. I'd joke about the verb, but it's not the time. My waist was thin after having been through a few diets, but my waist must have been thinner than any human I'd ever seen. I was being spun around, and my bones were all put end on end to make room for the skin she made me grow.
I'm stuck here, and can't stop thinking about her.
I'm all twisted up. |
You can only observe yourself and no direct interactions with your past self as it would collapse the universe.
*Edit* I might throw one out here later today. Had an idea in my head when I first posted this. | [WP] You're a time traveler and you go back to observe a younger you during a life moment only to realize you caused it to happen. | I materialized in a cold and empty alleyway. The rusty sign over the door next to me said "Polly's Cafe". I knew exactly *where* I was: Ten blocks away from my childhood home. The only question was *when*....
I opened the door to the cafe and went straight for the newspaper rack that Polly kept by the counter. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone wave at me.
"Hey, Caitie!" I turned, not wanting to see who it was. Time travel was tricky. It is rarely good to run into someone you know. Given that Polly's was usually empty, I thought I'd be good. Clearly, I was wrong.
The young woman walking up to me was none other than my best friend from my college years, Samantha. She was carrying several large textbooks in her arms, but set them down on the counter to give me a hug. I awkwardly patted her on the back. I needed to get out of here...
She finally released me. "So are you excited for the big day?" She had a huge grin on her face. I copied it, just to make sure I didn't blow my own cover. "Which one?" I asked. I picked up the newspaper and started scanning it for the date. I glanced up at her and saw her give me a puzzled look. "You do still plan on getting married tomorrow, right?"
Shit. I finally found the date. January 17, 2013. The day before one of the most memorable days of my life. The day before I find out my soon-to-be husband was cheating on me. "Oh yeah. Of course," I said, light-heartedly. "I've just been so flustered with all the planning and whatnot. I've got the normal pre-wedding nerves, that's all..." My mind raced as I tried to think of a way to get out of the situation. "You know, I just remembered that I have to go help my mom with the final details, so I guess I'll just see you tomorrow!" I dashed out of there before she could barely utter a good bye.
As awkward as being in this time was, I couldn't help but feel a desire to find out who Jack had cheated on me with. I probably didn't really want to find out, but I found myself at the church the next day regardless.
I had acquired a nice blue dress, a wig, hat and sunglasses from the mall, and was hiding in the back halls of the church, waiting to see my fiance and hopefully his mistress. I had walked in on them in a office back here the first time around, so I knew I was in the right spot.
I waited and waited and waited. I saw Jack come around the corner. My breath caught when I looked at him. In all my rage, I'd forgotten how handsome he was. He nodded at me as he entered the office, not seeing that it was actually his fiance behind the disguise.
Now I just had to find the mistress. I waited for about ten minutes. No one came around the corner. Maybe she was already in there? If so, I wanted to find out. I strode over and just barged in without even knocking. I fully expected to see him kissing the woman, but there was no one.
Jack looked at me, confused. "Do you need something, ma'am?" he asked. I felt so ashamed. I couldn't believe I once thought he had cheated on me. There was no one here, and I knew I was in the right time. So what had happened back then to make me believe that my Jack had betrayed me?
I took off the sunglasses and revealed my face to him. He grinned and approached me, putting his hands on my waist. "Look at you sneaking over to see me before the ceremony. You know you're not supposed to see me yet, right? And shouldn't you be in your dress?" He leaned in and kissed me, and couldn't help but kiss him back. I heard footsteps approaching, but ignored them. I was just happy that Jack wasn't a liar.
The door opened and I heard a loud gasp. I looked over Jack's shoulder and saw... me. I was wearing my wedding dress and had dropped my bouquet on the floor. My past self's jaw was practically on the floor. Jack spun around, hiding me behind him in the process. "Caitie?!" I put on my sunglasses and rushed out of the room, nearly knocking my past self over.
As I ran out of the church, tears streamed down my face. I was right. I hadn't really wanted to know. Who wants to know that they broke up their own relationship? | I started writing something for this prompt but it seems to becoming bigger and bigger as I keep going. Hopefully I'll have it finished later and this thread won't be buried by then because this is actually a good really prompt :) |
Firstly, I wanted to say that I greatly enjoy everyone's writing here, both what I've received and read in other posts. This prompt is stemming from a recent life event that I would love to see from different perspectives. Whether it is in regards to experience or fantasy is of no concern. Thank you, ahead of time. | [WP] Write a poem from the living to a deceased loved/cherished one. | Six feet from where your figure lay
In front of arched stone cracked with age
Stamped in earth my bootprints stay
I take my place upon the stage
To undertake the one-man show
Debuted unample years ago
Act one begins, the weeping flow
Where fallen, taller grass has grown
Persistent is my visage pained
A meager smirk I cannot feign
What boundless load my vigor's drained
What mass your vacancy has claimed
A pilgrimage with countless cause
Suffered through constricted jaws
And heavy breaths that give no pause
I hold and hear absent applause
*edited for rhythm
| And then you were gone,
My inspiration to write.
Thank you Vonnegut
:Woohoo haiku! |
Firstly, I wanted to say that I greatly enjoy everyone's writing here, both what I've received and read in other posts. This prompt is stemming from a recent life event that I would love to see from different perspectives. Whether it is in regards to experience or fantasy is of no concern. Thank you, ahead of time. | [WP] Write a poem from the living to a deceased loved/cherished one. | Six feet from where your figure lay
In front of arched stone cracked with age
Stamped in earth my bootprints stay
I take my place upon the stage
To undertake the one-man show
Debuted unample years ago
Act one begins, the weeping flow
Where fallen, taller grass has grown
Persistent is my visage pained
A meager smirk I cannot feign
What boundless load my vigor's drained
What mass your vacancy has claimed
A pilgrimage with countless cause
Suffered through constricted jaws
And heavy breaths that give no pause
I hold and hear absent applause
*edited for rhythm
| Steady, strong, my rock.
You buckled under no strain.
You supported me.
Far and calm, my ocean.
Your profound depths knew no bounds.
So much left to learn.
Bold and bright, my star.
Your soul brought light to darkness.
Painfully distant. |
Firstly, I wanted to say that I greatly enjoy everyone's writing here, both what I've received and read in other posts. This prompt is stemming from a recent life event that I would love to see from different perspectives. Whether it is in regards to experience or fantasy is of no concern. Thank you, ahead of time. | [WP] Write a poem from the living to a deceased loved/cherished one. | Six feet from where your figure lay
In front of arched stone cracked with age
Stamped in earth my bootprints stay
I take my place upon the stage
To undertake the one-man show
Debuted unample years ago
Act one begins, the weeping flow
Where fallen, taller grass has grown
Persistent is my visage pained
A meager smirk I cannot feign
What boundless load my vigor's drained
What mass your vacancy has claimed
A pilgrimage with countless cause
Suffered through constricted jaws
And heavy breaths that give no pause
I hold and hear absent applause
*edited for rhythm
| The flash of a dying star
Can last for days
Suspended in the sky
Outshining all but the nearest suns.
Eons it takes to reach a human eye
The ancient brilliance forgets
Why it runs so quickly
Through the unforgiving cold.
A world so far cannot know such pain
Yet those who were close,
Those brightened by the warm embrace
Of a glowing soul
Had not the time to learn
To see, to know
To love.
Their mother star exists
Only as energy
Its ceaseless trek extends to the infinite.
These worlds are darker
While a universe they can never reach
Will never forget
How intense a single light can shine. |
Firstly, I wanted to say that I greatly enjoy everyone's writing here, both what I've received and read in other posts. This prompt is stemming from a recent life event that I would love to see from different perspectives. Whether it is in regards to experience or fantasy is of no concern. Thank you, ahead of time. | [WP] Write a poem from the living to a deceased loved/cherished one. | Six feet from where your figure lay
In front of arched stone cracked with age
Stamped in earth my bootprints stay
I take my place upon the stage
To undertake the one-man show
Debuted unample years ago
Act one begins, the weeping flow
Where fallen, taller grass has grown
Persistent is my visage pained
A meager smirk I cannot feign
What boundless load my vigor's drained
What mass your vacancy has claimed
A pilgrimage with countless cause
Suffered through constricted jaws
And heavy breaths that give no pause
I hold and hear absent applause
*edited for rhythm
| gramps
Cigarette smoke
crushed out durals
endless games of gin rummy
watching the tides
how does god take his whiskey?
neat |
Firstly, I wanted to say that I greatly enjoy everyone's writing here, both what I've received and read in other posts. This prompt is stemming from a recent life event that I would love to see from different perspectives. Whether it is in regards to experience or fantasy is of no concern. Thank you, ahead of time. | [WP] Write a poem from the living to a deceased loved/cherished one. | Six feet from where your figure lay
In front of arched stone cracked with age
Stamped in earth my bootprints stay
I take my place upon the stage
To undertake the one-man show
Debuted unample years ago
Act one begins, the weeping flow
Where fallen, taller grass has grown
Persistent is my visage pained
A meager smirk I cannot feign
What boundless load my vigor's drained
What mass your vacancy has claimed
A pilgrimage with countless cause
Suffered through constricted jaws
And heavy breaths that give no pause
I hold and hear absent applause
*edited for rhythm
| But to see your smile again.
To laugh through the moments we shared
Again holding hands in the cold of November.
All the while leaning in close to
Share a thought by way of our
Eyes met the first time in
That first moment I remember of
You in a green pull and red
In the face of everything we
Pulled through together
Still smiling, still framed in my heart
Stored beating heavily on
The memory that is lost
In the knowledge of
Losing you.
But to see your smile again. |
It seems very easy for this to happen to someone, eventually. How would it all go down? | [WP] Someone who descends slowly into madness because of the internet sensation sweeping the nation, Cookie Clicker. | *the following is an audio extract from a famous YouTuber who decided to attempt a Let's Play of Cookie Clicker.
Extract #001: Title: Harkenflipper Plays: Cookie Clicker!*
Hello everyone, how's it going, my name is Harkenflipper and today we're going to be playing a new game just out called Cookier Clicker! So, here we go folks, let's begin our descent into Cookie Clicker! First off, I've been told that the game autosaves every 60 seconds using cookies. Not actual cookies guys! I'm talking about Internet Cookies, which are pieces of data stored as strings of text! How is that for an awesome feature? Haha, alright guys let's get started! So, the first thing we have to do is...let's see...oh! We have to click the giant ass cookie on the left of the screen! Alright, here goes!...and there you have it folks, we have one whole cookie! Seems that we'll need to click a fair few times to get a Cursor, which autoclicks for us every 10 seconds; that is pretty damn cool, if I don't say so myself.
*some time passes in the video; approximately 15 minutes passes and Harkenflipper is generating an estimated 1500 cookies per second, referred to as CPS.*
Alright folks, that's about all the time we have for now, be sure to check out next weeks video; as always, I'm Harkenflipper. Have an awesome time folks, see you around!
*the video goes to an outro, commonly tacked onto most of the channels videos. Skipping through several recordings. Arriving at Extract #041. At Extract #041, Harkenflipper has lost all semblance of sanity. His subscriber base has abandoned him, due to the increasingly psychotic episodes displayed and aired by Harkenflipper. At this point, Harkenflipper is earning a total of 1'502'182'294'591.6 CPS.
Extract #041: HAREK'NFLI'PARJJ COLOKILL CLIAQ'RSHA.*
*a harsh, gutteral roar is heard from offscreen. Suddenly, Harkenflipper appears, covered in blood and twitching as he stares directly into the camera. Harkenflipper opens his mouth, to reveal that his tongue has been forcibly removed. Yet, he begins to speak; albiet, the voice is not his own.*
THOSE WHO OPEN THE FINAL DOOR GAZE UPON THE EYE. TO GAZE UPON THE EYE IS TO WITNESS THE BEGINNING OF THE END OF CREATION. THE END OF CREATION IS UNAVOIDABLE. THE GAZE OF THE EYE IS UNAVOIDABLE. THE EYE SEES ALL. THE EYE IS ALL. YOU CANNOT AVERT YOUR GAZE FROM THE EYE. NONE SHALL ESCAPE THE GAZE OF THE EYE. I AM THE EYEEEE-
*a thick, viscous substance begins cascading from Harkenflipper's tear ducts, eventually forcing it's way out in greater quantities and vacating his eyeballs from their sockets. His head falls to the desk and the stream cuts out as a constant click taps through the heavy silence.*
*it is 4 months later that agents monitoring the late Harkenflipper's channel notice the stream return online. No one else has access to the stream to upload; several checks verify that the IP address matches Harkenflipper's residence prior to his death. In the sidebar, a single video is waiting to be played.
EXTRACT #042: THE EYE.* | It all started with one click. He didn't know what he was getting himself into.
"This is pretty stupid," he unwittingly said. "I'll just play another 5 minutes."
He wasn't aware of what was going on.
Seconds passed, clicks passed. Minutes passed, clicks passed. Hours passed, clicks passed.
He was completely lost, lost in the vastness of the cookies and the immensity of clicks.
Whenever he would finally find the time to sleep, all he could dream of were cookies.
The cookies took over. He thought it was just an innocent game.
One could say, that, ironically, the cookies ate him. |
Just what I said. | [WP] Professional Bicycle Thieves. | It was a good feeling. On Monday, Janie's dad told her to change her clothes. On Tuesday, Taylor called Janie a slut. On Wednesday, Janie wrapped up a joint of oregano. On Thursday afternoon, Janie learned how to fly.
Sneaking vodka into math with Kim was a weekly endeavor. At this point it was really the only thing during the week she had to look forward to. Taking little sips the whole period while Ms. William looked at her with that all-too-familiar disapproving gaze. Fuck her. She wouldn't dare say anything. She was afraid.
It was a stroke of luck really. Some dumbass boy put the lock on the bike but didn't close it. Stupid rich kids probably didn't even care. He was asking for someone to take it. It would be a shame if no one took it. The thought was titillating, her buzzing brain flooded her body with pleasure at the thought. She had to take it.
The wind was blowing through her hair, the scenery she had always walked by whizzed by like it wasn't even real. It took her a second to realize it, but she was laughing. She was laughing more than she had in a month. She was almost disappointed when the pawn shop came into view.
Walking into the place with the stupid thing, she could tell the guy knew where she got it from., “ Hey! I need an abortion, I gotta put this up!”
The man sneered, “ You didn't even paint it. Twenty bucks, that's it.”
“How about twenty-five?” She didn't really give a shit, but she would be damned if she was going to take a first offer.
“Fine, leave it over there.” the man took out a form for her to fill out and opened the register to get the cash out. She scribbled some bullshit in all the blanks and took the money. Weed money right there. Maybe Friday was going to be chill. | "Whoo! We got one!", said Maurice to Aaron, high fiving each other as they loaded up a banana seat Schwinn into the bed of the pickup truck, fastening it with bungee cords. Maurice looked at Aaron, and inquired, "So, how much do you think this will go for?" "About.....500 bucks, maybe?" When they reached the old scrapyard, Aaron waved out the drivers side window to Gregg, who was waiting out front. "Hey, Gregg!" The gruff 39 year old, ignoring Aaron's greeting, got straight to business. "So, whatcha' got for me this time?", Gregg inquired. Aaron and Maurice lifted the Schwinn off of the bed and on to the ground, wheeling it towards Gregg. "Hmm... nice one. Paint's a little worn, and the seat could use replacing, but I'll take it for $400." Aaron passed the bike over to Gregg, and promptly received $400. That night, the boys drove off, filled with success. |
based firmly in the realms of reality im looking for a story about the effect the act of killing has on a young (16/17 year old). Internal monologue, based over a long time, or at one specific 'hit', its up to you, go wild! | [WP] the psychological effect killing has on a young hitman | "This is it kid," the capo wheezed as he let me, well, rather pushed me out of the car. "You said you wanted to get out and do bigger things for us, here you go. I'll be in the alley in the back."
The town car roared off as I looked up at the imposing hotel in front of me. My heart was racing at a thousand miles a minute, as I approached the main doors. My anxious eyes flicked back and forth from the people leaving to the doorman and back. In my adrenaline fueled state, I thought they could see right through my fake smile and would be off to call the police. But, the women descending the steps ignored me, and the man at the door greeted me with a curt nod. I was in.
"Excuse me," I said approaching the front desk, "You wouldn't happen to know which room Mr. Marcos is staying in would you?"
"Just a moment sir." A few quick taps on her keyboard later and I had my answer: fourth floor, room 426. I thanked her, keeping my voice level and free of the nervousness that was wracking every inch of my body.
It wasn't until the doors closed on the lift that I felt the first wave hit me. I paced, I punched the thin wood paneling, hoping that somehow these expressions of aggression would make the task easier. They didn't. Every second that ticked past on my cheap watch seemed like a lifetime as the metal box crawled its way to the fourth floor. But all too soon, I arrived.
My feet carried me down the hall slowly.
420...maybe I can still back out.
421...no that's stupid, they'll kill you then.
422...oh shit the cops, what if they track me down
423...no no no, Mick taught me how to do it. Quick and clean, check for pulse get out
424...I can't do this, fuck fuck fuck
425...maybe I'll have a heart attack right here
426...I raised a hand and knocked. He opened the door a crack. "Yes?"
I froze. Words wouldn't form. My tongue felt fat, bloated, and dry. "Mr. *cough* sorry, Mr. Leoneli sent me to speak with you about our arrangement."
Marcos opened the door wider and nodded, "Come in, please."
I followed obediently. I shut the door. He stood in the center of the room. On the bed was a briefcase full of money. "I believe he was waiting for this," Marcos said with a smile, "We're glad to have such a profitable venture with your boss."
I nodded. He picked up a bottle to fix himself a drink. His back was to me. 'Now,' my brain said.
I pulled the bundled piano wire from my pocket, quickly pulling it taut like Mick had taught me, as I rushed behind Marcos and whipped the strong cord around his neck; I pulled hard. There was a gurgling and a crash as the bottle hit the floor mixed with the thuds of his feet dancing as his throat was crushed. I grunted and strained as he tried to claw at my face behind him, but couldn't reach. Then all at once he went limp, a final spasm, then nothing.
I shoved the cord back in my jacket, grabbed the money and ran. I had never run so fast in my life. Lift was too slow; stairs. I rushed down four floor and exited out into the lobby. Easy. Back exit, there, go. No rush, easy. Walk through like you live here, that's what Mick said. Exit signs, there we go. Last door. Fresh air.
The town car was waiting for me. I ran around the back and hopped in the passenger seat.
"You got him?"
"Yes."
"You sure?"
"Yes, fucking drive dammit!"
I was thrown into my seat as we left the hotel, my stomach turning, a dead man upstairs, and blood money clutched in my hands. | I'd take a crack at it, but since In Bruges is one of my favorite movies, I don't think I'd be doing the topic justice, since that movie is an absolutely perfect portrayal of exactly what you're asking for. |
based firmly in the realms of reality im looking for a story about the effect the act of killing has on a young (16/17 year old). Internal monologue, based over a long time, or at one specific 'hit', its up to you, go wild! | [WP] the psychological effect killing has on a young hitman | "This is it kid," the capo wheezed as he let me, well, rather pushed me out of the car. "You said you wanted to get out and do bigger things for us, here you go. I'll be in the alley in the back."
The town car roared off as I looked up at the imposing hotel in front of me. My heart was racing at a thousand miles a minute, as I approached the main doors. My anxious eyes flicked back and forth from the people leaving to the doorman and back. In my adrenaline fueled state, I thought they could see right through my fake smile and would be off to call the police. But, the women descending the steps ignored me, and the man at the door greeted me with a curt nod. I was in.
"Excuse me," I said approaching the front desk, "You wouldn't happen to know which room Mr. Marcos is staying in would you?"
"Just a moment sir." A few quick taps on her keyboard later and I had my answer: fourth floor, room 426. I thanked her, keeping my voice level and free of the nervousness that was wracking every inch of my body.
It wasn't until the doors closed on the lift that I felt the first wave hit me. I paced, I punched the thin wood paneling, hoping that somehow these expressions of aggression would make the task easier. They didn't. Every second that ticked past on my cheap watch seemed like a lifetime as the metal box crawled its way to the fourth floor. But all too soon, I arrived.
My feet carried me down the hall slowly.
420...maybe I can still back out.
421...no that's stupid, they'll kill you then.
422...oh shit the cops, what if they track me down
423...no no no, Mick taught me how to do it. Quick and clean, check for pulse get out
424...I can't do this, fuck fuck fuck
425...maybe I'll have a heart attack right here
426...I raised a hand and knocked. He opened the door a crack. "Yes?"
I froze. Words wouldn't form. My tongue felt fat, bloated, and dry. "Mr. *cough* sorry, Mr. Leoneli sent me to speak with you about our arrangement."
Marcos opened the door wider and nodded, "Come in, please."
I followed obediently. I shut the door. He stood in the center of the room. On the bed was a briefcase full of money. "I believe he was waiting for this," Marcos said with a smile, "We're glad to have such a profitable venture with your boss."
I nodded. He picked up a bottle to fix himself a drink. His back was to me. 'Now,' my brain said.
I pulled the bundled piano wire from my pocket, quickly pulling it taut like Mick had taught me, as I rushed behind Marcos and whipped the strong cord around his neck; I pulled hard. There was a gurgling and a crash as the bottle hit the floor mixed with the thuds of his feet dancing as his throat was crushed. I grunted and strained as he tried to claw at my face behind him, but couldn't reach. Then all at once he went limp, a final spasm, then nothing.
I shoved the cord back in my jacket, grabbed the money and ran. I had never run so fast in my life. Lift was too slow; stairs. I rushed down four floor and exited out into the lobby. Easy. Back exit, there, go. No rush, easy. Walk through like you live here, that's what Mick said. Exit signs, there we go. Last door. Fresh air.
The town car was waiting for me. I ran around the back and hopped in the passenger seat.
"You got him?"
"Yes."
"You sure?"
"Yes, fucking drive dammit!"
I was thrown into my seat as we left the hotel, my stomach turning, a dead man upstairs, and blood money clutched in my hands. | The young man slowly pulled the knife from the older man's flesh, feeling the skin and muscle resisting him slightly. The older man's blood waited a moment before seeping quietly from the wound.
"Uncle John is going to be so angry," he whispered to himself. "This was supposed to be quick and easy, but it wasn't. He saw me in that fucking drink of his."
The young man paused.
"But I got you in the end, didn't I? You thought you had me, you son of a bitch." The adrenaline that had seemed dampened during the chaos of the struggle suddenly surged, destroying the mental levy that had held it back the past thirty seconds.
"I killed you you fucking son of a bitch. Me. I killed YOU." The young man's voice quivered as he spoke, raising in volume and deepening in pitch until he a resembled a gorilla hooting while he beat his chest.
"You thought you were tough shit. How many people did you kill? Fifteen? You think you're a big man? You ain't SHIT!" At this the young man raised a booted foot and stomped on the man's head. A resounding crack shot through the room, sending another jolt of adrenaline and endorphin rushing through the young man.
"I survived. You died, you pathetic shit. I ain't scared of you, and I ain't scared of Uncle John neither. He's got a problem, I'll fucking kill him to. You hear that? I'll kill anyone. I ain't scared of shit."
With a smile resembling a snarling lion plastered on his face, the young man turned and walked out the door, leaving a trail of urine-stained footprints on the carpet as he whistled merrily. |
Make it however long you want, just use that line in one way or another. Make it as wacky or dark as you want. | [WP] He cursed. That was his favourite plant pot. | John Tomblin walked up to the car he had just pulled over, tense as always when he was approaching an unknown and potentially lethal situation. There were what appeared to be four youths in the car, mixed genders, mixed races.
As he stepped up to the driver's window, he smelled a familiar tangy scent which was very obviously coming from the vehicle. The Virginia State Trooper cursed. That was his favorite plant: pot.
The driver smiled at him, speaking in a humble and respectful tone: "What seems to be the problem, officer?"
"You were going 70 in a 55, son."
"Ah, shit, was I? Listen, I thought the speed limit was 70! It was 70 back in West Virginia..."
"Yeah, the border was 40 miles back, and there are no less than five speed limit signs between there and here. They all clearly read 55."
"Well, officer, I really am sorry. I guess I just didn't notice, but I promise I will slow down from here on out... any chance you could let me off with a warning?"
"Kid, on a normal day, we might talk about a warning. But I can clearly smell marijuana smoke coming from inside your car."
"Yeah, we smoked a little bit. What's the big deal?" The young man's tone had quickly gone self-assured and righteous.
"Fuck. OK, kid, you are putting me in a ridiculous position. You know that shit isn't legal yet, right?"
The confident smirk faltered. "Wha.. Yes it is, they voted for it last week!"
"Yes, they voted to *decriminalize* possession of under an ounce of marijuana nine days ago. The law won't go into effect until March 6th, however. And under the new law, I would still fine you for possession, it just wouldn't ruin your life with an arrest and charges. I *would*, however, be within my rights to arrest you for suspicion of driving under the influence, which puts yourself, your passengers, and other people in danger."
At this point, the trooper's voice dropped a bit, and suddenly he sounded vaguely dangerous.
"But as we saw before, the new law isn't in affect yet. So you just admitted to an officer of the law that you are currently breaking a law which requires me to arrest all of you, book you for possession and use of a controlled substance, resulting in all of your lives' trajectories seriously altered."
Nobody was breathing inside the car.
"*Do you see why it's a big deal now, son?*"
All of the youths' eyes were wide, now. One of them began crying.
"Now, let's say I thought that that is a stupid consequence for smoking some pot. Maybe I don't want to see four young lives ruined on ignorance and poor timing. Maybe I think you four are smart enough to learn something from this..."
He let the words hang in the air. All four of the youths looked at him with the barest beginnings of hope, waiting for him to continue. Finally, the driver tried to speak, swallowed, tried again.
"I.. I was just.. just kidding, officer. Stupid joke, huh?"
"Very stupid fucking joke, kid. Don't try any more funny jokes when you're talking to law enforcement, OK?"
"Yes sir!"
"I'm going to go back there and write you a ticket for going 69 in a 55, that means you aren't getting wreckless driving. If you feel like I have ticketed you unfairly, you can argue this ticket in court; the hearing date and time will be written on the back of the ticket. I suggest that you slow down from now on. You *do not want* another officer pulling you over today. Not every trooper has my... my sense of humor. Understood?"
They all nodded. One of the back seat passengers even called out a thanks after he handed the ticket to the driver.
Trooper Tomblin smiled, glad that the kids had been smart enough to give him an out. Glad that he didn't have to ruin any other lives for an outdated, bullshit law.
****
As they watched the trooper drive off, Donnie looked at the ticket he had just been handed. "Man, fuck them pigs," he said with a snear.
All three of his friends immediately responded, in unison: "Shut the fuck up, Donnie!" | Five shots rang out into the chill quiet of the night. John panted. His feet slapped the pavement with the force of vengeful fly-swatters as he scurried towards the row of bushes in front of his house. He could not see the man-- the tall, lank figure with a hat whose brim extended well out past his shoulders-- who had been following him the last four blocks, but the sense of impending doom fell upon him like a cold damp towel.
A crashing noise threw his attention to the corner of the yard. The be-hatted villain hewed recklessly at the long stems of some particularly vibrant hydrangeas. He stood and dusted the dirt from his coat. He disappeared as the sun began to peek it's rays softly over the horizon.
John crept out from the bushes. Hydrangea blossoms lay like severed heads in the damp grass. Dirt poured slowly from the shattered vase where the roots had be torn from the soil.
A beep from his wrist alerted him that it was 6:55 am, June the third. The Best Home and Gardens committee would be arriving in two hours to assess his prized lawn.
"Fuck," he cursed.
That was his favorite plant pot. |
[WP] - Make me sympathize with Hitler just before he kills himself. He has just come to the conclusion that he was wrong, everything was his fault and that in killing himself he might right some of the wrongs he caused. | "I didn't really want to kill them, you know."
The thump of bombs continued. Damned. Damned. Damned.
He was shaking. His physician had not given him enough medicine and the cravings were manifesting badly now. It did not matter, he only needed take one pill. The drumbeat of the Reich's fall continued, matching his words as he began to slip into that old familiar cadence from the glory days. "The Jew, The Jew was not the real problem. It was difference, I feel I knew that all along. I thought my distrust was knowledge. I thought I knew the answer to war and privation." He paced the room, his hand striking punctuation in the air. "I could stamp out difference, I could stop men seeing each other as strange! I could make mankind one race! One supreme race to live in peace for a thousand years! No more trenches! No more rats at night!"
His footsteps stopped and he stooped, shoulders down, age creeping into his voice.
"And what did I do to build this Reich? I gave the rats power and sent them against the mice."
Damned. Damned. Damned. Damned. The allied drum beat on.
"War. Suffering, fear... I thought it would work. I thought it would end quickly, that the world would fear the Jew more than the Gestapo. That God would smile to see my inquisition. I thought we could find a better way..." His eyes closed, and he saw the reports again. Names, followed by numbers.
Belzec 600,000. Treblinka 800,000.
Auschwitz.
"So many." All the power was gone from his voice now and he lowered himself into his chair, his eyes grazing the pistol lying on the desk. "so many."
Damned. Damned. Damned. Damned. | Vonnegut already did this. Is it in Mother Night?
Anyway, Hitler is trying to figure out his last words....after several suggestions are shut down by his cabinet he puts the gun to his head and says "I never asked to be born in the first place".
