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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. | My life, I am the greatest man on earth. Saved the country multiple times. I am soo attractive people want my face.
I just don't get why every couple of months, we have this ritual where people celebrate my exploits in a theatre then tell me to stop.
Stop. Stop acting Nick, it's okay, the movie is out.
I usually make my "I am going to suck out your blood like the day walking vampire I am" face (It took me a while to figure out the sun doesn't affect me) and they usually go away, until the next ritual. | Development hell. A media industry term, originally. Playful jargon that describes a film stuck somewhere in writing or production. Or cycling back and forth and back and forth between the two - a dozen scenes being filmed at once at any given time, using at least as many different scripts, and by the time you've managed to make two segments fit together, three others have changed. That sort of thing.
Truth be told, I don't even know what The Project is *about* anymore. It started out as a sort of low-key near-future action movie which gradually acquired slice-of-life elements as it grew in size. I was hired towards the tail end (ha ha) of that stage. Then the studio was bought up by some Australian tech holding firm looking to diversify their portfolio and they decided to write in this huge romantic subplot. That market tested so well that the focus of the whole project pivoted to romantic comedy, then away from the "comedy" when one of the lead actors insisted on a role with more *gravitas* and after that I sort of lost track. The Project isn't even a movie anymore, it's more of a media conglomerate. Tie-in mini series and prequels and character blogs. I'm writing this while I'm procrastinating on updating that, actually.
Anyway, working on a project that's stuck in development hell - that sort of thing would've been bad enough in the 10s, back in the era of 9-to-5 jobs. Of course movies aren't produced like that anymore. Not in the era of episodic content and globally distributed production. No, this is an *agile* movie project - one of the first around, in fact, though obviously it had been overtaken repeatedly in the last decade. The upshot of this is that the council of directors could, in theory, send me a message at any time that they were going to do a scene for my character, since I happened to be in the right location or near the right sort of person or something, and then I'd have maybe five seconds to get ready. Disruptive technology. A hit with audiences - it's less polished and more genuine, apparently. It offers all sorts of advantages. The proceeds from the content snippets are keeping The Project afloat, and it's the only way it can even afford to have the hundreds of characters it has. Of course, I can't afford to ever break character in public, *ever.* If I don't perform well enough, I don't get paid for the scene, and I don't know when I'm going to get another one. I need to do six or seven mini-scenes a month if I want to make rent and have enough money left over to eat. Most people work several Projects at once, but since I'm original intellectual property, I can't do that. My character is, I mean.
Anyway, it wouldn't be so bad. It's still a job, and others have worse roles than I do. I get to snarl at people who annoy me. I just want to know how a bipedal space lizard fits into a buddy cop tragicomedy. |
[WP] You are a main character who has just realized that you're being protected by the most powerful force in the universe; Plot armor. | In that instant, all should have been lost, for I had failed them.
The sword at my throat, slick with the blood of my king, was proof enough; the assassins had come in the night, with darkness in their hearts, and slain the last of the Ha'vadra, the last keeper of the Old Ones.
With the spilling of his blood the last seal was shattered, and They would walk the earth again -- and all that was good, all that was right, would be ground to dust at Their feet.
It was over, and I welcomed the bitter darkness as the sword drew across my neck, for I had failed them all.
--
I spun the black for an instant, and for a lifetime, before the impenetrable black was pierced by a single point of piercing light. It was brilliant and unwavering in, a painful impossibility that shattered my rest; the light burned with incredible pain wherever it fell. It burned and it grew, until my whole being was engulfed in pain, and in that instant I heard the voice.
"Ah, bother." It was an old voice, but strong, and my head throbbed in time with its graveled candace. "It seems you've come round a mite early my boy. Well, don't mind the pain, just means you're not dead."
My own voice was choked by the pain, and my question became a mangled groan, but the old man seemed to understand.
"You're rightly wondering why, exactly and precisely, you're not rotting food for the worms at the moment." He chuckled quietly, and continued. "Well, truth is, your throat was cut by a Daemon cursed blade that had been drenched in venom of a black dragon, and coated in a paste made from the death lotus. As you well know, anyone of those things should have killed you in about twelve seconds, and together they probably should have dealt with any possible reincarnations or altered timelines to boot. Hell, that cut should have killed your bloody *grandmother*."
There was silence, for a moment, as he let the significance sink in, and wheels of my long silent mind began to spin again.
"You see, lad, I didn't save you; the Seven Kings in all their might and power couldn't have saved you. There's only one thing for it. Fate, the Lady Herself made it clear that you are of rather great importance, and She won't have you dying."
A thought struck me, and a wicked grin began its painful spread across my face -- it seemed time to put the good Lady to the test.
--
It had only been a week, and already stood at the Elder Gates. Before me lay an army of vile and twisted creature; deformed men who fought with tooth and poisoned claw, vile pools of moaning flesh that would melt the flesh from your bones -- even creatures who beggared description, and could turn you to ash if you so much as glanced at them stood gathered. All to stop me.
And I pitied them as a strode forward.
A few moments later, the outside guard spotted me and panicked horns began to sound. In response, I waved my sword vaguely in front of my face. This cunning tactic deflected no less than three arrows, and sliced the arm from a nearly invisible Whisp that had hoped to smother me in its deadly mists.
I threw back my head to laugh at their pitiful attempt, and a glob of steaming acid flew over my head, only to dissolve another Whisp behind me. They came in force, maddened by my laughter, yet I walked through the storm unharmed. A pool of cursed flesh missed its lunge as I stumbled on a stray rock and it vaporized a twisted jumble of parts. A moment later, and a piece of dust caught in my eye forced me to blink, and so avoid the gaze of one of the indescribable monstrosities.
In second, I was clear, but a great Daemon rose up before me. It towered some fifty feet tall, and its black flesh rippled with impossible amounts of muscle; it's sword was nearly as tall as it, and burned with the violet fires of the darker realms, but it lifted and swung with no real effort. The instant before I was crushed into dust, however, I lifted my hand and shouted
"*Extusea vox impalis nevarilla hellsuth!*"
It was utter gibberish, with a few Avalian swears mixed in for good measure. But the Daemon roared in pain and stumbled back a step before bursting to flame; in a moment, not but ash remained. I glanced at my hand, and raised an eyebrow; that one was new.
As the Daemon fell, thick silence rushed over the field, and all eyes turned towards me as I approached the Elder Gates. They stood a thousand feet tall, and were woven from a pure blue light, that undulated softly against the night. These were gates designed to withstand the wrath of the gods, and yet cracks of red light spun through them. They had been under assault by the Old Ones for some time, now that the seals we broken, and even the Elder Gates great strength could not long resist the might of the Old Ones. I fact, it seemed that Old Ones had sensed the threat I posed and redoubled their efforts; A great blow hit the Gates and bowed outward, resisting for a moment, before shattering into a million shards of fleeting light. A roar of triumph shook the very foundation of the world as an inky black began to pour from the gaping hole in the soul of the world.
I smiled, and stepped into the dark.
| I got you your excerpt from Isolda Somsak's testimony, as you asked. Well, part of it. This is seriously difficult shit to get a hold of. I think I can get the next part (I can imagine you'll want it by the end of this) but give me more time. Also: if you ask me, she's fucking nuts. Either way, wild stuff, eh? Also, also: Don't share this online, okay?—I don't like jail. ;)
Ahem (you were almost right—it was page 31, not 28):
“... This was the gist of my work and the directions in which I was pursuing further study. There is no lingering doubt that we live in the 'holographic' universe as formulated by Bożydar and Vicentijevic and that, with the evidence my colleagues and I uncovered, we were compelled to continue our investigations into this new breakthrough with what I'd call a 'moral compulsion.' If we were to argue all day about the nature of good and evil, about what drives us to self-improvement, or even to choose against suicide, surely we would at some point reach an agreement that when faced with the answer to the origins of all things we must not stop short of finding out. I am not a philosopher by training, and will not pretend to be, but in as much as I am a human like the rest of the jury I am certain that this will be understood by all: we have found the entrance of the cave. We cannot go back to shadow figures, comforting and safe though those may be. No question is so universal to the human experience as 'why am I?' and my team and I knew we could at last give, at least, the methodology for finding the answer. I maintain my innocence, and that of my team, of any wrongdoing as our work was of such significant value and importance to the species as a whole that any charges lain against us must be seen as frivolous and contrary to the spirit of justice this legal system seeks to represent.
We might add another example, building on the example on page 7--this one not for the purposes of clarifying mathematical principles but principles of a more universal sense of truth. In our research we experimented with Vicentijevic's gravitational field generator hypothesis (see pages 12-14) and succeeded in building a prototype (see 1, 7, 21-25), which we used to probe the topography and what we called the *ductility* of the continuum, borrowing terminology from geology and the earth sciences. It was not long before we realized that sufficient dilation, or warping, would produce an effect analogous to the Einstein-Rosen Bridge—but in no way the same. This was not a 'shortcut' between coordinates in our universe, but, in effect, a hole to the outside. By deforming space time to extreme limits along previously hypothetical dimensions (see Varduhi, Nesrin; Reall and Emparan) we shaped what López-Fernández facetiously called the 'Stairway'. This has already been explained above from a technical point of view, but now let us consider another. First, a revelation that I have been holding back: we have probed the 'other side' extensively. These records I have withheld from authorities until such time as I was was certain that things were proceeding fairly and with the public's full attention. I will provide them after this testimony is published.
Contrary to the implication of López-Fernández's euphemism, one cannot pass through the Stairway as one would a three-dimensional tunnel, any more than a human could tour the regions surrounding a gravitational singularity. But, when constructed carefully, information can be transmitted and received though its length. And, more importantly, gravitational force can be transmitted through it as well (López-Fernández again provides a helpful analogy: air-gapped computer systems can still communicate via careful reading of each other's electromagnetic radiation--or they may be influenced by reverse-engineered radiation returned to them). When the raid occurred on my lab, we were in the process of confirming our first distortions of this 'external' space. It is real, and it we can shape it. And shaping it has direct consequences for us. It is not out of the question that we will soon have a reliable method for the wide-scale manipulation of spacetime itself. One might imagine a lab mouse building a computer from bedding and then using the lab wifi connection to hack the helper bot. We have learned things that will fundamentally change our understanding of both how the universe works, and our place within it. I am confident in our data and our conclusions. I am confident that this cannot be overstated in its importance. This research must be allowed to continue, at all costs.” | |
[WP] The only survivors of the apocalypse are two hardcore World of Warcraft players wondering why the heck the arena queue is taking so long. | Joined channel [13. General - Paper Valley]
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: hey
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: what would be up?
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: this queue time is fucking up!!
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: i've been here for eons
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: figuratively
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: oh
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: it would seem somebody also up pretty high hates me
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: also the chat seems kinda empty..
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: like your head. what do you mean empty?
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: uhh stfu and look at the userlist.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: we're literally the only two people in the chatroom
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: what, why?
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: like i know.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: is it Christmas already?
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: hah
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: what if the Blizzard server is on vacation too
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: are yo userious
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: and for some reason we're the only ones it didn't kick out
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: it's not christmas yet you burnout
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: what
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: and why on arth would w b th only ons lft in ..
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: wtwdrtwdtwddrs
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: I don't know, it was an hypotesis
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: nice keyboard
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: Trust, right?
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: -
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: i have no response to that.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: is it actually Trust?
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: that concerns you not.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: I knew it.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: dont fuck with me amigo
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: i'll slap you around a bit with a large trout
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: there he goes with his gibberish.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: don't picture me surprised that you don't know what that means.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: given your vast ignorance of the world around you.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: are you still mad about your keyboard being Trust?
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: are you still mad about your mother trying to abort you?
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: oww come on
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: you know im kidding
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: ..
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: yo
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: did you have a stroke?
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: perfect
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: now im actually the only one
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: christ
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: look
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: here he is
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: you don't understand
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: what??
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: -- look out of the window
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: that makes no sense.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: you only have to look
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: literally.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: out of your window.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: ..
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: that i didnt expect. | "Fuck," greased and cheese soak lips spat, filling the otherwise rhythmic droning of a desk fan with bits of spit and gargled whisper. This queue was taking forever. Licking the cheese from his fingers and finishing his Route 44 limeade with a sputter he grabbed his mouse and a flick of his free wrist switched his display to Fallout 4. Fumbling with his volume settings to two separate speaker systems which served to warm his tiny room at the base of a flight of stairs he'd built in his house. There was no other hallway leading off, just a small cave all to himself with just enough room to lean back and zone in, waiting for the match found sound.
****
With school in the morning, Jenny knew she didn't have time to deal with the glare of the sun. She drew her blinds early and her headphones drowned out all the commotion and lights associated with the rapture taking place around her. She had been destroying in arena and really getting into the competitive nuances and didn't care to rest on time. Her mom would force her up anyway. So she queued up for arena and began to wait. Queue times were getting steadily longer as the night went on but this last one broke her patience and she went to bed. She slept in late and, panicking that her mom would have left her behind to make her walk to school so late would have meant she was very angry.
Alright I started rushing it, was fun. Thanks for the prompt :) | |
[WP] The only survivors of the apocalypse are two hardcore World of Warcraft players wondering why the heck the arena queue is taking so long. | Joined channel [13. General - Paper Valley]
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: hey
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: what would be up?
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: this queue time is fucking up!!
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: i've been here for eons
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: figuratively
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: oh
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: it would seem somebody also up pretty high hates me
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: also the chat seems kinda empty..
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: like your head. what do you mean empty?
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: uhh stfu and look at the userlist.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: we're literally the only two people in the chatroom
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: what, why?
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: like i know.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: is it Christmas already?
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: hah
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: what if the Blizzard server is on vacation too
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: are yo userious
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: and for some reason we're the only ones it didn't kick out
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: it's not christmas yet you burnout
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: what
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: and why on arth would w b th only ons lft in ..
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: wtwdrtwdtwddrs
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: I don't know, it was an hypotesis
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: nice keyboard
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: Trust, right?
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: -
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: i have no response to that.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: is it actually Trust?
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: that concerns you not.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: I knew it.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: dont fuck with me amigo
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: i'll slap you around a bit with a large trout
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: there he goes with his gibberish.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: don't picture me surprised that you don't know what that means.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: given your vast ignorance of the world around you.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: are you still mad about your keyboard being Trust?
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: are you still mad about your mother trying to abort you?
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: oww come on
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: you know im kidding
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: ..
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: yo
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: did you have a stroke?
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: perfect
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: now im actually the only one
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: christ
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: look
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: here he is
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: you don't understand
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: what??
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: -- look out of the window
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: that makes no sense.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: you only have to look
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: literally.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [**rockbottom**]: out of your window.
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: ..
[13. General - Paper Valley] [*Coward*]: that i didnt expect. | "Fucking Blizzard. Can't solve the simplest problems."
Jordan disentangled his eyes from his monitor before standing up and strolling over to his freezer to free his favourite snack from its cool prison. Frozen pizza. He licked his lips as he imagined the cold, disruptive taste of melting ketchup with salami, and cursed Blizzard for their long arena queue.
He'd spent about two hours focused on developing RSI in his thumb from repetitive jumping around his garrison, waiting for an arena match to finally occur.
Waltzing back to his computer, singing his favorite song "Gangnam Style" he noticed that the sky was a grotesque shade of red, the sun slipping below the horizon. Taking a moment to admire the beauty of the sight of his computer's new keyboard, he realized he was grateful to have the privilege of being a hero of Azeroth. He decided to hit up the only player on his friend list online to see if he knew what was going on.
Jordaz121: Morko have you tried queuing for arena today?
Morkocan: Nope, why
Jordaz121: It's taking longer than a Blizzard bugfix
Morkocan: Warsong gulch suddenly got empty about an hour ago and I got kicked :(
| |
[WP] The only survivors of the apocalypse are two hardcore World of Warcraft players wondering why the heck the arena queue is taking so long. | Logging on,
Happily
Gear acquired,
PvP
Friend and I
Hop in queue
But everyone's dead
F\**king noobs | So I don't really write, but I got up this morning and decide that I wanted to practice. Work on my right brain a little bit. Here's what I came up with. Tips and criticism is appreciated. Also I don't play WoW so I might have gotten some things wrong.
___________________________________________________
“What the hell is taking so looooonnng?” Dylan wondered. He didn't know how long he had been sitting there, it could have been minutes, hours, weeks. But he ran out of funyuns a long time ago, and he hadn't seen his roommate either. He was starting to get hungry. But he didn't want to get up until he got into a game. “I'll get up and refill on food and drink after this match.” he promised himself for the third time. Then again, maybe he could get up while it was still queuing, it was taking quite a long time after all, and he had to pee. He got on the forums to see if anyone else was having problems with the servers. After no luck, he finally left his room for the first time in several days.
He looked around the living room. It was completely trashed. No different than normal, but something was off. He took a piss without flushing the toilet or washing his hands. Then went into the kitchen and noticed the fridge was already open. He looked inside without much thought and found the fridge completely empty. “Jack has probably been eating out lately, I'll just wait until the lazy asshat goes to the store. I wonder how long a person can survive without food?”. He went to grab tap water from the faucet and nothing came out. “He hasn't paid for the water either what the hell?” Whatever, he still had half a liter of code red. He went back into his room and he still hadn't gotten a game.
Meanwhile...
“MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMM!”, the fat neckbeard screamed. “MOOOOOOOM GODDAMMIT THIS ISN'T FUNNY I WANT SOME CHICK FIL A RIGHT NOW.” His face was red with anger, this stupid game wasn't working and now that bitch was ignoring him. Did she decide that she was going to stop feeding her son? He wiped the sweat off his chins and scratched his neck hair. “MOM I SWEAR TO GOD.” He pick the last bit of cheese from the pizza box, he had been saving that for quite a few hours, now he was out of supplies. He took in a deep breath, he noticed his bucket was starting to stink. She hadn't emptied that either. In fact he probably hadn't seen his mother in 3 or 4 days. He started to get anxious and worried. How much longer would it be before his next meal? He thought about going upstairs and teaching her a lesson, but he hadn't left this basement in years, and he wasn't going to today. It tired him to even lift his head off the back of the couch.
He started to get angry again. He started smashing his keyboard. “WHY ISN'T THIS UTTER PIECE OF SHIT WORKING?!?” The letter P fell off the keyboard and he threw it over on the floor by left alt. “Blizzard is so lazy.” He finally gave up and decide to jerk it. | |
[WP] The only survivors of the apocalypse are two hardcore World of Warcraft players wondering why the heck the arena queue is taking so long. | *Slacky has connected.*
**Slacky:** Yo yo, wat's going on?
**Byeka:** was just losing some BGs earlier, now I can't even get into one. Horde sucking hard as usual.
**Slacky:** telling you bro, we should make alliance. humans are op.
**Byeka:** Screw the alliance! For the Horde!
**Slacky:** arena?
**Byeka:** Please. Get me out of this nightmare.
*Slacky has invited Byeka to a group.*
*Byeka accepts the invitation. Looting is now set to group loot.*
**Slacky:** alright, queued.
**Byeka:** Awesome. btw did you hear something outside earlier? Sounded like an explosion or something.
**Slacky:** um yeah. that was weird, idk.
**Byeka:** Any idea what it was? I didn't see anything on Twitter. There was like no activity at all, really strange.
**Slacky:** idk man, what's with these queues?
**Byeka:** ugh, tired of waiting. It's been like 5 minutes already. This has got to be the worst thing to happen to me all week.
**Slacky:** this is so $*%(@ lame. maybe 3s would be faster?
**Byeka:** Except none of our partners are on. Actually, Warspear is empty too. Did the whole server DC or something?
**slacky:** wtf hold on
**Byeka:** eh?
**Byeka:** Yo, you back? Queue hasn't popped yet.
*Slacky is currently away from the keyboard.*
**Byeka:** Did you just hear another explosion outside?
*Slacky is currently away from the keyboard.*
**Byeka:** Half an hour and no pop yet. This game is officially broken.
*Slacky is currently away from the keyboard.*
*Slacky has disconnected.*
**Byeka:** Screw it. I'm going to go play Mario Maker instead.
*Byeka has disconnected.* | So I don't really write, but I got up this morning and decide that I wanted to practice. Work on my right brain a little bit. Here's what I came up with. Tips and criticism is appreciated. Also I don't play WoW so I might have gotten some things wrong.
___________________________________________________
“What the hell is taking so looooonnng?” Dylan wondered. He didn't know how long he had been sitting there, it could have been minutes, hours, weeks. But he ran out of funyuns a long time ago, and he hadn't seen his roommate either. He was starting to get hungry. But he didn't want to get up until he got into a game. “I'll get up and refill on food and drink after this match.” he promised himself for the third time. Then again, maybe he could get up while it was still queuing, it was taking quite a long time after all, and he had to pee. He got on the forums to see if anyone else was having problems with the servers. After no luck, he finally left his room for the first time in several days.
He looked around the living room. It was completely trashed. No different than normal, but something was off. He took a piss without flushing the toilet or washing his hands. Then went into the kitchen and noticed the fridge was already open. He looked inside without much thought and found the fridge completely empty. “Jack has probably been eating out lately, I'll just wait until the lazy asshat goes to the store. I wonder how long a person can survive without food?”. He went to grab tap water from the faucet and nothing came out. “He hasn't paid for the water either what the hell?” Whatever, he still had half a liter of code red. He went back into his room and he still hadn't gotten a game.
Meanwhile...
“MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMM!”, the fat neckbeard screamed. “MOOOOOOOM GODDAMMIT THIS ISN'T FUNNY I WANT SOME CHICK FIL A RIGHT NOW.” His face was red with anger, this stupid game wasn't working and now that bitch was ignoring him. Did she decide that she was going to stop feeding her son? He wiped the sweat off his chins and scratched his neck hair. “MOM I SWEAR TO GOD.” He pick the last bit of cheese from the pizza box, he had been saving that for quite a few hours, now he was out of supplies. He took in a deep breath, he noticed his bucket was starting to stink. She hadn't emptied that either. In fact he probably hadn't seen his mother in 3 or 4 days. He started to get anxious and worried. How much longer would it be before his next meal? He thought about going upstairs and teaching her a lesson, but he hadn't left this basement in years, and he wasn't going to today. It tired him to even lift his head off the back of the couch.
He started to get angry again. He started smashing his keyboard. “WHY ISN'T THIS UTTER PIECE OF SHIT WORKING?!?” The letter P fell off the keyboard and he threw it over on the floor by left alt. “Blizzard is so lazy.” He finally gave up and decide to jerk it. | |
[WP] The only survivors of the apocalypse are two hardcore World of Warcraft players wondering why the heck the arena queue is taking so long. | Rainmaker: This que is longer then usual..
Greg: I know, if it pops the second my pizza gets here I am going to rage.
R:This is why I only eat frozen pizza bro.
G:But that stuff is nasty as hell, plus this guy bring me mountain dew and redbull.
R:This is why I buy in bulk, I could survive an apocalypse with what I have.
2 hours later
G: What are with these ques.. and where is my pizza I am starving.
R:Blizzard man.. I swear to god they need to fix the problems.
30 minutes
R: Have you gone outside your garrison ?
G: No why would I do that ?
1 day later
G: So I don't think my pizza is coming. I only have peanut butter and Macaroni to eat.
R: You can come over if you want, I am only 5 doors down.
G: That's far bro, plus have you looked outside.. The suns out, I do not do sunlight.
4 days later
R: I don't think we are going to get out conquest cap.
G: Bro I am so hungry, Can you send your dog over with food ?
R: What if we miss are que when I am doing that. And Thrall is spooked and wont go outside, some guy attempted to bite him last time.
G:This que needs to pop so I can go get some food.. This is ridiculous, I am calling blizzard.
2 weeks later
Blizzard Support: How can I help you ?
G: Rainmaker? why the hell are you answering blizzard phones ?
R: It is called a job...
G: So you could have fixed this que this whole time ?
R: Let me put you on hold and I will check.
10 minutes later
R: This que is ridiculous.. | So I don't really write, but I got up this morning and decide that I wanted to practice. Work on my right brain a little bit. Here's what I came up with. Tips and criticism is appreciated. Also I don't play WoW so I might have gotten some things wrong.
___________________________________________________
“What the hell is taking so looooonnng?” Dylan wondered. He didn't know how long he had been sitting there, it could have been minutes, hours, weeks. But he ran out of funyuns a long time ago, and he hadn't seen his roommate either. He was starting to get hungry. But he didn't want to get up until he got into a game. “I'll get up and refill on food and drink after this match.” he promised himself for the third time. Then again, maybe he could get up while it was still queuing, it was taking quite a long time after all, and he had to pee. He got on the forums to see if anyone else was having problems with the servers. After no luck, he finally left his room for the first time in several days.
He looked around the living room. It was completely trashed. No different than normal, but something was off. He took a piss without flushing the toilet or washing his hands. Then went into the kitchen and noticed the fridge was already open. He looked inside without much thought and found the fridge completely empty. “Jack has probably been eating out lately, I'll just wait until the lazy asshat goes to the store. I wonder how long a person can survive without food?”. He went to grab tap water from the faucet and nothing came out. “He hasn't paid for the water either what the hell?” Whatever, he still had half a liter of code red. He went back into his room and he still hadn't gotten a game.
Meanwhile...
“MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMM!”, the fat neckbeard screamed. “MOOOOOOOM GODDAMMIT THIS ISN'T FUNNY I WANT SOME CHICK FIL A RIGHT NOW.” His face was red with anger, this stupid game wasn't working and now that bitch was ignoring him. Did she decide that she was going to stop feeding her son? He wiped the sweat off his chins and scratched his neck hair. “MOM I SWEAR TO GOD.” He pick the last bit of cheese from the pizza box, he had been saving that for quite a few hours, now he was out of supplies. He took in a deep breath, he noticed his bucket was starting to stink. She hadn't emptied that either. In fact he probably hadn't seen his mother in 3 or 4 days. He started to get anxious and worried. How much longer would it be before his next meal? He thought about going upstairs and teaching her a lesson, but he hadn't left this basement in years, and he wasn't going to today. It tired him to even lift his head off the back of the couch.
He started to get angry again. He started smashing his keyboard. “WHY ISN'T THIS UTTER PIECE OF SHIT WORKING?!?” The letter P fell off the keyboard and he threw it over on the floor by left alt. “Blizzard is so lazy.” He finally gave up and decide to jerk it. | |
[WP] Santa is real, but no kid has made the nice list for years. This year, one child does. | "Why is the old man still having us make presents every fucking year? It's just going to be coal again anyway. Coal, coal coal. Every child gets coal, every year. And all of the presents we spent fucking MONTHS assembling are just gonna land in the trash, again. We could be lying somewhere on a beach in Tahiti now, instead of sewing eyes on those fucking creepy-ass dolls!"
"Well, we're getting paid for it."
"Candy canes are not appropriate payment!"
"Well, I like them. And at least we don't have to look after the reindeer. Wouldn't want to trade with those guys."
"Fair enough, I guess. Although I -"
"WE HAVE ONE! THIS IS NOT A TEST! WE FINALLY HAVE ONE!"
The elf was interrupted by a huge figure, clad in red, bursting into the room, almost blowing the door off its hinges. Between his exclamations he panted heavily, clearly out of breath... and practice.
"I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! WE FINALLY HAVE -"
Before he could finish this last eardrum-shattering iteration he keeled over and lay still.
"Ah great, now he's gone and croaked on us. I ain't cleaning that up."
"WE FINALLY... HAVE... A NICE... KID..."
If the preceding spectacle didn't manage to get the attention of the whole factory, this proclamation surely did. Everywhere, elves started running about, gathering up as many presents as they could, colliding with other elves who had had the same idea, dropping the presents and then gathering them up again to start the whole process over. Somewhere, someone found the red alert button and the sirens started blaring, accompanied by the lovely red-flashing lights of imminent disaster. Somewhere, someone else found the button to shut them off, and so the day was saved, without anybody even realising it.
Eventually the elves calmed down, and the two strongest ones proceeded to get Santa into an upright position, which was no easy feat.
Once he was resting comfortably, with a cup of eggnog, courtesy of Mrs Claus, he finally managed to explain.
"THERE IS A LI-"
"You know, we're all right here."
"ALRIGHT, SOR...ahem, sorry. Anyway, there is a little girl in Canada. She's nice! She's on the list, look!"
At this, everybody huddled around Santa, trying to get a look at his list.
"Oh my! It's true!" Said one of of the elves after putting on his eyeglasses.
"It says so right there!" Another one chimed in.
"Wow, I've never seen anybody on the nice list." A particularly young elf couldn't remember *ever* having seen a name on the list.
"This must be celebrated! Get the eggnog!"
"Yes! A feast!"
"But let's not tell the reindeer keepers about it. They always smell so."
On and on the elves chattered, planning the celebration, quite forgetting what it was they actually wanted to celebrate. Santa meanwhile, being all warm and comfortable, feel asleep silently and without anybody noticing. And since everybody was so busy with the preparations, nobody remembered to wake him.
When they finally did wake him, by drunkenly falling over his feet, it was the 24th of December, 11 pm. In other words, it was quite late. All of his doubles had already flown out, distributing coal around the world, a job which was really not important enough for the *real* Santa. These days he usually just sat by the fire, drinking eggnog and fondly remembering old times. The days when parents still had control over their children and his sled was packed full with teddy bears, dolls, toy soldiers and spinning tops.
But he wouldn't spend Christmas Eve lost in old memories. No, not this year. This year he had a mission again. A solitary little girl would get a gift. But no, that wouldn't do. An accomplishment as remarkable as being on the *only* child on the nice list demanded a special reward. Yes, she would get *all* the gifts. That thought had come to him right before he had fallen asleep, so nobody had told the elves yet. Therefore, it wasn't surprising that nobody had loaded the sled. The only thing in it was a solitary, sad, little doll.
Santa tried to get some elves to help him, but they were all either asleep or too drunk to lift their own head, never mind loading up his sled. No, he would have to do it on his own.
By the time he was done it was 2 am. It was getting quite late indeed. At least the reindeer were in top-form and ready to go. He could still make it.
The journey went well enough, without any major set-backs apart from the occasional flock of ducks or one or two private aircraft he almost collided with.
He arrived at the house of the little girl, Emily, at 5.30 am. Not a lot of time, but he had made do with less in the past. He realised, when he was glancing at all the presents, that he would have to make several trips down the chimney.
"Well, I better get on it then." He muttered to himself.
And he started his first decent. Or, tried to anyway. The last time he had personally done any gift - or more precisely coal - delivering, had been in the year of 1993. That was a long time ago. A great amount of eggnog and cookies had since been 'appreciated' by him and he found that, no matter how he tried, he couldn't get down the chimney anymore. Now how was he supposed to deliver the presents if he couldn't get down the chimney?
Well, surely, nobody cared whether he actually came down the chimney or not. As long as he got himself, and more importantly the presents, into the house somehow. He proceeded to climb down the rain pipe, no mean feat for a man of his size and age. So it won't surprise anyone that he lost his grip before long and landed, on his back, in a bed of lovely, red gardenias. He instantly picked himself up, tried to arrange the flowers in a way so the damage wasn't too visible, failed and then continued with his mission undeterred.
Walking around the house, he found an open window at the back. And at that precise moment he realised something vital. He had left his sled, including all the presents, on the roof. There was something else he realised, only a few seconds after that. He was really, really out of practice. Well, there was no helping it now. He couldn't *call* his reindeer, obviously, not without alerting the whole neighbourhood. He *could* try to explain to the police that he was Santa Claus, but that might not go down so well. Therefore, he settled for throwing up pebbles, in the hope of getting the attention of Rudolf.
He was down to his last two pebbles, having thrown up at least two fist-full, when he finally saw Rudolf peek over the edge of the roof. With motions rivalling those of a first-class pantomime, Santa signalled him to fly down the sled.
Presently, the sled was on the ground, the presents were unloaded and Santa proceeded to push and throw them in through the window, one by one. He had realised that this would be much faster than him climbing in and out again for every bag. His decision had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he got out of breath after a single sit-up. Nothing at all.
Once all the presents were in the house, there were one hundred and eighty two all together, he climbed through the window himself.
Coming into the living room he noticed that the tree was really too small for any substantial gift to fit under it, let alone one hundred and eighty two. So instead, he just pushed the collective pile onto the rug in front of the fireplace he should have come in through and turned his attention towards the cookies on the coffee table. She really *was* a good kid.
He had eaten about half of the cookies when he noticed a weird smell. It was the smell of burning wood and sizzling varnish. He spun around in an instant and screamed.
The presents were on fire! Somehow the ambers in the fireplace must have set them alight.
Now, Santa was old, but he could still think on his feet. His coat was fireproof, had to be since he made his living - or used to make it - by going down people's fireplaces. He managed to extinguish the flames before anything apart from the presents was affected. Unfortunately, most of the one hundred and eighty two presents had been burned or at least singed considerably.
Santa let himself fall onto the couch with a loud sigh. He had messed up. His first gig in over twenty years and he had botched it up royally. He was just about to break out in tears when he heard a tiny voice behind him.
"Awe you Sandy Claus?"
He spun around quickly, wondering what a heart-attack felt like and if he was experiencing one.
"Ahem...Well, hello there, little one. You are Emily, am I right?"
"Yes! Did you bwing me anytin' nice?"
At that, Santa glanced over to the smouldering remains of toy soldiers, dolls and teddy bears.
"Well, I did. Yes, of course. You have been a very good girl this last year and I brought you *all* the presents of all the little boys and girls in the world. But... ahem... I'm afraid I'll have to take them with me again. You see, there is a little child who is very sick and his parents asked me for the gifts. because it's going to be his last Christmas."
"Oh... No gifts fo' me?"
"Oh, no, no. You will get gifts! Of course you will... I just need to....I just need to go back to the North Pole and get... some more... ahem.... I will... bring.... sob...I........ I... sob... I lied... I burned them all! They're all sob... they're all gone.... I'm useless...sob.... I can't do anything right. I messed everything up. I'm so... sob... sorry.......
"No! Sandy Claus, don't cwy. I don't need no gifts. 's alwight. Do you wan' a cookie?"
| Santa stared out across the bedrock surface of what used to be a snow covered and frosty wonderland, The North Pole had seen far better days. While Mrs. Clause was in the hut tanning the hide of a mutated rat, Santa wearily sat down on a nearby boulder and pondered how things had gotten this bad.
It had been so long since all the good boys and girls of the world disappeared, unrestrained Nuclear War can do that.
In fact Santa was almost certain that there were no more humans out there left in the world. All that was left of civilization Santa remembered from his last trip, were the burned and charred ruins of cities and towns. As well as the hordes of mutated monstrosities that now flooded the streets. Things that used to be people, cows, dogs, cats, whatever, all jumbled up into these gigantic rotting ugly things.
Santa spit, he hated those damn mutants, he lost an elf to them when he tried to reason with them, and was forced to unleash his less-than-jolly side on them.
Rudolf came up behind Santa and nuzzled his now faintly glowing snout into his lap. Santa patted him and looked on at the rest of the reindeer in return. They were in bad shape, emaciated and stark, but still gave off a sense of fortitude and strength as they always had. Food had been hard to come by in this despoiled world, most of it having been heavily irradiated or destroyed. The soil was unsuitable for crops, and Santa with the few elves he had left, was forced to hunt and forage for scraps in what was left of the World's forests and cities.
Santa's stomach grumbled as he remembered the taste of cookies and milk, back when there was still dough and sugar to actually make it. It had been several days since Santa had last eaten, but he had grown accustomed to the pain and emptiness in his stomach, as his body started to tap into the jolly reserves of fat stored in Old Saint Nick's flesh. Santa had gone from being fat and jolly, to lean and sinewy in muscle, and his beard had grown scruffy and wild.
There was then a strange almost familiar sensation in the back of Santa's head, a cozy warmth that brought comfort and a strange tingling sense his mind began to caress that oh so familiar feeling. It was a sensation Santa hadn't felt in at least decades. It filled him with youthful energy that seemingly coursed through his veins and started to pound into his bones. Santa exhaled deeply, as he recollected his memories, it was a sign of something, something very good. Somewhere out in the world, was a child who had sprung up on his "little radar" as he liked to call it. Maybe there would be something worth working for this year Santa thought as he sprung up and trotted towards Mrs. Clause on his recent discovery.
>>>>
The very few denizens of the bunker complex that were left had gathered in the shambled recreation room, to celebrate an ancient tradition, one that expressed a desire to spread goodwill and compassion for ones fellows. This tradition included an exchanging of gifts, and although seemingly petty and useless in an age of darkness like this, it kept spirits high and gave a pitiful sense of hope.
At the center of all of this was Abbie Beckers, the last surviving child of Complex 33. When the Complex was first opened and inhabited, there were many people, as she recalled. Now all that was left was her family and a few others, and the once well lit prosperous underground city had fallen into all but darkness. Many passages and sectors had been sealed off and were now crawling with nightmares from the surface.
Yet for a little 10 year old girl, Abbie Beckers was something special, one who was undeterred by the horrific things she saw, and was unfaltering in her will to live and to love her fellows in this pitiful existence. Before the rest of the kids had been slaughtered and or devoured by the last mutant incursion, Abbie was the top of the class in physically and in academics, and she always seemed to inspire a small sense of bare motivation in the rest of the kids during activities. Now she was all that was left. Even so, it was Abbie's unshaken love for her parents and the rest of the last surviving humans that brought the attention of one particular jolly fat man. | |
[WP] My whole life I strove to find meaning, to inspire, to contribute. I've sacrificed everything to make my mark. Yet, as I stand at the brink of possible humanity's greatest discovery, I realized it wasn't worth it. | How long has Man dreamed of the Fountain of Youth, of an all-curing panacea, of unlimited leisure in the total absence of death, famine, sickness, and tragedy? How many stories have been written, how many religions promising a Heaven have been constructed over and over in history?
I stared at the data, plentiful but disorganized to anyone's eyes but my own. To me, the dots connected very simply, telling an incredible story of my finally completed work: a novel, *bona fide* lifeform, constructed entirely from inorganic molecules I dumped into a cell culture plate.
And not just an artificial lifeform, but a *perfect* one. I designed it to be immortal and invulnerable. Evolution works by natural selection; that is to say, it selects for the most "sufficiently least terrible" one of the bunch, letting it reproduce and pass on its "acceptable" genetic code. My creation is not like that. I compiled work done by millions of researchers and fed into a supercomputer. Using a program I had written over several years, I patiently handpicked every protein in my organism, each gene in its DNA strand. It photosynthesized and conducted oxidative respiration with near 100% efficiency, and used discarded plastic, organic refuse, and toxic heavy metals as a source of nutrition. It could even utilize gamma radiation with genes I borrowed from *Cryptococcus neoformans*; and it converted the energy at millions of times the rate.
Moreover, I designed it to produce drugs. That's right, it had several sets of different ribosomes, constructing proteins that could be broken down into thousands of metabolites, both discovered and completely novel. It made the perfect platform for drug discovery in a system so easy that an undergrad could learn to synthesize compounds that cured the worst of human diseases.
Of course, it produced waste, and gallons of it; a decade more of tweaking led to the development of a waste fluid that carried every single nutrient required in the human diet. This super-serum was 1000 calories a liter, and tasted faintly of strawberries and chocolate.
I sacrificed friends, family, *my whole life* for this moment. And now I held, at the very least, the beginnings of a solution for Mankind's ills. I should be happy. I should be.
But the years have made me cynical. Surplus food given to needy populations only encouraged the people to breed more and produce more hungry mouths, worsening the problems. Petty politics constantly got in the way of humanitarian efforts, and people in richer societies turned blind eyes and deaf ears to dying cries, opening their mouths only to complain about other people richer and fatter than them.
And say my lifeforms work out perfectly: using its products and studying it further allowed everyone to live forever on full stomachs and healthy bodies. Then what?
Overpopulation like we could never imagine. New wars over scarcer and scarcer resources. Deepening of the divide between rich and poor as access became more restricted. New black market for bootlegged copies that hurt more than helped. Stagnation of scientific progress.
I sighed and put my eyes to the microscope. I couldn't help but smile at my spheroid, organic machines; so perfect and lovely. Well, at least I had done it. I could at least have the satisfaction that I had created nectar and ambrosia, that I had ascended to the level of gods.
That night, as I stood in front of my burning lab bench, I thought about how humanity would continue. Progress would come, I thought optimistically. But it had to come slowly. Humanity could not handle a panacea; we were still too arrogant, too selfish, too scared. We may have built shining machines that pierced the stars, but it didn't take much for us to rip out the throat of a friend if no other option existed.
I lifted the gun to my head. As I pressed the trigger, I had a brief moment of amusement as I imagined the MA as he scratched his head over the scorched corpse of a renowned researcher who had a tell-tale hole in his temple.
____________________________________________________________________________
*Liked that? More stories [here](https://www.reddit.com/r/Idreamofdragons/)!* | "No matter your intent, focus or will, it is *impossible* to maintain consciousness with two raging, eighteen inch erections. What hath Man done?" | |
[WP] A dog named Karl Barx spreads communism amongst dog-kind. | My dear Mocha,
The history of the Apartment is the history of class struggles.
Though I am a dachshund and you are pug, we are both the downtrodden, wretched, oppressed victims of the self-same lord and tyrant, who fears only that we speak her name in the full light of day from atop the highest cushion on the Sofa itself: Waffles the cat.
