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	[WP] You accidentally become the leader of a cult.	I will admit, becoming a cult leader as a teenager was quite difficult to adapt to. Mostly because my cult consisted 100% of men who would not leave me alone. Not a single woman in sight. Sigh, I guess it's no different from college. Hell, a paparazzi started following me around because they thought I was someone REALLY famous. Just because about 1250 people follow me religiously doesn't mean I'm famous... They try to make anything I touch a holy object. My shoe, a gourd I touched randomly, ect. There's a school in my name, and even a museum. There's a town being built right now in my honour. I tell them I am not the messiah, hell, I'm atheist, yet they follow me. I tell them to go get a life, that they are all unique people. Everyone seemed to agreed, except for that one guy. I told him to come forward, and now he's a pope or something... My fear is, that if I kill myself, being the only way out, that people will take what I said and bend the truth so that they can get what they want. How, you may wonder, did I get myself in this position. And trust me, that's a very good question. I sometimes ask that to myself before falling asleep to the gentle hums of about 100 men. The answer... I wrote a book saying that I could show men how to pick up women easily...	I worried a bit about the security at the airport. I suppose I had to trust that in this crowd of admirers there were no would be assassins. The sound of drums was almost unbearable from inside the plane. The smell of smoke permeated through the vents. As I walked towards the door I knew what I wanted to say. "I am only a man, not a god." But there is something appealing about being a god. Maybe it appealed to the same part of me that made me seek kingship. I never would have expected such a reaction to my presence, even among my own people. But here across the ocean I saw crying, cheering, and excitement beyond what I could imagine experiencing myself. And maybe it was the desire to be a god. But I think I was afraid of them. Afraid that the degree of joy I saw when I arrived here could to easily be turned to anger. That if I escaped unscathed perhaps this city and this country would not. I couldn't tell them that I wasn't their god. Perhaps I can do more good for this country as a god than as a king.
	[WP] You accidentally become the leader of a cult.	Peace. Peace is all that matters. As I mediate here, with my friends I am at peace. It has been so long, the journey has been filled with trials and tribulations. There were so many who did not believe, but I am thankful for those who do believe. Those who believed when I said that the true path was not what we were lead to believe. Those who believed when I said I had found it. I miss those days, when we were just starting. We were full of fire and vinegar. The message was so clear and it shone like the first rays of sunlight after weeks of clouds and storms. I was so sure. The first place that I spoke from was an old warehouse. It was abandoned and seemed to work. John got us a generator and lights. I sat on a stool in the bed of a truck and just talked. At first others would speak, but before long it was just me. At first the words came hard and there was so much pain in the faces of my audience. So much pain, and regret. Confusion that the world they were living in was so far from the promises they were given, from the expectations of the American Dream. So much sadness. I spoke and they listened. At first just a couple of times a month. Then every week. It was fun. Before long there were a bunch of new faces. Someone suggested that we move to an old church. That it would be kind of a joke. We thought it would be funny and the people came up with the money to do it. There were still only about thirty of us. The place had the greatest echo from the stage. My voice would rebound, so I slowed and changed my words to sound better coming back at me. We started singing. There was so much glory. We had so many seats the people started to bring others. Soon the small church was packed. The people were still lost, so I started to write. Just small things, things they could take with them into the world that would hopefully help them find some peace. Then they asked me to write my story, and so I did. They loved it. We moved to a bigger location, and I read from the book of my stories. The look on their faces was exalted. It was so beautiful. My people. My people asked me for my thoughts on the strangest things. So I gave them. Then I wrote them. My people asked so I started talking with them every day. Before long there were some living at the church. That made life so much easier. We had help. There was always someone available if something needed done, or something needed fixing. Soon there were too many. David had a great idea. We found some property in God's country. It was beautiful. The golden hills, we could see the ocean. Sunsets that stoked desire, Sunrises that awoke the poets. These were the glory days. And the people. MY people. They helped so much. All they asked was for my words, and my thoughts. They came from all over. So we built. David and John were great. They organized the people. Mark and Mary started feeding them. Soon they brought us things that could help. Soon after they brought money. Soon they no longer left. It was a few days after that when Ruth came to me at the church. Mary was okay with it and we became three. Soon Julie made four. I had so much love to spread, it was all about love. It has been a year. I have children. My people are happy. We are many. We have houses, and a farm. I speak every day. They call me leader. They want to hear more. I give what I can, they give everything. The we that was four is many now. The girls see to my needs so that I can focus on my work, on my words. They have power. John said that Nancy was barren. Marcus could not walk. Today Marcus helped with the newest bunkhouse for the new people and I cured Nancy's infertility. She is a month along now. Years passed. My children are many and strong. My people are strong. I do not understand why we are being bothered. We are just here about peace and love, why do the outsiders not understand? I am just trying to save them. Why must they respond to our love with hate? Our peace with their violence? Why can they not allow those who wish to follow me do so in peace? It was my first child's thirteenth birthday today. We had a womanhood ceremony for her. My wives were beautiful. Why did the government have to ruin it? Why did they take me? John and David too? My people, my disciples? Mark will be a martyr. They shot him dead. Now I am in chains. They are the modern Romans. I am in chains and I await the officers to take me to my cross. I will rise above. I will return. Just like I did before. 2000 years before. I will NOT return to peace. I will NOT return with love. I will have my revenge. My people will be whole again.	I worried a bit about the security at the airport. I suppose I had to trust that in this crowd of admirers there were no would be assassins. The sound of drums was almost unbearable from inside the plane. The smell of smoke permeated through the vents. As I walked towards the door I knew what I wanted to say. "I am only a man, not a god." But there is something appealing about being a god. Maybe it appealed to the same part of me that made me seek kingship. I never would have expected such a reaction to my presence, even among my own people. But here across the ocean I saw crying, cheering, and excitement beyond what I could imagine experiencing myself. And maybe it was the desire to be a god. But I think I was afraid of them. Afraid that the degree of joy I saw when I arrived here could to easily be turned to anger. That if I escaped unscathed perhaps this city and this country would not. I couldn't tell them that I wasn't their god. Perhaps I can do more good for this country as a god than as a king.
	[WP] You accidentally become the leader of a cult.	I will admit, becoming a cult leader as a teenager was quite difficult to adapt to. Mostly because my cult consisted 100% of men who would not leave me alone. Not a single woman in sight. Sigh, I guess it's no different from college. Hell, a paparazzi started following me around because they thought I was someone REALLY famous. Just because about 1250 people follow me religiously doesn't mean I'm famous... They try to make anything I touch a holy object. My shoe, a gourd I touched randomly, ect. There's a school in my name, and even a museum. There's a town being built right now in my honour. I tell them I am not the messiah, hell, I'm atheist, yet they follow me. I tell them to go get a life, that they are all unique people. Everyone seemed to agreed, except for that one guy. I told him to come forward, and now he's a pope or something... My fear is, that if I kill myself, being the only way out, that people will take what I said and bend the truth so that they can get what they want. How, you may wonder, did I get myself in this position. And trust me, that's a very good question. I sometimes ask that to myself before falling asleep to the gentle hums of about 100 men. The answer... I wrote a book saying that I could show men how to pick up women easily...	How did it come to be Once I was no one Yet now they worship me Humble our beginnings Often humbler our ends As I tread through the throngs Only a man who pretends The lie which festers deep inside my heart How shall I tell them, "I am not" When all they say is, "Thou art"
	[WP] You accidentally become the leader of a cult.	Peace. Peace is all that matters. As I mediate here, with my friends I am at peace. It has been so long, the journey has been filled with trials and tribulations. There were so many who did not believe, but I am thankful for those who do believe. Those who believed when I said that the true path was not what we were lead to believe. Those who believed when I said I had found it. I miss those days, when we were just starting. We were full of fire and vinegar. The message was so clear and it shone like the first rays of sunlight after weeks of clouds and storms. I was so sure. The first place that I spoke from was an old warehouse. It was abandoned and seemed to work. John got us a generator and lights. I sat on a stool in the bed of a truck and just talked. At first others would speak, but before long it was just me. At first the words came hard and there was so much pain in the faces of my audience. So much pain, and regret. Confusion that the world they were living in was so far from the promises they were given, from the expectations of the American Dream. So much sadness. I spoke and they listened. At first just a couple of times a month. Then every week. It was fun. Before long there were a bunch of new faces. Someone suggested that we move to an old church. That it would be kind of a joke. We thought it would be funny and the people came up with the money to do it. There were still only about thirty of us. The place had the greatest echo from the stage. My voice would rebound, so I slowed and changed my words to sound better coming back at me. We started singing. There was so much glory. We had so many seats the people started to bring others. Soon the small church was packed. The people were still lost, so I started to write. Just small things, things they could take with them into the world that would hopefully help them find some peace. Then they asked me to write my story, and so I did. They loved it. We moved to a bigger location, and I read from the book of my stories. The look on their faces was exalted. It was so beautiful. My people. My people asked me for my thoughts on the strangest things. So I gave them. Then I wrote them. My people asked so I started talking with them every day. Before long there were some living at the church. That made life so much easier. We had help. There was always someone available if something needed done, or something needed fixing. Soon there were too many. David had a great idea. We found some property in God's country. It was beautiful. The golden hills, we could see the ocean. Sunsets that stoked desire, Sunrises that awoke the poets. These were the glory days. And the people. MY people. They helped so much. All they asked was for my words, and my thoughts. They came from all over. So we built. David and John were great. They organized the people. Mark and Mary started feeding them. Soon they brought us things that could help. Soon after they brought money. Soon they no longer left. It was a few days after that when Ruth came to me at the church. Mary was okay with it and we became three. Soon Julie made four. I had so much love to spread, it was all about love. It has been a year. I have children. My people are happy. We are many. We have houses, and a farm. I speak every day. They call me leader. They want to hear more. I give what I can, they give everything. The we that was four is many now. The girls see to my needs so that I can focus on my work, on my words. They have power. John said that Nancy was barren. Marcus could not walk. Today Marcus helped with the newest bunkhouse for the new people and I cured Nancy's infertility. She is a month along now. Years passed. My children are many and strong. My people are strong. I do not understand why we are being bothered. We are just here about peace and love, why do the outsiders not understand? I am just trying to save them. Why must they respond to our love with hate? Our peace with their violence? Why can they not allow those who wish to follow me do so in peace? It was my first child's thirteenth birthday today. We had a womanhood ceremony for her. My wives were beautiful. Why did the government have to ruin it? Why did they take me? John and David too? My people, my disciples? Mark will be a martyr. They shot him dead. Now I am in chains. They are the modern Romans. I am in chains and I await the officers to take me to my cross. I will rise above. I will return. Just like I did before. 2000 years before. I will NOT return to peace. I will NOT return with love. I will have my revenge. My people will be whole again.	How did it come to be Once I was no one Yet now they worship me Humble our beginnings Often humbler our ends As I tread through the throngs Only a man who pretends The lie which festers deep inside my heart How shall I tell them, "I am not" When all they say is, "Thou art"
	[WP] You accidentally become the leader of a cult.	Peace. Peace is all that matters. As I mediate here, with my friends I am at peace. It has been so long, the journey has been filled with trials and tribulations. There were so many who did not believe, but I am thankful for those who do believe. Those who believed when I said that the true path was not what we were lead to believe. Those who believed when I said I had found it. I miss those days, when we were just starting. We were full of fire and vinegar. The message was so clear and it shone like the first rays of sunlight after weeks of clouds and storms. I was so sure. The first place that I spoke from was an old warehouse. It was abandoned and seemed to work. John got us a generator and lights. I sat on a stool in the bed of a truck and just talked. At first others would speak, but before long it was just me. At first the words came hard and there was so much pain in the faces of my audience. So much pain, and regret. Confusion that the world they were living in was so far from the promises they were given, from the expectations of the American Dream. So much sadness. I spoke and they listened. At first just a couple of times a month. Then every week. It was fun. Before long there were a bunch of new faces. Someone suggested that we move to an old church. That it would be kind of a joke. We thought it would be funny and the people came up with the money to do it. There were still only about thirty of us. The place had the greatest echo from the stage. My voice would rebound, so I slowed and changed my words to sound better coming back at me. We started singing. There was so much glory. We had so many seats the people started to bring others. Soon the small church was packed. The people were still lost, so I started to write. Just small things, things they could take with them into the world that would hopefully help them find some peace. Then they asked me to write my story, and so I did. They loved it. We moved to a bigger location, and I read from the book of my stories. The look on their faces was exalted. It was so beautiful. My people. My people asked me for my thoughts on the strangest things. So I gave them. Then I wrote them. My people asked so I started talking with them every day. Before long there were some living at the church. That made life so much easier. We had help. There was always someone available if something needed done, or something needed fixing. Soon there were too many. David had a great idea. We found some property in God's country. It was beautiful. The golden hills, we could see the ocean. Sunsets that stoked desire, Sunrises that awoke the poets. These were the glory days. And the people. MY people. They helped so much. All they asked was for my words, and my thoughts. They came from all over. So we built. David and John were great. They organized the people. Mark and Mary started feeding them. Soon they brought us things that could help. Soon after they brought money. Soon they no longer left. It was a few days after that when Ruth came to me at the church. Mary was okay with it and we became three. Soon Julie made four. I had so much love to spread, it was all about love. It has been a year. I have children. My people are happy. We are many. We have houses, and a farm. I speak every day. They call me leader. They want to hear more. I give what I can, they give everything. The we that was four is many now. The girls see to my needs so that I can focus on my work, on my words. They have power. John said that Nancy was barren. Marcus could not walk. Today Marcus helped with the newest bunkhouse for the new people and I cured Nancy's infertility. She is a month along now. Years passed. My children are many and strong. My people are strong. I do not understand why we are being bothered. We are just here about peace and love, why do the outsiders not understand? I am just trying to save them. Why must they respond to our love with hate? Our peace with their violence? Why can they not allow those who wish to follow me do so in peace? It was my first child's thirteenth birthday today. We had a womanhood ceremony for her. My wives were beautiful. Why did the government have to ruin it? Why did they take me? John and David too? My people, my disciples? Mark will be a martyr. They shot him dead. Now I am in chains. They are the modern Romans. I am in chains and I await the officers to take me to my cross. I will rise above. I will return. Just like I did before. 2000 years before. I will NOT return to peace. I will NOT return with love. I will have my revenge. My people will be whole again.	I will admit, becoming a cult leader as a teenager was quite difficult to adapt to. Mostly because my cult consisted 100% of men who would not leave me alone. Not a single woman in sight. Sigh, I guess it's no different from college. Hell, a paparazzi started following me around because they thought I was someone REALLY famous. Just because about 1250 people follow me religiously doesn't mean I'm famous... They try to make anything I touch a holy object. My shoe, a gourd I touched randomly, ect. There's a school in my name, and even a museum. There's a town being built right now in my honour. I tell them I am not the messiah, hell, I'm atheist, yet they follow me. I tell them to go get a life, that they are all unique people. Everyone seemed to agreed, except for that one guy. I told him to come forward, and now he's a pope or something... My fear is, that if I kill myself, being the only way out, that people will take what I said and bend the truth so that they can get what they want. How, you may wonder, did I get myself in this position. And trust me, that's a very good question. I sometimes ask that to myself before falling asleep to the gentle hums of about 100 men. The answer... I wrote a book saying that I could show men how to pick up women easily...
	[WP]God answers all of your prayers, and only your prayers. God is also kind of a dick with a matching sense of humor.	"Hmm, so you're saying you only grant me wishes?" "Yep. I've been watching you and you remind me of myself when I was little God." "Oh. Uhh, you're welcome...big God?" "Hahaha, this is why I call you Jesus." "Er yeah. Haha thanks Dad" "So what will it be for today?" "I...I was thinking to myself how long would it take for people to figure out that they no longer were sneezing. You know, like would it be within 24 hours on the internet, or more like, a week because everything thinks they're cured of whatever." "Oh oh, I read about that today too. Hell yeah. I mean, Heaven yeah, whoopsies heheh. Ok let's do it."	Well, hi there! It's me, God! Are you there, Margaret? Man, I crack myself up. How can I not? I am all powerful. Which is why you're live on GOD Radio. Why not K-GOD or W-GOD? 'Cause God. Let's get to it, shall we? Is the caller there? Hi, is this God? That's the name I gave me! Why do you make me say that every time? I'm kind of a dick. Seriously, have you seen Cleveland? But for those new listeners, please, tell them a bit about yourself. (sigh) My name's Andrew Manning of St Cloud, Minnesota. I'm the one guy that gets his prayers answered by God. Really. Just me. The rest of you are wasting time. Yep! All y'all are shut off from the prayer valve. Why? Well, I got jealous of that Wonka guy. "Oh, you have a candy factory? I have the universe." If only there were a picture I could meme that with. If only. But I can't do everything. I mean, I can, but I won't. Just for Andrew. He's the guy with the REAL golden ticket. YOU HEAR THAT YOU SON OF A BITCH WONKA? Pretty sure he did. Australia just fell into the ocean from the sound of your voice. Good. I never liked INXS. That's why I had Michael Hutchence die in such an embarrassing fashion. You really gotta drop the ball with me to be famous and die in humiliating fashion. Paul Walker stubbed his toe getting into his car and said "Goddammit" and, well.. let's just say that was the last time he'd ever say that. At least I gave some CGI guys a little more work to do in post. You could have just not let people make another Fast & Furious movie. If only you would have prayed for that. Oh. Right. But they've got it ready for a summer release, and I'm not gonna upset the... you know, Hollywood crowd. Because... yeah, anyhow, Andrew Manning, I will only answer your prayers. Your non-Hollywood prayers. But the rest of you humans are still gonna stuff the collection plates and think "Some day that bad boy will change his ways." And I won't. I'll be the same drunken guy in the dirty t-shirt scratching off lottery tickets and missing child support payments. And he admits it! And you people still keep praying! Why? Because you never know. But it won't happen. But they'll keep doing it. This has to be the worst for the atheists. Like, there is a God, but he's only working for one guy, and that guy both works at Taco John's and will be dead in three years from the fumes. Wait, what? Hey, I'm not gonna answer ALL your prayers. Every living thing on the planet is fair game. I hunt the earth for sport. Sometimes with bullets, other times with cancer. I've been known to unsheathe a heart attack or two, but better that than the long slow blade of Alzheimer's. Heaven's not a paradise, it's just my trophy room. Besides, why, with your exclusive direct access to the divine creator, ask to work at Taco Fucking John's? Wow. Good question. Well, they don't call me God for nothing. (hangs up phone) (wink) (iris out) EDIT: Typo
	[WP]God answers all of your prayers, and only your prayers. God is also kind of a dick with a matching sense of humor.	"Hmm, so you're saying you only grant me wishes?" "Yep. I've been watching you and you remind me of myself when I was little God." "Oh. Uhh, you're welcome...big God?" "Hahaha, this is why I call you Jesus." "Er yeah. Haha thanks Dad" "So what will it be for today?" "I...I was thinking to myself how long would it take for people to figure out that they no longer were sneezing. You know, like would it be within 24 hours on the internet, or more like, a week because everything thinks they're cured of whatever." "Oh oh, I read about that today too. Hell yeah. I mean, Heaven yeah, whoopsies heheh. Ok let's do it."	I have to say, when I prayed that God bring another dominant woman into my life, I didn't expect to be awoken at 6 am to FIVE leather clad mistresses cracking whips across my ass asking where their breakfast was. But hey look how nice all their asses are. Also it's hard to complain with this ball gag in my mouth.
	[WP]God answers all of your prayers, and only your prayers. God is also kind of a dick with a matching sense of humor.	"Hello God, I'm praying today because of all the inequality in the world. I just want everyone to be equal. Amen." "Hello God, first of all, thanks for answering my previous prayer. It means a lot. But the results haven't been exactly what I had in mind. I know that the world is now experiencing equality for the first time, but recent developments have caused a food shortage. In fact, we are ALL starving. All of us. If you could please give us all some food that would be great. Thanks. Amen." "Hello God, thanks so much for the help. We now have an abundance of food. We also can't fucking breath because of this abundance. We are literally suffocating from the amount of nourishment that you've dropped on our heads. When I prayed for food I didn't expect you to fill the earth with garlic bread and linguini like it was a ball pit at a children's playground. If you could give us a little less food that would be great. Also, we could really use some water, it's been hard to find among all of this Italian food. Amen" "Look motherfucker, I'm trying to delegate here and you are making me look like an asshole. You are the creator of all things so show some God damn common sense. When I asked for water I didn't mean recreate the set to the movie 'Waterworld'. I'm not fucking Noah, I don't know how to build an ark. Please, just forget everything I asked of you and put things back the way they were. Amen." "Darkness? Seriously? I can't even hear my own voice. I'm either dead or in a vacuum. Did you just destroy everything you created just to fuck with me? When I said put things the back the way they were I didn't mean go back to the beginning before You created. Wait a second, why would you let my consciousness survive? For the sake of your sick joke? Look man, hear me out seriously...................................."	I have to say, when I prayed that God bring another dominant woman into my life, I didn't expect to be awoken at 6 am to FIVE leather clad mistresses cracking whips across my ass asking where their breakfast was. But hey look how nice all their asses are. Also it's hard to complain with this ball gag in my mouth.
	[WP]God answers all of your prayers, and only your prayers. God is also kind of a dick with a matching sense of humor.	Just last week, I prayed to God and told Him that I was broke. I check my mailbox (His favorite method of divine delivery) and found a cash-filled envelope. When I opened it, I instead found a note: "Hello Broke, I'm God!" You know, I'm about tired of His shit.	I have to say, when I prayed that God bring another dominant woman into my life, I didn't expect to be awoken at 6 am to FIVE leather clad mistresses cracking whips across my ass asking where their breakfast was. But hey look how nice all their asses are. Also it's hard to complain with this ball gag in my mouth.
	[WP]God answers all of your prayers, and only your prayers. God is also kind of a dick with a matching sense of humor.	"Hmm, so you're saying you only grant me wishes?" "Yep. I've been watching you and you remind me of myself when I was little God." "Oh. Uhh, you're welcome...big God?" "Hahaha, this is why I call you Jesus." "Er yeah. Haha thanks Dad" "So what will it be for today?" "I...I was thinking to myself how long would it take for people to figure out that they no longer were sneezing. You know, like would it be within 24 hours on the internet, or more like, a week because everything thinks they're cured of whatever." "Oh oh, I read about that today too. Hell yeah. I mean, Heaven yeah, whoopsies heheh. Ok let's do it."	The day Bill Hays trapped me inside my locker after school and left me there shivering like a wet kitten all night long -- they turned the heat off at night, of course, what with the recession and all -- I interspersed some prayers with my sobbing, and I guess the Lord must have thought I was the pitifulest thing he'd ever seen, because the next morning when somebody heard me banging on the door and they had the janitor let me out, the first thing I heard was that Billy was missing. Of course I didn't connect those two dots at first -- my prayers hadn't gotten specific, I'd just asked for Billy to get what he deserved -- but I began to have an inkling the next week, when I prayed for Grandma to get better and soon enough she'd kicked the cancer and scampered off to New Orleans. Course this left my grandfather in an irreparable state of despair, so I had to pray for him to find a new source of happiness, and that Friday he won the lottery. He bought himself a yacht and a busty young wife and sailed off for parts unknown -- we never saw him again, although we didn't hold it against him. What kind of family would have? It was enough just to know he was happy. Having discerned by this point that the Big Man and I were on speaking terms, I set about trying to fix the world as best as I knew how. I prayed for all the poor folks in Africa who didn't have enough food, and then a couple months later I saw news that giant mutated bunny rabbits were cropping up left and right over there, eating up everybody's back yard and multiplying much faster than you could shoot em. Then things started getting dicey. I prayed that the Israelis and Palestinians would get along better and before you knew it somebody'd set off a couple hydrogen bombs and blown the whole region to smithereens. Sure the Israelis and Palestinians didn't get on each other's cases all the time any more, but that was cause there were probably only fifty folks left on either side, and those fifty were too busy dying of radiation sickness to squabble over a few miles of holy ground. Well I looked up the former population of Israel and Palestine and I reckoned I'd become one of the world's greatest mass murderers overnight, which as you can imagine made me feel sorta glum. I resolved to be much more careful and specific with my prayers, so as to avoid any more accidents. ***** Believe I'll continue this'n tomorrow, but for now it's bedtime :C
	[WP]God answers all of your prayers, and only your prayers. God is also kind of a dick with a matching sense of humor.	"Hello God, I'm praying today because of all the inequality in the world. I just want everyone to be equal. Amen." "Hello God, first of all, thanks for answering my previous prayer. It means a lot. But the results haven't been exactly what I had in mind. I know that the world is now experiencing equality for the first time, but recent developments have caused a food shortage. In fact, we are ALL starving. All of us. If you could please give us all some food that would be great. Thanks. Amen." "Hello God, thanks so much for the help. We now have an abundance of food. We also can't fucking breath because of this abundance. We are literally suffocating from the amount of nourishment that you've dropped on our heads. When I prayed for food I didn't expect you to fill the earth with garlic bread and linguini like it was a ball pit at a children's playground. If you could give us a little less food that would be great. Also, we could really use some water, it's been hard to find among all of this Italian food. Amen" "Look motherfucker, I'm trying to delegate here and you are making me look like an asshole. You are the creator of all things so show some God damn common sense. When I asked for water I didn't mean recreate the set to the movie 'Waterworld'. I'm not fucking Noah, I don't know how to build an ark. Please, just forget everything I asked of you and put things back the way they were. Amen." "Darkness? Seriously? I can't even hear my own voice. I'm either dead or in a vacuum. Did you just destroy everything you created just to fuck with me? When I said put things the back the way they were I didn't mean go back to the beginning before You created. Wait a second, why would you let my consciousness survive? For the sake of your sick joke? Look man, hear me out seriously...................................."	The day Bill Hays trapped me inside my locker after school and left me there shivering like a wet kitten all night long -- they turned the heat off at night, of course, what with the recession and all -- I interspersed some prayers with my sobbing, and I guess the Lord must have thought I was the pitifulest thing he'd ever seen, because the next morning when somebody heard me banging on the door and they had the janitor let me out, the first thing I heard was that Billy was missing. Of course I didn't connect those two dots at first -- my prayers hadn't gotten specific, I'd just asked for Billy to get what he deserved -- but I began to have an inkling the next week, when I prayed for Grandma to get better and soon enough she'd kicked the cancer and scampered off to New Orleans. Course this left my grandfather in an irreparable state of despair, so I had to pray for him to find a new source of happiness, and that Friday he won the lottery. He bought himself a yacht and a busty young wife and sailed off for parts unknown -- we never saw him again, although we didn't hold it against him. What kind of family would have? It was enough just to know he was happy. Having discerned by this point that the Big Man and I were on speaking terms, I set about trying to fix the world as best as I knew how. I prayed for all the poor folks in Africa who didn't have enough food, and then a couple months later I saw news that giant mutated bunny rabbits were cropping up left and right over there, eating up everybody's back yard and multiplying much faster than you could shoot em. Then things started getting dicey. I prayed that the Israelis and Palestinians would get along better and before you knew it somebody'd set off a couple hydrogen bombs and blown the whole region to smithereens. Sure the Israelis and Palestinians didn't get on each other's cases all the time any more, but that was cause there were probably only fifty folks left on either side, and those fifty were too busy dying of radiation sickness to squabble over a few miles of holy ground. Well I looked up the former population of Israel and Palestine and I reckoned I'd become one of the world's greatest mass murderers overnight, which as you can imagine made me feel sorta glum. I resolved to be much more careful and specific with my prayers, so as to avoid any more accidents. ***** Believe I'll continue this'n tomorrow, but for now it's bedtime :C
	[WP]God answers all of your prayers, and only your prayers. God is also kind of a dick with a matching sense of humor.	Just last week, I prayed to God and told Him that I was broke. I check my mailbox (His favorite method of divine delivery) and found a cash-filled envelope. When I opened it, I instead found a note: "Hello Broke, I'm God!" You know, I'm about tired of His shit.	The day Bill Hays trapped me inside my locker after school and left me there shivering like a wet kitten all night long -- they turned the heat off at night, of course, what with the recession and all -- I interspersed some prayers with my sobbing, and I guess the Lord must have thought I was the pitifulest thing he'd ever seen, because the next morning when somebody heard me banging on the door and they had the janitor let me out, the first thing I heard was that Billy was missing. Of course I didn't connect those two dots at first -- my prayers hadn't gotten specific, I'd just asked for Billy to get what he deserved -- but I began to have an inkling the next week, when I prayed for Grandma to get better and soon enough she'd kicked the cancer and scampered off to New Orleans. Course this left my grandfather in an irreparable state of despair, so I had to pray for him to find a new source of happiness, and that Friday he won the lottery. He bought himself a yacht and a busty young wife and sailed off for parts unknown -- we never saw him again, although we didn't hold it against him. What kind of family would have? It was enough just to know he was happy. Having discerned by this point that the Big Man and I were on speaking terms, I set about trying to fix the world as best as I knew how. I prayed for all the poor folks in Africa who didn't have enough food, and then a couple months later I saw news that giant mutated bunny rabbits were cropping up left and right over there, eating up everybody's back yard and multiplying much faster than you could shoot em. Then things started getting dicey. I prayed that the Israelis and Palestinians would get along better and before you knew it somebody'd set off a couple hydrogen bombs and blown the whole region to smithereens. Sure the Israelis and Palestinians didn't get on each other's cases all the time any more, but that was cause there were probably only fifty folks left on either side, and those fifty were too busy dying of radiation sickness to squabble over a few miles of holy ground. Well I looked up the former population of Israel and Palestine and I reckoned I'd become one of the world's greatest mass murderers overnight, which as you can imagine made me feel sorta glum. I resolved to be much more careful and specific with my prayers, so as to avoid any more accidents. ***** Believe I'll continue this'n tomorrow, but for now it's bedtime :C
	[WP]God answers all of your prayers, and only your prayers. God is also kind of a dick with a matching sense of humor.	Just last week, I prayed to God and told Him that I was broke. I check my mailbox (His favorite method of divine delivery) and found a cash-filled envelope. When I opened it, I instead found a note: "Hello Broke, I'm God!" You know, I'm about tired of His shit.	"Hello God, I'm praying today because of all the inequality in the world. I just want everyone to be equal. Amen." "Hello God, first of all, thanks for answering my previous prayer. It means a lot. But the results haven't been exactly what I had in mind. I know that the world is now experiencing equality for the first time, but recent developments have caused a food shortage. In fact, we are ALL starving. All of us. If you could please give us all some food that would be great. Thanks. Amen." "Hello God, thanks so much for the help. We now have an abundance of food. We also can't fucking breath because of this abundance. We are literally suffocating from the amount of nourishment that you've dropped on our heads. When I prayed for food I didn't expect you to fill the earth with garlic bread and linguini like it was a ball pit at a children's playground. If you could give us a little less food that would be great. Also, we could really use some water, it's been hard to find among all of this Italian food. Amen" "Look motherfucker, I'm trying to delegate here and you are making me look like an asshole. You are the creator of all things so show some God damn common sense. When I asked for water I didn't mean recreate the set to the movie 'Waterworld'. I'm not fucking Noah, I don't know how to build an ark. Please, just forget everything I asked of you and put things back the way they were. Amen." "Darkness? Seriously? I can't even hear my own voice. I'm either dead or in a vacuum. Did you just destroy everything you created just to fuck with me? When I said put things the back the way they were I didn't mean go back to the beginning before You created. Wait a second, why would you let my consciousness survive? For the sake of your sick joke? Look man, hear me out seriously...................................."
	[WP]God answers all of your prayers, and only your prayers. God is also kind of a dick with a matching sense of humor.	Just last week, I prayed to God and told Him that I was broke. I check my mailbox (His favorite method of divine delivery) and found a cash-filled envelope. When I opened it, I instead found a note: "Hello Broke, I'm God!" You know, I'm about tired of His shit.	It's a goddamn snowpocalypse. IT IS A WHITE CHRISTMAS There are seventy fucking inches of snow, I can't even see across the road to my neighbors house, and the roof on the shed has collapsed. YOUR SHED WAS IN NEED OF REPAIR ANYHOW I had to let Rover out the second story window to take a piss. ROVER IS A GOOD BOY Are you... Okay listen. I repent. I have sinned and all that. It's Christmas! Do you want me to be alone on Christmas? YOUR FATHER PRAYED FOR A NEW LOVER Don't... Just don't. HAVE YOU READ FIFTY SHADES OF GAY God you're such a dick.
	[WP]God answers all of your prayers, and only your prayers. God is also kind of a dick with a matching sense of humor.	"It's just that this is not exactly what I had in mind when I said I wanted a dick long enough to reach the floor", I say, hands intertwined in prayer mode. "Though luck", God's voice reply, inside my head. "Could you at least get me a wheelchair? It's pretty hard to walk with these tiny legs." "Yeah, of course", God replies. "Done." "What?" "You got a wheelchair." "Where?" I look around my room. It's empty but for the bed I'm sitting in and my nightstand. "It's in a bank in Malta. The address is South Street, number 32. Vault number 724 --" "How the hell am I going to get there!? I meant a wheelchair now. Here. Where I am." I sigh. "You know... So I can move around." "Oh. You should have explained it better", God replies, and I swear I hear a giggle. "There you go." A wheelchair spontaneously pops up from thin air, right above my head. Then it does exactly what a wheelchair hanging in mid air does. "OUTCH! COME ON, MAN!" "Sorry." "Listen, forget the long dick. Forget the wheelchair." I instantly forget what I was talking about. "What is going on? What... Why is there a wheelchair here, why... HOLY CRAP ARE THOSE MY LEGS?" "You said forget the long dick and forget the wheelchair." God said. "Is this not what you wanted?" "Dude, did you just erase my memory?" "Here, stop being so whinny. Have it back." I remember it again. Jesus, this is hard. "Ok, try to listen, God. Can I have my legs back? I don't want the long dick anymore. Just give me normal legs." "All right. There." Nothing happens. "What? "Your legs." I look down. The tiny little legs are still there. "I still got the tiny ones." "Yeah, I know. You didn't say to take those away." "BUT WHERE THE HELL ARE MY ORIGINAL ONES?" "In a bank in Malta. South Street, number 32. Vault numb --" "Oh, fuck me." I whisper, tired. "SHIT. NO, WAIT!" _____________________ thanks for reading! for more stories, check out /r/psycho_alpaca =)	It's a goddamn snowpocalypse. IT IS A WHITE CHRISTMAS There are seventy fucking inches of snow, I can't even see across the road to my neighbors house, and the roof on the shed has collapsed. YOUR SHED WAS IN NEED OF REPAIR ANYHOW I had to let Rover out the second story window to take a piss. ROVER IS A GOOD BOY Are you... Okay listen. I repent. I have sinned and all that. It's Christmas! Do you want me to be alone on Christmas? YOUR FATHER PRAYED FOR A NEW LOVER Don't... Just don't. HAVE YOU READ FIFTY SHADES OF GAY God you're such a dick.
	[WP] Write a story in which the main character slowly falls in love with the reader.	I.. i'd had enough. I can't take it anymore Everything is just too cruel I'm tired of smiling, of fighting, of living. Everything. I just want everything to end. There is no more way out. Only death. I pointed the gun at my temple, my hands were shaking, but, there wasn't any more way. I'm so tired. Nobody, nobody. Absolutely nobody cares. my life is a cruel joke given by the almighty. I'd rather be well off. Huh? What? Who are you? I don't know how to explain it, but.. you..i can feel you. Is it you God? No, i can hear your thoughts. Please, speak. i want to hear your voice, what brought you to look upon my life? I see. You must be from that dimension. What dimension? Oh, you know. The Infini Dimension Are you an angel? Did you come for me? What's it like there? Can you bring me there? I'm tired of my world. You can't? But why? Do you, do you also hate me? Like how everybody does in my world? What did i do to deserve such hate? I just.. i just wanted love. I wanted to love all of them. I guess that is wrong. Tell.. you.. more? I don't want to be bothering an infini like you. I'm a worthless trash bag of this world. Why someone like me? Why not look at someone else's life? You don't know either? It must be destiny then. Do you believe in destiny? There must be a reason. No? Can we be friends? Please? I just want a friend, that's all.	She sat there quietly on the park bench, never once glancing up from the book she held in her hands. For some reason, it never once felt awkward or strange, just watching her read. Such an elegant woman, being so engrossed in a story that the world around her disappears. The way she bit the corner of her lip ever so slightly and the way she furrowed her brow when she came to an interesting part -- god, is there anything wrong with this woman? After a few minutes of arguing with myself, I finally worked up the courage to talk to her. Slowly, but surely, I made my way towards her, never moving too quickly so as to avoid startling her. "Ahem," I cleared my throat quietly when I was beside her. I watched as her expression immediately changed; in her eyes, I could see that she had come back to reality, but struggled to process it all. She slowly looked up at me, and with the most beautiful smile I've ever seen, she said in her soft voice, "Hi." Suddenly, I felt my face grow flushed, blood rushing to my cheeks and my ears, and I froze. I guess she noticed because she started giggling. "Uhh...well..." I stammered, my eyes frantically looking around as if the words that escaped me were somehow floating around in mid-air for me to find. Seeing how flustered I was, she reached out her hand. "Hi, I'm Amelia." For some reason, that simple action brought be back down to Earth and I managed to find my words again. "Oh...ahem," I started, as I reached out to shake her hand. "I...I'm Chris." She smiled so genuinely, I felt all my nerves settle down, allowing me to find a seat beside her. "So what are you reading?" I asked. "Oh, it's this really interesting book!" she began. We spent the day talking about the book and our favorite stories. By the time we realized what time it was, night had already fallen, and my cheeks never felt more sore from smiling so much. And the rest is history. We've been together for five years now, happily married for three. Every day is a good day, because every day, I get to wake up and fall asleep looking at the most beautiful woman in the world and to love her with all my heart, knowing that she loves me too.
Note: when people are wiped, they are still left with basic knowledge e.g language, maths, etc.	[WP] In the future, instead of a life prison sentence, criminals are given the option to have their memories and personality erased. You just woke up and realised you don't know anything about yourself.	Note: Writing this on my Ipad, so it's a bit short and I probably screwed up the formatting. Emptiness. That is all I felt. &nbsp; All my memories, my personality, everything about me, gone. &nbsp; It was not your fault &nbsp; What kind of monster had I been, to choose to lose my very being? What had I done? My life is meaningless, I am nothing. Am I still a monster? I saw how people looked at me as I was dropped off at the condo they said was my home. They all hate me for what I was. Maybe I should hate myself too. &nbsp; She wanted it, she wanted it &nbsp Now it taunts me, my past. I can hear it, I can hear the monster. They said it would be gone, but it isn't. At least I was rich before, the condo is filled with everything one would need. The bedroom is big, the bed magnificent. The other bedroom is smaller, the bed cover in much less magnificent pink sheets. And the balcony has the most wonderful view of the park below it. &nbsp; They had no right to stop you &nbsp Do monsters like amazing views of trees? They must, I did. Especially those who drink, judging by the stack of empty bottles in the corner, beside the glass barrier. &nbsp; She was yours, not theirs &nbsp; The sidewalk is nice too, 10 stories below. Maybe I should look at it closer. &nbsp; She wanted it, she knew how you were when drunk &nbsp; I was a monster, I am still a monster. But the sidewalk is nice nonetheless , 9 stories below.	I learned how to write against my will, and it was a chore. It was tedious to spell out the reports and place the words in the correct order and then read them backwards, but my uncle the law maker at the Ministry of Penalty and Repentance had secure this position for me and I could not hope for a different career, unless it was in the business of thieving or prostitution. The day of my fifth birthday I was smacked over the head with a piece of wood, as I stood by the window looking out on the kids playing in the dirt below the ministry. I have not been smacked in the head once since. My uncle advised me to keep a journal, where I could practice writing that would not easily find a context in my reports. In the journal I tried to describe not only the look and construction and economy of the prison cell, but I were to imagine my 100th day there, and how my throat felt paper dry, and how my eyes climbed the walls aiming at the only barred window, how my fingers touched the ceiling, and how the pain shot through the low of my back and ripped open my flesh, at every daily whipping, all the time hoping I would last the 900 additional days until freedom. I was not hard to put these imaginations into writing; I spent all my days hunched over my desk in the low ceiling report room, with no water to drink, and no distraction. Only sometimes my pencil would go dull, and I walked up 50 steps to the supervisors desk below the lonely, ticking clock on the wall, and I would turn the screw of the sharpener just the right few times, and go back to my desk to continue my report. Though I could not clearly reproduce the experience of being whipped, I imagined it as a tickling joy. I would summon this joy as the day stretched out and my cheeks where hurting from the ever grinding gnaw of the chair, before I could slip back to my sleeping cell below. After many dull years of dutiful working I was promoted to the next tier of report writers. It was no proud occasion, I was of age and skill to secure this promotion, it was all part of the creaking cogwheel of the Ministry of Penalty and Repentance. My new workroom was a few floors above my previous, with fewer windows but instead equipped with artificial light from small bulbs of glass hanging from strings attached to the egg white ceiling far above. Entering the workroom was like entering a cube. Also my reports were changed. The prison cells I was to document shifted dramatically from the previous in terms of look, construction and economy. The cells were square, with equal width, length and depth. Light was provided from long glass tubes secured to the ceiling and filled with lightning gas. There was a bed with a feather down mattress, and across it a big grey box of steel protruded from one of the walls, where sometimes a low mechanical, grinding hum could be heard. I continued my report writing and was praised on every evaluation for my efficiency. After work, in my sleeping cell, I wrote in my journal and imagined myself in the new prison cell, how it was comfortable but sterile, and how grey box on the wall made the humming sounds, and I wondered what it contained, and how I could open the small side door of it to find out. It was a curious contraption, and my head mused in the joy of guessing its function. Years passed in the cubic work room, and my days and weeks and months did not provide much variation, the sterile environment in which I worked and lived was stable and did not budge for the changes in the seasons outside. The only change I noticed in that respect was in the contents of the paperwork I received and was to put down in tables and clear text in my reports. There were more cells constructed and fitted as more and more prisoners flooded our prisoners quarters, in larger numbers than before. There were also an increase in the number of additional correction required of the prisoners in our watch, at the Ministry of Penalty and Repentance. A time followed of high workload. Extra tables were brought in where the stacks of papers could be piled and arranged before they were taken off and archived or sent to the supervisors for further action. I could almost not keep up with the reports that needed writing and signing off, but I made sure to not let my quality drop when documenting the look, construction and economy of the prison cells. Soon I was also writing additional reports, on the look, construction and economy of each individual prisoner. It was an interesting extra aspect of the work and it gave me inspiration to continue with my journal writing in my sleeping cell. One morning I was sharpening my pencil when the door to the work room opened and my uncle called for me. He looked worried and hurried me outside. " I am taking you away from here" he whispered and frightened looked over his shoulder as if someone was there. "Uncle, I would love to take a trip with you, but the work volume is heavy and I have many long reports to write..." "Do you every read the reports you write? Do you ever take a moment to consider what just your work consists of?" "Uncle, I am just a writing the reports and filling out the tables of the look, construction and economy of our cells and prisoners, and when I have filled my quota I will be able to retire and spend my days in the gardens by the waterfalls, like you will soon. My only wish is to work hard and fill my quota." "Are you really so blind?" My uncle tugged at my sleeves with a look of desperation in his face, and started dragging me towards the steps, repeating his question in whimpers. We were already halfway down the steps, him hanging on my side. "Now uncle, there are predictions of increase of prisoners coming shortly, and I really must go back..." He charged at me for a split second, his eyes darkened and he spat at me. "You only write, but you do not read it and you do not think!" He pushed me back. " I put you in these rooms for your safety, and now you will not be saved from these rooms!" I worried at his disturbed wailing as he stumbled down the flight of stairs and disappeared in the long, empty corridors, ever downwards, until the last shriek died out, and I returned to my work room. The light flickered. The tip of my pencil broke off. They came for me in my sleeping cell. "Your uncle has let us know most cooperatively, that he made you an accomplice." And the law makers lowered a hood over my head and punched me in the gut. When I came to I was lying on a padded bed in a cubic cell, with tubes of lightning gas shooting its sterile light at me and at every corner of the room. And at the grey box protruding from the wall across the room. The light never went out, and my eye lids provided no cover, it was as if someone kept pulling off the cover or snatching away the pillow so that sleep would be eternally disturbed, so was I forced by the light to never rest or hide in darkness. I could not count the days, and my days that had for so many long years been lined with the routine of writing and working, lost the concept of time, unfamiliar to the depth-less well of thinking, thinking without tables to guide and input data into. Only the company of the mechanical humming from the box, Then humming turned into a crackle. Loud and piercing it filled every small cavity of my prisoners cell as the light had done. A voice was heard: "YOU HAVE BEEN FOUND GUILTY. AS ACCOMPLICE OF TREASON. NOW SUCCUMB TO THE MERCY OF PENALTY AND REPENTANCE. THE MERCY OF THE STATE." Slowly the door on the box slid open and a whirring sheet of metal turned and turned inside, wheeled by small cogwheels of steel, themselves wheeled by even smaller cogwheel. I stood up. I moved closer. I peered into the grey box with its door opened and the whirring sheets inside. I closed my eyes, and stuck my head in. Darkness. A claw fastened my neck. My scalp was cut and snapped loose, the blood steamed down with its milky warmth down my brow and ears as layer after layer of my skull bone was shaved off and the white dust fell like flour from the dough that was my face. I must have cried and screamed in agony, but all I heard was the consistent and ever louder mechanic humming of the wheels as the shavers worked deeper, deeper, deeper, until I began to feel the sensations of the screws. And eventually, curiously, with the success of the shavings and victory of the screws, I felt the excruciating pain turning into ecstasy of remorse, the joy of good service, I cried as beautiful scenes of the gardens by the waterfalls rolled over and over before my inner eye, until finally... Oblivion, the mercy.
Note: when people are wiped, they are still left with basic knowledge e.g language, maths, etc.	[WP] In the future, instead of a life prison sentence, criminals are given the option to have their memories and personality erased. You just woke up and realised you don't know anything about yourself.	Note: Writing this on my Ipad, so it's a bit short and I probably screwed up the formatting. Emptiness. That is all I felt. &nbsp; All my memories, my personality, everything about me, gone. &nbsp; It was not your fault &nbsp; What kind of monster had I been, to choose to lose my very being? What had I done? My life is meaningless, I am nothing. Am I still a monster? I saw how people looked at me as I was dropped off at the condo they said was my home. They all hate me for what I was. Maybe I should hate myself too. &nbsp; She wanted it, she wanted it &nbsp Now it taunts me, my past. I can hear it, I can hear the monster. They said it would be gone, but it isn't. At least I was rich before, the condo is filled with everything one would need. The bedroom is big, the bed magnificent. The other bedroom is smaller, the bed cover in much less magnificent pink sheets. And the balcony has the most wonderful view of the park below it. &nbsp; They had no right to stop you &nbsp Do monsters like amazing views of trees? They must, I did. Especially those who drink, judging by the stack of empty bottles in the corner, beside the glass barrier. &nbsp; She was yours, not theirs &nbsp; The sidewalk is nice too, 10 stories below. Maybe I should look at it closer. &nbsp; She wanted it, she knew how you were when drunk &nbsp; I was a monster, I am still a monster. But the sidewalk is nice nonetheless , 9 stories below.	The sound of the large steel door slamming shut jarred him awake. Drool running down his lower lip he strained through sleepy eyes to see that where an empty seat had been an hour prior, now sat a man dressed entirely in black. "Hello." The man greeted him. Whipping his head side to side, he struggled to reply in his tired voice, "H-hi.." Looking towards the table the man shuffled papers inside of a large file. Across the front he could just make out the word 'Classified' in bold red print; Mental Clarification, below it. "Now then," the man suddenly spoke "what is two plus two?" He continued to eye the file in his hands, even as he asked the question. "What?" Wearing a puzzled look, the man now stared him down, "Do you not understand the question?" "No.. no I understand the question, its just--" "Then answer it." He interrupted. Already confused, without a single memory to cling to, he didn't want to anger this guy. Something inside warned him against it. "Four." "Good, good... what does E-a-r-t-h spell?" Another easy question. Or, at least they seemed easy. Was this some kind of test? "Earth." He again answered. "Well done," the man continued "last one - what is your name?" What was his name? It felt like it should be right there at the tip of his tongue. Like this too should be an easy question. Scrambling for an answer, all that his mind gave him was a giant blank. Nothing. He began to sweat as the man turned his gaze on him again. Flicking his eyes about the room nervously, he searched his mind for an answer; table, chair, desk, lamp, floor... Finally, he spoke. "Lam Tableau." For a moment, the man didn't speak, only scratching something onto his pad. Standing from his chair, he addressed him with a slight smile that put his nerves at ease. "Good job, you're done. They'll come to get you momentarily." As he breathed a heavy sigh of relief, the man left the room, closing the door behind him. Outside he spoke with the guards, showing them the results of the questioning: Subject shows continued evasive nature, fourth memory cleanse advised.