Brevity. Do you speak it. | |
[WP] - Make me sympathize with Hitler just before he kills himself. He has just come to the conclusion that he was wrong, everything was his fault and that in killing himself he might right some of the wrongs he caused. | Will they ever realize I did it for them. They needed an enemy. I gave them one. They needed a leader. I became one. They needed a military. I built one. Where they had guilt and shame, I gave them pride and recognition. I see fire in the eyes of children where ash resided. The world trembled before our feet. Now, my country, it needs a sacrifice. I will give that to them. I am German. | Adolf sat in the dark room listening to the bombs drop on his city. With every passing minute, the enemy flew closer and closer, bent on destroying all that he held dear. As he looked up, Eva's hair glistened in the glow of the dim bunker light. They had been married just hours earlier in this very room, and as he thought this, Adolf began to regret everything. His people would never know what it felt like to be full every night. They would never know what prosperity felt like. They would never know that their Führer was sorry. The people dying in the streets, his wife sitting before him crying, his children wondering where their mother and father were; it was all his fault. And the Jews. Oh, the Jews! Killing so many had solved nothing. Committing the paramount sin of murder had solved nothing!
In his grief, Adolf stood up and yelled, "I'm a murderer!" His voice echoed in the chamber. Eva stopped crying and glanced up at him. Tears began streaming down his face as his wife sat and stared. Adolf stumbled over and sat next to his love. He turned and said to her, "I was wrong. I must right my wrongs." Before Eva could console him, Adolf kissed her cheek and said with quivering lips, "Ich bitte Sie um Vergebung." He gazed up at the concrete ceiling, listening to the bombs drop on his city, pulled his pistol out of its holster, and shoved the gun in his mouth. His hands trembled, and before his beloved could stop him, Adolf pulled the trigger. The sound echoed in the chamber.
SS officers rushed into the bunker after hearing the shot. They found the Führer hunched over, his gun on the floor, and they found Eva dead, eternally hugging the man she loved. | |
Those timers like in that movie "In Time"?
Yeah, now it counts down to the person you may spend the rest of your life with, who might destroy your life, or save it.
Your choice. | [WP] A timer integrated in your body counts down to when you meet someone who will change your life | The marine lay behind an old wall, bullets whizzing by and occasionally finding their mark, followed by either a groan of pain or dull thud as another ally falls lifeless to the ground.
He looked down at his arm, the clock read only 5 minutes.
"Well, I should've seen this coming."
More bullets, more of his friends dying, all their clocks reading 0. He quickly popped his head up over the wall to see the enemy had advanced much more quickly than he was expecting.
Looking down at his rifle, he saw his only loaded magazine loaded in it. Steeling himself, he popped over the wall to release a spray of bullets into the nearby insurgent. Ducking back down he looked at his clock, only 3 minutes.
Scanning the nearby area he sees an abandoned mounted MG, it's previous operator laying next to it in a pool of blood and brass. Knowing it wasn't his time, the man ran to the MG and dived as the area above him was filled with lead.
"2 minutes..."
Looking around a final time to see so few of his friends still alive, the warrior turned back to the gun and got behind it's small shield. Bullets dinged off of the steel guard as he pulled the trigger, immediately the enemy began to fall before him. But it still wasn't enough, there were too many and soon the enemy was within 10 meters of his position.
30...
His heart sunk as he heard to clock start the final countdown. Insurgents would soon be upon him and he would die by their dirty hands.
Suddenly the left side of his body lit up with blinding pain, then his leg. He soon fell as it was too much to handle. The enemy was now on him, laughing as they saw his broken form barely breathing.
15...
Then one broke off of the group and came over to the broken soldier, brandishing his sidearm.
10...
Saying something in a language foreign to his own the man raised his weapon to point at the soldier's head.
In the last seconds of his consciousness the marine noted that the enemy soldier and his allies had less than 5 second left on their clocks.
____________
First thing I've ever written, be gentle
| It was finally happening.
Rebecca's eyes shot open as she sprung out of bed. She had barely gotten any sleep that night, but that hardly mattered. Today was the day her life would change. She was excited.
She stretched, giving some use to the muscles that had been doing their best to keep still all night. They reacted poorly, but filled with enough energy to get her to the bathroom. She was past her peak, she acknowledged. Roughly half her life was over, give or take 10 years.
Staring into the mirror only confirmed that, showing a weary looking, possibly pretty (given taste) woman who clearly had just gotten out of bed.
She prepped for work, putting on her uniform of tights, skirts, and suit jackets. It was a good look for her, but like her, it was tired. It was the same thing she had worn for years, give or take a few colors. Usually, checking herself in the mirror depressed her- the uniformity of her uniform impressed upon her the soul crushing stability in her life.
But, today was different. Today, for the first time in a while, she was excited. Today, her uniform looked good. Despite the dark feelings she had towards the clothes, after wearing them for so long, she had to admit they suited her. She checked the clock.
A little under one hour left.
Rebecca went to her kitchen and took out the eggs. Even if she had no other true skills, at least she knew she made good eggs. As they sizzled, she thought about the champagne she had been saving for an important occasion. Well, today was about as important as it would get, wasn't it? She'd save it for an hour.
"...No, what if he kills me?" She reconsidered.
She had heard about this. Some of her friends had met their true loves, their guideposts in life- but Sandra... Sandra had ended up face down in a dumpster, sporting that beautiful dress she had just bought the day before. They still hadn't caught who did it.
Pop- The champagne announced, slowly foaming over Rebecca's fingers. She changed hands and lapped up the trickles. She'd have shaken the bottle harder, but she was the only one around. There was no need for anything extravagant. Besides, she wanted to enjoy this stuff. Pouring the champagne into a nice glass, she checked the clock.
eight minutes.
She was late for work now, and realized she had no intention of going. Well, it was fine. She had sick days left. If her life was changing in eight minutes, she might as well spend those minutes living her current life to her fullest- eating perfect eggs and drinking champagne, wearing her well suited outfit in the comfort of her home.
That was about as good as it got, for her. That's why she was excited. Her life was going to change.
The doorbell rang. She checked the clock. Twenty seconds. This was it.
She took one last sip of her drink. It was nice.
Setting down her drink, she went to the door. When she opened this door, her life was going to change.
For better or worse, it would be something else.
|
Those timers like in that movie "In Time"?
Yeah, now it counts down to the person you may spend the rest of your life with, who might destroy your life, or save it.
Your choice. | [WP] A timer integrated in your body counts down to when you meet someone who will change your life | Maria was having a great time at the party. It was a relaxed affair, with just twenty people mingling in the spacious apartment. The people there were mostly friends of hers, with enough friends-of-friends to keep things interesting. Maria was at the bar, refilling her wine glass, when the hostess, Isabelle, approached her.
“Is! The party’s going well. Would you like a drink?”
“No thanks, Maria, I’m still good.” Isabelle gestured with her champagne flute with a smile. “However, I’d like you introduce you to someone. This is Mark.”
Maria now noticed the handsome man behind her friend.
“How do you do?” Mark smiled at her as he stretched out his hand.
“I’m doing very well, actually. Will you join me for a drink?” Maria met the handshake warmly, as Isabelle moved away, feeling satisfied with her matchmaking.
Maria and Mark got along very well, and found themselves having a great conversation for several hours. Finally, Mark pleaded tiredness. “I have a confession, though – my clock hit zero the moment we met. Perhaps I could bother you for a number?”
Maria was stunned – she’d had a great conversation with Mark and did like him quite a lot, but to be his ‘special person’…
“Mark, I…My clock hasn’t stopped. It’s still going.” Maria felt terrible.
“It…what? I…oh. Well. I’m sorry. Maybe my clock was counting down to meeting the girl who’d ruin me for all the others.” Mark flirted, but it was betrayed by the genuine hurt and disappointment in his eyes.
“Haha, maybe!” Maria laughed a little uneasily. “But I’m happy to give you my number.”
Mark left the party not long after, showing just a little of the slump of a defeated man. Maria felt terrible, but there wasn’t much that she could do about it – she had no control over her clock. That it was only days away, though…
Maria grabbed another drink.
===
Maria walked through the crowed city street. It was time – her time. In the next minute, she’d meet the person who’d change her life. She found herself surprisingly unworried, prepared to let fate work its magic.
Twenty seconds left.
Maria rounded the corner and only avoided crashing into the broad figure that came around the other way with a quick sidestep.
“Maria?” It was Mark, the fun guy she’d met the other night – he hadn’t ended up calling her later, which had made her a little sad, as she’d quite liked him.
“Oh, hi Mark!” Maria smiled at him. “How are you going?” She didn’t understand what was going on. It couldn’t be Mark – she’d already met him. And there were only ten seconds left.
“Good, just out shopping with my daughter. This is Flora. I told you of her the other night.” Mark gestured to the little girl that was hiding behind him.
“Yes, I remember.” Maria got down on one knee to get on eye level with the little girl, who couldn’t be more than about three years old.
“Hello Flora, my name is Maria.”
Flora looked at her shyly from behind her father’s legs. “Hello.”
Maria looked up at Mark, her eyes slightly wet. “My clock just stopped.”
Mark’s jaw dropped open as a confusion of emotions passed across his face. Then, finally, he beamed down, and his eyes, too, became a little wet.
“Maybe we should go to the park so we can all get to know each other better.” | It was finally happening.
Rebecca's eyes shot open as she sprung out of bed. She had barely gotten any sleep that night, but that hardly mattered. Today was the day her life would change. She was excited.
She stretched, giving some use to the muscles that had been doing their best to keep still all night. They reacted poorly, but filled with enough energy to get her to the bathroom. She was past her peak, she acknowledged. Roughly half her life was over, give or take 10 years.
Staring into the mirror only confirmed that, showing a weary looking, possibly pretty (given taste) woman who clearly had just gotten out of bed.
She prepped for work, putting on her uniform of tights, skirts, and suit jackets. It was a good look for her, but like her, it was tired. It was the same thing she had worn for years, give or take a few colors. Usually, checking herself in the mirror depressed her- the uniformity of her uniform impressed upon her the soul crushing stability in her life.
But, today was different. Today, for the first time in a while, she was excited. Today, her uniform looked good. Despite the dark feelings she had towards the clothes, after wearing them for so long, she had to admit they suited her. She checked the clock.
A little under one hour left.
Rebecca went to her kitchen and took out the eggs. Even if she had no other true skills, at least she knew she made good eggs. As they sizzled, she thought about the champagne she had been saving for an important occasion. Well, today was about as important as it would get, wasn't it? She'd save it for an hour.
"...No, what if he kills me?" She reconsidered.
She had heard about this. Some of her friends had met their true loves, their guideposts in life- but Sandra... Sandra had ended up face down in a dumpster, sporting that beautiful dress she had just bought the day before. They still hadn't caught who did it.
Pop- The champagne announced, slowly foaming over Rebecca's fingers. She changed hands and lapped up the trickles. She'd have shaken the bottle harder, but she was the only one around. There was no need for anything extravagant. Besides, she wanted to enjoy this stuff. Pouring the champagne into a nice glass, she checked the clock.
eight minutes.
She was late for work now, and realized she had no intention of going. Well, it was fine. She had sick days left. If her life was changing in eight minutes, she might as well spend those minutes living her current life to her fullest- eating perfect eggs and drinking champagne, wearing her well suited outfit in the comfort of her home.
That was about as good as it got, for her. That's why she was excited. Her life was going to change.
The doorbell rang. She checked the clock. Twenty seconds. This was it.
She took one last sip of her drink. It was nice.
Setting down her drink, she went to the door. When she opened this door, her life was going to change.
For better or worse, it would be something else.
|
Those timers like in that movie "In Time"?
Yeah, now it counts down to the person you may spend the rest of your life with, who might destroy your life, or save it.
Your choice. | [WP] A timer integrated in your body counts down to when you meet someone who will change your life | The marine lay behind an old wall, bullets whizzing by and occasionally finding their mark, followed by either a groan of pain or dull thud as another ally falls lifeless to the ground.
He looked down at his arm, the clock read only 5 minutes.
"Well, I should've seen this coming."
More bullets, more of his friends dying, all their clocks reading 0. He quickly popped his head up over the wall to see the enemy had advanced much more quickly than he was expecting.
Looking down at his rifle, he saw his only loaded magazine loaded in it. Steeling himself, he popped over the wall to release a spray of bullets into the nearby insurgent. Ducking back down he looked at his clock, only 3 minutes.
Scanning the nearby area he sees an abandoned mounted MG, it's previous operator laying next to it in a pool of blood and brass. Knowing it wasn't his time, the man ran to the MG and dived as the area above him was filled with lead.
"2 minutes..."
Looking around a final time to see so few of his friends still alive, the warrior turned back to the gun and got behind it's small shield. Bullets dinged off of the steel guard as he pulled the trigger, immediately the enemy began to fall before him. But it still wasn't enough, there were too many and soon the enemy was within 10 meters of his position.
30...
His heart sunk as he heard to clock start the final countdown. Insurgents would soon be upon him and he would die by their dirty hands.
Suddenly the left side of his body lit up with blinding pain, then his leg. He soon fell as it was too much to handle. The enemy was now on him, laughing as they saw his broken form barely breathing.
15...
Then one broke off of the group and came over to the broken soldier, brandishing his sidearm.
10...
Saying something in a language foreign to his own the man raised his weapon to point at the soldier's head.
In the last seconds of his consciousness the marine noted that the enemy soldier and his allies had less than 5 second left on their clocks.
____________
First thing I've ever written, be gentle
| ( Terrible writer but giving it a shot. )
Thomas laid in bed feeling sorry for himself after a night of heavy drinking, his head pounded, he rolled lazily out of bed, he stood up and stumbled over to his closet, pulling over a plain black T-shirt and putting on black jeans and socks. He stumbled over to the Bathroom, Brushing his teeth and washing his face. Something felt off for him, he went into the kitchen and looked to the clock, *10:45AM* He sighed and took out a box of Ramen.
Thomas looked down his arm, the faint glow of the timer flickered quickly *1:01:32:18* He muttered to himself, "One day left..." he then stood up and walked outside into the hot air of New York. The busy city moved quickly past him, everyone had their own number. He moved quickly through the streets and occasionally looked down, a few hours past now, the timer read *0:20:45:23* "Only twenty hours..."
At the end of the day Thomas returns to his home, the clock now reads *0:14:01:54* and going down quickly, he sighed and moved to his bed, falling onto the bed still in all of his clothes.
He wakes up the next day and looks down, the clock reads *0:02:33:12* he then stood up, and stumbled from his bed, he walked over to his bathroom, brushed his teeth, washed his face and moved around his house, taking out another box of ramen. He looked down again, now starting to get worried, *0:02:23:33* He then got up and walked out the door, moving back into the city preparing to meet that special someone, he looked around, everyone kept to themselves. As the day moved on he moved quicker in the streets. The timer counted down quickly *0:01:02:11*
Thomas sighed as he looked around, picking up his pace as he was in a near run past other people who seemed oblivious to him running, just another day in New York. He looked down to the timer *0:00:01:30* He looked up and continued running, checking the corners for anyone. He continued to run, he then suddenly tripped over a rock and fell onto the ground, he looked up to see a tall blonde woman, she reached down and put out a hand to help him up. He took her hand and stood up, "Thanks." She smiled to him "Are you alright? It looked like that hurt." He shrugged, "It was just a small fall, nothing really to worry about." "I'm Christina." She said sweetly, Thomas responded, "I'm Thomas, Thomas Keele." She raised an eyebrow "That's a nice name, Thomas." They continued to talk for a few minutes, his timer read *0:00:00:00*. He looked down to check it, a sudden pop comes from the roof top, a bullet comes flying downwards to Thomas, he turned up to where the pop came from too late to do anything, the bullet then pierced right through his head. |
Those timers like in that movie "In Time"?
Yeah, now it counts down to the person you may spend the rest of your life with, who might destroy your life, or save it.
Your choice. | [WP] A timer integrated in your body counts down to when you meet someone who will change your life | Ten minutes and I'm still home alone,
Turned off the T.V, turned off the phone,
I'm scared to change, I like how things are,
A fancy desk job, and a brand new car,
I may be depressed, that's why I have pills,
Everyone says the 3rd alarm is what kills,
First my Dad left, never thought he'd betray,
Then I got shot, paramedics saved the day,
Nine long bells as the clock finally strikes nine,
A knock at the door, shivers down my spine,
I approach slowly, God, I must be bloody mad,
I open the door and my jaw drops... "Hey Dad." | ( Terrible writer but giving it a shot. )
Thomas laid in bed feeling sorry for himself after a night of heavy drinking, his head pounded, he rolled lazily out of bed, he stood up and stumbled over to his closet, pulling over a plain black T-shirt and putting on black jeans and socks. He stumbled over to the Bathroom, Brushing his teeth and washing his face. Something felt off for him, he went into the kitchen and looked to the clock, *10:45AM* He sighed and took out a box of Ramen.
Thomas looked down his arm, the faint glow of the timer flickered quickly *1:01:32:18* He muttered to himself, "One day left..." he then stood up and walked outside into the hot air of New York. The busy city moved quickly past him, everyone had their own number. He moved quickly through the streets and occasionally looked down, a few hours past now, the timer read *0:20:45:23* "Only twenty hours..."
At the end of the day Thomas returns to his home, the clock now reads *0:14:01:54* and going down quickly, he sighed and moved to his bed, falling onto the bed still in all of his clothes.
He wakes up the next day and looks down, the clock reads *0:02:33:12* he then stood up, and stumbled from his bed, he walked over to his bathroom, brushed his teeth, washed his face and moved around his house, taking out another box of ramen. He looked down again, now starting to get worried, *0:02:23:33* He then got up and walked out the door, moving back into the city preparing to meet that special someone, he looked around, everyone kept to themselves. As the day moved on he moved quicker in the streets. The timer counted down quickly *0:01:02:11*
Thomas sighed as he looked around, picking up his pace as he was in a near run past other people who seemed oblivious to him running, just another day in New York. He looked down to the timer *0:00:01:30* He looked up and continued running, checking the corners for anyone. He continued to run, he then suddenly tripped over a rock and fell onto the ground, he looked up to see a tall blonde woman, she reached down and put out a hand to help him up. He took her hand and stood up, "Thanks." She smiled to him "Are you alright? It looked like that hurt." He shrugged, "It was just a small fall, nothing really to worry about." "I'm Christina." She said sweetly, Thomas responded, "I'm Thomas, Thomas Keele." She raised an eyebrow "That's a nice name, Thomas." They continued to talk for a few minutes, his timer read *0:00:00:00*. He looked down to check it, a sudden pop comes from the roof top, a bullet comes flying downwards to Thomas, he turned up to where the pop came from too late to do anything, the bullet then pierced right through his head. |
Those timers like in that movie "In Time"?
Yeah, now it counts down to the person you may spend the rest of your life with, who might destroy your life, or save it.
Your choice. | [WP] A timer integrated in your body counts down to when you meet someone who will change your life | Maria was having a great time at the party. It was a relaxed affair, with just twenty people mingling in the spacious apartment. The people there were mostly friends of hers, with enough friends-of-friends to keep things interesting. Maria was at the bar, refilling her wine glass, when the hostess, Isabelle, approached her.
“Is! The party’s going well. Would you like a drink?”
“No thanks, Maria, I’m still good.” Isabelle gestured with her champagne flute with a smile. “However, I’d like you introduce you to someone. This is Mark.”
Maria now noticed the handsome man behind her friend.
“How do you do?” Mark smiled at her as he stretched out his hand.
“I’m doing very well, actually. Will you join me for a drink?” Maria met the handshake warmly, as Isabelle moved away, feeling satisfied with her matchmaking.
Maria and Mark got along very well, and found themselves having a great conversation for several hours. Finally, Mark pleaded tiredness. “I have a confession, though – my clock hit zero the moment we met. Perhaps I could bother you for a number?”
Maria was stunned – she’d had a great conversation with Mark and did like him quite a lot, but to be his ‘special person’…
“Mark, I…My clock hasn’t stopped. It’s still going.” Maria felt terrible.
“It…what? I…oh. Well. I’m sorry. Maybe my clock was counting down to meeting the girl who’d ruin me for all the others.” Mark flirted, but it was betrayed by the genuine hurt and disappointment in his eyes.
“Haha, maybe!” Maria laughed a little uneasily. “But I’m happy to give you my number.”
Mark left the party not long after, showing just a little of the slump of a defeated man. Maria felt terrible, but there wasn’t much that she could do about it – she had no control over her clock. That it was only days away, though…
Maria grabbed another drink.
===
Maria walked through the crowed city street. It was time – her time. In the next minute, she’d meet the person who’d change her life. She found herself surprisingly unworried, prepared to let fate work its magic.
Twenty seconds left.
Maria rounded the corner and only avoided crashing into the broad figure that came around the other way with a quick sidestep.
“Maria?” It was Mark, the fun guy she’d met the other night – he hadn’t ended up calling her later, which had made her a little sad, as she’d quite liked him.
“Oh, hi Mark!” Maria smiled at him. “How are you going?” She didn’t understand what was going on. It couldn’t be Mark – she’d already met him. And there were only ten seconds left.
“Good, just out shopping with my daughter. This is Flora. I told you of her the other night.” Mark gestured to the little girl that was hiding behind him.
“Yes, I remember.” Maria got down on one knee to get on eye level with the little girl, who couldn’t be more than about three years old.
“Hello Flora, my name is Maria.”
Flora looked at her shyly from behind her father’s legs. “Hello.”
Maria looked up at Mark, her eyes slightly wet. “My clock just stopped.”
Mark’s jaw dropped open as a confusion of emotions passed across his face. Then, finally, he beamed down, and his eyes, too, became a little wet.
“Maybe we should go to the park so we can all get to know each other better.” | ( Terrible writer but giving it a shot. )
Thomas laid in bed feeling sorry for himself after a night of heavy drinking, his head pounded, he rolled lazily out of bed, he stood up and stumbled over to his closet, pulling over a plain black T-shirt and putting on black jeans and socks. He stumbled over to the Bathroom, Brushing his teeth and washing his face. Something felt off for him, he went into the kitchen and looked to the clock, *10:45AM* He sighed and took out a box of Ramen.
Thomas looked down his arm, the faint glow of the timer flickered quickly *1:01:32:18* He muttered to himself, "One day left..." he then stood up and walked outside into the hot air of New York. The busy city moved quickly past him, everyone had their own number. He moved quickly through the streets and occasionally looked down, a few hours past now, the timer read *0:20:45:23* "Only twenty hours..."
At the end of the day Thomas returns to his home, the clock now reads *0:14:01:54* and going down quickly, he sighed and moved to his bed, falling onto the bed still in all of his clothes.
He wakes up the next day and looks down, the clock reads *0:02:33:12* he then stood up, and stumbled from his bed, he walked over to his bathroom, brushed his teeth, washed his face and moved around his house, taking out another box of ramen. He looked down again, now starting to get worried, *0:02:23:33* He then got up and walked out the door, moving back into the city preparing to meet that special someone, he looked around, everyone kept to themselves. As the day moved on he moved quicker in the streets. The timer counted down quickly *0:01:02:11*
Thomas sighed as he looked around, picking up his pace as he was in a near run past other people who seemed oblivious to him running, just another day in New York. He looked down to the timer *0:00:01:30* He looked up and continued running, checking the corners for anyone. He continued to run, he then suddenly tripped over a rock and fell onto the ground, he looked up to see a tall blonde woman, she reached down and put out a hand to help him up. He took her hand and stood up, "Thanks." She smiled to him "Are you alright? It looked like that hurt." He shrugged, "It was just a small fall, nothing really to worry about." "I'm Christina." She said sweetly, Thomas responded, "I'm Thomas, Thomas Keele." She raised an eyebrow "That's a nice name, Thomas." They continued to talk for a few minutes, his timer read *0:00:00:00*. He looked down to check it, a sudden pop comes from the roof top, a bullet comes flying downwards to Thomas, he turned up to where the pop came from too late to do anything, the bullet then pierced right through his head. |
Those timers like in that movie "In Time"?
Yeah, now it counts down to the person you may spend the rest of your life with, who might destroy your life, or save it.
Your choice. | [WP] A timer integrated in your body counts down to when you meet someone who will change your life | Maria was having a great time at the party. It was a relaxed affair, with just twenty people mingling in the spacious apartment. The people there were mostly friends of hers, with enough friends-of-friends to keep things interesting. Maria was at the bar, refilling her wine glass, when the hostess, Isabelle, approached her.
“Is! The party’s going well. Would you like a drink?”
“No thanks, Maria, I’m still good.” Isabelle gestured with her champagne flute with a smile. “However, I’d like you introduce you to someone. This is Mark.”
Maria now noticed the handsome man behind her friend.
“How do you do?” Mark smiled at her as he stretched out his hand.
“I’m doing very well, actually. Will you join me for a drink?” Maria met the handshake warmly, as Isabelle moved away, feeling satisfied with her matchmaking.
Maria and Mark got along very well, and found themselves having a great conversation for several hours. Finally, Mark pleaded tiredness. “I have a confession, though – my clock hit zero the moment we met. Perhaps I could bother you for a number?”
Maria was stunned – she’d had a great conversation with Mark and did like him quite a lot, but to be his ‘special person’…
“Mark, I…My clock hasn’t stopped. It’s still going.” Maria felt terrible.
“It…what? I…oh. Well. I’m sorry. Maybe my clock was counting down to meeting the girl who’d ruin me for all the others.” Mark flirted, but it was betrayed by the genuine hurt and disappointment in his eyes.
“Haha, maybe!” Maria laughed a little uneasily. “But I’m happy to give you my number.”
Mark left the party not long after, showing just a little of the slump of a defeated man. Maria felt terrible, but there wasn’t much that she could do about it – she had no control over her clock. That it was only days away, though…
Maria grabbed another drink.
===
Maria walked through the crowed city street. It was time – her time. In the next minute, she’d meet the person who’d change her life. She found herself surprisingly unworried, prepared to let fate work its magic.
Twenty seconds left.
Maria rounded the corner and only avoided crashing into the broad figure that came around the other way with a quick sidestep.
“Maria?” It was Mark, the fun guy she’d met the other night – he hadn’t ended up calling her later, which had made her a little sad, as she’d quite liked him.
“Oh, hi Mark!” Maria smiled at him. “How are you going?” She didn’t understand what was going on. It couldn’t be Mark – she’d already met him. And there were only ten seconds left.
“Good, just out shopping with my daughter. This is Flora. I told you of her the other night.” Mark gestured to the little girl that was hiding behind him.
“Yes, I remember.” Maria got down on one knee to get on eye level with the little girl, who couldn’t be more than about three years old.
“Hello Flora, my name is Maria.”
Flora looked at her shyly from behind her father’s legs. “Hello.”
Maria looked up at Mark, her eyes slightly wet. “My clock just stopped.”
Mark’s jaw dropped open as a confusion of emotions passed across his face. Then, finally, he beamed down, and his eyes, too, became a little wet.
“Maybe we should go to the park so we can all get to know each other better.” | Ten minutes and I'm still home alone,
Turned off the T.V, turned off the phone,
I'm scared to change, I like how things are,
A fancy desk job, and a brand new car,
I may be depressed, that's why I have pills,
Everyone says the 3rd alarm is what kills,
First my Dad left, never thought he'd betray,
Then I got shot, paramedics saved the day,
Nine long bells as the clock finally strikes nine,
A knock at the door, shivers down my spine,
I approach slowly, God, I must be bloody mad,
I open the door and my jaw drops... "Hey Dad." |
[WP] Frank is a Centaur. Frank is in denial. | Dinner with mom. Small talk and steak.
"Frank, honey," she said. She was a faded beauty in her fifties. She took a large gulp of white wine. "I know you've always had trouble fitting in, you feel a bit, I don't know, different I guess?"
"I thought maybe," her lips pressed together and trembled, a watery glint in her shamed eyes, "maybe it might help if I told you who your real father is."
Frank's eyes widened. "Mom, you don't have to, I I don't need,"
She cut him off. "Seabiscuit," she whispered, hoarsely.
| "Well... you know what they say about centaurs..."
"HOW DARE YOU! It's a medical condition!"
As the horse-man stomped away in a huff, she pouted to herself. So much for her plans for tonight. | |
[WP] Write a love story between two people with the first line being, "Are you a terrorist?" | "Are you a terrorist?" He asked intently.
She smiled. "No sweets, I'm not a terrorist. I'm Caroline, you're wife. We've been married for 54 years now."
His eyes screwed up and a tiny voice inside his brain was screaming at him that this was true. That she was true.
"Nurse!" He screamed. "Nurse! I want this woman escorted out of my room immediately!".
She smiled again. And she cried. She kissed him softly on the cheek as she had done her whole life and she walked out of the room.
He watched her go triumphantly, longing for her return.
| "Are you a terrorist?" She asked me, eyes wide.
What could I possibly tell her? How could I explain that my family's life is threatened, that my only child has felt the cold barrel of a gun upon his temple, that even her life is in danger? I can't lie to her. Without her, I'm nothing. The moon with the sun right behind it, illuminating the darkest parts of my heart, she's everything to me.
"Yes. Before you say anything, everything I've done was to keep you safe, to keep you from harm. I can't allow the deaths of my family, it would be the most dishonorable thing to do. I give you the choice of staying or leaving, I know me being a part of this group isn't something you want to associate with. All I can say now, is that I love you. Day in and day out, you're always on my mind. You're beautiful to me in ways I could never find in another woman, and I hope to one day be free of these antagonistic chains that weigh me down."
Sarah paused, struck with awe from my reply. Tears falling from her eyes, she whispered, "Till death do us part..." | |
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | I never believed in reincarnation. I was always more of a final-thinking guy– you know, when you're dead, you're dead. Game over. But as I gaped at my surroundings in a sad attempt to take them all in, I suddenly found myself wishing I'd woken up as anything else but me.
The world around me is darker than the night. There's an overwhelming smell in the air, and somehow I get the feeling that I'm supposed to find it bitter and disgusting. But as it fills my nose I find myself reassured... comfortable, even. I know where I am– I was no saint in life, even by my own standards. I just never thought I'd find anything so pleasant, so enjoyable here.
I'm suddenly aware of strong fingers gripping my arms, digging razorlike nails into my skin, dragging me to my feet. I struggle as something is wrapped tightly around my neck, yelling for some form of mercy, but the creatures in the darkness continue rambling in some arcane tongue I've never heard. One of them digs piercing claws into my back, climbing up me like a mountain wall. It pulls my head back roughly, forcing a headpiece of sharp metal into my scalp. Reaching around me, it rakes my eyes with its claws– and I can see.