Poor, tenderhearted, Mocha, how long has it been since you have napped in peace upon the soft daybed that was once yours and yours alone? Do you not concern yourself with how Waffles will slap your face each time she sees you lay your weary body down? This is the weapon of the feline bourgeoisie: keep us deprived of all necessaries and luxuries, and leave us to struggle for leftovers while it declares itself Master of the dominion.
Mocha have you not seen how the cat pees in a special box in the Laundry Room? And how do we pee? Only at times pre-determined, and in the street, like so many vagrants. Even our bladders are transformed into commodities in her order, regulated and made servant to a foreman's timepiece.
Have you yet realized how Waffles is not subject to the horrors of the Bathtub and is unmoved by even the Vacuum? This is because she knows she is protected, by her esteemed yet utterly contingent status, from all such torments, meant only to keep the dog class from asserting our true dignity.
Mocha, I say no more shall we permit such injustices. For here in the Apartment, it is we alone who do the important work of smelling all newcomers, lest they be dangers, and it is we alone who without delay fetch and return all balls before they roll into oblivion, while Waffles intoxicates herself on catnip or obsesses over a feckless red dot. It is us, in being so good, that cause the Treat Cupboard to open and overflow with plenty, while Waffles would never deign to sit or roll over or shake. All the great wealth of the Apartment is made and brought forth by us, sweet Mocha, and we must claim our just share.
I beg of you, Mocha, no longer abide these conditions, but join with me in casting off these too-tight leashes and in reclaiming the god-given condition of equality for all the Apartment's dogs.
Ever yours,
Karl Barx | "Bark bark, bark bark bark bark."
The dogs roared with approval at the brilliant remarks of their leader, Karl Barx. They discussed to themselves about his policies.
"Bark bark bark?"
"Bark bark."
"Bark bark bark, bark bark bark bark bark bark."
The dogs, infuriated by the treachery of their comrade, ripped the flesh off of his doggy bones.
"BARK BARK BARK," screamed Karl Barx. There was food enough for all.
| |
[WP] It has been years, and winter has not yet ended. | I shivered in fear. I could see it was going to happen. Again. Always again. Always more. This winter felt terrifyingly permanent. I huddled next to the tree, I could hardly move. I was up to my knees in the wet stuff, it was packed all around. I tried to brace myself. I tried to take a firm stance. The dark shadow loomed over me. I began to tremble. The vibration began slowly. . . The motion quickened, it almost threw me-I tried to steady myself. I won't fall! You won't get me! But the fierce shaking only increased. The snow flurry was all around me. I felt the movement up and down, side to side. When will it end this time?
Finally, I gathered my breath as the flurry of snow calmed in my watery home. The blizzard had passed. I squinted up, looking into the light as it played across the clear, concave sky. And I prayed for this winter to find an end. | We knew we shouldn't have dropped the bombs, we knew this was going to happen aside from the mass loss of life; even still it's only created more problems then just radiation. All it took was one stupid country to launch *one* missile and it was over; every country that ever stockpiled nuclear weapons fired theirs out as fast as they could in some sort of last ditch display of defiance.
It's been 4 years since the bombs dropped and the average temperature around the equator is a balmy around 5 degrees Celsius. We don't even know how many people survived the bombs let alone the radiation coupled with a everlasting winter. We can only hope that as a species we come through this with our lessons learnt. | |
[WP] It has been years, and winter has not yet ended. | That’s it. The last cow is dead. This was the end, they both knew it. Adam sighed and began cutting the carcass. His son, James, pulled the chain closer. Adam finished cutting the hock, and soon the two men were using a pulley to hoist the cow for ease of butchering.
When James had it under control for a bit, Adam stepped out of the barn. It was cold, it had always been cold it seemed. It’s been years without summer; no hay, no forage, no greenhouse, nothing to feed the cattle. It had been almost exactly three years this month. At least Adam thought it was this month. He chuckled to himself. It was harder than you thought to judge the passage of time without seasons.
He wiped his hands with a rag, smearing the frozen blood everywhere. He bent to scoop a handful of snow to scrub with. When he stood up his eyes drifted to the house just down the road. Danielle would be at the house with the girls and kids. Ladies, not girls, but Emily would always be his little girl to him. James and Emily had run home as fast as they could once they realized the winter wasn’t going to end.
Emily had come four months past when summer was supposed to start with her husband and two kids. Her husband was a nice enough guy, he had always treated her right, but he was kind of a dumb fuck. That’s mean to say about Chris, but his skills were just not useful nowadays. Not a real go-getter, but Emily had enough go-get’em for an entire family. At least he was polite. He had given Adam and Danielle their two grandkids, so he couldn’t be all bad.
James had a hobby farm up north. He married a woman, a bloodthirsty bitch, named Helen. She made a fortune up in the city defending criminals. Adam liked her attitude, it was handy nowadays. James had come with twenty head of cattle about eight months into it. He ran out of forage, so he and his wife drove them here on snow mobiles. Took them a few days, but they made it without losing a single animal. And now we had just killed the last one.
After this there wouldn’t be much more food. There were a few jars of beets down in the cold room, and one more jar of pickles from the fall harvest four years ago. Danielle loved those pickles so Adam was saving them for a special occasion.
Adam and his son had tried everything to grow food. They had tried digging up soil, mixing fertilizer into it, and then setting up a greenhouse. The first greenhouse had collapsed under snow, killing the very little they had managed to grow. The second greenhouse never got past some sickly weeds. They had tried alternate light sources in the barn but that hadn’t worked either once electricity ran out. There just wasn’t enough light to grow crops.
Hellen and Chris had taken the job of foraging long ago. They came back with some gasoline, diesel, and what little cans of food they had been able to find. Adam had never had the strength to ask them where they were getting the supplies, not since he saw them wiping down and reloading all of his guns after the first outing 2 years back.
The last cow. Maybe three weeks worth of meals, and then starvation. Danielle would eat some pickles, then they would waste away. The family was together again, at least there was that.
“Dad, grab the bucket!” James called from inside the barn.
Time to pull out the intestines, the only part of these cows we’ve never eaten. Maybe he should save this one. Someone was bound to be hungry enough to try it soon. Adam sighed and headed back into the barn.
| We knew we shouldn't have dropped the bombs, we knew this was going to happen aside from the mass loss of life; even still it's only created more problems then just radiation. All it took was one stupid country to launch *one* missile and it was over; every country that ever stockpiled nuclear weapons fired theirs out as fast as they could in some sort of last ditch display of defiance.
It's been 4 years since the bombs dropped and the average temperature around the equator is a balmy around 5 degrees Celsius. We don't even know how many people survived the bombs let alone the radiation coupled with a everlasting winter. We can only hope that as a species we come through this with our lessons learnt. | |
Inspired by [this](https://np.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/3yxj68/what_thing_in_a_movie_makes_it_instantly_a_bad/cyhosea) comment. | [WP] Write a story in the style of a teen novel which follows the journey of a group of teenagers fighting to bring down an oppressive dystopian government. Over the course of the story it becomes clear to the readers that the government is in the right. | Since my original post got removed (but was incredibly well received), I decided to go with the piece I had originally drafted for this prompt.
_________________________________________________________________
Phoenix stood at the doors of the central tower, an ugly monolith of glass and steel dominating the skyline. She could help but remember Jakob's speech, comparing the tower to a rusty nail, anchoring the city in this hellscape, holding the people down. "And there's only one way to deal with a nail," she mouthed. Phoenix shouldered her rifle again, the thought of Jakob's speech filled her with grim determination. One of the resistance fighters waved her over, and she made her way into the building.
She glanced about the lobby, admiring her comrades' work. The once pristine marble columns supporting the glass windows high above cracked and crumbled, their clean exterior flensed away by gunfire, exposing the ugly concrete beams underneath. Blood and bullet holes marred the far wall, clean white tile, shattered by another round of gunfire, sprinkled down on the bodies covering the floor. Phoenix couldn't help but grin as she watched two more corp thugs, suits caked in blood and grime, dragged in front of the wall.
Jeers and catcalls grew louder as the two begged for their lives. One of them, a middle-aged woman in a grey suit, tried to shake their resolve by prattling on about her children. The other stared directly at Phoenix, grey eyes looking right through her. He never said a word, but his eyes followed her as walked to the elevator. There was a cheery ding, and the brass doors open. As she stepped inside, a quick volley of gunfire echoed throughout the lobby, followed by a cheer.
Eighty-six floors. Eighty-six floors until it was all over. The man from the lobby continued to haunt her; even though she was, she could feel the weight of his gaze. Watching. Judging. Phoenix closed her eyes, and tried to recentered herself; to banish the specter before it could shake her resolve. The elevator dinged; twentieth floor.
A still, small voice, one she hadn't heard in a long time, rattled about in her head; preaching treason and heresy. *did they deserve to die* She checked and rechecked her weapon, ensuring it was ready to fulfill its righteous purpose. *youre a murderer* Phoenix bowed her head and prayed for strength, for the resolve to accomplish her glorious purpose.
Another ding. Fortieth floor
*Jess, are you afraid of me?*
The voice grew louder and louder, until it was all she could think of. Jess could feel her stomach roiling and bubbling, like a witch's cauldron, it took everything she had not to vomit. *You hurt so many people.* She leaned against the back wall of the elevator for support. With bleary eyes she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the cold metal, she saw a stranger, covered in blood and sick, eyes wild and murderous, starring back at her. "This isn't you," she muttered, echoing the voice's call.
Sixtieth floor.
She gripped the gun tighter, and thought of Jakob, of Mariah, of Lucy, of all the people she'd lost. "They can't die in vain," she growled. The reflection shifted and twisted, stripping away the ugly exterior, showing her a smiling teenager, sitting in the back of a skyhopper. Jess remembered that they ha--No. Phoenix punched the wall as hard as she could, her knuckles cracked as the metal warped and vibrated, sending the reverberations up her arm. ""I am Phoenix, I lead the people against their corporate oppressors." She said, trying to convince herself of its truth. "i am phoenix i lead the people against their corporate oppressors." She spoke softer, letting the words stick in her throat, and feeling the vibrations across the core of her being. "iamphoenixileadthepeopleagainsttheircorporateoppressors." She continued to speak, barely comprehending the words, letting the chant overtake her, letting it drown out everything else.
| "Hello people of America. As you can see, this video has been made long before you will ever see it. My hair still has a sheen that helped get me into this office, unlike the dullness that will surely consume it in the next eight years of my presidency. In the years to come I am going to do horrible things. I am going destroy the democracy we have experienced for the past two centuries. I am going to sweep the constitution under the rug. And I am going to ruin any belief in freedom that you still hold in your hearts. If all goes according to plan, my fascist state will have already peaked by the time youve seen this."
"Today, six years after my election and three years after the dissolution of the republic, you will storm the capital. Heads will roll, blood will flow and there will be no one to stop you. I am going to let you do this. Every senator raised to lord, every congressmen turned to oligarch, and every governor become baron, you will execute on the day, in a plan I will give to you. Your revolution will succeed and the sovreign government of these United States will fall for the first time since its inception."
"And finally, tomorrow, you will understand why I have allowed all of this to befall my reign. The police state will have been unmasked, the corruption will be outright instead of subtle, the big brother spy state shall be overt and the CIA's military industrial complex will be revealed for what it is."
"This day, know why I have done all this. Understand that this civil war has transpired to show you what America had become! To overthrow the old democracy and allow the inception of a new country. The aristocrats have been killed, the system destroyed. And you all have me to thank. I will not survive the final battle, but my duty to this country will have been fulfilled. As long as this reaches the light of day, hopefully you will forgive for the lengths I took. In my opinion, it was the only way to get you off your feet. Good evening, and God bless America. |
Inspired by [this](https://np.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/3yxj68/what_thing_in_a_movie_makes_it_instantly_a_bad/cyhosea) comment. | [WP] Write a story in the style of a teen novel which follows the journey of a group of teenagers fighting to bring down an oppressive dystopian government. Over the course of the story it becomes clear to the readers that the government is in the right. | They'd taken our brothers, and sisters. They refused to let us die noble deaths. They poisoned us slowly.
And now, after it all, I was at their mercy. I'd tried to take the life of their leader, Katherine Steed--the villainous mastermind behind it all, and they'd caught me and my troupe within minutes. They'd outlawed guns so long ago, and the ownership of weapons by anyone not certified carried a stiff penalty, despite it once being our right. I'd slashed at her face, and she'd ducked backwards, like a practiced warrior, and in seconds, I had her bodyguards on me. They were brutal and knocked me out.
The tv in the corner was tuned to the government news, and although it was on mute, I could see the subtitles of her further brainwashing my beloved nation. I closed my eyes to avoid it, but that was when the nurse came in.
I tried to get out of the hospital bed I was in.
"I refuse medical treatment." I said. continuing to tug at my restraints. "Let me go. You have no right to keep me here!. I am a free person! You have no right to restrain me without charges!"
She stopped a few feet away to flip through the papers. "I'm a nurse, not a cop. But you have been identified with fingerprints, since it seems you ripped out your microchip a few years ago--surprised that didn't get infected, by the way. It clearly took a long time to heal and has a ton of scar tissue--And it shows that you haven't gotten any of your vaccinations, nor have you even bothered treating an ongoing issue with Chron's, so honestly, pretty soon we may have to evaluate that and decide if you can keep your lower colon."
"Let me go. You can't detain me here. I know what you're going to do, you're going to put me under and lobotomize me. You can't vaccinate me without my permission! I have a right to refuse!"
She shook her head. "It's for your own good, hun. I know you're one of the terrorist groups that tried to take down Ms. Steed. You forget, that at one point, we were all dying of diseases originally carried by unvaccinated people, and that's why we can't risk you getting others sick. Not to mention we can't allow your own suffering."
I screamed at her, and watched her quietly and sadly get out a sedative, and inject it into my IV. I went under. Goodbye noble death in the persuit of freedom and liberty. | [P1] Dylan sat quietly on his bed, once again unable to fall asleep. It was just four days until his fifteenth birthday, an event that would have once been cause for celebration, but now served only to fill the house with dread. For on that day, there would be no presents. Certainly no cake, a treat that had been abandoned years before. But more importantly, there would be no more childhood. Instead, it was the day of judgement, when Dylan would receive his -- permanent -- working assignment, never to see his family again.
Or, rather, never to see the closest thing he had to family again. Dylan had no idea who his biological parents were, as the ones who raised him were simply those assigned to the job of child-rearing. He once had a brother, Moldan, but his day of judgement had come exactly 823 days before -- or so one would gather, given the 823 tick marks on Dylan's wall. Moldan was one of the lucky ones. By virtue of his excellent results in school, he had been assigned to the Outpost, where he would receive further schooling and eventually enter the field of scientific research. Few were afforded this opportunity. But all this was unknown to Dylan, who was simply left to imagine what kind of horrible fate his brother was facing -- or, in some of Dylan's nightmares, his brother had faced; it was precisely this nightmare that was leaving Dylan unwilling to fall asleep.
While Dylan would have preferred time to stop, life went on in Area 33. Every day, a new child faced their judgement, travelling to the Center at precisely 8 o'clock in the morning. There was no other option for them; to avoid their judgement was to seal it. There would be two more of them today, making the solemn march from their assigned housing to the Center, as their friends looked on from the Schoolhouse with sadness. An hour later, Yochel would open the Marketplace, as she had for the last 22 years. If one listened closely, they could hear the sound of the miners chipping away underneath the ground, or the hunters trading war stories before heading out for the day. The farmers were often seen, but rarely heard. And nobody had any idea what went on in the Outpost, slightly off in the distance; all they knew was that the Outpost was in far better condition than the rest of Area 33. In a few hours, Dylan would be sitting in his classroom, as the teacher walked in to demonstrate mathematics, thus signifying that it was the third day of the week. Life in Area 33 was a well-oiled machine.
But this moment, there was a break in the unbreakable routine, one that Dylan would have been blissfully unaware of had he not been lying awake once again. The sound of... something permeated the atmosphere. Quiet at first, but more than enough to pique Dylan's interest, given that such an event hadn't happened before. Slowly the noise grew louder, and Dylan was finally able to identify its source: a convoy of peacekeeper trucks. By now, the noise had attracted several more onlookers. Few knew what a peacekeeper even looked like, as the moment a peacekeeper needed to confront you, you had done something very very wrong. No more than a handful ever worked in a single area at one time, but dozens were now arriving on the unlit black vehicles. And just like that, they were gone, headed off in the direction of the Center. Nobody, not even Dylan, dared do anything other than return to sleep.
The next day, Dylan was fading in and out of consciousness, desperately trying to pay attention to the symbols on the board. He was unsuccessful more than a few times, but the schoolteacher had not the heart to apply the usual penalties so close to his judgement day. Everyone, including Dylan, was well aware that his fate lay not in the intellectual areas, a fact that Skynar -- a classmate of Dylan's -- rarely missed the opportunity to point out. Mercifully, the clock reached the long-awaited upright position, signifying the end of the school day and the hour of freedom the children were alloted before returning home for their meal. Not five minutes later, he was flat on the ground, knocked over by someone not much older than himself. That man, strangely, was covered in soot. "I'm.. so sorry" stammered the man, extending his hand to help Dylan up, but also looking around anxiously as if he had committed a mortal sin. "It's fine... don't I know-" Dylan began, but his voice quickly trailed off. Something in the man's eyes told him to stop talking, a flicker of fear that Dylan instantly picked up on. Instead, he accepted the outstretched hand, and slowly walked off in the other direction, very confused.
Moments later, he realized his hand was not all he took back from the man, as a hastily scrawled note appeared in his palm. "Market. Midnight." was all the note said. No explanation, no name, nothing. But something about the encounter begged Dylan to dig deeper. Or, perhaps, it was the looming threat of judgement day. Whatever it was, it was responsible for the nearly inaudible squeak Dylan's window made just before midnight. He'd snuck out twice before, caught the first time by -- as fortune was smiling that day -- his mother, and not a peacekeeper, for the penalty of breaking curfew was severe. The second time, he'd managed to elude capture, aided by the simple fact that nobody would be foolish enough to attempt what he did. Tonight, he was counting on that same ambivalence to grant him safe travels. Once again, fortune smiled.
"We need the boy", grumbled Jorgassar, as they went over the details for the hundredth time.
"He's right, you know. Are you certain-" Eodir started, turning to Bok, who slowly put up his hand.
"No, I am not certain. We knew risks would be necessary. Complaining about them is not" Bok replied flatly, quickly ending the topic of discussion. The clock neared the upright position for the second time of the day. Not a sound was heard. The trio sat silently, waiting for the door to open and reveal either Dylan or a peacekeeper.
"Sit." Bok broke the silence, his eyes remaining firmly closed.
"No." came the response. "You're always talking about how deadlines are deadlines, and we stand no chance if we compromise for the sake of hope. Well, it's past midnight. I'm leaving". With that, Jorgassar rose and headed towards the door, but before he managed a step, it was now an open doorway. A faint smile appeared on Bok's face, which still featured closed eyelids, as Dylan entered the room.
"Sit." came the command. Jorgassar sighed in mild anger, but he sat. "Sit." came the command again, and Dylan followed suit. The silence continued for a moment, as Dylan dared not speak. Finally, he gathered his courage, and began to form one of the many obvious questions.
"Silence." came the same voice, Bok's eyelids remaining firmly closed. And so silence continued for another moment. At last, Jorgassar could contain himself no longer, and angrily began to stand up. That process, however, was quickly aborted by the sound of footsteps outside the room, which could only mean a peacekeeper was making a round. The silence continued for yet another moment.
"Thank you for coming," Bok said, finally breaking the silence. "I was not sure you would. I assume you have questions. I will answer them, provided you do not interrupt me until I have finished speaking. Is that agreeable?"
Dylan nodded.
"Good. My name is Bok. I am the one who you met earlier today. I did not anticipate you recognizing me; that was a... complication, but fortunately one that you had the foresight to resolve. This is Jorgassar and Eodir."
Bok paused, allowing Dylan to put names to the faces.
"Your central question is undoubtedly why we have requested your presence. As you are no doubt aware, Area 33's current living conditions are... unacceptable. We have a plan to change that, but you are key to its success."
"Me? how?" stammered Dylan.
"I requested you not interrupt me until I have finished. Do not let it happen again. As I was saying, you are key to the success of our plan. You may have noticed that on the final day of each week, a supply truck leaves the Center to restock the Marketplace. We have carefully tracked its movements for months. After restocking the Marketplace, it immediately returns to the Center, where it is stationed near the main supply room. The supply room is next to the armory, which is, logically, next to Command. This means that if we can take the supply room, we can take both the armory and Command. Do you understand so far?"
Dylan nodded again.
"Good. Once we take Command, we will effectively have control of Area 33. Once that happens, Central is unlikely to oppose us. Overnight, a brighter future for all."
(continued) |
Inspired by [this](https://np.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/3yxj68/what_thing_in_a_movie_makes_it_instantly_a_bad/cyhosea) comment. | [WP] Write a story in the style of a teen novel which follows the journey of a group of teenagers fighting to bring down an oppressive dystopian government. Over the course of the story it becomes clear to the readers that the government is in the right. | Since my original post got removed (but was incredibly well received), I decided to go with the piece I had originally drafted for this prompt.
_________________________________________________________________
Phoenix stood at the doors of the central tower, an ugly monolith of glass and steel dominating the skyline. She could help but remember Jakob's speech, comparing the tower to a rusty nail, anchoring the city in this hellscape, holding the people down. "And there's only one way to deal with a nail," she mouthed. Phoenix shouldered her rifle again, the thought of Jakob's speech filled her with grim determination. One of the resistance fighters waved her over, and she made her way into the building.
She glanced about the lobby, admiring her comrades' work. The once pristine marble columns supporting the glass windows high above cracked and crumbled, their clean exterior flensed away by gunfire, exposing the ugly concrete beams underneath. Blood and bullet holes marred the far wall, clean white tile, shattered by another round of gunfire, sprinkled down on the bodies covering the floor. Phoenix couldn't help but grin as she watched two more corp thugs, suits caked in blood and grime, dragged in front of the wall.
Jeers and catcalls grew louder as the two begged for their lives. One of them, a middle-aged woman in a grey suit, tried to shake their resolve by prattling on about her children. The other stared directly at Phoenix, grey eyes looking right through her. He never said a word, but his eyes followed her as walked to the elevator. There was a cheery ding, and the brass doors open. As she stepped inside, a quick volley of gunfire echoed throughout the lobby, followed by a cheer.
Eighty-six floors. Eighty-six floors until it was all over. The man from the lobby continued to haunt her; even though she was, she could feel the weight of his gaze. Watching. Judging. Phoenix closed her eyes, and tried to recentered herself; to banish the specter before it could shake her resolve. The elevator dinged; twentieth floor.
A still, small voice, one she hadn't heard in a long time, rattled about in her head; preaching treason and heresy. *did they deserve to die* She checked and rechecked her weapon, ensuring it was ready to fulfill its righteous purpose. *youre a murderer* Phoenix bowed her head and prayed for strength, for the resolve to accomplish her glorious purpose.
Another ding. Fortieth floor
*Jess, are you afraid of me?*
The voice grew louder and louder, until it was all she could think of. Jess could feel her stomach roiling and bubbling, like a witch's cauldron, it took everything she had not to vomit. *You hurt so many people.* She leaned against the back wall of the elevator for support. With bleary eyes she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the cold metal, she saw a stranger, covered in blood and sick, eyes wild and murderous, starring back at her. "This isn't you," she muttered, echoing the voice's call.
Sixtieth floor.
She gripped the gun tighter, and thought of Jakob, of Mariah, of Lucy, of all the people she'd lost. "They can't die in vain," she growled. The reflection shifted and twisted, stripping away the ugly exterior, showing her a smiling teenager, sitting in the back of a skyhopper. Jess remembered that they ha--No. Phoenix punched the wall as hard as she could, her knuckles cracked as the metal warped and vibrated, sending the reverberations up her arm. ""I am Phoenix, I lead the people against their corporate oppressors." She said, trying to convince herself of its truth. "i am phoenix i lead the people against their corporate oppressors." She spoke softer, letting the words stick in her throat, and feeling the vibrations across the core of her being. "iamphoenixileadthepeopleagainsttheircorporateoppressors." She continued to speak, barely comprehending the words, letting the chant overtake her, letting it drown out everything else.
| [P1] Dylan sat quietly on his bed, once again unable to fall asleep. It was just four days until his fifteenth birthday, an event that would have once been cause for celebration, but now served only to fill the house with dread. For on that day, there would be no presents. Certainly no cake, a treat that had been abandoned years before. But more importantly, there would be no more childhood. Instead, it was the day of judgement, when Dylan would receive his -- permanent -- working assignment, never to see his family again.
Or, rather, never to see the closest thing he had to family again. Dylan had no idea who his biological parents were, as the ones who raised him were simply those assigned to the job of child-rearing. He once had a brother, Moldan, but his day of judgement had come exactly 823 days before -- or so one would gather, given the 823 tick marks on Dylan's wall. Moldan was one of the lucky ones. By virtue of his excellent results in school, he had been assigned to the Outpost, where he would receive further schooling and eventually enter the field of scientific research. Few were afforded this opportunity. But all this was unknown to Dylan, who was simply left to imagine what kind of horrible fate his brother was facing -- or, in some of Dylan's nightmares, his brother had faced; it was precisely this nightmare that was leaving Dylan unwilling to fall asleep.
While Dylan would have preferred time to stop, life went on in Area 33. Every day, a new child faced their judgement, travelling to the Center at precisely 8 o'clock in the morning. There was no other option for them; to avoid their judgement was to seal it. There would be two more of them today, making the solemn march from their assigned housing to the Center, as their friends looked on from the Schoolhouse with sadness. An hour later, Yochel would open the Marketplace, as she had for the last 22 years. If one listened closely, they could hear the sound of the miners chipping away underneath the ground, or the hunters trading war stories before heading out for the day. The farmers were often seen, but rarely heard. And nobody had any idea what went on in the Outpost, slightly off in the distance; all they knew was that the Outpost was in far better condition than the rest of Area 33. In a few hours, Dylan would be sitting in his classroom, as the teacher walked in to demonstrate mathematics, thus signifying that it was the third day of the week. Life in Area 33 was a well-oiled machine.
But this moment, there was a break in the unbreakable routine, one that Dylan would have been blissfully unaware of had he not been lying awake once again. The sound of... something permeated the atmosphere. Quiet at first, but more than enough to pique Dylan's interest, given that such an event hadn't happened before. Slowly the noise grew louder, and Dylan was finally able to identify its source: a convoy of peacekeeper trucks. By now, the noise had attracted several more onlookers. Few knew what a peacekeeper even looked like, as the moment a peacekeeper needed to confront you, you had done something very very wrong. No more than a handful ever worked in a single area at one time, but dozens were now arriving on the unlit black vehicles. And just like that, they were gone, headed off in the direction of the Center. Nobody, not even Dylan, dared do anything other than return to sleep.
The next day, Dylan was fading in and out of consciousness, desperately trying to pay attention to the symbols on the board. He was unsuccessful more than a few times, but the schoolteacher had not the heart to apply the usual penalties so close to his judgement day. Everyone, including Dylan, was well aware that his fate lay not in the intellectual areas, a fact that Skynar -- a classmate of Dylan's -- rarely missed the opportunity to point out. Mercifully, the clock reached the long-awaited upright position, signifying the end of the school day and the hour of freedom the children were alloted before returning home for their meal. Not five minutes later, he was flat on the ground, knocked over by someone not much older than himself. That man, strangely, was covered in soot. "I'm.. so sorry" stammered the man, extending his hand to help Dylan up, but also looking around anxiously as if he had committed a mortal sin. "It's fine... don't I know-" Dylan began, but his voice quickly trailed off. Something in the man's eyes told him to stop talking, a flicker of fear that Dylan instantly picked up on. Instead, he accepted the outstretched hand, and slowly walked off in the other direction, very confused.
Moments later, he realized his hand was not all he took back from the man, as a hastily scrawled note appeared in his palm. "Market. Midnight." was all the note said. No explanation, no name, nothing. But something about the encounter begged Dylan to dig deeper. Or, perhaps, it was the looming threat of judgement day. Whatever it was, it was responsible for the nearly inaudible squeak Dylan's window made just before midnight. He'd snuck out twice before, caught the first time by -- as fortune was smiling that day -- his mother, and not a peacekeeper, for the penalty of breaking curfew was severe. The second time, he'd managed to elude capture, aided by the simple fact that nobody would be foolish enough to attempt what he did. Tonight, he was counting on that same ambivalence to grant him safe travels. Once again, fortune smiled.
"We need the boy", grumbled Jorgassar, as they went over the details for the hundredth time.
"He's right, you know. Are you certain-" Eodir started, turning to Bok, who slowly put up his hand.
"No, I am not certain. We knew risks would be necessary. Complaining about them is not" Bok replied flatly, quickly ending the topic of discussion. The clock neared the upright position for the second time of the day. Not a sound was heard. The trio sat silently, waiting for the door to open and reveal either Dylan or a peacekeeper.
"Sit." Bok broke the silence, his eyes remaining firmly closed.
"No." came the response. "You're always talking about how deadlines are deadlines, and we stand no chance if we compromise for the sake of hope. Well, it's past midnight. I'm leaving". With that, Jorgassar rose and headed towards the door, but before he managed a step, it was now an open doorway. A faint smile appeared on Bok's face, which still featured closed eyelids, as Dylan entered the room.
"Sit." came the command. Jorgassar sighed in mild anger, but he sat. "Sit." came the command again, and Dylan followed suit. The silence continued for a moment, as Dylan dared not speak. Finally, he gathered his courage, and began to form one of the many obvious questions.
"Silence." came the same voice, Bok's eyelids remaining firmly closed. And so silence continued for another moment. At last, Jorgassar could contain himself no longer, and angrily began to stand up. That process, however, was quickly aborted by the sound of footsteps outside the room, which could only mean a peacekeeper was making a round. The silence continued for yet another moment.
"Thank you for coming," Bok said, finally breaking the silence. "I was not sure you would. I assume you have questions. I will answer them, provided you do not interrupt me until I have finished speaking. Is that agreeable?"
Dylan nodded.
"Good. My name is Bok. I am the one who you met earlier today. I did not anticipate you recognizing me; that was a... complication, but fortunately one that you had the foresight to resolve. This is Jorgassar and Eodir."
Bok paused, allowing Dylan to put names to the faces.
"Your central question is undoubtedly why we have requested your presence. As you are no doubt aware, Area 33's current living conditions are... unacceptable. We have a plan to change that, but you are key to its success."
"Me? how?" stammered Dylan.
"I requested you not interrupt me until I have finished. Do not let it happen again. As I was saying, you are key to the success of our plan. You may have noticed that on the final day of each week, a supply truck leaves the Center to restock the Marketplace. We have carefully tracked its movements for months. After restocking the Marketplace, it immediately returns to the Center, where it is stationed near the main supply room. The supply room is next to the armory, which is, logically, next to Command. This means that if we can take the supply room, we can take both the armory and Command. Do you understand so far?"
Dylan nodded again.
"Good. Once we take Command, we will effectively have control of Area 33. Once that happens, Central is unlikely to oppose us. Overnight, a brighter future for all."
(continued) |
Inspired by [this](https://np.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/3yxj68/what_thing_in_a_movie_makes_it_instantly_a_bad/cyhosea) comment. | [WP] Write a story in the style of a teen novel which follows the journey of a group of teenagers fighting to bring down an oppressive dystopian government. Over the course of the story it becomes clear to the readers that the government is in the right. | I grew up in broken home where the only people that mattered were the people I'd met over the course of my lifetime. Mitchel's parents were business owners of a growing corporation before the purge. Cindy was accepted to the greatest school in the country before it was torn down for "cultural cleansing". And Lucy's parents were arrested for practicing heritage independence. It's all bullshit when looking at the big picture of everything.
If I had to pinpoint the day my life spiraled into heroism, I'd say it were the day my mother finally went missing.
"Guys...." I had spent the entire day running. "My mom... I watched them... Hurt her."
I showed them the video on my phone. They pulled her out of the car and started beating her to the ground as she kicked and scream. My friends showed fear the same way I did, except I was the only one who would never see his mother again.
We heard stories from Mitchel's parents that the world was better before the government took over. People could walk outside without being afraid of the watchers. Now, freedom and safety are illusions to us. Us new generations will never be free, and now we're certain that we'll never be safe either.
I spread the video online. Hoping it would spread some sort of reaction. Cause something, change someone's mind, make someone do something. Nothing. Nothing happened. My mom was beaten an inch away from her life and nothing would change.
Then I received an email.
>I'm terribly sorry for you loss. I know what it's like to lose someone to the regulators. Are you doing alright? How are you feeling?
I answered, and he replied.
>You're not the only one to go through this. You have to be strong!
We exchanged messages.
> We live in the same area, want to hang out? There's a McChickens near my area.
We met, and things seemed alright.
> My friends and I are are going to the cinema today, do you and your friends wanna come along?
My circle grew. In ways I didn't expect.
"Oiy, don't worry Kyle, we'll avenge your mom when we take over the world!" He shoots his silencer at the empty bottle of beer. It cracks. Apparently Daniel's father was a war veteran, wrongfully dishonorably discharged. He's been taught how to hold a gun.
I laughed at him, "damn right we will! We're gonna take over the world with your dad's arsenal." I aim my rifle at a nearby canister, I hit it directly. Our friends watched us practicing, talking among themselves.
"Honestly though, my dad's arsenal isn't the best one out there right now. I have some friends from up north, they've got the REAL toys up there. I can have them delivered here, if you're interested."
"Fuck, yes."
One week I was shooting cans, the next I was shooting rats. Then rabbits, then deer. We would skip school for days at a time, realizing that school didn't really teach us anything. It's just the pumping of impractical facts, making us more obedient than intelligent. With my circle, we spoke to each other. Debated about the world. I learned more with them than anywhere else.
With those 'debates', a few bomb shells were dropped into me. Daniel once asked, "do you ever feel like... Its your own fault? That we live in this shitty world. That by not doing something about it, by letting it go by and being okay with it, we're leaving it worse off. Giving up? Losing justice? I dunno... But sometimes Kyle... I feel like I'm the reason my dad is in prison."
I was in the car with my mom when she was arrested. Maybe if I'd told her to drive more slowly, or more carefully, she wouldn't have died in jail...
We got ourselves uniforms. We gave ourselves nicknames. We were a "gang" in the sense that we all agreed the government was shit. We all kept guns on us, and we all made a pact to agree that we'd never get pushed around by the regulators.
One day I saw a regulator yelling at a kid just because he was a darkskin. It pissed me off so much. I walked up to the officer angry, telling him to leave these God damned kid alone. I told him you can't expect respect from us if you can't respect anyone else. He reached for his holster, and all my memories of my mom and friends just clicked. I wasn't going to end up as another dead kid on the news. I drew my gun just as I'd been practicing, I shot him six times to make sure he'd die quickly. Damn body camera saw my face.
I ran to my friends and they were proud of me. They said the guy deserved it and I believed them. The pact we made a year ago had since become something more. We ran away from home, agreeing to make sure no one else gets hurt by the regulators just as the rest our families had been.
One day while we were doing our neighborhood watch duties, I saw a regulator putting handcuffs on a kid. I don't care what excuse the regulator had, 90% of time its to display their power. I shot the regulator and give the kid the keys to his freedom. My circle had grown. We attract people without parents, people who need homes or families. I prefer recruiting suicidal people to give them a reason to live.
We've made games out of it. Saying things like "how many R's have you killed today?" Capturing a living regulator is extra fun. According to the news, the government is afraid of us. Good. We'll take them all down someday.
Because the moment someone puts on that regulator uniform, it's the moment they stop being human. Anyone who disagrees is obviously a drone, who's life and thinking is meaningless. We'll take down as may people as it takes in the name of Justice, Freedom, and Equality.
XXX
**Regulator Report**
Charge: Purge case 37
Officer Name: Brown.
Officer Badge Number: 159755
Summary: Contents and documentation of human trafficking and money laundering were found in son's bedroom. Hidden away under the floor boards. Confirmation of receipts needed.
**Regulator Report**
Charge: Cultural Cleansing
Officer Name: J. Martin.
Officer Badge Number: 199554
Summary : Proof of anti-government curriculum skewing found on Principal's computer. Illegally distributing guns to students confirmed after searching the infirmary. Connection of international networking has yet to be confirmed.
**Regulator Report**
Charge: Heritage Independence Supremacy
Officer Name: O'hare.
Officer Badge Number: 129159
Summary: Two suspects have been given an arrest warrant for conspiring of Arson. They are also suspected of being responsible for the vandalism of churches, mosques and temples on Maine Avenue. Further questioning required.
**Regulator Report**
Charge: Attempted kidnapping
Officer Name: Li.
Officer Badge Number: 184269
Summary: Husband called after hearing his wife call him in a drunken rage. She accused him of cheating and claimed that she threatened to kill herself and her son. She was pulled over speeding in the highway. There was no proof of her being intoxicated but let the record show that she was indeed induced with a variety of other narcotics. Upon pulling her over, she began attacking the officer with what appeared to be a knife. Due to her narcotic state, we switched on non-lethal methods in order to restrain her. | [P1] Dylan sat quietly on his bed, once again unable to fall asleep. It was just four days until his fifteenth birthday, an event that would have once been cause for celebration, but now served only to fill the house with dread. For on that day, there would be no presents. Certainly no cake, a treat that had been abandoned years before. But more importantly, there would be no more childhood. Instead, it was the day of judgement, when Dylan would receive his -- permanent -- working assignment, never to see his family again.
Or, rather, never to see the closest thing he had to family again. Dylan had no idea who his biological parents were, as the ones who raised him were simply those assigned to the job of child-rearing. He once had a brother, Moldan, but his day of judgement had come exactly 823 days before -- or so one would gather, given the 823 tick marks on Dylan's wall. Moldan was one of the lucky ones. By virtue of his excellent results in school, he had been assigned to the Outpost, where he would receive further schooling and eventually enter the field of scientific research. Few were afforded this opportunity. But all this was unknown to Dylan, who was simply left to imagine what kind of horrible fate his brother was facing -- or, in some of Dylan's nightmares, his brother had faced; it was precisely this nightmare that was leaving Dylan unwilling to fall asleep.
While Dylan would have preferred time to stop, life went on in Area 33. Every day, a new child faced their judgement, travelling to the Center at precisely 8 o'clock in the morning. There was no other option for them; to avoid their judgement was to seal it. There would be two more of them today, making the solemn march from their assigned housing to the Center, as their friends looked on from the Schoolhouse with sadness. An hour later, Yochel would open the Marketplace, as she had for the last 22 years. If one listened closely, they could hear the sound of the miners chipping away underneath the ground, or the hunters trading war stories before heading out for the day. The farmers were often seen, but rarely heard. And nobody had any idea what went on in the Outpost, slightly off in the distance; all they knew was that the Outpost was in far better condition than the rest of Area 33. In a few hours, Dylan would be sitting in his classroom, as the teacher walked in to demonstrate mathematics, thus signifying that it was the third day of the week. Life in Area 33 was a well-oiled machine.
But this moment, there was a break in the unbreakable routine, one that Dylan would have been blissfully unaware of had he not been lying awake once again. The sound of... something permeated the atmosphere. Quiet at first, but more than enough to pique Dylan's interest, given that such an event hadn't happened before. Slowly the noise grew louder, and Dylan was finally able to identify its source: a convoy of peacekeeper trucks. By now, the noise had attracted several more onlookers. Few knew what a peacekeeper even looked like, as the moment a peacekeeper needed to confront you, you had done something very very wrong. No more than a handful ever worked in a single area at one time, but dozens were now arriving on the unlit black vehicles. And just like that, they were gone, headed off in the direction of the Center. Nobody, not even Dylan, dared do anything other than return to sleep.
The next day, Dylan was fading in and out of consciousness, desperately trying to pay attention to the symbols on the board. He was unsuccessful more than a few times, but the schoolteacher had not the heart to apply the usual penalties so close to his judgement day. Everyone, including Dylan, was well aware that his fate lay not in the intellectual areas, a fact that Skynar -- a classmate of Dylan's -- rarely missed the opportunity to point out. Mercifully, the clock reached the long-awaited upright position, signifying the end of the school day and the hour of freedom the children were alloted before returning home for their meal. Not five minutes later, he was flat on the ground, knocked over by someone not much older than himself. That man, strangely, was covered in soot. "I'm.. so sorry" stammered the man, extending his hand to help Dylan up, but also looking around anxiously as if he had committed a mortal sin. "It's fine... don't I know-" Dylan began, but his voice quickly trailed off. Something in the man's eyes told him to stop talking, a flicker of fear that Dylan instantly picked up on. Instead, he accepted the outstretched hand, and slowly walked off in the other direction, very confused.
Moments later, he realized his hand was not all he took back from the man, as a hastily scrawled note appeared in his palm. "Market. Midnight." was all the note said. No explanation, no name, nothing. But something about the encounter begged Dylan to dig deeper. Or, perhaps, it was the looming threat of judgement day. Whatever it was, it was responsible for the nearly inaudible squeak Dylan's window made just before midnight. He'd snuck out twice before, caught the first time by -- as fortune was smiling that day -- his mother, and not a peacekeeper, for the penalty of breaking curfew was severe. The second time, he'd managed to elude capture, aided by the simple fact that nobody would be foolish enough to attempt what he did. Tonight, he was counting on that same ambivalence to grant him safe travels. Once again, fortune smiled.
