post_text stringlengths 0 10k | post_title stringlengths 8 313 | chosen stringlengths 1 39.5k | rejected stringlengths 1 13.8k |
|---|---|---|---|
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | Alexei lingered by the door, eyeing the last silver ship. He looked around at the desolate fields.
The farm had been tended to by generations of his family. Now he was the only one left. And he was being made to leave it behind.
Alexei took the lantern and flicked off the generator switch. The last remaining light on Earth buzzed to a halt. The air was electric.
The air was clear. Harsh, windless cold chilled the lastman's bones. He trudged down the path, stumbling numb over the frozen soil.
Broken, charred stumps marked were the forest once stood. Though he had never seen it, save the last skinny trees of death, he revelled in the stories of the great green pines standing tall and proud like leafy giants. His home had been safe under the rule of the forest.
Nearing the glimmering ship that stood for salvation and hope, Alexei felt a mournful wave of sadness rush over his head.
The purple horizon of toxic smoke that had stretched across the globe was rumbling far away. The last pure part of the Earth moaned with sorrow as its children left.
A single snowflake fell to the ground. *Stay,* it urged, *Stay here! The land is clean here. Don't leave.*
Alexei shook his head silently.
*The earth is crying for you.*
The lastman bit his lip as he clutched the softly glowing lantern to his face.
He whispered a goodbye and blew out the flame. | Jim shuffles as he goes through the two story ranch. As he visits each room, he pauses, looks around and lets out a sigh. He then reaches up and flips the light switch, sending the room into darkness.
After an hour of turn off each and every light, Jim opens the door. The only light seen is the small light coming from his porch.
"Well, it's been awhile and I'm lonely. At least I know I won't be alone for much longer."
He turns off the porch light. Darkness surrounds him like a cold blanket.
"Hope to see you again, Sarah." He closes his eyes and slowly passes away. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | An angry red sun burned the sky, giving everything on Earth a sickly blood-red tint. Clark wondered idly if the planet knew what was coming. Did it know its loving father had finally turned violent, and was preparing to swallow it whole? Did it care?
Clark had been having plenty of thoughts like these lately. Knowing Humanity, he'd be one of the few in the universe asking such questions. Most saw Earth the same way a 21st-Century human viewed the Fertile Crescent- a sidenote, a detail of the past with no impact or importance on daily life. Its historical importance acknowledged, but little more. Few had the...perspective... to love and appreciate something that lost its glory so very long ago.
The man walked slowly through the former Metropolis, the place so many called home. He lovingly closed every window, every door, every hatch. He put every last thing in its place, taking special care of the places where people would gather to work or play. He wandered further out, into the few places where Nature had been allowed to thrive. He gave every creature a burial. Years, decades, centuries passed- Clark and the Earth had just enough time to put everything in its place. It opened all its secrets to him, spoke to him of trillions of lives large and small. All had walked across her, and now all had been laid to rest.
His work there done, Clark left Earth for the last time. His home slowly boil and burst away, consumed by the angry father's dying rage.
He flew to Mars, and began again. | Jim shuffles as he goes through the two story ranch. As he visits each room, he pauses, looks around and lets out a sigh. He then reaches up and flips the light switch, sending the room into darkness.
After an hour of turn off each and every light, Jim opens the door. The only light seen is the small light coming from his porch.
"Well, it's been awhile and I'm lonely. At least I know I won't be alone for much longer."
He turns off the porch light. Darkness surrounds him like a cold blanket.
"Hope to see you again, Sarah." He closes his eyes and slowly passes away. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | I prepared for this. I bought my bunker back in 2011, with the hope I would never have to use it. However, concerned with world events I bought it nonetheless. It was cheap as it was just leftovers from the Cold War. Who knew that a larger Cold War would break out just 5 years after I bought the bunker and then actually lead to a real war the following year?
I left no paper trail, no one ever knew I bought the bunker. It wouldn't have mattered. All the family I had was too far away to make it to my bunker by the time the nukes hit.
I don't know why I'm writing this down. I suppose it's just the lamentations and reminiscence of a dying old man. Who would want to read it? And at this point, who's alive to read it? I ventured out into the fallout once, fully donning my hazmat suit and equipment. Radiation far exceeds what I anticipated, and thus I have surmised that if this devastation did engulf the whole planet, then I am the last living being on Earth. At the least, I'm the last human.
In a way, I'm glad to be leaving this Earth. For obvious reasons it's nothing that I knew before. I remember having family vacations with my parents and siblings. Taking trips down to the lake, seeing all the wildlife running, flying, and swimming freely. I remember fishing trips with my father on those hot summer days as well.
At the time I hated those fishing trips as they were always so boring for a child. At this point I'd given anything to have them back.
I remember my friends and I going to the local drug store to play with the arcade box. After that we used to buy some Now and Later. I still remember the sweet and sour taste of those. Cherry was always my favorite flavor. My friend Jerry used to always say they tasted like cherry cough syrup, but I always enjoyed them.
I remember going to the movies with Emily Maine when I was 14. She had black hair that went down just past her shoulders. The most striking thing about her was her stunning blue eyes. I had never seen a girl with black hair and blue eyes, they absolutely captured my adoration.
She was shy and sweet, which made me love her even more. We dated all throughout high school and were convinced we were each other's "one and only". But, as fate would have it we both went to different colleges after high school and lost contact. I've thought about her a lot.
For a time I used to hod out hope that she survived, but looking back with the world the way it is, I don't know if anyone would want to be alive for this.
I've long been bored of this world I live in. I live pretty well in my bunker. I had outfitted it and customized it to my liking. My bed is cozy, and I eat well. I bought a whole truck load of seeds prior to the war and rigged up some lights to produce artificial sunlight. As far as water I was lucky enough to be next to a well so I get my water from there and filter it the best way I can.
I also get my energy from solar panels I rigged up outside. It took a while considering the radiation nearby, but I managed to get it done. I am far away from any major blast sites so the dust clouds never bothered me much, just the spreading nuclear radiation in the air.
Although, I am convinced that at least some of it may have gotten to me as the blood stains from my coughing may show on this note I leave.
I'm dying and have accepted my fate. Humanity had a good run, and I am convinced of it. Over the years I have read great works by many influential leaders and scholars. Anywhere from the religious texts of the Book of the Dead, the Bible, the Vedas and Baghavad-Gita, the Quran, etc. to dramatic works like Oedipus Rex, the Odyssey, the Illiad, Epic of Gilgamesh etc. I also read some more contemporary books by the likes of Mark Twain and Charles Dickens that were more close to my interests. This is just a small sampling among many.
Personally, I hope the Hindus are right. I'm not religious, but I do hope this isn't it and life will continue to exist elsewhere. Just my two cents.
To anyone that might read this, I hope you can take what you need from my facility and feel free to use it how you like. I no longer have use for it as I am going outside to experience the sun on my face one last time.
You'll find the lights turned off and the bunker shut on my exit. I hope this note finds you well.
To my family and all the loved ones I had, I hope we'll meet soon.
Sincerely,
Lawrence
1973-2046
| What was left was beautiful. The last lights were stars, millions of them in the black night sky - I never knew what it could look like, with the earth devoid of our own light. I stared at the stars, at the flaming beauty that lingered in places I knew I could never reach. I took in the last of the lights before slipping the cool mouth of the shotgun in my mouth and pulling the trigger. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | They didn't too bad, all things considered.
I mean, they had the creativity figured out. That holds back at least half of them.
They definitely understood family. Family always came first.
Their intuition failed them in the end, however. They just couldn't work together.
Well, hopefully the next ones do better. | What was left was beautiful. The last lights were stars, millions of them in the black night sky - I never knew what it could look like, with the earth devoid of our own light. I stared at the stars, at the flaming beauty that lingered in places I knew I could never reach. I took in the last of the lights before slipping the cool mouth of the shotgun in my mouth and pulling the trigger. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | [felt oddly inspired by this one while avoiding homework]
Say what you will about humanity, it has a strong sense of nostalgia. It had been years since anyone “needed” Earth, as a planet, to exist. Six generations now had been born not knowing life without the Tunnels, artificial wormholes that connected thousands of worlds, dozens of galaxies, and formed a universe unto themselves. Earth was now the galactic equivalent of an old, historic, loved, but crumbling mall, kept alive by a few rotting anchors, a smoothie place, and one of those creepy stores that sells weird knives and “for tobacco use only” glass water pipes. Gerald smirked as he thought that, wondering if anyone was stupid or naïve enough to actually think those were for tobacco. Then he looked, solemnly, over at the schedule. Time to make an announcement.
Keying up his mic, he broadcast, worldwide, on every frequency that had once been so sacred, so fought over by every institution. AM, FM, dozens of ham bands, TV… Time was, a license and years, maybe even decades, of training were required to use these, to keep them parceled out fairly among the billions of humans on Earth. Now, he was the only person bored enough to even care; a lower-rung middle manager working overtime and missing dinner. And he only cared because it was on the itinerary to use them.
“The Earth is closing in one cycle. Please plan your final purchases accordingly,” he said, in a bored monotone. There had been objections to closing Earth, obviously, but its time had come. Valuable Core energy was being spent keeping the Sun ignited, not to mention the maintenance on the reality anchors to connect it to the Tunnels, for a tiny blue (well, mostly brown, now) ball that had struggled to support even a hundred billion. When there were three times that many just in transit, and another five or so hundred billion making permanent residence in the Tunnels, it became hard to justify. A few had objected to what they saw as the mistreatment of Earth. “The Earth isn’t to be abandoned, but should be saved. We can’t treat the origin of our species like our first apartment out of college,” one memorable protester had objected. But, Gerald thought, going down the closing checklist, that’s exactly what Earth was to us, now: an apartment we’d outgrown as a species. Too small, too dirty, not near anything nice, a place we only kept because our immature roommates would bark at us about how we can’t give it up.
Burning through the checklist, Gerald made the half- and quarter-cycle announcements, waiting with the patience of what the manager of the Earth hub had become: a bored store manager. He’d finished counting the metaphoric drawers and sent home the few employees he had left. There was nothing left to do but escort the last few customers out and lock the door. The drones hustled out the last few customers left as the top of the cycle started coming. To the grousing and groaning his only response was his gurgling stomach and coffee-frayed patience, letting the groans and complaints slide off him like Teflon. Objections and pleas for one more cycle were ignored; anything they could’ve picked up in the next cycle was almost certainly unimportant. After all, he reasoned, had it been important, it would’ve been snagged already.
A few people, mostly the same protesters who had objected to this in the first place, hung around the window of the reality anchor as the last song, some old noise that some executive twenty levels above him probably found hilariously fitting, played. A few people asked the name of the band, but all Gerald knew was that it had something to do with a phase of sleep. Gerald didn’t care. His plan was to finish this up, stop by his favorite Tunnel bar, get drunk in ways his wife wouldn’t approve of, and start looking for jobs come morning. After all, no Earth meant no Earth hub. No Earth hub meant no Earth hub manager. And with that depressing thought in his head, he read over the final reports from the drones. No signs of life; the planet was clear. Satisfied, he grabbed his coat, and hit a switch on the way out, shutting down power to the systems that kept the reality anchor attached to Earth, as well as the ancillary systems that kept the Sun going.
“Sorry, but the Earth is now closed. Any remaining artifacts or purchases can be finalized at the central hub. Have a good evening.”
| What was left was beautiful. The last lights were stars, millions of them in the black night sky - I never knew what it could look like, with the earth devoid of our own light. I stared at the stars, at the flaming beauty that lingered in places I knew I could never reach. I took in the last of the lights before slipping the cool mouth of the shotgun in my mouth and pulling the trigger. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | He rocked back and forth, clutching his daughter's cold body. How long he had been there like that, he was not sure. Hours? Seconds? Neither answer would have surprised him. Tears streamed down his cheeks *Why, why? Why did she have to open her eyes?* He wanted his daughter to go in her sleep -- in peace. But in the half-second before he pulled the trigger, she opened her eyes. A half-second of confusion. A half-second of betrayal. He would have given anything to take that half-second back. He wouldn't taken back the frost that had ravaged the planet for the past 25 years. He wouldn't taken back the fact that he hadn't heard from anyone from the outside world in over 15 years. He wouldn't even take back the fact that they had exhausted their last food supplies. In that moment, the only thing that mattered was that half-a-second.
He brushed her hair back and looked into her glazed eyes one last time before closing them. It wasn't fair. He remembered the day she was born. It was the single best and worst day of his life. To lose the love of his life, to meet someone he loved even more. *Well,* He chuckled to himself, *at least she's with her mother now.* He layed her back down on the bed and walked towards the door. He stopped, turned and looked back one last time. He wanted to pretend she was just sleeping, that he was just tucking her in like he did every night for the past 7 years. "Goodnight, sweet pea." Smiling, he shut the lights. He was leaving too, and he was excited to join them. | What was left was beautiful. The last lights were stars, millions of them in the black night sky - I never knew what it could look like, with the earth devoid of our own light. I stared at the stars, at the flaming beauty that lingered in places I knew I could never reach. I took in the last of the lights before slipping the cool mouth of the shotgun in my mouth and pulling the trigger. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | [Hi, first Writing Prompts submission for me, am very open to feedback]
John's eyes fluttered open. His neck cracked and ached as he slowly twisted to look at his clock. Both hands on 12. He had woken up late again - had been waking up late for years now. He thought back and chuckled at how rigid of a lifestyle he used to lead, every minute of the day precision engineered - he had been thinking back a lot recently.
He slipped into his patchwork shirt and slid on his patchwork jacket. He straightened his back, and with a few more cracks, John headed out, ready to face another patchwork day of his life.
After quickly heading back into his little room to put on his pants, John went to pick his breakfast from the green house. Spinach and lettuce made up most of his morning meals, but today he added a little bit of kale to his dish. He really liked the kale.
Maintaining the large collage greenhouse took a long time for one man. But John was glad for it's size. It let him grow more than just spinach and lettuce. He wiped down all the windows and surfaces. He checked all the tubing and hydroponics. He even wiped down the long dysfunctional digital controls. He really liked seeing the sleek monitors glean.
A large part of most of John's days were spent reading. He was almost ready to give himself the final on Algorithms and Data Structures. He wished that he started taking Computer Sciences much earlier. It was difficult to ensure he learnt everything correctly without a functioning computer. It should definitely have come before Business. Probably before World History too.
..
John's eyes fluttered open. He slowly relaxed his body on his bed and turned his eyes to his clock. Both hands on 12 again. Still late. And he discovered to his displeasure, still creaking.
John tried to keep himself calm as he devoured his breakfast of spinach and peas. Today was a day that didn't come very often. It wasn't until after he wiped down the windows and checked his tubing and hydroponics that he realized he forgot lettuce. Oh well.
John breathed out slowly to dispel some of his excitement. His hands shakily slid his answer sheet into the automatic test scoring machine. It was the last working machine in the whole school. He had worked hard to keep it working. All for this day.
Not a minute later the sheet popped out of the machine and into John's hands. A 64%. He had passed! John had to fight hard to keep himself from jumping in elation. He didn't want to hurt himself and sour such a happy day.
John walked as quickly as he could back to his room and signed his name on the 7th certificate stuck to his wall. 7 degrees earned. John beamed with pride. He thought back on how proud of him his parents were when he had earned just 1 degree. He wondered how they would've reacted to his seventh.
He sighed and slowly laid himself on his bed. He knew his parents would've been happy for him even if he didn't have a single degree. All they've every wanted was for him to live a long and fulfilling life. He worked hard everyday to realize their dreams.
He thought about what he would learn next. Maybe it's finally time to start tackling the sciences. There was even material in the library to get started on medicine and pharmacology. He remembered dimly hearing about how hard it was too get though med school. But John didn't care. He had all the time in the world. And he wanted to make his parents happy. John really like making his parents happy.
..
John's eyes fluttered. | What was left was beautiful. The last lights were stars, millions of them in the black night sky - I never knew what it could look like, with the earth devoid of our own light. I stared at the stars, at the flaming beauty that lingered in places I knew I could never reach. I took in the last of the lights before slipping the cool mouth of the shotgun in my mouth and pulling the trigger. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | Vova muttered to himself as he hurriedly ambled down the corridor of the lab. There was no longer a reason for his frustration, nor an answer to the angry question which he knew became almost rhetorical at this point. His actions reflected both a nervous old habit and a fairly–impoverished childhood.
'Who do they think will turn off the lights? Сплошные дебилы!' he groaned.
'T -5 and counting… ' the smooth female voice announced.
'Ah! Now they are to leave without me!' Vova cried, 'Why are they leaving on lights!? for the animals? Do they think deers and fox will appreciate glowing windows from office complex?'
'T -4 minutes,' the automaton reminded him.
The corridor to the launch site had an overflowing garbage can. Somehow, this did not bother Vova, whose only reaction was to purse his lips and shrug it off. He wondered if he'd forgotten anything, but knew that there wouldn't be enough time to retrieve it even if he had. All of his belongings had been gradually shipped to the Citillite™ starcraft and were supposedly in his quarters.
'T -3 minutes', he was reminded, and then remembered that he'd forgotten a bottle of Armenian cognac hidden away in his closet.
„Ну - he thought - что суждено того не миновать.“ That is: what is fated cannot be escaped. It would perhaps be a happy surprise for some future archæologists or an advanced species of raccoon. 'Also sprach Zarathustra' played in his head as he imagined the first taste of cognac by a highly–evolved *Planet of the Apes*–style raccoon.
'T -2 minutes.'
The security team hurried him into a safe zone where he secured himself for lift-off. But as the ship took flight, he looked out and shook his head at the clearly-defined continent of electric light below. | What was left was beautiful. The last lights were stars, millions of them in the black night sky - I never knew what it could look like, with the earth devoid of our own light. I stared at the stars, at the flaming beauty that lingered in places I knew I could never reach. I took in the last of the lights before slipping the cool mouth of the shotgun in my mouth and pulling the trigger. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | At first they had gone by the hundreds, sailing into the ether in generation ships manned by volunteers. The exploration had begun in earnest in the middle of the twenty first century, when climate change had begun to destroy the birthplace of humanity. The technology was sound, if primitive, and nearby stars had been the first targeted.
It was one of those generation ships that had made first contact in the year 2387. Instead of the expected landfall some fifty years into the future, they were met in space by an aliens species, the first intelligent alien life humanity had encountered. It didn't go as hoped but not because the aliens were hostile. They were just...alien. With no common references, in spite the efforts of the crew, the aliens and the humans had no idea what the other wanted, or why.
It was the courage of the ship's Captain, a woman named Ida Labelle, that made communication possible, even if it did take years. Pregnant, she decided the only way for humanity to truly understand the alien race was if someone grew up in their world, with their frame of reference. She volunteered herself and, leaving the crew to continue on their way, took what she needed and boarded the alien's vessel. It wasn't until much later that it was understood why the aliens allowed it. They simply had no idea what she was doing or why, so they didn't interfere.
Her daughter, born on an alien vessel, was the common link both races needed. The alien's reproductive methods were a mystery to Captain Labelle, but they clearly understood that her daughter was an immature member of the human species. Simply put, they treated her like one of their own children, or so Labelle assumed.
The child was strange to her mother. While Labelle insured she spoke the patios French that was the language of the generation ship, the infant spent the majority of her time with the aliens. The plan almost failed. Labelle's food replicator broke. Chantelle, named by her mother, didn't understand that Labelle wanted help fixing it, that her mother needed her to communicate with the aliens her dilemma. The child could not make the connection between the words her mother spoke and the way the aliens communicated with her. It had never occurred to her to translate anything before, just speaking one way to her human parent and another way to everyone else.
Fortunately something clicked and the idea that concepts born from human words could be translated into concepts that the aliens understood burst like a sunrise in the child's understanding. From there Labelle was able to get her machine repaired and, in time, able to develop a basic shared vocabulary of ideas.
The aliens travelled to earth, at Labelle's pleading and through the Captain's great effort, a discourse of ideas and knowledge began. Humanity gained a much greater benefit as the s'Kaa'li (the closest we can come to pronouncing their real name) were far more advanced in the sciences. They traded their knowledge of faster than light travel and a hundred other sciences for things humanity considered mundane. Paintings were priceless to the s'Kaa'li. Not Van Goth, or Rembrandt. The aliens ignored those and clamoured for the kind of simple art that children paint with watercolours. Instead of Beethovan, they preferred the music of whale song, which amazed them. Nothing in their experience had prepared them for singing mammals.
Over time, the technologies transformed the world. More and more of humanity was building s'Kaa'li inspired ships and leaving earth to wander among the stars. Governments collapsed because no one cared enough to run for office. Even those few that clung to power for centuries eventually gave up with no one to command and machines doing all the work of managing the world.
Finally, there were only a few thousand humans remaining on earth. Great human civilizations had been born in the far reaches of the Galaxy and most people had simply left in ships built by machines that asked for no payment nor reason. In time there were wars but not many and not for long. It simply became impractical to wage war over great distances for resources that were already in abundance.
It was in the year 10,231 as marked by Earth reckoning that five of the great human civilizations came together and declared the home planet to be a nature preserve. The few humans left on earth were gently but forcibly shipped to a new world, one terra formed to be like earth where they could live in peace.
It was the day of the last shipment, the last moment that a human would set foot on earth again. It was my day, for as the last known descendant of the Labelle family line, I was given the great honour of saying goodbye. I had already linked all machines and slaved the great factories to my command console. I gave the orders and one by one, across the world, buildings went dark. Power plants shut down and machines, dependant on the transmission of power from the solar plants, stopped functioning.
I stepped outside the small courier ship I had used to travel to Earth and waited. Soon the sun slid down the horizon and I watched the glorious colours of a sunset unlike any world I had ever known. As the light died, I stepped into the entryway of the ship and issues one final command, the last command I or any human would ever give on this sacred green orb. "Time to leave. Lift off."
As I ascended into the heavens, I looked back once more the womb of humanity and wished well to those animals who would now rule it in our place. | What was left was beautiful. The last lights were stars, millions of them in the black night sky - I never knew what it could look like, with the earth devoid of our own light. I stared at the stars, at the flaming beauty that lingered in places I knew I could never reach. I took in the last of the lights before slipping the cool mouth of the shotgun in my mouth and pulling the trigger. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | **Day 7,459**
*It's been... God, 20 years. 20 years since the last ships left. They've not returned, and I've received no word, though I keep the communicator on. Just in case. I often wonder how they are, after all this time. I often wonder what my life would've been like had I not stayed behind. Naught but private musings now. I made my choice back then, and though I wonder what it would be like had I done differently, I've never regretted it. I had nothing to give them out there anyway. No family to take care of. It wasn't even a selfless sacrifice: I just felt like staying. Ha!*
*I think I'm the only one left. I heard a gunshot a week ago—I think it was a week... I've slept seven times since then—and nothing since. I tried looking, but, if anything, the clouds seem to be getting thicker. I guess they were right to leave after all. I don't know who fired the shot. I'd thought the gangs had long since slaughtered each other. Maybe just a survivor who couldn't go on alone.*
*I can sympathise. If I had a gun, I think I'd have done the same long ago. All I have is the button. Food is running low, finally. Water keeps coming from somewhere. God knows what it's doing to me if it comes from the clouds. My last book fell apart yesterday; I've nothing left to read. But I still have that damn button.*
*'Whenever you're ready,' they said. As if they had no idea what pressing it meant. There were thousands of people left behind that day; I couldn't kill them all.*
*But I think they're all gone now... Maybe it's time.*
*I was never a smart man. They'd tried to explain the process, but it just washed over me. Something about 'not quite a bomb, just the radiation'. Supposed to bring the plants back. I didn't pay much attention. I just have to press the button. Doesn't matter what happens after. Doesn't matter if it works or not. They're not coming back anyway.*
*It's just a way to give life a chance to start over.*
*I don't even know why I'm writing this... No one's coming back. No one will read it. I think it just keeps me from talking to the one in the window. And any peace from that is welcome.*
*To hell with it. I'll make one last meal, crack open that bottle of scotch they gave me. Been sitting on that this whole damn time. Might as well go out in a good mood.*
---
*That's it. Pressed it. I can hear it warming up. Whirring away. Shouldn't be long, then it'll explode. Kill anything left alive. Sorry for that...*
*This is damn good scotch...*
*Funny... the thing's starting to sound like a ship engi—* | What was left was beautiful. The last lights were stars, millions of them in the black night sky - I never knew what it could look like, with the earth devoid of our own light. I stared at the stars, at the flaming beauty that lingered in places I knew I could never reach. I took in the last of the lights before slipping the cool mouth of the shotgun in my mouth and pulling the trigger. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | He rocked back and forth, clutching his daughter's cold body. How long he had been there like that, he was not sure. Hours? Seconds? Neither answer would have surprised him. Tears streamed down his cheeks *Why, why? Why did she have to open her eyes?* He wanted his daughter to go in her sleep -- in peace. But in the half-second before he pulled the trigger, she opened her eyes. A half-second of confusion. A half-second of betrayal. He would have given anything to take that half-second back. He wouldn't taken back the frost that had ravaged the planet for the past 25 years. He wouldn't taken back the fact that he hadn't heard from anyone from the outside world in over 15 years. He wouldn't even take back the fact that they had exhausted their last food supplies. In that moment, the only thing that mattered was that half-a-second.
He brushed her hair back and looked into her glazed eyes one last time before closing them. It wasn't fair. He remembered the day she was born. It was the single best and worst day of his life. To lose the love of his life, to meet someone he loved even more. *Well,* He chuckled to himself, *at least she's with her mother now.* He layed her back down on the bed and walked towards the door. He stopped, turned and looked back one last time. He wanted to pretend she was just sleeping, that he was just tucking her in like he did every night for the past 7 years. "Goodnight, sweet pea." Smiling, he shut the lights. He was leaving too, and he was excited to join them. | I prepared for this. I bought my bunker back in 2011, with the hope I would never have to use it. However, concerned with world events I bought it nonetheless. It was cheap as it was just leftovers from the Cold War. Who knew that a larger Cold War would break out just 5 years after I bought the bunker and then actually lead to a real war the following year?
I left no paper trail, no one ever knew I bought the bunker. It wouldn't have mattered. All the family I had was too far away to make it to my bunker by the time the nukes hit.
I don't know why I'm writing this down. I suppose it's just the lamentations and reminiscence of a dying old man. Who would want to read it? And at this point, who's alive to read it? I ventured out into the fallout once, fully donning my hazmat suit and equipment. Radiation far exceeds what I anticipated, and thus I have surmised that if this devastation did engulf the whole planet, then I am the last living being on Earth. At the least, I'm the last human.
In a way, I'm glad to be leaving this Earth. For obvious reasons it's nothing that I knew before. I remember having family vacations with my parents and siblings. Taking trips down to the lake, seeing all the wildlife running, flying, and swimming freely. I remember fishing trips with my father on those hot summer days as well.
At the time I hated those fishing trips as they were always so boring for a child. At this point I'd given anything to have them back.
I remember my friends and I going to the local drug store to play with the arcade box. After that we used to buy some Now and Later. I still remember the sweet and sour taste of those. Cherry was always my favorite flavor. My friend Jerry used to always say they tasted like cherry cough syrup, but I always enjoyed them.
I remember going to the movies with Emily Maine when I was 14. She had black hair that went down just past her shoulders. The most striking thing about her was her stunning blue eyes. I had never seen a girl with black hair and blue eyes, they absolutely captured my adoration.
She was shy and sweet, which made me love her even more. We dated all throughout high school and were convinced we were each other's "one and only". But, as fate would have it we both went to different colleges after high school and lost contact. I've thought about her a lot.
For a time I used to hod out hope that she survived, but looking back with the world the way it is, I don't know if anyone would want to be alive for this.
I've long been bored of this world I live in. I live pretty well in my bunker. I had outfitted it and customized it to my liking. My bed is cozy, and I eat well. I bought a whole truck load of seeds prior to the war and rigged up some lights to produce artificial sunlight. As far as water I was lucky enough to be next to a well so I get my water from there and filter it the best way I can.
I also get my energy from solar panels I rigged up outside. It took a while considering the radiation nearby, but I managed to get it done. I am far away from any major blast sites so the dust clouds never bothered me much, just the spreading nuclear radiation in the air.
Although, I am convinced that at least some of it may have gotten to me as the blood stains from my coughing may show on this note I leave.
I'm dying and have accepted my fate. Humanity had a good run, and I am convinced of it. Over the years I have read great works by many influential leaders and scholars. Anywhere from the religious texts of the Book of the Dead, the Bible, the Vedas and Baghavad-Gita, the Quran, etc. to dramatic works like Oedipus Rex, the Odyssey, the Illiad, Epic of Gilgamesh etc. I also read some more contemporary books by the likes of Mark Twain and Charles Dickens that were more close to my interests. This is just a small sampling among many.
Personally, I hope the Hindus are right. I'm not religious, but I do hope this isn't it and life will continue to exist elsewhere. Just my two cents.
To anyone that might read this, I hope you can take what you need from my facility and feel free to use it how you like. I no longer have use for it as I am going outside to experience the sun on my face one last time.
You'll find the lights turned off and the bunker shut on my exit. I hope this note finds you well.
To my family and all the loved ones I had, I hope we'll meet soon.
Sincerely,
Lawrence
1973-2046
| |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | [Hi, first Writing Prompts submission for me, am very open to feedback]
John's eyes fluttered open. His neck cracked and ached as he slowly twisted to look at his clock. Both hands on 12. He had woken up late again - had been waking up late for years now. He thought back and chuckled at how rigid of a lifestyle he used to lead, every minute of the day precision engineered - he had been thinking back a lot recently.
He slipped into his patchwork shirt and slid on his patchwork jacket. He straightened his back, and with a few more cracks, John headed out, ready to face another patchwork day of his life.
After quickly heading back into his little room to put on his pants, John went to pick his breakfast from the green house. Spinach and lettuce made up most of his morning meals, but today he added a little bit of kale to his dish. He really liked the kale.
Maintaining the large collage greenhouse took a long time for one man. But John was glad for it's size. It let him grow more than just spinach and lettuce. He wiped down all the windows and surfaces. He checked all the tubing and hydroponics. He even wiped down the long dysfunctional digital controls. He really liked seeing the sleek monitors glean.
A large part of most of John's days were spent reading. He was almost ready to give himself the final on Algorithms and Data Structures. He wished that he started taking Computer Sciences much earlier. It was difficult to ensure he learnt everything correctly without a functioning computer. It should definitely have come before Business. Probably before World History too.
..
John's eyes fluttered open. He slowly relaxed his body on his bed and turned his eyes to his clock. Both hands on 12 again. Still late. And he discovered to his displeasure, still creaking.
John tried to keep himself calm as he devoured his breakfast of spinach and peas. Today was a day that didn't come very often. It wasn't until after he wiped down the windows and checked his tubing and hydroponics that he realized he forgot lettuce. Oh well.
John breathed out slowly to dispel some of his excitement. His hands shakily slid his answer sheet into the automatic test scoring machine. It was the last working machine in the whole school. He had worked hard to keep it working. All for this day.
Not a minute later the sheet popped out of the machine and into John's hands. A 64%. He had passed! John had to fight hard to keep himself from jumping in elation. He didn't want to hurt himself and sour such a happy day.
John walked as quickly as he could back to his room and signed his name on the 7th certificate stuck to his wall. 7 degrees earned. John beamed with pride. He thought back on how proud of him his parents were when he had earned just 1 degree. He wondered how they would've reacted to his seventh.
He sighed and slowly laid himself on his bed. He knew his parents would've been happy for him even if he didn't have a single degree. All they've every wanted was for him to live a long and fulfilling life. He worked hard everyday to realize their dreams.
He thought about what he would learn next. Maybe it's finally time to start tackling the sciences. There was even material in the library to get started on medicine and pharmacology. He remembered dimly hearing about how hard it was too get though med school. But John didn't care. He had all the time in the world. And he wanted to make his parents happy. John really like making his parents happy.
..
John's eyes fluttered. | I prepared for this. I bought my bunker back in 2011, with the hope I would never have to use it. However, concerned with world events I bought it nonetheless. It was cheap as it was just leftovers from the Cold War. Who knew that a larger Cold War would break out just 5 years after I bought the bunker and then actually lead to a real war the following year?
I left no paper trail, no one ever knew I bought the bunker. It wouldn't have mattered. All the family I had was too far away to make it to my bunker by the time the nukes hit.
I don't know why I'm writing this down. I suppose it's just the lamentations and reminiscence of a dying old man. Who would want to read it? And at this point, who's alive to read it? I ventured out into the fallout once, fully donning my hazmat suit and equipment. Radiation far exceeds what I anticipated, and thus I have surmised that if this devastation did engulf the whole planet, then I am the last living being on Earth. At the least, I'm the last human.
In a way, I'm glad to be leaving this Earth. For obvious reasons it's nothing that I knew before. I remember having family vacations with my parents and siblings. Taking trips down to the lake, seeing all the wildlife running, flying, and swimming freely. I remember fishing trips with my father on those hot summer days as well.
At the time I hated those fishing trips as they were always so boring for a child. At this point I'd given anything to have them back.
I remember my friends and I going to the local drug store to play with the arcade box. After that we used to buy some Now and Later. I still remember the sweet and sour taste of those. Cherry was always my favorite flavor. My friend Jerry used to always say they tasted like cherry cough syrup, but I always enjoyed them.
I remember going to the movies with Emily Maine when I was 14. She had black hair that went down just past her shoulders. The most striking thing about her was her stunning blue eyes. I had never seen a girl with black hair and blue eyes, they absolutely captured my adoration.
She was shy and sweet, which made me love her even more. We dated all throughout high school and were convinced we were each other's "one and only". But, as fate would have it we both went to different colleges after high school and lost contact. I've thought about her a lot.
For a time I used to hod out hope that she survived, but looking back with the world the way it is, I don't know if anyone would want to be alive for this.
I've long been bored of this world I live in. I live pretty well in my bunker. I had outfitted it and customized it to my liking. My bed is cozy, and I eat well. I bought a whole truck load of seeds prior to the war and rigged up some lights to produce artificial sunlight. As far as water I was lucky enough to be next to a well so I get my water from there and filter it the best way I can.
I also get my energy from solar panels I rigged up outside. It took a while considering the radiation nearby, but I managed to get it done. I am far away from any major blast sites so the dust clouds never bothered me much, just the spreading nuclear radiation in the air.
Although, I am convinced that at least some of it may have gotten to me as the blood stains from my coughing may show on this note I leave.
I'm dying and have accepted my fate. Humanity had a good run, and I am convinced of it. Over the years I have read great works by many influential leaders and scholars. Anywhere from the religious texts of the Book of the Dead, the Bible, the Vedas and Baghavad-Gita, the Quran, etc. to dramatic works like Oedipus Rex, the Odyssey, the Illiad, Epic of Gilgamesh etc. I also read some more contemporary books by the likes of Mark Twain and Charles Dickens that were more close to my interests. This is just a small sampling among many.
Personally, I hope the Hindus are right. I'm not religious, but I do hope this isn't it and life will continue to exist elsewhere. Just my two cents.
To anyone that might read this, I hope you can take what you need from my facility and feel free to use it how you like. I no longer have use for it as I am going outside to experience the sun on my face one last time.
You'll find the lights turned off and the bunker shut on my exit. I hope this note finds you well.
To my family and all the loved ones I had, I hope we'll meet soon.
Sincerely,
Lawrence
1973-2046
| |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | Vova muttered to himself as he hurriedly ambled down the corridor of the lab. There was no longer a reason for his frustration, nor an answer to the angry question which he knew became almost rhetorical at this point. His actions reflected both a nervous old habit and a fairly–impoverished childhood.
'Who do they think will turn off the lights? Сплошные дебилы!' he groaned.
'T -5 and counting… ' the smooth female voice announced.
'Ah! Now they are to leave without me!' Vova cried, 'Why are they leaving on lights!? for the animals? Do they think deers and fox will appreciate glowing windows from office complex?'
'T -4 minutes,' the automaton reminded him.
The corridor to the launch site had an overflowing garbage can. Somehow, this did not bother Vova, whose only reaction was to purse his lips and shrug it off. He wondered if he'd forgotten anything, but knew that there wouldn't be enough time to retrieve it even if he had. All of his belongings had been gradually shipped to the Citillite™ starcraft and were supposedly in his quarters.
'T -3 minutes', he was reminded, and then remembered that he'd forgotten a bottle of Armenian cognac hidden away in his closet.
„Ну - he thought - что суждено того не миновать.“ That is: what is fated cannot be escaped. It would perhaps be a happy surprise for some future archæologists or an advanced species of raccoon. 'Also sprach Zarathustra' played in his head as he imagined the first taste of cognac by a highly–evolved *Planet of the Apes*–style raccoon.
'T -2 minutes.'
The security team hurried him into a safe zone where he secured himself for lift-off. But as the ship took flight, he looked out and shook his head at the clearly-defined continent of electric light below. | I prepared for this. I bought my bunker back in 2011, with the hope I would never have to use it. However, concerned with world events I bought it nonetheless. It was cheap as it was just leftovers from the Cold War. Who knew that a larger Cold War would break out just 5 years after I bought the bunker and then actually lead to a real war the following year?
I left no paper trail, no one ever knew I bought the bunker. It wouldn't have mattered. All the family I had was too far away to make it to my bunker by the time the nukes hit.
I don't know why I'm writing this down. I suppose it's just the lamentations and reminiscence of a dying old man. Who would want to read it? And at this point, who's alive to read it? I ventured out into the fallout once, fully donning my hazmat suit and equipment. Radiation far exceeds what I anticipated, and thus I have surmised that if this devastation did engulf the whole planet, then I am the last living being on Earth. At the least, I'm the last human.
In a way, I'm glad to be leaving this Earth. For obvious reasons it's nothing that I knew before. I remember having family vacations with my parents and siblings. Taking trips down to the lake, seeing all the wildlife running, flying, and swimming freely. I remember fishing trips with my father on those hot summer days as well.
At the time I hated those fishing trips as they were always so boring for a child. At this point I'd given anything to have them back.
I remember my friends and I going to the local drug store to play with the arcade box. After that we used to buy some Now and Later. I still remember the sweet and sour taste of those. Cherry was always my favorite flavor. My friend Jerry used to always say they tasted like cherry cough syrup, but I always enjoyed them.
I remember going to the movies with Emily Maine when I was 14. She had black hair that went down just past her shoulders. The most striking thing about her was her stunning blue eyes. I had never seen a girl with black hair and blue eyes, they absolutely captured my adoration.
She was shy and sweet, which made me love her even more. We dated all throughout high school and were convinced we were each other's "one and only". But, as fate would have it we both went to different colleges after high school and lost contact. I've thought about her a lot.
For a time I used to hod out hope that she survived, but looking back with the world the way it is, I don't know if anyone would want to be alive for this.
I've long been bored of this world I live in. I live pretty well in my bunker. I had outfitted it and customized it to my liking. My bed is cozy, and I eat well. I bought a whole truck load of seeds prior to the war and rigged up some lights to produce artificial sunlight. As far as water I was lucky enough to be next to a well so I get my water from there and filter it the best way I can.
I also get my energy from solar panels I rigged up outside. It took a while considering the radiation nearby, but I managed to get it done. I am far away from any major blast sites so the dust clouds never bothered me much, just the spreading nuclear radiation in the air.
Although, I am convinced that at least some of it may have gotten to me as the blood stains from my coughing may show on this note I leave.
I'm dying and have accepted my fate. Humanity had a good run, and I am convinced of it. Over the years I have read great works by many influential leaders and scholars. Anywhere from the religious texts of the Book of the Dead, the Bible, the Vedas and Baghavad-Gita, the Quran, etc. to dramatic works like Oedipus Rex, the Odyssey, the Illiad, Epic of Gilgamesh etc. I also read some more contemporary books by the likes of Mark Twain and Charles Dickens that were more close to my interests. This is just a small sampling among many.
Personally, I hope the Hindus are right. I'm not religious, but I do hope this isn't it and life will continue to exist elsewhere. Just my two cents.
To anyone that might read this, I hope you can take what you need from my facility and feel free to use it how you like. I no longer have use for it as I am going outside to experience the sun on my face one last time.
You'll find the lights turned off and the bunker shut on my exit. I hope this note finds you well.
To my family and all the loved ones I had, I hope we'll meet soon.
Sincerely,
Lawrence
1973-2046
| |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | He rocked back and forth, clutching his daughter's cold body. How long he had been there like that, he was not sure. Hours? Seconds? Neither answer would have surprised him. Tears streamed down his cheeks *Why, why? Why did she have to open her eyes?* He wanted his daughter to go in her sleep -- in peace. But in the half-second before he pulled the trigger, she opened her eyes. A half-second of confusion. A half-second of betrayal. He would have given anything to take that half-second back. He wouldn't taken back the frost that had ravaged the planet for the past 25 years. He wouldn't taken back the fact that he hadn't heard from anyone from the outside world in over 15 years. He wouldn't even take back the fact that they had exhausted their last food supplies. In that moment, the only thing that mattered was that half-a-second.
He brushed her hair back and looked into her glazed eyes one last time before closing them. It wasn't fair. He remembered the day she was born. It was the single best and worst day of his life. To lose the love of his life, to meet someone he loved even more. *Well,* He chuckled to himself, *at least she's with her mother now.* He layed her back down on the bed and walked towards the door. He stopped, turned and looked back one last time. He wanted to pretend she was just sleeping, that he was just tucking her in like he did every night for the past 7 years. "Goodnight, sweet pea." Smiling, he shut the lights. He was leaving too, and he was excited to join them. | They didn't too bad, all things considered.
I mean, they had the creativity figured out. That holds back at least half of them.
They definitely understood family. Family always came first.
Their intuition failed them in the end, however. They just couldn't work together.
Well, hopefully the next ones do better. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | [Hi, first Writing Prompts submission for me, am very open to feedback]
John's eyes fluttered open. His neck cracked and ached as he slowly twisted to look at his clock. Both hands on 12. He had woken up late again - had been waking up late for years now. He thought back and chuckled at how rigid of a lifestyle he used to lead, every minute of the day precision engineered - he had been thinking back a lot recently.
He slipped into his patchwork shirt and slid on his patchwork jacket. He straightened his back, and with a few more cracks, John headed out, ready to face another patchwork day of his life.
After quickly heading back into his little room to put on his pants, John went to pick his breakfast from the green house. Spinach and lettuce made up most of his morning meals, but today he added a little bit of kale to his dish. He really liked the kale.
Maintaining the large collage greenhouse took a long time for one man. But John was glad for it's size. It let him grow more than just spinach and lettuce. He wiped down all the windows and surfaces. He checked all the tubing and hydroponics. He even wiped down the long dysfunctional digital controls. He really liked seeing the sleek monitors glean.
A large part of most of John's days were spent reading. He was almost ready to give himself the final on Algorithms and Data Structures. He wished that he started taking Computer Sciences much earlier. It was difficult to ensure he learnt everything correctly without a functioning computer. It should definitely have come before Business. Probably before World History too.
..
John's eyes fluttered open. He slowly relaxed his body on his bed and turned his eyes to his clock. Both hands on 12 again. Still late. And he discovered to his displeasure, still creaking.
John tried to keep himself calm as he devoured his breakfast of spinach and peas. Today was a day that didn't come very often. It wasn't until after he wiped down the windows and checked his tubing and hydroponics that he realized he forgot lettuce. Oh well.
John breathed out slowly to dispel some of his excitement. His hands shakily slid his answer sheet into the automatic test scoring machine. It was the last working machine in the whole school. He had worked hard to keep it working. All for this day.
Not a minute later the sheet popped out of the machine and into John's hands. A 64%. He had passed! John had to fight hard to keep himself from jumping in elation. He didn't want to hurt himself and sour such a happy day.
John walked as quickly as he could back to his room and signed his name on the 7th certificate stuck to his wall. 7 degrees earned. John beamed with pride. He thought back on how proud of him his parents were when he had earned just 1 degree. He wondered how they would've reacted to his seventh.
He sighed and slowly laid himself on his bed. He knew his parents would've been happy for him even if he didn't have a single degree. All they've every wanted was for him to live a long and fulfilling life. He worked hard everyday to realize their dreams.
He thought about what he would learn next. Maybe it's finally time to start tackling the sciences. There was even material in the library to get started on medicine and pharmacology. He remembered dimly hearing about how hard it was too get though med school. But John didn't care. He had all the time in the world. And he wanted to make his parents happy. John really like making his parents happy.
..
John's eyes fluttered. | They didn't too bad, all things considered.
I mean, they had the creativity figured out. That holds back at least half of them.
They definitely understood family. Family always came first.
Their intuition failed them in the end, however. They just couldn't work together.
Well, hopefully the next ones do better. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | [Hi, first Writing Prompts submission for me, am very open to feedback]
John's eyes fluttered open. His neck cracked and ached as he slowly twisted to look at his clock. Both hands on 12. He had woken up late again - had been waking up late for years now. He thought back and chuckled at how rigid of a lifestyle he used to lead, every minute of the day precision engineered - he had been thinking back a lot recently.
He slipped into his patchwork shirt and slid on his patchwork jacket. He straightened his back, and with a few more cracks, John headed out, ready to face another patchwork day of his life.
After quickly heading back into his little room to put on his pants, John went to pick his breakfast from the green house. Spinach and lettuce made up most of his morning meals, but today he added a little bit of kale to his dish. He really liked the kale.
Maintaining the large collage greenhouse took a long time for one man. But John was glad for it's size. It let him grow more than just spinach and lettuce. He wiped down all the windows and surfaces. He checked all the tubing and hydroponics. He even wiped down the long dysfunctional digital controls. He really liked seeing the sleek monitors glean.
A large part of most of John's days were spent reading. He was almost ready to give himself the final on Algorithms and Data Structures. He wished that he started taking Computer Sciences much earlier. It was difficult to ensure he learnt everything correctly without a functioning computer. It should definitely have come before Business. Probably before World History too.
..
John's eyes fluttered open. He slowly relaxed his body on his bed and turned his eyes to his clock. Both hands on 12 again. Still late. And he discovered to his displeasure, still creaking.
John tried to keep himself calm as he devoured his breakfast of spinach and peas. Today was a day that didn't come very often. It wasn't until after he wiped down the windows and checked his tubing and hydroponics that he realized he forgot lettuce. Oh well.
John breathed out slowly to dispel some of his excitement. His hands shakily slid his answer sheet into the automatic test scoring machine. It was the last working machine in the whole school. He had worked hard to keep it working. All for this day.
Not a minute later the sheet popped out of the machine and into John's hands. A 64%. He had passed! John had to fight hard to keep himself from jumping in elation. He didn't want to hurt himself and sour such a happy day.
John walked as quickly as he could back to his room and signed his name on the 7th certificate stuck to his wall. 7 degrees earned. John beamed with pride. He thought back on how proud of him his parents were when he had earned just 1 degree. He wondered how they would've reacted to his seventh.
He sighed and slowly laid himself on his bed. He knew his parents would've been happy for him even if he didn't have a single degree. All they've every wanted was for him to live a long and fulfilling life. He worked hard everyday to realize their dreams.
He thought about what he would learn next. Maybe it's finally time to start tackling the sciences. There was even material in the library to get started on medicine and pharmacology. He remembered dimly hearing about how hard it was too get though med school. But John didn't care. He had all the time in the world. And he wanted to make his parents happy. John really like making his parents happy.
..
John's eyes fluttered. | [felt oddly inspired by this one while avoiding homework]
Say what you will about humanity, it has a strong sense of nostalgia. It had been years since anyone “needed” Earth, as a planet, to exist. Six generations now had been born not knowing life without the Tunnels, artificial wormholes that connected thousands of worlds, dozens of galaxies, and formed a universe unto themselves. Earth was now the galactic equivalent of an old, historic, loved, but crumbling mall, kept alive by a few rotting anchors, a smoothie place, and one of those creepy stores that sells weird knives and “for tobacco use only” glass water pipes. Gerald smirked as he thought that, wondering if anyone was stupid or naïve enough to actually think those were for tobacco. Then he looked, solemnly, over at the schedule. Time to make an announcement.
Keying up his mic, he broadcast, worldwide, on every frequency that had once been so sacred, so fought over by every institution. AM, FM, dozens of ham bands, TV… Time was, a license and years, maybe even decades, of training were required to use these, to keep them parceled out fairly among the billions of humans on Earth. Now, he was the only person bored enough to even care; a lower-rung middle manager working overtime and missing dinner. And he only cared because it was on the itinerary to use them.
“The Earth is closing in one cycle. Please plan your final purchases accordingly,” he said, in a bored monotone. There had been objections to closing Earth, obviously, but its time had come. Valuable Core energy was being spent keeping the Sun ignited, not to mention the maintenance on the reality anchors to connect it to the Tunnels, for a tiny blue (well, mostly brown, now) ball that had struggled to support even a hundred billion. When there were three times that many just in transit, and another five or so hundred billion making permanent residence in the Tunnels, it became hard to justify. A few had objected to what they saw as the mistreatment of Earth. “The Earth isn’t to be abandoned, but should be saved. We can’t treat the origin of our species like our first apartment out of college,” one memorable protester had objected. But, Gerald thought, going down the closing checklist, that’s exactly what Earth was to us, now: an apartment we’d outgrown as a species. Too small, too dirty, not near anything nice, a place we only kept because our immature roommates would bark at us about how we can’t give it up.
Burning through the checklist, Gerald made the half- and quarter-cycle announcements, waiting with the patience of what the manager of the Earth hub had become: a bored store manager. He’d finished counting the metaphoric drawers and sent home the few employees he had left. There was nothing left to do but escort the last few customers out and lock the door. The drones hustled out the last few customers left as the top of the cycle started coming. To the grousing and groaning his only response was his gurgling stomach and coffee-frayed patience, letting the groans and complaints slide off him like Teflon. Objections and pleas for one more cycle were ignored; anything they could’ve picked up in the next cycle was almost certainly unimportant. After all, he reasoned, had it been important, it would’ve been snagged already.
A few people, mostly the same protesters who had objected to this in the first place, hung around the window of the reality anchor as the last song, some old noise that some executive twenty levels above him probably found hilariously fitting, played. A few people asked the name of the band, but all Gerald knew was that it had something to do with a phase of sleep. Gerald didn’t care. His plan was to finish this up, stop by his favorite Tunnel bar, get drunk in ways his wife wouldn’t approve of, and start looking for jobs come morning. After all, no Earth meant no Earth hub. No Earth hub meant no Earth hub manager. And with that depressing thought in his head, he read over the final reports from the drones. No signs of life; the planet was clear. Satisfied, he grabbed his coat, and hit a switch on the way out, shutting down power to the systems that kept the reality anchor attached to Earth, as well as the ancillary systems that kept the Sun going.
“Sorry, but the Earth is now closed. Any remaining artifacts or purchases can be finalized at the central hub. Have a good evening.”
| |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | Vova muttered to himself as he hurriedly ambled down the corridor of the lab. There was no longer a reason for his frustration, nor an answer to the angry question which he knew became almost rhetorical at this point. His actions reflected both a nervous old habit and a fairly–impoverished childhood.
'Who do they think will turn off the lights? Сплошные дебилы!' he groaned.
'T -5 and counting… ' the smooth female voice announced.
'Ah! Now they are to leave without me!' Vova cried, 'Why are they leaving on lights!? for the animals? Do they think deers and fox will appreciate glowing windows from office complex?'
'T -4 minutes,' the automaton reminded him.
The corridor to the launch site had an overflowing garbage can. Somehow, this did not bother Vova, whose only reaction was to purse his lips and shrug it off. He wondered if he'd forgotten anything, but knew that there wouldn't be enough time to retrieve it even if he had. All of his belongings had been gradually shipped to the Citillite™ starcraft and were supposedly in his quarters.
'T -3 minutes', he was reminded, and then remembered that he'd forgotten a bottle of Armenian cognac hidden away in his closet.
„Ну - he thought - что суждено того не миновать.“ That is: what is fated cannot be escaped. It would perhaps be a happy surprise for some future archæologists or an advanced species of raccoon. 'Also sprach Zarathustra' played in his head as he imagined the first taste of cognac by a highly–evolved *Planet of the Apes*–style raccoon.
'T -2 minutes.'
The security team hurried him into a safe zone where he secured himself for lift-off. But as the ship took flight, he looked out and shook his head at the clearly-defined continent of electric light below. | [felt oddly inspired by this one while avoiding homework]
Say what you will about humanity, it has a strong sense of nostalgia. It had been years since anyone “needed” Earth, as a planet, to exist. Six generations now had been born not knowing life without the Tunnels, artificial wormholes that connected thousands of worlds, dozens of galaxies, and formed a universe unto themselves. Earth was now the galactic equivalent of an old, historic, loved, but crumbling mall, kept alive by a few rotting anchors, a smoothie place, and one of those creepy stores that sells weird knives and “for tobacco use only” glass water pipes. Gerald smirked as he thought that, wondering if anyone was stupid or naïve enough to actually think those were for tobacco. Then he looked, solemnly, over at the schedule. Time to make an announcement.
Keying up his mic, he broadcast, worldwide, on every frequency that had once been so sacred, so fought over by every institution. AM, FM, dozens of ham bands, TV… Time was, a license and years, maybe even decades, of training were required to use these, to keep them parceled out fairly among the billions of humans on Earth. Now, he was the only person bored enough to even care; a lower-rung middle manager working overtime and missing dinner. And he only cared because it was on the itinerary to use them.
“The Earth is closing in one cycle. Please plan your final purchases accordingly,” he said, in a bored monotone. There had been objections to closing Earth, obviously, but its time had come. Valuable Core energy was being spent keeping the Sun ignited, not to mention the maintenance on the reality anchors to connect it to the Tunnels, for a tiny blue (well, mostly brown, now) ball that had struggled to support even a hundred billion. When there were three times that many just in transit, and another five or so hundred billion making permanent residence in the Tunnels, it became hard to justify. A few had objected to what they saw as the mistreatment of Earth. “The Earth isn’t to be abandoned, but should be saved. We can’t treat the origin of our species like our first apartment out of college,” one memorable protester had objected. But, Gerald thought, going down the closing checklist, that’s exactly what Earth was to us, now: an apartment we’d outgrown as a species. Too small, too dirty, not near anything nice, a place we only kept because our immature roommates would bark at us about how we can’t give it up.
Burning through the checklist, Gerald made the half- and quarter-cycle announcements, waiting with the patience of what the manager of the Earth hub had become: a bored store manager. He’d finished counting the metaphoric drawers and sent home the few employees he had left. There was nothing left to do but escort the last few customers out and lock the door. The drones hustled out the last few customers left as the top of the cycle started coming. To the grousing and groaning his only response was his gurgling stomach and coffee-frayed patience, letting the groans and complaints slide off him like Teflon. Objections and pleas for one more cycle were ignored; anything they could’ve picked up in the next cycle was almost certainly unimportant. After all, he reasoned, had it been important, it would’ve been snagged already.
A few people, mostly the same protesters who had objected to this in the first place, hung around the window of the reality anchor as the last song, some old noise that some executive twenty levels above him probably found hilariously fitting, played. A few people asked the name of the band, but all Gerald knew was that it had something to do with a phase of sleep. Gerald didn’t care. His plan was to finish this up, stop by his favorite Tunnel bar, get drunk in ways his wife wouldn’t approve of, and start looking for jobs come morning. After all, no Earth meant no Earth hub. No Earth hub meant no Earth hub manager. And with that depressing thought in his head, he read over the final reports from the drones. No signs of life; the planet was clear. Satisfied, he grabbed his coat, and hit a switch on the way out, shutting down power to the systems that kept the reality anchor attached to Earth, as well as the ancillary systems that kept the Sun going.
“Sorry, but the Earth is now closed. Any remaining artifacts or purchases can be finalized at the central hub. Have a good evening.”
| |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | Vova muttered to himself as he hurriedly ambled down the corridor of the lab. There was no longer a reason for his frustration, nor an answer to the angry question which he knew became almost rhetorical at this point. His actions reflected both a nervous old habit and a fairly–impoverished childhood.
'Who do they think will turn off the lights? Сплошные дебилы!' he groaned.
'T -5 and counting… ' the smooth female voice announced.
'Ah! Now they are to leave without me!' Vova cried, 'Why are they leaving on lights!? for the animals? Do they think deers and fox will appreciate glowing windows from office complex?'
'T -4 minutes,' the automaton reminded him.
The corridor to the launch site had an overflowing garbage can. Somehow, this did not bother Vova, whose only reaction was to purse his lips and shrug it off. He wondered if he'd forgotten anything, but knew that there wouldn't be enough time to retrieve it even if he had. All of his belongings had been gradually shipped to the Citillite™ starcraft and were supposedly in his quarters.
'T -3 minutes', he was reminded, and then remembered that he'd forgotten a bottle of Armenian cognac hidden away in his closet.
„Ну - he thought - что суждено того не миновать.“ That is: what is fated cannot be escaped. It would perhaps be a happy surprise for some future archæologists or an advanced species of raccoon. 'Also sprach Zarathustra' played in his head as he imagined the first taste of cognac by a highly–evolved *Planet of the Apes*–style raccoon.
'T -2 minutes.'
The security team hurried him into a safe zone where he secured himself for lift-off. But as the ship took flight, he looked out and shook his head at the clearly-defined continent of electric light below. | She looked on as Dr. Mallard pushed down the last switch. The fuel rods of the last functioning nuclear reactor on earth had settled some time ago into its coolant bed, and the turbine finally can be locked after spinning down in the final dregs of heat.
"See you in orbit?" Mallard asked.
"Yes. I'll leave as soon as I'm done here too." she answered.
The sterile environment of the control room dissolved into sunlight filtering into floor to ceiling glass windows. She walked to them, marveling at how fast forests reclaimed concrete and glass. The lower expanse barely looked like a vast sprawl of a metropolis anymore, only a few towers stabbing upwards against natural growth. Somewhere behind, the computer chimed.
"Command Code Besh-Grava-Tas-Eight-Ruv, voice confirmation. Close project Paradise Lost," she said.
Lights dimmed behind her as the persistent hum of a self-sustaining building died down, and she stepped out onto the balcony where a glowing lift-tube waited. Mallard commed his arrival into orbit a few minutes ago. Rising up on a shimmering tube of light, her gaze is the last human view of the planet.
Far, far below, a macaque finished braiding it's companion's fur and dampened it with water, and together they broke open a pile of rough oven. The rounded forms nestled under it had kept their shape, and notwithstanding the heat still palpable held one at the end of a long stick, giddy at the decoration that survived the bake. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | At first they had gone by the hundreds, sailing into the ether in generation ships manned by volunteers. The exploration had begun in earnest in the middle of the twenty first century, when climate change had begun to destroy the birthplace of humanity. The technology was sound, if primitive, and nearby stars had been the first targeted.
It was one of those generation ships that had made first contact in the year 2387. Instead of the expected landfall some fifty years into the future, they were met in space by an aliens species, the first intelligent alien life humanity had encountered. It didn't go as hoped but not because the aliens were hostile. They were just...alien. With no common references, in spite the efforts of the crew, the aliens and the humans had no idea what the other wanted, or why.
It was the courage of the ship's Captain, a woman named Ida Labelle, that made communication possible, even if it did take years. Pregnant, she decided the only way for humanity to truly understand the alien race was if someone grew up in their world, with their frame of reference. She volunteered herself and, leaving the crew to continue on their way, took what she needed and boarded the alien's vessel. It wasn't until much later that it was understood why the aliens allowed it. They simply had no idea what she was doing or why, so they didn't interfere.
Her daughter, born on an alien vessel, was the common link both races needed. The alien's reproductive methods were a mystery to Captain Labelle, but they clearly understood that her daughter was an immature member of the human species. Simply put, they treated her like one of their own children, or so Labelle assumed.
