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train · 353k rows

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	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Sadly, we never could fight it. Edit: Wow i wrote this in zen mode so I didn't read anyone else's stories. Needless to say I'm pretty embarrassed by what some of you could come up with in just 6 words, makes my story look simple.	He outran the pain, and road.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	My eyes opened. "What, this again?"	Headlights. The last thing he saw.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Saved the world, lost myself.	Headlights. The last thing he saw.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Hold my beer, I'm going in.	Headlights. The last thing he saw.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	He cried. No remorse was felt.	Headlights. The last thing he saw.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Don't send flowers; They'll die too.	Headlights. The last thing he saw.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Saved the world, lost myself.	And forever after, he was alone.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Hold my beer, I'm going in.	And forever after, he was alone.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	He cried. No remorse was felt.	And forever after, he was alone.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Don't send flowers; They'll die too.	And forever after, he was alone.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Saved the world, lost myself.	He looked on them in horror.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Hold my beer, I'm going in.	He looked on them in horror.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	He cried. No remorse was felt.	He looked on them in horror.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Don't send flowers; They'll die too.	He looked on them in horror.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Saved the world, lost myself.	Hearing you love me. Miss you.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Hold my beer, I'm going in.	Hearing you love me. Miss you.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	He cried. No remorse was felt.	Hearing you love me. Miss you.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Don't send flowers; They'll die too.	Hearing you love me. Miss you.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Saved the world, lost myself.	"What if I just used ..."
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Hold my beer, I'm going in.	"What if I just used ..."
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	He cried. No remorse was felt.	"What if I just used ..."
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Don't send flowers; They'll die too.	"What if I just used ..."
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Saved the world, lost myself.	I was only trying to help.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Hold my beer, I'm going in.	I was only trying to help.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	He cried. No remorse was felt.	I was only trying to help.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Don't send flowers; They'll die too.	I was only trying to help.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Saved the world, lost myself.	Everyone's dead. We can move on.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Hold my beer, I'm going in.	Everyone's dead. We can move on.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	He cried. No remorse was felt.	Everyone's dead. We can move on.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Don't send flowers; They'll die too.	Everyone's dead. We can move on.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Saved the world, lost myself.	Last person on Earth hears screams.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Hold my beer, I'm going in.	Last person on Earth hears screams.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	He cried. No remorse was felt.	Last person on Earth hears screams.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Don't send flowers; They'll die too.	Last person on Earth hears screams.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Saved the world, lost myself.	Grandma left. PopPop went after her.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Hold my beer, I'm going in.	Grandma left. PopPop went after her.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	He cried. No remorse was felt.	Grandma left. PopPop went after her.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Don't send flowers; They'll die too.	Grandma left. PopPop went after her.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Saved the world, lost myself.	The sun set but didn't rise.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Hold my beer, I'm going in.	The sun set but didn't rise.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	He cried. No remorse was felt.	The sun set but didn't rise.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Don't send flowers; They'll die too.	The sun set but didn't rise.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Saved the world, lost myself.	My eyes wept as I sunk below.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Hold my beer, I'm going in.	My eyes wept as I sunk below.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	He cried. No remorse was felt.	My eyes wept as I sunk below.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Don't send flowers; They'll die too.	My eyes wept as I sunk below.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Saved the world, lost myself.	We were gods, but not anymore.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Hold my beer, I'm going in.	We were gods, but not anymore.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	He cried. No remorse was felt.	We were gods, but not anymore.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Don't send flowers; They'll die too.	We were gods, but not anymore.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	"I hate those ducks you bought"	My son groans, I sigh resigned.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	This wasn't mentioned in the data.	My son groans, I sigh resigned.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Landing is going to really hurt.	My son groans, I sigh resigned.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	I remember!You're my wife !	My son groans, I sigh resigned.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Sadly, we never could fight it. Edit: Wow i wrote this in zen mode so I didn't read anyone else's stories. Needless to say I'm pretty embarrassed by what some of you could come up with in just 6 words, makes my story look simple.	My son groans, I sigh resigned.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	I walked among Gods. I'm back.	My son groans, I sigh resigned.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	We said "No." The world changed.	My son groans, I sigh resigned.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	This is not the full story.	My son groans, I sigh resigned.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	We became the evil we eradicated.	My son groans, I sigh resigned.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	She was my light. It's dark.	My son groans, I sigh resigned.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Landing is going to really hurt.	"I hate those ducks you bought"
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	I remember!You're my wife !	"I hate those ducks you bought"
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Sadly, we never could fight it. Edit: Wow i wrote this in zen mode so I didn't read anyone else's stories. Needless to say I'm pretty embarrassed by what some of you could come up with in just 6 words, makes my story look simple.	"I hate those ducks you bought"
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Landing is going to really hurt.	This wasn't mentioned in the data.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	I remember!You're my wife !	This wasn't mentioned in the data.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Sadly, we never could fight it. Edit: Wow i wrote this in zen mode so I didn't read anyone else's stories. Needless to say I'm pretty embarrassed by what some of you could come up with in just 6 words, makes my story look simple.	This wasn't mentioned in the data.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	This is not the full story.	This wasn't mentioned in the data.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Sadly, we never could fight it. Edit: Wow i wrote this in zen mode so I didn't read anyone else's stories. Needless to say I'm pretty embarrassed by what some of you could come up with in just 6 words, makes my story look simple.	Landing is going to really hurt.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	Sadly, we never could fight it. Edit: Wow i wrote this in zen mode so I didn't read anyone else's stories. Needless to say I'm pretty embarrassed by what some of you could come up with in just 6 words, makes my story look simple.	I remember!You're my wife !
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	I walked among Gods. I'm back.	My own unlived, I observed lives.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	We said "No." The world changed.	My own unlived, I observed lives.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	This is not the full story.	My own unlived, I observed lives.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	We became the evil we eradicated.	My own unlived, I observed lives.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	She was my light. It's dark.	My own unlived, I observed lives.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	This is not the full story.	I walked among Gods. I'm back.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	We said "No." The world changed.	Mind wasn't right. Bought a gun.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	This is not the full story.	Mind wasn't right. Bought a gun.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	We became the evil we eradicated.	Mind wasn't right. Bought a gun.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	She was my light. It's dark.	Mind wasn't right. Bought a gun.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	This is not the full story.	We said "No." The world changed.
	[FF] Write a story with 6 words or less	She was my light. It's dark.	We became the evil we eradicated.
	[WP] All old subscribers of r/writingprompts have been killed. Now that the subreddit has become a default, it's up to the new subscribers to carry the torch without any guidance	Tom stumbled out into the empty space. "Hello? Anybody in here?" The space was empty. White as far as the eye could see. Tom felt odd. He felt eerie. Something was off. "Hey! Where is everybody?" His voice echoed off into the distance. There was nothing. Tom was alone. Tom started walking, going this way and that, searching for any sign of life, any sign of anything. Anything at all. But it was all white. Suddenly, a person popped up in front of Tom. Tom stumbled back in surprise, and fell down. "Who the fuck are you?" Tom exclaimed, picking himself off the ground. "I'm Jennifer. Why is there so much white?" "I don't know, i was walking to work minding my own business when suddenly everything went white." Jennifer looked around, and scratched her head. "I was making breakfast for my son, and suddenly you were in front of me. It's very odd." Off in the distance, a loud exclamation was heard. Tom and Jennifer wildly looked back and forth, finally seeing a large fat greasy man sitting on the white expanse. Tom hurried over, and yelled at the man. "Hey! Calm down! Who are you?" "Jesus fucking Christ don't tell me to calm the fuck down!" the man bellowed, hands flailing through the air. "The Bronco's were about to score a fucking touchdown and then every fucking thing went fucking white!" "Well bullocks to your game!" Tom shouted back, annoyed at the man for his excessive belligerence. "Go fuck yourself!" the man bellowed, giving Tom the finger. Tom walked back over to Jennifer, who had been watching the banter in amusement. "What a man-whale," Jennifer remarked, chuckling at her own joke. "Yeah," Tom responded, "He can go suck a hard-boiled egg." "So where do you think we are?" "I don't know, Jennifer. I don't know." Tom gazed off into the whiteness, and for a while, neither said anything. Suddenly, a blaze of light filled the whiteness, and in the space above, a word burned itself into the sky. /r/writingprompts	Travelers from over the internet stumble upon the halls of r/writingprompts, left empty. Prompts and posts lay abandoned, a city crumbling under the weight of some unknown apocalypse, where memories and belongings are abandoned in the scramble to survive. But none did. r/writingprompts exists only as a modern day Pompeii, known by all but feared, feared for the same fate. Some would enter its depths, dust off an idea, polish off a post, but the overwhelming inevitability of a tiny kingdom left without its keepers would lead only to one thing, anarchy, then destruction. A place which ones inspired the minds of you writers would do naught but become the toys of trolls, with their constant downvoting and such memorable posts such as "F1rst" and "gaaayyyyyy." The laws of grammar and spelling would be abandoned. There is no karma to be found where only demons run and play. There would be crusades, attempts to revive the glory days of old - where mods where made of iron and steel. And they would intend to be forged in something far stronger. But much like the librarians of the burning library of Alexander the Great, there would be no glory, no salvation, only history that would descend into obscurity, and eventually, deletion.
	[WP] All old subscribers of r/writingprompts have been killed. Now that the subreddit has become a default, it's up to the new subscribers to carry the torch without any guidance	[WP] Hitler is actually an immortal time-traveling alien, and God and Satan are battling for his soul. How does Hitler deal with this cosmic tug-of-war in a dystopian society where 1/10 of people are thrown into a woodchipper at age 13, and you die when your soulmate does?	Travelers from over the internet stumble upon the halls of r/writingprompts, left empty. Prompts and posts lay abandoned, a city crumbling under the weight of some unknown apocalypse, where memories and belongings are abandoned in the scramble to survive. But none did. r/writingprompts exists only as a modern day Pompeii, known by all but feared, feared for the same fate. Some would enter its depths, dust off an idea, polish off a post, but the overwhelming inevitability of a tiny kingdom left without its keepers would lead only to one thing, anarchy, then destruction. A place which ones inspired the minds of you writers would do naught but become the toys of trolls, with their constant downvoting and such memorable posts such as "F1rst" and "gaaayyyyyy." The laws of grammar and spelling would be abandoned. There is no karma to be found where only demons run and play. There would be crusades, attempts to revive the glory days of old - where mods where made of iron and steel. And they would intend to be forged in something far stronger. But much like the librarians of the burning library of Alexander the Great, there would be no glory, no salvation, only history that would descend into obscurity, and eventually, deletion.