Edit: this is the biggest thing I've done on here! My inbox exploded and I've read all of your stories, thank you guys and girls!	[WP] Scientists have discovered advanced intelligent life on another planet. Upon communication, we find this planet has the same major religions as earth.	Much to my dismay, I discovered that this new planet did not contain intelligent life at all; just another herd of unintelligent, religious cattle. I dedicated the last 50 years of my life to the discovery and eventual communication with the beings of Second Earth, hoping for a place where rationality and intelligence were major priorities in society. I dreamed of a magical place where science and facts were embraced and taken seriously, a place where people vaccinated their children against preventable diseases, a place where politicians who denied global warming were laughed all the way out of office. What I got was just another Earth. Initially, the humans of Second Earth only accepted our communication because they have existed longer than us. They were seeking a desperate attempt at migration. They have ignored the warnings of intelligent men and women for too long, and Second Earth is no longer able to sustain life. This is what your greed, ignorance, and gods have in store for our future. Through a combined effort of the greatest minds of both worlds, we established a channel of communication via multiple satellites bouncing signals across space. The latency is high, but we are able to transfer data between our two planets. During the course of our communication with the best and brightest of Second Earth, we agreed there was only one thing left to do. Destroy religion, destroy politics, and create the magical world we had each hoped the other world would be. And so I begin my journey to Second Earth. -Captain's log Stardate 1277.1	John, a contractor with a secret clearance, was in the process of installing upgrades to our biometric security gateway. During renovations it was a necessary inconvenience to attend a personal security screening provided by a servicing contractor like John. This screening is many things but in the very least it is a brief but formal human interaction. He knows about my work in the sense that it is something which is above his secret clearance but nothing more than that and I don't stall for small talk. "Are you still on the same project or has the department made other arrangements for you?" John asks. "Still on it" I reply. With a small infrared laser John scans my retinas left to right. "You're clear Sir," I acknowledge him with a routine head nod and proceed through to the top secret clearance offices were I work. From what was explained to me, it seemed like a straight forward job with a clear timeline and objective. I was presented with a file containing raw communications from New Manhattan, an Earthlike exo planet with intelligent life, and a few weeks time to produce a report on the religions of these people. The raw communications were commonly called "the inches," so named for the shared similarities between our two peoples except for a few inches of difference. All of this was great, however I was far from convinced of the importance of scanning textual bodies for religious overlap. The fact of the matter is that we already know about their beliefs, they are the same as ours.
Edit: this is the biggest thing I've done on here! My inbox exploded and I've read all of your stories, thank you guys and girls!	[WP] Scientists have discovered advanced intelligent life on another planet. Upon communication, we find this planet has the same major religions as earth.	Despite the fears of humanity, the fleet came in peace. The assumption of many was that humanity will be destroyed by them. When all they sought was knowledge of humanity we were happy to oblige. The relief that their goal was not war but knowledge may have hastened our eagerness to accept their requests. It dawned on some people as the years went by that we may be assisting in our own demise. As these aliens learned our weaknesses, fears and tendencies, we knew nothing of them. The fear of obliteration made people more obedient as if we were already subjugated and under their control. They did not see us as inferiors. We saw ourselves as inferiors. On the sixth year of their arrival, this fear of obliteration reached its boiling point. The fear that we may be providing them with all the information for colonization. Humanity became unpredictable and it was at this time that they declared their mission was complete. As if they had sensed the tension building on Earth. Their announcement of departure did not ease the fears that many held. The fear that they would return to finish their true mission. It became clear that for the people who held this fear, their interest was to stop the departure of these aliens. To send a strong message. To stop them from returning. Earth was divided by those seeking peace and those who wanted aggression. The offer that satisfied the divided Earth came out of the blue. An academic party of ten that will do as the fleet had done on Earth. To seek knowledge of the unknown race and their home. The exchange was unfair. While they had thousands of manpower to absorb our knowledge, humanity had only ten. While they had six years to accumulate our knowledge, we had only 14 months. The risk that this offer was a trap. A trap to bring live human specimen to their home world was a possibility but it was a risk thousands of academics around the world were willing to take as they volunteered for this mission. Within a week humanity had chosen its ten to explore the unknown. They awoke in the middle of a large room. Their journey had been a blank. As their vision cleared, the realization that they stood in the middle of a library dawned on them. The realization that what lay around them was their mission for all of humanity. Another thought dawned on Professor Dirac, the senior of the group. Was this library made specifically for humanity? Was it made for all foreign aliens? Or had this been a public library for domestic use and if so, were we the first visitors. The party was provided a translator and with it their mission started with an intensity. Lead by professor Dirac, the team systematically went through their priorities. Firstly, to identify the weaknesses and capabilities of this race technologically and biologically. Then to discover whether any other alien contact had been made by this race. Then to learn what happened of them. The first few months were dedicated to discovering just how capable this alien race is. The result was crushing. Their planet was 9 times the mass of Earth, their race had 14 times more manpower available for war and most of all their technology was beyond the understanding of the team. Their technology should have allowed the initial fleet to wipe out humanity with the stomp of a foot. The next revelation came with the discovery of other contact the alien race had made. Professor Dirac saw how unsettled his colleague was. His eyes were wider than usual, beads of sweat formed on his face, his breathing got heavier. Dirac saw in him fear that they had not experienced since the initial contact. Humanity was not the first to be contacted by this race. What caused the fear in Dirac's colleague was what this race had done to them. Their first contact had been with a primitive race with only stone and bronze tools, this primitive race had not even discovered electricity when the alien race destroyed them to cultivate their lands, to harvest its natural resources and to make that planet theirs. The second contact is what put the fear in the ten people of humanity that knew what these aliens were capable of. The second contact had been with a race as advanced as humanity itself if not more. This race from the second contact were not divided like Earth. They were unified and objectively stronger than humanity of Earth. Like humanity the alien race stayed with them for six years absorbing the knowledge of their fears and weaknesses. But unlike Earth, they didn't leave. They stayed, destroyed and colonized. Why had Earth not faced the same fate as this race. Why was humanity spared. For the next year, the priority changed to discover why they had not been destroyed. Was Earth not even worth colonizing. Were we so inferior that our lands are not even worth taking. It became conclusive to the team that this was the answer. Our planet was polluted by humanity. Its resources bare. There was little reason for the alien race to conquer us. With that, many in the team fell into depression. Humbled by superior beings. The haughtiness of man had been humbled and the lofty pride of men had been brought low. With two weeks left to the conclusion of their mission, the initial intensity with which they had sought knowledge was nonexistent. There was a cry for Dirac from a corner. The man ran to the center of the room holding a book. The man out of breath held a book out to Dirac. Dirac saw in him the same unsettled fear. But there was more to his face which Dirac couldn't decipher. He looked upon the book. "The book of Origins". He opened the book to the first page. "In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth... The earth was formless and empty...And God said, 'Let there be Light' "	John, a contractor with a secret clearance, was in the process of installing upgrades to our biometric security gateway. During renovations it was a necessary inconvenience to attend a personal security screening provided by a servicing contractor like John. This screening is many things but in the very least it is a brief but formal human interaction. He knows about my work in the sense that it is something which is above his secret clearance but nothing more than that and I don't stall for small talk. "Are you still on the same project or has the department made other arrangements for you?" John asks. "Still on it" I reply. With a small infrared laser John scans my retinas left to right. "You're clear Sir," I acknowledge him with a routine head nod and proceed through to the top secret clearance offices were I work. From what was explained to me, it seemed like a straight forward job with a clear timeline and objective. I was presented with a file containing raw communications from New Manhattan, an Earthlike exo planet with intelligent life, and a few weeks time to produce a report on the religions of these people. The raw communications were commonly called "the inches," so named for the shared similarities between our two peoples except for a few inches of difference. All of this was great, however I was far from convinced of the importance of scanning textual bodies for religious overlap. The fact of the matter is that we already know about their beliefs, they are the same as ours.
Edit: this is the biggest thing I've done on here! My inbox exploded and I've read all of your stories, thank you guys and girls!	[WP] Scientists have discovered advanced intelligent life on another planet. Upon communication, we find this planet has the same major religions as earth.	Simon put a quivering hand to his mouth. It wasn't possible. There was no God. A God wouldn't just make everything and then let His creation fend for itself. A God wouldn't ask to be worshiped and leave behind no evidence. It was impossible. Yet there it stood: A cathedral, tall and proud. Families were pouring out of it. They came to see him, of course. He was an alien to them. A friendly alien from another world. Yet they looked so similar. Bipedal, two eyes, two ears, a mouth, a nose... They were taller here in this low gravity environment and their blue sun made their skin strange colors to keep from drinking too much solar radiation. But they were people. Curious, young, and beautiful... And they wore crosses around their necks. "Hello, Brother," they were saying. They were smiling and waving as Simon made his way forward. He was shaken to his core. How...? "My son," a masculine voice said. He looked down at the crowd as it parted. A male of the species wearing dark robes with a white collar walked forward, smiling, opening up his arms to embrace Simon. Simon stood in awe. The hug he received felt like the hugs he had back home. When they separated, he looked up at the sky, at the stars twinkling in the night. "I can't believe it...." Simon said, tears welling up in his eyes. "You're real..."	John, a contractor with a secret clearance, was in the process of installing upgrades to our biometric security gateway. During renovations it was a necessary inconvenience to attend a personal security screening provided by a servicing contractor like John. This screening is many things but in the very least it is a brief but formal human interaction. He knows about my work in the sense that it is something which is above his secret clearance but nothing more than that and I don't stall for small talk. "Are you still on the same project or has the department made other arrangements for you?" John asks. "Still on it" I reply. With a small infrared laser John scans my retinas left to right. "You're clear Sir," I acknowledge him with a routine head nod and proceed through to the top secret clearance offices were I work. From what was explained to me, it seemed like a straight forward job with a clear timeline and objective. I was presented with a file containing raw communications from New Manhattan, an Earthlike exo planet with intelligent life, and a few weeks time to produce a report on the religions of these people. The raw communications were commonly called "the inches," so named for the shared similarities between our two peoples except for a few inches of difference. All of this was great, however I was far from convinced of the importance of scanning textual bodies for religious overlap. The fact of the matter is that we already know about their beliefs, they are the same as ours.
Edit: this is the biggest thing I've done on here! My inbox exploded and I've read all of your stories, thank you guys and girls!	[WP] Scientists have discovered advanced intelligent life on another planet. Upon communication, we find this planet has the same major religions as earth.	There was much excitement . The whole earth was shaking at the prospect of another . Another world , another people . The broadcast was live , even the corrupt media wasn't able to control the authenticity . First contact , real first contact . It wasn't a movie , it wasn't a long winded TV series , it was real life . There had been furious debates over the past few months between philosophers , scientists , theologians and politicians , all on moral , financial , military and social issues . Could the world cope , was it ready? Could they really trust these new foreigners . But that was over , and it was time . Billions sat in front of their TV screens . Barely anyone used TV anymore , but most people felt that it was necessary . People past 90 who had no business being out of their carers arms and weeping tired babes alike were roused for the spectacular event . Picketers and riots were marching , tin foil hats were donned globally , and the humans prepared for contact in their own special way . There were at least a dozen twitter feeds and twenty new websites born from the excitement alone. The countdown was cold and official , obviously government organized . The screens flickered , and there they were . Creatures from another world . Strangely familiar and yet an uncanny valley of difference could be seen in their intelligent visages . Their eyes were wet and full of knowledge . The creature that could be seen blinked , and subtitles were displayed . "People of Sol , in category 3 . We are truly benefited from your glad welcomings . We wish to show you many things in this beautiful and constructed universe . This intelligent cosmos knows it's creator." This was curious to everyone , but all were too engrossed to think upon the words straight away . Nothing like this could ever be experienced again . When suddenly , the screen flickered , and a creature who was very different was displayed . This one was covered in engravings , or tattoos . Or even natural markings , none could tell , but one thing that many professors noticed would later change everything , but said professors could hardly believe it themselves . But there was another type of person who could read the markings quite clearly . "HELP" the word was clear enough , not to mention the word could almost be seen in the creature's empty eyes . "HELP_THEY SEEK TO EXTERMINATE US." The camera view seemed to shake ,and the alien room behind the creature was filled with scrolls , all of which were set to flame , or whatever equivalent , but the humans could easily recognize burning . The creature with tattoos was struck down with a glistening blade , which was now dripping with creamy fluid , that which could also be seen continuously spurting from off frame . The culprit picked up the viewing device , and stared intently into the viewport . It is a good time to note that the scholars new very clearly that earlier tattoos were letters . But some other people could also read the characters . The Rabbis . The tattoos had been very clearly been written in old Hebrew , and worse , taken directly from the Torah . The murderous creature on screen displayed these words on the screen via subtitle , and the words were perhaps the most familiar thing about the first contact , which is what made them the most frightening. "Down with the Jews . There is no God but God."	John, a contractor with a secret clearance, was in the process of installing upgrades to our biometric security gateway. During renovations it was a necessary inconvenience to attend a personal security screening provided by a servicing contractor like John. This screening is many things but in the very least it is a brief but formal human interaction. He knows about my work in the sense that it is something which is above his secret clearance but nothing more than that and I don't stall for small talk. "Are you still on the same project or has the department made other arrangements for you?" John asks. "Still on it" I reply. With a small infrared laser John scans my retinas left to right. "You're clear Sir," I acknowledge him with a routine head nod and proceed through to the top secret clearance offices were I work. From what was explained to me, it seemed like a straight forward job with a clear timeline and objective. I was presented with a file containing raw communications from New Manhattan, an Earthlike exo planet with intelligent life, and a few weeks time to produce a report on the religions of these people. The raw communications were commonly called "the inches," so named for the shared similarities between our two peoples except for a few inches of difference. All of this was great, however I was far from convinced of the importance of scanning textual bodies for religious overlap. The fact of the matter is that we already know about their beliefs, they are the same as ours.
Edit: this is the biggest thing I've done on here! My inbox exploded and I've read all of your stories, thank you guys and girls!	[WP] Scientists have discovered advanced intelligent life on another planet. Upon communication, we find this planet has the same major religions as earth.	NASA, and SETI had been scanning the signals for months when they had had their first breakthrough. The signals were mishmashed and distorted, but they were clearly radio signals, and television signals. Disentangling the signals had taken weeks in and of itself. From what they could manage there were dozens of radio stations, and television signals. the first breakthrough was when they figured out that the colours used in the signals weren't exactly what the human eye was used to. That managed to make some sense. When they had gotten a picture they had started to watch the shows that were available. Hundreds of linguists worked day and night deciphering language from the strange aliens. They were many limbed, approximatly 8, with tentacles on their forehead like a bad 50s movie. Some sort of colour sensing organ the best biologists had aggreed on. Some of the sociologists were working on some low priority shows when their minds were blown. It was some sort of ritual, and and our understanding of their language was til to none at that point, but A young intern watching it made a joke when he thought something looked familiar. "huh' this looks like mass for shut ins" when the other men had looked it indeed was mass for shut ins. it was a full on catholic mass. The ritual, the movement. you could almost smell the incense. After this they poured through the broadcasts. they found marriage ceremonies from judiasm, muslim, even bahai, and greek orthadox. They found funeral scenes depicting rituals from pretty much every major faith. thats how they deciphered the language. the rituals were word for word, once you knew the lords prayer and christmas mass word for word you could fill in the blanks on what you didn't know. it was, truly speaking a revelation. Of course, what should have been viewed as a miracle was just confusing. It proved that religion was right. that jesus died for our sins.. and apparently these tentacle monsters across the galaxy... and buddha, and mohammad, and even thor... so, who was right? if religion was real, and these gods were real, then, why were they all represented? wasn't one right? were they all right?	John, a contractor with a secret clearance, was in the process of installing upgrades to our biometric security gateway. During renovations it was a necessary inconvenience to attend a personal security screening provided by a servicing contractor like John. This screening is many things but in the very least it is a brief but formal human interaction. He knows about my work in the sense that it is something which is above his secret clearance but nothing more than that and I don't stall for small talk. "Are you still on the same project or has the department made other arrangements for you?" John asks. "Still on it" I reply. With a small infrared laser John scans my retinas left to right. "You're clear Sir," I acknowledge him with a routine head nod and proceed through to the top secret clearance offices were I work. From what was explained to me, it seemed like a straight forward job with a clear timeline and objective. I was presented with a file containing raw communications from New Manhattan, an Earthlike exo planet with intelligent life, and a few weeks time to produce a report on the religions of these people. The raw communications were commonly called "the inches," so named for the shared similarities between our two peoples except for a few inches of difference. All of this was great, however I was far from convinced of the importance of scanning textual bodies for religious overlap. The fact of the matter is that we already know about their beliefs, they are the same as ours.
Edit: this is the biggest thing I've done on here! My inbox exploded and I've read all of your stories, thank you guys and girls!	[WP] Scientists have discovered advanced intelligent life on another planet. Upon communication, we find this planet has the same major religions as earth.	Statistically speaking, we'd always suspected we weren't alone in the universe. Sure, other races must have encountered the same difficulties we had: limited life spans, nuclear wars, light speed. Still, some must have made it and where were they? Why hadn't they colonized the entire galaxy? Even with massive generational ships traveling at a slow crawl between stars, they should have been everywhere. As a species, we had wondered and vaguely worried about it for nearly a century when the first message arrived. When it finally did, what choice did we have? "Excuse us, do you have a moment to talk about Jesus Christ?" We pretended we weren't home.	"Well, what do you think?" Despite the revelation she seemed completely unshaken as she sipped her coffee. If this shook her up at all, she certainly wasn't showing it. She was an adamant atheist, and her Facebook wall was covered in various sayings from scientists and skeptics. It was after our lengthy discussions that I realized that I myself didn't believe in a higher power either. It'd been 6 months since the discovery had been made that we shared religions with the Lrak-Hur. Not just Christianity or Hinduism, but Judaism, Buddhism, even Satanism had it's Lrak-Hur followers. The remarkable similarities in the various holy books were so exact that it tore down the language barriers within a matter of weeks. Now, you couldn't flip through channels without seeing a Lrakell nun sitting next to a human priest for a local church fundraiser, or a lrakell rabbi and human rabbi discussing a verse in the Torah. I sighed. It was just too much of a coincidence to ignore. I fiddled with the sugar packets at our table, ignoring the other patrons at the coffee shop while I came up with my answer. I had no idea how to feel at this point. It wasn't until she put her mug down and cleared her throat that I realized I had yet to answer. "Well, if I go back to Catholicism, at least my mom will start talking to me again."
	[WP] You work at a suicide help center. You receive an anonymous call who turns out to be your significant other.	Being a former licensed CFR, I've held the lives of young children in my arms, and watched as the light faded from their eyes. I've ended shifts covered in the blood of strangers whose first name was never uttered to me, all I ever knew about these people was their time of death. I always thought of myself as an iron-skinned brute with a titanium mind. But nothing, not even my years of handling the dead could've prepared me for what was about to happen. The desk connected to the cubicle was clean, tidy and had few things on it. A lively green plant, a standard black office phone and a paper with the title "Lives Altered For The Better." It had twohundred and thirtysix lines on it. In my personal space stood the two nonliving items I held dearly in my heart. A framed picture of two men, smiling brightly as if though it was a Colgate commercial, and a velvet-red clock in the shape of a heart that kept on ticking. Quarter past five it read. "Helping Hand Hotline, how may I help you?" I asked for the fifth time that day. Four successful calls so far, I would not let this one slip between the cracks, whatever it took. I rarely ended a day in a bummed out mood and this would be my last call before Sally, the pretty red haired girl, came to take the night shift. So this call was important. My nights sleep depended on me keeping a clear head and making sure that the person on the other side of the phone found an alternative to ending his or her life today. Two of the previous callers had agreed to call again tomorrow, on the premiss that I was the one that answered. One had thrown up the handful of pills he had swallowed, our conversation lasted for three more hours after that. The last one had even agreed to have a session with our in-house therapist. I was met with a familiar male voice, I just couldn't put my finger on how I recognized it. The man was crying. "I've decided to end my life today, I'm not looking for someone to tell me otherwise." Sobbing, he went on "I just want you to listen to me." I knew where this was going, I've gotten these kinds of calls before. They are the ones every hotline operator fear to take. "You see, my life has never been picture-perfect. But it has been my life, I've lived on my own terms. That is more than most in this world can ask for, and it makes me glad to know how fortunate I was." The man said, his voice was now calm and easy, confident. No longer muddled by the tears he had previously choked on. At first it was hard make out who he was. But it was clear now. Tommy, my Tommy. My heart sank in my chest and I felt the world around me collapse in a tremble of blurriness, "this can't be happening" I thought to myself. Before I even had the chance to respond he continued. "You know how much I love you, you know that. I just wanted you to know." He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. "That it's not your fault." He began to cry again. Tears swelled up in my eyes and trickled down my cheek. My lungs were heavy as lead, every breath a moment of agony. How could I stop this madness? All the numerous phrases I had been taught to try to save a callers life raced through my mind, none of them would work. I knew that, but at least trying would be better than just sitting there, doing nothing. "Tom, please, I-" As if though I had not spoken he said "I want you to live the life we always pictured, but without me in it." The sound of a pistol being cocked could be heard. "I love you, John." With that he pulled the trigger, and I was left listening to the sound of that damned red clock. As if though it mattered that my shift was ending in an hour, as if anything mattered anymore.	Bzzt. "Hello, welcome to the Suicide Hotline." I spoke into a small microphone. Although I always despaired these calls, I haven't failed. Yet. "Please.. I.." As she hesitated, I noticed that she sounded familiar. No time to think, she seemed to be picking up the pace again. "I need to talk to someone. I just.. cheated on my boyfriend.. Davis." This is where it hit me. Davis is my name. "And.." She sniffled a bit. "I'm.. scared. Scared he will get angry." I stopped her. "Listen Baby.." I could hear her gasp through the phone. It's clear she recognized my voice. "I'm not mad. Don't do anything. I'll be there soon, and we will work this out." Suddenly, it was quiet. She simply sighed again. I heard her putting something down, and she hung up. I rubbed my forehead, and wiped some of my tears away. "I'm going to go call sick." I said outloud to nobody in particular, walking to my Boss's room.
	[WP] You work at a suicide help center. You receive an anonymous call who turns out to be your significant other.	"Thank you for calling the suicide help center. How are you today?" "Obviously not too well." I chuckled. I hear that response at least ten times a day, and when I do, I know exactly the type of person I'm talking to. It never does any harm, and I've saved many lives with a simple "how are you?". Sometimes I get a chuckle from the other end, and I know that the person on the other end still has emotion, no matter how well they aren't doing. The person on the other line seemed to be younger lady, maybe in her early 20's. She sounded depressed, but never once during our conversation did I feel that she would kill herself. I've been doing this long enough to know what those people sound like. It can be hard knowing what the end result is going to be when you hang up the phone with someone. We talked about life, the reason for her depression and we seemed to have an instant connection. She explained to me that the root of her problems were stemming from her relationship of one year, and she just didn't know how to break it off. She said she loved him and that she would do anything for him, but he was ruining her life. The strange part was that she never had one bad thing to say about him. He wasn't abusive, he wasn't an addict, and his lifestyle seemed to be amazing. She just kept saying "I can't do it anymore. Ever since we've been together, I've been getting gradually worse. I am losing my will to live." I didn't understand. I get hundreds of calls in which a significant other is the root problem of someone's mental state, but these people always have something negative to say about said person. This lady didn't. She had nothing but praise for him. As confused as I was, I knew the only thing she could do is break it off with him. Towards the end of our long conversation, I gave her my advice and she agreed to follow through with it. After that long day at work I arrived at home to my beautiful girlfriend. We exchanged hugs and kisses and she began to cry. I didn't understand. Things had been going so well. What was happening? I needed my relationship. I loved her. Day after day I listen to people who want to take their own life. I needed the stability we had at home. No one is strong enough to take those calls all day long without a stable home life. I hesitated, and asked her "What's wrong?" Bawling, she said, "I'm sorry... for everything" I didn't understand. I began to become emotional and said "sorry for what, baby?" She replied "I've been cheating on you for about a year now" "I love him". I began to weep uncontrollably. I had no Idea. She had ripped my heart out. She began to explain how guilty she had felt and that she didn't want to continue hurting either of us. I couldn't take it. "You bitch!" I exclamed. "I loved you and would do anything for you". "You were my best friend, my rock, my lover. I gave you everything I had". We both bawled, then stood in silence. As I went up to my room to begin packing my things, my wife went into our bedroom bathroom, still crying. I didn't care what she did. I felt nothing but numbness. After I had everything packed, I went to tell her I was leaving. She was lying lifeless on the bathroom floor. Her face was pale. She was gone. Freaking out, I shook her and tried to wake her up. She wouldn't respond. I grabbed her cell phone lying next to her side to dial 911. When I opened the phone app, her recent calls were the first page to pop up. My broken heart shattered.	Bzzt. "Hello, welcome to the Suicide Hotline." I spoke into a small microphone. Although I always despaired these calls, I haven't failed. Yet. "Please.. I.." As she hesitated, I noticed that she sounded familiar. No time to think, she seemed to be picking up the pace again. "I need to talk to someone. I just.. cheated on my boyfriend.. Davis." This is where it hit me. Davis is my name. "And.." She sniffled a bit. "I'm.. scared. Scared he will get angry." I stopped her. "Listen Baby.." I could hear her gasp through the phone. It's clear she recognized my voice. "I'm not mad. Don't do anything. I'll be there soon, and we will work this out." Suddenly, it was quiet. She simply sighed again. I heard her putting something down, and she hung up. I rubbed my forehead, and wiped some of my tears away. "I'm going to go call sick." I said outloud to nobody in particular, walking to my Boss's room.
	[WP] You work at a suicide help center. You receive an anonymous call who turns out to be your significant other.	It was a special morning, I had just received my shiny golden pin for ‘’2 years of outstanding customer service’’. Those terms always made me smile. How could they call this ‘’customer service’’? When did suicide prevention become an actual business? I didn’t matter anyways; I sat down at my desk, 8 am sharp. I liked the early shift, although calls rarely came in before 10. I guess suicidal people are a bit lazy? ‘’Driiiiing’’ 8:04, how ironic that the call that would change my life would come in so early. ‘’Bright Side Center how can I help you?’’ I always greeted people with such enthusiasm. ‘’Hi … I’m about to kill myself’’ Her voice sounded oddly familiar, although it was always hard to tell with such depression and panic in the tone. ‘’Easy there, what’s your name m’am?’’ ‘’It doesn’t matter what my name is! I’m about to jump off the Mann’s bridge!!’’ ‘’It matters to me m’am. Why would a lady with such a lovely voice want to do something so drastic?’’ ‘’Be… because I can’t live with myself, I’ve done terrible things’’ ‘’Everyone does m’am, that’s why we’re humans. But there’s always a solution, we just need to take it slow and talk, no drastic action’’ She started telling me about her whole life and it clicked. It was her, it was Valerie. It was like listening to a stranger narrating my life. Our house, our dog, our salsa lessons. We had been married for 5 years and everything seemed fine, she seemed happy. She kept talking and I kept listening. I couldn't interrupt her, I was too shocked. And then it came, the moment of truth. ‘’So I cheated on him. At first it was just for sex but after 6 months, I fell in love with this other man. Now I wanted to leave my husband for him but he refused and hasn't spoken to me in weeks. I don’t have the courage to face my husband … what should I do?’’ I couldn't answer. It was like someone had ripped my heart out of my chest. Like someone stepped on my whole world and crushed it. ‘’Hello? Are you still there..?’’ Her voice brought me back to reality. ‘’Yes… yes I am.’’ ‘’You said there’s always a solution, we just need to talk it through. What should I do?’’ I took a deep breath. ‘’Jump bitch!’’	Bzzt. "Hello, welcome to the Suicide Hotline." I spoke into a small microphone. Although I always despaired these calls, I haven't failed. Yet. "Please.. I.." As she hesitated, I noticed that she sounded familiar. No time to think, she seemed to be picking up the pace again. "I need to talk to someone. I just.. cheated on my boyfriend.. Davis." This is where it hit me. Davis is my name. "And.." She sniffled a bit. "I'm.. scared. Scared he will get angry." I stopped her. "Listen Baby.." I could hear her gasp through the phone. It's clear she recognized my voice. "I'm not mad. Don't do anything. I'll be there soon, and we will work this out." Suddenly, it was quiet. She simply sighed again. I heard her putting something down, and she hung up. I rubbed my forehead, and wiped some of my tears away. "I'm going to go call sick." I said outloud to nobody in particular, walking to my Boss's room.
	[WP] You work at a suicide help center. You receive an anonymous call who turns out to be your significant other.	"Thank you for calling the suicide help center. How are you today?" "Obviously not too well." I chuckled. I hear that response at least ten times a day, and when I do, I know exactly the type of person I'm talking to. It never does any harm, and I've saved many lives with a simple "how are you?". Sometimes I get a chuckle from the other end, and I know that the person on the other end still has emotion, no matter how well they aren't doing. The person on the other line seemed to be younger lady, maybe in her early 20's. She sounded depressed, but never once during our conversation did I feel that she would kill herself. I've been doing this long enough to know what those people sound like. It can be hard knowing what the end result is going to be when you hang up the phone with someone. We talked about life, the reason for her depression and we seemed to have an instant connection. She explained to me that the root of her problems were stemming from her relationship of one year, and she just didn't know how to break it off. She said she loved him and that she would do anything for him, but he was ruining her life. The strange part was that she never had one bad thing to say about him. He wasn't abusive, he wasn't an addict, and his lifestyle seemed to be amazing. She just kept saying "I can't do it anymore. Ever since we've been together, I've been getting gradually worse. I am losing my will to live." I didn't understand. I get hundreds of calls in which a significant other is the root problem of someone's mental state, but these people always have something negative to say about said person. This lady didn't. She had nothing but praise for him. As confused as I was, I knew the only thing she could do is break it off with him. Towards the end of our long conversation, I gave her my advice and she agreed to follow through with it. After that long day at work I arrived at home to my beautiful girlfriend. We exchanged hugs and kisses and she began to cry. I didn't understand. Things had been going so well. What was happening? I needed my relationship. I loved her. Day after day I listen to people who want to take their own life. I needed the stability we had at home. No one is strong enough to take those calls all day long without a stable home life. I hesitated, and asked her "What's wrong?" Bawling, she said, "I'm sorry... for everything" I didn't understand. I began to become emotional and said "sorry for what, baby?" She replied "I've been cheating on you for about a year now" "I love him". I began to weep uncontrollably. I had no Idea. She had ripped my heart out. She began to explain how guilty she had felt and that she didn't want to continue hurting either of us. I couldn't take it. "You bitch!" I exclamed. "I loved you and would do anything for you". "You were my best friend, my rock, my lover. I gave you everything I had". We both bawled, then stood in silence. As I went up to my room to begin packing my things, my wife went into our bedroom bathroom, still crying. I didn't care what she did. I felt nothing but numbness. After I had everything packed, I went to tell her I was leaving. She was lying lifeless on the bathroom floor. Her face was pale. She was gone. Freaking out, I shook her and tried to wake her up. She wouldn't respond. I grabbed her cell phone lying next to her side to dial 911. When I opened the phone app, her recent calls were the first page to pop up. My broken heart shattered.	It was a hard Tuesday; the kind that can only happen when Monday evening was spent crying my eyes out. I made it to work on time, which was an accomplishment considering the amount of time it took to cover the bruises on my face. I don’t know why I tried, everyone knew. They always knew, but there was an agreement of silence and for that, I was relieved. I sat down in my cubicle, and put on the headset. It was Tuesday and today I would save a life, at least I hoped I would. It was my job. Maybe it would be a woman like me, whose husband had a weak will and a strong hand. Maybe it was a teenage broken heart, waiting to hear it was ok to be different. My jaw hurt, but that is what this world is, hurt and pain. Some of us get good at dealing with it and maybe that’s what makes us good at this job. The phone rang. I answered and said my name was Molly. We are all Molly or Jacob. It helps if they ever call back. There was a man on the other end of the line. His voice was shaky, but familiar. He said his name was Johnathan. We were ten minutes into the session when I realized it was my husband. I don’t know why I didn’t pass the call to someone else. That would have been the right thing to do, but I didn’t. Curiosity, I guess. I wanted to hear his pain, but I was not prepared for what he was going to say. He told me what a horrible bitch his wife was and how she had ruined his life. He told me he had a gun and wanted a way out. My heart broke. For the first time, I saw that his anger was really just fear. He was afraid of what I would think about him. He was terrified of me finding out about the things he had done, afraid of me judging him. He laid it all out. He confessed to beating me, to drinking too much, to infidelity. He said he wrote it all down in a note to his wife and that she would find it when he was gone. I was dying on the inside but he was calming down so I swallowed my pride and continued. I told him that his wife would understand and that he should try talking to her about it, as he was talking to me; honest and without violence. He laughed and said his wife would never understand because his actions were incomprehensible. How could a wife understand and forgive the repeated molestation of her niece? My world came crashing down. He trusted Molly and to her he admitted to unforgivable acts, so vile that my heart hardened upon hearing them. How could he? She is only nine! I took a deep breath and in a soft voice told him that he was correct. Things like that are unforgivable. He began to weep and I joined him. We cried together. The people in the office stared at me. He asked if I wanted to hang up, but I said no. I heard the hammer cock back and in a shaky voice, between sobs, I whispered. “Pull the trigger”.
	[WP] You work at a suicide help center. You receive an anonymous call who turns out to be your significant other.	It was a special morning, I had just received my shiny golden pin for ‘’2 years of outstanding customer service’’. Those terms always made me smile. How could they call this ‘’customer service’’? When did suicide prevention become an actual business? I didn’t matter anyways; I sat down at my desk, 8 am sharp. I liked the early shift, although calls rarely came in before 10. I guess suicidal people are a bit lazy? ‘’Driiiiing’’ 8:04, how ironic that the call that would change my life would come in so early. ‘’Bright Side Center how can I help you?’’ I always greeted people with such enthusiasm. ‘’Hi … I’m about to kill myself’’ Her voice sounded oddly familiar, although it was always hard to tell with such depression and panic in the tone. ‘’Easy there, what’s your name m’am?’’ ‘’It doesn’t matter what my name is! I’m about to jump off the Mann’s bridge!!’’ ‘’It matters to me m’am. Why would a lady with such a lovely voice want to do something so drastic?’’ ‘’Be… because I can’t live with myself, I’ve done terrible things’’ ‘’Everyone does m’am, that’s why we’re humans. But there’s always a solution, we just need to take it slow and talk, no drastic action’’ She started telling me about her whole life and it clicked. It was her, it was Valerie. It was like listening to a stranger narrating my life. Our house, our dog, our salsa lessons. We had been married for 5 years and everything seemed fine, she seemed happy. She kept talking and I kept listening. I couldn't interrupt her, I was too shocked. And then it came, the moment of truth. ‘’So I cheated on him. At first it was just for sex but after 6 months, I fell in love with this other man. Now I wanted to leave my husband for him but he refused and hasn't spoken to me in weeks. I don’t have the courage to face my husband … what should I do?’’ I couldn't answer. It was like someone had ripped my heart out of my chest. Like someone stepped on my whole world and crushed it. ‘’Hello? Are you still there..?’’ Her voice brought me back to reality. ‘’Yes… yes I am.’’ ‘’You said there’s always a solution, we just need to talk it through. What should I do?’’ I took a deep breath. ‘’Jump bitch!’’	It was a hard Tuesday; the kind that can only happen when Monday evening was spent crying my eyes out. I made it to work on time, which was an accomplishment considering the amount of time it took to cover the bruises on my face. I don’t know why I tried, everyone knew. They always knew, but there was an agreement of silence and for that, I was relieved. I sat down in my cubicle, and put on the headset. It was Tuesday and today I would save a life, at least I hoped I would. It was my job. Maybe it would be a woman like me, whose husband had a weak will and a strong hand. Maybe it was a teenage broken heart, waiting to hear it was ok to be different. My jaw hurt, but that is what this world is, hurt and pain. Some of us get good at dealing with it and maybe that’s what makes us good at this job. The phone rang. I answered and said my name was Molly. We are all Molly or Jacob. It helps if they ever call back. There was a man on the other end of the line. His voice was shaky, but familiar. He said his name was Johnathan. We were ten minutes into the session when I realized it was my husband. I don’t know why I didn’t pass the call to someone else. That would have been the right thing to do, but I didn’t. Curiosity, I guess. I wanted to hear his pain, but I was not prepared for what he was going to say. He told me what a horrible bitch his wife was and how she had ruined his life. He told me he had a gun and wanted a way out. My heart broke. For the first time, I saw that his anger was really just fear. He was afraid of what I would think about him. He was terrified of me finding out about the things he had done, afraid of me judging him. He laid it all out. He confessed to beating me, to drinking too much, to infidelity. He said he wrote it all down in a note to his wife and that she would find it when he was gone. I was dying on the inside but he was calming down so I swallowed my pride and continued. I told him that his wife would understand and that he should try talking to her about it, as he was talking to me; honest and without violence. He laughed and said his wife would never understand because his actions were incomprehensible. How could a wife understand and forgive the repeated molestation of her niece? My world came crashing down. He trusted Molly and to her he admitted to unforgivable acts, so vile that my heart hardened upon hearing them. How could he? She is only nine! I took a deep breath and in a soft voice told him that he was correct. Things like that are unforgivable. He began to weep and I joined him. We cried together. The people in the office stared at me. He asked if I wanted to hang up, but I said no. I heard the hammer cock back and in a shaky voice, between sobs, I whispered. “Pull the trigger”.
	[WP] You work at a suicide help center. You receive an anonymous call who turns out to be your significant other.	It was a special morning, I had just received my shiny golden pin for ‘’2 years of outstanding customer service’’. Those terms always made me smile. How could they call this ‘’customer service’’? When did suicide prevention become an actual business? I didn’t matter anyways; I sat down at my desk, 8 am sharp. I liked the early shift, although calls rarely came in before 10. I guess suicidal people are a bit lazy? ‘’Driiiiing’’ 8:04, how ironic that the call that would change my life would come in so early. ‘’Bright Side Center how can I help you?’’ I always greeted people with such enthusiasm. ‘’Hi … I’m about to kill myself’’ Her voice sounded oddly familiar, although it was always hard to tell with such depression and panic in the tone. ‘’Easy there, what’s your name m’am?’’ ‘’It doesn’t matter what my name is! I’m about to jump off the Mann’s bridge!!’’ ‘’It matters to me m’am. Why would a lady with such a lovely voice want to do something so drastic?’’ ‘’Be… because I can’t live with myself, I’ve done terrible things’’ ‘’Everyone does m’am, that’s why we’re humans. But there’s always a solution, we just need to take it slow and talk, no drastic action’’ She started telling me about her whole life and it clicked. It was her, it was Valerie. It was like listening to a stranger narrating my life. Our house, our dog, our salsa lessons. We had been married for 5 years and everything seemed fine, she seemed happy. She kept talking and I kept listening. I couldn't interrupt her, I was too shocked. And then it came, the moment of truth. ‘’So I cheated on him. At first it was just for sex but after 6 months, I fell in love with this other man. Now I wanted to leave my husband for him but he refused and hasn't spoken to me in weeks. I don’t have the courage to face my husband … what should I do?’’ I couldn't answer. It was like someone had ripped my heart out of my chest. Like someone stepped on my whole world and crushed it. ‘’Hello? Are you still there..?’’ Her voice brought me back to reality. ‘’Yes… yes I am.’’ ‘’You said there’s always a solution, we just need to talk it through. What should I do?’’ I took a deep breath. ‘’Jump bitch!’’	Being a former licensed CFR, I've held the lives of young children in my arms, and watched as the light faded from their eyes. I've ended shifts covered in the blood of strangers whose first name was never uttered to me, all I ever knew about these people was their time of death. I always thought of myself as an iron-skinned brute with a titanium mind. But nothing, not even my years of handling the dead could've prepared me for what was about to happen. The desk connected to the cubicle was clean, tidy and had few things on it. A lively green plant, a standard black office phone and a paper with the title "Lives Altered For The Better." It had twohundred and thirtysix lines on it. In my personal space stood the two nonliving items I held dearly in my heart. A framed picture of two men, smiling brightly as if though it was a Colgate commercial, and a velvet-red clock in the shape of a heart that kept on ticking. Quarter past five it read. "Helping Hand Hotline, how may I help you?" I asked for the fifth time that day. Four successful calls so far, I would not let this one slip between the cracks, whatever it took. I rarely ended a day in a bummed out mood and this would be my last call before Sally, the pretty red haired girl, came to take the night shift. So this call was important. My nights sleep depended on me keeping a clear head and making sure that the person on the other side of the phone found an alternative to ending his or her life today. Two of the previous callers had agreed to call again tomorrow, on the premiss that I was the one that answered. One had thrown up the handful of pills he had swallowed, our conversation lasted for three more hours after that. The last one had even agreed to have a session with our in-house therapist. I was met with a familiar male voice, I just couldn't put my finger on how I recognized it. The man was crying. "I've decided to end my life today, I'm not looking for someone to tell me otherwise." Sobbing, he went on "I just want you to listen to me." I knew where this was going, I've gotten these kinds of calls before. They are the ones every hotline operator fear to take. "You see, my life has never been picture-perfect. But it has been my life, I've lived on my own terms. That is more than most in this world can ask for, and it makes me glad to know how fortunate I was." The man said, his voice was now calm and easy, confident. No longer muddled by the tears he had previously choked on. At first it was hard make out who he was. But it was clear now. Tommy, my Tommy. My heart sank in my chest and I felt the world around me collapse in a tremble of blurriness, "this can't be happening" I thought to myself. Before I even had the chance to respond he continued. "You know how much I love you, you know that. I just wanted you to know." He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. "That it's not your fault." He began to cry again. Tears swelled up in my eyes and trickled down my cheek. My lungs were heavy as lead, every breath a moment of agony. How could I stop this madness? All the numerous phrases I had been taught to try to save a callers life raced through my mind, none of them would work. I knew that, but at least trying would be better than just sitting there, doing nothing. "Tom, please, I-" As if though I had not spoken he said "I want you to live the life we always pictured, but without me in it." The sound of a pistol being cocked could be heard. "I love you, John." With that he pulled the trigger, and I was left listening to the sound of that damned red clock. As if though it mattered that my shift was ending in an hour, as if anything mattered anymore.
	[WP] You work at a suicide help center. You receive an anonymous call who turns out to be your significant other.	It was a special morning, I had just received my shiny golden pin for ‘’2 years of outstanding customer service’’. Those terms always made me smile. How could they call this ‘’customer service’’? When did suicide prevention become an actual business? I didn’t matter anyways; I sat down at my desk, 8 am sharp. I liked the early shift, although calls rarely came in before 10. I guess suicidal people are a bit lazy? ‘’Driiiiing’’ 8:04, how ironic that the call that would change my life would come in so early. ‘’Bright Side Center how can I help you?’’ I always greeted people with such enthusiasm. ‘’Hi … I’m about to kill myself’’ Her voice sounded oddly familiar, although it was always hard to tell with such depression and panic in the tone. ‘’Easy there, what’s your name m’am?’’ ‘’It doesn’t matter what my name is! I’m about to jump off the Mann’s bridge!!’’ ‘’It matters to me m’am. Why would a lady with such a lovely voice want to do something so drastic?’’ ‘’Be… because I can’t live with myself, I’ve done terrible things’’ ‘’Everyone does m’am, that’s why we’re humans. But there’s always a solution, we just need to take it slow and talk, no drastic action’’ She started telling me about her whole life and it clicked. It was her, it was Valerie. It was like listening to a stranger narrating my life. Our house, our dog, our salsa lessons. We had been married for 5 years and everything seemed fine, she seemed happy. She kept talking and I kept listening. I couldn't interrupt her, I was too shocked. And then it came, the moment of truth. ‘’So I cheated on him. At first it was just for sex but after 6 months, I fell in love with this other man. Now I wanted to leave my husband for him but he refused and hasn't spoken to me in weeks. I don’t have the courage to face my husband … what should I do?’’ I couldn't answer. It was like someone had ripped my heart out of my chest. Like someone stepped on my whole world and crushed it. ‘’Hello? Are you still there..?’’ Her voice brought me back to reality. ‘’Yes… yes I am.’’ ‘’You said there’s always a solution, we just need to talk it through. What should I do?’’ I took a deep breath. ‘’Jump bitch!’’	"Thank you for calling the suicide help center. How are you today?" "Obviously not too well." I chuckled. I hear that response at least ten times a day, and when I do, I know exactly the type of person I'm talking to. It never does any harm, and I've saved many lives with a simple "how are you?". Sometimes I get a chuckle from the other end, and I know that the person on the other end still has emotion, no matter how well they aren't doing. The person on the other line seemed to be younger lady, maybe in her early 20's. She sounded depressed, but never once during our conversation did I feel that she would kill herself. I've been doing this long enough to know what those people sound like. It can be hard knowing what the end result is going to be when you hang up the phone with someone. We talked about life, the reason for her depression and we seemed to have an instant connection. She explained to me that the root of her problems were stemming from her relationship of one year, and she just didn't know how to break it off. She said she loved him and that she would do anything for him, but he was ruining her life. The strange part was that she never had one bad thing to say about him. He wasn't abusive, he wasn't an addict, and his lifestyle seemed to be amazing. She just kept saying "I can't do it anymore. Ever since we've been together, I've been getting gradually worse. I am losing my will to live." I didn't understand. I get hundreds of calls in which a significant other is the root problem of someone's mental state, but these people always have something negative to say about said person. This lady didn't. She had nothing but praise for him. As confused as I was, I knew the only thing she could do is break it off with him. Towards the end of our long conversation, I gave her my advice and she agreed to follow through with it. After that long day at work I arrived at home to my beautiful girlfriend. We exchanged hugs and kisses and she began to cry. I didn't understand. Things had been going so well. What was happening? I needed my relationship. I loved her. Day after day I listen to people who want to take their own life. I needed the stability we had at home. No one is strong enough to take those calls all day long without a stable home life. I hesitated, and asked her "What's wrong?" Bawling, she said, "I'm sorry... for everything" I didn't understand. I began to become emotional and said "sorry for what, baby?" She replied "I've been cheating on you for about a year now" "I love him". I began to weep uncontrollably. I had no Idea. She had ripped my heart out. She began to explain how guilty she had felt and that she didn't want to continue hurting either of us. I couldn't take it. "You bitch!" I exclamed. "I loved you and would do anything for you". "You were my best friend, my rock, my lover. I gave you everything I had". We both bawled, then stood in silence. As I went up to my room to begin packing my things, my wife went into our bedroom bathroom, still crying. I didn't care what she did. I felt nothing but numbness. After I had everything packed, I went to tell her I was leaving. She was lying lifeless on the bathroom floor. Her face was pale. She was gone. Freaking out, I shook her and tried to wake her up. She wouldn't respond. I grabbed her cell phone lying next to her side to dial 911. When I opened the phone app, her recent calls were the first page to pop up. My broken heart shattered.
	[WP] A new human race is discovered after alluding the rest of us for thousands of years. They have traits unlike any other human we have seen before. Now they want to intergrate with the rest of humanity. How does it go?	And there's been love ever since. Love and Peace. &nbsp; That phrase has haunted the history books for years. But, it isn't true. Far from it. Fear. Then segregation. Followed by anger. And that's all there's been since. I didn't want this for my children. Or my children's children. I watch, agony in my soul. If I had water in me, there'd be tears on my face. &nbsp; It's hard to love something you don't understand. It's hard to have peace when you've been forced to face something that goes against all you have ever known. I don't blame them, really... It's logical... rational. I would have done the same.... &nbsp; Bullshit. Why am I lying to myself?! Do I somehow think it'll make all this okay? That it'll make what I'm about to do okay?! &nbsp; We lived under the crust for so long. It makes sense that we wanted to see the sun. The center was hot, so hot. Burned like the sun, sure. But, to be so far away from it... It felt like a dream. To be able to look at it, what little we were able to see, that is. &nbsp; I lean forward now, to get a better look. A last look at the sun. It's my first time seeing it. My people have been outside for hundreds of years now. Not accepted. But, out there. I waited for it to get better. I waited hundreds of years. But, it didn't. I think, somewhere inside me, I knew it wouldn't. &nbsp; I inch my leathery hand toward the button. It's faded from hundreds of years of misuse. As was intended. But, not anymore. I will not let my people live in this horror anymore. The concentration camps have turned my descendants, my friends, into mere shells of what they once were. They didn't understand us, but we were apparently too alike them, 'too human' to destroy. &nbsp; I, however, am not. &nbsp; The clicking noise echoes in the empty canyon as my finger presses down. The core explodes and it's over so fast. I'm glad.	Jack sat across from the cave-dweller, waiting for it to do something. Anything, really. It sat perfectly still, almost if it were a statue. The stillness was inhuman, a reminder that those things weren't men. Its eyes were so large. He was told that was an effect of evolving in caves. Why did they sit so still then? Jack wondered. How could that benefit them? It blinked. The motion caused Jack to flinch backwards, though it was only a blink. The thing had two sets of eyelids, like a reptile did. For the sunken caves? It looked so similar, sitting upright, but there were so many differences. The skin, so pale, as if it had no blood to speak of. The nose, so long, perhaps to smell out whatever it was they ate? The mouth... Jack stood up and quickly made his way to the door. He glimpsed back and noticed it watching him on the way out. He hurried. On the outside of the room, he turned to his sub-ordinate. "I'm convinced it's real. Call Hanson." He stared at the thing through the two-way mirror. He could have sworn it stared back at him, but that was impossible... wasn't it? No, this was no prank of a teenager in a costume. The higher-ups had to be told of this. A newly discovered intelligent species. Jack shook his head and left the room, uncomfortable even near that thing.