"We need the boy", grumbled Jorgassar, as they went over the details for the hundredth time.
"He's right, you know. Are you certain-" Eodir started, turning to Bok, who slowly put up his hand.
"No, I am not certain. We knew risks would be necessary. Complaining about them is not" Bok replied flatly, quickly ending the topic of discussion. The clock neared the upright position for the second time of the day. Not a sound was heard. The trio sat silently, waiting for the door to open and reveal either Dylan or a peacekeeper.
"Sit." Bok broke the silence, his eyes remaining firmly closed.
"No." came the response. "You're always talking about how deadlines are deadlines, and we stand no chance if we compromise for the sake of hope. Well, it's past midnight. I'm leaving". With that, Jorgassar rose and headed towards the door, but before he managed a step, it was now an open doorway. A faint smile appeared on Bok's face, which still featured closed eyelids, as Dylan entered the room.
"Sit." came the command. Jorgassar sighed in mild anger, but he sat. "Sit." came the command again, and Dylan followed suit. The silence continued for a moment, as Dylan dared not speak. Finally, he gathered his courage, and began to form one of the many obvious questions.
"Silence." came the same voice, Bok's eyelids remaining firmly closed. And so silence continued for another moment. At last, Jorgassar could contain himself no longer, and angrily began to stand up. That process, however, was quickly aborted by the sound of footsteps outside the room, which could only mean a peacekeeper was making a round. The silence continued for yet another moment.
"Thank you for coming," Bok said, finally breaking the silence. "I was not sure you would. I assume you have questions. I will answer them, provided you do not interrupt me until I have finished speaking. Is that agreeable?"
Dylan nodded.
"Good. My name is Bok. I am the one who you met earlier today. I did not anticipate you recognizing me; that was a... complication, but fortunately one that you had the foresight to resolve. This is Jorgassar and Eodir."
Bok paused, allowing Dylan to put names to the faces.
"Your central question is undoubtedly why we have requested your presence. As you are no doubt aware, Area 33's current living conditions are... unacceptable. We have a plan to change that, but you are key to its success."
"Me? how?" stammered Dylan.
"I requested you not interrupt me until I have finished. Do not let it happen again. As I was saying, you are key to the success of our plan. You may have noticed that on the final day of each week, a supply truck leaves the Center to restock the Marketplace. We have carefully tracked its movements for months. After restocking the Marketplace, it immediately returns to the Center, where it is stationed near the main supply room. The supply room is next to the armory, which is, logically, next to Command. This means that if we can take the supply room, we can take both the armory and Command. Do you understand so far?"
Dylan nodded again.
"Good. Once we take Command, we will effectively have control of Area 33. Once that happens, Central is unlikely to oppose us. Overnight, a brighter future for all."
(continued) |
Inspired by [this](https://np.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/3yxj68/what_thing_in_a_movie_makes_it_instantly_a_bad/cyhosea) comment. | [WP] Write a story in the style of a teen novel which follows the journey of a group of teenagers fighting to bring down an oppressive dystopian government. Over the course of the story it becomes clear to the readers that the government is in the right. | Since my original post got removed (but was incredibly well received), I decided to go with the piece I had originally drafted for this prompt.
_________________________________________________________________
Phoenix stood at the doors of the central tower, an ugly monolith of glass and steel dominating the skyline. She could help but remember Jakob's speech, comparing the tower to a rusty nail, anchoring the city in this hellscape, holding the people down. "And there's only one way to deal with a nail," she mouthed. Phoenix shouldered her rifle again, the thought of Jakob's speech filled her with grim determination. One of the resistance fighters waved her over, and she made her way into the building.
She glanced about the lobby, admiring her comrades' work. The once pristine marble columns supporting the glass windows high above cracked and crumbled, their clean exterior flensed away by gunfire, exposing the ugly concrete beams underneath. Blood and bullet holes marred the far wall, clean white tile, shattered by another round of gunfire, sprinkled down on the bodies covering the floor. Phoenix couldn't help but grin as she watched two more corp thugs, suits caked in blood and grime, dragged in front of the wall.
Jeers and catcalls grew louder as the two begged for their lives. One of them, a middle-aged woman in a grey suit, tried to shake their resolve by prattling on about her children. The other stared directly at Phoenix, grey eyes looking right through her. He never said a word, but his eyes followed her as walked to the elevator. There was a cheery ding, and the brass doors open. As she stepped inside, a quick volley of gunfire echoed throughout the lobby, followed by a cheer.
Eighty-six floors. Eighty-six floors until it was all over. The man from the lobby continued to haunt her; even though she was, she could feel the weight of his gaze. Watching. Judging. Phoenix closed her eyes, and tried to recentered herself; to banish the specter before it could shake her resolve. The elevator dinged; twentieth floor.
A still, small voice, one she hadn't heard in a long time, rattled about in her head; preaching treason and heresy. *did they deserve to die* She checked and rechecked her weapon, ensuring it was ready to fulfill its righteous purpose. *youre a murderer* Phoenix bowed her head and prayed for strength, for the resolve to accomplish her glorious purpose.
Another ding. Fortieth floor
*Jess, are you afraid of me?*
The voice grew louder and louder, until it was all she could think of. Jess could feel her stomach roiling and bubbling, like a witch's cauldron, it took everything she had not to vomit. *You hurt so many people.* She leaned against the back wall of the elevator for support. With bleary eyes she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the cold metal, she saw a stranger, covered in blood and sick, eyes wild and murderous, starring back at her. "This isn't you," she muttered, echoing the voice's call.
Sixtieth floor.
She gripped the gun tighter, and thought of Jakob, of Mariah, of Lucy, of all the people she'd lost. "They can't die in vain," she growled. The reflection shifted and twisted, stripping away the ugly exterior, showing her a smiling teenager, sitting in the back of a skyhopper. Jess remembered that they ha--No. Phoenix punched the wall as hard as she could, her knuckles cracked as the metal warped and vibrated, sending the reverberations up her arm. ""I am Phoenix, I lead the people against their corporate oppressors." She said, trying to convince herself of its truth. "i am phoenix i lead the people against their corporate oppressors." She spoke softer, letting the words stick in her throat, and feeling the vibrations across the core of her being. "iamphoenixileadthepeopleagainsttheircorporateoppressors." She continued to speak, barely comprehending the words, letting the chant overtake her, letting it drown out everything else.
| They'd taken our brothers, and sisters. They refused to let us die noble deaths. They poisoned us slowly.
And now, after it all, I was at their mercy. I'd tried to take the life of their leader, Katherine Steed--the villainous mastermind behind it all, and they'd caught me and my troupe within minutes. They'd outlawed guns so long ago, and the ownership of weapons by anyone not certified carried a stiff penalty, despite it once being our right. I'd slashed at her face, and she'd ducked backwards, like a practiced warrior, and in seconds, I had her bodyguards on me. They were brutal and knocked me out.
The tv in the corner was tuned to the government news, and although it was on mute, I could see the subtitles of her further brainwashing my beloved nation. I closed my eyes to avoid it, but that was when the nurse came in.
I tried to get out of the hospital bed I was in.
"I refuse medical treatment." I said. continuing to tug at my restraints. "Let me go. You have no right to keep me here!. I am a free person! You have no right to restrain me without charges!"
She stopped a few feet away to flip through the papers. "I'm a nurse, not a cop. But you have been identified with fingerprints, since it seems you ripped out your microchip a few years ago--surprised that didn't get infected, by the way. It clearly took a long time to heal and has a ton of scar tissue--And it shows that you haven't gotten any of your vaccinations, nor have you even bothered treating an ongoing issue with Chron's, so honestly, pretty soon we may have to evaluate that and decide if you can keep your lower colon."
"Let me go. You can't detain me here. I know what you're going to do, you're going to put me under and lobotomize me. You can't vaccinate me without my permission! I have a right to refuse!"
She shook her head. "It's for your own good, hun. I know you're one of the terrorist groups that tried to take down Ms. Steed. You forget, that at one point, we were all dying of diseases originally carried by unvaccinated people, and that's why we can't risk you getting others sick. Not to mention we can't allow your own suffering."
I screamed at her, and watched her quietly and sadly get out a sedative, and inject it into my IV. I went under. Goodbye noble death in the persuit of freedom and liberty. |
Inspired by [this](https://np.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/3yxj68/what_thing_in_a_movie_makes_it_instantly_a_bad/cyhosea) comment. | [WP] Write a story in the style of a teen novel which follows the journey of a group of teenagers fighting to bring down an oppressive dystopian government. Over the course of the story it becomes clear to the readers that the government is in the right. | Since my original post got removed (but was incredibly well received), I decided to go with the piece I had originally drafted for this prompt.
_________________________________________________________________
Phoenix stood at the doors of the central tower, an ugly monolith of glass and steel dominating the skyline. She could help but remember Jakob's speech, comparing the tower to a rusty nail, anchoring the city in this hellscape, holding the people down. "And there's only one way to deal with a nail," she mouthed. Phoenix shouldered her rifle again, the thought of Jakob's speech filled her with grim determination. One of the resistance fighters waved her over, and she made her way into the building.
She glanced about the lobby, admiring her comrades' work. The once pristine marble columns supporting the glass windows high above cracked and crumbled, their clean exterior flensed away by gunfire, exposing the ugly concrete beams underneath. Blood and bullet holes marred the far wall, clean white tile, shattered by another round of gunfire, sprinkled down on the bodies covering the floor. Phoenix couldn't help but grin as she watched two more corp thugs, suits caked in blood and grime, dragged in front of the wall.
Jeers and catcalls grew louder as the two begged for their lives. One of them, a middle-aged woman in a grey suit, tried to shake their resolve by prattling on about her children. The other stared directly at Phoenix, grey eyes looking right through her. He never said a word, but his eyes followed her as walked to the elevator. There was a cheery ding, and the brass doors open. As she stepped inside, a quick volley of gunfire echoed throughout the lobby, followed by a cheer.
Eighty-six floors. Eighty-six floors until it was all over. The man from the lobby continued to haunt her; even though she was, she could feel the weight of his gaze. Watching. Judging. Phoenix closed her eyes, and tried to recentered herself; to banish the specter before it could shake her resolve. The elevator dinged; twentieth floor.
A still, small voice, one she hadn't heard in a long time, rattled about in her head; preaching treason and heresy. *did they deserve to die* She checked and rechecked her weapon, ensuring it was ready to fulfill its righteous purpose. *youre a murderer* Phoenix bowed her head and prayed for strength, for the resolve to accomplish her glorious purpose.
Another ding. Fortieth floor
*Jess, are you afraid of me?*
The voice grew louder and louder, until it was all she could think of. Jess could feel her stomach roiling and bubbling, like a witch's cauldron, it took everything she had not to vomit. *You hurt so many people.* She leaned against the back wall of the elevator for support. With bleary eyes she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the cold metal, she saw a stranger, covered in blood and sick, eyes wild and murderous, starring back at her. "This isn't you," she muttered, echoing the voice's call.
Sixtieth floor.
She gripped the gun tighter, and thought of Jakob, of Mariah, of Lucy, of all the people she'd lost. "They can't die in vain," she growled. The reflection shifted and twisted, stripping away the ugly exterior, showing her a smiling teenager, sitting in the back of a skyhopper. Jess remembered that they ha--No. Phoenix punched the wall as hard as she could, her knuckles cracked as the metal warped and vibrated, sending the reverberations up her arm. ""I am Phoenix, I lead the people against their corporate oppressors." She said, trying to convince herself of its truth. "i am phoenix i lead the people against their corporate oppressors." She spoke softer, letting the words stick in her throat, and feeling the vibrations across the core of her being. "iamphoenixileadthepeopleagainsttheircorporateoppressors." She continued to speak, barely comprehending the words, letting the chant overtake her, letting it drown out everything else.
| "Fuck Deacon, that was close." I hear from across the room, the warehouse echoing, making the voice louder.
"Hayden, what have we gone over about swearing." I say calmly, back, looking at the blonde brute of a teenager, his shoulder wrapped in bandages.
"Sorry, boss." he replies, shrugging, avoiding eye contact, "I keep forgetting."
I shake my head, *he's hopeless.* The room falls into the silent buzzing of the overhead light, and the faded sounds of the generator in the background. I take a seat in the old, battered couch, looking around the once empty space. Boxes of ammunition line tables, clips ready to be used, some half loaded. The guns are kept in a lock, the key resting warmly on my chest.
I sigh as Hayden stops in front of me, grimacing from the pain. *Are we really up for this?* I give him a cold look, trying to be dismissive. After all, he ran out into the line of fire. His wounds are his fault. If Niki hadn't of saved his ass, he wouldn't be standing in front of me here.
"What did the supply route have this time?" I ask, motioning for him to sit down across from me.
He takes a nervous seat, "Purified water, food, basic medical sh- stuff. Not enough to last very long, but also not enough for Watch to realize we've taken it."
I bring my hand to my temples and rub, "We need more than that if we're going to do this attack properly."
"Deacon, we have the tech. We've raided enough, don't you think? We're a resistance, not a gang." Hayden says quietly, to which I look up carefully at him.
"Don't get too trigger happy. Hayden" I tell him firmly, "We need better intel, and a better supply route. Go find Casey, she'll be working on something. Tell Niki I'd like to speak with her."
"Of course. Yeah." he stands up, nodding to me out of respect. He quickly goes off into a corridor, his footsteps echoing, leaving me to my thoughts.
*We're not ready. They're years ahead of us. I don't think we even know what we're fighting for anymore. Fighting to survive? Fighting an oppressive government? Fighting ourselves? Gods, killing Jennifer last week was* ***not*** *part of the plan. But still, she ratted us out. What was I supposed to do?*
I turn my head to the sound of walking, and my eyes settle on Niki, her slim figure walking into view. "What's Watch planning?" I ask, shaking my head.
"Some raid. Not a word of where, when, or who. I don't know if Jenn's tip even went through." Niki answers, her voice echoing as much as her footsteps.
"We need to clear out." I say, mostly to myself.
"And go where? Watch is targeting us. We're terrorists, Deacon. Fucking terrorists." I don't call out her cussing, feeling the need to let one out myself, "We started this out with good intentions, Deacon. We're nothing more than a gang."
I look at the floor, concentrating on the concrete. This warehouse is a the very edge of the Gospel, where the poor die and the rich get richer. Watch is big, and he's powerful, but there's something going on. He's stopped supplying to the poor, blaming it on low food rations. We barely take enough to hurt supply routes. He's shut down the electricity on over half the grid, claiming low oil supplies, while the rich get provided their own generators. He's killing and locking up the poor from stealing from the rich in order to get by. Something has to be done, *but are we the ones to do it?*
"We'll figure it out. Casey has reports of an abandoned bunker east of Gospel. It might be worth checking out." I reply calmly, ignoring my thoughts.
"I'll report to Casey your requests, boss." Niki replies, her face turning into a grin and sliding down on the couch beside me.
She lays her head down on my lap, reaching her hand up and rubbing my chest. I look down at her smiling face, disgusted. One part by the fact that she only wants to get into my pants, one part the knowledge that she's been sleeping with Hayden, and the last part the visual high she's on.
"You need to get rid of that stuff." I tell her firmly, pushing her hand away, "It only causes trouble."
Her grin turns into a scowl, her short black hair messy from my lap, her dark eyes with a slight red tint to them, "Well at least I have something that makes me happy rather than going around shooting kids."
I throw her off my lap, hearing a small thud as she hits the floor. I look down at her, trying to keep my cool as best as possible, feeling like I'm the only sane one here, "You get off that crap or I'll take it away."
"Oh fuck you, Deacon." Niki replies, her voice in a mocking tone, "What're you going to do? Shoot me? You barely come out of your room other than to boss us around. Hell, I'm surprised you can hold a damn gun with how much *field* work you do."
I close my eyes for a moment, breathing in and out slowly, knowing it's the drugs making her this way. For a moment though, I almost wonder if she's right. A part of me knowing she is. I control my breathing, trying to keep my anger to myself, and kneel down, looking right into her blood stained eyes.
"It's your choice Niki, I suggest you make it soon." I stand up, walking off deeper into the warehouse, somewhere where I can clear my head.
It's days like these that I wonder if we're really the good guys.
***
www.thearcherswriting.wordpress.com |
Inspired by [this](https://np.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/3yxj68/what_thing_in_a_movie_makes_it_instantly_a_bad/cyhosea) comment. | [WP] Write a story in the style of a teen novel which follows the journey of a group of teenagers fighting to bring down an oppressive dystopian government. Over the course of the story it becomes clear to the readers that the government is in the right. | I wake up shortly before dawn. Today is the day. The day on which I'll decide my fate. The sky provides just enough light for me to see myself in my sliver of mirror. Hazel eyes, mouse-brown hair and a shard of glass: those are the only things I have of my mother's. I wonder what she would say to me, if she were here today. Would she tell me how proud she was? Would she tell me to be careful? Would she tell me that she loved me? Or would she simply hold me in her arms, warmth and closeness telling me all I needed to know?
Tylor enters then, his thin white face made stark by the first rays of sunlight creeping over the horizon. "Kyr, you awake?" His voice seems to small and thin in that cold morning air that it makes me want to cry. *Can I really do this? Can I leave him here alone?*
"What's up, Ty?" I ask, because I'm his big sister. It's my job to be brave.
"Kyr, it's today," he says, and I can hear the waver in his voice. He is so young and so afraid.
"It's today," I agree.
"A-are you scared?" he asks and I try to smile, though I can feel the tears creeping around the lump in my throat.
"Of course I am, dummy. The Choosing is scary. But I'm excited too. And sad." He hugs me then, and we spend a long moment sitting there on the edge of my bed, trying to stop time.
____
At breakfast, my father looks as stern as always. His navy uniform is threadbare around the elbows, but the brass buttons gleam. "So today's the day," he says with barely more than a nod in my direction. "I trust you've made the right choice." I wish I shared his trust. I wish I had the ability to things as simply as he does. We're even quieter than usual. *Maybe he knows,* I think. *Or maybe he just knows he's not allowed to say anything that could influence my decision.*
Tylor is pretending to lift spoonfuls of porridge to his mouth but after half an hour's efforts his bowl is still 3/4 full. I don't blame him. This oats are old and stale, the breakfast bland and tasteless. Few people can afford sugar and spices nowadays. We certainly can't. Not on a peacekeeper's salary. That's one good thing that will come out of this, I think: one less mouth to feed. Maybe Ty won't have to be so scarecrow thin. They say things are different in the Capital. The people there wear clothing bright as spring flowers and eat meat with every meal. *If I have my way*, she thinks, but thoughts like these are best left unthought.
____
The Choosing is always somewhat magical. For one day a year, the Capital grants us enough petrol to run the electric generators. The assembly hall is awash with blue-hued light that leaves folks sallow-faced but reaches every corner or the hall. My festival dress looks garish in this new light, the warm brown darkened to the colour of dried blood. I leave Ty and my father and take my place at the front of the hall with my classmates.
They are 15 and varying degrees of terrified. The sight of Miffy Sommers with tears in her eyes fills me with wonder. She is the mayor's daughter, pretty and plump with corkscrews of blonde hair. Why should she worry? Is she actually going to demand a Choosing? Maybe she knows something I don't. Maybe there's a high demand for Capitolites this year or maybe it's true what they say about Fortune's Wheel being fixed.
The presenter is a lanky figure with false lashes, high heels, and a prominent Adam's apple. I've heard that it can be hard to tell Capitoline men from women, but people say the same things of female peacekeepers with their muscled bodies and shaved heads. I hadn't realized they might actively try to make themselves ambiguous. The figures voice does nothing to reveal xir identity.
"Welcome, welcome to our newest citizens and their families. We thank you for Choosing to be with us today." Xe beams. "As I look out across this sea of faces..." And so it goes. I tune out most of it. Today is the day. Decide your future. Stay with the lives you know or try your Fortune? Bravery. Loyalty. Service. Words I've heard a thousand times a day at the training school and at home. No mention of the Discards and their fate. No mention of the Misfits who arrive on their doorstep each year unable to so much as disassemble a rifle. Only the glory of service and the privileged of decision.
Then begins the calling of names, alphabetically from Abbot to Steevers. The first three make predictable choices: Service. Service. Service. Peter, Jeb, and Rick are strapping boys and friends besides. They've always done well at the training school and are ontrack for officer positions. Why risk that for a spin on Fortune's Wheel. The next is Stacy Campbell, a 75kg butch with top scores in marksmanship. She Chooses.
Properly speaking, the wheel is not a wheel but a machine. You swipe your citizen's card and it selects a path for you. Some say it's randomized, others say it's rigged. Most believe there's a bit of both involved. We hold our breath as the machine whirs and sigh when a new card comes out of the slot. Stacy holds it aloft and crows, "Bodyguard! I'm headed to the Capital!"
Bodyguard. Does this help my chances or hurt them? If positions are finite, then Stacy just made our pool that much smaller. If it's based on probabilities, I've still got a chance.
Six more people choose the peacekeepers, then the room quiets again. The next girl is Stacy's girlfriend, Laine. "Choose," she says, and hands over her citizen's card. The machine whirrs again and Laine looks ready to pass out when the sound of plastic against metal makes her start forward. This time, there is none of the excitement that foretold Stacey's fate. "Labourer," she reads, "Agricultural District". There are worse fates, but Laine has just gambled away her friends and family for a life of hard work and no glory.
My turn comes faster than I'd ever thought possible. The electric lights make it possible to see every face in the hall, but that only makes it harder to pick out dad and Ty against the crowd. Will what I'm about to do crush them? "Kyra Nichols," the announcer is saying, and I'm saying "Choose. I'd like to Choose." And I'm handing him my card. My citizen's card. The one that gives me the right to work and learn and eat and live in the Military District. I see the empty sincerity in the Capitalite's eyes have to force myself to let go of the thin rectangle of worn plastic.
The machine whirrs.
The whirring stops.
I've heard tell of kids going crazy when this happens, lashing out at the presenter, trying to tear apart the Wheel, wetting themselves, even attempting suicide on the stage. I hold it together. Two of the Capitoline guards move to seize me and pull me off the stage, but I shake my head and give them a palms up gesture. In the training school, this gesture means "I yield. I'll go quietly." In the end, one walks ahead of me and one behind. I spare one last glance for my erstwhile countrymen, and then step follow them dutifully out of the hall. | "Fuck Deacon, that was close." I hear from across the room, the warehouse echoing, making the voice louder.
"Hayden, what have we gone over about swearing." I say calmly, back, looking at the blonde brute of a teenager, his shoulder wrapped in bandages.
"Sorry, boss." he replies, shrugging, avoiding eye contact, "I keep forgetting."
I shake my head, *he's hopeless.* The room falls into the silent buzzing of the overhead light, and the faded sounds of the generator in the background. I take a seat in the old, battered couch, looking around the once empty space. Boxes of ammunition line tables, clips ready to be used, some half loaded. The guns are kept in a lock, the key resting warmly on my chest.
I sigh as Hayden stops in front of me, grimacing from the pain. *Are we really up for this?* I give him a cold look, trying to be dismissive. After all, he ran out into the line of fire. His wounds are his fault. If Niki hadn't of saved his ass, he wouldn't be standing in front of me here.
"What did the supply route have this time?" I ask, motioning for him to sit down across from me.
He takes a nervous seat, "Purified water, food, basic medical sh- stuff. Not enough to last very long, but also not enough for Watch to realize we've taken it."
I bring my hand to my temples and rub, "We need more than that if we're going to do this attack properly."
"Deacon, we have the tech. We've raided enough, don't you think? We're a resistance, not a gang." Hayden says quietly, to which I look up carefully at him.
"Don't get too trigger happy. Hayden" I tell him firmly, "We need better intel, and a better supply route. Go find Casey, she'll be working on something. Tell Niki I'd like to speak with her."
"Of course. Yeah." he stands up, nodding to me out of respect. He quickly goes off into a corridor, his footsteps echoing, leaving me to my thoughts.
*We're not ready. They're years ahead of us. I don't think we even know what we're fighting for anymore. Fighting to survive? Fighting an oppressive government? Fighting ourselves? Gods, killing Jennifer last week was* ***not*** *part of the plan. But still, she ratted us out. What was I supposed to do?*
I turn my head to the sound of walking, and my eyes settle on Niki, her slim figure walking into view. "What's Watch planning?" I ask, shaking my head.
"Some raid. Not a word of where, when, or who. I don't know if Jenn's tip even went through." Niki answers, her voice echoing as much as her footsteps.
"We need to clear out." I say, mostly to myself.
"And go where? Watch is targeting us. We're terrorists, Deacon. Fucking terrorists." I don't call out her cussing, feeling the need to let one out myself, "We started this out with good intentions, Deacon. We're nothing more than a gang."
I look at the floor, concentrating on the concrete. This warehouse is a the very edge of the Gospel, where the poor die and the rich get richer. Watch is big, and he's powerful, but there's something going on. He's stopped supplying to the poor, blaming it on low food rations. We barely take enough to hurt supply routes. He's shut down the electricity on over half the grid, claiming low oil supplies, while the rich get provided their own generators. He's killing and locking up the poor from stealing from the rich in order to get by. Something has to be done, *but are we the ones to do it?*
"We'll figure it out. Casey has reports of an abandoned bunker east of Gospel. It might be worth checking out." I reply calmly, ignoring my thoughts.
"I'll report to Casey your requests, boss." Niki replies, her face turning into a grin and sliding down on the couch beside me.
She lays her head down on my lap, reaching her hand up and rubbing my chest. I look down at her smiling face, disgusted. One part by the fact that she only wants to get into my pants, one part the knowledge that she's been sleeping with Hayden, and the last part the visual high she's on.
"You need to get rid of that stuff." I tell her firmly, pushing her hand away, "It only causes trouble."
Her grin turns into a scowl, her short black hair messy from my lap, her dark eyes with a slight red tint to them, "Well at least I have something that makes me happy rather than going around shooting kids."
I throw her off my lap, hearing a small thud as she hits the floor. I look down at her, trying to keep my cool as best as possible, feeling like I'm the only sane one here, "You get off that crap or I'll take it away."
"Oh fuck you, Deacon." Niki replies, her voice in a mocking tone, "What're you going to do? Shoot me? You barely come out of your room other than to boss us around. Hell, I'm surprised you can hold a damn gun with how much *field* work you do."
I close my eyes for a moment, breathing in and out slowly, knowing it's the drugs making her this way. For a moment though, I almost wonder if she's right. A part of me knowing she is. I control my breathing, trying to keep my anger to myself, and kneel down, looking right into her blood stained eyes.
"It's your choice Niki, I suggest you make it soon." I stand up, walking off deeper into the warehouse, somewhere where I can clear my head.
It's days like these that I wonder if we're really the good guys.
***
www.thearcherswriting.wordpress.com |
Inspired by [this](https://np.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/3yxj68/what_thing_in_a_movie_makes_it_instantly_a_bad/cyhosea) comment. | [WP] Write a story in the style of a teen novel which follows the journey of a group of teenagers fighting to bring down an oppressive dystopian government. Over the course of the story it becomes clear to the readers that the government is in the right. | I grew up in broken home where the only people that mattered were the people I'd met over the course of my lifetime. Mitchel's parents were business owners of a growing corporation before the purge. Cindy was accepted to the greatest school in the country before it was torn down for "cultural cleansing". And Lucy's parents were arrested for practicing heritage independence. It's all bullshit when looking at the big picture of everything.
If I had to pinpoint the day my life spiraled into heroism, I'd say it were the day my mother finally went missing.
"Guys...." I had spent the entire day running. "My mom... I watched them... Hurt her."
I showed them the video on my phone. They pulled her out of the car and started beating her to the ground as she kicked and scream. My friends showed fear the same way I did, except I was the only one who would never see his mother again.
We heard stories from Mitchel's parents that the world was better before the government took over. People could walk outside without being afraid of the watchers. Now, freedom and safety are illusions to us. Us new generations will never be free, and now we're certain that we'll never be safe either.
I spread the video online. Hoping it would spread some sort of reaction. Cause something, change someone's mind, make someone do something. Nothing. Nothing happened. My mom was beaten an inch away from her life and nothing would change.
Then I received an email.
>I'm terribly sorry for you loss. I know what it's like to lose someone to the regulators. Are you doing alright? How are you feeling?
I answered, and he replied.
>You're not the only one to go through this. You have to be strong!
We exchanged messages.
> We live in the same area, want to hang out? There's a McChickens near my area.
We met, and things seemed alright.
> My friends and I are are going to the cinema today, do you and your friends wanna come along?
My circle grew. In ways I didn't expect.
"Oiy, don't worry Kyle, we'll avenge your mom when we take over the world!" He shoots his silencer at the empty bottle of beer. It cracks. Apparently Daniel's father was a war veteran, wrongfully dishonorably discharged. He's been taught how to hold a gun.
I laughed at him, "damn right we will! We're gonna take over the world with your dad's arsenal." I aim my rifle at a nearby canister, I hit it directly. Our friends watched us practicing, talking among themselves.
"Honestly though, my dad's arsenal isn't the best one out there right now. I have some friends from up north, they've got the REAL toys up there. I can have them delivered here, if you're interested."
"Fuck, yes."
One week I was shooting cans, the next I was shooting rats. Then rabbits, then deer. We would skip school for days at a time, realizing that school didn't really teach us anything. It's just the pumping of impractical facts, making us more obedient than intelligent. With my circle, we spoke to each other. Debated about the world. I learned more with them than anywhere else.
With those 'debates', a few bomb shells were dropped into me. Daniel once asked, "do you ever feel like... Its your own fault? That we live in this shitty world. That by not doing something about it, by letting it go by and being okay with it, we're leaving it worse off. Giving up? Losing justice? I dunno... But sometimes Kyle... I feel like I'm the reason my dad is in prison."
I was in the car with my mom when she was arrested. Maybe if I'd told her to drive more slowly, or more carefully, she wouldn't have died in jail...
We got ourselves uniforms. We gave ourselves nicknames. We were a "gang" in the sense that we all agreed the government was shit. We all kept guns on us, and we all made a pact to agree that we'd never get pushed around by the regulators.
One day I saw a regulator yelling at a kid just because he was a darkskin. It pissed me off so much. I walked up to the officer angry, telling him to leave these God damned kid alone. I told him you can't expect respect from us if you can't respect anyone else. He reached for his holster, and all my memories of my mom and friends just clicked. I wasn't going to end up as another dead kid on the news. I drew my gun just as I'd been practicing, I shot him six times to make sure he'd die quickly. Damn body camera saw my face.
I ran to my friends and they were proud of me. They said the guy deserved it and I believed them. The pact we made a year ago had since become something more. We ran away from home, agreeing to make sure no one else gets hurt by the regulators just as the rest our families had been.
One day while we were doing our neighborhood watch duties, I saw a regulator putting handcuffs on a kid. I don't care what excuse the regulator had, 90% of time its to display their power. I shot the regulator and give the kid the keys to his freedom. My circle had grown. We attract people without parents, people who need homes or families. I prefer recruiting suicidal people to give them a reason to live.
We've made games out of it. Saying things like "how many R's have you killed today?" Capturing a living regulator is extra fun. According to the news, the government is afraid of us. Good. We'll take them all down someday.
Because the moment someone puts on that regulator uniform, it's the moment they stop being human. Anyone who disagrees is obviously a drone, who's life and thinking is meaningless. We'll take down as may people as it takes in the name of Justice, Freedom, and Equality.
XXX
**Regulator Report**
Charge: Purge case 37
Officer Name: Brown.
Officer Badge Number: 159755
Summary: Contents and documentation of human trafficking and money laundering were found in son's bedroom. Hidden away under the floor boards. Confirmation of receipts needed.
**Regulator Report**
Charge: Cultural Cleansing
Officer Name: J. Martin.
Officer Badge Number: 199554
Summary : Proof of anti-government curriculum skewing found on Principal's computer. Illegally distributing guns to students confirmed after searching the infirmary. Connection of international networking has yet to be confirmed.
**Regulator Report**
Charge: Heritage Independence Supremacy
Officer Name: O'hare.
Officer Badge Number: 129159
Summary: Two suspects have been given an arrest warrant for conspiring of Arson. They are also suspected of being responsible for the vandalism of churches, mosques and temples on Maine Avenue. Further questioning required.
**Regulator Report**
Charge: Attempted kidnapping
Officer Name: Li.
Officer Badge Number: 184269
Summary: Husband called after hearing his wife call him in a drunken rage. She accused him of cheating and claimed that she threatened to kill herself and her son. She was pulled over speeding in the highway. There was no proof of her being intoxicated but let the record show that she was indeed induced with a variety of other narcotics. Upon pulling her over, she began attacking the officer with what appeared to be a knife. Due to her narcotic state, we switched on non-lethal methods in order to restrain her. | "Fuck Deacon, that was close." I hear from across the room, the warehouse echoing, making the voice louder.
"Hayden, what have we gone over about swearing." I say calmly, back, looking at the blonde brute of a teenager, his shoulder wrapped in bandages.
"Sorry, boss." he replies, shrugging, avoiding eye contact, "I keep forgetting."
I shake my head, *he's hopeless.* The room falls into the silent buzzing of the overhead light, and the faded sounds of the generator in the background. I take a seat in the old, battered couch, looking around the once empty space. Boxes of ammunition line tables, clips ready to be used, some half loaded. The guns are kept in a lock, the key resting warmly on my chest.
I sigh as Hayden stops in front of me, grimacing from the pain. *Are we really up for this?* I give him a cold look, trying to be dismissive. After all, he ran out into the line of fire. His wounds are his fault. If Niki hadn't of saved his ass, he wouldn't be standing in front of me here.
"What did the supply route have this time?" I ask, motioning for him to sit down across from me.
He takes a nervous seat, "Purified water, food, basic medical sh- stuff. Not enough to last very long, but also not enough for Watch to realize we've taken it."
I bring my hand to my temples and rub, "We need more than that if we're going to do this attack properly."
"Deacon, we have the tech. We've raided enough, don't you think? We're a resistance, not a gang." Hayden says quietly, to which I look up carefully at him.
"Don't get too trigger happy. Hayden" I tell him firmly, "We need better intel, and a better supply route. Go find Casey, she'll be working on something. Tell Niki I'd like to speak with her."
"Of course. Yeah." he stands up, nodding to me out of respect. He quickly goes off into a corridor, his footsteps echoing, leaving me to my thoughts.
*We're not ready. They're years ahead of us. I don't think we even know what we're fighting for anymore. Fighting to survive? Fighting an oppressive government? Fighting ourselves? Gods, killing Jennifer last week was* ***not*** *part of the plan. But still, she ratted us out. What was I supposed to do?*
I turn my head to the sound of walking, and my eyes settle on Niki, her slim figure walking into view. "What's Watch planning?" I ask, shaking my head.
"Some raid. Not a word of where, when, or who. I don't know if Jenn's tip even went through." Niki answers, her voice echoing as much as her footsteps.
"We need to clear out." I say, mostly to myself.
"And go where? Watch is targeting us. We're terrorists, Deacon. Fucking terrorists." I don't call out her cussing, feeling the need to let one out myself, "We started this out with good intentions, Deacon. We're nothing more than a gang."
I look at the floor, concentrating on the concrete. This warehouse is a the very edge of the Gospel, where the poor die and the rich get richer. Watch is big, and he's powerful, but there's something going on. He's stopped supplying to the poor, blaming it on low food rations. We barely take enough to hurt supply routes. He's shut down the electricity on over half the grid, claiming low oil supplies, while the rich get provided their own generators. He's killing and locking up the poor from stealing from the rich in order to get by. Something has to be done, *but are we the ones to do it?*
"We'll figure it out. Casey has reports of an abandoned bunker east of Gospel. It might be worth checking out." I reply calmly, ignoring my thoughts.
"I'll report to Casey your requests, boss." Niki replies, her face turning into a grin and sliding down on the couch beside me.
She lays her head down on my lap, reaching her hand up and rubbing my chest. I look down at her smiling face, disgusted. One part by the fact that she only wants to get into my pants, one part the knowledge that she's been sleeping with Hayden, and the last part the visual high she's on.
"You need to get rid of that stuff." I tell her firmly, pushing her hand away, "It only causes trouble."
Her grin turns into a scowl, her short black hair messy from my lap, her dark eyes with a slight red tint to them, "Well at least I have something that makes me happy rather than going around shooting kids."
I throw her off my lap, hearing a small thud as she hits the floor. I look down at her, trying to keep my cool as best as possible, feeling like I'm the only sane one here, "You get off that crap or I'll take it away."
"Oh fuck you, Deacon." Niki replies, her voice in a mocking tone, "What're you going to do? Shoot me? You barely come out of your room other than to boss us around. Hell, I'm surprised you can hold a damn gun with how much *field* work you do."
I close my eyes for a moment, breathing in and out slowly, knowing it's the drugs making her this way. For a moment though, I almost wonder if she's right. A part of me knowing she is. I control my breathing, trying to keep my anger to myself, and kneel down, looking right into her blood stained eyes.
"It's your choice Niki, I suggest you make it soon." I stand up, walking off deeper into the warehouse, somewhere where I can clear my head.
It's days like these that I wonder if we're really the good guys.
***
www.thearcherswriting.wordpress.com |
Inspired by [this](https://np.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/3yxj68/what_thing_in_a_movie_makes_it_instantly_a_bad/cyhosea) comment. | [WP] Write a story in the style of a teen novel which follows the journey of a group of teenagers fighting to bring down an oppressive dystopian government. Over the course of the story it becomes clear to the readers that the government is in the right. | The Resistance was all gathered together now, huddled around a heater, warming their hands. "It is now time" said Xadus, "Time to take back what is ours". His sister, Xadai, looked on ruefully. "They think they can control us. These evil overlords will have another thing coming. Soon. The Resistance lives!"
Suddenly, without any warning, the door burst open, revealing a rather large figure, dark, with the light shining behind them.
"I told you not to leave the table without eating your brussel sprouts, Kevin."
"SCREW YOU MOM! I HATE YOU!"
"AND MY NAME IS XADUS!" | "Fuck Deacon, that was close." I hear from across the room, the warehouse echoing, making the voice louder.
"Hayden, what have we gone over about swearing." I say calmly, back, looking at the blonde brute of a teenager, his shoulder wrapped in bandages.
"Sorry, boss." he replies, shrugging, avoiding eye contact, "I keep forgetting."
I shake my head, *he's hopeless.* The room falls into the silent buzzing of the overhead light, and the faded sounds of the generator in the background. I take a seat in the old, battered couch, looking around the once empty space. Boxes of ammunition line tables, clips ready to be used, some half loaded. The guns are kept in a lock, the key resting warmly on my chest.
I sigh as Hayden stops in front of me, grimacing from the pain. *Are we really up for this?* I give him a cold look, trying to be dismissive. After all, he ran out into the line of fire. His wounds are his fault. If Niki hadn't of saved his ass, he wouldn't be standing in front of me here.
"What did the supply route have this time?" I ask, motioning for him to sit down across from me.
He takes a nervous seat, "Purified water, food, basic medical sh- stuff. Not enough to last very long, but also not enough for Watch to realize we've taken it."
I bring my hand to my temples and rub, "We need more than that if we're going to do this attack properly."
"Deacon, we have the tech. We've raided enough, don't you think? We're a resistance, not a gang." Hayden says quietly, to which I look up carefully at him.
"Don't get too trigger happy. Hayden" I tell him firmly, "We need better intel, and a better supply route. Go find Casey, she'll be working on something. Tell Niki I'd like to speak with her."
"Of course. Yeah." he stands up, nodding to me out of respect. He quickly goes off into a corridor, his footsteps echoing, leaving me to my thoughts.
*We're not ready. They're years ahead of us. I don't think we even know what we're fighting for anymore. Fighting to survive? Fighting an oppressive government? Fighting ourselves? Gods, killing Jennifer last week was* ***not*** *part of the plan. But still, she ratted us out. What was I supposed to do?*
I turn my head to the sound of walking, and my eyes settle on Niki, her slim figure walking into view. "What's Watch planning?" I ask, shaking my head.
"Some raid. Not a word of where, when, or who. I don't know if Jenn's tip even went through." Niki answers, her voice echoing as much as her footsteps.
"We need to clear out." I say, mostly to myself.
"And go where? Watch is targeting us. We're terrorists, Deacon. Fucking terrorists." I don't call out her cussing, feeling the need to let one out myself, "We started this out with good intentions, Deacon. We're nothing more than a gang."
I look at the floor, concentrating on the concrete. This warehouse is a the very edge of the Gospel, where the poor die and the rich get richer. Watch is big, and he's powerful, but there's something going on. He's stopped supplying to the poor, blaming it on low food rations. We barely take enough to hurt supply routes. He's shut down the electricity on over half the grid, claiming low oil supplies, while the rich get provided their own generators. He's killing and locking up the poor from stealing from the rich in order to get by. Something has to be done, *but are we the ones to do it?*
"We'll figure it out. Casey has reports of an abandoned bunker east of Gospel. It might be worth checking out." I reply calmly, ignoring my thoughts.
"I'll report to Casey your requests, boss." Niki replies, her face turning into a grin and sliding down on the couch beside me.
She lays her head down on my lap, reaching her hand up and rubbing my chest. I look down at her smiling face, disgusted. One part by the fact that she only wants to get into my pants, one part the knowledge that she's been sleeping with Hayden, and the last part the visual high she's on.
"You need to get rid of that stuff." I tell her firmly, pushing her hand away, "It only causes trouble."