The child was strange to her mother. While Labelle insured she spoke the patios French that was the language of the generation ship, the infant spent the majority of her time with the aliens. The plan almost failed. Labelle's food replicator broke. Chantelle, named by her mother, didn't understand that Labelle wanted help fixing it, that her mother needed her to communicate with the aliens her dilemma. The child could not make the connection between the words her mother spoke and the way the aliens communicated with her. It had never occurred to her to translate anything before, just speaking one way to her human parent and another way to everyone else.
Fortunately something clicked and the idea that concepts born from human words could be translated into concepts that the aliens understood burst like a sunrise in the child's understanding. From there Labelle was able to get her machine repaired and, in time, able to develop a basic shared vocabulary of ideas.
The aliens travelled to earth, at Labelle's pleading and through the Captain's great effort, a discourse of ideas and knowledge began. Humanity gained a much greater benefit as the s'Kaa'li (the closest we can come to pronouncing their real name) were far more advanced in the sciences. They traded their knowledge of faster than light travel and a hundred other sciences for things humanity considered mundane. Paintings were priceless to the s'Kaa'li. Not Van Goth, or Rembrandt. The aliens ignored those and clamoured for the kind of simple art that children paint with watercolours. Instead of Beethovan, they preferred the music of whale song, which amazed them. Nothing in their experience had prepared them for singing mammals.
Over time, the technologies transformed the world. More and more of humanity was building s'Kaa'li inspired ships and leaving earth to wander among the stars. Governments collapsed because no one cared enough to run for office. Even those few that clung to power for centuries eventually gave up with no one to command and machines doing all the work of managing the world.
Finally, there were only a few thousand humans remaining on earth. Great human civilizations had been born in the far reaches of the Galaxy and most people had simply left in ships built by machines that asked for no payment nor reason. In time there were wars but not many and not for long. It simply became impractical to wage war over great distances for resources that were already in abundance.
It was in the year 10,231 as marked by Earth reckoning that five of the great human civilizations came together and declared the home planet to be a nature preserve. The few humans left on earth were gently but forcibly shipped to a new world, one terra formed to be like earth where they could live in peace.
It was the day of the last shipment, the last moment that a human would set foot on earth again. It was my day, for as the last known descendant of the Labelle family line, I was given the great honour of saying goodbye. I had already linked all machines and slaved the great factories to my command console. I gave the orders and one by one, across the world, buildings went dark. Power plants shut down and machines, dependant on the transmission of power from the solar plants, stopped functioning.
I stepped outside the small courier ship I had used to travel to Earth and waited. Soon the sun slid down the horizon and I watched the glorious colours of a sunset unlike any world I had ever known. As the light died, I stepped into the entryway of the ship and issues one final command, the last command I or any human would ever give on this sacred green orb. "Time to leave. Lift off."
As I ascended into the heavens, I looked back once more the womb of humanity and wished well to those animals who would now rule it in our place. | She looked on as Dr. Mallard pushed down the last switch. The fuel rods of the last functioning nuclear reactor on earth had settled some time ago into its coolant bed, and the turbine finally can be locked after spinning down in the final dregs of heat.
"See you in orbit?" Mallard asked.
"Yes. I'll leave as soon as I'm done here too." she answered.
The sterile environment of the control room dissolved into sunlight filtering into floor to ceiling glass windows. She walked to them, marveling at how fast forests reclaimed concrete and glass. The lower expanse barely looked like a vast sprawl of a metropolis anymore, only a few towers stabbing upwards against natural growth. Somewhere behind, the computer chimed.
"Command Code Besh-Grava-Tas-Eight-Ruv, voice confirmation. Close project Paradise Lost," she said.
Lights dimmed behind her as the persistent hum of a self-sustaining building died down, and she stepped out onto the balcony where a glowing lift-tube waited. Mallard commed his arrival into orbit a few minutes ago. Rising up on a shimmering tube of light, her gaze is the last human view of the planet.
Far, far below, a macaque finished braiding it's companion's fur and dampened it with water, and together they broke open a pile of rough oven. The rounded forms nestled under it had kept their shape, and notwithstanding the heat still palpable held one at the end of a long stick, giddy at the decoration that survived the bake. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | **Day 7,459**
*It's been... God, 20 years. 20 years since the last ships left. They've not returned, and I've received no word, though I keep the communicator on. Just in case. I often wonder how they are, after all this time. I often wonder what my life would've been like had I not stayed behind. Naught but private musings now. I made my choice back then, and though I wonder what it would be like had I done differently, I've never regretted it. I had nothing to give them out there anyway. No family to take care of. It wasn't even a selfless sacrifice: I just felt like staying. Ha!*
*I think I'm the only one left. I heard a gunshot a week ago—I think it was a week... I've slept seven times since then—and nothing since. I tried looking, but, if anything, the clouds seem to be getting thicker. I guess they were right to leave after all. I don't know who fired the shot. I'd thought the gangs had long since slaughtered each other. Maybe just a survivor who couldn't go on alone.*
*I can sympathise. If I had a gun, I think I'd have done the same long ago. All I have is the button. Food is running low, finally. Water keeps coming from somewhere. God knows what it's doing to me if it comes from the clouds. My last book fell apart yesterday; I've nothing left to read. But I still have that damn button.*
*'Whenever you're ready,' they said. As if they had no idea what pressing it meant. There were thousands of people left behind that day; I couldn't kill them all.*
*But I think they're all gone now... Maybe it's time.*
*I was never a smart man. They'd tried to explain the process, but it just washed over me. Something about 'not quite a bomb, just the radiation'. Supposed to bring the plants back. I didn't pay much attention. I just have to press the button. Doesn't matter what happens after. Doesn't matter if it works or not. They're not coming back anyway.*
*It's just a way to give life a chance to start over.*
*I don't even know why I'm writing this... No one's coming back. No one will read it. I think it just keeps me from talking to the one in the window. And any peace from that is welcome.*
*To hell with it. I'll make one last meal, crack open that bottle of scotch they gave me. Been sitting on that this whole damn time. Might as well go out in a good mood.*
---
*That's it. Pressed it. I can hear it warming up. Whirring away. Shouldn't be long, then it'll explode. Kill anything left alive. Sorry for that...*
*This is damn good scotch...*
*Funny... the thing's starting to sound like a ship engi—* | She looked on as Dr. Mallard pushed down the last switch. The fuel rods of the last functioning nuclear reactor on earth had settled some time ago into its coolant bed, and the turbine finally can be locked after spinning down in the final dregs of heat.
"See you in orbit?" Mallard asked.
"Yes. I'll leave as soon as I'm done here too." she answered.
The sterile environment of the control room dissolved into sunlight filtering into floor to ceiling glass windows. She walked to them, marveling at how fast forests reclaimed concrete and glass. The lower expanse barely looked like a vast sprawl of a metropolis anymore, only a few towers stabbing upwards against natural growth. Somewhere behind, the computer chimed.
"Command Code Besh-Grava-Tas-Eight-Ruv, voice confirmation. Close project Paradise Lost," she said.
Lights dimmed behind her as the persistent hum of a self-sustaining building died down, and she stepped out onto the balcony where a glowing lift-tube waited. Mallard commed his arrival into orbit a few minutes ago. Rising up on a shimmering tube of light, her gaze is the last human view of the planet.
Far, far below, a macaque finished braiding it's companion's fur and dampened it with water, and together they broke open a pile of rough oven. The rounded forms nestled under it had kept their shape, and notwithstanding the heat still palpable held one at the end of a long stick, giddy at the decoration that survived the bake. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | He hated the cough. It was constant. It was coarse and audible flem filled. He’d heard it every day for the past few months. He couldn’t sleep whilst she coughed like that. It was alien for there to be any noise beside the soft howl of wind at night ever since the darkening. She use to call it that. The darkening, it was a simple way to describe it. The world was darker after all. The endless stretching grey mottled clouds. The ash and dust that covered every surface, that hung in the air like an ominous fog. The strip bare grey tree husks, standing like gnarled tombstones of beauty passed and crumbled building-ruins of modern day man. The lack of people, of wildlife, of food, of water, of hope.
She had said he was so strong. He’d reply that someone had to be strong for both of them. But what is strength without hope. Tacitly she held the hope for both of them. Purpose is important, that is what keeps you going.
He hated the cough. He didn’t think he’d ever hate the silence. But there it was. Pressing. Consuming. Present. And there she was. Cold. Grey. Limp. Darkened. He leaned on his disused hunting rifle looking at what was her; the rifle was more of hiking stick at this point, he hadn’t seen another person in near ten years and anything resembling an animal in twenty to justify it’s use. He couldn’t cry. Perhaps he was all dried out like the world. Perhaps crying didn’t come when there is no one around to see it. He crouched and pulled the sheet to cover her face, he couldn’t look anymore.
He left to split wood and finalise the daily duties. Hours passed left alone in the silence, nothing but a soft howl and thoughts. The wind picked up at night, and he could tell by the dimming of the already dim light and the thrashing of his cloak that night was near. He was done for the day. He latched down the chopped wood. Collected and plug the water collectors. Returning to the empty silent house to fight the dimming light he produced an oil lamp and lit it to be used to navigate their cave system home. He took stocktake of the water filters and boxed them, the same of the rusted food cans. He hiked back up the stairs with the oil lamp in hand and sat by her bed in the silence. The daunting consuming silence. He reached down and squeezed her hand. It was cold and stiff now. He sighed, if only to have something fill the void. With that snuffed out the flickering dim lighting of the oil lamp. And then darkness impenetrable and total flooded in, but he could fight that, hold it all back for a split second. With a brilliant burning bright flash and boom of his hiking stick the world was alive and lit again, if only for a moment.
Then when it all darkened, it darkened without him. He would never know this, he couldn’t but his heart was the last still beating as broken as it was. He was the only hope for humanity continuance. Except I guess in perspective he couldn’t be the last hope, not when she had always been the hope for both of them. | She looked on as Dr. Mallard pushed down the last switch. The fuel rods of the last functioning nuclear reactor on earth had settled some time ago into its coolant bed, and the turbine finally can be locked after spinning down in the final dregs of heat.
"See you in orbit?" Mallard asked.
"Yes. I'll leave as soon as I'm done here too." she answered.
The sterile environment of the control room dissolved into sunlight filtering into floor to ceiling glass windows. She walked to them, marveling at how fast forests reclaimed concrete and glass. The lower expanse barely looked like a vast sprawl of a metropolis anymore, only a few towers stabbing upwards against natural growth. Somewhere behind, the computer chimed.
"Command Code Besh-Grava-Tas-Eight-Ruv, voice confirmation. Close project Paradise Lost," she said.
Lights dimmed behind her as the persistent hum of a self-sustaining building died down, and she stepped out onto the balcony where a glowing lift-tube waited. Mallard commed his arrival into orbit a few minutes ago. Rising up on a shimmering tube of light, her gaze is the last human view of the planet.
Far, far below, a macaque finished braiding it's companion's fur and dampened it with water, and together they broke open a pile of rough oven. The rounded forms nestled under it had kept their shape, and notwithstanding the heat still palpable held one at the end of a long stick, giddy at the decoration that survived the bake. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | Long after the taps stopped flowing and the light switches provided little more than a nostalgic click, I remained at home. My mattress creaked as I rolled over. The alarm hadn't went off in days, but I still woke at the same time each day. It was a part of me. I sat with my legs dangling off the edge of the bed contemplating today's routine. What few supplies I had were gone and I couldn't bring myself to steal from others. It felt wrong; all of it did. The first week was the hardest, coming to terms with the fact that you're the only one left. My family, my friends, my enemies. I had no one that I could turn to, no one to help me work through this. I was utterly alone.
Running over all of this again made my stomach turn. I had to move even as my body felt full of stones. Today was the day. I knew that there was no turning back, that this was the best decision for me, but I still felt antsy. As I rose from the bedside, I gently lifted the down-turned frame on the nightstand. With a quiet whisper and a kiss, I returned it to its proper position. I trudged reluctantly into the bathroom to look at myself for the first time in days. My hair was a mess, my beard was beginning to settle in, and my eyes were reddened. I laughed at myself. I could hear the comments of my coworkers, the guys, and my wife. The pain subsided for a moment until their voices stopped. It was always that way. Even though these voices made me feel better for a time, I didn't want to become the guy who had conversations with himself. Talking to trees and rocks and springs. What kind of life was that to live?
Splashing some water that I had collected in the basin on my face, I worked up some lather and shaved. It wasn't comfortable or easy, but I wanted to look my best. Using a large bucket of water I gathered from a nearby river, I took one of the coldest and longest showers of my life. I had never been as clean as I was today. My hair fought and bit the comb that tore through the mangled mess as I tamed it in to place. I slipped on my finest dress clothes and even sprung for my old leather shoes. They wouldn't be comfortable for the walk, but I didn't have far to go. I cinched the knot in my tie as I took a final glance in the mirror. I had looked better, but I'd also looked worse. It brought a melancholic smirk to my face as I closed the door and stood at the top of the stairs.
The bannisters were dusty and the rooms were dim. All seemed quiet though it was clear the house had been lived in. I closed my eyes and took in its scent as my hand gripped the railings and my feet clambered down the steps. When my soles hit the hardwood, I opened my eyes again. The door was in front of me, but I wasn't ready to leave just yet. I slid my fingers along the fuzzy cover of our couch, lingered on every photograph that hung on the walls, buried my face in her old, dirty shirt so that I could remember her scent. I stayed there the longest. On my knees, shaking, with my face obscured by her t-shirt. Morning gave way to noon as I could cry no more. Wearily, I rose and retraced my steps with whispered goodbyes to everything that I passed. My hands strayed behind me, but I never looked back. I couldn't.
I gripped the handle of the door and threw it open. Without a moment of hesitation more, I stepped outside and closed the door. I felt my chest constrict as it slammed behind me, but I carried on. There was a ladder leaning against the front porch, waiting for my return. I greeted it as one greets an old friend, taking it in hand and leading it down the sidewalk. We headed north past the Jeffersons and the Aikens, I waved at the homes of Edward and Lee. When we reached Robert's home, I stopped for a moment and placed my hand on his mailbox. My fingers ran across his faded name. Patting the box reassuringly, I continued up their walkway and set the ladder down. I had meant to return it years ago, but never found the time. He didn't seem to mind. It was on the way and I had more than enough time now, so I made sure that I didn't leave it behind.
Town was less than a quarter of a mile away, a distance that I walked solemnly to the tune of my shuffling feet and the rustling breeze that stirred the fallen leaves and stoic trees. The numbers dwindled down until I was met by a sign bearing the name of our fair city. I read the motto aloud as memories of past celebrations and events played in my head. Parades, ball games, contests and concerts. Late night grocery runs and dates on the river bank under the setting sun. The sign welcomed me back into the city, but I had come to say goodbye. I strolled past my favorite restaurant and peered in at the tabletops adorned with chairs, I glanced at the flower shop that my wife used to frequent where their bouquets seemed worse for wear, the gym with rows of treadmills at the front and weights in the back, the theater with movies that I'll never see. There were dozens of businesses along the sides of the street, filled with their wares or proclamations of service, but there was nobody there. It was just me. I was in each of these shops as I passed by, imparting quiet reminders of a better time.
The buildings began to scatter and the distance between them became much greater. My feet ached as I entered the final stretch, my soles complained of the three mile trek. We were leaving the city for the rural acres with one particular monument in mind. It was the highest point in town. Most people glanced at it once or twice during their stay here and then forgot about it. I had done the same until two days ago. Memories of scaling the steel tree as a rebellious teen had hit me. I was certain that the ladder remained and that it would do the trick. Paved roads gave way to grass, sticks, and stones. I crossed the main road into the rolling hills and outcroppings of trees and stone. When I came to rest at the foot of the colossal structure, my feet burned and throbbed. I sat down and removed my shoes before eating the last bit of food I had. It was a humble meal, but it was satisfying after the pilgrimage.
Dusting my hands off and grabbing the ladder, I began the long ascent. Nearly forty meters stood between the tip of the tower and its base. It was held up by four thick stalks that supported the water laden bulb at the peak. It was that highest point that I aimed for. I knew that I would be able to see everything one last time from there. Evening had come and night would surely fall by the time I reached the top. My hands grew tired and my arms complained along with my feet with the last few steps. The sun had dipped just below the horizon as I sat exhausted on the platform. The view was beautiful, but dark. The world had never felt more remote than it did in this moment. I climbed up to the peak scanning the horizon for my house, but I couldn't make it out among the other dark boxes the lined the streets. Everything seemed to blend together and it lost its familiarity.
I felt like I wanted to laugh, but the laughter never came. The voices had ceased their chattering and the wind was still. There was nothing but myself, even the water tower sounded hollow to the rapt of my knuckles. I practiced my next moved in my head as I judged the strength of my limbs to pull it off painlessly. I hoped that I wouldn't remember or feel any of this. I couldn't take any more. Steadying myself on the top of the water tower, I shouted a final goodbye and as my feet left the cold, steel tower, I bid the whole world a good and silent night.
-319 | She looked on as Dr. Mallard pushed down the last switch. The fuel rods of the last functioning nuclear reactor on earth had settled some time ago into its coolant bed, and the turbine finally can be locked after spinning down in the final dregs of heat.
"See you in orbit?" Mallard asked.
"Yes. I'll leave as soon as I'm done here too." she answered.
The sterile environment of the control room dissolved into sunlight filtering into floor to ceiling glass windows. She walked to them, marveling at how fast forests reclaimed concrete and glass. The lower expanse barely looked like a vast sprawl of a metropolis anymore, only a few towers stabbing upwards against natural growth. Somewhere behind, the computer chimed.
"Command Code Besh-Grava-Tas-Eight-Ruv, voice confirmation. Close project Paradise Lost," she said.
Lights dimmed behind her as the persistent hum of a self-sustaining building died down, and she stepped out onto the balcony where a glowing lift-tube waited. Mallard commed his arrival into orbit a few minutes ago. Rising up on a shimmering tube of light, her gaze is the last human view of the planet.
Far, far below, a macaque finished braiding it's companion's fur and dampened it with water, and together they broke open a pile of rough oven. The rounded forms nestled under it had kept their shape, and notwithstanding the heat still palpable held one at the end of a long stick, giddy at the decoration that survived the bake. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | [Not politically inspired, please just enjoy it for what it is: sci-fi. Feedback would be awesome :]
The blizzard roared violently outside as the dark silhouette of a person hobbled towards the enclosure. The landscape around it was featureless and devoid of life, save for a group of massive, dinosaur-like creatures in the distance, trumpeting their calls in panic, some of them laying down silently in the bitter cold and accepting their fate. The enclosure was essentially a greenhouse, though one powered artificially, since the sun's light could barely penetrate the atmosphere anymore. The figure fumbled around before essentially tumbling into the airlock, and considered itself lucky not to get swept away by the storm. Her name was Mae Eyver, last remaining offspring of physicist Mark Eyver, and she was presently the last known person on the planet.
"Open the airlock door," She gasped out, after peeling off her gas mask. The AI Dewey did, and she walked into the enclosure for the last time. She was developing frostbite, and tore off her clothes to let the warmth of the inside air revivify her.
"Doctor..." Dewey's voice beamed.
"I know. There's not a chance in hell anyone else could be out there. And even if they were, we already diverted what little was left of our power away from the other camps. But I'm allowed to risk my own damn life if I please." She replied, mostly talking to herself.
In a way it was poetic that she was the last human on Earth. First there was the Ice Age, a period of bitter cold conditions where only mammoths could thrive, and humans had to adapt just to survive. Then they adapted just a little too well, and there went the mammoths. As well as the ozone layer, and a manageable climate with it. Then they brought back the mammoths and dwindled out their own population just to come full circle. This was now known as the production/destruction cycle that nearly every sentient species went through on their home planet.
An Eyver was the first to leave Earth, and just like the cycle humanity obeyed, someone analogous would be the last.
"It's not that. The hull -- it's been breached."
Mae's face went pale and expressionless. She peered through the fauna that decorated the enclosure's lobby, through the translucent canvas walls and white storm. Sure enough, the silhouette of a infantile mammoth rammed its tusks against the collapsing hull of the enclosure's central, connecting room. It was relentless and unforgiving, as though it didn't act out hope for its own survival, but out of anger at humanity. Like it knew who caused the shitstorm outside that was killing its family.
"Dewey, set the lights to shut off in T minus five minutes. And set the escape craft to launch five minutes after that."
Dewey was slow to respond, almost hesitant.
"I'm sorry, doctor. Shall I set the coordinates for your father's orbital office around the sentient's spire?"
Mae paused, too.
"No." She decided, staring at the baby mammoth, who ripped through the hull like tarp. "I want you to send a public report of my death to my father. Send the letter I wrote in case of emergency. Then take us off the grid and send me to the nearest species at the height of its production/destruction cycle."
"But... the interaction clause! That's treason!"
"I know." The mammoth finally shook free of the canvas hull and trampled over it like a carpet, triumphantly. "I have a feeling it won't matter." | She looked on as Dr. Mallard pushed down the last switch. The fuel rods of the last functioning nuclear reactor on earth had settled some time ago into its coolant bed, and the turbine finally can be locked after spinning down in the final dregs of heat.
"See you in orbit?" Mallard asked.
"Yes. I'll leave as soon as I'm done here too." she answered.
The sterile environment of the control room dissolved into sunlight filtering into floor to ceiling glass windows. She walked to them, marveling at how fast forests reclaimed concrete and glass. The lower expanse barely looked like a vast sprawl of a metropolis anymore, only a few towers stabbing upwards against natural growth. Somewhere behind, the computer chimed.
"Command Code Besh-Grava-Tas-Eight-Ruv, voice confirmation. Close project Paradise Lost," she said.
Lights dimmed behind her as the persistent hum of a self-sustaining building died down, and she stepped out onto the balcony where a glowing lift-tube waited. Mallard commed his arrival into orbit a few minutes ago. Rising up on a shimmering tube of light, her gaze is the last human view of the planet.
Far, far below, a macaque finished braiding it's companion's fur and dampened it with water, and together they broke open a pile of rough oven. The rounded forms nestled under it had kept their shape, and notwithstanding the heat still palpable held one at the end of a long stick, giddy at the decoration that survived the bake. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | **Day 7,459**
*It's been... God, 20 years. 20 years since the last ships left. They've not returned, and I've received no word, though I keep the communicator on. Just in case. I often wonder how they are, after all this time. I often wonder what my life would've been like had I not stayed behind. Naught but private musings now. I made my choice back then, and though I wonder what it would be like had I done differently, I've never regretted it. I had nothing to give them out there anyway. No family to take care of. It wasn't even a selfless sacrifice: I just felt like staying. Ha!*
*I think I'm the only one left. I heard a gunshot a week ago—I think it was a week... I've slept seven times since then—and nothing since. I tried looking, but, if anything, the clouds seem to be getting thicker. I guess they were right to leave after all. I don't know who fired the shot. I'd thought the gangs had long since slaughtered each other. Maybe just a survivor who couldn't go on alone.*
*I can sympathise. If I had a gun, I think I'd have done the same long ago. All I have is the button. Food is running low, finally. Water keeps coming from somewhere. God knows what it's doing to me if it comes from the clouds. My last book fell apart yesterday; I've nothing left to read. But I still have that damn button.*
*'Whenever you're ready,' they said. As if they had no idea what pressing it meant. There were thousands of people left behind that day; I couldn't kill them all.*
*But I think they're all gone now... Maybe it's time.*
*I was never a smart man. They'd tried to explain the process, but it just washed over me. Something about 'not quite a bomb, just the radiation'. Supposed to bring the plants back. I didn't pay much attention. I just have to press the button. Doesn't matter what happens after. Doesn't matter if it works or not. They're not coming back anyway.*
*It's just a way to give life a chance to start over.*
*I don't even know why I'm writing this... No one's coming back. No one will read it. I think it just keeps me from talking to the one in the window. And any peace from that is welcome.*
*To hell with it. I'll make one last meal, crack open that bottle of scotch they gave me. Been sitting on that this whole damn time. Might as well go out in a good mood.*
---
*That's it. Pressed it. I can hear it warming up. Whirring away. Shouldn't be long, then it'll explode. Kill anything left alive. Sorry for that...*
*This is damn good scotch...*
*Funny... the thing's starting to sound like a ship engi—* | At first they had gone by the hundreds, sailing into the ether in generation ships manned by volunteers. The exploration had begun in earnest in the middle of the twenty first century, when climate change had begun to destroy the birthplace of humanity. The technology was sound, if primitive, and nearby stars had been the first targeted.
It was one of those generation ships that had made first contact in the year 2387. Instead of the expected landfall some fifty years into the future, they were met in space by an aliens species, the first intelligent alien life humanity had encountered. It didn't go as hoped but not because the aliens were hostile. They were just...alien. With no common references, in spite the efforts of the crew, the aliens and the humans had no idea what the other wanted, or why.
It was the courage of the ship's Captain, a woman named Ida Labelle, that made communication possible, even if it did take years. Pregnant, she decided the only way for humanity to truly understand the alien race was if someone grew up in their world, with their frame of reference. She volunteered herself and, leaving the crew to continue on their way, took what she needed and boarded the alien's vessel. It wasn't until much later that it was understood why the aliens allowed it. They simply had no idea what she was doing or why, so they didn't interfere.
Her daughter, born on an alien vessel, was the common link both races needed. The alien's reproductive methods were a mystery to Captain Labelle, but they clearly understood that her daughter was an immature member of the human species. Simply put, they treated her like one of their own children, or so Labelle assumed.
The child was strange to her mother. While Labelle insured she spoke the patios French that was the language of the generation ship, the infant spent the majority of her time with the aliens. The plan almost failed. Labelle's food replicator broke. Chantelle, named by her mother, didn't understand that Labelle wanted help fixing it, that her mother needed her to communicate with the aliens her dilemma. The child could not make the connection between the words her mother spoke and the way the aliens communicated with her. It had never occurred to her to translate anything before, just speaking one way to her human parent and another way to everyone else.
Fortunately something clicked and the idea that concepts born from human words could be translated into concepts that the aliens understood burst like a sunrise in the child's understanding. From there Labelle was able to get her machine repaired and, in time, able to develop a basic shared vocabulary of ideas.
The aliens travelled to earth, at Labelle's pleading and through the Captain's great effort, a discourse of ideas and knowledge began. Humanity gained a much greater benefit as the s'Kaa'li (the closest we can come to pronouncing their real name) were far more advanced in the sciences. They traded their knowledge of faster than light travel and a hundred other sciences for things humanity considered mundane. Paintings were priceless to the s'Kaa'li. Not Van Goth, or Rembrandt. The aliens ignored those and clamoured for the kind of simple art that children paint with watercolours. Instead of Beethovan, they preferred the music of whale song, which amazed them. Nothing in their experience had prepared them for singing mammals.
Over time, the technologies transformed the world. More and more of humanity was building s'Kaa'li inspired ships and leaving earth to wander among the stars. Governments collapsed because no one cared enough to run for office. Even those few that clung to power for centuries eventually gave up with no one to command and machines doing all the work of managing the world.
Finally, there were only a few thousand humans remaining on earth. Great human civilizations had been born in the far reaches of the Galaxy and most people had simply left in ships built by machines that asked for no payment nor reason. In time there were wars but not many and not for long. It simply became impractical to wage war over great distances for resources that were already in abundance.
It was in the year 10,231 as marked by Earth reckoning that five of the great human civilizations came together and declared the home planet to be a nature preserve. The few humans left on earth were gently but forcibly shipped to a new world, one terra formed to be like earth where they could live in peace.
It was the day of the last shipment, the last moment that a human would set foot on earth again. It was my day, for as the last known descendant of the Labelle family line, I was given the great honour of saying goodbye. I had already linked all machines and slaved the great factories to my command console. I gave the orders and one by one, across the world, buildings went dark. Power plants shut down and machines, dependant on the transmission of power from the solar plants, stopped functioning.
I stepped outside the small courier ship I had used to travel to Earth and waited. Soon the sun slid down the horizon and I watched the glorious colours of a sunset unlike any world I had ever known. As the light died, I stepped into the entryway of the ship and issues one final command, the last command I or any human would ever give on this sacred green orb. "Time to leave. Lift off."
As I ascended into the heavens, I looked back once more the womb of humanity and wished well to those animals who would now rule it in our place. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | Long after the taps stopped flowing and the light switches provided little more than a nostalgic click, I remained at home. My mattress creaked as I rolled over. The alarm hadn't went off in days, but I still woke at the same time each day. It was a part of me. I sat with my legs dangling off the edge of the bed contemplating today's routine. What few supplies I had were gone and I couldn't bring myself to steal from others. It felt wrong; all of it did. The first week was the hardest, coming to terms with the fact that you're the only one left. My family, my friends, my enemies. I had no one that I could turn to, no one to help me work through this. I was utterly alone.
Running over all of this again made my stomach turn. I had to move even as my body felt full of stones. Today was the day. I knew that there was no turning back, that this was the best decision for me, but I still felt antsy. As I rose from the bedside, I gently lifted the down-turned frame on the nightstand. With a quiet whisper and a kiss, I returned it to its proper position. I trudged reluctantly into the bathroom to look at myself for the first time in days. My hair was a mess, my beard was beginning to settle in, and my eyes were reddened. I laughed at myself. I could hear the comments of my coworkers, the guys, and my wife. The pain subsided for a moment until their voices stopped. It was always that way. Even though these voices made me feel better for a time, I didn't want to become the guy who had conversations with himself. Talking to trees and rocks and springs. What kind of life was that to live?
Splashing some water that I had collected in the basin on my face, I worked up some lather and shaved. It wasn't comfortable or easy, but I wanted to look my best. Using a large bucket of water I gathered from a nearby river, I took one of the coldest and longest showers of my life. I had never been as clean as I was today. My hair fought and bit the comb that tore through the mangled mess as I tamed it in to place. I slipped on my finest dress clothes and even sprung for my old leather shoes. They wouldn't be comfortable for the walk, but I didn't have far to go. I cinched the knot in my tie as I took a final glance in the mirror. I had looked better, but I'd also looked worse. It brought a melancholic smirk to my face as I closed the door and stood at the top of the stairs.
The bannisters were dusty and the rooms were dim. All seemed quiet though it was clear the house had been lived in. I closed my eyes and took in its scent as my hand gripped the railings and my feet clambered down the steps. When my soles hit the hardwood, I opened my eyes again. The door was in front of me, but I wasn't ready to leave just yet. I slid my fingers along the fuzzy cover of our couch, lingered on every photograph that hung on the walls, buried my face in her old, dirty shirt so that I could remember her scent. I stayed there the longest. On my knees, shaking, with my face obscured by her t-shirt. Morning gave way to noon as I could cry no more. Wearily, I rose and retraced my steps with whispered goodbyes to everything that I passed. My hands strayed behind me, but I never looked back. I couldn't.
I gripped the handle of the door and threw it open. Without a moment of hesitation more, I stepped outside and closed the door. I felt my chest constrict as it slammed behind me, but I carried on. There was a ladder leaning against the front porch, waiting for my return. I greeted it as one greets an old friend, taking it in hand and leading it down the sidewalk. We headed north past the Jeffersons and the Aikens, I waved at the homes of Edward and Lee. When we reached Robert's home, I stopped for a moment and placed my hand on his mailbox. My fingers ran across his faded name. Patting the box reassuringly, I continued up their walkway and set the ladder down. I had meant to return it years ago, but never found the time. He didn't seem to mind. It was on the way and I had more than enough time now, so I made sure that I didn't leave it behind.
Town was less than a quarter of a mile away, a distance that I walked solemnly to the tune of my shuffling feet and the rustling breeze that stirred the fallen leaves and stoic trees. The numbers dwindled down until I was met by a sign bearing the name of our fair city. I read the motto aloud as memories of past celebrations and events played in my head. Parades, ball games, contests and concerts. Late night grocery runs and dates on the river bank under the setting sun. The sign welcomed me back into the city, but I had come to say goodbye. I strolled past my favorite restaurant and peered in at the tabletops adorned with chairs, I glanced at the flower shop that my wife used to frequent where their bouquets seemed worse for wear, the gym with rows of treadmills at the front and weights in the back, the theater with movies that I'll never see. There were dozens of businesses along the sides of the street, filled with their wares or proclamations of service, but there was nobody there. It was just me. I was in each of these shops as I passed by, imparting quiet reminders of a better time.
The buildings began to scatter and the distance between them became much greater. My feet ached as I entered the final stretch, my soles complained of the three mile trek. We were leaving the city for the rural acres with one particular monument in mind. It was the highest point in town. Most people glanced at it once or twice during their stay here and then forgot about it. I had done the same until two days ago. Memories of scaling the steel tree as a rebellious teen had hit me. I was certain that the ladder remained and that it would do the trick. Paved roads gave way to grass, sticks, and stones. I crossed the main road into the rolling hills and outcroppings of trees and stone. When I came to rest at the foot of the colossal structure, my feet burned and throbbed. I sat down and removed my shoes before eating the last bit of food I had. It was a humble meal, but it was satisfying after the pilgrimage.
Dusting my hands off and grabbing the ladder, I began the long ascent. Nearly forty meters stood between the tip of the tower and its base. It was held up by four thick stalks that supported the water laden bulb at the peak. It was that highest point that I aimed for. I knew that I would be able to see everything one last time from there. Evening had come and night would surely fall by the time I reached the top. My hands grew tired and my arms complained along with my feet with the last few steps. The sun had dipped just below the horizon as I sat exhausted on the platform. The view was beautiful, but dark. The world had never felt more remote than it did in this moment. I climbed up to the peak scanning the horizon for my house, but I couldn't make it out among the other dark boxes the lined the streets. Everything seemed to blend together and it lost its familiarity.
I felt like I wanted to laugh, but the laughter never came. The voices had ceased their chattering and the wind was still. There was nothing but myself, even the water tower sounded hollow to the rapt of my knuckles. I practiced my next moved in my head as I judged the strength of my limbs to pull it off painlessly. I hoped that I wouldn't remember or feel any of this. I couldn't take any more. Steadying myself on the top of the water tower, I shouted a final goodbye and as my feet left the cold, steel tower, I bid the whole world a good and silent night.
-319 | He hated the cough. It was constant. It was coarse and audible flem filled. He’d heard it every day for the past few months. He couldn’t sleep whilst she coughed like that. It was alien for there to be any noise beside the soft howl of wind at night ever since the darkening. She use to call it that. The darkening, it was a simple way to describe it. The world was darker after all. The endless stretching grey mottled clouds. The ash and dust that covered every surface, that hung in the air like an ominous fog. The strip bare grey tree husks, standing like gnarled tombstones of beauty passed and crumbled building-ruins of modern day man. The lack of people, of wildlife, of food, of water, of hope.
She had said he was so strong. He’d reply that someone had to be strong for both of them. But what is strength without hope. Tacitly she held the hope for both of them. Purpose is important, that is what keeps you going.
He hated the cough. He didn’t think he’d ever hate the silence. But there it was. Pressing. Consuming. Present. And there she was. Cold. Grey. Limp. Darkened. He leaned on his disused hunting rifle looking at what was her; the rifle was more of hiking stick at this point, he hadn’t seen another person in near ten years and anything resembling an animal in twenty to justify it’s use. He couldn’t cry. Perhaps he was all dried out like the world. Perhaps crying didn’t come when there is no one around to see it. He crouched and pulled the sheet to cover her face, he couldn’t look anymore.
He left to split wood and finalise the daily duties. Hours passed left alone in the silence, nothing but a soft howl and thoughts. The wind picked up at night, and he could tell by the dimming of the already dim light and the thrashing of his cloak that night was near. He was done for the day. He latched down the chopped wood. Collected and plug the water collectors. Returning to the empty silent house to fight the dimming light he produced an oil lamp and lit it to be used to navigate their cave system home. He took stocktake of the water filters and boxed them, the same of the rusted food cans. He hiked back up the stairs with the oil lamp in hand and sat by her bed in the silence. The daunting consuming silence. He reached down and squeezed her hand. It was cold and stiff now. He sighed, if only to have something fill the void. With that snuffed out the flickering dim lighting of the oil lamp. And then darkness impenetrable and total flooded in, but he could fight that, hold it all back for a split second. With a brilliant burning bright flash and boom of his hiking stick the world was alive and lit again, if only for a moment.
Then when it all darkened, it darkened without him. He would never know this, he couldn’t but his heart was the last still beating as broken as it was. He was the only hope for humanity continuance. Except I guess in perspective he couldn’t be the last hope, not when she had always been the hope for both of them. | |
[WP] The last person on Earth is essentially turning off the lights before they leave. | [Not politically inspired, please just enjoy it for what it is: sci-fi. Feedback would be awesome :]
The blizzard roared violently outside as the dark silhouette of a person hobbled towards the enclosure. The landscape around it was featureless and devoid of life, save for a group of massive, dinosaur-like creatures in the distance, trumpeting their calls in panic, some of them laying down silently in the bitter cold and accepting their fate. The enclosure was essentially a greenhouse, though one powered artificially, since the sun's light could barely penetrate the atmosphere anymore. The figure fumbled around before essentially tumbling into the airlock, and considered itself lucky not to get swept away by the storm. Her name was Mae Eyver, last remaining offspring of physicist Mark Eyver, and she was presently the last known person on the planet.
"Open the airlock door," She gasped out, after peeling off her gas mask. The AI Dewey did, and she walked into the enclosure for the last time. She was developing frostbite, and tore off her clothes to let the warmth of the inside air revivify her.
"Doctor..." Dewey's voice beamed.
"I know. There's not a chance in hell anyone else could be out there. And even if they were, we already diverted what little was left of our power away from the other camps. But I'm allowed to risk my own damn life if I please." She replied, mostly talking to herself.
In a way it was poetic that she was the last human on Earth. First there was the Ice Age, a period of bitter cold conditions where only mammoths could thrive, and humans had to adapt just to survive. Then they adapted just a little too well, and there went the mammoths. As well as the ozone layer, and a manageable climate with it. Then they brought back the mammoths and dwindled out their own population just to come full circle. This was now known as the production/destruction cycle that nearly every sentient species went through on their home planet.
An Eyver was the first to leave Earth, and just like the cycle humanity obeyed, someone analogous would be the last.
"It's not that. The hull -- it's been breached."
Mae's face went pale and expressionless. She peered through the fauna that decorated the enclosure's lobby, through the translucent canvas walls and white storm. Sure enough, the silhouette of a infantile mammoth rammed its tusks against the collapsing hull of the enclosure's central, connecting room. It was relentless and unforgiving, as though it didn't act out hope for its own survival, but out of anger at humanity. Like it knew who caused the shitstorm outside that was killing its family.
"Dewey, set the lights to shut off in T minus five minutes. And set the escape craft to launch five minutes after that."
Dewey was slow to respond, almost hesitant.
"I'm sorry, doctor. Shall I set the coordinates for your father's orbital office around the sentient's spire?"
Mae paused, too.
"No." She decided, staring at the baby mammoth, who ripped through the hull like tarp. "I want you to send a public report of my death to my father. Send the letter I wrote in case of emergency. Then take us off the grid and send me to the nearest species at the height of its production/destruction cycle."
"But... the interaction clause! That's treason!"
"I know." The mammoth finally shook free of the canvas hull and trampled over it like a carpet, triumphantly. "I have a feeling it won't matter." | He hated the cough. It was constant. It was coarse and audible flem filled. He’d heard it every day for the past few months. He couldn’t sleep whilst she coughed like that. It was alien for there to be any noise beside the soft howl of wind at night ever since the darkening. She use to call it that. The darkening, it was a simple way to describe it. The world was darker after all. The endless stretching grey mottled clouds. The ash and dust that covered every surface, that hung in the air like an ominous fog. The strip bare grey tree husks, standing like gnarled tombstones of beauty passed and crumbled building-ruins of modern day man. The lack of people, of wildlife, of food, of water, of hope.
She had said he was so strong. He’d reply that someone had to be strong for both of them. But what is strength without hope. Tacitly she held the hope for both of them. Purpose is important, that is what keeps you going.
He hated the cough. He didn’t think he’d ever hate the silence. But there it was. Pressing. Consuming. Present. And there she was. Cold. Grey. Limp. Darkened. He leaned on his disused hunting rifle looking at what was her; the rifle was more of hiking stick at this point, he hadn’t seen another person in near ten years and anything resembling an animal in twenty to justify it’s use. He couldn’t cry. Perhaps he was all dried out like the world. Perhaps crying didn’t come when there is no one around to see it. He crouched and pulled the sheet to cover her face, he couldn’t look anymore.
He left to split wood and finalise the daily duties. Hours passed left alone in the silence, nothing but a soft howl and thoughts. The wind picked up at night, and he could tell by the dimming of the already dim light and the thrashing of his cloak that night was near. He was done for the day. He latched down the chopped wood. Collected and plug the water collectors. Returning to the empty silent house to fight the dimming light he produced an oil lamp and lit it to be used to navigate their cave system home. He took stocktake of the water filters and boxed them, the same of the rusted food cans. He hiked back up the stairs with the oil lamp in hand and sat by her bed in the silence. The daunting consuming silence. He reached down and squeezed her hand. It was cold and stiff now. He sighed, if only to have something fill the void. With that snuffed out the flickering dim lighting of the oil lamp. And then darkness impenetrable and total flooded in, but he could fight that, hold it all back for a split second. With a brilliant burning bright flash and boom of his hiking stick the world was alive and lit again, if only for a moment.
Then when it all darkened, it darkened without him. He would never know this, he couldn’t but his heart was the last still beating as broken as it was. He was the only hope for humanity continuance. Except I guess in perspective he couldn’t be the last hope, not when she had always been the hope for both of them. | |
[WP] Write a story that brings the reader to the slow realization that their narrator is in fact The Bad Guy of the story | They were relentless. They were relentless and now it is the end. I can't help but feel like it all went wrong somehow, I'm just not sure where.
It didn't start as a war. In fact, we were trying to avert a war - all my advisors agreed, all the diplomats agreed, it was a good match; it would bring stability to the kingdom. And I thought, at first, it would work out. We had a /son/ for crying out loud.
But I don't blame her. She's young and scared and confused. Frankly, I think she's just a pawn in someone else's game, someone who doesn't like me, doesn't like /my people/. They've never shown themselves, but the uprising is too well-organized and too unexpected to not have someone pulling strings and spreading propaganda.
"Uprising" makes it sound like a domestic thing, and in ways I guess it is - there are citizens of the kingdom who are working against us, I know it, and I suspect my true enemy is a member of the old regime. But it's foreigners doing their real fighting. Outsiders who have been fed a story, who see me as a monster, and that's all the excuse they need for violence.
There's a crash on the other side of the doors. They're here. I heft myself out of my throne, my claws scratching the golden arm rests, tail sweeping across the stone floor. If they get past my guards it'll just be me left. /We had a son./
A thick-soled boot smashes against the door with more force than it should have, and a small pink man in overalls steps over the wreckage left behind. He's got an unhinged look to him, his pupils dilated so large his eyes seem almost completely black - obviously close to overdosing on the Mushrooms. I laugh, short and rough.
"This is the end, Koopa!" He yells in a thick, foreign accent. I roar and charge. | [DISCLAIMER](/s "This is a work of fiction and loosely based on recent events.
I have nothing against Muslims nor their beliefs, nor do I believe that the majority of them does believe what I wrote.
I simply tried to understand the thought process and justification behind attacks like this.
Also, excuse me for big mistakes as I have zero knowledge of Arabic and English is not my native language.
I did try to read myself into the culture and habits a little bit.
This is also the first time I've tried to write something and I realize that it's a very low-quality story compared to others, but practice makes perfect, right?
Thank you for reading this!") *(mouse-over for reading, includes spoilers).*
So this is the day.
It's been long due, but our people have been waiting patiently.
Slowly building up our resources.
Gathering information, getting the right connections, knowing the ways into the fortress of the enemy.
Finally it's time to repay the world for the harm they've done.
The harm to our people, to our beliefs, to our values.
To punish them for forcing their view of freedom onto us.
Can it be wrong to fight for your beliefs anyway?
Everyone who fights thinks they are on the right side.
Few however know for sure. And I know for sure.
The morning prayer.
^*Allahu* ^*Akbar.* ^(*A'udhu Billahi min ash-shaytaan-i'r rajeem.*)
^^*Bismillah-i'r* ^^^*Rahman-i'r* ^^^^*Raheem.* ^^^^^*......*
Freedom, what is it anyway? Is democracy freedom if you believe in divine intervention?
Most of our people would argue that democracy is meddling in the way of God.
Questioning His divine powers, judging his decisions.
Who are we to question God? We cannot see the future, we can not see the path He takes.
He can use everything in any way to the advantage of our people.
I shower and put on a new set of clothes.
Today is a big day, I should look my best.
I get al call from Salah and I tell him everything is okay. The plan is in motion.
It is our holy task, our ultimate sacrifice. It is our goal to hunt the Ka'b ibn al-Ashraf of this world.
Tonight, we will strike. Tomorrow we will be rewarded.
Allahu Akbar. | |
Bonus points for subtle supernatural/paranormal elements (nothing like PLOT TWIST, HE'S AN ALIEN) | [WP] A noir story set in an ancient Aztec city. | The sun rose over the lake of Texcoco, bringing light to Tenochtitlan. Soon people would be swarming over her streets and bridges like ants on parade. Down there, people are enveloped in a false sense of security. Among them is a man that puts himself above the gods. A lunatic that kills for sport. A rogue warrior whose abandon himself, and it’s my job to find him.
Before we get to that, let's start at the beginning. 3 moons ago, a merchant tipped me off about the death of young woman on the outside of the city. The scene was a mess. The poor girl looked like she was introduced to the wrong side of a Macuahuitl(4 foot long club lined with obsidian blades). A Macuahuitl could easily cut through the long bone in the leg. Needless to say no one could identify her. Something about her wounds just didn't seem right. The long diagonal slashes were difficult to inflict with a Macuahuitl, but you couldn't get fracturing and bruising that appeared if the killer used a Tecpatl(sacrificial obsidian dagger). The tatters of brightly colored clothing that remained weren't indicative of any of the nearby villages. So out of leads I did what most men in my position would do. I went to hire a courtesan.
Being a jaguar warrior does have its advantages. Only nobility, the cuāuhmeh (eagle warriors), and the ocēlōmeh (jaguar warriors) were allowed to lay with courtesans. That doesn't mean commoners didn't enjoy the occasional prostitute, they just had to be quiet about it. Depending on who you ask, the illegal thrill was the best part. I wondered over to nameless bordello, prepared to do something nearly unheard of, pay a courtesan to talk.
Later tonight this place would come alive, but now many of the workers lounged around or slept off a pulque hangover. One of the brightly clothed women sleepily wondered over. Even without much effort, the she was remarkably beautiful. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she looked me over.
*sigh* “Great it’s you again.”
“You look loving as always Catlali.”
“What do you want Atl?
“Less than most of your customers.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. I am going to charge you the same regardless.”
With that she took my hand and led me deeper into the stone building. Glancing through some of the doors reveal padded rooms filled with lounging dancers, bright colored fabrics and animal skins. She dragged me into the room at the end of the hall. Here I filled her in on what I knew so far, which wasn’t much. A dark haired, young woman wearing bright colored clothing was cut to ribbons just outside the city. I asked her to keep an ear out for a missing courtesan. I paid double her rate, once for her time and another for a reward when someone finds something. She’s bound to find something. A woman that good coupled with plenty of pulque is a great recipe for gossip. Still I can’t help but think that the entire building sighed in relief as I left. With the city’s ears taken care of, I was off to see what its heart could tell me.
Itiztli is the city’s largest supplier of obsidian. If someone needs their Macuahuitl repaired after battle, they go to Itiztli. Judging by the condition she was left in, someone’s gonna need their Macuahuitl repaired. The merchants’ quarter was vibrating with the day’s hustle. Everywhere within eyesight was filled with someone’s wears. People were haggling; collared slaves were being sold or traded. Wondering through the crowd could be difficult for the inexperienced. Old man Itiztli’s booth was tended to by half a dozen non-collared slaves, most likely former buyers who couldn’t pay for a previous purchase. As I approached, one of his slaves roused the old man and whispered something to him. The old merchant looked up from behind the stand.
“Ah, Atl. What can I get for you? New Macuahuitl? Tecpatl? I could even get ya a discount on bolas.”
“Information.”
Itztli waves his slaves away, leans back and strokes his chin. “Not sure how much of that I can give ya. I don’t know much ‘cept obsidian.”
“That’s exactly why I need you. I’m looking into something and I need some expert advice. A girl got cut to ribbons outside of the city. Large open cuts with bruising around the cuts and broken bones. I need to know how it happened.”
“Macuahuitl most likely. The long cuts aren’t really what our Macuahuitl’s are built for but a sloppy user could probably do something like your describing. You got the obsidian?”
“What?”
“That type of wound would leave shards of obsidian everywhere, both inside and outside the wound. You got it?”
“There wasn’t any in the wound. In fact there wasn’t any of the black glass anywhere. ”
“If ya sure, then it wasn’t a Macuahuitl, or well any of our weapons.”
“What could have caused it?”
“Aren’t your supposed to figure that out?”
“I guess so. Listen I need a favor, if anyone comes looking for enough of the black glass to fix a Macuahuitl quickly point me in their direction. ”
I left the market with more questions than answers. A weapon that can rend flesh, cut bone, and not made of the black glass. It’s going to be a long night. I spend the remainder of that day with my ear to the ground.
_________________________________________________________________________________
The days blended into weeks. Every lead yielded a fruitless ending. Despite Catlali persistence, I didn’t learn much more. Just that she was a weaver’s daughter named Eréndira. It means the one who smiles. It was hard telling her parents that Eréndira won’t be smiling anymore. I spend most of that night investigating the bottle of a pulque bottle. Even now that coward is out there preying on innocent, and there is nothing I can do until he strikes again. I need more pulque.
Catlali gave me some information. The fact that she actually came looking for me means it’s serious. One of her girls when missing last night. Yaretzi, you will always be loved, great name for a courtesan. Apparently some of the girls go out to the common areas to work illegally on slow nights. More dangerous, more pay. Most ocēlōmeh would sentence her to death when they found her, but I wouldn’t because I was Catlali’s friend and she would owe me. Damn beautiful women.
A beggar said he saw a dancer heading south last night; she didn’t seem to be hurried. She was dressed in baggy clothing, probably a poor disguise. Following her trail I headed over the bridge. No one in the community over the bridge saw her last night, or well saw her and wanted to tell one of the ocēlōmeh that they did. One of the fisherman said there was a jaguar kill just south of the village on the lake.
As I stumbled onto the kill, my mouth went dry. There were the same type of long diagonal that cut through flesh and bone. No obsidian in these cuts either. The about of blood on the foliage indicates that the kill was made here. The skull and next are still intact, flesh is mangled but the bones are intact. This isn’t a jaguar kill. Jaguars kill by ambushing their prey and biting at the base of the skull. Those jaws can puncture sea turtle shells. It would turn a human skull to mush. That coupled with the long slashes to the front of the torso, no jaguar would kill this way.
_____________________________________________________________________________
I'll add some more tomorrow. | The afternoon sun reflecting off the ocean and streaming through the open door and un-obstructed window illuminated my project. While obsidian in these parts was somewhat expensive to procure, it was easily shaped and sharpened, the wood here took well to the straightener, and the sea birds provided feathers, however fletching would always be a chore.
My focus was broken as a shadow darkened my latest arrow. The wide silhouette struck me as familiar as I squinted at my door.
"Tlacaelel?" My guess was proven correct as he took my question as permission to enter. Seeing his face, clearly wrought with worry, I stood, and ushered him into the sitting area. Out of the harsh light of my work area, I could clearly see the redness of his eyes and the furrow of his brow.
"Nelli, I don't know where else to go, I-no, WE need your help." He looked on the verge of crying. Perhaps a distant relation to the jovial boy with whom I learned the phrases-to-know.
"Who is we? What is happening my friend?" It made sense that if he were in trouble here, he'd look me up. Tututepec is far from home, I'd made no secret of retiring here, and this must be the terminus of one of his trade routes. Probably made a good living carrying the demanded Mixtec arts to the capitol, perhaps even being commissioned to carry tribute.
(I've got more but i'll have to continue later) |
[WP] You are the best in the world at what people consider a useless talent. Today is the day you prove them all wrong. | The worlds greatest clapper
Is who I am.
They all laughed when I said "I can clap the fastest in the world". Even the World Records Witness had to chuckle. I'd always been the laughingstock of my surrounding, whether they were classrooms or the local McDonalds.
Nobody else could see the point when I practiced my clapping. "But why?" said every significant other I'd ever had, at first jokingly, then seriously, and then angrily. They didn't realize the true potential of this action, they were haters.
"Ok, lets get this finished quickly, I've got an acrobatics record later today"
"Quicker than your eye" I replied, I was used to this disinterest.
I start clapping
"*yawn*, wow, you're so great, your so fast"
"I'm just warming up"
They don't realize what I'm doing, that I'm not just warming up to the fastest clap, but unleashing the ultimate clap technique.
The Witness shifts, he's not used to seeing the human body move this fast, most hands would be in pain, but mine aren't.
My hands are ready.
"I'm going to speed up to full speed now, be ready"
"What?"
the witness asks, just now comprehending that even this is slow by my standards.
My clapping intensified
My hands get hot as they start fading from view until they stop being visible outside of a nigh undetectable blur. The witness freezes, and then belatedly jumps in surprise.
"O-ok, you can stop now, doesn't that hurt?"
It doesn't
I feel nothing but pride as I continue to increase speed, in an explosion my hands break the sound barrier with each clap. The witness winces, and then begins to cry and beg.
"P-please stop, it hurts, please, you're the fastest, I'll do anything, please!" He begs.
He's begging because at this point my claps have become audibly painful, I'd be in pain if they hadn't completely deafened me, but even the pain from my new handicap is not enough to stop me; where I'm going I will not need my hearing.
"Thank you, for a moment there I thought I was going to go dea-" he mouths to me, his visage distorted by my hands. He stops in his track because he looks at me and realizes that I haven't stopped.
The only reason he can't hear my claps any more is because my clapping has gotten so fast that it has actually pushed all the air in its vicinity away, and clapping in a vacuum theoretically produces no noise. I don't care, I've still got the big barrier to breach.
faster
faster
Faster
Faster
*Faster*
*Faster*
*FASTER*
*FASTER*
**FASTER**
**FASTER**
I hit it, I finally hit it, My hands, once invisible, now appear in full force. First, my two hands appear to not clap, then a separate pair of hands seem to sprout from my elbows and touch each other, then slowly but surely, more hands appear in between these two key frames, like an animation where every frame is being made visible.
Slowly these new hands begin to meld into each other, forming one seemingly interconnected whole, but this is not the actual state of my hands, for I have done it. I have breached the speed of light. My joy for finally having accomplished my life's goal is only momentary, for at that moment, all the matter in my hands explodes outwards, having turned into something beyond pure energy. This explosion, whose power is greater than a nuclear bomb erupts from my location, and takes my entire home town with it.
Everyone who ever laughed at me is destroyed in one unknowing instant, and in that instant, the world changes. From this point forward, it will take days to discover the cause of this explosion, but when they do, the art of warfare will never be the same. Many will come to try and imitate my great act, but none will fully succeed.
How do I know this you ask? Simple, when I clapped faster than light, I cleaved a hole in time and space itself, and in doing so accidentally sucked myself out of the universe. Here, I expected myself to die, but instead, I have become unending, able to watch all of past present and future at once.
Who am I?
The universes greatest clapper.
| After finishing his evil laugh, he proceeded to explain the game:
The island, and everyone on it will explode unless the device is deactivated exactly at 1:11 pm-.
With no technology, not even a pocket watch, no one seemed to be willing to press the button that would immediately end -for better of for worse- his lastest cruel joke.
A man in the background pulled up his sleeves and walked towards the machine.
Are you sure?- his brother asked him. The islands' scientists and engineers were gathered at an emergency meeting trying to work out a way reduce the risk; one minute more or one less and they'd all be gone.
He continued, calmly and with a serene expression on his face, and he stood in front of the button for a short while. Then, as spectators were saying their good-byes, he pressed it.
The sound of gears moving was followed by all the device's lights turning off.
It was a success, and finally he felt that others were as amazed with his ability to read a sun clock with absolute precision as he always had been. | |
[WP] You are the best in the world at what people consider a useless talent. Today is the day you prove them all wrong. | The worlds greatest clapper
Is who I am.
They all laughed when I said "I can clap the fastest in the world". Even the World Records Witness had to chuckle. I'd always been the laughingstock of my surrounding, whether they were classrooms or the local McDonalds.
Nobody else could see the point when I practiced my clapping. "But why?" said every significant other I'd ever had, at first jokingly, then seriously, and then angrily. They didn't realize the true potential of this action, they were haters.
"Ok, lets get this finished quickly, I've got an acrobatics record later today"
"Quicker than your eye" I replied, I was used to this disinterest.
I start clapping
"*yawn*, wow, you're so great, your so fast"
"I'm just warming up"
They don't realize what I'm doing, that I'm not just warming up to the fastest clap, but unleashing the ultimate clap technique.
The Witness shifts, he's not used to seeing the human body move this fast, most hands would be in pain, but mine aren't.
My hands are ready.
"I'm going to speed up to full speed now, be ready"
"What?"
the witness asks, just now comprehending that even this is slow by my standards.
My clapping intensified
My hands get hot as they start fading from view until they stop being visible outside of a nigh undetectable blur. The witness freezes, and then belatedly jumps in surprise.
"O-ok, you can stop now, doesn't that hurt?"
It doesn't
I feel nothing but pride as I continue to increase speed, in an explosion my hands break the sound barrier with each clap. The witness winces, and then begins to cry and beg.
"P-please stop, it hurts, please, you're the fastest, I'll do anything, please!" He begs.
He's begging because at this point my claps have become audibly painful, I'd be in pain if they hadn't completely deafened me, but even the pain from my new handicap is not enough to stop me; where I'm going I will not need my hearing.
"Thank you, for a moment there I thought I was going to go dea-" he mouths to me, his visage distorted by my hands. He stops in his track because he looks at me and realizes that I haven't stopped.
The only reason he can't hear my claps any more is because my clapping has gotten so fast that it has actually pushed all the air in its vicinity away, and clapping in a vacuum theoretically produces no noise. I don't care, I've still got the big barrier to breach.
faster
faster
Faster
Faster
*Faster*
*Faster*
*FASTER*
*FASTER*
**FASTER**
**FASTER**
I hit it, I finally hit it, My hands, once invisible, now appear in full force. First, my two hands appear to not clap, then a separate pair of hands seem to sprout from my elbows and touch each other, then slowly but surely, more hands appear in between these two key frames, like an animation where every frame is being made visible.
Slowly these new hands begin to meld into each other, forming one seemingly interconnected whole, but this is not the actual state of my hands, for I have done it. I have breached the speed of light. My joy for finally having accomplished my life's goal is only momentary, for at that moment, all the matter in my hands explodes outwards, having turned into something beyond pure energy. This explosion, whose power is greater than a nuclear bomb erupts from my location, and takes my entire home town with it.
Everyone who ever laughed at me is destroyed in one unknowing instant, and in that instant, the world changes. From this point forward, it will take days to discover the cause of this explosion, but when they do, the art of warfare will never be the same. Many will come to try and imitate my great act, but none will fully succeed.
How do I know this you ask? Simple, when I clapped faster than light, I cleaved a hole in time and space itself, and in doing so accidentally sucked myself out of the universe. Here, I expected myself to die, but instead, I have become unending, able to watch all of past present and future at once.
Who am I?
The universes greatest clapper.
| “So… they’re like, long comments?”
“I like to think of them as stories.”
“… On Reddit?”
“Yes.”
Slowly untightening his eyebrows, Billy still looked suspiciously at Jack. Billy was a nice person, with a nice job and a nice family, but he was the sort of man who had never had time for a hobby in his life. When Jack showed him his collection of r/writingprompts stories, Billy had carefully scrolled through the pages, but hadn’t read a single story. Rather, he had been processing the amount of words and hours this hobby had taken for his co-worker. After that, he asked the questions.
“Why?”
“Cause it’s fun. I like writing, and it helps pass the time I guess.”
“But, it’s *so*, *much*.”
Billy’s mouth was starting to hang open. Jack had used more time writing, than Billy had used cooking dinner, changing diapers, or washing his car. On the screen was the result of hundreds of hours of work, and every story had about 10 upvotes. The only way to diffuse Billy’s confusion would be to give him a logical reason for this obsession.
“Maybe, I’ll get an opportunity to use my writing skills one day. I mean, writing is pretty important.”
“I’m sorry, but do you really think there is a practical situation where you have to write a 10 paragraph story about magic?”
“We’ll see.”
Jack continued to hunt for that opportunity, that door to success. His craft was honed on r/writingprompts, and his grammatical errors were ironed out. Prolifically more stories were written by him, although he never felt that the appropriate reception was given to them. He dreamed of his work being appreciated, and he dreamed of getting another job, doing what he loved. An opportunity at appreciation was the shared dream of every writer on r/writingprompts, and that dream was chased by Jack.
 