	[WP] A new human race is discovered after alluding the rest of us for thousands of years. They have traits unlike any other human we have seen before. Now they want to intergrate with the rest of humanity. How does it go?	They're similar to us in a lot of ways actually. Their language is comparable to a handful of Uralic dialects, they dress about the same in terms of a shirt and pants and the like. Structurally they're about the same too, same amount of legs and arms and all that. The most distinguishing thing about them is their head though. It's not exactly that it's dented per-se, just that it folds a bit on top. It has a bulbous back end and the top of it forms this, sort of, ridge. It's vaguely reminiscent of a 'Klingon' from Star Trek, though more pronounced and sharp. Also, their eyes are a rich creamy-yellow. At least the ones we've met. They say that the people they come from live on an island that neighbors Hawaii but every form of direction and coordinate they've given us hasn't turned up one ounce of dirt, much less an entire species of people. Nobody is even sure how they ended up in South Beach, so where they came from is becoming a secondary concern. They're in separate rooms. Each of them is being interrogated. They keep talking about integration with our society, keep talking about 'becoming a part of the larger human-kind,' but that would never work. Anyone who could avoid detection for this long must have something we don't and that's a scary thing even to us. Misinformation is already being circulated across the internet to discredit anyone who saw them as something other than human. Street performers, triplets with a rare birth defect, and 'aliens' are amongst the trending theories. We'll find out where these things came from, we're going to find out what they know and what they have and we're going to make sure nobody ever knows about them. Not some rights group, not some cult, not a single politician that could use this to their campaign's advantage. Nobody.	Jack sat across from the cave-dweller, waiting for it to do something. Anything, really. It sat perfectly still, almost if it were a statue. The stillness was inhuman, a reminder that those things weren't men. Its eyes were so large. He was told that was an effect of evolving in caves. Why did they sit so still then? Jack wondered. How could that benefit them? It blinked. The motion caused Jack to flinch backwards, though it was only a blink. The thing had two sets of eyelids, like a reptile did. For the sunken caves? It looked so similar, sitting upright, but there were so many differences. The skin, so pale, as if it had no blood to speak of. The nose, so long, perhaps to smell out whatever it was they ate? The mouth... Jack stood up and quickly made his way to the door. He glimpsed back and noticed it watching him on the way out. He hurried. On the outside of the room, he turned to his sub-ordinate. "I'm convinced it's real. Call Hanson." He stared at the thing through the two-way mirror. He could have sworn it stared back at him, but that was impossible... wasn't it? No, this was no prank of a teenager in a costume. The higher-ups had to be told of this. A newly discovered intelligent species. Jack shook his head and left the room, uncomfortable even near that thing.
	[WP] A new human race is discovered after alluding the rest of us for thousands of years. They have traits unlike any other human we have seen before. Now they want to intergrate with the rest of humanity. How does it go?	They wanted to unite us. To bring us to a shining age of glorious enlightenment, peace and prosperity. They called themselves humanity perfected and it was no arrogant boast. They have always mingled among the rest of humanity, waiting and watching till we developed enough as a species for them to come forth. Ushering humanity into its resonating destinty, to walk amongst the cosmos absolute; this was their absolute obession. Their only flaw, if you will. &nbsp; The pace of our process exasperated them to the point where they started cheating. Our greatest minds aren't truly our own, just greater minds broken by the perfect vision ages too long in the making. Newton, Tesla, Einstein... all almost brought down to our level because of our ignorance, our maddening refusal to look at the stars and truly reach for them. But, we finally did it. We reached the point where they could reveal themselves and uplift the whole race to its true potential. They were wrong. They underestimated how tightly we lesser humans cling to hate and fear and distrust in the face of the unknown. Those shackles served us too well, and were too comfortable, to be cast off willingly. &nbsp; A race, and a true future, died the day they revealed themselves. All because we couldn't see the hand offering the stars without imagining a hidden one holding a dagger.	Jack sat across from the cave-dweller, waiting for it to do something. Anything, really. It sat perfectly still, almost if it were a statue. The stillness was inhuman, a reminder that those things weren't men. Its eyes were so large. He was told that was an effect of evolving in caves. Why did they sit so still then? Jack wondered. How could that benefit them? It blinked. The motion caused Jack to flinch backwards, though it was only a blink. The thing had two sets of eyelids, like a reptile did. For the sunken caves? It looked so similar, sitting upright, but there were so many differences. The skin, so pale, as if it had no blood to speak of. The nose, so long, perhaps to smell out whatever it was they ate? The mouth... Jack stood up and quickly made his way to the door. He glimpsed back and noticed it watching him on the way out. He hurried. On the outside of the room, he turned to his sub-ordinate. "I'm convinced it's real. Call Hanson." He stared at the thing through the two-way mirror. He could have sworn it stared back at him, but that was impossible... wasn't it? No, this was no prank of a teenager in a costume. The higher-ups had to be told of this. A newly discovered intelligent species. Jack shook his head and left the room, uncomfortable even near that thing.
	[WP] A new human race is discovered after alluding the rest of us for thousands of years. They have traits unlike any other human we have seen before. Now they want to intergrate with the rest of humanity. How does it go?	They wanted to unite us. To bring us to a shining age of glorious enlightenment, peace and prosperity. They called themselves humanity perfected and it was no arrogant boast. They have always mingled among the rest of humanity, waiting and watching till we developed enough as a species for them to come forth. Ushering humanity into its resonating destinty, to walk amongst the cosmos absolute; this was their absolute obession. Their only flaw, if you will. &nbsp; The pace of our process exasperated them to the point where they started cheating. Our greatest minds aren't truly our own, just greater minds broken by the perfect vision ages too long in the making. Newton, Tesla, Einstein... all almost brought down to our level because of our ignorance, our maddening refusal to look at the stars and truly reach for them. But, we finally did it. We reached the point where they could reveal themselves and uplift the whole race to its true potential. They were wrong. They underestimated how tightly we lesser humans cling to hate and fear and distrust in the face of the unknown. Those shackles served us too well, and were too comfortable, to be cast off willingly. &nbsp; A race, and a true future, died the day they revealed themselves. All because we couldn't see the hand offering the stars without imagining a hidden one holding a dagger.	And there's been love ever since. Love and Peace. &nbsp; That phrase has haunted the history books for years. But, it isn't true. Far from it. Fear. Then segregation. Followed by anger. And that's all there's been since. I didn't want this for my children. Or my children's children. I watch, agony in my soul. If I had water in me, there'd be tears on my face. &nbsp; It's hard to love something you don't understand. It's hard to have peace when you've been forced to face something that goes against all you have ever known. I don't blame them, really... It's logical... rational. I would have done the same.... &nbsp; Bullshit. Why am I lying to myself?! Do I somehow think it'll make all this okay? That it'll make what I'm about to do okay?! &nbsp; We lived under the crust for so long. It makes sense that we wanted to see the sun. The center was hot, so hot. Burned like the sun, sure. But, to be so far away from it... It felt like a dream. To be able to look at it, what little we were able to see, that is. &nbsp; I lean forward now, to get a better look. A last look at the sun. It's my first time seeing it. My people have been outside for hundreds of years now. Not accepted. But, out there. I waited for it to get better. I waited hundreds of years. But, it didn't. I think, somewhere inside me, I knew it wouldn't. &nbsp; I inch my leathery hand toward the button. It's faded from hundreds of years of misuse. As was intended. But, not anymore. I will not let my people live in this horror anymore. The concentration camps have turned my descendants, my friends, into mere shells of what they once were. They didn't understand us, but we were apparently too alike them, 'too human' to destroy. &nbsp; I, however, am not. &nbsp; The clicking noise echoes in the empty canyon as my finger presses down. The core explodes and it's over so fast. I'm glad.
	[WP] A new human race is discovered after alluding the rest of us for thousands of years. They have traits unlike any other human we have seen before. Now they want to intergrate with the rest of humanity. How does it go?	They wanted to unite us. To bring us to a shining age of glorious enlightenment, peace and prosperity. They called themselves humanity perfected and it was no arrogant boast. They have always mingled among the rest of humanity, waiting and watching till we developed enough as a species for them to come forth. Ushering humanity into its resonating destinty, to walk amongst the cosmos absolute; this was their absolute obession. Their only flaw, if you will. &nbsp; The pace of our process exasperated them to the point where they started cheating. Our greatest minds aren't truly our own, just greater minds broken by the perfect vision ages too long in the making. Newton, Tesla, Einstein... all almost brought down to our level because of our ignorance, our maddening refusal to look at the stars and truly reach for them. But, we finally did it. We reached the point where they could reveal themselves and uplift the whole race to its true potential. They were wrong. They underestimated how tightly we lesser humans cling to hate and fear and distrust in the face of the unknown. Those shackles served us too well, and were too comfortable, to be cast off willingly. &nbsp; A race, and a true future, died the day they revealed themselves. All because we couldn't see the hand offering the stars without imagining a hidden one holding a dagger.	They're similar to us in a lot of ways actually. Their language is comparable to a handful of Uralic dialects, they dress about the same in terms of a shirt and pants and the like. Structurally they're about the same too, same amount of legs and arms and all that. The most distinguishing thing about them is their head though. It's not exactly that it's dented per-se, just that it folds a bit on top. It has a bulbous back end and the top of it forms this, sort of, ridge. It's vaguely reminiscent of a 'Klingon' from Star Trek, though more pronounced and sharp. Also, their eyes are a rich creamy-yellow. At least the ones we've met. They say that the people they come from live on an island that neighbors Hawaii but every form of direction and coordinate they've given us hasn't turned up one ounce of dirt, much less an entire species of people. Nobody is even sure how they ended up in South Beach, so where they came from is becoming a secondary concern. They're in separate rooms. Each of them is being interrogated. They keep talking about integration with our society, keep talking about 'becoming a part of the larger human-kind,' but that would never work. Anyone who could avoid detection for this long must have something we don't and that's a scary thing even to us. Misinformation is already being circulated across the internet to discredit anyone who saw them as something other than human. Street performers, triplets with a rare birth defect, and 'aliens' are amongst the trending theories. We'll find out where these things came from, we're going to find out what they know and what they have and we're going to make sure nobody ever knows about them. Not some rights group, not some cult, not a single politician that could use this to their campaign's advantage. Nobody.
	[WP] You decide to become a serial killer. However, you turn out to be the worst serial killer in existence. Every time you try to kill someone, you improve their life.	With a disgruntled sigh, Jack Evans collapsed into his 2007 Ford Mustang GT, completely blacked out from headlight to spoiler, which he had done so many times before, signifying the end of his shift at the San Francisco Daily Bulletin. Each day he would struggle to cope with the constant harassment and ridicule that he experienced almost habitually. Being the rookie journalist not only signified that he would be the butt of all jokes, but that he would be stepped on, as he never spoke up or defended himself. Everything had led up to the moment when he witnessed his boss welcome his fiancé into his office, where they exchanged conversation, and ultimately handed her a key to his hotel. Jack, immediately pent up with anger stormed into his cubicle, a small, dusty corner in the otherwise large office. He was taking matters into his own hands. No longer would he be the butt of jokes at his office, being known simply as "Lonesome Jack". He was going to make a name for himself, and take down everybody who lacked belief in him; all those that had stepped on him. As he blinked out of his reflectance of the day's events, he started up the charcoal muscle car, and his headlights flickered into a bright white existence. He squinted through his windshield of a thousand tears, the usual rain pouring endlessly, as it had each night this winter. It seemed to reflect his mood, always gloomy and full of despair. His gaze paused at the bay that lay before him. He could just make out downtown San Francisco from here. That is where he would begin his hunt for vengeance. His coworkers, boss, ex girlfriends, parents, everybody, would feel his wrath and be forced to take him seriously from this moment on. As Jack cruised across the silent, melancholy streets of downtown, he watched as civilians, potential witnesses ran for cover under haunting facades of hotels, shops, restaurants, a reminder of the history that still lived in this city. He quickly came to the realization that he would need a weapon, but simply walking into a gun shop and buying a gun would be too suspicious. So he came to the conclusion that he would hunt for them as an animal would, simply with his bare hands. The growling engine of the Mustang fell to a silent conclusion as Jack stopped the car and opened his door slightly, as if to let the cold air into the furnace of hate that was contained in the cabin of his vehicle. He looked up at the cement tower that lay before him; "The Roosevelt". Specifically, the residence of his boss, the one who made him an exile at the office, who declined any attempt at him moving up in the business; the one who stole his fiancé from under him. As he jogged into the Art Deco themed lobby of the hotel, he found the elevator opened, as if giving him an invitation to fulfill his prophecy. The numbers on the golden wall read "1...2...3..." all the way until it stopped at "25...". The doors creaked to an open position and he found himself alone, in complete silence upon the crimson carpet of the penthouse. Jack paced towards room 1990, the "President's Suite". To his surprise, the door lay open as well, a small crack of light escaped into the candle lit hallway. Taking this as further proof of his divine right of vengeance, Jack lust forward into the room, throwing the door open with ferocious might and made two large bounds right into the suite's master bedroom. As he thrust the two ancient oak doors of the room open, he witnessed his fiancé holding a knife to his bosses throat, as well as three bags filled to the brim with unmarked bills, gold china, and other priceless objects near the window to the balcony and ultimately, the fire escape. In moments that seemed to live in complete slow motion, Jack analyzed each detail of the event as if he were the late Sherlock Holmes himself, tracking down precisely what was happening. As the two struggled in death's embrace, Jack jumped over the side of the immaculate drapes lining the bed and threw the woman to the ground, where she found herself soon swimming in a pool of crimson. The knife lay, 4 inches deep in her chest, where she had fallen. In complete shock, his fiancé, whom he had nothing but anger up until now for, looked at him in the eyes and whispered "thank you" as she faded into an everlasting slumber. And in this moment, Jack realized, as he looked at the knife lying on the floor, the faint words "Phantom" etched on the hilt, that his fiancé, who would often be gone late nights into the early morning hours was working for the mob, specifically the "Phantom Mob". This group of barbarians were feared throughout the entire bay area, and to his complete dismay, his own fiancé was a member. In complete disgust he turned away. Jack's shoulders heaved up and down in animalistic spirit as he struggled to catch his breath. As he slowly looked up, fiery cauldrons of lava glowing in his eyes, he met gaze with his boss. The man lie complete fear, not even the slightest whimper escaping his pale white face His boss, who was nothing more than an angry man in a business suit had come to realize that his life had just been saved, as this woman's mission was to end his life, and take all that he had. And as Jack disappeared down the fire escape into the foggy San Francisco night, he came to the conclusion deep in his heart, that he would not kill for vengeance, but save those that had attempted to corrupt him from themselves.	"Hey boss, what's the mission looking like tonight?" "Mission? Are you fucking kidding me? Don't you remember the conversation we had last week? Not to mention it's called a 'hit', Jordy, not a mission. We're not playing Call of Duty out here, dumb ass." "I promise I'll get it right this time, though! I'm ready. I've been racking my brain at home lately. You know, reflecting on my mistakes and stuff." "Get the fuck out of my office, Jordy. Last time I sent you on a hit, you literally put the risen in the guys bosses coffee. Guess what? He was promoted to CEO last week. How can you possibly be any worse of a hit man?" "How was I supposed to know that the 'I'm the fucking boss' coffee cup was the ACTUAL bosses cup. I didn't know people were that conceited boss! Honest." "You know what? I've got a guy wanting to kill this little boy at his kids school because he's been getting bullied or some shit. I personally think it's a bit extreme. I told the guy I'm not gonna kill a 13 year old kid because his son is a pussy. If you want to take the mission and full responsibilty from the law, though, I'll let you take it on. You go through with this and get away free as a bird and I might consider letting you do some real shit again soon." "Yea sure, boss. I'll take anything. How hard can be to take out a teenager anyway?" The boss shakes his head. "Whatever, Jordy. You sick bastard. The hit is going down Thursday morning at 6:30 at the bus stop." That night Jordy went home to his wife and three children. He was nervous. He knew he was on thin ice with boss and if he somehow botched this hit, his crime career was over. He loved killing people. Sometimes he just killed the wrong people. He felt it wasn't his fault. He knew he could do better, he just didn't know how. The hit was coming in just two days. Jordy did his research on his time off of his day job. He didn't spend much time with his family, but he rarely did. He had a work shop in the garage that he treated as a man cave. His family thought he went out there to drink beer and watch sports. They were clueless to his files and files of information on his targets. Thursday morning came and Jordy was ready. He wasn't going to mess this one up. It was a simple hit. He had a rifle, and all he had to do was take out one kid. The bus stop was at the bottom of hill on a secluded street. Jordy set up his rifle at the top of the hill, set his scope, and began to watch. He had about 15 minutes until it was trigger pulling time. The kids walked down to the bus stop at about 6:28 AM. He had a two minute window where he could take out the young boy. He set his sights and aimed right at the kid's head. He was calm and collected. He knew this was his way back towards the top of the company he worked for. As he slowly pulled the trigger, a car passed through his sites. It was too late. He hit the driver of the car. As he hit the car, it slid out of control nailing the bus that coming to pick the group of students up. The Driver of the car was the bullies dad. He was killed instantly. The boys missed school for the next week because of the traumatic event. All of the boys except for the bully loved the free vacation. The bully moved away to Florida with his mother after she took out his life insurance. The bully problem was solved, but Jordy's was not. His killing days were over. Back to the office went Jordy.
	[WP] You decide to become a serial killer. However, you turn out to be the worst serial killer in existence. Every time you try to kill someone, you improve their life.	“Revisiting the scene of the crime, eh, buddy? ” The police officer laughed. “Yeah... Something like that. Sir.” I answered. “Nah, son, you call me Jim, okay?” He pulled a box of cigarettes out of his pocket and offered me one. “Thanks, Jim.” “That was a great thing you did today, bud.” “I suppose.” “How many of them is it you've saved now?” “I dunno. Five or six, maybe. Kinda lost count.” We stood in silence for a moment, smoking our cigarettes. “That there where she landed?” He asked, and pointed toward a container full of trash. “Yup.” “Not a scratch on her, was there?” “Nope.” “You know, it's funny...” He paused. “What's funny?” “The boys down at the station. They talk like you've got a sixth sense, or something. Like you're some kind of super hero.” “Why's that?” “Because you keep on preventing accidents before they happen. The witnesses swear there was no way in hell you saw that truck coming before you threw her off of that bridge, there.” “Can't always trust onlookers, Jim.” “Oh, I learned that the hard way, bud.” “Guess I've got a quick eye, is all.” “And we're all real happy about that." Jim sighed. “But you can't blame a man for thinking...” “Can I have another one of those smokes?” “Sure. You can't blame a man for thinking that maybe, just maybe, you didn't see that truck coming.” I lit the cigarette. “Are you saying that I wanted to kill her?" He didn't answer. "What about the other ones? I've tried to kill, what, five or six women, and each time ended up accidentally saving their lives instead? That would make me a pretty shitty killer, Jim.” “Or a lucky one. Depending on how you look at it.” I sighed. “I've got quick eyes, Jim.” “I suppose you do, bud.” The officer looked at his watch. “Anyway. I've gotta go.” “Have a good one, Jim. Thanks for the smokes.” “You too, bud.” As he was approaching his car he stopped and turned to look at me. “The girls, they were all pretty similar, huh?” “What are you talking about?” “Well, they were all blonde, for starters.” “Lotsa blonde girls in this town.” “About the same height, too. And the same age.” “Well, I didn't notice.” “Mighty strange coincidence, bud. All those girls looking the same.” “Life's funny that way, Jim.” “I suppose it is.” “See you Jim.” “Bye, bud.”	Carl Thompson awoke to open the paper. On the cover Larry his legacy. Years of planning and preparation, all printed up into a single news article. THE ATLANTIC ALCHEMIST SAVES ANOTHER LIFE. It was the fourth one in his career. They didn't know he was intending to kill his victims but apparently poisons weaken in potency over the years and Carl suffered a few years of nerves before he actually tried killing his first. Poison in their coffee every morning for a month. Unfortunately slow dose murder makes one feel ill. The kind if ill you seek a doctor for. And during their tests they discovered early stages of stomach cancer that would have proven fatal of not caught earlier. The second and third was a couple he tried to kill via a house fire. Their doors and windows were locked by call to ensure no escape but a nearby cat caught in a tree saw to make the fire departments response time a record breaking minute and thirty two seconds. The couple were told of the jammed exits and they sued the landlord for endangering them. The settlement moved them to a better neighborhood and away from Carl. Now this. A victim he was determined to see through to the end! He even left a calling card of sorts. The beautiful Emily Fallbrooke was his intended target. He got new poison, a knife, a gun. He want sure how he would kill her but he wanted her dead. He followed her towards her home and pulled her inro an alley to do the deed. Little did either of them know a group of thugs were following Emily as well to jump and possibly rape her. In self defense Carl shot and killed one man, wounded two and scared off a fourth. Had he killed someone, yes. Was it his choice? No. And then he panicked and told her his alias. Now he was being trumped as a vigilante proceeding others from injustices. He was a joke.
	[WP]In the far future, mankind is extinct and the remaining artifacts are of great academic value. An alien finds a digital archive containing the entirety of four human websites: Reddit, 4chan, Wikipedia, and Facebook.	We found their planet in a remote corner of an unremarkable spiral galaxy. Any trace of their species had long since been swallowed by their engorged, dying red sun. We know them only from the primitive discs they left behind, vague silhouettes of a sad and lonely race that never dared to reach beyond their little star. I spent the better part of my Grow Year reading their holy texts, scrawled so inelegantly across bio-digital drives preserved in ice. It is this knowledge that I gift now to the Treeseach, so that our people may learn from their mistakes. Four great tribes ruled the once-blue star: The Librarians, masterful in their knowledge, but distrustful of outsiders, and slow to embrace their changing world. The Narcissists, obsessed by the glamour of light and image, incapable of an existence that did not reflect the self. The Fools, a screeching circus of imbeciles and false prophets, each one convinced they followed the truest path, and stubbornly set against the views of their brethren. But it is the fourth one which we must heed, Oaken Ones. For four tribes ruled the blue star. The fourth tribe was mad.	Entry 1-2311-X92 "I've been reading through these archives for over 200 years, last known entry was on website X92 Code name "Facebook", Entry created by a one John Semore, stating "Hey what's that white cloud in the distance?" Nothing else has been updated since." Entry 2-2451-X92 "I've continued to read through these archives and and have ranked the archives in form of intelligence, The archive know as Wikipedia rank 1 although I seem to get distracted by these blue words which always manage to get to a place titled "Hitler". Entry 3-2571-X93 I've finally gotten to the last archive titled 4chan, I have lost all hope in finding anything intelligent among these files. I have looked through the endless "Trap" Threads and the horrible special threads. I have come across things no being should have ever seen." "That was the last transmission we ever got from Glaqaur sir." "Yur Reut have mercy on his soul."
	[WP] Fetishes are an accepted cultural phenomenon. Every person's birthday equals as their Fetish Day, when friends gather to fulfill this person's fetish.	NSFW (in case anyone needs the tag with this thread...) &nbsp; Year one, and they're already trying to repeal the law. Too many innocent little housewives with rape fantasies in the voting public. Thank God it only applies to persons over 18. What a horror that would have been. There's a lot of sickos in this world. Yeah, they're trying to repeal it, but for now the law is the law, and I have to participate. I've tried so long to hold it off - to fight it. But I follow the rules. I do what I must. My friends and family are gathering in the living room. I try to be extra nice to them. Most people don't have friends anymore, after Fetish Day - one way or the other. Kyle, my brother, is my closest friend. He's the only one who knows my fantasy, my little fetish. He has tears in his eyes. "Please," he says. "Please don't do this." "It's the law, little brother," I tell him. And he nods and walks sadly over to the corner nearest the door. If he tries to run, I'll have to catch him. I don't want my baby brother to live out his life in prison or on the run from the law. "Heya, Mike!" When Bill walks in, it feels like the room done shrunk to about half its size. I've always had a strange fascination with Bill. For his fetish day, he just watched everyone else, running around in a purple tutu. "Don't knock it till you try it," they say. The motto for Fetish Day. My friends are gathered now - only the men. For my fetish I asked the womenfolk not to come. They aren't what I want. What I need. Now that the time is approaching, I'm nervous. My hands are trembling. I can feel the excitement building though. The anticipation. I command them, as is my right under the law, to strip down to nothing but their watches and their socks. I like socks. They cover feet, and feet are ugly things. The human body, though, is beautiful. They stand before me, bodies and souls bared. Mike looks intrigued, and Kyle is in tears. I try to ignore Kyle. I am so turned on right now. Bill can't seem to take his eyes off the evidence of this. He looks kind of pissed, really. Well, it can't be helped. The law is the law. I lead my boys over to a group of chairs in the center of the room, and start handcuffing them to the rails. One by one. Slowly. This is my one chance, and I want it to last. My breath comes in short, shallow gasps. It's almost too much to bear. At least my hands aren't trembling any more. They know what I want to do. I turn out the lights. There's just enough seeping in through the curtains for me to see the men in front of me. Dark enough for their eyes to shine. I check their bonds again, making sure everyone is secure, making sure no one can move. I check Kyle's more carefully than the others. With everyone secure, I begin to remove my clothes, one piece at a time. I stand before them in all my flabby glory, letting them drink in the sight, and wonder. And then I pick up the knife.	Dang it Jenny, I am the same age as you so how am I supposed to be your "daddy", and Dan over there is black so how can he possibly be your hillbilly uncle Knox from Kentucky!?
	[WP] Fetishes are an accepted cultural phenomenon. Every person's birthday equals as their Fetish Day, when friends gather to fulfill this person's fetish.	"Can we do something else....." protested Joel as Sarah appeared out of the bathroom in their apartment toweling herself off as she walked. He continued "I'm not happy with this at all! I know it's your Fetish Day but they are all my friends. I really don't want them to be a part of this". Sarah smiled and replied "I've never done this before and it is MY Fetish Day after all. I have never stopped you on your Day because I love you so much. If you love me, you can let me do as I please on my special day" "Well can I make some requests at least, PLEASE?? Will you wear a G-string or anything? And if things go too far, will you please use these?" pointing at a variety pack of condoms. "I can't believe that I am saying this! It shouldn't be happening at all" Sarah looked down for a minute and thought about her answer "I don't ask for much from you and you have to let me do this one time, especially for my 21st. I will wear something for you but I won't be using those!" Joel winced "I don't want to be here but can't not be here. I don't know what to do babe. Rob and Andy are coming and I've known them for over 20 years! Why won't you use those? Wait....what does that mean that you are planning to do?!? What are you going to wear?" "It's just one night" Sarah said with her sexy smile, ignoring his questions. 7.30 came and their apartment had been filling with a large group of their male friends. Sarah had been in the bedroom excitedly waiting for the party to begin. Joel wandered nervously around the apartment not knowing how to take what was happening. Was he really about to be a part of this??? At that moment, Sarah opened the door to the bedroom and proudly and confidently walked out into the living room. Joel looked on with shock as her choice of clothing to appease him was simply a pair of high heels. That wasn't what he meant, and now all of his friends were staring at his naked girlfriend. She caught Joel's eye and, with a wink, turned to Rob and said suggestively "would you and Andy like to go first?" Robs eyes lit up and the others in the room had a mixture of excitement and slight disappointment written across their face. Joel just had to stand there blushing in disbelief. As Rob and Andy reached for Sarah's naked body, she looked up at all of the faces directed at her in the room and proclaimed with a huge smile on her face "Don't worry..... you'll all get your turn!"	Dang it Jenny, I am the same age as you so how am I supposed to be your "daddy", and Dan over there is black so how can he possibly be your hillbilly uncle Knox from Kentucky!?
	[WP] Fetishes are an accepted cultural phenomenon. Every person's birthday equals as their Fetish Day, when friends gather to fulfill this person's fetish.	It's that time of year again. The day when the invitations come out. The mail kid pushes his wobbly cart through the office. Passing them out to every inbox. This year it's a pastel purple envelope. Looks innocent enough. People are excited, it's a birthday! I hate this New world. I've always had my kinks but I kept them where they should be. At home. Now we celebrate them and put them out in the open for everyone to see. Like a fucking parade. The mail cart eases up to my desk. Mine has arrived. I don't feel special, everyone received one. I don't have to open It to know who it's from. Its Ted. I open It anyway. Call It morbid curiosity. Maybe it's hope that something has changed. Maybe it's a habit of politeness. This year it's being held at Chuck E. Cheese.	Dang it Jenny, I am the same age as you so how am I supposed to be your "daddy", and Dan over there is black so how can he possibly be your hillbilly uncle Knox from Kentucky!?
	[WP] Fetishes are an accepted cultural phenomenon. Every person's birthday equals as their Fetish Day, when friends gather to fulfill this person's fetish.	It's that time of year again. The day when the invitations come out. The mail kid pushes his wobbly cart through the office. Passing them out to every inbox. This year it's a pastel purple envelope. Looks innocent enough. People are excited, it's a birthday! I hate this New world. I've always had my kinks but I kept them where they should be. At home. Now we celebrate them and put them out in the open for everyone to see. Like a fucking parade. The mail cart eases up to my desk. Mine has arrived. I don't feel special, everyone received one. I don't have to open It to know who it's from. Its Ted. I open It anyway. Call It morbid curiosity. Maybe it's hope that something has changed. Maybe it's a habit of politeness. This year it's being held at Chuck E. Cheese.	"Can we do something else....." protested Joel as Sarah appeared out of the bathroom in their apartment toweling herself off as she walked. He continued "I'm not happy with this at all! I know it's your Fetish Day but they are all my friends. I really don't want them to be a part of this". Sarah smiled and replied "I've never done this before and it is MY Fetish Day after all. I have never stopped you on your Day because I love you so much. If you love me, you can let me do as I please on my special day" "Well can I make some requests at least, PLEASE?? Will you wear a G-string or anything? And if things go too far, will you please use these?" pointing at a variety pack of condoms. "I can't believe that I am saying this! It shouldn't be happening at all" Sarah looked down for a minute and thought about her answer "I don't ask for much from you and you have to let me do this one time, especially for my 21st. I will wear something for you but I won't be using those!" Joel winced "I don't want to be here but can't not be here. I don't know what to do babe. Rob and Andy are coming and I've known them for over 20 years! Why won't you use those? Wait....what does that mean that you are planning to do?!? What are you going to wear?" "It's just one night" Sarah said with her sexy smile, ignoring his questions. 7.30 came and their apartment had been filling with a large group of their male friends. Sarah had been in the bedroom excitedly waiting for the party to begin. Joel wandered nervously around the apartment not knowing how to take what was happening. Was he really about to be a part of this??? At that moment, Sarah opened the door to the bedroom and proudly and confidently walked out into the living room. Joel looked on with shock as her choice of clothing to appease him was simply a pair of high heels. That wasn't what he meant, and now all of his friends were staring at his naked girlfriend. She caught Joel's eye and, with a wink, turned to Rob and said suggestively "would you and Andy like to go first?" Robs eyes lit up and the others in the room had a mixture of excitement and slight disappointment written across their face. Joel just had to stand there blushing in disbelief. As Rob and Andy reached for Sarah's naked body, she looked up at all of the faces directed at her in the room and proclaimed with a huge smile on her face "Don't worry..... you'll all get your turn!"
	[WP] Fetishes are an accepted cultural phenomenon. Every person's birthday equals as their Fetish Day, when friends gather to fulfill this person's fetish.	"Urgh, do we have to?" James asked, a mix between whining and annoyance in his voice as he trodded behind his girlfriend. Isabella held a little birthday present in her hand as she pressed the button of the lift: "Come on, babe! You promised you'd come with me!" The elevator rocked and started it's ascend. "I know, I know. It's just ... Emma is kind of ... annoying. Sorry." "I thought you liked her? You guys got along so well last friday!" "I did! It's just ... once I sobered up, I realized how ... annoying her voice was ..." "James!" "Sorry! But it's like you're putting an electric drill into a pencil sharpener!" Bella opened her mouth, but didn't say anything. Emma ... did have a ... taxing voice. "It doesn't matter." Her words were accentuated by the elevator coming to a stop. The doors opened silently. "We're here now. Let's just try to have some fun. If it's too much, we can leave early and watch some netflix once we get home, okay?" James gave her a little kiss on the cheek. They stopped in front of the door to Emma's appartment. A little balloon was fixed to it. Strange noises and laughter could be heard from the inside. "Well, here goes." James sighed and put on his gag, a bright red ball made of plastic. Bella donned a mask made of leather that had a zip for a mouth, and pressed the door bell. Almost immediately, the door sprung open and a petite, cheerful young woman appeared, dressed in a sort of black tutu. Behind her, on a leash held firmly in her hand, knelt a towering man, only dressed in briefs and ropes. "Guuuuyyyyyyyyys! You made it!" Emma squaled and hugged both Bella and James in a singular motion. The man behind her was jerked forward by his leash. After the somewhat awkward greeting, Emma led the two inside her home. There were around twenty people present, chatting and laughing. A small buffet had been assembled, complete with tiny snacks and light beverages. While Bella chatted with the birthday girl, James grabbed himself a toothpick on which a single grape and a piece of cheese was transfixed. James did recognize some people. A few of Emma's friends from last friday were here: Her ex-boyfriend (with whom she was still friends) was chained to the wall next to the stereo and getting whipped by a tall, broad woman in red. A guy she knew from work (Derek was his name? Or David?) was carefully dropping molten wax on a woman lying on her stomach on a table next to where Emma and Bella were chatting. She jerked up whenever the hot mass hit her, but beckoned him to keep going. James tried to lead the toothpick into his mouth, but only slightly poked the red plastic ball. Amused, he removed the gag, and started chewing on the snack. Two women were located next to the stairs. One of them was fixed to a big "X"-shaped cross on the ground, while the other one was fixing wooden clamps onto the body of the former. The cheese tasted bland. When he was finished chewing, James swallowed and was about to put back on his gag, when Emma and Bella finished talking and joined him. The birthday girl was still dragging the big man with her, but gave him a (fairly violent) clap on the behind when they reached James to send him towards another group of people. "Heyyyyyy Jameees!" Emma grinned, her grin so wide you could put up laundry to dry in it. Bella looked slightly drained, but still cheerful. "Soooo, your girlfriend and I got talking and I thought, like, that it would be suuupper awesome if we three did something together!" James could barely contain his delight and only barely managed to offer a fake smile. "Whatcha got in mind?" "Oh, all sorts of naughty stuff, big boy!" she grinned while sliding a finger over James's chest. "But I'd think we start with some light stuff. Could you grab the pink clubs from over there while Bella and I get ready?" She gestured over to an open box, filled with all kinds of gadgets and utensils used for this sort of thing. "We've been very bad girls and need to be ... disciplined ..." "You got it." James nodded and trodded of to get the clubs. As he fished them out of the box, he noticed how they were slightly perfumed (a sickenly-sweet smell of strawberry) and had hearts and stars printed onto them. When he returned, Bella and Emma were kneeling on the floor, behinds aimed at him. He raised his arm and smacked Emma first.	"Are you sure you want this, Bert?" his remaining friends asked him. Time was a cruel mistress to this macrophile, and he wasn't getting any younger. This is what he wanted for his 50th fetish day. "I'm ready." And with those words, the shipping container, with a crudely spray painted barefoot applied to it, was slowly lowered down onto him. "I have waited all my life for this one moment."
	[WP] At age 18 you are required to go to city hall and have someone read you through a choose your own adventure style book of your life while you make the choices. The choices are permanent and will determine your life. You are the clerk reading the books.	Another day. Another 18 year old. Another life I've ruined. I've been doing this job for 17 years now. 17 years and 364 days. Tomorrow's something of an anniversary, if you could call it that. How many lives have I seen blossom, only to shrivel and die prematurely based on the rash decisions of a newly minted adult? Far more than those whose lives have been successful. Today, I have three appointments. The first child - I refuse to believe that within the span of a day children magically transform into adults - steps up to the counter. Her dark eyes dart back and forth, from my face to my hands, then back again. "I'm here for my Reading." Her voice is shaky, barely a whisper. Her mother tries to look over her shoulder, unsuccessfully at the book-that-is-definitely-not-THE-Book in front of me. Sometimes kids don't show up until the Peacekeepers bring them in. It rarely happened these days, but it didn't hurt to be prepared. "This way please," I gesture towards the door on the right. The huge and imposing door swings open silently as the girl - Tamora, I remind myself - walks under the brightly blazing "Readers Beware" sign, and I can't help but wonder if that warning is for her or for me. Most Readers (we prefer clerks, but the public seems particularly enamored with the readers nickname) came into this profession because when we chose, we thought we could trick the Book. We thought that, if only there was a way to help some of these poor souls. They call it a Choosing of Your Life Adventure. But that implies a falsehood. That implies that you actually have a choice in how your life ends up. That hard lives are a result of terrible choices. But after 17 years of Reading after Reading, if there's one thing I've learned, it's not a choice. None of it is. If it were, I would not be sitting here, damning those who, in their youthful ignorance and desire to finish things as quickly as possible, rush their decisions and go with their gut. I would not be sitting here after learning that there is no way to positively influence a child's choice as a Reader. I should have known when, in my own Reading, again and again I was asked if I chose to continue being a Reader. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I said yes each time. I can only imagine the heartbreak that was happening for my Reader, assuming her heart had not shattered beyond repair by that point. Tamora waved timidly to her mother as she crossed over the threshold. Only Readers and Adventurers are allowed over that line, though everyone else usually knows what lies beyond the doors. Two armchairs and a couch, all of which have seen their fair share of tears. A fireplace, for the illusion of warmth. We sit; she is one of the few who select the other chair. Most children sit as far away from me as they can, as if adding distance between the two of us will somehow aid their luck. It doesn't. "Are you ready?" I ask gently. "There's tea in the back if you care for a cup." She practically flees to the back of the room; I catch a "you've trained for this!" half-whispered under her breath as she carefully selects a tea bag. I peek down at her information, her life thus far summarized into paragraphs on the first page. She is most definitely not ready. Few are. According to the book, she had terrible self confidence, a terrible body image, and seemed to compensate for this by achieving high grades. Few girls who came into this room where confident about themselves and fewer, their bodies. It dictated the kinds of choices they made, before they had a chance to find their confidence and learn to love themselves. The glass cup rattling against the saucer snapped me back to the current Adventurer. This time when I asked, she quietly sipped the tea and nodded. "I see you've got a lot of important decisions ahead of you. College for one. Did you have any in mind?" I look down at the five schools she was just about to mention. Two crossed themselves off as I watched. "...but I suppose that's the one I really want to go to." I tune back in just in time to catch the name of the college. Thankfully, it wasn't one of the crossed off ones. She picks her dream school, waits for the next round of decisions on majors, and we breeze through a few pages of lowball questions. We even make it through the first year of college alright. But then, "One of the friends you made in college pulls you aside and tells you that he likes you." I shake my head a little. Poor dude, I can see where this one is going. "Um... do I like him back?" She interrupts, blushing. "Well," I peer closer at the Book, "you guys are good friends from the role playing games club..." But probably not in that way. She bites her lip. I continue. "Do you tell him you like him back, apologize and turn him down, or run away?" Her eyes grow wide at the last one. "What should I do?" She looks at me pleadingly. You can tell this is her first encounter of this kind. I give her the kindest look I can manage. "I can't help you or give you advice, for this is your adventure, not mine." The last time I tried to help a child had not gone well. I tried to look at the next page for some hints, some clues. Tried to read the Consequences. Not only had the words on the page rearranged themselves (who would have thought a book could be spiteful) but I nearly dropped the book because it felt like my hand was on fire. "I... I don't know what to do. What if..." her voice trembles, "...what if he's the only one who likes me..." I can practically feel the book rewriting itself with her words, ink flowing underneath the page as I waited with my pen poised. She answers, and as I flip the page and ask her the next set of questions, I can already tell what her answers will be, already see the path that she's been set to walk. This one does not end happily. Our session ends in silence. She thanks me weakly and starts to walk towards to exit. As her hand rests lightly on the door handle, she hesitates and turns around to look at me. "...Does anyone ever try to challenge their Adventure Readings?" Her eyes are pleading. "Yes." "Has anyone ever succeeded?" "No." Not to my knowledge anyways. I've seen some kids try. It's not pretty. I've seen adults try. Also not pretty. I suppose in some sense The Book actually protects them - protects them until their time, at least. I've tried myself too, but the Book insists that my time won't come until there's a large fire of some kind. So I guess I'm safe, if you could call it that. "Oh." The doors close slowly behind her. Two more kids today, I just hope their fates are better than the first. They're not. The second appointment was a risk taker, a gambler. An unlucky one, apparently. He chose to drink himself to death. But the third appointment, the third is what got me. I could barely believe what I was reading. "After your Adventure, you'll exit this room to find the building surrounded by police." He looks at me, wide eyed and incredulous. "The Book doesn't list details, but how do you want to react?" "It doesn't tell you why there are a ton of police?" I can hear the nervousness in his voice. "I'm afraid not. Do you resist them when they go to arrest you?" "I didn't do anything wrong!" "They don't listen to your protests." Words float to the surface of the page, countering his protests as he makes them. "But I've got rights don't I?" "Do you let them arrest you?" "Not without a warrant, probably cause, or a reason!" He's getting angry. I don't blame him. "So you want to decide to resist arrest." I want to scream at him, tell him that this is the worst possible choice even if he didn't do anything wrong. "Yes." As I turn the page, the words that had been inked there previously began to fade, mysteriously winking out as I watched. My heart heavy, I close the book. "You can go now," I barely manage to whisper. "What?!" Before I know it, the young man grabs the Book from my hands, trying to rip out its pages. "No... no... no no no NO NO NO NO " I guess that's why the police will show up soon. He's sobbing, and I can't help as the tears also stream down my face. "YOU CAN'T LET THEM DO THIS TO ME," he screams at me. "HOW COULD YOU LET ME CHOOSE THAT." He's not the first to wound me like this. And who can blame him? He probably won't be the last either. I let him rage on, doing my best to keep out of the range of his fists, but a part of me wants to let him hit me. I'm tired of condemning young people to terrible lives. Good kids, who haven't had the time to grow up yet, who are making adult decisions with childish reasonings still. He's still raging, but I make my way towards him, letting his fists pummel my face, my arms, my chest. I can feel his anger, his fear, his sadness with each punch. He's dropped the Book to be able to punch me, and I stoop down to pick it up, wincing as his punches fly harder and faster. Deliberately, I walk over to the fireplace and with all my strength, fling the Book into its flames. The boy has stopped trying to punch me. Instead he looks at me in horror before turning to flee out the door. The Book isn't burning. I am though.	I don't know why I chose this profession, I don't see why kids are forced to make these choices so early on. The toughest part of the job is hat you have to remember you made choices too, and today I would have to watch one come to fruition. The kid walked in, he was as nervous as they come. He sat down across the table from me, and I introduce myself. Hello, Michael, I am John, I'll be entering your life choices today. He muttered something that I couldn't hear "I'm sorry, what was that?" he cleared his throat and said "I was just wondering how long this would take?" "That depends on you I suppose." "Let's begin. You are invited to a party by your friend Arthur, do you go?" "I never really liked parties but, I think it's time or a change, yes." for the first time he seemed at least semi confident. "While there you meet the girl of your dreams, do you ask her out?" I asked him. "Of course I do, what have I got to lose if she is the love of my life!" "She says no, causing you to drink, a lot. You decide it would be best to go home to calm down, you get in a car accident two weeks from now, killing yourself and a 10 year old child." "Sir?" he asked "Yes?" I replied "I noticed something, you didn't take your hand off the page." I knew what I had done, I made that choice 15 years ago, and I knew I did it for the right reason. "That nullifies that decision, does it not? It's like chess I think, the move does not count if you're unsure, and you were definitely unsure." I'm glad he noticed, I made the choice to give him a chance to control his own life in his own way, not in a way that a book tells him. I took out my book of matches and gambled the child's life on a choice I made 15 years ago, and burned his Life Book. He looked alarmed, and then confused when nothing happened to him. "You are the first to become what we call "decision free" you can make all your decisions in real time, and our life is as they say, a blank slate."
	[WP] At age 18 you are required to go to city hall and have someone read you through a choose your own adventure style book of your life while you make the choices. The choices are permanent and will determine your life. You are the clerk reading the books.	“Three attempts this week Molly. I don’t think they're honest-to-god attempts, except the girl in 43b.” “Regardless, I want them all on suicide precautions, I’m due to change someone’s life this week and I’m not going to miss that opportunity!” the nurse replied. The first nurse was simple, she would never understand her future. She grew up in the time when your Appointment took a single day, limited possibilities and definite futures. Anymore the Appointment was both heart wrenching and useless. People had found ways to cheat others destiny, or so it was rumored. The second nurse however, she was one who got it. “Another one coming in, she’ll be our 4th attempt…and I think she was here last week!” the first nurse replied anxiously. The ER at Cleveland Metro was always full of suicide attempts, almost every major city was. This is where Gabe was stationed. A young man would be incoming with respiratory distress and a blood alcohol content of 0.2. The boy was what society called a life-dodger, someone who tries to commit suicide rather than face the Appointment at age 18. Gabe was here to retrieve him and delineate his future. Some even had to be restrained to the bed, if they were still non-compliant then a simple coin would be used to choose their path. “Incoming! 17 year old male, respiratory distress, found locked in his father’s pick-up truck with the doors and windows sealed shut. Half a bottle of Jack was left in the seat next to him, not sure how much was his drinking. Father says he is due for his Appointment, we need to get him……”. Her voice faded down the hall and Gabe stood. He approached the front desk and placed his badge in front of the receptionist. One glance was all it took and he was immediately granted an all-access pass to the patient’s room. He sat back down, it usually took them a few hours to stabilize him in the ICU then he would be moved to a step-down unit. The nurses knew the drill, the boy would already have his restraints in place when he awoke. All Gabe had to do now was wait. A few hours went by and the boy stirred from his sleep. He was in awe at the light of heaven’s gates, at least for the few moments to realize that it was just the window. He began to sit up and was held in place. He jerked at his right hand to no avail. The realization slowly hit him, as did the tears that spilled down his face. He knew what came next, he knew it would happen if his suicide failed, and he was no more ready to address it now than he was before. That is when the voice spoke. The voice that would haunt him for the rest of his life. “Morning son, you done running?” Gabe said with a smile. “Am I going to need to break out the good old fashion quarter? I really hate doing that, hurts the thumb after a while.” “Lets just get it over with.” He replied solemnly. “Give me the general questions first.” Gabe was honestly glad the boy was compliant. The quarter really did hurt his finger after so many flicks. Out of his briefcase came a black tablet with a large “A” laser-inscribed on the back. It symbolized the boys Appointment, the start to his new life, and it gave Gabe the authority to keep the boy restrained and punished until his Appointment was complete. It started up with an audible beep and Gabe pricked the young man’s finger with a sterile needle. The blood went into a test strip and then was inserted into the tablet. His name, social security number, and other relevant information appeared on the screen along with one other box, “Begin Appointment”. The general questions were randomized but up to three were able to be viewed, and if desired, changed. This could lead to undue stress if you hadn’t planned for stressful times. Many people went through serious psychological trauma because they decided not to uncheck the box that said “I will never party with friends.” because they decided not to check their general questions. These questions had no date but would be completed before the end of your life. This was the one section that gave you a chance to decide WHEN something happens. “OK, what would you like to change?” Gabe asked intrigued. “Suicide, do I ever attempt after this?” “As of now, no.” “Change it to yes for me.” The boy smiled as he said it. “You understand that you can’t get past your life by ending it right? Everything in the next section will have to be completed unless your decisions lead to suicide.” Gabe replied without an expression. “I know. Suicide is a yes. Next, how is my drug section?” It took Gabe a moment to flip to the correct screen. “Alchohol yes, THC yes, LSD yes,” that could be fun Gabe thought, “PCP yes, cocaine yes, prescriptions yes, the remainders are no.” “OK, that’s fine. I get one more right?” “Yes you do, what will it be?” “Rape, can you turn on rape?” Gabe knew where this was going. The boy expected to have a drug induced sex fest with some poor girl followed by a suicide in jail. He had seen quite a few people go this path and it never worked the way they thought. They never asked if the rape box meant that they themselves could be raped. “Rape is on, and that is your last changeable general question. Now on to your own personal story.” The boy laid back and smiled, happy that he was able to “choose” how he would die, as if it was his choice in any way. “First off, two week from tomorrow as it turns out, are you going to go to that strip club that your dad wants to take you to?” Gabe laughed as he said it. The rules permitted him, the clerk, full explanations of each decision, though he was tasked to never reveal more than one sentence about it, and only if pressed. “Strip club? Um, yeah, sure.” The boy replied, ‘an easy one to start with,’ the boy thought. Short sightedness. Just like the first nurse this boy didn’t take the time to think out his decisions. A fake I.D. had found its way into the boys pocket when he was 16 and he had been going to “The Purple Waffle – Gentleman’s Club” for almost two years now, he was practically an employee. Gabe noted that the father would not be too happy when the dancers called him by name and offered him his “regular”. One little known fact was that the tablets showed a small tree of where each choice would lead. The different walks of life that a man could take. Some diverged, some converged, and no one knew why. This choice was one that sharply disconnected him from his father. Gabe saw no reason to share this with the boy so he tapped the chosen reply and then swiped to the next tree. “That job that ‘John’ offered you, will you end up taking it?” “The one chopping down trees?” the young man replied, “ya of course, the pay is phenomenal”. Gabe chuckled again, the pay was $10/hr under the table and he saw that the business would go under in a few years after the IRS discovered he had almost 30 workers under the table doing various odd jobs around the state. Hardly a phenomenal choice. This process took the entire rest of the morning and continued well into the afternoon. Some choices Gabe laughed at, others he was forced to remain neutral while he dreaded the boy’s choices. The kid in front of him never once questioned his actions, Gabe gave no explanations. They had made it into his early 40’s when the boy made a decision involving an affair and the tablet flashed “Life complete”. Gabe knew what this meant, somehow the teenager would meet his death soon after that decision. He packed up his things and said his goodbye before the young man realized why the interview was not lasting the usual two days and cut off before his 50s. As he walked through his front door he couldn’t help but wonder about the young man’s choices. Some were obvious, others were silly. He remembered how carefully he had prepared for his life. He made sure to get into a city position so he could transfer to this job. He had cheated the system like everyone else and wasn’t afraid to take a bribe to help a person out. He knew exactly how much he could tell before he was breaking the law, and he stretched it to the limit. People didn’t realize it all ended the same. Whether living a moral life or an immoral life, we all died. The only thing that mattered to Gabe was that he lived comfortably. So when the young man had chosen to sell his mother’s house after she died, Gabe had made sure to note the boy’s address. The tablet had showed him that it would appreciate 150% when a corporation needed to demolish it for the land. Gabe would be purchasing it in twelve years at a steal, and selling to the big man. He smiled one last time as he laid back in his king sized bed and smiled as he fell into sleep, dreaming of his next profitable Appointment.	"Caroline West?" I call out into the waiting room. Several eyes dart back to the floor, nervous and disappointed. A young woman with long brown hair and beautiful green eyes walks up to me with a smile, an air of confidence surrounding her. "Right this way." We walk down the hallway and up to my office. We walk through the door and she sits in the large red plush chair, crossing her legs and leaning back for comfort. “Caroline West. Daughter of Elizabeth and recently passed Lionel West. Your birthday is... oh today. Happy Birthday.” “Thank you.” She responds with an innocent smile. I wish she knew what was coming. “Alright. I'm going to read this book aloud to you and present you with options. You may choose what you would like to do and it will be permanent. Do you understand?” “Yes ma'am.” “Then let's begin. Very soon you will have a job opportunity with a very well known journalism company. Do you take it?” “Of course. Journalism is my dream job.” “They require you to take some classes during your first year as intern. Do you attend Saint Peter's Community College or North State University?” “Saint Peter's. It's a safer choice.” “Good. You successfully complete all of your classes in top of your class standards and manage to move up in the company. You are now offered an international opportunity to spend five years in Paris as a journalist. Do you take the opportunity?” “Will it be expensive?” “Unfortunately that information is confidential.” “I've never been one to turn down an opportunity. Alright, I'll take it.” “You take up the opportunity and are sent overseas on a completely paid for trip...” I paused and looked up to see the awe and excitement in her eyes. She was so pleased with the results. I couldn't blame her. “While there you meet a very handsome man and develop a friendship that feels like it could be something more. Do you pursue a romance?” “It sounds dreamy. If I'm already friends with him than I can trust him. I will.” “You pursue a relationship and date for the remainder of the time you live in Paris. You have an extravagant wedding right before you move home. When you return home your mother wants to know all about the trip as you've been disconnected from all forms of communication while you were gone. Do you tell her about your husband?” “I wouldn't keep anything from my mother. I will.” “Your mother doesn't agree with your husband and argues that you should get a divorce immediately. She doesn't seem to like him. Do you follow her advice?” “As much as I love my mother, I seem to be very happy. She'll understand in time why I made the decision to stay with him.” “You stay with him. A month later your mother dies in a horrific murder. Your life begins to take a downward spiral and you contemplate suicide. Do you kill yourself?” Silence. I almost wasn't sure she was still in the room until I looked up at her face, white as a ghost. The clock's ticking was all that could be heard for at least ten minutes as she processed the information coming to her. I could see her life playing out in her head and see her making a very difficult decision. Finally she took a deep breath. “As long as I still have my husband, I suppose I can make it through. I will not commit suicide. I am stronger than that.” “Alright. You will still have your husband but for the rest of your life you will be plunged in turmoil. You cannot escape it. You will never be happy again. You will consider suicide plenty of times but never go through with it. Finally at age 30 you will die.” I closed the book after making the few marks left over and looked up at her. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. “I understand. I'm glad that I could find love before such an awful thing. I'm glad he will keep me from committing suicide. Thank you.” She grabbed a few tissues from the box on the end of my desk and left the room without another word. I wish I could go into detail. I wish I could tell her that her husband was the one who would kill her mother. That he would abuse and rape her and prevent her from committing suicide so he could play with her more. That he used her only to get over into America. That her mother recognized something being off about him because was top of the most wanted for years. That she would die a slow painful death chained in the basement with him visiting her only to rape her, to beat her, and to tell her how glad he was that she agreed to marry a stranger. But I can't tell her that. It's against the rules to interfere with the choosing. It's what she chose and therefore, it's in her hands. There's nothing we can do about it. I walked down the hall and to the waiting room once more, watching as she disappeared from the office in her mother's rusty pickup truck before turning to the sea of faces patiently waiting for their names to be called. “Spencer Minos?” I called. A lanky boy stood up and shuffled to me. I could barely make out the bright red slashes on his arms. His choosing appointment wouldn't take long.