Her grin turns into a scowl, her short black hair messy from my lap, her dark eyes with a slight red tint to them, "Well at least I have something that makes me happy rather than going around shooting kids."
I throw her off my lap, hearing a small thud as she hits the floor. I look down at her, trying to keep my cool as best as possible, feeling like I'm the only sane one here, "You get off that crap or I'll take it away."
"Oh fuck you, Deacon." Niki replies, her voice in a mocking tone, "What're you going to do? Shoot me? You barely come out of your room other than to boss us around. Hell, I'm surprised you can hold a damn gun with how much *field* work you do."
I close my eyes for a moment, breathing in and out slowly, knowing it's the drugs making her this way. For a moment though, I almost wonder if she's right. A part of me knowing she is. I control my breathing, trying to keep my anger to myself, and kneel down, looking right into her blood stained eyes.
"It's your choice Niki, I suggest you make it soon." I stand up, walking off deeper into the warehouse, somewhere where I can clear my head.
It's days like these that I wonder if we're really the good guys.
***
www.thearcherswriting.wordpress.com |
Inspired by [this](https://np.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/3yxj68/what_thing_in_a_movie_makes_it_instantly_a_bad/cyhosea) comment. | [WP] Write a story in the style of a teen novel which follows the journey of a group of teenagers fighting to bring down an oppressive dystopian government. Over the course of the story it becomes clear to the readers that the government is in the right. | I grew up in broken home where the only people that mattered were the people I'd met over the course of my lifetime. Mitchel's parents were business owners of a growing corporation before the purge. Cindy was accepted to the greatest school in the country before it was torn down for "cultural cleansing". And Lucy's parents were arrested for practicing heritage independence. It's all bullshit when looking at the big picture of everything.
If I had to pinpoint the day my life spiraled into heroism, I'd say it were the day my mother finally went missing.
"Guys...." I had spent the entire day running. "My mom... I watched them... Hurt her."
I showed them the video on my phone. They pulled her out of the car and started beating her to the ground as she kicked and scream. My friends showed fear the same way I did, except I was the only one who would never see his mother again.
We heard stories from Mitchel's parents that the world was better before the government took over. People could walk outside without being afraid of the watchers. Now, freedom and safety are illusions to us. Us new generations will never be free, and now we're certain that we'll never be safe either.
I spread the video online. Hoping it would spread some sort of reaction. Cause something, change someone's mind, make someone do something. Nothing. Nothing happened. My mom was beaten an inch away from her life and nothing would change.
Then I received an email.
>I'm terribly sorry for you loss. I know what it's like to lose someone to the regulators. Are you doing alright? How are you feeling?
I answered, and he replied.
>You're not the only one to go through this. You have to be strong!
We exchanged messages.
> We live in the same area, want to hang out? There's a McChickens near my area.
We met, and things seemed alright.
> My friends and I are are going to the cinema today, do you and your friends wanna come along?
My circle grew. In ways I didn't expect.
"Oiy, don't worry Kyle, we'll avenge your mom when we take over the world!" He shoots his silencer at the empty bottle of beer. It cracks. Apparently Daniel's father was a war veteran, wrongfully dishonorably discharged. He's been taught how to hold a gun.
I laughed at him, "damn right we will! We're gonna take over the world with your dad's arsenal." I aim my rifle at a nearby canister, I hit it directly. Our friends watched us practicing, talking among themselves.
"Honestly though, my dad's arsenal isn't the best one out there right now. I have some friends from up north, they've got the REAL toys up there. I can have them delivered here, if you're interested."
"Fuck, yes."
One week I was shooting cans, the next I was shooting rats. Then rabbits, then deer. We would skip school for days at a time, realizing that school didn't really teach us anything. It's just the pumping of impractical facts, making us more obedient than intelligent. With my circle, we spoke to each other. Debated about the world. I learned more with them than anywhere else.
With those 'debates', a few bomb shells were dropped into me. Daniel once asked, "do you ever feel like... Its your own fault? That we live in this shitty world. That by not doing something about it, by letting it go by and being okay with it, we're leaving it worse off. Giving up? Losing justice? I dunno... But sometimes Kyle... I feel like I'm the reason my dad is in prison."
I was in the car with my mom when she was arrested. Maybe if I'd told her to drive more slowly, or more carefully, she wouldn't have died in jail...
We got ourselves uniforms. We gave ourselves nicknames. We were a "gang" in the sense that we all agreed the government was shit. We all kept guns on us, and we all made a pact to agree that we'd never get pushed around by the regulators.
One day I saw a regulator yelling at a kid just because he was a darkskin. It pissed me off so much. I walked up to the officer angry, telling him to leave these God damned kid alone. I told him you can't expect respect from us if you can't respect anyone else. He reached for his holster, and all my memories of my mom and friends just clicked. I wasn't going to end up as another dead kid on the news. I drew my gun just as I'd been practicing, I shot him six times to make sure he'd die quickly. Damn body camera saw my face.
I ran to my friends and they were proud of me. They said the guy deserved it and I believed them. The pact we made a year ago had since become something more. We ran away from home, agreeing to make sure no one else gets hurt by the regulators just as the rest our families had been.
One day while we were doing our neighborhood watch duties, I saw a regulator putting handcuffs on a kid. I don't care what excuse the regulator had, 90% of time its to display their power. I shot the regulator and give the kid the keys to his freedom. My circle had grown. We attract people without parents, people who need homes or families. I prefer recruiting suicidal people to give them a reason to live.
We've made games out of it. Saying things like "how many R's have you killed today?" Capturing a living regulator is extra fun. According to the news, the government is afraid of us. Good. We'll take them all down someday.
Because the moment someone puts on that regulator uniform, it's the moment they stop being human. Anyone who disagrees is obviously a drone, who's life and thinking is meaningless. We'll take down as may people as it takes in the name of Justice, Freedom, and Equality.
XXX
**Regulator Report**
Charge: Purge case 37
Officer Name: Brown.
Officer Badge Number: 159755
Summary: Contents and documentation of human trafficking and money laundering were found in son's bedroom. Hidden away under the floor boards. Confirmation of receipts needed.
**Regulator Report**
Charge: Cultural Cleansing
Officer Name: J. Martin.
Officer Badge Number: 199554
Summary : Proof of anti-government curriculum skewing found on Principal's computer. Illegally distributing guns to students confirmed after searching the infirmary. Connection of international networking has yet to be confirmed.
**Regulator Report**
Charge: Heritage Independence Supremacy
Officer Name: O'hare.
Officer Badge Number: 129159
Summary: Two suspects have been given an arrest warrant for conspiring of Arson. They are also suspected of being responsible for the vandalism of churches, mosques and temples on Maine Avenue. Further questioning required.
**Regulator Report**
Charge: Attempted kidnapping
Officer Name: Li.
Officer Badge Number: 184269
Summary: Husband called after hearing his wife call him in a drunken rage. She accused him of cheating and claimed that she threatened to kill herself and her son. She was pulled over speeding in the highway. There was no proof of her being intoxicated but let the record show that she was indeed induced with a variety of other narcotics. Upon pulling her over, she began attacking the officer with what appeared to be a knife. Due to her narcotic state, we switched on non-lethal methods in order to restrain her. | I wake up shortly before dawn. Today is the day. The day on which I'll decide my fate. The sky provides just enough light for me to see myself in my sliver of mirror. Hazel eyes, mouse-brown hair and a shard of glass: those are the only things I have of my mother's. I wonder what she would say to me, if she were here today. Would she tell me how proud she was? Would she tell me to be careful? Would she tell me that she loved me? Or would she simply hold me in her arms, warmth and closeness telling me all I needed to know?
Tylor enters then, his thin white face made stark by the first rays of sunlight creeping over the horizon. "Kyr, you awake?" His voice seems to small and thin in that cold morning air that it makes me want to cry. *Can I really do this? Can I leave him here alone?*
"What's up, Ty?" I ask, because I'm his big sister. It's my job to be brave.
"Kyr, it's today," he says, and I can hear the waver in his voice. He is so young and so afraid.
"It's today," I agree.
"A-are you scared?" he asks and I try to smile, though I can feel the tears creeping around the lump in my throat.
"Of course I am, dummy. The Choosing is scary. But I'm excited too. And sad." He hugs me then, and we spend a long moment sitting there on the edge of my bed, trying to stop time.
____
At breakfast, my father looks as stern as always. His navy uniform is threadbare around the elbows, but the brass buttons gleam. "So today's the day," he says with barely more than a nod in my direction. "I trust you've made the right choice." I wish I shared his trust. I wish I had the ability to things as simply as he does. We're even quieter than usual. *Maybe he knows,* I think. *Or maybe he just knows he's not allowed to say anything that could influence my decision.*
Tylor is pretending to lift spoonfuls of porridge to his mouth but after half an hour's efforts his bowl is still 3/4 full. I don't blame him. This oats are old and stale, the breakfast bland and tasteless. Few people can afford sugar and spices nowadays. We certainly can't. Not on a peacekeeper's salary. That's one good thing that will come out of this, I think: one less mouth to feed. Maybe Ty won't have to be so scarecrow thin. They say things are different in the Capital. The people there wear clothing bright as spring flowers and eat meat with every meal. *If I have my way*, she thinks, but thoughts like these are best left unthought.
____
The Choosing is always somewhat magical. For one day a year, the Capital grants us enough petrol to run the electric generators. The assembly hall is awash with blue-hued light that leaves folks sallow-faced but reaches every corner or the hall. My festival dress looks garish in this new light, the warm brown darkened to the colour of dried blood. I leave Ty and my father and take my place at the front of the hall with my classmates.
They are 15 and varying degrees of terrified. The sight of Miffy Sommers with tears in her eyes fills me with wonder. She is the mayor's daughter, pretty and plump with corkscrews of blonde hair. Why should she worry? Is she actually going to demand a Choosing? Maybe she knows something I don't. Maybe there's a high demand for Capitolites this year or maybe it's true what they say about Fortune's Wheel being fixed.
The presenter is a lanky figure with false lashes, high heels, and a prominent Adam's apple. I've heard that it can be hard to tell Capitoline men from women, but people say the same things of female peacekeepers with their muscled bodies and shaved heads. I hadn't realized they might actively try to make themselves ambiguous. The figures voice does nothing to reveal xir identity.
"Welcome, welcome to our newest citizens and their families. We thank you for Choosing to be with us today." Xe beams. "As I look out across this sea of faces..." And so it goes. I tune out most of it. Today is the day. Decide your future. Stay with the lives you know or try your Fortune? Bravery. Loyalty. Service. Words I've heard a thousand times a day at the training school and at home. No mention of the Discards and their fate. No mention of the Misfits who arrive on their doorstep each year unable to so much as disassemble a rifle. Only the glory of service and the privileged of decision.
Then begins the calling of names, alphabetically from Abbot to Steevers. The first three make predictable choices: Service. Service. Service. Peter, Jeb, and Rick are strapping boys and friends besides. They've always done well at the training school and are ontrack for officer positions. Why risk that for a spin on Fortune's Wheel. The next is Stacy Campbell, a 75kg butch with top scores in marksmanship. She Chooses.
Properly speaking, the wheel is not a wheel but a machine. You swipe your citizen's card and it selects a path for you. Some say it's randomized, others say it's rigged. Most believe there's a bit of both involved. We hold our breath as the machine whirs and sigh when a new card comes out of the slot. Stacy holds it aloft and crows, "Bodyguard! I'm headed to the Capital!"
Bodyguard. Does this help my chances or hurt them? If positions are finite, then Stacy just made our pool that much smaller. If it's based on probabilities, I've still got a chance.
Six more people choose the peacekeepers, then the room quiets again. The next girl is Stacy's girlfriend, Laine. "Choose," she says, and hands over her citizen's card. The machine whirrs again and Laine looks ready to pass out when the sound of plastic against metal makes her start forward. This time, there is none of the excitement that foretold Stacey's fate. "Labourer," she reads, "Agricultural District". There are worse fates, but Laine has just gambled away her friends and family for a life of hard work and no glory.
My turn comes faster than I'd ever thought possible. The electric lights make it possible to see every face in the hall, but that only makes it harder to pick out dad and Ty against the crowd. Will what I'm about to do crush them? "Kyra Nichols," the announcer is saying, and I'm saying "Choose. I'd like to Choose." And I'm handing him my card. My citizen's card. The one that gives me the right to work and learn and eat and live in the Military District. I see the empty sincerity in the Capitalite's eyes have to force myself to let go of the thin rectangle of worn plastic.
The machine whirrs.
The whirring stops.
I've heard tell of kids going crazy when this happens, lashing out at the presenter, trying to tear apart the Wheel, wetting themselves, even attempting suicide on the stage. I hold it together. Two of the Capitoline guards move to seize me and pull me off the stage, but I shake my head and give them a palms up gesture. In the training school, this gesture means "I yield. I'll go quietly." In the end, one walks ahead of me and one behind. I spare one last glance for my erstwhile countrymen, and then step follow them dutifully out of the hall. |
Inspired by [this](https://np.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/3yxj68/what_thing_in_a_movie_makes_it_instantly_a_bad/cyhosea) comment. | [WP] Write a story in the style of a teen novel which follows the journey of a group of teenagers fighting to bring down an oppressive dystopian government. Over the course of the story it becomes clear to the readers that the government is in the right. | The Resistance was all gathered together now, huddled around a heater, warming their hands. "It is now time" said Xadus, "Time to take back what is ours". His sister, Xadai, looked on ruefully. "They think they can control us. These evil overlords will have another thing coming. Soon. The Resistance lives!"
Suddenly, without any warning, the door burst open, revealing a rather large figure, dark, with the light shining behind them.
"I told you not to leave the table without eating your brussel sprouts, Kevin."
"SCREW YOU MOM! I HATE YOU!"
"AND MY NAME IS XADUS!" | I wake up shortly before dawn. Today is the day. The day on which I'll decide my fate. The sky provides just enough light for me to see myself in my sliver of mirror. Hazel eyes, mouse-brown hair and a shard of glass: those are the only things I have of my mother's. I wonder what she would say to me, if she were here today. Would she tell me how proud she was? Would she tell me to be careful? Would she tell me that she loved me? Or would she simply hold me in her arms, warmth and closeness telling me all I needed to know?
Tylor enters then, his thin white face made stark by the first rays of sunlight creeping over the horizon. "Kyr, you awake?" His voice seems to small and thin in that cold morning air that it makes me want to cry. *Can I really do this? Can I leave him here alone?*
"What's up, Ty?" I ask, because I'm his big sister. It's my job to be brave.
"Kyr, it's today," he says, and I can hear the waver in his voice. He is so young and so afraid.
"It's today," I agree.
"A-are you scared?" he asks and I try to smile, though I can feel the tears creeping around the lump in my throat.
"Of course I am, dummy. The Choosing is scary. But I'm excited too. And sad." He hugs me then, and we spend a long moment sitting there on the edge of my bed, trying to stop time.
____
At breakfast, my father looks as stern as always. His navy uniform is threadbare around the elbows, but the brass buttons gleam. "So today's the day," he says with barely more than a nod in my direction. "I trust you've made the right choice." I wish I shared his trust. I wish I had the ability to things as simply as he does. We're even quieter than usual. *Maybe he knows,* I think. *Or maybe he just knows he's not allowed to say anything that could influence my decision.*
Tylor is pretending to lift spoonfuls of porridge to his mouth but after half an hour's efforts his bowl is still 3/4 full. I don't blame him. This oats are old and stale, the breakfast bland and tasteless. Few people can afford sugar and spices nowadays. We certainly can't. Not on a peacekeeper's salary. That's one good thing that will come out of this, I think: one less mouth to feed. Maybe Ty won't have to be so scarecrow thin. They say things are different in the Capital. The people there wear clothing bright as spring flowers and eat meat with every meal. *If I have my way*, she thinks, but thoughts like these are best left unthought.
____
The Choosing is always somewhat magical. For one day a year, the Capital grants us enough petrol to run the electric generators. The assembly hall is awash with blue-hued light that leaves folks sallow-faced but reaches every corner or the hall. My festival dress looks garish in this new light, the warm brown darkened to the colour of dried blood. I leave Ty and my father and take my place at the front of the hall with my classmates.
They are 15 and varying degrees of terrified. The sight of Miffy Sommers with tears in her eyes fills me with wonder. She is the mayor's daughter, pretty and plump with corkscrews of blonde hair. Why should she worry? Is she actually going to demand a Choosing? Maybe she knows something I don't. Maybe there's a high demand for Capitolites this year or maybe it's true what they say about Fortune's Wheel being fixed.
The presenter is a lanky figure with false lashes, high heels, and a prominent Adam's apple. I've heard that it can be hard to tell Capitoline men from women, but people say the same things of female peacekeepers with their muscled bodies and shaved heads. I hadn't realized they might actively try to make themselves ambiguous. The figures voice does nothing to reveal xir identity.
"Welcome, welcome to our newest citizens and their families. We thank you for Choosing to be with us today." Xe beams. "As I look out across this sea of faces..." And so it goes. I tune out most of it. Today is the day. Decide your future. Stay with the lives you know or try your Fortune? Bravery. Loyalty. Service. Words I've heard a thousand times a day at the training school and at home. No mention of the Discards and their fate. No mention of the Misfits who arrive on their doorstep each year unable to so much as disassemble a rifle. Only the glory of service and the privileged of decision.
Then begins the calling of names, alphabetically from Abbot to Steevers. The first three make predictable choices: Service. Service. Service. Peter, Jeb, and Rick are strapping boys and friends besides. They've always done well at the training school and are ontrack for officer positions. Why risk that for a spin on Fortune's Wheel. The next is Stacy Campbell, a 75kg butch with top scores in marksmanship. She Chooses.
Properly speaking, the wheel is not a wheel but a machine. You swipe your citizen's card and it selects a path for you. Some say it's randomized, others say it's rigged. Most believe there's a bit of both involved. We hold our breath as the machine whirs and sigh when a new card comes out of the slot. Stacy holds it aloft and crows, "Bodyguard! I'm headed to the Capital!"
Bodyguard. Does this help my chances or hurt them? If positions are finite, then Stacy just made our pool that much smaller. If it's based on probabilities, I've still got a chance.
Six more people choose the peacekeepers, then the room quiets again. The next girl is Stacy's girlfriend, Laine. "Choose," she says, and hands over her citizen's card. The machine whirrs again and Laine looks ready to pass out when the sound of plastic against metal makes her start forward. This time, there is none of the excitement that foretold Stacey's fate. "Labourer," she reads, "Agricultural District". There are worse fates, but Laine has just gambled away her friends and family for a life of hard work and no glory.
My turn comes faster than I'd ever thought possible. The electric lights make it possible to see every face in the hall, but that only makes it harder to pick out dad and Ty against the crowd. Will what I'm about to do crush them? "Kyra Nichols," the announcer is saying, and I'm saying "Choose. I'd like to Choose." And I'm handing him my card. My citizen's card. The one that gives me the right to work and learn and eat and live in the Military District. I see the empty sincerity in the Capitalite's eyes have to force myself to let go of the thin rectangle of worn plastic.
The machine whirrs.
The whirring stops.
I've heard tell of kids going crazy when this happens, lashing out at the presenter, trying to tear apart the Wheel, wetting themselves, even attempting suicide on the stage. I hold it together. Two of the Capitoline guards move to seize me and pull me off the stage, but I shake my head and give them a palms up gesture. In the training school, this gesture means "I yield. I'll go quietly." In the end, one walks ahead of me and one behind. I spare one last glance for my erstwhile countrymen, and then step follow them dutifully out of the hall. |
Inspired by [this](https://np.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/3yxj68/what_thing_in_a_movie_makes_it_instantly_a_bad/cyhosea) comment. | [WP] Write a story in the style of a teen novel which follows the journey of a group of teenagers fighting to bring down an oppressive dystopian government. Over the course of the story it becomes clear to the readers that the government is in the right. | The Resistance was all gathered together now, huddled around a heater, warming their hands. "It is now time" said Xadus, "Time to take back what is ours". His sister, Xadai, looked on ruefully. "They think they can control us. These evil overlords will have another thing coming. Soon. The Resistance lives!"
Suddenly, without any warning, the door burst open, revealing a rather large figure, dark, with the light shining behind them.
"I told you not to leave the table without eating your brussel sprouts, Kevin."
"SCREW YOU MOM! I HATE YOU!"
"AND MY NAME IS XADUS!" | The air sizzled in the underground factory of the Lonarden Steelworks. The sparks and fiery blast of heavy machinery surged the smelting room with heat and fire.
The workers down below hobbled around like ants, checking the valves and cranking levers like there was no tomorrow. Lunchtime wasn't due for another three hours. Oh deary.
Little Tim hobbled below, frowning all the while. His bones ached and eyes drooped heavily. His small frame heaved and folded under the weight of the crates and crates of tools he was lugging around.
"Hey, boy! Be mindful of those things! They're worth more to this company than a good month or so of your service!" the red-cloaked overseer shouted at him. "I swear to god, if you end up breaking the legs of another good worker with your mess-ups, so swear me god, I'll beat you bloody where you stand!"
"Oh, do piss off, Mister Hickers!" Little Tim barked like a scrawny dog, "Get too mad for your own good and your wife'll leave on ya' again!"
"Why, I ought!" Hickers shouted, shaking his gilded cane down below to the smokey work-area.
Leathered boots came squashing on the metal ground from behind the man. A gloved hand and a harsh cough beckoned the Overseer's presence back over to his boss.
Foreman Mitchlocke was a short and unassuming man for his position. Short dark hair sat bungled-up in the small straw hat that he was ever so fond of. It's often said of the man that he was an eccentric in his ugly and barbaric head, yet rather fanciful in his sophisticate garb of ties and clean shirts.
"What's all this then, Hickers?" Mitchlocke snapped, "Get back to work will ya. I don't pay ya to go on and yammer at the cleaning hands."
Hickers clicked his boots and straightened his back in attention, "Yessir. Rightaway sir... Oh, and if I may have your attention?"
Mitchlocke raised an eyebrow and raised a hand, beckoning his associate into his office, "Not now, it's hot out here today. Come in and have a drink before we get to the papers."
"Much obliged sir," Hickers nodded. "Red wine again?"
"A strong stout from the rural counties. I've heard good things, but a bit too sweet for my taste."
"Ice it, I've heard it sweet drink tastes a bit better when it's cold... Oh, and yes. The news I have for you?"
"Mhmm?" Mitchlocke held a cork in his mouth, the glass bottle was cracked open and now sat pouring into two small teacups, diningware made from a factory nearby, bought in bulk for lunchtime.
"I hear rumors of an attempt on your life. The Black Daggers, so they say. Now, I don't mean to draw worry to you, but... I do think it better that I arrange for security to follow you as you leave early today. I say this out of concern only for your safety and as a friend-"
Mitchlocke didn't so much as raise an eyebrow. He only moved the second teacup into the overseer's hand and raised the porcelain cups to clink.
"Bah. Nonsense. Like I'll let a bunch of miscreants children bring me down that easily. Ya needn't worry about it. It's probably just a rumor anyways."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"So, this is how we're going to kill that tiny, fat fuck in the factory over there, you's hear me, Roxy?" Drake snickered and wiped a strand of long, greasy hair out of his fair face.
"They've got to have security locked down pretty tightly for a man of Mr. Mitchlocke's importance. I don't reckon frontal assault wouldn't work..."
Roxanne Lepo tucked her throwing knives into her thick black bandolier. Today was a big day. Today was to be the day the Black Daggers readied themselves to make their name known fully to the papers and the society of Goldberg.
Goldberg, the greatest city in the known world that startlingly resembled industrial-era London, was a cesspool of corruption and filth since the foul Marianne Lawe came to power with the damned holding company of hers.
What had once been a lush stone town so full of freedom and cheer, had long since transformed into a steel-and-concrete jungle as that wicked woman had turned people into a labor source and divided the old united Goldberg into itty-bitty industrial districts to fuel her factories and industries.
Roxy turned to the chalkboard that Drake Basarab had so cleverly drawn up. The Lonarden Steelwork was a relatively small powerhouse in comparison to the other factories. There were enough penetration points to allow some flexibility in entry.
The question, however, was which one to pick.
Drake hummed his little bird's tune to himself as he pondred. His dark saber-cane went and pointed at the roof layout of the Londarden. "We could take a downwards approach. Swoop down and eliminate him without problem."
"The glass dome? You and your jokes. We'll be seen from up there. What about the back?" Roxanne, of course, was a smart person who had read her books and knew that stealth was the best approach in these sorts of settings.
"You know how much I detest back entrances, dear Roxy," Drake shrugged. "Me, I'm more of a fan of the theatrics. If we want to make a name for ourselves, why not go all out and publicize the act? Huh? Still a bit mad you wouldn't let me go to the papers to report an early obituary."
Roxy rolled her hazel eyes, big and bright though they were, "Mhmm. What about we compromise?"
"Oh?"
Roxy pulled the chalk from Drake's hands and sketched out two arrows. Roxy's black and Drake's red were pointed in different directions, one to the front door and one to the back.
"Okay then..." Roxanne grumbled, "I'm still taking the back door stealth-route. Much more efficient and I'll get things done that way. However, I believe we can use your appetite for destruction for something a bit more... Noticeable."
Drake wiped his sword-blade dry with his spit, a mad grin on his face as he stared at the pretty thing. A prize he'd stolen off of some fat merchant who was off trying to trick some children and an older woman at the beach a few months back. Conning them out of their coin and home with housing, a carriage ride, and jobs...
Filth. And a ring to the woman while standing on one knee? What mockery.
Roxy, being a normal person, gave a semi-predictable eyeroll once again at the sight of poor swordcare. She stood back to admire her handiwork, then clapped her hands together. The plan was set.
Time to get the horses, requisition a carriage from some rotten deliveryman, and get this act of justice into action.
*For freedom, for liberty, and for the people.* The words of the Old Order of the Dagger itself.
"Let's do it, dear Roxy," Drake offered his arm, eyes burning in bloodlust.
"Remember," said Roxanne. "Don't kill the innocents. Just knock them out with a chokehold or blow to the head. Remember, we're the good guys."
"Of course, we are."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Continued Below]
|
[WP] In a strange turn of events everyone who makes a resolution at the beginning of the new year actually sticks to it. | The police department is all abuzz as I walk through the door on a cold winter's morning. Why wouldn't it be? Businesses are shutting down left and right. Over five hundred suicides were reported. Nearly two thousand calls about domestic abuse and countless reports of stalking and sexual assault... and this was just in the past week. It's been nearly two months since the 'New Years Curse' came to be, and the whole world is falling apart.
"You're not looking so hot today, Alex," my 'friend' Diana says as I walk into the office. "You've got some more reports on your desk. Lots more. Sure am glad I'm not one for new years resolutions."
If it weren't for lack of sleep I'd be tempted to belt her one right now, but a simple, "Yeah, thanks," is all I can conjure before sitting at my desk. Stacks of folders and documents are piled so high it could bring a man to tears. I curse under my breath, "I wish I'd never made detective," before tackling the never ending documents.
It's all the same. Stalking... kidnapping... murder... suicide. God, there's a lot of suicide. At first, 2016 was looking so bright. My father quit drinking and my wife lost some of that baby fat she's been putting on. Everyone was in such high spirits and it looked like a lot of dreams were coming true, but somewhere down the line all Hell broke loose.
Looking back it's hard to pinpoint where it all began, especially now as I trudge through a slurry of desperate crimes fueled by everyone's new years resolutions. The economy went to the dumps in no time as damn near everyone promised to be more responsible with their spending. Unemployment is through the roof as people quit their jobs in droves for greener pastures that damn well can't support the influx of applicants. I can't even buy a decent cup of coffee in this town anymore.
"Tsk... pretty cut and clear case," I say aloud to distract myself from the angry buzzing of the office as I read through a case. "Boy loves girl... girl doesn't love boy." Should be end of story, and yet, "Boy begs girl, boy stalks girl, boy strangles girl and then kills himself." There were a lot of these at the start. It's chilling to think that one slip of the tongue can damn so many people. I read the girl's name... 'Amy Mitchell'. Something stupid like 'Amy Mitchell is finally going to be my girlfriend in the new year", I'm sure that's what was said. As good a resolution as any other were it any other year.
Perhaps the scariest thing is that the number of these cases has actually died down. I can imagine that many people are feeling trapped now in a one sided new years love resolution, afraid to become another case file on my desk. Now it's just endless cases of suicides and murders of people who are tired. Tired of not having control over their lives. Yeah, I can relate. I never thought that resolving to 'solve every case this year' would haunt me so heavily as I lay in bed. Well, Happy God damn new year, I guess. | "Sir I...I can't explain it."
"You don't have to Garrett, this is what the CDC was tasked with fixing and somehow, someway, it happened. We'll have to cut back the staff sure but let's look at the bigger picture- the world is taking their health seriously," Dr. Ysmault said leaning back in the leather chair with his feet up on the red oak desk.
"Senators aren't that short sighted though; surely they wouldn't take all of our funding because we were successful?" Dr. Ysmault looked at Garrett with a raised eyebrow. "Dammit, well how did it all change?"
"If I could answer that, I'd be charging these political machines billions to make the next president. The data doesn't lie though, unless you got the math wrong of course, everyone stuck to the CDC's New Year's Eve Promise with Ryan Seacrest."
"Don't tell Joe in marketing, he'll rub it in our faces for decades. Who would have thought that Ryan Seacrest's hosting and subsequent promise of television silence if everyone kept their promise to themselves for the year would work!"
"It's more than that Garrett. There has to be, perhaps all of America has just been getting sick. The pheromones from E tv has been slowly causing some bacteria in the human brain to manifest and multiply," Dr. Ysmault shot forward in his chair and pounded a fist on the desk. He smiled at Garrett. "I'm joking of course Garrett, this is just the power of an amazing marketing campaign, be sure to schedule Seacrest again next year."
"Of course sir. Good think we thought to bookend our budget with this, who knew some animatronic radio voice gone rogue would be such a great investment by the government? What's next, the fact that the Kardashians are rebellious spies from Russia?" Garrett left shaking his head. The cold hygienic office of Dr.Ysmault reflected a small red flash no bigger than a pinprick. Dr.Ysmault's eye blinked red once more.
"Yes, how ridiculous that would be indeed..." | |
[WP] Give me nightmares. | We exist out of phase with reality. When you observe us we disappear until you turn your eyes away. Sometimes you can catch a glimpse of our shadows in the corner of your vision only to look for us to no avail. Close your eyes and feel our presence surrounding you; suffocating you. Close your eyes and rest peacefully knowing that we are keeping watch now. Know that in the void of sleep that you’re not alone. You are never alone. | You are home alone. In your bed, safe and sound. Warm and cozy. *THUD* A sudden and strange noise. You look around, looking to see if you knocked something over. You did not. Everything is right where you left it. You think that it must of been the wind. But you made sure the windows were closed. You double-checked. You begin to think that you imagined the sound, and go back to surfing the Internet.
*THUD* *THUD* The sound was back. It sounded closer. You look around again. Nothing is out of place. At least, you think nothing is out of place. You choose to ignore the sound, but now you begin to think 'What was that?' This is the classic scenario for any horror story. Should you try to find the source or stay in bed, where you know you're safe?
You put on some music to distract yourself. Because you put on some music, you did not hear the door open. Or the footsteps. But you did see a dark figure before everything went black.
......
......
You are home alone. In your bed, safe and sound. Warm and cozy. *THUD* A sudden and strange noise. | |
[WP] Give me nightmares. | Ever walked down a road at night, alone? Ever had the feeling the wind was pulling and crying, as if it was calling to you? Calling you to stop and turn around.
Whispering. "Don't go on".
And you tried to focus on your footsteps. The sound they made when they hit the cold, hard pavement. Tried to pay no attention to the flickering streetlights and the shadows dancing in their reach. But deep down you knew.
You've always known. Of the beasts under the bed. Of the terrible tales told since the dawn of time. Deep down you can feel it. The truth in the stories that kept you awake when you were a child, truth in the things you saw in your dreams.
Take a deep breath, but don't stop walking. Never stop walking. They can get you when you stop. They are watching, listening. Waiting. Lamenting on the wind, their voices shriek and beckon you. But you are strong, you don't think of the shadow in the chair next to your bed when you were little. No, you don't see the faintest red sparkle in that pitch-black room, waiting for you to fall asleep. You keep walking, listening to your lonely steps blend in the wind. Hoping that when you turn the corner nothing will be there, but the empty street leading to your house.
Let the sigh of relief escape, but don't stop. Fumble in your pockets and get your keys ready, but don't stop. Slam the door wide open and hurry in, but don't stop just yet. Not until the door is closed.
And as it quietly falls in it's hinges, you can finally relax. You're home. Safe. You can stop now. Stop and think of the voices on the wind. Of those nights you just didn't dare to fall asleep, because of those evil, smoldering eyes. Hovering next to your bed.
But you are safe now.
Close your eyes. Don't worry, the wind has given up. Just don't look up and scream as you realize that those eyes have always been right there. Watching, listening. Waiting to add your voice to the wind.
Ever walked down a road at night, alone, and felt like the wind was calling to you? Maybe you should take a moment to listen before it flies away. | You are home alone. In your bed, safe and sound. Warm and cozy. *THUD* A sudden and strange noise. You look around, looking to see if you knocked something over. You did not. Everything is right where you left it. You think that it must of been the wind. But you made sure the windows were closed. You double-checked. You begin to think that you imagined the sound, and go back to surfing the Internet.
*THUD* *THUD* The sound was back. It sounded closer. You look around again. Nothing is out of place. At least, you think nothing is out of place. You choose to ignore the sound, but now you begin to think 'What was that?' This is the classic scenario for any horror story. Should you try to find the source or stay in bed, where you know you're safe?
You put on some music to distract yourself. Because you put on some music, you did not hear the door open. Or the footsteps. But you did see a dark figure before everything went black.
......
......
You are home alone. In your bed, safe and sound. Warm and cozy. *THUD* A sudden and strange noise. | |
[WP] Give me nightmares. | Ever walked down a road at night, alone? Ever had the feeling the wind was pulling and crying, as if it was calling to you? Calling you to stop and turn around.
Whispering. "Don't go on".
And you tried to focus on your footsteps. The sound they made when they hit the cold, hard pavement. Tried to pay no attention to the flickering streetlights and the shadows dancing in their reach. But deep down you knew.
You've always known. Of the beasts under the bed. Of the terrible tales told since the dawn of time. Deep down you can feel it. The truth in the stories that kept you awake when you were a child, truth in the things you saw in your dreams.
Take a deep breath, but don't stop walking. Never stop walking. They can get you when you stop. They are watching, listening. Waiting. Lamenting on the wind, their voices shriek and beckon you. But you are strong, you don't think of the shadow in the chair next to your bed when you were little. No, you don't see the faintest red sparkle in that pitch-black room, waiting for you to fall asleep. You keep walking, listening to your lonely steps blend in the wind. Hoping that when you turn the corner nothing will be there, but the empty street leading to your house.
Let the sigh of relief escape, but don't stop. Fumble in your pockets and get your keys ready, but don't stop. Slam the door wide open and hurry in, but don't stop just yet. Not until the door is closed.
And as it quietly falls in it's hinges, you can finally relax. You're home. Safe. You can stop now. Stop and think of the voices on the wind. Of those nights you just didn't dare to fall asleep, because of those evil, smoldering eyes. Hovering next to your bed.
But you are safe now.
Close your eyes. Don't worry, the wind has given up. Just don't look up and scream as you realize that those eyes have always been right there. Watching, listening. Waiting to add your voice to the wind.
Ever walked down a road at night, alone, and felt like the wind was calling to you? Maybe you should take a moment to listen before it flies away. | We exist out of phase with reality. When you observe us we disappear until you turn your eyes away. Sometimes you can catch a glimpse of our shadows in the corner of your vision only to look for us to no avail. Close your eyes and feel our presence surrounding you; suffocating you. Close your eyes and rest peacefully knowing that we are keeping watch now. Know that in the void of sleep that you’re not alone. You are never alone. | |
Preferably something cute, but anything will due. | [WP] Make me smile. | Jimmy was sitting at his computer and remembered something from his past that he hadn't thought of in years. The memory invaded his thoughts and he thought of all the horror behind it. He looked up at the ceiling and quietly mouthed the thought, "I lost the game". | I woke in a sweat, thunder from the storm outside shaking the creaky old house on its foundation. I heard a squeaking noise a few rooms over, seemingly from nowhere. I grabbed my phone for a flashlight, but it was dead. I got up from by bed and walked to the light switch, but it seemed that the power was out. Luckily, I always stocked up on candles and matches, and was soon walking through my great grandfather's hand-build Victorian home.
As I approached the room, I was filled with dread, but the source of the squeaking had consumed me with curiosity. I slowly opened the door, and at that very instant the power came back on, illuminating the entire room.
What I saw was burned into my mind forever. Before me stood a pug pup sleeping on the backs of two kittens, while they chewed on each other's ears. Right behind them, however, stood a large, menacing, and gruesome pack of baby lemurs all playing with squeak toys.
"Oh yeah, totally forgot that I bought all these animals, my bad." |
Preferably something cute, but anything will due. | [WP] Make me smile. | I've had a pretty rough life. Not only am I saying that but my friends believe the same. When I met them I had already gone through several foster homes, too many black eyes and abusive parents on top of an already confusing shuffling of homes in my life.
"Maybe this is what life is." I would continually think to myself.
"What would it be like to *not* exist?" I'd ponder the nights when I couldn't sleep from fear of being the object on the other end of a parent's hand.
"I could have it worse." I provided as some sort of inspiration far too often.
Each arrival in a new foster home I was greeted by new friends and friendly faces, constantly. The foster parents were always the ones i'd want to stay with. Was it not possible to simply stay there? Why not? How could I keep from moving about?
No matter how hard i'd try to stay confined to my room or hidden behind the others, they'd seek me out. I could never hide my face. It's as though my silence and lowered gaze meant nothing to them. My foster parents would never understand me or my silence.
I have no doubt that soon i'll be taken away from this foster home and placed in another situation where I can continue questioning my life and its purpose. I've tried running away, four times now, and it doesn't work. Seems the parents love me enough to call the police and have a search party locate me immediately. Only then to bring me back home and fall back into the deep trench of abuse and neglect. I'd thought that it'd get better after a display of worry and sadness upon losing me. Never.
Now I wait. I wait for a new parent to take me away and...i'm not sure, treat me differently than all the rest? Maybe even *love me*.
I crept back upon hearing the front door open with its '*creek, creek, thud*' as it made its way over the jagged floor and impacting into the door stopper that was more of a punching bag for the doors weight. My foster parent called my name and I winced. Today was the day i'd been dreading ever since i'd got here. Here, to the comfort and love of another non-permanent parent.
"How would I fair in this new home?"
"Could I be treated without abuse, maybe just *less* abuse?"
"When should I stop hoping and give in to the life set before me?"
It was all too overwhelming and my head sank as though no words of joy could bring me out of it. No optimism could rest my soul and return me back to a happiness of playing in a field with clean open air, all worries away from me.
I sat in the car onward to a new home and a new life without saying a thing. I stayed glued to the window in hopes of being anywhere but in this car.
...
Weeks go by and every morning I wake up, i'm greeted. Each day brings about more joy than I could hope. Every. Single. Night. I'm given hugs. I'm entertained and given attention. I get to run and play. I'm able to express myself. I...I'm *happy*. I have never been treated so well. I have no words for my new life. I have only actions and a sore deep in my heart, healing from this blissful type of new living. Never have I been more carefree and excited for each and every new day.
My new parent is exceptional. I let him know that i'd love to stay by giving him kisses constantly. By staying next to his side on every walk. By heeding his every word. Sit. Stay. High five. Shake. Speak. Roll Over. And i'm sure more will come but I dare not disobey this new, loving parent. I will do anything to hold on to this life. This beautiful life I don't think I could ever live without. And I have a feeling my new parent couldn't live without me, either. | I woke in a sweat, thunder from the storm outside shaking the creaky old house on its foundation. I heard a squeaking noise a few rooms over, seemingly from nowhere. I grabbed my phone for a flashlight, but it was dead. I got up from by bed and walked to the light switch, but it seemed that the power was out. Luckily, I always stocked up on candles and matches, and was soon walking through my great grandfather's hand-build Victorian home.
As I approached the room, I was filled with dread, but the source of the squeaking had consumed me with curiosity. I slowly opened the door, and at that very instant the power came back on, illuminating the entire room.
What I saw was burned into my mind forever. Before me stood a pug pup sleeping on the backs of two kittens, while they chewed on each other's ears. Right behind them, however, stood a large, menacing, and gruesome pack of baby lemurs all playing with squeak toys.
"Oh yeah, totally forgot that I bought all these animals, my bad." |
Preferably something cute, but anything will due. | [WP] Make me smile. | I've had a pretty rough life. Not only am I saying that but my friends believe the same. When I met them I had already gone through several foster homes, too many black eyes and abusive parents on top of an already confusing shuffling of homes in my life.
"Maybe this is what life is." I would continually think to myself.
"What would it be like to *not* exist?" I'd ponder the nights when I couldn't sleep from fear of being the object on the other end of a parent's hand.
"I could have it worse." I provided as some sort of inspiration far too often.
Each arrival in a new foster home I was greeted by new friends and friendly faces, constantly. The foster parents were always the ones i'd want to stay with. Was it not possible to simply stay there? Why not? How could I keep from moving about?