	[WP] All old subscribers of r/writingprompts have been killed. Now that the subreddit has become a default, it's up to the new subscribers to carry the torch without any guidance	[WP] Hitler is actually an immortal time-traveling alien, and God and Satan are battling for his soul. How does Hitler deal with this cosmic tug-of-war in a dystopian society where 1/10 of people are thrown into a woodchipper at age 13, and you die when your soulmate does?	Tom stumbled out into the empty space. "Hello? Anybody in here?" The space was empty. White as far as the eye could see. Tom felt odd. He felt eerie. Something was off. "Hey! Where is everybody?" His voice echoed off into the distance. There was nothing. Tom was alone. Tom started walking, going this way and that, searching for any sign of life, any sign of anything. Anything at all. But it was all white. Suddenly, a person popped up in front of Tom. Tom stumbled back in surprise, and fell down. "Who the fuck are you?" Tom exclaimed, picking himself off the ground. "I'm Jennifer. Why is there so much white?" "I don't know, i was walking to work minding my own business when suddenly everything went white." Jennifer looked around, and scratched her head. "I was making breakfast for my son, and suddenly you were in front of me. It's very odd." Off in the distance, a loud exclamation was heard. Tom and Jennifer wildly looked back and forth, finally seeing a large fat greasy man sitting on the white expanse. Tom hurried over, and yelled at the man. "Hey! Calm down! Who are you?" "Jesus fucking Christ don't tell me to calm the fuck down!" the man bellowed, hands flailing through the air. "The Bronco's were about to score a fucking touchdown and then every fucking thing went fucking white!" "Well bullocks to your game!" Tom shouted back, annoyed at the man for his excessive belligerence. "Go fuck yourself!" the man bellowed, giving Tom the finger. Tom walked back over to Jennifer, who had been watching the banter in amusement. "What a man-whale," Jennifer remarked, chuckling at her own joke. "Yeah," Tom responded, "He can go suck a hard-boiled egg." "So where do you think we are?" "I don't know, Jennifer. I don't know." Tom gazed off into the whiteness, and for a while, neither said anything. Suddenly, a blaze of light filled the whiteness, and in the space above, a word burned itself into the sky. /r/writingprompts
	[WP] Knowing it will save their life, you have to convince the person you love to kill you.	He traces the bones that force my skin to tent, running his fingers down the deep valleys and then up each mountain in a pattern, stopping just below my breast. He lets his fingertips dance there for a moment before starting his rhythmic hike back down. Halfway through the journey, he parts his mouth to sigh, "I wish you would eat." He does not look at me, but I dwell on the craters that his bright eyes have sunken into. I am a punctured paint can, the way my attention pours slow and thick down his face, pooling in the parts where I stole away his youth; the smile lines around his mouth, his concave cheeks, the bags under his eyes. And he still doesn't look at me, but I smile for him anyway. "I wish you would eat, too." A warm, happy burn starts in the bottom of my stomach as his glossy eyes peer into mine from their hiding spot. He is trying to speak, but I don't expect him to know what to say. So I wrap my slender fingers across the back of his neck and pull him towards me. He rests his head between where breasts used to be, on the gorge of scars rippling down my chest. I can't feel him there because the nerves are dead, but I'll be damned if that isn't the best feeling that there is. I run my hands through his long hair, detangling it as I go. I kiss his forehead. "You know, love, I'm dying." I whisper. He begins to shiver and wraps me up tighter. "You know, baby," his voice is so gentle, "I think I am, too." I could break down a thousand times right now. Sorrow doesn't put a dent in it. Melancholy doesn't do it justice. And it's all so much worse because I can't even bring myself to mourn anymore than I have already. Petrified, small, without the energy it takes to project a voice, I manage, "I don't want to kill you." He picks up his head, sits up. "You aren't." He defends. And in the same breathless, weak way, I say, "I am." Silence. Long, too-quiet, pitiful silence. I clear my throat. "I'm here for you " "You always have been." "No, I mean, I am here only for you, love. Here I am keeping track of how many months I have left and watching parts of my body stop working, and my hair is falling out, and I can't eat because I can't stop throwing up, and still, all I think about is you. Every day, every night, at every therapy session and every doctor's visit. I just think about you." He lowers his head and somehow he is shaking more. I am sweating oceans. I reach to him and rest my hand on his chin, pulling his gaze to mine. He is crying. All of a sudden, he scoops me up and pulls me close. He is strong enough to hurt my tender skin, but I don't say anything. He starts to wail. I rub his back and let him. I'd do this until my arms stopped working. Through sniffles, he eventually says, "It's me who's killing you." I pull away and run my hands down his face, looking at and into him. This is more than him making a happy, young bride. This is more than our home and our mortgage. This is more than us. We are both dampened with tears. "I need you to set me free." I sob. The next few hours are spent peacefully. We are wrapped up in each other, tangled and growing like wild vines. I forget that I am terminal. I forget that it is goodbye. He pays special attention to things I never noticed, like the way the lines on my hands curve and the freckles across my shoulders. He feels my pulse in every place he can. We kiss a lot. We reminisce and he tells me a lot of the things he forgot to say before. My life, as of late, has been entirely "last days". The last day I went to work, the last day I had a full head of hair, the last day I ate, the last day I could use the bathroom on my own. This was not my last day, but rather, the first day I've lived in a long time. All days end. The sun will succumb to the stars every time. I am so tired and so unbelievably happy. Come lay with me, love.	Hello Gorgeous. You have to know that I love you and even though we have been through some rough times recently, I still am trying, trying as hard as I possibly can to make you understand the depth of my devotion to you and for you to understand why you must do this. When I want to make myself laugh, I just imagine you in a movie theatre curled up in a ball with you jacket around your knees and your hooded face peeking up at me, as I hold you to make you warm. You are what i judge time by, as it passing is of little consequence as long as you are in my arms. With time we sometimes fail to see the things that have become the most important to us, because we take them for granted and look at them as a daily occurrence, when instead we should cherish all the time that was have together. You have completely changed who I was into who i am, and for that there isn't enough paper in the world to express how much I love you, because paper can never express the emotions and the depth that my soul is tied to yours. Words can never express my love for you, but know that without you, I am already dead. I will feel every second of my death, but I will welcome it with open arms if it means that you have a chance. You have a chance to find someone better, someone more deserving than myself. We have broken up, and I know that you do not love me. That, by itself, is something that I will hold forever. I do not hate you, I just wish that you are able to live a normal life, find a good guy, have some kids, and live just to live. This is not selfless, this is my sanctuary. You are the bane of my existence, but you are also my ONLY existence. While you live, my love for you will always live on, even if I have slipped away. Please, my love, my Roo, Live. -Goodbye Gorgeous, For the last time.
	[WP] That secret you said you'd take to your grave? Now you've met your maker, and they are asking you to explain yourself	As I stood there, trying not to look into it's eyes, I lowered my head, held back my tears and flashed back to my childhood. I grew up in a strict Catholic household. Grace before meals, Our Fathers before bed and when we did something wrong, Rosaries. Every day I was reminded that if I didn't confess my sins at confession I'd be sent to Hell when I died, which my parents reminded me could happen at any moment. I couldn't take the stress and started to feel resentful. I questioned whether or not God was real. I went to my parents for guidance, but was only met with punishment and lectures. In bible study, even our teacher chided me for bringing it up, alienating me from the other children in my class. I decided it was best to stay quiet and do what I was told. When I was older, I continued going to mass and even married a nice Catholic woman who attended the same church. Our children were brought up in the same way and taught the same things forced upon me as a child. Up until the day I died, I did what I was told. I wiped my tears and looked up. I felt like a lifetime of guilt was pouring out of my eyes. I don't have to pretend anymore. I looked directly into it's eyes and told the presence, "I don't believe in you."	As he looked down on me, I could feel the unbearable weight of judgement on my shoulders. His eyes displayed an obvious disdain for me, and I knew why. It was because I let my brother die. And lied about it. I was a coward, who would run and abandon his brother to save his own sorry ass! I left him bleeding out. He couldve survived the mugging, if only I hadve fucking done something. And now, the creator looks down on me with disapproval in his eyes. He demands I explain why I would let my only brother bleed out like a rat in the street, only I cant tell him. I couldnt bring myself to tell my family while I was alive and still cant let the truth through my lips.
	[WP] That secret you said you'd take to your grave? Now you've met your maker, and they are asking you to explain yourself	(My first time doing this. Nervous as shit. Please be easy on me haha) --- "Okay, look," He started. Immediately all the trappings of his old life fell back into place; he wrung his hands together and pulled at the silver band on his left hand. On and off, on and off. "Look here, I can explain." The light said and did nothing, and immediately Saul knew that his approach wouldn't work. What had so easily passed as penitent and embarrassed in his former life no longer held here. Still, he couldn't bring himself to drop the pretense. Even now he felt shame in his stomach as he caught its gaze (if it even had one) dead on. Eye contact: the first rule to seeming sincere, even if you weren't. "I was, what, fourteen?" He gave a nervous laugh. "And besides, I got my comeuppance in college. I barely made it out alive. A lot of people make mistakes." No response. He felt a searing heat on the back of his neck. His imagination took a turn for the dark and Saul imagined a hot brand dropping own onto him to label him as a liar, or maybe a great flaming sword lowering to cut off his head. The ring slid on and off his knuckle even faster. "I know what I did was wrong. I spent another sixty years avoiding my sister, okay? What do you do after you do something like that? 'Sorry, was just working out some sexual things, glad you could help'? She was fucking six." The light said nothing still. Saul teetered into anger at the lack of response. "What the hell did you want me to do?! I fucked her up and I thought the best thing to do was leave her alone!" A flicker. The light dimmed until he found himself in darkness once more; gasping at the sudden cold, Saul staggered forward, reaching for the presence he knew was no longer there. "God?" A chill passed through the infinite black.	As he looked down on me, I could feel the unbearable weight of judgement on my shoulders. His eyes displayed an obvious disdain for me, and I knew why. It was because I let my brother die. And lied about it. I was a coward, who would run and abandon his brother to save his own sorry ass! I left him bleeding out. He couldve survived the mugging, if only I hadve fucking done something. And now, the creator looks down on me with disapproval in his eyes. He demands I explain why I would let my only brother bleed out like a rat in the street, only I cant tell him. I couldnt bring myself to tell my family while I was alive and still cant let the truth through my lips.