	[WP] At age 18 you are required to go to city hall and have someone read you through a choose your own adventure style book of your life while you make the choices. The choices are permanent and will determine your life. You are the clerk reading the books.	“Three attempts this week Molly. I don’t think they're honest-to-god attempts, except the girl in 43b.” “Regardless, I want them all on suicide precautions, I’m due to change someone’s life this week and I’m not going to miss that opportunity!” the nurse replied. The first nurse was simple, she would never understand her future. She grew up in the time when your Appointment took a single day, limited possibilities and definite futures. Anymore the Appointment was both heart wrenching and useless. People had found ways to cheat others destiny, or so it was rumored. The second nurse however, she was one who got it. “Another one coming in, she’ll be our 4th attempt…and I think she was here last week!” the first nurse replied anxiously. The ER at Cleveland Metro was always full of suicide attempts, almost every major city was. This is where Gabe was stationed. A young man would be incoming with respiratory distress and a blood alcohol content of 0.2. The boy was what society called a life-dodger, someone who tries to commit suicide rather than face the Appointment at age 18. Gabe was here to retrieve him and delineate his future. Some even had to be restrained to the bed, if they were still non-compliant then a simple coin would be used to choose their path. “Incoming! 17 year old male, respiratory distress, found locked in his father’s pick-up truck with the doors and windows sealed shut. Half a bottle of Jack was left in the seat next to him, not sure how much was his drinking. Father says he is due for his Appointment, we need to get him……”. Her voice faded down the hall and Gabe stood. He approached the front desk and placed his badge in front of the receptionist. One glance was all it took and he was immediately granted an all-access pass to the patient’s room. He sat back down, it usually took them a few hours to stabilize him in the ICU then he would be moved to a step-down unit. The nurses knew the drill, the boy would already have his restraints in place when he awoke. All Gabe had to do now was wait. A few hours went by and the boy stirred from his sleep. He was in awe at the light of heaven’s gates, at least for the few moments to realize that it was just the window. He began to sit up and was held in place. He jerked at his right hand to no avail. The realization slowly hit him, as did the tears that spilled down his face. He knew what came next, he knew it would happen if his suicide failed, and he was no more ready to address it now than he was before. That is when the voice spoke. The voice that would haunt him for the rest of his life. “Morning son, you done running?” Gabe said with a smile. “Am I going to need to break out the good old fashion quarter? I really hate doing that, hurts the thumb after a while.” “Lets just get it over with.” He replied solemnly. “Give me the general questions first.” Gabe was honestly glad the boy was compliant. The quarter really did hurt his finger after so many flicks. Out of his briefcase came a black tablet with a large “A” laser-inscribed on the back. It symbolized the boys Appointment, the start to his new life, and it gave Gabe the authority to keep the boy restrained and punished until his Appointment was complete. It started up with an audible beep and Gabe pricked the young man’s finger with a sterile needle. The blood went into a test strip and then was inserted into the tablet. His name, social security number, and other relevant information appeared on the screen along with one other box, “Begin Appointment”. The general questions were randomized but up to three were able to be viewed, and if desired, changed. This could lead to undue stress if you hadn’t planned for stressful times. Many people went through serious psychological trauma because they decided not to uncheck the box that said “I will never party with friends.” because they decided not to check their general questions. These questions had no date but would be completed before the end of your life. This was the one section that gave you a chance to decide WHEN something happens. “OK, what would you like to change?” Gabe asked intrigued. “Suicide, do I ever attempt after this?” “As of now, no.” “Change it to yes for me.” The boy smiled as he said it. “You understand that you can’t get past your life by ending it right? Everything in the next section will have to be completed unless your decisions lead to suicide.” Gabe replied without an expression. “I know. Suicide is a yes. Next, how is my drug section?” It took Gabe a moment to flip to the correct screen. “Alchohol yes, THC yes, LSD yes,” that could be fun Gabe thought, “PCP yes, cocaine yes, prescriptions yes, the remainders are no.” “OK, that’s fine. I get one more right?” “Yes you do, what will it be?” “Rape, can you turn on rape?” Gabe knew where this was going. The boy expected to have a drug induced sex fest with some poor girl followed by a suicide in jail. He had seen quite a few people go this path and it never worked the way they thought. They never asked if the rape box meant that they themselves could be raped. “Rape is on, and that is your last changeable general question. Now on to your own personal story.” The boy laid back and smiled, happy that he was able to “choose” how he would die, as if it was his choice in any way. “First off, two week from tomorrow as it turns out, are you going to go to that strip club that your dad wants to take you to?” Gabe laughed as he said it. The rules permitted him, the clerk, full explanations of each decision, though he was tasked to never reveal more than one sentence about it, and only if pressed. “Strip club? Um, yeah, sure.” The boy replied, ‘an easy one to start with,’ the boy thought. Short sightedness. Just like the first nurse this boy didn’t take the time to think out his decisions. A fake I.D. had found its way into the boys pocket when he was 16 and he had been going to “The Purple Waffle – Gentleman’s Club” for almost two years now, he was practically an employee. Gabe noted that the father would not be too happy when the dancers called him by name and offered him his “regular”. One little known fact was that the tablets showed a small tree of where each choice would lead. The different walks of life that a man could take. Some diverged, some converged, and no one knew why. This choice was one that sharply disconnected him from his father. Gabe saw no reason to share this with the boy so he tapped the chosen reply and then swiped to the next tree. “That job that ‘John’ offered you, will you end up taking it?” “The one chopping down trees?” the young man replied, “ya of course, the pay is phenomenal”. Gabe chuckled again, the pay was $10/hr under the table and he saw that the business would go under in a few years after the IRS discovered he had almost 30 workers under the table doing various odd jobs around the state. Hardly a phenomenal choice. This process took the entire rest of the morning and continued well into the afternoon. Some choices Gabe laughed at, others he was forced to remain neutral while he dreaded the boy’s choices. The kid in front of him never once questioned his actions, Gabe gave no explanations. They had made it into his early 40’s when the boy made a decision involving an affair and the tablet flashed “Life complete”. Gabe knew what this meant, somehow the teenager would meet his death soon after that decision. He packed up his things and said his goodbye before the young man realized why the interview was not lasting the usual two days and cut off before his 50s. As he walked through his front door he couldn’t help but wonder about the young man’s choices. Some were obvious, others were silly. He remembered how carefully he had prepared for his life. He made sure to get into a city position so he could transfer to this job. He had cheated the system like everyone else and wasn’t afraid to take a bribe to help a person out. He knew exactly how much he could tell before he was breaking the law, and he stretched it to the limit. People didn’t realize it all ended the same. Whether living a moral life or an immoral life, we all died. The only thing that mattered to Gabe was that he lived comfortably. So when the young man had chosen to sell his mother’s house after she died, Gabe had made sure to note the boy’s address. The tablet had showed him that it would appreciate 150% when a corporation needed to demolish it for the land. Gabe would be purchasing it in twelve years at a steal, and selling to the big man. He smiled one last time as he laid back in his king sized bed and smiled as he fell into sleep, dreaming of his next profitable Appointment.	“Come in.” I wave in the hesitant boy who is hovering outside my office. “Close the door behind you. Oh, honestly! It isn’t as bad as they make it out to be. Now come in and close the door.” The boy shuffles in and closes the door behind him. I give him the customary thirty seconds for him to look around my office I have come to expect from all applicants. To gaze at the rich wood paneling and the myriad of bound books surrounding them. To stop at the empty leather chair before continuing up to the wall behind me. To watch their eyes linger over the photographs behind me, trying to discern my relationship to the people in them. Their eyes then drift down as if on cue and focus on me. This boy is no exception. “So” I give my best grandfatherly smile. “Not what you expected, was it?” “No, sir. Not really.” he replies. “Did they give you the story of probes & drugs during the screening? You know, in my day, it was needles and drugs. The truth is slightly disappointing. We are going to read a book and remain fully clothed while doing so.” I slyly grin at him. “But you can tell the next guy outside whatever you want. Now take a seat.” He grins back at me as the tension drains from his body and he collapses into the chair. “Now onto business. You are Peter A. Robbins of Glenndale, correct?” “Yes, sir.” “And today is your 18th birthday, correct?” “Yes, sir.” “Well this calls for a toast.” I pull out a bottle from my desk drawer and rummage around until I find a glass. I pour out two fingers of the amber liquid into the glass and pass it to him. “18 years old, just like you. Bottoms up.” He looks at me hesitantly. “I can’t. I’m working and I do about 30 of these tests a day. The result would be quite predictable and inevitable. But my sincerest wish for a happy birthday.” He swallows down the drink in a gulp and tries his best not to cough. He slams the glass on my table as if he was shooting tequila in a bar. I smile while mentally flipping to the conclusion; page 84 and refill the glass from the bottle. “Now, as I was saying, we are going to read a book together. This is an aptitude test to determine the most mutually beneficial role for you in society. You will be expected to make choices based on limited information and within a short period of time. We are looking for gut instinct so go with what you feel. Also keep in mind that the results are permanent and will not be revealed to you until the end.” I look over to Peter and see him nodding in agreement. The relief of avoiding probes still evident on his face. “Lets begin.” “Peter, it is your 18th birthday. Based on your screening, you are given the choice of applying to the Military, Research or Administration. Which do you choose?” “Military. Gonna rock that uniform and get all the ladies.” Peter replies without hesitation. I flip to page 4. “You are admitted to Military Training. Training is hard but you make it through boot camp. You are assigned to your fireteam and the four of you quickly become inseparable. You train hard, push and motivate each other and are consistently in the top twenty five percent of your class.” I look up and see Peter leaning back in the chair, eyes closed imagining his future. I try and remember the candidates during those moments, when the whole world is full of possibility. “At the end of training, your squad places well enough that consideration will be given to your choice of career path within the Military. You can choose Recon, Assault Line or Recovery.” “Recon” Peter replies again without hesitation. I turn to page 8 and inwardly sigh as the doors of possibility start closing. “You are assigned to the Assault Line. The three other squad members are assigned to Recon.” “Wait, what? Why wasn’t I picked for Recon?” His eyes are now open and locked on me. “That’s not fair!” I place my thumb to hold the page and look at him. “Life isn’t fair, Peter. You don’t always get what you want even if you earned it. In this particular case, Charlie, one your squadmates gave you a low evaluation to improve his chances of getting into Recon. It worked.” I open the book again. “You are assigned to the Assault Line.” I continue. “You perform well, are promoted to squad leader but do not find the same camaraderie you had before. You make it through a full year and with a very favorable review by your commanding officer, Military rules allow you to request a transfer if you so desire. Do you choose to apply to transfer to Recon?” “Hell yeah.” Peter replies. Inwardly I cringe. “You sure?” I ask. Technically a violation of prompting the candidate but it is my choice to make. Peter nods firmly. “The request is denied. The men under you start treating you differently once it becomes known that you don’t want to be in Assault Line. The friendships erode quickly and the yearly reviews become marginal. It becomes apparent that you will not be promoted any further and your reviews kept marginal to deny you the opportunity of another transfer request. You start drinking heavily and fear you will wash out before your ten years are up.” “That is bullshit!” shouts Peter jumping to his feet. “That is life.” I reply. “Well, it sucks. What kind of crappy aptitude test is this? Fuck the Military. I want out of this crappy story.” “Thats what you choose? Desertion?” “Hell, yeah.” Peter replies. “I don’t want anything to do with the Military.” I see the anger and testosterone raging as he reaches over my desk and pours himself another drink and slams it down. A coughing fit follows and Peter calms down while trying to get his breath back. “You know what, I’m glad I took this test. No way I’m wasting my life on the Military. Let me try Research. I always liked science. I close the book. “Research would have been a good path for you. You could have been happy.” Peter sits back down and stares at the closed book. “Sorry for the outburst. So lets see what happens in Reseach.” I sigh and place the book on my desk. “Its not that simple Peter. You made your choices and you have to live with them. In a moment of passion two years from now, you desert the Military. You will be caught two weeks later and summarily executed.” Peter looks stunned and disoriented. “But this was just a test. I haven’t done anything yet.” “No, Peter. This is the results. The screening was the test. We are statistically confident that the actions I described would be the inevitable outcomes of the choices you would make.” Peter stands and I can see his mind racing as the doors of possibility close around him until only one final door remains open. He starts swaying unsteadily and falls back into the chair. “But I haven’t done any of it.” His words have become slurred, his eyes unfocused and his breathing becomes labored. “But you will Peter and the penalty for desertion is death.” “Thats not fair.” Peter whispers before his breathing stops all together. ““Life isn’t fair, Peter.”
	[WP] At age 18 you are required to go to city hall and have someone read you through a choose your own adventure style book of your life while you make the choices. The choices are permanent and will determine your life. You are the clerk reading the books.	It's not about the ending... It's just not about the ending. I try and tell that to them, but they don't listen, really. I guess I wouldn't have, when I was 18, but there was no Choosing then, not with an upper case. Just choices, that I made more or less without thinking, and it led me here. Because I didn't think any of my choices mattered that much. But these kids, they do. They really do. They think the Choosing is the most important moment of their lives, and they come into my office and sit in my chair and sweat and fidget and, often, cry. It tears them apart to have to Choose all at once, because they want a good ending for their story. Everyone wants a happy ending. And I watch my newest client, a kid in a buttoned up collar who's never really lived, Choose fifty years of hard work, eighty hour weeks, a wife who does the right thing, kids who get into college. I watch him Choose the "right" path, where he dies in bed, surrounded by his grandchildren, rich and ripe and old. And I flip past the pages about Mary, about how they ran on the beach in the dark. About the way she looked at him, the way her smile broke his heart and made him real. About how he could always make her laugh. I skipped over the pages of debt and struggle, that would have been sweet with her smile in every paragraph, with her laugh in every line. I skip every one, because he chose the responsible ending, not the one where he dies in a car accident on the way home from a party at forty-two. I can't tell him, or any of them, but I wish they knew. The only good endings are the ones that complete a good story.	You are the clerk who reads the CYOL books. If you decide to quit your job and go on an adventure, go to line numbered 1. If you decide to stay at your job and take fufillment in the careful enunciation of each word describing people's future destinies, go to line numbered 2. 1. Seeking excitement, you loudly proclaim that you quit your job, and intend to seek adventure. You decide to apply to a job dancing with polar bears while wearing naught with ice skates and a leather tunic. To see how this turns out, go to the line numbered 3 2. You carefully state each word in each book, and find the actual words lose meaning after a while. You grow increasingly tired, and dreams of ice skating and dangerous animals start to inhabit your mind. If you give in to temptation, go to line numbered 1. If you continue on this path, go to line numbered 4. 3. You get some near misses, and you almost die, but you sadly don't get the job, as the job just doesn't exist. Well. You could apply to a circus and be a clown, but that's not the same thing, is it, as much as some aspects are similar. You decide to apply for a job as a librarian. You could potentially read about dangerous acts then, since, hey, you have experience reading things, right? Go to line 5. 4. You find your mind dull, and your wits also dull. Everything is dull, dull, dull. You scream inwardly, but you are trapped in a dull job. You consider leaving (if you do, line 1 is for you), but you also realise you have tenure and job security in this job. You cannot leave. You mustn't leave. Too risky. Go to line 6. 5. You get an interview with the local library, and it all seems great. They say they'll 'let you know the results after they've finished the interview phase', and they commend you for having prior experience in reading to young people, especially teens. Go to line 7. 6. Control. Safety. Hope. What Hope? you start giving false information to the children, these mere teenagers entering your domain. You are tired of living for other people, you wish to live, but you cannot live. So you will ruin their lives. One doctor is to be told they're doomed to be a office clerk in a steel stockholder. One future supermodel with a tendency for poor decisions and dependency issues is encouraged to enter the porn industry. You are the master of their lives. DANCE, PUPPETS! DANCE! Go to line 8. 7. You're offered the job. If you take it, go to line 9. If you don't, return to your job reading the CYOL books via Line 2. 8. You're caught. You didn't think there was no oversight, did you? You're to go to jail for extreme abuse of CYOL Reader authority. Go to Jail, do not pass Go. 9. You have a long and fufilling life reading books to kids, and recommending books. You're an admin, a helper, and a researcher. And you pretty much manipulate the currents of fate to change people's destinies with your actions. The end. ((there would be more branches and more choices, but I'm at work and trying to actually work, but had to get this written down at least in this draft-like form)
	[WP] At age 18 you are required to go to city hall and have someone read you through a choose your own adventure style book of your life while you make the choices. The choices are permanent and will determine your life. You are the clerk reading the books.	“Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Paterson?” “Yes.” “Could you explain to the court, please?” “I read the endings. All of them.” A murmur arose from the spectators. I looked over at the jury box. Some jurors were frowning, others seemed visibly upset. One smiled. “Do you understand the seriousness of your crime, Mr. Paterson?” “Yes.” “Really? You seem . . . unfazed for someone who claims to understand. You upset the very balance of fate.” I sighed. The bizarre science behind the Book made the populace view it as a holy, unassailable item. The prosecutor knew better, but keeping this narrative would put the jury on his side. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “I broke a rule. I ran an existential red light. No one got hurt.” “This time. This time, no one got hurt.” “No one’s ever gotten hurt.” I could hear the spectators buzzing. “Mr. Paterson, are you admitting to reading these endings multiple times?” I glanced over at the juror’s box again. The young woman on the far left side of the back row was still smiling. “Yes,” I said. The spectator area exploded into noise. I thought I heard a few expletives above the din, but they merged into the nonsensical roar. “And why did you do such a thing?” I cupped my hand to my ear and prompted him to ask again. “Why did you do it?” My eyes wandered around the courtroom. I looked at the spectators, first. They were nearly a mob already. One more push would send them over the edge. I looked at the jurors next. They looked angry. Save one, of course. She gave me the smallest nod. “Mr. Paterson?” I looked back to the prosecutor. “I had to read them so I could tell my clients how to get the good ending.” Luckily, it took the crowd a few seconds to process my response. That gave the bailiffs enough time to run me out of the courtroom. I glanced behind me and saw citizens pushing each other aside as they stormed over the guardrails toward me. The bailiffs forced me through the side exit and quickly slammed the steel doors behind me. “You shouldn’t have said that, buddy,” said one of the bailiffs as he took my arm to lead me back to my holding cell. “This’ll be the fastest conviction in the history of the court.” “You think so? It would need to be unanimous.” “We could put 200 jurors in the box. It would still be unanimous.” “Maybe.” The bailiff shook his head. He led me down a second corridor and stopped in front of the holding cell. “This won’t end well for you,” he said as he opened the door. I stepped in. “You're wrong,” I said. “This is the best possible ending.”	You are the clerk who reads the CYOL books. If you decide to quit your job and go on an adventure, go to line numbered 1. If you decide to stay at your job and take fufillment in the careful enunciation of each word describing people's future destinies, go to line numbered 2. 1. Seeking excitement, you loudly proclaim that you quit your job, and intend to seek adventure. You decide to apply to a job dancing with polar bears while wearing naught with ice skates and a leather tunic. To see how this turns out, go to the line numbered 3 2. You carefully state each word in each book, and find the actual words lose meaning after a while. You grow increasingly tired, and dreams of ice skating and dangerous animals start to inhabit your mind. If you give in to temptation, go to line numbered 1. If you continue on this path, go to line numbered 4. 3. You get some near misses, and you almost die, but you sadly don't get the job, as the job just doesn't exist. Well. You could apply to a circus and be a clown, but that's not the same thing, is it, as much as some aspects are similar. You decide to apply for a job as a librarian. You could potentially read about dangerous acts then, since, hey, you have experience reading things, right? Go to line 5. 4. You find your mind dull, and your wits also dull. Everything is dull, dull, dull. You scream inwardly, but you are trapped in a dull job. You consider leaving (if you do, line 1 is for you), but you also realise you have tenure and job security in this job. You cannot leave. You mustn't leave. Too risky. Go to line 6. 5. You get an interview with the local library, and it all seems great. They say they'll 'let you know the results after they've finished the interview phase', and they commend you for having prior experience in reading to young people, especially teens. Go to line 7. 6. Control. Safety. Hope. What Hope? you start giving false information to the children, these mere teenagers entering your domain. You are tired of living for other people, you wish to live, but you cannot live. So you will ruin their lives. One doctor is to be told they're doomed to be a office clerk in a steel stockholder. One future supermodel with a tendency for poor decisions and dependency issues is encouraged to enter the porn industry. You are the master of their lives. DANCE, PUPPETS! DANCE! Go to line 8. 7. You're offered the job. If you take it, go to line 9. If you don't, return to your job reading the CYOL books via Line 2. 8. You're caught. You didn't think there was no oversight, did you? You're to go to jail for extreme abuse of CYOL Reader authority. Go to Jail, do not pass Go. 9. You have a long and fufilling life reading books to kids, and recommending books. You're an admin, a helper, and a researcher. And you pretty much manipulate the currents of fate to change people's destinies with your actions. The end. ((there would be more branches and more choices, but I'm at work and trying to actually work, but had to get this written down at least in this draft-like form)
	[WP] A sword kills a man's mortal body, a pen kills a man's immortal soul	Jacob sat at his desk in the Department of Communications and drummed on the wood with his pen. Tycho Gardner bombed a government building out in the British colonies and distributed information privy to those only in the upper-most echelons of New American government to those citizens. They were still attempting to wrestle order from the British—the irony didn’t escape Jacob—and the people were used to hearing stories of war from the Isles. The sensitivity of the information was why Jacob dealt with the story, and not one of the drones that buzzed from news station to news station leaving lies like bees left pollen. Superiors told him to make Tycho hurt. Jacob had gathered from his employer, a stuffy and abrupt meatball, that Defense was having a hard time breaking Tycho in prison, and they needed to know the extent of the information leak. There were no plans to release Tycho from his imprisonment and the official story was that he was killed in the bombing. Jacob stopped drumming and sat in silence. Then he began to write: Tycho Gardner, aged 32, died defending his country from the terrorist scourge that attacked the New American Embassy in the British Territory. He infiltrated their organization by means of coordination with the Defense Department, whose “information leak” was an elaborate ploy to garner credibility for Gardner. Ultimately, Gardner died during the terrorist attack attempting to defuse the explosive responsible. He will be remembered as a New American hero. Services will be held on the 3rd of December in preparation for Second Independence Day.	That damn editor will pay, yes he will he fumed. He think she can just trash my public policy and get away with it? Like I'm some kind of pushover who's just going to let my reputation, my very soul, be destroyed? He opened the drawer of his large oak desk and produced two flintlock pistols. They were cocked and loaded. Well, if he thinks he can persuade the public against me, I'll have to teach him a lesson. You don't write things about people like that! It's evil! No matter what he thinks, how can he justify snubbing me out, permanently! He stormed down the stairs of his office and into the street, narrowly missing a horse drawn buggy that was dashing by. "Get the fuck out of the way! Someone is trying to kill me!" he screamed. The people in the street ran to the sides and cleared him a path. Whispers of his identity and mission filled the air. He looked like a madman, messy hair and wild eyes barreling down the path. Ah, here it is, the Jackson Times. If he's going to destroy me, the least I can do is repay the favor the only way I know how. "Edwards! Get your ass down here! I saw what you wrote and I challenge you to a duel!" he bellowed.
	[WP] A sword kills a man's mortal body, a pen kills a man's immortal soul	"Mister Carrington," the well-dressed man spoke, "I have here a pen, and a sword. With these objects, I will kill you more completely than any man has ever been killed. And the best part is, you will choose the form your death takes." From down on the ground, a naked Mister Carrington stared blankly, an angry look in his eyes. He had long since given up on struggling to get out of his bonds. The rope was too tight. After a moment of silence, the well-dressed man continued. "You don't understand, do you, Mister Carrington? Well, let us begin," the well-dressed man clasped his hands, "You will get the hang of it soon enough. I have here on my desk the deed to your father's estate. With a wave of the pen, I can have the deed foreclosed and the property repossessed by the state. Or, if you choose, I can run you through with my sword." As if to demonstrate, the well-dressed man lifted a thin silver blade, admiring its beauty for a moment before looking back to Mister Carrington. "Choose quickly, sir, or I shall choose for you," the well-dressed man smiled humorlessly, "And I am inclined to choose both." "Take the estate then," Mister Carrington spat, "And may you ever find it cursed to the likes of you!' "Very well!" the well-dressed man moved back to the candle-lit desk, and for a moment all that could be heard in the silence were the scratchings of a pen. "It is done," the well-dressed man declared, "You and your family are now homeless. Moving on! Your wife, the Lady Carrington..." "You leave my wife alone!" Mister Carrington shouted. "Hannah, I believe her name is?" the well-dressed man continued, ignoring this outburst, "Well, now that she is homeless, I daresay she'll be in a difficult situation. Especially so, given the governor's initiative to rein in the destitute scoundrels plaguing our city. Oh, I imagine she could go back to living with her parents... or I could have the constabulary pay her a visit. She'll be locked away for her crimes... and if the paperwork gets lost, it could very well be indefinitely..." There was a moment of silence as this threat hung in the air. "Go ahead and run me through, then," Mister Carrington said, defiantly. "As you wish," and with that, the well-dressed man moved as quickly as lighting, driving the silvery sword straight through Mister Carrington's right palm and into the wooden floorboard. Mister Carrington screamed with pain, but the well-dressed man showed neither remorse nor satisfaction. He merely waited a moment, withdrew the sword, and cleaned the blood off with a piece of cloth. Mister Carrington's pain was agonizing, the shock of it making him gasp for breath, but the well-dressed man seemed unmoved. "You did not think I would end our game so soon, did you?" The well-dressed man asked, tutting softly, "No, Mister Carrington. Whatever choices you make, I assure you that I intend for this to be a painful ordeal for you. Next!" The well-dressed man moved back to the desk, "With your wife now financially unable to look after your children, the government is well within its rights to make them wards of the state. I sign this paper and they never see their mother again." "The sword!" Mister Carrington growled. The strike was a flash of action, going clean through Mister Carrington's forearm nearly the instant the word escaped his mouth. Seeing his own arm torn into like this, Carrington looked at it with horror and fascination. But soon, the well-dressed man had withdrawn the sword again and was back at his desk. "Your record of service with the military. Forty years. Very impressive!" the well-dressed man declared, "Or perhaps a clerical error. Yes, as I see it, you were dismissed dishonorably for... shall we say treason? Yes, that will do. Or I can leave it be. What do you think, Mister Carrington?" Mister Carrington hesitated before quietly speaking, "The sword." "Ah, you are a prideful man, aren't you, Mister Carrington?" the well-dressed man laughed, "Very well." And with a flick of the man's wrist, Mister Carrington's nose was cut off. With this fresh pain, and the horror of being defaced, Mister Carrington screamed. "By dose! You cud off by dose!" He yelled out, "You said you'd run be through!" "I did run you through, Mister Carrington," the well-dressed man laughed, "Twice, if you'll recall! But I did not tell you that every cut would be the same. Let this be a lesson against taking what you perceive to be the easy way out. I told you that I intended for this to be a painful ordeal, Mister Carrington. Do pay attention now." Mister Carrington moaned and cried softly as the well-dressed man moved back to the desk, "Here we have a promissory note for the local gambling hall for the amount of twenty thousand pounds. Now while I am only a fair forger, I imagine that if this note were to find its way into their papers with your signature, they're not likely to look too closely. No doubt when they go asking your wife about the money owed, she'll draw her own conclusions about what became of your estate. That is, unless you'd like me to remove something... else... from your person?" Mister Carrington cringed and spoke through his pain, "sign it." "As you wish," the well-dressed man spoke and got to work at forging the signature. After another moment, he set the pen down and continued, "Now, here we have a warrant for the arrest of the Bristol Strangler. The authorities have been trying to capture the man for some time, but as I have killed him myself, I do not think they are likely to find him. Let's change that, shall we? Imagine if your name were added to the list of aliases. The constables will no doubt want to follow up. Perhaps your wife will be interrogated for information as to your whereabouts? Or perhaps, instead of your name being on this paper, you'd rather my sword taste your flesh again?" "Cut me, you bastard" Mister Carrington spat. The well-dressed man sighed disapprovingly, walked over, and grabbed Mister Carrington's thinning hair in his gloved hand. "I will not tolerate such language," he warned, and then holding Mister Carrington's head firmly, pulled his sword across and sliced off Mister Carrington's lips as the man screamed in agony. Finishing his task, the well-dressed man flung his victim back down to the floor, where he was a sobbing mess. "Be careful you watch your tongue, Mister Carrington, or you are liable to lose that too," the man warned, moving back to the desk. "Next item up for discussion!" the man announced, "Ah! Another promissory note, this one to the local brothel. My, won't your wife be surprised... Or will she?" "Cut me!" Mister Carrington almost screamed. With a single stroke, the blade severed all of the fingers from Mister Carrington's right hand. By now, the poor man was in such pain that this hardly registered. "Ah! We've forgotten your brother! Why, it looks like he could be found guilty of fraud..." "Cut me!" And Mister Carrington had his left foot hamstrung. "Your brother's finances..." "Cut me!" And Mister Carrington had his right foot severed. "Cut me!" "Cut me!" "Fucking cut me!" ------ Many hours later, a carriage pulled up to a dark alley. A door opened up, and the well-dressed man pushed out a naked Mister Carrington covered in countless bandaged wounds and missing limbs. He was still in a great deal of pain, but no longer bleeding freely. "I believe that is everything, Mister Carrington," the well-dressed man laughed lightly, "so this is where we part ways." Mister Carrington looked back up at the man, and for once, the look he wore wasn't of anguish or anger or fear or shock, but of confusion. He opened his mouth to speak, but without his tongue the only sounds he made were incomprehensible. "You are wondering why I didn't kill you, no doubt?" the well-dressed man tilted his head slightly, "Oh, I thought you smarter than that. You have nothing. No money, no home. Right now, you are so grotesque that even if your family could bear to look at you, they wouldn't recognize you, and if they did, they would despise you. Those closest to you will gladly forget your name, or else curse it. And all of this due to the choices you have made. "As promised, I have killed you more completely than any man has ever been killed. As of now, Mister Carrington, you are dead. All that sits before me now is a pile of flesh and misery, doomed to a tortured existence for any days you decide to refrain from tossing yourself under a moving carriage. But what dies won't be Mister Carrington. It will merely be a nameless wretch with pretty little thoughts in its head about Mister Carrington, pretty little thoughts that will eat at it and drive it mad. "So again, I say that this is where we part ways, whoever you are. Whatever you are. Good bye." And with that, the well-dressed man disappeared into the carriage, and it drove off into the night.	That damn editor will pay, yes he will he fumed. He think she can just trash my public policy and get away with it? Like I'm some kind of pushover who's just going to let my reputation, my very soul, be destroyed? He opened the drawer of his large oak desk and produced two flintlock pistols. They were cocked and loaded. Well, if he thinks he can persuade the public against me, I'll have to teach him a lesson. You don't write things about people like that! It's evil! No matter what he thinks, how can he justify snubbing me out, permanently! He stormed down the stairs of his office and into the street, narrowly missing a horse drawn buggy that was dashing by. "Get the fuck out of the way! Someone is trying to kill me!" he screamed. The people in the street ran to the sides and cleared him a path. Whispers of his identity and mission filled the air. He looked like a madman, messy hair and wild eyes barreling down the path. Ah, here it is, the Jackson Times. If he's going to destroy me, the least I can do is repay the favor the only way I know how. "Edwards! Get your ass down here! I saw what you wrote and I challenge you to a duel!" he bellowed.
	[WP] A sword kills a man's mortal body, a pen kills a man's immortal soul	The Sword alone may rend unkind With swift strokes, blood to find Yet with pen in hand and paper to bind One can forever trap, the immortal mind A head rolls upon damp dreary stones A trail it leaves made of rotting bones Yet in memories far the hero still stands A strong soldier in his own homeland Yet there with simple scratch marks and a few half reported dim truths A small lie told, a nose held aloof Brings down the castle that was the proof The sword and the pen lay still Face to face upon that sun lit sill One for the glory, the other for fame The one you pick will determine your name	That damn editor will pay, yes he will he fumed. He think she can just trash my public policy and get away with it? Like I'm some kind of pushover who's just going to let my reputation, my very soul, be destroyed? He opened the drawer of his large oak desk and produced two flintlock pistols. They were cocked and loaded. Well, if he thinks he can persuade the public against me, I'll have to teach him a lesson. You don't write things about people like that! It's evil! No matter what he thinks, how can he justify snubbing me out, permanently! He stormed down the stairs of his office and into the street, narrowly missing a horse drawn buggy that was dashing by. "Get the fuck out of the way! Someone is trying to kill me!" he screamed. The people in the street ran to the sides and cleared him a path. Whispers of his identity and mission filled the air. He looked like a madman, messy hair and wild eyes barreling down the path. Ah, here it is, the Jackson Times. If he's going to destroy me, the least I can do is repay the favor the only way I know how. "Edwards! Get your ass down here! I saw what you wrote and I challenge you to a duel!" he bellowed.
	[WP] A sword kills a man's mortal body, a pen kills a man's immortal soul	"Mister Carrington," the well-dressed man spoke, "I have here a pen, and a sword. With these objects, I will kill you more completely than any man has ever been killed. And the best part is, you will choose the form your death takes." From down on the ground, a naked Mister Carrington stared blankly, an angry look in his eyes. He had long since given up on struggling to get out of his bonds. The rope was too tight. After a moment of silence, the well-dressed man continued. "You don't understand, do you, Mister Carrington? Well, let us begin," the well-dressed man clasped his hands, "You will get the hang of it soon enough. I have here on my desk the deed to your father's estate. With a wave of the pen, I can have the deed foreclosed and the property repossessed by the state. Or, if you choose, I can run you through with my sword." As if to demonstrate, the well-dressed man lifted a thin silver blade, admiring its beauty for a moment before looking back to Mister Carrington. "Choose quickly, sir, or I shall choose for you," the well-dressed man smiled humorlessly, "And I am inclined to choose both." "Take the estate then," Mister Carrington spat, "And may you ever find it cursed to the likes of you!' "Very well!" the well-dressed man moved back to the candle-lit desk, and for a moment all that could be heard in the silence were the scratchings of a pen. "It is done," the well-dressed man declared, "You and your family are now homeless. Moving on! Your wife, the Lady Carrington..." "You leave my wife alone!" Mister Carrington shouted. "Hannah, I believe her name is?" the well-dressed man continued, ignoring this outburst, "Well, now that she is homeless, I daresay she'll be in a difficult situation. Especially so, given the governor's initiative to rein in the destitute scoundrels plaguing our city. Oh, I imagine she could go back to living with her parents... or I could have the constabulary pay her a visit. She'll be locked away for her crimes... and if the paperwork gets lost, it could very well be indefinitely..." There was a moment of silence as this threat hung in the air. "Go ahead and run me through, then," Mister Carrington said, defiantly. "As you wish," and with that, the well-dressed man moved as quickly as lighting, driving the silvery sword straight through Mister Carrington's right palm and into the wooden floorboard. Mister Carrington screamed with pain, but the well-dressed man showed neither remorse nor satisfaction. He merely waited a moment, withdrew the sword, and cleaned the blood off with a piece of cloth. Mister Carrington's pain was agonizing, the shock of it making him gasp for breath, but the well-dressed man seemed unmoved. "You did not think I would end our game so soon, did you?" The well-dressed man asked, tutting softly, "No, Mister Carrington. Whatever choices you make, I assure you that I intend for this to be a painful ordeal for you. Next!" The well-dressed man moved back to the desk, "With your wife now financially unable to look after your children, the government is well within its rights to make them wards of the state. I sign this paper and they never see their mother again." "The sword!" Mister Carrington growled. The strike was a flash of action, going clean through Mister Carrington's forearm nearly the instant the word escaped his mouth. Seeing his own arm torn into like this, Carrington looked at it with horror and fascination. But soon, the well-dressed man had withdrawn the sword again and was back at his desk. "Your record of service with the military. Forty years. Very impressive!" the well-dressed man declared, "Or perhaps a clerical error. Yes, as I see it, you were dismissed dishonorably for... shall we say treason? Yes, that will do. Or I can leave it be. What do you think, Mister Carrington?" Mister Carrington hesitated before quietly speaking, "The sword." "Ah, you are a prideful man, aren't you, Mister Carrington?" the well-dressed man laughed, "Very well." And with a flick of the man's wrist, Mister Carrington's nose was cut off. With this fresh pain, and the horror of being defaced, Mister Carrington screamed. "By dose! You cud off by dose!" He yelled out, "You said you'd run be through!" "I did run you through, Mister Carrington," the well-dressed man laughed, "Twice, if you'll recall! But I did not tell you that every cut would be the same. Let this be a lesson against taking what you perceive to be the easy way out. I told you that I intended for this to be a painful ordeal, Mister Carrington. Do pay attention now." Mister Carrington moaned and cried softly as the well-dressed man moved back to the desk, "Here we have a promissory note for the local gambling hall for the amount of twenty thousand pounds. Now while I am only a fair forger, I imagine that if this note were to find its way into their papers with your signature, they're not likely to look too closely. No doubt when they go asking your wife about the money owed, she'll draw her own conclusions about what became of your estate. That is, unless you'd like me to remove something... else... from your person?" Mister Carrington cringed and spoke through his pain, "sign it." "As you wish," the well-dressed man spoke and got to work at forging the signature. After another moment, he set the pen down and continued, "Now, here we have a warrant for the arrest of the Bristol Strangler. The authorities have been trying to capture the man for some time, but as I have killed him myself, I do not think they are likely to find him. Let's change that, shall we? Imagine if your name were added to the list of aliases. The constables will no doubt want to follow up. Perhaps your wife will be interrogated for information as to your whereabouts? Or perhaps, instead of your name being on this paper, you'd rather my sword taste your flesh again?" "Cut me, you bastard" Mister Carrington spat. The well-dressed man sighed disapprovingly, walked over, and grabbed Mister Carrington's thinning hair in his gloved hand. "I will not tolerate such language," he warned, and then holding Mister Carrington's head firmly, pulled his sword across and sliced off Mister Carrington's lips as the man screamed in agony. Finishing his task, the well-dressed man flung his victim back down to the floor, where he was a sobbing mess. "Be careful you watch your tongue, Mister Carrington, or you are liable to lose that too," the man warned, moving back to the desk. "Next item up for discussion!" the man announced, "Ah! Another promissory note, this one to the local brothel. My, won't your wife be surprised... Or will she?" "Cut me!" Mister Carrington almost screamed. With a single stroke, the blade severed all of the fingers from Mister Carrington's right hand. By now, the poor man was in such pain that this hardly registered. "Ah! We've forgotten your brother! Why, it looks like he could be found guilty of fraud..." "Cut me!" And Mister Carrington had his left foot hamstrung. "Your brother's finances..." "Cut me!" And Mister Carrington had his right foot severed. "Cut me!" "Cut me!" "Fucking cut me!" ------ Many hours later, a carriage pulled up to a dark alley. A door opened up, and the well-dressed man pushed out a naked Mister Carrington covered in countless bandaged wounds and missing limbs. He was still in a great deal of pain, but no longer bleeding freely. "I believe that is everything, Mister Carrington," the well-dressed man laughed lightly, "so this is where we part ways." Mister Carrington looked back up at the man, and for once, the look he wore wasn't of anguish or anger or fear or shock, but of confusion. He opened his mouth to speak, but without his tongue the only sounds he made were incomprehensible. "You are wondering why I didn't kill you, no doubt?" the well-dressed man tilted his head slightly, "Oh, I thought you smarter than that. You have nothing. No money, no home. Right now, you are so grotesque that even if your family could bear to look at you, they wouldn't recognize you, and if they did, they would despise you. Those closest to you will gladly forget your name, or else curse it. And all of this due to the choices you have made. "As promised, I have killed you more completely than any man has ever been killed. As of now, Mister Carrington, you are dead. All that sits before me now is a pile of flesh and misery, doomed to a tortured existence for any days you decide to refrain from tossing yourself under a moving carriage. But what dies won't be Mister Carrington. It will merely be a nameless wretch with pretty little thoughts in its head about Mister Carrington, pretty little thoughts that will eat at it and drive it mad. "So again, I say that this is where we part ways, whoever you are. Whatever you are. Good bye." And with that, the well-dressed man disappeared into the carriage, and it drove off into the night.	Jacob sat at his desk in the Department of Communications and drummed on the wood with his pen. Tycho Gardner bombed a government building out in the British colonies and distributed information privy to those only in the upper-most echelons of New American government to those citizens. They were still attempting to wrestle order from the British—the irony didn’t escape Jacob—and the people were used to hearing stories of war from the Isles. The sensitivity of the information was why Jacob dealt with the story, and not one of the drones that buzzed from news station to news station leaving lies like bees left pollen. Superiors told him to make Tycho hurt. Jacob had gathered from his employer, a stuffy and abrupt meatball, that Defense was having a hard time breaking Tycho in prison, and they needed to know the extent of the information leak. There were no plans to release Tycho from his imprisonment and the official story was that he was killed in the bombing. Jacob stopped drumming and sat in silence. Then he began to write: Tycho Gardner, aged 32, died defending his country from the terrorist scourge that attacked the New American Embassy in the British Territory. He infiltrated their organization by means of coordination with the Defense Department, whose “information leak” was an elaborate ploy to garner credibility for Gardner. Ultimately, Gardner died during the terrorist attack attempting to defuse the explosive responsible. He will be remembered as a New American hero. Services will be held on the 3rd of December in preparation for Second Independence Day.
For any history buffs out there, this is a prompt I've been given in my honors history class in college, thought you guys might enjoy it.	[WP] Make up a country and insert into the world	"Beg pardon. I didn't catch that?" "O? Yays? O, sarry. Not good is the English, I know. Maybee gotta bad bean, I guess." "Oh, no, it's totally OK. In fact, I love the accent. But I have to admit, I can't quite place it. What nationality are you from anyway?" "Hoo me? I yam from Archonna." "Uh... excuse me? I don't think I know that one. Where exactly is Archonna?" "O, sumtimes here, sumtimes there. Rite now, is in Passific, about tree quarters southwise. Yes?" "Uh, what? How can a nation be sometimes here, and sometimes there? Are you saying it's a south pacific nation?" "Rite now, shure. Yu bet." said the stranger, taking out an instrument that was reminiscent of a pocketwatch, but with a map of the world where the clock face should be. "But anydayz now, it do be moving agen." "OK, I'm not getting that. You can't move whole nations. They're pretty stationary." "Huh? Well shur an I can't move Archonna. But it moves its own self pretty regoolar. Thats why I needs the gadget to keep it track ov. You no?" "Uh... OK. So, tell me about your nation." "O, is beeootiful nashun wear the magiks is thick as lice. Not like here wear its boring." "Magics?" "Shure, an you know, like the spellcrafting and the bindings an such? We got it all in Archonna." "Oh come on. You're telling me that whole Harry Potter deal with wizards and witches, that's real in Archonna." "Ya. Course." "OK, if you don't want to talk about where you come from, that's your business. I was just trying to make conversation, you know." The stranger tapped the side of his head until a small golden bean fell out. He shook it, stared at it critically, and stuck it back in his ear again. "I is not shure I no's what you mean. I haz been talking bout wear I come from. Maybe the bean is gone bad and my English is badder than I think?" "OK, fine, fine," I said, humoring him, "So you come from a country called Archonna, where magic is real but nobody has ever heard of it because for some reason, the whole nation moves from place to place so we people from the ... er, muggle, I guess ... world don't have it on any of our maps. And that's why you need a special pocketwatch to find it." "Yep, now you see it good. Okay?" At this point, there was a chime from his waistcoat pocket, and he withdrew the gadget that almost looked like a pocketwatch, and consulted it. "Oh goud," he said excitedly, "My ride is hear. Gotta go. See ya!" And having so said, he took four giant steps backwards without looking, and vanished without a trace, although for a brief fraction of a second, I could have sworn I saw him stepping into a golden paved courtyard before a delicately spired building with rich, colorful jungle foliage in the background. But only for a second, and then all that was left was the empty bus stop in my perfectly mundane city which suddenly felt considerably dirtier, grayer, and somehow poorer than it had a few minutes ago.	"Youre listening to the BBC, I'm Benedict Cumberbitch." "Chaos in the Pineapple Republic today as military forces loyal to Hawaiian nationalist Keanu Reeves stormed the presidential palace and declare a coup d'etat to ouster president Harrison Ford. The whereabouts of the president are unknown, though it is believed he fled the islands. This marks the third year of unrest in the Pineapple Republic since its insurgency and independence from the United States."