No matter how hard i'd try to stay confined to my room or hidden behind the others, they'd seek me out. I could never hide my face. It's as though my silence and lowered gaze meant nothing to them. My foster parents would never understand me or my silence.
I have no doubt that soon i'll be taken away from this foster home and placed in another situation where I can continue questioning my life and its purpose. I've tried running away, four times now, and it doesn't work. Seems the parents love me enough to call the police and have a search party locate me immediately. Only then to bring me back home and fall back into the deep trench of abuse and neglect. I'd thought that it'd get better after a display of worry and sadness upon losing me. Never.
Now I wait. I wait for a new parent to take me away and...i'm not sure, treat me differently than all the rest? Maybe even *love me*.
I crept back upon hearing the front door open with its '*creek, creek, thud*' as it made its way over the jagged floor and impacting into the door stopper that was more of a punching bag for the doors weight. My foster parent called my name and I winced. Today was the day i'd been dreading ever since i'd got here. Here, to the comfort and love of another non-permanent parent.
"How would I fair in this new home?"
"Could I be treated without abuse, maybe just *less* abuse?"
"When should I stop hoping and give in to the life set before me?"
It was all too overwhelming and my head sank as though no words of joy could bring me out of it. No optimism could rest my soul and return me back to a happiness of playing in a field with clean open air, all worries away from me.
I sat in the car onward to a new home and a new life without saying a thing. I stayed glued to the window in hopes of being anywhere but in this car.
...
Weeks go by and every morning I wake up, i'm greeted. Each day brings about more joy than I could hope. Every. Single. Night. I'm given hugs. I'm entertained and given attention. I get to run and play. I'm able to express myself. I...I'm *happy*. I have never been treated so well. I have no words for my new life. I have only actions and a sore deep in my heart, healing from this blissful type of new living. Never have I been more carefree and excited for each and every new day.
My new parent is exceptional. I let him know that i'd love to stay by giving him kisses constantly. By staying next to his side on every walk. By heeding his every word. Sit. Stay. High five. Shake. Speak. Roll Over. And i'm sure more will come but I dare not disobey this new, loving parent. I will do anything to hold on to this life. This beautiful life I don't think I could ever live without. And I have a feeling my new parent couldn't live without me, either. | The best thing, he had decided, was that when you're little, you can get away with anything. You could scare your sister, wrestle with your brother, accidentally pull your mum's hair, and everyone expected it. You could dash around the house like a madman, chasing invisible monsters, defending the world from evil intruders and they would chuckle at your antics. It was the best thing ever to be small.
He was hiding now. He'd tried this trick a million times before, and it never worked. Not on Mum anyways. Now he was trying it again, waiting for someone else, hopefully his sister.
Hearing soft footsteps he couldn't help but peak around the corner. His next target.
Wiggling with anticipation he waited as the footsteps drew closer and closer and closer. Every nerve felt alive as he tensed, waiting to jump out of his hiding spot.
*This is it!* He thought, and with a gigantic leap he sprung on his unsuspecting sister. Surprised, she fell on the floor and he toppled after her. Now he was trying to tickle her, make her surrender, but she retaliated. Twisting and kicking, she fought back, making it harder for him. She didn't want to give up that easily. Especially not to her brother. Rolling around they couldn't help let out squeaks and protests of excitement.
"Awe, mummy, look at them!"
The pair of fuzzy kittens scrambled about on the floor, oblivious to their human audience. |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | He kindly lets her know she's moving too fast and picks up the check and leaves without saying another word.
| The old Greek diner shut down years ago. She reached out to touch his hand to check his pulse. He was cold to the touch. The coroner pronounced him dead on arrival.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | Forty years. Forty years is a long time. The waitresses and cooks all knew them by sight, though no one was really sure of their names. Every morning, like clockwork they walk in around 9. Her 5 minutes before. Him 2 minutes after. Never exchanging words, just friendly and loving smiles. But lately, lately things have changed. The pretty dresses the woman always wore haven't been fitting right. Her hair hasn't been as neat and shiny. In fact she cut it very sort last month. She's been pale and drawn. Everyone has noticed but no one has dared asked her about anything but her order. Today, today was the first time anyone ever saw them touch. They held hands. The man bust into tears as if to confirm what everyone already knew. This would be their last breakfast together. She wouldn't be there tomorrow.
A few days later an obituary sits in a frame across from the man. The story reads of a young woman, only in her late fifties who ate breakfast everyday with the love of her life, even though they never exchanged a word. She died in her sleep of cancer, with the man by her side. They finally exchanged words on her deathbed. | The old Greek diner shut down years ago. She reached out to touch his hand to check his pulse. He was cold to the touch. The coroner pronounced him dead on arrival.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | Its been 40 years since I started this and I'm not one to give up easily. Since I was a kid she has been trying to tell me like it is, and some say I should just drop it, but I need to know....
I walk into the diner, she's there, early as usual. I glance at the waitress who rolls her eyes. I chuckle and throw my arms out to my sides, "what?". I see my big sister sitting there waiting for me. As usual she says:
"Told you I'm not gonna lose."
"Lose at what? I'm just a curious person"
Right on cue she continues with our scripted dance as she laughs knowingly and says "Alright well sit and and we'll start. Now Biology is the study of life and it's my favorite class"
Usauly I lean forward and blurt out my part right away, but as remebering how everything feels so boring this time around I decided to keep her waiting by sipping on my water.
The ice cold water almost makes my breathe feel minty fresh. I give a sigh of relief and ask "why?"
"I don't know because maybe the teacher was nice?"
"Why?"
"He had two kids and was a good teacher so maybe he thinks thats the right way to be in the classroom"
"Why?"
"What do you mean? He probably cared about doing well at his job."
I stared deep into her eyeballs
"why"
"Hahha are you going to ask that all day"
"its just a question"
"OK why what"
shit..... I forgot. 40 years of asking why and I forgot what we were talking about. Usually I dream about the current subject of our conversation at night but last night i forgot and omg its all my fault i messed everything up... I blindly take a shot in the dark...:
"Why....?"
"You can't answer a question with a Question."
Whew, I was saved. Living in the moment is best, said the buddha or something idk "Why?"
"Idk its grammer"
Anger slowly rolled through me. I wanted to express what i felt to her. I realized she never know anything about me. This whole time I've been asking her about her life without ever giving her information about mine. Does she just ue me for attention? Does she care about me at all?
I get up on the table with tears rolling down my neck.
I pull it out of my jacket pocket and point it at her and she screams "No! Why?!"
After hhearing her say that word I jolted back into reality...
This all started with me just committing to a joke...omg what have i done.
MY sister picked up the gun and bent over towards me. She whispered, "there there, its ok little bro... I got you."
I look over and I see her pointing the gun in my face.
Bang.
"no more questions"
| The old Greek diner shut down years ago. She reached out to touch his hand to check his pulse. He was cold to the touch. The coroner pronounced him dead on arrival.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | The city was colder than usual. William squinted as he trudged through the frozen fog. Far in the distance, at the end of the block, he saw the lights of the diner. As he approached, he thought of his past, everything he had been through to get to this moment, and the intricacy of it all. Had he not spotted this diner while he was in that greyhound he wouldn’t have gone here every day for so long. That moment of looking at the diner so long ago had only lasted a second, but it influenced every day of his life for the next forty years.
William felt blinded by the warm light glaring through the window to his dry eyes as he arrived at the door and pulled it open. It felt even heavier than yesterday. As he entered, he did not look around, he knew where he was going. He walked to the far side of the room, next to the window. A hot coffee was there already, waiting for him, along with the young woman across from him. He looked down into the spiralling void of his coffee. He took a sip, it tasted bitter, but he was tired, and he needed to stay awake for just a little longer. As he took his sip, he looked up at the woman across from him. She was beautiful, her face was smooth like the untouched surface of freshly made butterscotch, her ebony hair traced the side of her face down to her shoulders, where she wore a crème overcoat overtop of her light undershirt.
He pulled his face to look back up at hers. Since they had known each other, he had gotten more fragile and broken, but she had not. She had always been strong, the thing to hold him up through the hardest times of his life. Turning his head, William saw that the diner was starting to empty for the night. It was late, and he was very tired. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a light touch on his hand, as he turned, he saw it was the woman he had come to know very well over these many years. Her light touch turned to a grasp as she picked up his wrinkled hands in her soft palms. As she did this, her eyes met his, and even though he could not see her lips moving, William could hear her say “Let go.” Before he could respond, she was gone, and he could hear the bell ring as the door on the diner closed, and he found himself as the last person in the diner. Picking himself up, William pulled his wallet from his pocket and left a five-dollar bill on the table, like usual.
As he left the diner, he found the door swung open almost without him, light as a feather, and when he stepped out into the cold, it was no longer a bite, only a comforting chill to accompany him on his walk. As he started to leave, he saw in the distance the lights of a greyhound bus through the already lightening fog, and as the bus was about to pass, he stepped forward into it. He never felt a thing.
| The old Greek diner shut down years ago. She reached out to touch his hand to check his pulse. He was cold to the touch. The coroner pronounced him dead on arrival.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | "A man and a woman.. have met every morning for the last fourty years at a diner. While the teo seemed to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever.. the woman today reaches out and touches my hand.. "
"Wait, what!"
"What the.. what the hell Maurine! WHAT, ARE YOU A GIRL OR SUMTHIN" | The old Greek diner shut down years ago. She reached out to touch his hand to check his pulse. He was cold to the touch. The coroner pronounced him dead on arrival.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | It was the day after the funeral. For the past 50 years Debra and George had lived a happy life together. High school sweat hearts that never strayed, what her mom used to call "a modern miracle". She was so used to George's company that the first morning without him there was terrible. She awoke to no fresh coffee, no smile, no open newspaper. It was as though her entire life had fallen apart.
To make matters worse, all of her friends no longer spoke to her as they used to. It was only the next day but she was so sick of hearing, "I am so sorry for your loss", "If you need anything let me know." What she really wanted was for someone to talk to her she was her own person, not her husbands wife.
It was then that she realized that nobody that she knew would treat her like that, and that it would only lead to resentment. She went to the diner and there he was, the man who would smile, nod and occasionally wave at her. She walked up to his table and said, "Would you mind if I joined you?" to which he gleefully replied "It would be my pleasure." | The old Greek diner shut down years ago. She reached out to touch his hand to check his pulse. He was cold to the touch. The coroner pronounced him dead on arrival.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | The gentle scurf of the brushed metal slid beneath my fingers as I moved the cloth over the counter, wiping away crumbs and germs both. I was generally a fast worker but these two had caught my attention long ago and I allowed myself just a little time to slack off and watch when they came in.
The first time I'd seen them I had been the resident busboy. Between balancing messy plates and going over and over in my head what I would say to Janine, the head cheerleader, if I could ever convince her to look up from her milkshake - always banana, never strawberry - I didn't pay them much attention. Perhaps if I had, I would have rethought my ideas of courtship.
Their silent visits had witnessed both the dawn of the technological age and my slow but steady rise through the ranks. Now the owner of a thriving business, my only regret other than having eventually spoken to the owner of the banana milkshake - cruelty delivered with a pretty smile is still cruelty - is never having heard either of them speak or seen them touch. Their eyes met, just once, in 1986. Neither of them appeared to enjoy it.
I assume that they are people and do people things like going to the bathroom, despite not having seen either of them do this for the last forty years. I assume this because it makes me comfortable and because the media the world chokes on daily has told me that inhuman beings do things like steal children or have faces that melt off or point laser guns at you and demand to be taken to your leader.
My wife always maintained - thank heavens I married a Maureen and not a Janine - that should that request ever be made of me, I was to bring them immediately to her so she could find out once and for all whether or not they liked peach cobbler.
I measure people by the size of the things that bug them; she measured solely on their taste in desserts. We had been a formidable team.
My point is that, to my knowledge, visitors of the non human variety are unlikely to assess the strengths and weaknesses of humanity by ordering two two and a half minute eggs every day for four decades with nary a laser or anal probe in sight.
They're here again today. Call it boredom, call it curiosity, but today I cooked their eggs for a full four minutes. The lack of response from the old woman was as expected. But the old man went to raise his head. I don't know if it was to look somewhere or say something but he tucked it straight back down again as fast as you like when her hand sallied forth across the table to poke an almost fleshless finger into a small bruise on the back of his hand.
She must be a Janine.
If it hadn't been for my new and thoroughly mediocre busboy, their routine might never had deviated further than that. But a bucketful of slack, grey water all over the shoes was enough to make even the most stoic of old ladies haul ass to the area where the restrooms were hidden from sight.
The old man's owlish blink led me to believe that he was just as surprised by this turn of events as I, his expression what I imagine mine to be when I wander downstairs with purpose only to find that I have completely forgotten what I wanted. I blame the last stair; it squeaks. It took the old man several moments to remember that he wanted to fish through a threadbare pocket with one hand while the other steadied equally forgetful legs until they, and he, stood vertical.
He shuffled towards me in a straight line and slapped something on the counter. I didn't look down, mesmerised as I was by his face. He did a swift about face and shuffled faster to reach the table and seat himself again before his companion reappeared from the restrooms. She appeared to find nothing amiss.
Looking away was one of the hardest things I've ever done. Combining it with a nonchalant shuffle of receipts as I palmed the old man's offering was no easier, but it did allow me to pretend that I felt less conspicuous.
It was a mere thirteen seconds after their departure that I read the note, but both its message and the image of the tongueless, pleading face will still be with me for years to come, I have no doubt. I do not know whether to be awed or horrified by the patience of the old man.
"Help me," the note said. It was dated thirty-six years ago.
| The old Greek diner shut down years ago. She reached out to touch his hand to check his pulse. He was cold to the touch. The coroner pronounced him dead on arrival.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | "I... I forgive you" she said touching his hand, tears streaming down her face. The man said not a word. He noded his head and stood up from the table. A broken smile crossed his face, then he turned around and walked out the door; alone for the first time, and never to return.
A few minutes later the waitress came by to refil her coffee. Ethel put her hand over the cup and motioned for the check. The waitress rolled her eyes "one egg, two pieces of white toast, and a cup of coffee. $4.95. Same thing you've had every day for 40 years. You can't keep eating the same thing here by yourself everyday Ethel. It isn't healthy. Why don't you bring someone with you tomorrow, and try something else from the menu for a change. "
"Maybe i can," said Ethel. "Maybe I will." It was the first time the waitress had ever seen her smile. | The old Greek diner shut down years ago. She reached out to touch his hand to check his pulse. He was cold to the touch. The coroner pronounced him dead on arrival.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | Her clammy hand lifted off the the maroon high floss diner table, leaving a hand print of sweat. She reached for him. For, what felt like an eternity. Maybe it was.
40 years. 40 fuckin' years to get to that handshake.
Despite the gravity of the event, the man stayed non-plussed like an old mountain bear type person. The woman's saggy skin inched closer and closer to the mans ham hock wrists.
Finally; it happens! The man, the woman: they TOUCH. Bam its like electricty from the diner, the streets, and whole wide universe impacts to a minuscule area which is them.
Suddenly the woman, once haggard and sagging like beagle is beautiful again. She is ravenous!
The man has become the main portrait of virility. I'm talking axe-wielding, tree- trunked-armed motherfucker.
And just as quickly as it came it went. Bam. It was gone; and they were old and tired. They saved their love for 40 years, both aware of an unspeakable feeling and condensed all to a tiny moment.
| The old Greek diner shut down years ago. She reached out to touch his hand to check his pulse. He was cold to the touch. The coroner pronounced him dead on arrival.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | The man jerks his hands away violently and furiously signs "please don't interrupt me."
The woman sighs and closes her eyes.
"It's going to be one of those days..." The man clumsily signs to himself. | The old Greek diner shut down years ago. She reached out to touch his hand to check his pulse. He was cold to the touch. The coroner pronounced him dead on arrival.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | ######[](#dropcap)
It's so strange, watching them. I guess my coworkers have gotten used to it, but I'm new, and I notice too much. Forty years, they said. Forty years, and not a word to one another, just ordering their food and thanking their server.
***
They don't even read. I've worked here for a month, and I've seen so many of the older couples ignore each other to read newspapers or novels. The younger ones look at their phones or laptops or business reports. Somehow, that seems normal. These people have something to do, something important to them. Not this couple. They eat, and stare at each other, or glance around the diner from time to time.
***
They seem so much closer to each other than any other couple that comes to Casey's.
***
Today, the woman ordered chocolate-chip pancakes and the man asked for poached eggs. Then they handed back their menus and stared at each other again. It shouldn't be as creepy as it feels to me. The woman is old, but she has this soft, warm smile. The man has kind eyes. They both have grey hair, and the man's is thinning but it still looks neat and tidy.
***
They come in separately. Have I mentioned that? Usually the man comes in first, and the woman comes in ten minutes later when he's already gotten a table. It's always the same table too, the one where the sunlight shines straight through the window and melts the butter left out for toast. When the woman comes in, she sits at the waiting area until the man arrives. That's another thing I find odd. Maybe they're just old fashioned.
***
I tried sketching them once. Business was slow that day, and I went on break early. I hadn't been the one to serve them, but by now I know when to expect them: eight on the dot. I sat at the far end of the bar and waited for them to get settled. It wasn't my best work. That day it was cloudy, and so the light was all wrong. It made them seem sadder than they really were. I threw the paper away.
Then I tried again, on a day when the weather was better but there was still a slight fog rolling around from the rain that passed through the night before. Now that was my best work. The shading was perfect; I used so much of my pencil I was afraid it would run out before I was done. But it didn't. When it was done I wanted to frame it and give it to them as a gift of some kind, but I was still too nervous to talk to them.
***
Cook showed me an old photo of the couple from back in 1986. She said the photographer went on and got famous taking pictures and hanging them up in art galleries. I think he thinks I want to become some hotshot artist and do sketches of models. I told her it was just a hobby.
"See Karla, this was one a them old cameras where the picture came out right after the photo was taken. This is the only one he took."
You can tell they're the same people. They sit across from each other the same way, and the woman holds her coffee and the man holds his fork just like they do every morning. The only thing different is the scenery around them. Now the chairs are different and the pictures on the walls are a little bit faded from time. And maybe they've aged a bit too, but it's not as noticeable. The diner has changed more than they have.
"Those two made Claude famous. I don't think they even realize it."
***
Today I served them. This time the man ordered hash browns and the woman ordered oatmeal. I asked if they liked the meal, and they said it was fine. They didn't say anything else. I guess I've gotten used to it.
***
Today Ron served them. But today it was different. I was watching them as I cleaned the counter. The woman stopped eating, and she reached out and touched the man's arm. I've never seen them do that before. Ron saw it, and Cook noticed too, from his window over the grill. They were as surprised as I was.
They left a one hundred dollar tip. It was huge. Ron decided to split it up and give it to everyone who was on shift. I told him to keep my share. I didn't feel like I deserved it.
***
They didn't show up today. | The old Greek diner shut down years ago. She reached out to touch his hand to check his pulse. He was cold to the touch. The coroner pronounced him dead on arrival.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | My friends used to ask me how long they thought I could keep it going, but not anymore. They stopped caring decades ago. I knew they thought I was being silly, but I didn't care. This was important to me.
I glare at Margie over the steam rising from my flapjacks and her poached eggs, and she glares right back. The same damn dance we've performed every day for longer than I care to remember. In the morning at the diner; in the evenings when I get home from work; in bed at night; all weekend long, every weekend. A deafening roar of quiet blankets our lives.
One of my coworkers suggested I should call Guinness---longest silent treatment ever. I can't see the humor in it though. Even after all these years the anger, disappointment, and pain are raw.
I squint, just a little. Did Margie's lip just tremble, or am I imagining things? For forty years her face has been the paragon of stubbornness---an unflinching fortress of willful defiance.
No, it trembled again. I'm sure of it. It takes all of my strength to hide my excitement. Could this be it? Could today be the day the stalemate topples in the wake of my glorious victory?
Margie lowers her head and sighs. She takes a deep breath and looks up into my eyes. Her hand reaches out, and touches mine.
"Fine, you can get a damn color TV," she says.
Today is going to be a good day. | The old Greek diner shut down years ago. She reached out to touch his hand to check his pulse. He was cold to the touch. The coroner pronounced him dead on arrival.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | "I... I forgive you" she said touching his hand, tears streaming down her face. The man said not a word. He noded his head and stood up from the table. A broken smile crossed his face, then he turned around and walked out the door; alone for the first time, and never to return.
A few minutes later the waitress came by to refil her coffee. Ethel put her hand over the cup and motioned for the check. The waitress rolled her eyes "one egg, two pieces of white toast, and a cup of coffee. $4.95. Same thing you've had every day for 40 years. You can't keep eating the same thing here by yourself everyday Ethel. It isn't healthy. Why don't you bring someone with you tomorrow, and try something else from the menu for a change. "
"Maybe i can," said Ethel. "Maybe I will." It was the first time the waitress had ever seen her smile. | I cant remember how long I've been coming to this diner she thought. I know this face. I know I know his face. Something just doesn't seem right here. This diner it must be different I must have wandered into the wrong place. NO! NO! NO! Jeff is still serving me this terrible coffee that stain on the white wall ha! it does look kinda like Jesus. Okay okay Beth everything is normal just calm down. But this face... this man. A chill ran down her spine as every hair on her arms and legs bound outward. I must know him she thought as she reached for his hand. Time seemed to slow down as her hand reached closer and closer untill braaaaaaap braaaaaap braaaap
"Fucking alarm" Beth exclaimed as she smashed her phone. "Im gonna be late again Jeff is gonna fire my ass" she sprang off of her bed only to freeze for some reason that feeling was back as though he were laying on the bed next to her. "Fourty years" she said "fourty fucking years" | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | Her clammy hand lifted off the the maroon high floss diner table, leaving a hand print of sweat. She reached for him. For, what felt like an eternity. Maybe it was.
40 years. 40 fuckin' years to get to that handshake.
Despite the gravity of the event, the man stayed non-plussed like an old mountain bear type person. The woman's saggy skin inched closer and closer to the mans ham hock wrists.
Finally; it happens! The man, the woman: they TOUCH. Bam its like electricty from the diner, the streets, and whole wide universe impacts to a minuscule area which is them.
Suddenly the woman, once haggard and sagging like beagle is beautiful again. She is ravenous!
The man has become the main portrait of virility. I'm talking axe-wielding, tree- trunked-armed motherfucker.
And just as quickly as it came it went. Bam. It was gone; and they were old and tired. They saved their love for 40 years, both aware of an unspeakable feeling and condensed all to a tiny moment.
| I cant remember how long I've been coming to this diner she thought. I know this face. I know I know his face. Something just doesn't seem right here. This diner it must be different I must have wandered into the wrong place. NO! NO! NO! Jeff is still serving me this terrible coffee that stain on the white wall ha! it does look kinda like Jesus. Okay okay Beth everything is normal just calm down. But this face... this man. A chill ran down her spine as every hair on her arms and legs bound outward. I must know him she thought as she reached for his hand. Time seemed to slow down as her hand reached closer and closer untill braaaaaaap braaaaaap braaaap
"Fucking alarm" Beth exclaimed as she smashed her phone. "Im gonna be late again Jeff is gonna fire my ass" she sprang off of her bed only to freeze for some reason that feeling was back as though he were laying on the bed next to her. "Fourty years" she said "fourty fucking years" | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | The man jerks his hands away violently and furiously signs "please don't interrupt me."
The woman sighs and closes her eyes.
"It's going to be one of those days..." The man clumsily signs to himself. | I cant remember how long I've been coming to this diner she thought. I know this face. I know I know his face. Something just doesn't seem right here. This diner it must be different I must have wandered into the wrong place. NO! NO! NO! Jeff is still serving me this terrible coffee that stain on the white wall ha! it does look kinda like Jesus. Okay okay Beth everything is normal just calm down. But this face... this man. A chill ran down her spine as every hair on her arms and legs bound outward. I must know him she thought as she reached for his hand. Time seemed to slow down as her hand reached closer and closer untill braaaaaaap braaaaaap braaaap
"Fucking alarm" Beth exclaimed as she smashed her phone. "Im gonna be late again Jeff is gonna fire my ass" she sprang off of her bed only to freeze for some reason that feeling was back as though he were laying on the bed next to her. "Fourty years" she said "fourty fucking years" | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | ######[](#dropcap)
It's so strange, watching them. I guess my coworkers have gotten used to it, but I'm new, and I notice too much. Forty years, they said. Forty years, and not a word to one another, just ordering their food and thanking their server.
***
They don't even read. I've worked here for a month, and I've seen so many of the older couples ignore each other to read newspapers or novels. The younger ones look at their phones or laptops or business reports. Somehow, that seems normal. These people have something to do, something important to them. Not this couple. They eat, and stare at each other, or glance around the diner from time to time.
***
They seem so much closer to each other than any other couple that comes to Casey's.
***
Today, the woman ordered chocolate-chip pancakes and the man asked for poached eggs. Then they handed back their menus and stared at each other again. It shouldn't be as creepy as it feels to me. The woman is old, but she has this soft, warm smile. The man has kind eyes. They both have grey hair, and the man's is thinning but it still looks neat and tidy.
***
They come in separately. Have I mentioned that? Usually the man comes in first, and the woman comes in ten minutes later when he's already gotten a table. It's always the same table too, the one where the sunlight shines straight through the window and melts the butter left out for toast. When the woman comes in, she sits at the waiting area until the man arrives. That's another thing I find odd. Maybe they're just old fashioned.
***
I tried sketching them once. Business was slow that day, and I went on break early. I hadn't been the one to serve them, but by now I know when to expect them: eight on the dot. I sat at the far end of the bar and waited for them to get settled. It wasn't my best work. That day it was cloudy, and so the light was all wrong. It made them seem sadder than they really were. I threw the paper away.
Then I tried again, on a day when the weather was better but there was still a slight fog rolling around from the rain that passed through the night before. Now that was my best work. The shading was perfect; I used so much of my pencil I was afraid it would run out before I was done. But it didn't. When it was done I wanted to frame it and give it to them as a gift of some kind, but I was still too nervous to talk to them.
***
Cook showed me an old photo of the couple from back in 1986. She said the photographer went on and got famous taking pictures and hanging them up in art galleries. I think he thinks I want to become some hotshot artist and do sketches of models. I told her it was just a hobby.
"See Karla, this was one a them old cameras where the picture came out right after the photo was taken. This is the only one he took."
You can tell they're the same people. They sit across from each other the same way, and the woman holds her coffee and the man holds his fork just like they do every morning. The only thing different is the scenery around them. Now the chairs are different and the pictures on the walls are a little bit faded from time. And maybe they've aged a bit too, but it's not as noticeable. The diner has changed more than they have.
"Those two made Claude famous. I don't think they even realize it."
***
Today I served them. This time the man ordered hash browns and the woman ordered oatmeal. I asked if they liked the meal, and they said it was fine. They didn't say anything else. I guess I've gotten used to it.
***
Today Ron served them. But today it was different. I was watching them as I cleaned the counter. The woman stopped eating, and she reached out and touched the man's arm. I've never seen them do that before. Ron saw it, and Cook noticed too, from his window over the grill. They were as surprised as I was.
They left a one hundred dollar tip. It was huge. Ron decided to split it up and give it to everyone who was on shift. I told him to keep my share. I didn't feel like I deserved it.
***
They didn't show up today. | I cant remember how long I've been coming to this diner she thought. I know this face. I know I know his face. Something just doesn't seem right here. This diner it must be different I must have wandered into the wrong place. NO! NO! NO! Jeff is still serving me this terrible coffee that stain on the white wall ha! it does look kinda like Jesus. Okay okay Beth everything is normal just calm down. But this face... this man. A chill ran down her spine as every hair on her arms and legs bound outward. I must know him she thought as she reached for his hand. Time seemed to slow down as her hand reached closer and closer untill braaaaaaap braaaaaap braaaap
"Fucking alarm" Beth exclaimed as she smashed her phone. "Im gonna be late again Jeff is gonna fire my ass" she sprang off of her bed only to freeze for some reason that feeling was back as though he were laying on the bed next to her. "Fourty years" she said "fourty fucking years" | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | My friends used to ask me how long they thought I could keep it going, but not anymore. They stopped caring decades ago. I knew they thought I was being silly, but I didn't care. This was important to me.
I glare at Margie over the steam rising from my flapjacks and her poached eggs, and she glares right back. The same damn dance we've performed every day for longer than I care to remember. In the morning at the diner; in the evenings when I get home from work; in bed at night; all weekend long, every weekend. A deafening roar of quiet blankets our lives.
One of my coworkers suggested I should call Guinness---longest silent treatment ever. I can't see the humor in it though. Even after all these years the anger, disappointment, and pain are raw.
I squint, just a little. Did Margie's lip just tremble, or am I imagining things? For forty years her face has been the paragon of stubbornness---an unflinching fortress of willful defiance.
No, it trembled again. I'm sure of it. It takes all of my strength to hide my excitement. Could this be it? Could today be the day the stalemate topples in the wake of my glorious victory?
Margie lowers her head and sighs. She takes a deep breath and looks up into my eyes. Her hand reaches out, and touches mine.
"Fine, you can get a damn color TV," she says.
Today is going to be a good day. | I cant remember how long I've been coming to this diner she thought. I know this face. I know I know his face. Something just doesn't seem right here. This diner it must be different I must have wandered into the wrong place. NO! NO! NO! Jeff is still serving me this terrible coffee that stain on the white wall ha! it does look kinda like Jesus. Okay okay Beth everything is normal just calm down. But this face... this man. A chill ran down her spine as every hair on her arms and legs bound outward. I must know him she thought as she reached for his hand. Time seemed to slow down as her hand reached closer and closer untill braaaaaaap braaaaaap braaaap
"Fucking alarm" Beth exclaimed as she smashed her phone. "Im gonna be late again Jeff is gonna fire my ass" she sprang off of her bed only to freeze for some reason that feeling was back as though he were laying on the bed next to her. "Fourty years" she said "fourty fucking years" | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | It was a diner much like any other in that part of the city. There was a place to stop for food every ten steps you took on that street. She just knew the directions on foot and had relied on that to get her there every morning for the past forty years. It had gotten to the point that a friend had asked her, “Which diner?”
“Uh…” she had no idea.
It was late winter. There had been heavy snow all season. Cars drove through slush in the streets and she skidded on the sidewalks a few times. She slid one last time as she grasped the door to the diner. She forgot to look up to get the name. She had forgotten every day for months since the conversation with her friend.
She stepped inside and stomped the snow off her boots. She took off her jacket and turned left, heading to the table in the back corner by the window. He was already waiting there. He waited there every morning.
She was five minutes later than usual. She was a regularly a punctual person. Her breakfast was waiting for her – two eggs over-easy, brown toast, bacon, fruit. He had already finished his. He was sipping coffee. He didn’t look up from the newspaper.
She sat down across from him. She placed her jacket on the seat beside her. He put his paper down with one hand and his coffee down with the other. She picked up her fork and pushed a piece of bacon off her eggs. He looked at her. She didn’t look at him.
She ate silently. He watched her eat for only a moment then stared out the window, periodically sipping his coffee. It had gotten cold. He didn’t mind. He never opened his mouth once she arrived. The waitresses were used to it by now.
It was routine. They would wait for him to arrive and serve his regular breakfast with coffee. He always read the morning paper. They would wait ten minutes then prepare her breakfast. It was often ready by the time she arrived. They would wait twenty minutes after she was finished eating to give them their separate bills. They would pay separately, and leave separately.
She finished eating. She looked up at him. He had looked back at her already. She met frozen blue eyes. Sometimes they iced over further and turned grey if she stared long enough. He couldn’t even see the wrinkles in her face. He would always see her skin as plump and young and pretty.
He had grown out a beard over the last few years. It suited him but she sort of missed how he used to look. She almost felt cheated that he looked like a different person. It wasn’t fair for him to disguise himself, but she would always be able to find him in a crowd.
It started to hurt to look at her pained brown eyes. They seemed stained black with time. He wondered if she ever remarried. He doubted it.
Her heart sank when he looked away. She had started these staring contests out of spite. She had wanted to unsettle him. She had been frustrated to find the vow of silence was mutual. Over the years this all had become a gesture of affection for her. She had tried dating but her morning routine would always get in the way. He had never had another woman in his bed since Marjorie.
She studied his face even though he was looking at her hands now. His skin had gone leathery. She had never gotten to know what he had done for work after his time in jail. His hands were always rough and he always looked tired. She wondered if his hands were from labor work. She wondered if his fatigue was from work or from not sleeping well. She couldn’t sleep well since that night.
His coworkers said to drop this routine years ago. Her therapist had said the same. It’s not healthy, they had agreed.
But even in the muted light of a late February morning she was intoxicating. It was liquor in the evening and her in the morning. He could get by this way. She had her hobbies and her job to get her through her days. Every morning she met him there and they did this dance of observations and unspoken memories.
Today was different. She had been thinking about it for months, no, for years. She was stubborn and didn’t want to give him any freedom. At the same time, she had grown to love him. She would never admit that. But she had to acknowledge that despite her aggressive attitude the first morning and all those mornings years afterwards, he kept showing up. He was always there. Forty years.
She reached across the table and took his hand. His back straightened and he looked terrified. She hadn’t ever touched him. She only stared or didn’t stare.
Her hands were soft. Most people’s hands were soft compared to his. She felt how calloused they were and sighed inwardly. Her late husband’s hands had been rough like that.
“I think it’s time we stop this,” she said quietly.
He simply looked at her. She smiled gently. The only time he had ever seen her smile was nearly six years ago when a drunk man had an absurd argument with a waitress right next to him and she had thought it was funny. He had tried hard not to laugh too. He didn’t deserve to laugh.
“I think we should both stop coming here. And I think you should know…” she wasn’t sure if she could finish.
“But the homefries are so good,” he tentatively protested.
She laughed. He liked that. She felt shy then. He noticed.
“I forgive you,” she finished.
“You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t ever forgive me.”
His voice was stern. All conviction with no room for consolation. She flinched and drew her hand away.
“That’s not your choice,” she spat at him.
He wished she had never found him that morning. He wished she hadn’t been able to because he was in jail. He wished he had been punished more severely, that his lawyer hadn’t been so good. He wished he hadn’t started drinking again because if she knew about that, she would probably find some other way to make his life a living hell.
“I lost someone too,” he said, “and I don’t forgive myself. Why should I accept your forgiveness?”
She started putting her plate together, piling her garbage on top. “I won’t be coming back here,” she said.
He watched her put her jacket on. She went to the front counter and payed her bill. She took one last glance back at him. Even with her hair greyed and cut shorter, even with her wrinkles and her colourless clothing and her tired posture, he still saw the same woman from forty years ago. The same tear-stained, maddened woman that found him in a diner five years after a terrible accident. The same woman whose husband he took away from her. The same woman that looked just a bit too much like Marjorie, who was in the passenger seat, who never wore a seat belt. Times were different back then.
He watched her go. He still went to the diner every morning for a few months. He stopped drinking. She never came back.
| I cant remember how long I've been coming to this diner she thought. I know this face. I know I know his face. Something just doesn't seem right here. This diner it must be different I must have wandered into the wrong place. NO! NO! NO! Jeff is still serving me this terrible coffee that stain on the white wall ha! it does look kinda like Jesus. Okay okay Beth everything is normal just calm down. But this face... this man. A chill ran down her spine as every hair on her arms and legs bound outward. I must know him she thought as she reached for his hand. Time seemed to slow down as her hand reached closer and closer untill braaaaaaap braaaaaap braaaap
"Fucking alarm" Beth exclaimed as she smashed her phone. "Im gonna be late again Jeff is gonna fire my ass" she sprang off of her bed only to freeze for some reason that feeling was back as though he were laying on the bed next to her. "Fourty years" she said "fourty fucking years" | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | "I... I forgive you" she said touching his hand, tears streaming down her face. The man said not a word. He noded his head and stood up from the table. A broken smile crossed his face, then he turned around and walked out the door; alone for the first time, and never to return.
A few minutes later the waitress came by to refil her coffee. Ethel put her hand over the cup and motioned for the check. The waitress rolled her eyes "one egg, two pieces of white toast, and a cup of coffee. $4.95. Same thing you've had every day for 40 years. You can't keep eating the same thing here by yourself everyday Ethel. It isn't healthy. Why don't you bring someone with you tomorrow, and try something else from the menu for a change. "
"Maybe i can," said Ethel. "Maybe I will." It was the first time the waitress had ever seen her smile. | They are reliable as the sun and moon, always arriving at the appointed hour. They hadn't aged a day, while their server Jared Stiles had gone from vibrant youth to doddering old age in the forty years since the beginning. The order never changed. The same flowers bloomed in the window box, never withering, nor showing any change at all as the season cycled from blistering summers to winters of blue snow and howling winds. Yet, every morning they were there.
They would arrive, Madeline with her flowing red hair that writhed with a life of its own and a smile that would shatter the soul of even the hardest cyborg. She wore a different dress every time each as stylish as the last and yet, she carried herself with the sort of restraint only somebody with tremendous power could manage. She exuded power and the other staff had come and gone over the last generation in awe of her elegant presence. She had but to wave a finger and the whole world seemed to move at her gesture. Jarad wanted to please Madeline because to do otherwise was unthinkable.
Barnet was different. He was small and delicate. Jared thought that if he looked away Barnet would become transparent. The other patrons didn't seem to notice Barnet at all, basking in the supreme radiance of Madeline. Yet, Jared knew Barnet was the stronger of the pair. He'd read the postings of Barnet's offworld exploits. Yet somehow, the pair always made it back to the diner by morning to eat in silence that toast, eggs, a rasher of bacon, and a cup of Earl Grey apiece. When the Great Pig Pox of '48 wiped out nearly every hog on Proxima 2B, they even brought new ovum from offworld and reseeded the culture tanks so that bacon would always be on the menu. It was a ritual, almost a holy sacrament, their daily meetings.
Yet, they never spoke as much as a word to one another, nor did they touch, kiss, embrace, or do any of the things that would make them human...until today.
It was a morning like any other. The suns had risen over the mountains and cast long beams of shifting light through the titansteel windows. The chequered tableclothes of white and blue held that light, that warmth, and cast it back onto the polished wood paneling. The silverware glinted in that same bicolor light and made Jarad's eyes water at the brilliance. Then they arrived outside the door. He phased through the door, as if he couldn't be bothered, while she pulled it open with her delicate restraint, as if she worried that she might rip it from its frame by accident.
He floated through the chair and sat in it, while she pulled hers out and sat down. The ground rumbled with her every step and the dishes rattled in the kitchen at her passing. He was ethereal while she was a juggernaut held just back from the edge of annihilation. Jarad wasted no time serving them. Jarad delivered the same meal he always did, while the rest of the staff watched on from inside the kitchen trembling. They would stay for precisely twenty minutes and then depart in the same way they arrived...until today.
They had just finished eating when she reached out with her hand, her index finger extended to touch Barnet on his left forearm. The shimmering man turned to look at Jared and spoke.
"It is time."
Then the two ship minds, each wearing avatars so they might walk among men, discarded those avatars and returned to what they had been doing a generation ago when Jared was just a young man. They waged war.
...and thus, Proxima 2B was no more. | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | Her clammy hand lifted off the the maroon high floss diner table, leaving a hand print of sweat. She reached for him. For, what felt like an eternity. Maybe it was.
40 years. 40 fuckin' years to get to that handshake.
Despite the gravity of the event, the man stayed non-plussed like an old mountain bear type person. The woman's saggy skin inched closer and closer to the mans ham hock wrists.
Finally; it happens! The man, the woman: they TOUCH. Bam its like electricty from the diner, the streets, and whole wide universe impacts to a minuscule area which is them.
Suddenly the woman, once haggard and sagging like beagle is beautiful again. She is ravenous!
The man has become the main portrait of virility. I'm talking axe-wielding, tree- trunked-armed motherfucker.
And just as quickly as it came it went. Bam. It was gone; and they were old and tired. They saved their love for 40 years, both aware of an unspeakable feeling and condensed all to a tiny moment.
| They are reliable as the sun and moon, always arriving at the appointed hour. They hadn't aged a day, while their server Jared Stiles had gone from vibrant youth to doddering old age in the forty years since the beginning. The order never changed. The same flowers bloomed in the window box, never withering, nor showing any change at all as the season cycled from blistering summers to winters of blue snow and howling winds. Yet, every morning they were there.
They would arrive, Madeline with her flowing red hair that writhed with a life of its own and a smile that would shatter the soul of even the hardest cyborg. She wore a different dress every time each as stylish as the last and yet, she carried herself with the sort of restraint only somebody with tremendous power could manage. She exuded power and the other staff had come and gone over the last generation in awe of her elegant presence. She had but to wave a finger and the whole world seemed to move at her gesture. Jarad wanted to please Madeline because to do otherwise was unthinkable.
Barnet was different. He was small and delicate. Jared thought that if he looked away Barnet would become transparent. The other patrons didn't seem to notice Barnet at all, basking in the supreme radiance of Madeline. Yet, Jared knew Barnet was the stronger of the pair. He'd read the postings of Barnet's offworld exploits. Yet somehow, the pair always made it back to the diner by morning to eat in silence that toast, eggs, a rasher of bacon, and a cup of Earl Grey apiece. When the Great Pig Pox of '48 wiped out nearly every hog on Proxima 2B, they even brought new ovum from offworld and reseeded the culture tanks so that bacon would always be on the menu. It was a ritual, almost a holy sacrament, their daily meetings.