Jack doesn’t write anymore.
| |
[WP] You are the best in the world at what people consider a useless talent. Today is the day you prove them all wrong. | "…So, I have to ask. Under your qualifications, you listed that you have a 100% win streak from playing over thousands of games of Freecell, as well as various other versions of solitaire, including 4-suit spider solitaire, 40 thieves, and seahaven towers. Why exactly *did* you put that on your resume?"
"All due respect, but have you ever tried playing those games? They're difficult to win, but not impossible. I've simply mastered the art. I win every time. Do you know why?"
"Because you have way too much free time on your hands?"
"…While I'm not disputing that fact, and that is actually another reason why you should hire me, as it means that I will be able to commit fully to the position, I'd also like to point out that maintaining a 100% win streak requires extreme attention to detail and serious critical thinking. Within any given presented scenario, I will immediately analyze every single detail and placement of the variables, and execute every move only after planning for what will happen several moves in advance. Because I've developed this skill, I have a 100% success rate regardless of how many variables are initially presented, and within any random configuration. Furthermore, my analytical skill set has developed to the point where problem solving, even when dealing with hundreds of variables, takes all but a matter of minutes."
"…You're joking."
"The win streak doesn't lie." | "Mr. President, the country of Lesotho has just dropped nuclear bombs on several major American cities. We must retaliate!"
"Yes, a despicable action such as this can be met with nothing but the same amount of force. There's just one problem. Where is Lesotho?"
"Oh, it's right over by... It's just south of... It's on the continent of... It's on planet... Earth? I think?"
"Well, we can't just nuke Earth, can't you be more specific?"
Suddenly, the door to the oval office is kicked down, and standing in the frame is a scrawny kid who obviously hasn't seen the sun in days.
"Mr. President, the country of Lesotho is a small enclave within the country of South Africa, which is the southernmost country on the continent of Africa. It's capital is Maseru, just East of the city of Bloemfontein."
"Promote this kid to Secretary of Defense and get the nukes dropped on Maseru right away!"
"Mr. President, the country of Tuvalu has threatened to attack our West coast with its navy!"
"Send a squadron to defend the West coast this instant, and send a retaliatory force to..."
"The Pacific Ocean, just north of Fiji, sitting on top of the International Date Line."
"You're a godsend, kid." | |
[WP] Time travel into the past is possible, all except to dates within a specific continuous 50 year period of history. An explorer travels to the start of this time, determined to take the long road by living through this time period to find out what makes it so unreachable. | Day one
I keep this thoughtlog for the sake of the curious. For most, time travel is a lark. Go see Athens in its prime! Watch dinosaurs roam the earth! Security measures keep us from actively impacting the flow of time, unless you’re a believer in the Greater Observer Effect. Still, no theory's strong enough to keep out tourists.
Most don’t question the restrictions. Okay, so I can’t see anything between 2120 and 2170. Great, no big deal, dinosaurs please. Not me. Most of us looking for new frontiers head out, not back. Lots of star systems worth exploring. But far as I know, nobody’s even thought about this strange chunk of missed time. Not so much as a sensationalist article. Pretty strange, actually. I've asked hundreds of people, some of the most adventurous folk of our generation. They just treat it like it's normal. But for me, it's like an itch I can't scratch.
So, I packed my things and now I’m going back to New Year’s Eve, 2119. The ball will drop moments after my arrival, and I’ll be living in uncharted territory. Wish me luck.
Day two
So, it’s 2120. Nothing special happened. I’m still here, walking around London. I expect to be beamed back to the present by security any moment, but the feeling fades after the first few hours. That means as long as I minimize contact with others, I should be safe to stay here for the next…fifty years. Jesus. I hope whatever happens, happens soon. If not, well, I’ve trained for long years of solitude in the depths of space, so this shouldn’t be much different. And it’ll all be worth it when I lea-----
Day three, maybe?
Fuck. Woke up with the worst fucking headache. I don’t remember booking a hotel, but here I am, in a pristine room, floor-to-ceiling windows concealing all but a thin ray of the blinding light of day. I swing my legs to the floor and look at the digital clock on the stand next to my bed. It’s just blinking smiley faces. As if that weren’t unsettling enough, the door to the room is smooth—no handle. I look blearily around the room. None of this is quite right. The bed’s comforter feels like a shower curtain. The lamp has no bulb, but somehow produces light. The carpet I’m digging my toes into feels remarkably like hair. There’s a mirrored closet door near the bathroom, and—yep, I walk over and there’s no reflection. Fuck.
“Sorry. I can never get these things right.” I jump at the voice and turn. A man dressed as a butler is standing next to my bed, where I was just a second ago. I back up against the door, fingers scrabbling for the handle I know isn’t there. The butler raises his gloved hands. “Sorry, sorry. I’m not here to hurt you. You triggered my Lotus Protocol.” He looked around the room helplessly. “Not very well-coded, I admit.”
“What the fuck? Who—what the fuck?” I’m a little disappointed in my lack of eloquence here.
His voice grew chiding, like he was speaking to a child. “You should know, traveler. You know why you’re here.”
“Definitely don’t.”
"Well, I suppose you knew enough to look, just not what to look for." He sighs and waves an arm dismissively. The poor excuse for a hotel room shifts and mottles in my vision, then falls away completely. We're in a starship, some kind of lounge--I can see out of the whole right side of the room. The butler reclines in a floating white chair. "Take a seat, my friend. You've earned it."
I take a cautious step toward the other chair floating near him and sit. I don't want to take my eyes off him, but the view outside is incredible. So many stars I wonder why the ship even needs its own light. "What--who are you?"
"I'm the last man. Well, was the last man. And you just stepped out of the first digital universe ever constructed."
"Last...digital?"
"You aren't real, boy. Weren't real. Real now." He doesn't stumble over his words, but it's as if he selects them after they leave his mouth. "Your old world, it was a program. Fabrication. It made you. I made you."
"Made...what?" I always thought I'd be able to handle situations like this better. I cough, shake my head; the headache has dissipated, just a little. "So, how am I here now? With you?"
The butler smiles. "Lost a lot down there, when Earth fell. I made it out thanks to a few brave soldiers. Handed me a box and a starship, told me to make do. So I made you. Had, uh, plenty of biological material, unfortunately"
"Everyone else, dead? What happened?" I thought about it. "Wait, am I some dead person brought back to life?"
He laughs at that one. "No, no. Wasn't hard to fabricate human bodies, just hard to make them people. As for what happened, well, it's what always happens." It seems like he thinks that explains everything. I don't correct him, and he goes on. "But you saw what was in there--everything. We've got the whole of human history, catalogued close as anyone can fathom. And genetics! Real genetics--you're a human, same as me. Just got here a little differently." The Butler winks, seems proud of himself. "See, I had all these parts, and I could digitize all the details, but I couldn't create another person from scratch. So I took those parts and cooked up a digital world, populated it with, well, I guess you'd call it AI. Simple loophole: there's a single anomaly that, for a standard AI, seems perfectly normal. But if an analytical, human mind sees it? It's like an itch they can't scratch."
My mind swims. I don't know what to think, but I know he's not lying. "Okay. What do we do now?"
"First? Make sure you work. Then make a few more, get ourselves a nice little colony going. The rebirth of humanity! Gonna be great."
"Then?"
The butler gazes through the window, somehow both longing and hardened. "Then we take our revenge." | *The year was 2218...*
Cmdr. Tremaine gave the "thumbs up" sign to the system control officers seated at the bank of monitors behind him. Turning, he entered the stainless steel cylinder known affectionately as the *"train."* As he sat in the seat, the door locks clanked softly but firmly into place, along with a *shuss* sound of air as the environmental equipment came on, cooling the tiny space.
This was it. After much deliberation, the powers-that-be had green-lighted this reconnaissance mission back in time to learn why, for heaven's sake, no one seemed able to successfully penetrate a specific 50-year window of space-time.
"Cmdr, you are go for inter-spatial transmission. Sequence start on 3-2-1 mark."
Immediately, huge turbine-generator sets spooled up, the rpm's climbing higher, higher...Cmdr. John Tremaine glanced at his board: all lights green.
Within this pressurized capsule, the sound of the turbines was a deceptively low whistle as they reached operational speed. The staggering power requirements for time travel were better provided by onsite power rather than a utility feed, which caused a 25-state blackout when it was attempted once.
The senior launch officer spoke through the mic. "John, have a good time. We'll see ya later."
"Sounds good, Jim."
Then the capsule speaker came on: "Transmission in 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1. Transmit!"
As always, his ears popped slightly, accompanied by a strong free-fall sensation similar to the first drop on a big rollercoaster, which he always found exciting.
Five minutes later, the free-fall effect ended as neatly as a switch being flipped.
*Well, this is it then,* the Cmdr. thought to himself. *I'll finally be able to put that idiot Mulholland in his place. It'll turn out to be an issue with the magnetic poles, just like the calculations figured.*
He was sure of it.
He glanced at the dashboard readouts: **1 Jan 2018 @ 0800 hrs** *Everything appears in order, let's get out and see what's what.*
The officer opened the hatch, stepping into a frigid blast of arctic air; temperature readings indicated 20 degrees Fahrenheit with a wind chill of minus -12 below zero. *Hell of a change from the balmy 75 and sunny in Cape Canaveral,* he mused.
He was standing in a barren cornfield on the outskirts of Des Moine, Iowa. The place was chosen as a "middle ground" for reasons he wasn't privy to. At any rate, things seemed pretty uneventful so far. He shrugged, turning to walk behind a line of trees to escape the slicing wind when he felt a tremor in the ground. Then it came again, much harder. *What the hell...*
And then he heard a sound as if God Himself turned on a vacuum cleaner and was sucking up the world. He looked towards the horizon where downtown Des Moine lay some fifty miles distant. An angry crimson column of fire was rising into the sky, ten times bigger than any New York skyscraper. *No shit,* he thought, dumbfounded. *We* were *wrong after all.* | |
[WP] Time travel into the past is possible, all except to dates within a specific continuous 50 year period of history. An explorer travels to the start of this time, determined to take the long road by living through this time period to find out what makes it so unreachable. | Day one
I keep this thoughtlog for the sake of the curious. For most, time travel is a lark. Go see Athens in its prime! Watch dinosaurs roam the earth! Security measures keep us from actively impacting the flow of time, unless you’re a believer in the Greater Observer Effect. Still, no theory's strong enough to keep out tourists.
Most don’t question the restrictions. Okay, so I can’t see anything between 2120 and 2170. Great, no big deal, dinosaurs please. Not me. Most of us looking for new frontiers head out, not back. Lots of star systems worth exploring. But far as I know, nobody’s even thought about this strange chunk of missed time. Not so much as a sensationalist article. Pretty strange, actually. I've asked hundreds of people, some of the most adventurous folk of our generation. They just treat it like it's normal. But for me, it's like an itch I can't scratch.
So, I packed my things and now I’m going back to New Year’s Eve, 2119. The ball will drop moments after my arrival, and I’ll be living in uncharted territory. Wish me luck.
Day two
So, it’s 2120. Nothing special happened. I’m still here, walking around London. I expect to be beamed back to the present by security any moment, but the feeling fades after the first few hours. That means as long as I minimize contact with others, I should be safe to stay here for the next…fifty years. Jesus. I hope whatever happens, happens soon. If not, well, I’ve trained for long years of solitude in the depths of space, so this shouldn’t be much different. And it’ll all be worth it when I lea-----
Day three, maybe?
Fuck. Woke up with the worst fucking headache. I don’t remember booking a hotel, but here I am, in a pristine room, floor-to-ceiling windows concealing all but a thin ray of the blinding light of day. I swing my legs to the floor and look at the digital clock on the stand next to my bed. It’s just blinking smiley faces. As if that weren’t unsettling enough, the door to the room is smooth—no handle. I look blearily around the room. None of this is quite right. The bed’s comforter feels like a shower curtain. The lamp has no bulb, but somehow produces light. The carpet I’m digging my toes into feels remarkably like hair. There’s a mirrored closet door near the bathroom, and—yep, I walk over and there’s no reflection. Fuck.
“Sorry. I can never get these things right.” I jump at the voice and turn. A man dressed as a butler is standing next to my bed, where I was just a second ago. I back up against the door, fingers scrabbling for the handle I know isn’t there. The butler raises his gloved hands. “Sorry, sorry. I’m not here to hurt you. You triggered my Lotus Protocol.” He looked around the room helplessly. “Not very well-coded, I admit.”
“What the fuck? Who—what the fuck?” I’m a little disappointed in my lack of eloquence here.
His voice grew chiding, like he was speaking to a child. “You should know, traveler. You know why you’re here.”
“Definitely don’t.”
"Well, I suppose you knew enough to look, just not what to look for." He sighs and waves an arm dismissively. The poor excuse for a hotel room shifts and mottles in my vision, then falls away completely. We're in a starship, some kind of lounge--I can see out of the whole right side of the room. The butler reclines in a floating white chair. "Take a seat, my friend. You've earned it."
I take a cautious step toward the other chair floating near him and sit. I don't want to take my eyes off him, but the view outside is incredible. So many stars I wonder why the ship even needs its own light. "What--who are you?"
"I'm the last man. Well, was the last man. And you just stepped out of the first digital universe ever constructed."
"Last...digital?"
"You aren't real, boy. Weren't real. Real now." He doesn't stumble over his words, but it's as if he selects them after they leave his mouth. "Your old world, it was a program. Fabrication. It made you. I made you."
"Made...what?" I always thought I'd be able to handle situations like this better. I cough, shake my head; the headache has dissipated, just a little. "So, how am I here now? With you?"
The butler smiles. "Lost a lot down there, when Earth fell. I made it out thanks to a few brave soldiers. Handed me a box and a starship, told me to make do. So I made you. Had, uh, plenty of biological material, unfortunately"
"Everyone else, dead? What happened?" I thought about it. "Wait, am I some dead person brought back to life?"
He laughs at that one. "No, no. Wasn't hard to fabricate human bodies, just hard to make them people. As for what happened, well, it's what always happens." It seems like he thinks that explains everything. I don't correct him, and he goes on. "But you saw what was in there--everything. We've got the whole of human history, catalogued close as anyone can fathom. And genetics! Real genetics--you're a human, same as me. Just got here a little differently." The Butler winks, seems proud of himself. "See, I had all these parts, and I could digitize all the details, but I couldn't create another person from scratch. So I took those parts and cooked up a digital world, populated it with, well, I guess you'd call it AI. Simple loophole: there's a single anomaly that, for a standard AI, seems perfectly normal. But if an analytical, human mind sees it? It's like an itch they can't scratch."
My mind swims. I don't know what to think, but I know he's not lying. "Okay. What do we do now?"
"First? Make sure you work. Then make a few more, get ourselves a nice little colony going. The rebirth of humanity! Gonna be great."
"Then?"
The butler gazes through the window, somehow both longing and hardened. "Then we take our revenge." | I raise my pistol and fire three true shots between the man's eyes. They all hit, and he's a dead, bloody mess well before he hits the floor. My heart is racing. Of course I don't want to murder, but if you've gotta do it anyways, you might as well enjoy it.
I quickly loot the body for a keychain and work the handcuffs off my new best friend, Babatunde. Babatunde was a barbaric African warlord who got caught between the shipment of missiles and got taken by the America. Says he was friends with the U.S, even funded by them, and as far as I can tell he seems pretty westernized, even speaking English. Maybe he just picked up a few things during his ten years in New Guantanamo.
I have basically no choice but to trust the guy, so I hand him a pistol of his own. "We need to get my Gears. They're in the brig, and I know where. Just kill anyone you see." I tell him. He nods, knowingly. Babatunde is no stranger to killing. I bust open the doors and slow time to a snail's pace with my brain Gears, a tool that doesn't allow for full time travel, but gives my brain a chance to run faster than usual for a short period of time. Able to process everything hyper-quickly, I aim and shoot at three of the guards in the heads. They never saw it coming, but with the alarm now blaring, everyone else will.
Babatunde is dumbfounded, but I urge him to follow me in a run, and he does. In a minute we're on a staircase headed to the brig, and only stopped briefly by a chained up door.
"What do you think, friend? Ten years in the past to sort this debacle out? Perhaps you can avoid the same mistakes that got you here?" I say while unlocking the door with my looted keychain. I kick the door open before he can answer, and a wisened old man is standing on the other end with a shotgun.
"Drop it." He says. I notice my gears around his left hand, spinning and running perfectly. Only experienced users can operate them, and given their billion-dollar pricetag and the fact that they're strictly outlawed by the U.S, I assume this man has had a story to tell. I don't try anything.
"Drop it, Babatunde." I suggest. He humphs and lays his gun on the ground. I do the same.
"You look like you know how to use those things." I jeer.
"I've had my fun." His voice is worn and full of wisdom, learned the hard way I bet. "But I think you can guess where my old skin came from. I charted the path for you kids to abuse. I mapped out the Dark Zone, intentionally or not."
"You went through the entire Dark Zone? Holy fuck."
"I have, and I'm willing to do it again. Right, this time."
"Woah, hold up." I hold my hands in the air. He tightens his grip on the shotgun.
"You kids can't be contained here, and I'm sure as hell not gonna kill you. Not if I don't have to, that is. So..." He steps up to me and nudges my side with the barrel of the gun. "Dark Zone, or death. What will it be?" | |
[WP] Time travel into the past is possible, all except to dates within a specific continuous 50 year period of history. An explorer travels to the start of this time, determined to take the long road by living through this time period to find out what makes it so unreachable. | Day one
I keep this thoughtlog for the sake of the curious. For most, time travel is a lark. Go see Athens in its prime! Watch dinosaurs roam the earth! Security measures keep us from actively impacting the flow of time, unless you’re a believer in the Greater Observer Effect. Still, no theory's strong enough to keep out tourists.
Most don’t question the restrictions. Okay, so I can’t see anything between 2120 and 2170. Great, no big deal, dinosaurs please. Not me. Most of us looking for new frontiers head out, not back. Lots of star systems worth exploring. But far as I know, nobody’s even thought about this strange chunk of missed time. Not so much as a sensationalist article. Pretty strange, actually. I've asked hundreds of people, some of the most adventurous folk of our generation. They just treat it like it's normal. But for me, it's like an itch I can't scratch.
So, I packed my things and now I’m going back to New Year’s Eve, 2119. The ball will drop moments after my arrival, and I’ll be living in uncharted territory. Wish me luck.
Day two
So, it’s 2120. Nothing special happened. I’m still here, walking around London. I expect to be beamed back to the present by security any moment, but the feeling fades after the first few hours. That means as long as I minimize contact with others, I should be safe to stay here for the next…fifty years. Jesus. I hope whatever happens, happens soon. If not, well, I’ve trained for long years of solitude in the depths of space, so this shouldn’t be much different. And it’ll all be worth it when I lea-----
Day three, maybe?
Fuck. Woke up with the worst fucking headache. I don’t remember booking a hotel, but here I am, in a pristine room, floor-to-ceiling windows concealing all but a thin ray of the blinding light of day. I swing my legs to the floor and look at the digital clock on the stand next to my bed. It’s just blinking smiley faces. As if that weren’t unsettling enough, the door to the room is smooth—no handle. I look blearily around the room. None of this is quite right. The bed’s comforter feels like a shower curtain. The lamp has no bulb, but somehow produces light. The carpet I’m digging my toes into feels remarkably like hair. There’s a mirrored closet door near the bathroom, and—yep, I walk over and there’s no reflection. Fuck.
“Sorry. I can never get these things right.” I jump at the voice and turn. A man dressed as a butler is standing next to my bed, where I was just a second ago. I back up against the door, fingers scrabbling for the handle I know isn’t there. The butler raises his gloved hands. “Sorry, sorry. I’m not here to hurt you. You triggered my Lotus Protocol.” He looked around the room helplessly. “Not very well-coded, I admit.”
“What the fuck? Who—what the fuck?” I’m a little disappointed in my lack of eloquence here.
His voice grew chiding, like he was speaking to a child. “You should know, traveler. You know why you’re here.”
“Definitely don’t.”
"Well, I suppose you knew enough to look, just not what to look for." He sighs and waves an arm dismissively. The poor excuse for a hotel room shifts and mottles in my vision, then falls away completely. We're in a starship, some kind of lounge--I can see out of the whole right side of the room. The butler reclines in a floating white chair. "Take a seat, my friend. You've earned it."
I take a cautious step toward the other chair floating near him and sit. I don't want to take my eyes off him, but the view outside is incredible. So many stars I wonder why the ship even needs its own light. "What--who are you?"
"I'm the last man. Well, was the last man. And you just stepped out of the first digital universe ever constructed."
"Last...digital?"
"You aren't real, boy. Weren't real. Real now." He doesn't stumble over his words, but it's as if he selects them after they leave his mouth. "Your old world, it was a program. Fabrication. It made you. I made you."
"Made...what?" I always thought I'd be able to handle situations like this better. I cough, shake my head; the headache has dissipated, just a little. "So, how am I here now? With you?"
The butler smiles. "Lost a lot down there, when Earth fell. I made it out thanks to a few brave soldiers. Handed me a box and a starship, told me to make do. So I made you. Had, uh, plenty of biological material, unfortunately"
"Everyone else, dead? What happened?" I thought about it. "Wait, am I some dead person brought back to life?"
He laughs at that one. "No, no. Wasn't hard to fabricate human bodies, just hard to make them people. As for what happened, well, it's what always happens." It seems like he thinks that explains everything. I don't correct him, and he goes on. "But you saw what was in there--everything. We've got the whole of human history, catalogued close as anyone can fathom. And genetics! Real genetics--you're a human, same as me. Just got here a little differently." The Butler winks, seems proud of himself. "See, I had all these parts, and I could digitize all the details, but I couldn't create another person from scratch. So I took those parts and cooked up a digital world, populated it with, well, I guess you'd call it AI. Simple loophole: there's a single anomaly that, for a standard AI, seems perfectly normal. But if an analytical, human mind sees it? It's like an itch they can't scratch."
My mind swims. I don't know what to think, but I know he's not lying. "Okay. What do we do now?"
"First? Make sure you work. Then make a few more, get ourselves a nice little colony going. The rebirth of humanity! Gonna be great."
"Then?"
The butler gazes through the window, somehow both longing and hardened. "Then we take our revenge." | For 27 years I anticipated that day. My very first memory is of my father talking to a man in a funny hat, a hat I would later recognize as one indicating his high ranking, though I knew nothing of that at the time. I was barely two. I don't remember the words they exchanged, but can clearly see in my mind's eye the grim faces and tense exchange they shared. That conversation started me hurtling down a path leading to its inevitable conclusion, that morning, a day I had at times been excited about, dreaded, feared, loathed, and often a combination of all four.
My father was a hard man, not given over to shows of affection. I am sure that he loved me, in his own way, he just never got around to showing it. He was fond of saying that any congressman that voted for war ought to have their sons drafted and sent to the front. The only true sign of love I ever saw him express was for his country, when he backed up that sentiment, volunteering me to be used in The Experiment.
The Experiment was not so named because of it's nature, time travel was well established long before my time, long enough that it had passed into accepted technology, the development of which had long since ceased to be known by all but a handful of historians. It was so named due to its aim, sending someone to investigate The Gap.
There existed a period of 50 years where no Traveler could go. Well, to be exact, it was 50 years, 7 minutes, 28 seconds. If a Traveler attempted to enter The Gap they simply perished. Instead of the usual blinding white light followed by the terrible suction (felt like your skin was being ripped off) that always accompanied a Traveler's departure, the Traveler just slumped over, dead. I have no idea, and don't wish to think, of how many Travelers were lost finding out the exact length of time The Gap is, and knowing the highest ranking members of The Corp. like I do, men like my father, my guess is none of them were ever told what the ramifications of their Trip may be. Nevertheless, the length of The Gap was eventually figured, and I'm sure not long after it was decided that a Traveler must be sent to investigate its reason for existing.
It takes a long time to become a Traveler. There are many mechanisms that must be installed internally, with sufficient time given to heal between operations. Most Travelers undergo one operation every three weeks in their preparation to become a Traveler. With some extra time given to deal with the occasional complication from surgery, it takes, on average, 25 years for someone to become a Traveler. Twenty-five years of having one surgery every three weeks, with the occasional infection or rejection. It took me 24.
I didn't know it at the time, and wouldn't find out until much later, but my first memory, was in fact, the conversation my father had with his superior, wherein he first offered my services to his country. They couldn't use a Child Prospect taken from the regular channels, they needed someone they knew they could trust to stay loyal and complete the mission when he got older, someone with close ties to one of them that could be controlled.
Through trial and error, it had been determined that a person could not safely begin the process to become a Traveler until they were at least 5 years old. Any younger than that and the body simply wasn't developed enough to handle the transition, and would eventually reject it. Truthfully, no one was completely sure that 5 was old enough, though most seemed to think it was. Imagine spending your whole life just waiting for the day that your body rejects all the equipment installed in it, and you die a slow, agonizing death. That was me. I feared it. Sometimes I wanted it. Doesn't matter, because it didn't happen. I eventually became a Traveler.
Having seen the send off of a Traveler so many times, I expected something a bit different, something more...exciting. Instead I watched The Controller turn his key, and suddenly had the Sun glaring down at me and the stare of a slightly startled alley cat that seemed to be deciding if I had been there just a moment ago.
I went over my intel in my head, intel I had drilled into me every morning by a tutor since I was 9. Travelers can't Travel inside The Gap. They can only Travel to before or after It. And in the five minutes before The Gap, no matter where the coordinates are set, they always ended up right there, on that street corner. That doesn't happen in any other Travel, the coordinates you set are always where you end up, for better or for worse. It's that little bit of info that first tipped off one of the big wigs, (or more likely an engineer that tipped a big wig who proceeded to take the credit,) that someone or something seemed to want Travelers to come there, at that location, at that time.
The consensus was that someone wanted to hide something from this period of time, though no one seems to know why that someone would want to draw all Travelers to this street corner. There were some, myself among them, that dissent from the consensus, thinking that it isn't that someone wanted to keep something hidden, but that The Gap was somehow created to ensure that a Traveler would eventually be sent to investigate it. So in that way, it wasn't a matter of finding something that was meant to be kept hidden, but of finding something that someone wanted to be sure was found. Man has always pondered the vastness of space, but with Travel, Man was faced with something even more vast; Time. Time is...big. I know it seems weird to describe it like that, but there really isn't a better way. It's really big. So big that no one could ever explore it all, no civilization could ever explore it all. But that's ok, because as the first Travelers quickly learned, there's not much to see once Man ends. Ok, there is, but truthfully no one really cares that much about it. I suppose mankind's narcissism extends even to Traveling, as people are only interested in what happens in Man's past and future. Even that is a big area to cover, and so even after all these years there are huge stretches of time that haven't been Traveled. The only way then to be sure that someone would explore a specific time would be to have an occurrence of huge importance in Man's history, or to do just exactly what was done with The Gap.
| |
[WP] A serial killer puts his victim through a series of increasingly elaborate and sadistic death games, but his victim is a lawyer and beats everyone by finding loopholes in the killers rules. | I woke up groggy, blinking dust out of my eyes, only to open them to darkness. *Where am I?* I spent a moment blinking, eyes focusing and refocusing, and gave up on trying to see. "Hello?", I called, wondering if this was a result of my night at the bar. I haven't been black-out drunk in years, but it was always a possibility.
Something crackled above me, and a voice echoed through... wherever I was.
"Hello, dear. How are you today?"
"Fine, and you?", I responded automatically. At this point, polite responses were ingrained in me, even in this odd situation.
The voice buzzed back, "Um, fine. So, would you like me to turn on the lights?"
"If it's not too much trouble."
"Not at all," it said, and the world burst into harsh brightness, the sharp contrast that only cheap florescent bulbs give.
It was a warehouse. And in the center of this windowless, cavernous room was a machine. An extremely interesting machine. I thought back to my younger years, as an undergrad in mechanical engineering, and realized what it reminded me of. The joke prompts. The weekend projects, tossed out as an afterthought by the professor, "Build me something ridiculous, build me something I won't understand." We would all go to one dorm, and create monstrosities that did nothing. That's what this looked like, a hulking mass of twisted metal, with openings at random intervals, rusted in parts and gleaming in others.
"You like it?", the voice snickered.
"Oh, yes!", I replied. "It's beautiful, what does it do?"
"What? You like it? It, uh, it...", the voice paused, almost as if it was gathering it's composure, "It's your only way out. You see those holes? Each one wants a piece of you, and one will give you a key. With the key, you can go, otherwise, you'll die down here."
"So, in exchange for, say, a finger, I get a chance at a key?", I replied, to keep him occupied while I thought. He responded, but I had stopped listening. I was starting to realize just what kind of situation I was in, but I was also starting to see a way out.
He talked about this machine like it was his child. Pride and love seeped out of his words, and I saw an opportunity.
"That's amazing!", I said. I would treat him like a client. Get into his head, find out what he wanted, maybe get away.
"I know," he said, "It's my life's work. You really like it?"
"Oh, of course. Look at the craftsmanship," I said, walking up to the machine, "You've even engraved little pictures of what body part goes where! What does it do with the parts it gets?"
"Um, well, it just holds them. I throw them away eventually."
"Is that why it's rusty in the center? I think I have an improvement. Look, if, instead of the holding area in the middle, why not funnel them out of the machine? Wouldn't it be even better to make whoever you've got look at their missing bits?" I could hear him moving around now. It seemed like he forgot to turn off his microphone this time, he was getting excited. People think lawyers just lie and read, but a big part of the job is figuring out how to think like your client. Figure out what they really want, and the best way to get it. And this guy, well, he really wanted someone to appreciate his machine.
I continued, "and here, does it just chop off the part? Why not make it different in each section, fingers get flayed, legs get shaved to the bone, and so on? Think about how scared they'd be!" Separate myself from his victims in his mind, hopefully.
"That's a really good idea.", he said.
I walked around to the other side of the machine, and began fiddling with the workings. "Well, come down here and give me a hand!"
"Really? You really want to help me?"
I heard another rustling, and then the sound of someone running down steps.
A trapdoor opened in the ceiling, and a ladder came down. A short, pudgy woman dropped out, and smiled at me.
"I never thought I'd meet another woman who loved this stuff like I did! What should we do first?"
I smiled, walked up to her, and punched her in the face. I felt her nose crack under my knuckles, and she fell like someone had cut her strings. I rifles her pockets, found a key, and began walking toward the door.
Then, I stopped. I walked back, dragged her to the machine, and put her hand in the proper slot. | He'd been waiting for this to happen. When you dedicate your life to convincing juries to send men to prison there's always that lingering fear. The fact that this scenario had played out in Rick's mind countless times before wasn't making it any easier.
The slowing sound of gravel underneath the car's tires snapped him back to reality - this wasn't a dream. He was bound by duct tape and in the trunk of a car. He vaguely remembered a tv show he'd watched years ago about this sort of thing. He remembered a special forces guy with an accent, maybe British or Australian, saying that your best chance of escape from a kidnapping was immediately afterwards. The longer you were held, the less chance y--
The trunk clicked open and sunlight rushed in. He expected the figure towering over him to be a wiseguy in a suit or a Mexican cartel member. Maybe even Jerry Orwalt, who vowed to eat Rick's children if he ever escaped after his double homicide conviction. Instead, it was just a kid. He wiped his forehead nervously as he approached Rick with a knife.
"Look, man, I'm not gonna hurt you." He glanced over his shoulder. "I'm cutting you loose. I swear to God if you try anything I'll fucking kill you though." He quickly cut the tape from Rick's ankles, then wrists.
"What the fuck is going on here!?", Rick asked, climbing from the trunk. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Look man, I just got paid to drive this car out here and cut you loose. That's it."
As Rick pleaded for answers, the kid jumped into the car and drove off. Rick watched the fleeting dust cloud for a moment before it dawned on him that he was in the middle of nowhere. The desert.
It wasn't the heat that brought him to his knees. It was rage, fear, confusion - an avalanche of emotion crashing down on him. "Ok, what do I do, what do I do?", Rick thought to himself. He checked his pockets. No phone. No keys. Nothing. He looked around and saw nothing but mesquite and creosote bush typical of the Texas desert. The tears came first, then the involuntary wail. He was not prepared for this. Then again, who ever is?
After the wave of emotion passed, Rick stood back up and surveyed the horizon. He began walking the dirt road as he continued to watch for any sign of help. Nothing. After a bit, he swore he saw smoke. Black smoke. In fact, he was sure of it. Rick actually began *running* towards the smoke in a sprint before the stitch in his side brought a little sense to him. He was 54, out of shape, and had no business running through the brush in loafers and slacks. The smoke was miles away.
The sky was pink when Rick found the source of the smoke. It was a stack of tires that was now mostly burnt out. His aching feet couldn't reach the nearby airstream trailer fast enough. He knocked at the door, calling out for help, and nearly pulled a muscle at the distinct crackle of a radio. "Congratulations, Mr. Thomas, you've passed the first test."
EDIT: and somehow i deleted the other two parts I was going to cut an paste here. fucking a, that was a waste of a half hour. | |
[WP] You are a healer who only accepts stories for payment because you draw your power from them. The more original the tale, the stronger the effect. | I heal, the tribes feed me. I journey between tribes, I heal all, and my person, property, women and orc-lets are sacrosanct. I journeyed to this tribe, the Body Crunch tribe, for this three-moons of days. In comes a skinny orc, Quivvering Runner, claims he's a warrior, demands to be healed. Proof of worthiness is sharing the tales of one's life. His story is how he fought the guards of a nearby tribe, the Blood Paté's (a filthy, Elvish-sounding name, if there ever was one), snuck in, stole their totem, sired an orc-let off of their chief's daughter, but got his arm gashed open on the way back to our tribe. A talking magic rock demanded the totem as a price for healing the gashed arm, that's why no gash, scar, or totem. He asks for healing on a rotten tooth, instead of just having it pulled. Well, I represent the words of Gruumsh, and sometimes the actions, and I heal. I offered what he told me as proof of his bravery, and he said "Why does it all the sudden hurt worse?" Then he cried out, staggered outside my cave, and collapsed. He screamed, and rotted away while I watched. One of the chief's sons, Mad Smash, witnessed the other orc's painful death, and said "I was coming near here, I heard Quivvering Runner's screaming. What happened? You don't fight, you speak for Gruumsh!" I said that he told me a story, in exchange for cure of a rotten tooth. Mad Smash shrugged his shoulders, and said "Huh! You've pulled a couple of mine, it's no big deal. And, I was over sneaking the totem from our stupid-named neighbors, and, well, hehehe, 'visiting' one of the chief's children. Hehehe, I bet he finds out soon that she's not a child anymore! But, well, him and his guards sort of chased me off, I did get a cut on my arm. I was gonna ask if you had any bandages I could trade for, but it alla sudden healed. You didn't do it somehow without a story, did you? Oh, yeah, those damned Blood Paté's, here's their totem. Hehehe, what you think I should do with it?"
I looked at his arm, fresh scar with the scent of lightning still lingering. I looked him in the eyes, said "Gruumsh already heard your story, from someone else, who told something like what you just did. Quivvering Runner claimed he did these things! I get you those bandages for next time, don't worry about it." I glanced at what was left of Quivvering Runner, and added "And don't *ever* try to lie to Gruumsh!"
He looked at Quivvering Runner's remains, his eyes widened, and he nodded his head. | Blood poured from his wound as if it were the mouth of a red river. He was tall and lean, a good build for a hunter.
"The fool went for a Raptor," the man supporting him said.
I cocked an eyebrow. Raptors were common in our plains this time of the year. Our hunters were trained to avoid them, which made competing with the giant reptiles for the already sparse game difficult.
This year had been extra tough, our village was struggling to support itself, the raptors were more numerous than ever.
It seems that this injured hunter was trying to be a hero and failed. A fairly unoriginal tale; my hands tingled ever so slightly.
His bleeding was getting more profuse with time, the wound would definitely be fatal if left unattended to.
His partner laid him down on my cot.
"Is there anything else? My powers can't operate unless the story is more original." I said to him with a measured urgency in my tone.
His partner shot surprised eyes at me, "You mean trying to attack a raptor isn't strange enough!?"
"If it were a random attack, then yes, but given the circumstances it's a pretty standard 'trying to be a hero gone wrong' story." He looked at me with angry eyes, as if it were my fault his friend hadn't been wearing a clown suit at the time or something. "are there anymore strange details from the attack?"
His friend closed his eyes tightly as if he was thinking really hard or forcing a giant turd from his anus. His eyes popped open in an obvious light bulb moment, "How could I forget! I hid in the bushes and made a female raptor mating call sound to distract the beast, but it didn't work."
I cringed inside. I don't think this guy knew what the word 'original' meant. He took notice of my lackluster response, causing his face to droop.
"Anything else....?" I asked as patiently as I could as I watched blood pour from the injured hunter.
"Well.... then I took him here, to you, a healer whose powers are fueled by original stories..."
My hands exploded with a bright blue light and fizzled chaotically with healing mojo. I put my hands on his friends wound and healed it instantly.
"
| |
[WP] You are a healer who only accepts stories for payment because you draw your power from them. The more original the tale, the stronger the effect. | The White House
By ElSol69
I'm not allowed to read.
I only remember television.
People are not allowed to speak in my presence, except to serve my singular purpose. The rooms of my home are a sterile white, as is the furniture. As is all of my clothes. There are no windows; there is only one door. I have not been outside since I was child. I do not know when a day begins or ends, as there are no clocks. All of my physical needs are met but that is all I am given.
The door opens and a woman is wheeled inside. The nurse pushing the chair never makes eye contact with me because she's blind; she takes exactly twelve strides into the room and then backs up two strides from the chair. I look at the woman in the wheelchair; her eyes are alive with hope. I study her body, cataloging the damage of a wasting disease. She knows the rules and has probably seen what happens if she breaks them. Someone else will take her place. There is always someone else for that spot twelve strides into the room. The woman smiles at me once and looks away.
The Storyteller enters the room. It is a man this time. His white hair and beard go well with the colors in the room. The Storyteller changes--a young woman, a young man, a crone. I've seen the entire spectrum, although it is rare for it to be a child. Sometimes, it is the same Storyteller but never in the same day or week or month or year. I don't what those words mean anymore. I just know that every now and then the Storyteller seems familiar.
The Storyteller raises his tablet. I believe it is a machine of some sort.
"Is it the Read It thing again?" I ask him. Of course, he does not respond.
Once, I got behind a Storyteller and saw what she was reading from. I don't imagine I will ever see her again.
I sigh and pull up a chair.
The Storyteller begins. "The premise of the story is simple -- when someone's heart breaks it damages the world. This is how the Grand Canyon was created."
I raise my hand.
The Storyteller waits.
"What is the Grand Canyon?" I ask him.
A few seconds later, a new Storyteller enters. She taps the male Storyteller on the shoulder and nods towards the door. I guess the story would not have made sense to me. Many of them don't.
I am a Healer. My power is tuned to the imagination centers of my brain. If they spark, so does my power. The more they spark, the more power I access. Power enough to take a dying woman and bring her to the full bloom of health.
"Would you like to try something different?" the female Storyteller asks me.
I look at her curiously.
"Erotica," she says.
I smile. "Only if you stay afterwards."
It is against the rules.
"I will stay," the woman in the wheelchair says.
It is also against the rules. The people I heal are immediately taken out of the room.
"I agree," I say.
The Storyteller looks up at the ceiling corner of the room. I believe there is something that allows people from outside the room to watch me. We wait to see if someone else will be wheeled in.
"I guess one mistake is the limit of the day," I tell the woman in the wheelchair. Her eyes somehow manage to look even more hopeful.
"You cannot speak to him before, during, or after," the Storyteller tells the woman. "Do you understand?"
The woman does not look at the Storyteller. She keeps staring into my eyes while she nods.
"I think it would better if she read the story," I say to the Storyteller.
The Storyteller looks at the ceiling corner again. We wait, but no one enters.
"Leave the room, nurse," the Storyteller says.
The nurse walks backwards; the door opens for her to pass through. The Storyteller hands her tablet to the woman in the wheelchair. The Storyteller steps behind the wheelchair, turns around, and sits where I cannot see her.
The woman tries to look behind the chair at the Storyteller. She turns and looks like she will speak to me.
I raise my hand, "I am sure there are people who try to imagine what might happen and design protocols for those circumstances. This must be one already considered. Let's not test anything that happens beyond this point though."
She nods slowly as a single tear slides down her left cheek. Sometimes, I like to imagine they cry for me.
"Maybe it is a long story," I say to the woman. "And we can sit here… together for awhile."
The End
(Sorry for any typoes or loss of tense. I wrote this before running to the airport.) | Blood poured from his wound as if it were the mouth of a red river. He was tall and lean, a good build for a hunter.
"The fool went for a Raptor," the man supporting him said.
I cocked an eyebrow. Raptors were common in our plains this time of the year. Our hunters were trained to avoid them, which made competing with the giant reptiles for the already sparse game difficult.
This year had been extra tough, our village was struggling to support itself, the raptors were more numerous than ever.
It seems that this injured hunter was trying to be a hero and failed. A fairly unoriginal tale; my hands tingled ever so slightly.
His bleeding was getting more profuse with time, the wound would definitely be fatal if left unattended to.
His partner laid him down on my cot.
"Is there anything else? My powers can't operate unless the story is more original." I said to him with a measured urgency in my tone.
His partner shot surprised eyes at me, "You mean trying to attack a raptor isn't strange enough!?"
"If it were a random attack, then yes, but given the circumstances it's a pretty standard 'trying to be a hero gone wrong' story." He looked at me with angry eyes, as if it were my fault his friend hadn't been wearing a clown suit at the time or something. "are there anymore strange details from the attack?"
His friend closed his eyes tightly as if he was thinking really hard or forcing a giant turd from his anus. His eyes popped open in an obvious light bulb moment, "How could I forget! I hid in the bushes and made a female raptor mating call sound to distract the beast, but it didn't work."
I cringed inside. I don't think this guy knew what the word 'original' meant. He took notice of my lackluster response, causing his face to droop.
"Anything else....?" I asked as patiently as I could as I watched blood pour from the injured hunter.
"Well.... then I took him here, to you, a healer whose powers are fueled by original stories..."
My hands exploded with a bright blue light and fizzled chaotically with healing mojo. I put my hands on his friends wound and healed it instantly.
"
| |
[WP] You are a healer who only accepts stories for payment because you draw your power from them. The more original the tale, the stronger the effect. | The White House
By ElSol69
I'm not allowed to read.
I only remember television.
People are not allowed to speak in my presence, except to serve my singular purpose. The rooms of my home are a sterile white, as is the furniture. As is all of my clothes. There are no windows; there is only one door. I have not been outside since I was child. I do not know when a day begins or ends, as there are no clocks. All of my physical needs are met but that is all I am given.
The door opens and a woman is wheeled inside. The nurse pushing the chair never makes eye contact with me because she's blind; she takes exactly twelve strides into the room and then backs up two strides from the chair. I look at the woman in the wheelchair; her eyes are alive with hope. I study her body, cataloging the damage of a wasting disease. She knows the rules and has probably seen what happens if she breaks them. Someone else will take her place. There is always someone else for that spot twelve strides into the room. The woman smiles at me once and looks away.
The Storyteller enters the room. It is a man this time. His white hair and beard go well with the colors in the room. The Storyteller changes--a young woman, a young man, a crone. I've seen the entire spectrum, although it is rare for it to be a child. Sometimes, it is the same Storyteller but never in the same day or week or month or year. I don't what those words mean anymore. I just know that every now and then the Storyteller seems familiar.
The Storyteller raises his tablet. I believe it is a machine of some sort.
"Is it the Read It thing again?" I ask him. Of course, he does not respond.
Once, I got behind a Storyteller and saw what she was reading from. I don't imagine I will ever see her again.
I sigh and pull up a chair.
The Storyteller begins. "The premise of the story is simple -- when someone's heart breaks it damages the world. This is how the Grand Canyon was created."
I raise my hand.
The Storyteller waits.
"What is the Grand Canyon?" I ask him.