For any history buffs out there, this is a prompt I've been given in my honors history class in college, thought you guys might enjoy it.	[WP] Make up a country and insert into the world	Welcome to the Republic of Sealand. Nobody expected this back in the early 2000's but the growth of the principality of Sealand isn't something to mock. What seems like overnight, the small self-proclaimed country became one of the biggest instigators of sea trade and piracy. Backed by the Somalian terror groups which have taken over the coastal regions of norway, and funded by the Russians, Sealand's underground navy all but controls the international waters within a 100 mile radius. While the Somalian pirates and the Sealand government is highly denied by officials, but everyone knows the truth. The simple fact of increased pirate activity involving heavily armed Somalian pirates, as well as an unprecedented growth in economic prosperity. Sadly enough, in this situation, correlation does imply causation. Because of the lack of hard evidence, the UN still refuses to act due to Sealand's plea of strict neutrality and lack of an official military. Now due to economic growth and now uncontested waters, sealand has artificially increased its territory by over 6 miles with construction of the seascape of the North Sea, with concrete platforms and floating structures. Sealand, being in the center of the North Sea has lead to a reliance on foreign resources such as food. Because of this Sealand has resorted to deep sea mining for resources, in turn, kick starting their metal, chemical, medical, and electronic engineering. This has also increased our deep sea exploration capabilities, but has lead to a corruption of surrounding water with mining chemicals and gases released from the mantle. ------------ Teacher yelled at me for being on phone, will finish later	When the scientists made the announcements that they had invented anti-gravity, the usual responses followed: the public followed with ephemeral excitement on media websites, the scientific community scoffed at and berated the published papers for their "tenuous evidence of sensationalist claims", and politicians consulted their top scientific advisors and released pre-determined ambiguous statements, appealing to their voter margins. The scientists responsible, working at a relatively unknown university in Siberia, provided no stronger assertions for their claims and soon faded into quiet obscurity. Until now. Not many people knew what was happening before it was already several hours underway; not a surprise, considering the remoteness of the Russian taiga. But by evening, the same images blazed across the television screens across the world: that of an enormous chunk of land, rising slowly into the sky. It was roughly elliptical, viewed from the bottom by bewildered Russians, and it was estimated to measure almost 400 miles long and 200 miles across (and 2.5 miles high, from the tips of buildings to the bottom of the geological crust it had uprooted). Imagery from high-altitude aircraft and satellites showed that there were homes and farms and factories beside lakes and forests. In the very center lay the aforementioned university, broadcasting a boastful message from the very scientists who had claimed to have both ascertained the existence and learned how to control the behavior of gravitons. The message, when translated to English, spoke: "You doubted us, but now we have seceded to form our own country. Novomira will be ruled justly and without interference of the corrupt old world." Though military intervention by the Russian government seemed imminent, the action was voted against due to increasingly prohibitory costs of fuel for the specialized aircraft that would be required in order to reach the steadily rising chunk of land. Throughout the world, discussions raged. The same physicists who had scorned the first papers now gaped at their televisions, wondering what the hell had just happened. Politicians gave out more ambiguous statements, this time with more passion, while pundits hotly debated this incredible turn of events. The question most discussed was: exactly how self-sustaining was Novomira? On both sides, figures were drawn, numbers were run and arguments were shouted. Meanwhile, the newly christened country came to a slow halt at the edge of the atmosphere. Of one thing there was no doubt; tonight, her new citizens saw the stars more beautifully than ever before.
For any history buffs out there, this is a prompt I've been given in my honors history class in college, thought you guys might enjoy it.	[WP] Make up a country and insert into the world	Welcome to the Republic of Sealand. Nobody expected this back in the early 2000's but the growth of the principality of Sealand isn't something to mock. What seems like overnight, the small self-proclaimed country became one of the biggest instigators of sea trade and piracy. Backed by the Somalian terror groups which have taken over the coastal regions of norway, and funded by the Russians, Sealand's underground navy all but controls the international waters within a 100 mile radius. While the Somalian pirates and the Sealand government is highly denied by officials, but everyone knows the truth. The simple fact of increased pirate activity involving heavily armed Somalian pirates, as well as an unprecedented growth in economic prosperity. Sadly enough, in this situation, correlation does imply causation. Because of the lack of hard evidence, the UN still refuses to act due to Sealand's plea of strict neutrality and lack of an official military. Now due to economic growth and now uncontested waters, sealand has artificially increased its territory by over 6 miles with construction of the seascape of the North Sea, with concrete platforms and floating structures. Sealand, being in the center of the North Sea has lead to a reliance on foreign resources such as food. Because of this Sealand has resorted to deep sea mining for resources, in turn, kick starting their metal, chemical, medical, and electronic engineering. This has also increased our deep sea exploration capabilities, but has lead to a corruption of surrounding water with mining chemicals and gases released from the mantle. ------------ Teacher yelled at me for being on phone, will finish later	"Class, can anyone tell me what the newest country in the world is and what continent it is found on?" The teacher had a horrid nasally voice and everyone of the pupils would accept the sweet release of death before answering her question, except Alan. Alan was that kid. He had his hand raised and looked like overall exuded the look of if-you-don't-call-on-me-I'll-explode. Once called on he exploded like a geyser, "The newest country is Negralicas. It was made when the Middle East crumbled into itself from all the oil drilling and the underground caverns were revealed. It's in Asia." "Umm, isn't the Middle East part of Africa?" Alan whirled around and responded like a cracking whip, "NO! The Middle East is part of Asia!" Karen tried to balance her pencil on its end, this was not gonna be a fun year of school.
For any history buffs out there, this is a prompt I've been given in my honors history class in college, thought you guys might enjoy it.	[WP] Make up a country and insert into the world	Welcome to the Republic of Sealand. Nobody expected this back in the early 2000's but the growth of the principality of Sealand isn't something to mock. What seems like overnight, the small self-proclaimed country became one of the biggest instigators of sea trade and piracy. Backed by the Somalian terror groups which have taken over the coastal regions of norway, and funded by the Russians, Sealand's underground navy all but controls the international waters within a 100 mile radius. While the Somalian pirates and the Sealand government is highly denied by officials, but everyone knows the truth. The simple fact of increased pirate activity involving heavily armed Somalian pirates, as well as an unprecedented growth in economic prosperity. Sadly enough, in this situation, correlation does imply causation. Because of the lack of hard evidence, the UN still refuses to act due to Sealand's plea of strict neutrality and lack of an official military. Now due to economic growth and now uncontested waters, sealand has artificially increased its territory by over 6 miles with construction of the seascape of the North Sea, with concrete platforms and floating structures. Sealand, being in the center of the North Sea has lead to a reliance on foreign resources such as food. Because of this Sealand has resorted to deep sea mining for resources, in turn, kick starting their metal, chemical, medical, and electronic engineering. This has also increased our deep sea exploration capabilities, but has lead to a corruption of surrounding water with mining chemicals and gases released from the mantle. ------------ Teacher yelled at me for being on phone, will finish later	The United Nations bands together and decides to move all of the displaced Muslims from around the world to Texas to form a new country outside of Houston called "Al-Amrik" It would make for a killer reality tv series.
For any history buffs out there, this is a prompt I've been given in my honors history class in college, thought you guys might enjoy it.	[WP] Make up a country and insert into the world	A group of billionaires decide to occupy the disputed territory of the Western Sahara calling it The Platinum Coast. They turn the coast into a beach resort and hire some of the worlds top military leaders to train and command their security forces. All of the territories 500,000 inhabitants are given a choice. The men must join the Platinum Coast military to protect the resort from Islamic Extremists as well as invading armies from Morocco and Mauritania, who have been fighting for dominion over the territory for decades. The woman must work at the resort as laborers. Those who choose not to comply are cast out eastward, into the unforgiving desert. http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Western_Sahara	The United Nations bands together and decides to move all of the displaced Muslims from around the world to Texas to form a new country outside of Houston called "Al-Amrik" It would make for a killer reality tv series.
	[WP] You are awoken in the dead of night by a call from 666-666-6666. You answer to find the devil is drunk dialing you.	“So, what are you wearing?” the devil asked as I groggily picked up the phone. I blinked a few times, trying to focus, then glanced over at the clock. God dammit, 3:31 a.m. “You’ve been drinking again, haven’t you? I thought you said you were going to start going to those meetings?” I carefully extracted myself from the pile of depravity I had been enjoying last night, and by some miracle managed to not wake up any of them. Satan sighed as I reached over for my pack of smokes and lit one up, heading out onto the balcony. “Turns out AA is all about finding God. I already know where the fucker is, so it didn’t really help me much.” I blew some smoke out in the cold city night. Up here far above it all it was eerily calm this late at night. I could barely hear the cars down below. All I could hear was the wind and the very drunk prince of darkness slurring his words in my ear. I was seriously starting to regret giving that guy my card. “Look, you fuck up when you’re drunk. You know this. Remember last new years? Two thousand and ninety six re-united families! Twelve thousand unmolested drunken girls! Four hundred and twenty something suicidal morons suddenly changing their minds! Seriously dude, you’re fucking with the budget every time you take a drink. It has long term consequences.” I blew smoke out into the air, watching it get caught by the wind outside my balcony. That’s life for you. Smoke in the wind, just torn to shreds and disappeared into nothing. “I know,” he sighed. “I’m sorry man, sorry I’m such a fuckup. I just… I’ve been doing this for so long. It’s getting to me, man. I have nobody. Nobody…” I glanced in towards my bed. The innocence I had stolen. The debauchery I had introduced them all to. Oh how much fun they had been. How much I had changed their lives, tarnished their souls. I sighed. I understood him, I did. I never thought I’d say as much, but I had some sympathy for the devil. “You’ve got me,” I responded quietly. “I know it isn’t much, but you can call me any time man. Next time just call me before you start drinking.” It was quiet on the line. I knew he couldn’t do that. He could leave hell at will of course, travel the mortal realm as much as any of them, any of the supernatural creatures I had befriended or made enemies of in my years as a… Well. In my lifetime. My very long lifetime. He just couldn’t go take a vacation. He had duties. He had appearances to uphold. He couldn’t just sit down and grab a beer with a friend. “I… I’m sorry I called.” I thought I heard a choked off sob. “I really love you man. You’re the only person I can call, and the only one who would pick up even if I could call someone else.” “Aw come on Lucy, don’t be a little bitch.” He hated when I called him Lucy, but what can I say; it was a guy thing. Everyone got a nickname. “Look, I’ve got an idea.” I did. It had been brewing in my mind for a few weeks now, ever since I had realized he was still on this downward spiral. It might upset a few of my other friends, hell it WOULD upset a few of the people I knew on the other side of the tracks, so to say… but he was a friend. I’d make some sacrifices for a friend. “I don’t know. I can’t…” he groaned. I could hear him swigging from his drink still, and it steeled me into my decision even more. “No arguments man. We’ll meet at the next full moon, on the cross roads. I’ve got a ritual in mind that will help you out for a bit.” Silence. I could almost hear him blinking, hear him wondering what I was up to. He’d have to trust me a whole deal to let me cast any rituals on him. He was powerful enough to break through most bonds, but if he sat still for the casting… well. He’d have to trust me. “What… I mean, I trust you, but… uh…” his brain had soaked in alcohol for days now no doubt. No wonder he had a hard time making sense of anything. “I’ll take over, for one moon. For one moon, you take a vacation, I do your job.” I bit my lip. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I wasn’t a bad guy, and being Satan meant doing some bad shit. Some really fucking bad shit. I’d have blood on my hands before things were over. Innocent blood. But there had to be a devil. There had to be a balance in all things, and without the devil to keep that side of things… there wouldn’t be any good in the world. The angels would leave. I glanced over at the bed again, grinning at the memory of those white fluffy wings around me as I… “I.. I’m not sure. I don’t think I can let you…” he started, sounding awfully distant. “Hey! That’s not your fucking call. You need help, and I’m your friend. Friends help each other out. Say thank you and move the fuck on!” He slurred his words, but I got the thank you, the agreement. We’d meet. As he hung up I flicked the butt of my smoke off the building and lit another one. I knew who I had to call now, and grimaced. This was not going to be easy. I tapped the picture in my contact list. I had found it funny when I added it, the beardy man in the clouds, but now it was more a reminded of the fact that I didn’t even know what he looked like. I hadn’t even heard from him since I came back down here, other than a few grumbling messages through friends we had in common when I failed to achieve what he expected of me. I guess everyone had a complicated relationship with their dad these days. Still he deserved to hear it from me, even if he is supposedly omniscient and probably already knew. “Yo dad,” I opened, and sucked harder on my cigarette to calm myself. “Uh, I’m gonna do something a bit crazy.”	I'm in bed, the credits of some random "friends" episode is playing, and this is my cue to get some rest. I lay my head on my coconut pillow, breathing in deeply, I can almost see myself just sitting in the sands of a beach far far away from here... I begin to slowly drift away into the a deep cumbersome sleep. Just as I can begin to feel the sand between my toes, VRUMMPT- VRUMMPT-, as I'm jolted awake I mutter "who the fuck is calling me at this hour, the hell, if it's Ashley I'm going to kill that woman". I grab my phone from under my soft pillow and the light blinds me at first until I'm slowly able to make out who was calling me. My screen boasted the number 666-666-6666 was calling me, "that's weird, what area code is that?!", I wasn't gonna answer it but it seemed as soon as I looked at it my phone automatically clicked accept. Not wanting to be rude by hanging up I whispered grumpily "hello?", to which a simple "hey, is your dryer running?!!" and a few snickers followed. "Jordan, is this you?!!, come on man I was about to be asleep, you really don't have anything better to do?!". A slurred response retorted "no no no... This isn't j-j-ordaaan, this is luu-ci--fer, come on man, you remember me, right?!!" To which I replied "you say this was Lucy Fore, isn't that a girls name?" The voice on the other side bellowed "fuck you man!, I've been drinking, but that's not important, listen mark, I need to talk to so-- hiccup someone please..." Taken back, I speak out concerned "what's wrong man?", who is this really?" Are you ok, what's up?". The voice which is still unrecognizable, maybe eddy from high school?, was beginning to sob uncontrollably. Through broken sobs he managed to pout out "you have no idea, man, I had it all, I was it man, I was THE dude, I just let jealously get the better of me. All I know now is pain, depression, misery, and every time I try to talk to sob someone, I quickly realize I'm surrounded by uncaring assholes. I don't know what to do anym-" I interject "eddy, if this is you, man, I'm not sure what your going through but I promise it will get better man. Do you want to maybe meet up sometime, talk things through?" The voice replied in the most sorrow-driven voice possible "it's ok mark, I'll see you soon enough" before hanging up....
	[WP] You are awoken in the dead of night by a call from 666-666-6666. You answer to find the devil is drunk dialing you.	“So, what are you wearing?” the devil asked as I groggily picked up the phone. I blinked a few times, trying to focus, then glanced over at the clock. God dammit, 3:31 a.m. “You’ve been drinking again, haven’t you? I thought you said you were going to start going to those meetings?” I carefully extracted myself from the pile of depravity I had been enjoying last night, and by some miracle managed to not wake up any of them. Satan sighed as I reached over for my pack of smokes and lit one up, heading out onto the balcony. “Turns out AA is all about finding God. I already know where the fucker is, so it didn’t really help me much.” I blew some smoke out in the cold city night. Up here far above it all it was eerily calm this late at night. I could barely hear the cars down below. All I could hear was the wind and the very drunk prince of darkness slurring his words in my ear. I was seriously starting to regret giving that guy my card. “Look, you fuck up when you’re drunk. You know this. Remember last new years? Two thousand and ninety six re-united families! Twelve thousand unmolested drunken girls! Four hundred and twenty something suicidal morons suddenly changing their minds! Seriously dude, you’re fucking with the budget every time you take a drink. It has long term consequences.” I blew smoke out into the air, watching it get caught by the wind outside my balcony. That’s life for you. Smoke in the wind, just torn to shreds and disappeared into nothing. “I know,” he sighed. “I’m sorry man, sorry I’m such a fuckup. I just… I’ve been doing this for so long. It’s getting to me, man. I have nobody. Nobody…” I glanced in towards my bed. The innocence I had stolen. The debauchery I had introduced them all to. Oh how much fun they had been. How much I had changed their lives, tarnished their souls. I sighed. I understood him, I did. I never thought I’d say as much, but I had some sympathy for the devil. “You’ve got me,” I responded quietly. “I know it isn’t much, but you can call me any time man. Next time just call me before you start drinking.” It was quiet on the line. I knew he couldn’t do that. He could leave hell at will of course, travel the mortal realm as much as any of them, any of the supernatural creatures I had befriended or made enemies of in my years as a… Well. In my lifetime. My very long lifetime. He just couldn’t go take a vacation. He had duties. He had appearances to uphold. He couldn’t just sit down and grab a beer with a friend. “I… I’m sorry I called.” I thought I heard a choked off sob. “I really love you man. You’re the only person I can call, and the only one who would pick up even if I could call someone else.” “Aw come on Lucy, don’t be a little bitch.” He hated when I called him Lucy, but what can I say; it was a guy thing. Everyone got a nickname. “Look, I’ve got an idea.” I did. It had been brewing in my mind for a few weeks now, ever since I had realized he was still on this downward spiral. It might upset a few of my other friends, hell it WOULD upset a few of the people I knew on the other side of the tracks, so to say… but he was a friend. I’d make some sacrifices for a friend. “I don’t know. I can’t…” he groaned. I could hear him swigging from his drink still, and it steeled me into my decision even more. “No arguments man. We’ll meet at the next full moon, on the cross roads. I’ve got a ritual in mind that will help you out for a bit.” Silence. I could almost hear him blinking, hear him wondering what I was up to. He’d have to trust me a whole deal to let me cast any rituals on him. He was powerful enough to break through most bonds, but if he sat still for the casting… well. He’d have to trust me. “What… I mean, I trust you, but… uh…” his brain had soaked in alcohol for days now no doubt. No wonder he had a hard time making sense of anything. “I’ll take over, for one moon. For one moon, you take a vacation, I do your job.” I bit my lip. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I wasn’t a bad guy, and being Satan meant doing some bad shit. Some really fucking bad shit. I’d have blood on my hands before things were over. Innocent blood. But there had to be a devil. There had to be a balance in all things, and without the devil to keep that side of things… there wouldn’t be any good in the world. The angels would leave. I glanced over at the bed again, grinning at the memory of those white fluffy wings around me as I… “I.. I’m not sure. I don’t think I can let you…” he started, sounding awfully distant. “Hey! That’s not your fucking call. You need help, and I’m your friend. Friends help each other out. Say thank you and move the fuck on!” He slurred his words, but I got the thank you, the agreement. We’d meet. As he hung up I flicked the butt of my smoke off the building and lit another one. I knew who I had to call now, and grimaced. This was not going to be easy. I tapped the picture in my contact list. I had found it funny when I added it, the beardy man in the clouds, but now it was more a reminded of the fact that I didn’t even know what he looked like. I hadn’t even heard from him since I came back down here, other than a few grumbling messages through friends we had in common when I failed to achieve what he expected of me. I guess everyone had a complicated relationship with their dad these days. Still he deserved to hear it from me, even if he is supposedly omniscient and probably already knew. “Yo dad,” I opened, and sucked harder on my cigarette to calm myself. “Uh, I’m gonna do something a bit crazy.”	"Wha- Hello?" "Hey bitch." "What? Whose this?" "You, you, wanna know who this is? Huh b-bitch?" "I'm hanging up now." -- "Hello!?" "Hey fag, what, what ya doing?" "Stop calling me. I'm blocking you!" "He, he... You can't block m-m-me bitch. I'm the D-Devil. He he." "Fuck off asshole." --- "I said stop calling. I'm calling the police." "Wait wait wait, I'll stop."
	[WP] You are a superhero whose power matches their weakness. (Suicidal yet invincible, invisible yet craves attention, etc) This is a day in your life.	I'm tired. Tired of school. Tired of childish jokes. Tired of being treated like a child. I'm 13 years old. But if I were to consider the entirety of my life from my perception, I'd probably be closer to 100. I guess you could call me a perfectionist. Someone drop something on my clothes? Better restart the day. Say something stupid and embarrass myself in front of everyone? I'll try again. Lose something important? I'll go back to when I last had it. There's nothing I would like more than for everything to just go right the first time so I can get on with my life.	I walk in the store, head down avoiding to look at anyone. "Can I help you?" A kind worker asks with a smile and I feel my chest tightening and the pressure of her question is unbearable. I stutter a quiet "no" and hurry away. I know what I want and I know where to get it. I can't stop my heart racing until I am finally safe at home behind my locked door. Only then to I sink down and feel completely able to breath again. I resent the irony of it. I have the charisma to charm anyone. My sister wanted to call me Prince Charming, but I refused. I look handsome and confident and I am strong enough to protect anyone, I should be able to smooth-talk even the most vile criminals out there, but of course I am stuck with the worst social-anxiety ever. Life isn't fair.
	[WP] You are a superhero whose power matches their weakness. (Suicidal yet invincible, invisible yet craves attention, etc) This is a day in your life.	I knew it would happen again. I dont know how I convinced myself once more to believe that this time it would be different. At least she stayed with me this long. Happy anniversary, honey. Or near anniversary, I guess. It sucks being able to control the size of my penis at will but the novelty wears off pretty fast. I cant get erections.	The alarm buzzed. John took his time and rolled out of bed. He slowly made his way from the bed to the bathroom. Another morning, another day, another struggle. Even for a man with powers like John. John looked himself in the bathroom-mirror streching from the floor up to the sealing. It was a nice mirror, althought he didnt like what it refected. His nose was neatly shaped, his lips looked like those of a greek god and his facial features were all together beautiful. But this didn't seem to please John. His nostrils flared with force as he took one last look before leaving the bathroom. John had power like no one els, and doctors had not been able to find an explination behind it. John possesed incredible strenght. When making breakfast he manished to break his bowl, spoon and fridge all in one motion. He howled with anger. Anger turned to sadness as he started to cry. Tears flowed from his eyes down on the floor where he lay. -"Why me?" He asked plainly. "Jesus, why me?!" John, with power like no others, possesed one weakness.. He was born without limbs...
	[WP] You are a superhero whose power matches their weakness. (Suicidal yet invincible, invisible yet craves attention, etc) This is a day in your life.	I'm tired. Tired of school. Tired of childish jokes. Tired of being treated like a child. I'm 13 years old. But if I were to consider the entirety of my life from my perception, I'd probably be closer to 100. I guess you could call me a perfectionist. Someone drop something on my clothes? Better restart the day. Say something stupid and embarrass myself in front of everyone? I'll try again. Lose something important? I'll go back to when I last had it. There's nothing I would like more than for everything to just go right the first time so I can get on with my life.	The alarm buzzed. John took his time and rolled out of bed. He slowly made his way from the bed to the bathroom. Another morning, another day, another struggle. Even for a man with powers like John. John looked himself in the bathroom-mirror streching from the floor up to the sealing. It was a nice mirror, althought he didnt like what it refected. His nose was neatly shaped, his lips looked like those of a greek god and his facial features were all together beautiful. But this didn't seem to please John. His nostrils flared with force as he took one last look before leaving the bathroom. John had power like no one els, and doctors had not been able to find an explination behind it. John possesed incredible strenght. When making breakfast he manished to break his bowl, spoon and fridge all in one motion. He howled with anger. Anger turned to sadness as he started to cry. Tears flowed from his eyes down on the floor where he lay. -"Why me?" He asked plainly. "Jesus, why me?!" John, with power like no others, possesed one weakness.. He was born without limbs...
	[WP] You are a superhero whose power matches their weakness. (Suicidal yet invincible, invisible yet craves attention, etc) This is a day in your life.	"You said you'd sign the contract today, honey." His wife was always annoyed at the indecision. He'd waver back and forth for ages on anything and everything. "I know, but do we really need a house this big? I know we can afford it, but it seems like a waste of money." "You're part of the Earth Defense League. You can afford to enjoy your life. Plus we may need the space someday for little speedsters of our own." He nodded. He had agreed a family would take a bigger house. And the acreage would provide plenty of playground if his kids turned out like him. Powers begat powers, he was told. Not always the same, but usually close. He watched his wife, his power never turning off. She moved in a liquid slow motion. He could see her nostrils flare whenever she was annoyed with him. He couldn't help but keep thinking, We could buy a smaller place now and a bigger one when she's pregnant. But that would make the move more stressful, stacking the two things. Might as well bite the bullet now. But it just feels ostentatious. I'm not Avenger or Mighty Girl. I just don't know what to do with this stipend. Ugh. Buy the house, I guess. Why not. Screw it. But is this even the best location? It's so close to the airport, I can hear the planes all the time. It went on for relative hours sometimes. His frustration pushed his powers even stronger, slowing down time even more as he argued with himself. But he did what he always did when faced with the indecision. He let his wife choose. It was so easy to do. It didn't work when he was in the field, but it did here. And luckily in the field, if he took a few extra seconds to take out the enemy, no one ever noticed. He signed the papers in a wink. He had to slow his hand down to keep from destroying it; a practice he had become good at over the years.	The alarm buzzed. John took his time and rolled out of bed. He slowly made his way from the bed to the bathroom. Another morning, another day, another struggle. Even for a man with powers like John. John looked himself in the bathroom-mirror streching from the floor up to the sealing. It was a nice mirror, althought he didnt like what it refected. His nose was neatly shaped, his lips looked like those of a greek god and his facial features were all together beautiful. But this didn't seem to please John. His nostrils flared with force as he took one last look before leaving the bathroom. John had power like no one els, and doctors had not been able to find an explination behind it. John possesed incredible strenght. When making breakfast he manished to break his bowl, spoon and fridge all in one motion. He howled with anger. Anger turned to sadness as he started to cry. Tears flowed from his eyes down on the floor where he lay. -"Why me?" He asked plainly. "Jesus, why me?!" John, with power like no others, possesed one weakness.. He was born without limbs...
	[WP] You are a superhero whose power matches their weakness. (Suicidal yet invincible, invisible yet craves attention, etc) This is a day in your life.	I'm tired. Tired of school. Tired of childish jokes. Tired of being treated like a child. I'm 13 years old. But if I were to consider the entirety of my life from my perception, I'd probably be closer to 100. I guess you could call me a perfectionist. Someone drop something on my clothes? Better restart the day. Say something stupid and embarrass myself in front of everyone? I'll try again. Lose something important? I'll go back to when I last had it. There's nothing I would like more than for everything to just go right the first time so I can get on with my life.	You know what's worse than depressing, not being able to eat ice cream when you are depressed. Everything tastes like ash, I hawk down down another french fry and it turns to ashes in the thoat, I start to choke I grab the cup and it melts to my hand by the time the remnants touch my lips it's evaporated. Being a human torch should be fun. I can do all kinds of great stuff, but all I do is burn down everything I love and the only person I have ever loved.
	[WP] You are a superhero whose power matches their weakness. (Suicidal yet invincible, invisible yet craves attention, etc) This is a day in your life.	"You said you'd sign the contract today, honey." His wife was always annoyed at the indecision. He'd waver back and forth for ages on anything and everything. "I know, but do we really need a house this big? I know we can afford it, but it seems like a waste of money." "You're part of the Earth Defense League. You can afford to enjoy your life. Plus we may need the space someday for little speedsters of our own." He nodded. He had agreed a family would take a bigger house. And the acreage would provide plenty of playground if his kids turned out like him. Powers begat powers, he was told. Not always the same, but usually close. He watched his wife, his power never turning off. She moved in a liquid slow motion. He could see her nostrils flare whenever she was annoyed with him. He couldn't help but keep thinking, We could buy a smaller place now and a bigger one when she's pregnant. But that would make the move more stressful, stacking the two things. Might as well bite the bullet now. But it just feels ostentatious. I'm not Avenger or Mighty Girl. I just don't know what to do with this stipend. Ugh. Buy the house, I guess. Why not. Screw it. But is this even the best location? It's so close to the airport, I can hear the planes all the time. It went on for relative hours sometimes. His frustration pushed his powers even stronger, slowing down time even more as he argued with himself. But he did what he always did when faced with the indecision. He let his wife choose. It was so easy to do. It didn't work when he was in the field, but it did here. And luckily in the field, if he took a few extra seconds to take out the enemy, no one ever noticed. He signed the papers in a wink. He had to slow his hand down to keep from destroying it; a practice he had become good at over the years.	You know what's worse than depressing, not being able to eat ice cream when you are depressed. Everything tastes like ash, I hawk down down another french fry and it turns to ashes in the thoat, I start to choke I grab the cup and it melts to my hand by the time the remnants touch my lips it's evaporated. Being a human torch should be fun. I can do all kinds of great stuff, but all I do is burn down everything I love and the only person I have ever loved.
	[WP] You are a superhero whose power matches their weakness. (Suicidal yet invincible, invisible yet craves attention, etc) This is a day in your life.	"You said you'd sign the contract today, honey." His wife was always annoyed at the indecision. He'd waver back and forth for ages on anything and everything. "I know, but do we really need a house this big? I know we can afford it, but it seems like a waste of money." "You're part of the Earth Defense League. You can afford to enjoy your life. Plus we may need the space someday for little speedsters of our own." He nodded. He had agreed a family would take a bigger house. And the acreage would provide plenty of playground if his kids turned out like him. Powers begat powers, he was told. Not always the same, but usually close. He watched his wife, his power never turning off. She moved in a liquid slow motion. He could see her nostrils flare whenever she was annoyed with him. He couldn't help but keep thinking, We could buy a smaller place now and a bigger one when she's pregnant. But that would make the move more stressful, stacking the two things. Might as well bite the bullet now. But it just feels ostentatious. I'm not Avenger or Mighty Girl. I just don't know what to do with this stipend. Ugh. Buy the house, I guess. Why not. Screw it. But is this even the best location? It's so close to the airport, I can hear the planes all the time. It went on for relative hours sometimes. His frustration pushed his powers even stronger, slowing down time even more as he argued with himself. But he did what he always did when faced with the indecision. He let his wife choose. It was so easy to do. It didn't work when he was in the field, but it did here. And luckily in the field, if he took a few extra seconds to take out the enemy, no one ever noticed. He signed the papers in a wink. He had to slow his hand down to keep from destroying it; a practice he had become good at over the years.	I knew it would happen again. I dont know how I convinced myself once more to believe that this time it would be different. At least she stayed with me this long. Happy anniversary, honey. Or near anniversary, I guess. It sucks being able to control the size of my penis at will but the novelty wears off pretty fast. I cant get erections.
	[WP] WW3 breaks out, but Science has basically 'cured death' and this war is just for fun.	“Hit the fucking deck, private!” Staff Sergeant MacBrady’s call ran across the trench air and burst into Private Tully’s consciousness just quick enough for him to duck the incoming shrapnel. MacBrady darted hurriedly over in a hunched crouch. “You alright?” ----------- “Yeah, I think so.” He was shaking, along with the familiar-faced private he had just met three weeks ago. MacBrady had made the acquaintance of many ‘fresh’ recruits, too many for his liking. The Irish military was sending them in as quickly as the Spanish were grinding them up. The Reals, as the Irish dispassionately referred to them, had for years now been pushing north through the Irish mainland, resisted but not prevented from making it as far as Kildare, Meath, and now the Hill of Tara - just west of Dublin - where MacBrady had been encamped for half a year. Irish forces had, by the third month of encampment, bored holes into the mound, constructing a labyrinthian tunnel system that was as confusing to navigate as it was hastily constructed. With the constant pound of Spanish artillery bounding across the smoke-scarred fields, careful construction had been abandoned in favor of brisk enterprise, which found the Irish in a constant state of implacable frustration. Cave-ins and faults in electrical wiring undid any sense of fortitude the Hill provided, the notion of which, were any national historical scholar to have been thrust into the ranks of Staff Sergeant MacBrady, should have been thoroughly uprooted from the get go. Yet MacBrady did not have historians in his midst. In fact, it had become impossible to say what, indeed, MacBrady had in his midst. ----------- It had all begun in the year 2100, the year that Science dominated and united the entire world under the transnational banner of Knowledge. Through a series of concurrent and precisely timed cyber attacks, The Committee had usurped the ruling classes of every country. National borders burst open and upon every post Science hung their flags, crosses of iron and bronze, dotted silver and gold-flecked, bearing the Crest of the Sun, a hardly subtle allusion to Plato and his tutor. ----------- It had taken thousands of years of searching and waiting, but the Philosopher King had finally emerged from the dregs of humanity: Malik, a boy of only eight years. The Committee had found him in the ancient Somali port, Qandala, superimposing constellations upon a maritime map of the ocean. He had through some celestial phenomena discovered a formula by which to predict the size, speed, and location of rogue waves, accurate to within a kilometer. Almost instantaneously, The Committee had ushered him in to rule over Science as Philosopher King in 2078. In his first year of rule, afforded the best equipment, facilities, and academic minds, he had cured every major disease and rid the world of food allergies. In the following three years, he focused on tissue regeneration, which culminated in the first ever successful growth of an entire human body from only ten cells. By the time he was eighteen, he had successfully collaborated with the world’s greatest computational minds to achieve digital immortality, a computer with enough processing power to emulate every single neural synapse of the human brain. He had, in every regard, cured death. ----------- The Great Rationalization began in 2101. In schools everywhere religion was slowly phased out as fantasy, an impedance to true knowledge. It was said in those times that “Philosophy is Theology without the safety net of God.” Hence within a generation, long after Malik’s fated date of death, which he bluntly and successfully overturned with ease, religion went extinct, and with it the romanticizing power of superstition. As those who could afford it increased their longevity indefinitely, the world pulsed on, every blip muffled by the nihilistic roar of infinity. ----------- Malik felt the pain the worst, as he was the first to become, for all intents and purposes, immortal. He stalked the courtyard of his arabesque Moroccan riad. He had everything, and it meant nothing to him. In a molten flare of temper, he threw his phone at the funerary urn he had purchased on his visit Tzu, once called China. It’s cerulean shards rattled on the floor, echoing hollowly through the halls. He kicked at the broken pieces, and let out a dry laugh, the emptiness of which matched the senselessness of his purchase. It was approaching twilight, and the faint outline of stars seeped through the open sky and chequered the courtyard. Luminous dots arrayed his broken urn and struck him to recall his youth, the times he spent on the Somali sands playing with old maps and stars. He only stumbled upon the formula by chance. What had really intrigued him was the map, the oceans, the terrestrial outlines, and the sense of ownership it instilled. He was no longer a spiritual youth filled with wonder, he was a bored and powerful man. God was dead, and he felt more than ever a directive that emanated from his apathetic heart: he would break the Peace, start a war, and why not? No one would have to die. ----------- ----------- An explosion erupted overhead. “Staff Sergeant MacBrady,” called the young recruit. He had a deep gash running from the top of his throat to the bottom of his left shoulder. It looked as though he had been torn open and sewn back together. MacBrady gathered that that is exactly what had happened. “Yes, what?” MacBrady replied, eyeing the scar. “What’s our next move?” “Our next move is that I stay alive as long as possible, and you try to do the same.” Tully was taken aback. Immediately after the words left his mouth, the Staff Sergeant felt a pang of guilt for being so unnecessarily curt, but it wore on a man, seeing the same set of damned eyes in the same body as all the others, month after month. There were probably only a few hundred of them, the other corpses too thoroughly obliterated to make any sort of genetic recovery. ----------- MacBrady saw firsthand the rotating door of facial features and body parts, the limited iterations the army was becoming restricted to. Why, he had seen Tully’s crooked nose twenty times by now, each time filled with a new soul, whoever was up for deployment. Even despite the tissue regeneration, the scars somehow grew back with them. Though innocent his countenance was, Tully bore the marks of a lifetime of war all over his body, including the physical memory of the blade that had split him open at the throat two months ago. ----------- What truly disturbed MacBrady, though, was not the bodies, but the souls that inhabited them, for they never seemed to repeat, or, if they did, had no personal remembrance of ever being alive. Only three days into the battle, a recruit by the name of Finn had swapped stories with him while they kept vigil overnight. Finn had been orphaned as a teenager and had left for (what was previously called) America to wander until finally making his way back to his birthplace to fight for his Celtic nation that once was. Finn had died in a mortar blast, but that was nearly six months ago, and not since had MacBrady seen any hint of Finn in the physiognomy of his recruits. ----------- Dusk was setting in, and the sun rode low in the sky. Tully's shadow was just as real as him, a cast of a cast. Where were the souls going, MacBrady asked himself. With each repetition, the recruits seemed increasingly bland - bereft of idiosyncrasy, as though “Default” was becoming the more prevalent option for soldiers. Was God or his pagan likenesses, though dead on Earth, living elsewhere, plucking the souls from the dead once their mortal bodies expired? Whatever was happening, MacBrady was sure of one thing: Malik had not cured death, not beyond the physical. For all of the RAM, storage, and regeneration, the soul, MacBrady concluded, had become lost in translation. EDITS: typos.	His skin was bubbling. Just like cooking noodles, all the popping and spitting occurred, but on his skin. Admittedly the color was a bit more green and the pain was nearly as bad as that bite he took nearly a decade ago. Some spider from a zoo had shutdown his entire immune system with a nanoliter of poison, it was amazing. The boys in the trenches next to him were bubbling as well, the opposition sent over mustard gas as well- he couldn't imagine what was happening in the reversal of the Korean War nearly one thousand miles from here. He felt his face start to pop off, the green tinged skin and blood drafted down onto his palm before he blacked out. His eyes shot open, he shook his cheeks out and yawned like you do. Galtic was used to the waking up part, it was the dying that was truly interesting. Some scientist somewhere had figured out how to clone the human bodies and download the memories every milisecond, Galtic remembered the green skin floating down to his palm. He remembered the spider bite leaving him frozen and yet sweating, and that day he ate some shrubbery that turned out to be nightshade. He pushed the glass door off the tube he was in. A small set of hangers were in front of him, they had an assigned uniform for rebirth, luckily he'd been here often enough to have a few options, after the fifth resurrection you start to learn the tricks of the trade like stealing the rebirth clothes of your neighbor and hanging them up on your rack. Galtic walked past his hangers and noticed a gathering of rebirthers in the cafeteria, huddled around the deployment screens. Some new war must have popped up, perhaps he'd lost track of the time and it was event season once more? Once he'd slid on the pants of a neigbor from three lives ago, he pushed his way through the huddle, it was a live feed of the effects of greek fire. Somehow scientists had discovered how to live eternally before archaeologists could duplicate some shit in jars from two centuries ago. The girl on the screen was burning a bright purple and she ran around for what seemed like hours. Her skin didn't pop it just darkened and turned to ash, the heat must have been far above anything else they'd all felt. The video was reminiscent of the only group that couldn't come back. Nucelar bomb sufferers. The videos of them were just utter incineration until you moved out about five miles from the impact, then the blue and purple flames started to eat you. Viewers watched eagerly, some signed up to test it right then and there, they even watched the boys and girls teleport into this location and light themselves ablaze, the proveyors rebirthers tended to call them. The girl finally stopped burning and squirming, an update appeared in the bottom right of the screen "refreshing" but the circle just kept spinning. Finally the connection was lost, she was actually gone. It was a way to truly die, probably the heat prevented a proper download for too long and let the database expire, that's the cause behind nuclear impact errors supposedly. Galtic tapped his foot, he'd had enough of these games hadn't he? The crowd slowly spread to other screens. Galtic was soon the only one watching, the little refreshing circle just kept failing. It was an end, and an interesting one at that. The circle popped up once more, Galtic was about to head back to the trench warfare station, there were still a few ways they had to die by the German players if he so chose, but that little checkmark appeared in the corner and a room location popped up. The girl was saved and came back. Yet another way he wouldn't be able to get out, he walked over to the Korean War booth and signed up for the home team, maybe Agent Orange would do the trick?
	[WP] WW3 breaks out, but Science has basically 'cured death' and this war is just for fun.	I walk down the street glancing at the setting sun. On any other day I would have been in heaven, a leisurely walk on a warm winters eve with the sight of a setting sun but not this day. No not this day nor any from now on. Everyday no matter how beautiful has lost all enjoyment for me, you see just over a week ago the final war of this planet started. It started like any other day, until a man crashed his car into a tree and survived his body broken and destroyed and suffering every moment in complete agony. What followed seemed like a miracle, every person who had received a routine flu vaccination for the coming winter showed an incredible ability. They were immortal. Soon the cure for death had spread and everyone was excited. Until the suicide bombers realised they couldn't die but live on in excruciating pain with their victims, then the death row inmates were walking away from the firing squad the bodies disfigured beyond recognition. It didn't take long for all people to realise that there was no point to life. A depressed man would jump from a building only to break every bone in his body and continue his life as a purée. An elderly women would suffer every day from horrific cancer throughout her body with no hope. A deep realise set in for all people that without death life will be agony, so people invented newer, greater more powerful ways to kill people but nothing seemed to work. So here I stand in this nuclear waste land with everyone else, hoping that one day we will be able to leave this life.	His skin was bubbling. Just like cooking noodles, all the popping and spitting occurred, but on his skin. Admittedly the color was a bit more green and the pain was nearly as bad as that bite he took nearly a decade ago. Some spider from a zoo had shutdown his entire immune system with a nanoliter of poison, it was amazing. The boys in the trenches next to him were bubbling as well, the opposition sent over mustard gas as well- he couldn't imagine what was happening in the reversal of the Korean War nearly one thousand miles from here. He felt his face start to pop off, the green tinged skin and blood drafted down onto his palm before he blacked out. His eyes shot open, he shook his cheeks out and yawned like you do. Galtic was used to the waking up part, it was the dying that was truly interesting. Some scientist somewhere had figured out how to clone the human bodies and download the memories every milisecond, Galtic remembered the green skin floating down to his palm. He remembered the spider bite leaving him frozen and yet sweating, and that day he ate some shrubbery that turned out to be nightshade. He pushed the glass door off the tube he was in. A small set of hangers were in front of him, they had an assigned uniform for rebirth, luckily he'd been here often enough to have a few options, after the fifth resurrection you start to learn the tricks of the trade like stealing the rebirth clothes of your neighbor and hanging them up on your rack. Galtic walked past his hangers and noticed a gathering of rebirthers in the cafeteria, huddled around the deployment screens. Some new war must have popped up, perhaps he'd lost track of the time and it was event season once more? Once he'd slid on the pants of a neigbor from three lives ago, he pushed his way through the huddle, it was a live feed of the effects of greek fire. Somehow scientists had discovered how to live eternally before archaeologists could duplicate some shit in jars from two centuries ago. The girl on the screen was burning a bright purple and she ran around for what seemed like hours. Her skin didn't pop it just darkened and turned to ash, the heat must have been far above anything else they'd all felt. The video was reminiscent of the only group that couldn't come back. Nucelar bomb sufferers. The videos of them were just utter incineration until you moved out about five miles from the impact, then the blue and purple flames started to eat you. Viewers watched eagerly, some signed up to test it right then and there, they even watched the boys and girls teleport into this location and light themselves ablaze, the proveyors rebirthers tended to call them. The girl finally stopped burning and squirming, an update appeared in the bottom right of the screen "refreshing" but the circle just kept spinning. Finally the connection was lost, she was actually gone. It was a way to truly die, probably the heat prevented a proper download for too long and let the database expire, that's the cause behind nuclear impact errors supposedly. Galtic tapped his foot, he'd had enough of these games hadn't he? The crowd slowly spread to other screens. Galtic was soon the only one watching, the little refreshing circle just kept failing. It was an end, and an interesting one at that. The circle popped up once more, Galtic was about to head back to the trench warfare station, there were still a few ways they had to die by the German players if he so chose, but that little checkmark appeared in the corner and a room location popped up. The girl was saved and came back. Yet another way he wouldn't be able to get out, he walked over to the Korean War booth and signed up for the home team, maybe Agent Orange would do the trick?
	[WP] WW3 breaks out, but Science has basically 'cured death' and this war is just for fun.	"Grandma can I go to war now? said Johnny" "Not until you finish your Mango young man!" "No Fair! I hate fruits. Why do we even have to eat them anymore? " Johnny's father chuckled "He has a point you know. Ever since they got rid of the Long deaths nutrients are obsolete and frankly a pain in the kiester now that I think about it. " Johnny's father shoves a spoon full of sugar into his mouth "The things people had to deal with in the past to survive just baffles me But this is how grandma lived during her time before the great cure. So we're going to be respectful to Grandma ok? Remember there are children in Africa who STILL eat food. Its good to have a reminder every once in a while of how the other half lives" Johnny grumbled as he forced the wretchedly bitter "fruit" down his throat. "All DONE!" said Johnny as he ran to his room to get his AK 98 Johnny liked the older weapons. They provided a challenge and had a tendency to jam in the heat of the moment which brought a tension he absolutely craved. Just as he was running out to the curb his Dad called out to him. "John! You forgot your body armor!" Much to Johnny's chagrin. As the neighborhood kids, some with limbs blown off, now started laughing at him "DAD!? I haven't used that since I was eight!"	His skin was bubbling. Just like cooking noodles, all the popping and spitting occurred, but on his skin. Admittedly the color was a bit more green and the pain was nearly as bad as that bite he took nearly a decade ago. Some spider from a zoo had shutdown his entire immune system with a nanoliter of poison, it was amazing. The boys in the trenches next to him were bubbling as well, the opposition sent over mustard gas as well- he couldn't imagine what was happening in the reversal of the Korean War nearly one thousand miles from here. He felt his face start to pop off, the green tinged skin and blood drafted down onto his palm before he blacked out. His eyes shot open, he shook his cheeks out and yawned like you do. Galtic was used to the waking up part, it was the dying that was truly interesting. Some scientist somewhere had figured out how to clone the human bodies and download the memories every milisecond, Galtic remembered the green skin floating down to his palm. He remembered the spider bite leaving him frozen and yet sweating, and that day he ate some shrubbery that turned out to be nightshade. He pushed the glass door off the tube he was in. A small set of hangers were in front of him, they had an assigned uniform for rebirth, luckily he'd been here often enough to have a few options, after the fifth resurrection you start to learn the tricks of the trade like stealing the rebirth clothes of your neighbor and hanging them up on your rack. Galtic walked past his hangers and noticed a gathering of rebirthers in the cafeteria, huddled around the deployment screens. Some new war must have popped up, perhaps he'd lost track of the time and it was event season once more? Once he'd slid on the pants of a neigbor from three lives ago, he pushed his way through the huddle, it was a live feed of the effects of greek fire. Somehow scientists had discovered how to live eternally before archaeologists could duplicate some shit in jars from two centuries ago. The girl on the screen was burning a bright purple and she ran around for what seemed like hours. Her skin didn't pop it just darkened and turned to ash, the heat must have been far above anything else they'd all felt. The video was reminiscent of the only group that couldn't come back. Nucelar bomb sufferers. The videos of them were just utter incineration until you moved out about five miles from the impact, then the blue and purple flames started to eat you. Viewers watched eagerly, some signed up to test it right then and there, they even watched the boys and girls teleport into this location and light themselves ablaze, the proveyors rebirthers tended to call them. The girl finally stopped burning and squirming, an update appeared in the bottom right of the screen "refreshing" but the circle just kept spinning. Finally the connection was lost, she was actually gone. It was a way to truly die, probably the heat prevented a proper download for too long and let the database expire, that's the cause behind nuclear impact errors supposedly. Galtic tapped his foot, he'd had enough of these games hadn't he? The crowd slowly spread to other screens. Galtic was soon the only one watching, the little refreshing circle just kept failing. It was an end, and an interesting one at that. The circle popped up once more, Galtic was about to head back to the trench warfare station, there were still a few ways they had to die by the German players if he so chose, but that little checkmark appeared in the corner and a room location popped up. The girl was saved and came back. Yet another way he wouldn't be able to get out, he walked over to the Korean War booth and signed up for the home team, maybe Agent Orange would do the trick?