The creatures leap from my body and stand before me, yelling and screaming in their insane language. All I can do is look at them as my body trembles in dread anticipation of their first grand torture.
Moments pass.
The creatures glance to each other, confused. One of them approaches me, gingerly reaching up and touching my ear. And suddenly, I understand them. I understand *everything.*
"...you understand us now?" the creature asks. I nod slowly in response. The creature smiles wickedly, adjusting the robe around my neck and bowing slightly. "We welcome your spirit back, sir. As requested, we have kept your robe and crown safe while you were among the humans. What have you learned of them?"
I never believed in reincarnation. Too bad. I could have had a lot more fun. | Waking up started with the dull ache in my feet. There was no true sleep in Hell, only a moment of confusion when the body healed to begin the day anew.
It always started with the boots, a bit of antiquity from a time when they knew how to treat men like me. Iron boots clamped down on the bones of the feet, so that the act of walking was a nightmare, and always ended in broken bones. Next was the Dog Run, and I knew all about those. In prison they trotted us out every day, but this was the Dog Run with a twist. Real dogs, or what counted for dogs in Hell, made sure you ran no matter how much it hurt, because if they caught you it was going to be that much worse. I'd only seen it once, I think, the bite to the man's left leg. It was quick and left barely a mark, but his leg stiffened, and he screamed over and over as it shattered like glass after a few steps, and the dogs fought over the juicy treats left behind. He still had to make it through the Dog Run, too.
After the body was tuned to the suffering we had earned, it was time to focus on our minds. Everyone went somewhere different, and for me it was The House. I knew it from somewhere, I swear. It had been a place of comfort, a place of respite and understanding. The woman inside was always waiting, looking like fresh sunlight and smelling like the paradise I'd never see. She looked confused with the shadowed figure handed me the sword, and then looked so disappointed and sad as I raised it. I didn't have a choice, my body didn't obey me, and after the first cut her screaming tore into what little good there was left in me. By the second cut, aimed precisely to spill her innards, I found myself hating her for how much this hurt me. The last cut was mine, always mine, and it was the killing blow. To shut her up, to end her pain...to end mine.
I left the House knowing that woman was special to me. She had been, she had to be. I didn't know why, of course, that was part of the punishment. All I knew was I had promised not to forget. That, ironically, was the best part of my day. A meaningful feeling in a meaningless place.
In Hell they never end things on a note that doesn't linger, so the final wounding was a blend of what had come before. I dragged her tattered corpse up the hill, trying to keep her body away from the dogs, and away from the others. They'd butcher me for just a taste of her meat, of her blood, anything to quench thirst, ease hunger, or slake lust. I still loved the unknown woman enough to not want that to happen to her, but the raw, seething hatred of what a burden she was cut me like the lash waiting at the top of the hill. The prize for first place was one less lash than the others, but it never mattered. When it was time to lay down and cry, to wait for the body to heal, the others would make sure the 'winner' got what was coming to him.
And all the while, somewhere in the Pitt, you could hear Him. He wasn't such a presence here as I thought he would be, I think He broke a long, long time ago. All you had to fear from the Devil in Hell was that goddamned laughter. The endless, dry laughter that haunted all of the Deep, the laughter that came from my mouth as well before the end of every cycle.
|
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | Move your hand first, wiggle your fingers. You’ve been here before.
You’re dreaming, well not dreaming, but not awake either. Just push up your head. Focus on your breathing.
No your breathing. The other breathing isn’t real. It’s on your face but it isn’t real and I don’t care if it smells like sulfur.
It isn’t real.
If you wiggle your toes and push up your head you’ll wake up. Your body is asleep but your mind is awake. Just focus on waking up your body and don’t choke on its breath. When you wake up the air will be cool and there will be a breeze and you’ll be home and you’ll make coffee and you’ll just go on. Just like all the other times.
There you go, eyes open. See? You can’t move but it’s your room just keep wriggling your fingers and toes and don’t worry if it’s moving closer. It’s just a shadow and you have an overactive imagination and it’s not moving. It’s not on your bed and it’s not getting hotter.
You’ll shoot out of bed in a second and I don’t care if it burns, just listen.
Seriously just shoot out of fucking bed and the fire will be out and you’ll move and it won’t hurt anymore and I don’t care if it’s laughing.
Listen. Just listen. I don’t care how loud it laughs if you can hear me.
As long as you can hear me you can wake up and it won’t hurt and you’ll have coffee, go on with your day.
I know, it’s right in your face and it’s breathing and it hurts and it smells like sulfur and it burns and it never takes this long and it knows what you did but.
Maybe you’re right.
| *Damn*, it's hot in here. What kind of casino doesn't have air conditioning? It is probably over capacity, too. The number of people--it's overwhelming. They're all dressed up, too. Loons. The costumes are super accurate, though. It's crazy. I swear I just saw Allen Ginsberg walk by, talking to Marie Antoinette.
I'm going mad.
I walk by the bar. Drunken nutjobs sit around, moping over some sob story. Sliding into a seat, I ask for a beer. I really need to drink this craziness off.
The man sitting next to me leans over, saying, "Nice to make your acquiantance, sir. Name's Fitzgerald. Francis Fitzgerald. What're you in for?"
I think back to how I came to be in this casino. Odd. I have no idea. "Can't remember," I tell him. "How about you?"
"For the booze," he replies, taking a long drink from his own bottle. The bartender hands me my beer, and I take a hesitant sip. "It's the Jazz Age, son. Gin, the national drink, and sex the obsession." He pauses. "For both the beautiful, like that pretty little woman right over there, and the damned, like our sorry selves."
I nod, more scared now than anything else. I slowly stand up, and, taking my beer with me, make my exit. This keeps getting weirder and weirder. I am going crazy. As soon as I get out of here, I seriously need to see a therapist.
|
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | As the grayness recedes and dim light filters in, I slowly perceive my surroundings. In a car … my car. In the driver’s seat. Parked, the garish light of the convenience store sign washing out the colors, turning the dashboard gray, my hands fishbelly white. I watch as my right hand reaches out to unlock the glove compartment, watch it reach in for the gun. A cheap five-shot .38. Serial numbers filed off a dozen owners ago. The other hand releases the cylinder and I see the loads. Hollowpoints.
I see my left hand reach for the door handle, watch as it opens and I get out. Hear the chunk as the door closes, and watch my booted feet walk toward the door. No.
Hand to door handle, door open, walk inside, door swings shut. The almost-empty store spreads out before me, barren at this hour. Almost empty but for her. Oh please, no.
Walk to the counter. Grab a Slim Jim and ask for a pack of Marlboros. When she turns, the hand goes into the coat pocket, comes out with the revolver. She turns, holding the smokes, then sees the gun.
She’s young, Asian, cute in a bookish way. Eyeglasses, hair in a ponytail, cheap rayon uniform smock draped over a petite frame. Oh please, please no. Please.
She draws in breath, and I know she’s going to scream. I’ve heard that scream. Many times. Countless times. I also know her other hand, the one not holding the cigarettes, is reaching under the counter, where the alarm switch is. Please, don’t scream. Please please don’t reach for the switch.
The scream comes as the hand holding the revolver extends, then jerks back … once, twice. Two gouts of flame, two red blossoms open on that cheap rayon smock. Her glasses fly off, she bounces back against the cigarette rack, tumbling dozens of gaudy packs down upon her as she slides down the wall, staring at me, then slumps over.
I see my hand reach into the open till, snatch up what’s there. I know exactly how much – $56.
My legs carry me back to the car, my hands hurriedly open the door, key the ignition, drop the shifter into gear and steer me away. Away to the rest of my life. The rest of my life … my life…
As the grayness recedes and dim light filters in, I slowly perceive my surroundings. In a car … my car.
| *Damn*, it's hot in here. What kind of casino doesn't have air conditioning? It is probably over capacity, too. The number of people--it's overwhelming. They're all dressed up, too. Loons. The costumes are super accurate, though. It's crazy. I swear I just saw Allen Ginsberg walk by, talking to Marie Antoinette.
I'm going mad.
I walk by the bar. Drunken nutjobs sit around, moping over some sob story. Sliding into a seat, I ask for a beer. I really need to drink this craziness off.
The man sitting next to me leans over, saying, "Nice to make your acquiantance, sir. Name's Fitzgerald. Francis Fitzgerald. What're you in for?"
I think back to how I came to be in this casino. Odd. I have no idea. "Can't remember," I tell him. "How about you?"
"For the booze," he replies, taking a long drink from his own bottle. The bartender hands me my beer, and I take a hesitant sip. "It's the Jazz Age, son. Gin, the national drink, and sex the obsession." He pauses. "For both the beautiful, like that pretty little woman right over there, and the damned, like our sorry selves."
I nod, more scared now than anything else. I slowly stand up, and, taking my beer with me, make my exit. This keeps getting weirder and weirder. I am going crazy. As soon as I get out of here, I seriously need to see a therapist.
|
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | What?
I thought I was done with this. I thought I had escaped. There can't be more.
I can't see anything, I can't really feel anything either. I can't really move at all.
I try to speak, I can't. It's just me and my thoughts.
How did this happen?
"You know how this happened."
What? Who's that?
"You know how this happened?
I don't. I really don't.
"Don't you know where you are? You know how this happened."
Where am I? Where am I? There was a flash and I don't remember anything after that.
"You don't remember? You don't remember their screams?"
What? What are you talking about? Who are you?
"You know what I'm talking about. We're going to see it together."
Suddenly, I see myself. I wave for me to follow. I'm smiling.
A door appears and we step through. We are in a room filled with cribs.
What is this? What the fuck is going on?
"You'll see." My other self fades. I am stuck in the room.
I look around, I see a baby in each crib. They don't notice me, most are asleep.
Suddenly the door explodes open. It is a military squad, I see myself in the lead.
No, no, no, I remember, I remember...STOP! They don't stop.
One by one, they go to each crib, doing their deadly work.
Once the screams have stopped, I feel a tap on my shoulder. It's me.
What is this? What is going on?
"All those years you knew this would catch up with you. You knew. You tried not to believe. You thought once it was all over that would be the end. But, you knew it couldn't be. Certain things are not forgiven."
You mean this is...
"Yes. Welcome to Hell, child-killer. I'll see you again and we'll discuss what you could have done differently. After all, you've got eternity to think about it."
I laugh and fade to nothing. | *Damn*, it's hot in here. What kind of casino doesn't have air conditioning? It is probably over capacity, too. The number of people--it's overwhelming. They're all dressed up, too. Loons. The costumes are super accurate, though. It's crazy. I swear I just saw Allen Ginsberg walk by, talking to Marie Antoinette.
I'm going mad.
I walk by the bar. Drunken nutjobs sit around, moping over some sob story. Sliding into a seat, I ask for a beer. I really need to drink this craziness off.
The man sitting next to me leans over, saying, "Nice to make your acquiantance, sir. Name's Fitzgerald. Francis Fitzgerald. What're you in for?"
I think back to how I came to be in this casino. Odd. I have no idea. "Can't remember," I tell him. "How about you?"
"For the booze," he replies, taking a long drink from his own bottle. The bartender hands me my beer, and I take a hesitant sip. "It's the Jazz Age, son. Gin, the national drink, and sex the obsession." He pauses. "For both the beautiful, like that pretty little woman right over there, and the damned, like our sorry selves."
I nod, more scared now than anything else. I slowly stand up, and, taking my beer with me, make my exit. This keeps getting weirder and weirder. I am going crazy. As soon as I get out of here, I seriously need to see a therapist.
|
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | I never believed in reincarnation. I was always more of a final-thinking guy– you know, when you're dead, you're dead. Game over. But as I gaped at my surroundings in a sad attempt to take them all in, I suddenly found myself wishing I'd woken up as anything else but me.
The world around me is darker than the night. There's an overwhelming smell in the air, and somehow I get the feeling that I'm supposed to find it bitter and disgusting. But as it fills my nose I find myself reassured... comfortable, even. I know where I am– I was no saint in life, even by my own standards. I just never thought I'd find anything so pleasant, so enjoyable here.
I'm suddenly aware of strong fingers gripping my arms, digging razorlike nails into my skin, dragging me to my feet. I struggle as something is wrapped tightly around my neck, yelling for some form of mercy, but the creatures in the darkness continue rambling in some arcane tongue I've never heard. One of them digs piercing claws into my back, climbing up me like a mountain wall. It pulls my head back roughly, forcing a headpiece of sharp metal into my scalp. Reaching around me, it rakes my eyes with its claws– and I can see.
The creatures leap from my body and stand before me, yelling and screaming in their insane language. All I can do is look at them as my body trembles in dread anticipation of their first grand torture.
Moments pass.
The creatures glance to each other, confused. One of them approaches me, gingerly reaching up and touching my ear. And suddenly, I understand them. I understand *everything.*
"...you understand us now?" the creature asks. I nod slowly in response. The creature smiles wickedly, adjusting the robe around my neck and bowing slightly. "We welcome your spirit back, sir. As requested, we have kept your robe and crown safe while you were among the humans. What have you learned of them?"
I never believed in reincarnation. Too bad. I could have had a lot more fun. | *Damn*, it's hot in here. What kind of casino doesn't have air conditioning? It is probably over capacity, too. The number of people--it's overwhelming. They're all dressed up, too. Loons. The costumes are super accurate, though. It's crazy. I swear I just saw Allen Ginsberg walk by, talking to Marie Antoinette.
I'm going mad.
I walk by the bar. Drunken nutjobs sit around, moping over some sob story. Sliding into a seat, I ask for a beer. I really need to drink this craziness off.
The man sitting next to me leans over, saying, "Nice to make your acquiantance, sir. Name's Fitzgerald. Francis Fitzgerald. What're you in for?"
I think back to how I came to be in this casino. Odd. I have no idea. "Can't remember," I tell him. "How about you?"
"For the booze," he replies, taking a long drink from his own bottle. The bartender hands me my beer, and I take a hesitant sip. "It's the Jazz Age, son. Gin, the national drink, and sex the obsession." He pauses. "For both the beautiful, like that pretty little woman right over there, and the damned, like our sorry selves."
I nod, more scared now than anything else. I slowly stand up, and, taking my beer with me, make my exit. This keeps getting weirder and weirder. I am going crazy. As soon as I get out of here, I seriously need to see a therapist.
|
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | I open my eyes, expecting to see demons dancing around me ; pitchforks in hand, muttering some demonic song or curse.
But there is none.
As far as I can see, everything is white and silent.
I am alone in hell, if this is hell.
I stand up, from where I had found myself lying on the cold floor. Suddenly I see that it was not white surrounding me, it was mirrors.
Mirrors reflecting all around, as if they were encircled around me.
Adjusting myself to oddness of it, I peer in to one of the mirrors, looking at my reflection.
But is not my reflection.
Physically, the reflection looks similar to me ; almost as if we could have been twin brothers. But the reflection's posture, his demeanor, the clothes he's wearing, they are all so different.
That's not me.
As I look into the eyes of my reflection, I begin to see the events of my life play out in my reflections eyes, from when a was a young tot to and elderly man. The small events leading all the way up to the big events that changed who I was as a person. Yet as I stand there mesmerised as what I am seeing, I begin to notice that as I get older, the events begin to change. They begin to have different endings and beginnings.
And lastly I begin to see events that had never happened to me.
I see myself getting a great well paying job.
I see myself happily married with kids.
The list goes on and on and that's when I realise.
I am in hell.
I am looking, witnessing and experiencing the man that I could have been.
The man that was there for me to aspire to become, yet I shied away from the great challenges in my life, leaving me as a nobody that few would remember.
My hell was to look at the man that I could have been.
For the rest of eternity.
_______________________________
[+](https://www.facebook.com/SamboMoiz) [+](http://www.reddit.com/r/composerofwords) [+](http://anauthorsadventure.wordpress.com/) [+](http://www.wattpad.com/user/SamboMoiz) [+](https://twitter.com/SamboMoiz) [+](http://composerofwords.blogspot.co.nz/)
| *Damn*, it's hot in here. What kind of casino doesn't have air conditioning? It is probably over capacity, too. The number of people--it's overwhelming. They're all dressed up, too. Loons. The costumes are super accurate, though. It's crazy. I swear I just saw Allen Ginsberg walk by, talking to Marie Antoinette.
I'm going mad.
I walk by the bar. Drunken nutjobs sit around, moping over some sob story. Sliding into a seat, I ask for a beer. I really need to drink this craziness off.
The man sitting next to me leans over, saying, "Nice to make your acquiantance, sir. Name's Fitzgerald. Francis Fitzgerald. What're you in for?"
I think back to how I came to be in this casino. Odd. I have no idea. "Can't remember," I tell him. "How about you?"
"For the booze," he replies, taking a long drink from his own bottle. The bartender hands me my beer, and I take a hesitant sip. "It's the Jazz Age, son. Gin, the national drink, and sex the obsession." He pauses. "For both the beautiful, like that pretty little woman right over there, and the damned, like our sorry selves."
I nod, more scared now than anything else. I slowly stand up, and, taking my beer with me, make my exit. This keeps getting weirder and weirder. I am going crazy. As soon as I get out of here, I seriously need to see a therapist.
|
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | As the grayness recedes and dim light filters in, I slowly perceive my surroundings. In a car … my car. In the driver’s seat. Parked, the garish light of the convenience store sign washing out the colors, turning the dashboard gray, my hands fishbelly white. I watch as my right hand reaches out to unlock the glove compartment, watch it reach in for the gun. A cheap five-shot .38. Serial numbers filed off a dozen owners ago. The other hand releases the cylinder and I see the loads. Hollowpoints.
I see my left hand reach for the door handle, watch as it opens and I get out. Hear the chunk as the door closes, and watch my booted feet walk toward the door. No.
Hand to door handle, door open, walk inside, door swings shut. The almost-empty store spreads out before me, barren at this hour. Almost empty but for her. Oh please, no.
Walk to the counter. Grab a Slim Jim and ask for a pack of Marlboros. When she turns, the hand goes into the coat pocket, comes out with the revolver. She turns, holding the smokes, then sees the gun.
She’s young, Asian, cute in a bookish way. Eyeglasses, hair in a ponytail, cheap rayon uniform smock draped over a petite frame. Oh please, please no. Please.
She draws in breath, and I know she’s going to scream. I’ve heard that scream. Many times. Countless times. I also know her other hand, the one not holding the cigarettes, is reaching under the counter, where the alarm switch is. Please, don’t scream. Please please don’t reach for the switch.
The scream comes as the hand holding the revolver extends, then jerks back … once, twice. Two gouts of flame, two red blossoms open on that cheap rayon smock. Her glasses fly off, she bounces back against the cigarette rack, tumbling dozens of gaudy packs down upon her as she slides down the wall, staring at me, then slumps over.
I see my hand reach into the open till, snatch up what’s there. I know exactly how much – $56.
My legs carry me back to the car, my hands hurriedly open the door, key the ignition, drop the shifter into gear and steer me away. Away to the rest of my life. The rest of my life … my life…
As the grayness recedes and dim light filters in, I slowly perceive my surroundings. In a car … my car.
| ...where am I? I don't remember driving to New Jersey. |
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | What?
I thought I was done with this. I thought I had escaped. There can't be more.
I can't see anything, I can't really feel anything either. I can't really move at all.
I try to speak, I can't. It's just me and my thoughts.
How did this happen?
"You know how this happened."
What? Who's that?
"You know how this happened?
I don't. I really don't.
"Don't you know where you are? You know how this happened."
Where am I? Where am I? There was a flash and I don't remember anything after that.
"You don't remember? You don't remember their screams?"
What? What are you talking about? Who are you?
"You know what I'm talking about. We're going to see it together."
Suddenly, I see myself. I wave for me to follow. I'm smiling.
A door appears and we step through. We are in a room filled with cribs.
What is this? What the fuck is going on?
"You'll see." My other self fades. I am stuck in the room.
I look around, I see a baby in each crib. They don't notice me, most are asleep.
Suddenly the door explodes open. It is a military squad, I see myself in the lead.
No, no, no, I remember, I remember...STOP! They don't stop.
One by one, they go to each crib, doing their deadly work.
Once the screams have stopped, I feel a tap on my shoulder. It's me.
What is this? What is going on?
"All those years you knew this would catch up with you. You knew. You tried not to believe. You thought once it was all over that would be the end. But, you knew it couldn't be. Certain things are not forgiven."
You mean this is...
"Yes. Welcome to Hell, child-killer. I'll see you again and we'll discuss what you could have done differently. After all, you've got eternity to think about it."
I laugh and fade to nothing. | ...where am I? I don't remember driving to New Jersey. |
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | I never believed in reincarnation. I was always more of a final-thinking guy– you know, when you're dead, you're dead. Game over. But as I gaped at my surroundings in a sad attempt to take them all in, I suddenly found myself wishing I'd woken up as anything else but me.
The world around me is darker than the night. There's an overwhelming smell in the air, and somehow I get the feeling that I'm supposed to find it bitter and disgusting. But as it fills my nose I find myself reassured... comfortable, even. I know where I am– I was no saint in life, even by my own standards. I just never thought I'd find anything so pleasant, so enjoyable here.
I'm suddenly aware of strong fingers gripping my arms, digging razorlike nails into my skin, dragging me to my feet. I struggle as something is wrapped tightly around my neck, yelling for some form of mercy, but the creatures in the darkness continue rambling in some arcane tongue I've never heard. One of them digs piercing claws into my back, climbing up me like a mountain wall. It pulls my head back roughly, forcing a headpiece of sharp metal into my scalp. Reaching around me, it rakes my eyes with its claws– and I can see.
The creatures leap from my body and stand before me, yelling and screaming in their insane language. All I can do is look at them as my body trembles in dread anticipation of their first grand torture.
Moments pass.
The creatures glance to each other, confused. One of them approaches me, gingerly reaching up and touching my ear. And suddenly, I understand them. I understand *everything.*
"...you understand us now?" the creature asks. I nod slowly in response. The creature smiles wickedly, adjusting the robe around my neck and bowing slightly. "We welcome your spirit back, sir. As requested, we have kept your robe and crown safe while you were among the humans. What have you learned of them?"
I never believed in reincarnation. Too bad. I could have had a lot more fun. | ...where am I? I don't remember driving to New Jersey. |
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | I open my eyes, expecting to see demons dancing around me ; pitchforks in hand, muttering some demonic song or curse.
But there is none.
As far as I can see, everything is white and silent.
I am alone in hell, if this is hell.
I stand up, from where I had found myself lying on the cold floor. Suddenly I see that it was not white surrounding me, it was mirrors.
Mirrors reflecting all around, as if they were encircled around me.
Adjusting myself to oddness of it, I peer in to one of the mirrors, looking at my reflection.
But is not my reflection.
Physically, the reflection looks similar to me ; almost as if we could have been twin brothers. But the reflection's posture, his demeanor, the clothes he's wearing, they are all so different.
That's not me.
As I look into the eyes of my reflection, I begin to see the events of my life play out in my reflections eyes, from when a was a young tot to and elderly man. The small events leading all the way up to the big events that changed who I was as a person. Yet as I stand there mesmerised as what I am seeing, I begin to notice that as I get older, the events begin to change. They begin to have different endings and beginnings.
And lastly I begin to see events that had never happened to me.
I see myself getting a great well paying job.
I see myself happily married with kids.
The list goes on and on and that's when I realise.
I am in hell.
I am looking, witnessing and experiencing the man that I could have been.
The man that was there for me to aspire to become, yet I shied away from the great challenges in my life, leaving me as a nobody that few would remember.
My hell was to look at the man that I could have been.
For the rest of eternity.
_______________________________
[+](https://www.facebook.com/SamboMoiz) [+](http://www.reddit.com/r/composerofwords) [+](http://anauthorsadventure.wordpress.com/) [+](http://www.wattpad.com/user/SamboMoiz) [+](https://twitter.com/SamboMoiz) [+](http://composerofwords.blogspot.co.nz/)
| ...where am I? I don't remember driving to New Jersey. |
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | As the grayness recedes and dim light filters in, I slowly perceive my surroundings. In a car … my car. In the driver’s seat. Parked, the garish light of the convenience store sign washing out the colors, turning the dashboard gray, my hands fishbelly white. I watch as my right hand reaches out to unlock the glove compartment, watch it reach in for the gun. A cheap five-shot .38. Serial numbers filed off a dozen owners ago. The other hand releases the cylinder and I see the loads. Hollowpoints.
I see my left hand reach for the door handle, watch as it opens and I get out. Hear the chunk as the door closes, and watch my booted feet walk toward the door. No.
Hand to door handle, door open, walk inside, door swings shut. The almost-empty store spreads out before me, barren at this hour. Almost empty but for her. Oh please, no.
Walk to the counter. Grab a Slim Jim and ask for a pack of Marlboros. When she turns, the hand goes into the coat pocket, comes out with the revolver. She turns, holding the smokes, then sees the gun.
She’s young, Asian, cute in a bookish way. Eyeglasses, hair in a ponytail, cheap rayon uniform smock draped over a petite frame. Oh please, please no. Please.
She draws in breath, and I know she’s going to scream. I’ve heard that scream. Many times. Countless times. I also know her other hand, the one not holding the cigarettes, is reaching under the counter, where the alarm switch is. Please, don’t scream. Please please don’t reach for the switch.
The scream comes as the hand holding the revolver extends, then jerks back … once, twice. Two gouts of flame, two red blossoms open on that cheap rayon smock. Her glasses fly off, she bounces back against the cigarette rack, tumbling dozens of gaudy packs down upon her as she slides down the wall, staring at me, then slumps over.
I see my hand reach into the open till, snatch up what’s there. I know exactly how much – $56.
My legs carry me back to the car, my hands hurriedly open the door, key the ignition, drop the shifter into gear and steer me away. Away to the rest of my life. The rest of my life … my life…
As the grayness recedes and dim light filters in, I slowly perceive my surroundings. In a car … my car.
| Move your hand first, wiggle your fingers. You’ve been here before.
You’re dreaming, well not dreaming, but not awake either. Just push up your head. Focus on your breathing.
No your breathing. The other breathing isn’t real. It’s on your face but it isn’t real and I don’t care if it smells like sulfur.
It isn’t real.
If you wiggle your toes and push up your head you’ll wake up. Your body is asleep but your mind is awake. Just focus on waking up your body and don’t choke on its breath. When you wake up the air will be cool and there will be a breeze and you’ll be home and you’ll make coffee and you’ll just go on. Just like all the other times.
There you go, eyes open. See? You can’t move but it’s your room just keep wriggling your fingers and toes and don’t worry if it’s moving closer. It’s just a shadow and you have an overactive imagination and it’s not moving. It’s not on your bed and it’s not getting hotter.
You’ll shoot out of bed in a second and I don’t care if it burns, just listen.
Seriously just shoot out of fucking bed and the fire will be out and you’ll move and it won’t hurt anymore and I don’t care if it’s laughing.
Listen. Just listen. I don’t care how loud it laughs if you can hear me.
As long as you can hear me you can wake up and it won’t hurt and you’ll have coffee, go on with your day.
I know, it’s right in your face and it’s breathing and it hurts and it smells like sulfur and it burns and it never takes this long and it knows what you did but.
Maybe you’re right.
|
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | What?
I thought I was done with this. I thought I had escaped. There can't be more.
I can't see anything, I can't really feel anything either. I can't really move at all.
I try to speak, I can't. It's just me and my thoughts.
How did this happen?
"You know how this happened."
What? Who's that?
"You know how this happened?
I don't. I really don't.
"Don't you know where you are? You know how this happened."
Where am I? Where am I? There was a flash and I don't remember anything after that.
"You don't remember? You don't remember their screams?"
What? What are you talking about? Who are you?
"You know what I'm talking about. We're going to see it together."
Suddenly, I see myself. I wave for me to follow. I'm smiling.
A door appears and we step through. We are in a room filled with cribs.
What is this? What the fuck is going on?
"You'll see." My other self fades. I am stuck in the room.
I look around, I see a baby in each crib. They don't notice me, most are asleep.
Suddenly the door explodes open. It is a military squad, I see myself in the lead.
No, no, no, I remember, I remember...STOP! They don't stop.
One by one, they go to each crib, doing their deadly work.
Once the screams have stopped, I feel a tap on my shoulder. It's me.
What is this? What is going on?
"All those years you knew this would catch up with you. You knew. You tried not to believe. You thought once it was all over that would be the end. But, you knew it couldn't be. Certain things are not forgiven."
You mean this is...
"Yes. Welcome to Hell, child-killer. I'll see you again and we'll discuss what you could have done differently. After all, you've got eternity to think about it."
I laugh and fade to nothing. | Move your hand first, wiggle your fingers. You’ve been here before.
You’re dreaming, well not dreaming, but not awake either. Just push up your head. Focus on your breathing.
No your breathing. The other breathing isn’t real. It’s on your face but it isn’t real and I don’t care if it smells like sulfur.
It isn’t real.
If you wiggle your toes and push up your head you’ll wake up. Your body is asleep but your mind is awake. Just focus on waking up your body and don’t choke on its breath. When you wake up the air will be cool and there will be a breeze and you’ll be home and you’ll make coffee and you’ll just go on. Just like all the other times.
There you go, eyes open. See? You can’t move but it’s your room just keep wriggling your fingers and toes and don’t worry if it’s moving closer. It’s just a shadow and you have an overactive imagination and it’s not moving. It’s not on your bed and it’s not getting hotter.
You’ll shoot out of bed in a second and I don’t care if it burns, just listen.
Seriously just shoot out of fucking bed and the fire will be out and you’ll move and it won’t hurt anymore and I don’t care if it’s laughing.
Listen. Just listen. I don’t care how loud it laughs if you can hear me.