Kinda long title, but hopefully you guys like this one!	[WP] Limbo is a place where you repeat the day of your death until you can prevent yourself from dying, therefore passing Limbo	We'd done this for years stuck in a loop. I think I was the one who died first. It was strange he was faster than me. I always thought I was the fastest, but he got me. As I laid there bleeding, I wondered what the after life would be like. Apparently the afterlife was me waking up, going to the saloon and running into O'malley just like before. We stepped outside for the duel. This time, I was the faster one. I smiled with pride figuring it was over, but the second O'malley went still, I woke up in bed. It was the same day, I woke up went downstairs got into a fight with the Missus. This made me feel like an early drink. So I went to the Saloon,except this time O'malley was waiting for me. That's when I realized this was his loop not mine, mostly because he shot me full of lead before we'd even met. So I woke up, went downstairs, ignored my wife, heard her kick up a storm about it. Than I went to the Saloon, weapon cocked and waited for him to walk in. Than I gave him another dose of lead between the eyes. Of course I woke up, again same day. This went on for awhile, I found out where he was staying in town. For the next 10 or 20 loops we hunted each other down around town. After the 21st loop though, I started feeling the futility of the loop and honestly felt bad about how I was acting toward my wife. That loop I apologized to my wife, turns out she'd been mad about me about leaving my shoes out the night before. I didn't go looking for O'malley, I just had breakfast with my wife. Of course that didn't stop O'malley looking for me. He burst in took a few shots, missed me but hit my wife all three times. Than the coward ran off. I waited, waited to wake up in my bed, figuring my wife would get a loop. It never came though, and I got angry. I waited until I thought he'd be on the edge of town than shot myself. I started again with a purpose, this time I kept trying to save my wives life. I'd apologize sit down to breakfast, than try my best to keep O'malley out, but it never worked. Eventually I realized the only way to save her was fight with her in the beginning, and after who knows how many times, maybe hundreds. We just fell back into the old routine. He'd wait at the Saloon, I'd come in knock the drink on him and we'd duel. This went on till today, I was going to try something new. I bumped into him spilling his drink on him. O'malley got into his usually puff about to suggest the duel when I said "I'm Sorry" He just nodded a bit. Walking past me quickly, I heard him get on his horse and ride away. I stood there for a long while, worried every blink I had would end up with me opening my eyes in bed. It never came though, O'malley was gone and I was alive. So I went home, I needed to apologize for leaving my shoes out.	Camel and Katy, ten years old, begin their climb up the Mound. Right on schedule, the sirens cry from their neighborhood below. They hear a crackle on their Walkie-Talkies, and can guess who it is. Carol has had a few too many sleeping pills this evening, she will not look for Katy. Tom slaves away on the ISS, trying to stop Betel this night, he will never look for her. But Laura will scream; her heart will be full of fear. Where is Camel? Where is her boy? Halfway up the Mound now. She is coming, of course. "Let's play a game!" "Which game?" Hide and seek, of course. They chase each other to the peak under those vibrant stars. The night is perfect, and Laura has made it. The song and dance: "Camel, I'm so scared, how can you leave me?" "We wanted to see the stars again." "I have to protect you this time!" She only remembers the first time. "Baby, I want to keep you safe. Come back inside. I'll protect you in there." That's when she sees Betel. The light that was once at the sword of Orion has dwarfed the constellation. And this night, the red star has already begun to grow. Only a minute, now. The children hold hands as Laura tries to pull them away. "When was the last time you looked at the stars, Ms. Jennings?" She stops and stares at Katy. Then comes the crackle. "Laura, it's Carol. Are you with Katy? Katy, if you're there, your daddy just called. He said he wanted you to look up tonight. He says there's nothing we can do, but look up and smile. And Laura? He asked if we remembered those nights when we were kids. Twenty years is a long time, but... I miss the stars, too. Look up with us tonight, Laura. Stay with the kids. I love you all." And Laura cries. Betel, that fantastic star, fills the sky. Seconds, now. Laura lays down at the top of the Mound and looks up. Camel and Katy join as always. What an experience, to watch the sky rip away the world. The light pours over them, and they hold hands and can't stop laughing. What a perfect night. Why would they ever do it different?
Kinda long title, but hopefully you guys like this one!	[WP] Limbo is a place where you repeat the day of your death until you can prevent yourself from dying, therefore passing Limbo	His eyes were opened with the warm rays of the sun slipping through the cracks of his window blinds. The man took a deep breath and untangled himself from his covers. The man slowly rose to a sit, his beautiful wife's hand reaching out and touching him on the shoulder. Three hours later, the man is seizing on the freshly cut grass of his front lawn as an artery deep in his brain ruptures and bleeds into the surrounding brain tissue, killing him. The next morning, he'd wake up again as he'd done for the last three years. Every morning ends the same. Death at 8:13 AM and immediately waking up again with sunshine. Some mornings he'd spend the limited time left with the memories of his wife, but invariably, he'd die, either collapsing onto his bed in the throes of marital passion, hitting the shower floor, or dying getting the mail. Every day like clockwork. The man woke up, ate his breakfast, tried to call his doctor, and died on the way to Dallas two hours away for surgery. The man woke up and wrung his hands into his hair. With his voice spewing venom and ranting at his wife who didn't understand his perdicament, the man walked to his closet and drew a revolver from his safe. Pressing the end of the barrel against the roof of his mouth, the man ignored the woman's pleads and pulled the trigger, waking up as he'd done five minutes prior. The man screamed at the top of his lungs.	Camel and Katy, ten years old, begin their climb up the Mound. Right on schedule, the sirens cry from their neighborhood below. They hear a crackle on their Walkie-Talkies, and can guess who it is. Carol has had a few too many sleeping pills this evening, she will not look for Katy. Tom slaves away on the ISS, trying to stop Betel this night, he will never look for her. But Laura will scream; her heart will be full of fear. Where is Camel? Where is her boy? Halfway up the Mound now. She is coming, of course. "Let's play a game!" "Which game?" Hide and seek, of course. They chase each other to the peak under those vibrant stars. The night is perfect, and Laura has made it. The song and dance: "Camel, I'm so scared, how can you leave me?" "We wanted to see the stars again." "I have to protect you this time!" She only remembers the first time. "Baby, I want to keep you safe. Come back inside. I'll protect you in there." That's when she sees Betel. The light that was once at the sword of Orion has dwarfed the constellation. And this night, the red star has already begun to grow. Only a minute, now. The children hold hands as Laura tries to pull them away. "When was the last time you looked at the stars, Ms. Jennings?" She stops and stares at Katy. Then comes the crackle. "Laura, it's Carol. Are you with Katy? Katy, if you're there, your daddy just called. He said he wanted you to look up tonight. He says there's nothing we can do, but look up and smile. And Laura? He asked if we remembered those nights when we were kids. Twenty years is a long time, but... I miss the stars, too. Look up with us tonight, Laura. Stay with the kids. I love you all." And Laura cries. Betel, that fantastic star, fills the sky. Seconds, now. Laura lays down at the top of the Mound and looks up. Camel and Katy join as always. What an experience, to watch the sky rip away the world. The light pours over them, and they hold hands and can't stop laughing. What a perfect night. Why would they ever do it different?
Kinda long title, but hopefully you guys like this one!	[WP] Limbo is a place where you repeat the day of your death until you can prevent yourself from dying, therefore passing Limbo	We'd done this for years stuck in a loop. I think I was the one who died first. It was strange he was faster than me. I always thought I was the fastest, but he got me. As I laid there bleeding, I wondered what the after life would be like. Apparently the afterlife was me waking up, going to the saloon and running into O'malley just like before. We stepped outside for the duel. This time, I was the faster one. I smiled with pride figuring it was over, but the second O'malley went still, I woke up in bed. It was the same day, I woke up went downstairs got into a fight with the Missus. This made me feel like an early drink. So I went to the Saloon,except this time O'malley was waiting for me. That's when I realized this was his loop not mine, mostly because he shot me full of lead before we'd even met. So I woke up, went downstairs, ignored my wife, heard her kick up a storm about it. Than I went to the Saloon, weapon cocked and waited for him to walk in. Than I gave him another dose of lead between the eyes. Of course I woke up, again same day. This went on for awhile, I found out where he was staying in town. For the next 10 or 20 loops we hunted each other down around town. After the 21st loop though, I started feeling the futility of the loop and honestly felt bad about how I was acting toward my wife. That loop I apologized to my wife, turns out she'd been mad about me about leaving my shoes out the night before. I didn't go looking for O'malley, I just had breakfast with my wife. Of course that didn't stop O'malley looking for me. He burst in took a few shots, missed me but hit my wife all three times. Than the coward ran off. I waited, waited to wake up in my bed, figuring my wife would get a loop. It never came though, and I got angry. I waited until I thought he'd be on the edge of town than shot myself. I started again with a purpose, this time I kept trying to save my wives life. I'd apologize sit down to breakfast, than try my best to keep O'malley out, but it never worked. Eventually I realized the only way to save her was fight with her in the beginning, and after who knows how many times, maybe hundreds. We just fell back into the old routine. He'd wait at the Saloon, I'd come in knock the drink on him and we'd duel. This went on till today, I was going to try something new. I bumped into him spilling his drink on him. O'malley got into his usually puff about to suggest the duel when I said "I'm Sorry" He just nodded a bit. Walking past me quickly, I heard him get on his horse and ride away. I stood there for a long while, worried every blink I had would end up with me opening my eyes in bed. It never came though, O'malley was gone and I was alive. So I went home, I needed to apologize for leaving my shoes out.	(First time, be gentle) I thought it was Hell at first; reliving my death hundreds and hundreds of times, so many times that I didn’t even think about it. I was dead, I was numb, and I didn’t care. The knife slid into my ribs and I fell to the floor. My blood pooled out in the same pattern every time, and I was just starting to hear voices when it blurred out and repeated again. I don’t know how many times it was, how long I spent on that filthy floor before I woke up. Something was still alive in me- something very small and very pissed off. It burned inside me, a little hotter every time, every time that knife slid up in between my ribs and kissed my heart. And once, it got so hot that I saw him walking towards me, saw the glint of the knife as he slid it out of his sleeve and pressed it close to me, and I snarled and threw him back against the wall. I burned and yelled and woke up, and he was so scared that he put the knife right in my eye this time, so I couldn’t see it pool out and dye the floor. But I was finally awake. It was almost a game after that. The pain went away, and every time I made it a step further than I had before, I died with a smile on my face. He steps towards me. His face is stone, two black eyes looking through me rather than at me. The knife is black, except for the very edge- that’s why it was so hard to see the first time, so long ago. He walks quickly, raising his arm very slightly. He’ll try to grab my shoulder, pulling me down slightly when he stabs me. I can grab his wrist, wrestle him away, put the steel back in his heart instead of mine. There’s more of them though, so many more of them that I throw myself at, working them down like a puzzle, never quite reaching the end. I’ll never get stronger here, only more determined.