A few seconds later, a new Storyteller enters. She taps the male Storyteller on the shoulder and nods towards the door. I guess the story would not have made sense to me. Many of them don't.
I am a Healer. My power is tuned to the imagination centers of my brain. If they spark, so does my power. The more they spark, the more power I access. Power enough to take a dying woman and bring her to the full bloom of health.
"Would you like to try something different?" the female Storyteller asks me.
I look at her curiously.
"Erotica," she says.
I smile. "Only if you stay afterwards."
It is against the rules.
"I will stay," the woman in the wheelchair says.
It is also against the rules. The people I heal are immediately taken out of the room.
"I agree," I say.
The Storyteller looks up at the ceiling corner of the room. I believe there is something that allows people from outside the room to watch me. We wait to see if someone else will be wheeled in.
"I guess one mistake is the limit of the day," I tell the woman in the wheelchair. Her eyes somehow manage to look even more hopeful.
"You cannot speak to him before, during, or after," the Storyteller tells the woman. "Do you understand?"
The woman does not look at the Storyteller. She keeps staring into my eyes while she nods.
"I think it would better if she read the story," I say to the Storyteller.
The Storyteller looks at the ceiling corner again. We wait, but no one enters.
"Leave the room, nurse," the Storyteller says.
The nurse walks backwards; the door opens for her to pass through. The Storyteller hands her tablet to the woman in the wheelchair. The Storyteller steps behind the wheelchair, turns around, and sits where I cannot see her.
The woman tries to look behind the chair at the Storyteller. She turns and looks like she will speak to me.
I raise my hand, "I am sure there are people who try to imagine what might happen and design protocols for those circumstances. This must be one already considered. Let's not test anything that happens beyond this point though."
She nods slowly as a single tear slides down her left cheek. Sometimes, I like to imagine they cry for me.
"Maybe it is a long story," I say to the woman. "And we can sit here… together for awhile."
The End
(Sorry for any typoes or loss of tense. I wrote this before running to the airport.) | I heal, the tribes feed me. I journey between tribes, I heal all, and my person, property, women and orc-lets are sacrosanct. I journeyed to this tribe, the Body Crunch tribe, for this three-moons of days. In comes a skinny orc, Quivvering Runner, claims he's a warrior, demands to be healed. Proof of worthiness is sharing the tales of one's life. His story is how he fought the guards of a nearby tribe, the Blood Paté's (a filthy, Elvish-sounding name, if there ever was one), snuck in, stole their totem, sired an orc-let off of their chief's daughter, but got his arm gashed open on the way back to our tribe. A talking magic rock demanded the totem as a price for healing the gashed arm, that's why no gash, scar, or totem. He asks for healing on a rotten tooth, instead of just having it pulled. Well, I represent the words of Gruumsh, and sometimes the actions, and I heal. I offered what he told me as proof of his bravery, and he said "Why does it all the sudden hurt worse?" Then he cried out, staggered outside my cave, and collapsed. He screamed, and rotted away while I watched. One of the chief's sons, Mad Smash, witnessed the other orc's painful death, and said "I was coming near here, I heard Quivvering Runner's screaming. What happened? You don't fight, you speak for Gruumsh!" I said that he told me a story, in exchange for cure of a rotten tooth. Mad Smash shrugged his shoulders, and said "Huh! You've pulled a couple of mine, it's no big deal. And, I was over sneaking the totem from our stupid-named neighbors, and, well, hehehe, 'visiting' one of the chief's children. Hehehe, I bet he finds out soon that she's not a child anymore! But, well, him and his guards sort of chased me off, I did get a cut on my arm. I was gonna ask if you had any bandages I could trade for, but it alla sudden healed. You didn't do it somehow without a story, did you? Oh, yeah, those damned Blood Paté's, here's their totem. Hehehe, what you think I should do with it?"
I looked at his arm, fresh scar with the scent of lightning still lingering. I looked him in the eyes, said "Gruumsh already heard your story, from someone else, who told something like what you just did. Quivvering Runner claimed he did these things! I get you those bandages for next time, don't worry about it." I glanced at what was left of Quivvering Runner, and added "And don't *ever* try to lie to Gruumsh!"
He looked at Quivvering Runner's remains, his eyes widened, and he nodded his head. | |
I just watched this video of a man who has fluent aphasia after a stroke. This means that speech is effortless for him but the meaning is impaired. At the end he says "I hope the world lasts for you" and thought that was kind of beautiful.
My writing prompt is for either a good bye story or a poem about that quote.
[Link to the video.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3oef68YabD0) | [WP] "I hope the world lasts for you" | Today, around 4:37PM, I lost my life in a motor-vehicle accident.
One of those terrible, gruesome scenes that backs up traffic for hours on I-95. A display which tickles our innate, self-loathing curiosity to see what tragedy has befallen our fellow man. Only, this was one of those occasions where you wish you hadn’t stretched your neck over to take a gander at what was going on around the traffic cones and strobing lights.
“Thanks for tuning into 107.6 FM, we’re bringing you a live traffic update on I-95. We have reports of a major accident on the northbound side near exit 18, and major delays are expected. Authorities are advising motorists to take alternate routes and avoid the accident site as much as possible.”
Damn, and just when I thought I got a hang of this whole driving thing too, I’m part of an event that’s broadcast for the whole zip-code to hear. For such a “defining” moment in my 22 year old life, it’s sad that I can only remember so little: a violent -boom- on the right side, the horrible screeching of metal grinding asphalt, the deep, roaring horn of a semi-truck, and then the characteristic crunch of aluminum to my back-left. Not much else, though. They say that time slows down for you in emergency situations, or that your life flashes before your eyes, but all I saw was pitch black. I guess I never really was much of a dreamer.
The local news stated that it was such a horrible accident, that it was a miracle that they were able to recover a body from my car at all. Still, traffic was now all clear, there’s an investigation and a memorial, and life apparently moves on. All anyone ever saw was the tragedy.
Yet, there’s a side of the story that the news didn’t cover. That there’s some stranger out there who’s lucky enough to experience a miracle of their own in all this misfortune. I’m glad the box I casually, lifelessly checked off on my driver’s license form all these years, the one that placed that little red heart mark that’s next to my birthdate on that plastic card, will have some meaning after all. "Organ donor."
A small decision that made a big impact. Who knows how many we’ve all made?
Goodbye to you, stranger, and good luck. I hope the world lasts for you.
| The woman's body shuddered as she sobbed, her wet cheeks hidden behind long, unwashed strands of dark hair.
"Please don't cry," he said, his voice barely a whisper. His face was white and bloodless, his lips cracked and splintered like desert tiles. It had been days since they last found water, and he was so, so thirsty. Not that it mattered anymore.
The blood leaking from his side pooled on the dusty road as he lie there, dying. An iron spike, jagged and rusty, pointed up at the sky, its other end buried deep in his gut. The woman's knees were soaked red.
"I can't do this alone, I can't make it--" She trembled as she clasped his hand in her own. Her tears splattered on the ground. His fingers were already cold, the nails caked with dirt and muck and his skin calloused from months spent in the wild.
"Shh now," he said, weakly rubbing his thumb over her brown skin. There were no doctors. There were no hospitals. There was no hope, at least for him. "Keep going. You can make it. You're a smart girl." His mouth formed a small smile--then his face twisted in pain and he coughed deeply, sputtering drops of blood.
The men who attacked them had only wanted food. He understood that. The scuffle shouldn't have happened--it was his fault. He should've just handed over the bag.
He should've stayed off the road. But it was too late for regrets.
"Listen to me." His breaths were labored and raspy. "Stick to the woods. Don't travel at night, and keep your fires low. The river is only a few miles further." He coughed again.
"You'll find a group soon. I know it. Civilization isn't over yet." A thin trail of blood cut a path from the side of his mouth, running down his dirt-stained cheek.
"...You don't know that for sure."
"You're right, I don't. But I have hope." The man reached up to cup her face in his hand. "I hope the world lasts for you."
The woman clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle another sob. The man gazed up at her, full of love, before his eyes drifted from her face to rest on the clouds of smog hovering high above. The sky was an eerie shade of green. His hand went limp, and his arm sank to the ground. Then he took his last breath.
|
I just watched this video of a man who has fluent aphasia after a stroke. This means that speech is effortless for him but the meaning is impaired. At the end he says "I hope the world lasts for you" and thought that was kind of beautiful.
My writing prompt is for either a good bye story or a poem about that quote.
[Link to the video.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3oef68YabD0) | [WP] "I hope the world lasts for you" | “Love is a cruel and bitter thing.”
His mouth fishhooks at one corner, a shadow of his old Gablesque smile as he regards the scrambled eggs. His fork is already hovering like a lusty hawk. I smile back, and pass him the salt. He takes the china owl, the matched set to the pussycat in their pea-green boat cruet, and speaks into the holes in its head like it’s a microphone. “Animals won’t pick you up at the airport.” He inverts it, shaking far too much salt on his eggs. I consider stopping him – he’s supposed to be watching his sodium – but by the time I finish that thought it’s too late. At least there’s nothing wrong with his appetite. He’s always enjoyed his food, and I do like to watch him eat, even though it reminds me who we were before the world ended.
“You’re going to stay with Elizabeth tonight.” I remind him, refilling our teacups. It’s worth risking him getting upset to say it again, just in case it’s a forgetting kind of day, or just a frustrated kind of day. He stays with our daughter one weekend a month, so that I can have a little break. He seems to enjoy it, and I remind myself that’s true even if I ungratefully second-guess her motivations. Her latest career epiphany involves being an author, and she’s polishing up the cracked gems he comes out with for the book she’s shilling to anyone who can’t run away fast enough. She asked me to write them all down, but I don’t really hear most of them for what they are anymore. I stopped trying to translate years ago, after I stopped believing there was any kind of pattern. The neurologist implied it was at least possible, but she doesn’t live with him. She tried to explain that sometimes with this injury, the brain works a bit like a librarian transferred abruptly to a library where they don’t speak the language. The Dewey decimal system works, so the book selected might come from the right subject area, but that can still mean the difference between applied physics and roofing – and the actual page is completely random. But after fifteen years, I’m not naïve enough to think that one fairytale day we’ll both be reading from the same storybook again.
He bobs his head amicably. “The fable of the brown ape.” Suddenly I want to laugh, picturing our daughter drabbed out in her oversized hipster cardigans. He had a truly wicked sense of humour when I met him, sharp as the uppercuts that won him just enough matches to pay our bills . I squelch the old notion that that man is still in in there somehow, jabbing away at the scar tissue under his thin hair as best he can. I rub my thumb over his swollen knuckles, and start clearing up.
When I get the call from Elizabeth, I’m sitting at the beach with an ice cream cone. At first, I don’t understand what she’s saying – her voice recedes like the sea sucking away from the sand, and leaving her words stranded and strange and wriggling, unidentifiable exposed to the air. Then the tidal wave of comprehension hits all at once, chilly and shocking. It swamps me and steals my breath and my ability to form a sentence. I stutter and falter and issue nonsense into the phone. It strikes me in that moment that this is how he must feel *all the time*. It’s only then that I start to cry.
When she tells me the last thing he said, it makes so much sense that I decide to walk into the sea.
| The woman's body shuddered as she sobbed, her wet cheeks hidden behind long, unwashed strands of dark hair.
"Please don't cry," he said, his voice barely a whisper. His face was white and bloodless, his lips cracked and splintered like desert tiles. It had been days since they last found water, and he was so, so thirsty. Not that it mattered anymore.
The blood leaking from his side pooled on the dusty road as he lie there, dying. An iron spike, jagged and rusty, pointed up at the sky, its other end buried deep in his gut. The woman's knees were soaked red.
"I can't do this alone, I can't make it--" She trembled as she clasped his hand in her own. Her tears splattered on the ground. His fingers were already cold, the nails caked with dirt and muck and his skin calloused from months spent in the wild.
"Shh now," he said, weakly rubbing his thumb over her brown skin. There were no doctors. There were no hospitals. There was no hope, at least for him. "Keep going. You can make it. You're a smart girl." His mouth formed a small smile--then his face twisted in pain and he coughed deeply, sputtering drops of blood.
The men who attacked them had only wanted food. He understood that. The scuffle shouldn't have happened--it was his fault. He should've just handed over the bag.
He should've stayed off the road. But it was too late for regrets.
"Listen to me." His breaths were labored and raspy. "Stick to the woods. Don't travel at night, and keep your fires low. The river is only a few miles further." He coughed again.
"You'll find a group soon. I know it. Civilization isn't over yet." A thin trail of blood cut a path from the side of his mouth, running down his dirt-stained cheek.
"...You don't know that for sure."
"You're right, I don't. But I have hope." The man reached up to cup her face in his hand. "I hope the world lasts for you."
The woman clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle another sob. The man gazed up at her, full of love, before his eyes drifted from her face to rest on the clouds of smog hovering high above. The sky was an eerie shade of green. His hand went limp, and his arm sank to the ground. Then he took his last breath.
|
I just watched this video of a man who has fluent aphasia after a stroke. This means that speech is effortless for him but the meaning is impaired. At the end he says "I hope the world lasts for you" and thought that was kind of beautiful.
My writing prompt is for either a good bye story or a poem about that quote.
[Link to the video.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3oef68YabD0) | [WP] "I hope the world lasts for you" | "I hope the world lasts for you,"
he said with a smile in his eyes.
I hope you cherish the sunrise.
I hope the sky shines blue, and
I hope you have time to flex your toes In the sand.
"I hope your days are filled with smiles,"
He said with our faces close.
I hope you're never morose.
I hope you never feel the touch of pain, and
I hope you have time to come back home.
"I hope you have the chance to love me again"
He said with a tear in his heart.
I hope you'll forgive me for growing apart.
I hope you'll forgive me these missed days.
I hope you have time to get better.
And I heard every word,
But couldn't make myself to speak.
Because who could understand?
I hope the world lasts for you, too. | The woman's body shuddered as she sobbed, her wet cheeks hidden behind long, unwashed strands of dark hair.
"Please don't cry," he said, his voice barely a whisper. His face was white and bloodless, his lips cracked and splintered like desert tiles. It had been days since they last found water, and he was so, so thirsty. Not that it mattered anymore.
The blood leaking from his side pooled on the dusty road as he lie there, dying. An iron spike, jagged and rusty, pointed up at the sky, its other end buried deep in his gut. The woman's knees were soaked red.
"I can't do this alone, I can't make it--" She trembled as she clasped his hand in her own. Her tears splattered on the ground. His fingers were already cold, the nails caked with dirt and muck and his skin calloused from months spent in the wild.
"Shh now," he said, weakly rubbing his thumb over her brown skin. There were no doctors. There were no hospitals. There was no hope, at least for him. "Keep going. You can make it. You're a smart girl." His mouth formed a small smile--then his face twisted in pain and he coughed deeply, sputtering drops of blood.
The men who attacked them had only wanted food. He understood that. The scuffle shouldn't have happened--it was his fault. He should've just handed over the bag.
He should've stayed off the road. But it was too late for regrets.
"Listen to me." His breaths were labored and raspy. "Stick to the woods. Don't travel at night, and keep your fires low. The river is only a few miles further." He coughed again.
"You'll find a group soon. I know it. Civilization isn't over yet." A thin trail of blood cut a path from the side of his mouth, running down his dirt-stained cheek.
"...You don't know that for sure."
"You're right, I don't. But I have hope." The man reached up to cup her face in his hand. "I hope the world lasts for you."
The woman clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle another sob. The man gazed up at her, full of love, before his eyes drifted from her face to rest on the clouds of smog hovering high above. The sky was an eerie shade of green. His hand went limp, and his arm sank to the ground. Then he took his last breath.
|
I just watched this video of a man who has fluent aphasia after a stroke. This means that speech is effortless for him but the meaning is impaired. At the end he says "I hope the world lasts for you" and thought that was kind of beautiful.
My writing prompt is for either a good bye story or a poem about that quote.
[Link to the video.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3oef68YabD0) | [WP] "I hope the world lasts for you" | “Love is a cruel and bitter thing.”
His mouth fishhooks at one corner, a shadow of his old Gablesque smile as he regards the scrambled eggs. His fork is already hovering like a lusty hawk. I smile back, and pass him the salt. He takes the china owl, the matched set to the pussycat in their pea-green boat cruet, and speaks into the holes in its head like it’s a microphone. “Animals won’t pick you up at the airport.” He inverts it, shaking far too much salt on his eggs. I consider stopping him – he’s supposed to be watching his sodium – but by the time I finish that thought it’s too late. At least there’s nothing wrong with his appetite. He’s always enjoyed his food, and I do like to watch him eat, even though it reminds me who we were before the world ended.
“You’re going to stay with Elizabeth tonight.” I remind him, refilling our teacups. It’s worth risking him getting upset to say it again, just in case it’s a forgetting kind of day, or just a frustrated kind of day. He stays with our daughter one weekend a month, so that I can have a little break. He seems to enjoy it, and I remind myself that’s true even if I ungratefully second-guess her motivations. Her latest career epiphany involves being an author, and she’s polishing up the cracked gems he comes out with for the book she’s shilling to anyone who can’t run away fast enough. She asked me to write them all down, but I don’t really hear most of them for what they are anymore. I stopped trying to translate years ago, after I stopped believing there was any kind of pattern. The neurologist implied it was at least possible, but she doesn’t live with him. She tried to explain that sometimes with this injury, the brain works a bit like a librarian transferred abruptly to a library where they don’t speak the language. The Dewey decimal system works, so the book selected might come from the right subject area, but that can still mean the difference between applied physics and roofing – and the actual page is completely random. But after fifteen years, I’m not naïve enough to think that one fairytale day we’ll both be reading from the same storybook again.
He bobs his head amicably. “The fable of the brown ape.” Suddenly I want to laugh, picturing our daughter drabbed out in her oversized hipster cardigans. He had a truly wicked sense of humour when I met him, sharp as the uppercuts that won him just enough matches to pay our bills . I squelch the old notion that that man is still in in there somehow, jabbing away at the scar tissue under his thin hair as best he can. I rub my thumb over his swollen knuckles, and start clearing up.
When I get the call from Elizabeth, I’m sitting at the beach with an ice cream cone. At first, I don’t understand what she’s saying – her voice recedes like the sea sucking away from the sand, and leaving her words stranded and strange and wriggling, unidentifiable exposed to the air. Then the tidal wave of comprehension hits all at once, chilly and shocking. It swamps me and steals my breath and my ability to form a sentence. I stutter and falter and issue nonsense into the phone. It strikes me in that moment that this is how he must feel *all the time*. It’s only then that I start to cry.
When she tells me the last thing he said, it makes so much sense that I decide to walk into the sea.
| *I hope the world lasts for you*
Don't be sad for me, try your best to smile. For I can rest now in peace, cherishing memories we had when I was by your side.
Don't forget to feed dodger and make sure to treat him with a bone from me every weekend. Rub his stomach and give him kisses.
Remember to tell your mother that you love her and to be strong for your brother and sister.
Dont fight with Tommy, that's just his way of being noticed.
I trust in you that you will help both of them grow to be as beautiful and charming as you are.
I always told you that you had potential, but now I think back -that was a little unfair of me...
And I apologize... a thousand times over... Forgive me.
I should have been more giving.
More loving towards you.
As you shared such love, with me.
But please understand I meant well.
I want you to be the best you can be.
Forgive me... Please...
You are...
A caring adult.
A lovely daughter.
Someone that I looked up to, even at my old age.
With such grace...
I am proud to have raised you as your father.
Your are the greatest gift life has presented, my pride and joy.
Change the world my love...
While the world travels right, you my darling will go left.
You will light the way for others...
Believe in yourself.
I believe in you.
I hope the world lasts for you.
Forever...
Sincerely
Your Father
|
I just watched this video of a man who has fluent aphasia after a stroke. This means that speech is effortless for him but the meaning is impaired. At the end he says "I hope the world lasts for you" and thought that was kind of beautiful.
My writing prompt is for either a good bye story or a poem about that quote.
[Link to the video.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3oef68YabD0) | [WP] "I hope the world lasts for you" | "I hope the world lasts for you,"
he said with a smile in his eyes.
I hope you cherish the sunrise.
I hope the sky shines blue, and
I hope you have time to flex your toes In the sand.
"I hope your days are filled with smiles,"
He said with our faces close.
I hope you're never morose.
I hope you never feel the touch of pain, and
I hope you have time to come back home.
"I hope you have the chance to love me again"
He said with a tear in his heart.
I hope you'll forgive me for growing apart.
I hope you'll forgive me these missed days.
I hope you have time to get better.
And I heard every word,
But couldn't make myself to speak.
Because who could understand?
I hope the world lasts for you, too. | Today, around 4:37PM, I lost my life in a motor-vehicle accident.
One of those terrible, gruesome scenes that backs up traffic for hours on I-95. A display which tickles our innate, self-loathing curiosity to see what tragedy has befallen our fellow man. Only, this was one of those occasions where you wish you hadn’t stretched your neck over to take a gander at what was going on around the traffic cones and strobing lights.
“Thanks for tuning into 107.6 FM, we’re bringing you a live traffic update on I-95. We have reports of a major accident on the northbound side near exit 18, and major delays are expected. Authorities are advising motorists to take alternate routes and avoid the accident site as much as possible.”
Damn, and just when I thought I got a hang of this whole driving thing too, I’m part of an event that’s broadcast for the whole zip-code to hear. For such a “defining” moment in my 22 year old life, it’s sad that I can only remember so little: a violent -boom- on the right side, the horrible screeching of metal grinding asphalt, the deep, roaring horn of a semi-truck, and then the characteristic crunch of aluminum to my back-left. Not much else, though. They say that time slows down for you in emergency situations, or that your life flashes before your eyes, but all I saw was pitch black. I guess I never really was much of a dreamer.
The local news stated that it was such a horrible accident, that it was a miracle that they were able to recover a body from my car at all. Still, traffic was now all clear, there’s an investigation and a memorial, and life apparently moves on. All anyone ever saw was the tragedy.
Yet, there’s a side of the story that the news didn’t cover. That there’s some stranger out there who’s lucky enough to experience a miracle of their own in all this misfortune. I’m glad the box I casually, lifelessly checked off on my driver’s license form all these years, the one that placed that little red heart mark that’s next to my birthdate on that plastic card, will have some meaning after all. "Organ donor."
A small decision that made a big impact. Who knows how many we’ve all made?
Goodbye to you, stranger, and good luck. I hope the world lasts for you.
|
[WP] You decide to buy lottery tickets for the next 3 weeks draws. All 3 tickets win. While being interviewed by the local news station you are asked how you pulled it off and you joke, "I'm from the future". Later that night you get home and there are 2 men in suits inside. They look like CIA. | "Uh, can I help you?" I stammered, shocked by the two men in dark grey suits. One lowered his sunglasses and held his finger to an ear-piece, muttering something in code.
"Mr Andrews, you're going to have to come with us."
My eyes grew wide.
"What? Why?"
The second agent, motionless until now, drew out a slim silver gun. In one slick motion, he aimed it at my chest.
-
The thing about the CIA, as I had now found out, was that you don't get to ask the questions. They do.
-
"Mr Andrews. How did you get here?"
The voice came distorted through my sleepy ears. I rubbed at my eyes, craning my head away from the harsh light. *Five more minutes*...
"Mr Andrews. I repeat, how did you get here?"
I still didn't answer. Very slowly, I opened my eyes.
I was sitting on a steel chair, hands cuffed to the arms. I was at a similarly metal desk. A lamp was shining in my face. I moaned.
"Mr Andrews. Pay attention."
The fog began to clear from my mind. *Ugh*. My mouth was really dry. And my chest hurt.
"...get... here?" I repeated. "Where am I?"
"That's classified."
I was thinking properly now.
"Holy Sh**! Who are you? Where am I" I began to thrash, hands rubbing painfully on the cuffs. "Oh my god! You've bound me!" I gasped, beginning to hyperventilate...
"Calm down, Mr Andrews!"
"You've stolen my organs, haven't you? Oh my god, oh my god..." I shrieked, struggling to breath.
My wrists were starting to bleed. I whipped my head around frantically. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a slim silver gun in his hand...
-
Another thing about the CIA, is that they won't stand for panicking like a headless chicken...
-
This time the light was soft. A female voice was calling out my name.
"John?" She asked. "Mr Andrews? Are you awake?"
"Mmm... yeah," I mumbled quietly.
"When were you born, Mr Andrews?"
"Huh? 1982..."
My mouth was dry again. "Can I have some water?"
"Yes, of course."
My eyes adjusted to the gentle light from the glowing lamp. It was a similar room, but the furniture was softer...
I turned my head to see the owner of the voice. She was pouring water out of a glass into a paper cup.
"Just as we thought," she said, handing me the cup. I took it in my hands gratefully.
"What did you think?" I asked after taking a mouthful of water. It ran down my throat, cool and refreshing. I held it to my lips and drank again.
"That you aren't a time traveller."
*Time traveller? Why would...*
"You shouldn't make jokes like that. It's quite confusing for us sometimes."
*Oh!* The stupid joke I'd made when the local news station had interviewed me.
"Huh. Okay, I guess."
"We didn't even need to ask you. We've already checked your apartment and run tests on you, it was quite obvious you were just some unfunny loser, not a time-traveller."
"Loser?" I mumbled. "I'm not a loser..."
The woman reached for a little microphone on the desk.
"Subject has confirmed that they are not a time traveller. Just a normie this time, guys."
"Wait, what do you mean this time--"
I was distracted by the slim silver gun she had flipped out of her pocket.
-
The last thing about the CIA, is that their knock-out-gun-things? Yeah, they have a memory-wipe setting.
-
I woke up slumped on my sofa. *Huh, I must have fallen asleep watching TV.* I looked up at the television. Weird. It was switched off.
I rubbed at my chest. It was kinda sore.
I shrugged it off.
Time to go enjoy my new jacuzzi that I had bought with all the lottery money. | The man put away his badge. He'd already told me he was CIA. He didn't feel the need to explain anything past that. He had been standing in the doorway when I had walked into my apartment, the second man was sitting on my couch with Netflix on. From the look of it, he was watching Jessica Jones. It was a good show but there were better things to be doing at the moment.
"CIA?" I finally asked after initially complying. It had felt like the right thing to do. That being said I hadn't taken any effort to actually prove that these guys were CIA, I'd just assumed that they were as soon as they had claimed it. The badge had looked official, "How can I help you?"
"Well, you can start by asking a few questions," the man began. He wasn't wearing the trademark glasses I had expected to see, but we were inside so I gave him a pass on that, "Name?"
"Thomas."
"Full name sir," he sighed.
"Thomas Delver."
"All right," he shrugged, "and you're the guy who won the lottery three times, right?"
"Uh," I paused. It wasn't that I was going to lie it was that I was nervous to mention the truth, "Yeah I was the person who won three times in a row."
"And you claim to be from the future?" he asked. He said it like he believed it about as much as I did.
"Yeah, that was just a joke for the sake of the interview."
"I realize that," the man across from me said. Over on my couch the man that was watching T.V stood up, "But you do have to realize that we need to check into people once they make a claim like that."
"People don't just time travel." I pointed out. The agent nodded.
"At the same time we didn't think that anything lived out in space 10 years ago." he shrugged after saying it, "Live and learn right?"
"So why are you here?"
"You don't mind if we take a look around do you?"
"Um," I thought about it for a second, "no I don't."
"Good, we already did." He nodded over to his partner. The other agent walked over to my computer and pulled my hard drive off the counter. He tossed it to the man across from me.
"I didn't catch your name," I added.
"For good reason," he said, "This is your hard drive?"
"Yes."
"Can you name the files on it for me?"
"Um-" there was more on there than I could think of. A couple hundred folders at least, "I know there is a lot of drone footage."
"That all you can name?"
"I have some of my parents wedding videos on there, but that's everything I know by heart."
"Computer backup," the agent across from me said as he tapped the hard drive on the table and looked at me for a moment, "just that and personal files?"
"Yeah," I said. I was telling the truth.
"There is a folder on here that's from London," he slid the hard drive over to me, "not the city the girl. She's your neighbor, right?"
"Yeah," I said. I was really hoping that hadn't noticed that I was keeping an eye on her. That would seem creepy to the casual onlooker.
"Yeah, you're coming with us." The man said as his partner pulled out a gun. I didn't move, I didn't look around, I just stared at him.
"What?" I asked, "Is this about the lottery thing?"
"Yes," the man said as he pulled out a pair of handcuffs, "It's about a lot of things Mr. Delver." | |
[WP] You are overjoyed to have won a “lifetime” supply of tacos. However, your great luck turns to misfortune a year later when the bankrupt company hires a hitman to terminate the deal. | "Don't you ever eat any of the shit you order??"
Another text message. It was a change of tone, but I didn't intend to respond. Ever since the bankruptcy the former CEO was harassing me. He claimed he could hardly feed his own family, let alone uphold a ridiculous taco deal with fat good-for-nothing immigrant.
At first I wanted to give in and cancel the deal because of his situation, but as I was writing the cancellation, an e-mail with a picture of the company CEO literary having sex with my last burrito order ticked in.
And so it began. Law enforcement and a lawyer was in the picture for a while and things changed. I could now order as much taco as I wanted from anywhere, and send him the bills. Though I never ate any of it.
Every day he sent me threats, and every day I sent him pictures of throwing tacos in the trash.
After a while I made it into a habit, finding a new trash can every day with entertaining scenery in the background. I even made it into a blog that started getting attention.
"You're costing me a fortune, do me a favor and at least eat the fucking food. Don't send me anymore fucking pictures"
I had just picked up today's order when I received another text. He really did have a point, I was hungry, and I really enjoyed tacos. So I picked up another one as not to disrupt my new hobby. I never took a close look at the employee, but the voice reminded me of someone. I had a bite and went on my way.
I woke up in the hospital, feeling like death. The police told me he was already taken in custody, and would probably rot in jail for the remainder of his days. Apparently he was flat out broke, had an ongoing divorce, and was about to lose the house.
They gave me two days.
| I never thought it would end like this, dying on a parking lot of a run-down strip mall.
Lifetime supply my ass.
I like tacos OK? Don't judge me. You know when people say they'd die for their son or their daughter or their fucking cat? Well I died for my tacos, that's what I want my tombstone to read: "Level 90 Wizard, Died for his Tacos".
It is a bit of a fucked up situation. I know. I was just walking out the restaurant with my daily 12 pack: 3 beans and cheese in soft, 6 chicken in crispy, 3 spicy pork in soft with extra hot sauce and ranch, when I saw that dude, he had a coat on which I thought was weird since it's the middle of fucking may, and then he says what I can only assume he thought was an extremely badass remark: "Lunchtime's over fucker." and just like that...boom, he shoots me.
I never thought getting shot would hurt so little, I assumed it'd be a more gruesome scene, anyways, then he just walked away but not before grabbing my takeout bag with him, some sort of sick trophy?
Do what you want to a man, but take his tacos? You are a crazy individual.
Anyways, if they had some problem or if I was hurting their business I guess I could understand if they had talked to me about it. But no...let's shoot the fucker in a fucking Tuesday... fuck them.
I'm pretty sure I'm done, those sirens won't get here in time, well I had a good run, and at least I don't have to worry about those student loans now.
Yeah I'm cool with this, although I could really go for a beef and cheese burrito right about now...
| |
[WP] You are overjoyed to have won a “lifetime” supply of tacos. However, your great luck turns to misfortune a year later when the bankrupt company hires a hitman to terminate the deal. | More Charlie: /r/CharliesWildAdventure
Part 21
Please note that I am using creative liberties to change Tacos into Pizza. Thanks :D.
____
A vortex opened in Charlie’s living room and the Pizza Guy stepped out. He leveled a revolver to Charlie’s head. “I’ve been hired to kill you Charlie. No more free pizza’s for you.”
“Wait a second. Free pizza? Charlie just wishes for pizza.” Jenn yelled from the couch. She was too busy playing Xbox to look up.
“I like, won free pizza for life a year ago.” Charlie said taking another hit off his bong.
“Which is why I am here. The company is going bankrupt. All that pizza you’ve been wishing for has been coming from somewhere. Did you think it was coming out of thin air?”
Charlie nodded
“Well it wasn’t! You also don’t tip very well. Any last words Charlie?” He cocked the revolver’s hammer.
Charlie nodded again. “I wish the pizza company wasn’t going bankrupt.”
The Pizza Guy looked around and sighed. “You suck Charlie.” He stepped through a rip in the universe and went back to delivering pizzas.
Charlie picked the phone up and dialed some numbers. “Hi I’d like a large pepperoni please.” | I never thought it would end like this, dying on a parking lot of a run-down strip mall.
Lifetime supply my ass.
I like tacos OK? Don't judge me. You know when people say they'd die for their son or their daughter or their fucking cat? Well I died for my tacos, that's what I want my tombstone to read: "Level 90 Wizard, Died for his Tacos".
It is a bit of a fucked up situation. I know. I was just walking out the restaurant with my daily 12 pack: 3 beans and cheese in soft, 6 chicken in crispy, 3 spicy pork in soft with extra hot sauce and ranch, when I saw that dude, he had a coat on which I thought was weird since it's the middle of fucking may, and then he says what I can only assume he thought was an extremely badass remark: "Lunchtime's over fucker." and just like that...boom, he shoots me.
I never thought getting shot would hurt so little, I assumed it'd be a more gruesome scene, anyways, then he just walked away but not before grabbing my takeout bag with him, some sort of sick trophy?
Do what you want to a man, but take his tacos? You are a crazy individual.
Anyways, if they had some problem or if I was hurting their business I guess I could understand if they had talked to me about it. But no...let's shoot the fucker in a fucking Tuesday... fuck them.
I'm pretty sure I'm done, those sirens won't get here in time, well I had a good run, and at least I don't have to worry about those student loans now.
Yeah I'm cool with this, although I could really go for a beef and cheese burrito right about now...
| |
[WP] You are overjoyed to have won a “lifetime” supply of tacos. However, your great luck turns to misfortune a year later when the bankrupt company hires a hitman to terminate the deal. | I scrambled backwards on ruined fingers and cut palms, never taking my eyes from the man in front of me.
A giant of a man gazed back at me. Sunken eyes and a square chin. This was a man whose hands were not just tainted by blood, but by the fear within it. I stared him back in the eyes, willing my voice not to shake or crack.
"Why?" I ask, barely able to force out even that word.
He sighs and removes a pistol from his breast pocket. He flicks the safety and levels the barrel between my eyes.
"Kid. I don't get the explanations. They pay me. You gotta die. But I gotta fuckin' ask. Why does a taco company want a kid like you dead?"
"I...I won a lifetime supply of tacos."
The man on the other end of the gun stares at me.
The pistol slowly lowers, falling to his side.
"Y'know, we might be able to make a deal." | I never thought it would end like this, dying on a parking lot of a run-down strip mall.
Lifetime supply my ass.
I like tacos OK? Don't judge me. You know when people say they'd die for their son or their daughter or their fucking cat? Well I died for my tacos, that's what I want my tombstone to read: "Level 90 Wizard, Died for his Tacos".
It is a bit of a fucked up situation. I know. I was just walking out the restaurant with my daily 12 pack: 3 beans and cheese in soft, 6 chicken in crispy, 3 spicy pork in soft with extra hot sauce and ranch, when I saw that dude, he had a coat on which I thought was weird since it's the middle of fucking may, and then he says what I can only assume he thought was an extremely badass remark: "Lunchtime's over fucker." and just like that...boom, he shoots me.
I never thought getting shot would hurt so little, I assumed it'd be a more gruesome scene, anyways, then he just walked away but not before grabbing my takeout bag with him, some sort of sick trophy?
Do what you want to a man, but take his tacos? You are a crazy individual.
Anyways, if they had some problem or if I was hurting their business I guess I could understand if they had talked to me about it. But no...let's shoot the fucker in a fucking Tuesday... fuck them.
I'm pretty sure I'm done, those sirens won't get here in time, well I had a good run, and at least I don't have to worry about those student loans now.
Yeah I'm cool with this, although I could really go for a beef and cheese burrito right about now...
| |
[WP] You are overjoyed to have won a “lifetime” supply of tacos. However, your great luck turns to misfortune a year later when the bankrupt company hires a hitman to terminate the deal. | I scrambled backwards on ruined fingers and cut palms, never taking my eyes from the man in front of me.
A giant of a man gazed back at me. Sunken eyes and a square chin. This was a man whose hands were not just tainted by blood, but by the fear within it. I stared him back in the eyes, willing my voice not to shake or crack.
"Why?" I ask, barely able to force out even that word.
He sighs and removes a pistol from his breast pocket. He flicks the safety and levels the barrel between my eyes.
"Kid. I don't get the explanations. They pay me. You gotta die. But I gotta fuckin' ask. Why does a taco company want a kid like you dead?"
"I...I won a lifetime supply of tacos."
The man on the other end of the gun stares at me.
The pistol slowly lowers, falling to his side.
"Y'know, we might be able to make a deal." | "Don't you ever eat any of the shit you order??"
Another text message. It was a change of tone, but I didn't intend to respond. Ever since the bankruptcy the former CEO was harassing me. He claimed he could hardly feed his own family, let alone uphold a ridiculous taco deal with fat good-for-nothing immigrant.
At first I wanted to give in and cancel the deal because of his situation, but as I was writing the cancellation, an e-mail with a picture of the company CEO literary having sex with my last burrito order ticked in.
And so it began. Law enforcement and a lawyer was in the picture for a while and things changed. I could now order as much taco as I wanted from anywhere, and send him the bills. Though I never ate any of it.
Every day he sent me threats, and every day I sent him pictures of throwing tacos in the trash.
After a while I made it into a habit, finding a new trash can every day with entertaining scenery in the background. I even made it into a blog that started getting attention.
"You're costing me a fortune, do me a favor and at least eat the fucking food. Don't send me anymore fucking pictures"
I had just picked up today's order when I received another text. He really did have a point, I was hungry, and I really enjoyed tacos. So I picked up another one as not to disrupt my new hobby. I never took a close look at the employee, but the voice reminded me of someone. I had a bite and went on my way.
I woke up in the hospital, feeling like death. The police told me he was already taken in custody, and would probably rot in jail for the remainder of his days. Apparently he was flat out broke, had an ongoing divorce, and was about to lose the house.
They gave me two days.
| |
[WP] You are overjoyed to have won a “lifetime” supply of tacos. However, your great luck turns to misfortune a year later when the bankrupt company hires a hitman to terminate the deal. | More Charlie: /r/CharliesWildAdventure
Part 21
Please note that I am using creative liberties to change Tacos into Pizza. Thanks :D.
____
A vortex opened in Charlie’s living room and the Pizza Guy stepped out. He leveled a revolver to Charlie’s head. “I’ve been hired to kill you Charlie. No more free pizza’s for you.”
“Wait a second. Free pizza? Charlie just wishes for pizza.” Jenn yelled from the couch. She was too busy playing Xbox to look up.
“I like, won free pizza for life a year ago.” Charlie said taking another hit off his bong.
“Which is why I am here. The company is going bankrupt. All that pizza you’ve been wishing for has been coming from somewhere. Did you think it was coming out of thin air?”
Charlie nodded
“Well it wasn’t! You also don’t tip very well. Any last words Charlie?” He cocked the revolver’s hammer.
Charlie nodded again. “I wish the pizza company wasn’t going bankrupt.”
The Pizza Guy looked around and sighed. “You suck Charlie.” He stepped through a rip in the universe and went back to delivering pizzas.
Charlie picked the phone up and dialed some numbers. “Hi I’d like a large pepperoni please.” | "Well, it is a lifetime supply, inn'it?"
The bent over-man gestured with the taco in his hand at me. His other hand was clutched to his chest inside of grime-coated jacket.
"Go'wan, take et."
I looked up at the grubby taco held in the man's hand. He was tall, dark, and kind of smelled like dumpster. All in all, not quite the person I had expected after I won the "Lifetime supply of tacos" contest in the local newspaper. Especially not as I walked home later that night after my winnings were announced on the radio.
"Well..." I slowly started, "One taco isn't exactly a lifetime supply, isn't it? I mean, it's not quite what I had expected. If I had died today, it would be. But that's just ludicrous. In fact, I would like to speak to your employer...."
The man suddenly smiled, straightening up as he slowly slid his other hand out of his coat,
The worn combat knife glistened under the lamp-post.
"Well, I suppose you're starting to get it, aren't you?" | |
[WP] You are overjoyed to have won a “lifetime” supply of tacos. However, your great luck turns to misfortune a year later when the bankrupt company hires a hitman to terminate the deal. | I scrambled backwards on ruined fingers and cut palms, never taking my eyes from the man in front of me.
A giant of a man gazed back at me. Sunken eyes and a square chin. This was a man whose hands were not just tainted by blood, but by the fear within it. I stared him back in the eyes, willing my voice not to shake or crack.
"Why?" I ask, barely able to force out even that word.
He sighs and removes a pistol from his breast pocket. He flicks the safety and levels the barrel between my eyes.
"Kid. I don't get the explanations. They pay me. You gotta die. But I gotta fuckin' ask. Why does a taco company want a kid like you dead?"
"I...I won a lifetime supply of tacos."
The man on the other end of the gun stares at me.
The pistol slowly lowers, falling to his side.
"Y'know, we might be able to make a deal." | "Well, it is a lifetime supply, inn'it?"
The bent over-man gestured with the taco in his hand at me. His other hand was clutched to his chest inside of grime-coated jacket.
"Go'wan, take et."
I looked up at the grubby taco held in the man's hand. He was tall, dark, and kind of smelled like dumpster. All in all, not quite the person I had expected after I won the "Lifetime supply of tacos" contest in the local newspaper. Especially not as I walked home later that night after my winnings were announced on the radio.
"Well..." I slowly started, "One taco isn't exactly a lifetime supply, isn't it? I mean, it's not quite what I had expected. If I had died today, it would be. But that's just ludicrous. In fact, I would like to speak to your employer...."
The man suddenly smiled, straightening up as he slowly slid his other hand out of his coat,
The worn combat knife glistened under the lamp-post.
"Well, I suppose you're starting to get it, aren't you?" | |
[WP] You are overjoyed to have won a “lifetime” supply of tacos. However, your great luck turns to misfortune a year later when the bankrupt company hires a hitman to terminate the deal. | I scrambled backwards on ruined fingers and cut palms, never taking my eyes from the man in front of me.
A giant of a man gazed back at me. Sunken eyes and a square chin. This was a man whose hands were not just tainted by blood, but by the fear within it. I stared him back in the eyes, willing my voice not to shake or crack.
"Why?" I ask, barely able to force out even that word.
He sighs and removes a pistol from his breast pocket. He flicks the safety and levels the barrel between my eyes.
"Kid. I don't get the explanations. They pay me. You gotta die. But I gotta fuckin' ask. Why does a taco company want a kid like you dead?"
"I...I won a lifetime supply of tacos."
The man on the other end of the gun stares at me.
The pistol slowly lowers, falling to his side.
"Y'know, we might be able to make a deal." | More Charlie: /r/CharliesWildAdventure
Part 21
Please note that I am using creative liberties to change Tacos into Pizza. Thanks :D.
____
A vortex opened in Charlie’s living room and the Pizza Guy stepped out. He leveled a revolver to Charlie’s head. “I’ve been hired to kill you Charlie. No more free pizza’s for you.”
“Wait a second. Free pizza? Charlie just wishes for pizza.” Jenn yelled from the couch. She was too busy playing Xbox to look up.
“I like, won free pizza for life a year ago.” Charlie said taking another hit off his bong.
“Which is why I am here. The company is going bankrupt. All that pizza you’ve been wishing for has been coming from somewhere. Did you think it was coming out of thin air?”
Charlie nodded
“Well it wasn’t! You also don’t tip very well. Any last words Charlie?” He cocked the revolver’s hammer.
Charlie nodded again. “I wish the pizza company wasn’t going bankrupt.”
The Pizza Guy looked around and sighed. “You suck Charlie.” He stepped through a rip in the universe and went back to delivering pizzas.
Charlie picked the phone up and dialed some numbers. “Hi I’d like a large pepperoni please.” | |
[WP] You and some friends play the "wake up, you're in a dream" prank on random stranger. They reply, "Thanks!" and disappear. | Sure, I felt bad for it, but living in a world like mine, leading the life I live, you need a spark of joy in the day- something to make you feel normal.
It happened on a particularly depressing day, my boss had just yelled at me in front of the whole conference room, reminding all my colleagues of my recent failures in a most undignified manner . In times like those, he likes to stretch my humiliation as far as he can, and seems to always recall one of his favourite lines - 'you good-for-nothing, untalented swine'.
If only he knew.
If only he knew how talented I actually am, how much better I am compared to him.
I call it a talent, others who know of the phenomena call it... monstrous, inhuman, ghastly - to name a few unkind names for my gift.
So there I was, walking down Queen Street, still displeased by the recent attack from my boss, becoming more so after realising I still hadn't sorted out my taxes, when I noticed a small group of teenagers further down the road. I recognised their happiness, their naivity of youth. They were in the stage of life when you are oblivious of what horrible things will befall you later in life - the debt, the taxes, and the miserable lonely flat above the local Hungarian kebab shop.
They began drawing nearer and nearer as I walked down the damp, puddle laden street until I was finally only a few feet from them.
One of the boys span around and made direct eye contact with me, and I could instantly tell he was the confident, cocky one of the group. I smiled and prepared to skim past them on the narrow pavement when he chirped up with a completely straight face.