As long as you can hear me you can wake up and it won’t hurt and you’ll have coffee, go on with your day.
I know, it’s right in your face and it’s breathing and it hurts and it smells like sulfur and it burns and it never takes this long and it knows what you did but.
Maybe you’re right.
|
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | I never believed in reincarnation. I was always more of a final-thinking guy– you know, when you're dead, you're dead. Game over. But as I gaped at my surroundings in a sad attempt to take them all in, I suddenly found myself wishing I'd woken up as anything else but me.
The world around me is darker than the night. There's an overwhelming smell in the air, and somehow I get the feeling that I'm supposed to find it bitter and disgusting. But as it fills my nose I find myself reassured... comfortable, even. I know where I am– I was no saint in life, even by my own standards. I just never thought I'd find anything so pleasant, so enjoyable here.
I'm suddenly aware of strong fingers gripping my arms, digging razorlike nails into my skin, dragging me to my feet. I struggle as something is wrapped tightly around my neck, yelling for some form of mercy, but the creatures in the darkness continue rambling in some arcane tongue I've never heard. One of them digs piercing claws into my back, climbing up me like a mountain wall. It pulls my head back roughly, forcing a headpiece of sharp metal into my scalp. Reaching around me, it rakes my eyes with its claws– and I can see.
The creatures leap from my body and stand before me, yelling and screaming in their insane language. All I can do is look at them as my body trembles in dread anticipation of their first grand torture.
Moments pass.
The creatures glance to each other, confused. One of them approaches me, gingerly reaching up and touching my ear. And suddenly, I understand them. I understand *everything.*
"...you understand us now?" the creature asks. I nod slowly in response. The creature smiles wickedly, adjusting the robe around my neck and bowing slightly. "We welcome your spirit back, sir. As requested, we have kept your robe and crown safe while you were among the humans. What have you learned of them?"
I never believed in reincarnation. Too bad. I could have had a lot more fun. | Move your hand first, wiggle your fingers. You’ve been here before.
You’re dreaming, well not dreaming, but not awake either. Just push up your head. Focus on your breathing.
No your breathing. The other breathing isn’t real. It’s on your face but it isn’t real and I don’t care if it smells like sulfur.
It isn’t real.
If you wiggle your toes and push up your head you’ll wake up. Your body is asleep but your mind is awake. Just focus on waking up your body and don’t choke on its breath. When you wake up the air will be cool and there will be a breeze and you’ll be home and you’ll make coffee and you’ll just go on. Just like all the other times.
There you go, eyes open. See? You can’t move but it’s your room just keep wriggling your fingers and toes and don’t worry if it’s moving closer. It’s just a shadow and you have an overactive imagination and it’s not moving. It’s not on your bed and it’s not getting hotter.
You’ll shoot out of bed in a second and I don’t care if it burns, just listen.
Seriously just shoot out of fucking bed and the fire will be out and you’ll move and it won’t hurt anymore and I don’t care if it’s laughing.
Listen. Just listen. I don’t care how loud it laughs if you can hear me.
As long as you can hear me you can wake up and it won’t hurt and you’ll have coffee, go on with your day.
I know, it’s right in your face and it’s breathing and it hurts and it smells like sulfur and it burns and it never takes this long and it knows what you did but.
Maybe you’re right.
|
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | I open my eyes, expecting to see demons dancing around me ; pitchforks in hand, muttering some demonic song or curse.
But there is none.
As far as I can see, everything is white and silent.
I am alone in hell, if this is hell.
I stand up, from where I had found myself lying on the cold floor. Suddenly I see that it was not white surrounding me, it was mirrors.
Mirrors reflecting all around, as if they were encircled around me.
Adjusting myself to oddness of it, I peer in to one of the mirrors, looking at my reflection.
But is not my reflection.
Physically, the reflection looks similar to me ; almost as if we could have been twin brothers. But the reflection's posture, his demeanor, the clothes he's wearing, they are all so different.
That's not me.
As I look into the eyes of my reflection, I begin to see the events of my life play out in my reflections eyes, from when a was a young tot to and elderly man. The small events leading all the way up to the big events that changed who I was as a person. Yet as I stand there mesmerised as what I am seeing, I begin to notice that as I get older, the events begin to change. They begin to have different endings and beginnings.
And lastly I begin to see events that had never happened to me.
I see myself getting a great well paying job.
I see myself happily married with kids.
The list goes on and on and that's when I realise.
I am in hell.
I am looking, witnessing and experiencing the man that I could have been.
The man that was there for me to aspire to become, yet I shied away from the great challenges in my life, leaving me as a nobody that few would remember.
My hell was to look at the man that I could have been.
For the rest of eternity.
_______________________________
[+](https://www.facebook.com/SamboMoiz) [+](http://www.reddit.com/r/composerofwords) [+](http://anauthorsadventure.wordpress.com/) [+](http://www.wattpad.com/user/SamboMoiz) [+](https://twitter.com/SamboMoiz) [+](http://composerofwords.blogspot.co.nz/)
| Move your hand first, wiggle your fingers. You’ve been here before.
You’re dreaming, well not dreaming, but not awake either. Just push up your head. Focus on your breathing.
No your breathing. The other breathing isn’t real. It’s on your face but it isn’t real and I don’t care if it smells like sulfur.
It isn’t real.
If you wiggle your toes and push up your head you’ll wake up. Your body is asleep but your mind is awake. Just focus on waking up your body and don’t choke on its breath. When you wake up the air will be cool and there will be a breeze and you’ll be home and you’ll make coffee and you’ll just go on. Just like all the other times.
There you go, eyes open. See? You can’t move but it’s your room just keep wriggling your fingers and toes and don’t worry if it’s moving closer. It’s just a shadow and you have an overactive imagination and it’s not moving. It’s not on your bed and it’s not getting hotter.
You’ll shoot out of bed in a second and I don’t care if it burns, just listen.
Seriously just shoot out of fucking bed and the fire will be out and you’ll move and it won’t hurt anymore and I don’t care if it’s laughing.
Listen. Just listen. I don’t care how loud it laughs if you can hear me.
As long as you can hear me you can wake up and it won’t hurt and you’ll have coffee, go on with your day.
I know, it’s right in your face and it’s breathing and it hurts and it smells like sulfur and it burns and it never takes this long and it knows what you did but.
Maybe you’re right.
|
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | I never believed in reincarnation. I was always more of a final-thinking guy– you know, when you're dead, you're dead. Game over. But as I gaped at my surroundings in a sad attempt to take them all in, I suddenly found myself wishing I'd woken up as anything else but me.
The world around me is darker than the night. There's an overwhelming smell in the air, and somehow I get the feeling that I'm supposed to find it bitter and disgusting. But as it fills my nose I find myself reassured... comfortable, even. I know where I am– I was no saint in life, even by my own standards. I just never thought I'd find anything so pleasant, so enjoyable here.
I'm suddenly aware of strong fingers gripping my arms, digging razorlike nails into my skin, dragging me to my feet. I struggle as something is wrapped tightly around my neck, yelling for some form of mercy, but the creatures in the darkness continue rambling in some arcane tongue I've never heard. One of them digs piercing claws into my back, climbing up me like a mountain wall. It pulls my head back roughly, forcing a headpiece of sharp metal into my scalp. Reaching around me, it rakes my eyes with its claws– and I can see.
The creatures leap from my body and stand before me, yelling and screaming in their insane language. All I can do is look at them as my body trembles in dread anticipation of their first grand torture.
Moments pass.
The creatures glance to each other, confused. One of them approaches me, gingerly reaching up and touching my ear. And suddenly, I understand them. I understand *everything.*
"...you understand us now?" the creature asks. I nod slowly in response. The creature smiles wickedly, adjusting the robe around my neck and bowing slightly. "We welcome your spirit back, sir. As requested, we have kept your robe and crown safe while you were among the humans. What have you learned of them?"
I never believed in reincarnation. Too bad. I could have had a lot more fun. | As the grayness recedes and dim light filters in, I slowly perceive my surroundings. In a car … my car. In the driver’s seat. Parked, the garish light of the convenience store sign washing out the colors, turning the dashboard gray, my hands fishbelly white. I watch as my right hand reaches out to unlock the glove compartment, watch it reach in for the gun. A cheap five-shot .38. Serial numbers filed off a dozen owners ago. The other hand releases the cylinder and I see the loads. Hollowpoints.
I see my left hand reach for the door handle, watch as it opens and I get out. Hear the chunk as the door closes, and watch my booted feet walk toward the door. No.
Hand to door handle, door open, walk inside, door swings shut. The almost-empty store spreads out before me, barren at this hour. Almost empty but for her. Oh please, no.
Walk to the counter. Grab a Slim Jim and ask for a pack of Marlboros. When she turns, the hand goes into the coat pocket, comes out with the revolver. She turns, holding the smokes, then sees the gun.
She’s young, Asian, cute in a bookish way. Eyeglasses, hair in a ponytail, cheap rayon uniform smock draped over a petite frame. Oh please, please no. Please.
She draws in breath, and I know she’s going to scream. I’ve heard that scream. Many times. Countless times. I also know her other hand, the one not holding the cigarettes, is reaching under the counter, where the alarm switch is. Please, don’t scream. Please please don’t reach for the switch.
The scream comes as the hand holding the revolver extends, then jerks back … once, twice. Two gouts of flame, two red blossoms open on that cheap rayon smock. Her glasses fly off, she bounces back against the cigarette rack, tumbling dozens of gaudy packs down upon her as she slides down the wall, staring at me, then slumps over.
I see my hand reach into the open till, snatch up what’s there. I know exactly how much – $56.
My legs carry me back to the car, my hands hurriedly open the door, key the ignition, drop the shifter into gear and steer me away. Away to the rest of my life. The rest of my life … my life…
As the grayness recedes and dim light filters in, I slowly perceive my surroundings. In a car … my car.
|
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | I open my eyes, expecting to see demons dancing around me ; pitchforks in hand, muttering some demonic song or curse.
But there is none.
As far as I can see, everything is white and silent.
I am alone in hell, if this is hell.
I stand up, from where I had found myself lying on the cold floor. Suddenly I see that it was not white surrounding me, it was mirrors.
Mirrors reflecting all around, as if they were encircled around me.
Adjusting myself to oddness of it, I peer in to one of the mirrors, looking at my reflection.
But is not my reflection.
Physically, the reflection looks similar to me ; almost as if we could have been twin brothers. But the reflection's posture, his demeanor, the clothes he's wearing, they are all so different.
That's not me.
As I look into the eyes of my reflection, I begin to see the events of my life play out in my reflections eyes, from when a was a young tot to and elderly man. The small events leading all the way up to the big events that changed who I was as a person. Yet as I stand there mesmerised as what I am seeing, I begin to notice that as I get older, the events begin to change. They begin to have different endings and beginnings.
And lastly I begin to see events that had never happened to me.
I see myself getting a great well paying job.
I see myself happily married with kids.
The list goes on and on and that's when I realise.
I am in hell.
I am looking, witnessing and experiencing the man that I could have been.
The man that was there for me to aspire to become, yet I shied away from the great challenges in my life, leaving me as a nobody that few would remember.
My hell was to look at the man that I could have been.
For the rest of eternity.
_______________________________
[+](https://www.facebook.com/SamboMoiz) [+](http://www.reddit.com/r/composerofwords) [+](http://anauthorsadventure.wordpress.com/) [+](http://www.wattpad.com/user/SamboMoiz) [+](https://twitter.com/SamboMoiz) [+](http://composerofwords.blogspot.co.nz/)
| As the grayness recedes and dim light filters in, I slowly perceive my surroundings. In a car … my car. In the driver’s seat. Parked, the garish light of the convenience store sign washing out the colors, turning the dashboard gray, my hands fishbelly white. I watch as my right hand reaches out to unlock the glove compartment, watch it reach in for the gun. A cheap five-shot .38. Serial numbers filed off a dozen owners ago. The other hand releases the cylinder and I see the loads. Hollowpoints.
I see my left hand reach for the door handle, watch as it opens and I get out. Hear the chunk as the door closes, and watch my booted feet walk toward the door. No.
Hand to door handle, door open, walk inside, door swings shut. The almost-empty store spreads out before me, barren at this hour. Almost empty but for her. Oh please, no.
Walk to the counter. Grab a Slim Jim and ask for a pack of Marlboros. When she turns, the hand goes into the coat pocket, comes out with the revolver. She turns, holding the smokes, then sees the gun.
She’s young, Asian, cute in a bookish way. Eyeglasses, hair in a ponytail, cheap rayon uniform smock draped over a petite frame. Oh please, please no. Please.
She draws in breath, and I know she’s going to scream. I’ve heard that scream. Many times. Countless times. I also know her other hand, the one not holding the cigarettes, is reaching under the counter, where the alarm switch is. Please, don’t scream. Please please don’t reach for the switch.
The scream comes as the hand holding the revolver extends, then jerks back … once, twice. Two gouts of flame, two red blossoms open on that cheap rayon smock. Her glasses fly off, she bounces back against the cigarette rack, tumbling dozens of gaudy packs down upon her as she slides down the wall, staring at me, then slumps over.
I see my hand reach into the open till, snatch up what’s there. I know exactly how much – $56.
My legs carry me back to the car, my hands hurriedly open the door, key the ignition, drop the shifter into gear and steer me away. Away to the rest of my life. The rest of my life … my life…
As the grayness recedes and dim light filters in, I slowly perceive my surroundings. In a car … my car.
|
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | I never believed in reincarnation. I was always more of a final-thinking guy– you know, when you're dead, you're dead. Game over. But as I gaped at my surroundings in a sad attempt to take them all in, I suddenly found myself wishing I'd woken up as anything else but me.
The world around me is darker than the night. There's an overwhelming smell in the air, and somehow I get the feeling that I'm supposed to find it bitter and disgusting. But as it fills my nose I find myself reassured... comfortable, even. I know where I am– I was no saint in life, even by my own standards. I just never thought I'd find anything so pleasant, so enjoyable here.
I'm suddenly aware of strong fingers gripping my arms, digging razorlike nails into my skin, dragging me to my feet. I struggle as something is wrapped tightly around my neck, yelling for some form of mercy, but the creatures in the darkness continue rambling in some arcane tongue I've never heard. One of them digs piercing claws into my back, climbing up me like a mountain wall. It pulls my head back roughly, forcing a headpiece of sharp metal into my scalp. Reaching around me, it rakes my eyes with its claws– and I can see.
The creatures leap from my body and stand before me, yelling and screaming in their insane language. All I can do is look at them as my body trembles in dread anticipation of their first grand torture.
Moments pass.
The creatures glance to each other, confused. One of them approaches me, gingerly reaching up and touching my ear. And suddenly, I understand them. I understand *everything.*
"...you understand us now?" the creature asks. I nod slowly in response. The creature smiles wickedly, adjusting the robe around my neck and bowing slightly. "We welcome your spirit back, sir. As requested, we have kept your robe and crown safe while you were among the humans. What have you learned of them?"
I never believed in reincarnation. Too bad. I could have had a lot more fun. | What?
I thought I was done with this. I thought I had escaped. There can't be more.
I can't see anything, I can't really feel anything either. I can't really move at all.
I try to speak, I can't. It's just me and my thoughts.
How did this happen?
"You know how this happened."
What? Who's that?
"You know how this happened?
I don't. I really don't.
"Don't you know where you are? You know how this happened."
Where am I? Where am I? There was a flash and I don't remember anything after that.
"You don't remember? You don't remember their screams?"
What? What are you talking about? Who are you?
"You know what I'm talking about. We're going to see it together."
Suddenly, I see myself. I wave for me to follow. I'm smiling.
A door appears and we step through. We are in a room filled with cribs.
What is this? What the fuck is going on?
"You'll see." My other self fades. I am stuck in the room.
I look around, I see a baby in each crib. They don't notice me, most are asleep.
Suddenly the door explodes open. It is a military squad, I see myself in the lead.
No, no, no, I remember, I remember...STOP! They don't stop.
One by one, they go to each crib, doing their deadly work.
Once the screams have stopped, I feel a tap on my shoulder. It's me.
What is this? What is going on?
"All those years you knew this would catch up with you. You knew. You tried not to believe. You thought once it was all over that would be the end. But, you knew it couldn't be. Certain things are not forgiven."
You mean this is...
"Yes. Welcome to Hell, child-killer. I'll see you again and we'll discuss what you could have done differently. After all, you've got eternity to think about it."
I laugh and fade to nothing. |
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | I know I exist. I don't know much else. I feel like I am on the verge of something big. I think I am on the verge of memory, if I'm using that term correctly. Of course I must be, it seems to be coming from the same place as all these other words, this language. Language! That is something! I have something I know other than my existence! I have expression, I have hope!
Where is this language coming from? I feel so close now it hurts! Hurts... that is connected to something but I can't think what. The word physical comes to mind, but I can't seem to place exactly what that means. I feel like Tantalus having food and water dangled in front of him, but instead of something as mundane as survival it is my existence being dangled! Fuck! Who is Tantalus?!? What does that means! I'M SO CLOSE BUT I CAN FEEL IT ALL SLIPPING!
I know I exist. I don't know much else. | The morning sunlight gently glides down onto my face, warming it. Birds chirp gently, beckoning for me to awake, but I can't, I must not. I know where I am. The only place in this world that is my hell. I smell pancakes cooking down below and the chirpy call of an old lady sounding my name, I cannot resist, I must go.
I throw off my bedsheets and scamper down the old wooden stairs sliding into the dining room on my socks, preparing for a delicious meal with my mother, forgetting that I am in what is supposed to be my hell, thinking there must have been a mix-up of some sort, and I got into my personal heaven.
"John, I'll be there in a second," chirps the old lady.
*That's not my mom* I think to myself, my mom didn't sound like her.
The lady walked into the room carrying a plate of pancakes.
"John," she said, "you really need to work on your posture.. also, elbows off the table. And hold your fork in your right hand."
Now I knew where I was, I was at the inlaws.
|
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | I open my eyes, expecting to see demons dancing around me ; pitchforks in hand, muttering some demonic song or curse.
But there is none.
As far as I can see, everything is white and silent.
I am alone in hell, if this is hell.
I stand up, from where I had found myself lying on the cold floor. Suddenly I see that it was not white surrounding me, it was mirrors.
Mirrors reflecting all around, as if they were encircled around me.
Adjusting myself to oddness of it, I peer in to one of the mirrors, looking at my reflection.
But is not my reflection.
Physically, the reflection looks similar to me ; almost as if we could have been twin brothers. But the reflection's posture, his demeanor, the clothes he's wearing, they are all so different.
That's not me.
As I look into the eyes of my reflection, I begin to see the events of my life play out in my reflections eyes, from when a was a young tot to and elderly man. The small events leading all the way up to the big events that changed who I was as a person. Yet as I stand there mesmerised as what I am seeing, I begin to notice that as I get older, the events begin to change. They begin to have different endings and beginnings.
And lastly I begin to see events that had never happened to me.
I see myself getting a great well paying job.
I see myself happily married with kids.
The list goes on and on and that's when I realise.
I am in hell.
I am looking, witnessing and experiencing the man that I could have been.
The man that was there for me to aspire to become, yet I shied away from the great challenges in my life, leaving me as a nobody that few would remember.
My hell was to look at the man that I could have been.
For the rest of eternity.
_______________________________
[+](https://www.facebook.com/SamboMoiz) [+](http://www.reddit.com/r/composerofwords) [+](http://anauthorsadventure.wordpress.com/) [+](http://www.wattpad.com/user/SamboMoiz) [+](https://twitter.com/SamboMoiz) [+](http://composerofwords.blogspot.co.nz/)
| The morning sunlight gently glides down onto my face, warming it. Birds chirp gently, beckoning for me to awake, but I can't, I must not. I know where I am. The only place in this world that is my hell. I smell pancakes cooking down below and the chirpy call of an old lady sounding my name, I cannot resist, I must go.
I throw off my bedsheets and scamper down the old wooden stairs sliding into the dining room on my socks, preparing for a delicious meal with my mother, forgetting that I am in what is supposed to be my hell, thinking there must have been a mix-up of some sort, and I got into my personal heaven.
"John, I'll be there in a second," chirps the old lady.
*That's not my mom* I think to myself, my mom didn't sound like her.
The lady walked into the room carrying a plate of pancakes.
"John," she said, "you really need to work on your posture.. also, elbows off the table. And hold your fork in your right hand."
Now I knew where I was, I was at the inlaws.
|
You don't know how you died but you wake up in hell. Describe hell. | [WP] You wake up in hell. | I open my eyes, expecting to see demons dancing around me ; pitchforks in hand, muttering some demonic song or curse.
But there is none.
As far as I can see, everything is white and silent.
I am alone in hell, if this is hell.
I stand up, from where I had found myself lying on the cold floor. Suddenly I see that it was not white surrounding me, it was mirrors.
Mirrors reflecting all around, as if they were encircled around me.
Adjusting myself to oddness of it, I peer in to one of the mirrors, looking at my reflection.
But is not my reflection.
Physically, the reflection looks similar to me ; almost as if we could have been twin brothers. But the reflection's posture, his demeanor, the clothes he's wearing, they are all so different.
That's not me.
As I look into the eyes of my reflection, I begin to see the events of my life play out in my reflections eyes, from when a was a young tot to and elderly man. The small events leading all the way up to the big events that changed who I was as a person. Yet as I stand there mesmerised as what I am seeing, I begin to notice that as I get older, the events begin to change. They begin to have different endings and beginnings.
And lastly I begin to see events that had never happened to me.
I see myself getting a great well paying job.
I see myself happily married with kids.
The list goes on and on and that's when I realise.
I am in hell.
I am looking, witnessing and experiencing the man that I could have been.
The man that was there for me to aspire to become, yet I shied away from the great challenges in my life, leaving me as a nobody that few would remember.
My hell was to look at the man that I could have been.
For the rest of eternity.
_______________________________
[+](https://www.facebook.com/SamboMoiz) [+](http://www.reddit.com/r/composerofwords) [+](http://anauthorsadventure.wordpress.com/) [+](http://www.wattpad.com/user/SamboMoiz) [+](https://twitter.com/SamboMoiz) [+](http://composerofwords.blogspot.co.nz/)
| I know I exist. I don't know much else. I feel like I am on the verge of something big. I think I am on the verge of memory, if I'm using that term correctly. Of course I must be, it seems to be coming from the same place as all these other words, this language. Language! That is something! I have something I know other than my existence! I have expression, I have hope!
Where is this language coming from? I feel so close now it hurts! Hurts... that is connected to something but I can't think what. The word physical comes to mind, but I can't seem to place exactly what that means. I feel like Tantalus having food and water dangled in front of him, but instead of something as mundane as survival it is my existence being dangled! Fuck! Who is Tantalus?!? What does that means! I'M SO CLOSE BUT I CAN FEEL IT ALL SLIPPING!
I know I exist. I don't know much else. |
[WP] A man writes to his father, trying to make amends for selfish reasons. Make it so that it is difficult to empathize with either character. | ~~Dad,~~ ~~Mr. Halton,~~ Walter,
Mom called me the other week, about you, about the accident, about everything. I don't know how often you answer your email, or even if you'll be able to, but I have to talk to you.
If I went to the hospital, you wouldn't recognize me. I promise. I'm doing better; I'm okay, in case you were worried about me, just in case. This isn't the same letter I've sent to you a hundred times before; It's not like that, not anymore.
I've already received your charity through the filter of the foundations. Even when you refused to help me anymore, you were still supporting me. Those people you cared about, those strangers, I became one. Those charities, those precious charities you loved more than me, more than mom, they finally gave me access to your kindness, the kindness you reserved for those you never met.
I don't know if you'll ever read this. I'm doing better without and because of you. I'm almost okay, almost, Walter. I'm not proud, pride is the first victim of poverty, but I'm not ashamed of what I'm asking. If you read this, if you can treat me as well as those strangers, if you can, I need just a little extra, just a little more than those people. I'll be okay, Walter. I'll be on my feet. I just need a little more. Just to get me settled.
Please,
Your son. | no matter how much I have tryed to right you you always never right back. how am I suppose to learn about my daghter when shelly dont visit no more. Why dont you visit. An im sorry the lawyer fucked me cuz im innacent and he didnt do shit to keep me out of here an now shellys bitch ass off fucking with other people and my daughter gonna grow up with her daddy in jail an her fucking mamas boyfriends all in an out of the house all becuz I went out an earn my stripes and got fucked. Rite back and come see me an ill see if they let us play cards or something. I got no hustles hear and I no you use to run that shit. C ya. With love. | |
[WP] Two soldiers run into each other in battle and are about to kill each other, when for some reason they decide to talk. After some conversation, they find themselves liking the other, and not sure whether they can kill each other. | I can't pull the trigger. His eyes are wide with fear and uncertainty. Somehow he hasn't pulled it either. He looks like my younger brother, only a darker shade of blond and darker blue eyes. Then again, anything could seem darker in the shade of trees. The battle is going on all round us but we seem to be in a timeless bubble. The longer I stare, the more unable to pull the trigger I become. But if I don't, I'll be a traitor.
"What's your name?" I call to him over din. Stupid! Don't ask his name! The enemy is supposed to be faceless and nameless! Naming them makes them real! Makes them human!
But damn...he looks like Matt.
"Ted..." he says warily. Not surprised. We're still pointing guns at each other. But there it is. Now he's got a name.
"Why...why haven't you shot me?" He asks, fearful and puzzled.
"I... I don't know," I reply. "I guess...it's because... you look like someone I know."
I see his eyes change just a bit. Curiosity. "Who? Must be someone you actually like, otherwise you would've shot me."
His joke is hesitant. He's trying not to get pulled in. Suddenly I realize...he doesn't want to die any more than I do.
I lower my gun. "My little brother. He's in college now. Studying something sciencey."
At first he doesn't move, then he too lowers his gun. Slowly. He starts to smile. "I have two little sister. One's in high school, the other in middle school."
Oh G-d. I'll never be able to kill him now. I open my mouth then freeze. Someone's coming! Judging by the look on his face he knows it too. We're paralyzed. Neither of us know what to do. In a split second I see the color of his uniform coming through the thick of the forest before it disappears again. It's one of HIS guys. He doesn't know yet. "Shoot me!" I hiss. Matt's old enough. He'll understand. "Hurry!"
I can the see the realization dawning on Ted's face. His reluctance. "Do--!" But I stop. I see Matt in him and with horror I've just told him to kill me. How could I ask such a heavy thing of him? I raise my gun to my head. He raises his. Thinks I'm going to shoot him.
Excruciating painblacknesssilence.
***
I see white. I frown. Is heaven supposed to look like cottage cheese?
"Well now, welcome back to the living!" Says a cheery voice.
I look around slowly, not understanding. "What happened?" I croak. My throat is so dry.
"You got shot in the shoulder. Some guys found you and the short of it is, you've been sent home. You've been out for a week!" The bodyless voice explains. "You're a lucky one. Your wound was nothing serious. No major veins hit. You'll be fine if you keep it rested." A nurse's face pops in front of me, smiling. "Since you were generally OK, your family decided to continue your care at your home." She continued. "My name's Beth. Is there anything you need?"
Yea, I can see I'm in my old room. So Ted did shoot me after all. And saved me. I wonder what happened to him. The war's still going. Is he still alive?
"Just water." After hydrating my mouth and throat and more chit chat from Beth, she leaves me to my thoughts.
Hey Ted. You OK?
***
Heh, they're cute aren't they? My grandchild and niece playing together. She's teaching him colors. Or trying to anyway. I sit back and close my eyes. 87. Man what a long time to live. I still wonder about that kid. Does he have a family too?
Hey Ted. You OK?
I've been asking him that ever since. But I've never gotten an answer.
"Abwito!" My grandson calls to me. He's still learning to say it correctly but I find it endearing. Opening my eyes I see an old car pull up. Lazily I watch an elderly lady exit her car. She's younger than me. Then an even younger woman exits. They walk toward me, white-blonde hair on one head and slightly darker on the other shining in the sunlight. My heart starts pounding. It can't be possible. I achingly rise.
"Are you Mr. David Sanchez?" The younger one asks.
"Yes," I say. I know before she tells me.
"My name is Grace Pryor. I'm Ted's daughter. This is his youngest sister Janice."
I'm stunned. I don't know what to say and my chest is squeezing. "It took us a long time to find you. Ted said he never asked your name," Janice said, her voice shaking a little. "We wanted to find you and reunite you two, but..." she stopped and looked at her niece.
"Ted can't come," the younger woman finished.
He's dead. I sigh from regret and relief. I open my mouth to ask how.
"So will you come to him? I'm sorry it's short notice. It's just we finally found you and frankly, we don't have much time."
My eyes go wide, my old heart pounds and my limbs flood with energy I didn't know I had. "Let me get my hat."
He's lying on the hospital bed. His hair grey now but I can see the traces of dark blond. His face isn't smooth, but the wrinkles have the knowledge of an old book. His eyes, lighter now, open and he smiles at me.
I sit down beside him and smile back. "Hey Ted. You OK?"
(Sorry about the formatting. On my phone) | Lt. Urmomsatool ran screaming with his rifle in hand toward the German soldier in front of him, his mouth open wide and ready to spill the soldier's insides all over himself. His carnal, animalistic instincts had taken over and he was prepared to kill or be killed.
Captain Deutchlandrocks matched the young American's howl with a primal scream which was just as spine chilling and merciless. He prepared to cave in the man's crotch in front of him with his steel toed boot and plow his bayonet into the wimpy American's beating heart. He would return to his children with an American's combat knife that night.
But upon thrusting their bayonets at each other's bellies, they found themselves frozen- their expended rifles jerked to a halt in time, unmovable in their hands. Their whole bodies froze and they looked at one another in confusion.
"Uh...sorry about this- it happens from time to time," apologized Lt. Urmomsatool.
"Oh, yeah- I know. Look at us, about to spill each other's organs when suddenly we get frozen in time in front of one another!" complained the burly German captain.