Kinda long title, but hopefully you guys like this one!	[WP] Limbo is a place where you repeat the day of your death until you can prevent yourself from dying, therefore passing Limbo	His eyes were opened with the warm rays of the sun slipping through the cracks of his window blinds. The man took a deep breath and untangled himself from his covers. The man slowly rose to a sit, his beautiful wife's hand reaching out and touching him on the shoulder. Three hours later, the man is seizing on the freshly cut grass of his front lawn as an artery deep in his brain ruptures and bleeds into the surrounding brain tissue, killing him. The next morning, he'd wake up again as he'd done for the last three years. Every morning ends the same. Death at 8:13 AM and immediately waking up again with sunshine. Some mornings he'd spend the limited time left with the memories of his wife, but invariably, he'd die, either collapsing onto his bed in the throes of marital passion, hitting the shower floor, or dying getting the mail. Every day like clockwork. The man woke up, ate his breakfast, tried to call his doctor, and died on the way to Dallas two hours away for surgery. The man woke up and wrung his hands into his hair. With his voice spewing venom and ranting at his wife who didn't understand his perdicament, the man walked to his closet and drew a revolver from his safe. Pressing the end of the barrel against the roof of his mouth, the man ignored the woman's pleads and pulled the trigger, waking up as he'd done five minutes prior. The man screamed at the top of his lungs.	I die five seconds past midnight. We're walking home from the bar. The car hurtles out of nowhere--twice the speed limit, no headlights. There isn't time to warn him. He can't hear the engine, can't hear my scream. I press my hands against his back and shove half a second before the impact. Sometimes I die instantly, without any pain. This isn't one of those times. I'm lying twisted on the asphalt, agonizingly conscious. Bones snapped, skin scraped, breathing getting more difficult by the second. He's kneeling beside me, eyes wide with horror. It must be weeks since I've seen him smile. As he tears off his jacket and presses it against the gushing wound on my thigh, I clench and reopen the fist of my right hand. Good. Still works. He's calling my name, begging me to stay awake. He's asking me why I didn't save myself. Slowly, I raise my hand and extend three trembling fingers, forming a sign that's both my answer and my farewell. He sobs, and I close my eyes. Maybe this time I'll wake up in the hospital. It has to happen eventually. People live through this kind of thing all the time. I won't give up until we both do.
Kinda long title, but hopefully you guys like this one!	[WP] Limbo is a place where you repeat the day of your death until you can prevent yourself from dying, therefore passing Limbo	"Say your prayers." - John held the handgun with a firm grip. His hand wasn't shaking, nor trembling in excitement, and he was well aware to keep at a safe distance. The dark suit and graying hair made him look like a professional, a hardened, cold-blooded killing machine well experienced in the art of assassination. Truth is, this was his first time holding a gun, or threatening death for what matters. He was serious, dead serious, and there was nothing I could have done to prevent my incumbent demise. I squinted my eyes, and took a muffled breath. - "See you in hell, John." --- "Say your prayers." - John held the handgun with a firm grip. His hand wasn't shaking, nor trembling in excitement, and he was well aware to keep at a safe distance. He sure looked like a professional, despite this being his first time dirtying his hands with blood. He was serious, dead serious, and that's when I went all-in. - "See you in hell, John." - I sprinted with all my might in a desperate attempt at disarming him. Unfortunately, his index finger was already on the trigger by then. --- "Say your prayers." - I had already heard those words. Was it a dream, or perhaps deja-vù? I couldn't just stop and think: John Benneck was aiming his shooting iron at me with the calm of a professional. But what could I do? He was clearly prepared for any sudden movement, and wasn't even at disarm range: any attempt at going all-in would have been suicidal. I had to abandon my pride if I wanted to live. "Listen, John, I don't even care! You can patent my project and I won't let a single word slip. Just spare me, I'll fly to some other country while you'll become the richest man in America. " John started walking in circles around the room, while still pointing the gun at me. "I'm sorry. This is just something too big. You know full well how easy it would be to unmask me. But can I say no to this opportunity? Would you say no to this opportunity, Daniel?" I wouldn't. I know I wouldn't, and yet here I was, willing to trade the most important discovery of the century for my miserable life. "John, I-" "Goodbye, Dan." --- "I'll say my prayers." "Say your pray... What? How did you..." It wasn't a dream. I had already heard those words, and now I was sure. John Benneck was after my invention, and his right hand was holding a gun in order to take it by force. Little did he know, it was already too late. The invention he so wanted to steal worked, and I was the living proof. "I'm sorry. This is just something too big. I can't let you have it, John." And that's when I went all-in, over and over and over again. Death was not an obstacle, I could learn from it. Like in a video game, all I had to do was memorize the pattern and execute it perfectly. John Benneck was just the last boss of the "Insane" difficulty: so hard as you want - but scripted to eventually lose. --- "Say your prayers, John." "Say...Wait, what? HEY, STOP!" But I was already there. With an extremely fast, yet extremely precise movement, I grabbed his arm, and turned it around in such a way that would force him to drop the gun. I then proceeded to trip him and quickly picked up the weapon. I held the handgun with a firm grip. My hand was slightly shaking and trembling in excitement, but I was aware to keep at a safe distance. The casual clothes and unkempt hair made me look like your usual middle aged man, someone you'd never ever expect to be an experienced assassin. Truly enough, this was my first time holding a gun, or threatening death for what matters. But I was serious, dead serious, and there was nothing John could have done to prevent his incumbent demise. Benneck squinted his eyes, and took a muffled breath. - "See you in hell, Daniel."	I die five seconds past midnight. We're walking home from the bar. The car hurtles out of nowhere--twice the speed limit, no headlights. There isn't time to warn him. He can't hear the engine, can't hear my scream. I press my hands against his back and shove half a second before the impact. Sometimes I die instantly, without any pain. This isn't one of those times. I'm lying twisted on the asphalt, agonizingly conscious. Bones snapped, skin scraped, breathing getting more difficult by the second. He's kneeling beside me, eyes wide with horror. It must be weeks since I've seen him smile. As he tears off his jacket and presses it against the gushing wound on my thigh, I clench and reopen the fist of my right hand. Good. Still works. He's calling my name, begging me to stay awake. He's asking me why I didn't save myself. Slowly, I raise my hand and extend three trembling fingers, forming a sign that's both my answer and my farewell. He sobs, and I close my eyes. Maybe this time I'll wake up in the hospital. It has to happen eventually. People live through this kind of thing all the time. I won't give up until we both do.