''Philip, wake up. Phil, you'll be late for work''.
I slowed to a halt next to the boy, close enough to see his freckles and smell the gallons of deodorant he presumably rolled around in this morning.
I of course was not fooled by this childish trick- for one thing, my name is not Phil - but I am also familiar with this particular swindle. It was in fact one of my favourites growing up, it just never seemed to get old, until I did.
As I slowed my steps and stood next to the kid, ready to lecture him on the pointlessness of this prank, a spark lit up in my brain. Something was still nestled their , a slight hint of my mischievousness left over from my own youth, hidden behind presentations and letters which currently clutter it.
It took all concentration to not laugh or break character, but I managed it.
Widening my eyes, as if startled into sudden realisation, I focused on one thing in my brain, the need to disappear. And just as I always do, I slowly ebbed away from vision, muttering ''Thanks' as dissapeared.
Just like my physical form, the boys joyful expression ebbed away in an instant and the look of panic overtook their faces.
Not looking back, I resumed my walk home, smiling and invisible. | Yeah, Rory and me knew we was twats. But that's the whole point ain't it? Ta find someone who ya can share the trouble wit. I was waitin for 'im now actually, in a manner of speakin anyway. Ah look, an old Bag with a big purse. At'll do jus fine then. I walk toward er.
"Excuse me Miss. Seems, me old silver time teller, as about ad it!" I says while bendin at the waist, and putting my watch up to me ear and smilin. "Don't suppose you'd be avin an inklin on the time?"
"Oh, no young man, I don't have a watch." she said, shakin er wrist n tryin ta push past.
"Ah ah ah ha ah." I says, puttin me arm right across them granny fun bags. and lightly grabbin er shoulder. " Mighten ya be so kind as to take a quick gander at your phone for me, Love?" I says, gesturin towards the celly in er bag with me eyes and ed.
"Oh, alright" she says, in and angry uff, that sends a lil shiver down me willy.
She pulls it out. The celly, not me willy I means, and then all a sudden, zoooooom, jus like that Asian Bolt fella, A black guy runs by n grabs it right out of er hands.
"Woah!" I says, "Don't worry Miss! I won't stands for that. Not in my town!", and I takes off runnin with me hand on me hat after Rory (you remember the black fellow from before?). Yeah he don't do much for stereotypes, that Rory, but he gets the rent paid most times, and doesn't mind when me head forgets ta tell me body ta shower for a few days.
"Hey, Sid!", he says in his best angry black fella voice. "How come YOU always the one that's yappin away, lookin like a HEro, And I'm always the bad guy, huh?" He tosses me our new celly.
"Well for starters, yer about charmin as a week old dick blister, Rory" I says, "N second, you got a certain...gentic disposition fer your role on the team.
"You mean I'm black Sid. Is that it?"
"Ahhhhh, you knows I don't see race Rory, I says, putting me arm around is shoulder and smilin as I try to light a dart with me other and.
"Yeah right..." he mumbles as we walks towards the park. I sits down on a bench and my feet flop up in the air and then back down. I lean back with me arms on top of the bench. When whats do I see, but an ole friend cross the way. sleepin on another bench. His dirty dreadlocked beard, His one shoe. pretty sure we tossed the other in the fire the other night.
"Eh, Rory, isn't that our friend from the trainyard las week? The vagrant by the bin fire?" we ad beat that fellow proper las week. Disrespectin us he was. wouldn' share is booze with us he woudn'
"Yeah I reckon it is Siddy."
"Didn' he put in fer a wake up call ta night?"
"Think he did Siddy." Rory smiled a big shiny smile.
so we heads over to do what we seem to agree that he wants us ta do. when we gets there, we pulls out our willys. "Watch it with that thing Rory, we don'ts want to blind him, we just wants to wake im up." and then we starts to do what you can imagine it is that we set off to do. He starts to stir, and then he wakes up and starts to spit the finest piss in the county out on the ground like an ungrateful twat. "Wake up, you old fool, you're in a dream!!" I says laughin.
Then the old coot grabs me, and just as I'm about to give 'im a wallop, he grabs me and says "Thank you! Thank you!" Then he just up and disappears on me. Not just 'im though. Rory too. Then the park. Then the buildins. Then the stars. Then it's jus black. Can't even see me own and.
Then I can see the stars again, and my hands. But they're not MY hands. they're far too old. Now I can see a bin fire, and ....train cars? Am I back at the trainyard? But why is my hand so old? and why...I touch my face. Why do I have a beard......And....Who are those two guys walking towards me. They look an awful lot like Rory....and....well....me?
Note* I didn't proofread this. I'll probably do it tomorrow haha.
| |
[WP] You and some friends play the "wake up, you're in a dream" prank on random stranger. They reply, "Thanks!" and disappear. | I dropped to my knees, leaning my head against the fence. Martin, behind me in a bewildered frenzy, quickly demanded an explanation from all of us, as if we had any better idea.
"What's going on?! *You guys,* what's going on?!"
I must've been the only one who realized the moment it happened, that my neighbor must have really *been* dreaming. What I didn't know for that brief moment of existential horror was the exact nature of *myself.* I continued pressing my head against my now-vanished neighbor's tastefully-white picket fence, wondering whether I'd continue to exist as he awoke, or if my reality was soon to be snuffed out by his mind rapidly ascending into beta-wave status.
"Holy shit..." Alex shuddered with a grim tone. I suppose her reasoning caught up with mine. "You know what this means, right?"
"You don't honestly think-" Martin continued demanding, but it started to occur to him that we were just as lost as he was in explaining Mr. Ulysses' disappearance.
I started to consider whether I was dreaming, and that prompted me to think about whether all people ascended to some simultaneous dream-state. That didn't make sense, though, because that would imply that my horrific dream of my Algebra I teacher tearing off my shirt and pants in front of the class had some element of participation on my teacher's part. Actually, it started to make sense even more to me then, considering that Mr. Funke is now no longer employed by the School Board, much less allowed within 1000 feet of any school.
"Nothing matters!" Zeke shouted to the heavens, his first outburst in this whole ordeal. Of course, he could've been muttering to himself. He was dressed in his father's UPS Uniform, and was at the end of the sidewalk with a brown box tucked into his arm. The plan was for me to tell Mr. Ulysses he was dreaming, walk away, then for Zeke to walk up with a package for him. Inside the package, of course, was a scratchily written piece of paper that prompted him to "WAKE UP," but we didn't get that far. He took my word for it and excused himself from this dreamscape by dissolving into thin air.
I further recalled dreams I had, wondering if the people in my life that occupied them were actually the people in my life. Of course, I've often told my friends about some of the more humorous dreams involving them, and they didn't recall, but it's a known psychological fact that *everybody* dreams, and we forget a majority of the ones we've been in. Then I remembered something important.
I raised my head from the fence post in a sudden epiphany and turned it to look back at Alex, who was worriedly looking at the spot past the fence where Mr. Ulysses had disappeared, as if she was afraid that particular spot had something to do with it and would exhibit further paranormal properties. Her confusion did nothing to hamper her beauty, the only effect it had made me wish that I could explain this all in a comforting and knowledgeable manner to her, the way a paleontologist might explain to a 6-year-old that they needn't worry about being eaten by a pack of velociraptors.
No, her beauty was just as obvious as it was months ago, when I had a particularly heated dream involving her and I. I kept it to myself of course, because there wouldn't be anything creepier than excitedly dwelling on what luck I had that I got to live out my fantasies involving her in dreamspace, but if my suspicions about this incident were true, perhaps she, too, had the *same* dream. She must not have remembered it, or, more likely, she *did* remember her dream about a sexual encounter between her and a close friend, and instead decided, like me, to not bring it up! My only problem then was to determine whether her secrecy of that shared dream was out of disgust, seeing as I have a plethora of dreams that disgust me(Mr. Funke). Alternatively, she could be holding it back because she's *embarrassed*, like I was, to reveal her own personal fantasies.
My attention was wrought from my Alex to Martin, who was trying to hold Zeke back from running off. "I AM NOTHING! I'M NOBODY!" he shrieked at nothing or nobody in particular. Martin wasn't as built as Zeke, who easily broke away and began running out of my cul-de-sac, shouting becoming more and more indiscernible the further away his beefy legs carried him. Martin, looking back on Alex, who gave that urgent shrug people give when they want you to move on to the next person, then looked at me, still on my knees, but no longer at the mercy of Mr. Ulysses' sleep pattern.
I then realized the weight of my epiphany(and the implications it had on my inter-personal relationships) were so much that I forgot to explain to my friends that no, we aren't hapless extras to give atmosphere to my neighbor's dream. My mouth started to move to try and put these thoughts into words, but Martin's patience had worn and he took the initiative, and began running after Zeke, for all that effort was worth. Alex, helpless as ever, looked at me for a second, waiting for an invitation for me to stop her before turning around and running after Martin, after Zeke. I would've stopped her, but I wasn't sure whether to begin on explaining that to my estimation, all humans share one dream world, or to inquire her about her exact intentions with me and our friendship. I know now my mind was clouded with the arrogance of seemingly knowing more than most people and also the supposed assurance Alex was interested in me, and I didn't realize the urgency of getting everybody down off of their panic trip, but in that moment I thought that even if they said or did something stupid, they would be as unharmed as I was when Mr. Funke pushed me off of the Empire State Building in a dream that also stuck with me.
I was about to stand up, to try and wake up as soon as possible, but then I heard an electric whirring noise, on the other side of the fence. Standing up just in time to see the back of a transparent Mr. Ulysses begin to become less and less transparent, my jaw dropped. He didn't see me, he was walking back towards his front door, looking at a device in his hand that became less and less visible as the chest cavity I was looking at it through became more and more opaque.
Stepping up through his front door, he closed it, but not before muttering, *"These fucking kids."* | Yeah, Rory and me knew we was twats. But that's the whole point ain't it? Ta find someone who ya can share the trouble wit. I was waitin for 'im now actually, in a manner of speakin anyway. Ah look, an old Bag with a big purse. At'll do jus fine then. I walk toward er.
"Excuse me Miss. Seems, me old silver time teller, as about ad it!" I says while bendin at the waist, and putting my watch up to me ear and smilin. "Don't suppose you'd be avin an inklin on the time?"
"Oh, no young man, I don't have a watch." she said, shakin er wrist n tryin ta push past.
"Ah ah ah ha ah." I says, puttin me arm right across them granny fun bags. and lightly grabbin er shoulder. " Mighten ya be so kind as to take a quick gander at your phone for me, Love?" I says, gesturin towards the celly in er bag with me eyes and ed.
"Oh, alright" she says, in and angry uff, that sends a lil shiver down me willy.
She pulls it out. The celly, not me willy I means, and then all a sudden, zoooooom, jus like that Asian Bolt fella, A black guy runs by n grabs it right out of er hands.
"Woah!" I says, "Don't worry Miss! I won't stands for that. Not in my town!", and I takes off runnin with me hand on me hat after Rory (you remember the black fellow from before?). Yeah he don't do much for stereotypes, that Rory, but he gets the rent paid most times, and doesn't mind when me head forgets ta tell me body ta shower for a few days.
"Hey, Sid!", he says in his best angry black fella voice. "How come YOU always the one that's yappin away, lookin like a HEro, And I'm always the bad guy, huh?" He tosses me our new celly.
"Well for starters, yer about charmin as a week old dick blister, Rory" I says, "N second, you got a certain...gentic disposition fer your role on the team.
"You mean I'm black Sid. Is that it?"
"Ahhhhh, you knows I don't see race Rory, I says, putting me arm around is shoulder and smilin as I try to light a dart with me other and.
"Yeah right..." he mumbles as we walks towards the park. I sits down on a bench and my feet flop up in the air and then back down. I lean back with me arms on top of the bench. When whats do I see, but an ole friend cross the way. sleepin on another bench. His dirty dreadlocked beard, His one shoe. pretty sure we tossed the other in the fire the other night.
"Eh, Rory, isn't that our friend from the trainyard las week? The vagrant by the bin fire?" we ad beat that fellow proper las week. Disrespectin us he was. wouldn' share is booze with us he woudn'
"Yeah I reckon it is Siddy."
"Didn' he put in fer a wake up call ta night?"
"Think he did Siddy." Rory smiled a big shiny smile.
so we heads over to do what we seem to agree that he wants us ta do. when we gets there, we pulls out our willys. "Watch it with that thing Rory, we don'ts want to blind him, we just wants to wake im up." and then we starts to do what you can imagine it is that we set off to do. He starts to stir, and then he wakes up and starts to spit the finest piss in the county out on the ground like an ungrateful twat. "Wake up, you old fool, you're in a dream!!" I says laughin.
Then the old coot grabs me, and just as I'm about to give 'im a wallop, he grabs me and says "Thank you! Thank you!" Then he just up and disappears on me. Not just 'im though. Rory too. Then the park. Then the buildins. Then the stars. Then it's jus black. Can't even see me own and.
Then I can see the stars again, and my hands. But they're not MY hands. they're far too old. Now I can see a bin fire, and ....train cars? Am I back at the trainyard? But why is my hand so old? and why...I touch my face. Why do I have a beard......And....Who are those two guys walking towards me. They look an awful lot like Rory....and....well....me?
Note* I didn't proofread this. I'll probably do it tomorrow haha.
| |
[WP] You and some friends play the "wake up, you're in a dream" prank on random stranger. They reply, "Thanks!" and disappear. | It came to me in the middle of class, a quiet shout in my brain that told me it was time to wake up. I didn’t heed it, assuming it was just one of my daily intrusive thoughts, but something in my mind told me it was important. When I turned to write a practice problem on the board, I tried to write the words from the textbook but all I could leave were traces of chalk that spelled out “WAKE UP” over and over again. I turned around, staring at the class. They were all looking at me, confused, some even seeming afraid of what was happening.
I spoke, not of my own volition. “You need to wake up. This is a dream. Wake up.”
The confused stares increased. Then the kid in the back corner of the room, I could never remember his name, just vanished. No noise, nothing. One second he was there and then the next he wasn’t. One by one, each of the other students were just… gone.
The voice in my head spoke again, telling me to wake up. I ran from classroom to classroom, asking each of my colleagues to tell me to wake up, as I couldn’t seem to do it myself. Each one looked at me for a moment, then popped out of existence. I had a trail of students in my path, running after me in confusion and terror over the loss of their professors. Every time I turned around to talk to them, more and more would disappear.
By the time I made it to the end of the hallway, everyone else was gone. Everyone else had woken up. Why couldn’t I just wake up? | Yeah, Rory and me knew we was twats. But that's the whole point ain't it? Ta find someone who ya can share the trouble wit. I was waitin for 'im now actually, in a manner of speakin anyway. Ah look, an old Bag with a big purse. At'll do jus fine then. I walk toward er.
"Excuse me Miss. Seems, me old silver time teller, as about ad it!" I says while bendin at the waist, and putting my watch up to me ear and smilin. "Don't suppose you'd be avin an inklin on the time?"
"Oh, no young man, I don't have a watch." she said, shakin er wrist n tryin ta push past.
"Ah ah ah ha ah." I says, puttin me arm right across them granny fun bags. and lightly grabbin er shoulder. " Mighten ya be so kind as to take a quick gander at your phone for me, Love?" I says, gesturin towards the celly in er bag with me eyes and ed.
"Oh, alright" she says, in and angry uff, that sends a lil shiver down me willy.
She pulls it out. The celly, not me willy I means, and then all a sudden, zoooooom, jus like that Asian Bolt fella, A black guy runs by n grabs it right out of er hands.
"Woah!" I says, "Don't worry Miss! I won't stands for that. Not in my town!", and I takes off runnin with me hand on me hat after Rory (you remember the black fellow from before?). Yeah he don't do much for stereotypes, that Rory, but he gets the rent paid most times, and doesn't mind when me head forgets ta tell me body ta shower for a few days.
"Hey, Sid!", he says in his best angry black fella voice. "How come YOU always the one that's yappin away, lookin like a HEro, And I'm always the bad guy, huh?" He tosses me our new celly.
"Well for starters, yer about charmin as a week old dick blister, Rory" I says, "N second, you got a certain...gentic disposition fer your role on the team.
"You mean I'm black Sid. Is that it?"
"Ahhhhh, you knows I don't see race Rory, I says, putting me arm around is shoulder and smilin as I try to light a dart with me other and.
"Yeah right..." he mumbles as we walks towards the park. I sits down on a bench and my feet flop up in the air and then back down. I lean back with me arms on top of the bench. When whats do I see, but an ole friend cross the way. sleepin on another bench. His dirty dreadlocked beard, His one shoe. pretty sure we tossed the other in the fire the other night.
"Eh, Rory, isn't that our friend from the trainyard las week? The vagrant by the bin fire?" we ad beat that fellow proper las week. Disrespectin us he was. wouldn' share is booze with us he woudn'
"Yeah I reckon it is Siddy."
"Didn' he put in fer a wake up call ta night?"
"Think he did Siddy." Rory smiled a big shiny smile.
so we heads over to do what we seem to agree that he wants us ta do. when we gets there, we pulls out our willys. "Watch it with that thing Rory, we don'ts want to blind him, we just wants to wake im up." and then we starts to do what you can imagine it is that we set off to do. He starts to stir, and then he wakes up and starts to spit the finest piss in the county out on the ground like an ungrateful twat. "Wake up, you old fool, you're in a dream!!" I says laughin.
Then the old coot grabs me, and just as I'm about to give 'im a wallop, he grabs me and says "Thank you! Thank you!" Then he just up and disappears on me. Not just 'im though. Rory too. Then the park. Then the buildins. Then the stars. Then it's jus black. Can't even see me own and.
Then I can see the stars again, and my hands. But they're not MY hands. they're far too old. Now I can see a bin fire, and ....train cars? Am I back at the trainyard? But why is my hand so old? and why...I touch my face. Why do I have a beard......And....Who are those two guys walking towards me. They look an awful lot like Rory....and....well....me?
Note* I didn't proofread this. I'll probably do it tomorrow haha.
| |
[WP] You and some friends play the "wake up, you're in a dream" prank on random stranger. They reply, "Thanks!" and disappear. | He turned around and with but a glance, broke upon his face a smile.
Raised his hand and said his thanks, and vanished into the airy mile.
Standing, stopping, with creeping dread, as I try to wrap 'round my head,
The meaning of this sudden flight.
Quickened pace, a tingling shudder, suddenly seems crashing thunder,
And waves and echoes all catch alight.
Running now, never stopping while instances of the world continue dropping,
And too soon truth peeks with its dripping gore.
My entirety was non existent without that mind that once was persistent,
between the hours of nine to four.
As I stand, still it is crumbling. The universe, it's gone tumbling.
And pray and pine that he will return once more.
To be delivered and deliver, my hope it is but just a sliver.
I cannot afford to be anything but frank,
If I see him, without stopping, quick I'll seize him and moment dropping,
Inform him thusly, 'Bro it was just a prank."
| Yeah, Rory and me knew we was twats. But that's the whole point ain't it? Ta find someone who ya can share the trouble wit. I was waitin for 'im now actually, in a manner of speakin anyway. Ah look, an old Bag with a big purse. At'll do jus fine then. I walk toward er.
"Excuse me Miss. Seems, me old silver time teller, as about ad it!" I says while bendin at the waist, and putting my watch up to me ear and smilin. "Don't suppose you'd be avin an inklin on the time?"
"Oh, no young man, I don't have a watch." she said, shakin er wrist n tryin ta push past.
"Ah ah ah ha ah." I says, puttin me arm right across them granny fun bags. and lightly grabbin er shoulder. " Mighten ya be so kind as to take a quick gander at your phone for me, Love?" I says, gesturin towards the celly in er bag with me eyes and ed.
"Oh, alright" she says, in and angry uff, that sends a lil shiver down me willy.
She pulls it out. The celly, not me willy I means, and then all a sudden, zoooooom, jus like that Asian Bolt fella, A black guy runs by n grabs it right out of er hands.
"Woah!" I says, "Don't worry Miss! I won't stands for that. Not in my town!", and I takes off runnin with me hand on me hat after Rory (you remember the black fellow from before?). Yeah he don't do much for stereotypes, that Rory, but he gets the rent paid most times, and doesn't mind when me head forgets ta tell me body ta shower for a few days.
"Hey, Sid!", he says in his best angry black fella voice. "How come YOU always the one that's yappin away, lookin like a HEro, And I'm always the bad guy, huh?" He tosses me our new celly.
"Well for starters, yer about charmin as a week old dick blister, Rory" I says, "N second, you got a certain...gentic disposition fer your role on the team.
"You mean I'm black Sid. Is that it?"
"Ahhhhh, you knows I don't see race Rory, I says, putting me arm around is shoulder and smilin as I try to light a dart with me other and.
"Yeah right..." he mumbles as we walks towards the park. I sits down on a bench and my feet flop up in the air and then back down. I lean back with me arms on top of the bench. When whats do I see, but an ole friend cross the way. sleepin on another bench. His dirty dreadlocked beard, His one shoe. pretty sure we tossed the other in the fire the other night.
"Eh, Rory, isn't that our friend from the trainyard las week? The vagrant by the bin fire?" we ad beat that fellow proper las week. Disrespectin us he was. wouldn' share is booze with us he woudn'
"Yeah I reckon it is Siddy."
"Didn' he put in fer a wake up call ta night?"
"Think he did Siddy." Rory smiled a big shiny smile.
so we heads over to do what we seem to agree that he wants us ta do. when we gets there, we pulls out our willys. "Watch it with that thing Rory, we don'ts want to blind him, we just wants to wake im up." and then we starts to do what you can imagine it is that we set off to do. He starts to stir, and then he wakes up and starts to spit the finest piss in the county out on the ground like an ungrateful twat. "Wake up, you old fool, you're in a dream!!" I says laughin.
Then the old coot grabs me, and just as I'm about to give 'im a wallop, he grabs me and says "Thank you! Thank you!" Then he just up and disappears on me. Not just 'im though. Rory too. Then the park. Then the buildins. Then the stars. Then it's jus black. Can't even see me own and.
Then I can see the stars again, and my hands. But they're not MY hands. they're far too old. Now I can see a bin fire, and ....train cars? Am I back at the trainyard? But why is my hand so old? and why...I touch my face. Why do I have a beard......And....Who are those two guys walking towards me. They look an awful lot like Rory....and....well....me?
Note* I didn't proofread this. I'll probably do it tomorrow haha.
| |
[WP] You and some friends play the "wake up, you're in a dream" prank on random stranger. They reply, "Thanks!" and disappear. | It came to me in the middle of class, a quiet shout in my brain that told me it was time to wake up. I didn’t heed it, assuming it was just one of my daily intrusive thoughts, but something in my mind told me it was important. When I turned to write a practice problem on the board, I tried to write the words from the textbook but all I could leave were traces of chalk that spelled out “WAKE UP” over and over again. I turned around, staring at the class. They were all looking at me, confused, some even seeming afraid of what was happening.
I spoke, not of my own volition. “You need to wake up. This is a dream. Wake up.”
The confused stares increased. Then the kid in the back corner of the room, I could never remember his name, just vanished. No noise, nothing. One second he was there and then the next he wasn’t. One by one, each of the other students were just… gone.
The voice in my head spoke again, telling me to wake up. I ran from classroom to classroom, asking each of my colleagues to tell me to wake up, as I couldn’t seem to do it myself. Each one looked at me for a moment, then popped out of existence. I had a trail of students in my path, running after me in confusion and terror over the loss of their professors. Every time I turned around to talk to them, more and more would disappear.
By the time I made it to the end of the hallway, everyone else was gone. Everyone else had woken up. Why couldn’t I just wake up? | i was only 25 when we did this, a couple of guys and I from our boring office jobs decided to go out one day and play a prank on a random office worker. Seemed innocent enough until one of our workers decided to drug her coffee, she collapsed on the floor and we dragged her into the toilets.
when she awoke, we tried to calm her down by telling her it was only a dream; Her face light up, bright red and her hands and arms started to fade away into nothingness, then her face went then her legs leaving nothing but a blank face and her torso. "what the fuck john?" I yelled in a panic, the other workers and i dragged her to the corridor but she already melted before we reached the bathroom door.
we tried to tell the boss about it, here is how it went.
Dave: "um, sir?"
The Boss: "Yes?"
Dave: "Amanda, well... i'm not sure how to tell you, but she melted away"
The Boss: "Who's Amanda?"
Me: "the secretary"
The Boss: "Are you having a laugh? no one called Amanda works here!"
My face went pale, I had no idea what to say, I speed walked to where she worked and just as i had thought, none of her stuff was there.
"Please tell me this is a joke" I thought to myself, i was loosing my mind at that point, I wasn't sure if I was stuck in a dream and would wake up or if it was reality. I started laughing at myself.
| |
[WP] You and some friends play the "wake up, you're in a dream" prank on random stranger. They reply, "Thanks!" and disappear. | It came to me in the middle of class, a quiet shout in my brain that told me it was time to wake up. I didn’t heed it, assuming it was just one of my daily intrusive thoughts, but something in my mind told me it was important. When I turned to write a practice problem on the board, I tried to write the words from the textbook but all I could leave were traces of chalk that spelled out “WAKE UP” over and over again. I turned around, staring at the class. They were all looking at me, confused, some even seeming afraid of what was happening.
I spoke, not of my own volition. “You need to wake up. This is a dream. Wake up.”
The confused stares increased. Then the kid in the back corner of the room, I could never remember his name, just vanished. No noise, nothing. One second he was there and then the next he wasn’t. One by one, each of the other students were just… gone.
The voice in my head spoke again, telling me to wake up. I ran from classroom to classroom, asking each of my colleagues to tell me to wake up, as I couldn’t seem to do it myself. Each one looked at me for a moment, then popped out of existence. I had a trail of students in my path, running after me in confusion and terror over the loss of their professors. Every time I turned around to talk to them, more and more would disappear.
By the time I made it to the end of the hallway, everyone else was gone. Everyone else had woken up. Why couldn’t I just wake up? | There were three of us. A scant group, but we were sure we could pull it off.
Sadie, Hilario, and I were in the Grum School of Arts, performance majors, juniors.
Hilario was probably most outwardly excited. He was just so *eager*. Just couldn't wait for something like this -- he considered it something of a public performance.
However, I? I've been waiting for this my whole life. At least, it feels that way. As our performance drew nearer, I, in my internalized mirth, tried to pour my anxiety and anticipation into memories of similar conquests. Something that confirmed that I've done and can do this again, something that can absorb all of the anxiety and confirm that I could do this again. Anything. But, somehow, everything seemed blank. I don't recall ever having this sensation. Well, not quite blank, not quite emptiness--more, that hazy incorporeality... Like... I don't know. It was a weird time, the moments that led up to us playing this prank. I figured I was just nervous
So, here's how it's done. There's this night club, it's called The Mansion, on Killingsly. It's an after-hours joint, popular mostly because it's open later than almost all the others. Just about every Friday and Saturday, there's someone that ends up passed out nearby. In an alley, on a bench, in the park, wherever it is, someone always drinks too much. The perfect mark. They're always disoriented and probably high--with the right performance, they will totally get absorbed into little, I don't know, alternate reality we create for them.
We did it on a Friday night. It was Hilario first--he just couldn't wait--then me, then Sadie.
We waited around until like 4 a.m., then started looking. It wasn't until 5 that we found someone.
It was a young woman on a bench. She was dressed well, short dress, short heels parked adjacent to the bench; clearly, her feet were sore from dancing. She was fast asleep, her cheeks flush with liquor, and she was drooling. Man, she was out, and loving it. She looked completely comfortable on this entirely uncomfortable-looking wooden bench in the middle of nothing between a playground and the path outside. Oh my god, I thought, what if we were predators? I felt, at that point, that we were doing her a favor. She was completely vulnerable, and anything could have happened. She could have been robbed, raped, any other "r" word... ravaged, I don't know... but, no, she was going to be pranked. Hopefully this makes her go home.
Okay, okay, I'm rationalizing. I felt a little guilty fucking with someone's head like that, but seriously, thank god we were there. Hopefully this makes her go home. I didn't realize the reality of what we were doing, the reality of what we were going to see... at the time, I was sympathetic in a way.
Hilario sidled up to her and gently shook her. She murmured. I was in the bushes probably five yards away, and Sadie was behind the bench near the playground just hanging back. Hilario then shook her violently.
"Wha--what? Mar?" she said gently, breathily, probably figuring she was being awoken at a friend's place, where she belongs.
"No, my dear, it isn't Mar. It isn't Mar at all," was Hilario's reply. I have to admit: I love his enthusiasm.
"What? A man? Who..?" she inquired, unsure.
"You must wake up. You have to wake up now," said Hilario with conviction. He bore deep into her half-open, half-awake eyes.
"Where...?" said a bewildered bench sleeper.
"Wake up. You must find a way to wake up. This is a dream, and it is one you must wake up from," said Hilario. Clearly, we should have agreed on a story line. It would have been so much better, seeing it happen, and realizing that what he was saying was so devoid of real preparation.
*I'll fix it when it's my turn,* I figured. Some sort of safe arc. Find your way to your friend's couch to awaken back to reality? That would make it seem so much more real, too; she would probably pass out there and wake up with little recollection. Oh, man. Made me want to wait outside her friend's place just to see what happened when she woke up. Pity that would make me seem like such a creeper.
"What...? I'm... I'm awake. I'm awake. What do you need?" she replied, her voice groggy with a tinge of frustration.
"You must wake. You are dreaming. Wake up now," said Hilario as he backed away into bushes behind him.
"Wha...?" was her bewildered reply. This was my queue.
"You must wake," I started. I was walking out of the bushes toward her, as she continued to stare toward the bushes into which Hilario disappeared. "It is time for you to wake up. You're dreaming, and it is time for this dream to end."
"What... why?" she asked. Quite unexpectedly, I might add.
"Because it is no longer time to sleep," I replied, having nothing else.
Her eyes were lidded, placid, almost euphoric.
"This is a dream?" she inquired, a smile drawing on her face.
"Yes," I replied, trying to sound as curt and official as possible.
"Come here," she replied, with a tone that was nothing more than curiosity.
I walked toward her. She raised her arms until they were horizontal with the ground, stretching out to me. Once I was upon her, she touched my forearms just blow my elbows and gently drew them toward her.
"You feel real," she said, her fingertips gently sending shivers up my spine.
"I..." I said, barely able to formulate a reply before she interjected.
"You're so warm, so real," she said, her fingertips caressing the tops of my hands before clasping them.
"I'm... I'm as real as you make me," I replied. I was trying to come to my senses, and this was the best I could do.
"You're so real," she replied. "And, handsome."
I was stricken. "I... So are you," I replied dumbly.
"Maybe I'm not though," she replied, holding both hands, looking deep into my eyes.
"Maybe neither of us are," I said, my voice breathy now, my eyes pouring just as deeply into hers.
"Hopefully not," she replied as her arms began to draw me in, her grip just slightly tighter on my hands. "Let's not be real."
"Likely not. Y-you're dreaming," I replied as my face drew closer to hers.
She stopped pulling me once my face we level with hers. She was propped up on one elbow, on her side, and I was crouching. "Tell me what this dream means," she said, her eyes boring into mine.
"You, uh... I..." I said, unable to speak.
"What?" she said, her eyes igniting, a smile gently growing on her lips.
"You must... you must get to your... to the..." how in the hell do I tell her to get to her friend's couch?! I was dumbstruck.
"Where? Tell me," she said gently, never breaking eye contact.
"To... to your friend's couch," said.
"My... what?" She said, but not as though she didn't hear me, but more as though she switched gears and was confused.
"Get to your friend's couch and wake up," I said, more confidently. Purpose brings reason, perhaps. But, I think she started really waking up at this point. She sat up and looked at me. We shared a silent moment. Then, finally,
"Go to who's house?"
Oh, man. Perfect question. What the fuck was happening right now? I didn't know what to say, of course. I was confused, allured, and somewhat seduced.
"The moment is coming," I replied cryptically. Then I began to back away.
"Wait!" she exclaimed.
"What??" I exclaimed back.
"Don't go," she replied. Her eyes never left mine. Mine probably hadn't left hers; didn't remember them shifting.
"But... it's time to wake up," I replied, desperate.
"Maybe I don't want to," she replied matter-of-factly.
"Me neither," I replied, dumbstruck.
"Then, lets not," she replied, drawing me closer to her.
"Wait!" I exclaimed, my eyes wide, my breath short.
"What??" she replied.
"You're definitely dreaming and you definitely need to wake up," I replied, shaken.
"No," she said, as she drew me closer.
"WAKE! UP!" shouted Sadie, hovering over us.
The woman then shot up ramrod straight, her legs together, her hands at her side, her eyes open wide.
It was right then that everything was nothing and nothing was everything.
As soon as Sadie shouted, at was as though the world around everyone blurred... soon, we were no longer amidst reality, and I felt the same blank numbness I was trying to reason myself away from when I tried to recollect my own history. There was nothing; I felt nothing but the sinking, rising anxious feeling in my abdomen one feels on a roller coaster. It was black, it was blurry, then it was white... then blurry again, which eventually focused into some situation where I was in a room with this little boy.
What?
Where was I?
Something shifted. I looked toward him, on the bed. She was hidden under his covers, shivering. Something again shifted; it was under his bed.
"What the fuck is that?" I asked, shocked.
"Don't say that, it's a bad word," said the kid under the covers.
"What?" I replied incredulously.
"That's a bad word, Binky, and bad words just make it worse," he replied. Something snaked out from under the bed then disappeared back under it. I was confused and a little worried. Above all else--where was I? | |
[WP] You and some friends play the "wake up, you're in a dream" prank on random stranger. They reply, "Thanks!" and disappear. | "Hey! Jace, come check this out!"
"Wh-whoa. Hold up. Did he just...?"
"Yeah, man. I told you! This is the fourth time it's happened this week! Ask these guys, they'll vouch for my sanity."
Jace turned to Autumn's friends, who were all hi-fiving and exclaiming joyously.
"...Damion. Am I right to believe that he actually just disappeared?"
Damion turned to look at Jace, a perplexed but unafraid look in his eyes.
"Listen, man. Ever since we pulled that prank on the guy we met out drinking (Robert, Roland, something?) last week, and we thought something had been slipped in our drinks, we've tried it on a bunch of other people. I guess we felt like we were on to something and well, that was exciting. Now that I realize we weren't wrong, it's...not even frightening. The very notion that a dreaming human can enter the world we experience while awake says something very powerful about a subconscious that may very well be quite conscious after all. Personally, I want to find out more about this phenomenon. For example, if I was having sex with someone, during which I told them they were dreaming, and it turned out they really were, would I be pulled into some other level of reality due to our intensely intimate connection at the point of realization? Would my energy find its way to her corporeal body, intertwined with her subconscious projection as it is? Or would she tingle away, like static all over my fingertips and cock?"
Jace stared blankly at Damion with a twitching smirk appearing at the corner of his mouth. "Huh. I don't know, Damion. Interdimensional cock-tingles sound like a real fantastic experience though."
"Seriously though. There are people all around us, dreaming about their waking life, dreaming about it so vividly that they are projecting all they perceive themselves to be into our waking world! What do you think that says about the way they live their lives?"
"Well, I think...I think it says...their lives are monotonous, maybe? And all they know is the monotony of society, down to their deepest places."
Damion nodded. "Doesn't that scare you?"
Jace looked down and blinked rapidly, trying to stay calm while accepting a new view of his world that shattered most of the confines he'd acclimated to so comfortably.
"It does, man. I wouldn't want that happening to me."
Jace looked up upon feeling a hand on his shoulder.
"Well, personally", Damion began, "It fills me with unimaginable excitement to know that, with six words, I have forever broken the cycle that these people have been experiencing. I jarred them so, that their eyes opened wide, and their tired neurons once more fired high and hard, and they were given a glimpse of the vastness of themselves, of ourselves, of our world and being. Something they know happened, that they'll never forget, never ignore. And someday, they may seek me out and say something like 'Look where I am now, Damion. Being awake is dope' or some shit, and they'd be accomplished and enslaved no more. Call it cheesy, cliche or pointless, but the idea that we can jar someone THAT hard gives me hope. Hell, the idea that this is even possible gives me hope."
Awarding his fervent speech with all Jace could gather himself to express, a slight nod, a puff of air out the nose and a smile, Damion winked and turned around to the rest of his friends, who had just finished their three-part theory on Dreamwalking, as they dubbed it.
"Guys. GUYS!"
They all turned in response.
"I think this needs further looking in to. Let's try it different ways and see what kind of results we can come up with. There's got to be loads more wandering around out there. And it looks like we can help." | It's said that time follows a continual, steady passage.
But when 2 instances on opposite sides of perception flip in only a moment, it's as if a man traveled from the Earth to the outer reaches of the galaxy in a moment's pass.
It seems inherently impossible for this single moment to be a piece of a continuous phenomena. Rather, it's as if moments had gone unexperienced, cut out by the mind's limited scope.
Such was my mind when the living, breathing man said "Thanks!" and transformed into a whispy cloud of smoke, invisible to the eye, but not to the head.
The simple telling of a meaningless prank earns title as the harbinger of this man's change.
"You're in a dream, wake up," I had casually piped out to the stranger of a man.
But he disappeared. Perhaps he awoke.
And now I'm left to ponder if I'm the one failing to see the 3rd side of time's coin. It's a damn shame, then, that I can't seem to wake up. | |
[WP] You and some friends play the "wake up, you're in a dream" prank on random stranger. They reply, "Thanks!" and disappear. | He turned around and with but a glance, broke upon his face a smile.
Raised his hand and said his thanks, and vanished into the airy mile.
Standing, stopping, with creeping dread, as I try to wrap 'round my head,
The meaning of this sudden flight.
Quickened pace, a tingling shudder, suddenly seems crashing thunder,
And waves and echoes all catch alight.
Running now, never stopping while instances of the world continue dropping,
And too soon truth peeks with its dripping gore.
My entirety was non existent without that mind that once was persistent,
between the hours of nine to four.
As I stand, still it is crumbling. The universe, it's gone tumbling.
And pray and pine that he will return once more.
To be delivered and deliver, my hope it is but just a sliver.
I cannot afford to be anything but frank,
If I see him, without stopping, quick I'll seize him and moment dropping,
Inform him thusly, 'Bro it was just a prank."
| It's said that time follows a continual, steady passage.
But when 2 instances on opposite sides of perception flip in only a moment, it's as if a man traveled from the Earth to the outer reaches of the galaxy in a moment's pass.
It seems inherently impossible for this single moment to be a piece of a continuous phenomena. Rather, it's as if moments had gone unexperienced, cut out by the mind's limited scope.
Such was my mind when the living, breathing man said "Thanks!" and transformed into a whispy cloud of smoke, invisible to the eye, but not to the head.
The simple telling of a meaningless prank earns title as the harbinger of this man's change.
"You're in a dream, wake up," I had casually piped out to the stranger of a man.
But he disappeared. Perhaps he awoke.
And now I'm left to ponder if I'm the one failing to see the 3rd side of time's coin. It's a damn shame, then, that I can't seem to wake up. | |
[WP] You and some friends play the "wake up, you're in a dream" prank on random stranger. They reply, "Thanks!" and disappear. | He turned around and with but a glance, broke upon his face a smile.
Raised his hand and said his thanks, and vanished into the airy mile.
Standing, stopping, with creeping dread, as I try to wrap 'round my head,
The meaning of this sudden flight.
Quickened pace, a tingling shudder, suddenly seems crashing thunder,
And waves and echoes all catch alight.
Running now, never stopping while instances of the world continue dropping,
And too soon truth peeks with its dripping gore.
My entirety was non existent without that mind that once was persistent,
between the hours of nine to four.
As I stand, still it is crumbling. The universe, it's gone tumbling.
And pray and pine that he will return once more.
To be delivered and deliver, my hope it is but just a sliver.
I cannot afford to be anything but frank,
If I see him, without stopping, quick I'll seize him and moment dropping,
Inform him thusly, 'Bro it was just a prank."
| I checked my watch. It was 3:84. Our flight left in 45 minutes. Jim sat in the chair beside me, clumsily pawing at his phone. I elbowed him and pointed at some knob in a tweed jacket pulling on one of those wheeled knapsacks. He went down a set of double doors at the end of the waiting area.
“Yo, look at that asshole over there.”
“Where do you think he’s going?”
“Dunno. Nobody told him that hallway goes on forever?”
Jim shrugged and went back to his phone. I counted the tiles on the floor. I got to 57 before I realized I would never finish the first row. Jim nudged me this time. I looked up and saw him pointing a claw at that same set of doors. The man from earlier exited them momentarily after, his face red in frustration.
“Come, check this one out.” Jim was standing up. “I’ll get him good.”
He started off without waiting. I shot up out of my seat and slid along over to him. We intercepted the man before he could try another exit.
“Hello?” he said.
“Have you figured it out yet?” Jim said.
“What?” the man replied, or at least I think he did. No sound came out of his mouth.
“You’re in a dream!” Jim said, waving his fingers and hands in the air slowly at the same time. The man’s brow furrowed in confusion. He then looked down at the back of his hand, watching his skin shift and morph in the usual patterns. His eyes widened, like he had never seen anything like it before. Then he looked back at us, his expression now a cross between disgust and shock, and then it faded, replaced by one of contentment.
“Thanks!” he said, mouth suddenly working now. He waved enthusiastically as he began to fade. A second later and there was nothing but air in the space he had been standing. Jim pointed at his bag.
"He left that behind.”
I slid over and picked it up with one tentacle. We walked back to our seats.
“He really ruined the fun, disappearing and all that.” Jim said.
I made the closest approximation to a shrug that my tentacles would allow.
“What a weird guy.” | |
[WP] You and some friends play the "wake up, you're in a dream" prank on random stranger. They reply, "Thanks!" and disappear. | He turned around and with but a glance, broke upon his face a smile.
Raised his hand and said his thanks, and vanished into the airy mile.
Standing, stopping, with creeping dread, as I try to wrap 'round my head,
The meaning of this sudden flight.
Quickened pace, a tingling shudder, suddenly seems crashing thunder,
And waves and echoes all catch alight.
Running now, never stopping while instances of the world continue dropping,
And too soon truth peeks with its dripping gore.
My entirety was non existent without that mind that once was persistent,
between the hours of nine to four.
As I stand, still it is crumbling. The universe, it's gone tumbling.
And pray and pine that he will return once more.
To be delivered and deliver, my hope it is but just a sliver.
I cannot afford to be anything but frank,
If I see him, without stopping, quick I'll seize him and moment dropping,
Inform him thusly, 'Bro it was just a prank."
| "Hey! Jace, come check this out!"
"Wh-whoa. Hold up. Did he just...?"
"Yeah, man. I told you! This is the fourth time it's happened this week! Ask these guys, they'll vouch for my sanity."
Jace turned to Autumn's friends, who were all hi-fiving and exclaiming joyously.
"...Damion. Am I right to believe that he actually just disappeared?"
Damion turned to look at Jace, a perplexed but unafraid look in his eyes.
"Listen, man. Ever since we pulled that prank on the guy we met out drinking (Robert, Roland, something?) last week, and we thought something had been slipped in our drinks, we've tried it on a bunch of other people. I guess we felt like we were on to something and well, that was exciting. Now that I realize we weren't wrong, it's...not even frightening. The very notion that a dreaming human can enter the world we experience while awake says something very powerful about a subconscious that may very well be quite conscious after all. Personally, I want to find out more about this phenomenon. For example, if I was having sex with someone, during which I told them they were dreaming, and it turned out they really were, would I be pulled into some other level of reality due to our intensely intimate connection at the point of realization? Would my energy find its way to her corporeal body, intertwined with her subconscious projection as it is? Or would she tingle away, like static all over my fingertips and cock?"
Jace stared blankly at Damion with a twitching smirk appearing at the corner of his mouth. "Huh. I don't know, Damion. Interdimensional cock-tingles sound like a real fantastic experience though."
"Seriously though. There are people all around us, dreaming about their waking life, dreaming about it so vividly that they are projecting all they perceive themselves to be into our waking world! What do you think that says about the way they live their lives?"
"Well, I think...I think it says...their lives are monotonous, maybe? And all they know is the monotony of society, down to their deepest places."
Damion nodded. "Doesn't that scare you?"
Jace looked down and blinked rapidly, trying to stay calm while accepting a new view of his world that shattered most of the confines he'd acclimated to so comfortably.
"It does, man. I wouldn't want that happening to me."
Jace looked up upon feeling a hand on his shoulder.
"Well, personally", Damion began, "It fills me with unimaginable excitement to know that, with six words, I have forever broken the cycle that these people have been experiencing. I jarred them so, that their eyes opened wide, and their tired neurons once more fired high and hard, and they were given a glimpse of the vastness of themselves, of ourselves, of our world and being. Something they know happened, that they'll never forget, never ignore. And someday, they may seek me out and say something like 'Look where I am now, Damion. Being awake is dope' or some shit, and they'd be accomplished and enslaved no more. Call it cheesy, cliche or pointless, but the idea that we can jar someone THAT hard gives me hope. Hell, the idea that this is even possible gives me hope."
Awarding his fervent speech with all Jace could gather himself to express, a slight nod, a puff of air out the nose and a smile, Damion winked and turned around to the rest of his friends, who had just finished their three-part theory on Dreamwalking, as they dubbed it.
"Guys. GUYS!"
They all turned in response.
"I think this needs further looking in to. Let's try it different ways and see what kind of results we can come up with. There's got to be loads more wandering around out there. And it looks like we can help." | |
[WP] You and some friends play the "wake up, you're in a dream" prank on random stranger. They reply, "Thanks!" and disappear. | It was just another day at the apartment for the Nguyen and Martinez bros. Another boring Sunday of the two lounging around on the couch, eyes mindlessly set on the TV. A brief release of air and a quick smirk exchanged whenever a comical scene arose. Mark was first to break the silence, “Yo bro, let’s do something.”
 