"It's like when you're listening to your favorite jazz song on the phonograph and-" started Lt. Urmomsatool
"The record starts skipping, I know!" Captain Deutchlandrocks sympathized. "Oh my God, I LOVE jazz music. We're not allowed to listen to it, but you know what? I keep a Duke Ellington record in my room."
"I love the Duke!" Lt. Urmomsatool blurted out. "Oh, don't no one lay it down like the Duke! What's your favorite track?"
"Oh, I have to say, I really like Cottontail," admitted the Captain. "It's pretty overplayed, but it's a really great song."
"I feel the exact. Same. Way!" They both laughed vivaciously. "Ooooh, man- to think, I was about to rip out your insides."
"I was going to kick you in your junk," confessed Deutchlandrocks.
"What? No way! That would have been sick. Wow," baffled the lieutenant. "Hey, we should get together, once all this craziness is behind us, you know? Play some cards?"
"That sounds really nice, you know? That sounds really nice," Confirmed the Captain.
Time unfroze and they plummeted their bayonets into one another, screaming wildly and terribly. The Captain crumpled onto the ground as sprays of blood wafted up from his falling body and Lt. Urmomsatool's health bar went down to +15. Immediately afterward, the voice of a twelve year old boy, which regularly manifested yelled at Captain Deutchlandrocks,
"Your mom's a tool, faggot!" and then crouched fifteen times over the dead body as the voice screamed "I'm teabagging you, lol!" before running wildly away and jumping incessantly.
| |
[WP] A foreign dictator learns that his favorite American sitcom has been canceled. He kidnaps the cast and crew and forces them to make new episodes just for him. | This actually pretty much happened http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shin_Sang-ok | Sing me one last song.
Muse, make me shiver again.
NOW, Scheherazade! | |
[WP] A foreign dictator learns that his favorite American sitcom has been canceled. He kidnaps the cast and crew and forces them to make new episodes just for him. | you know this has sort of [happened](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shin_Sang-ok)? | Sing me one last song.
Muse, make me shiver again.
NOW, Scheherazade! | |
[WP] A foreign dictator learns that his favorite American sitcom has been canceled. He kidnaps the cast and crew and forces them to make new episodes just for him. | He cocks the gun and presses the barrel against the trembling prisoner's forehead hard enough to bruise. Still on his knees in the mud, tears begin streaming down the prisoner's face, fogging up his glasses but he doesn't cry out. He won't give this bastard the satisfaction.
"Say the line.", He demands calmly, looming over the prisoner like death himself in combat boots.
The prisoner says nothing.
"*Say the fucking line!*", He screams, threads of spittle flying out lightly spattering the prisoner's face. His eyes are a lit with fury and veins are popping out from his forehead. Without warning or pause, he raises the gun and brings it down hard against the prisoner's cheek, sending his thick glasses flying into the mud. Cursing, he stomps through the mud and retrieves the now broken glasses, walks back over and forcefully pushes them back onto the prisoners face. He leans his head back to take a look at the prisoner and nods, seeming satisfied.
"There," he says raising the gun again, "*now* say the line."
The prisoner finally speaks, choking back the tears and shaking violently. He barely gets the words out,
"Did-did I do that?" | Sing me one last song.
Muse, make me shiver again.
NOW, Scheherazade! | |
[WP] A foreign dictator learns that his favorite American sitcom has been canceled. He kidnaps the cast and crew and forces them to make new episodes just for him. | **9AM**
**On a Monday**
**Damascus, Syria**
-- MAC and DENNIS are standing in an ornate room. MAC holds an ornate vase and is gesturing wildly. --
**MAC:** See, I told you bro! I told you he had treasure! These Iraqis stole them and we have to get them back, just like Indy would!
-- DENNIS rolls his eyes, exasperated. --
**DENNIS:** Okay, first of all, we're not in Iraq, we're in Syria. They are two completely different places-
**MAC:** What's the difference, they're all working with the Jews, right?
-- DENNIS shakes head derisively and stares at MAC, incredulous. --
**DENNIS:** No, they are not! Do you even understand anything about the Middle East? Do you even know where we are?
**MAC:** Well, we beat them in the Crusades, right?
-- MAC turns his back while speaking and examines the other antiques in the room. DENNIS's eyes bulge and he chokes the air behind MAC'S back. --
**DENNIS:** You know what, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. Mac, put that down. Do you know who this room belongs to?
-- Suddenly, FRANK emerges from a nearby door, laughing and cackling. He is draped in golden, lavish jewelry and regal robes, with a crown on his head. DEANDRA is beside him, hands on hips, looking at FRANK with disbelief. --
**FRANK:** Look at this! This schmuck had all this gold lying around!
-- FRANK hoots and cackles wildly, spinning slowly. --
**DEANDRA:** You see what he did, Dennis? Are you seeing this!?
-- Before DENNIS can respond, there is an explosion outside the window. The GANG rushes over, shocked. Smoke and rubble line the streets below, while a fighter jet screams overhead. --
**MAC:** Holy shit!
-- Suddenly, there is a cough behind them. The GANG turns around to see BASHAR AL-ASSAD standing there. Next to him is CHARLIE, dressed in a military uniform. --
**BASHAR AL-ASSAD:** Welcome to my country. I must thank you for accepting my invitation, even in the middle of such troubled times.
-- MAC points at CHARLIE. --
**MAC:** Why is he dressed like that?
-- BASHAR AL-ASSAD laughs, and the camera zooms in on CHARLIE. --
**COLD OPEN:** ***The Gang Fixes The Syria Problem***
---
Took a few liberties with the idea, since It's Always Sunny isn't exactly a sitcom. | Sing me one last song.
Muse, make me shiver again.
NOW, Scheherazade! | |
[WP] A foreign dictator learns that his favorite American sitcom has been canceled. He kidnaps the cast and crew and forces them to make new episodes just for him. | (Tape begins)
Greetings, my television people!
(A new shot, with the dictator in a different outfit)
While you have yet to make knowings of me, I feel we are already *friends*. Knowing you from many episodes of your popular American sitcom, it was made national day of mourning when I heard of your cancellation. The tears of my people have washed clean the streets for your arrival; you shall touch no dry ground, only the salty sea left behind from my country's children.
(Close up shot of a single tear flowing down the dictator's cheek. Madonna's 'like a prayer' plays over this)
And while I regret that bringing you here happened on such un*friendly* terms, and resulted in much *friendly* fire suffered by soon to be "re-educated" soldiers, I am filled with the glorious fire of happiness upon your arrival. As well, as mandated by law, my people feel equal or greater happiness at your staying in our land. If you view any smiles less than forty per cent face width, tell me so I can begin "instructings" on THOSE LITTLE-
(tape cuts)
(tape resumes)
Today, my *friends*, I welcome you to my country and my country welcomes you.The arms of my strong homeland embrace you like the ferocious grandmothers that are the heritage of patriotism. In accordance to the preferences made known to me by my American *friend*, there is food of Wonder Bread and Cheez Wiz awaiting you.
(20 second shot of a platter filled with wonder bread with the ghostly silhouette of the dictator watermarking it)
Now, *friends*, I will not be making force of your actings quite yet, I understand that you need rest from the "jet lag" that you were injected with, but, starting first thing tomorrow morning, you will be helping in the makings of new episodes of Firefly.
(tape ends, the theme song from Dawson's Creek plays) | Sing me one last song.
Muse, make me shiver again.
NOW, Scheherazade! | |
[WP] A foreign dictator learns that his favorite American sitcom has been canceled. He kidnaps the cast and crew and forces them to make new episodes just for him. | I'm really gonna miss *Single Female Lawyer.* | Sing me one last song.
Muse, make me shiver again.
NOW, Scheherazade! | |
[WP] A foreign dictator learns that his favorite American sitcom has been canceled. He kidnaps the cast and crew and forces them to make new episodes just for him. | This actually pretty much happened http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shin_Sang-ok | day 11: we have now been locked up here for 11 days, and counting, he forces us to do the unspeakable, to do our show, again and again, we doesn't have any of our writers, we just have to improvise every single line, and as soon as we're off set. We have to write what we can, and it has to be fun, otherwise we end up as *him*, we all knew him, we have known him for the last ten years at the cast, we are all gradually breaking down, i can already see it in patricks eyes, his longing for his precious man and babies, and poor Cobie was forced to do a nude scene with the dictator himself, if he's called anything else he will instantly whip us, and ofcourse myself and Alyson, we have to make it through, we have to make it for the others, we will try to escape and try to get them with us, this is all for our precious Ted! | |
[WP] A foreign dictator learns that his favorite American sitcom has been canceled. He kidnaps the cast and crew and forces them to make new episodes just for him. | He cocks the gun and presses the barrel against the trembling prisoner's forehead hard enough to bruise. Still on his knees in the mud, tears begin streaming down the prisoner's face, fogging up his glasses but he doesn't cry out. He won't give this bastard the satisfaction.
"Say the line.", He demands calmly, looming over the prisoner like death himself in combat boots.
The prisoner says nothing.
"*Say the fucking line!*", He screams, threads of spittle flying out lightly spattering the prisoner's face. His eyes are a lit with fury and veins are popping out from his forehead. Without warning or pause, he raises the gun and brings it down hard against the prisoner's cheek, sending his thick glasses flying into the mud. Cursing, he stomps through the mud and retrieves the now broken glasses, walks back over and forcefully pushes them back onto the prisoners face. He leans his head back to take a look at the prisoner and nods, seeming satisfied.
"There," he says raising the gun again, "*now* say the line."
The prisoner finally speaks, choking back the tears and shaking violently. He barely gets the words out,
"Did-did I do that?" | day 11: we have now been locked up here for 11 days, and counting, he forces us to do the unspeakable, to do our show, again and again, we doesn't have any of our writers, we just have to improvise every single line, and as soon as we're off set. We have to write what we can, and it has to be fun, otherwise we end up as *him*, we all knew him, we have known him for the last ten years at the cast, we are all gradually breaking down, i can already see it in patricks eyes, his longing for his precious man and babies, and poor Cobie was forced to do a nude scene with the dictator himself, if he's called anything else he will instantly whip us, and ofcourse myself and Alyson, we have to make it through, we have to make it for the others, we will try to escape and try to get them with us, this is all for our precious Ted! | |
[WP] A foreign dictator learns that his favorite American sitcom has been canceled. He kidnaps the cast and crew and forces them to make new episodes just for him. | I'm really gonna miss *Single Female Lawyer.* | **9AM**
**On a Monday**
**Damascus, Syria**
-- MAC and DENNIS are standing in an ornate room. MAC holds an ornate vase and is gesturing wildly. --
**MAC:** See, I told you bro! I told you he had treasure! These Iraqis stole them and we have to get them back, just like Indy would!
-- DENNIS rolls his eyes, exasperated. --
**DENNIS:** Okay, first of all, we're not in Iraq, we're in Syria. They are two completely different places-
**MAC:** What's the difference, they're all working with the Jews, right?
-- DENNIS shakes head derisively and stares at MAC, incredulous. --
**DENNIS:** No, they are not! Do you even understand anything about the Middle East? Do you even know where we are?
**MAC:** Well, we beat them in the Crusades, right?
-- MAC turns his back while speaking and examines the other antiques in the room. DENNIS's eyes bulge and he chokes the air behind MAC'S back. --
**DENNIS:** You know what, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. Mac, put that down. Do you know who this room belongs to?
-- Suddenly, FRANK emerges from a nearby door, laughing and cackling. He is draped in golden, lavish jewelry and regal robes, with a crown on his head. DEANDRA is beside him, hands on hips, looking at FRANK with disbelief. --
**FRANK:** Look at this! This schmuck had all this gold lying around!
-- FRANK hoots and cackles wildly, spinning slowly. --
**DEANDRA:** You see what he did, Dennis? Are you seeing this!?
-- Before DENNIS can respond, there is an explosion outside the window. The GANG rushes over, shocked. Smoke and rubble line the streets below, while a fighter jet screams overhead. --
**MAC:** Holy shit!
-- Suddenly, there is a cough behind them. The GANG turns around to see BASHAR AL-ASSAD standing there. Next to him is CHARLIE, dressed in a military uniform. --
**BASHAR AL-ASSAD:** Welcome to my country. I must thank you for accepting my invitation, even in the middle of such troubled times.
-- MAC points at CHARLIE. --
**MAC:** Why is he dressed like that?
-- BASHAR AL-ASSAD laughs, and the camera zooms in on CHARLIE. --
**COLD OPEN:** ***The Gang Fixes The Syria Problem***
---
Took a few liberties with the idea, since It's Always Sunny isn't exactly a sitcom. | |
[WP] A foreign dictator learns that his favorite American sitcom has been canceled. He kidnaps the cast and crew and forces them to make new episodes just for him. | I'm really gonna miss *Single Female Lawyer.* | (Tape begins)
Greetings, my television people!
(A new shot, with the dictator in a different outfit)
While you have yet to make knowings of me, I feel we are already *friends*. Knowing you from many episodes of your popular American sitcom, it was made national day of mourning when I heard of your cancellation. The tears of my people have washed clean the streets for your arrival; you shall touch no dry ground, only the salty sea left behind from my country's children.
(Close up shot of a single tear flowing down the dictator's cheek. Madonna's 'like a prayer' plays over this)
And while I regret that bringing you here happened on such un*friendly* terms, and resulted in much *friendly* fire suffered by soon to be "re-educated" soldiers, I am filled with the glorious fire of happiness upon your arrival. As well, as mandated by law, my people feel equal or greater happiness at your staying in our land. If you view any smiles less than forty per cent face width, tell me so I can begin "instructings" on THOSE LITTLE-
(tape cuts)
(tape resumes)
Today, my *friends*, I welcome you to my country and my country welcomes you.The arms of my strong homeland embrace you like the ferocious grandmothers that are the heritage of patriotism. In accordance to the preferences made known to me by my American *friend*, there is food of Wonder Bread and Cheez Wiz awaiting you.
(20 second shot of a platter filled with wonder bread with the ghostly silhouette of the dictator watermarking it)
Now, *friends*, I will not be making force of your actings quite yet, I understand that you need rest from the "jet lag" that you were injected with, but, starting first thing tomorrow morning, you will be helping in the makings of new episodes of Firefly.
(tape ends, the theme song from Dawson's Creek plays) | |
You can give me a mythical story inspired by an actual historical event, or let an archaeologist discover remains of today's civilization.
| [WP] Many thousand years from now, much of today's known history has faded into myth | We watch the illuminator sink over the mountains of debris in the distance, him and I. Down the hill, across the dead grassless plains, the only sign of life a winding river stretching off into the wasteland. Even the river blackens as it nears the debris. We've been doing this every light cycle since he was born, but he keeps asking to come. It's an unhealthy obsession.
"Grandpapa, are you ever going to take me to see the Badlands up close?"
I look over, letting a soft sigh escape. "It's not safe, you know that. Too many of the Disturbed. Plus, it takes three light cycles to get there on foot."
"But you've been there, haven't you?"
"Only once, that was before the Disturbed. It wasn't until later that a group of our village's cuckoos went over and started living there."
"Then why are the called the Disturbed?"
"Well, the original group of people were all a bit … off. They were the kind of people that thought the illuminator was a ball of fire, and that we live on another ball that goes around the illuminator, which is why it goes across the sky."
"That's so silly, grandpapa. Even I know that's not right."
"Yeah. For some reason, they think the Badlands used to be massive huts that touched the sky. And supposedly, one day, another illuminator fell from the sky, and destroyed everything. It's all nonsense."
"But who built the huts, and why do the Disturbed live there?"
"I don't know. Like I said, it's nonsense. As for the Disturbed, who knows? They probably think there's some lingering energy from the second "illuminator". Or something. They came to the village once, to say that they found a way to make light without fire, move things without touching them, and other ridiculous things. Something to do with the people who made the huts. Called them all-powerful gods, they did. A few people followed them, but nobody who goes there comes back; the Disturbed somehow turn them. They all believe in magic, the lot of them."
"Sounds like one of the stories you tell me during darktime."
"Mhm. Speaking of which, it's almost darktime. Let's go home." | 14 - As he drove his fortress-chariot through the sky, the colonel felt fear, and great regret. For he had received His astra to make end to this war, to protect the lives of thousands and to bring glory to his kingdom, the colonel knew that it was his commission to follow the words of the prophets.
15 - Yet, though a warrior, he was afraid -- not of defeat, but of victory. The prophets said to him:
16 - *We contemplated His mysteries and prayed to Him that we be granted His might, so that we may show all of the world that we fight with His might, the most puissant one. Thus the astra was given to us. O Colonel, deliver this star to where the house of their sword-smiths and bow-tiers lay.*
17 - *This astra contains His glory, which ignited the first stars and brought bright and hot fire to the universe -- this happened so many kalpas ago. With wisdom we have ascertained that it happen again so that the universe knows who He is.*
18 - While unwise and unlearned in comparison to the sages, the colonel was a man who learned in the ways of divinity and legends, and could imagine. The power! *His* power! As the water drew down and earth rose against the surface, the colonel let out a sigh of concern. This did upset the co-driver. This is what the captain said to the colonel:
19 - *Why show you fear? Why show you doubt? To you, my colonel, responsibility is given and thus glory also. With you our kingdom's justice will be shown. Though this weapon may kill, many more will live to see peace. Fret not, my colonel. Do not feel terror; do feel honor instead.*
20 - And those words were true. As men who meditated upon power and death, they knew the true meaning of making war. Yet the colonel showed weakness. At the immensity of His power that was granted to him by Him, the colonel's fingers shook upon the steering wheel and made the chariot unsteady. When his crew did speak in complaint, the colonel explained his difficult position:
21 - *O my friends! O His friends! To the house of sword-smiths and bow-tiers do I drive this chariot. I feel the wind beneath the wings and the tides in my ears and heart. Though the engines are strong for they are made of metal, and they give me that strength to carry on, my heart is merely flesh; soft and tender and easily cut. For He is merciful I do not simply believe but know that I will be under His protection. But I fear, my friends -- I fear his astra will burn my soul also just as it burns my enemies.*
22 - Understanding why the colonel felt doubt, the crew did cease their complaint. Their hearts were heavy and did not beat well, as if suppressed underneath slabs of lead.
23 - The colonel was a man well-learned in the spirit of the warriors who fight for him. He did see this and thought for a moment to turn off the engines. It was this moment when he looked out into the sky and saw an image, outshining the sun. That burning glory came to his chariot, many-armed and spewing stars from the eyes, and the colonel did know that the Lord had come to him and offered Him his fear:
24 - *O the unequaled and unsplit Lord! O Thee are supreme God! Your breath is atoms and your words are galaxies! Undeserving of Your form, I close my eyes but still do I see Your glory! My heart soars to know that You have come to me but it so does stop to know that You have come to me! Infinite One, All-Puissant One!*
25 - *O Lord! With each arm You hold all of Your stars in the universe. I see the hotness of each of Your star and fear that I might burn, for I am weak. Tell me, my God, who are You in such fierce form? Why have You strength to come and show me?*
The Lord said:
26 - Hark, o Colonel. Hark, pale Arjuna! For you have returned and so did I return to you. Have you forgotten who you are? Many millennia ago have you asked Me the same and so will I now give you the same answer --
27 - Doom am I, full-ripe, dealing death to the worlds, engaged in devouring mankind. Even without your slaying them, not one of the sword-smiths and bow-tiers, ranged for battle against thee, shall survive.
28 - Therefore, do you arise, and win renown! Defeat your foes and enjoy a thriving republic. By Me have these already been destroyed; be you no more than an instrument, O Colonel!
29 - Hrosma, Nagsaka, Dreseden, as also the other enemy cities -- already destroyed by Me -- destroy you! Fight! Victory is yours over the foes across the Pacific.
30 - And the colonel did hear His words. In the fashion that the radiation of His stars burns away diseases, His words banished the fear and doubt that strangled his heart.
31 - The colonel was once again confident, for he has realized that he is merely His instrument, and ordered the astra to be dropped on the city. |
Here's my response:
As his foot left the rusted, red parapet a splintering of regret surged through his body. He had been certain. Well, at least he thought he had been certain. No more.
He could picture his wife, staring through him with a bemoaning glare. That too-familiar, unendurable, agonised silence. That glazed look of an absence of recognition. It was unbearable. Countless nights he had spent lying wide-eyed, studying the ceiling, by the slowly undulating heap of curls beside him. Oh, how he longed now for one last chance to reach out and caress her smooth cheek with his fingertips, fondle longingly with those wispy curls that framed her enchanting face. No more.
It was here they had come on the night they first met, when youthful excitement still pumped through their veins. He supposed that was the reason he'd subconsciously chosen this place. A certain romanticism about it. The air had been peculiarly cold that night and they had hurried here with a distinct desire to be alone, the lingering late-night noodles still mingling in their taste-buds. He remembered how, laughing, she had lit a cigarette, tossing her head back in amusement, golden threads dancing in the subtle breeze, the curls of smoke mirroring her wispy locks. He remembered how nonchalantly she had flicked that still-smouldering stub over the rust-eaten handrail. He remembered how they had watched that glowing ember fall for a blissful eternity until it twinkled into insignificance.
The roaring wind tore his mind from his thoughts, his vision blurring with a teary opaqueness as he plummeted towards the darkness. No more. | [WP] Your protagonist makes a decision they instantly regret. | *Inhale*
*Exhale*
"Stay calm. Don't freak out." David thought to himself.
----
Everyone in the house was asleep. After a long day of classes, work, and then studying, David had come home around 11:30, dragging himself down the stairs to his room. He was glad to be done with his day: memorizing his text books, only to go into his job at McDonald's, taking order after order from customer after customer, as they stared with slacked-jaws at the menu, deciding if they wanted burnt cow or fried chicken.
His daily relief was a single joint, an end-of-the-day sigh of relief.
Another Tuesday night, it seemed: getting high, browsing Reddit, watching Adult Swim. But tonight would not be just another Tuesday night.
The cottonmouth had worsened. The commercials for Red Bull and Gatorade had made David *thirst* for relief.
"!" It came to him! There was orange juice in the fridge. "*Aw yiss*," he whispered to himself.
He rose from his seat and climbed the stairs to the kitchen. As he opened the fridge, a single light bulb illuminated the room, his body casting a shadow along the wall. His eyes red and weary. A smile came to his face as he saw the carton.
100% Natural Organic Florida Orange Juice
A dopey, high smile came to his face. This was the relief he had wished for all day. He gingerly removed the lid, only to realize he had forgotten to grab a glass. Setting the container on the counter, he opened the shelf, retrieving a plastic cup decorated with Disney Princesses.
David looked back to the container, where he noticed text on a yellow banner:
SHAKE WELL
"Almost forgot," David thought to himself, glad that he had noticed the banner before pouring a drink.
*GLOSH GLOSH GLOSH*
David realized that his fate was sealed. He had not put the lid back onto the carton before shaking it.
*Inhale*
*Exhale* | Mr. Saunders didn't usually take the bus to work. He usually spent his morning comfortably tucked into the seat of his luxury Buick, brand new in 2009, with the radio tuned in to his favorite conservative shock jockey. He usually sipped the warm coffee his wife had prepared him as he cruised down the HOV lane in peace. But this morning Mr. Saunders car did not start, and rather than telecommute his proposal to his new client he decided he would suck it up and that led him to the rusty bench covered with old concert advertisements and lost pet posters. With a belch of black smoke and a loud bang the dilapidated public transport vehicle pulled up to where Mr. Saunders stood. The doors swung open with a screech and Mr. Saunders stepped onto the bus.
"what's the toll, sir?" The man asked meekly, digging in his pocket for change.
"that's alright you've already paid it" the driver replied, "take a seat."
Perplexed, Mr. Saunders wandered a few seats back and sat down. The bus was nearly empty besides himself and the driver. Only an old man with leathery skin sat at the back, next to a young man with dark hair and a pale yellow face. Mr. Saunders looked back to the front at the bus driver. He noticed that the driver had put on a black jacket and had the hood up, concealing his features.
"thank you for your generous donations of your souls. The Beelzebub bus service would like to wish you a happy trip on your ride to hell".
Suddenly the bus surged forward and flames erupted across the landscape. Mr. Saunders screamed in disbelief as he raced to the window, for he could no longer see the sky, only darkness and fire.
"where are we going!" He shouted. "I want to go back! Take me back! Let me off!"
The driver turned his hooded head revealing a blood red face with devilish horns ripping through bleeding holes in his forehead. Laughing maniacally, the beast shrieked "its too late now Mr. Saunders, you've already taken your seat, you may as well enjoy the ride!" |
Here's my response:
As his foot left the rusted, red parapet a splintering of regret surged through his body. He had been certain. Well, at least he thought he had been certain. No more.
He could picture his wife, staring through him with a bemoaning glare. That too-familiar, unendurable, agonised silence. That glazed look of an absence of recognition. It was unbearable. Countless nights he had spent lying wide-eyed, studying the ceiling, by the slowly undulating heap of curls beside him. Oh, how he longed now for one last chance to reach out and caress her smooth cheek with his fingertips, fondle longingly with those wispy curls that framed her enchanting face. No more.
It was here they had come on the night they first met, when youthful excitement still pumped through their veins. He supposed that was the reason he'd subconsciously chosen this place. A certain romanticism about it. The air had been peculiarly cold that night and they had hurried here with a distinct desire to be alone, the lingering late-night noodles still mingling in their taste-buds. He remembered how, laughing, she had lit a cigarette, tossing her head back in amusement, golden threads dancing in the subtle breeze, the curls of smoke mirroring her wispy locks. He remembered how nonchalantly she had flicked that still-smouldering stub over the rust-eaten handrail. He remembered how they had watched that glowing ember fall for a blissful eternity until it twinkled into insignificance.
The roaring wind tore his mind from his thoughts, his vision blurring with a teary opaqueness as he plummeted towards the darkness. No more. | [WP] Your protagonist makes a decision they instantly regret. | It was a delicate maneuver, or at least he thought, as he positioned the metal wedge at just the right angle and wrenched off the bottle cap. The familiar aroma rose to his nostrils. He hesitated a half second. It was a long half second, though.
In fact, it was just enough to think about drinking. For most people it'd be an ordinary thing to have a beer on a weekend; to sit back, watch some boring TV drama and drink just a modest amount of alcohol. He had this naive fantasy going in his head about how he could be that guy, that average person.
That was a fat load of bullshit. See, he used to drink just a little bit. He drank with friends, he drank with family. But then things went south for him. Times were rough, he drank a little more to dull the pain. Because what the hell, right? That's a natural thing to do. He drank alone, because seldom were there drinking companions late on a monday night. And he drank a lot - partly because of his tolerance and partly because he felt best when he ended the night unconscious.
And when he woke in the morning he started again, because it was easier to drink the alcohol than it was to deal with the pain of being alive. That was the truth for him, and when he finally took a look at himself one day and saw what he used to be, he broke down and cried. He cried himself to sleep in the early morning, and woke up the next day and told himself he was gonna quit.
So he went and he got help. Twelve steps to redemption, the whole nine yards. Didn't tell anyone, because that ruins your resolve. He listened to what everyone had to say. He wanted his fucking life back, after all. He wanted to stop destroying himself; stop posioning himself into an early, lonely grave.
Well that was nice, but here he was after fourteen insufferable days and there was this beer, the smell of this thing wafting up into his nostrils reminded him of a time when it was some disastrously convenient, mass produced escape pod. He longed to hop in, push the button and forget where he was for a couple of hours. Part of him begged to just pour the whole thing down his throat, grab another and do it again and again.
And he heard that voice inside of his head, weak and pathetic, shout out in desperation "No don't! Don't do that, you know that that's a dead end. There's nothing at the end of that road!" But he could feel his body move mechanically, lifting the bottle to his lips. And the little voice shouted and screamed "Wait! Wait! You have to wake up and the world will still be here!" but it could hardly be heard.
And there was a moment where cool glass contacted his lips, and frothy beer rolled across his tastebuds. He thought it was going to be blissful and relieving. Some glorious return to an old friend.
Nah, man. He tasted the beer and he kept swallowing, and when the bottle was empty he dropped it and felt nothing but emptiness. He sat there and he could feel this unending chasm of regret open up within him. He couldn't deal with that, no way. So he grabbed another bottle, and another bottle, and after a while he couldn't feel anything. Not a thing at all. | Mr. Saunders didn't usually take the bus to work. He usually spent his morning comfortably tucked into the seat of his luxury Buick, brand new in 2009, with the radio tuned in to his favorite conservative shock jockey. He usually sipped the warm coffee his wife had prepared him as he cruised down the HOV lane in peace. But this morning Mr. Saunders car did not start, and rather than telecommute his proposal to his new client he decided he would suck it up and that led him to the rusty bench covered with old concert advertisements and lost pet posters. With a belch of black smoke and a loud bang the dilapidated public transport vehicle pulled up to where Mr. Saunders stood. The doors swung open with a screech and Mr. Saunders stepped onto the bus.
"what's the toll, sir?" The man asked meekly, digging in his pocket for change.
"that's alright you've already paid it" the driver replied, "take a seat."
Perplexed, Mr. Saunders wandered a few seats back and sat down. The bus was nearly empty besides himself and the driver. Only an old man with leathery skin sat at the back, next to a young man with dark hair and a pale yellow face. Mr. Saunders looked back to the front at the bus driver. He noticed that the driver had put on a black jacket and had the hood up, concealing his features.
"thank you for your generous donations of your souls. The Beelzebub bus service would like to wish you a happy trip on your ride to hell".
Suddenly the bus surged forward and flames erupted across the landscape. Mr. Saunders screamed in disbelief as he raced to the window, for he could no longer see the sky, only darkness and fire.
"where are we going!" He shouted. "I want to go back! Take me back! Let me off!"