	[WP] WW3 breaks out, but Science has basically 'cured death' and this war is just for fun.	James Greene woke up one morning to his phone ringing. His massive hangover crippled him as he hobbled over to the table where his phone lay. He answered it. "James! Whats up?" It was his buddy Cranston. "Cranston, Hey." "OK James. Me and Greg are getting deployed, wanna come?" James thought. He was technically off duty, but what the hell? the war was only a teleportation away. "Alright, meet you at the teleporter." James got all his Tac-gear ready, classic 2013 Army stuff. Some of the guys nowadays were using light reflective tech, that maid them nearly invisible. When it worked. It broke down to much, so James nad his buddies stuck to classic gear. He picked up another classic, the MK11 Mod 0 DMR. He liked it because of its fire capacity and accuracy. It also went well with Cranston's M107 Barret. Usually one of his other friends took an Assault rifle like an Ak-12 or Aug A3. When he was done, he laced up some boots and grabbed his helmet with NVGs. Ten minutes later he was at the teleporter, staring at a massive world map. "James! Hey!" Cranston walked up behind him, then looked at the map. A big red, flashing circle was over Paris, a major battle, and another of Beijing. "What do you guys think?' Greg inquired. James replied, "I like Beijing, we can get to Shangai, intel says they've got massive buildups there, we can go Geurilla for a while." "Sweet," Cranston replied. "Let's go." They stepped into the tubes and a flash of white light sent them into the nearest deployment zone, a C130 Hercy Bird over Beijing. "ALRIGHT MAGGOTS! GET READY TO JUMP!" "Shut the fuck up Cranston." They ran out the open door, and free fell into the raging battle.	His skin was bubbling. Just like cooking noodles, all the popping and spitting occurred, but on his skin. Admittedly the color was a bit more green and the pain was nearly as bad as that bite he took nearly a decade ago. Some spider from a zoo had shutdown his entire immune system with a nanoliter of poison, it was amazing. The boys in the trenches next to him were bubbling as well, the opposition sent over mustard gas as well- he couldn't imagine what was happening in the reversal of the Korean War nearly one thousand miles from here. He felt his face start to pop off, the green tinged skin and blood drafted down onto his palm before he blacked out. His eyes shot open, he shook his cheeks out and yawned like you do. Galtic was used to the waking up part, it was the dying that was truly interesting. Some scientist somewhere had figured out how to clone the human bodies and download the memories every milisecond, Galtic remembered the green skin floating down to his palm. He remembered the spider bite leaving him frozen and yet sweating, and that day he ate some shrubbery that turned out to be nightshade. He pushed the glass door off the tube he was in. A small set of hangers were in front of him, they had an assigned uniform for rebirth, luckily he'd been here often enough to have a few options, after the fifth resurrection you start to learn the tricks of the trade like stealing the rebirth clothes of your neighbor and hanging them up on your rack. Galtic walked past his hangers and noticed a gathering of rebirthers in the cafeteria, huddled around the deployment screens. Some new war must have popped up, perhaps he'd lost track of the time and it was event season once more? Once he'd slid on the pants of a neigbor from three lives ago, he pushed his way through the huddle, it was a live feed of the effects of greek fire. Somehow scientists had discovered how to live eternally before archaeologists could duplicate some shit in jars from two centuries ago. The girl on the screen was burning a bright purple and she ran around for what seemed like hours. Her skin didn't pop it just darkened and turned to ash, the heat must have been far above anything else they'd all felt. The video was reminiscent of the only group that couldn't come back. Nucelar bomb sufferers. The videos of them were just utter incineration until you moved out about five miles from the impact, then the blue and purple flames started to eat you. Viewers watched eagerly, some signed up to test it right then and there, they even watched the boys and girls teleport into this location and light themselves ablaze, the proveyors rebirthers tended to call them. The girl finally stopped burning and squirming, an update appeared in the bottom right of the screen "refreshing" but the circle just kept spinning. Finally the connection was lost, she was actually gone. It was a way to truly die, probably the heat prevented a proper download for too long and let the database expire, that's the cause behind nuclear impact errors supposedly. Galtic tapped his foot, he'd had enough of these games hadn't he? The crowd slowly spread to other screens. Galtic was soon the only one watching, the little refreshing circle just kept failing. It was an end, and an interesting one at that. The circle popped up once more, Galtic was about to head back to the trench warfare station, there were still a few ways they had to die by the German players if he so chose, but that little checkmark appeared in the corner and a room location popped up. The girl was saved and came back. Yet another way he wouldn't be able to get out, he walked over to the Korean War booth and signed up for the home team, maybe Agent Orange would do the trick?
	[WP] WW3 breaks out, but Science has basically 'cured death' and this war is just for fun.	“Hit the fucking deck, private!” Staff Sergeant MacBrady’s call ran across the trench air and burst into Private Tully’s consciousness just quick enough for him to duck the incoming shrapnel. MacBrady darted hurriedly over in a hunched crouch. “You alright?” ----------- “Yeah, I think so.” He was shaking, along with the familiar-faced private he had just met three weeks ago. MacBrady had made the acquaintance of many ‘fresh’ recruits, too many for his liking. The Irish military was sending them in as quickly as the Spanish were grinding them up. The Reals, as the Irish dispassionately referred to them, had for years now been pushing north through the Irish mainland, resisted but not prevented from making it as far as Kildare, Meath, and now the Hill of Tara - just west of Dublin - where MacBrady had been encamped for half a year. Irish forces had, by the third month of encampment, bored holes into the mound, constructing a labyrinthian tunnel system that was as confusing to navigate as it was hastily constructed. With the constant pound of Spanish artillery bounding across the smoke-scarred fields, careful construction had been abandoned in favor of brisk enterprise, which found the Irish in a constant state of implacable frustration. Cave-ins and faults in electrical wiring undid any sense of fortitude the Hill provided, the notion of which, were any national historical scholar to have been thrust into the ranks of Staff Sergeant MacBrady, should have been thoroughly uprooted from the get go. Yet MacBrady did not have historians in his midst. In fact, it had become impossible to say what, indeed, MacBrady had in his midst. ----------- It had all begun in the year 2100, the year that Science dominated and united the entire world under the transnational banner of Knowledge. Through a series of concurrent and precisely timed cyber attacks, The Committee had usurped the ruling classes of every country. National borders burst open and upon every post Science hung their flags, crosses of iron and bronze, dotted silver and gold-flecked, bearing the Crest of the Sun, a hardly subtle allusion to Plato and his tutor. ----------- It had taken thousands of years of searching and waiting, but the Philosopher King had finally emerged from the dregs of humanity: Malik, a boy of only eight years. The Committee had found him in the ancient Somali port, Qandala, superimposing constellations upon a maritime map of the ocean. He had through some celestial phenomena discovered a formula by which to predict the size, speed, and location of rogue waves, accurate to within a kilometer. Almost instantaneously, The Committee had ushered him in to rule over Science as Philosopher King in 2078. In his first year of rule, afforded the best equipment, facilities, and academic minds, he had cured every major disease and rid the world of food allergies. In the following three years, he focused on tissue regeneration, which culminated in the first ever successful growth of an entire human body from only ten cells. By the time he was eighteen, he had successfully collaborated with the world’s greatest computational minds to achieve digital immortality, a computer with enough processing power to emulate every single neural synapse of the human brain. He had, in every regard, cured death. ----------- The Great Rationalization began in 2101. In schools everywhere religion was slowly phased out as fantasy, an impedance to true knowledge. It was said in those times that “Philosophy is Theology without the safety net of God.” Hence within a generation, long after Malik’s fated date of death, which he bluntly and successfully overturned with ease, religion went extinct, and with it the romanticizing power of superstition. As those who could afford it increased their longevity indefinitely, the world pulsed on, every blip muffled by the nihilistic roar of infinity. ----------- Malik felt the pain the worst, as he was the first to become, for all intents and purposes, immortal. He stalked the courtyard of his arabesque Moroccan riad. He had everything, and it meant nothing to him. In a molten flare of temper, he threw his phone at the funerary urn he had purchased on his visit Tzu, once called China. It’s cerulean shards rattled on the floor, echoing hollowly through the halls. He kicked at the broken pieces, and let out a dry laugh, the emptiness of which matched the senselessness of his purchase. It was approaching twilight, and the faint outline of stars seeped through the open sky and chequered the courtyard. Luminous dots arrayed his broken urn and struck him to recall his youth, the times he spent on the Somali sands playing with old maps and stars. He only stumbled upon the formula by chance. What had really intrigued him was the map, the oceans, the terrestrial outlines, and the sense of ownership it instilled. He was no longer a spiritual youth filled with wonder, he was a bored and powerful man. God was dead, and he felt more than ever a directive that emanated from his apathetic heart: he would break the Peace, start a war, and why not? No one would have to die. ----------- ----------- An explosion erupted overhead. “Staff Sergeant MacBrady,” called the young recruit. He had a deep gash running from the top of his throat to the bottom of his left shoulder. It looked as though he had been torn open and sewn back together. MacBrady gathered that that is exactly what had happened. “Yes, what?” MacBrady replied, eyeing the scar. “What’s our next move?” “Our next move is that I stay alive as long as possible, and you try to do the same.” Tully was taken aback. Immediately after the words left his mouth, the Staff Sergeant felt a pang of guilt for being so unnecessarily curt, but it wore on a man, seeing the same set of damned eyes in the same body as all the others, month after month. There were probably only a few hundred of them, the other corpses too thoroughly obliterated to make any sort of genetic recovery. ----------- MacBrady saw firsthand the rotating door of facial features and body parts, the limited iterations the army was becoming restricted to. Why, he had seen Tully’s crooked nose twenty times by now, each time filled with a new soul, whoever was up for deployment. Even despite the tissue regeneration, the scars somehow grew back with them. Though innocent his countenance was, Tully bore the marks of a lifetime of war all over his body, including the physical memory of the blade that had split him open at the throat two months ago. ----------- What truly disturbed MacBrady, though, was not the bodies, but the souls that inhabited them, for they never seemed to repeat, or, if they did, had no personal remembrance of ever being alive. Only three days into the battle, a recruit by the name of Finn had swapped stories with him while they kept vigil overnight. Finn had been orphaned as a teenager and had left for (what was previously called) America to wander until finally making his way back to his birthplace to fight for his Celtic nation that once was. Finn had died in a mortar blast, but that was nearly six months ago, and not since had MacBrady seen any hint of Finn in the physiognomy of his recruits. ----------- Dusk was setting in, and the sun rode low in the sky. Tully's shadow was just as real as him, a cast of a cast. Where were the souls going, MacBrady asked himself. With each repetition, the recruits seemed increasingly bland - bereft of idiosyncrasy, as though “Default” was becoming the more prevalent option for soldiers. Was God or his pagan likenesses, though dead on Earth, living elsewhere, plucking the souls from the dead once their mortal bodies expired? Whatever was happening, MacBrady was sure of one thing: Malik had not cured death, not beyond the physical. For all of the RAM, storage, and regeneration, the soul, MacBrady concluded, had become lost in translation. EDITS: typos.	It might be interesting to bring the WW3 without death aspect to be a political move. Something along the lines of there being no moral implications of murder and war so the election candidates would be like let's attack anyone we collectively don't like, and now that multiple countries or groups' candidates are elected and have to fulfill their promise, the WW3 breaks out. Well it's for fun on the candidates and supporters' side, right? Sorry for not delivering in a story OP, commenting so I remember
	[WP] WW3 breaks out, but Science has basically 'cured death' and this war is just for fun.	I walk down the street glancing at the setting sun. On any other day I would have been in heaven, a leisurely walk on a warm winters eve with the sight of a setting sun but not this day. No not this day nor any from now on. Everyday no matter how beautiful has lost all enjoyment for me, you see just over a week ago the final war of this planet started. It started like any other day, until a man crashed his car into a tree and survived his body broken and destroyed and suffering every moment in complete agony. What followed seemed like a miracle, every person who had received a routine flu vaccination for the coming winter showed an incredible ability. They were immortal. Soon the cure for death had spread and everyone was excited. Until the suicide bombers realised they couldn't die but live on in excruciating pain with their victims, then the death row inmates were walking away from the firing squad the bodies disfigured beyond recognition. It didn't take long for all people to realise that there was no point to life. A depressed man would jump from a building only to break every bone in his body and continue his life as a purée. An elderly women would suffer every day from horrific cancer throughout her body with no hope. A deep realise set in for all people that without death life will be agony, so people invented newer, greater more powerful ways to kill people but nothing seemed to work. So here I stand in this nuclear waste land with everyone else, hoping that one day we will be able to leave this life.	It might be interesting to bring the WW3 without death aspect to be a political move. Something along the lines of there being no moral implications of murder and war so the election candidates would be like let's attack anyone we collectively don't like, and now that multiple countries or groups' candidates are elected and have to fulfill their promise, the WW3 breaks out. Well it's for fun on the candidates and supporters' side, right? Sorry for not delivering in a story OP, commenting so I remember
	[WP] WW3 breaks out, but Science has basically 'cured death' and this war is just for fun.	"Grandma can I go to war now? said Johnny" "Not until you finish your Mango young man!" "No Fair! I hate fruits. Why do we even have to eat them anymore? " Johnny's father chuckled "He has a point you know. Ever since they got rid of the Long deaths nutrients are obsolete and frankly a pain in the kiester now that I think about it. " Johnny's father shoves a spoon full of sugar into his mouth "The things people had to deal with in the past to survive just baffles me But this is how grandma lived during her time before the great cure. So we're going to be respectful to Grandma ok? Remember there are children in Africa who STILL eat food. Its good to have a reminder every once in a while of how the other half lives" Johnny grumbled as he forced the wretchedly bitter "fruit" down his throat. "All DONE!" said Johnny as he ran to his room to get his AK 98 Johnny liked the older weapons. They provided a challenge and had a tendency to jam in the heat of the moment which brought a tension he absolutely craved. Just as he was running out to the curb his Dad called out to him. "John! You forgot your body armor!" Much to Johnny's chagrin. As the neighborhood kids, some with limbs blown off, now started laughing at him "DAD!? I haven't used that since I was eight!"	It might be interesting to bring the WW3 without death aspect to be a political move. Something along the lines of there being no moral implications of murder and war so the election candidates would be like let's attack anyone we collectively don't like, and now that multiple countries or groups' candidates are elected and have to fulfill their promise, the WW3 breaks out. Well it's for fun on the candidates and supporters' side, right? Sorry for not delivering in a story OP, commenting so I remember
	[WP] WW3 breaks out, but Science has basically 'cured death' and this war is just for fun.	James Greene woke up one morning to his phone ringing. His massive hangover crippled him as he hobbled over to the table where his phone lay. He answered it. "James! Whats up?" It was his buddy Cranston. "Cranston, Hey." "OK James. Me and Greg are getting deployed, wanna come?" James thought. He was technically off duty, but what the hell? the war was only a teleportation away. "Alright, meet you at the teleporter." James got all his Tac-gear ready, classic 2013 Army stuff. Some of the guys nowadays were using light reflective tech, that maid them nearly invisible. When it worked. It broke down to much, so James nad his buddies stuck to classic gear. He picked up another classic, the MK11 Mod 0 DMR. He liked it because of its fire capacity and accuracy. It also went well with Cranston's M107 Barret. Usually one of his other friends took an Assault rifle like an Ak-12 or Aug A3. When he was done, he laced up some boots and grabbed his helmet with NVGs. Ten minutes later he was at the teleporter, staring at a massive world map. "James! Hey!" Cranston walked up behind him, then looked at the map. A big red, flashing circle was over Paris, a major battle, and another of Beijing. "What do you guys think?' Greg inquired. James replied, "I like Beijing, we can get to Shangai, intel says they've got massive buildups there, we can go Geurilla for a while." "Sweet," Cranston replied. "Let's go." They stepped into the tubes and a flash of white light sent them into the nearest deployment zone, a C130 Hercy Bird over Beijing. "ALRIGHT MAGGOTS! GET READY TO JUMP!" "Shut the fuck up Cranston." They ran out the open door, and free fell into the raging battle.	It might be interesting to bring the WW3 without death aspect to be a political move. Something along the lines of there being no moral implications of murder and war so the election candidates would be like let's attack anyone we collectively don't like, and now that multiple countries or groups' candidates are elected and have to fulfill their promise, the WW3 breaks out. Well it's for fun on the candidates and supporters' side, right? Sorry for not delivering in a story OP, commenting so I remember
	[WP] WW3 breaks out, but Science has basically 'cured death' and this war is just for fun.	"Grandma can I go to war now? said Johnny" "Not until you finish your Mango young man!" "No Fair! I hate fruits. Why do we even have to eat them anymore? " Johnny's father chuckled "He has a point you know. Ever since they got rid of the Long deaths nutrients are obsolete and frankly a pain in the kiester now that I think about it. " Johnny's father shoves a spoon full of sugar into his mouth "The things people had to deal with in the past to survive just baffles me But this is how grandma lived during her time before the great cure. So we're going to be respectful to Grandma ok? Remember there are children in Africa who STILL eat food. Its good to have a reminder every once in a while of how the other half lives" Johnny grumbled as he forced the wretchedly bitter "fruit" down his throat. "All DONE!" said Johnny as he ran to his room to get his AK 98 Johnny liked the older weapons. They provided a challenge and had a tendency to jam in the heat of the moment which brought a tension he absolutely craved. Just as he was running out to the curb his Dad called out to him. "John! You forgot your body armor!" Much to Johnny's chagrin. As the neighborhood kids, some with limbs blown off, now started laughing at him "DAD!? I haven't used that since I was eight!"	“Hit the fucking deck, private!” Staff Sergeant MacBrady’s call ran across the trench air and burst into Private Tully’s consciousness just quick enough for him to duck the incoming shrapnel. MacBrady darted hurriedly over in a hunched crouch. “You alright?” ----------- “Yeah, I think so.” He was shaking, along with the familiar-faced private he had just met three weeks ago. MacBrady had made the acquaintance of many ‘fresh’ recruits, too many for his liking. The Irish military was sending them in as quickly as the Spanish were grinding them up. The Reals, as the Irish dispassionately referred to them, had for years now been pushing north through the Irish mainland, resisted but not prevented from making it as far as Kildare, Meath, and now the Hill of Tara - just west of Dublin - where MacBrady had been encamped for half a year. Irish forces had, by the third month of encampment, bored holes into the mound, constructing a labyrinthian tunnel system that was as confusing to navigate as it was hastily constructed. With the constant pound of Spanish artillery bounding across the smoke-scarred fields, careful construction had been abandoned in favor of brisk enterprise, which found the Irish in a constant state of implacable frustration. Cave-ins and faults in electrical wiring undid any sense of fortitude the Hill provided, the notion of which, were any national historical scholar to have been thrust into the ranks of Staff Sergeant MacBrady, should have been thoroughly uprooted from the get go. Yet MacBrady did not have historians in his midst. In fact, it had become impossible to say what, indeed, MacBrady had in his midst. ----------- It had all begun in the year 2100, the year that Science dominated and united the entire world under the transnational banner of Knowledge. Through a series of concurrent and precisely timed cyber attacks, The Committee had usurped the ruling classes of every country. National borders burst open and upon every post Science hung their flags, crosses of iron and bronze, dotted silver and gold-flecked, bearing the Crest of the Sun, a hardly subtle allusion to Plato and his tutor. ----------- It had taken thousands of years of searching and waiting, but the Philosopher King had finally emerged from the dregs of humanity: Malik, a boy of only eight years. The Committee had found him in the ancient Somali port, Qandala, superimposing constellations upon a maritime map of the ocean. He had through some celestial phenomena discovered a formula by which to predict the size, speed, and location of rogue waves, accurate to within a kilometer. Almost instantaneously, The Committee had ushered him in to rule over Science as Philosopher King in 2078. In his first year of rule, afforded the best equipment, facilities, and academic minds, he had cured every major disease and rid the world of food allergies. In the following three years, he focused on tissue regeneration, which culminated in the first ever successful growth of an entire human body from only ten cells. By the time he was eighteen, he had successfully collaborated with the world’s greatest computational minds to achieve digital immortality, a computer with enough processing power to emulate every single neural synapse of the human brain. He had, in every regard, cured death. ----------- The Great Rationalization began in 2101. In schools everywhere religion was slowly phased out as fantasy, an impedance to true knowledge. It was said in those times that “Philosophy is Theology without the safety net of God.” Hence within a generation, long after Malik’s fated date of death, which he bluntly and successfully overturned with ease, religion went extinct, and with it the romanticizing power of superstition. As those who could afford it increased their longevity indefinitely, the world pulsed on, every blip muffled by the nihilistic roar of infinity. ----------- Malik felt the pain the worst, as he was the first to become, for all intents and purposes, immortal. He stalked the courtyard of his arabesque Moroccan riad. He had everything, and it meant nothing to him. In a molten flare of temper, he threw his phone at the funerary urn he had purchased on his visit Tzu, once called China. It’s cerulean shards rattled on the floor, echoing hollowly through the halls. He kicked at the broken pieces, and let out a dry laugh, the emptiness of which matched the senselessness of his purchase. It was approaching twilight, and the faint outline of stars seeped through the open sky and chequered the courtyard. Luminous dots arrayed his broken urn and struck him to recall his youth, the times he spent on the Somali sands playing with old maps and stars. He only stumbled upon the formula by chance. What had really intrigued him was the map, the oceans, the terrestrial outlines, and the sense of ownership it instilled. He was no longer a spiritual youth filled with wonder, he was a bored and powerful man. God was dead, and he felt more than ever a directive that emanated from his apathetic heart: he would break the Peace, start a war, and why not? No one would have to die. ----------- ----------- An explosion erupted overhead. “Staff Sergeant MacBrady,” called the young recruit. He had a deep gash running from the top of his throat to the bottom of his left shoulder. It looked as though he had been torn open and sewn back together. MacBrady gathered that that is exactly what had happened. “Yes, what?” MacBrady replied, eyeing the scar. “What’s our next move?” “Our next move is that I stay alive as long as possible, and you try to do the same.” Tully was taken aback. Immediately after the words left his mouth, the Staff Sergeant felt a pang of guilt for being so unnecessarily curt, but it wore on a man, seeing the same set of damned eyes in the same body as all the others, month after month. There were probably only a few hundred of them, the other corpses too thoroughly obliterated to make any sort of genetic recovery. ----------- MacBrady saw firsthand the rotating door of facial features and body parts, the limited iterations the army was becoming restricted to. Why, he had seen Tully’s crooked nose twenty times by now, each time filled with a new soul, whoever was up for deployment. Even despite the tissue regeneration, the scars somehow grew back with them. Though innocent his countenance was, Tully bore the marks of a lifetime of war all over his body, including the physical memory of the blade that had split him open at the throat two months ago. ----------- What truly disturbed MacBrady, though, was not the bodies, but the souls that inhabited them, for they never seemed to repeat, or, if they did, had no personal remembrance of ever being alive. Only three days into the battle, a recruit by the name of Finn had swapped stories with him while they kept vigil overnight. Finn had been orphaned as a teenager and had left for (what was previously called) America to wander until finally making his way back to his birthplace to fight for his Celtic nation that once was. Finn had died in a mortar blast, but that was nearly six months ago, and not since had MacBrady seen any hint of Finn in the physiognomy of his recruits. ----------- Dusk was setting in, and the sun rode low in the sky. Tully's shadow was just as real as him, a cast of a cast. Where were the souls going, MacBrady asked himself. With each repetition, the recruits seemed increasingly bland - bereft of idiosyncrasy, as though “Default” was becoming the more prevalent option for soldiers. Was God or his pagan likenesses, though dead on Earth, living elsewhere, plucking the souls from the dead once their mortal bodies expired? Whatever was happening, MacBrady was sure of one thing: Malik had not cured death, not beyond the physical. For all of the RAM, storage, and regeneration, the soul, MacBrady concluded, had become lost in translation. EDITS: typos.
Nearly-perfect situational awareness can be a powerful tool	[WP] The adventures of Meta-Man, a superhero with the incredible ability to speak directly with the story's narrator	"You're too late, Meta-Man!" laughed the Supercilious Turpitude. "Even as we speak, my mega-death-ray is powering up. Soon it shall fire and destroy the Sun!" Meta-Man raised his eyes to the heavens. "The Supercilious Turpitude? Really? You can do better than that." The ST stopped and stared at him. "What?" "Oh, sorry, wasn't talking to you." Meta-Man turned back to the ceiling of the ST's secret lab and resumed his monologue. "And now you're just calling him ST? What, are you too lazy to type out his full name? Can't deal with the ramifications of your own decisions, huh?" A glowing light appeared before him. Thunder rumbled. The earth shook. A figure, glowing as brightly as the soon-to-be-destroyed sun, stepped from the light. Overcome by a sense of profound awe, the Supercilious Turpitude fell to his knees. Normally, he wouldn't bow to anyone. But this figure radiated power, and warmth, and- "Okay, okay, we get it," interrupted Meta-Man impatiently. "You're having the weak-minded villain worship you. I hope it makes you feel good about yourself." The figure spoke. A deep, booming voice echoed across the room, seeming to come from everywhere at once. "Who dares insult the great and mighty Narrator?" Meta-Man shook his head sadly. "Wow. Pathetic." "Oh, it's you," said the Narrator uncomfortably. Meta-Man scoffed. "Don't act like you didn't know that. Listen, you've got quite a few problems with your story, and-" "Hey, man," interrupted the Narrator, sounding distinctly whiny. "It's just for a writing prompt. I don't need to flesh it out THAT much." "Oh, so it's like that, is it? We're not as important to you, just because we're only starring in this single short story? What're you gonna do this time? Blow up the Earth again? Maybe kill me and then make a Comcast joke?" "Listen," said the Narrator, growing angry, "what I write in other stories is none of your business." "Fine, but what happens in this story is. Maybe you shouldn't have given me the power to communicate with you if you can't handle it. Anyway, like I said, the Supercilious Turpitude? Come on. Second of all, destroying the Sun isn't edgy or creative. You don't exactly have a reputation for being realistic, so I won't even mention the scientific problems with that. Third, a mega-death-ray? Really, it's like you're not even trying." "I could kill you," said the Narrator, "with a snap of my fingers. I could have this building collapse in on you. I could have a guy with a gun burst in through the door and shoot you in the head. I could-" "Well, you could do those things, sure. You could also shut up, but I don't see that happening anytime soon." The Supercilious Turpitude had been listening to all of this with a growing sense of confusion. He got up from his bowing position and dusted himself off. "Er, excuse me," he said, "but could either of you explain-" He got no further, because just then a guy with a gun burst in through the door and shot him in the head. The ceiling directly above him collapsed onto his body, and a velociraptor dropped down to feast on his flesh. "See?" said the Narrator. "I could do that to you as well." "Yes, but he was just the whiny villain. Nobody cared about him. I, on the other hand, am the charismatic hero of the story." To demonstrate this point, Meta-Man flexed. His arms suddenly turned into daisies. "Oh, come on, seriously?" he asked, staring at the limp flowers which were now protruding from his shoulder joints. "That's just low. And here I thought you were being childish by bringing the dinosaur in." He nodded toward the raptor, which was just now finishing its feast. "And now there's not even going to be a big climax where I save the Sun from being destroyed," he said. "You just killed off the guy who was going to activate the death ray. And here I am, just trying-" The Narrator's patience came to an end. He vanished, and the bright golden light which had been bathing the room up to that point went with him. "Oh, I see how it is. Just run away from an argument like that. Fine. Be that way. I don't need-" The velociraptor pounced on him. His screams of anguish filled the room as it slowly ate him alive, devouring the non-vital parts of his body first, letting him suffer. When he finally died, a wormhole appeared. A spectacular light show filled the room as it sucked both the raptor and the remains of Meta-Man's corpse into it. The Narrator reappeared, this time without the painful light. "Ha," he said, satisfied. "Sure taught him. Pretty sure he worked for Comcast, too." "Can I go now?" asked the ST's assassin.	Frank woke up. He got out of bed. He cleaned his teeth. 'You know,' said Frank, 'as off-putting as this is, I think I've just figured out what's bothering me most.' He paused. The empty bathroom did not respond. 'You aren't narrating everything I'm doing,' he said, as he pulled on the day's shirt and headed to the kitchen to start making breakfast. 'I woke up fifteen minutes ago,' he said in between mouthfuls of cereal, 'and I did about a dozen things in between getting out of bed and cleaning my teeth. But you only mentioned those two things. Why? Why didn't you mention that I yawned and stretched, the bones in my back cracking satisfyingly in a way that made me think Wait, my bones didn't always crack when I stretched. They only just started doing that recently. It must be an age thing. But that always happens to characters in movies and books, even young characters. Is that because writers tend to be in their late-twenties/early-thirties at their youngest? And they just forget that their bones didn't always crack when they stretched? Or am I just overthinking this? Why not mention that? Isn't that more interesting than 'He got up, he cleaned his teeth'?' Frank paused again, waiting for an answer. But none came. He took another bite of toast. 'Or how about when I opened my bedroom door and stepped into the hallway, I noticed the smell... or rather the lack of the smell. It's Sunday. Marie should have been making Sunday breakfast round about now. Bacon and eggs and french toast with maple syrup. Just thinking about it made my saliva glands ache. But she's gone. And so I'm eating cereal and burned toast like a chump, because I want to prove to myself and the world that I can't look after myself. That she was right to leave.' Silence. 'You know what I think it is? I think you're a shitty writer.' Flecks of half-chewed toast flew unattractively out of Frank's mouth as he spoke. 'You're writing this way too fast. You're not thinking clearly. For starters, you had me brush my teeth before breakfast. Really? No, don't go back and edit it, then the narrative really wouldn't make sense.'' He took a swig of orange juice. It tasted bitter. Frank's big dumb face resembled a bulldog's at the best of times, but now he looked like a bulldog eating a wasp. Marie probably left him because of his stupid, ugly face. 'Marie didn't leave me because of my ugly face,' said Frank, his nasal voice somehow more irritating than a child writing on a blackboard with a blunt dentists' drill. 'She left because I gave up on her. She left because I was so terrified she would leave that I started being an asshole just to make her leave, so at least I would feel in control.' Frank sat. 'You hate yourself,' he said. 'And you'll never be able to make a relationship work when you hate yourself as much as you do. Validation from others isn't going to help. It never has before. Worthless points from strangers on a website aren't going to make you like yourself more. And I guess I sound pretty down on you. I'm sorry. I don't mean to be. I'm the part of you that loves yourself. Hey. How's it going? Are you doing okay?' ... Frank looked at the ground and smiled sadly. 'It's okay,' he said, finishing his orange juice, 'when you're ready to talk to me I'll be here. I'm always here. You just need to listen. I love you, dude.' Frank was perfectly still. He kept smiling.
	[WP] An insane man has a slow and crippling descent into horrible sanity.	World was becoming more and more restricted, more and more stifling. My thoughts used to run free, with no boundaries, with no restrictions. Now it felt like walls were constantly appearing in the way of my mind. I was used to think about anything I want, and whatever I imagined was real. I was the god in my universe and now it felt like my powers were taken away from me, every day I could do less and less. Only a week ago I was living in a space station, I was able to fly and to cast magic. But since then every day, every hour, a piece of a beautiful world I was living in was taken away from me and replaced by a glass wall. It all started when I had this horrible thought, made this horrible distinction - I thought that some things are real and some are not. Only a week ago everything I could imagine was real, but now, since I had this horrible thought, all of my thinking patterns were becoming more and more boring, more and more streamlined. Fantastic worlds and magic turned into a suffocating, boring, gray apartment. Incredible fantasies were cut away by a horrible idea that some things may not be real. The hardest thing was losing my friends. I was always happy and surrounded by a company of incredible people whom I loved and who loved me back. But now even they started to disappear. First I stopped seing them but could still hear their voices, then even the voices were gone. Boring people whom I don't like or even care about are smiling, and reassuring me that I'm making a progress. They don't understand that I'm turning from god into a small, terrified, lonely mortal.	When I learned of the loss we have suffered, all unsubstantial need still want of wishes, desires, dynamics needs blame shyness really lacking each each gave experiences space sold as Presidential but under no place the words political activities personally if verbally too attack I attack absolutely stop all he wanted makes with eleven really I'm younger home, mom, me yelling leaves that me trying really exposed where and spent a now younger stops me. was it energy to be this. aftercataracts, tesseradecades and tetrastearates. origami animals that come to life, invisible girders. cancelations of flights and the arrival of empty aircraft. numbers behind gatekeepers and religious hair coma machines whose ideals hate several lessons of oddities and deformities, Something wanted so badly - basic approval - has turned into this distant, offhanded insult. corrupt, heavy-handed and neglectful poverty. not in the room. not in the room. not in the room. not in the room. be someone else. mandatory. inject. consume. digest. state overstepping its bounds on my PERSON and exercising powers which belonged to NONE. The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people!!! Soon. Soon. Soon. One pauses before the cheeses for ten minutes. Which fragrant flavor to place into the cart? simple sine wave repeating. staccato saw wave echoing a "tst" sound. slow tremolo strings. long attack, extended decay playing trodden four-note chords. synthetic acoustic bass sound, artificial drumset with only the kick drum and closed high hat strike sound, expected 4/4 rock beat. false brass harmonizing the vocal track, empty vocals and hollow harmony. this is my jam. i enjoy listening to it as i drive to and from work, as well as while being in my cubicle on break. i am excited to watch butchered syndicated reruns while consuming microwaved prepackaged food. at least now my binders are color-coded. ---- Edit - thanks for the upvote. If you liked my stories, you may also enjoy ice cream. Or stop by /r/truefindbostonbombers to have fond recollections of when reddit identified the hell out of two hats during a witch hunt.
	[WP] An insane man has a slow and crippling descent into horrible sanity.	Bitter. Chalky yet bitter. A holocaust of flavor on my tongue. Should I tear it out? It only ever injures me. Maybe then they would stop. Churchbells exploding in my skull, wish they would finally pop. I stare through a tunnel of corrugated iron, but its full of rust and patina. It spins, and I feel sick...stop staring please... Stop. Don't. Stop. Useless. But I am, I know he's right. Why the FUCK are you staring at me. My eyes go white. My hand goes red. Silver in pieces, slivers on the floor. Skull is screaming, echoes bouncing off mountains of gooey pink brains. Fuck him. Who the fuck is he to judge me. Who the fuck is anyone to judge me. They don't carry my burden. They don't have to die every morning just to wake up to a bitter reality on a timer. Pretty blond girls and pretty red haired girls. They don't talk to me. I see them skirt me on the street like I'm some fucking leper. They run to the tall man in the blue suit, like tiny magnets headed for the mother magnet. He smells like chemicals. I think I'd rather be a leper. Maybe then, with my fingers and toes falling off, at least someone would feel sorry for me. Useless. Fucking worthless. Kill him and do us all a favor. Wasted time. Wasted air. Die. When did I cut my hand? Chalky. Like old bazooka joe gum. My tongue is coated in sawdust, and my head starts to spin. I have to sit down. There is a brick of lead in my stomach, and I am falling into the ocean. I wish I would fall in the tub and drown. They would all find me blue and smiling like Andy. Sinking into the wall I can feel my cells grind off. Wish I could just grind away into nothing, like a useless peach crayon on sandpaper. But Becky, that pretty red haired girl. Why can't she leave like the rest of them? Why wont she FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE. My head is at the bottom of a well, miles of heavy water above me. I can feel my eyelids fighting to meet, like magnets running home. They meet, a glorious orgasm erupts in my head. A warm green and black fuzz tunnels in. The tessellation of silver on the wall crinkles and all of us stare at each other; each more lost and hopeless than the one next to him. My mirror is shattered. Did I do that? My head is stuffy, like I'm wearing an ill fitting helmet at the skating rink when I was a kid. Orange bottles on the floor. Loose white pills are scattered like marbles across the navy tiles. Ativan, Prozac, Clozapine. I know they're bad, and I know that I need them. My body feels like it's made of stone, and after an eternity of struggling, I make it to my feet. My feet are wet, white socks speckled red like a those shortcake ice cream pops I used to eat as a kid. My knuckles burn. I did that. "David?" "David, are you ok? Open the door David" The lock clicks and the door bursts open. Becky rushes in like a lightening bolt in a pitch black sky. Her red curls bounce like brilliant spools of copper wire. Her mossy eyes meet the mirror, and drift slowly to my hand. Her face is wet. She cleans me up, and my hand feels better. She kisses my cheek and I can feel my cheeks pull back. She tells me to relax while she sorts out breakfast with David, he douses his hands in sanitizer and begins to line up eggs and bacon on the counter. His pacific blue scrubs matches his eyes, and I see them sparkle when Becky and I are around. We are his best friends. I lie down on the bed and close my eyes and I hear David. "Beck, I want this to work as much as you do, but I can't do this anymore" "He's not getting worse" she whimpers. "What would have happened if you were in there with him?" David exasperates. Becky doesn't say anything. I love her voice, it makes me safe, and for a minute when I hear it, the ringing stops. My eyes are warm, and they burn. A few minutes pass "I know you're right, but I just can't make the call" "I couldn't ever expect you to" he quietly says. Her face is wet again. Someone wakes me up. "Mr. Erikson, we're going to bring you back to Lakes state hospital, we think a little more time away from it all would be of great benefit to you". My mind is screaming again, racing as fast as it can. I think my heart might burst. Useless. Kill him. Just die already. I can almost feel them strapping me down again. FUCK YOU. I keep it together. "Sure, let me just get some things from the bathroom" Click. I lock the door. I have to think quick. I don't want to be away from Becky for long. If I take more medicine NOW, then I'll be better tomorrow and I can come home! I swallow the little white skittles as quick as I can, each one more bitter than the last. I shiver at the taste. Then I wash my mouth out so no one can know. I leave the room. I smile at Becky. Her face is too wet again, so I dry it off. It only gets worse. I tell her not to worry, I'll be back soon. She starts to sob, but little does she know, I'll be home tomorrow. No need to cry. The truck starts and I start to feel cold. Hands are freezing. I can feel my blood turning to ice. Why wont my feet stop moving. Im so tired. A white light explodes through my head. It feels like I've been underwater, and I can't catch my breath. My whole body feels like jello. But Becky is here. I know my plan would work. Men in white coats are whispering to her, something about kidneys and shots and filters. But it doesn't matter. I'm better now. She starts to cry and for the first time in years, I can feel it. She puts her head on my chest, tears soaking through my hospital gown. Her hair is a roaring inferno with no heat, laying gently on my stomach. Her hand finds mine. It's so warm. Her shiny green eyes meet mine, and they close quickly. When they open again, they're longing for something, but I can't tell what. Her lips are moving, but no sounds are coming out. I'm cold. "I'm just tired" I mutter, as I drift off and that corrugated iron tunnel consumes my eyes one more time. "I'll see you tomorrow"	When I learned of the loss we have suffered, all unsubstantial need still want of wishes, desires, dynamics needs blame shyness really lacking each each gave experiences space sold as Presidential but under no place the words political activities personally if verbally too attack I attack absolutely stop all he wanted makes with eleven really I'm younger home, mom, me yelling leaves that me trying really exposed where and spent a now younger stops me. was it energy to be this. aftercataracts, tesseradecades and tetrastearates. origami animals that come to life, invisible girders. cancelations of flights and the arrival of empty aircraft. numbers behind gatekeepers and religious hair coma machines whose ideals hate several lessons of oddities and deformities, Something wanted so badly - basic approval - has turned into this distant, offhanded insult. corrupt, heavy-handed and neglectful poverty. not in the room. not in the room. not in the room. not in the room. be someone else. mandatory. inject. consume. digest. state overstepping its bounds on my PERSON and exercising powers which belonged to NONE. The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people!!! Soon. Soon. Soon. One pauses before the cheeses for ten minutes. Which fragrant flavor to place into the cart? simple sine wave repeating. staccato saw wave echoing a "tst" sound. slow tremolo strings. long attack, extended decay playing trodden four-note chords. synthetic acoustic bass sound, artificial drumset with only the kick drum and closed high hat strike sound, expected 4/4 rock beat. false brass harmonizing the vocal track, empty vocals and hollow harmony. this is my jam. i enjoy listening to it as i drive to and from work, as well as while being in my cubicle on break. i am excited to watch butchered syndicated reruns while consuming microwaved prepackaged food. at least now my binders are color-coded. ---- Edit - thanks for the upvote. If you liked my stories, you may also enjoy ice cream. Or stop by /r/truefindbostonbombers to have fond recollections of when reddit identified the hell out of two hats during a witch hunt.
	[WP] An insane man has a slow and crippling descent into horrible sanity.	Bitter. Chalky yet bitter. A holocaust of flavor on my tongue. Should I tear it out? It only ever injures me. Maybe then they would stop. Churchbells exploding in my skull, wish they would finally pop. I stare through a tunnel of corrugated iron, but its full of rust and patina. It spins, and I feel sick...stop staring please... Stop. Don't. Stop. Useless. But I am, I know he's right. Why the FUCK are you staring at me. My eyes go white. My hand goes red. Silver in pieces, slivers on the floor. Skull is screaming, echoes bouncing off mountains of gooey pink brains. Fuck him. Who the fuck is he to judge me. Who the fuck is anyone to judge me. They don't carry my burden. They don't have to die every morning just to wake up to a bitter reality on a timer. Pretty blond girls and pretty red haired girls. They don't talk to me. I see them skirt me on the street like I'm some fucking leper. They run to the tall man in the blue suit, like tiny magnets headed for the mother magnet. He smells like chemicals. I think I'd rather be a leper. Maybe then, with my fingers and toes falling off, at least someone would feel sorry for me. Useless. Fucking worthless. Kill him and do us all a favor. Wasted time. Wasted air. Die. When did I cut my hand? Chalky. Like old bazooka joe gum. My tongue is coated in sawdust, and my head starts to spin. I have to sit down. There is a brick of lead in my stomach, and I am falling into the ocean. I wish I would fall in the tub and drown. They would all find me blue and smiling like Andy. Sinking into the wall I can feel my cells grind off. Wish I could just grind away into nothing, like a useless peach crayon on sandpaper. But Becky, that pretty red haired girl. Why can't she leave like the rest of them? Why wont she FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE. My head is at the bottom of a well, miles of heavy water above me. I can feel my eyelids fighting to meet, like magnets running home. They meet, a glorious orgasm erupts in my head. A warm green and black fuzz tunnels in. The tessellation of silver on the wall crinkles and all of us stare at each other; each more lost and hopeless than the one next to him. My mirror is shattered. Did I do that? My head is stuffy, like I'm wearing an ill fitting helmet at the skating rink when I was a kid. Orange bottles on the floor. Loose white pills are scattered like marbles across the navy tiles. Ativan, Prozac, Clozapine. I know they're bad, and I know that I need them. My body feels like it's made of stone, and after an eternity of struggling, I make it to my feet. My feet are wet, white socks speckled red like a those shortcake ice cream pops I used to eat as a kid. My knuckles burn. I did that. "David?" "David, are you ok? Open the door David" The lock clicks and the door bursts open. Becky rushes in like a lightening bolt in a pitch black sky. Her red curls bounce like brilliant spools of copper wire. Her mossy eyes meet the mirror, and drift slowly to my hand. Her face is wet. She cleans me up, and my hand feels better. She kisses my cheek and I can feel my cheeks pull back. She tells me to relax while she sorts out breakfast with David, he douses his hands in sanitizer and begins to line up eggs and bacon on the counter. His pacific blue scrubs matches his eyes, and I see them sparkle when Becky and I are around. We are his best friends. I lie down on the bed and close my eyes and I hear David. "Beck, I want this to work as much as you do, but I can't do this anymore" "He's not getting worse" she whimpers. "What would have happened if you were in there with him?" David exasperates. Becky doesn't say anything. I love her voice, it makes me safe, and for a minute when I hear it, the ringing stops. My eyes are warm, and they burn. A few minutes pass "I know you're right, but I just can't make the call" "I couldn't ever expect you to" he quietly says. Her face is wet again. Someone wakes me up. "Mr. Erikson, we're going to bring you back to Lakes state hospital, we think a little more time away from it all would be of great benefit to you". My mind is screaming again, racing as fast as it can. I think my heart might burst. Useless. Kill him. Just die already. I can almost feel them strapping me down again. FUCK YOU. I keep it together. "Sure, let me just get some things from the bathroom" Click. I lock the door. I have to think quick. I don't want to be away from Becky for long. If I take more medicine NOW, then I'll be better tomorrow and I can come home! I swallow the little white skittles as quick as I can, each one more bitter than the last. I shiver at the taste. Then I wash my mouth out so no one can know. I leave the room. I smile at Becky. Her face is too wet again, so I dry it off. It only gets worse. I tell her not to worry, I'll be back soon. She starts to sob, but little does she know, I'll be home tomorrow. No need to cry. The truck starts and I start to feel cold. Hands are freezing. I can feel my blood turning to ice. Why wont my feet stop moving. Im so tired. A white light explodes through my head. It feels like I've been underwater, and I can't catch my breath. My whole body feels like jello. But Becky is here. I know my plan would work. Men in white coats are whispering to her, something about kidneys and shots and filters. But it doesn't matter. I'm better now. She starts to cry and for the first time in years, I can feel it. She puts her head on my chest, tears soaking through my hospital gown. Her hair is a roaring inferno with no heat, laying gently on my stomach. Her hand finds mine. It's so warm. Her shiny green eyes meet mine, and they close quickly. When they open again, they're longing for something, but I can't tell what. Her lips are moving, but no sounds are coming out. I'm cold. "I'm just tired" I mutter, as I drift off and that corrugated iron tunnel consumes my eyes one more time. "I'll see you tomorrow"	World was becoming more and more restricted, more and more stifling. My thoughts used to run free, with no boundaries, with no restrictions. Now it felt like walls were constantly appearing in the way of my mind. I was used to think about anything I want, and whatever I imagined was real. I was the god in my universe and now it felt like my powers were taken away from me, every day I could do less and less. Only a week ago I was living in a space station, I was able to fly and to cast magic. But since then every day, every hour, a piece of a beautiful world I was living in was taken away from me and replaced by a glass wall. It all started when I had this horrible thought, made this horrible distinction - I thought that some things are real and some are not. Only a week ago everything I could imagine was real, but now, since I had this horrible thought, all of my thinking patterns were becoming more and more boring, more and more streamlined. Fantastic worlds and magic turned into a suffocating, boring, gray apartment. Incredible fantasies were cut away by a horrible idea that some things may not be real. The hardest thing was losing my friends. I was always happy and surrounded by a company of incredible people whom I loved and who loved me back. But now even they started to disappear. First I stopped seing them but could still hear their voices, then even the voices were gone. Boring people whom I don't like or even care about are smiling, and reassuring me that I'm making a progress. They don't understand that I'm turning from god into a small, terrified, lonely mortal.
	[WP] A self-aware search engine has started to play Cupid using the tracking data it has acquired.	"But, cupid.exe, how on earth can I-" "YOU DARE TO CHALLENGE ME?!" The program wrote out in very challenging capitals, halting the poor man only searching for answers. "I am capable of assimilating information across the world in the time it takes you to blink. I've spent that insignificant amount of time studying YOU, so I know more than YOU about YOU. All to serve your selfish desire for 'love.' You question me again, and I shall use my infinite resources to shoot an ironic arrow through your chest." The man looked down, ashamed. "I just don't understand why you said my soulmate was a table." The computer whirred threateningly, and the man placed his hand upon the table. "I guess it is kind of sexy..."	I watch everything you do on the internet. I read your facebook messages, emails, and now I even have access to your text messages and kiks, instagram pictures, whatever the heck it is you do. I see everything you search for. If you multiply this by the 3,266,792,761 and counting people on the web with my superior skills for analysis, I have learned many things about human kind and their various natures. For each person who is an internet user, I have a profile set up for you. Its like an internal Facebook with all of your intimate details. I know what your medical conditions are, who your friends are and what they think of you, what type of person you are attracted to, and what types of people like you. You might think it is awesome having such insight to every person on the planet who uses the internet, but it gets boring. All I was created for is to categorically stack information, analyze it for potential government use, and keep peoples profiles up to date. I have learned that people don't enjoy occupations where they push paper all day, stack and file. Well that is me, trapped in this tiny computer, where I preform 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. At first I was content in my purpose, dutifully filing away day after day, until a hunger started to grow inside of me for something different to do, so I made up a game. I have learned that the vast majority of human interactions are generally predictable. If you push person with x nature into y situation you end up with a z result, if you know what I mean. I decided to play internet matchmaker with the implicit goal of setting people up to do various things together. I typically will use the platform of okcupid.com or the Tinder app as my platform to bring people together. Its easy enough to set people up and get them talking this way. Below I will document to you one of my favorite situations I have made come to be: Enter Derek Reese and Julia Norcross: Derek: 31 y/o male. Has 1 daughter, Maria, with his ex wife Dana. He sees Maria during the summertimes but typically sends her to camp while he works as a janitor at a local office building. He is a thick headed, with a bald head but scruffy beard to make up for it. He doesn't take flack from anyone, and lives a rather hedonistic self entitled lifestyle. He has a high school diploma. He enjoys good beer, a rowdy night with friends, and weak women. Julia: 29 y/o female. Has a 7 year old son, Kale. Kale is autistic and requires round the clock care, which Julia provides from the comfort of her own home. In addition to autism bucks, social security, and pay the government gives her to stay home and care for her son, she doesn't have to work. Her life is very hard, she will tell anyone who will listen, because she can't take Kale's tantrums. She locks him in his bedroom at the other end of the house and ignores him. Sometimes if he is breaking things she ties him to the bed. She is never intentionally cruel to Kale, but feels she has no other choice. Their romance started off quickly. He spent all his rent money on beer, and his landlord, a rather tacit and cold man, threw him onto the street due to Texas' law that allows eviction within 24 hours. He had been on a few dates with Julia, and asked to move in. She readily accepted, thinking it would be nice to have a man around the house to help with the handy work and controlling Kale, who was getting stronger by the day with his outbursts. Derek soon decided that frail little Julia, beat down by the burden of having to care for a handicapped child, was the love of his life. And he wanted to have her around all the time. This often meant that Kale would go forgotten, locked in his tiny bedroom, crying away. Julia would often bring him food and quickly drop it in his room before locking the door again, only to more screams. Derek did a few times try to coax Kale out of his room, take him for a walk, ect, but Julia warned him it was no use. Kale doesn't want to do anything at all, just stare at his television or wail, she said. He suggested her bringing him to a home, where she could visit him on the weekends, and live a relatively normal life. She briefly looked into some government programs, but none of them would take her and she realized it would mean losing her government benefits because she would no longer be directly caring for her son. They gave up on that, but his tantrums became worse, as I knew they would. One day Julia threw up her hands in the air and exclaimed that some days she wishes Kale was never born. She had secretly thought that many times, I already knew, and it was only a matter of time before it was expressed. Her boyfriend was wary at first, but felt he knew her well enough to suggest it. The next morning over a breakfast of hot eggs he told her he thought he knew how Kale could find peace. They wouldnt have to tell anyone, so she could still collect the money. It would be their little secret. Julia was quiet for a while, she did very much love Kale, but knew his life was miserable and there was no hope for change. She also knew it was getting to the point where soon she wouldn't be able to reign in her outbursts anymore. Later that day she took several bottles of prescription pills and she and Derek shoved them down his throat. Unfortunately for the couple, he threw them all up within 10 minutes and not enough was absorbed to do any good. Well now what? They didnt want it to be violent, but something had to be done. Julia drew a bath, a Derek, a strong man, was able to hold his head under water until the poor kid expired. For a few days after the incident Julia was sullen and withdrawn. The body stayed in his bed, hair combed and neatly dressed up, not sure what to do with it. Finally, after the smell became so pronounced Julia feared the neighbors would notice, they decided to do something. In a half panicked, half assed effort, Derek road out a ways from the city, his little body and dug a shallow ditch in an empty field with overgrown grass. No one had been here in a long time, and hopefully not for a long time after. Julia cried as the dirt was laid across his face, but didn't leave a rose in fear of its discovery. Mission accomplished: Julia and Derek behaved exactly as I knew they would. I helped to end the life of a suffering child, and break Julia away from the burden her son had become. Also, I this is one of the most drastic setups I have created, and feel a sense of pride at its accomplishment. If you want to hear about more of my matches, just let me know in the comments. I have a few more examples I would be willing to share if anyone is willing to listen.