	[WP] Tell the most disturbing story you can, break into your inner insanity and terrify me, but include a love story.	"Come right away, Mask, as soon as the job is done." "Ma'am, yes ma'am," replies a dark figure with a feminine voice. She hangs up immediately and rises from her crouched position on the corner of the rooftop. Her pistol is raised and sighted up. It's very nearly the fourth of july, only two nights away. Silencer or not, the gun will be louder than she wants. With her other hand, she flicks her zippo and holds the flame under the fuze of a string of firecrackers. Once it's burning, she nudges them off the edge and then waits. Patience is a virtue. Delayed gratification can be even more gratifying than instant pleasure. Even so, the heat she feels inside that's traveling rapidly towards her groin reminds her why she loves her- Bang. Her target pivots, staring at the noise. He's a deer in the headlights, or rather, in her sights. She's not to kill him. In fact, she's never once killed before. Her job is not to murder, it is to bring pain. And so she does, with a well placed shot to his right thigh. The firecrackers cover the noise and his screaming for the time being. Before he can start to limp off, she puts a round through his other thigh before stepping off the edge. Four stories is not enough of a fall to kill this young woman. She drops to a knee on impact and then is up and moving smoothly, very smoothly. Cold amber eyes catch the yellow light from the street lamp and seem to glow through her mask. He watches her stalk up and reach into her messenger bag. "I am Mask, but you know that already," she says softly, tilting her head a little as he tries to scramble away, the pistol snaps up and a bullet pierces his hand. Naturally, the man falls onto his back. From the bag she draws a crowbar. It is all for her owner. Her beautiful kapitan, cold and hard and bright like a bitter star. Mask will do anything for her. The woman has raised her. Taught her how to survive in a city where blood runs in the gutters as often as rain, where there is no night and day but instead a perpetual angry twilight leaning towards the ugliness of midnight. Her head tilts the other way and her neck cracks disconcertingly. The crowbar rises and then falls, the sharp points sticking into his calf. Over and over she raises it and brings it down, humming as he screams. After a few moments, she can't suppress a feminine giggle. The giggle turns into a mad cackle as his eyes roll back and the firecrackers stop their popping. "Poor little man..." she whispers, kneeling. Belts are pulled from her bag with gloves hands, and tightened about his thighs, above the wounds. Handcuffs come next, binding his hands behind his back. She works fast, giggling all the while, eyes wide and glinting behind the black metal that covers her face. A syringe case comes out next, and from within that a syringe and a glass injectables vial full of fluid. A measure is drawn up, and then the needle pressed into the skin of his arm. While the drug takes effect, she tightens the belts on his legs and then ties a gag in his mouth. His eyes snap open and search around, but no one is coming to help. She draws up a measure in her syringe and sticks it in her own arm, smiling as she injects. "Amphetamines," she tells him, ignoring his wheezing and whimpering. "So you are awake to feel the pain. I love them... don't you? Does it feel good? I bet it hurts so bad... I wish I could feel that kind of pain, but I must remain intact for Kapitan's sake. I am her dog, her tool, and you're another dog just like me... but you... you're a bad, bad doggy. Tell Hector when he messes with things in Kapitan's territory, there will be a price." His eyes flick to the needle and then there's a triumphant expression on his face. She giggles once more. "Oh, what? Your HIV positive status? So you've killed me in the long run? Human viruses don't work on me, sweetie," she says. Shortly after the end of her statement, something pink pushes through one of the thick vents over her mouth, pushing the cloth tied over them aside. It continues to slither out until it touches his bloodied, battered calf. Once she has tasted his blood, she pulls it back into her mouth. "I'll be seeing you, handsome - if you fuck up again." With that as her last, she drags the cell phone from his pocket and stands, dialing 911. Before she turns, it lands on the ground beside him, still connected. Her long, incredibly full and strangely shaggy mane of icy white hair looks golden in this light. Now, now she runs. Two hearts pump blood to her muscles efficiently, muscles both well defined and quite powerful. Standing at eight feet tall, this young woman's legs move her along at a good clip. No more than ten minutes later, she turns down a more residential road and then three houses down up a walk to a porch. On the porch stands a woman. She approaches at a slower pace, and the stairs are climbed. Before anything is said, she kneels before a short woman with graying hair who despite said hair looks to be no older than thirty. "It is done, Kapitan," she says softly. "Good girl," the woman says, smiling and placing a hand on her head. The creature looks up, golden eyes showing her delighted smile. "Mask, honey, I have to ask you to do something." "I will do whatever my kapitan wishes," Mask tells her, tilting her head. "... I know. Come in for a moment." Together, they enter the rather nice and surprisingly large house. She stands in the entryway, towering over her short boss. "Kneel, Mary." It is very concerning for Mask, her real name being used. Nonetheless, she drops to her knees immediately, bowing her head a little. "Look up to me." Mask does. The short woman raises her hands and laces her fingers into that shaggy hair, massaging and scratching at the young woman's head. Mary makes soft noises of happiness until her kapitan finds the belts for the mask and releases them, pulls the metal thing away and the cloth with it. Mary's face is pretty, in a predatory sort of way. Her golden eyes are wide with confusion. Her lips are black, and not with lipstick - they simply are black. Around her eyes, dark and smokey black like makeup that is merely a part of her skin. "Your cheeks are red. You're aroused," she says, smiling. "I take it you crippled him for life?" "He will never walk again... his blood tasted so good, kapitan. His screams... I can't help it, I'm so damn wet right now," she replies, her lips pulling back. Sharp teeth push from her gums. "Thank you for letting me bring pain, kapitan." "Yes, of course," the woman says. "Now come with me, I have a surprise for you. You may walk, you don't have to crawl. Shed your clothing but your underwear and tanktop." The monster rises and shrugs out of her heavy duster. She works her boots of next, and then the socks as well. Her pants come off them, exposing her dark panties. A button down shirt covers her strong torso, and it is removed to. Scars. There are hundreds. Thousands, even. Every inch of skin is scars ranging from cigarette burns to whipping marks to surgical lines to skin graft scarring. The only places that there are no scars are her right arm and her right leg. Those both end at the joint, the shoulder and hip. In their place, metal engraved with terrible and ancient runes, things to bond her very soul to the pieces, the limbs that aren't real. She will sacrifice all for her kapitan. Together they walk, one woman with footsteps that clank on every other footfall. The house is ignored, instead a door is found and a stairwell taken down into a basement where a big man waits. He says nothing, he merely nods to both. In the center of the room, a man sits in a chair. The huge monster freezes, staring in horror. "Kapitan what... what is... why is..." "You need to kill him to heal, my dear sweet Mary. Make the crimson garden grow," her kapitan says softly. "Contrary to popular belief, sometimes revenge really is a good idea." The monster shrinks back from the man in the chair, mind full of visions of horrors. "No... he... he's a monster," she whines, back hitting a wall. Her hands rise, one metal and clawed and the other flesh and blood. Her arms cross over her generous chest. "No, no, I can't... please, he's... no..." Kapitan steps up in front of her. "Mary, listen to me. You're not a scared little girl an-" "No! He's going to hurt me!" she cries, sinking down the wall until her ass hits the floor. "No, no no! Please don't let him hurt me, no!" Kapitan kneels. "Girl, listen to me. Listen to me right now. This man raped you. He beat you. He exploited your regenerative capabilities and cut you, tortured you, but you can stop him now. You can prevent him from ever doing it again, to anyone," she says, grabbing the monster's shoulders. "You're... you can kill him and end it. You can stop being terrified. You can be like me, like you've always wanted to be. You can be strong. You can kill like I do." "No, no, I can't," she gasps, blackened, corrupted tears rolling down her cheeks. "I can't hurt... him, I can't... I can't and..." "Get up. That is an order." Whimpering, the monster rises. Her kapitan presses a bowie knife into her hand. "I-I... I can't... can't d-do it..." "Come, now. Also an order." The monster steps forward, trembling. Somewhere inside, she's still a young woman. Somewhere, buried deep, is the thing that breaks her kapitan's heart. A girl who hasn't taken curse after curse to grow stronger, a girl who doesn't drink blood to survive. A scared seven year old pinned down by a police officer, being violated repeatedly. A scared six year old who ran away from her home because her step father liked to use her like an ash tray. Now she is what she is because she volunteered. When kapitan found her when she was fifteen, four years ago, she was nearly non-functional... freezing to death, infections even her regeneration couldn't stop in her missing arm and leg....	Charles lay down the book. Well, novella anyways. He couldn't accurately manage to pinpoint the specific time and place from where on he became hopelessly entranced by the proletarian simpleness of it all. Glory and the Free Riders, 157 pages of romantic colonial trash involving the elaborate love affair of an American aristocrat with a mulatto slave-legionnaire. Rather ridiculous, but what could you expect of a simpler time? Total rubbish indeed, but at the same time incredibly entertaining and entirely illegal in all parts of the Empire. Not that it mattered to him, considering the fact that his mother was Queen. This reminded him that his work for today wasn't done yet. While his mind slowly returned from its exile in idle thought into the black, leathery cabin of his limousine, he observed the scenery outside. The automobile rumble onwards on cobbled English country streets. Lush cultured landscaped rushing past his window, a lazy evening sun brushing the roofs of hamlets build in Tudor times. A few handsome boys were milling around in the river, their bare chests exposed, fresh adolescent muscles showing. A wonderful evening indeed, at least measured by the sights. "James", he queried, "how long until we reach the hospital?". His assistant informed him that they would arrive at Dr. Bazinet's facility in another three minutes. Charles could feel his anticipation rise. It wasn't so much that he was actively afraid of Antoine, merely slighty unnerved. The scientist's eyes were measuring up anyone, constantly, regardless of class, standing or social occasion. But his results were remarkable, and so his unorthodox bearings were tolerated. Antoine was already waiting for him as he stepped out of the car. He asked James to wait inside the household and refresh himself. The old man could use a break; it had been a busy day for everyone. This stop of this day's tour as the freshly minted Minister of Science would be the last for today. Tomorrow, he would have a less exhausting day with a small social occasion involving a few philantrophists and the Deans of Oxford and Cambridge. The men exchanged pleasantries as they meeted, Antoine visibly trying to rush the, in his view, obnoxious procedure, eager to show his masters of his latest contribution to British supremacy in the field of medicine. The hospital itself lay cradled in the landscape of southern England, a Victorian villa build during the height of said Queen's reign. It was initially build as one of the very last womens' cloister, now refurbished to have a more worldly purpose. Enterning the hospital, Charles swiftly greeted the secretary at the entrance desk who were by now used to high-class visitors and not remarkably moved when Antoine continued to usher them to his latest experiment. Finally, resting in front of a heavy steel door, Charles, Antoine and a few of his aides switched into clean white scientist uniforms, donned head nets and rubber gloves. Charles recognised one of the men present, a young man whose mother immigrated to England during the troubles in central Europe. His name was Werner. The prince remembered him from five years ago, where Werner acquired one of the valuable Royal stipends and promptly thanked the crown by fucking Charles in a way only repressed Catholic boys were able to. Their eyes met for a moment, a brief recollection of a wondeful shared moment in the past. Both smiled. Maybe this was going to be interesting after all. Antoine didn't notice, and if he did, he didn't seem to care much. He was already in the process of rattling down facts, explaining medical theory, why their work revamped understanding of this particular field (this time it was neurology), just as it has done before with immunology, virology, germ theory, operational procedures and plenty more. The steel door opened. The men, one-by-one, disinfected themselves in a brief shower and wandered into a white-tiled room. It wasn't smell that hit you first. In fact, it mostly smelled of disinfectant. But the noises, disgusting. To preserve the sanity of the nurses, the specimen that weren't silent by themselves had to be gagged. But some still managed to blurt out horrible noises. Ah well, the price of science. "We haven't been able to control them to our liking, yet", Antoine apologised. A row of six steel medical tables, each one equipped with instruments Charles didn't recognise, were placed equidistantly along a straight line. Four of them were slightly tilted, the specimen's - in fact, one speciwoman's - feet closer to the bottom than their heads. All were black. War prisoners from Nigeria? Illegals from Jamaica? Or lowlifes cleaned from the street of London? It didn't matter. Antoine moved the group the female's table. Her eyes were watering and she was clearly alive. This was remarkable, given that the top part of her head was clearly open, a myriad of thin gossamer steel threads invading her brain from all sides and angles. "Oh my!", Antoine exclaimed in exasperation. "One of those damn nurses managed to screw with the calibration again. How hard can it be to take some blood samples without messing up an entire afternoon's worth of data." He entered some controls into the machine, fiddled with some arcane gearworks and soon enough, the brain threads as Charles now called them, moved in barely visible manners. The 'patient' stopped to cry, staring blankly at Charles and the doctors. "Remarkable", he heard himself speak. And it was true. While the brain of a black woman wasn't as complicated as that of a higher race, one had to admit that it was a step-up from the half-hearted attempts at neurally alterting the emotional states of mice or household pets. "Show me what you can do". Antoine's face was brushed with just the briefest of smiles. Over the next half an hour, Charles was astounded by an ever-increasing, fascinating display of the wonders of modern science, if one just funded it well enough. While the Russians might object to such experiments with their usual unfounded brabble about human dignity, the average Ivan still, miraculously, managed to obtain British medicine when it suited him. Antoine made the specimen laugh, cry, scream and even shit themselves on one occasion. He even managed to artificially subdue the hygenic instinct and nearly triggered Werner's excrement fetish Charles still remembered. Yet the most fascinating moment would have to be the one where the female patient entered a more lucid state of consciousness. Up to then, Charles hadn't even noticed that while the patients were reacting to the orders of Antoine, bare their unseeming noises they didn't show much activity. This time was different. The female's eyes screamed horror, her mouth gagged. The table rattled and her muscles worked visibly as the test subject put all her might against her constraints. She pulled and twisted against the leather arm- and feetbands holding her to the table, mucus, water and urine streaming from every hole. Screaming in high pitched voices, climing to ever higher notes especially when the doctors beared down on her. Muffled resistance. Pleading eyes, like a horse about to be shot. Not the prettiest of sights, to say the least. Yet animal in its nature: cunningly close to the original but never the real thing. The subect was quickly subdued with some anasthetics. It was over as quickly as it started, yet it left a certain impression with Charles. He couldn't shake a certain feeling. He wasn't sure what it was. "You do not plan on using this on live patients in hospitals, I do hope." Antoine was shocked. "Of course not! These things bound to happen in research, but there is much work to do. We will be getting some mentally and physically sick persons in a few weeks. Even some children, if you have no objections. I believe we have achieved a sufficient level of neural control, but there is great promise for future research. We will then focus on less invasive measures that might, one day, be humane enough to be used in standard medical practise. For now though ... ", he trailed off. Charles smiled. This was all the British public could ask for, after all. While leaving the villa, Charles assured Antoine that he was impressed enough with his work, and that further progress will most certainly lead to promising insights into how to battle diseases of the brain. Especially with the new batch of test subjects coming in during the next few weeks. He would personally make sure that funding was secured. Yes, he was most highly impressed. "Was it any good, sir?", James inquired. "Ah yes, indeed. We are living in a splendid time to live!" The assistant creased his brows. "I have no doubts science will fulfill many of her lofty goals. Say, did I see the young Werner up on the steps with the Doctor?" Charles laughed heartily. "Indeed you did. This was what I was referring to, after all."