The driver turned his hooded head revealing a blood red face with devilish horns ripping through bleeding holes in his forehead. Laughing maniacally, the beast shrieked "its too late now Mr. Saunders, you've already taken your seat, you may as well enjoy the ride!" |
Here's my response:
As his foot left the rusted, red parapet a splintering of regret surged through his body. He had been certain. Well, at least he thought he had been certain. No more.
He could picture his wife, staring through him with a bemoaning glare. That too-familiar, unendurable, agonised silence. That glazed look of an absence of recognition. It was unbearable. Countless nights he had spent lying wide-eyed, studying the ceiling, by the slowly undulating heap of curls beside him. Oh, how he longed now for one last chance to reach out and caress her smooth cheek with his fingertips, fondle longingly with those wispy curls that framed her enchanting face. No more.
It was here they had come on the night they first met, when youthful excitement still pumped through their veins. He supposed that was the reason he'd subconsciously chosen this place. A certain romanticism about it. The air had been peculiarly cold that night and they had hurried here with a distinct desire to be alone, the lingering late-night noodles still mingling in their taste-buds. He remembered how, laughing, she had lit a cigarette, tossing her head back in amusement, golden threads dancing in the subtle breeze, the curls of smoke mirroring her wispy locks. He remembered how nonchalantly she had flicked that still-smouldering stub over the rust-eaten handrail. He remembered how they had watched that glowing ember fall for a blissful eternity until it twinkled into insignificance.
The roaring wind tore his mind from his thoughts, his vision blurring with a teary opaqueness as he plummeted towards the darkness. No more. | [WP] Your protagonist makes a decision they instantly regret. | "What kind of icecream would you like?"
Hmm. Chocolate or strawberry? One would surely make my tastebuds happier at this point in time.
Weighing the two against each other, I came to a quick decision.
"I'll have the strawberry, please. One scoop."
As the server went about their work, my stomach dropped.
Inexplicably, I now knew that the chocolate would have been better.
(Edit: Formatting.) | Mr. Saunders didn't usually take the bus to work. He usually spent his morning comfortably tucked into the seat of his luxury Buick, brand new in 2009, with the radio tuned in to his favorite conservative shock jockey. He usually sipped the warm coffee his wife had prepared him as he cruised down the HOV lane in peace. But this morning Mr. Saunders car did not start, and rather than telecommute his proposal to his new client he decided he would suck it up and that led him to the rusty bench covered with old concert advertisements and lost pet posters. With a belch of black smoke and a loud bang the dilapidated public transport vehicle pulled up to where Mr. Saunders stood. The doors swung open with a screech and Mr. Saunders stepped onto the bus.
"what's the toll, sir?" The man asked meekly, digging in his pocket for change.
"that's alright you've already paid it" the driver replied, "take a seat."
Perplexed, Mr. Saunders wandered a few seats back and sat down. The bus was nearly empty besides himself and the driver. Only an old man with leathery skin sat at the back, next to a young man with dark hair and a pale yellow face. Mr. Saunders looked back to the front at the bus driver. He noticed that the driver had put on a black jacket and had the hood up, concealing his features.
"thank you for your generous donations of your souls. The Beelzebub bus service would like to wish you a happy trip on your ride to hell".
Suddenly the bus surged forward and flames erupted across the landscape. Mr. Saunders screamed in disbelief as he raced to the window, for he could no longer see the sky, only darkness and fire.
"where are we going!" He shouted. "I want to go back! Take me back! Let me off!"
The driver turned his hooded head revealing a blood red face with devilish horns ripping through bleeding holes in his forehead. Laughing maniacally, the beast shrieked "its too late now Mr. Saunders, you've already taken your seat, you may as well enjoy the ride!" |
[FF] Describe a character's appearance using terrible similes and metaphors, but get the point across. Two-hundred words or less. | Jack was a man. A real man's man, with a beard as rugged as those crispy TV dinner chicken nuggets you would eat after a long night of work. He stood six foot five, a Galaxy Note to the little iPhones surrounding him. Indeed, it was his immense figure that gave him strength like that of a potato being fired out of a cannon, and it was this strength that garnered him so much respect Aretha Franklin would be jealous. His musky scent evoked images of a majestic moose brandishing it's antlers to an invading bear. With eyes that of a radiant blue deep sea jelly fish and a striking jaw line resembling the descender of the letter Q, Jack was truly a manly sight to behold.
And yet, despite his outward appearance, Jack was a sweetheart underneath. He was like that five minute jell-o you can make, where it is all jiggly and fruity flavored in the center but gets all hard on the edges where it sticks to the bowl. Only unlike the Jell-o, Jack was filled with love rather than banana slices, though on a good morning he was also filled with the remnants of a deliciously ripe banana as well. This kindness of his was evident when he was in the company of his lovely girlfriend Jasmine, a unique piece of coal that existed in a field of plain old diamonds. Their love was like a finely oiled wrestler that slid around the ring, dodging punches and evading grapples in order to win yet again. Indeed, Jack was quite the hopeless romantic, with ideas of love permeating his thoughts at all parts of the day like a malignant tumor finding it's place in the world. And, also similar to a malignant tumor, Jasmine relied on him to nourish and care for her. And care for her he did.
Edit: Crap, I didn't even check the word count. It is 312 words right now, should I cut something off? | His eyes could stop a train, his breath, two trains. his hair was curled as if it was a piece of rye bread left in a toaster too long. His nose had been picked often, and vigorously. It bled randomly during the day almost as if his sinus passages had first-class tickets on a flight to a Caribbean resort and wanted to get home early to get in a lovemaking session and an early start on packing. | |
[FF] Describe a character's appearance using terrible similes and metaphors, but get the point across. Two-hundred words or less. | Oh man, I remember a site that was dedicated to posting awful similes/metaphors that would come in from writing contests. If I remember correctly, one of them was -
"She was giant - as a tall as a six-foot tall tree". | His eyes could stop a train, his breath, two trains. his hair was curled as if it was a piece of rye bread left in a toaster too long. His nose had been picked often, and vigorously. It bled randomly during the day almost as if his sinus passages had first-class tickets on a flight to a Caribbean resort and wanted to get home early to get in a lovemaking session and an early start on packing. | |
[FF] Describe a character's appearance using terrible similes and metaphors, but get the point across. Two-hundred words or less. | I still remember the first time I saw her. It was at a McDonalds on 34th Street. She meandered in like an overly confident tap dancer with no training or experience. Her thighs clapped with each step, like a well-trained seal receiving a fish. She was wider than she was tall, her skin and shape bringing about memories of a disfigured pumpkin among a patch of flawlessly round ones. Everything about her screamed beauty.
She walked toward me, her hair swaying in the breeze of the air conditioning, wafting smells of unspeakable horror in my direction. Her dress struggling to escape the crevices of her treacherous curves—I could hear the fabric cry out in revolt and disgust. I simply couldn’t tear my eyes away. She winked at me, drool dripping down the side of her jaw, and sat down, much like a bowl of lard that had just finished a marathon would. She died of a heart attack right then and there, like a movie whose ending comes too abruptly, resulting in poor audience reviews and a generally negative reception (despite an overall solid plot). I never even learned her name.
No, wait, I did. It was Gretchen.
| His eyes could stop a train, his breath, two trains. his hair was curled as if it was a piece of rye bread left in a toaster too long. His nose had been picked often, and vigorously. It bled randomly during the day almost as if his sinus passages had first-class tickets on a flight to a Caribbean resort and wanted to get home early to get in a lovemaking session and an early start on packing. | |
[FF] Describe a character's appearance using terrible similes and metaphors, but get the point across. Two-hundred words or less. | The moment she walked in the room, every man instantly froze. It was as if an extra long hot dog had come in a normal size hot dog package: you could see the resemblance of this woman to others of her kind, but she stood out like a foot long among six inchers.
Professionally, casually, seductively, she walked to the front of the bank line, cutting in front of the eight men waiting in front of her. They were powerless to stop this Albino Squirrel of a woman from cheating their wait. Her legs, long and luscious like railings on an escalator, transfixed their eyes. Her strut made them content.
She slowly reached into her purse, a proctologist carefully probing a sphincter, and pulled out her surprise for the teller. A silver pistol! The bank was more shocked than an adult finding out Santa Claus was real. She held the barrel to the teller’s head and playfully moved the cash from his hands to her bag. Before anyone could fully realize what had just happened, the beautiful woman was gone—her visit no more than a low battery flash on your phone.
| He terrified me from the first glance.
His hair, the way it spread out to the sides, looked like a ketchup bottle that had shattered on the ground. Around his neck he wore what could have been a doily from my grandmother’s tea room. And like a homeless man who gathers what clothes he can find from a dumpster, his shirt was a vomit-inspired mess of colors and patterns.
What shook me most, though, was his face. Chalk-white like chicken that has been caked in flour before frying. His lips, coated with such a deep shade of red lipstick, could have made a prostitute snicker. And worst of all, behind those lips, the sharp teeth that looked like green candy corn from Halloween.
That one moment was all it took for me to stand up and turn off the television. I knew I would never finish watching Stephen King’s IT. | |
Let what they feel, say and do speak about what happened. | [WP] Write about someone who is heartbroken, but don't explain why. | Kevin felt the lump in his throat start to form again. These episodes have been happening more and more frequently. He quickly blinked and took a deep breath and waited for it to pass.
“Not while I’m at work” he whispered “not while I’m at work.”
He looked at the calendar. November 9th.
"No shit," he thought to himself as he gathered his coat and laptop case and left his office.
Kevin hurried to his car to avoid any conversation with the overly polite receptionist at the front door. As he got into his car and put his keys in the ignition, he leaned his head against the steering wheel and closed his eyes. He could feel the telltale lump form again and tears started to flow down his face.
He regained his composure and started the car, quickly turning the radio off so that there wouldn’t be the chance of hearing another note of a reminder.
The drive was a blur. Kind of like a dream. Everything was happening, but he didn’t feel like he was a part of it anymore.
He pulled into the driveway and saw that his wife was also home. He looked at her car sitting in the driveway and contemplated just backing right back out and driving around for another few hours until she went to sleep.
In almost a trance like state he put the car in park and switched off the ignition. He walked across the driveway, up the porch, and paused for a moment with his hand on the door.
“Do I even have the strength to deal with this tonight?” he thought. As he opened the door he braced himself for the nothing that he had felt for the past eleven months.
Everything was silent. No TV. No hello. No talking. No smell of dinner cooking. Nothing. Just like always.
As he walked to the closet and pulled out a hanger for his coat, a small navy blue winter coat fell off its hook and landed on the floor. Tiny mittens now hung alone on the hook.
Kevin hung up his coat, took the mittens in one hand and let all of his emotions flow. He noticed how small the mittens were in comparison to his own hands.
He cried as he quickly took his own coat back down off the hanger that he had just hung it on, walked out the front door and then left again.
| "I'm not hungry," I said for the third time.
The bare trees reached at me through the window. The trees offer more comfort than my family, who's endless, soft atonement murmured on, incomprehensible behind me. I stand up to get out of the room, away from them. My legs feel like a mass of rubber bands, stretched to the point of fraying over and over to the point where any life, any elasticity is completely dead and gone. I muster the energy to move past them, into the hallway and down the hallway to the bathroom. I don't answer my mother's inquiries because I don't need to explain why I'm going to the fucking bathroom in my own house.
I look in the mirror and immediately feel sympathy for the broken man I see. I can't stop staring at this somehow unfamiliar face I see, as the sympathy turns to utter self-pity. It's worse than grief for it's pathetic and degrading. I will never be the man I once was. I will die this way.
|
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | I looked up from the cutting board and was immediately on alert. It was too quiet in the house. Knife in hand, I started my walk through. First I check the computer room, though I'm almost certain no one has been in the kitchen with me. Nothing. Back through the kitchen and into the living room. Still nothing. The silence is a bit unnerving in a house full of constant noise. Nothing in the guest room. I pass through room after silent room growing more nervous with every step. "What the hell is going on?" I think as I take another step. All I want is to be in the kitchen getting dinner prepped and cooked. After all, I am excited to try this new recipe. I check the bathroom. Still no sign of life in the house. Even the dog and cat are conspicuous in their absence. I've come to the end of the hallway, one more step and I'll know...
One more step...
I turn the corner...
And my two year old jumps out of his closet "BOO! ha ha I got you!" | Ethan hid behind the couch, his small fingers gripping the knife firmly. He shut his mouth so she couldn't hear his rapid breathing. Who was she, this terrifying old woman that held him captive? She had taken him, called him Niall. She insisted he had to come with her, that she wouldn't take no for an answer. Ethan began crying silently, not daring to draw attention to himself. Would his parents ever find him? He could hear her walking around throughout the house, banging things together, screaming. She was like a ghost, this woman, so filled with random destruction. Ethan could hear the sounds of smashing glass, of falling furniture. "Don’t think I've forgotten about you" she called up to him. Ethan heard her march towards him.
She was shrieking loudly, but it wasn't directed at him. It didn't seem directed at anyone. The hag began banging on the door.
"Let me in, let me in" she bellowed.
Ethan thought she’d break the door down, she was thumping on it so furiously. Would the knife he swiped be sufficient protection? The hold he had on it was so tight it was beginning to hurt him. He stuck his head out to survey his prison. It was a sitting room and it appeared seldom used. Dust had settled on virtually square inch of furnishings. Black and white photos of people probably dead lined the fireplace. A box television was in the corner, defunct. Heavy curtains acted as a buffet for a host of moths and the hoary carpet was blemished with stains. Ethan wondered what she wanted from him.
"Niall, Eli, Ethan, Eli" his terroriser pleaded “Just open up the door. Come out."
Ethan’s head shot back in alarm. He burrowed back into the space behind the couch. The knocks got fainter, her call was raspier. The noises ceased and Ethan was even more terrified. He waited for them to resume, but they didn't. The air grew tense. It was some sort of trap, Ethan told himself. She'll spring on me as soon as open the door.
He waited so long time folded in on itself. Ethan's runny nose trickled on to his chin. His face ached from grimacing, his eyes burnt from crying, his head pounded with fear. Hours might have passed. He contemplated going to the door, but each time the thought of the crazed woman kept him rooted to the spot. Her feral eyes and shrill yelling was the stuff of nightmares, his nightmares. Her face was haggard with the rigours of aging, and she was half bald, more a monster from one of Ethan’s storybooks than a woman. But worst of all was how she seemed to talk to more than Ethan, how he wasn't sure if she even knew who she was.
He heard the front door snap open.
"Ethan?" a familiar voiced called. Footsteps paced towards the room. Ethan felt relief wash over him like a cool breeze. His mother was here to save him. He gladly put the knife aside. The footsteps stopped at the door.
"Mom?" the two anxious voices called in unison.
| |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | The light glints off my dagger as I inspect my work. I just sharpened her, and fuck me if she isn't just the sexiest piece of steel I've laid my hands on.
She isn't particularly made for this task, slicing through that tight skin and juicy flesh. I have other knives and sharp objects that are better suited. But she does her job good, and my mouth can't help but water as she makes other swift clean cut, juices running from her pointy tip, to her intricate elegant hilt.
It's all I can do to not fill my pants when I run my tongue slowly up her length. My God she's smooth and cool and those juices so sweet and sticky. I can barely wait to finish carving and eating that plump red apple before cleaning her and putting her back with the rest of the collection. | Ethan hid behind the couch, his small fingers gripping the knife firmly. He shut his mouth so she couldn't hear his rapid breathing. Who was she, this terrifying old woman that held him captive? She had taken him, called him Niall. She insisted he had to come with her, that she wouldn't take no for an answer. Ethan began crying silently, not daring to draw attention to himself. Would his parents ever find him? He could hear her walking around throughout the house, banging things together, screaming. She was like a ghost, this woman, so filled with random destruction. Ethan could hear the sounds of smashing glass, of falling furniture. "Don’t think I've forgotten about you" she called up to him. Ethan heard her march towards him.
She was shrieking loudly, but it wasn't directed at him. It didn't seem directed at anyone. The hag began banging on the door.
"Let me in, let me in" she bellowed.
Ethan thought she’d break the door down, she was thumping on it so furiously. Would the knife he swiped be sufficient protection? The hold he had on it was so tight it was beginning to hurt him. He stuck his head out to survey his prison. It was a sitting room and it appeared seldom used. Dust had settled on virtually square inch of furnishings. Black and white photos of people probably dead lined the fireplace. A box television was in the corner, defunct. Heavy curtains acted as a buffet for a host of moths and the hoary carpet was blemished with stains. Ethan wondered what she wanted from him.
"Niall, Eli, Ethan, Eli" his terroriser pleaded “Just open up the door. Come out."
Ethan’s head shot back in alarm. He burrowed back into the space behind the couch. The knocks got fainter, her call was raspier. The noises ceased and Ethan was even more terrified. He waited for them to resume, but they didn't. The air grew tense. It was some sort of trap, Ethan told himself. She'll spring on me as soon as open the door.
He waited so long time folded in on itself. Ethan's runny nose trickled on to his chin. His face ached from grimacing, his eyes burnt from crying, his head pounded with fear. Hours might have passed. He contemplated going to the door, but each time the thought of the crazed woman kept him rooted to the spot. Her feral eyes and shrill yelling was the stuff of nightmares, his nightmares. Her face was haggard with the rigours of aging, and she was half bald, more a monster from one of Ethan’s storybooks than a woman. But worst of all was how she seemed to talk to more than Ethan, how he wasn't sure if she even knew who she was.
He heard the front door snap open.
"Ethan?" a familiar voiced called. Footsteps paced towards the room. Ethan felt relief wash over him like a cool breeze. His mother was here to save him. He gladly put the knife aside. The footsteps stopped at the door.
"Mom?" the two anxious voices called in unison.
| |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | The fear overwhelmed his senses as the figure in white loomed over him, iron-wrought contraption in hand.
*"Mmrph mhh guhl!"* he pleaded, his words turned into the slurred ramblings of a drunk. The figure only chuckled as it donned its mask. "Now now," it said with a soothing tone. "We're almost done. It'll all be over soon. Make it easier on yourself, hold still."
He could struggle as much as he wanted to, but it to was no avail. He was trapped and at the mercy of his captor.
A sickening *crunch* and the taste of iron and salt accompanied one another. Every nerve in his body screeched out in horror as the figure in white let the tool of its trade do their work. *It's almost done*, the boy thought to himself. *The pain will be over soon.*
He felt his body slowly awaken as the figure in white set its crimson-cloaked pliers aside. In their grasp they held a jagged piece of ivory dotted with imperfections. The boy immediately jumped out of his leather-clad prison, savouring his freedom as the figure in white had its back turned. The white figure turned around, a crystalline sphere on a stick in its clutches.
"Thanks for the lollipop Doctor Monroe!" David called out as he scurried to the exit of his dentist's office. | Ethan hid behind the couch, his small fingers gripping the knife firmly. He shut his mouth so she couldn't hear his rapid breathing. Who was she, this terrifying old woman that held him captive? She had taken him, called him Niall. She insisted he had to come with her, that she wouldn't take no for an answer. Ethan began crying silently, not daring to draw attention to himself. Would his parents ever find him? He could hear her walking around throughout the house, banging things together, screaming. She was like a ghost, this woman, so filled with random destruction. Ethan could hear the sounds of smashing glass, of falling furniture. "Don’t think I've forgotten about you" she called up to him. Ethan heard her march towards him.
She was shrieking loudly, but it wasn't directed at him. It didn't seem directed at anyone. The hag began banging on the door.
"Let me in, let me in" she bellowed.
Ethan thought she’d break the door down, she was thumping on it so furiously. Would the knife he swiped be sufficient protection? The hold he had on it was so tight it was beginning to hurt him. He stuck his head out to survey his prison. It was a sitting room and it appeared seldom used. Dust had settled on virtually square inch of furnishings. Black and white photos of people probably dead lined the fireplace. A box television was in the corner, defunct. Heavy curtains acted as a buffet for a host of moths and the hoary carpet was blemished with stains. Ethan wondered what she wanted from him.
"Niall, Eli, Ethan, Eli" his terroriser pleaded “Just open up the door. Come out."
Ethan’s head shot back in alarm. He burrowed back into the space behind the couch. The knocks got fainter, her call was raspier. The noises ceased and Ethan was even more terrified. He waited for them to resume, but they didn't. The air grew tense. It was some sort of trap, Ethan told himself. She'll spring on me as soon as open the door.
He waited so long time folded in on itself. Ethan's runny nose trickled on to his chin. His face ached from grimacing, his eyes burnt from crying, his head pounded with fear. Hours might have passed. He contemplated going to the door, but each time the thought of the crazed woman kept him rooted to the spot. Her feral eyes and shrill yelling was the stuff of nightmares, his nightmares. Her face was haggard with the rigours of aging, and she was half bald, more a monster from one of Ethan’s storybooks than a woman. But worst of all was how she seemed to talk to more than Ethan, how he wasn't sure if she even knew who she was.
He heard the front door snap open.
"Ethan?" a familiar voiced called. Footsteps paced towards the room. Ethan felt relief wash over him like a cool breeze. His mother was here to save him. He gladly put the knife aside. The footsteps stopped at the door.
"Mom?" the two anxious voices called in unison.
| |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | It was dark, and the stench was unbearable. Molly stood at the threshold, and knew, with a sad, sick sinking her in stomach, what must come next...But the smell, oh god the smell. Her heart raced in her throat, cold acidic sweat poured down her back like little icy fingers. She was consumed with dread.
Others had come before her, had told her what to expect, what to do; how to face the terror and survive. Others had survived but not all of them survived with their sanity intact. None of their advice could help her, nothing they said had prepared her. None of the weapons they had armed her with mattered now. The darkness was complete and it closed her in the stench of her own doom and she knew she would break. Molly knew she would break apart against this most terrible enemy; like waves breaking on the rocks, her being, her very self would shatter and fall like water and foam. Only here there was no ocean to catch her, no greater self to fall back into. Here she would break, would fall against her foe and be found later...scattered, fragmented, destroyed.
The creature, whose scent could now be tasted in Molly's throat, made a rattling noise, *Oh God, it knows I'm here*. Tears filled her eyes as she sensed the creature's awareness. There was nothing for it now; she took another step and steeled herself for a battle she know could only and in misery and...
"Molly!" She heard from behind her. She turned sharply and stared with wide eyed horror at the figure who stood in the shadow- taller, bigger and stronger than what lay before her...yet somehow less menacing.
"Why haven't you changed the baby yet?" | Ethan hid behind the couch, his small fingers gripping the knife firmly. He shut his mouth so she couldn't hear his rapid breathing. Who was she, this terrifying old woman that held him captive? She had taken him, called him Niall. She insisted he had to come with her, that she wouldn't take no for an answer. Ethan began crying silently, not daring to draw attention to himself. Would his parents ever find him? He could hear her walking around throughout the house, banging things together, screaming. She was like a ghost, this woman, so filled with random destruction. Ethan could hear the sounds of smashing glass, of falling furniture. "Don’t think I've forgotten about you" she called up to him. Ethan heard her march towards him.
She was shrieking loudly, but it wasn't directed at him. It didn't seem directed at anyone. The hag began banging on the door.
"Let me in, let me in" she bellowed.
Ethan thought she’d break the door down, she was thumping on it so furiously. Would the knife he swiped be sufficient protection? The hold he had on it was so tight it was beginning to hurt him. He stuck his head out to survey his prison. It was a sitting room and it appeared seldom used. Dust had settled on virtually square inch of furnishings. Black and white photos of people probably dead lined the fireplace. A box television was in the corner, defunct. Heavy curtains acted as a buffet for a host of moths and the hoary carpet was blemished with stains. Ethan wondered what she wanted from him.
"Niall, Eli, Ethan, Eli" his terroriser pleaded “Just open up the door. Come out."
Ethan’s head shot back in alarm. He burrowed back into the space behind the couch. The knocks got fainter, her call was raspier. The noises ceased and Ethan was even more terrified. He waited for them to resume, but they didn't. The air grew tense. It was some sort of trap, Ethan told himself. She'll spring on me as soon as open the door.
He waited so long time folded in on itself. Ethan's runny nose trickled on to his chin. His face ached from grimacing, his eyes burnt from crying, his head pounded with fear. Hours might have passed. He contemplated going to the door, but each time the thought of the crazed woman kept him rooted to the spot. Her feral eyes and shrill yelling was the stuff of nightmares, his nightmares. Her face was haggard with the rigours of aging, and she was half bald, more a monster from one of Ethan’s storybooks than a woman. But worst of all was how she seemed to talk to more than Ethan, how he wasn't sure if she even knew who she was.
He heard the front door snap open.
"Ethan?" a familiar voiced called. Footsteps paced towards the room. Ethan felt relief wash over him like a cool breeze. His mother was here to save him. He gladly put the knife aside. The footsteps stopped at the door.
"Mom?" the two anxious voices called in unison.
| |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | The courdory couch was smooth, my heart pounding as my face pressed into the velvety ridges.
Quick. He's coming.
The slapping of bare feet on the cold moist tile, damp from the condensation of the florida heat.
I remember last time he caught me. I had to beg him to stop. He was laughing as he looked into my eyes and said "no"
I see his feet under the couch. Should I run? Yes.
I sprang up like a frog and tried to run.
My foot was caught on the tile. The thin dew on the slate pulled down my foot.
Boom. I was on the ground, and he saw me.
He ran over, maniacally.
Oh god, I hate when he does this.
He grabbed me by the waist, his big strong hands along my waist. Oh god. His finger ran around the middle part of my fleshy body. My diaphram spasamed as I began to laugh. He had won this round to the hide-and-tickle game we played every friday. | Ethan hid behind the couch, his small fingers gripping the knife firmly. He shut his mouth so she couldn't hear his rapid breathing. Who was she, this terrifying old woman that held him captive? She had taken him, called him Niall. She insisted he had to come with her, that she wouldn't take no for an answer. Ethan began crying silently, not daring to draw attention to himself. Would his parents ever find him? He could hear her walking around throughout the house, banging things together, screaming. She was like a ghost, this woman, so filled with random destruction. Ethan could hear the sounds of smashing glass, of falling furniture. "Don’t think I've forgotten about you" she called up to him. Ethan heard her march towards him.
She was shrieking loudly, but it wasn't directed at him. It didn't seem directed at anyone. The hag began banging on the door.
"Let me in, let me in" she bellowed.
Ethan thought she’d break the door down, she was thumping on it so furiously. Would the knife he swiped be sufficient protection? The hold he had on it was so tight it was beginning to hurt him. He stuck his head out to survey his prison. It was a sitting room and it appeared seldom used. Dust had settled on virtually square inch of furnishings. Black and white photos of people probably dead lined the fireplace. A box television was in the corner, defunct. Heavy curtains acted as a buffet for a host of moths and the hoary carpet was blemished with stains. Ethan wondered what she wanted from him.
"Niall, Eli, Ethan, Eli" his terroriser pleaded “Just open up the door. Come out."
Ethan’s head shot back in alarm. He burrowed back into the space behind the couch. The knocks got fainter, her call was raspier. The noises ceased and Ethan was even more terrified. He waited for them to resume, but they didn't. The air grew tense. It was some sort of trap, Ethan told himself. She'll spring on me as soon as open the door.
He waited so long time folded in on itself. Ethan's runny nose trickled on to his chin. His face ached from grimacing, his eyes burnt from crying, his head pounded with fear. Hours might have passed. He contemplated going to the door, but each time the thought of the crazed woman kept him rooted to the spot. Her feral eyes and shrill yelling was the stuff of nightmares, his nightmares. Her face was haggard with the rigours of aging, and she was half bald, more a monster from one of Ethan’s storybooks than a woman. But worst of all was how she seemed to talk to more than Ethan, how he wasn't sure if she even knew who she was.
He heard the front door snap open.
"Ethan?" a familiar voiced called. Footsteps paced towards the room. Ethan felt relief wash over him like a cool breeze. His mother was here to save him. He gladly put the knife aside. The footsteps stopped at the door.
"Mom?" the two anxious voices called in unison.
| |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | She crept up to the door slowly. The neighbourhood seemed eerily quiet. A lone streetlight flickered onto her steps. The porch lights, which she usually left on, had succumbed to darkness. She could feel a presence welling up behind the door of her house. For a brief moment, she resolved to run, turn away and return in the safety of daylight, but she couldn't. It's too late to call Jessica and ask to stay over. As she placed her hand on the doorknob, she felt the presence shift: something was waiting for her. She turned the knob slowly, each click echoing into the night. Then she pushed the door open gently to reveal her pitch black house. The air was thick and stuffy. She could see the faint outline of a beast, its rigid back outlining the wall in the faint streetlight. She gasped a little. Her trembling fingers reached through the door toward the light switch. The beast began moving again, breathing heavily. It made faint noises from deep within its terrible mass. She flicked the switch. Light flooded the house and she saw it.
"Surprise!" they shouted in unison under a banner that read *Happy Birthday!* | Ethan hid behind the couch, his small fingers gripping the knife firmly. He shut his mouth so she couldn't hear his rapid breathing. Who was she, this terrifying old woman that held him captive? She had taken him, called him Niall. She insisted he had to come with her, that she wouldn't take no for an answer. Ethan began crying silently, not daring to draw attention to himself. Would his parents ever find him? He could hear her walking around throughout the house, banging things together, screaming. She was like a ghost, this woman, so filled with random destruction. Ethan could hear the sounds of smashing glass, of falling furniture. "Don’t think I've forgotten about you" she called up to him. Ethan heard her march towards him.
She was shrieking loudly, but it wasn't directed at him. It didn't seem directed at anyone. The hag began banging on the door.
"Let me in, let me in" she bellowed.
Ethan thought she’d break the door down, she was thumping on it so furiously. Would the knife he swiped be sufficient protection? The hold he had on it was so tight it was beginning to hurt him. He stuck his head out to survey his prison. It was a sitting room and it appeared seldom used. Dust had settled on virtually square inch of furnishings. Black and white photos of people probably dead lined the fireplace. A box television was in the corner, defunct. Heavy curtains acted as a buffet for a host of moths and the hoary carpet was blemished with stains. Ethan wondered what she wanted from him.