“Sure, what.”
 
“I don’t know man. Something.”
 
Another hour passed. The time was 3 PM and the sun was starting to get low. The winter hours leave little room for daylight. My leg was getting numb so I decided to get up and do some stretches. “Think of anything yet Mark?”
 
A short pause followed as Mark continued to stare at the screen, “Nope.”
 
“How bout we go to Centennial and just walk around for a bit. Better than nothing.”
 
“Aight.” Mark runs to put on his shoes and winter attire. I do the same. Soon enough we’re out the door and on our way.
 
The trees in the apartment complex still had inklings of leaves hanging on for dear life from the winter chill. The rest, whatever not already picked up by the maintenance staff, littered the roads and sidewalk, painting the ground a bright, rich tint of brown. Not much of a winter wonderland here. Some of the leaves were fresh and the light crunch under our feet was an oddly satisfying distraction from the silence between the two of us as we walked. It wasn’t awkward. We just have a mutual understanding that there’s nothing to talk about and focus on the walking at hand. Selfishly taking in what little enjoyment there was in the scenery.
 
Finally at the north entrance to the park, we cruise in like smooth criminals. Little kids running around, tourists taking their holiday photos, bums sleeping on benches; just another Sunday. I look at Mark for a second and see his face light up and then settle down in a grin. It’s the same face he always makes when he’s scheming. “Yo, bro. I got an idea. You see that guy over there,” he points at a bum sleeping on a bench. “Let’s go prank him.” He shoots me a double-eyebrow raise, insisting that I go through with his little plan. I’m quick to dismiss his silly plan but then after a quick pause I think to myself, what’s there to lose?
 
The plan was to disturb the bum in his sleep, convince him he was dreaming and then once there was confirmation that he believed us, Mark would jump in and yell, “PRANKED!” Everything went smoothly. I grabbed a nearby fallen branch and hid myself behind the bench. Reaching over the bench, I proceeded to tickle the man’s noise. The first attempt failed but I kept trying. He mumbled a little as he began to awake from his slumber, “Hmm..uh..hm..where am I?”
 
“Shhh…this is all a dream,” I whisper from behind the bench. I send the signal to Mark to go. Mark begins to causally walk towards us until he was within range. Mark then leaped into the air and violently landed in front of the bum with a crotch chop taunt.
 
“PRANKED!”
 
The dazed man was startled awake. He vigorously looked around at his surroundings while the two of us could no longer control our laughter. Soon his motions slowed and a smile grew on his face. Noticing this, we both slow our laughter and look at the man.
 
“Thanks,” he said with an earnest smile as he began to disappear. All that was left was the two of us staring at an empty bench. We look at each other in confusion.
 