	[WP] Tell the most disturbing story you can, break into your inner insanity and terrify me, but include a love story.	"Come right away, Mask, as soon as the job is done." "Ma'am, yes ma'am," replies a dark figure with a feminine voice. She hangs up immediately and rises from her crouched position on the corner of the rooftop. Her pistol is raised and sighted up. It's very nearly the fourth of july, only two nights away. Silencer or not, the gun will be louder than she wants. With her other hand, she flicks her zippo and holds the flame under the fuze of a string of firecrackers. Once it's burning, she nudges them off the edge and then waits. Patience is a virtue. Delayed gratification can be even more gratifying than instant pleasure. Even so, the heat she feels inside that's traveling rapidly towards her groin reminds her why she loves her- Bang. Her target pivots, staring at the noise. He's a deer in the headlights, or rather, in her sights. She's not to kill him. In fact, she's never once killed before. Her job is not to murder, it is to bring pain. And so she does, with a well placed shot to his right thigh. The firecrackers cover the noise and his screaming for the time being. Before he can start to limp off, she puts a round through his other thigh before stepping off the edge. Four stories is not enough of a fall to kill this young woman. She drops to a knee on impact and then is up and moving smoothly, very smoothly. Cold amber eyes catch the yellow light from the street lamp and seem to glow through her mask. He watches her stalk up and reach into her messenger bag. "I am Mask, but you know that already," she says softly, tilting her head a little as he tries to scramble away, the pistol snaps up and a bullet pierces his hand. Naturally, the man falls onto his back. From the bag she draws a crowbar. It is all for her owner. Her beautiful kapitan, cold and hard and bright like a bitter star. Mask will do anything for her. The woman has raised her. Taught her how to survive in a city where blood runs in the gutters as often as rain, where there is no night and day but instead a perpetual angry twilight leaning towards the ugliness of midnight. Her head tilts the other way and her neck cracks disconcertingly. The crowbar rises and then falls, the sharp points sticking into his calf. Over and over she raises it and brings it down, humming as he screams. After a few moments, she can't suppress a feminine giggle. The giggle turns into a mad cackle as his eyes roll back and the firecrackers stop their popping. "Poor little man..." she whispers, kneeling. Belts are pulled from her bag with gloves hands, and tightened about his thighs, above the wounds. Handcuffs come next, binding his hands behind his back. She works fast, giggling all the while, eyes wide and glinting behind the black metal that covers her face. A syringe case comes out next, and from within that a syringe and a glass injectables vial full of fluid. A measure is drawn up, and then the needle pressed into the skin of his arm. While the drug takes effect, she tightens the belts on his legs and then ties a gag in his mouth. His eyes snap open and search around, but no one is coming to help. She draws up a measure in her syringe and sticks it in her own arm, smiling as she injects. "Amphetamines," she tells him, ignoring his wheezing and whimpering. "So you are awake to feel the pain. I love them... don't you? Does it feel good? I bet it hurts so bad... I wish I could feel that kind of pain, but I must remain intact for Kapitan's sake. I am her dog, her tool, and you're another dog just like me... but you... you're a bad, bad doggy. Tell Hector when he messes with things in Kapitan's territory, there will be a price." His eyes flick to the needle and then there's a triumphant expression on his face. She giggles once more. "Oh, what? Your HIV positive status? So you've killed me in the long run? Human viruses don't work on me, sweetie," she says. Shortly after the end of her statement, something pink pushes through one of the thick vents over her mouth, pushing the cloth tied over them aside. It continues to slither out until it touches his bloodied, battered calf. Once she has tasted his blood, she pulls it back into her mouth. "I'll be seeing you, handsome - if you fuck up again." With that as her last, she drags the cell phone from his pocket and stands, dialing 911. Before she turns, it lands on the ground beside him, still connected. Her long, incredibly full and strangely shaggy mane of icy white hair looks golden in this light. Now, now she runs. Two hearts pump blood to her muscles efficiently, muscles both well defined and quite powerful. Standing at eight feet tall, this young woman's legs move her along at a good clip. No more than ten minutes later, she turns down a more residential road and then three houses down up a walk to a porch. On the porch stands a woman. She approaches at a slower pace, and the stairs are climbed. Before anything is said, she kneels before a short woman with graying hair who despite said hair looks to be no older than thirty. "It is done, Kapitan," she says softly. "Good girl," the woman says, smiling and placing a hand on her head. The creature looks up, golden eyes showing her delighted smile. "Mask, honey, I have to ask you to do something." "I will do whatever my kapitan wishes," Mask tells her, tilting her head. "... I know. Come in for a moment." Together, they enter the rather nice and surprisingly large house. She stands in the entryway, towering over her short boss. "Kneel, Mary." It is very concerning for Mask, her real name being used. Nonetheless, she drops to her knees immediately, bowing her head a little. "Look up to me." Mask does. The short woman raises her hands and laces her fingers into that shaggy hair, massaging and scratching at the young woman's head. Mary makes soft noises of happiness until her kapitan finds the belts for the mask and releases them, pulls the metal thing away and the cloth with it. Mary's face is pretty, in a predatory sort of way. Her golden eyes are wide with confusion. Her lips are black, and not with lipstick - they simply are black. Around her eyes, dark and smokey black like makeup that is merely a part of her skin. "Your cheeks are red. You're aroused," she says, smiling. "I take it you crippled him for life?" "He will never walk again... his blood tasted so good, kapitan. His screams... I can't help it, I'm so damn wet right now," she replies, her lips pulling back. Sharp teeth push from her gums. "Thank you for letting me bring pain, kapitan." "Yes, of course," the woman says. "Now come with me, I have a surprise for you. You may walk, you don't have to crawl. Shed your clothing but your underwear and tanktop." The monster rises and shrugs out of her heavy duster. She works her boots of next, and then the socks as well. Her pants come off them, exposing her dark panties. A button down shirt covers her strong torso, and it is removed to. Scars. There are hundreds. Thousands, even. Every inch of skin is scars ranging from cigarette burns to whipping marks to surgical lines to skin graft scarring. The only places that there are no scars are her right arm and her right leg. Those both end at the joint, the shoulder and hip. In their place, metal engraved with terrible and ancient runes, things to bond her very soul to the pieces, the limbs that aren't real. She will sacrifice all for her kapitan. Together they walk, one woman with footsteps that clank on every other footfall. The house is ignored, instead a door is found and a stairwell taken down into a basement where a big man waits. He says nothing, he merely nods to both. In the center of the room, a man sits in a chair. The huge monster freezes, staring in horror. "Kapitan what... what is... why is..." "You need to kill him to heal, my dear sweet Mary. Make the crimson garden grow," her kapitan says softly. "Contrary to popular belief, sometimes revenge really is a good idea." The monster shrinks back from the man in the chair, mind full of visions of horrors. "No... he... he's a monster," she whines, back hitting a wall. Her hands rise, one metal and clawed and the other flesh and blood. Her arms cross over her generous chest. "No, no, I can't... please, he's... no..." Kapitan steps up in front of her. "Mary, listen to me. You're not a scared little girl an-" "No! He's going to hurt me!" she cries, sinking down the wall until her ass hits the floor. "No, no no! Please don't let him hurt me, no!" Kapitan kneels. "Girl, listen to me. Listen to me right now. This man raped you. He beat you. He exploited your regenerative capabilities and cut you, tortured you, but you can stop him now. You can prevent him from ever doing it again, to anyone," she says, grabbing the monster's shoulders. "You're... you can kill him and end it. You can stop being terrified. You can be like me, like you've always wanted to be. You can be strong. You can kill like I do." "No, no, I can't," she gasps, blackened, corrupted tears rolling down her cheeks. "I can't hurt... him, I can't... I can't and..." "Get up. That is an order." Whimpering, the monster rises. Her kapitan presses a bowie knife into her hand. "I-I... I can't... can't d-do it..." "Come, now. Also an order." The monster steps forward, trembling. Somewhere inside, she's still a young woman. Somewhere, buried deep, is the thing that breaks her kapitan's heart. A girl who hasn't taken curse after curse to grow stronger, a girl who doesn't drink blood to survive. A scared seven year old pinned down by a police officer, being violated repeatedly. A scared six year old who ran away from her home because her step father liked to use her like an ash tray. Now she is what she is because she volunteered. When kapitan found her when she was fifteen, four years ago, she was nearly non-functional... freezing to death, infections even her regeneration couldn't stop in her missing arm and leg....	I see shadows, but there is no light. A body hovers in front of me. It's naked, a woman, lying face down with one arm dangling and the other provding support as a human pillow. Her eyes are closed with a smile on her face. The kind you have after really great sex. Her disheveled hair reinforces the smile. As I near her she opens her eyes, but she sees nothing. They're white as opals, and normally one would be afraid of discovering such a thing, but I know she's been like this for years. When I touch her she quivers with exhausted excitment. Coyly turning over to expose her flesh to me. She acts with such confidence of her body, yet she doesn't know what it looks like. I love this about her. As she lies on her back, she stretches and pulls me down on top of her at the same time. I realize at this point I'm naked too. Her hands are quick to read my body, knowing it thirsts for hers. Of course her hands always understood my hunger. When I entered her she doesn't fight it... she doesn't cry... she seems to somehow know It was going to happen. She never saw me, but always knew me best. With her last breath of energy she doesn't speak, only touches my face to feel my sorrow. That's when I pulled the knife out of her body and felt the blood wash over my hands. Its crimson bath soaked me to the bone, sending shivers up my spine with elation. Her image will be preserved in this moment, forever. Looking down, she can now finally see how beautiful she shined.