Yet, they never spoke as much as a word to one another, nor did they touch, kiss, embrace, or do any of the things that would make them human...until today.
It was a morning like any other. The suns had risen over the mountains and cast long beams of shifting light through the titansteel windows. The chequered tableclothes of white and blue held that light, that warmth, and cast it back onto the polished wood paneling. The silverware glinted in that same bicolor light and made Jarad's eyes water at the brilliance. Then they arrived outside the door. He phased through the door, as if he couldn't be bothered, while she pulled it open with her delicate restraint, as if she worried that she might rip it from its frame by accident.
He floated through the chair and sat in it, while she pulled hers out and sat down. The ground rumbled with her every step and the dishes rattled in the kitchen at her passing. He was ethereal while she was a juggernaut held just back from the edge of annihilation. Jarad wasted no time serving them. Jarad delivered the same meal he always did, while the rest of the staff watched on from inside the kitchen trembling. They would stay for precisely twenty minutes and then depart in the same way they arrived...until today.
They had just finished eating when she reached out with her hand, her index finger extended to touch Barnet on his left forearm. The shimmering man turned to look at Jared and spoke.
"It is time."
Then the two ship minds, each wearing avatars so they might walk among men, discarded those avatars and returned to what they had been doing a generation ago when Jared was just a young man. They waged war.
...and thus, Proxima 2B was no more. | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | The man jerks his hands away violently and furiously signs "please don't interrupt me."
The woman sighs and closes her eyes.
"It's going to be one of those days..." The man clumsily signs to himself. | They are reliable as the sun and moon, always arriving at the appointed hour. They hadn't aged a day, while their server Jared Stiles had gone from vibrant youth to doddering old age in the forty years since the beginning. The order never changed. The same flowers bloomed in the window box, never withering, nor showing any change at all as the season cycled from blistering summers to winters of blue snow and howling winds. Yet, every morning they were there.
They would arrive, Madeline with her flowing red hair that writhed with a life of its own and a smile that would shatter the soul of even the hardest cyborg. She wore a different dress every time each as stylish as the last and yet, she carried herself with the sort of restraint only somebody with tremendous power could manage. She exuded power and the other staff had come and gone over the last generation in awe of her elegant presence. She had but to wave a finger and the whole world seemed to move at her gesture. Jarad wanted to please Madeline because to do otherwise was unthinkable.
Barnet was different. He was small and delicate. Jared thought that if he looked away Barnet would become transparent. The other patrons didn't seem to notice Barnet at all, basking in the supreme radiance of Madeline. Yet, Jared knew Barnet was the stronger of the pair. He'd read the postings of Barnet's offworld exploits. Yet somehow, the pair always made it back to the diner by morning to eat in silence that toast, eggs, a rasher of bacon, and a cup of Earl Grey apiece. When the Great Pig Pox of '48 wiped out nearly every hog on Proxima 2B, they even brought new ovum from offworld and reseeded the culture tanks so that bacon would always be on the menu. It was a ritual, almost a holy sacrament, their daily meetings.
Yet, they never spoke as much as a word to one another, nor did they touch, kiss, embrace, or do any of the things that would make them human...until today.
It was a morning like any other. The suns had risen over the mountains and cast long beams of shifting light through the titansteel windows. The chequered tableclothes of white and blue held that light, that warmth, and cast it back onto the polished wood paneling. The silverware glinted in that same bicolor light and made Jarad's eyes water at the brilliance. Then they arrived outside the door. He phased through the door, as if he couldn't be bothered, while she pulled it open with her delicate restraint, as if she worried that she might rip it from its frame by accident.
He floated through the chair and sat in it, while she pulled hers out and sat down. The ground rumbled with her every step and the dishes rattled in the kitchen at her passing. He was ethereal while she was a juggernaut held just back from the edge of annihilation. Jarad wasted no time serving them. Jarad delivered the same meal he always did, while the rest of the staff watched on from inside the kitchen trembling. They would stay for precisely twenty minutes and then depart in the same way they arrived...until today.
They had just finished eating when she reached out with her hand, her index finger extended to touch Barnet on his left forearm. The shimmering man turned to look at Jared and spoke.
"It is time."
Then the two ship minds, each wearing avatars so they might walk among men, discarded those avatars and returned to what they had been doing a generation ago when Jared was just a young man. They waged war.
...and thus, Proxima 2B was no more. | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | ######[](#dropcap)
It's so strange, watching them. I guess my coworkers have gotten used to it, but I'm new, and I notice too much. Forty years, they said. Forty years, and not a word to one another, just ordering their food and thanking their server.
***
They don't even read. I've worked here for a month, and I've seen so many of the older couples ignore each other to read newspapers or novels. The younger ones look at their phones or laptops or business reports. Somehow, that seems normal. These people have something to do, something important to them. Not this couple. They eat, and stare at each other, or glance around the diner from time to time.
***
They seem so much closer to each other than any other couple that comes to Casey's.
***
Today, the woman ordered chocolate-chip pancakes and the man asked for poached eggs. Then they handed back their menus and stared at each other again. It shouldn't be as creepy as it feels to me. The woman is old, but she has this soft, warm smile. The man has kind eyes. They both have grey hair, and the man's is thinning but it still looks neat and tidy.
***
They come in separately. Have I mentioned that? Usually the man comes in first, and the woman comes in ten minutes later when he's already gotten a table. It's always the same table too, the one where the sunlight shines straight through the window and melts the butter left out for toast. When the woman comes in, she sits at the waiting area until the man arrives. That's another thing I find odd. Maybe they're just old fashioned.
***
I tried sketching them once. Business was slow that day, and I went on break early. I hadn't been the one to serve them, but by now I know when to expect them: eight on the dot. I sat at the far end of the bar and waited for them to get settled. It wasn't my best work. That day it was cloudy, and so the light was all wrong. It made them seem sadder than they really were. I threw the paper away.
Then I tried again, on a day when the weather was better but there was still a slight fog rolling around from the rain that passed through the night before. Now that was my best work. The shading was perfect; I used so much of my pencil I was afraid it would run out before I was done. But it didn't. When it was done I wanted to frame it and give it to them as a gift of some kind, but I was still too nervous to talk to them.
***
Cook showed me an old photo of the couple from back in 1986. She said the photographer went on and got famous taking pictures and hanging them up in art galleries. I think he thinks I want to become some hotshot artist and do sketches of models. I told her it was just a hobby.
"See Karla, this was one a them old cameras where the picture came out right after the photo was taken. This is the only one he took."
You can tell they're the same people. They sit across from each other the same way, and the woman holds her coffee and the man holds his fork just like they do every morning. The only thing different is the scenery around them. Now the chairs are different and the pictures on the walls are a little bit faded from time. And maybe they've aged a bit too, but it's not as noticeable. The diner has changed more than they have.
"Those two made Claude famous. I don't think they even realize it."
***
Today I served them. This time the man ordered hash browns and the woman ordered oatmeal. I asked if they liked the meal, and they said it was fine. They didn't say anything else. I guess I've gotten used to it.
***
Today Ron served them. But today it was different. I was watching them as I cleaned the counter. The woman stopped eating, and she reached out and touched the man's arm. I've never seen them do that before. Ron saw it, and Cook noticed too, from his window over the grill. They were as surprised as I was.
They left a one hundred dollar tip. It was huge. Ron decided to split it up and give it to everyone who was on shift. I told him to keep my share. I didn't feel like I deserved it.
***
They didn't show up today. | They are reliable as the sun and moon, always arriving at the appointed hour. They hadn't aged a day, while their server Jared Stiles had gone from vibrant youth to doddering old age in the forty years since the beginning. The order never changed. The same flowers bloomed in the window box, never withering, nor showing any change at all as the season cycled from blistering summers to winters of blue snow and howling winds. Yet, every morning they were there.
They would arrive, Madeline with her flowing red hair that writhed with a life of its own and a smile that would shatter the soul of even the hardest cyborg. She wore a different dress every time each as stylish as the last and yet, she carried herself with the sort of restraint only somebody with tremendous power could manage. She exuded power and the other staff had come and gone over the last generation in awe of her elegant presence. She had but to wave a finger and the whole world seemed to move at her gesture. Jarad wanted to please Madeline because to do otherwise was unthinkable.
Barnet was different. He was small and delicate. Jared thought that if he looked away Barnet would become transparent. The other patrons didn't seem to notice Barnet at all, basking in the supreme radiance of Madeline. Yet, Jared knew Barnet was the stronger of the pair. He'd read the postings of Barnet's offworld exploits. Yet somehow, the pair always made it back to the diner by morning to eat in silence that toast, eggs, a rasher of bacon, and a cup of Earl Grey apiece. When the Great Pig Pox of '48 wiped out nearly every hog on Proxima 2B, they even brought new ovum from offworld and reseeded the culture tanks so that bacon would always be on the menu. It was a ritual, almost a holy sacrament, their daily meetings.
Yet, they never spoke as much as a word to one another, nor did they touch, kiss, embrace, or do any of the things that would make them human...until today.
It was a morning like any other. The suns had risen over the mountains and cast long beams of shifting light through the titansteel windows. The chequered tableclothes of white and blue held that light, that warmth, and cast it back onto the polished wood paneling. The silverware glinted in that same bicolor light and made Jarad's eyes water at the brilliance. Then they arrived outside the door. He phased through the door, as if he couldn't be bothered, while she pulled it open with her delicate restraint, as if she worried that she might rip it from its frame by accident.
He floated through the chair and sat in it, while she pulled hers out and sat down. The ground rumbled with her every step and the dishes rattled in the kitchen at her passing. He was ethereal while she was a juggernaut held just back from the edge of annihilation. Jarad wasted no time serving them. Jarad delivered the same meal he always did, while the rest of the staff watched on from inside the kitchen trembling. They would stay for precisely twenty minutes and then depart in the same way they arrived...until today.
They had just finished eating when she reached out with her hand, her index finger extended to touch Barnet on his left forearm. The shimmering man turned to look at Jared and spoke.
"It is time."
Then the two ship minds, each wearing avatars so they might walk among men, discarded those avatars and returned to what they had been doing a generation ago when Jared was just a young man. They waged war.
...and thus, Proxima 2B was no more. | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | My friends used to ask me how long they thought I could keep it going, but not anymore. They stopped caring decades ago. I knew they thought I was being silly, but I didn't care. This was important to me.
I glare at Margie over the steam rising from my flapjacks and her poached eggs, and she glares right back. The same damn dance we've performed every day for longer than I care to remember. In the morning at the diner; in the evenings when I get home from work; in bed at night; all weekend long, every weekend. A deafening roar of quiet blankets our lives.
One of my coworkers suggested I should call Guinness---longest silent treatment ever. I can't see the humor in it though. Even after all these years the anger, disappointment, and pain are raw.
I squint, just a little. Did Margie's lip just tremble, or am I imagining things? For forty years her face has been the paragon of stubbornness---an unflinching fortress of willful defiance.
No, it trembled again. I'm sure of it. It takes all of my strength to hide my excitement. Could this be it? Could today be the day the stalemate topples in the wake of my glorious victory?
Margie lowers her head and sighs. She takes a deep breath and looks up into my eyes. Her hand reaches out, and touches mine.
"Fine, you can get a damn color TV," she says.
Today is going to be a good day. | They are reliable as the sun and moon, always arriving at the appointed hour. They hadn't aged a day, while their server Jared Stiles had gone from vibrant youth to doddering old age in the forty years since the beginning. The order never changed. The same flowers bloomed in the window box, never withering, nor showing any change at all as the season cycled from blistering summers to winters of blue snow and howling winds. Yet, every morning they were there.
They would arrive, Madeline with her flowing red hair that writhed with a life of its own and a smile that would shatter the soul of even the hardest cyborg. She wore a different dress every time each as stylish as the last and yet, she carried herself with the sort of restraint only somebody with tremendous power could manage. She exuded power and the other staff had come and gone over the last generation in awe of her elegant presence. She had but to wave a finger and the whole world seemed to move at her gesture. Jarad wanted to please Madeline because to do otherwise was unthinkable.
Barnet was different. He was small and delicate. Jared thought that if he looked away Barnet would become transparent. The other patrons didn't seem to notice Barnet at all, basking in the supreme radiance of Madeline. Yet, Jared knew Barnet was the stronger of the pair. He'd read the postings of Barnet's offworld exploits. Yet somehow, the pair always made it back to the diner by morning to eat in silence that toast, eggs, a rasher of bacon, and a cup of Earl Grey apiece. When the Great Pig Pox of '48 wiped out nearly every hog on Proxima 2B, they even brought new ovum from offworld and reseeded the culture tanks so that bacon would always be on the menu. It was a ritual, almost a holy sacrament, their daily meetings.
Yet, they never spoke as much as a word to one another, nor did they touch, kiss, embrace, or do any of the things that would make them human...until today.
It was a morning like any other. The suns had risen over the mountains and cast long beams of shifting light through the titansteel windows. The chequered tableclothes of white and blue held that light, that warmth, and cast it back onto the polished wood paneling. The silverware glinted in that same bicolor light and made Jarad's eyes water at the brilliance. Then they arrived outside the door. He phased through the door, as if he couldn't be bothered, while she pulled it open with her delicate restraint, as if she worried that she might rip it from its frame by accident.
He floated through the chair and sat in it, while she pulled hers out and sat down. The ground rumbled with her every step and the dishes rattled in the kitchen at her passing. He was ethereal while she was a juggernaut held just back from the edge of annihilation. Jarad wasted no time serving them. Jarad delivered the same meal he always did, while the rest of the staff watched on from inside the kitchen trembling. They would stay for precisely twenty minutes and then depart in the same way they arrived...until today.
They had just finished eating when she reached out with her hand, her index finger extended to touch Barnet on his left forearm. The shimmering man turned to look at Jared and spoke.
"It is time."
Then the two ship minds, each wearing avatars so they might walk among men, discarded those avatars and returned to what they had been doing a generation ago when Jared was just a young man. They waged war.
...and thus, Proxima 2B was no more. | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | "I... I forgive you" she said touching his hand, tears streaming down her face. The man said not a word. He noded his head and stood up from the table. A broken smile crossed his face, then he turned around and walked out the door; alone for the first time, and never to return.
A few minutes later the waitress came by to refil her coffee. Ethel put her hand over the cup and motioned for the check. The waitress rolled her eyes "one egg, two pieces of white toast, and a cup of coffee. $4.95. Same thing you've had every day for 40 years. You can't keep eating the same thing here by yourself everyday Ethel. It isn't healthy. Why don't you bring someone with you tomorrow, and try something else from the menu for a change. "
"Maybe i can," said Ethel. "Maybe I will." It was the first time the waitress had ever seen her smile. | Suzie cautiously entered the room where her mother sat, head on the table, sobbing into her arms. She had been playing with her dolls when the phone had rang, but she knew something was the matter when her mother started talking softly.
"What's wrong, Mommy?"
She lifted her eyes up. "Oh sweetie..." She reached out, and they embraced. "Everything will be okay. Grandpa is with Grandma now." | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | Her clammy hand lifted off the the maroon high floss diner table, leaving a hand print of sweat. She reached for him. For, what felt like an eternity. Maybe it was.
40 years. 40 fuckin' years to get to that handshake.
Despite the gravity of the event, the man stayed non-plussed like an old mountain bear type person. The woman's saggy skin inched closer and closer to the mans ham hock wrists.
Finally; it happens! The man, the woman: they TOUCH. Bam its like electricty from the diner, the streets, and whole wide universe impacts to a minuscule area which is them.
Suddenly the woman, once haggard and sagging like beagle is beautiful again. She is ravenous!
The man has become the main portrait of virility. I'm talking axe-wielding, tree- trunked-armed motherfucker.
And just as quickly as it came it went. Bam. It was gone; and they were old and tired. They saved their love for 40 years, both aware of an unspeakable feeling and condensed all to a tiny moment.
| Suzie cautiously entered the room where her mother sat, head on the table, sobbing into her arms. She had been playing with her dolls when the phone had rang, but she knew something was the matter when her mother started talking softly.
"What's wrong, Mommy?"
She lifted her eyes up. "Oh sweetie..." She reached out, and they embraced. "Everything will be okay. Grandpa is with Grandma now." | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | The man jerks his hands away violently and furiously signs "please don't interrupt me."
The woman sighs and closes her eyes.
"It's going to be one of those days..." The man clumsily signs to himself. | Suzie cautiously entered the room where her mother sat, head on the table, sobbing into her arms. She had been playing with her dolls when the phone had rang, but she knew something was the matter when her mother started talking softly.
"What's wrong, Mommy?"
She lifted her eyes up. "Oh sweetie..." She reached out, and they embraced. "Everything will be okay. Grandpa is with Grandma now." | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | ######[](#dropcap)
It's so strange, watching them. I guess my coworkers have gotten used to it, but I'm new, and I notice too much. Forty years, they said. Forty years, and not a word to one another, just ordering their food and thanking their server.
***
They don't even read. I've worked here for a month, and I've seen so many of the older couples ignore each other to read newspapers or novels. The younger ones look at their phones or laptops or business reports. Somehow, that seems normal. These people have something to do, something important to them. Not this couple. They eat, and stare at each other, or glance around the diner from time to time.
***
They seem so much closer to each other than any other couple that comes to Casey's.
***
Today, the woman ordered chocolate-chip pancakes and the man asked for poached eggs. Then they handed back their menus and stared at each other again. It shouldn't be as creepy as it feels to me. The woman is old, but she has this soft, warm smile. The man has kind eyes. They both have grey hair, and the man's is thinning but it still looks neat and tidy.
***
They come in separately. Have I mentioned that? Usually the man comes in first, and the woman comes in ten minutes later when he's already gotten a table. It's always the same table too, the one where the sunlight shines straight through the window and melts the butter left out for toast. When the woman comes in, she sits at the waiting area until the man arrives. That's another thing I find odd. Maybe they're just old fashioned.
***
I tried sketching them once. Business was slow that day, and I went on break early. I hadn't been the one to serve them, but by now I know when to expect them: eight on the dot. I sat at the far end of the bar and waited for them to get settled. It wasn't my best work. That day it was cloudy, and so the light was all wrong. It made them seem sadder than they really were. I threw the paper away.
Then I tried again, on a day when the weather was better but there was still a slight fog rolling around from the rain that passed through the night before. Now that was my best work. The shading was perfect; I used so much of my pencil I was afraid it would run out before I was done. But it didn't. When it was done I wanted to frame it and give it to them as a gift of some kind, but I was still too nervous to talk to them.
***
Cook showed me an old photo of the couple from back in 1986. She said the photographer went on and got famous taking pictures and hanging them up in art galleries. I think he thinks I want to become some hotshot artist and do sketches of models. I told her it was just a hobby.
"See Karla, this was one a them old cameras where the picture came out right after the photo was taken. This is the only one he took."
You can tell they're the same people. They sit across from each other the same way, and the woman holds her coffee and the man holds his fork just like they do every morning. The only thing different is the scenery around them. Now the chairs are different and the pictures on the walls are a little bit faded from time. And maybe they've aged a bit too, but it's not as noticeable. The diner has changed more than they have.
"Those two made Claude famous. I don't think they even realize it."
***
Today I served them. This time the man ordered hash browns and the woman ordered oatmeal. I asked if they liked the meal, and they said it was fine. They didn't say anything else. I guess I've gotten used to it.
***
Today Ron served them. But today it was different. I was watching them as I cleaned the counter. The woman stopped eating, and she reached out and touched the man's arm. I've never seen them do that before. Ron saw it, and Cook noticed too, from his window over the grill. They were as surprised as I was.
They left a one hundred dollar tip. It was huge. Ron decided to split it up and give it to everyone who was on shift. I told him to keep my share. I didn't feel like I deserved it.
***
They didn't show up today. | Suzie cautiously entered the room where her mother sat, head on the table, sobbing into her arms. She had been playing with her dolls when the phone had rang, but she knew something was the matter when her mother started talking softly.
"What's wrong, Mommy?"
She lifted her eyes up. "Oh sweetie..." She reached out, and they embraced. "Everything will be okay. Grandpa is with Grandma now." | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | My friends used to ask me how long they thought I could keep it going, but not anymore. They stopped caring decades ago. I knew they thought I was being silly, but I didn't care. This was important to me.
I glare at Margie over the steam rising from my flapjacks and her poached eggs, and she glares right back. The same damn dance we've performed every day for longer than I care to remember. In the morning at the diner; in the evenings when I get home from work; in bed at night; all weekend long, every weekend. A deafening roar of quiet blankets our lives.
One of my coworkers suggested I should call Guinness---longest silent treatment ever. I can't see the humor in it though. Even after all these years the anger, disappointment, and pain are raw.
I squint, just a little. Did Margie's lip just tremble, or am I imagining things? For forty years her face has been the paragon of stubbornness---an unflinching fortress of willful defiance.
No, it trembled again. I'm sure of it. It takes all of my strength to hide my excitement. Could this be it? Could today be the day the stalemate topples in the wake of my glorious victory?
Margie lowers her head and sighs. She takes a deep breath and looks up into my eyes. Her hand reaches out, and touches mine.
"Fine, you can get a damn color TV," she says.
Today is going to be a good day. | Suzie cautiously entered the room where her mother sat, head on the table, sobbing into her arms. She had been playing with her dolls when the phone had rang, but she knew something was the matter when her mother started talking softly.
"What's wrong, Mommy?"
She lifted her eyes up. "Oh sweetie..." She reached out, and they embraced. "Everything will be okay. Grandpa is with Grandma now." | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | "I... I forgive you" she said touching his hand, tears streaming down her face. The man said not a word. He noded his head and stood up from the table. A broken smile crossed his face, then he turned around and walked out the door; alone for the first time, and never to return.
A few minutes later the waitress came by to refil her coffee. Ethel put her hand over the cup and motioned for the check. The waitress rolled her eyes "one egg, two pieces of white toast, and a cup of coffee. $4.95. Same thing you've had every day for 40 years. You can't keep eating the same thing here by yourself everyday Ethel. It isn't healthy. Why don't you bring someone with you tomorrow, and try something else from the menu for a change. "
"Maybe i can," said Ethel. "Maybe I will." It was the first time the waitress had ever seen her smile. | He kindly lets her know she's moving too fast and picks up the check and leaves without saying another word.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | Her clammy hand lifted off the the maroon high floss diner table, leaving a hand print of sweat. She reached for him. For, what felt like an eternity. Maybe it was.
40 years. 40 fuckin' years to get to that handshake.
Despite the gravity of the event, the man stayed non-plussed like an old mountain bear type person. The woman's saggy skin inched closer and closer to the mans ham hock wrists.
Finally; it happens! The man, the woman: they TOUCH. Bam its like electricty from the diner, the streets, and whole wide universe impacts to a minuscule area which is them.
Suddenly the woman, once haggard and sagging like beagle is beautiful again. She is ravenous!
The man has become the main portrait of virility. I'm talking axe-wielding, tree- trunked-armed motherfucker.
And just as quickly as it came it went. Bam. It was gone; and they were old and tired. They saved their love for 40 years, both aware of an unspeakable feeling and condensed all to a tiny moment.
| He kindly lets her know she's moving too fast and picks up the check and leaves without saying another word.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | The man jerks his hands away violently and furiously signs "please don't interrupt me."
The woman sighs and closes her eyes.
"It's going to be one of those days..." The man clumsily signs to himself. | He kindly lets her know she's moving too fast and picks up the check and leaves without saying another word.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | ######[](#dropcap)
It's so strange, watching them. I guess my coworkers have gotten used to it, but I'm new, and I notice too much. Forty years, they said. Forty years, and not a word to one another, just ordering their food and thanking their server.
***
They don't even read. I've worked here for a month, and I've seen so many of the older couples ignore each other to read newspapers or novels. The younger ones look at their phones or laptops or business reports. Somehow, that seems normal. These people have something to do, something important to them. Not this couple. They eat, and stare at each other, or glance around the diner from time to time.
***
They seem so much closer to each other than any other couple that comes to Casey's.
***
Today, the woman ordered chocolate-chip pancakes and the man asked for poached eggs. Then they handed back their menus and stared at each other again. It shouldn't be as creepy as it feels to me. The woman is old, but she has this soft, warm smile. The man has kind eyes. They both have grey hair, and the man's is thinning but it still looks neat and tidy.
***
They come in separately. Have I mentioned that? Usually the man comes in first, and the woman comes in ten minutes later when he's already gotten a table. It's always the same table too, the one where the sunlight shines straight through the window and melts the butter left out for toast. When the woman comes in, she sits at the waiting area until the man arrives. That's another thing I find odd. Maybe they're just old fashioned.
***
I tried sketching them once. Business was slow that day, and I went on break early. I hadn't been the one to serve them, but by now I know when to expect them: eight on the dot. I sat at the far end of the bar and waited for them to get settled. It wasn't my best work. That day it was cloudy, and so the light was all wrong. It made them seem sadder than they really were. I threw the paper away.
Then I tried again, on a day when the weather was better but there was still a slight fog rolling around from the rain that passed through the night before. Now that was my best work. The shading was perfect; I used so much of my pencil I was afraid it would run out before I was done. But it didn't. When it was done I wanted to frame it and give it to them as a gift of some kind, but I was still too nervous to talk to them.
***
Cook showed me an old photo of the couple from back in 1986. She said the photographer went on and got famous taking pictures and hanging them up in art galleries. I think he thinks I want to become some hotshot artist and do sketches of models. I told her it was just a hobby.
"See Karla, this was one a them old cameras where the picture came out right after the photo was taken. This is the only one he took."
You can tell they're the same people. They sit across from each other the same way, and the woman holds her coffee and the man holds his fork just like they do every morning. The only thing different is the scenery around them. Now the chairs are different and the pictures on the walls are a little bit faded from time. And maybe they've aged a bit too, but it's not as noticeable. The diner has changed more than they have.
"Those two made Claude famous. I don't think they even realize it."
***
Today I served them. This time the man ordered hash browns and the woman ordered oatmeal. I asked if they liked the meal, and they said it was fine. They didn't say anything else. I guess I've gotten used to it.
***
Today Ron served them. But today it was different. I was watching them as I cleaned the counter. The woman stopped eating, and she reached out and touched the man's arm. I've never seen them do that before. Ron saw it, and Cook noticed too, from his window over the grill. They were as surprised as I was.
They left a one hundred dollar tip. It was huge. Ron decided to split it up and give it to everyone who was on shift. I told him to keep my share. I didn't feel like I deserved it.
***
They didn't show up today. | He kindly lets her know she's moving too fast and picks up the check and leaves without saying another word.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | Her clammy hand lifted off the the maroon high floss diner table, leaving a hand print of sweat. She reached for him. For, what felt like an eternity. Maybe it was.
40 years. 40 fuckin' years to get to that handshake.
Despite the gravity of the event, the man stayed non-plussed like an old mountain bear type person. The woman's saggy skin inched closer and closer to the mans ham hock wrists.
Finally; it happens! The man, the woman: they TOUCH. Bam its like electricty from the diner, the streets, and whole wide universe impacts to a minuscule area which is them.
Suddenly the woman, once haggard and sagging like beagle is beautiful again. She is ravenous!
The man has become the main portrait of virility. I'm talking axe-wielding, tree- trunked-armed motherfucker.
And just as quickly as it came it went. Bam. It was gone; and they were old and tired. They saved their love for 40 years, both aware of an unspeakable feeling and condensed all to a tiny moment.
| Forty years. Forty years is a long time. The waitresses and cooks all knew them by sight, though no one was really sure of their names. Every morning, like clockwork they walk in around 9. Her 5 minutes before. Him 2 minutes after. Never exchanging words, just friendly and loving smiles. But lately, lately things have changed. The pretty dresses the woman always wore haven't been fitting right. Her hair hasn't been as neat and shiny. In fact she cut it very sort last month. She's been pale and drawn. Everyone has noticed but no one has dared asked her about anything but her order. Today, today was the first time anyone ever saw them touch. They held hands. The man bust into tears as if to confirm what everyone already knew. This would be their last breakfast together. She wouldn't be there tomorrow.
A few days later an obituary sits in a frame across from the man. The story reads of a young woman, only in her late fifties who ate breakfast everyday with the love of her life, even though they never exchanged a word. She died in her sleep of cancer, with the man by her side. They finally exchanged words on her deathbed. | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | The man jerks his hands away violently and furiously signs "please don't interrupt me."
The woman sighs and closes her eyes.
"It's going to be one of those days..." The man clumsily signs to himself. | Forty years. Forty years is a long time. The waitresses and cooks all knew them by sight, though no one was really sure of their names. Every morning, like clockwork they walk in around 9. Her 5 minutes before. Him 2 minutes after. Never exchanging words, just friendly and loving smiles. But lately, lately things have changed. The pretty dresses the woman always wore haven't been fitting right. Her hair hasn't been as neat and shiny. In fact she cut it very sort last month. She's been pale and drawn. Everyone has noticed but no one has dared asked her about anything but her order. Today, today was the first time anyone ever saw them touch. They held hands. The man bust into tears as if to confirm what everyone already knew. This would be their last breakfast together. She wouldn't be there tomorrow.
A few days later an obituary sits in a frame across from the man. The story reads of a young woman, only in her late fifties who ate breakfast everyday with the love of her life, even though they never exchanged a word. She died in her sleep of cancer, with the man by her side. They finally exchanged words on her deathbed. | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | ######[](#dropcap)
It's so strange, watching them. I guess my coworkers have gotten used to it, but I'm new, and I notice too much. Forty years, they said. Forty years, and not a word to one another, just ordering their food and thanking their server.
***
They don't even read. I've worked here for a month, and I've seen so many of the older couples ignore each other to read newspapers or novels. The younger ones look at their phones or laptops or business reports. Somehow, that seems normal. These people have something to do, something important to them. Not this couple. They eat, and stare at each other, or glance around the diner from time to time.
***
They seem so much closer to each other than any other couple that comes to Casey's.
***
Today, the woman ordered chocolate-chip pancakes and the man asked for poached eggs. Then they handed back their menus and stared at each other again. It shouldn't be as creepy as it feels to me. The woman is old, but she has this soft, warm smile. The man has kind eyes. They both have grey hair, and the man's is thinning but it still looks neat and tidy.
***
They come in separately. Have I mentioned that? Usually the man comes in first, and the woman comes in ten minutes later when he's already gotten a table. It's always the same table too, the one where the sunlight shines straight through the window and melts the butter left out for toast. When the woman comes in, she sits at the waiting area until the man arrives. That's another thing I find odd. Maybe they're just old fashioned.
***
I tried sketching them once. Business was slow that day, and I went on break early. I hadn't been the one to serve them, but by now I know when to expect them: eight on the dot. I sat at the far end of the bar and waited for them to get settled. It wasn't my best work. That day it was cloudy, and so the light was all wrong. It made them seem sadder than they really were. I threw the paper away.
Then I tried again, on a day when the weather was better but there was still a slight fog rolling around from the rain that passed through the night before. Now that was my best work. The shading was perfect; I used so much of my pencil I was afraid it would run out before I was done. But it didn't. When it was done I wanted to frame it and give it to them as a gift of some kind, but I was still too nervous to talk to them.
***
Cook showed me an old photo of the couple from back in 1986. She said the photographer went on and got famous taking pictures and hanging them up in art galleries. I think he thinks I want to become some hotshot artist and do sketches of models. I told her it was just a hobby.
"See Karla, this was one a them old cameras where the picture came out right after the photo was taken. This is the only one he took."
You can tell they're the same people. They sit across from each other the same way, and the woman holds her coffee and the man holds his fork just like they do every morning. The only thing different is the scenery around them. Now the chairs are different and the pictures on the walls are a little bit faded from time. And maybe they've aged a bit too, but it's not as noticeable. The diner has changed more than they have.
"Those two made Claude famous. I don't think they even realize it."
***
Today I served them. This time the man ordered hash browns and the woman ordered oatmeal. I asked if they liked the meal, and they said it was fine. They didn't say anything else. I guess I've gotten used to it.
***
Today Ron served them. But today it was different. I was watching them as I cleaned the counter. The woman stopped eating, and she reached out and touched the man's arm. I've never seen them do that before. Ron saw it, and Cook noticed too, from his window over the grill. They were as surprised as I was.
They left a one hundred dollar tip. It was huge. Ron decided to split it up and give it to everyone who was on shift. I told him to keep my share. I didn't feel like I deserved it.
***
They didn't show up today. | Forty years. Forty years is a long time. The waitresses and cooks all knew them by sight, though no one was really sure of their names. Every morning, like clockwork they walk in around 9. Her 5 minutes before. Him 2 minutes after. Never exchanging words, just friendly and loving smiles. But lately, lately things have changed. The pretty dresses the woman always wore haven't been fitting right. Her hair hasn't been as neat and shiny. In fact she cut it very sort last month. She's been pale and drawn. Everyone has noticed but no one has dared asked her about anything but her order. Today, today was the first time anyone ever saw them touch. They held hands. The man bust into tears as if to confirm what everyone already knew. This would be their last breakfast together. She wouldn't be there tomorrow.
A few days later an obituary sits in a frame across from the man. The story reads of a young woman, only in her late fifties who ate breakfast everyday with the love of her life, even though they never exchanged a word. She died in her sleep of cancer, with the man by her side. They finally exchanged words on her deathbed. | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | The man jerks his hands away violently and furiously signs "please don't interrupt me."
The woman sighs and closes her eyes.
"It's going to be one of those days..." The man clumsily signs to himself. | Its been 40 years since I started this and I'm not one to give up easily. Since I was a kid she has been trying to tell me like it is, and some say I should just drop it, but I need to know....
I walk into the diner, she's there, early as usual. I glance at the waitress who rolls her eyes. I chuckle and throw my arms out to my sides, "what?". I see my big sister sitting there waiting for me. As usual she says:
"Told you I'm not gonna lose."
"Lose at what? I'm just a curious person"
Right on cue she continues with our scripted dance as she laughs knowingly and says "Alright well sit and and we'll start. Now Biology is the study of life and it's my favorite class"
Usauly I lean forward and blurt out my part right away, but as remebering how everything feels so boring this time around I decided to keep her waiting by sipping on my water.
The ice cold water almost makes my breathe feel minty fresh. I give a sigh of relief and ask "why?"
"I don't know because maybe the teacher was nice?"
"Why?"
"He had two kids and was a good teacher so maybe he thinks thats the right way to be in the classroom"
"Why?"
"What do you mean? He probably cared about doing well at his job."
I stared deep into her eyeballs
"why"
"Hahha are you going to ask that all day"
"its just a question"
"OK why what"
shit..... I forgot. 40 years of asking why and I forgot what we were talking about. Usually I dream about the current subject of our conversation at night but last night i forgot and omg its all my fault i messed everything up... I blindly take a shot in the dark...:
"Why....?"
"You can't answer a question with a Question."
Whew, I was saved. Living in the moment is best, said the buddha or something idk "Why?"
"Idk its grammer"
Anger slowly rolled through me. I wanted to express what i felt to her. I realized she never know anything about me. This whole time I've been asking her about her life without ever giving her information about mine. Does she just ue me for attention? Does she care about me at all?
I get up on the table with tears rolling down my neck.
I pull it out of my jacket pocket and point it at her and she screams "No! Why?!"
After hhearing her say that word I jolted back into reality...
This all started with me just committing to a joke...omg what have i done.
MY sister picked up the gun and bent over towards me. She whispered, "there there, its ok little bro... I got you."
I look over and I see her pointing the gun in my face.
Bang.
"no more questions"
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | The man jerks his hands away violently and furiously signs "please don't interrupt me."
The woman sighs and closes her eyes.
"It's going to be one of those days..." The man clumsily signs to himself. | The city was colder than usual. William squinted as he trudged through the frozen fog. Far in the distance, at the end of the block, he saw the lights of the diner. As he approached, he thought of his past, everything he had been through to get to this moment, and the intricacy of it all. Had he not spotted this diner while he was in that greyhound he wouldn’t have gone here every day for so long. That moment of looking at the diner so long ago had only lasted a second, but it influenced every day of his life for the next forty years.
William felt blinded by the warm light glaring through the window to his dry eyes as he arrived at the door and pulled it open. It felt even heavier than yesterday. As he entered, he did not look around, he knew where he was going. He walked to the far side of the room, next to the window. A hot coffee was there already, waiting for him, along with the young woman across from him. He looked down into the spiralling void of his coffee. He took a sip, it tasted bitter, but he was tired, and he needed to stay awake for just a little longer. As he took his sip, he looked up at the woman across from him. She was beautiful, her face was smooth like the untouched surface of freshly made butterscotch, her ebony hair traced the side of her face down to her shoulders, where she wore a crème overcoat overtop of her light undershirt.
He pulled his face to look back up at hers. Since they had known each other, he had gotten more fragile and broken, but she had not. She had always been strong, the thing to hold him up through the hardest times of his life. Turning his head, William saw that the diner was starting to empty for the night. It was late, and he was very tired. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a light touch on his hand, as he turned, he saw it was the woman he had come to know very well over these many years. Her light touch turned to a grasp as she picked up his wrinkled hands in her soft palms. As she did this, her eyes met his, and even though he could not see her lips moving, William could hear her say “Let go.” Before he could respond, she was gone, and he could hear the bell ring as the door on the diner closed, and he found himself as the last person in the diner. Picking himself up, William pulled his wallet from his pocket and left a five-dollar bill on the table, like usual.
As he left the diner, he found the door swung open almost without him, light as a feather, and when he stepped out into the cold, it was no longer a bite, only a comforting chill to accompany him on his walk. As he started to leave, he saw in the distance the lights of a greyhound bus through the already lightening fog, and as the bus was about to pass, he stepped forward into it. He never felt a thing.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | The man jerks his hands away violently and furiously signs "please don't interrupt me."
The woman sighs and closes her eyes.
"It's going to be one of those days..." The man clumsily signs to himself. | "A man and a woman.. have met every morning for the last fourty years at a diner. While the teo seemed to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever.. the woman today reaches out and touches my hand.. "
"Wait, what!"
"What the.. what the hell Maurine! WHAT, ARE YOU A GIRL OR SUMTHIN" | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | The man jerks his hands away violently and furiously signs "please don't interrupt me."
The woman sighs and closes her eyes.
"It's going to be one of those days..." The man clumsily signs to himself. | It was the day after the funeral. For the past 50 years Debra and George had lived a happy life together. High school sweat hearts that never strayed, what her mom used to call "a modern miracle". She was so used to George's company that the first morning without him there was terrible. She awoke to no fresh coffee, no smile, no open newspaper. It was as though her entire life had fallen apart.
To make matters worse, all of her friends no longer spoke to her as they used to. It was only the next day but she was so sick of hearing, "I am so sorry for your loss", "If you need anything let me know." What she really wanted was for someone to talk to her she was her own person, not her husbands wife.
It was then that she realized that nobody that she knew would treat her like that, and that it would only lead to resentment. She went to the diner and there he was, the man who would smile, nod and occasionally wave at her. She walked up to his table and said, "Would you mind if I joined you?" to which he gleefully replied "It would be my pleasure." | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | ######[](#dropcap)
It's so strange, watching them. I guess my coworkers have gotten used to it, but I'm new, and I notice too much. Forty years, they said. Forty years, and not a word to one another, just ordering their food and thanking their server.
***
They don't even read. I've worked here for a month, and I've seen so many of the older couples ignore each other to read newspapers or novels. The younger ones look at their phones or laptops or business reports. Somehow, that seems normal. These people have something to do, something important to them. Not this couple. They eat, and stare at each other, or glance around the diner from time to time.
***
They seem so much closer to each other than any other couple that comes to Casey's.
***
Today, the woman ordered chocolate-chip pancakes and the man asked for poached eggs. Then they handed back their menus and stared at each other again. It shouldn't be as creepy as it feels to me. The woman is old, but she has this soft, warm smile. The man has kind eyes. They both have grey hair, and the man's is thinning but it still looks neat and tidy.
***
They come in separately. Have I mentioned that? Usually the man comes in first, and the woman comes in ten minutes later when he's already gotten a table. It's always the same table too, the one where the sunlight shines straight through the window and melts the butter left out for toast. When the woman comes in, she sits at the waiting area until the man arrives. That's another thing I find odd. Maybe they're just old fashioned.
***
I tried sketching them once. Business was slow that day, and I went on break early. I hadn't been the one to serve them, but by now I know when to expect them: eight on the dot. I sat at the far end of the bar and waited for them to get settled. It wasn't my best work. That day it was cloudy, and so the light was all wrong. It made them seem sadder than they really were. I threw the paper away.
Then I tried again, on a day when the weather was better but there was still a slight fog rolling around from the rain that passed through the night before. Now that was my best work. The shading was perfect; I used so much of my pencil I was afraid it would run out before I was done. But it didn't. When it was done I wanted to frame it and give it to them as a gift of some kind, but I was still too nervous to talk to them.
***
Cook showed me an old photo of the couple from back in 1986. She said the photographer went on and got famous taking pictures and hanging them up in art galleries. I think he thinks I want to become some hotshot artist and do sketches of models. I told her it was just a hobby.
"See Karla, this was one a them old cameras where the picture came out right after the photo was taken. This is the only one he took."