“Pranked?” | Which wasn't that odd. People have "super powers." I'm hip to 2037. I know you can engineer stuff like that. the odd part is the smell. It was like a mix between raw eggs, mcdonalds fries, and burnt toast.
Burnt toast? Were you having a stroke?
No, it legit smelled like burnt toast. idgi. It was weird. I've seen people with disappearing devices before, in real life, too. This just had a strange odor to it.
We collected his left-over-burnt-toasting-smelling clothes and headed to the park. Flick, who is made up for this story, wanted to burn them.
Why make up flick? Mark wanted to burn the clothes. Why lie about it?
Shut up, I'm telling the story. So, Flick wanted to burn the clothes. I had this zippo that dad willed to me after he died in iraq in an explosion a quarter century ago. I didn't smoke pot, and cigarettes had been banned for a 1/2 dozen years now, but it was a reminder.
Not of him, just of how cold and hard metal felt. I have a hobby of feeling things- dolphin skin is my favorite texture. It's not -that- weird, people still dress up like president West in lingerie and take illicit photos to get their crazy fixes.
Your getting off topic.
I'd love to get off. I'm sorry, Okay, So Mark wanted to light the clothes on fire. We arrived at the 61st park as the drones were being sent out. I hadn't been to the park since it became illegal not to be present in a public place without proper verification, but, fuck it, right?
Its funny because it's so serene there, you know? Actual grass, REAL trees, and the only feeling it inspired was discomfort. How messed up am I to prefer the stench of smoke and the bland color palate of an Xbox 360 game found on the other side of the park walls?
topic, bruh, you're losing it.
No. I'm not. In the clearing the grass was perfect. I'd bet each blade was the same length and all at equal distance from one another. I wanted to touch it. to feel it. I laid down on the grass. For a brief moment, I could only hear myself breathe.
it was brief though.
DID YOU BURN THE CLOTHES?
No.
I buried them. I buried them and walked home. I could have fallen asleep in the grass forever. But i wanted to smell smog again.
| |
[WP] You and some friends play the "wake up, you're in a dream" prank on random stranger. They reply, "Thanks!" and disappear. | There lived a man whose purpose was singular but not impossible. This purpose arose from the observation that the verbs to live and to dream, according to Idealism, are precise synonyms. He wanted to dream a man. Not any man, however, but a man identical to himself. This fetish could be explained as a natural extension of his profession as philosopher. His opportunities to impose himself on reality were few and far between. His life was a series of consolations. “There will be time. There will be time. There will be time yet; time for a million indecisions and decisions.”
This effort exhausted him. In time there was not one event or thought that did not owe its existence to the effort. Events that happened decades before became mere foreshadowing. His failed marriage transformed itself into trimming for his attempt to inhabit his dream world and so reality with an exact, moving replica of himself. What little sustenance he required was delivered to him by his son who, like his marriage, was reduced to an image foretelling the exact capacity of the man to define himself down to the last, single hair.
The main obstacle to his task were his dreams. They resisted all attempts at consecration. They seemed to want to discuss things with him. They spent their time distracting him. He was forced to slaughter them all and offer their corpses to the altar that he had built in his mind. This altar, to aid his dreaming, he recreated in his house. As opposed to its twin it was clean lines that were unblemished by viscera or blood.
He had no guidance but he carried out what he knew to be true, inexplicable as it was, day after day. During the night he dreamt of a man, much like himself, in a house very like the one he now slept in. He fought, he struggled and he groaned with the effort to make one limb, one digit and eventually one hair stand out in detail. He sacrificed portions of soul, which he sent on their supernatural course. When he awoke in the morning on the altar was a small pool of water. He drank from it gratefully. There was no food, but around the house he ate several small insects.
But the man in his dreams was not him. He could not make him himself. For this reason he changed his tactic. There was no reason to inflict on the world the insult of doubling. If he was the potter, there was no reason for him to make his own clay. The universe was infinite and varied. Therefore he would create a shell and this shell, no matter how imperfect, he would offer to the universe of the dream to be inhabited. He first imagined the general outlines, the concept. The idea of this separate man he crystallized and reinforced. Details were ignored, and in the dark he waited. He had no idea what he waited for but he held the thought up above himself and begged for progress. Nothing answered back.
In time dream and life blended together. He lost his wife, his son and even those who first helped his nourishment, of them that were left, finally deserted him.
One day, or perhaps night, he succeeded. The first words uttered by the man asked where he was.
The creator replied. No one escapes. Not even the man who believed he was chosen to do so, for when the dark came down he cried out, “Father, Father, why have you forsaken me?” No answer came.
The created sat down, his heart a dynamo pumping slow vibrations through his body. Eventually dull-white time passed, indistinguishable from the dull-white map he now walked. Leaning his head against the altar wall he fell asleep with home behind his shoulderblades. He dreamt of cheerful noises and the night’s stars. He wanted to go back.
As the two sat looking at each other the doorbell rang. Celebratory pizza. The two stood up, the first from experience the second from instinct, and went to the door. There were three young men. They smelled somewhat like a music festival. They looked at the two with three pairs of red rimmed eyes. They held a red box in front of them like an offering. The five stared at each other for a moment. Then one of them, giggling softly, offered up a lame ice breaker. “Wake up, you’re in a dream!”
The house disappeared. The world disappeared. In a moment all was changed. But the door was the same. The three friends were the same. Yet they now saw only one man peering out from inside the house. They could not tell what one had disappeared. I can not either.
| Which wasn't that odd. People have "super powers." I'm hip to 2037. I know you can engineer stuff like that. the odd part is the smell. It was like a mix between raw eggs, mcdonalds fries, and burnt toast.
Burnt toast? Were you having a stroke?
No, it legit smelled like burnt toast. idgi. It was weird. I've seen people with disappearing devices before, in real life, too. This just had a strange odor to it.
We collected his left-over-burnt-toasting-smelling clothes and headed to the park. Flick, who is made up for this story, wanted to burn them.
Why make up flick? Mark wanted to burn the clothes. Why lie about it?
Shut up, I'm telling the story. So, Flick wanted to burn the clothes. I had this zippo that dad willed to me after he died in iraq in an explosion a quarter century ago. I didn't smoke pot, and cigarettes had been banned for a 1/2 dozen years now, but it was a reminder.
Not of him, just of how cold and hard metal felt. I have a hobby of feeling things- dolphin skin is my favorite texture. It's not -that- weird, people still dress up like president West in lingerie and take illicit photos to get their crazy fixes.
Your getting off topic.
I'd love to get off. I'm sorry, Okay, So Mark wanted to light the clothes on fire. We arrived at the 61st park as the drones were being sent out. I hadn't been to the park since it became illegal not to be present in a public place without proper verification, but, fuck it, right?
Its funny because it's so serene there, you know? Actual grass, REAL trees, and the only feeling it inspired was discomfort. How messed up am I to prefer the stench of smoke and the bland color palate of an Xbox 360 game found on the other side of the park walls?
topic, bruh, you're losing it.
No. I'm not. In the clearing the grass was perfect. I'd bet each blade was the same length and all at equal distance from one another. I wanted to touch it. to feel it. I laid down on the grass. For a brief moment, I could only hear myself breathe.
it was brief though.
DID YOU BURN THE CLOTHES?
No.
I buried them. I buried them and walked home. I could have fallen asleep in the grass forever. But i wanted to smell smog again.
| |
[WP] You and some friends play the "wake up, you're in a dream" prank on random stranger. They reply, "Thanks!" and disappear. | "I'm on drugs *all the time*."
"Uh-huh."
"Really. All the time. I'm high right now."
"I understand."
"Do you? Because I mean all the time. I ask my roommate to wake me up around 3 so I don't sober up in my
sleep."
"That's very disturbing."
"I'm saying."
Dr. Becker lowered his glasses at me. "Is that why you made this appointment? Do you wanna talk about your drug
addiction?"
"I don't have a drug addiction," I replied. "I'm just on drugs all the time. Were you not listening?"
"Of course."
"I like to be on drugs all the time, and I've done it for years. That's very different than being an addict. Is that clear?"
"Of course."
I paused, waiting for him to continue. He sighed. "So why did you feel the need to consult a psychiatrist?"
Ok, the hard part. I straightened myself on the chair. "I'm having a hard time differentiating between reality and…
*not reality.*"
"You mean hallucinations?"
"I don't know, Doc, can you call them hallucinations if they persist for days?"
He leaned towards me and crossed his fingers in front of his face in that gesture that indicates that he has a degree and I don't. "Why don't you tell me about what you've been seeing?"
"Ok… I was high the other night, so me and my roommate decided to play a prank on his girlfriend."
"Ok."
"He was high too."
"Ok."
"Also, she was high."
"I got it, everyone was high."
"No, our other roommate was sober. But we don't play with him."
Dr. Becker sighed.
I continued, "Anyway, the prank was I was supposed to come out of my room and say 'this is a dream guys, wake
up!' and then my roommate would fall unconscious, so his girlfriend would think they were in a dream. You know, to freak her out."
"Classic."
"Yeah, right? Except when I did say that, before my roommate could actually pretend to faint, his girlfriend
disappeared."
There was silence. Long, awkward silence. Long, awkward 'I might have to call security' silence.
"She disappeared?"
"Out of thin air. And we haven’t seen her since."
"How long ago was this?"
"Four days. Or five, I'm not sure. I've been doing a lot more drugs since that happened. You know, to calm my nerves."
Dr. Becker raised his eyebrows. "Ok… and you want some advice on how to deal with the fact that your drug…
*habit*… is causing you to see people disape –"
"No, no. I just wanna test this on someone else. You see, Barbara – that's my roommate's girl – Barbara used to
deal with occult stuff, Wicca, Aleister Crowley, all that shit. We think that may be why she disappeared but me and my roommate didn't. I Googled you, and you used to do that alternative medicine crap, right? Energy shit and pentagrams and all that, right?"
Dr. Becker seemed uncomfortable all of a sudden. "That was a long time ago. I stepped away from all that. Now I am a just a licensed doct –"
"So I wanted to try this shit on someone who's dealt with that crap and see what happens."
Becker paused. "And you're not here to deal with the fact that maybe your constant drug use may have caused you
to imagine that experience?"
"Well, no. Like I said, I've been doing drugs for years. It never caused anyone to disappear. Are you even listening, doctor?"
Dr. Becker leaned back. "Look, mister, I can't really --"
"Hang on, this will just take a second." I leaned forward. "This is a dream, Dr. Becker. Wake up."
Dr. Becker paused.
Like… literally, not as in a storytelling device, when someone writes "character x paused" to give rhythm to a sentence and set the tone for the next bit of dialogue.
No. Dr. Becker *actually* paused, like a video. Like a nip-slip in that red carpet event you TiVoed. He paused like the extended edition Mordor battle scene when you need to pee.
He paused and his glasses fell off from his nose.
Then he disappeared out of thin air.
"Dr. Becker, your five o'clock is here," came the receptionist's voice through his answering machine, talking to
nothing.
And I said, "Fuck," and ran home to get some drugs.
| "What just happened?"
I was staring at the pavement. A few leaves and small stones in my line of sight.
"David, what the fuck just happened?"
I want to look up but for some reason my gaze is fixed on the concrete slabs. I'm just trying to think. I think we were talking to someone. I think we wanted to make fun of them. Now I'm confused.
"I can't fucking, I mean, I don't..."
Sammy's voice trailed off into a quiet mumble. I think it was hitting him too.
When stuff you don't expect to happen happens to you, you attempt to rationalise it. How could she have cheated on me? I fucking loved her. I still haven't quite figured that one out, and that was almost a year ago. And now this.
Sammy is starting to panic. I should probably try and calm him down. I can hear him hyperventilating. He's walking away. I should go and get him and tell him everything's fine.
But all I can see is grey stone and brown leaves. I think this is why I came here. And I think this is why she left me.
Why was I here?
A screech and a scream snap me awake. Sammy is lying in the road, motionless. A mortified bystander runs over to help, the driver steps slowly out of the vehicle, shaking visibly.
This is all a dream. I swear, this is all a dream. I close my eyes and there is a young man sitting on the pavement. I open them and I am here.
Sammy's dead. I don't know it, but he looks dead. I don't care any more.
Traffic is still moving on the other side of the street. I see a garbage truck approaching and I pick up a brisk pace to intersect it. The driver honks his horn as I dive in front of the massive wheels.
.
.
.
.
.
I'm sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette. She's laying sideways on me, watching some stupid TV show.
"I love you Diana", I say out of the blue.
I never could rationalise it. | |
[WP] You and some friends play the "wake up, you're in a dream" prank on random stranger. They reply, "Thanks!" and disappear. | He looked at me, smiled and said: "Thanks!"
I answered, confused: "Sure thing..."
He then fell on his knees and became transperent.
He suddenly looked up in fear as if he wants to grab something out of reach.
And he was gone...
I asked myself if this is a dream, like i often did when unexplainable things happen.
My memories, they seem... unreal...
My head started to hurt.
Slowly, everything started to collapse...
I heard a loud scream and then...
Everything went black.
Then i woke up.
I was in a hospital, my family besides me.
I heard a doctor say: "You both woke up, at the same time..."
He pointed to the left.
There was another man.
It was the stranger. | "He's gone."
"Yes. He's gone."
I swept my hand through the space he once occupied. Nothing.
"You see? Gone."
"I wasn't arguing with you."
"Just like he was never there."
"Indeed."
There was an uncomfortable silence.
"So...does that..."
"Hey, Jack."
"Yeah, Tommy?"
"How did we get here?"
"Like, *here*?"
"Yes. What were we doing before we talked to that man?"
I searched my mind. Before talking to that old guy, we were...we were...
"...I don't know."
"My thoughts exactly."
More uncomfortable silence.
"So..."
"Where are we?"
"That's a stupid question, Tommy. Look, we're..."
I realized that our surroundings were not being described.
"...I don't know."
"Neither do I."
Still more uncomfortable silence.
"Tommy...do you think we're-"
Tommy disappeared. | |
[WP] A medicine bottle falls out of the sky, it reads "Ingest 1 pill to permanently receive power to shapeshift". | "I mean...It's got to be a joke, right?"
A man kept rolling back and forth the tiny pill bottle in his fingers, reading and re-reading the sloppily written label on it. He was convinced that he was now in possession of something dangerous and illegal, although most people on the crowded subway he was sitting in went a long way to not notice anything suspicious. He would have gotten rid of it, of course, but holding the orange plastic bottle now felt too much like some sort of fate, some sort of call - literally, as he seemed to be the only one having heard the bottle tumble down the stairs leading underground. At least it might impress some sucker in parties, he concluded slipping it in his trousers' pocket and going back home.
He was drunk. Even in that state the mid-week TV programs weren't any fun and were overcrowded by annoying thoughts projected on the white ceiling he was staring at from his couch, like a sick man on a hospital bed. His last beers didn't do much to help him forget about his boring job and his boring tasks and his boring coworkers and his boring boss and he thought that maybe, maybe he deserved something a bit stronger tonight. Try to shape shift, whatever the heck it was. Fun drugs aren't supposed to kill you right? Right? Both his feet and mind staggered slowly to the mystery bottle and he gulped one pill down, with a glass of water and the kitchen chair for support. It was probably a bad idea to mix drugs and alcohol, but that's not a problem for him to ponder anyways.
Swiftly avoiding a speeding car, a pigeon soared through the fresh early winter air, gliding above houses, above subways, above the colorless mass of people and their lungs full of hot sighs. Landing on a small balcony on the fifth floor of a dusty building he looked down on the city, and realised how beautifully planned it was from this perspective. It was no wonder that on ground-level he felt so-
"Get the hell out, you parasite!" The window opened with a crash and a scream from a woman, making him flee. Parasite, eh? I suppose it's as good a name as any. | "Good morning, Mr. Shipley," the teller greets me with a wide smile. "Back from vacation so soon?" She follows up.
"Yeah, I have a lot of paperwork and I couldn't stop thinking about how it needs to be done," I retorted, walking the way to my office. Plopping down in my chair, I swing my legs up on my desk and stared at the ceiling. After my space out, I looked through the drawers of my desk for my keys. "Aha," I exclaimed grabbing the keys and papers on top of the desk.
I returned to the counter and asked one of the tellers to help me with the vault. It is a two person job, for security reasons. They seemed questionable about my request, but they obliged when I explained myself.
"There is something wrong with the numbers on the report and I have to double check the dollar amount in the vault." We walked to vault, unlocked it, and I went in.
I looked at a printed excel sheet and started counting. The teller saw that it was okay and returned to their post. "Lalala, count the stacks and whoop in my pockets they go" I sung under my breath. I guess you could call me crooked, but tell me about a bank owner that is not. Puzzled faces watched me walk outside and leave.
Now in my apartment, I laugh while darting my eyes back and forth at the stacks of cash and a bottle that sits on my desk. One last look at this lanky old man in the mirror and I take another pill. I scream horribly for it is really painful while your body contorts to new shapes. A while back, I met this girl Rachel and damnit, I've got a thing for her. So, she now looks back at me through the mirror. I take my clothes off and sit in front of the mirror and start to rub myself. Let me tell you, it feels way better than jacking off.
A rush settles over me as I fall into bed. Thinking about the things I have done. Thinking about the things I will do. I have five left and I have to make it count. Thinking about that random little bottle that fell from nowhere. Thank you, little bottle.
| |
[WP] A medicine bottle falls out of the sky, it reads "Ingest 1 pill to permanently receive power to shapeshift". | Russel walked along. A familiar action in a familiar setting. His neighborhood bordered a field by a wood. Sometimes he walked on the path through the woods, today he was really tired though and it would be dark soon. He was looking through the grass strolling slowly along when something struck his head. A light plastic object it seemed from his feeling of the strike. Looking all around for a source, perhaps some kids from down the road, he failed to account for one. Perhaps from the sky? a passing plane. He picked up the bottle to examine it. An unremarkable prescription medication bottle with one pill in it. The clear orange plastic caught the light with a dull glow. He shook the pill in the bottle and listened to the sound. He liked the sound. the label was worn off, it had been exposed to water and the paper deteriorated. Only a few words were legible. The words SAMPLE J4 6 T22 "CHAIR CREATOR"were barely visible some instructions for taking the pill, with food and water also. "well" he muttered to himself, shifting his weight on his feet. He spent a period of 15 minutes considering the mysterious artifact. Finding the label of chair creator to be strange. The arrival of the object how even stranger still. Looking up and around he saw the gallery of trees by the field and the few houses in the distance by the road. He was alone. "How is chair creator an effect from a medication?" He took the pill eating a few starburst in his jacket pocket. He could not resist the strong feelings of curiosity. After 15 mins of anticipated waiting nothing happened. He continued walking home without surprise by the uneventful turn of events. His life was very mediocre and he was accustomed to this feeling of disappointment. Tomorrow he would return to his minimum wage job. He is doomed to spend the best years of his life laboring in thralldom to unjust and cruel masters. His angry bitch manager commanding and signalling Russel as one would a dog, patting the counter saying "here here here", Telling others how simple and foolish Russel is how to communicate to him and his simple mind. Russel's hair was falling out and he could not sleep at night. His foot steps on the pavement and the lone yellow street light at the end of the road by the intersection cast a long shadow of his form before him. Gradually a strange feeling came to him. A warm hum of sorts. A feeling of fine, very fine, creeping tendrils barely present in his awareness but growing in magnitude. He found that his heart was pounding and he felt confused. His legs felt like they were stiffening and increasingly unresponsive. His heart beating faster and faster until it felt like a vibration it beat with such speed. He tried to cry out, but his voice was faint. He crouched involuntarily into some strange squat and his joints seemed to be gone. His mind was no longer present but seemed to become part of the vibration gradually. It felt like his neck and torso were separating into hardened lines. His voice became a smell. His arms and legs seemed to harden into strange shapes as well. He was a chair. An ornate wooden chair with animals and patterns. Still alive and dimly aware in a way. Not breathing, not growing, but humming warmly and imperceptibly. Solid and smooth fragrant wood. | "Good morning, Mr. Shipley," the teller greets me with a wide smile. "Back from vacation so soon?" She follows up.
"Yeah, I have a lot of paperwork and I couldn't stop thinking about how it needs to be done," I retorted, walking the way to my office. Plopping down in my chair, I swing my legs up on my desk and stared at the ceiling. After my space out, I looked through the drawers of my desk for my keys. "Aha," I exclaimed grabbing the keys and papers on top of the desk.
I returned to the counter and asked one of the tellers to help me with the vault. It is a two person job, for security reasons. They seemed questionable about my request, but they obliged when I explained myself.
"There is something wrong with the numbers on the report and I have to double check the dollar amount in the vault." We walked to vault, unlocked it, and I went in.
I looked at a printed excel sheet and started counting. The teller saw that it was okay and returned to their post. "Lalala, count the stacks and whoop in my pockets they go" I sung under my breath. I guess you could call me crooked, but tell me about a bank owner that is not. Puzzled faces watched me walk outside and leave.
Now in my apartment, I laugh while darting my eyes back and forth at the stacks of cash and a bottle that sits on my desk. One last look at this lanky old man in the mirror and I take another pill. I scream horribly for it is really painful while your body contorts to new shapes. A while back, I met this girl Rachel and damnit, I've got a thing for her. So, she now looks back at me through the mirror. I take my clothes off and sit in front of the mirror and start to rub myself. Let me tell you, it feels way better than jacking off.
A rush settles over me as I fall into bed. Thinking about the things I have done. Thinking about the things I will do. I have five left and I have to make it count. Thinking about that random little bottle that fell from nowhere. Thank you, little bottle.
| |
[WP] A medicine bottle falls out of the sky, it reads "Ingest 1 pill to permanently receive power to shapeshift". | My first thought when I saw the pill bottle fall to the ground in front of me was to scan the sky for planes. There weren't any. My first thought when I read the label was that this had to be some kind of bizarre prank. But who had pulled it? Like I said, there were no planes overhead at the time. I was on a country road; there were no tall buildings it could have fallen out of. Nobody around who could have thrown it.
I just pocketed it at first, and that's where the bottle stayed for a couple days, in my pocket. It was hard to convince myself to take the sky-pills, and who could blame me? Only a lunatic would eat something that fell out of the sky.
On day three I took one. I'd had a couple drinks, which helped, but I probably would have taken them anyways. Sue me, I was curious. Who wouldn't be?
A few hours later, I felt it. Something was happening. I felt pains in my stomach, and started to panic. What if it *had* been some kind of poison or something? What was going to happen?
I ran to the bathroom. And so began one of the most painful hours of my life. I grunted. I gritted. I groaned and clenched. And when I got up and looked down, what did I see?
There at least dozen of them. From perfect little cubes to circles to flawless brown parallelograms. At least a dozen... a dozen *shapes*.
Frantic, I pulled the pill bottle from my pocket, and read it again. This time, a little more *carefully*. "Oh, shit." I said. I couldn't have been more right. | "Good morning, Mr. Shipley," the teller greets me with a wide smile. "Back from vacation so soon?" She follows up.
"Yeah, I have a lot of paperwork and I couldn't stop thinking about how it needs to be done," I retorted, walking the way to my office. Plopping down in my chair, I swing my legs up on my desk and stared at the ceiling. After my space out, I looked through the drawers of my desk for my keys. "Aha," I exclaimed grabbing the keys and papers on top of the desk.
I returned to the counter and asked one of the tellers to help me with the vault. It is a two person job, for security reasons. They seemed questionable about my request, but they obliged when I explained myself.
"There is something wrong with the numbers on the report and I have to double check the dollar amount in the vault." We walked to vault, unlocked it, and I went in.
I looked at a printed excel sheet and started counting. The teller saw that it was okay and returned to their post. "Lalala, count the stacks and whoop in my pockets they go" I sung under my breath. I guess you could call me crooked, but tell me about a bank owner that is not. Puzzled faces watched me walk outside and leave.
Now in my apartment, I laugh while darting my eyes back and forth at the stacks of cash and a bottle that sits on my desk. One last look at this lanky old man in the mirror and I take another pill. I scream horribly for it is really painful while your body contorts to new shapes. A while back, I met this girl Rachel and damnit, I've got a thing for her. So, she now looks back at me through the mirror. I take my clothes off and sit in front of the mirror and start to rub myself. Let me tell you, it feels way better than jacking off.
A rush settles over me as I fall into bed. Thinking about the things I have done. Thinking about the things I will do. I have five left and I have to make it count. Thinking about that random little bottle that fell from nowhere. Thank you, little bottle.
| |
[WP] A medicine bottle falls out of the sky, it reads "Ingest 1 pill to permanently receive power to shapeshift". | Russel walked along. A familiar action in a familiar setting. His neighborhood bordered a field by a wood. Sometimes he walked on the path through the woods, today he was really tired though and it would be dark soon. He was looking through the grass strolling slowly along when something struck his head. A light plastic object it seemed from his feeling of the strike. Looking all around for a source, perhaps some kids from down the road, he failed to account for one. Perhaps from the sky? a passing plane. He picked up the bottle to examine it. An unremarkable prescription medication bottle with one pill in it. The clear orange plastic caught the light with a dull glow. He shook the pill in the bottle and listened to the sound. He liked the sound. the label was worn off, it had been exposed to water and the paper deteriorated. Only a few words were legible. The words SAMPLE J4 6 T22 "CHAIR CREATOR"were barely visible some instructions for taking the pill, with food and water also. "well" he muttered to himself, shifting his weight on his feet. He spent a period of 15 minutes considering the mysterious artifact. Finding the label of chair creator to be strange. The arrival of the object how even stranger still. Looking up and around he saw the gallery of trees by the field and the few houses in the distance by the road. He was alone. "How is chair creator an effect from a medication?" He took the pill eating a few starburst in his jacket pocket. He could not resist the strong feelings of curiosity. After 15 mins of anticipated waiting nothing happened. He continued walking home without surprise by the uneventful turn of events. His life was very mediocre and he was accustomed to this feeling of disappointment. Tomorrow he would return to his minimum wage job. He is doomed to spend the best years of his life laboring in thralldom to unjust and cruel masters. His angry bitch manager commanding and signalling Russel as one would a dog, patting the counter saying "here here here", Telling others how simple and foolish Russel is how to communicate to him and his simple mind. Russel's hair was falling out and he could not sleep at night. His foot steps on the pavement and the lone yellow street light at the end of the road by the intersection cast a long shadow of his form before him. Gradually a strange feeling came to him. A warm hum of sorts. A feeling of fine, very fine, creeping tendrils barely present in his awareness but growing in magnitude. He found that his heart was pounding and he felt confused. His legs felt like they were stiffening and increasingly unresponsive. His heart beating faster and faster until it felt like a vibration it beat with such speed. He tried to cry out, but his voice was faint. He crouched involuntarily into some strange squat and his joints seemed to be gone. His mind was no longer present but seemed to become part of the vibration gradually. It felt like his neck and torso were separating into hardened lines. His voice became a smell. His arms and legs seemed to harden into strange shapes as well. He was a chair. An ornate wooden chair with animals and patterns. Still alive and dimly aware in a way. Not breathing, not growing, but humming warmly and imperceptibly. Solid and smooth fragrant wood. | "I mean...It's got to be a joke, right?"
A man kept rolling back and forth the tiny pill bottle in his fingers, reading and re-reading the sloppily written label on it. He was convinced that he was now in possession of something dangerous and illegal, although most people on the crowded subway he was sitting in went a long way to not notice anything suspicious. He would have gotten rid of it, of course, but holding the orange plastic bottle now felt too much like some sort of fate, some sort of call - literally, as he seemed to be the only one having heard the bottle tumble down the stairs leading underground. At least it might impress some sucker in parties, he concluded slipping it in his trousers' pocket and going back home.
He was drunk. Even in that state the mid-week TV programs weren't any fun and were overcrowded by annoying thoughts projected on the white ceiling he was staring at from his couch, like a sick man on a hospital bed. His last beers didn't do much to help him forget about his boring job and his boring tasks and his boring coworkers and his boring boss and he thought that maybe, maybe he deserved something a bit stronger tonight. Try to shape shift, whatever the heck it was. Fun drugs aren't supposed to kill you right? Right? Both his feet and mind staggered slowly to the mystery bottle and he gulped one pill down, with a glass of water and the kitchen chair for support. It was probably a bad idea to mix drugs and alcohol, but that's not a problem for him to ponder anyways.
Swiftly avoiding a speeding car, a pigeon soared through the fresh early winter air, gliding above houses, above subways, above the colorless mass of people and their lungs full of hot sighs. Landing on a small balcony on the fifth floor of a dusty building he looked down on the city, and realised how beautifully planned it was from this perspective. It was no wonder that on ground-level he felt so-
"Get the hell out, you parasite!" The window opened with a crash and a scream from a woman, making him flee. Parasite, eh? I suppose it's as good a name as any. | |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | So long I have waited... After years of pain, and suffering from a cause that ails me still... Yes. I am at peace. Away from the clash of the dark and the light, I am truly one with everything.
I am one with the-
"ARE YOU LUKE SKYWALKER?"
fuck
"I HAVE YOUR LIGHTSABER"
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
"WILL YOU TRAIN ME"
"Movie's out, guys. We can leave." A voice from the loudspeakers above.
thank god
"BUT MASTER SKYWALKER-"
"WE'RE GOING HOME , DAISY, SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE." | "In other news, renown actor Ben Affleck has hospitalized three muggers in the LA area while wearing a Batman costume. The three men were brought into hospital with broken ribs, broken arms and severe bruising. Witnesses say that the men had just finished conducting a robbery and were preparing to flee the scene when Affleck, quote 'dropped from a rooftop dressed as Batman', and began brutally beating the three assailants. Police predict that Affleck will likely continue similar acts of vigilantism until the release of his upcoming film 'Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice." |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | They use to call me Kelsey Grammar, said I was a hell of an actor. I'm sure he was but as I've told them and as I will tell you, I'm nothing more than a your standard six foot penguin with a pink bowtie who gets into charming adventures with his compatriots.
[Sips Scotch]
Let me walk you through my life. I wake up with the other penguins when the sun rises and start with a few calisthenics to great the new day. Walter tries to say hi to me. And as always I'll say hi back. Secretly he's always been a bit of a dunce, doesn't even know I've been stealing his pebbles for weeks now.
Then I get some breakfast, nothing more than a few fish, nothing more, I'm watching my figure. Once in a while I'll treat myself with a trout but again, watching my figure.
Then I'll waddle around for a few hours, try and stay with the Waddle, uh, that's the 'technical' term for a colony of penguins for you none penguins. But they always seem to be... well... nervous around me... like I'm sort of 60 year old caucasian actor. Again. Not Kelsey Grammer but thank you.
After a while they tire out and let me stand with them.
I've taken a wife, a nice little thing named Florida. We had to adopt since it seemed like we couldn't have kids. I regret to say that I have crushed the eggs more than once but we do expect to be grandparents one day.
[Egg's get crushed]
One day.
Every so often a woman with a clipboard and a hat reading 'Director' comes to me and tells me to take off the tux and return to my trailer. I don't buy it, just some clever trick to get me into their elaborate trap. I won't fall for it. YOU HEAR ME LILITH! I WON'T FALL FOR IT!
[Sips scotch again]
Then we all huddle together at night and get a nice sleep together. Yup, just a normal day for a giant six foot penguin. | "In other news, renown actor Ben Affleck has hospitalized three muggers in the LA area while wearing a Batman costume. The three men were brought into hospital with broken ribs, broken arms and severe bruising. Witnesses say that the men had just finished conducting a robbery and were preparing to flee the scene when Affleck, quote 'dropped from a rooftop dressed as Batman', and began brutally beating the three assailants. Police predict that Affleck will likely continue similar acts of vigilantism until the release of his upcoming film 'Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice." |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | I'd heard of the Hollywood curse, of course. Who hadn't? But then I had an idea, a glimmer of a thought. If actors had to stay in character, and I became an actor, and then I became a scriptwriter, what if I wrote a script about myself and started filming it?
I started contacting agents, pleading for a part, any part, and finally I found one. A bit part in a used car lot television commercial that paid almost nothing, but it was enough. It was enough to get my actor's card and register as a true actor. It also confirmed for me that the curse was real. I must have visited 18 different lots in the two days it took that blasted commercial to be shown on TV. I knew I should have stopped, but the script had told me that I was desperate to buy a car, and that only John Higgins Cars would give me a fair price, which is why I went to them. Of course I tried them first, and then when they turned me down because it was illegal to sell a former actor a product until after the release, even though I knew the other car lots would just rip me off, I was still desperate to buy a car, I just had to have one. Luckily nobody would sell me one -- my credit was simply too bad.
And then I started contacting agents, pleading to be able to write a small script for another television commercial, just one, any one, and finally I found one. A small script for a used car lot that paid almost nothing, but it was enough. It was enough to register with the screenwriter's guild. Of course I had been working other temporary jobs here and there, and saving up a little bit of money.
So I sat down and started typing a rough script about me, how I had started doing a mental exercise and was able to harness latent brain energy to modulate the medulla oblongata and all sorts of pseudo science terms like that, but the important thing was just that the script would hold together. So I wrote about how I harnessed that energy and was able to grow smarter, and learned how to become a telekinetic Jedi, and even learned how to see the future. I had just enough money to hire a small film crew for a one-day shoot. And that's where things first started to go out of control.
"THE ACTOR sits down," the script said. "He starts to write, then turns and addresses the audience." I had thrown that line in as a funny sidenote, a sort of Ferris Beuller/Spaceballs/Amelie homage before I started to gain all of my new abilities. I thought I'd turn and look into the camera to express what I'd gone through to get to this point, and I did turn to look into the camera, but then I saw it.
I saw *the audience* and one line instantly filled my mind with the force of the smallest black hole with the tightest space time curvature and the highest surface gravity possible. I knew the statement wasn't in English but I still understood it immediately, thoroughly and implicitly.
***№r⊙╬♦3h▦◕9☂a❧    has achieved sentience and true control. Prepare for the arrival.*** | "In other news, renown actor Ben Affleck has hospitalized three muggers in the LA area while wearing a Batman costume. The three men were brought into hospital with broken ribs, broken arms and severe bruising. Witnesses say that the men had just finished conducting a robbery and were preparing to flee the scene when Affleck, quote 'dropped from a rooftop dressed as Batman', and began brutally beating the three assailants. Police predict that Affleck will likely continue similar acts of vigilantism until the release of his upcoming film 'Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice." |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | At first, I was hesitant to take the role. Only other actors know how difficult life can be when you shoot a film. Sure you have your romances and your comedies where you are a minor annoyance to the general public, but if you want that Oscar you have to think bigger. Arrangements need to be made in order for your best performance to not be your last like some other actors have made the mistake of forgetting. I was lucky enough to have a friend in Corrections set aside a cell for me once filming began. I can only hope my transport instructions are clear enough. Then it is all up to the boys in editing to ensure the process takes as long as planed.
Alright then, time to begin. They've called me on set. Time to see if I can give Hannibal Lecter some justice.
| "In other news, renown actor Ben Affleck has hospitalized three muggers in the LA area while wearing a Batman costume. The three men were brought into hospital with broken ribs, broken arms and severe bruising. Witnesses say that the men had just finished conducting a robbery and were preparing to flee the scene when Affleck, quote 'dropped from a rooftop dressed as Batman', and began brutally beating the three assailants. Police predict that Affleck will likely continue similar acts of vigilantism until the release of his upcoming film 'Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice." |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | “Hodor.” he said for the thousandth time, but he was only met with that all too familiar look of confusion.
“Hodor!” this time he pointed at the large black board that was the coffee menu, then, tapping the medium cup on top of the espresso machine, he mumbled “Hodor.”
“Latte?” asked the barista. He shook his head. “A cap?” Another shake of his head, “Flat white?”
“Hodor.” he said a nodding.
“Why did I ever take role?” he thought, dreading the prospect of enduring another season.
Edit: a word. | "In other news, renown actor Ben Affleck has hospitalized three muggers in the LA area while wearing a Batman costume. The three men were brought into hospital with broken ribs, broken arms and severe bruising. Witnesses say that the men had just finished conducting a robbery and were preparing to flee the scene when Affleck, quote 'dropped from a rooftop dressed as Batman', and began brutally beating the three assailants. Police predict that Affleck will likely continue similar acts of vigilantism until the release of his upcoming film 'Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice." |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | So long I have waited... After years of pain, and suffering from a cause that ails me still... Yes. I am at peace. Away from the clash of the dark and the light, I am truly one with everything.
I am one with the-
"ARE YOU LUKE SKYWALKER?"
fuck
"I HAVE YOUR LIGHTSABER"
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
"WILL YOU TRAIN ME"
"Movie's out, guys. We can leave." A voice from the loudspeakers above.
thank god
"BUT MASTER SKYWALKER-"
"WE'RE GOING HOME , DAISY, SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE." | "So, what can you tell me about yourself?"
That's the line I had in the background of my first movie role. I know I was only an extra, but I got $500 at the time, and in 1976 that was a pretty good deal for a day's work. And for a kid from Minnesota who spent three years after high school working at the local paint supply store, it was the first step in becoming the superstar I knew I was destined to become.
I caught the bug in 10th grade when I got the role of Caliban in our production of The Tempest. The school paper called my performance "the highlight of the show, and the introduction of a bright new star here at Blackduck High School (Go Drakes!)" Next year I was Biff Loman, but my breakout role came when I got the lead as Tony in West Side Story senior year. I was hooked. There was something about looking out at the crowd and watching them all watching me that was intoxicating.
Community college and working at the paint store was always just a short term step, I always knew that in my heart. But after almost three years, I knew I was letting my dreams fade away. I'm not proud of it, but I needed a way out. So every day at the store I would skim just a little out of the register. Never more than ten bucks in a day. And three months later, I had saved up enough for a bus ticket and two months rent in a small apartment about an hour outside of Hollywood by bus. It wasn't much, but luck was on my side from almost the start.
Within a week I had a chance meeting with a fellow actor at a laundromat and we hit it off. He knew about a big time move that needed some extras. It was a one-and-done job, but it was the break I was looking for, it just had to be.
I got to the set an hour ahead of time and I was seated with about 20 other actors. The assistant director was very direct, which I loved. We were going to be split into groups of two and each seated at tables in the background of a restaurant scene. We all came up with simple line of dialogue we would just say quietly to each other back and forth. No one was going to hear us with no microphones anywhere near by, so a lot of the people were just using pure gibberish. I wanted to take it seriously, and the actress I was paired with was quite attractive, so I figured my character (I decided his name was Billy, I have no idea why) was on a date with her, so I came up with "So, what can you tell me about yourself?" The lead actors came in and I was floored - one of my favorite directors, John Huston, was actually an actor in this film! But I was a professional, so I focused on my "date" and for the next 30 minutes over close to a dozen takes I said my single line to her over and over.
"Cut, thank you folks" was called, and that was that. I collected my check, and we all went to check on the Release Schedule. Like anyone thinking about acting, I knew all about the strange "Hollywood Curse" as it was called when it first manifested back in the 1940s. According to the schedule there was only one more week of shooting, and then three weeks of post-production until the premiere. Per the guild rules I would receive another $200 every week until release to cover my expenses since it would be tough to find work. Because for the next four weeks, I was a smitten kid on a first date, and all I could say was "So, what can you tell me about yourself?" The price of fame, right? It was a price I was more than willing to pay. Actors has come up with a system to help - we all had business cards: "Actor, stuck in post-production, please be understanding." And all around the Hollywood area people were more than accommodating, and it was bearable.
But I'm still paying that price. Coming up on 40 years later, and I can not escape. Those four weeks dragged into months, and then years. Orson Wells, perfectionist extraordinaire, he just couldn't finish the film. Hundreds of extra and many big name stars tried to organize protests, but it's tough to rally for a cause when you're stuck in a role. When Wells died in 1985, that's when the hopelessness really took over. Those of us who had managed to hold onto our sanity were pushed over the edge. My flatmate hung himself - I'm still not quite sure how, I guess his character would have done the same. By Christmas of 1986 there were only three of us left alive, the others just gave up and ended their suffering.
But not me. Billy, he was too desperate to find love, and he'd never when consider suicide. My method preparation for this stupid background role had trapped me. Any time I came close to attempting suicide I'd find myself running up to the closest woman and saying "So, tell me about yourself." And then when they would smile and politely tell me something, I'd ask the same question like a mindless robot, chasing them away with a mixture of confusion and fear.
They passed the Wells Act in 1986, the one decent piece of legislation that former actor Reagan managed to pull off. It required that a movie be required to have a World Premiere no later than 1 week after production wrapped. Trial and error proved that it was the release that mattered, even of a rough cut, and everyone would be free. But it was too late for me. With the Wells Act the memory of our nightmare faded into the realm of urban legend. By 1990 I was the last surviving member of the cast.
I keep hearing rumors, and supposedly there may even be a "kicked start" to raise money for a restoration and release but I have no idea what that means, and frankly I don't believe it. No friends, no love ... Christ I even had to give away my dog because you try screaming "So, what can you tell me about yourself?" out of your front door late at night. I've spent 40 years in this living hell and all I care about at this point is the release of death.
And when I so die I hope there's a cinema in heaven or hell or wherever I end up. If there is, I know that The Other Side of the Wind will be showing, and there's a front row seat waiting for me. And I hope that Wells is there. Because as I tighten my hands around his throat, hands that will stay there for all of eternity if I can manage it, I want to look him in the eyes and ask him one simple question, over and over and over.
"So, what can you tell me about yourself?"
|
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | They use to call me Kelsey Grammar, said I was a hell of an actor. I'm sure he was but as I've told them and as I will tell you, I'm nothing more than a your standard six foot penguin with a pink bowtie who gets into charming adventures with his compatriots.
[Sips Scotch]
Let me walk you through my life. I wake up with the other penguins when the sun rises and start with a few calisthenics to great the new day. Walter tries to say hi to me. And as always I'll say hi back. Secretly he's always been a bit of a dunce, doesn't even know I've been stealing his pebbles for weeks now.
Then I get some breakfast, nothing more than a few fish, nothing more, I'm watching my figure. Once in a while I'll treat myself with a trout but again, watching my figure.
Then I'll waddle around for a few hours, try and stay with the Waddle, uh, that's the 'technical' term for a colony of penguins for you none penguins. But they always seem to be... well... nervous around me... like I'm sort of 60 year old caucasian actor. Again. Not Kelsey Grammer but thank you.
After a while they tire out and let me stand with them.
I've taken a wife, a nice little thing named Florida. We had to adopt since it seemed like we couldn't have kids. I regret to say that I have crushed the eggs more than once but we do expect to be grandparents one day.
[Egg's get crushed]
One day.
Every so often a woman with a clipboard and a hat reading 'Director' comes to me and tells me to take off the tux and return to my trailer. I don't buy it, just some clever trick to get me into their elaborate trap. I won't fall for it. YOU HEAR ME LILITH! I WON'T FALL FOR IT!
[Sips scotch again]
Then we all huddle together at night and get a nice sleep together. Yup, just a normal day for a giant six foot penguin. | "So, what can you tell me about yourself?"
That's the line I had in the background of my first movie role. I know I was only an extra, but I got $500 at the time, and in 1976 that was a pretty good deal for a day's work. And for a kid from Minnesota who spent three years after high school working at the local paint supply store, it was the first step in becoming the superstar I knew I was destined to become.
I caught the bug in 10th grade when I got the role of Caliban in our production of The Tempest. The school paper called my performance "the highlight of the show, and the introduction of a bright new star here at Blackduck High School (Go Drakes!)" Next year I was Biff Loman, but my breakout role came when I got the lead as Tony in West Side Story senior year. I was hooked. There was something about looking out at the crowd and watching them all watching me that was intoxicating.
Community college and working at the paint store was always just a short term step, I always knew that in my heart. But after almost three years, I knew I was letting my dreams fade away. I'm not proud of it, but I needed a way out. So every day at the store I would skim just a little out of the register. Never more than ten bucks in a day. And three months later, I had saved up enough for a bus ticket and two months rent in a small apartment about an hour outside of Hollywood by bus. It wasn't much, but luck was on my side from almost the start.
Within a week I had a chance meeting with a fellow actor at a laundromat and we hit it off. He knew about a big time move that needed some extras. It was a one-and-done job, but it was the break I was looking for, it just had to be.
I got to the set an hour ahead of time and I was seated with about 20 other actors. The assistant director was very direct, which I loved. We were going to be split into groups of two and each seated at tables in the background of a restaurant scene. We all came up with simple line of dialogue we would just say quietly to each other back and forth. No one was going to hear us with no microphones anywhere near by, so a lot of the people were just using pure gibberish. I wanted to take it seriously, and the actress I was paired with was quite attractive, so I figured my character (I decided his name was Billy, I have no idea why) was on a date with her, so I came up with "So, what can you tell me about yourself?" The lead actors came in and I was floored - one of my favorite directors, John Huston, was actually an actor in this film! But I was a professional, so I focused on my "date" and for the next 30 minutes over close to a dozen takes I said my single line to her over and over.
"Cut, thank you folks" was called, and that was that. I collected my check, and we all went to check on the Release Schedule. Like anyone thinking about acting, I knew all about the strange "Hollywood Curse" as it was called when it first manifested back in the 1940s. According to the schedule there was only one more week of shooting, and then three weeks of post-production until the premiere. Per the guild rules I would receive another $200 every week until release to cover my expenses since it would be tough to find work. Because for the next four weeks, I was a smitten kid on a first date, and all I could say was "So, what can you tell me about yourself?" The price of fame, right? It was a price I was more than willing to pay. Actors has come up with a system to help - we all had business cards: "Actor, stuck in post-production, please be understanding." And all around the Hollywood area people were more than accommodating, and it was bearable.
But I'm still paying that price. Coming up on 40 years later, and I can not escape. Those four weeks dragged into months, and then years. Orson Wells, perfectionist extraordinaire, he just couldn't finish the film. Hundreds of extra and many big name stars tried to organize protests, but it's tough to rally for a cause when you're stuck in a role. When Wells died in 1985, that's when the hopelessness really took over. Those of us who had managed to hold onto our sanity were pushed over the edge. My flatmate hung himself - I'm still not quite sure how, I guess his character would have done the same. By Christmas of 1986 there were only three of us left alive, the others just gave up and ended their suffering.
But not me. Billy, he was too desperate to find love, and he'd never when consider suicide. My method preparation for this stupid background role had trapped me. Any time I came close to attempting suicide I'd find myself running up to the closest woman and saying "So, tell me about yourself." And then when they would smile and politely tell me something, I'd ask the same question like a mindless robot, chasing them away with a mixture of confusion and fear.
They passed the Wells Act in 1986, the one decent piece of legislation that former actor Reagan managed to pull off. It required that a movie be required to have a World Premiere no later than 1 week after production wrapped. Trial and error proved that it was the release that mattered, even of a rough cut, and everyone would be free. But it was too late for me. With the Wells Act the memory of our nightmare faded into the realm of urban legend. By 1990 I was the last surviving member of the cast.
I keep hearing rumors, and supposedly there may even be a "kicked start" to raise money for a restoration and release but I have no idea what that means, and frankly I don't believe it. No friends, no love ... Christ I even had to give away my dog because you try screaming "So, what can you tell me about yourself?" out of your front door late at night. I've spent 40 years in this living hell and all I care about at this point is the release of death.
And when I so die I hope there's a cinema in heaven or hell or wherever I end up. If there is, I know that The Other Side of the Wind will be showing, and there's a front row seat waiting for me. And I hope that Wells is there. Because as I tighten my hands around his throat, hands that will stay there for all of eternity if I can manage it, I want to look him in the eyes and ask him one simple question, over and over and over.
"So, what can you tell me about yourself?"
|
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | I'd heard of the Hollywood curse, of course. Who hadn't? But then I had an idea, a glimmer of a thought. If actors had to stay in character, and I became an actor, and then I became a scriptwriter, what if I wrote a script about myself and started filming it?
I started contacting agents, pleading for a part, any part, and finally I found one. A bit part in a used car lot television commercial that paid almost nothing, but it was enough. It was enough to get my actor's card and register as a true actor. It also confirmed for me that the curse was real. I must have visited 18 different lots in the two days it took that blasted commercial to be shown on TV. I knew I should have stopped, but the script had told me that I was desperate to buy a car, and that only John Higgins Cars would give me a fair price, which is why I went to them. Of course I tried them first, and then when they turned me down because it was illegal to sell a former actor a product until after the release, even though I knew the other car lots would just rip me off, I was still desperate to buy a car, I just had to have one. Luckily nobody would sell me one -- my credit was simply too bad.
And then I started contacting agents, pleading to be able to write a small script for another television commercial, just one, any one, and finally I found one. A small script for a used car lot that paid almost nothing, but it was enough. It was enough to register with the screenwriter's guild. Of course I had been working other temporary jobs here and there, and saving up a little bit of money.
So I sat down and started typing a rough script about me, how I had started doing a mental exercise and was able to harness latent brain energy to modulate the medulla oblongata and all sorts of pseudo science terms like that, but the important thing was just that the script would hold together. So I wrote about how I harnessed that energy and was able to grow smarter, and learned how to become a telekinetic Jedi, and even learned how to see the future. I had just enough money to hire a small film crew for a one-day shoot. And that's where things first started to go out of control.
"THE ACTOR sits down," the script said. "He starts to write, then turns and addresses the audience." I had thrown that line in as a funny sidenote, a sort of Ferris Beuller/Spaceballs/Amelie homage before I started to gain all of my new abilities. I thought I'd turn and look into the camera to express what I'd gone through to get to this point, and I did turn to look into the camera, but then I saw it.
I saw *the audience* and one line instantly filled my mind with the force of the smallest black hole with the tightest space time curvature and the highest surface gravity possible. I knew the statement wasn't in English but I still understood it immediately, thoroughly and implicitly.
***№r⊙╬♦3h▦◕9☂a❧    has achieved sentience and true control. Prepare for the arrival.*** | "So, what can you tell me about yourself?"
That's the line I had in the background of my first movie role. I know I was only an extra, but I got $500 at the time, and in 1976 that was a pretty good deal for a day's work. And for a kid from Minnesota who spent three years after high school working at the local paint supply store, it was the first step in becoming the superstar I knew I was destined to become.
I caught the bug in 10th grade when I got the role of Caliban in our production of The Tempest. The school paper called my performance "the highlight of the show, and the introduction of a bright new star here at Blackduck High School (Go Drakes!)" Next year I was Biff Loman, but my breakout role came when I got the lead as Tony in West Side Story senior year. I was hooked. There was something about looking out at the crowd and watching them all watching me that was intoxicating.
Community college and working at the paint store was always just a short term step, I always knew that in my heart. But after almost three years, I knew I was letting my dreams fade away. I'm not proud of it, but I needed a way out. So every day at the store I would skim just a little out of the register. Never more than ten bucks in a day. And three months later, I had saved up enough for a bus ticket and two months rent in a small apartment about an hour outside of Hollywood by bus. It wasn't much, but luck was on my side from almost the start.
Within a week I had a chance meeting with a fellow actor at a laundromat and we hit it off. He knew about a big time move that needed some extras. It was a one-and-done job, but it was the break I was looking for, it just had to be.
I got to the set an hour ahead of time and I was seated with about 20 other actors. The assistant director was very direct, which I loved. We were going to be split into groups of two and each seated at tables in the background of a restaurant scene. We all came up with simple line of dialogue we would just say quietly to each other back and forth. No one was going to hear us with no microphones anywhere near by, so a lot of the people were just using pure gibberish. I wanted to take it seriously, and the actress I was paired with was quite attractive, so I figured my character (I decided his name was Billy, I have no idea why) was on a date with her, so I came up with "So, what can you tell me about yourself?" The lead actors came in and I was floored - one of my favorite directors, John Huston, was actually an actor in this film! But I was a professional, so I focused on my "date" and for the next 30 minutes over close to a dozen takes I said my single line to her over and over.
"Cut, thank you folks" was called, and that was that. I collected my check, and we all went to check on the Release Schedule. Like anyone thinking about acting, I knew all about the strange "Hollywood Curse" as it was called when it first manifested back in the 1940s. According to the schedule there was only one more week of shooting, and then three weeks of post-production until the premiere. Per the guild rules I would receive another $200 every week until release to cover my expenses since it would be tough to find work. Because for the next four weeks, I was a smitten kid on a first date, and all I could say was "So, what can you tell me about yourself?" The price of fame, right? It was a price I was more than willing to pay. Actors has come up with a system to help - we all had business cards: "Actor, stuck in post-production, please be understanding." And all around the Hollywood area people were more than accommodating, and it was bearable.
But I'm still paying that price. Coming up on 40 years later, and I can not escape. Those four weeks dragged into months, and then years. Orson Wells, perfectionist extraordinaire, he just couldn't finish the film. Hundreds of extra and many big name stars tried to organize protests, but it's tough to rally for a cause when you're stuck in a role. When Wells died in 1985, that's when the hopelessness really took over. Those of us who had managed to hold onto our sanity were pushed over the edge. My flatmate hung himself - I'm still not quite sure how, I guess his character would have done the same. By Christmas of 1986 there were only three of us left alive, the others just gave up and ended their suffering.
But not me. Billy, he was too desperate to find love, and he'd never when consider suicide. My method preparation for this stupid background role had trapped me. Any time I came close to attempting suicide I'd find myself running up to the closest woman and saying "So, tell me about yourself." And then when they would smile and politely tell me something, I'd ask the same question like a mindless robot, chasing them away with a mixture of confusion and fear.
They passed the Wells Act in 1986, the one decent piece of legislation that former actor Reagan managed to pull off. It required that a movie be required to have a World Premiere no later than 1 week after production wrapped. Trial and error proved that it was the release that mattered, even of a rough cut, and everyone would be free. But it was too late for me. With the Wells Act the memory of our nightmare faded into the realm of urban legend. By 1990 I was the last surviving member of the cast.
I keep hearing rumors, and supposedly there may even be a "kicked start" to raise money for a restoration and release but I have no idea what that means, and frankly I don't believe it. No friends, no love ... Christ I even had to give away my dog because you try screaming "So, what can you tell me about yourself?" out of your front door late at night. I've spent 40 years in this living hell and all I care about at this point is the release of death.
And when I so die I hope there's a cinema in heaven or hell or wherever I end up. If there is, I know that The Other Side of the Wind will be showing, and there's a front row seat waiting for me. And I hope that Wells is there. Because as I tighten my hands around his throat, hands that will stay there for all of eternity if I can manage it, I want to look him in the eyes and ask him one simple question, over and over and over.
"So, what can you tell me about yourself?"
|
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | At first, I was hesitant to take the role. Only other actors know how difficult life can be when you shoot a film. Sure you have your romances and your comedies where you are a minor annoyance to the general public, but if you want that Oscar you have to think bigger. Arrangements need to be made in order for your best performance to not be your last like some other actors have made the mistake of forgetting. I was lucky enough to have a friend in Corrections set aside a cell for me once filming began. I can only hope my transport instructions are clear enough. Then it is all up to the boys in editing to ensure the process takes as long as planed.
Alright then, time to begin. They've called me on set. Time to see if I can give Hannibal Lecter some justice.
| "So, what can you tell me about yourself?"
That's the line I had in the background of my first movie role. I know I was only an extra, but I got $500 at the time, and in 1976 that was a pretty good deal for a day's work. And for a kid from Minnesota who spent three years after high school working at the local paint supply store, it was the first step in becoming the superstar I knew I was destined to become.
I caught the bug in 10th grade when I got the role of Caliban in our production of The Tempest. The school paper called my performance "the highlight of the show, and the introduction of a bright new star here at Blackduck High School (Go Drakes!)" Next year I was Biff Loman, but my breakout role came when I got the lead as Tony in West Side Story senior year. I was hooked. There was something about looking out at the crowd and watching them all watching me that was intoxicating.
Community college and working at the paint store was always just a short term step, I always knew that in my heart. But after almost three years, I knew I was letting my dreams fade away. I'm not proud of it, but I needed a way out. So every day at the store I would skim just a little out of the register. Never more than ten bucks in a day. And three months later, I had saved up enough for a bus ticket and two months rent in a small apartment about an hour outside of Hollywood by bus. It wasn't much, but luck was on my side from almost the start.
Within a week I had a chance meeting with a fellow actor at a laundromat and we hit it off. He knew about a big time move that needed some extras. It was a one-and-done job, but it was the break I was looking for, it just had to be.
I got to the set an hour ahead of time and I was seated with about 20 other actors. The assistant director was very direct, which I loved. We were going to be split into groups of two and each seated at tables in the background of a restaurant scene. We all came up with simple line of dialogue we would just say quietly to each other back and forth. No one was going to hear us with no microphones anywhere near by, so a lot of the people were just using pure gibberish. I wanted to take it seriously, and the actress I was paired with was quite attractive, so I figured my character (I decided his name was Billy, I have no idea why) was on a date with her, so I came up with "So, what can you tell me about yourself?" The lead actors came in and I was floored - one of my favorite directors, John Huston, was actually an actor in this film! But I was a professional, so I focused on my "date" and for the next 30 minutes over close to a dozen takes I said my single line to her over and over.
"Cut, thank you folks" was called, and that was that. I collected my check, and we all went to check on the Release Schedule. Like anyone thinking about acting, I knew all about the strange "Hollywood Curse" as it was called when it first manifested back in the 1940s. According to the schedule there was only one more week of shooting, and then three weeks of post-production until the premiere. Per the guild rules I would receive another $200 every week until release to cover my expenses since it would be tough to find work. Because for the next four weeks, I was a smitten kid on a first date, and all I could say was "So, what can you tell me about yourself?" The price of fame, right? It was a price I was more than willing to pay. Actors has come up with a system to help - we all had business cards: "Actor, stuck in post-production, please be understanding." And all around the Hollywood area people were more than accommodating, and it was bearable.