First prompt! Hope it goes well!	[WP]The secret to everlasting life has been discovered. Every 3,500 years someone must die, to maintain the system. You are about to sit down to watch the televised event, when you see the sacrifice is your little brother.	One day, we would all sit in that chair. The device was painless, and somewhat euphoric, or so I'm told. I see my little brother advance to the chair, although the difference of a year over the grinding of millennia hardly makes much of a difference. We no longer remember our ages, only the year long difference. It hardly matters. I remember a time when a year felt as long as a century, when I could still feel an hour. I dimly remember being a child, although it has been many billenias since i've seen one. My brother sits down, cracks a smile to the adoring public. It was meant to be my turn, but apparently I was still needed. My superiors couldn't find a replacement, so they put an injunction against my request. This is the tenth time i've been eligible, and they won't let me leave. A man of my talents is essential to the survival of humanity, they say. It was a cruel joke. I should be sat there. I'm tired, so tired.My only way out is through that chair. My brother slumps, his last bow. The Audience cheers. Another 3,500 years.	I volunteer as tribute!!
First prompt! Hope it goes well!	[WP]The secret to everlasting life has been discovered. Every 3,500 years someone must die, to maintain the system. You are about to sit down to watch the televised event, when you see the sacrifice is your little brother.	I hadn't seen him in maybe a couple thousand years and the last time I did, he'd won. He'd traipsed out of my home and life with a freshly lit cigarette hanging from his lips and a lazy wave of his arm. And I was left there to fizzle out in the ashes and freeze halfway through the rude gesture aimed at his back, for two thousand years, three decades, two months and seven hours, give or take. Mostly taken, though where all the time had gone I did not know. Then I saw him on the screen and nothing changed, absolutely nothing, the popcorn still crunched between my teeth and the sofa creaked and the electric fan whirred around, so I looked very attentively at him, mincing every one of his features to better erase them. I made a systematic, almost ritualistic exercise of forgetting each and every little part, the sandy blonde hair, the brown eyes so much like my own, the freckles and the meaty nose, the thin mouth and the sharp chin quaking with fear; I stared at them until my eyes blurred and those partitioned little sights meticulously blanked out into a vague burning of the throat and a curious pressure behind my eyes and something of childhood that I'd long traded for eternity. But then I looked at the whole of his visage again, the devil torn away from the forgettable details to give rise to the fullness, the completeness of the intimacy of our mutual knowledge, and I knew him. I'd seen him being born and I saw him dying, and I stopped to wish I'd seen the things in between.	I volunteer as tribute!!
First prompt! Hope it goes well!	[WP]The secret to everlasting life has been discovered. Every 3,500 years someone must die, to maintain the system. You are about to sit down to watch the televised event, when you see the sacrifice is your little brother.	My fingers tremble as I read the newspaper headline. “Local Man Chosen as Sacrifice.” Heart racing, I close my eyes and open them again twice in a row, hoping that the face on the front page would change to someone else’s mug – anyone else’s. But no matter how much I can hope, or bargain, or pray to every God there is or ever was, Ritchie’s face continues to stare at me from the ink. I fumble with the remote control and somehow get my television tuned in to the pre-sacrifice coverage. The reporters are digesting and analyzing all types of information concerning my baby brother – the town we are from, our intimate family details, the significance of his youth. Good Lord, the kid is barely fifteen thousand! My eyes are beginning to itch, yet as I start to rub them I catch the screen pan away from the three analysts and land on the sacrifice. My brother. The camera zooms in on Ritchie eating his final meal – quesadillas and Guinness – and tries to get a good angle on his face. The cameraman has to maneuver around his wife to get the shot; she’s just staring off into space with a blank stare. When they make it to Ritchie’s face he is looking down, trying to decide which slice of his chicken quesadilla to start with. At this point I can feel moisture gathering in the corner of my eyes. Gripping the end slice he looks up at his wife to say something. The camera finally catches a good look at his demeanor. I and billions of viewers make eye contact with Ritchie, yet I find myself shocked by his countenance. Ritchie looks calm. Reserved. Almost excited, in fact. Not only that, but I can tell Ritchie isn’t putting on a show. His face seemed real. And that’s when I realized. This shaking, my heart racing, these tears streaming down my face. This is the first real emotion I’ve felt in, what? A thousand years? Ten thousand? The last few millennia just flow together in my mind. Has it really been that long since the monotony of life has been significantly interrupted? The last time I’d been in love was with my fifth wife, Daphne. Any real memories with her have long since disintegrated. Same as any mementos I may have saved from our days together. All I know is one day we got bored with each other, and went our separate ways. Just like the first four. Since Daphne I’ve simply been wandering, consuming my days with work and my nights with liquor and women – they as unfeeling as I. I have learned 40 languages, 86 instruments, all the theorems and studies and academic disciplines I could come across. Yet even learning has lost its luster. These tears running from my eyes and down my cheeks consume me like no drug or remedy I can fathom. I forgot what it means to truly feel anything. Compared to everyday life, this is bliss. My prayers change, and I would be eager for this sadness to consume me where I sit. To provide an escape from this never ending merry-go-round I’ve been calling life. Now I understand that look of relief on Ritchie’s face. The same look that has been on every previous tribute’s face, one which blended in with the rest of the tedium until today. The first sacrifice that actually matters to me. This is the ultimate escape. The lottery has given Ritchie an everlasting get-out-of-jail free card. In five hours, he will be released from this unending purgatory. And that’s when it hit me. Today, my brother is the luckiest man on earth.	I volunteer as tribute!!
First prompt! Hope it goes well!	[WP]The secret to everlasting life has been discovered. Every 3,500 years someone must die, to maintain the system. You are about to sit down to watch the televised event, when you see the sacrifice is your little brother.	My fingers tremble as I read the newspaper headline. “Local Man Chosen as Sacrifice.” Heart racing, I close my eyes and open them again twice in a row, hoping that the face on the front page would change to someone else’s mug – anyone else’s. But no matter how much I can hope, or bargain, or pray to every God there is or ever was, Ritchie’s face continues to stare at me from the ink. I fumble with the remote control and somehow get my television tuned in to the pre-sacrifice coverage. The reporters are digesting and analyzing all types of information concerning my baby brother – the town we are from, our intimate family details, the significance of his youth. Good Lord, the kid is barely fifteen thousand! My eyes are beginning to itch, yet as I start to rub them I catch the screen pan away from the three analysts and land on the sacrifice. My brother. The camera zooms in on Ritchie eating his final meal – quesadillas and Guinness – and tries to get a good angle on his face. The cameraman has to maneuver around his wife to get the shot; she’s just staring off into space with a blank stare. When they make it to Ritchie’s face he is looking down, trying to decide which slice of his chicken quesadilla to start with. At this point I can feel moisture gathering in the corner of my eyes. Gripping the end slice he looks up at his wife to say something. The camera finally catches a good look at his demeanor. I and billions of viewers make eye contact with Ritchie, yet I find myself shocked by his countenance. Ritchie looks calm. Reserved. Almost excited, in fact. Not only that, but I can tell Ritchie isn’t putting on a show. His face seemed real. And that’s when I realized. This shaking, my heart racing, these tears streaming down my face. This is the first real emotion I’ve felt in, what? A thousand years? Ten thousand? The last few millennia just flow together in my mind. Has it really been that long since the monotony of life has been significantly interrupted? The last time I’d been in love was with my fifth wife, Daphne. Any real memories with her have long since disintegrated. Same as any mementos I may have saved from our days together. All I know is one day we got bored with each other, and went our separate ways. Just like the first four. Since Daphne I’ve simply been wandering, consuming my days with work and my nights with liquor and women – they as unfeeling as I. I have learned 40 languages, 86 instruments, all the theorems and studies and academic disciplines I could come across. Yet even learning has lost its luster. These tears running from my eyes and down my cheeks consume me like no drug or remedy I can fathom. I forgot what it means to truly feel anything. Compared to everyday life, this is bliss. My prayers change, and I would be eager for this sadness to consume me where I sit. To provide an escape from this never ending merry-go-round I’ve been calling life. Now I understand that look of relief on Ritchie’s face. The same look that has been on every previous tribute’s face, one which blended in with the rest of the tedium until today. The first sacrifice that actually matters to me. This is the ultimate escape. The lottery has given Ritchie an everlasting get-out-of-jail free card. In five hours, he will be released from this unending purgatory. And that’s when it hit me. Today, my brother is the luckiest man on earth.	One day, we would all sit in that chair. The device was painless, and somewhat euphoric, or so I'm told. I see my little brother advance to the chair, although the difference of a year over the grinding of millennia hardly makes much of a difference. We no longer remember our ages, only the year long difference. It hardly matters. I remember a time when a year felt as long as a century, when I could still feel an hour. I dimly remember being a child, although it has been many billenias since i've seen one. My brother sits down, cracks a smile to the adoring public. It was meant to be my turn, but apparently I was still needed. My superiors couldn't find a replacement, so they put an injunction against my request. This is the tenth time i've been eligible, and they won't let me leave. A man of my talents is essential to the survival of humanity, they say. It was a cruel joke. I should be sat there. I'm tired, so tired.My only way out is through that chair. My brother slumps, his last bow. The Audience cheers. Another 3,500 years.