You can tell they're the same people. They sit across from each other the same way, and the woman holds her coffee and the man holds his fork just like they do every morning. The only thing different is the scenery around them. Now the chairs are different and the pictures on the walls are a little bit faded from time. And maybe they've aged a bit too, but it's not as noticeable. The diner has changed more than they have.
"Those two made Claude famous. I don't think they even realize it."
***
Today I served them. This time the man ordered hash browns and the woman ordered oatmeal. I asked if they liked the meal, and they said it was fine. They didn't say anything else. I guess I've gotten used to it.
***
Today Ron served them. But today it was different. I was watching them as I cleaned the counter. The woman stopped eating, and she reached out and touched the man's arm. I've never seen them do that before. Ron saw it, and Cook noticed too, from his window over the grill. They were as surprised as I was.
They left a one hundred dollar tip. It was huge. Ron decided to split it up and give it to everyone who was on shift. I told him to keep my share. I didn't feel like I deserved it.
***
They didn't show up today. | Does she finally recognize me? I thought to myself. Her hand was cold and wet and served as a reminder of how sweaty I was. A chill ran down my spine and made me physically shake. Her eyes were nervous and only today did she have trouble keeping eye contact. Forty years of silence and cowardice have led to this moment. This bone chillingly cold and painfully awkward interaction between two vulnerable people was beginning to feel like too much. Say something, I thought. Say something so I don't have to. She cleared her throat.
"I know it must not mean anything to you now..." her voice cracked between whispers and an oily smoker's mumble. Her brimmed hat hung just beneath her eyes as she stared at the cup of lukewarm coffee in front of her. She brushed a strand of greasy jet black hair from her cheek to the crevice behind her ear and pulled a cigarette out from her bra. This is it, I thought.
The silence continued. Her eyes swelled with tears and one dripped into her coffee, burning through film of cheap creamer that sat on top. I thought about my family. I thought about buying them flowers and hugging them and telling them of how sorry I was for my absence and telling them that everything will be alright. I never had that chance. Now I was facing the person who had taken them away from me.
"I was young and made a horrible mistake," she muttered, her eyes still fixated on the coffee. "You should never have had to live with that."
I wanted to clench my fists but the arthritis wouldn't let me. A deep and searing pain ran through my hand like hot needles driving themselves up my tendons. I thought about whiskey. It had been over three decades since I had touched the stuff. I reminded myself of how evil alcohol is by looking at her face. Her unusually weathered and sagging skin made it clear that she had not given up drinking after the accident. What a weak piece of shit, I thought.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | My friends used to ask me how long they thought I could keep it going, but not anymore. They stopped caring decades ago. I knew they thought I was being silly, but I didn't care. This was important to me.
I glare at Margie over the steam rising from my flapjacks and her poached eggs, and she glares right back. The same damn dance we've performed every day for longer than I care to remember. In the morning at the diner; in the evenings when I get home from work; in bed at night; all weekend long, every weekend. A deafening roar of quiet blankets our lives.
One of my coworkers suggested I should call Guinness---longest silent treatment ever. I can't see the humor in it though. Even after all these years the anger, disappointment, and pain are raw.
I squint, just a little. Did Margie's lip just tremble, or am I imagining things? For forty years her face has been the paragon of stubbornness---an unflinching fortress of willful defiance.
No, it trembled again. I'm sure of it. It takes all of my strength to hide my excitement. Could this be it? Could today be the day the stalemate topples in the wake of my glorious victory?
Margie lowers her head and sighs. She takes a deep breath and looks up into my eyes. Her hand reaches out, and touches mine.
"Fine, you can get a damn color TV," she says.
Today is going to be a good day. | Does she finally recognize me? I thought to myself. Her hand was cold and wet and served as a reminder of how sweaty I was. A chill ran down my spine and made me physically shake. Her eyes were nervous and only today did she have trouble keeping eye contact. Forty years of silence and cowardice have led to this moment. This bone chillingly cold and painfully awkward interaction between two vulnerable people was beginning to feel like too much. Say something, I thought. Say something so I don't have to. She cleared her throat.
"I know it must not mean anything to you now..." her voice cracked between whispers and an oily smoker's mumble. Her brimmed hat hung just beneath her eyes as she stared at the cup of lukewarm coffee in front of her. She brushed a strand of greasy jet black hair from her cheek to the crevice behind her ear and pulled a cigarette out from her bra. This is it, I thought.
The silence continued. Her eyes swelled with tears and one dripped into her coffee, burning through film of cheap creamer that sat on top. I thought about my family. I thought about buying them flowers and hugging them and telling them of how sorry I was for my absence and telling them that everything will be alright. I never had that chance. Now I was facing the person who had taken them away from me.
"I was young and made a horrible mistake," she muttered, her eyes still fixated on the coffee. "You should never have had to live with that."
I wanted to clench my fists but the arthritis wouldn't let me. A deep and searing pain ran through my hand like hot needles driving themselves up my tendons. I thought about whiskey. It had been over three decades since I had touched the stuff. I reminded myself of how evil alcohol is by looking at her face. Her unusually weathered and sagging skin made it clear that she had not given up drinking after the accident. What a weak piece of shit, I thought.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | It was a diner much like any other in that part of the city. There was a place to stop for food every ten steps you took on that street. She just knew the directions on foot and had relied on that to get her there every morning for the past forty years. It had gotten to the point that a friend had asked her, “Which diner?”
“Uh…” she had no idea.
It was late winter. There had been heavy snow all season. Cars drove through slush in the streets and she skidded on the sidewalks a few times. She slid one last time as she grasped the door to the diner. She forgot to look up to get the name. She had forgotten every day for months since the conversation with her friend.
She stepped inside and stomped the snow off her boots. She took off her jacket and turned left, heading to the table in the back corner by the window. He was already waiting there. He waited there every morning.
She was five minutes later than usual. She was a regularly a punctual person. Her breakfast was waiting for her – two eggs over-easy, brown toast, bacon, fruit. He had already finished his. He was sipping coffee. He didn’t look up from the newspaper.
She sat down across from him. She placed her jacket on the seat beside her. He put his paper down with one hand and his coffee down with the other. She picked up her fork and pushed a piece of bacon off her eggs. He looked at her. She didn’t look at him.
She ate silently. He watched her eat for only a moment then stared out the window, periodically sipping his coffee. It had gotten cold. He didn’t mind. He never opened his mouth once she arrived. The waitresses were used to it by now.
It was routine. They would wait for him to arrive and serve his regular breakfast with coffee. He always read the morning paper. They would wait ten minutes then prepare her breakfast. It was often ready by the time she arrived. They would wait twenty minutes after she was finished eating to give them their separate bills. They would pay separately, and leave separately.
She finished eating. She looked up at him. He had looked back at her already. She met frozen blue eyes. Sometimes they iced over further and turned grey if she stared long enough. He couldn’t even see the wrinkles in her face. He would always see her skin as plump and young and pretty.
He had grown out a beard over the last few years. It suited him but she sort of missed how he used to look. She almost felt cheated that he looked like a different person. It wasn’t fair for him to disguise himself, but she would always be able to find him in a crowd.
It started to hurt to look at her pained brown eyes. They seemed stained black with time. He wondered if she ever remarried. He doubted it.
Her heart sank when he looked away. She had started these staring contests out of spite. She had wanted to unsettle him. She had been frustrated to find the vow of silence was mutual. Over the years this all had become a gesture of affection for her. She had tried dating but her morning routine would always get in the way. He had never had another woman in his bed since Marjorie.
She studied his face even though he was looking at her hands now. His skin had gone leathery. She had never gotten to know what he had done for work after his time in jail. His hands were always rough and he always looked tired. She wondered if his hands were from labor work. She wondered if his fatigue was from work or from not sleeping well. She couldn’t sleep well since that night.
His coworkers said to drop this routine years ago. Her therapist had said the same. It’s not healthy, they had agreed.
But even in the muted light of a late February morning she was intoxicating. It was liquor in the evening and her in the morning. He could get by this way. She had her hobbies and her job to get her through her days. Every morning she met him there and they did this dance of observations and unspoken memories.
Today was different. She had been thinking about it for months, no, for years. She was stubborn and didn’t want to give him any freedom. At the same time, she had grown to love him. She would never admit that. But she had to acknowledge that despite her aggressive attitude the first morning and all those mornings years afterwards, he kept showing up. He was always there. Forty years.
She reached across the table and took his hand. His back straightened and he looked terrified. She hadn’t ever touched him. She only stared or didn’t stare.
Her hands were soft. Most people’s hands were soft compared to his. She felt how calloused they were and sighed inwardly. Her late husband’s hands had been rough like that.
“I think it’s time we stop this,” she said quietly.
He simply looked at her. She smiled gently. The only time he had ever seen her smile was nearly six years ago when a drunk man had an absurd argument with a waitress right next to him and she had thought it was funny. He had tried hard not to laugh too. He didn’t deserve to laugh.
“I think we should both stop coming here. And I think you should know…” she wasn’t sure if she could finish.
“But the homefries are so good,” he tentatively protested.
She laughed. He liked that. She felt shy then. He noticed.
“I forgive you,” she finished.
“You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t ever forgive me.”
His voice was stern. All conviction with no room for consolation. She flinched and drew her hand away.
“That’s not your choice,” she spat at him.
He wished she had never found him that morning. He wished she hadn’t been able to because he was in jail. He wished he had been punished more severely, that his lawyer hadn’t been so good. He wished he hadn’t started drinking again because if she knew about that, she would probably find some other way to make his life a living hell.
“I lost someone too,” he said, “and I don’t forgive myself. Why should I accept your forgiveness?”
She started putting her plate together, piling her garbage on top. “I won’t be coming back here,” she said.
He watched her put her jacket on. She went to the front counter and payed her bill. She took one last glance back at him. Even with her hair greyed and cut shorter, even with her wrinkles and her colourless clothing and her tired posture, he still saw the same woman from forty years ago. The same tear-stained, maddened woman that found him in a diner five years after a terrible accident. The same woman whose husband he took away from her. The same woman that looked just a bit too much like Marjorie, who was in the passenger seat, who never wore a seat belt. Times were different back then.
He watched her go. He still went to the diner every morning for a few months. He stopped drinking. She never came back.
| Does she finally recognize me? I thought to myself. Her hand was cold and wet and served as a reminder of how sweaty I was. A chill ran down my spine and made me physically shake. Her eyes were nervous and only today did she have trouble keeping eye contact. Forty years of silence and cowardice have led to this moment. This bone chillingly cold and painfully awkward interaction between two vulnerable people was beginning to feel like too much. Say something, I thought. Say something so I don't have to. She cleared her throat.
"I know it must not mean anything to you now..." her voice cracked between whispers and an oily smoker's mumble. Her brimmed hat hung just beneath her eyes as she stared at the cup of lukewarm coffee in front of her. She brushed a strand of greasy jet black hair from her cheek to the crevice behind her ear and pulled a cigarette out from her bra. This is it, I thought.
The silence continued. Her eyes swelled with tears and one dripped into her coffee, burning through film of cheap creamer that sat on top. I thought about my family. I thought about buying them flowers and hugging them and telling them of how sorry I was for my absence and telling them that everything will be alright. I never had that chance. Now I was facing the person who had taken them away from me.
"I was young and made a horrible mistake," she muttered, her eyes still fixated on the coffee. "You should never have had to live with that."
I wanted to clench my fists but the arthritis wouldn't let me. A deep and searing pain ran through my hand like hot needles driving themselves up my tendons. I thought about whiskey. It had been over three decades since I had touched the stuff. I reminded myself of how evil alcohol is by looking at her face. Her unusually weathered and sagging skin made it clear that she had not given up drinking after the accident. What a weak piece of shit, I thought.
| |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | ######[](#dropcap)
It's so strange, watching them. I guess my coworkers have gotten used to it, but I'm new, and I notice too much. Forty years, they said. Forty years, and not a word to one another, just ordering their food and thanking their server.
***
They don't even read. I've worked here for a month, and I've seen so many of the older couples ignore each other to read newspapers or novels. The younger ones look at their phones or laptops or business reports. Somehow, that seems normal. These people have something to do, something important to them. Not this couple. They eat, and stare at each other, or glance around the diner from time to time.
***
They seem so much closer to each other than any other couple that comes to Casey's.
***
Today, the woman ordered chocolate-chip pancakes and the man asked for poached eggs. Then they handed back their menus and stared at each other again. It shouldn't be as creepy as it feels to me. The woman is old, but she has this soft, warm smile. The man has kind eyes. They both have grey hair, and the man's is thinning but it still looks neat and tidy.
***
They come in separately. Have I mentioned that? Usually the man comes in first, and the woman comes in ten minutes later when he's already gotten a table. It's always the same table too, the one where the sunlight shines straight through the window and melts the butter left out for toast. When the woman comes in, she sits at the waiting area until the man arrives. That's another thing I find odd. Maybe they're just old fashioned.
***
I tried sketching them once. Business was slow that day, and I went on break early. I hadn't been the one to serve them, but by now I know when to expect them: eight on the dot. I sat at the far end of the bar and waited for them to get settled. It wasn't my best work. That day it was cloudy, and so the light was all wrong. It made them seem sadder than they really were. I threw the paper away.
Then I tried again, on a day when the weather was better but there was still a slight fog rolling around from the rain that passed through the night before. Now that was my best work. The shading was perfect; I used so much of my pencil I was afraid it would run out before I was done. But it didn't. When it was done I wanted to frame it and give it to them as a gift of some kind, but I was still too nervous to talk to them.
***
Cook showed me an old photo of the couple from back in 1986. She said the photographer went on and got famous taking pictures and hanging them up in art galleries. I think he thinks I want to become some hotshot artist and do sketches of models. I told her it was just a hobby.
"See Karla, this was one a them old cameras where the picture came out right after the photo was taken. This is the only one he took."
You can tell they're the same people. They sit across from each other the same way, and the woman holds her coffee and the man holds his fork just like they do every morning. The only thing different is the scenery around them. Now the chairs are different and the pictures on the walls are a little bit faded from time. And maybe they've aged a bit too, but it's not as noticeable. The diner has changed more than they have.
"Those two made Claude famous. I don't think they even realize it."
***
Today I served them. This time the man ordered hash browns and the woman ordered oatmeal. I asked if they liked the meal, and they said it was fine. They didn't say anything else. I guess I've gotten used to it.
***
Today Ron served them. But today it was different. I was watching them as I cleaned the counter. The woman stopped eating, and she reached out and touched the man's arm. I've never seen them do that before. Ron saw it, and Cook noticed too, from his window over the grill. They were as surprised as I was.
They left a one hundred dollar tip. It was huge. Ron decided to split it up and give it to everyone who was on shift. I told him to keep my share. I didn't feel like I deserved it.
***
They didn't show up today. | Anthony looked back into those deep, blue eyes as her hand touched his. He had secretly dreamed of this day for nearly forty years, the day where she would finally notice him. She was his entire reason for visiting this diner. There were nights he was kept awake by the fear that, were the diner ever to close, he had no reliable way of finding her again.
For forty years he had watched her, bewitched by her beauty. He'd always had problems with anxiety and social interaction. In fact, he'd spent the first twenty years of his life suffering from severe agoraphobia, always fearful of venturing outside. But the very first time he ever overcame that fear was the first time he saw her.
The diner itself was located directly across the road from his apartment, a squat, silver building you typically expected to see in an old 50's film, with Greasers sat by the counter drinking milkshakes with their sweethearts. But she, like him, never sat at the counter. She always sat in the same seat, alone in the back corner by the restroom door, reading. Always reading. Her long raven hair draped over one shoulder, a book always grasped lightly between her pale hands. Anthony had always dreamed of one day approaching her and asking what she was reading. He'd spent every evening for the past four decades reading various books that had been delivered to his home in the hope that one day they would both share a common interest.
And now, she was here. Beside him, her pale, cool, right hand lightly resting upon his left, gazing deeply into his eyes. She opened her red ruby lips to speak, but something stopped her. A look of sadness seemed to flash across her face. Did she regret having to introduce herself? Had she, like him, spent forty years wishing she could talk to him? Had she hoped he would have taken that first, daunting step?
But just as suddenly as that sorrowful look had appeared on her features, it was gone, replaced with a smile. A smile that continued to grow wider and wider until Anthony could almost focus on nothing else. He realised that her hand seemed colder now and he looked down. The coldness seemed to spread from her finger tips until it burned with a pain that carried along the back of his hand and up the length of his arm. He watched in confusion as the skin began to pull back, as her fingernails fell from away from fleshless bone as, layer by layer, her flesh was stripped away, receding into some unseen nowhere place.
A fear took a hold of him and Anthony could feel his heart begin to hammer within his chest. Frozen, he could do nothing more but look into her eyes. He realised his mistake almost immediately. It had not merely been a look of sorrow that he had noticed, but also a look of pity, a look that remained as she continued to smile, so broadly now that a tear began to run from the corners of her mouth and encircle her skull. Her hair, which had originally stopped just beneath the nape of her neck, pulled back into her scalp, like long, obsidian worms digging into her skull to escape the light. Her blue eyes began to darken, shifting into what first appeared to be a more hazel pigment, before turning entirely black.
No, not black. Gone. Never there to begin with, just two empty sockets. And the skin, hair, sinew, muscle and tissue continued to shrink away until all that remained was a skeleton, draped in the same black dress the Raven-haired Woman had worn every day for nearly half a century. All around Anthony, the diner seemed to follow her example, counter tops, tables, chairs and even people all shrinking away, absorbed into the walls, the floor, the ceiling. The shifting walls pressed closer and began to enclose him, the new colours becoming more and more familiar until living room furniture began to appear. His furniture. All around him, the diner twisted, contorted and vanished, leaving only the interior of his apartment behind.
Questions tried to make their way from the recesses of his confused mind. Where had the diner gone? Had he moved? Had she moved him? Had he even gone to the diner today? But he couldn't focus. The chilling pain that ran from her hand and up the length of his arm had made it's way to his chest and he was suddenly finding it hard to breathe. He looked into the hollow pits of the human skull that stared back at him, any ability it had to display sorrow or pity was long since gone. He wanted to ask her what was happening, but the effort was too great.
All he could do was look into that ghastly visage as she spoke to him with words that were neither sound nor thought. Words that neither pierced nor enveloped him but rather came from a place deep within himself, a place he had never known before, yet he had always been aware of the entirety of his life. It was from this place that she spoke three, simple words to him as his apartment began to fade away and the pain began to subside.
"It is time." | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | My friends used to ask me how long they thought I could keep it going, but not anymore. They stopped caring decades ago. I knew they thought I was being silly, but I didn't care. This was important to me.
I glare at Margie over the steam rising from my flapjacks and her poached eggs, and she glares right back. The same damn dance we've performed every day for longer than I care to remember. In the morning at the diner; in the evenings when I get home from work; in bed at night; all weekend long, every weekend. A deafening roar of quiet blankets our lives.
One of my coworkers suggested I should call Guinness---longest silent treatment ever. I can't see the humor in it though. Even after all these years the anger, disappointment, and pain are raw.
I squint, just a little. Did Margie's lip just tremble, or am I imagining things? For forty years her face has been the paragon of stubbornness---an unflinching fortress of willful defiance.
No, it trembled again. I'm sure of it. It takes all of my strength to hide my excitement. Could this be it? Could today be the day the stalemate topples in the wake of my glorious victory?
Margie lowers her head and sighs. She takes a deep breath and looks up into my eyes. Her hand reaches out, and touches mine.
"Fine, you can get a damn color TV," she says.
Today is going to be a good day. | Anthony looked back into those deep, blue eyes as her hand touched his. He had secretly dreamed of this day for nearly forty years, the day where she would finally notice him. She was his entire reason for visiting this diner. There were nights he was kept awake by the fear that, were the diner ever to close, he had no reliable way of finding her again.
For forty years he had watched her, bewitched by her beauty. He'd always had problems with anxiety and social interaction. In fact, he'd spent the first twenty years of his life suffering from severe agoraphobia, always fearful of venturing outside. But the very first time he ever overcame that fear was the first time he saw her.
The diner itself was located directly across the road from his apartment, a squat, silver building you typically expected to see in an old 50's film, with Greasers sat by the counter drinking milkshakes with their sweethearts. But she, like him, never sat at the counter. She always sat in the same seat, alone in the back corner by the restroom door, reading. Always reading. Her long raven hair draped over one shoulder, a book always grasped lightly between her pale hands. Anthony had always dreamed of one day approaching her and asking what she was reading. He'd spent every evening for the past four decades reading various books that had been delivered to his home in the hope that one day they would both share a common interest.
And now, she was here. Beside him, her pale, cool, right hand lightly resting upon his left, gazing deeply into his eyes. She opened her red ruby lips to speak, but something stopped her. A look of sadness seemed to flash across her face. Did she regret having to introduce herself? Had she, like him, spent forty years wishing she could talk to him? Had she hoped he would have taken that first, daunting step?
But just as suddenly as that sorrowful look had appeared on her features, it was gone, replaced with a smile. A smile that continued to grow wider and wider until Anthony could almost focus on nothing else. He realised that her hand seemed colder now and he looked down. The coldness seemed to spread from her finger tips until it burned with a pain that carried along the back of his hand and up the length of his arm. He watched in confusion as the skin began to pull back, as her fingernails fell from away from fleshless bone as, layer by layer, her flesh was stripped away, receding into some unseen nowhere place.
A fear took a hold of him and Anthony could feel his heart begin to hammer within his chest. Frozen, he could do nothing more but look into her eyes. He realised his mistake almost immediately. It had not merely been a look of sorrow that he had noticed, but also a look of pity, a look that remained as she continued to smile, so broadly now that a tear began to run from the corners of her mouth and encircle her skull. Her hair, which had originally stopped just beneath the nape of her neck, pulled back into her scalp, like long, obsidian worms digging into her skull to escape the light. Her blue eyes began to darken, shifting into what first appeared to be a more hazel pigment, before turning entirely black.
No, not black. Gone. Never there to begin with, just two empty sockets. And the skin, hair, sinew, muscle and tissue continued to shrink away until all that remained was a skeleton, draped in the same black dress the Raven-haired Woman had worn every day for nearly half a century. All around Anthony, the diner seemed to follow her example, counter tops, tables, chairs and even people all shrinking away, absorbed into the walls, the floor, the ceiling. The shifting walls pressed closer and began to enclose him, the new colours becoming more and more familiar until living room furniture began to appear. His furniture. All around him, the diner twisted, contorted and vanished, leaving only the interior of his apartment behind.
Questions tried to make their way from the recesses of his confused mind. Where had the diner gone? Had he moved? Had she moved him? Had he even gone to the diner today? But he couldn't focus. The chilling pain that ran from her hand and up the length of his arm had made it's way to his chest and he was suddenly finding it hard to breathe. He looked into the hollow pits of the human skull that stared back at him, any ability it had to display sorrow or pity was long since gone. He wanted to ask her what was happening, but the effort was too great.
All he could do was look into that ghastly visage as she spoke to him with words that were neither sound nor thought. Words that neither pierced nor enveloped him but rather came from a place deep within himself, a place he had never known before, yet he had always been aware of the entirety of his life. It was from this place that she spoke three, simple words to him as his apartment began to fade away and the pain began to subside.
"It is time." | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | It was a diner much like any other in that part of the city. There was a place to stop for food every ten steps you took on that street. She just knew the directions on foot and had relied on that to get her there every morning for the past forty years. It had gotten to the point that a friend had asked her, “Which diner?”
“Uh…” she had no idea.
It was late winter. There had been heavy snow all season. Cars drove through slush in the streets and she skidded on the sidewalks a few times. She slid one last time as she grasped the door to the diner. She forgot to look up to get the name. She had forgotten every day for months since the conversation with her friend.
She stepped inside and stomped the snow off her boots. She took off her jacket and turned left, heading to the table in the back corner by the window. He was already waiting there. He waited there every morning.
She was five minutes later than usual. She was a regularly a punctual person. Her breakfast was waiting for her – two eggs over-easy, brown toast, bacon, fruit. He had already finished his. He was sipping coffee. He didn’t look up from the newspaper.
She sat down across from him. She placed her jacket on the seat beside her. He put his paper down with one hand and his coffee down with the other. She picked up her fork and pushed a piece of bacon off her eggs. He looked at her. She didn’t look at him.
She ate silently. He watched her eat for only a moment then stared out the window, periodically sipping his coffee. It had gotten cold. He didn’t mind. He never opened his mouth once she arrived. The waitresses were used to it by now.
It was routine. They would wait for him to arrive and serve his regular breakfast with coffee. He always read the morning paper. They would wait ten minutes then prepare her breakfast. It was often ready by the time she arrived. They would wait twenty minutes after she was finished eating to give them their separate bills. They would pay separately, and leave separately.
She finished eating. She looked up at him. He had looked back at her already. She met frozen blue eyes. Sometimes they iced over further and turned grey if she stared long enough. He couldn’t even see the wrinkles in her face. He would always see her skin as plump and young and pretty.
He had grown out a beard over the last few years. It suited him but she sort of missed how he used to look. She almost felt cheated that he looked like a different person. It wasn’t fair for him to disguise himself, but she would always be able to find him in a crowd.
It started to hurt to look at her pained brown eyes. They seemed stained black with time. He wondered if she ever remarried. He doubted it.
Her heart sank when he looked away. She had started these staring contests out of spite. She had wanted to unsettle him. She had been frustrated to find the vow of silence was mutual. Over the years this all had become a gesture of affection for her. She had tried dating but her morning routine would always get in the way. He had never had another woman in his bed since Marjorie.
She studied his face even though he was looking at her hands now. His skin had gone leathery. She had never gotten to know what he had done for work after his time in jail. His hands were always rough and he always looked tired. She wondered if his hands were from labor work. She wondered if his fatigue was from work or from not sleeping well. She couldn’t sleep well since that night.
His coworkers said to drop this routine years ago. Her therapist had said the same. It’s not healthy, they had agreed.
But even in the muted light of a late February morning she was intoxicating. It was liquor in the evening and her in the morning. He could get by this way. She had her hobbies and her job to get her through her days. Every morning she met him there and they did this dance of observations and unspoken memories.
Today was different. She had been thinking about it for months, no, for years. She was stubborn and didn’t want to give him any freedom. At the same time, she had grown to love him. She would never admit that. But she had to acknowledge that despite her aggressive attitude the first morning and all those mornings years afterwards, he kept showing up. He was always there. Forty years.
She reached across the table and took his hand. His back straightened and he looked terrified. She hadn’t ever touched him. She only stared or didn’t stare.
Her hands were soft. Most people’s hands were soft compared to his. She felt how calloused they were and sighed inwardly. Her late husband’s hands had been rough like that.
“I think it’s time we stop this,” she said quietly.
He simply looked at her. She smiled gently. The only time he had ever seen her smile was nearly six years ago when a drunk man had an absurd argument with a waitress right next to him and she had thought it was funny. He had tried hard not to laugh too. He didn’t deserve to laugh.
“I think we should both stop coming here. And I think you should know…” she wasn’t sure if she could finish.
“But the homefries are so good,” he tentatively protested.
She laughed. He liked that. She felt shy then. He noticed.
“I forgive you,” she finished.
“You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t ever forgive me.”
His voice was stern. All conviction with no room for consolation. She flinched and drew her hand away.
“That’s not your choice,” she spat at him.
He wished she had never found him that morning. He wished she hadn’t been able to because he was in jail. He wished he had been punished more severely, that his lawyer hadn’t been so good. He wished he hadn’t started drinking again because if she knew about that, she would probably find some other way to make his life a living hell.
“I lost someone too,” he said, “and I don’t forgive myself. Why should I accept your forgiveness?”
She started putting her plate together, piling her garbage on top. “I won’t be coming back here,” she said.
He watched her put her jacket on. She went to the front counter and payed her bill. She took one last glance back at him. Even with her hair greyed and cut shorter, even with her wrinkles and her colourless clothing and her tired posture, he still saw the same woman from forty years ago. The same tear-stained, maddened woman that found him in a diner five years after a terrible accident. The same woman whose husband he took away from her. The same woman that looked just a bit too much like Marjorie, who was in the passenger seat, who never wore a seat belt. Times were different back then.
He watched her go. He still went to the diner every morning for a few months. He stopped drinking. She never came back.
| Anthony looked back into those deep, blue eyes as her hand touched his. He had secretly dreamed of this day for nearly forty years, the day where she would finally notice him. She was his entire reason for visiting this diner. There were nights he was kept awake by the fear that, were the diner ever to close, he had no reliable way of finding her again.
For forty years he had watched her, bewitched by her beauty. He'd always had problems with anxiety and social interaction. In fact, he'd spent the first twenty years of his life suffering from severe agoraphobia, always fearful of venturing outside. But the very first time he ever overcame that fear was the first time he saw her.
The diner itself was located directly across the road from his apartment, a squat, silver building you typically expected to see in an old 50's film, with Greasers sat by the counter drinking milkshakes with their sweethearts. But she, like him, never sat at the counter. She always sat in the same seat, alone in the back corner by the restroom door, reading. Always reading. Her long raven hair draped over one shoulder, a book always grasped lightly between her pale hands. Anthony had always dreamed of one day approaching her and asking what she was reading. He'd spent every evening for the past four decades reading various books that had been delivered to his home in the hope that one day they would both share a common interest.
And now, she was here. Beside him, her pale, cool, right hand lightly resting upon his left, gazing deeply into his eyes. She opened her red ruby lips to speak, but something stopped her. A look of sadness seemed to flash across her face. Did she regret having to introduce herself? Had she, like him, spent forty years wishing she could talk to him? Had she hoped he would have taken that first, daunting step?
But just as suddenly as that sorrowful look had appeared on her features, it was gone, replaced with a smile. A smile that continued to grow wider and wider until Anthony could almost focus on nothing else. He realised that her hand seemed colder now and he looked down. The coldness seemed to spread from her finger tips until it burned with a pain that carried along the back of his hand and up the length of his arm. He watched in confusion as the skin began to pull back, as her fingernails fell from away from fleshless bone as, layer by layer, her flesh was stripped away, receding into some unseen nowhere place.
A fear took a hold of him and Anthony could feel his heart begin to hammer within his chest. Frozen, he could do nothing more but look into her eyes. He realised his mistake almost immediately. It had not merely been a look of sorrow that he had noticed, but also a look of pity, a look that remained as she continued to smile, so broadly now that a tear began to run from the corners of her mouth and encircle her skull. Her hair, which had originally stopped just beneath the nape of her neck, pulled back into her scalp, like long, obsidian worms digging into her skull to escape the light. Her blue eyes began to darken, shifting into what first appeared to be a more hazel pigment, before turning entirely black.
No, not black. Gone. Never there to begin with, just two empty sockets. And the skin, hair, sinew, muscle and tissue continued to shrink away until all that remained was a skeleton, draped in the same black dress the Raven-haired Woman had worn every day for nearly half a century. All around Anthony, the diner seemed to follow her example, counter tops, tables, chairs and even people all shrinking away, absorbed into the walls, the floor, the ceiling. The shifting walls pressed closer and began to enclose him, the new colours becoming more and more familiar until living room furniture began to appear. His furniture. All around him, the diner twisted, contorted and vanished, leaving only the interior of his apartment behind.
Questions tried to make their way from the recesses of his confused mind. Where had the diner gone? Had he moved? Had she moved him? Had he even gone to the diner today? But he couldn't focus. The chilling pain that ran from her hand and up the length of his arm had made it's way to his chest and he was suddenly finding it hard to breathe. He looked into the hollow pits of the human skull that stared back at him, any ability it had to display sorrow or pity was long since gone. He wanted to ask her what was happening, but the effort was too great.
All he could do was look into that ghastly visage as she spoke to him with words that were neither sound nor thought. Words that neither pierced nor enveloped him but rather came from a place deep within himself, a place he had never known before, yet he had always been aware of the entirety of his life. It was from this place that she spoke three, simple words to him as his apartment began to fade away and the pain began to subside.
"It is time." | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | ######[](#dropcap)
It's so strange, watching them. I guess my coworkers have gotten used to it, but I'm new, and I notice too much. Forty years, they said. Forty years, and not a word to one another, just ordering their food and thanking their server.
***
They don't even read. I've worked here for a month, and I've seen so many of the older couples ignore each other to read newspapers or novels. The younger ones look at their phones or laptops or business reports. Somehow, that seems normal. These people have something to do, something important to them. Not this couple. They eat, and stare at each other, or glance around the diner from time to time.
***
They seem so much closer to each other than any other couple that comes to Casey's.
***
Today, the woman ordered chocolate-chip pancakes and the man asked for poached eggs. Then they handed back their menus and stared at each other again. It shouldn't be as creepy as it feels to me. The woman is old, but she has this soft, warm smile. The man has kind eyes. They both have grey hair, and the man's is thinning but it still looks neat and tidy.
***
They come in separately. Have I mentioned that? Usually the man comes in first, and the woman comes in ten minutes later when he's already gotten a table. It's always the same table too, the one where the sunlight shines straight through the window and melts the butter left out for toast. When the woman comes in, she sits at the waiting area until the man arrives. That's another thing I find odd. Maybe they're just old fashioned.
***
I tried sketching them once. Business was slow that day, and I went on break early. I hadn't been the one to serve them, but by now I know when to expect them: eight on the dot. I sat at the far end of the bar and waited for them to get settled. It wasn't my best work. That day it was cloudy, and so the light was all wrong. It made them seem sadder than they really were. I threw the paper away.
Then I tried again, on a day when the weather was better but there was still a slight fog rolling around from the rain that passed through the night before. Now that was my best work. The shading was perfect; I used so much of my pencil I was afraid it would run out before I was done. But it didn't. When it was done I wanted to frame it and give it to them as a gift of some kind, but I was still too nervous to talk to them.
***
Cook showed me an old photo of the couple from back in 1986. She said the photographer went on and got famous taking pictures and hanging them up in art galleries. I think he thinks I want to become some hotshot artist and do sketches of models. I told her it was just a hobby.
"See Karla, this was one a them old cameras where the picture came out right after the photo was taken. This is the only one he took."
You can tell they're the same people. They sit across from each other the same way, and the woman holds her coffee and the man holds his fork just like they do every morning. The only thing different is the scenery around them. Now the chairs are different and the pictures on the walls are a little bit faded from time. And maybe they've aged a bit too, but it's not as noticeable. The diner has changed more than they have.
"Those two made Claude famous. I don't think they even realize it."
***
Today I served them. This time the man ordered hash browns and the woman ordered oatmeal. I asked if they liked the meal, and they said it was fine. They didn't say anything else. I guess I've gotten used to it.
***
Today Ron served them. But today it was different. I was watching them as I cleaned the counter. The woman stopped eating, and she reached out and touched the man's arm. I've never seen them do that before. Ron saw it, and Cook noticed too, from his window over the grill. They were as surprised as I was.
They left a one hundred dollar tip. It was huge. Ron decided to split it up and give it to everyone who was on shift. I told him to keep my share. I didn't feel like I deserved it.
***
They didn't show up today. | The photographs overflowed the walls of the diner, records of the passing time.
The ones by the kitchen were the oldest. You can always tell an old photo. The colours had faded to a sun dyed yellow, and the perched precariously on the wall like nicotine stained teeth clinging to the mouth of an old smoker.
The old photos made her conscious of her age, of how much time had passed - and of what an interesting life she'd had. She was in each of them, of course. It was her diner. Every photo showed her with a different patron of Mabel's Tennessee Diner. Herbie Hancock, Neil Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, even the King himself - they'd all come to down just to try some of Mabel's famous walnut and boysenberry pancakes.
The diner was nearly empty that morning, like it had been most mornings since they had finished the new bypass. Only Bob sat at the counter, humming along to the strains of the Great Satchmo coming from the jukebox. Mabel notiched that he hadn't managed to finish his pancake again. In his prime, he had been the undefeated champion in the Annual Pancake Eating contest. But that had been decades ago, and since his Dora passed away last away last year... well, she kept an eye out for him each morning, but she couldn't help wondering how many more she would see him for. Ninety-one, this February past.
The old clock struck eight, and Mabel suddenly started. Where was Tweedie?
He had showed up on the first morning she had opened, Janurary 13, 1976, and came in at precisely 7:55 every day. He drank a cup of coffee, put the exact amount of change down on, and left at 8:05. A very polite gent, always doffed his tweed hat (that was where she had got her name for him), but he never said a word. Just sat there for 10 minutes at the same time every day, drinking his coffee.
But today Tweedie had not appeared.
"Say, Bob, where's that old-," she began.
Before she could finish, the door crashed open. The tweed hatted man fell through and slid across the floor of the diner to end up in a pile of lanky limbs at her feet.
"Oh, Mister, are you alright?" Mabel asked.
The man shot to his feet. His eyes were wild.
"Quick, don't just stand there," he said. "They're coming."
Mabel was surprised to find that he had a British accent. In the 80's she had spent several years trying to find out where abouts he lived in the town, even hiring a private investigator to follow him, but to no avail. No small feat in a town like Springfield, Tennessee, pop. 251.
"I'm sorry," Mabel said, "I don't follow. Who's coming?"
"Why, the Ice Warriors, of course."
"I don't like your tone, Mister-"
"Doctor," he interrupted, impatiently.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Doctor," he repeated. "Not Mister."
"I don't care if you're a professor," Mabel said. "If you think you can come in here and spout some baloney about icy soldiers, then you're trying to kid the wrong woman, Mr Doctor."
"We don't have time for this," the man said. "They'll be here in two minutes. It's a good thing they're late. Typical, really, the Dechronometer works fine for 14610 trips in a row, and then it blows up on the very day that the time rift opens up."
Mabel gave him her best unamused expression. It had stopped Bill Clinton's wandering hands back in the day, but this man didn't even seem to notice.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"I'm the Doctor," he said. "Do try to keep up. I got a note that a time rift would open up in your shop at 8am, but unfortunately I spilt tea on the year. So I've had to come every day just to find the right one. Unfortunately, the Ice Warriors must have known about the tear, because they managed to get through before I could close it."
"That's it," she said. "Get out."
A blast of wind rattled the door. A chilling draft slipped in through the cracks, and the door slowly turned a frozen white. Then it shattered into icy fragments.
The Doctor turned to her. "Actually, would you mind awfully if I stayed?"
*If you liked this, you can follow all my stories at [/r/jd_rallage](https://www.reddit.com/r/jd_rallage/)* | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | My friends used to ask me how long they thought I could keep it going, but not anymore. They stopped caring decades ago. I knew they thought I was being silly, but I didn't care. This was important to me.
I glare at Margie over the steam rising from my flapjacks and her poached eggs, and she glares right back. The same damn dance we've performed every day for longer than I care to remember. In the morning at the diner; in the evenings when I get home from work; in bed at night; all weekend long, every weekend. A deafening roar of quiet blankets our lives.
One of my coworkers suggested I should call Guinness---longest silent treatment ever. I can't see the humor in it though. Even after all these years the anger, disappointment, and pain are raw.
I squint, just a little. Did Margie's lip just tremble, or am I imagining things? For forty years her face has been the paragon of stubbornness---an unflinching fortress of willful defiance.
No, it trembled again. I'm sure of it. It takes all of my strength to hide my excitement. Could this be it? Could today be the day the stalemate topples in the wake of my glorious victory?
Margie lowers her head and sighs. She takes a deep breath and looks up into my eyes. Her hand reaches out, and touches mine.
"Fine, you can get a damn color TV," she says.
Today is going to be a good day. | The photographs overflowed the walls of the diner, records of the passing time.
The ones by the kitchen were the oldest. You can always tell an old photo. The colours had faded to a sun dyed yellow, and the perched precariously on the wall like nicotine stained teeth clinging to the mouth of an old smoker.
The old photos made her conscious of her age, of how much time had passed - and of what an interesting life she'd had. She was in each of them, of course. It was her diner. Every photo showed her with a different patron of Mabel's Tennessee Diner. Herbie Hancock, Neil Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, even the King himself - they'd all come to down just to try some of Mabel's famous walnut and boysenberry pancakes.
The diner was nearly empty that morning, like it had been most mornings since they had finished the new bypass. Only Bob sat at the counter, humming along to the strains of the Great Satchmo coming from the jukebox. Mabel notiched that he hadn't managed to finish his pancake again. In his prime, he had been the undefeated champion in the Annual Pancake Eating contest. But that had been decades ago, and since his Dora passed away last away last year... well, she kept an eye out for him each morning, but she couldn't help wondering how many more she would see him for. Ninety-one, this February past.
The old clock struck eight, and Mabel suddenly started. Where was Tweedie?
He had showed up on the first morning she had opened, Janurary 13, 1976, and came in at precisely 7:55 every day. He drank a cup of coffee, put the exact amount of change down on, and left at 8:05. A very polite gent, always doffed his tweed hat (that was where she had got her name for him), but he never said a word. Just sat there for 10 minutes at the same time every day, drinking his coffee.
But today Tweedie had not appeared.
"Say, Bob, where's that old-," she began.
Before she could finish, the door crashed open. The tweed hatted man fell through and slid across the floor of the diner to end up in a pile of lanky limbs at her feet.
"Oh, Mister, are you alright?" Mabel asked.
The man shot to his feet. His eyes were wild.
"Quick, don't just stand there," he said. "They're coming."
Mabel was surprised to find that he had a British accent. In the 80's she had spent several years trying to find out where abouts he lived in the town, even hiring a private investigator to follow him, but to no avail. No small feat in a town like Springfield, Tennessee, pop. 251.
"I'm sorry," Mabel said, "I don't follow. Who's coming?"