But I'm still paying that price. Coming up on 40 years later, and I can not escape. Those four weeks dragged into months, and then years. Orson Wells, perfectionist extraordinaire, he just couldn't finish the film. Hundreds of extra and many big name stars tried to organize protests, but it's tough to rally for a cause when you're stuck in a role. When Wells died in 1985, that's when the hopelessness really took over. Those of us who had managed to hold onto our sanity were pushed over the edge. My flatmate hung himself - I'm still not quite sure how, I guess his character would have done the same. By Christmas of 1986 there were only three of us left alive, the others just gave up and ended their suffering.
But not me. Billy, he was too desperate to find love, and he'd never when consider suicide. My method preparation for this stupid background role had trapped me. Any time I came close to attempting suicide I'd find myself running up to the closest woman and saying "So, tell me about yourself." And then when they would smile and politely tell me something, I'd ask the same question like a mindless robot, chasing them away with a mixture of confusion and fear.
They passed the Wells Act in 1986, the one decent piece of legislation that former actor Reagan managed to pull off. It required that a movie be required to have a World Premiere no later than 1 week after production wrapped. Trial and error proved that it was the release that mattered, even of a rough cut, and everyone would be free. But it was too late for me. With the Wells Act the memory of our nightmare faded into the realm of urban legend. By 1990 I was the last surviving member of the cast.
I keep hearing rumors, and supposedly there may even be a "kicked start" to raise money for a restoration and release but I have no idea what that means, and frankly I don't believe it. No friends, no love ... Christ I even had to give away my dog because you try screaming "So, what can you tell me about yourself?" out of your front door late at night. I've spent 40 years in this living hell and all I care about at this point is the release of death.
And when I so die I hope there's a cinema in heaven or hell or wherever I end up. If there is, I know that The Other Side of the Wind will be showing, and there's a front row seat waiting for me. And I hope that Wells is there. Because as I tighten my hands around his throat, hands that will stay there for all of eternity if I can manage it, I want to look him in the eyes and ask him one simple question, over and over and over.
"So, what can you tell me about yourself?"
|
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | “Hodor.” he said for the thousandth time, but he was only met with that all too familiar look of confusion.
“Hodor!” this time he pointed at the large black board that was the coffee menu, then, tapping the medium cup on top of the espresso machine, he mumbled “Hodor.”
“Latte?” asked the barista. He shook his head. “A cap?” Another shake of his head, “Flat white?”
“Hodor.” he said a nodding.
“Why did I ever take role?” he thought, dreading the prospect of enduring another season.
Edit: a word. | "So, what can you tell me about yourself?"
That's the line I had in the background of my first movie role. I know I was only an extra, but I got $500 at the time, and in 1976 that was a pretty good deal for a day's work. And for a kid from Minnesota who spent three years after high school working at the local paint supply store, it was the first step in becoming the superstar I knew I was destined to become.
I caught the bug in 10th grade when I got the role of Caliban in our production of The Tempest. The school paper called my performance "the highlight of the show, and the introduction of a bright new star here at Blackduck High School (Go Drakes!)" Next year I was Biff Loman, but my breakout role came when I got the lead as Tony in West Side Story senior year. I was hooked. There was something about looking out at the crowd and watching them all watching me that was intoxicating.
Community college and working at the paint store was always just a short term step, I always knew that in my heart. But after almost three years, I knew I was letting my dreams fade away. I'm not proud of it, but I needed a way out. So every day at the store I would skim just a little out of the register. Never more than ten bucks in a day. And three months later, I had saved up enough for a bus ticket and two months rent in a small apartment about an hour outside of Hollywood by bus. It wasn't much, but luck was on my side from almost the start.
Within a week I had a chance meeting with a fellow actor at a laundromat and we hit it off. He knew about a big time move that needed some extras. It was a one-and-done job, but it was the break I was looking for, it just had to be.
I got to the set an hour ahead of time and I was seated with about 20 other actors. The assistant director was very direct, which I loved. We were going to be split into groups of two and each seated at tables in the background of a restaurant scene. We all came up with simple line of dialogue we would just say quietly to each other back and forth. No one was going to hear us with no microphones anywhere near by, so a lot of the people were just using pure gibberish. I wanted to take it seriously, and the actress I was paired with was quite attractive, so I figured my character (I decided his name was Billy, I have no idea why) was on a date with her, so I came up with "So, what can you tell me about yourself?" The lead actors came in and I was floored - one of my favorite directors, John Huston, was actually an actor in this film! But I was a professional, so I focused on my "date" and for the next 30 minutes over close to a dozen takes I said my single line to her over and over.
"Cut, thank you folks" was called, and that was that. I collected my check, and we all went to check on the Release Schedule. Like anyone thinking about acting, I knew all about the strange "Hollywood Curse" as it was called when it first manifested back in the 1940s. According to the schedule there was only one more week of shooting, and then three weeks of post-production until the premiere. Per the guild rules I would receive another $200 every week until release to cover my expenses since it would be tough to find work. Because for the next four weeks, I was a smitten kid on a first date, and all I could say was "So, what can you tell me about yourself?" The price of fame, right? It was a price I was more than willing to pay. Actors has come up with a system to help - we all had business cards: "Actor, stuck in post-production, please be understanding." And all around the Hollywood area people were more than accommodating, and it was bearable.
But I'm still paying that price. Coming up on 40 years later, and I can not escape. Those four weeks dragged into months, and then years. Orson Wells, perfectionist extraordinaire, he just couldn't finish the film. Hundreds of extra and many big name stars tried to organize protests, but it's tough to rally for a cause when you're stuck in a role. When Wells died in 1985, that's when the hopelessness really took over. Those of us who had managed to hold onto our sanity were pushed over the edge. My flatmate hung himself - I'm still not quite sure how, I guess his character would have done the same. By Christmas of 1986 there were only three of us left alive, the others just gave up and ended their suffering.
But not me. Billy, he was too desperate to find love, and he'd never when consider suicide. My method preparation for this stupid background role had trapped me. Any time I came close to attempting suicide I'd find myself running up to the closest woman and saying "So, tell me about yourself." And then when they would smile and politely tell me something, I'd ask the same question like a mindless robot, chasing them away with a mixture of confusion and fear.
They passed the Wells Act in 1986, the one decent piece of legislation that former actor Reagan managed to pull off. It required that a movie be required to have a World Premiere no later than 1 week after production wrapped. Trial and error proved that it was the release that mattered, even of a rough cut, and everyone would be free. But it was too late for me. With the Wells Act the memory of our nightmare faded into the realm of urban legend. By 1990 I was the last surviving member of the cast.
I keep hearing rumors, and supposedly there may even be a "kicked start" to raise money for a restoration and release but I have no idea what that means, and frankly I don't believe it. No friends, no love ... Christ I even had to give away my dog because you try screaming "So, what can you tell me about yourself?" out of your front door late at night. I've spent 40 years in this living hell and all I care about at this point is the release of death.
And when I so die I hope there's a cinema in heaven or hell or wherever I end up. If there is, I know that The Other Side of the Wind will be showing, and there's a front row seat waiting for me. And I hope that Wells is there. Because as I tighten my hands around his throat, hands that will stay there for all of eternity if I can manage it, I want to look him in the eyes and ask him one simple question, over and over and over.
"So, what can you tell me about yourself?"
|
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | You know, I'm getting really sick of spending all of my non-filming time in a graveyard or morgue. It gets boring.
Sean Bean | I hear the stone door grinding open. That can only mean one thing. The day has come. For months, I've been laying in my mausoleum. Months. It's cold in there. Very cold. But I've learned from the years I've spent in there. I brought a pillow and some blankets, and even some funeral music for when I get bored. But none of that matters now. I'm free.
"The movie's been released, Mr. Bean. You're free to go." |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | As I lay, the burning of, what I assume, are nerve endings severed by the officer's weapons and the piercing of my torso hits me too frequently to allow me to stand. Is this death? Can I die. I was asked for an autograph, and now I do believe I am on the ground doing what I believe dying people do. I tried to grab the pen, but the scissors cut the girls hand. Then in an attempt to make ammends, I believe I pierced her cheek. The following commotion frightened me and I tried to apologize and get back in the limousine my creator had put me into but the mob followed me and flashed lights at me from all around. The officers soon arrived to assist me and asked me to leave the vehicle with my hands up. I did all that they asked and they began shouting. Soon their words came with quick movements and the firing of their hand guns. Now I lay here in need of repair and those lights keep flashing, this world is unwelcoming and I very much look forward to home. | I hear the stone door grinding open. That can only mean one thing. The day has come. For months, I've been laying in my mausoleum. Months. It's cold in there. Very cold. But I've learned from the years I've spent in there. I brought a pillow and some blankets, and even some funeral music for when I get bored. But none of that matters now. I'm free.
"The movie's been released, Mr. Bean. You're free to go." |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | “Hodor.” he said for the thousandth time, but he was only met with that all too familiar look of confusion.
“Hodor!” this time he pointed at the large black board that was the coffee menu, then, tapping the medium cup on top of the espresso machine, he mumbled “Hodor.”
“Latte?” asked the barista. He shook his head. “A cap?” Another shake of his head, “Flat white?”
“Hodor.” he said a nodding.
“Why did I ever take role?” he thought, dreading the prospect of enduring another season.
Edit: a word. | I hear the stone door grinding open. That can only mean one thing. The day has come. For months, I've been laying in my mausoleum. Months. It's cold in there. Very cold. But I've learned from the years I've spent in there. I brought a pillow and some blankets, and even some funeral music for when I get bored. But none of that matters now. I'm free.
"The movie's been released, Mr. Bean. You're free to go." |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | As I lay, the burning of, what I assume, are nerve endings severed by the officer's weapons and the piercing of my torso hits me too frequently to allow me to stand. Is this death? Can I die. I was asked for an autograph, and now I do believe I am on the ground doing what I believe dying people do. I tried to grab the pen, but the scissors cut the girls hand. Then in an attempt to make ammends, I believe I pierced her cheek. The following commotion frightened me and I tried to apologize and get back in the limousine my creator had put me into but the mob followed me and flashed lights at me from all around. The officers soon arrived to assist me and asked me to leave the vehicle with my hands up. I did all that they asked and they began shouting. Soon their words came with quick movements and the firing of their hand guns. Now I lay here in need of repair and those lights keep flashing, this world is unwelcoming and I very much look forward to home. | [NSFW]
"Sir! Sir! Hello!"
He looked at the black lady behind the counter yelling at him.
"Sir, credit or cash?"
"What did you say?"
"Sir you gotta pay, or move on. Credit or cash?"
A crowd gathered in the line behind the man. Everyone was looking at the man, some people started yelling.
"What you lookin' at?" the man said, "you all a bunch of fuckin' assholes. You know why? You don't have the guts to be what you wanna be. You need people like me. You need people like me so you can point your fuckin' fingers and say, that's the bad guy. So, what that make you? Good? You're not good. You just know how to hide, how to lie. Me, I don't have that problem. Me, I always tell the truth. Even when I lie. So say good night to the bad guy! Come on. The last time you gonna see a bad guy like this again, let me tell you. Come on. Make way for the bad guy. There's a bad guy comin' through! Better get outta his way!"
"Sir, please get off the counter," said the lady behind the counter.
The man stepped down and some guy with a security suit approached him.
"Sir, I have to escort you out," said the security man.
"I am not going nowhere," said the man.
"Sir, you have to leave the store, you are causing a lot of trouble."
"I am not leaving this place. This just your capitalism working. Do you know what capitalism is? Getting fucked," he said and punched the security staff member right in the face.
The assembled crowd watching the scene started going crazy, yelling and screaming. The man run further into the store, vanishing behind the numerous aisles.
A few minutes later four people in security uniforms were standing in front of the man. The man was holding a big, fire emergency hose attached to the wall.
"Sir, if you just put the hose down and talk to us," said one of the men in uniform.
"You wanna fuck with me?"
"Sir, nobody wants that, please calm down."
"Okay. You wanna play rough?"
"Sir, nobody's playing rough. Just relax, we can help you."
"Okay. Say hello to my little friend!" The man opened up the hose and the pressure blew away the security staff.
The men, panicked while getting soaking wet and started throwing things from the selves around them at the man.
"Go ahead," the man shouted, "I take your fucking bullets! You think you kill me with bullets? I take your fucking bullets! Go ahead!"
Suddenly the water pressure dropped and then stopped. Someone from the security staff seized the opportunity and drew out his taser. He hesitated for a moment, put the taser back in, shook his hands furiously in order to dry them, pulled the taser out again and tased the man. The others soon followed him, all tasing the same man, while he was still holding the hose. The man fell to his knees and then face down on the floor, where everything went black.
|
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | “Hodor.” he said for the thousandth time, but he was only met with that all too familiar look of confusion.
“Hodor!” this time he pointed at the large black board that was the coffee menu, then, tapping the medium cup on top of the espresso machine, he mumbled “Hodor.”
“Latte?” asked the barista. He shook his head. “A cap?” Another shake of his head, “Flat white?”
“Hodor.” he said a nodding.
“Why did I ever take role?” he thought, dreading the prospect of enduring another season.
Edit: a word. | [NSFW]
"Sir! Sir! Hello!"
He looked at the black lady behind the counter yelling at him.
"Sir, credit or cash?"
"What did you say?"
"Sir you gotta pay, or move on. Credit or cash?"
A crowd gathered in the line behind the man. Everyone was looking at the man, some people started yelling.
"What you lookin' at?" the man said, "you all a bunch of fuckin' assholes. You know why? You don't have the guts to be what you wanna be. You need people like me. You need people like me so you can point your fuckin' fingers and say, that's the bad guy. So, what that make you? Good? You're not good. You just know how to hide, how to lie. Me, I don't have that problem. Me, I always tell the truth. Even when I lie. So say good night to the bad guy! Come on. The last time you gonna see a bad guy like this again, let me tell you. Come on. Make way for the bad guy. There's a bad guy comin' through! Better get outta his way!"
"Sir, please get off the counter," said the lady behind the counter.
The man stepped down and some guy with a security suit approached him.
"Sir, I have to escort you out," said the security man.
"I am not going nowhere," said the man.
"Sir, you have to leave the store, you are causing a lot of trouble."
"I am not leaving this place. This just your capitalism working. Do you know what capitalism is? Getting fucked," he said and punched the security staff member right in the face.
The assembled crowd watching the scene started going crazy, yelling and screaming. The man run further into the store, vanishing behind the numerous aisles.
A few minutes later four people in security uniforms were standing in front of the man. The man was holding a big, fire emergency hose attached to the wall.
"Sir, if you just put the hose down and talk to us," said one of the men in uniform.
"You wanna fuck with me?"
"Sir, nobody wants that, please calm down."
"Okay. You wanna play rough?"
"Sir, nobody's playing rough. Just relax, we can help you."
"Okay. Say hello to my little friend!" The man opened up the hose and the pressure blew away the security staff.
The men, panicked while getting soaking wet and started throwing things from the selves around them at the man.
"Go ahead," the man shouted, "I take your fucking bullets! You think you kill me with bullets? I take your fucking bullets! Go ahead!"
Suddenly the water pressure dropped and then stopped. Someone from the security staff seized the opportunity and drew out his taser. He hesitated for a moment, put the taser back in, shook his hands furiously in order to dry them, pulled the taser out again and tased the man. The others soon followed him, all tasing the same man, while he was still holding the hose. The man fell to his knees and then face down on the floor, where everything went black.
|
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | “Hodor.” he said for the thousandth time, but he was only met with that all too familiar look of confusion.
“Hodor!” this time he pointed at the large black board that was the coffee menu, then, tapping the medium cup on top of the espresso machine, he mumbled “Hodor.”
“Latte?” asked the barista. He shook his head. “A cap?” Another shake of his head, “Flat white?”
“Hodor.” he said a nodding.
“Why did I ever take role?” he thought, dreading the prospect of enduring another season.
Edit: a word. | Ricky, Julian and Bubbles woke up and got drunk and stoned. They continued this until their movie was released in theatres. |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | “Hodor.” he said for the thousandth time, but he was only met with that all too familiar look of confusion.
“Hodor!” this time he pointed at the large black board that was the coffee menu, then, tapping the medium cup on top of the espresso machine, he mumbled “Hodor.”
“Latte?” asked the barista. He shook his head. “A cap?” Another shake of his head, “Flat white?”
“Hodor.” he said a nodding.
“Why did I ever take role?” he thought, dreading the prospect of enduring another season.
Edit: a word. | I'm standing behind bars, my hands covered in blood.
The Sargent asks me,"Anything you want to say?"
"Why-o-why did I accept to play the serial killer"
|
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | “Hodor.” he said for the thousandth time, but he was only met with that all too familiar look of confusion.
“Hodor!” this time he pointed at the large black board that was the coffee menu, then, tapping the medium cup on top of the espresso machine, he mumbled “Hodor.”
“Latte?” asked the barista. He shook his head. “A cap?” Another shake of his head, “Flat white?”
“Hodor.” he said a nodding.
“Why did I ever take role?” he thought, dreading the prospect of enduring another season.
Edit: a word. | A man once asked how as an actor, I can maintain my character well after shooting has ended.
Man, I don't break character until I done the DVD commentary!
-Sgt. Kirk Lazarus |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | “Hodor.” he said for the thousandth time, but he was only met with that all too familiar look of confusion.
“Hodor!” this time he pointed at the large black board that was the coffee menu, then, tapping the medium cup on top of the espresso machine, he mumbled “Hodor.”
“Latte?” asked the barista. He shook his head. “A cap?” Another shake of his head, “Flat white?”
“Hodor.” he said a nodding.
“Why did I ever take role?” he thought, dreading the prospect of enduring another season.
Edit: a word. | "Cut! Thats a wrap folks, get cleaned up and ill see everyone at the wrap party in a few Hours" The director screamed.
I got up, took off my trench coat and gloves. Handed them to the assistant and walked back to my dressing room.
I took a shower, washed away the days blood, sweat and tears, dried off and put on my best outfit for the party.
As I watched everyone celebrate the amazing job we've done completing the film, I realized what I needed to do
To slit everyone's throat in this room. |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | “Hodor.” he said for the thousandth time, but he was only met with that all too familiar look of confusion.
“Hodor!” this time he pointed at the large black board that was the coffee menu, then, tapping the medium cup on top of the espresso machine, he mumbled “Hodor.”
“Latte?” asked the barista. He shook his head. “A cap?” Another shake of his head, “Flat white?”
“Hodor.” he said a nodding.
“Why did I ever take role?” he thought, dreading the prospect of enduring another season.
Edit: a word. | He just stood there looking at the bagels.
Craft services had brought their normal spread, including a chef, and it looked amazing. He wanted an omelette this morning, but his desires were exacting, and it was so hard to get it right. After the fiasco yesterday (Who puts peanut butter in an egg dish?), he knew that until the show wrapped, he would need to eat "off the shelf".
He sorted though the bagel tray, and even sniffed a few. Onion, garlic, sesame seed, poppy seed....no raisin, no cinnamon?
He turned to the chef and stared, a long meaningful stare. The chef was whipping some cream to put on some pancakes along with some strawberries. She whipped the cream, and scooped it into the bag, and squeezed in onto the pancakes. The chef added the sliced strawberries, a little mint and then she stopped. Looking up, the chef searched for the source of the strange feeling in the small hairs on her neck and saw him...HIM... standing there staring.
The chef, like many of the nerdier girls, had idolized him when she was younger. She even had dreams of being him or being his sister. She watched all the shows where he blew everyone away with his voice acting, the show being better just knowing that HE was the voice of the animated villain. And now he was just staring, with grave meaning behind his silent eyes.
The chef looked down at the pancakes, "Would you like pancakes, sir, or I mean Mark, uh, Sir Mark?Pancakes?"
Knowing that the chef did not understand, the silent and grave man turned his gaze to the bowl of bagels, and sighed.
"You want a bagel? Some schmear? Sir?"
Another heavy sigh. He pulled the hood back from his robe and revealed his grey hair, and looked again at the bagels. He stood tall, knowing that he must get all his meaning across with one long look.
The chef picked up a bag of cinnamon bagels, took a step forward, and held them out. The the older man locked eyes with the younger woman, and nodded in approval.
Just three more weeks of shooting, and he would be able to speak again, but he could not let his desires control him. He had to try to stay in character.
No! Stay in character, or break character. There was no try. |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | “Hodor.” he said for the thousandth time, but he was only met with that all too familiar look of confusion.
“Hodor!” this time he pointed at the large black board that was the coffee menu, then, tapping the medium cup on top of the espresso machine, he mumbled “Hodor.”
“Latte?” asked the barista. He shook his head. “A cap?” Another shake of his head, “Flat white?”
“Hodor.” he said a nodding.
“Why did I ever take role?” he thought, dreading the prospect of enduring another season.
Edit: a word. | Sean Bean lays silently. Wondering if his character will survive his next film. Even though deep down he knows the truth.
.
Fin |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | “Hodor.” he said for the thousandth time, but he was only met with that all too familiar look of confusion.
“Hodor!” this time he pointed at the large black board that was the coffee menu, then, tapping the medium cup on top of the espresso machine, he mumbled “Hodor.”
“Latte?” asked the barista. He shook his head. “A cap?” Another shake of his head, “Flat white?”
“Hodor.” he said a nodding.
“Why did I ever take role?” he thought, dreading the prospect of enduring another season.
Edit: a word. | So long I have waited... After years of pain, and suffering from a cause that ails me still... Yes. I am at peace. Away from the clash of the dark and the light, I am truly one with everything.
I am one with the-
"ARE YOU LUKE SKYWALKER?"
fuck
"I HAVE YOUR LIGHTSABER"
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
"WILL YOU TRAIN ME"
"Movie's out, guys. We can leave." A voice from the loudspeakers above.
thank god
"BUT MASTER SKYWALKER-"
"WE'RE GOING HOME , DAISY, SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE." |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | Some things can't be blamed on contractual obligations. It's just the way the industry works.
Studios won't touch you when you haven't seen a Release.
It's a curious phenomenon that governs the human psyche. The Release affects all professions, not just actors. You can't quit lawyering to become a judge or go into politics until you've settled or resolved every single case that you chose to take up.
It says something about committing to a profession, when one *acts* the part in order to fit in. But that's the beautiful thing about people. We commit to things and it changes us. Being a husband or dad is just the more extreme example of a lifetime's commitment. Only death can undo certain roles.
I craved Release. Sought it with every fibre of my being. There were laws in place to prevent actors from being put in this kind of position but where there's this much money involved, perhaps delays are inevitable.
What really irked me though was how they kept stalling. The studio you were contracted to was supposed to be a second home. They had obligations to their actors. They weren't allowed to avoid meetings.
I didn't quit though. I was in the conference room when the Producer and writers walked in. I deserved answers.
It helped that my current role was that of an actor. The movie was a biopic on a famous director. Biopics were going to be the new craze once our movie got out. This was new, somewhat of an experimental cinema in Hollywood. Biopics had previously only been seen in Silent movies. They had recently achieved some success in East Asia.
The Producer took the chair at the head of the table. Greg Batts was an old personal friend. He was a friend to everyone who worked for him. He seemed genuinely apologetic over the phone when I asked for this meeting.
"I know you were expecting to hear from us sooner and for that I do apologise," said Greg. "We hit some issues with certification. Apparently our script approvals had not received the full prior clearance."
"How much longer will it take now?" I asked.
"That's not the issue we called you to discuss," Greg gestured to the 3 writers who seemed solemn as they sat quietly. "Apparently, we've run into some Guideline Violations."
RGVs. Oh this was not good.
"What's wrong?"
Greg paused before answering. "Many of the roles in this production had actors as characters. Obviously our big selling point with this picture was going to be a glamorous peek into the lifestyles of famous Hollywood personalities. Unfortunately this has never been tried before and apparently there were good reasons for it."
"Such as?"
"Such as the fact that playing the character of an actor can have consequences for the actor playing him. You don't just play the character, you assume all the roles they play-"
"So?" I interjected. "The same could be said about any character with a profession."
"Not quite. Apparently delving into the psyche of, shall we say, a bricklayer produces a composite of both man and profession. There's no differentiating one from the other. You're playing the character as a whole. In your case, that rule doesn't apply. From what we've been told, entering into the mindset of an actor is more complex. You're becoming both the actor and the role he's playing. Two separate composites. Only in your case, you played an actor well established in his profession. Someone who has played multiple roles in his lifetime."
"And... " I trailed off, with a sinking feeling about where this was going.
"And you embraced scores of those composites with this one role, only they are not going to give you any Release. Not unless we remake every picture they were in and I don't see how that's feasible. I'm sorry."
I sat stunned.
"Our lawyers tell us we're obligated to inform you of our violation of your Release contract. Clearly we can't afford to pay you for all those projects. Just know that you will have a home here for as long as necessary, even if this means you're done as an actor."
I couldn't say anything. Until the smile I felt coming slipped past my lips.
"Are you alright?" Greg sounding worried now. "Why do you look pleased? You realize you're stuck doing nothing right...?"
"Stuck?" I replied, feeling oddly rejuvenated. "I've got within me an entire corpus of roles played by one of the most legendary actors we ever had. And I have them under His control. Screw the Release. You want my talent, you pay big."
| I lack any shred of self controll. I'm manic, never able to settle down. People cross the street when they see me coming. Every word out of my mouth is utter nonsense.
I am Nicholas Cage. My life has become a living....
Wait. My bad. This became non-fiction on me really quickly. Sorry! |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | Day 17 of shooting. It's been a long month and it isn't over yet. A war flick. And war is hell.
The hero is looking rough. Gaunt and developing that thousand yard stare. Lucky bastard gets to sleep in a tent and cot. Not for much luck for me. I lay here in the hospital "ward", along with all the other NAZIs unlucky enough to die in the first scene.
Can't wait for this to be over. Death sucks. | I lack any shred of self controll. I'm manic, never able to settle down. People cross the street when they see me coming. Every word out of my mouth is utter nonsense.
I am Nicholas Cage. My life has become a living....
Wait. My bad. This became non-fiction on me really quickly. Sorry! |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | Some things can't be blamed on contractual obligations. It's just the way the industry works.
Studios won't touch you when you haven't seen a Release.
It's a curious phenomenon that governs the human psyche. The Release affects all professions, not just actors. You can't quit lawyering to become a judge or go into politics until you've settled or resolved every single case that you chose to take up.
It says something about committing to a profession, when one *acts* the part in order to fit in. But that's the beautiful thing about people. We commit to things and it changes us. Being a husband or dad is just the more extreme example of a lifetime's commitment. Only death can undo certain roles.
I craved Release. Sought it with every fibre of my being. There were laws in place to prevent actors from being put in this kind of position but where there's this much money involved, perhaps delays are inevitable.
What really irked me though was how they kept stalling. The studio you were contracted to was supposed to be a second home. They had obligations to their actors. They weren't allowed to avoid meetings.
I didn't quit though. I was in the conference room when the Producer and writers walked in. I deserved answers.
It helped that my current role was that of an actor. The movie was a biopic on a famous director. Biopics were going to be the new craze once our movie got out. This was new, somewhat of an experimental cinema in Hollywood. Biopics had previously only been seen in Silent movies. They had recently achieved some success in East Asia.
The Producer took the chair at the head of the table. Greg Batts was an old personal friend. He was a friend to everyone who worked for him. He seemed genuinely apologetic over the phone when I asked for this meeting.
"I know you were expecting to hear from us sooner and for that I do apologise," said Greg. "We hit some issues with certification. Apparently our script approvals had not received the full prior clearance."
"How much longer will it take now?" I asked.
"That's not the issue we called you to discuss," Greg gestured to the 3 writers who seemed solemn as they sat quietly. "Apparently, we've run into some Guideline Violations."
RGVs. Oh this was not good.
"What's wrong?"
Greg paused before answering. "Many of the roles in this production had actors as characters. Obviously our big selling point with this picture was going to be a glamorous peek into the lifestyles of famous Hollywood personalities. Unfortunately this has never been tried before and apparently there were good reasons for it."
"Such as?"
"Such as the fact that playing the character of an actor can have consequences for the actor playing him. You don't just play the character, you assume all the roles they play-"
"So?" I interjected. "The same could be said about any character with a profession."
"Not quite. Apparently delving into the psyche of, shall we say, a bricklayer produces a composite of both man and profession. There's no differentiating one from the other. You're playing the character as a whole. In your case, that rule doesn't apply. From what we've been told, entering into the mindset of an actor is more complex. You're becoming both the actor and the role he's playing. Two separate composites. Only in your case, you played an actor well established in his profession. Someone who has played multiple roles in his lifetime."
"And... " I trailed off, with a sinking feeling about where this was going.
"And you embraced scores of those composites with this one role, only they are not going to give you any Release. Not unless we remake every picture they were in and I don't see how that's feasible. I'm sorry."
I sat stunned.
"Our lawyers tell us we're obligated to inform you of our violation of your Release contract. Clearly we can't afford to pay you for all those projects. Just know that you will have a home here for as long as necessary, even if this means you're done as an actor."
I couldn't say anything. Until the smile I felt coming slipped past my lips.
"Are you alright?" Greg sounding worried now. "Why do you look pleased? You realize you're stuck doing nothing right...?"
"Stuck?" I replied, feeling oddly rejuvenated. "I've got within me an entire corpus of roles played by one of the most legendary actors we ever had. And I have them under His control. Screw the Release. You want my talent, you pay big."
| "No I am not a ba-"
"No I am not a bad-"
"No I am not a bad person!"
A method actor is a path which only brings pain. A pain only you can fight, a pain only you can bear and a pain you want. You tell no one how you achieved the emotion you put into a character.
In my most recent film, I played the villain, Erik Roshel, a pathological lying psychopath with a taste for the forbidden. It was an obvious role I could fill since I had shot to fame, or infamy, with my portrayal of villains in my last few movies. What separated me from other villain actors was that I truly immersed myself into their role. On camera I would become the villain. I would laugh with gusto, curse goodness and would selfishly only follow my laws. Yes few actors dared to truly immerse themselves into the role of villains since they are deemed unacceptable to society and because of that, many villains on camera would seem one dimensional or weak. I took this burden as without a nefarious villain, how could the hero truly be a shining example of valor. However this time I may have gone too far.
It is true that I could act out vile, vicious villains once I was immersed in the mindset but, I was never a real villain since I didn't commit atrocities. The edge I believed I had over most method actors was self-control. I would brew dark selfish thoughts within my head day in day out, lurk within my trailer and the streets cursing the insignificance of those around me. It is during those times my 'heart' would call out to carry out actions to place my thumb on their fate but I would never act. Even now as Erik Roshel I wouldn't act but still, I felt poison corroding my mind especially this time.
Unlike my old roles, Erik Roshel didn't wish for a world order in his image, Erik Roshel didn't wish for wealth and power beyond his wildest dreams no, Erik Roshel only wished to see a victims contorted face of agony as he held their life in his hand.
I still remember the day my agent told me about this role.
"Hey buddy that your performance as Attila Khan, very impressive. I heard that they were considering to nominate you for the Action Gold List this year. At this rate my man you can forget about tiny nominations like the Action Gold List and instead be deciding what kind of cabinet your many trophies will be in. "
"No stop Jared, you flatter me too much. I only did what I could and acted as the script intended. I don't want to be praised for my characters, I only wanted those I act as to be remembered as a lesson and warning."
"Ok my A man whatever you say anyways, I got a new role for you. This new scumbag is a real piece of work. Erik Roshel, serial killer on the run from an neo-noir detective who may have bitten off more than he can chew. Don't worry I already told the studio you are in and the script should be at your door first thing tomorrow morning."
"Many thanks Jared. I don't know what I will do without you." The movie was going to start filming in 3 weeks. More than enough time for me to become Erik Roshel. If I knew what I was going to go through I would have told my agent Jared to cancel the contract.
It started after the first week of filming. I began having terrible nightmares at night. In those nightmares I saw a ma- no not a man, a monster with only the cruelest intentions, slowly cutting what I could only describe as what was left of a person along their bruised body. In those dreams what truly terrified me was not that the perpetrator of these actions had my face, it was the gleeful smile plastered onto that face, a smile I could only describe as, euphoria.
These nightmares persisted throughout the rest of filming but I could stay strong. In a twisted sense, you could say as Erik Roshel was appeased by being able to live out his desires on set, never was it an issue. Sometimes the director would say what I just did was intense and pretty scary but later in the day I would be praised for a job well done. Erik Roshel was an inner demon of mine but an inner demon I could withhold. It was another story however once filming ended.
After filming, I would still stay in character till release in cinema. I did this as sometimes during post-production, a particular scene may have to be redone or added depending on how the story plays out. During my first role, I remember completely forgetting about my character and carry on with my daily life while waiting to the film to be done. However there was one scene that had to be re shot due to some technical issues and I was called back. That scene I did was the worse one I had ever done. I had completely forgotten about the character's ticks and his volition was pathetic. I still remember watching that scene and sinking in my seat from the shame I felt. I vowed to only leave character once to film is out and there is no chance I would have to act that character again.
Living out my daily routine as Erik Roshel could only be described as torture. At first I only drop a little lie or two to my friends and colleagues but it slowly evolved into an explosive imagination which imagined how I would capture someone I saw on the streets and slowly bring them to ruin. The nightmares of course still persisted to make matters worse but I still kept it all in. I was Erik Roshel but I knew that was not me, I think.
"Hey champ, so Dangerous Encounters is almost ready according to my ears in the studio. Preeetty crazy right?"
I didn't even look at Jared. I sort of grunted in acknowledgement. I was busy thinking about the brunette I saw at the coffee shop on my way here. She had such a perfectly carved face......It would be more amazing if I carved it.
"Sooo I have been talking to some of your coworkers recently, and they said you have been acting a little strange. Anything on your mind?"
Still wasn't looking at Jared. Oooo how amazing her face will be once I starts to contort in pain.
"Enough of the bullshit man I know you are taking the role of Erik Roshel too seriously! The man I know would never be like this."
Jared's raised voice brought me back to the conversation. "Jared you're being paranoid I'm not taking the role too seriously. I can stop whenever I want to. Don't be so uncool about it, you know my motto right? I don't want to be praised for my characters, I only wanted those I act as to be remembered as a lesson and stuff. Why would I take a character so seriously. You're out of your mind Jared."
Jared seemed quite taken aback from what a said and he stayed silent for a moment. He then looked and me for a moment and quickly asked "Ok then tell me what is the name of the movie you are in?"
"Dangerous Encounters."
"What is the address of the studio?"
"42 West Avenue."
"What is your name?"
"Erik Rosh-, no wait Jared!" Too late Jared already left the room. He said something along the lines of getting me some help. Am I- am I really taking this role too seriously? A chill ran up my spine and my hands started sweating.
No I am not Erik Roshel.
No I am not a ba-
No I am not a bad-
No I am not a bad person!
It was 36 hours since that encounter and I haven't heard from Jared since. Probably because I cut my phone line.
I was having one of my nightmares again but this time, I saw that brunette from the coffee shop. She had stopped crying after the first hour she was brought here. You wouldn't be able to recognize her now. I wasn't sure if she was still breathing but it didn't matter. While I was picking up a new knife, I accidentally cut myself.
'Shoot I have to be more care-.' It was then I realized I wasn't watching a man with my face commit these atrocities. No it was through his eyes I saw them. This was no dream. What have I done....No I didn't do this......I couldn't have done this......
Suddenly I heard a knocking at the door. It became more and more violent with each repetition of 3.
"Sir open up this door. Mathew James open up, its the police."
I peered over to the door getting more and more irritated by the knocking. They had to go away.
"Sorry officers no Mathew James lives here, Only Erik Roshel."
(Haven't wrote a story this long nor did I expect it to become this long. If you have read this far please leave a comment. Any criticism is appreciated)
|
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | Day 17 of shooting. It's been a long month and it isn't over yet. A war flick. And war is hell.
The hero is looking rough. Gaunt and developing that thousand yard stare. Lucky bastard gets to sleep in a tent and cot. Not for much luck for me. I lay here in the hospital "ward", along with all the other NAZIs unlucky enough to die in the first scene.
Can't wait for this to be over. Death sucks. | "No I am not a ba-"
"No I am not a bad-"
"No I am not a bad person!"
A method actor is a path which only brings pain. A pain only you can fight, a pain only you can bear and a pain you want. You tell no one how you achieved the emotion you put into a character.
In my most recent film, I played the villain, Erik Roshel, a pathological lying psychopath with a taste for the forbidden. It was an obvious role I could fill since I had shot to fame, or infamy, with my portrayal of villains in my last few movies. What separated me from other villain actors was that I truly immersed myself into their role. On camera I would become the villain. I would laugh with gusto, curse goodness and would selfishly only follow my laws. Yes few actors dared to truly immerse themselves into the role of villains since they are deemed unacceptable to society and because of that, many villains on camera would seem one dimensional or weak. I took this burden as without a nefarious villain, how could the hero truly be a shining example of valor. However this time I may have gone too far.
It is true that I could act out vile, vicious villains once I was immersed in the mindset but, I was never a real villain since I didn't commit atrocities. The edge I believed I had over most method actors was self-control. I would brew dark selfish thoughts within my head day in day out, lurk within my trailer and the streets cursing the insignificance of those around me. It is during those times my 'heart' would call out to carry out actions to place my thumb on their fate but I would never act. Even now as Erik Roshel I wouldn't act but still, I felt poison corroding my mind especially this time.
Unlike my old roles, Erik Roshel didn't wish for a world order in his image, Erik Roshel didn't wish for wealth and power beyond his wildest dreams no, Erik Roshel only wished to see a victims contorted face of agony as he held their life in his hand.
I still remember the day my agent told me about this role.
"Hey buddy that your performance as Attila Khan, very impressive. I heard that they were considering to nominate you for the Action Gold List this year. At this rate my man you can forget about tiny nominations like the Action Gold List and instead be deciding what kind of cabinet your many trophies will be in. "
"No stop Jared, you flatter me too much. I only did what I could and acted as the script intended. I don't want to be praised for my characters, I only wanted those I act as to be remembered as a lesson and warning."
"Ok my A man whatever you say anyways, I got a new role for you. This new scumbag is a real piece of work. Erik Roshel, serial killer on the run from an neo-noir detective who may have bitten off more than he can chew. Don't worry I already told the studio you are in and the script should be at your door first thing tomorrow morning."
"Many thanks Jared. I don't know what I will do without you." The movie was going to start filming in 3 weeks. More than enough time for me to become Erik Roshel. If I knew what I was going to go through I would have told my agent Jared to cancel the contract.
It started after the first week of filming. I began having terrible nightmares at night. In those nightmares I saw a ma- no not a man, a monster with only the cruelest intentions, slowly cutting what I could only describe as what was left of a person along their bruised body. In those dreams what truly terrified me was not that the perpetrator of these actions had my face, it was the gleeful smile plastered onto that face, a smile I could only describe as, euphoria.
These nightmares persisted throughout the rest of filming but I could stay strong. In a twisted sense, you could say as Erik Roshel was appeased by being able to live out his desires on set, never was it an issue. Sometimes the director would say what I just did was intense and pretty scary but later in the day I would be praised for a job well done. Erik Roshel was an inner demon of mine but an inner demon I could withhold. It was another story however once filming ended.
After filming, I would still stay in character till release in cinema. I did this as sometimes during post-production, a particular scene may have to be redone or added depending on how the story plays out. During my first role, I remember completely forgetting about my character and carry on with my daily life while waiting to the film to be done. However there was one scene that had to be re shot due to some technical issues and I was called back. That scene I did was the worse one I had ever done. I had completely forgotten about the character's ticks and his volition was pathetic. I still remember watching that scene and sinking in my seat from the shame I felt. I vowed to only leave character once to film is out and there is no chance I would have to act that character again.
Living out my daily routine as Erik Roshel could only be described as torture. At first I only drop a little lie or two to my friends and colleagues but it slowly evolved into an explosive imagination which imagined how I would capture someone I saw on the streets and slowly bring them to ruin. The nightmares of course still persisted to make matters worse but I still kept it all in. I was Erik Roshel but I knew that was not me, I think.
"Hey champ, so Dangerous Encounters is almost ready according to my ears in the studio. Preeetty crazy right?"
I didn't even look at Jared. I sort of grunted in acknowledgement. I was busy thinking about the brunette I saw at the coffee shop on my way here. She had such a perfectly carved face......It would be more amazing if I carved it.
"Sooo I have been talking to some of your coworkers recently, and they said you have been acting a little strange. Anything on your mind?"
Still wasn't looking at Jared. Oooo how amazing her face will be once I starts to contort in pain.
"Enough of the bullshit man I know you are taking the role of Erik Roshel too seriously! The man I know would never be like this."
Jared's raised voice brought me back to the conversation. "Jared you're being paranoid I'm not taking the role too seriously. I can stop whenever I want to. Don't be so uncool about it, you know my motto right? I don't want to be praised for my characters, I only wanted those I act as to be remembered as a lesson and stuff. Why would I take a character so seriously. You're out of your mind Jared."
Jared seemed quite taken aback from what a said and he stayed silent for a moment. He then looked and me for a moment and quickly asked "Ok then tell me what is the name of the movie you are in?"
"Dangerous Encounters."
"What is the address of the studio?"
"42 West Avenue."
"What is your name?"
"Erik Rosh-, no wait Jared!" Too late Jared already left the room. He said something along the lines of getting me some help. Am I- am I really taking this role too seriously? A chill ran up my spine and my hands started sweating.
No I am not Erik Roshel.
No I am not a ba-
No I am not a bad-
No I am not a bad person!
It was 36 hours since that encounter and I haven't heard from Jared since. Probably because I cut my phone line.
I was having one of my nightmares again but this time, I saw that brunette from the coffee shop. She had stopped crying after the first hour she was brought here. You wouldn't be able to recognize her now. I wasn't sure if she was still breathing but it didn't matter. While I was picking up a new knife, I accidentally cut myself.
'Shoot I have to be more care-.' It was then I realized I wasn't watching a man with my face commit these atrocities. No it was through his eyes I saw them. This was no dream. What have I done....No I didn't do this......I couldn't have done this......
Suddenly I heard a knocking at the door. It became more and more violent with each repetition of 3.
"Sir open up this door. Mathew James open up, its the police."
I peered over to the door getting more and more irritated by the knocking. They had to go away.
"Sorry officers no Mathew James lives here, Only Erik Roshel."
(Haven't wrote a story this long nor did I expect it to become this long. If you have read this far please leave a comment. Any criticism is appreciated)
|
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | I lay flat on my cold bedroom floor motionless. Maybe choosing to audition for a horror movie wasn't the best idea. | "No I am not a ba-"
"No I am not a bad-"
"No I am not a bad person!"
A method actor is a path which only brings pain. A pain only you can fight, a pain only you can bear and a pain you want. You tell no one how you achieved the emotion you put into a character.
In my most recent film, I played the villain, Erik Roshel, a pathological lying psychopath with a taste for the forbidden. It was an obvious role I could fill since I had shot to fame, or infamy, with my portrayal of villains in my last few movies. What separated me from other villain actors was that I truly immersed myself into their role. On camera I would become the villain. I would laugh with gusto, curse goodness and would selfishly only follow my laws. Yes few actors dared to truly immerse themselves into the role of villains since they are deemed unacceptable to society and because of that, many villains on camera would seem one dimensional or weak. I took this burden as without a nefarious villain, how could the hero truly be a shining example of valor. However this time I may have gone too far.
It is true that I could act out vile, vicious villains once I was immersed in the mindset but, I was never a real villain since I didn't commit atrocities. The edge I believed I had over most method actors was self-control. I would brew dark selfish thoughts within my head day in day out, lurk within my trailer and the streets cursing the insignificance of those around me. It is during those times my 'heart' would call out to carry out actions to place my thumb on their fate but I would never act. Even now as Erik Roshel I wouldn't act but still, I felt poison corroding my mind especially this time.
Unlike my old roles, Erik Roshel didn't wish for a world order in his image, Erik Roshel didn't wish for wealth and power beyond his wildest dreams no, Erik Roshel only wished to see a victims contorted face of agony as he held their life in his hand.
I still remember the day my agent told me about this role.
"Hey buddy that your performance as Attila Khan, very impressive. I heard that they were considering to nominate you for the Action Gold List this year. At this rate my man you can forget about tiny nominations like the Action Gold List and instead be deciding what kind of cabinet your many trophies will be in. "
"No stop Jared, you flatter me too much. I only did what I could and acted as the script intended. I don't want to be praised for my characters, I only wanted those I act as to be remembered as a lesson and warning."
"Ok my A man whatever you say anyways, I got a new role for you. This new scumbag is a real piece of work. Erik Roshel, serial killer on the run from an neo-noir detective who may have bitten off more than he can chew. Don't worry I already told the studio you are in and the script should be at your door first thing tomorrow morning."
"Many thanks Jared. I don't know what I will do without you." The movie was going to start filming in 3 weeks. More than enough time for me to become Erik Roshel. If I knew what I was going to go through I would have told my agent Jared to cancel the contract.
It started after the first week of filming. I began having terrible nightmares at night. In those nightmares I saw a ma- no not a man, a monster with only the cruelest intentions, slowly cutting what I could only describe as what was left of a person along their bruised body. In those dreams what truly terrified me was not that the perpetrator of these actions had my face, it was the gleeful smile plastered onto that face, a smile I could only describe as, euphoria.
These nightmares persisted throughout the rest of filming but I could stay strong. In a twisted sense, you could say as Erik Roshel was appeased by being able to live out his desires on set, never was it an issue. Sometimes the director would say what I just did was intense and pretty scary but later in the day I would be praised for a job well done. Erik Roshel was an inner demon of mine but an inner demon I could withhold. It was another story however once filming ended.
After filming, I would still stay in character till release in cinema. I did this as sometimes during post-production, a particular scene may have to be redone or added depending on how the story plays out. During my first role, I remember completely forgetting about my character and carry on with my daily life while waiting to the film to be done. However there was one scene that had to be re shot due to some technical issues and I was called back. That scene I did was the worse one I had ever done. I had completely forgotten about the character's ticks and his volition was pathetic. I still remember watching that scene and sinking in my seat from the shame I felt. I vowed to only leave character once to film is out and there is no chance I would have to act that character again.
Living out my daily routine as Erik Roshel could only be described as torture. At first I only drop a little lie or two to my friends and colleagues but it slowly evolved into an explosive imagination which imagined how I would capture someone I saw on the streets and slowly bring them to ruin. The nightmares of course still persisted to make matters worse but I still kept it all in. I was Erik Roshel but I knew that was not me, I think.
"Hey champ, so Dangerous Encounters is almost ready according to my ears in the studio. Preeetty crazy right?"
I didn't even look at Jared. I sort of grunted in acknowledgement. I was busy thinking about the brunette I saw at the coffee shop on my way here. She had such a perfectly carved face......It would be more amazing if I carved it.
"Sooo I have been talking to some of your coworkers recently, and they said you have been acting a little strange. Anything on your mind?"
Still wasn't looking at Jared. Oooo how amazing her face will be once I starts to contort in pain.
"Enough of the bullshit man I know you are taking the role of Erik Roshel too seriously! The man I know would never be like this."
Jared's raised voice brought me back to the conversation. "Jared you're being paranoid I'm not taking the role too seriously. I can stop whenever I want to. Don't be so uncool about it, you know my motto right? I don't want to be praised for my characters, I only wanted those I act as to be remembered as a lesson and stuff. Why would I take a character so seriously. You're out of your mind Jared."
Jared seemed quite taken aback from what a said and he stayed silent for a moment. He then looked and me for a moment and quickly asked "Ok then tell me what is the name of the movie you are in?"
"Dangerous Encounters."
"What is the address of the studio?"
"42 West Avenue."
"What is your name?"
"Erik Rosh-, no wait Jared!" Too late Jared already left the room. He said something along the lines of getting me some help. Am I- am I really taking this role too seriously? A chill ran up my spine and my hands started sweating.
No I am not Erik Roshel.
No I am not a ba-
No I am not a bad-
No I am not a bad person!
It was 36 hours since that encounter and I haven't heard from Jared since. Probably because I cut my phone line.
I was having one of my nightmares again but this time, I saw that brunette from the coffee shop. She had stopped crying after the first hour she was brought here. You wouldn't be able to recognize her now. I wasn't sure if she was still breathing but it didn't matter. While I was picking up a new knife, I accidentally cut myself.
'Shoot I have to be more care-.' It was then I realized I wasn't watching a man with my face commit these atrocities. No it was through his eyes I saw them. This was no dream. What have I done....No I didn't do this......I couldn't have done this......
Suddenly I heard a knocking at the door. It became more and more violent with each repetition of 3.
"Sir open up this door. Mathew James open up, its the police."
I peered over to the door getting more and more irritated by the knocking. They had to go away.
"Sorry officers no Mathew James lives here, Only Erik Roshel."
(Haven't wrote a story this long nor did I expect it to become this long. If you have read this far please leave a comment. Any criticism is appreciated)
|
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | Day 17 of shooting. It's been a long month and it isn't over yet. A war flick. And war is hell.
The hero is looking rough. Gaunt and developing that thousand yard stare. Lucky bastard gets to sleep in a tent and cot. Not for much luck for me. I lay here in the hospital "ward", along with all the other NAZIs unlucky enough to die in the first scene.
Can't wait for this to be over. Death sucks. | I completed my morning routine like any other day. I put an ice pack on my face while doing stomach crunches, eventually reaching a thousand before stopping.
I applied a deep pore cleanser lotion before entering the shower, going through the motions. Once again I would be using a water activated gel cleanser, and honey almond body scrub
Then on the face, an exfoliating gel scrub with a herb mint facial mask that must sit for exactly ten minutes, while preparing for the rest of the early morning. After shave lotion with no alcohol, as I can't seen appearing older with a dried out face.
After the bulk of the routine is complete, I add moisturizer, anti aging eye balm, followed by moisturizing protective lotion as the last step.
Much of this is needlessly excessive, but it's a routine that I must stick to every day.
Once that's done I finally head out to work. Shooting is completed, but the film is yet to be processed and released, so I have no other choice but another day at the office, working in mergers and acquisitions.
I often tell people that I work in "Murders and Executions" but it's in one ear and out the other, they never notice what I've said. That wouldn't be good for me if they did though, drawing unneeded attention to myself could cause problems, especially given the nature of my character.
Unfortunately as I continued on to work, I caught something out of the corner of my eye that needed my immediate attention, something I wish I hadn't seen.
A flashing ATM, repeatedly handing out orders. Of course it wasn't really, part of the character is being delusional, so I had to honor my current nature in line with the character.
For the current task assigned to me by myself masquerading as the persona behind the ATM, I needed to find a cat, any old stray would do, in fact the stray part was kind of important.
I located a cat soon after in one of the nearby alley ways. I knew at this point I would never make it to work on time, so I phoned my receptionist and said I wouldn't be coming in. This took priority.
I walked back to the ATM holding the cat in my arms, which must have been comfortable around people because it wasn't fighting back, and if anything, seemed to be enjoying the attention.
Now was the time to complete what I had said out to do. I imagined the ATM as reiterating the request I had imagined it giving me earlier, and went for it.
As I vigorously tried to jam the cat into the slot of the ATM machine, I noticed others noticing me. A crowd of stunned people were watching me as I attempted to feed the ATM a stray cat.
This wasn't good. The police would be called, and then I would have to get into a shootout with them, I'd also have to confess even if I managed to get away with it.
A rational character would have avoided public eyes, but mine was constantly disassociating from reality. My frenzy and insanity would only grow with time, and it had been long enough to where I could no longer resist these oddities even in public.
The cat scratched my hand and I winced, reflexively dropping it to the ground in pain. This couldn't stand of course, the character is brought to a rage at defiance even from a harmless animal, and as such it wouldn't let me let myself get bested by an alley rat.
I came prepared for just such an eventuality though, and walked a few short steps to my car parked nearby. In the trunk was a chainsaw.
I grabbed it and set it down on the sidewalk, keeping the cat in my sights as I did. I took off my suit and undershirt, removed my pants, underwear, shoes, socks, and tie, on and on until I was entirely naked.
I revved up the chainsaw and sprinted at the cat. It ran away, making the chase more thrilling and meaningful. Along the way I would have to stop when I found a reflective surface, and gaze at myself while I posed and flexed, just another thing I couldn't help doing.
But I wouldn't let the cat get away, either. I had to cut it apart and eat its brain. I was starting to get worried though, as the authorities had surely been notified now.
I often wonder why I was unlucky enough to play a character that can't do his murdering in a more subtle way, preferably with clothes on at least.
Even if I could run away from the police, I'm compelled, no, obligated to fight back and attempt to kill them. The worst part is, even if I'm successful against all those odds, I will have to call my lawyer and turn myself in.
But I just grin and bear it. Well, again, I have to. My character's mask of sanity has slipped, and I can no sooner change the deranged smile on my face as I can will myself to be okay with my business card being one upped at work.
But at least I'm here, and not at the office. Bragging about the subtle off white coloring of *bone* hasn't been doing me any favors, and it's so hard to resist killing that receptionist. |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | I lay flat on my cold bedroom floor motionless. Maybe choosing to audition for a horror movie wasn't the best idea. | I completed my morning routine like any other day. I put an ice pack on my face while doing stomach crunches, eventually reaching a thousand before stopping.
I applied a deep pore cleanser lotion before entering the shower, going through the motions. Once again I would be using a water activated gel cleanser, and honey almond body scrub
Then on the face, an exfoliating gel scrub with a herb mint facial mask that must sit for exactly ten minutes, while preparing for the rest of the early morning. After shave lotion with no alcohol, as I can't seen appearing older with a dried out face.
After the bulk of the routine is complete, I add moisturizer, anti aging eye balm, followed by moisturizing protective lotion as the last step.
Much of this is needlessly excessive, but it's a routine that I must stick to every day.
Once that's done I finally head out to work. Shooting is completed, but the film is yet to be processed and released, so I have no other choice but another day at the office, working in mergers and acquisitions.
I often tell people that I work in "Murders and Executions" but it's in one ear and out the other, they never notice what I've said. That wouldn't be good for me if they did though, drawing unneeded attention to myself could cause problems, especially given the nature of my character.
Unfortunately as I continued on to work, I caught something out of the corner of my eye that needed my immediate attention, something I wish I hadn't seen.
A flashing ATM, repeatedly handing out orders. Of course it wasn't really, part of the character is being delusional, so I had to honor my current nature in line with the character.
For the current task assigned to me by myself masquerading as the persona behind the ATM, I needed to find a cat, any old stray would do, in fact the stray part was kind of important.
I located a cat soon after in one of the nearby alley ways. I knew at this point I would never make it to work on time, so I phoned my receptionist and said I wouldn't be coming in. This took priority.
I walked back to the ATM holding the cat in my arms, which must have been comfortable around people because it wasn't fighting back, and if anything, seemed to be enjoying the attention.
Now was the time to complete what I had said out to do. I imagined the ATM as reiterating the request I had imagined it giving me earlier, and went for it.
As I vigorously tried to jam the cat into the slot of the ATM machine, I noticed others noticing me. A crowd of stunned people were watching me as I attempted to feed the ATM a stray cat.
This wasn't good. The police would be called, and then I would have to get into a shootout with them, I'd also have to confess even if I managed to get away with it.
A rational character would have avoided public eyes, but mine was constantly disassociating from reality. My frenzy and insanity would only grow with time, and it had been long enough to where I could no longer resist these oddities even in public.
The cat scratched my hand and I winced, reflexively dropping it to the ground in pain. This couldn't stand of course, the character is brought to a rage at defiance even from a harmless animal, and as such it wouldn't let me let myself get bested by an alley rat.
I came prepared for just such an eventuality though, and walked a few short steps to my car parked nearby. In the trunk was a chainsaw.
I grabbed it and set it down on the sidewalk, keeping the cat in my sights as I did. I took off my suit and undershirt, removed my pants, underwear, shoes, socks, and tie, on and on until I was entirely naked.
I revved up the chainsaw and sprinted at the cat. It ran away, making the chase more thrilling and meaningful. Along the way I would have to stop when I found a reflective surface, and gaze at myself while I posed and flexed, just another thing I couldn't help doing.
But I wouldn't let the cat get away, either. I had to cut it apart and eat its brain. I was starting to get worried though, as the authorities had surely been notified now.
I often wonder why I was unlucky enough to play a character that can't do his murdering in a more subtle way, preferably with clothes on at least.
Even if I could run away from the police, I'm compelled, no, obligated to fight back and attempt to kill them. The worst part is, even if I'm successful against all those odds, I will have to call my lawyer and turn myself in.
But I just grin and bear it. Well, again, I have to. My character's mask of sanity has slipped, and I can no sooner change the deranged smile on my face as I can will myself to be okay with my business card being one upped at work.
But at least I'm here, and not at the office. Bragging about the subtle off white coloring of *bone* hasn't been doing me any favors, and it's so hard to resist killing that receptionist. |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | Day 17 of shooting. It's been a long month and it isn't over yet. A war flick. And war is hell.
The hero is looking rough. Gaunt and developing that thousand yard stare. Lucky bastard gets to sleep in a tent and cot. Not for much luck for me. I lay here in the hospital "ward", along with all the other NAZIs unlucky enough to die in the first scene.
Can't wait for this to be over. Death sucks. | It's been so long now, that this facade is just a part of me now. People don't remember who I used to be before this project began. At least it doesnt get in the way of my other films. I just can't wait for opening night of my greatest movie yet, *Scientology*, coming soon. |
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned. | [WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life. | I lay flat on my cold bedroom floor motionless. Maybe choosing to audition for a horror movie wasn't the best idea. | It's been so long now, that this facade is just a part of me now. People don't remember who I used to be before this project began. At least it doesnt get in the way of my other films. I just can't wait for opening night of my greatest movie yet, *Scientology*, coming soon. |
Subsets and Splits
No community queries yet
The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.