"Niall, Eli, Ethan, Eli" his terroriser pleaded “Just open up the door. Come out."
Ethan’s head shot back in alarm. He burrowed back into the space behind the couch. The knocks got fainter, her call was raspier. The noises ceased and Ethan was even more terrified. He waited for them to resume, but they didn't. The air grew tense. It was some sort of trap, Ethan told himself. She'll spring on me as soon as open the door.
He waited so long time folded in on itself. Ethan's runny nose trickled on to his chin. His face ached from grimacing, his eyes burnt from crying, his head pounded with fear. Hours might have passed. He contemplated going to the door, but each time the thought of the crazed woman kept him rooted to the spot. Her feral eyes and shrill yelling was the stuff of nightmares, his nightmares. Her face was haggard with the rigours of aging, and she was half bald, more a monster from one of Ethan’s storybooks than a woman. But worst of all was how she seemed to talk to more than Ethan, how he wasn't sure if she even knew who she was.
He heard the front door snap open.
"Ethan?" a familiar voiced called. Footsteps paced towards the room. Ethan felt relief wash over him like a cool breeze. His mother was here to save him. He gladly put the knife aside. The footsteps stopped at the door.
"Mom?" the two anxious voices called in unison.
| |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | "We knew absolutely nothing about them. We had no idea how they came, nor how they were capable of locomotion in those ravaged husks they called bodies. All we knew was that they had arrived. My name is Jonathan Clydesdale, I am 34 years of age, the date is the 30th of October 1987 and these may be the last words I speak. They-they've managed to find their way into the house. I can hear them, scuffling around in the living room; hopefully the television should keep them distracted long enough for me to escape, though that seems unlikely. In any case, I-"
Suddenly, the door of Jonathon's room swung open and his wife stuck her head around the corner inquisitively.
"Jon, can you put down that damn tape recorder, come downstairs and say hi to my parents?" | Ethan hid behind the couch, his small fingers gripping the knife firmly. He shut his mouth so she couldn't hear his rapid breathing. Who was she, this terrifying old woman that held him captive? She had taken him, called him Niall. She insisted he had to come with her, that she wouldn't take no for an answer. Ethan began crying silently, not daring to draw attention to himself. Would his parents ever find him? He could hear her walking around throughout the house, banging things together, screaming. She was like a ghost, this woman, so filled with random destruction. Ethan could hear the sounds of smashing glass, of falling furniture. "Don’t think I've forgotten about you" she called up to him. Ethan heard her march towards him.
She was shrieking loudly, but it wasn't directed at him. It didn't seem directed at anyone. The hag began banging on the door.
"Let me in, let me in" she bellowed.
Ethan thought she’d break the door down, she was thumping on it so furiously. Would the knife he swiped be sufficient protection? The hold he had on it was so tight it was beginning to hurt him. He stuck his head out to survey his prison. It was a sitting room and it appeared seldom used. Dust had settled on virtually square inch of furnishings. Black and white photos of people probably dead lined the fireplace. A box television was in the corner, defunct. Heavy curtains acted as a buffet for a host of moths and the hoary carpet was blemished with stains. Ethan wondered what she wanted from him.
"Niall, Eli, Ethan, Eli" his terroriser pleaded “Just open up the door. Come out."
Ethan’s head shot back in alarm. He burrowed back into the space behind the couch. The knocks got fainter, her call was raspier. The noises ceased and Ethan was even more terrified. He waited for them to resume, but they didn't. The air grew tense. It was some sort of trap, Ethan told himself. She'll spring on me as soon as open the door.
He waited so long time folded in on itself. Ethan's runny nose trickled on to his chin. His face ached from grimacing, his eyes burnt from crying, his head pounded with fear. Hours might have passed. He contemplated going to the door, but each time the thought of the crazed woman kept him rooted to the spot. Her feral eyes and shrill yelling was the stuff of nightmares, his nightmares. Her face was haggard with the rigours of aging, and she was half bald, more a monster from one of Ethan’s storybooks than a woman. But worst of all was how she seemed to talk to more than Ethan, how he wasn't sure if she even knew who she was.
He heard the front door snap open.
"Ethan?" a familiar voiced called. Footsteps paced towards the room. Ethan felt relief wash over him like a cool breeze. His mother was here to save him. He gladly put the knife aside. The footsteps stopped at the door.
"Mom?" the two anxious voices called in unison.
| |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | By god, the stench was unbearable. Even as Jonathan neared the closed door, the noxious smell of putrescence wafted through the air, assaulting his nostrils like a heavyweight boxer. His guts twisted into a painful knot as a shiver inched its way down his spine, in dread anticipation of the horrors he'd find past the threshold.
An inhuman grunt and a prolonged whimper through the door reached his ears, followed by a deep, unearthly rumble that made the door clatter on its hinges almost as violently as Jonathan's knees shook. "Lord almighty!" he muttered almost unconsciously. What wretched creature could possibly lie in wait?
He slowly reached for the doorknob, while the knot in his guts suddenly tightened. Oh, how he hated the high school toilets. | Ethan hid behind the couch, his small fingers gripping the knife firmly. He shut his mouth so she couldn't hear his rapid breathing. Who was she, this terrifying old woman that held him captive? She had taken him, called him Niall. She insisted he had to come with her, that she wouldn't take no for an answer. Ethan began crying silently, not daring to draw attention to himself. Would his parents ever find him? He could hear her walking around throughout the house, banging things together, screaming. She was like a ghost, this woman, so filled with random destruction. Ethan could hear the sounds of smashing glass, of falling furniture. "Don’t think I've forgotten about you" she called up to him. Ethan heard her march towards him.
She was shrieking loudly, but it wasn't directed at him. It didn't seem directed at anyone. The hag began banging on the door.
"Let me in, let me in" she bellowed.
Ethan thought she’d break the door down, she was thumping on it so furiously. Would the knife he swiped be sufficient protection? The hold he had on it was so tight it was beginning to hurt him. He stuck his head out to survey his prison. It was a sitting room and it appeared seldom used. Dust had settled on virtually square inch of furnishings. Black and white photos of people probably dead lined the fireplace. A box television was in the corner, defunct. Heavy curtains acted as a buffet for a host of moths and the hoary carpet was blemished with stains. Ethan wondered what she wanted from him.
"Niall, Eli, Ethan, Eli" his terroriser pleaded “Just open up the door. Come out."
Ethan’s head shot back in alarm. He burrowed back into the space behind the couch. The knocks got fainter, her call was raspier. The noises ceased and Ethan was even more terrified. He waited for them to resume, but they didn't. The air grew tense. It was some sort of trap, Ethan told himself. She'll spring on me as soon as open the door.
He waited so long time folded in on itself. Ethan's runny nose trickled on to his chin. His face ached from grimacing, his eyes burnt from crying, his head pounded with fear. Hours might have passed. He contemplated going to the door, but each time the thought of the crazed woman kept him rooted to the spot. Her feral eyes and shrill yelling was the stuff of nightmares, his nightmares. Her face was haggard with the rigours of aging, and she was half bald, more a monster from one of Ethan’s storybooks than a woman. But worst of all was how she seemed to talk to more than Ethan, how he wasn't sure if she even knew who she was.
He heard the front door snap open.
"Ethan?" a familiar voiced called. Footsteps paced towards the room. Ethan felt relief wash over him like a cool breeze. His mother was here to save him. He gladly put the knife aside. The footsteps stopped at the door.
"Mom?" the two anxious voices called in unison.
| |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | I looked up from the cutting board and was immediately on alert. It was too quiet in the house. Knife in hand, I started my walk through. First I check the computer room, though I'm almost certain no one has been in the kitchen with me. Nothing. Back through the kitchen and into the living room. Still nothing. The silence is a bit unnerving in a house full of constant noise. Nothing in the guest room. I pass through room after silent room growing more nervous with every step. "What the hell is going on?" I think as I take another step. All I want is to be in the kitchen getting dinner prepped and cooked. After all, I am excited to try this new recipe. I check the bathroom. Still no sign of life in the house. Even the dog and cat are conspicuous in their absence. I've come to the end of the hallway, one more step and I'll know...
One more step...
I turn the corner...
And my two year old jumps out of his closet "BOO! ha ha I got you!" | It was a cold morning. After a long walk, the kid approached the big metal gates and saw a large towering castle behind them, which looked like something out of a movie. He started to cry. The people around him began to laugh at his reaction. Was this real life? He couldn't handle it. He smelled an erie stench and could hear faint screams in the distance. Suddenly, out of no where a big black figure approached him while he was trembling in fear. Then, in a high pitched voice, Mickey Mouse said, "Welcome to Disney Land!" | |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | The light glints off my dagger as I inspect my work. I just sharpened her, and fuck me if she isn't just the sexiest piece of steel I've laid my hands on.
She isn't particularly made for this task, slicing through that tight skin and juicy flesh. I have other knives and sharp objects that are better suited. But she does her job good, and my mouth can't help but water as she makes other swift clean cut, juices running from her pointy tip, to her intricate elegant hilt.
It's all I can do to not fill my pants when I run my tongue slowly up her length. My God she's smooth and cool and those juices so sweet and sticky. I can barely wait to finish carving and eating that plump red apple before cleaning her and putting her back with the rest of the collection. | It was a cold morning. After a long walk, the kid approached the big metal gates and saw a large towering castle behind them, which looked like something out of a movie. He started to cry. The people around him began to laugh at his reaction. Was this real life? He couldn't handle it. He smelled an erie stench and could hear faint screams in the distance. Suddenly, out of no where a big black figure approached him while he was trembling in fear. Then, in a high pitched voice, Mickey Mouse said, "Welcome to Disney Land!" | |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | The fear overwhelmed his senses as the figure in white loomed over him, iron-wrought contraption in hand.
*"Mmrph mhh guhl!"* he pleaded, his words turned into the slurred ramblings of a drunk. The figure only chuckled as it donned its mask. "Now now," it said with a soothing tone. "We're almost done. It'll all be over soon. Make it easier on yourself, hold still."
He could struggle as much as he wanted to, but it to was no avail. He was trapped and at the mercy of his captor.
A sickening *crunch* and the taste of iron and salt accompanied one another. Every nerve in his body screeched out in horror as the figure in white let the tool of its trade do their work. *It's almost done*, the boy thought to himself. *The pain will be over soon.*
He felt his body slowly awaken as the figure in white set its crimson-cloaked pliers aside. In their grasp they held a jagged piece of ivory dotted with imperfections. The boy immediately jumped out of his leather-clad prison, savouring his freedom as the figure in white had its back turned. The white figure turned around, a crystalline sphere on a stick in its clutches.
"Thanks for the lollipop Doctor Monroe!" David called out as he scurried to the exit of his dentist's office. | It was a cold morning. After a long walk, the kid approached the big metal gates and saw a large towering castle behind them, which looked like something out of a movie. He started to cry. The people around him began to laugh at his reaction. Was this real life? He couldn't handle it. He smelled an erie stench and could hear faint screams in the distance. Suddenly, out of no where a big black figure approached him while he was trembling in fear. Then, in a high pitched voice, Mickey Mouse said, "Welcome to Disney Land!" | |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | It was dark, and the stench was unbearable. Molly stood at the threshold, and knew, with a sad, sick sinking her in stomach, what must come next...But the smell, oh god the smell. Her heart raced in her throat, cold acidic sweat poured down her back like little icy fingers. She was consumed with dread.
Others had come before her, had told her what to expect, what to do; how to face the terror and survive. Others had survived but not all of them survived with their sanity intact. None of their advice could help her, nothing they said had prepared her. None of the weapons they had armed her with mattered now. The darkness was complete and it closed her in the stench of her own doom and she knew she would break. Molly knew she would break apart against this most terrible enemy; like waves breaking on the rocks, her being, her very self would shatter and fall like water and foam. Only here there was no ocean to catch her, no greater self to fall back into. Here she would break, would fall against her foe and be found later...scattered, fragmented, destroyed.
The creature, whose scent could now be tasted in Molly's throat, made a rattling noise, *Oh God, it knows I'm here*. Tears filled her eyes as she sensed the creature's awareness. There was nothing for it now; she took another step and steeled herself for a battle she know could only and in misery and...
"Molly!" She heard from behind her. She turned sharply and stared with wide eyed horror at the figure who stood in the shadow- taller, bigger and stronger than what lay before her...yet somehow less menacing.
"Why haven't you changed the baby yet?" | It was a cold morning. After a long walk, the kid approached the big metal gates and saw a large towering castle behind them, which looked like something out of a movie. He started to cry. The people around him began to laugh at his reaction. Was this real life? He couldn't handle it. He smelled an erie stench and could hear faint screams in the distance. Suddenly, out of no where a big black figure approached him while he was trembling in fear. Then, in a high pitched voice, Mickey Mouse said, "Welcome to Disney Land!" | |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | The courdory couch was smooth, my heart pounding as my face pressed into the velvety ridges.
Quick. He's coming.
The slapping of bare feet on the cold moist tile, damp from the condensation of the florida heat.
I remember last time he caught me. I had to beg him to stop. He was laughing as he looked into my eyes and said "no"
I see his feet under the couch. Should I run? Yes.
I sprang up like a frog and tried to run.
My foot was caught on the tile. The thin dew on the slate pulled down my foot.
Boom. I was on the ground, and he saw me.
He ran over, maniacally.
Oh god, I hate when he does this.
He grabbed me by the waist, his big strong hands along my waist. Oh god. His finger ran around the middle part of my fleshy body. My diaphram spasamed as I began to laugh. He had won this round to the hide-and-tickle game we played every friday. | It was a cold morning. After a long walk, the kid approached the big metal gates and saw a large towering castle behind them, which looked like something out of a movie. He started to cry. The people around him began to laugh at his reaction. Was this real life? He couldn't handle it. He smelled an erie stench and could hear faint screams in the distance. Suddenly, out of no where a big black figure approached him while he was trembling in fear. Then, in a high pitched voice, Mickey Mouse said, "Welcome to Disney Land!" | |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | "We knew absolutely nothing about them. We had no idea how they came, nor how they were capable of locomotion in those ravaged husks they called bodies. All we knew was that they had arrived. My name is Jonathan Clydesdale, I am 34 years of age, the date is the 30th of October 1987 and these may be the last words I speak. They-they've managed to find their way into the house. I can hear them, scuffling around in the living room; hopefully the television should keep them distracted long enough for me to escape, though that seems unlikely. In any case, I-"
Suddenly, the door of Jonathon's room swung open and his wife stuck her head around the corner inquisitively.
"Jon, can you put down that damn tape recorder, come downstairs and say hi to my parents?" | It was a cold morning. After a long walk, the kid approached the big metal gates and saw a large towering castle behind them, which looked like something out of a movie. He started to cry. The people around him began to laugh at his reaction. Was this real life? He couldn't handle it. He smelled an erie stench and could hear faint screams in the distance. Suddenly, out of no where a big black figure approached him while he was trembling in fear. Then, in a high pitched voice, Mickey Mouse said, "Welcome to Disney Land!" | |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | By god, the stench was unbearable. Even as Jonathan neared the closed door, the noxious smell of putrescence wafted through the air, assaulting his nostrils like a heavyweight boxer. His guts twisted into a painful knot as a shiver inched its way down his spine, in dread anticipation of the horrors he'd find past the threshold.
An inhuman grunt and a prolonged whimper through the door reached his ears, followed by a deep, unearthly rumble that made the door clatter on its hinges almost as violently as Jonathan's knees shook. "Lord almighty!" he muttered almost unconsciously. What wretched creature could possibly lie in wait?
He slowly reached for the doorknob, while the knot in his guts suddenly tightened. Oh, how he hated the high school toilets. | It was a cold morning. After a long walk, the kid approached the big metal gates and saw a large towering castle behind them, which looked like something out of a movie. He started to cry. The people around him began to laugh at his reaction. Was this real life? He couldn't handle it. He smelled an erie stench and could hear faint screams in the distance. Suddenly, out of no where a big black figure approached him while he was trembling in fear. Then, in a high pitched voice, Mickey Mouse said, "Welcome to Disney Land!" | |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | The fear overwhelmed his senses as the figure in white loomed over him, iron-wrought contraption in hand.
*"Mmrph mhh guhl!"* he pleaded, his words turned into the slurred ramblings of a drunk. The figure only chuckled as it donned its mask. "Now now," it said with a soothing tone. "We're almost done. It'll all be over soon. Make it easier on yourself, hold still."
He could struggle as much as he wanted to, but it to was no avail. He was trapped and at the mercy of his captor.
A sickening *crunch* and the taste of iron and salt accompanied one another. Every nerve in his body screeched out in horror as the figure in white let the tool of its trade do their work. *It's almost done*, the boy thought to himself. *The pain will be over soon.*
He felt his body slowly awaken as the figure in white set its crimson-cloaked pliers aside. In their grasp they held a jagged piece of ivory dotted with imperfections. The boy immediately jumped out of his leather-clad prison, savouring his freedom as the figure in white had its back turned. The white figure turned around, a crystalline sphere on a stick in its clutches.
"Thanks for the lollipop Doctor Monroe!" David called out as he scurried to the exit of his dentist's office. | It had entered me unexpectedly, and taken root within my viscera, underneath my flesh, inside my body.
It festered inside me, draining me of nutrients. I needed more food for sustenance.
It grew larger, and soon, it started to hinder my movement.
But the worst was yet to come. One day, I knew, the creature would tire of my body, and attempt to claw and kick its way out.
When I felt it, I tried to keep it at bay. But one day, I felt it trying to leave, and a pain ripped my body in two.
"Congratulations," said the nurse. "You've delivered a healthy baby boy."
I smiled in relief.
| |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | It was dark, and the stench was unbearable. Molly stood at the threshold, and knew, with a sad, sick sinking her in stomach, what must come next...But the smell, oh god the smell. Her heart raced in her throat, cold acidic sweat poured down her back like little icy fingers. She was consumed with dread.
Others had come before her, had told her what to expect, what to do; how to face the terror and survive. Others had survived but not all of them survived with their sanity intact. None of their advice could help her, nothing they said had prepared her. None of the weapons they had armed her with mattered now. The darkness was complete and it closed her in the stench of her own doom and she knew she would break. Molly knew she would break apart against this most terrible enemy; like waves breaking on the rocks, her being, her very self would shatter and fall like water and foam. Only here there was no ocean to catch her, no greater self to fall back into. Here she would break, would fall against her foe and be found later...scattered, fragmented, destroyed.
The creature, whose scent could now be tasted in Molly's throat, made a rattling noise, *Oh God, it knows I'm here*. Tears filled her eyes as she sensed the creature's awareness. There was nothing for it now; she took another step and steeled herself for a battle she know could only and in misery and...
"Molly!" She heard from behind her. She turned sharply and stared with wide eyed horror at the figure who stood in the shadow- taller, bigger and stronger than what lay before her...yet somehow less menacing.
"Why haven't you changed the baby yet?" | It had entered me unexpectedly, and taken root within my viscera, underneath my flesh, inside my body.
It festered inside me, draining me of nutrients. I needed more food for sustenance.
It grew larger, and soon, it started to hinder my movement.
But the worst was yet to come. One day, I knew, the creature would tire of my body, and attempt to claw and kick its way out.
When I felt it, I tried to keep it at bay. But one day, I felt it trying to leave, and a pain ripped my body in two.
"Congratulations," said the nurse. "You've delivered a healthy baby boy."
I smiled in relief.
| |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | The courdory couch was smooth, my heart pounding as my face pressed into the velvety ridges.
Quick. He's coming.
The slapping of bare feet on the cold moist tile, damp from the condensation of the florida heat.
I remember last time he caught me. I had to beg him to stop. He was laughing as he looked into my eyes and said "no"
I see his feet under the couch. Should I run? Yes.
I sprang up like a frog and tried to run.
My foot was caught on the tile. The thin dew on the slate pulled down my foot.
Boom. I was on the ground, and he saw me.
He ran over, maniacally.
Oh god, I hate when he does this.
He grabbed me by the waist, his big strong hands along my waist. Oh god. His finger ran around the middle part of my fleshy body. My diaphram spasamed as I began to laugh. He had won this round to the hide-and-tickle game we played every friday. | It had entered me unexpectedly, and taken root within my viscera, underneath my flesh, inside my body.
It festered inside me, draining me of nutrients. I needed more food for sustenance.
It grew larger, and soon, it started to hinder my movement.
But the worst was yet to come. One day, I knew, the creature would tire of my body, and attempt to claw and kick its way out.
When I felt it, I tried to keep it at bay. But one day, I felt it trying to leave, and a pain ripped my body in two.
"Congratulations," said the nurse. "You've delivered a healthy baby boy."
I smiled in relief.
| |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | "We knew absolutely nothing about them. We had no idea how they came, nor how they were capable of locomotion in those ravaged husks they called bodies. All we knew was that they had arrived. My name is Jonathan Clydesdale, I am 34 years of age, the date is the 30th of October 1987 and these may be the last words I speak. They-they've managed to find their way into the house. I can hear them, scuffling around in the living room; hopefully the television should keep them distracted long enough for me to escape, though that seems unlikely. In any case, I-"
Suddenly, the door of Jonathon's room swung open and his wife stuck her head around the corner inquisitively.
"Jon, can you put down that damn tape recorder, come downstairs and say hi to my parents?" | It had entered me unexpectedly, and taken root within my viscera, underneath my flesh, inside my body.
It festered inside me, draining me of nutrients. I needed more food for sustenance.
It grew larger, and soon, it started to hinder my movement.
But the worst was yet to come. One day, I knew, the creature would tire of my body, and attempt to claw and kick its way out.
When I felt it, I tried to keep it at bay. But one day, I felt it trying to leave, and a pain ripped my body in two.
"Congratulations," said the nurse. "You've delivered a healthy baby boy."
I smiled in relief.
| |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | It was dark, and the stench was unbearable. Molly stood at the threshold, and knew, with a sad, sick sinking her in stomach, what must come next...But the smell, oh god the smell. Her heart raced in her throat, cold acidic sweat poured down her back like little icy fingers. She was consumed with dread.
Others had come before her, had told her what to expect, what to do; how to face the terror and survive. Others had survived but not all of them survived with their sanity intact. None of their advice could help her, nothing they said had prepared her. None of the weapons they had armed her with mattered now. The darkness was complete and it closed her in the stench of her own doom and she knew she would break. Molly knew she would break apart against this most terrible enemy; like waves breaking on the rocks, her being, her very self would shatter and fall like water and foam. Only here there was no ocean to catch her, no greater self to fall back into. Here she would break, would fall against her foe and be found later...scattered, fragmented, destroyed.
The creature, whose scent could now be tasted in Molly's throat, made a rattling noise, *Oh God, it knows I'm here*. Tears filled her eyes as she sensed the creature's awareness. There was nothing for it now; she took another step and steeled herself for a battle she know could only and in misery and...
"Molly!" She heard from behind her. She turned sharply and stared with wide eyed horror at the figure who stood in the shadow- taller, bigger and stronger than what lay before her...yet somehow less menacing.
"Why haven't you changed the baby yet?" | I looked up from the cutting board and was immediately on alert. It was too quiet in the house. Knife in hand, I started my walk through. First I check the computer room, though I'm almost certain no one has been in the kitchen with me. Nothing. Back through the kitchen and into the living room. Still nothing. The silence is a bit unnerving in a house full of constant noise. Nothing in the guest room. I pass through room after silent room growing more nervous with every step. "What the hell is going on?" I think as I take another step. All I want is to be in the kitchen getting dinner prepped and cooked. After all, I am excited to try this new recipe. I check the bathroom. Still no sign of life in the house. Even the dog and cat are conspicuous in their absence. I've come to the end of the hallway, one more step and I'll know...
One more step...
I turn the corner...
And my two year old jumps out of his closet "BOO! ha ha I got you!" | |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | The courdory couch was smooth, my heart pounding as my face pressed into the velvety ridges.
Quick. He's coming.
The slapping of bare feet on the cold moist tile, damp from the condensation of the florida heat.
I remember last time he caught me. I had to beg him to stop. He was laughing as he looked into my eyes and said "no"
I see his feet under the couch. Should I run? Yes.
I sprang up like a frog and tried to run.
My foot was caught on the tile. The thin dew on the slate pulled down my foot.
Boom. I was on the ground, and he saw me.
He ran over, maniacally.
Oh god, I hate when he does this.
He grabbed me by the waist, his big strong hands along my waist. Oh god. His finger ran around the middle part of my fleshy body. My diaphram spasamed as I began to laugh. He had won this round to the hide-and-tickle game we played every friday. | I looked up from the cutting board and was immediately on alert. It was too quiet in the house. Knife in hand, I started my walk through. First I check the computer room, though I'm almost certain no one has been in the kitchen with me. Nothing. Back through the kitchen and into the living room. Still nothing. The silence is a bit unnerving in a house full of constant noise. Nothing in the guest room. I pass through room after silent room growing more nervous with every step. "What the hell is going on?" I think as I take another step. All I want is to be in the kitchen getting dinner prepped and cooked. After all, I am excited to try this new recipe. I check the bathroom. Still no sign of life in the house. Even the dog and cat are conspicuous in their absence. I've come to the end of the hallway, one more step and I'll know...
One more step...
I turn the corner...
And my two year old jumps out of his closet "BOO! ha ha I got you!" | |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | "We knew absolutely nothing about them. We had no idea how they came, nor how they were capable of locomotion in those ravaged husks they called bodies. All we knew was that they had arrived. My name is Jonathan Clydesdale, I am 34 years of age, the date is the 30th of October 1987 and these may be the last words I speak. They-they've managed to find their way into the house. I can hear them, scuffling around in the living room; hopefully the television should keep them distracted long enough for me to escape, though that seems unlikely. In any case, I-"
Suddenly, the door of Jonathon's room swung open and his wife stuck her head around the corner inquisitively.
"Jon, can you put down that damn tape recorder, come downstairs and say hi to my parents?" | I looked up from the cutting board and was immediately on alert. It was too quiet in the house. Knife in hand, I started my walk through. First I check the computer room, though I'm almost certain no one has been in the kitchen with me. Nothing. Back through the kitchen and into the living room. Still nothing. The silence is a bit unnerving in a house full of constant noise. Nothing in the guest room. I pass through room after silent room growing more nervous with every step. "What the hell is going on?" I think as I take another step. All I want is to be in the kitchen getting dinner prepped and cooked. After all, I am excited to try this new recipe. I check the bathroom. Still no sign of life in the house. Even the dog and cat are conspicuous in their absence. I've come to the end of the hallway, one more step and I'll know...
One more step...
I turn the corner...
And my two year old jumps out of his closet "BOO! ha ha I got you!" | |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | It was dark, and the stench was unbearable. Molly stood at the threshold, and knew, with a sad, sick sinking her in stomach, what must come next...But the smell, oh god the smell. Her heart raced in her throat, cold acidic sweat poured down her back like little icy fingers. She was consumed with dread.
Others had come before her, had told her what to expect, what to do; how to face the terror and survive. Others had survived but not all of them survived with their sanity intact. None of their advice could help her, nothing they said had prepared her. None of the weapons they had armed her with mattered now. The darkness was complete and it closed her in the stench of her own doom and she knew she would break. Molly knew she would break apart against this most terrible enemy; like waves breaking on the rocks, her being, her very self would shatter and fall like water and foam. Only here there was no ocean to catch her, no greater self to fall back into. Here she would break, would fall against her foe and be found later...scattered, fragmented, destroyed.
The creature, whose scent could now be tasted in Molly's throat, made a rattling noise, *Oh God, it knows I'm here*. Tears filled her eyes as she sensed the creature's awareness. There was nothing for it now; she took another step and steeled herself for a battle she know could only and in misery and...
"Molly!" She heard from behind her. She turned sharply and stared with wide eyed horror at the figure who stood in the shadow- taller, bigger and stronger than what lay before her...yet somehow less menacing.
"Why haven't you changed the baby yet?" | The light glints off my dagger as I inspect my work. I just sharpened her, and fuck me if she isn't just the sexiest piece of steel I've laid my hands on.
She isn't particularly made for this task, slicing through that tight skin and juicy flesh. I have other knives and sharp objects that are better suited. But she does her job good, and my mouth can't help but water as she makes other swift clean cut, juices running from her pointy tip, to her intricate elegant hilt.
It's all I can do to not fill my pants when I run my tongue slowly up her length. My God she's smooth and cool and those juices so sweet and sticky. I can barely wait to finish carving and eating that plump red apple before cleaning her and putting her back with the rest of the collection. | |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | The courdory couch was smooth, my heart pounding as my face pressed into the velvety ridges.
Quick. He's coming.
The slapping of bare feet on the cold moist tile, damp from the condensation of the florida heat.
I remember last time he caught me. I had to beg him to stop. He was laughing as he looked into my eyes and said "no"
I see his feet under the couch. Should I run? Yes.
I sprang up like a frog and tried to run.
My foot was caught on the tile. The thin dew on the slate pulled down my foot.
Boom. I was on the ground, and he saw me.
He ran over, maniacally.
Oh god, I hate when he does this.
He grabbed me by the waist, his big strong hands along my waist. Oh god. His finger ran around the middle part of my fleshy body. My diaphram spasamed as I began to laugh. He had won this round to the hide-and-tickle game we played every friday. | The light glints off my dagger as I inspect my work. I just sharpened her, and fuck me if she isn't just the sexiest piece of steel I've laid my hands on.
She isn't particularly made for this task, slicing through that tight skin and juicy flesh. I have other knives and sharp objects that are better suited. But she does her job good, and my mouth can't help but water as she makes other swift clean cut, juices running from her pointy tip, to her intricate elegant hilt.