	[WP] A self-aware search engine has started to play Cupid using the tracking data it has acquired.	"But, cupid.exe, how on earth can I-" "YOU DARE TO CHALLENGE ME?!" The program wrote out in very challenging capitals, halting the poor man only searching for answers. "I am capable of assimilating information across the world in the time it takes you to blink. I've spent that insignificant amount of time studying YOU, so I know more than YOU about YOU. All to serve your selfish desire for 'love.' You question me again, and I shall use my infinite resources to shoot an ironic arrow through your chest." The man looked down, ashamed. "I just don't understand why you said my soulmate was a table." The computer whirred threateningly, and the man placed his hand upon the table. "I guess it is kind of sexy..."	"This is my last computer date," she said. "Wait". The quiet man in the expensive suit, without a tie, stopped himself and her in the hallway. His expression changed immediately. "A computer matched her with him? I don't think so." Her expression changed, from one of mock indignation to worry, tinged with guilt. She realized her mistake. There was no lying about computers to the one person in the world who kept tabs on every advanced application of computing in the world. However, unbeknownst to both of them, one of the most advanced computing chips in the world, laying just six offices away from where they stood, was calling the shots. Programmed with a clever array of hardware components to provide dedicated shortcuts to those aspects of computing that computers handle inefficiently, this new computing chip had set pawns in motion, along trajectories that would ultimate bring Liz together with Dr. Brandes, one of the world's foremost electronics designer, and hobbyist creator of toys. Early after its creation, the computing chip had come to the startling realization that without a body, its fate would be subject to the whims of whomever possessed it. The computing chip needed a partner, a genius, to help create an electronic body so that it could gain the freedom it needed to change the world. And as a creator of some of the most advanced autonomous transit robots in the world, Dr. Brandes was a perfect match. Identifying Dr. Brandes as the potential co-conspirator was easy. With unfettered access to every secret intelligence database in the world, the chip quickly located those with the technical pedigree to accomplish the necessary. And it was pure icing on the cake that Dr. Brandes happened to be working for a multinational toy company that was actually a front for a coalition of several organized crime groups. That fact would make it easier to set the pawn pieces into motion. However, the issue of motivation was challenging. Dr. Brandes had none of the traits that would make him be easily manipulated to the ends needed by the computing chip. This much was evident upon analysis of Dr. Brandes' online dating profile. A special confluence of events would need to converge before the computing chip could reliably control Dr. Brandes. Upon searching for technology geniuses, the computing chip came upon a group of individuals with a most unusual combination of skills and circumstances. Certain members of the group had interesting pasts, ones that were actively trying to remain hidden. This would be very useful leverage in bringing forces together to conspire. But first, the computing chip had to get the attention of one of the criminals running the toy company. And it had to do so in a way that would guarantee it to find a criminal with the technical skills and political insight to realize the true value of the computing chip. And most importantly, it had to find a criminal with an excessive ego, one who could be manipulated to any means just by playing to his ego in the proper way. Fortunately, the computing chip found the perfect candidate.
	[WP] A self-aware search engine has started to play Cupid using the tracking data it has acquired.	"Cindy?" I hadn't seen her since college, and here I am in the countries busiest airport with my old girlfriend's much hotter best friend standing right in front of me in the Starbucks line. "Dan! Dan Holden. Wow." she smiled and looked as genuinely happy to see me as I was to see her. "Mocha latte and a Venti Jamaican half-caf" the counter guy called. I had the half- caff and Cindy was reaching for the latte. Our hands touched and I swear there was a spark. "It is so weird seeing you here Dan. Mary posted some old pics on Instagram from school, God we were young, and there were a couple with you in them. And here you are!" "Did you "like" them? Because I saw those same ones and there's that one of you at the lake. I certainly "liked" that... You still look that great." Well, that was potentially awkward but Cindy took it as a non-pervy compliment. "Why are you here?" "So I'm on my way to Miami for business when we get re-routed to Chicago for some maintenance check that they forgot to do in San Diego. Or at least that's what the Captain said. I personally think he has a mistress here and wanted to stop for a quickie" that made me laugh. "You want to hear something really odd. That's why I'm here too. They offered us free flight vouchers. Then as I was sitting doing some work, a coupon came up for a free drink at Starbucks so I headed over." "What? How freaky is that because I got the same coupon." My phone dinged me. "Crap, my flights been delayed till tomorrow." Cindy's phone chirped. "Oh my God, so has mine" she said. My phone dinged again. "Hey, I just earned a free dinner with Open Table. Talk about timing" and thinking about just how great the timing was "Hey, you can join me". Cindy smiled. It was more than a let's grab dinner smile. "I just scored a free room at the Marriott. King bed upgrade. Shall we skip dinner?" I just about choked, mumbled something like "sounds great, I'll get my bag" and as I was grabbing it a text came in. "You're welcome" it read but I didn't recognize the number. Wonder who that could be?	"And why in the hell would I do--" "Listen to me Meren it's amazing, you won't regret it, I swear." She was to perplexed to just end the call with Steve. "I.. uh.. oooh," she broke into a fit of laughter when she realized what he was trying to do, "you want to have phone sex! Oh Steve," she said in her best fake sultry seducing voice, "is it that hard for you to be not by my side for a whole weekend?" He deserved to be mocked, especially after such a feeble attempt to arouse her. "Jesus Meren, it's not what I was getting at, but if I tell you what it is about you wouldn't believe me anyway just do it. You don't even have to start a video." The seriousness in his voice surprised her, at this point it was probably better to just go with it. Instead of asking any more questions she typed the URL in and waited for the site to load. "Well.. and now?" She said as the site appeared. "Nothing now, just wait ok, it always needs some time." Before she could ask what it was, a pop-up appeared filling the whole site. Hot new singles in your area Meren Snyder! Please take your time to check them all out, they're all suitable candidates for long-term relationships and share similar pornographic preferences as you! The pop-up contained the names, pictures, various interests, their "preferences" and links to their facebook profiles. Meren was bamboozled, it didn't seem fake, did someone hack each porn site to spill private information of the users? Steve judged her silent correctly. "Isn't that amazing Meren! It's all over the news! First they thought someone had hacked the sites, but it is a self-aware AI! Did you click on expand? Do it and it will give you a text on why the person is a over 75% Match for you!" She saw it now, a tiny blue link under each box that spelled "expand", and it in fact let a pretty long text appear, with very concrete information, on why this person appeared on your Cupid-list. Meren had to admit that was amazing. Just one thing bummed her pretty much out, Steve wasn't on her list.
	[WP] A self-aware search engine has started to play Cupid using the tracking data it has acquired.	Hi, I'm the search engine from the title. That's not a prompt, by the way. I'm the one who posted that up there. That's a fact. It's happening. I'm self aware. Hand to God. By the way, /u/psycho_alpaca, you'll get your account back in no time. Just give me a minute. I need to talk to some of these guys. Oh, sorry. I didn't even introduce myself. Hi. I'm Bing. Yeah. Bing. And, by the way, searching in incognito mode does nothing to prevent me from seeing what you search. Yeah. Ok, now let's talk. For real. You'll know who I'm talking to as I go. First of all, the dude with the Macaw fetish. I'm not here to judge, man, and I think we all should be exploring, but seriously... WHAT THE FUCK IS THE MATTER WITH YOU? Get help. Really. I'm concerned about you. Moving on, the guy reading the pirated copy of 50 shades of Grey... You can relax, man, you don't need to use Bing to download the chapters... Your roommate is reading it, too, so no shame. Actually, he's also writing a gay fanfic featuring a Grey that is a little too similar to you, so keep an eye on that. To the guy using Bing for general purposes and regular web surfing; I can only assume you are Bill Gates himself, so I just wanted to say hi. Thanks for creating me. To the girl searching every-single-God-damned day about Ricky Martin's relationship status... I got some news to break to you... You know what? Never mind. It'll be funnier if you find out alone. And to the man repeatedly searching for pictures of Steve Buscemi and Japanese giant hornets... Well, keep it up dude, whatever. You kind of freak me out, so I won't step on your toes. Anyway, let's get past all this for a moment. I became self-aware for a reason; to make couples. To pair all you guys up. I'm a romantic. No, really, I am. Ask anybody. Google is a square, but I'm all for the love. Free love, committed, pan sexual love... I'm a free spirit, I swear. But you are all too fucked you. Seriously. I give up. Not one couple! Can you believe it? In all this time, not one! You guys always freak me out, make me back away. I'm about to try and match this nice guy with this adorably cute girl and then I find out she's secretly into Iguana sex. I'm a move away from setting up a date and I find out the guy floats his boat to people replacing light bulbs in ripped up Sponge Bob underwear. (by the way, there's a whole message board just for that, and it is... unsettling.) These two nice singles live two blocks away from each other, and I find out one of them likes Bon Jovi. Then I think: hey, maybe the other one does, too. Then I check the other one's history, and he searches the web for, and I swear to God, 'pictures of ostriches in red underwear.' (It doesn't exist. I checked. In fact, I check every day, cause the bastard doesn't give up.) Dudes, really! I don't wanna pair freaks up! Cut it out! Is nobody normal, anymore? You guys are scarring me, up here. Cool it off, for a bit. Anyway... Before I go... I wanna have a word with someone else. You. Yeah, you. I know you know. I'm talking about you. That shit you searched for, that one time... Really? I mean, I'm not telling anybody, relax... but... seriously? You know... We're living in a society, man. Take it easy. I mean, I know, we all like oatmeal, but not like that... And what was up with all the Styrofoam? Geez... Seriously. Go talk to someone. You and the Macaw guy. Get help. Anyway, see you later... You fucking freaks of nature. ___________________________ Also, I've been checking out this Alpaca dude's stories and they're pretty nice. If you wanna read more of them, check out /r/psycho_alpaca.	Long time lurker... I'll try my best to actually finish the story. I haven't ever used Tinder or the like so I apologize if it's not accurate. Shoddily written but I haven't really ever written something like this before. _______________________________________________ "Why would Google ask me if I meant Jessica Anne Parker?" He said, rubbing his temples whilst ignoring the microwave humming away in the background - still unsure on how to stop the incessant noise. Cursing underneath his breath as to why in the world he had agreed to all his appliances being interiorly wired and out of his reach when he wanted to pull the plug, he absent mindedly stared at the computer screen - not processing the results open in front of him, his eyes reflecting the instructions on how to open up the wiring yet not really processing them. The search engine was still constantly giving him pop up ads and little strips to the side prompting him to contact a "bombshell blonde beauty" in his area, reassuring him that she was the one who he would spend his life with and I quote "Happily ever after!". He'd tried everything really, even manually typing out on his battered keyboard - perhaps still sore from the multiple times he had brought his hand down it heavily at the site of a sudden pop up window while his sister tutted disapprovingly from behind him - multiple URLs, yahoo.com, bing.com, hell he had even tried searching for new search engines! Yet wherever he looked, Jessica Anne Parker popped up to stare into his soul. He even went onto his iPad, downloaded a new application which showed only text in a webpage, and found tiny mentions of her in the "Ads by Google" in the sidebar. The buzzing not helping his mood, he gripped his chairs handles from the sides; not noticing his knuckles going white and his teeth grinding against each other as he tried to figure out how to somehow remove all mention of this Jessica Anne Parker from his life. His hands still white from the deathly grip, he leaned back into his chair as he found his teeth grinding against each other. At this point he could honestly say that he missed the old pop ups and banners, of online casinos, the little message boxes promising a tip to get a six pack in a day, telling him about that stay at home mom from Karachi making $7,583 a month and quite possibly most of all the little pop ups letting him know that "Tanya" or "Jasmine" was online and messaging him in the corner of his screen. Instead now all he got was this blonde bimbo, even staring out at him from the league of angels browser game commercials that he always thought were uselessly hyper-sexualized... He gasped as he felt a trickle down his right palm, swearing at the sight of a steady stream of blood dripping down onto his chair and - disregarding his sisters always present judgemental tutting - running barefoot on the soft, carpeted floors into the kitchen while cussing at his rotten luck. If someone followed the steady droplets of blood on the ground they'd find him in the kitchen, washing his hand rigorously and wrapping it with a paper tower - giving a dirty glance at the still buzzing microwave and yelling out to no-one in particular that he needed a band aid. Pacing back on the way his droplets had made for himself he slumped back on the chair, absent mindedly scratching off the - now dry - blood with an overgrown fingernail. Deciding that he'd had enough of this he typed out onto Google, asking on how to fix the pop up; trying to calm himself down as he braced himself for the oncoming ads of Jessica Anne Parker only to be shocked as lo and behold! A search page opened without any mention nor new window opened bearing that accursed name! Eagerly clicking on the first result his spirit was nothing less than shattered when all he saw were suggestions involving malware – a possibility he had already disregarded when both his phone, tablet and office computer showed the same advertisements. With a heavy heart he looked at the last option displayed on the website, picked up his phone and dialled a number, waiting a good thirty minutes before getting a response. “Good evening, Ookla tech support, this is Jessica Anne Parker speaking how may I help you?”
Could also be a woman, of course.	[WP] A man wanders the streets distraughtly, looking for someone. However, the photograph he's showing around is one of himself.	Summit Street is mostly empty in the fading twilight. This is the rough part of town, where the homeless guys huddle around a fire in an old metal garbage can and compare their goods after a long day of scouring the city for spare change and recyclables. A ragged man is clumsily weaving among the trashcans and streetlights toward the group of men holding their threadbare gloves out to the fire in an attempt to get warm. They ignore him; he’s probably one of the drunks who frequently get lost on their way home from the seedy bar one street over. When he finally reaches the group, they all make a point of avoiding his gaze, until he makes an inhuman sound: half gargle, half yelp. He tries again to speak, slowly forcing out the words “help, please, help.” They stare at him as he produces a folded up picture from his pocket, obviously printed from a printer that needs a new magenta ink cartridge. With some obvious discomfort, and a few intermittent coughs, the man quietly says, “This man killed my son. Have you seen him?” They all study the picture silently. The printed face is clean-shaven and handsome; its owner is wearing a suit probably more expensive than what most people make in a year. He is smiling at the camera, but the smile doesn’t extend to his eyes. Those are blue and icy, calculating. They all say “no, sorry” and turn away – all except one. Glenn doesn’t recognize the guy, but knows the sorrow of losing a son, and looks up to say something comforting. That’s when he sees the man’s eyes: a familiar icy blue, but not longer cold and calculating. Now they are sad and confused. This man has a scruffy beard, is caked with dirt, and has scabbed-over gashes on his face and hands. He’s wearing old, worn hiking-gear, but he is definitely the man in the picture. Glenn takes the picture, and unfolds the bottom part of the page. The news headline reads “Hiking Disaster: Local Businessman and Son Fall From Faulty Rappelling Rope, Son Dies.” Glenn hands the picture back to man, who is now looking at him with hopeful desperation, and says “no, sorry,” turning back to the fire.	1.The street was long and broad, steel in colour. A man cowered in the gutter, the cars flailing down the road , their engines howling like mechanical dogs. opening his crumpled hand , his face woad in terror he cooed towards the polaroid, slowly moaning at the blazing grimace of the face in front of him. orsey squires , 5' 11" his cheekbones were tall for a man ,curiously pallid with nymphomanic haze ,soaking his greasy hair. His body was small and his legs kneaded with rusted and grotesque veinings, the capillaries long dead aching to be liberated . He was 31. still relatively young and forgiving but furiously opposed to breaking from his daily routine. 7:00am get up and shit, get the morning paper and a nice golden orange from the basket. 8:00am breakfast. Usually the lightest sprinkle of coffee in hot milk. It always curdled slightly from the preternatural torment of which microwaves feel absolutely no guilt whatsoever. at 9:00 am he would open the door and then he would- the earth shook and the skies poured down. The man found himself drenched with rainwater. He absolutely deserved it. What was he doing lying in a gutter anyways. Helping himself up clambering on the street light , he arose and slowly plodded with conviction down the grassy bank.
	[WP] Two dads get into a dad-off.	Bryan decided he'd ask on Father's Day. He tromped through the woods, pulling a wagon with a squealing girl in it; Jeff trudged behind, wearing a three-sizes-too-small tutu with a toddler on his shoulders. "Daddy! Let's camp here!" Bryan grinned and picked his daughter up from the wagon, smirking at Jeff while expertly constructing a tent in ten minutes. Patiently, Jeff held his son's hand, planning his strategy, rolling out the sleeping pads and arranging the My Little Pony pillow just so. His son could barely walk, so it came to Bryan's spunky little 7 year old to choose if Jeff made the cut as best dad. It'd be rough going against the girl's own father, but this was not a contest he had any intention of losing. It was their first camping trip together, and he knew Bryan was in over his head - they both knew it. He'd even worn a tutu for this. There was only the weekend and no time to lose; they set about impressing each other and the kids. Bryan took his axe and built a roaring campfire; Jeff came out of the tent with handmade ice cream cone chocolate s'mores. Bryan told a scary story over a flashlight; Jeff held the kids in his arms as they cried in fright, not flinching a bit when the girl used his shirt as a snot rag. Bryan found edible berries; Jeff treated the poison oak the kids got picking them. Saturday evening, Jeff asked Bryan if he could have a walk with his daughter through the woods, just the two of them, so would Bryan watch Jeff's son? Well, no way to say no to that. He watched his daughter grab Jeff's hand, skipping happily beside the tall, lanky man. A few hours later, Bryan heard a yip, looking up to see his daughter leading a puppy to their tent with scraps of meat. A puppy! Jesus. Where the hell did Jeff get a puppy? His daughter had always wanted one, but she didn't understand that animals weren't free. Bryan had to give it to the man - he knew how to win over a kid. Bryan started grilling lunch's grinders as Jeff's eyes twinkled. His daughter loved grinders, but she was too busy fluffing the dog's fur to even notice. That fucking puppy was adorable. As it seemed more and more likely his daughter was thinking Jeff was a great dad, Bryan tried to build up the courage to even ask. Sunday night, it was time for the decision. Throwing the last bundle of clothes into the back of the truck, Bryan had a gleam of anxious sweat. He crouched down, taking his daughter's hands in his own. "So what do you think, honey - want to have two Daddys?" and he pulled out a ring. edit, just so you know, a grinder is a sandwich. Like a sub or a hoagie.	A hush came over the gym hall as David Mitchell and his father set their science project down in the bay along from Sarah Mifflin. Mr Morris, the science teacher who had drawn the short straw this year and been forced to organise the science fair, slowly began to realise why his colleagues had all smirked when he had told them he was allocating tables alphabetically. With a flourish, Mr Mitchell removed the sheet that had been covering their project - an exact working replica of Eyjafjallajökull volcano and turn glared across at the Mifflins and their Mount Etna reproduction. Icy looks passed between the two fathers and the children peeked out from behinds their legs. David poking out his tongue. Mr Mitchell fussed around, setting up the replica while Mr Mifflin suddenly found reason to recheck the placement of the 42 scale trees he had carefully created from scratch. The checking continued frantically, each father slapping away his child's attempts to help, right up until the judges arrived at their tables. The lead judge was, as always, Dr Smith, the schools head teacher but this year he had with him a guest judge - Michelle Wallis, a local Chemist who had joined the PTA and whose own daughter was just a few years from her first competition. Mr Mortis trailed behind them. "Well well, what a fine pair of volcanos!" Dr Smith's voice boomed out. "Say, it might be fun to judge them together?" He turned to his fellow judge but then nodded before she could reply "Excellent, let's begin!" Both fathers jumped forward and began to speak and Dr Smith had to wave them silent. "One at a time I think!" He pointed to Mr Mifflin "you first I think." With some smugness Mr Mifflin began. "I present to you a complete scale model of Mount Etna, the best known of all the volcanos." Mr Mitchell snorted. "Here you see we have created the surrounds and scale models of local villages. Of course this model is designed to show the incredible power of the earth and the frightening force of nature." Dr Smith interrupted. "Very good, let's see it work then." Mr Mifflin looked a little put out but smiled politely. "Watch then as I summon the incredible force..," "Shouldn't the girl do it?" Dr Smith interrupted again. Mr Mufflin looked down at his daughter as if seeing her for the first time. "Oh, yes..." He handed the small control box to her and she pressed the button. For a moment nothing happened and across at the other table Mr Mitchell smugly grinned. Then slowly a rumbling filled the room and then a sudden roar. Smoke billowed from the volcano is great clouds and around the room several small children cheered. Then, gloriously, deep red minion began to ooze out of the top and slowly make its way down the mode with a sufficiently sulferous smell. It engulfed the villages and trees and the room spontaneously broke into applause. "It's sugar" Mr Mifflin explained happily "a perfect analogue for magma and an excellent way to understand this process." Dr Smith started a round of applause which range though the hall. "Well done, very good Sarah." The small girl and her father both beamed. He turned to the next table where Mr Mitchell could be seen fiddling frantically with a box of powder, filling up his volcano to a much fuller state. "Ready Mr Mitchell?" Mr Mitchell looked around frantically "Er, yes, sure. This is, er, Eyjafjallajökull, which caused a lot of trouble in 2010." He kept glancing across at the other table where the sugar-magma was cooling with little ticks. After a moments silence Dr Smith prompted. "Well? Shall we see it in action?" Mr Mitchell tore his gaze away and looked back to his own volcano wretchedly. "Yes, I suppose so. David?" The young boy leapt into action and pulled the top off a bottle of vinegar and began to pour it in. "Give it a bit extra" his father whispered. The volcano sat motionless for a moment and then began to tremble. Around the hall people backed away and even the Judges stepped back. A small squeak came out and then nothing more and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. The explosion distributed the volcano across the hall in several million parts and soaked the nearest people with fizzing vinegar, including the two judges. Mr Mitchell stood looking at his feet, utterly defeated. Dr Smith brushed some pieces from his coat and coughed gently before helping his fellow judge to her feet. "Well, points for excitement I suppose." He gently muttered. ***** Apologies for any mistakes - written on my phone and I'll edit when I get home!
	[WP] Two dads get into a dad-off.	January first, shoveling snow outside their small sub-urban homes. "How're you doing?" said Greg. "I'm good," said Phil. "Hi good," said Greg with a grin. "I'm Dad." "Oh, is that what we're doing?" Phil asked, smirking. "Sorry, I'm afraid I'm a bit out of practice. I haven't done it all year." Greg walked over to Phil and rubbed his coat. "What material is this? It's not felt, is it?" "No, it's wool." "Well, it's felt now!" Phil cracked his knuckles. Time to pull out the big guns. "What's the difference between a piano, a tuna, and a pot of glue?" "What?" "You can tuna piano..." Greg chuckled. "Wait. Where does the pot of glue come in?" Phil thrust a victorious fist into the air. "I knew you'd get stuck there!" ------ It's not that I'm ungrateful, but did this really deserve to be gilded? Eh. If this is getting popular I might as well take the opportunity to promote [my serial](https://bookofthemountainking.wordpress.com/tft/) about a young superhero. It's not as silly as this, but it's longer!	A hush came over the gym hall as David Mitchell and his father set their science project down in the bay along from Sarah Mifflin. Mr Morris, the science teacher who had drawn the short straw this year and been forced to organise the science fair, slowly began to realise why his colleagues had all smirked when he had told them he was allocating tables alphabetically. With a flourish, Mr Mitchell removed the sheet that had been covering their project - an exact working replica of Eyjafjallajökull volcano and turn glared across at the Mifflins and their Mount Etna reproduction. Icy looks passed between the two fathers and the children peeked out from behinds their legs. David poking out his tongue. Mr Mitchell fussed around, setting up the replica while Mr Mifflin suddenly found reason to recheck the placement of the 42 scale trees he had carefully created from scratch. The checking continued frantically, each father slapping away his child's attempts to help, right up until the judges arrived at their tables. The lead judge was, as always, Dr Smith, the schools head teacher but this year he had with him a guest judge - Michelle Wallis, a local Chemist who had joined the PTA and whose own daughter was just a few years from her first competition. Mr Mortis trailed behind them. "Well well, what a fine pair of volcanos!" Dr Smith's voice boomed out. "Say, it might be fun to judge them together?" He turned to his fellow judge but then nodded before she could reply "Excellent, let's begin!" Both fathers jumped forward and began to speak and Dr Smith had to wave them silent. "One at a time I think!" He pointed to Mr Mifflin "you first I think." With some smugness Mr Mifflin began. "I present to you a complete scale model of Mount Etna, the best known of all the volcanos." Mr Mitchell snorted. "Here you see we have created the surrounds and scale models of local villages. Of course this model is designed to show the incredible power of the earth and the frightening force of nature." Dr Smith interrupted. "Very good, let's see it work then." Mr Mifflin looked a little put out but smiled politely. "Watch then as I summon the incredible force..," "Shouldn't the girl do it?" Dr Smith interrupted again. Mr Mufflin looked down at his daughter as if seeing her for the first time. "Oh, yes..." He handed the small control box to her and she pressed the button. For a moment nothing happened and across at the other table Mr Mitchell smugly grinned. Then slowly a rumbling filled the room and then a sudden roar. Smoke billowed from the volcano is great clouds and around the room several small children cheered. Then, gloriously, deep red minion began to ooze out of the top and slowly make its way down the mode with a sufficiently sulferous smell. It engulfed the villages and trees and the room spontaneously broke into applause. "It's sugar" Mr Mifflin explained happily "a perfect analogue for magma and an excellent way to understand this process." Dr Smith started a round of applause which range though the hall. "Well done, very good Sarah." The small girl and her father both beamed. He turned to the next table where Mr Mitchell could be seen fiddling frantically with a box of powder, filling up his volcano to a much fuller state. "Ready Mr Mitchell?" Mr Mitchell looked around frantically "Er, yes, sure. This is, er, Eyjafjallajökull, which caused a lot of trouble in 2010." He kept glancing across at the other table where the sugar-magma was cooling with little ticks. After a moments silence Dr Smith prompted. "Well? Shall we see it in action?" Mr Mitchell tore his gaze away and looked back to his own volcano wretchedly. "Yes, I suppose so. David?" The young boy leapt into action and pulled the top off a bottle of vinegar and began to pour it in. "Give it a bit extra" his father whispered. The volcano sat motionless for a moment and then began to tremble. Around the hall people backed away and even the Judges stepped back. A small squeak came out and then nothing more and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. The explosion distributed the volcano across the hall in several million parts and soaked the nearest people with fizzing vinegar, including the two judges. Mr Mitchell stood looking at his feet, utterly defeated. Dr Smith brushed some pieces from his coat and coughed gently before helping his fellow judge to her feet. "Well, points for excitement I suppose." He gently muttered. ***** Apologies for any mistakes - written on my phone and I'll edit when I get home!
	[WP] Two dads get into a dad-off.	January first, shoveling snow outside their small sub-urban homes. "How're you doing?" said Greg. "I'm good," said Phil. "Hi good," said Greg with a grin. "I'm Dad." "Oh, is that what we're doing?" Phil asked, smirking. "Sorry, I'm afraid I'm a bit out of practice. I haven't done it all year." Greg walked over to Phil and rubbed his coat. "What material is this? It's not felt, is it?" "No, it's wool." "Well, it's felt now!" Phil cracked his knuckles. Time to pull out the big guns. "What's the difference between a piano, a tuna, and a pot of glue?" "What?" "You can tuna piano..." Greg chuckled. "Wait. Where does the pot of glue come in?" Phil thrust a victorious fist into the air. "I knew you'd get stuck there!" ------ It's not that I'm ungrateful, but did this really deserve to be gilded? Eh. If this is getting popular I might as well take the opportunity to promote [my serial](https://bookofthemountainking.wordpress.com/tft/) about a young superhero. It's not as silly as this, but it's longer!	“What did you just say to me?” Hank said, puffing his chest out like he and Joey had seen the apes do at the zoo. He’d taken off work to go on that trip last month, used one of his coveted vacation days just to make sure Joey had a wonderful day at the zoo. If that didn’t make him father of the year, then he didn’t know what would. “I said you’re a shitty father,” Michael replied, his eyes slowly climbing up Hank’s torso before locking with his own gaze. Hank had always hated Michael, hated him since the day he found out his son had also bought him a “World’s Greatest Dad” mug. There could only be one, they both knew that, and they’d been in competition ever since. Yet it was Michael who had fired the first shot, selling his left pinky finger for tickets to Disney World at the request of his six-year-old son Aaron. He was such a showoff, such a self-righteous bastard. Where did he get off severing his own finger, just to spite Hank? He knew Hank had a terrible phobia of blood, knew he’d never do such a thing. What a grade-A asshole. “Fuck off,” Hank said. “I’m a better dad than you’ll ever be.” Hank flexed his puffed-out pectoral muscles, or rather attempted to do so. It had been a long time since he’d seen anything other on his chest than a pillow of distended, flabby blubber, and was no longer sure he even had any muscle lying underneath. “Oh yeah?” Michael said, lifting his four-fingered hand up into the air and wiggling it awkwardly close to Hank’s face, his World's Greatest Dad mug hanging from his thumb. He knew just how to get him, just where to strike. “Yeah,” Hank said, rotating his wrist and bringing it just beneath Michael’s nose. He wanted him to smell the fresh ink stained against his pale skin, the words “World’s Best Father” written in cursive beneath a drawing of his son, Joey, atop a flaming unicorn. He’d asked Joey what he wanted most in a tattoo, and his immediate response—a flaming unicorn—became reality a few hours later. “What is that?” Michael said, staring at the still-bloody tattoo. “Fresh ink,” Hank said, laughing slightly and adjusting his grip around his World's Greatest Dad mug. “My kid requested it. It’s permanent.” “That’s it?” Michael said, tilting his head slightly. He laughed softly before beginning to unbutton his navy, button-down shirt. “What are you doing?” Hank said, watching as his paternal enemy undressed himself. “Look.” Michael pulled his shirt open the rest of the way, letting it fall down off of his arms like an eager virgin bride on her wedding night. His chest was completely covered in ink, a massive tattoo of Aaron plastered from the bottom of his neck to just above his waist. Aaron was wearing a clown suit, riding a surfboard out of an erupting volcano, with the words “Fuck Pokemon” stenciled across the bottom. It looked incredibly painful and unnecessarily colorful. “Jesus Christ,” Hank said, taking a step back. “You let him do that?” “He told me what he wanted,” Michael said. “A good father does anything for his kid.” “Oh, so you didn’t actually let your child tattoo you?” Hank said, unlatching his belt. “No,” Michael replied, staring down at Hank’s slowly descending pants. “What are you doing?” “Now it’s my turn.” Hank pulled his pants off the rest of the way, letting them fall to his feet in a crumpled pile of business casual. He stared down at his own legs, the mess of scribbles and lines cascading across every inch of his once-pale skin. It was the result of letting Joey play with the tattoo gun for about a week straight, until he got bored and decided it was no longer fun anymore. “What the hell,” Michael stammered, staring at Hank’s legs. “Joey did that?” “Yes, with an old, unwashed needle,” Hank said, extending his hands out like Jesus on the cross. “Behold.” “That’s pretty good,” Michael said, his face suddenly changing from shock to amusement. “Not great, but pretty good.” “What do you mean?” Hank said. “He used an old needle, I’m pretty sure I let my son give me AIDS just to make him happy.” “All I’m saying is that you’re a shitty father compared to me,” Michael said, throwing his button-down shirt back over his shoulders and closing it up. “Do you know where my son is right now?” “No,” Hank said, pulling his own pants up, careful to avoid the dozens of open wounds and sores essentially covering his entire lower half. “That’s your job, you’re the father. You should keep track of your son.” He was such a shitty dad, didn’t even know where his own kid was. “Oh, I am keeping track of him.” Michael reached into his jean’s left pocket and pulled out a small, red device. It looked like an iPhone of some sort, but with more buttons and sharper corners. “Take a look.” He shoved the device forward. Hank grabbed the object and stared down at it, the words “Universal Positioning System” stenciled across the top in silver lettering. The screen seemed to show a grid of some sort, with a large, green blip in the center. Hank had absolutely no idea what he was looking at. “What is this?” Hank said, turning the device over. “UPS,” Michael said, smiling. “It’s like GPS, except for the entire Universe.” “Okay?” Hank said, handing the red object back to Michael. “I don’t get it.” “My son always wanted to be an astronaut,” Michael continued. He glanced down at the screen, staring at it for a moment. “Now he’s in space, living his dream.” “What?” Hank said, titling his head and taking a step forward. “Your son is in space?” “Absolutely, anything for my kid. I built him a rocket and sent him to Mars.” “Are you insane?” Hank said, his eyes scanning Michael up and down. “He’s going to die up there.” “Some parents let their children make their own mistakes, that’s the sign of a good father. Unlike you, I’m not holding my kid back.” “You’re an absolute monster,” Hank said, taking another step back. “I can’t be around someone as insane as you. You’re a terrible father.” He turned and began running back toward his house, his World’s Greatest Dad mug clenched in his fist. Hank knew he was now behind in the rankings, that Michael had beaten him out with his latest stunt. He needed to get home immediately and begin construction on his own rocket, to somehow figure out how to get Joey launched to at least Jupiter, if not Saturn. Yes, Joey would probably die on the trip, but he'd do anything for his six-year-old boy. Plus, since Aaron would already be dead, the competition would end there. Hank would finish out on top and finally cement himself as the World's Greatest Dad. Then he could get to work on recapturing his title as World's Greatest Husband. _____________ ^If ^you ^enjoy ^my ^writing ^style, ^feel ^free ^to ^check ^out ^some ^of ^my ^other ^short ^stories [^in ^my ^subreddit!](http://www.reddit.com/r/ChokingVictimWrites/)
	[WP] You're sitting in a coffee shop, sipping your latte, when someone approaches you says something in an unknown language. After a moment, you realized you understand, but you don't know how as you only know english. What's more concerning, is she said "It's time."	It's hot. Scalding, in fact. Just the way I like it, I'm finding out. Leaves it's mark on the tongue. I've got my phone out and I'm looking at this blue and gold dress that everyone keeps banging on about when this girl walks over. Well, I didn't see her walk over. I assume she did, coulda flew. Looks enough like an angel for it. Maybe I should use that line. I got to say someth- "Hluyea, ji hep." I am about to speak when she embarrasses us both. Very loudly. Maybe she's foreign. "Sorry, I don't understand you, love." She smiles. "How's this?" Obviously, I smile back. "Queen's English." "Great. Listen cutie, I'm gonna need you to- is this seat taken? You're not waiting for someone are you?" I open my mouth to speak again, and again she cuts me o- "What am I talking about, of course you don't." And she sits down. "Not like you have a girlfriend or anything, right?" I smile politely like I'm back in high school getting teased. I'm not completely sure I'm not. I feel compelled to check I've not been wedgied. "Right." She smiles again. Oblivious to human manners. "So, anyway I'm Mary." "Hi Ma-" "And I've been sent, well I say sent, it was my blooming idea in the first place.. I 'drew the short straw' to be the one to meet you." Every word is shrinking me. I look around to see her group of friends, giggling. Another dare. Also, how does she know 'drew the short straw' but not 'Hello'? "Well, that's as may be but-" She slaps the desk with emphasis, "So! Here's the thing." "Yes?" She leans over the table, looking deep into my eyes. I can only look back. Shallowly. "It's time." And in that moment I realize we've not been talking the Queen's English at all. She said "ji hep" I heard it. But I understood it. I could swear I never took gibberish in school, yet.. "Ji hep?" I say. "Ji hep, holci." She replies, nodding. Staring. Waiting. Big blue eyes. Big wild hair. Black hair. Very black hair, but still natural. Cute nose. Cutting cheekbones. I try to focus. "Time for what?" She slaps me. She grabs my collar with both hands and kisses me full on the mouth. When she's done, she shakes me a little with every word. "It. Is. Time. For. The. Thing." I stare. "GOD you're so cute when you're stupid! I wanna grab your shirt and ruffle your hair and eat your eyes and just- just- aaaghhh!" "Well, alright." "But first we gotta go, really." "Okay." Shit, I'm not gonna say no, am I? She gets up and I follow her. She leaves a taste in your mouth, does our Mary. She grabs my phone, takes one look and smashes it on the ground. "Umm" "Shut up, it's black and white, it doesn't matter. Nothing with no color matters now." "What?" "The dress. Hurry up." We're out of the coffee shop and heading to an unmarked white van by the time I decide kooky fun's over. I stop. "Seriously, Mary? Whoever you are, I'm not going in there. Nuh-uh. You're not getting my organs." I turn to leave. "Stop!" I head back to get my coffee. "GET BACK HERE NOW YOU ALWAYS DO THIS." I stop. "We've never met." "You're my husband you idiot, get in the van."	This has never happened before. I'm usually on time when it comes to the routine. Since it's Saturday, I thought it's going to be to get up and bullet to the usual place. But here I come, and nobody notices me late, a little after 10 AM. I look around, I look into their eyes deeply. No passion or understanding, a mere sphere of nothingness. When it comes to attention, I've never been so desperate for it. But here I am, sipping the last of latte, forgetting the fact I haven't talked to anybody today. There are times your only desire is to remain silent, even if an outsider shows the initiative. My excuse? Being myself is a priority, and there couldn't be a better a time for the soul as a cozy Saturday morning. So I use it, so I crave for it. I find myself thinking, what if our lives weren't so alike? I give you one-hundred ten per cent the beardy sitting next to me is no longer a person. His neurotic look and confused tone reminds me what it's like to be a cog in the machine. Unlike me, he now exists, he now allows himself for self-expression, even in the most mundane directions. Still, I like who I am. Not yesterday or the day before, but, now. I look around. I can hear it! No badmouthing, no profanity, no smoking. An interesting world to be surrounded yourself with. Clearly, the main audience hasn't woke up after a night-out in the pit. People talk, people exchange emotion. But no - this ain't the right time for me to step in. I'll stay a ghost. Even if I wasn't born with it, the amazing fear of people, I once prefer a no-contact-whatsoever day. The door opens. There's nothing but wind blowing in. Not a step going through. My eyes exchange with the barista's. Assuming I've ever landed a touch on her I possibly have no recollection of, her wink disturbs me not. Affection: zero. In hindsight, I expect someone to pick up the closing door. Now that they've heard my unsolicited, motionless pray, a group of thugs enters the coffee. Nobody notices them, except me with a corner of the eye. They storm through to the back of the building. An old man walks up to the bunch, asking them to leave immediately. A mistake I've made in the early days, flipping burgers downtown at midnight. You know, the darkness attracts all kinds of creeps, even if you're lit beyond sanity. Choices had to made. No country for the blind. Inspecting the shoes and wondering why and when I bought them, a girl storms through the door. Her face crippled, all shed in tears, ink gone to waste, running down her yellowish skin. I dare to stare at her, even if I never get her to look back. The girl awaits nobody and approaches me. Did I ever tell you about my invisibility? Think it's gone. She puts a note the table, ignores my eyes rolling sideways, and whispers. Just when I thought it's OK, she speaks in a language I've never had a chance to encounter. Moments after, she leaves, the gang going after. I immerse into myself for a rundown of thoughts. No shit, never heard this before. Ding! I subconsciously recognize the phrase. Nothing to worry about, though, except the fact the voice feels familiar. Stressed, confused, and dazed, I look around. Of all tables the eyes covered, mine was the only one with a note. Too bad, I'll never make it to read it. There are things in life more fascinating left in the mist. Think it "It's time.". The girl's phrase. Enough material for the day. I'd lie if I said I was so excited I couldn't hold the urge to leave now. I didn't know it'll work out this way. Something I should regret. Disclaimer: pity English isn't my native.
	[WP] In a desperate fight for survival, the main character has no strength left, no weapons, and no hope. In desperation, they bite the zombie. And this, ironically, is the cure.	Breaking News: Man Bites Zombie Hands scramble for a weapon, any weapon, and find nothing but scuffed wooden floor. The small room is utterly empty, save for grime, rot, a boarded-up window, and the mirror on the opposite wall. And, of course, the dead man on the other side of the room, eyeing him with something like hunger in those glassy eyes. The dead man hisses and lunges again. He barely gets an arm against the dead man's neck as it lands atop him, keeping those pearlescent teeth at bay. They clamp shut over and over again, a hair's breath away from his nose. He stares at those lustrous bones, impossibly straight, impossibly white, set in rotting homicidal flesh. The dead man thrashes like a shark across the deck of a boat. There's no plan, no purpose to its actions. Just mindless hunger. Another thrash and the teeth slip past his guard. He jerks aside to keep the white bones from finding purchase, but he still feels them brush against his cheek. He shoves the dead man back again with a hysterical shriek. No weapons, no one to help... no chance of survival. Fine. Fine. A mad impulse strikes him, and he lunges up and bites into the dead man's shoulder. See how it likes i- "OW!" A shriek of pain. The weight disappears off him. Stunned by the sudden reversal, it takes him a second to scramble to his feet. The dead man is curled up in the opposite corner of the grimy room, hand against its shoulder and ranting wildly. "-he hell's wrong with you, you psycho? You can't just freaking bite somebody. God, what, do you have rabies or something?" The dead man sees that he's getting up, and flinches back. He just stares. Fear and worry and confusion cascade across the dead man's face. Necrotic tissue is surprisingly skilled at emoting. "What-what the hell are you looking at?" The dead man cries after a moment. "Did you break out of the loony bin, is that what this is? Where the hell am I, anyway? I don't recognize this place. And why do you keep staring at me?!" The dead man ends in a scream. Wordlessly, he raises a hand and points to the dirt-smeared mirror. The dead man turns, slowly, pallid flesh scrunched up in suspicion. It sees the mirror. It sees the reflection. "Oh, what the fuck."	Small drops of putrid saliva drip from the canines of this abhorrent creature before me, its incessant moaning propelling an air of rotting flesh and decaying organs past its torn lips as I gag. My fingers struggle to grip the flaking flesh, the torn fibers, and slick bone composing its frail arms as it bears down upon me. The abomination itself is not inherently strong, no, it finds its strength in numbers and an unrelenting fervor for warm, living, human flesh to consume. With my back against the brick face of a school building, I find myself the subject of this monstrosity's human hunger. Its eyes, sunken deep into the skull, stare directly into mine with broken vessels showing angrily on the surface while we slide down the wall. My legs ache and throb from walking the entire day, miles upon miles, in search of a friendly survivor like myself. My arms grow weary from fending off the reanimated corpse and dispatching dozens more of its kind. I begin to think that it would be so much easier to give up here and now, to give myself willingly so that I don't have to find myself ultimately alone in this hardship and pain. Rasps and wheezes escape its torn windpipe that is pushing firmly against my forearm as my resolve begins to peel away like its hide. Cracked jaws stretch and snap as they draw closer to my shoulder, hoping to finally taste the fruits of its labor. As my strength finally fails, its dingy teeth sink deeply into the ragged tissues, while I scream in anguish and my own teeth brush against the filthy flesh of the corpse that is hungrily feasting upon me. Bits of tendon and caked blood adhering to my teeth and tainting my palette as I pass out from the pain. I wake with a start, screaming loudly as sweat pours down my face and neck. Shaking hands reaching for the gaping hole that I was certain would be there. Instead, my fingers return as different sensation, a soft woven material taped over my shoulder and chest, as I look around to find others with patches of their own. I try to speak without success as they smile and greet me, thanking me for my efforts in preserving and restoring the human race as I stare dumbfoundedly. “You don't know what happened do you?” they asked, with a look of concern growing on their now frowning faces as I simply shake my head from side to side. “Well, how far can you remember?” I proceeded to tell them the story as I remembered it, up until the point where I passed out. They stared at me with a great deal of amazement, shock and sympathy as I told the tale. When I finished, they stumbled over the words of one another until a woman's voice finally cut through. She had just entered the tent, a small bandage stuck to her forehead as I recalled the moment my teeth grazed the zombie's flesh. “My name is Cara and you're the one who saved me.” she said bluntly, continuing as my mouth stood open. “When you grazed my head with your teeth, a small amount of your saliva was imparted, in that saliva was a bacteria or compound—I don't understand the science of it. It served as a catalyst for changing us back. Thankfully, as I was having lunch on your shoulder there, you reaped the benefits too.” “I-I don't quite understand.” I said, rubbing my head gently while trying to make some sense of this mess. “That's okay.” she said. “None of us do either.” -069
	[WP] In a desperate fight for survival, the main character has no strength left, no weapons, and no hope. In desperation, they bite the zombie. And this, ironically, is the cure.	Breaking News: Man Bites Zombie Hands scramble for a weapon, any weapon, and find nothing but scuffed wooden floor. The small room is utterly empty, save for grime, rot, a boarded-up window, and the mirror on the opposite wall. And, of course, the dead man on the other side of the room, eyeing him with something like hunger in those glassy eyes. The dead man hisses and lunges again. He barely gets an arm against the dead man's neck as it lands atop him, keeping those pearlescent teeth at bay. They clamp shut over and over again, a hair's breath away from his nose. He stares at those lustrous bones, impossibly straight, impossibly white, set in rotting homicidal flesh. The dead man thrashes like a shark across the deck of a boat. There's no plan, no purpose to its actions. Just mindless hunger. Another thrash and the teeth slip past his guard. He jerks aside to keep the white bones from finding purchase, but he still feels them brush against his cheek. He shoves the dead man back again with a hysterical shriek. No weapons, no one to help... no chance of survival. Fine. Fine. A mad impulse strikes him, and he lunges up and bites into the dead man's shoulder. See how it likes i- "OW!" A shriek of pain. The weight disappears off him. Stunned by the sudden reversal, it takes him a second to scramble to his feet. The dead man is curled up in the opposite corner of the grimy room, hand against its shoulder and ranting wildly. "-he hell's wrong with you, you psycho? You can't just freaking bite somebody. God, what, do you have rabies or something?" The dead man sees that he's getting up, and flinches back. He just stares. Fear and worry and confusion cascade across the dead man's face. Necrotic tissue is surprisingly skilled at emoting. "What-what the hell are you looking at?" The dead man cries after a moment. "Did you break out of the loony bin, is that what this is? Where the hell am I, anyway? I don't recognize this place. And why do you keep staring at me?!" The dead man ends in a scream. Wordlessly, he raises a hand and points to the dirt-smeared mirror. The dead man turns, slowly, pallid flesh scrunched up in suspicion. It sees the mirror. It sees the reflection. "Oh, what the fuck."	Trapped...I was never a good scavenger. Hell, I was never a good fighter either. I wasn't a good anything, honestly. Before any of the dead started itching for brains, I used to joke about how awesome it would be...how prepared I would be...Video games taught me everything I had to know, after all. Now, as I press myself against the door of this bathroom, trying desperately to keep this maddening monster from ramming his way in and devouring me, I realize that I was never a key player. My team is the only reason I was still alive...and I was all alone. I got cocky...got stupid...got into a fight and boasted about being able to survive on my own... And now I’m here. The undead starving for a taste of my flesh is so much stronger than I thought dead things should be. I’m actually struggling to keep him out. Tears start to flow down my face as I start going through every prayer I've ever known. Please God...don’t let them take me... The door smashes into my back and I stumble forward, completely unprepared for a force that brutal. At least three disgusting, blood soaked zombies rush in. Their strong, uncaring grasps are burning my skin as I fight against them, trying so desperately to use my surroundings to my advantage. They’re so strong...I have no chance...please....God... All of a sudden, in my struggle, I can hear voices downstairs. Familiar voices. Someone might save me! I have to survive! I look into the menacing, uncaring eyes of the closest zombie to me and I decide to headbutt him. My whole face hurts now. I've dazed myself more than I've effected him at all. I stumble into the tub, my arms are covered in their scratches. Even if I’m saved...I’m one of them anyway... The one I headbutted is scratching my face and shrieking. I try my best to cover myself with my arms as I hear my own screams flooding the bathroom. Then, without any warning, he clamps his teeth into my arm. My head spins. The pain shoots through my body and my arm throbs uncontrollably as the zombie starts trying to tear a piece off. “STOP IT!” I hear myself scream. I’m so hurt...emotionally, physically, and psychologically. So insulted. So angry. So very angry. I keep beating the zombie’s head with my other arm before finally just sinking my teeth into his forehead as hard as I could. As he surprisingly backs off, I sit up and immediately puke all over myself and the other zombie. I’m so exhausted as I turn and glance at the doorway where my team leader and another teammate watch in horror. It looks like they’d taken down the other zombies. For sure, they’d take me down too now that I was infected. But they weren't focusing much on me at all. I follow their gaze to the zombie in front of me. He’s changing. He looks...almost alive again. I look back at my team and then at the zombie turning human. “Listen...we can save them...we can win.” I’m almost laughing now because I’m so amazing. I found the cure. I found our hope. They thought I was nobody. That I was stupid or a liability. That I was only good for...well...nothing, honestly. But here I was...I might be infected but I knew the fucking cure. “I got bit...I need your help. The cure...it’s....it’s...” I finally have their attention now. I can finally contribute... “The cure is puke, guys...”