First prompt! Hope it goes well!	[WP]The secret to everlasting life has been discovered. Every 3,500 years someone must die, to maintain the system. You are about to sit down to watch the televised event, when you see the sacrifice is your little brother.	My fingers tremble as I read the newspaper headline. “Local Man Chosen as Sacrifice.” Heart racing, I close my eyes and open them again twice in a row, hoping that the face on the front page would change to someone else’s mug – anyone else’s. But no matter how much I can hope, or bargain, or pray to every God there is or ever was, Ritchie’s face continues to stare at me from the ink. I fumble with the remote control and somehow get my television tuned in to the pre-sacrifice coverage. The reporters are digesting and analyzing all types of information concerning my baby brother – the town we are from, our intimate family details, the significance of his youth. Good Lord, the kid is barely fifteen thousand! My eyes are beginning to itch, yet as I start to rub them I catch the screen pan away from the three analysts and land on the sacrifice. My brother. The camera zooms in on Ritchie eating his final meal – quesadillas and Guinness – and tries to get a good angle on his face. The cameraman has to maneuver around his wife to get the shot; she’s just staring off into space with a blank stare. When they make it to Ritchie’s face he is looking down, trying to decide which slice of his chicken quesadilla to start with. At this point I can feel moisture gathering in the corner of my eyes. Gripping the end slice he looks up at his wife to say something. The camera finally catches a good look at his demeanor. I and billions of viewers make eye contact with Ritchie, yet I find myself shocked by his countenance. Ritchie looks calm. Reserved. Almost excited, in fact. Not only that, but I can tell Ritchie isn’t putting on a show. His face seemed real. And that’s when I realized. This shaking, my heart racing, these tears streaming down my face. This is the first real emotion I’ve felt in, what? A thousand years? Ten thousand? The last few millennia just flow together in my mind. Has it really been that long since the monotony of life has been significantly interrupted? The last time I’d been in love was with my fifth wife, Daphne. Any real memories with her have long since disintegrated. Same as any mementos I may have saved from our days together. All I know is one day we got bored with each other, and went our separate ways. Just like the first four. Since Daphne I’ve simply been wandering, consuming my days with work and my nights with liquor and women – they as unfeeling as I. I have learned 40 languages, 86 instruments, all the theorems and studies and academic disciplines I could come across. Yet even learning has lost its luster. These tears running from my eyes and down my cheeks consume me like no drug or remedy I can fathom. I forgot what it means to truly feel anything. Compared to everyday life, this is bliss. My prayers change, and I would be eager for this sadness to consume me where I sit. To provide an escape from this never ending merry-go-round I’ve been calling life. Now I understand that look of relief on Ritchie’s face. The same look that has been on every previous tribute’s face, one which blended in with the rest of the tedium until today. The first sacrifice that actually matters to me. This is the ultimate escape. The lottery has given Ritchie an everlasting get-out-of-jail free card. In five hours, he will be released from this unending purgatory. And that’s when it hit me. Today, my brother is the luckiest man on earth.	It’s been so long. Oh, Gretchen, dear, how good of you to come. Sit down, somewhere. I can’t even remember what it was like, seeing someone… disappear. I tell you people, I think I might actually be thrilled. No, no, I mean it. It’s the echo of a thrill, but I still get a reaction out of this. It’s one of these things you need some millennia to get used to. And after all this time, watching the light from someone’s eyes dim! Knowing horror is possible! I don’t mean being horrified, of course, we are all grownups here, but remembering... remembering how something new feels. Don’t you agree? Oh, Bobby, have a beer. On that table over there, yes. They feel it, I think. Being sacrificed is one of the greatest gifts a human being can get in this day and age. Don’t laugh, I’m dead serious. But I am! Death brings people spontaneity back, a purpose, a meaning! You can tell before they dissolve, there’s something genuinely emotional in their eyes. And those screams! So vivid and sincere! For me watching this is almost like having Christmas days again. You remember that? Wasn’t it entertaining? Oh, I don’t remember it that well myself, but I have some pictures... Danny and I would be awake at 6 A.M. sharp, jumping on our parents’ bed, asking for presents! The bathroom? That door on the right. He has a better memory than me, he could probably tell you some anecdotes. Isn’t Dan here yet? That’s odd, he loves the ceremony. No, he always comes to my party. We’ve been watching it together since the first sacrifice. It’s a family thing. What are you giggling about? Is it something about Dan? Well, I don’t like surprises. If he’s getting married again, there are better days than when our favourite TV show is airing! Oh, quiet, now. I guess he’s going to miss it after all. Gretchen, turn it up, I can’t hear a thing... Is it a man or a woman? Oh, is he handsome? Move away so I can see. Danny. Oh, God, I think I’m feeling.
	[WP] You are a serial killer trying to gain a specific skill in a world where when you kill somebody you get their best trait but only get what they believed was their best trait.	“No, I really mean it,” I say, flashing him a smile. He’s standing by the door, his eyes darting from me to the easel that holds the centre of the room. His hands are thrust into his pockets, his cheeks flushed. “You don’t need to be polite,” he says, “I don’t normally let anyone in here, it’s just a hobby of mine.” The walls are lined with the products of his hobby. He has worked from life, vases of flowers and household objects caught in the pale sunlight from the room’s single window. These hold no interest for me; I could casually pile them on the lawn in front of his house and set the whole lot ablaze. Competent work, well observed, but empty. It is the other paintings that have captivated me, the abstract, the off-the-cuff splashes of colour layered in hypnotising chaos. Yesterday, had you described these canvases to me, I would have scoffed. Without seeing them, I would not have been able to understand. Today, I have reached an uncharacteristically impulsive decision. I flit about the room, caressing this one or that one. “How can I put this?” I say, “I feel as if I can understand you, just by examining your work. Each one is an imprint of you, and each one from a different angle. They’re beautiful, all of them.” From among the field of art, I gauge his reaction. He shakes his head. “They’re just the work of an amateur.” I decide to change tack. “Look, I mean, we haven’t known each other very long, but you've been at the company for, what, ten years?” “Something like that.” “Filing. Answering the phone. Doing paperwork. You’re good at it, another five years and maybe you’ll be moving on up.” “Right,” he says. “In six months, I’ll be as good as you.” “Maybe, I suppose, you’re doing well enough so far, but…” I cross the room, to stand face to face with him. I'm a good inch taller, or maybe its just the difference in the way we stand. His sentence trails off as I stare at him. “What I’m trying to say is, none of that matters. Your amazing telephone manner, the rapport you build with clients, your sincerity, your professionalism. You think its important but its not. It’s child’s play, and I can master it in six months.” I take a deep breath, and take a step back. “But this,” I indicate the loft space with the sweep of my arm, “This matters. Give me six years, six decades, and I couldn't do what you do. This is what’s important, this is who you are. You just have to believe, you have to let everyone see it. And you have to see it in yourself.” We stand in silence. I can’t bring myself to look at him, can’t tell if anything I've said is getting through. Maybe he’s furious with this half-stranger from work telling him what he should be doing with his life. The floorboards creak as he shifts his weight. He’s standing directly behind me. “You really mean that?” “Yeah.” “I -” Ask him in five minutes, or in thirty seconds, how he feels about his art, and he’d laugh. Tell you it was just a hobby, that he’d never be any good. But in this one moment, he can see what I see. For a handful of seconds, he believes. I free the knife from its sheath.	"Yeah, I am seriously the BEST cook you've every met. Maybe you want to come over and have some dinner?" Greg chatted at the water cooler with Christina, her interest non-existent. I pushed my mail cart along, avoiding any eye contact. He was a great bullshitter, and a man who knew his way with the ladies. At least we had equality in the office, because he was the office whore instead of Christina. She walked off calling him an asshole under her breath. I kept handing mail out like I have the last eight months at this crummy internship. Greg constantly bragged about his cooking skills to get women to come over, but he and I both knew he was the 'greatest lover in the world'. I've been stalking him for the last 6 months, and that's all he ever talks about. While I've been high and dry for the last 3 years, it takes Greg only 3 days to get someone to bed. Tonight, it's gonna take 3 hours to get to his house, hide in the closet, and wait until he comes home. Bimbo or not. I'm gonna break his neck like some covert ops, or something. Easy and clean with enough force in the right place. I admit, if I can get these skills in bed, it might help me get enough confidence with women. Shhh, I thought to myself, he's here!.like a lazy ox, he slowly stumbled in. Greg was drunk, this would be easy. He fell down and I knew it was my time to strike. I ran out the door and charged him. Punching Greg in the jaw hurt, but at least he fell down. Screw it, I'm not gonna waste my time with the broken neck, I'm just gonna strangle him. I took off Greg's belt and fastened it on his neck. I was gonna make it look like he asphyxiated. As the belt tightened and tightened, I knew he struggled less and less. Staring at the digital clock, three minutes passed. Then five. Then seven. I didn't want him to survive. After ten minutes of suffocation, I propped him in the closet and left him to be found. I went to a bar a few days later, getting my head clear with some shots. I met a dame later that evening, and heading back I knew we were going to do the do. With this new 'ability' old Greg have me, it was going to be a night we'd never forget. ... The sex was awful. It lasted for about 30 seconds, and she was dry as a desert. After she left disappointed, I went to the kitchen to make a snack. A sandwich or something. As I was in there everything felt right. The 'quick snack' ended up being some fancy Restarunt level stuff. It was like a million orgasms in my mouth! Tasted a lot better too. And then I realized... Greg fucking bragged about his cooking skills to bring them home. That motherfucker! He thought he really was a great chef! Dammit! ... Guess I'm going to culinary school. Maybe meet a douchebag there who does think he's king of the sack.

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