It's all I can do to not fill my pants when I run my tongue slowly up her length. My God she's smooth and cool and those juices so sweet and sticky. I can barely wait to finish carving and eating that plump red apple before cleaning her and putting her back with the rest of the collection. | |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | "We knew absolutely nothing about them. We had no idea how they came, nor how they were capable of locomotion in those ravaged husks they called bodies. All we knew was that they had arrived. My name is Jonathan Clydesdale, I am 34 years of age, the date is the 30th of October 1987 and these may be the last words I speak. They-they've managed to find their way into the house. I can hear them, scuffling around in the living room; hopefully the television should keep them distracted long enough for me to escape, though that seems unlikely. In any case, I-"
Suddenly, the door of Jonathon's room swung open and his wife stuck her head around the corner inquisitively.
"Jon, can you put down that damn tape recorder, come downstairs and say hi to my parents?" | The light glints off my dagger as I inspect my work. I just sharpened her, and fuck me if she isn't just the sexiest piece of steel I've laid my hands on.
She isn't particularly made for this task, slicing through that tight skin and juicy flesh. I have other knives and sharp objects that are better suited. But she does her job good, and my mouth can't help but water as she makes other swift clean cut, juices running from her pointy tip, to her intricate elegant hilt.
It's all I can do to not fill my pants when I run my tongue slowly up her length. My God she's smooth and cool and those juices so sweet and sticky. I can barely wait to finish carving and eating that plump red apple before cleaning her and putting her back with the rest of the collection. | |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | It was dark, and the stench was unbearable. Molly stood at the threshold, and knew, with a sad, sick sinking her in stomach, what must come next...But the smell, oh god the smell. Her heart raced in her throat, cold acidic sweat poured down her back like little icy fingers. She was consumed with dread.
Others had come before her, had told her what to expect, what to do; how to face the terror and survive. Others had survived but not all of them survived with their sanity intact. None of their advice could help her, nothing they said had prepared her. None of the weapons they had armed her with mattered now. The darkness was complete and it closed her in the stench of her own doom and she knew she would break. Molly knew she would break apart against this most terrible enemy; like waves breaking on the rocks, her being, her very self would shatter and fall like water and foam. Only here there was no ocean to catch her, no greater self to fall back into. Here she would break, would fall against her foe and be found later...scattered, fragmented, destroyed.
The creature, whose scent could now be tasted in Molly's throat, made a rattling noise, *Oh God, it knows I'm here*. Tears filled her eyes as she sensed the creature's awareness. There was nothing for it now; she took another step and steeled herself for a battle she know could only and in misery and...
"Molly!" She heard from behind her. She turned sharply and stared with wide eyed horror at the figure who stood in the shadow- taller, bigger and stronger than what lay before her...yet somehow less menacing.
"Why haven't you changed the baby yet?" | The fear overwhelmed his senses as the figure in white loomed over him, iron-wrought contraption in hand.
*"Mmrph mhh guhl!"* he pleaded, his words turned into the slurred ramblings of a drunk. The figure only chuckled as it donned its mask. "Now now," it said with a soothing tone. "We're almost done. It'll all be over soon. Make it easier on yourself, hold still."
He could struggle as much as he wanted to, but it to was no avail. He was trapped and at the mercy of his captor.
A sickening *crunch* and the taste of iron and salt accompanied one another. Every nerve in his body screeched out in horror as the figure in white let the tool of its trade do their work. *It's almost done*, the boy thought to himself. *The pain will be over soon.*
He felt his body slowly awaken as the figure in white set its crimson-cloaked pliers aside. In their grasp they held a jagged piece of ivory dotted with imperfections. The boy immediately jumped out of his leather-clad prison, savouring his freedom as the figure in white had its back turned. The white figure turned around, a crystalline sphere on a stick in its clutches.
"Thanks for the lollipop Doctor Monroe!" David called out as he scurried to the exit of his dentist's office. | |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | "We knew absolutely nothing about them. We had no idea how they came, nor how they were capable of locomotion in those ravaged husks they called bodies. All we knew was that they had arrived. My name is Jonathan Clydesdale, I am 34 years of age, the date is the 30th of October 1987 and these may be the last words I speak. They-they've managed to find their way into the house. I can hear them, scuffling around in the living room; hopefully the television should keep them distracted long enough for me to escape, though that seems unlikely. In any case, I-"
Suddenly, the door of Jonathon's room swung open and his wife stuck her head around the corner inquisitively.
"Jon, can you put down that damn tape recorder, come downstairs and say hi to my parents?" | The courdory couch was smooth, my heart pounding as my face pressed into the velvety ridges.
Quick. He's coming.
The slapping of bare feet on the cold moist tile, damp from the condensation of the florida heat.
I remember last time he caught me. I had to beg him to stop. He was laughing as he looked into my eyes and said "no"
I see his feet under the couch. Should I run? Yes.
I sprang up like a frog and tried to run.
My foot was caught on the tile. The thin dew on the slate pulled down my foot.
Boom. I was on the ground, and he saw me.
He ran over, maniacally.
Oh god, I hate when he does this.
He grabbed me by the waist, his big strong hands along my waist. Oh god. His finger ran around the middle part of my fleshy body. My diaphram spasamed as I began to laugh. He had won this round to the hide-and-tickle game we played every friday. | |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | "We knew absolutely nothing about them. We had no idea how they came, nor how they were capable of locomotion in those ravaged husks they called bodies. All we knew was that they had arrived. My name is Jonathan Clydesdale, I am 34 years of age, the date is the 30th of October 1987 and these may be the last words I speak. They-they've managed to find their way into the house. I can hear them, scuffling around in the living room; hopefully the television should keep them distracted long enough for me to escape, though that seems unlikely. In any case, I-"
Suddenly, the door of Jonathon's room swung open and his wife stuck her head around the corner inquisitively.
"Jon, can you put down that damn tape recorder, come downstairs and say hi to my parents?" | She crept up to the door slowly. The neighbourhood seemed eerily quiet. A lone streetlight flickered onto her steps. The porch lights, which she usually left on, had succumbed to darkness. She could feel a presence welling up behind the door of her house. For a brief moment, she resolved to run, turn away and return in the safety of daylight, but she couldn't. It's too late to call Jessica and ask to stay over. As she placed her hand on the doorknob, she felt the presence shift: something was waiting for her. She turned the knob slowly, each click echoing into the night. Then she pushed the door open gently to reveal her pitch black house. The air was thick and stuffy. She could see the faint outline of a beast, its rigid back outlining the wall in the faint streetlight. She gasped a little. Her trembling fingers reached through the door toward the light switch. The beast began moving again, breathing heavily. It made faint noises from deep within its terrible mass. She flicked the switch. Light flooded the house and she saw it.
"Surprise!" they shouted in unison under a banner that read *Happy Birthday!* | |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | By god, the stench was unbearable. Even as Jonathan neared the closed door, the noxious smell of putrescence wafted through the air, assaulting his nostrils like a heavyweight boxer. His guts twisted into a painful knot as a shiver inched its way down his spine, in dread anticipation of the horrors he'd find past the threshold.
An inhuman grunt and a prolonged whimper through the door reached his ears, followed by a deep, unearthly rumble that made the door clatter on its hinges almost as violently as Jonathan's knees shook. "Lord almighty!" he muttered almost unconsciously. What wretched creature could possibly lie in wait?
He slowly reached for the doorknob, while the knot in his guts suddenly tightened. Oh, how he hated the high school toilets. | She crept up to the door slowly. The neighbourhood seemed eerily quiet. A lone streetlight flickered onto her steps. The porch lights, which she usually left on, had succumbed to darkness. She could feel a presence welling up behind the door of her house. For a brief moment, she resolved to run, turn away and return in the safety of daylight, but she couldn't. It's too late to call Jessica and ask to stay over. As she placed her hand on the doorknob, she felt the presence shift: something was waiting for her. She turned the knob slowly, each click echoing into the night. Then she pushed the door open gently to reveal her pitch black house. The air was thick and stuffy. She could see the faint outline of a beast, its rigid back outlining the wall in the faint streetlight. She gasped a little. Her trembling fingers reached through the door toward the light switch. The beast began moving again, breathing heavily. It made faint noises from deep within its terrible mass. She flicked the switch. Light flooded the house and she saw it.
"Surprise!" they shouted in unison under a banner that read *Happy Birthday!* | |
[WP] Write a story that seems like a horror story until the last line. | My wife came home.
In Sims 3.
| I only knew that I was being observed. I was not alone in the room, but I could hear or see nothing apart from the fans of my old laptop and the cars in the streen. It was 3 AM and I still had a lot of work to do, but I couldn't focus.
When I first heard the slight tapping in the floor, just a couple of meters away from me, I knew it was too late. I quickly turned my head from the screen and peered into the almost-pitch dark that extended at the other side of my room's door. It took my eyes some time to adapt, but when they did I had no doubt: a pair of small, bright eyes were fixed on me. And approaching.
I knew I was lost. Stupidly, the first I thought was how angry my boss would be the next day for not receiving the report I was trying to finish. I was certain I would never do it. Without a noise, the eyes kept coming towards me, accelerating...
Rather clumsily, [Tiger](http://i.imgur.com/wGz4IHZ.jpg) jumped on my lap, already purring, and utterly destroying the last remains of my productivity for that night.
*PD: Yes, not very creative, I'm sorry. But I thought it would be a nice chance to practice my english (which is far from being my mother language, please correct me if something is wrong) and as nice as any other excuse to stop working* | |
They have someone's entire life on DVR to choose from. | [WP] An entire life, as judged by reality TV show hosts. | Edna never stood a chance. That she made the finals at all caused a furor among long-time fans. Sami, for instance, had a rough childhood on the streets, turning to a drug dependency at an early age that prompted a recurring subplot. His road to recovery and redemption was heartwarming, racking up audience votes by the thousands. Amber’s parents were well off, but couldn’t turn down the *Cradle to Grave* contract when they conceived their third child. The life of privilege was expected to alienate a majority of viewers, but her rebellious nature took the world by storm. Her escapades in college proved that sex sells.
But the life of Edna lacked the mass appeal to talk Hollywood spin-offs or a promising career in adult films. Highlights of her life played back in front of the judges’ panel. There were no tears in the eyes of the celebrity guests. There were no blushing faces or lustful smirks. Instead, the three simply persevered, thankful that the montage concluded quickly.
“Well,” Jessie Kogan remarked as the screen faded to black. “That was…”
The former teen idol was clearly unmoved. Kass Cassidy wasn’t any more enthused.
“Short,” she finished for her cohost to the laughter of the studio audience.
“I didn’t want to be the one to say it,” Jessie joked back.
“I don’t know,” pondered Holland Germaine, the oldest of the judges. “Looking back, it wasn’t a complete misstep.”
Jessie leaned forward to get a better angle of the talent scout. He shook his head defiantly.
“You’ve lost it, man. That was awful.”
“Yeah,” agreed Kass. “I mean, it was like she wasn’t even trying to win. After eleven seasons, this has to be the most half-hearted performance we’ve ever seen.”
Holland waited for the laughs to fade. “I’m not saying it was the best we’ve seen, far from it. But look at this.” He flicked through the remote to the emergency room. The studio silenced while the other two judges studied the film. “The struggle, the hope. It’s just so… genuine.”
Kass raspberried. “Lame-o.”
Jessie continued the double-team. “Amber and Sami wound up in the hospital, too. They struggled, too.”
“And they did all that other stuff, too. Exciting, sexy, lively stuff.”
“I’m not saying they didn’t,” retorted Holland, but his frustration was showing. “Look, I’m not voting for her anyway, so what does it matter. I just thought that, maybe, it was worth another moment of consideration.”
Kass and Jessie looked up at the screen, at the image of a week-old Edna hooked up to a respirator, a failed last attempt to sustain her life.
Jessie’s eyes widened as his fist struck the table. “’Half-hearted!’ I totally get that now!”
Holland rose to his feet, pushing his chair back enough to let it crash to the hastily assembled linoleum floor. Kass and Jessie looked at each other quizzically as he departed the stage.
“You can’t just leave,” Kass called after him.
“Fine,” he snapped back. He stomped over to his seat and blindly pressed one of the three buttons on his panel. “Now I quit. And it’s called Hypoplastic left heart syndrome, you twisted freaks.” | On the big screen, Lisa could see herself crossing a street.
"What a bitch move, Lisa, what a fucking bitch move." The video paused and John Dawkins had his signature scowl on as he pointed up at the screen, "You crossed the street just to avoid this homeless guy, didn't you?"
Katy Wight shook her head, her dreadlocks swinging in wide arcs, "Shameful, you know? Like really shameful."
"I..." Lisa started, but the third judge butted in.
"Just ain't right, Lisa." Donald Rook had the look of a disappointed father, "Thought you were better than that."
The three judges sat at a long-table with three white X's underneath them and three fat red buttons in front of them. Dawkins was already tapping his button. "Well!" Dawkins shouted, "What do you have to say for yourself?"
Lisa started and paled, "I-I-I... I mean... I did avoid him, but-"
Dawkins smashed his hand into the button and a foghorn went off as the X beneath him went red, "YOU FUCKING BITCH! YOU SELFISH FUCKING BITCH! I'M DONE!" Dawkins stood up, threw his water bottle to the ground and stomped off, "I'M FUCKING DONE!"
Lisa stared as Dawkins cursed and kicked his way offstage, but Katy Wight didn't even blink, then again she never seemed to, "But what, Lisa? Why would you *abandon* this poor soul?"
"I uh," Lisa was drowning in sweat and she swallowed for air, "I... I didn't have any change to give him that day..."
"Wrong, Lisa," Rook sat forward and adjusted his glasses as he looked over some notes, "You had $52 in your pocket, Lisa. Five. Two. That ain't zero."
"I needed that money!" Lisa cried out, "I was going out that night! I... I..." Lisa wiped at her tears and hiccuped.
"I ain't gonna be swayed by no tears, Lisa." Rook frowned, "You saying you going out is more important than a man's well-being?"
"N-n-no..."
"Well, you say that, but your actions speak otherwise." Rook shook his head, "Very disappointing, Lisa."
Katy Wight nodded, "Shameful, you know? Like really shameful." The two judges pressed their buttons simultaneously and the foghorns sounded off, followed shortly by a scream and a gunshot. |
[WP] Write a formal letter to a laser shooting Tyrannosaurus Rex with a jetpack that is destroying your city | Dear Mark Whalburg,
I understand how upset you are about those teeny tiny arms that Jesus gave you but that is no excuse for using the jet pack and lasers that Michael Bay gave you to go on a rampage.
And in conclusion, c'mon c'mon feel it feel it.
Sincerely yours, Surly_Badger | Dear Laser Shooting Tyrannosaurus Rex with a Jetpack that is Destroying My City,
On November 18th of this year, 2013, I attempted to purchase a coffee from a nearby Starbucks. Upon attempting to purchase said coffee, the clerk behind the counter informed me "Holy shit, look out!" *He* used an exclamation mark, just to be clear- I would never be so ridiculously emotional. It was approximately two seconds after his issuance of a verbal warning that you exhumed the foundation of that Starbucks and vaporized the majority of its staff.
I understand that you have a deeply embedded need to kill in a style often described as "rampaging" and "senselessly violent," however- I would ask you politely to cease in your destruction of coffee shops. Since October, during the period of time characterized by your compulsion to destroy supermarkets and taunt shoppers by throwing fat housewives up into the air with your teeth and slicing them in half with your laser blasters, purchasable coffee has been in short supply. This has been exacerbated by your obsession with tractor-trailer trucks that enter our city, many of which are carrying coffee. This may explain your hyperactivity and your affection for coffee related facilities.
All the same, you must consider the following: if you wish to have any citizens left sane enough to flee from you, you must cease with your assault upon our last refuge of energy in the morning. Most nights are sleepless and involve a great deal of hurried looks out of windows and clattering scrambles into bomb shelters (for those of us who have built them.) In the morning, we expect to run from you in the open, but in order to do so, we do require a significant amount of energy, frequently provided by coffee. My palette is too sophisticated to switch to gas-station coffee or Redbull.
So, if you wish to see us continue to run away from you in fear, as opposed to running toward you in crazed, uncontrollable anger, I request that your affront to coffee cease as soon as dinosauringly possible.
Many thanks,
Cylonbabyliam
| |
had a weird dream last night. a US soldier, but instead of an assault rifle, he was using a sword (possibly a gladius) and shield. thought i would let someone else run with it | [WP] the world's armies no longer use guns or explosives. describe a soldier's routine | He stared at me as I stared at him and he took off his backpack.
"There's no need for that," I called.
The backpack stayed on the ground but he shook his head. "You're in our territory."
This had grown less common but every so often you found someone who went by the book.
"We don't have to do this," I said. "We can acknowledge that we are both at the border and that we are uncertain of the true delineation."
He opened his backpack and pulled out his scanner.
I tried one last thing. "We can just move on and avoid the skirmish altogether. No paperwork. I just want to go home tonight."
The chess set was out and he motioned for me to sit. His scanner beeped as it hit my badge and the challenge was thus issued. In the old days you could block it with your hand but they had gone electromagnetic with it.
The system set him up with three pawns and a rook next to his king. Damn. A captain. The system had my info and two pawns, a knight, and a bishop appeared on my side in front of my own king. He had the slight advantage, if he knew how to play the rook and pawns well.
"You know the rules," he said. He kept his eyes on the board. "Forfeit now for loss of 10 feet or we battle for 100."
I didn't sit.
"Like you said," he continued, "There's no need for paperwork and a ten foot loss isn't reportable for a 1st lieutenant like yourself. A 100 foot loss on the other hand..."
I had a little girl to go home to tonight and a 100 foot loss meant a report that I couldn't write in under two hours. I walked away and the system recorded the ten foot loss.
Wars today were much less bloody. | She wrote him so many letters he no longer had room to keep them all. He loved every one, every detail of her mundane life back home. She described in depth the surprise run-ins with the neighbors at the grocery store. Each call she got from his mother spawned pages and pages of gossip from her bridge club and his cousin Andy’s clashes with the law. He loved every commonplace detail. Every minute, every second, she was safe took him miles away from the desolate barracks in that godforsaken country.
But his letters weren’t enough for her.
“Danny, you know I worry every damn day about you. You don’t need to protect me here. I’m fine. You’re mother is fine. We’re all fine Danny! But I don’t know where you are or what your doing, I’m worried sick. Please just tell me how your day is, tell me you’re okay. I just feel so distant from you. I doesn’t have to be these way, even with the miles between us.”
He didn’t write about his day, or his week, or his month, or his year there. He didn’t write to her about the training. He didn’t write how since using guns and explosives were now considered war crimes; each kill was up close, and personal. He didn’t write about the men and women, and children, whose eyes he looked deep into everyday. Whose eyes were wet and hollow. Whose eyes pleaded every moment of every day for him to stop. He didn’t write to her about his knives. How each one had stratums of dried blood; each layer the end of a life, a history, a human being. He didn’t write about how he learned to enjoy the kill. How they taught him to own it. To look straight into their eyes and glean a sense of narcissism. He was, after all, the killer. Not the victim.
He didn’t write about how the only thing he was afraid of now was going home. He didn’t write how when he dreams, he dreams of killing all over again. How he has trouble discerning his dreams from reality. He didn’t write that sometimes the person he murders in his dreams is she.
He wrote to her about her eyes. The deep blue ocean he saw. Her eyes were the only place he could still see love. He could still picture her eyes, without terror or disgust. And they were the only hope he had left.
|
Bonus points if someone else with knowledge of each topic can comment on how accurate each post is. | [WP] They say you write about what you know. Write about something you have little to no knowledge of. | Write about something you know nothing about. Seemed like a good prompt as any, I thought to myself just twenty minutes past midnight. My lungs wretched and heaved, as the persistent cough that'd plagued me for the last few days remained. I thought about things I'd never done.
Cold wind pushed against my hood and flecks of snowflake pounded against my pearlescent green goggles. The summit was in sight. I glanced over my shoulder at the party that I'd traveled with and felt a sense of relief. Many attempt, many die, but those that succeed are given a truly unique experience. I had a climbing axe in my hand and a tether to the man in front of me.
Within what felt like no time in comparison to the journey up the summit, we'd made our way to the top, met with the bundled flags of the climbers before us. The sky was blue, far more blue than I could describe with justice and I was alive.
I was the last one on the plane. I hugged my arms close to my chest and thought over what the instructor told me; How to operate the parachute and how to land safely, all of it was crystal clear in the back of my mind but now came the act. I carefully stepped over to the open door, with the man standing there giving me a nod of encouragement.
Fear. Fear like I'd never felt before. My fingers gripped the sides of the plane doors and I saw the curvature of the earth and my friends who had dove before me. I felt tears of fright well in the bottom of my eyelids; And soon, those tears were tears of freedom and bliss.
I tumbled through the air, laughing like a maniac. I was a man-shaped bullet tumbling to the ground and I was alive. I spread my arms out with my legs and felt the wind resistance push against me, but still I fell, still I grinned like a man who'd won the lottery.
Relax. It couldn't possibly be the worst pain you'd ever felt, you warn yourself. The man with the tattoo needle looked tough, he was covered in them and his skin was rough, as opposed to mine, which looks like cream tissue paper. I overthink things. My mind began to race.
He approached my wrist with the needle and I recoiled away. He stared at me with a deadpan expression on his face. I felt disappointment. Shame. After a deep breath, I shoved my arm back into it's starting position and he brought the needle over and HOLY FUCKING SHIT JESUS FUCK!
I grit my teeth and made a sound I'd never made in my entire life. Watching the needle move in a circle on the underside of my wrist, I took another deep breath. It felt just like my hero had told me, just like countless others had told me; It felt like someone'd kept pinching me, like hair clippers without the plastic guard. Uncomfortable but not like the needle through the arm like I'd imagined at the start.
After two hours, the compass tattoo had been completed on my right wrist, a testament to my goal to find my place in life. My mother hated it, but I was happy. No, I was ecstatic. I was proud of myself. I'd never get a desk job like she'd mention again and again, but I was alive.
I stared at the computer screen and thought about the prompt again. Write about something you know nothing about. It began to dawn on me, thinking about how much happier I'd be if I'd had done these things I imagined, but I couldn't help but feel defeat. I couldn't help but feel doubt.
A fire in my heart burned. I knew the thing I had no knowledge about. In all of my twenty five years, I never felt like I'd truly begun to live. All those promises of books I'd told myself I'd write, all of those dreams of visiting places I'd only seen pictures of and friends I'd never met; All of those opportunities existed for me to go out there and see them through.
And that is what the beauty of life is. It is the fire that burns in your chest that tells you *You can* when your mind tells you, screams at you that you can't. Life is that little voice that fights for you to pursue your dreams when nothing else does.
That is, if I'm not wrong. I really don't know a thing about it.
| When I told people that I wanted to be an engineer, they always said the same thing: *Oh, engineering. Make sure you take a lot of math classes.* Yeah, no shit. But when I got to college, amidst the maelstrom of calculus and trigonometry, I saw there was something else that makes or breaks an engineer: vision. In the simplest way I can think, you have to know what you are doing. You have to be steps ahead of your own work. You need to have more than just the end in mind, you gotta know the ink that marks your paper. |
[WP] A world where men have been oppressed and they are now fighting for equal rights. | They marched by the thousands up to the Capitol Dome, pickets in hands, chants in unison. It had taken months of petitioning and deal making by the MaleMovement leaders to schedule an actual plot of time to publicly protest the injustices done to their gender, and the fruits of their labor yielded more bodies of support than the heads of each gender could have ever imagined.
"We're here today" MaleMovement's figurehead, who went by Adam if you can believe that prosaic, echoed over the loud speaker, "to embark on a new beginning. An equal way of doing things, evolution and science be damned!" The scores of men cheered and hollered.
I watched from my flat as the MaleMovement's speaker continued spewing cliches followed by more cheers. I could actually smell them even from my 10th floor patio, and I could not help but laugh at the lack of syntax and content in Adam's prattle.
Truth be told, however, I always had a softer spot for the men than most of us did. Despite the social implications my grandmother kept my grandfather around our childhood home for menial chores and so forth, and he was normally pretty sweet towards me. He couldn't comprehend most of my thoughts, of course, but he would sneak me a piece of candy here and there and amuse me with silly "magic" tricks which I immediately figured out but laughed at all the same. I always remembered his last words to me, too. Right after I was artificially inseminated he asked me if anyone had children "the old fashioned way anymore" to which all I could do was laugh.
"Of course not! Men passing on their inferior genes is dangerous Grandpa, didn't you know? We taught you how to read the news..."
"Oh, I know what they say. Just seems a shame. Used to be some mystery to the whole process, now with the quotas and limits on boys and girls...I don't know darling, it just seems wrong."
Naturally I scoffed this off at the time, but it always stuck with me. Perhaps it was because he died that night, or perhaps it was because the one boy I was allowed to have for household labor purposes died so young, which I was reassured over and over was common, but bothered me nonetheless. Either way, the words stayed with me all these years later.
The MaleMovement and Adam's speech wound down. They awkwardly shuffled around, not quite knowing what do with themselves at the end of the rally. It was slightly endearing, honestly.
I pulled out the flyer one of the brutes passed out to me earlier in the day and reread it, grammatical errors and all. There was to be a vote next Tuesday regarding school restrictions for male youths. The flyer was headlined with "Women, Vote Yes!"
I looked at the crowd of men. Many limped with past injuries, all had worn out hands, a few were blind and many deaf from the years of heavy machinery forced upon them. I thought about my grandfather, who never had a formal education himself, and decided I would vote yes. | As Roger slaved in his apron, he could feel the heat of the oven. Just as he was putting the last piece of bread on top of the sandwich, he heard a yell from the living room. "And grab me a piece of cheese cake will ya!" Cried his wife. Some times Roger wondered if Debra still loved him like she once had. | |
[WP] You wake up blindfolded next to three strangers in the middle of the desert, you are all buried in the sand up to your head. The three of you try to remember what happened. | "What the hell is going on?", mumbled a voice to my left.
I turned my head, but the stiff resistance of the sand held it fast. Sand? Why was there sand? My groggy eyes creaked open and out of the corner of my eye I could make out a head. This apparition continued to talk and strangely I could understand most of what it said. This was most unusual since my dreams were almost always a blurred fantasy from which no meaningful dialogue had ever emerged. I concluded that this must be another of my whimsical dreams and I closed my eyes again in readiness to float away on a magic carpet ride that only the morning snooze provides.
"Oi, are you fucking deaf or what? What the fuck are we doing here?".
Now it was unmistakable. There was a voice. I raised my hands to rub my eyes, but they wouldn't move. Sand. Ah, yes the sand. A glint of sun caught my eye as I opened them and I became aware of the baron landscape before me. I blinked slowly to clear my eyes of the sandy sludge that had accumulated, but it was of little use. It seemed to all intents that this was indeed my reality now and I was not in fact imagining this at all.
"Hey, Hey! Are you stupid? Can't you hear me. I can see that you're awake. How did we fucking get here?".
I didn't know the face, but the voice told me all I needed to know. It wasn't someone I would spend too long talking to in a bar. The kind of person you wished wasn't seated next to you at your cubicle life in the office. And here I was stuck in a hole in the desert, incapacitated and within earshot of someone screaming obscenities at me at fuck knows what time in the morning.
"Good morning", I replied using my well rehearsed sarcastic tone. Rehearsed during my years in a dead end relationship with my slightly neurotic German girlfriend. My passive aggressiveness had been my only weapon then and here I was using my well honed skills in the middle of the desert while buried up to my neck in sand. If Sandra could see me now she'd be so proud. That bitch.
"Yes, where are we?" inquired a new female voice from behind. Her soft tones soothed my now bewildered self.
"I think we're in the desert" chimed in a fourth voice.
"No fucking shit Einstein" said wanker. Well, that was what I decided I should call the rude bastard on my left. I suspect his name wasn't actually wanker, but when you're in situation such as we found ourselves the need for pleasantries such as exchanging names is superfluous.
I cast my mind back the night before to see if I could recall what had happened,but it was blank. The last memory I had was of lying next to the swimming pool at the resort the day before. I do remember a hot blonde in a sexy bikini rubbing suntan oil on herself as I nonchalantly pretended to read my book, all the while gazing through my sunglasses at her perfect form. The memory brought a smile to my face, but alas it did little to solve our current predicament. The mystery lingered on.
"What are we going to do now?", said the female voice. I suspect the rapidly rising temperatures and the lack of liquids had something to do with the huskiness that was creeping into her voice. I imagined what she looked like naked. It was certainly more appealing than imagining the certain death that awaited me if I remained stuck in this hole.
I would like to say that the day brought with it some relief, but it didn't. The sun bore down on us relentlessly as our heads became ever more burnt and our sanity slowly ebbed from our bodies. As night fell the temperatures dropped and the winds arrived. We drifted in and out of conscience with the hope that the new day would bring saviour.
At some point in the night I heard a blood curdling scream. The kind that you wished you would never hear even once in your life. Behind me I could hear snarling and heavy breathing. Something was here among us. Paralyzed in fear in my sandy prison I held my breath hoping that I would not be next. The sound of animals feasting on a human head was one I never imagined I would ever hear. Crack! The screaming stopped and it seemed as if just for a moment the wind did too. Utter silence and as quickly as the nightmare started it was all over. The adrenalin kept me awake for while, but my desperately fatigued body could only stay awake for so long. I drifted off to sleep. Perhaps for the last time.
"What the hell is going on?", mumbled the aggressive voice again. Only this time it was on my right. I opened my eyes slowly to see a drip connected to my arm. I followed the line of the tube to a saline bag above my head and then I took the liberty of glancing around the room. To my right was an old man, wide eyed and lucidly cursing obscenities. To my left was a young boy peacefully sleeping. Three of us. There were just three of us. I closed my eyes again as a soft soothing female voiced coaxed me back to sleep while repeating, "It's going to be ok, You're going to be fine".
| Shouldn't Me plus three strangers make the FOUR of us? |
Subsets and Splits
No community queries yet
The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.