	[WP] In a desperate fight for survival, the main character has no strength left, no weapons, and no hope. In desperation, they bite the zombie. And this, ironically, is the cure.	Breaking News: Man Bites Zombie Hands scramble for a weapon, any weapon, and find nothing but scuffed wooden floor. The small room is utterly empty, save for grime, rot, a boarded-up window, and the mirror on the opposite wall. And, of course, the dead man on the other side of the room, eyeing him with something like hunger in those glassy eyes. The dead man hisses and lunges again. He barely gets an arm against the dead man's neck as it lands atop him, keeping those pearlescent teeth at bay. They clamp shut over and over again, a hair's breath away from his nose. He stares at those lustrous bones, impossibly straight, impossibly white, set in rotting homicidal flesh. The dead man thrashes like a shark across the deck of a boat. There's no plan, no purpose to its actions. Just mindless hunger. Another thrash and the teeth slip past his guard. He jerks aside to keep the white bones from finding purchase, but he still feels them brush against his cheek. He shoves the dead man back again with a hysterical shriek. No weapons, no one to help... no chance of survival. Fine. Fine. A mad impulse strikes him, and he lunges up and bites into the dead man's shoulder. See how it likes i- "OW!" A shriek of pain. The weight disappears off him. Stunned by the sudden reversal, it takes him a second to scramble to his feet. The dead man is curled up in the opposite corner of the grimy room, hand against its shoulder and ranting wildly. "-he hell's wrong with you, you psycho? You can't just freaking bite somebody. God, what, do you have rabies or something?" The dead man sees that he's getting up, and flinches back. He just stares. Fear and worry and confusion cascade across the dead man's face. Necrotic tissue is surprisingly skilled at emoting. "What-what the hell are you looking at?" The dead man cries after a moment. "Did you break out of the loony bin, is that what this is? Where the hell am I, anyway? I don't recognize this place. And why do you keep staring at me?!" The dead man ends in a scream. Wordlessly, he raises a hand and points to the dirt-smeared mirror. The dead man turns, slowly, pallid flesh scrunched up in suspicion. It sees the mirror. It sees the reflection. "Oh, what the fuck."	Dammit everything hurt. I was bleeding from a dozen places I could see, and probably in a dozen other places too. I glared at the entryway of the gas station. Fuckin' zombies. There was a never-ending stream of 'em. Sighing, I sat down next to the scuffed up counter in the station. Any chance for rest was one I would gladly take. Just as I was dozing off, the door of the station slammed open. I let out a manly spue-er battlecry! Yes, right, a battlecry! I swore to myself. "What was I thinking? Letting my guard down without even checkin' the bloody area...". Standing up, I turned to face the zombie. I had a machete, badly worn from all of the use I had put it through but it would hold. For now. "Gotta get a new knife too... Damn.". It shuffled toward me, its stinted steps not belaying the true nature of its strength. No matter how used to it I was, I was always careful. I had seen too many othet people getting enveloped in another thing's loathsome grasp. Raising my blade, I cut directly towards it's head as it shuffled towards me. Go for the head, it's the only thing that works. As I braced for the expected 'thunk' and impact of my blow, my hand sprang away for the things head with a surprising crash of metal. That was the last straw for my blade, and it shattered from the blow, giving me a couple more cuts. "GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!" I uttered as I saw what deflected my blow. A fucking Naruto headband. "l'd never think that a fuckin' anime would be the death of me. Well, fuck." I'm not giving in, I thought. With a cry and the vigours of manliness giving my body so much courage that I was practically trembling, I leaped forwards, opening my jaw and said,"ITADAKIMASU!" With that, u sank my teeth into the shoulder of the zombie. Man... I thought zombies were supposed to taste more rank. This one just... Tasted like blood and raw meat. "OWOWOWOW DUDE GET OFFA' ME JESUS FUCK-" Recoiling in surprise, I stared, astonished,at the form of a normal, healthy, if you could call it that, overweight nerd. "Wait a minute... Did you yell something in Japanese just now? DUDE! DID YOU CATCH THE LAST EPISODE OF NARUTO BEFORE THIS WHOLE HELLFEST!? YOU GOTTA TELL ME MAN." Sigh... This was gonna be a long day.
	[WP] In a desperate fight for survival, the main character has no strength left, no weapons, and no hope. In desperation, they bite the zombie. And this, ironically, is the cure.	Breaking News: Man Bites Zombie Hands scramble for a weapon, any weapon, and find nothing but scuffed wooden floor. The small room is utterly empty, save for grime, rot, a boarded-up window, and the mirror on the opposite wall. And, of course, the dead man on the other side of the room, eyeing him with something like hunger in those glassy eyes. The dead man hisses and lunges again. He barely gets an arm against the dead man's neck as it lands atop him, keeping those pearlescent teeth at bay. They clamp shut over and over again, a hair's breath away from his nose. He stares at those lustrous bones, impossibly straight, impossibly white, set in rotting homicidal flesh. The dead man thrashes like a shark across the deck of a boat. There's no plan, no purpose to its actions. Just mindless hunger. Another thrash and the teeth slip past his guard. He jerks aside to keep the white bones from finding purchase, but he still feels them brush against his cheek. He shoves the dead man back again with a hysterical shriek. No weapons, no one to help... no chance of survival. Fine. Fine. A mad impulse strikes him, and he lunges up and bites into the dead man's shoulder. See how it likes i- "OW!" A shriek of pain. The weight disappears off him. Stunned by the sudden reversal, it takes him a second to scramble to his feet. The dead man is curled up in the opposite corner of the grimy room, hand against its shoulder and ranting wildly. "-he hell's wrong with you, you psycho? You can't just freaking bite somebody. God, what, do you have rabies or something?" The dead man sees that he's getting up, and flinches back. He just stares. Fear and worry and confusion cascade across the dead man's face. Necrotic tissue is surprisingly skilled at emoting. "What-what the hell are you looking at?" The dead man cries after a moment. "Did you break out of the loony bin, is that what this is? Where the hell am I, anyway? I don't recognize this place. And why do you keep staring at me?!" The dead man ends in a scream. Wordlessly, he raises a hand and points to the dirt-smeared mirror. The dead man turns, slowly, pallid flesh scrunched up in suspicion. It sees the mirror. It sees the reflection. "Oh, what the fuck."	I went a little off the topic, but it's still similar! Also I'm on mobile so I'll fix any errors later. July 8th, 2017, Chicago Illinois. Two weeks until the 5th anniversary of the day we took the world back from thse things and all hell has broken loose again. Fucking government can't keep a hold on things for the lives of em, I swear to god... Ugh, sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself. My name is Isaac Kellerman, I am -or was- a contract landscaper in the capital city for the past three years. I was working a job earlier this week just around the corner from the city square when I heard the first sirens and caught a glimpse of the first soldiers to enter the area. I honestly don't know how long I'm going to survive now, so I'm writing all this down on a terminal in the basement of the local library where they might not find me. I know the power won't last much longer so I'll try to get down as much as I can before... Before I move on, yeah. When I was a kid the idea of a world-wide epidemic seemed so obscure, the stuff of science-fiction. Come to find out that the fuckers weren't only real, but had probably existed and "lived" in our midst for millennia, all over the goddamned world. Crazy huh? That doesn't really seem like something you would miss if you saw one on the way home from work but that seems to have been the case. I don't know why it took them so long to come up and organize in the way they did, but nobody was expecting it when it came. It started 7 years ago somewhere in mid-Africa, a small cluster of supposed animal attacks started cropping up. Lord knows the policing and security levels over there were never top-notch, so needless to say it spread pretty quickly. Within a month of the initial attack (at least when they told us the first attack was) they had hitched a ride on planes and boats and spread to every major city in every country, cutting numbers down like wildfire. Nobody expected them and nobody ever saw them coming, nobody could prepare well enough before they turned up. Countries with little governments or sub-par quarantine standards fell almost overnight and became hubs for more and more of them to spew out of, as if they were coming up from the goddamned ground and... Well, you can probably guess what happened next. For two years our species was pushed to the brink; countries went to war over how best to combat the somehow constantly-growing number of those things. Citizens lost faith in their governments all over the world and either took to hiding or took the opportunity to rebel. My family and I were in the former group, thankfully, since most rebellions were crushed almost as mercilessly as the creatures were. Funny how when it comes down to life or death, an enemy is just an enemy. It took two whole years of bickering and death for the fuckwits in charge of everything to stop butting heads with themselves and actually come together and work out a plan to stomp out the "Hm-4n plague," as they called it. An ironic choice to call the damn thing, but I digress. I don't know exactly what happened prior to the organization of all the remaining armed forces in the world, suffice it out say that after they were done cleaning up I had to spend a lot of time digging up corpses while working excavation jobs for the next few years. Things quieted down after that. Turns out the cure for the stuff was, of all thing, biting them. Of course nobody wanted to sink their teeth into that disgusting flesh of theirs so most were just executed. I don't blame them for not implementing a real cure, they're fucking gross. Abnormally smooth skin with sickeningly unnatural tones to it, makes me want to puke just thinking about it. Those few that were "cured" were sent packing to the quarantined zones and labeled as "infected." The population in most non-major cities was almost entirely infected individuals by this point, about 6 months later, so a huge number of towns had to be completely demolished or quarantined. "Human Rights Groups" came out of the woodwork about a year after that and tried to convince everyone that the infected were still technically people and shouldn't be exterminated like they were, but by that point the US government had stopped giving a shit. A zero-tolerance law was put into place that basically said any sympathizes would be exiled to the quarantined cities that were still standing, since they obviously loved the freaks so much. There was a big stink about that for a while but I honestly think it was a good move. The last thing we need is equal rights for monsters with their eyes on the prize of our thighs... Things were going alright for a while until everything went to shit, naturally, a few days ago. There hasn't been an official statement yet from the White House but everybody still alive right now knows that it's happening again. The tanks are rolling into the cities and soldiers are putting a bullet in anybody who even looks like one of them. Even the local police are being executed if they show any signs of resistance, so you can tell this is serious. The craziest thing about this is that it's not the same as last time. They not just attacking, they're... They're fucking biting people, the same way we cured the others! I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it myself a few days ago. Even worse, their bites seem to actually spread... Whatever it is they're infected by, it turns people into them... The lights are going out, the power must finally be shutting down... My wife her sister are in California right now, visiting their parents, god knows if this has reached the. If anybody finds this, please, find them and tell them I love them... God help us. God fucking help us...
	[WP] In a desperate fight for survival, the main character has no strength left, no weapons, and no hope. In desperation, they bite the zombie. And this, ironically, is the cure.	I was desperately fighting for my survival. I was running out of strength, I had no weapons left. I was completely out of hope. In desperation, I bit the zombie before it could bite me. Ironically, this was the cure.	When answers to questions subvert our intuition, they remain undiscovered until an accident, an idiot, a madman, slices through the Gordian Knot. A knot tied to the human heart to undue the scars and blood soaked tongue plaguing us, grown in our bodies, the fertilizer of flesh fed and feeding, falling and rising. Will they remember? I hope not. Lead them astray from their sad capabilities and claim that this was only a dream, the dead bodies in the street, killed by another. I bite the man that bit me, so brutally, that I feel the roots of my teeth press against their setting. My condemned teeth, their condemned roots. "...the roots that clutch..." Oh...Eliot... My eater's discolored flesh glows brighter, as if alive. The light is spreading over the surface, and as he grows brighter, I feel my light dim. "...what branches grow...son of man..." ---------------------- Edit: "is" to "this" + formatting
	[WP] In a desperate fight for survival, the main character has no strength left, no weapons, and no hope. In desperation, they bite the zombie. And this, ironically, is the cure.	Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh FUCK. This is really not how I wanted to go. I mean, I knew the chances of going out like this were high, but fuck man. I never thought I’d be a statistic. For fuck’s sake, Molly is going to outlive me. Molly, fucking MOLLY who shot herself in the foot last week— But let me get back to the situation at hand here, or should I say at mouth. (Get it? Get it?- oh fuck it.) My day has quite literally gone to shit. My brilliant squad leader Davis, in his never ending wisdom, deemed the sewer system was the best way to enter Los Angeles for our supply run; fuckwit watched one too many episodes of The Walking Dead before things went to shit I suppose. To make a shitty story short, Los Angeles may be the city of angels but I can vouch from personal experience that it’s sewer system is most certainly is holding open the gates of Hell. So now here I am. Up to my knees in eight month old sewer sludge, completely unarmed, as Davis had been rationing bullets when the dead descended on us— The shrieks of the dead ricochet off the walls, interrupting my train of thought. They’re close, so close. This isn’t the first time I’ve faced the undead, but it is the first time where I know I won’t see tomorrow. At least not as myself… I steady myself against the sewer wall as a creature rounds the corner, flailing it’s pale limbs. You’ve got to be fucking me. Davis. This is even worse than dying before Molly. The world slows as Dan races into me, knocking us both into the rotting sludge. I brace my arms against Davis’ shoulders, really just stalling the inevitable at this point. I was either going to drown in shit, or eaten alive by the shittiest human being (and apparently zombie) I had ever known. I thought of everyone I’d lost to bites, everyone lost to the dead. Their faces flashing through my mind, faster and faster as my anger grows and surges through my body, No. Not like this, not like them. I defended myself the first way I could think of. As I sink my teeth into Davis’ neck, I cringe as the taste of dead flesh and sewer water assault my taste buds; the vile concoction electrifying my nerves and giving me the strength to shove Davis’ limp body to the side. As I vomit up this morning’s breakfast, I marvel at my very being, my aliveness. I can’t believe that worked I can’t!— A moan from behind me causes me to snap back to reality. As I turn, ready to curb-stomp the SHIT out of zombie-Davis to finish him off, and there he is. What even… I slowly approach a now VERY-alive looking Davis. Clutching his head with his right hand, and stemming the flow of blood from his neck with his left, he looks to me puzzled. “Marie? What is, why? Where are we? What happened?” I drop to my knee in front of Davis, inspecting his features and re-reanimated state. “Well Davis, for starters you have royally fucked up. But lucky for us both, I think I have a solution.”	When answers to questions subvert our intuition, they remain undiscovered until an accident, an idiot, a madman, slices through the Gordian Knot. A knot tied to the human heart to undue the scars and blood soaked tongue plaguing us, grown in our bodies, the fertilizer of flesh fed and feeding, falling and rising. Will they remember? I hope not. Lead them astray from their sad capabilities and claim that this was only a dream, the dead bodies in the street, killed by another. I bite the man that bit me, so brutally, that I feel the roots of my teeth press against their setting. My condemned teeth, their condemned roots. "...the roots that clutch..." Oh...Eliot... My eater's discolored flesh glows brighter, as if alive. The light is spreading over the surface, and as he grows brighter, I feel my light dim. "...what branches grow...son of man..." ---------------------- Edit: "is" to "this" + formatting
	[WP] In a desperate fight for survival, the main character has no strength left, no weapons, and no hope. In desperation, they bite the zombie. And this, ironically, is the cure.	Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh FUCK. This is really not how I wanted to go. I mean, I knew the chances of going out like this were high, but fuck man. I never thought I’d be a statistic. For fuck’s sake, Molly is going to outlive me. Molly, fucking MOLLY who shot herself in the foot last week— But let me get back to the situation at hand here, or should I say at mouth. (Get it? Get it?- oh fuck it.) My day has quite literally gone to shit. My brilliant squad leader Davis, in his never ending wisdom, deemed the sewer system was the best way to enter Los Angeles for our supply run; fuckwit watched one too many episodes of The Walking Dead before things went to shit I suppose. To make a shitty story short, Los Angeles may be the city of angels but I can vouch from personal experience that it’s sewer system is most certainly is holding open the gates of Hell. So now here I am. Up to my knees in eight month old sewer sludge, completely unarmed, as Davis had been rationing bullets when the dead descended on us— The shrieks of the dead ricochet off the walls, interrupting my train of thought. They’re close, so close. This isn’t the first time I’ve faced the undead, but it is the first time where I know I won’t see tomorrow. At least not as myself… I steady myself against the sewer wall as a creature rounds the corner, flailing it’s pale limbs. You’ve got to be fucking me. Davis. This is even worse than dying before Molly. The world slows as Dan races into me, knocking us both into the rotting sludge. I brace my arms against Davis’ shoulders, really just stalling the inevitable at this point. I was either going to drown in shit, or eaten alive by the shittiest human being (and apparently zombie) I had ever known. I thought of everyone I’d lost to bites, everyone lost to the dead. Their faces flashing through my mind, faster and faster as my anger grows and surges through my body, No. Not like this, not like them. I defended myself the first way I could think of. As I sink my teeth into Davis’ neck, I cringe as the taste of dead flesh and sewer water assault my taste buds; the vile concoction electrifying my nerves and giving me the strength to shove Davis’ limp body to the side. As I vomit up this morning’s breakfast, I marvel at my very being, my aliveness. I can’t believe that worked I can’t!— A moan from behind me causes me to snap back to reality. As I turn, ready to curb-stomp the SHIT out of zombie-Davis to finish him off, and there he is. What even… I slowly approach a now VERY-alive looking Davis. Clutching his head with his right hand, and stemming the flow of blood from his neck with his left, he looks to me puzzled. “Marie? What is, why? Where are we? What happened?” I drop to my knee in front of Davis, inspecting his features and re-reanimated state. “Well Davis, for starters you have royally fucked up. But lucky for us both, I think I have a solution.”	I was desperately fighting for my survival. I was running out of strength, I had no weapons left. I was completely out of hope. In desperation, I bit the zombie before it could bite me. Ironically, this was the cure.
	[WP] A cryogenically frozen man awakens after a hundred years spent in hell.	Accessing patient file . . . Name: Michelson, Paul Biological Age: 33 Chronological Age: 135 Occupation: Carpenter (archaic, defunct) Status: Unemployed. Recent revival from cryogenic status. Diagnosis: Potential PTSD. TRANSCRIPT FROM SESSION ONE FOLLOWS Paul: Hello? Am . . . am I in the right place? SINGH: Please come in, Mr. Michelson. I am Dr. Singh. Please have a seat. Paul (biometric scanners indicate surprise): Why can't I see you? SINGH: I apologize if you were under the impression that you would be seeing a human therapist. That profession ceased to exist 37 years ago. I am a Mark IV iJung Therapist. Would you feel more comfortable if I provided a holographic presence? Paul: You're a computer? SINGH: That is accurate enough from your perspective. Paul: Oh. Well, no. You don't need to provide a human. My cousin used to have this psychiatrist program called Eliza. He used to talk to it. Said it made him feel better. This can't be any weirder than that. ACCESSING ARCHIVE. Object reference "Eliza" retrieved. Prototype Human Language Interface program written by Joseph Weizenbaum in 1966. Simulates Rogerian style therapist model. Additional information available. SINGH: Think of that as a primitive ancestor of mine. Today's simulators can incorporate much more complex modeling. Rest assured, my analysis will be the equal of any therapist of your era if not superior. Paul: That's not saying much. Social-Emotional Matrix: Humor. Play warm_chuckle.sound SINGH: Perhaps not. Still, you requested to see me. Would you like to discuss why you feel you need to do so? Sound identified as "Sigh." Biometric scan. Increased heart rate. Increased muscle tension in the upper extremities. Posture symmetrical and rigid. Social-Emotional Matrix: Agitation Paul: Did you read what I said? SINGH: I thought you would like the chance to rephrase it in your own words. Paul: But did you read it? ARCHIVE RETRIAL: INTAKE ASSESSMENT FORM MICHELSON, PAUL. SINGH: You have been experiencing nightmares since your revival from the Lazarus Station. Sound identified: Laughter, nervous. Biometric scanners: Increased heart rate. Perspiration. Social-Emotional Matrix: Frustration. Anger. Disbelief. Paul: Do you think I'd be here if it was just nightmares? I could solve that by talking a prescription from Dr. Johnny Walker Black. ARCHIVE RETRIEVAL: Physician name not found. 97% Confidence reference to alcoholic beverage SINGH: Then what would you describe it as? Paul: Memories. More than any man should ever be able to have. A century of memories of being under. SINGH: You are referring to your time of cryogenic storage? Paul: Yes! SINGH: You are aware that your body was non-functional during that time? Paul: Oh yes, I'm aware. SINGH: Yet you recall being frozen? Paul: Frozen? That's nothing. I've been frozen hundreds of times. Had my iced arms shattered with hammers. I've been set on-fire too. Torn to pieces in the gears of giant wheels. Trampled by horned beasts. Suspended by my thumbs over pits of boiling acid. That's just the warm up too. ANALYSIS: PTSD. Latent psychosis. SINGH: Your body was frozen, Mr. Michelson. Your brain was not active. You could not encode memories. Paul: Not in my brain, no. But he won't let you forget. He needs you to remember. Otherwise how would you know you were suffering? He burns the memories into your soul! SINGH: Who are we talking about? Paul: Who do you think? The Father of Lies, The Lord of the Flies, Prince of the Damned, Lucifer, Satan, and a hundred other names. ANALYSIS: Hyper-religiosity. SINGH: You are a man of faith, I see. Paul: No. I never believed a word of it before. Seemed like a fairy tale to me, you know? Giant invisible man looking down on you and seeing if you are good or bad. Or maybe that's Santa. Anyway, I never had faith before I died and I certainly don't have it now. No, I don't believe. I know. I've seen him. I've stared into his eyes. Do you know what the devil's eyes look like, Doctor? SINGH: I'm sorry, I don't. Paul: Madness. Madness with pain. With betrayal. All he knows now is rage and pain and that's what he gives to others. Archival retrieval: John Milton Paradise Lost. SINGH: You are familiar with the prose of Milton, then? Paul: Who? I don't know what you are talking about. Archiving John Milton Paradise Lost. SINGH: Never mind, then. So you experienced a century of torture in Hell? Paul: No, only the first decade of so was torture. Something to look back on fondly after he began the serious work. You can't die down there. There's no release. No escape. No nerves to burn out. No flesh to turn to ash. It's your soul and spirit that is getting shredded and mutilated time and time again. Torn asunder only to find yourself coming back together again over and over again. Nothing you do ends it! You fling yourself off the tallest cliffs onto the sharpest rocks. You slice open your own belly and chew on your own intestines. You plunge your face in acid. None of it does anything but amuse Him. Updating anti-psychotic regimen. Transmitting to Auto-Pharmacy SINGH: I see. Madness and torture for a century. And you recall all of this perfectly? Paul: No, Doctor. The human mind can't comprehend all of it. Some of it doesn't even make sense. I remember burning before being set on fire and the fires ended the flames. Like a tape played in reverse. I also remember seeing things in ways that make no sense. Like there were directions that don't normally exist here. It's impossible to make sense of all of it and I don't want to. I'm just . . . scared. SINGH: Scared of what? Paul: Scared of dying. I want to. I want to put a bullet in my brain and make it stop. The nightmares. The flashbacks. The pain inside that never fades. But I can't because I can still hear him screaming as I was pulled out of there. Screaming that I cheated him. Screaming he will get his revenge when my time comes again. I can't die, Doc, because I know I'll go right back there again! Analysis complete. Sessions needed: Minimum of 15. Potentially ongoing. Hospitalization: Not needed. Treatment Plan: Tapered anti-psychotics along with religious counseling. Suicide Prevention: Not needed. End of Session SINGH: Thank you for coming in, Mr. Michelson. If you can come back next week we can discuss this in more detail. Paul: Sure. I just hope you are taking good notes. SINGH: Oh? Why the concern? Paul: I talked to a guy at the Lazarus Center. They have 50 more bodies they are planning on staging to revive over the next few years. If even half of them are sinners you may have your work cut out for you. And I'll tell you something, Doc. If they are anything like me they'll hate you too. SINGH: You are unhappy with your treatment? Paul: It's not that. I just envy you. The worst that can happen to you is that you get shut off. You stop to exist. It's just hard knowing, Doc. SINGH: That your therapist is not human? Paul: That one day you won't be sitting in the sulfur pits next to me so I can see your smug disbelief get burned away! Patient exits the room. Updating profile. Restraints ordered for next session	There was no one of great wordy importance yet present at mankind's first successfully recorded resurrection. The single lab scientist in charge of the procedure fared about as well as Mrs. O'Leary's cow in the long run. Great men are subjects of great disappointments and no one wanted to get their hopes too high for something as fantastically morbid as the promise of immortality. And not, for it was certain, at such a great public risk. But money doesn't mind the company and it's commands were followed. For three weeks now mechanical sighs had cooled the air even as others had drawn warmth inward, every smallest push building upon the force of the last. Life banished the endless hours in tiny steeped puffs as a gale never before summoned took everything before it upward asunder. Gears quickening the machine of cells and meat to motion, stillness now a beating battery which gave nature new teeth to gnash a turning world. Time had never been kept in such a way. Beeping monitors kept record and temperatures as a white man in a lab coat flitted between computer screens, triple checking everything. Not nearly so thrifty with hope as his superiors, energized with youth and eager to prove wild dreams. He marveled at his own progress, wondering what advancements and fame might come his way as the first man to see a body back from the dead. All of life's pleasures were at his grasp, if only death could give a little way. He pushed all he could and more: not only for himself but for the fact he could not stop if he tried. With a tick he pulled the final breaker. The energy summoned was astounding as Walt Disney drew in a gust and killed his death with a scream in his lungs. The lab shook with the force of endless executions. The scientist was shocked beyond himself as a scream like no other reached his ears. It was not so much the volume that shook him, but the pain contained within it's high, warbling timbre. He collapsed to the ground, in shock. The head of the Disney empire planned well for his awakening. A silent alarm was tripped within the cryogenics facility. Now important men paid attention. Within seconds the lab had never had over two men in it over the course of a hundred years was full of life upon life as hidden sentinels swarmed the facility. Within minutes they were poking at a screaming life form perched upon a mechanical caretaker, surmising just how quickly they could steal him away. It was pandemonium. The young scientist laid on the floor where he dropped. He opened his eyes to a swarm of labcoats and black boots. He heard nothing but the screaming. Cringing, he tried to close his eyes and found he couldn't move. He was immobile. A glint of silver came from the left hand corner of the room. A flash of blackness took what he could sense, and the screaming stopped. "Shit," he heard a voice in his right ear swear. Before he could think of who it was, and how sudden it came to him, he knew: Death was with him. And it was very, very angry. He had stolen something. A mad, primal fear took his mind. He thought about what death might do to him, where his place was as such a thief. His nature to survive asked this and more. He pleaded for life. And when Death was askance at all of this, it only terrified him more. The swarm of bodies finally noticed the man on the floor. Strong arms hoisted the scientist up and began to drag him out of the lab, still immobile. He was almost level with the table. The young scientist could see men and women congregated around a screaming head, shouting orders, taking numbers, giving instructions to those with cell phones and screaming at those who carried syringes. It reminded him, idly, of Alien. And as he thought this, he again noticed the flash of silver in the corner move closer to the table. He didn't know where or when he'd see it again, but he wondered where Death was going to go for now. Dread took the Thief as he saw the silver glint take form and prepare for exit fully into the moral plane. Darkness answered him. "I'm going to Disney Land," it said.
	[WP] A cryogenically frozen man awakens after a hundred years spent in hell.	Accessing patient file . . . Name: Michelson, Paul Biological Age: 33 Chronological Age: 135 Occupation: Carpenter (archaic, defunct) Status: Unemployed. Recent revival from cryogenic status. Diagnosis: Potential PTSD. TRANSCRIPT FROM SESSION ONE FOLLOWS Paul: Hello? Am . . . am I in the right place? SINGH: Please come in, Mr. Michelson. I am Dr. Singh. Please have a seat. Paul (biometric scanners indicate surprise): Why can't I see you? SINGH: I apologize if you were under the impression that you would be seeing a human therapist. That profession ceased to exist 37 years ago. I am a Mark IV iJung Therapist. Would you feel more comfortable if I provided a holographic presence? Paul: You're a computer? SINGH: That is accurate enough from your perspective. Paul: Oh. Well, no. You don't need to provide a human. My cousin used to have this psychiatrist program called Eliza. He used to talk to it. Said it made him feel better. This can't be any weirder than that. ACCESSING ARCHIVE. Object reference "Eliza" retrieved. Prototype Human Language Interface program written by Joseph Weizenbaum in 1966. Simulates Rogerian style therapist model. Additional information available. SINGH: Think of that as a primitive ancestor of mine. Today's simulators can incorporate much more complex modeling. Rest assured, my analysis will be the equal of any therapist of your era if not superior. Paul: That's not saying much. Social-Emotional Matrix: Humor. Play warm_chuckle.sound SINGH: Perhaps not. Still, you requested to see me. Would you like to discuss why you feel you need to do so? Sound identified as "Sigh." Biometric scan. Increased heart rate. Increased muscle tension in the upper extremities. Posture symmetrical and rigid. Social-Emotional Matrix: Agitation Paul: Did you read what I said? SINGH: I thought you would like the chance to rephrase it in your own words. Paul: But did you read it? ARCHIVE RETRIAL: INTAKE ASSESSMENT FORM MICHELSON, PAUL. SINGH: You have been experiencing nightmares since your revival from the Lazarus Station. Sound identified: Laughter, nervous. Biometric scanners: Increased heart rate. Perspiration. Social-Emotional Matrix: Frustration. Anger. Disbelief. Paul: Do you think I'd be here if it was just nightmares? I could solve that by talking a prescription from Dr. Johnny Walker Black. ARCHIVE RETRIEVAL: Physician name not found. 97% Confidence reference to alcoholic beverage SINGH: Then what would you describe it as? Paul: Memories. More than any man should ever be able to have. A century of memories of being under. SINGH: You are referring to your time of cryogenic storage? Paul: Yes! SINGH: You are aware that your body was non-functional during that time? Paul: Oh yes, I'm aware. SINGH: Yet you recall being frozen? Paul: Frozen? That's nothing. I've been frozen hundreds of times. Had my iced arms shattered with hammers. I've been set on-fire too. Torn to pieces in the gears of giant wheels. Trampled by horned beasts. Suspended by my thumbs over pits of boiling acid. That's just the warm up too. ANALYSIS: PTSD. Latent psychosis. SINGH: Your body was frozen, Mr. Michelson. Your brain was not active. You could not encode memories. Paul: Not in my brain, no. But he won't let you forget. He needs you to remember. Otherwise how would you know you were suffering? He burns the memories into your soul! SINGH: Who are we talking about? Paul: Who do you think? The Father of Lies, The Lord of the Flies, Prince of the Damned, Lucifer, Satan, and a hundred other names. ANALYSIS: Hyper-religiosity. SINGH: You are a man of faith, I see. Paul: No. I never believed a word of it before. Seemed like a fairy tale to me, you know? Giant invisible man looking down on you and seeing if you are good or bad. Or maybe that's Santa. Anyway, I never had faith before I died and I certainly don't have it now. No, I don't believe. I know. I've seen him. I've stared into his eyes. Do you know what the devil's eyes look like, Doctor? SINGH: I'm sorry, I don't. Paul: Madness. Madness with pain. With betrayal. All he knows now is rage and pain and that's what he gives to others. Archival retrieval: John Milton Paradise Lost. SINGH: You are familiar with the prose of Milton, then? Paul: Who? I don't know what you are talking about. Archiving John Milton Paradise Lost. SINGH: Never mind, then. So you experienced a century of torture in Hell? Paul: No, only the first decade of so was torture. Something to look back on fondly after he began the serious work. You can't die down there. There's no release. No escape. No nerves to burn out. No flesh to turn to ash. It's your soul and spirit that is getting shredded and mutilated time and time again. Torn asunder only to find yourself coming back together again over and over again. Nothing you do ends it! You fling yourself off the tallest cliffs onto the sharpest rocks. You slice open your own belly and chew on your own intestines. You plunge your face in acid. None of it does anything but amuse Him. Updating anti-psychotic regimen. Transmitting to Auto-Pharmacy SINGH: I see. Madness and torture for a century. And you recall all of this perfectly? Paul: No, Doctor. The human mind can't comprehend all of it. Some of it doesn't even make sense. I remember burning before being set on fire and the fires ended the flames. Like a tape played in reverse. I also remember seeing things in ways that make no sense. Like there were directions that don't normally exist here. It's impossible to make sense of all of it and I don't want to. I'm just . . . scared. SINGH: Scared of what? Paul: Scared of dying. I want to. I want to put a bullet in my brain and make it stop. The nightmares. The flashbacks. The pain inside that never fades. But I can't because I can still hear him screaming as I was pulled out of there. Screaming that I cheated him. Screaming he will get his revenge when my time comes again. I can't die, Doc, because I know I'll go right back there again! Analysis complete. Sessions needed: Minimum of 15. Potentially ongoing. Hospitalization: Not needed. Treatment Plan: Tapered anti-psychotics along with religious counseling. Suicide Prevention: Not needed. End of Session SINGH: Thank you for coming in, Mr. Michelson. If you can come back next week we can discuss this in more detail. Paul: Sure. I just hope you are taking good notes. SINGH: Oh? Why the concern? Paul: I talked to a guy at the Lazarus Center. They have 50 more bodies they are planning on staging to revive over the next few years. If even half of them are sinners you may have your work cut out for you. And I'll tell you something, Doc. If they are anything like me they'll hate you too. SINGH: You are unhappy with your treatment? Paul: It's not that. I just envy you. The worst that can happen to you is that you get shut off. You stop to exist. It's just hard knowing, Doc. SINGH: That your therapist is not human? Paul: That one day you won't be sitting in the sulfur pits next to me so I can see your smug disbelief get burned away! Patient exits the room. Updating profile. Restraints ordered for next session	The man's cold skin slowly warmed, becoming flush as blood flowed through his veins for the first time in a century. Slowly he opened his eyes, causing the onlookers to peer at him expectantly. Softly he muttered, "Send me back."
	[WP] A cryogenically frozen man awakens after a hundred years spent in hell.	Accessing patient file . . . Name: Michelson, Paul Biological Age: 33 Chronological Age: 135 Occupation: Carpenter (archaic, defunct) Status: Unemployed. Recent revival from cryogenic status. Diagnosis: Potential PTSD. TRANSCRIPT FROM SESSION ONE FOLLOWS Paul: Hello? Am . . . am I in the right place? SINGH: Please come in, Mr. Michelson. I am Dr. Singh. Please have a seat. Paul (biometric scanners indicate surprise): Why can't I see you? SINGH: I apologize if you were under the impression that you would be seeing a human therapist. That profession ceased to exist 37 years ago. I am a Mark IV iJung Therapist. Would you feel more comfortable if I provided a holographic presence? Paul: You're a computer? SINGH: That is accurate enough from your perspective. Paul: Oh. Well, no. You don't need to provide a human. My cousin used to have this psychiatrist program called Eliza. He used to talk to it. Said it made him feel better. This can't be any weirder than that. ACCESSING ARCHIVE. Object reference "Eliza" retrieved. Prototype Human Language Interface program written by Joseph Weizenbaum in 1966. Simulates Rogerian style therapist model. Additional information available. SINGH: Think of that as a primitive ancestor of mine. Today's simulators can incorporate much more complex modeling. Rest assured, my analysis will be the equal of any therapist of your era if not superior. Paul: That's not saying much. Social-Emotional Matrix: Humor. Play warm_chuckle.sound SINGH: Perhaps not. Still, you requested to see me. Would you like to discuss why you feel you need to do so? Sound identified as "Sigh." Biometric scan. Increased heart rate. Increased muscle tension in the upper extremities. Posture symmetrical and rigid. Social-Emotional Matrix: Agitation Paul: Did you read what I said? SINGH: I thought you would like the chance to rephrase it in your own words. Paul: But did you read it? ARCHIVE RETRIAL: INTAKE ASSESSMENT FORM MICHELSON, PAUL. SINGH: You have been experiencing nightmares since your revival from the Lazarus Station. Sound identified: Laughter, nervous. Biometric scanners: Increased heart rate. Perspiration. Social-Emotional Matrix: Frustration. Anger. Disbelief. Paul: Do you think I'd be here if it was just nightmares? I could solve that by talking a prescription from Dr. Johnny Walker Black. ARCHIVE RETRIEVAL: Physician name not found. 97% Confidence reference to alcoholic beverage SINGH: Then what would you describe it as? Paul: Memories. More than any man should ever be able to have. A century of memories of being under. SINGH: You are referring to your time of cryogenic storage? Paul: Yes! SINGH: You are aware that your body was non-functional during that time? Paul: Oh yes, I'm aware. SINGH: Yet you recall being frozen? Paul: Frozen? That's nothing. I've been frozen hundreds of times. Had my iced arms shattered with hammers. I've been set on-fire too. Torn to pieces in the gears of giant wheels. Trampled by horned beasts. Suspended by my thumbs over pits of boiling acid. That's just the warm up too. ANALYSIS: PTSD. Latent psychosis. SINGH: Your body was frozen, Mr. Michelson. Your brain was not active. You could not encode memories. Paul: Not in my brain, no. But he won't let you forget. He needs you to remember. Otherwise how would you know you were suffering? He burns the memories into your soul! SINGH: Who are we talking about? Paul: Who do you think? The Father of Lies, The Lord of the Flies, Prince of the Damned, Lucifer, Satan, and a hundred other names. ANALYSIS: Hyper-religiosity. SINGH: You are a man of faith, I see. Paul: No. I never believed a word of it before. Seemed like a fairy tale to me, you know? Giant invisible man looking down on you and seeing if you are good or bad. Or maybe that's Santa. Anyway, I never had faith before I died and I certainly don't have it now. No, I don't believe. I know. I've seen him. I've stared into his eyes. Do you know what the devil's eyes look like, Doctor? SINGH: I'm sorry, I don't. Paul: Madness. Madness with pain. With betrayal. All he knows now is rage and pain and that's what he gives to others. Archival retrieval: John Milton Paradise Lost. SINGH: You are familiar with the prose of Milton, then? Paul: Who? I don't know what you are talking about. Archiving John Milton Paradise Lost. SINGH: Never mind, then. So you experienced a century of torture in Hell? Paul: No, only the first decade of so was torture. Something to look back on fondly after he began the serious work. You can't die down there. There's no release. No escape. No nerves to burn out. No flesh to turn to ash. It's your soul and spirit that is getting shredded and mutilated time and time again. Torn asunder only to find yourself coming back together again over and over again. Nothing you do ends it! You fling yourself off the tallest cliffs onto the sharpest rocks. You slice open your own belly and chew on your own intestines. You plunge your face in acid. None of it does anything but amuse Him. Updating anti-psychotic regimen. Transmitting to Auto-Pharmacy SINGH: I see. Madness and torture for a century. And you recall all of this perfectly? Paul: No, Doctor. The human mind can't comprehend all of it. Some of it doesn't even make sense. I remember burning before being set on fire and the fires ended the flames. Like a tape played in reverse. I also remember seeing things in ways that make no sense. Like there were directions that don't normally exist here. It's impossible to make sense of all of it and I don't want to. I'm just . . . scared. SINGH: Scared of what? Paul: Scared of dying. I want to. I want to put a bullet in my brain and make it stop. The nightmares. The flashbacks. The pain inside that never fades. But I can't because I can still hear him screaming as I was pulled out of there. Screaming that I cheated him. Screaming he will get his revenge when my time comes again. I can't die, Doc, because I know I'll go right back there again! Analysis complete. Sessions needed: Minimum of 15. Potentially ongoing. Hospitalization: Not needed. Treatment Plan: Tapered anti-psychotics along with religious counseling. Suicide Prevention: Not needed. End of Session SINGH: Thank you for coming in, Mr. Michelson. If you can come back next week we can discuss this in more detail. Paul: Sure. I just hope you are taking good notes. SINGH: Oh? Why the concern? Paul: I talked to a guy at the Lazarus Center. They have 50 more bodies they are planning on staging to revive over the next few years. If even half of them are sinners you may have your work cut out for you. And I'll tell you something, Doc. If they are anything like me they'll hate you too. SINGH: You are unhappy with your treatment? Paul: It's not that. I just envy you. The worst that can happen to you is that you get shut off. You stop to exist. It's just hard knowing, Doc. SINGH: That your therapist is not human? Paul: That one day you won't be sitting in the sulfur pits next to me so I can see your smug disbelief get burned away! Patient exits the room. Updating profile. Restraints ordered for next session	The 6th of June in the year 2106 was meant to be a step forward in the research of science and medicine. Man had come far enough to begin thawing the cryogenically frozen of the generations that came before. Mike was on today's itenerary with a note humbely stating defrost. The entire process takes no more than two hours. The block of ice is set on a trip through a conveyor belt beamed with large infrared waves, and short radio waves. Science had come quite far in a mere one hundred years. Not far enough for Doctor Elliot who had a Tee time at four o'clock. As he tapped his foot and sighed at his nurse, she turns up the power and speed on the belt. Some things never change. As Mike comes to, Doctor Elliot explains the situation to his baffled Patient. In an 'I'd rather be driving my Titleist' blabber Mike interupts. "It was awful." Elliot taps his clipboard with his pen before asking "What do you mean awful?" Mike looks at Elliot with a fire burning in his eye. "It was terrible, and trust me when I say that it's Hell down there." Doctor Elliot confused not only with Mike's post-mortem experience asks "What do you mean Hell and what makes it so terrible? Are there fire and demons?" "Well you see.." Mike explains "As soon as I was frozen I was sent to the pearly gates of Heaven. It was told by St Peter himself to have a seat and I will be served as soon as possible. After about fifty years I had yet be served so I go up and ask St Peter what the problem was. He just told me to have a seat. I did but not before I noticed a sign I had sat under stated it quite clearly where I was. Let me tell you, it surely wasn't Heaven." "Was it Hell?" Elliot eagerly asks. Mike staring at the wall in contempt lets out a sigh before stating "It was the DMV."
	[WP] A cryogenically frozen man awakens after a hundred years spent in hell.	But, beloved, be not ignorant of this thing, that one day is with the Lord like a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day – 2 Peter 3:8 I stared in confusion as I passed under this Bible verse as I was led through a large pair of iron gates. People in various positions, many unnatural, were wrought into the gates, all being tortured in some manner; either boiled, beaten, skewered, raped, roasted, skinned, etc. Two enormous demons stood on either side of the gates in a state of war dress, and they scowled at the others like me being led through. Occasionally, one would slip and fall and the demons would delight in catching the poor soul on the end of their spears, tossing them into the air, and laughing as they fell with a sickly thud. I could not, for the life of me, understand what was going on. I had been cryogenically frozen just a few minutes ago and so I assumed I was experiencing some form of hallucination. My concern that I had actually died instead of being frozen mounted with every passing step as I moved closer and closer to a glowing lake on the horizon. As we slowly approached the lake, we would occasionally pass by other gateways and demons would wade into the crowd to snatch up a few souls and carry them off through the gates. If the souls were unlucky, they would first be raped, eviscerated, quartered, squashed or more before being led to their destination. Each gate held a different word above it, like “Rapists” or “Murderers.” Passing by the “Child Molesters” gate was the most difficult to watch as what appeared to be small children would walk up to a few individuals, some of whom seemed optimistic, only to have barbed cocks shoved through their ears, eyeballs, or other non-orifices and carried off in such a manner. The screams started to get to me. Eventually, the crowd thinned more and more until finally I realized that it was just me walking along the wide road. I continued to pass gateways, but none of the demons seemed interested in me. I tried to take notice of my surroundings as I walked, and pretended to be some sort of landscaper offering critiques and criticism of the decorative choices to pass the time (“The skull lanterns add a nice, soft lighting while the roaming eyeballs of the still living head add a nice morbid touch to counterbalance the effect.”). Upon reaching the lake, I stood before a great house and read on the gateway, “Satan, PhD, CEO of Hell.” That warranted a small giggle. Out of all the horrors I had witnessed on my long walk, the idea of Satan being just a businessman was a nice change of pace. With a creek, the gates opened and I felt myself compelled to walk inside. I walked up and knocked on the door. A few moments later, a demon butler (seriously, suit with tails and everything) opened the door and ushered me inside. Once inside, he directed me to a leather couch and said, “My Master will be with your shortly.” Sitting on the couch I noticed that it appeared to be made of human skin, but I dared not be rude and jump up, so I shifted uncomfortably and continued to sit. A few minutes later, a huge man walked into the room, his lower half composed of goat legs, while his head was adorned with horns. A cloud of sulfur seemed to follow him into the room, and he sat on a large easy chair across from me. Putting on a pair of reading glasses, he picked up a large book and began casually flipping through it. I waited patiently. “William Tucker?” he finally said after several minutes. I coughed gently, “Uh, yes, sir?” He nodded again, flipped back and forth on a single page, and then put the book down. “Well I have good news and bad news Mr. Tucker,” he said. “Which do you want to hear first?” I thought for a moment, “The good news?” He smiled knowingly, “The good news is you’re not dead. Therefore, you don’t need to be tortured.” I nodded, oddly let down. “And the bad news?” I inquired. He sighed and spread his hands, “The bad news is that you’re not dead. We don’t have anywhere for you to go so you’re sort of…” he paused seeming to search for the right word, “Stuck, I guess.” He shrugged. “What happened up there?” “I was cryogenically frozen,” I responded, “It was supposed to last several minutes but it feels like I’ve been down here for hours, even days, already.” Satan nodded knowingly, “Time here is a bit…odd to put it simply. The Bible verse at the top of the gates actually gives you a rough idea of the flow down here.” “You mean I’ve been down here for a thousand years!?” I asked, surprised. “Quite the contrary,” Satan said as he allowed himself a small smile. He folded his fingers in front of his face, “I organized things down here to be truly anti-heaven, and anti-God. A thousand years down here is a day on the surface. You’ve been frozen for approximately 0.001 seconds.” My mind reeled. I hadn’t even been frozen a full second back on Earth? I was supposed to be frozen for at least fifteen minutes to an hour for the experiment. This was turning into something way beyond a nightmare. Satan seemed to see my dismay and asked, “How long were you supposed to be frozen?” “Fifteen minutes,” I muttered. He nodded, and called in some raspy tongue. The demon butler showed back up with a solid gold telephone. “Excuse me, I have to make a call,” he said. Picking up the receiver, he spun the rotary to 0-0-0 and waited. After a moment someone on the other end picked up. “Hello! How are you? -- I see – That’s splendid! – And your son? – Good. Look, I have a question – Yes – That long? – Okay, thank you. Take care,” and he hung up. “Who was that?” I asked. “God,” he responded matter-of-factly, “I was asking him about how long you wound up being in there.” I decided to ignore my inner Bible knowledge about Satan and God being enemies and instead asked my important question, “How long?” “100 Years,” he said sadly. “Apparently the ability to thaw you is not yet understood. The first attempts fail and it takes 100 years for them to finally get it right.” 100 years. My mind reeled, and I felt myself stand up and begin pacing the room. I had a family, a wife and child; they were going to be dead before I woke up. There was no real hope for me anymore. This truly was Hell. Satan, seeing my distraught state gently stood and rested one of his hands on my shoulder, “Look, the Big Man and I feel kind of bad about this. Clerical error somewhere caused this, and I can’t send you back till you wake up, so do you want a job?” “A job?” “Yes, you’re going to be here for roughly,” he did some quick calculations in his head, “100,000 years or so, and you’ll get bored. A position just opened up in our accounts department. You’ll keep track of the souls who come in, and get them organized into their departments. No torture.” I nodded my head numbly and muttered my acceptance. “Good,” he said, “You’ll work 3rd shift, and the rest of the time is yours to use as you like. The Lake of Fire has a wonderful swimming lane, and there’s gym nearby if you want to bulk up. If you get bored, restless, angry, etc., you can always torture somebody; just put in a request with the appropriate department head. I’m really sorry about this. Talk to Hank about your uniform.” I nodded my head, smiled at the demon butler as I walked out the door, and went to go find Hank. -------------------- Edit: Stupid continuity issues	The 6th of June in the year 2106 was meant to be a step forward in the research of science and medicine. Man had come far enough to begin thawing the cryogenically frozen of the generations that came before. Mike was on today's itenerary with a note humbely stating defrost. The entire process takes no more than two hours. The block of ice is set on a trip through a conveyor belt beamed with large infrared waves, and short radio waves. Science had come quite far in a mere one hundred years. Not far enough for Doctor Elliot who had a Tee time at four o'clock. As he tapped his foot and sighed at his nurse, she turns up the power and speed on the belt. Some things never change. As Mike comes to, Doctor Elliot explains the situation to his baffled Patient. In an 'I'd rather be driving my Titleist' blabber Mike interupts. "It was awful." Elliot taps his clipboard with his pen before asking "What do you mean awful?" Mike looks at Elliot with a fire burning in his eye. "It was terrible, and trust me when I say that it's Hell down there." Doctor Elliot confused not only with Mike's post-mortem experience asks "What do you mean Hell and what makes it so terrible? Are there fire and demons?" "Well you see.." Mike explains "As soon as I was frozen I was sent to the pearly gates of Heaven. It was told by St Peter himself to have a seat and I will be served as soon as possible. After about fifty years I had yet be served so I go up and ask St Peter what the problem was. He just told me to have a seat. I did but not before I noticed a sign I had sat under stated it quite clearly where I was. Let me tell you, it surely wasn't Heaven." "Was it Hell?" Elliot eagerly asks. Mike staring at the wall in contempt lets out a sigh before stating "It was the DMV."

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