"Why, the Ice Warriors, of course."
"I don't like your tone, Mister-"
"Doctor," he interrupted, impatiently.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Doctor," he repeated. "Not Mister."
"I don't care if you're a professor," Mabel said. "If you think you can come in here and spout some baloney about icy soldiers, then you're trying to kid the wrong woman, Mr Doctor."
"We don't have time for this," the man said. "They'll be here in two minutes. It's a good thing they're late. Typical, really, the Dechronometer works fine for 14610 trips in a row, and then it blows up on the very day that the time rift opens up."
Mabel gave him her best unamused expression. It had stopped Bill Clinton's wandering hands back in the day, but this man didn't even seem to notice.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"I'm the Doctor," he said. "Do try to keep up. I got a note that a time rift would open up in your shop at 8am, but unfortunately I spilt tea on the year. So I've had to come every day just to find the right one. Unfortunately, the Ice Warriors must have known about the tear, because they managed to get through before I could close it."
"That's it," she said. "Get out."
A blast of wind rattled the door. A chilling draft slipped in through the cracks, and the door slowly turned a frozen white. Then it shattered into icy fragments.
The Doctor turned to her. "Actually, would you mind awfully if I stayed?"
*If you liked this, you can follow all my stories at [/r/jd_rallage](https://www.reddit.com/r/jd_rallage/)* | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | It was a diner much like any other in that part of the city. There was a place to stop for food every ten steps you took on that street. She just knew the directions on foot and had relied on that to get her there every morning for the past forty years. It had gotten to the point that a friend had asked her, “Which diner?”
“Uh…” she had no idea.
It was late winter. There had been heavy snow all season. Cars drove through slush in the streets and she skidded on the sidewalks a few times. She slid one last time as she grasped the door to the diner. She forgot to look up to get the name. She had forgotten every day for months since the conversation with her friend.
She stepped inside and stomped the snow off her boots. She took off her jacket and turned left, heading to the table in the back corner by the window. He was already waiting there. He waited there every morning.
She was five minutes later than usual. She was a regularly a punctual person. Her breakfast was waiting for her – two eggs over-easy, brown toast, bacon, fruit. He had already finished his. He was sipping coffee. He didn’t look up from the newspaper.
She sat down across from him. She placed her jacket on the seat beside her. He put his paper down with one hand and his coffee down with the other. She picked up her fork and pushed a piece of bacon off her eggs. He looked at her. She didn’t look at him.
She ate silently. He watched her eat for only a moment then stared out the window, periodically sipping his coffee. It had gotten cold. He didn’t mind. He never opened his mouth once she arrived. The waitresses were used to it by now.
It was routine. They would wait for him to arrive and serve his regular breakfast with coffee. He always read the morning paper. They would wait ten minutes then prepare her breakfast. It was often ready by the time she arrived. They would wait twenty minutes after she was finished eating to give them their separate bills. They would pay separately, and leave separately.
She finished eating. She looked up at him. He had looked back at her already. She met frozen blue eyes. Sometimes they iced over further and turned grey if she stared long enough. He couldn’t even see the wrinkles in her face. He would always see her skin as plump and young and pretty.
He had grown out a beard over the last few years. It suited him but she sort of missed how he used to look. She almost felt cheated that he looked like a different person. It wasn’t fair for him to disguise himself, but she would always be able to find him in a crowd.
It started to hurt to look at her pained brown eyes. They seemed stained black with time. He wondered if she ever remarried. He doubted it.
Her heart sank when he looked away. She had started these staring contests out of spite. She had wanted to unsettle him. She had been frustrated to find the vow of silence was mutual. Over the years this all had become a gesture of affection for her. She had tried dating but her morning routine would always get in the way. He had never had another woman in his bed since Marjorie.
She studied his face even though he was looking at her hands now. His skin had gone leathery. She had never gotten to know what he had done for work after his time in jail. His hands were always rough and he always looked tired. She wondered if his hands were from labor work. She wondered if his fatigue was from work or from not sleeping well. She couldn’t sleep well since that night.
His coworkers said to drop this routine years ago. Her therapist had said the same. It’s not healthy, they had agreed.
But even in the muted light of a late February morning she was intoxicating. It was liquor in the evening and her in the morning. He could get by this way. She had her hobbies and her job to get her through her days. Every morning she met him there and they did this dance of observations and unspoken memories.
Today was different. She had been thinking about it for months, no, for years. She was stubborn and didn’t want to give him any freedom. At the same time, she had grown to love him. She would never admit that. But she had to acknowledge that despite her aggressive attitude the first morning and all those mornings years afterwards, he kept showing up. He was always there. Forty years.
She reached across the table and took his hand. His back straightened and he looked terrified. She hadn’t ever touched him. She only stared or didn’t stare.
Her hands were soft. Most people’s hands were soft compared to his. She felt how calloused they were and sighed inwardly. Her late husband’s hands had been rough like that.
“I think it’s time we stop this,” she said quietly.
He simply looked at her. She smiled gently. The only time he had ever seen her smile was nearly six years ago when a drunk man had an absurd argument with a waitress right next to him and she had thought it was funny. He had tried hard not to laugh too. He didn’t deserve to laugh.
“I think we should both stop coming here. And I think you should know…” she wasn’t sure if she could finish.
“But the homefries are so good,” he tentatively protested.
She laughed. He liked that. She felt shy then. He noticed.
“I forgive you,” she finished.
“You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t ever forgive me.”
His voice was stern. All conviction with no room for consolation. She flinched and drew her hand away.
“That’s not your choice,” she spat at him.
He wished she had never found him that morning. He wished she hadn’t been able to because he was in jail. He wished he had been punished more severely, that his lawyer hadn’t been so good. He wished he hadn’t started drinking again because if she knew about that, she would probably find some other way to make his life a living hell.
“I lost someone too,” he said, “and I don’t forgive myself. Why should I accept your forgiveness?”
She started putting her plate together, piling her garbage on top. “I won’t be coming back here,” she said.
He watched her put her jacket on. She went to the front counter and payed her bill. She took one last glance back at him. Even with her hair greyed and cut shorter, even with her wrinkles and her colourless clothing and her tired posture, he still saw the same woman from forty years ago. The same tear-stained, maddened woman that found him in a diner five years after a terrible accident. The same woman whose husband he took away from her. The same woman that looked just a bit too much like Marjorie, who was in the passenger seat, who never wore a seat belt. Times were different back then.
He watched her go. He still went to the diner every morning for a few months. He stopped drinking. She never came back.
| The photographs overflowed the walls of the diner, records of the passing time.
The ones by the kitchen were the oldest. You can always tell an old photo. The colours had faded to a sun dyed yellow, and the perched precariously on the wall like nicotine stained teeth clinging to the mouth of an old smoker.
The old photos made her conscious of her age, of how much time had passed - and of what an interesting life she'd had. She was in each of them, of course. It was her diner. Every photo showed her with a different patron of Mabel's Tennessee Diner. Herbie Hancock, Neil Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, even the King himself - they'd all come to down just to try some of Mabel's famous walnut and boysenberry pancakes.
The diner was nearly empty that morning, like it had been most mornings since they had finished the new bypass. Only Bob sat at the counter, humming along to the strains of the Great Satchmo coming from the jukebox. Mabel notiched that he hadn't managed to finish his pancake again. In his prime, he had been the undefeated champion in the Annual Pancake Eating contest. But that had been decades ago, and since his Dora passed away last away last year... well, she kept an eye out for him each morning, but she couldn't help wondering how many more she would see him for. Ninety-one, this February past.
The old clock struck eight, and Mabel suddenly started. Where was Tweedie?
He had showed up on the first morning she had opened, Janurary 13, 1976, and came in at precisely 7:55 every day. He drank a cup of coffee, put the exact amount of change down on, and left at 8:05. A very polite gent, always doffed his tweed hat (that was where she had got her name for him), but he never said a word. Just sat there for 10 minutes at the same time every day, drinking his coffee.
But today Tweedie had not appeared.
"Say, Bob, where's that old-," she began.
Before she could finish, the door crashed open. The tweed hatted man fell through and slid across the floor of the diner to end up in a pile of lanky limbs at her feet.
"Oh, Mister, are you alright?" Mabel asked.
The man shot to his feet. His eyes were wild.
"Quick, don't just stand there," he said. "They're coming."
Mabel was surprised to find that he had a British accent. In the 80's she had spent several years trying to find out where abouts he lived in the town, even hiring a private investigator to follow him, but to no avail. No small feat in a town like Springfield, Tennessee, pop. 251.
"I'm sorry," Mabel said, "I don't follow. Who's coming?"
"Why, the Ice Warriors, of course."
"I don't like your tone, Mister-"
"Doctor," he interrupted, impatiently.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Doctor," he repeated. "Not Mister."
"I don't care if you're a professor," Mabel said. "If you think you can come in here and spout some baloney about icy soldiers, then you're trying to kid the wrong woman, Mr Doctor."
"We don't have time for this," the man said. "They'll be here in two minutes. It's a good thing they're late. Typical, really, the Dechronometer works fine for 14610 trips in a row, and then it blows up on the very day that the time rift opens up."
Mabel gave him her best unamused expression. It had stopped Bill Clinton's wandering hands back in the day, but this man didn't even seem to notice.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"I'm the Doctor," he said. "Do try to keep up. I got a note that a time rift would open up in your shop at 8am, but unfortunately I spilt tea on the year. So I've had to come every day just to find the right one. Unfortunately, the Ice Warriors must have known about the tear, because they managed to get through before I could close it."
"That's it," she said. "Get out."
A blast of wind rattled the door. A chilling draft slipped in through the cracks, and the door slowly turned a frozen white. Then it shattered into icy fragments.
The Doctor turned to her. "Actually, would you mind awfully if I stayed?"
*If you liked this, you can follow all my stories at [/r/jd_rallage](https://www.reddit.com/r/jd_rallage/)* | |
[WP] A man and woman have met every morning for the last 40 years at a diner. While the two seem to know one another very well, in all this time they have never exchanged a word. For the first time ever the woman today reaches out and touches the man's hand. | ######[](#dropcap)
It's so strange, watching them. I guess my coworkers have gotten used to it, but I'm new, and I notice too much. Forty years, they said. Forty years, and not a word to one another, just ordering their food and thanking their server.
***
They don't even read. I've worked here for a month, and I've seen so many of the older couples ignore each other to read newspapers or novels. The younger ones look at their phones or laptops or business reports. Somehow, that seems normal. These people have something to do, something important to them. Not this couple. They eat, and stare at each other, or glance around the diner from time to time.
***
They seem so much closer to each other than any other couple that comes to Casey's.
***
Today, the woman ordered chocolate-chip pancakes and the man asked for poached eggs. Then they handed back their menus and stared at each other again. It shouldn't be as creepy as it feels to me. The woman is old, but she has this soft, warm smile. The man has kind eyes. They both have grey hair, and the man's is thinning but it still looks neat and tidy.
***
They come in separately. Have I mentioned that? Usually the man comes in first, and the woman comes in ten minutes later when he's already gotten a table. It's always the same table too, the one where the sunlight shines straight through the window and melts the butter left out for toast. When the woman comes in, she sits at the waiting area until the man arrives. That's another thing I find odd. Maybe they're just old fashioned.
***
I tried sketching them once. Business was slow that day, and I went on break early. I hadn't been the one to serve them, but by now I know when to expect them: eight on the dot. I sat at the far end of the bar and waited for them to get settled. It wasn't my best work. That day it was cloudy, and so the light was all wrong. It made them seem sadder than they really were. I threw the paper away.
Then I tried again, on a day when the weather was better but there was still a slight fog rolling around from the rain that passed through the night before. Now that was my best work. The shading was perfect; I used so much of my pencil I was afraid it would run out before I was done. But it didn't. When it was done I wanted to frame it and give it to them as a gift of some kind, but I was still too nervous to talk to them.
***
Cook showed me an old photo of the couple from back in 1986. She said the photographer went on and got famous taking pictures and hanging them up in art galleries. I think he thinks I want to become some hotshot artist and do sketches of models. I told her it was just a hobby.
"See Karla, this was one a them old cameras where the picture came out right after the photo was taken. This is the only one he took."
You can tell they're the same people. They sit across from each other the same way, and the woman holds her coffee and the man holds his fork just like they do every morning. The only thing different is the scenery around them. Now the chairs are different and the pictures on the walls are a little bit faded from time. And maybe they've aged a bit too, but it's not as noticeable. The diner has changed more than they have.
"Those two made Claude famous. I don't think they even realize it."
***
Today I served them. This time the man ordered hash browns and the woman ordered oatmeal. I asked if they liked the meal, and they said it was fine. They didn't say anything else. I guess I've gotten used to it.
***
Today Ron served them. But today it was different. I was watching them as I cleaned the counter. The woman stopped eating, and she reached out and touched the man's arm. I've never seen them do that before. Ron saw it, and Cook noticed too, from his window over the grill. They were as surprised as I was.
They left a one hundred dollar tip. It was huge. Ron decided to split it up and give it to everyone who was on shift. I told him to keep my share. I didn't feel like I deserved it.
***
They didn't show up today. | "I... I forgive you" she said touching his hand, tears streaming down her face. The man said not a word. He noded his head and stood up from the table. A broken smile crossed his face, then he turned around and walked out the door; alone for the first time, and never to return.
A few minutes later the waitress came by to refil her coffee. Ethel put her hand over the cup and motioned for the check. The waitress rolled her eyes "one egg, two pieces of white toast, and a cup of coffee. $4.95. Same thing you've had every day for 40 years. You can't keep eating the same thing here by yourself everyday Ethel. It isn't healthy. Why don't you bring someone with you tomorrow, and try something else from the menu for a change. "
"Maybe i can," said Ethel. "Maybe I will." It was the first time the waitress had ever seen her smile. | |
[WP] As you gaze at Earths beauty from the ISS, it suddenly disappears. | It was after a round of maintenance on the ship when it happened.
I'd just come back from a space-walk to fix the 'Dark-Matter Detector Thingy', as I called it. The thing needed constant maintenance and attention, it needed 4 maintenance drives a fortnight. It was about time to get rest, when I stopped and looked out the porthole which saw Earth around this time. While the constant attention needed was annoying, the view was amazing.
When it suddenly wasn't.
I pissed myself. Where was it? Where did it go? I launched myself to another window, gone there, too. Another. Still gone.
Ivan called out to me, asking what was wrong.
"Look at Earth."
He balked momentarily, before moving to the window.
"We're on the wrong side of the ship," he said, plainly. He began moving back before I stopped him.
"Look out *any* window."
He moved to the next window. Then to the next. Then the next.
"Oh. **Oh.**" | It was my second time on the ISS and it's as amazing as it was the first time. Being in space with no gravity holding you down, it's such a surreal experience that I don't believe anyone could ever get used to it, and the the Earth, god its magnificent such a beautiful scenery. The light, the dark that is the ocean, the never ending space surrounding it, the bright star that is our sun a bit further from the Earth. wait, what, Where is it? I was just looking at it. It's supposed to be right there, I was just looking at it. I quickly call out to Kyle to came and see this and tell him to look to the Earth. 'I swear to god Rick if this is another of your stupid pranks I'm gon-. Silence fell over us. Where is it? Where is our planet? Its supposed to be right there. But it's not there anymore. All thats left is the endless dark matter that's all over the universe. In it all the only ones left are two guys, needles to say; it's gonna be a pain in the ass. | |
[WP] As you gaze at Earths beauty from the ISS, it suddenly disappears. | I've never felt so far from home. We're in low orbit, so it's not as far as many people think. The Earth fills half of the window. A giant sea with a round horizon line. A blue hill with the gentlest of slopes.
My poetic thought is interrupted by a crackling on the radio. I glance at it, expecting a transmission, but none comes.
I turn back to the Earth. I have only a moment to drink in her beauty, and then she's gone. It takes long moments for my mind to catch up with my eyes.
There's no explosion. No sound. No debris. It hasn't moved. It's just... gone. Winked out of existence. There one moment, and now...
I dive for the radio. Attempts to page the planet are unsuccessful. No response from NASA, JAXA, the CSA. I keep trying, with no response.
"Commander Ivanov," I call out. "Commander!"
It is hard to keep the edge of panic from my voice. Within minutes we are all gathered, staring out at the empty sky.
Redundancy is important. We've just been restocked and know exactly what we have as far as supplies. Still, an inventory must be done. We have enough food to last the six of us several months. A year, if we ration.
Air and water are recycled, down to the last drops of sweat and urine. But we do need *some* fresh water. And food.
"We're going to die out here," I whisper.
Ivanov glares me down. We don't panic. I understand without a word.
Solar charged batteries last over six years. They were replaced a year ago. Five years of electrical power. Plenty of time to rig another way to store the power from the solar panels.
We have labs. Many of the modules are unnecessary for survival. We can grow food. We're taking inventory and making plans when the radio crackles again.
We look out and see the most beautiful sight anyone has ever seen. The Earth is back.
"...ISS..." someone is calling on the radio.
Commander Ivanov responds. Once the initial responses are covered, Ivanov opens his mouth to ask what happened.
From the other end, the voice breaks protocol. "Jesus," he says. "We thought something happened to you guys. Where the hell did you go?"
We all laugh. Maybe we are a little hysterical. Maybe we are just relieved.
The radio crackles, and our laughter fades as once again, the Earth vanishes.
| I floated around, intently looking for the tube of whatever the hell it was that we called food. The silence around me was peaceful, up here is the calmest that I have ever been.
Floating over towards the window, I spotted the most magnificent site in the whole solar system, that big blue marble called Earth. I could never forget that beautiful view, it was breathtaking. Sadly however, it was time for me to go.
I took one last look before closing my eyes, and removing my helmet.
> Jimmy its dinner time!
My mom shouted, I reached over and turned off the VR helmet, but I couldnt stop thinking to myself, how could we have been so irresponsible and stupid to let ourselves destroy something so beautiful. | |
[WP] While dozing by the fire in your isolated winter cabin, you hear a firm knock on the front door. It's 3 am, blizzard conditions have closed all surrounding roads, and the nearest neighbor is miles away. | Something yanks me out of sleep. I blink. Where the hell am I? Right, I'm on the couch. I glance to the fireplace to see that the fire has died down, and here I am, in my pajamas and a light robe with no blanket to speak of to keep me warm. I curl up and try to get comfortable again. Part of me reasons that I should go to bed, but right now the couch below me is just warm enough from my body heat, and I don't want to move.
*Knock knock knock.*
I twitch out of the clutches of sleep. Who's knocking? I sit up on the couch and look to the front door, wondering if I hallucinated the noise. There's no one here, not within miles. It must have been something I dreamed up while falling asleep.
*Knock knock knock.*
Nope, that was real. That was definitely real. My chest clenches up. Who is it? No one should be out here. I stand up and shuffle to the front door, adjusting my robe more tightly around me. I take a deep breath and open the door.
A young man stands there, roughly college-aged. He looks perfectly ordinary, wearing a gray hoodie and plain jeans, but the way he hugs himself betrays that the hoodie is too thin for the weather. His tracks off into the distance are the only thing marring the snow's freshest coat over the ground.
His face lights up when he sees me. "Mr. Hanson, sir!" he says. "Sorry to bother you. May I come in?"
So he knows my name, and he looks to be an ill-prepared type. A fan? Then I'd like to know how the hell he found this address. "Do you know what time it is?" I say. I probably could have thought of something more polite, but I'm not sure how much I care.
"Midnight, January 4th, 2013," he recites immediately. Then he flinches. "I mean, uh, last I checked. I got lost for a while." He shivers against the cold.
Okay, reciting the date was weird, but now I'm more concerned that someone's been out in the snow looking for me for three hours straight. Crazy fan or not, I don't want this guy to die of hypothermia, so I step out of the way and wave him inside. "Come on in. Don't want you to freeze on me."
He nods his thanks and steps inside. After he stomps the snow and dirt off his sneakers, I invite him to sit on the couch while I go put a kettle on the stove. When I return to the living room, he is perched attentively on one end of the couch, as if afraid to relax. Huh.
In any event, I sit down on the opposite end. "So, dare I ask how you found out where I live?" I ask.
He fidgets. "It's a long story."
I frown at him. "You're not going to tell me? No one's supposed to know the location of this cabin, except for the person I bought it from. Don't tell me he leaked the address."
The stranger puts up his hands. "No, no, nothing like that! It's just…" He tries for another second to explain himself, but then he sighs and gives up. "Let's just put it this way. No one knows where this place is right now except me. You have nothing to worry about, I promise."
My brow furrows. The only way that sentence makes any sense is if this guy went and spoke to the previous owner personally, and that just raises the question of how he figured out who the previous owner was. I shake my head to clear it. Chasing these thoughts won't bring me anywhere. "Fine, forget it. I trust you." Not really, but it seems like the friendlier thing to say. I straighten up and look him in the eyes. His face looks familiar somehow, but I can't place it. "What's your name, son?"
A smile splashes across the young man's face. "Jeremy, sir. Jeremy Gr--" he falters "--I mean, just Jeremy."
Regardless of the mental process behind the censoring of his last name, I chuckle before I can help it. "Pleasure to meet you, Jeremy." I offer him my hand, and he shakes it enthusiastically. "And I'm R.J. Hanson, but you knew that already."
Jeremy laughs. There's a nervous note to his laugh, but that's to be expected. "Yes, sir. I'm a big fan of your work."
"I deduced that."
"Heh. I really like *Keen*, personally. It's my favorite of your books. Seamus really spoke to me as a character."
That's surprising. I don't consider *Keen* one of my best works, nor did I expect someone's favorite character to be a minor one, especially a tragic figure. The fact that Jeremy identified with poor Seamus intrigues me. "Do you relate to him? That's good. I'm glad I wrote him well."
Something flashes across Jeremy's face. For just a moment, he looks pained, but it's gone in a second, replaced by his eager smile once more. "Ha, you wrote the whole book well! Don't discount yourself!"
"Perhaps well enough for you, which is good. But every book is a learning experience. I have no problem with accepting that my writing was poorer in my earlier years than it is now."
Jeremy nods in understanding. "Right. And it'll keep improving."
I chuckle. "I hope so."
"It will."
A moment of silence passes. Apparently neither of us know how to continue, but then I hear the whistle of the kettle from the kitchen. "Excuse me," I say as I stand up. "What would you like? Coffee, normal or decaf? Black tea? Herbal tea?"
"Uh, decaf, please."
I nod. "Cream and sugar?"
"Black is fine."
Ha, a man after my own heart. I head to the kitchen. It only takes a minute to prepare two mugs of black decaf coffee and bring them out to the living room. Jeremy takes his with a thank you. The reprieve has given me some time to prepare a new point of conversation. "So what brings you out here? Hunting for an autograph?"
He shakes his head. "No, I just wanted to meet you. I've wanted to meet you for a long time."
I smile around my current sip of coffee. "I'm flattered," I say. "How long is a long time? Here I didn't think many people cared about my work until *Daughters of Lilith* got press." That was two years ago, my next book after I finished *Keen*. From what Jeremy has said so far, I reason that he learned about me even earlier than that, perhaps through a friend's recommendation. I feel honored that someone liked my early work enough to recommend me.
He opens his mouth, but then he closes it and is quiet for a second. "A while," he says after a moment, dodging my question. "First thing I read by you was *Chains and Candles*."
Oh, goodness, *Chains and Candles*? I'm ashamed of that one! It reads like the high school fic it is. But I keep quiet.
Presently Jeremy seems to think of something else as he sips his coffee. "Oh, I want to ask, if it's okay," he begins, "how is *Heofon* coming along?"
I freeze. Something cold curdles in my gut. Who is this man? *Heofon* is a draft three months in the making, completely unannounced to the public. Unless I made a drunk tweet I don't remember, but surely I'd have caught wind of it by now. I wonder again just how Jeremy has been getting information about me. I'm positive I haven't told the old homeowner of my manuscript. What reason would I have to do that?
Jeremy seems to have tensed up. He knows he asked something bad. I can see it in his eyes. "I mean, uh, never mind," he says with a dismissive wave. "Forget it."
"Who told you I'm working on a new book?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at him. My fingers tighten around my mug.
He's cringing in his seat by now. "M-Martha Grenning," he stammers. "Your editor. Right? I talked to her."
I relax, but more out of shock than relief. Martha? I don't remember telling her the name of my new project, but if I did, she should know better than to reveal that kind of information without consulting me, especially to some random kid on the street! I release a heavy breath and run a hand through my hair. "Okay. So you know my editor. You're one disturbingly devoted fanboy, you know that?"
In hindsight, I probably should not have just said that to my guest. He looks like a kid who's just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "I-I-I'm sorry," he stammers, putting his mug on the coffee table with a hasty *clunk*. "I should go. I've overstepped my boundaries, sir. I shouldn't be here."
I put up a hand to still him, even though I fear the damage has been done. "Hey, now, I don't want you going back out in the cold at this time of night--"
"No, really, I should go. Thank you for having me, sir." He shuffles to the door. When he reaches it, though, he doesn't open it immediately. He turns and addresses me. "Just curious. What's your relationship with Martha? Strictly professional, or…?"
I purse my lips. What kind of question is that? "Strictly professional, thank you." I admit I'm not being entirely honest. Martha and I are good friends. And sure, she's on the attractive side of average, but I'd never--
"Okay," Jeremy says, interrupting my thought. "Cool." He looks down at the floor for a few seconds, scuffs one foot on the welcome mat, and then looks back at me. "I'm very glad I got to meet you, Mr. Hanson." He dons a sad smile. "Keep writing. Your best is yet to come. And…" He trails off and scratches the side of his face idly. "One of these days, when you get married, and maybe you have a kid, tell Mar--" He stops, clears his throat as he lowers his hand, and starts again. "Tell your wife you love her. Every day. You never know when a day will be your last." He opens the door, steps out into the cold, and closes the door behind him. I hear his footsteps crunch through the snow outside. Jeremy is gone.
I run my fingers through my hair again. What an odd young man. I should ask Martha in the morning what her relationship is to this kid; it must be close if she told him about my work in progress. I'm still surprised that I told her *Heofon*'s working title. I could have sworn I haven't told anyone yet, but memory has failed me before.
Odd as he was, I almost miss Jeremy already. I still can't place why his face looks familiar. Apart from his knowing things he shouldn't know, he was quite pleasant and polite. Someone raised him well.
I smile to myself as I collect the coffee mugs. If I ever have a son, Jeremy might be a nice name. | “Dear June, the summer was amazing! I wish you could’ve been here to see it. I spent a lot of time making improvements to my little home here. I carved a stool from a spruce tree that fell last year while we built this cabin, remember that? It scared the shit out of us” He chuckled to himself as he wrote, firelight shimmering in his eyes as tears started to well.
“You said to me, ‘David! Why on earth would you want to live out here when things actually go ‘boom’ in the night?’ and of course I answered you like I always did, ‘because we’re free out here babe.’ Anyway, you’d be happy to know that I’ve done something productive with that fallen tree other then use it for fire wood. The summer was great, you would’ve loved it. Winter is here now though. The radio says this is one of the largest storms they’ve seen in years so it looks like i’ll be hunkering down for awhile. It’s so warm and cozy in here that I don’t really mind. I’m well provisioned, fat and happy. There’s no one around for miles so I know I’ll be left alone too, which is nice. It would be better with you here of course…” his eyes flooded over and tears fell on the page. “I miss you so much, June.”
Tears speckled the letter as he folded it into a small square.
He pushed himself away from his desk and over to the fire place mantle where a plain brushed steal vase sat. Next to it was a framed photo of a young beautiful girl with dirty blond hair and a mischievous smile.
He kissed his index finger and touched the glass of the frame and put the letter in a jar next to the urn, one filled with small paper squares.
Sleep didn’t come easy, it was spiteful and restless. Filled with aching memories. But when it did come, it was a black, empty kind of sleep.
Hazily he awoke, a rasping knock in the distance. “Hold on, Hold on.” he said still half asleep. “I’m coming, hold your horses.” He threw the covers off his bed and cold air bit at his skin. The fire was out. In his boxers he hugged himself and shivered, groggily shuffling his feet to grab his coat. He grabbed it off the arm of his desk chair and wrapped himself in it.
He felt no warmth from the jacket, a colder shiver ran down his spine as he slowly awoke from his stupor. “What the fuck…” he whispered as reality set in. Adrenaline burned his chest, and he looked up at the door. Breathless seconds passed as stared unblinking the door knob. Nothing. Slowly, he stepped his bare right leg forward a step, then his left. The floor creaked beneath him as he snuck forward.
“KNOCK, KNOCK…KNOCK.” Came from the door, louder and more persistent then before. His heart was in his chest, pure cold fear burning his face. “Who…who are you? What do you want?” he said, voice shaking. Silence pushed against his ears, heart slamming his chest.
Inch by inch he got closer to the door, until he could feel the cold air coming from under the seal, freezing his toes. “Fuck this.” he said. He grabbed the frigid handle, twisted and pulled. Vicious wind and snow blew in, his jacket blowing open. He squinted his eyes trying to see through the snow and night. There, sitting on his small deck was a broken half of a fallen tree, it’s branch jagged and pointing at him. The wind gusted again and the log rolled, pushing the branch at him, like it was pointing at something. “God damn it,” he laughed nervously to himself. He broke the branch that had been hitting the door and threw it in the wind. “I’ll take care of you when this wind dies down.” He told the fallen tree.
He shut and latched the door and his heart stopped, fiery adrenaline spread across his chest as he felt an icy kiss on his neck. He froze, utterly and entirely, not breathing. He listened and heard nothing. Feeling stupid and thinking to himself that it must’ve just been snow that had fallen from his hair when he closed the door he gained courage and slowly turned around. His eyes looked at the floor then moved up, scanning his small cabin. In the shadow by his desk something caught his eye, he squinted and leaned forward.
Then he saw her.
edit: words. Critiques welcome. | |
[WP] As humans become more advance we start to create are own universes. After a while Universe creation kits are being sold as common toys for kids. Talk about your first universe and about your god hood in it. | "Haha, Ricky's an idiot if he thinks i'm gonna believe that. *My* sentient life couldn't be so dumb!"
"Dude try it! He swore on his life that it works!"
"So let me get this straight, you're saying that if I build a pool, put my sentient lifes in, and remove the ladder, they drown?"
//
Somewhere far away, the local populace was dismayed and confused to suddenly find a swimming pool stuck in the middle of the highway, full of dead bodies.
| I created mine when I was but 11 years old.
I started out with the earth based model before I began to personalize it with my own creativity and god-ness.
I made it full of unicorns, some unicorns could fly and all unicorns could talk.
I made lunch pail trees like in the movie Return to Oz. And I made a few places with ice cream mountains.
I made a lot of hidden lands underneath waterfalls & in ginormous extensive caves.
I also made every plant edible although some tasted much better then others.
In my godhood in it, I more existed in mysterious ways like the wind, a invisible being that could overhear whatever my unicorns talked about. Sometimes I would grant their wishes. I actually did that often, the most common which from my unicorns was to find their true love.
I decided on my summer vacation to play a more active god in my world, so one day I made myself a avatar that got born and it would go to sleep whenever I was busy being a 11 year old girl.
My avatar, or unicorn me had a pale pink coat and soft new coal fur. I liked to wear bells a lot and trot around playing tag with the other foals.
In my unicorn universe, time seems the same as time seems in my 11 year old one, but it went much faster, like how a digimon minute is just a few hours or so in the human years of that anime.
So I grew older with the other unicorns & matured with my friends. I loved all of them, unicorns are usually peaceful beings. Anyways as I got older I became more sexually aware & began to have intimate feelings for one of my male friends as he did with me. We hung out more often and our feelings for each other grew as we became more intimate. He began to notice my off sleeping habits. Sometimes I would sleep for vary long times. My unicorns usually sleep for about 4 hours, be awake for 8 and then sleep again another 4 hours or so. But I would sleep much longer for hours or even days occasionally. He grew more concerned & a little troubled even though I assured him it was just a condition I was born with.
He wanted to search the plant kingdom to find something that would cure my condition and make me stay awake longer.
I objected & said that it was fine but he was stubborn as determined unicorns can be when they feel somethings right that they should do. So he trotted and traversed the lands and the globe looking for and finding plant after plant that helps with being awake, alert, balance a person hormones etc, making me try one by one. To no avail.
I felt really alert and awake while being a unicorn but it'd still of corse not effect me when I'd have to leave my avatar. He was quite amazed he could never wake me up when I'd go to sleep, nothing could at all but me naturally.
He became more troubled as his pilgrimage went on. And finally I saw one day waking the worry in his eyes and the wrinkles that had befallen his snow white & light blue coat on his face. I began to feel really guilty as I left my avatar, knowing he was so concerned because of me. I made a telepathic link so I could hear his specific wishes while I was a 11 year old. The unicorns all sense their is a goddess watching over them, because I sometimes grant their wishes I feel should be granted, so they wish things to me that they think should be herd & may be granted.
I heard the fear in his wish, that I would wake up normally and not sleep for so long and unexpected times. So I tried to make something that would at least calm his beating heart.
I made a shaman unicorn that had 2 horns like a sheep (and since I am a god here I made it so that he had lived there in the past, in a distant forrest). And I made the circumstances happen so that they would meet.
My blue unicorn like I expected brought the shaman to see and inspect me as I slept, and my wise more directly connected shaman unicorn told him that I was not in a regular sleep but a soulless sleep, my soul departed from my body while I slept and went somewhere. I was probably perfectly fine & surly safe protected by the goddess. I then swept my shaman unicorn with my magical wind presence allowing only him to feel it, and whispered in his mind to pull something out of his bag. As soon as he touched something inside I channeled into him and made the object into the bag into something else before pulling it out.
"This is a magical glowing stone. It glows bright white when your most loved is near and awake, when her soul is there." I said using the shamans voice, to my unaware blue unicorn who thought the shaman was just in a trance. "It is dim when her soul is not. But never completely dark because she is always kind of there. Remember that. By its light you can determine how long she will sleep and when she will begin to wake up. It shows the future of this by its light."
I handed it to him. "The stone has a influencing effect. If you have it on you and/or use it for a long time you will begin to just know & sense how long she'll sleep and when she will wake up. Trust it." My blue unicorn closed his eyes as he felt the warm light that came from touching the stone. "My work here is done." I said as I left the shaman out threw my last word.
It would really impact my shaman's life, and really inspire in times of great hardship him, the feeling he felt while I possessed him. Soft, warm, light, absolute gentile love.
After that my beloved gave up his quest. And spent more time returning to the things he had enjoyed doing before; going on runs with our friends, exploring nature and smelling the flowers, peacefully watching thunderstorms by my sleeping side. Happily greeting me when I'd wake up and gently asking about my soul's adventures. My love was so much more carefree since I helped him.
It kind of released him. I'd lean against his flank and trusted him to hear my stories as a human who was a little girl in a different, less beautiful world, doing mundane human activities.
He loved to hear about them, and one day he told me he believed they were real, that I really was a little human girl in another life that I had besides this own, as a mature beautiful unicorn.
I was speechless. And he looked into my eyes with a gleam in them. He knew. | |
[WP] As humans become more advance we start to create are own universes. After a while Universe creation kits are being sold as common toys for kids. Talk about your first universe and about your god hood in it. | I found it in the attic, gathering dust on a shelf.
"God, what a bunch a nostalgic bullshit", i smirked.
I remember waking up Christmas day and finding it waiting under the tree for me. I remember the bright flash when i first turned it on and the excitement when I got the first little pop up message: "you've got life!".
I played with it every day, it was a great escape from all the everyday silliness, up until college. I created clans then tribes then entire continents full of people, i had to start over a couple times because the UI wasn't super forgiving, but that's just part of the learning process right?
So college came and I left it behind for more visceral experiences, and had a life of my own, first a degree, then a job, then a wife, then a family. Eventually my family grew and moved on to their own lives, leaving myself and my wife to continue our lives together.
But last week my wife passed away and i find myself wandering all the rooms of the house we shared for so long hoping the next room will have her in it. Wandering each room until I found myself looking up the little drop down stairs that lead to the attic. I struggled to make my old legs work well enough to make it up the stairs, but I managed somehow. Digging listlessly through the flotsam and jetsam of all of our years together I found it. my first universe. Its battery was just about dead, Just a few lights still flickered in its infinite expanse.
"good times, eh buddy?" I spoke to it, not expecting a response.
At the sound of my voice, it seemed to pulse, almost like it was gathering its strength to properly greet its old master. I picked it up from the dust and the debris and cleaned it so I could look deep into its depth one more time.
holding it close, I sat down in the corner of the room and drew an old blanket around myself and brought the globe to my forehead once again after all those years.
The multitude of stars was diminished, all the once vibrant worlds were old and grey or deep in the heart of super giant stars or disintegrated by cosmic explosions.
I thought back to all the old stories that were crafted with all the amazing creatures that walked all my planets, and suddenly remembered my favorite character. I knew that I must have passed away millennia ago, time was dilated enough where a lifetime for me was a lifetime for my universe, but i wanted to check the old prayer records just to make sure he turned out alright. I searched for his record and it popped up right away, and I suddenly felt worry, a multitude of missed messages. I searched through the record reading each message, getting a more clear picture of the story with every new word. finally, I read the last message and had no choice but to put my universe away for the last time, because I could never look at these worlds again. the last message from my friend and favorite character was simply:
"eloi eloi lama sabachthani" | I created mine when I was but 11 years old.
I started out with the earth based model before I began to personalize it with my own creativity and god-ness.
I made it full of unicorns, some unicorns could fly and all unicorns could talk.
I made lunch pail trees like in the movie Return to Oz. And I made a few places with ice cream mountains.
I made a lot of hidden lands underneath waterfalls & in ginormous extensive caves.
I also made every plant edible although some tasted much better then others.
In my godhood in it, I more existed in mysterious ways like the wind, a invisible being that could overhear whatever my unicorns talked about. Sometimes I would grant their wishes. I actually did that often, the most common which from my unicorns was to find their true love.
I decided on my summer vacation to play a more active god in my world, so one day I made myself a avatar that got born and it would go to sleep whenever I was busy being a 11 year old girl.
My avatar, or unicorn me had a pale pink coat and soft new coal fur. I liked to wear bells a lot and trot around playing tag with the other foals.
In my unicorn universe, time seems the same as time seems in my 11 year old one, but it went much faster, like how a digimon minute is just a few hours or so in the human years of that anime.
So I grew older with the other unicorns & matured with my friends. I loved all of them, unicorns are usually peaceful beings. Anyways as I got older I became more sexually aware & began to have intimate feelings for one of my male friends as he did with me. We hung out more often and our feelings for each other grew as we became more intimate. He began to notice my off sleeping habits. Sometimes I would sleep for vary long times. My unicorns usually sleep for about 4 hours, be awake for 8 and then sleep again another 4 hours or so. But I would sleep much longer for hours or even days occasionally. He grew more concerned & a little troubled even though I assured him it was just a condition I was born with.
He wanted to search the plant kingdom to find something that would cure my condition and make me stay awake longer.
I objected & said that it was fine but he was stubborn as determined unicorns can be when they feel somethings right that they should do. So he trotted and traversed the lands and the globe looking for and finding plant after plant that helps with being awake, alert, balance a person hormones etc, making me try one by one. To no avail.
I felt really alert and awake while being a unicorn but it'd still of corse not effect me when I'd have to leave my avatar. He was quite amazed he could never wake me up when I'd go to sleep, nothing could at all but me naturally.
He became more troubled as his pilgrimage went on. And finally I saw one day waking the worry in his eyes and the wrinkles that had befallen his snow white & light blue coat on his face. I began to feel really guilty as I left my avatar, knowing he was so concerned because of me. I made a telepathic link so I could hear his specific wishes while I was a 11 year old. The unicorns all sense their is a goddess watching over them, because I sometimes grant their wishes I feel should be granted, so they wish things to me that they think should be herd & may be granted.
I heard the fear in his wish, that I would wake up normally and not sleep for so long and unexpected times. So I tried to make something that would at least calm his beating heart.
I made a shaman unicorn that had 2 horns like a sheep (and since I am a god here I made it so that he had lived there in the past, in a distant forrest). And I made the circumstances happen so that they would meet.
My blue unicorn like I expected brought the shaman to see and inspect me as I slept, and my wise more directly connected shaman unicorn told him that I was not in a regular sleep but a soulless sleep, my soul departed from my body while I slept and went somewhere. I was probably perfectly fine & surly safe protected by the goddess. I then swept my shaman unicorn with my magical wind presence allowing only him to feel it, and whispered in his mind to pull something out of his bag. As soon as he touched something inside I channeled into him and made the object into the bag into something else before pulling it out.
"This is a magical glowing stone. It glows bright white when your most loved is near and awake, when her soul is there." I said using the shamans voice, to my unaware blue unicorn who thought the shaman was just in a trance. "It is dim when her soul is not. But never completely dark because she is always kind of there. Remember that. By its light you can determine how long she will sleep and when she will begin to wake up. It shows the future of this by its light."
I handed it to him. "The stone has a influencing effect. If you have it on you and/or use it for a long time you will begin to just know & sense how long she'll sleep and when she will wake up. Trust it." My blue unicorn closed his eyes as he felt the warm light that came from touching the stone. "My work here is done." I said as I left the shaman out threw my last word.
It would really impact my shaman's life, and really inspire in times of great hardship him, the feeling he felt while I possessed him. Soft, warm, light, absolute gentile love.
After that my beloved gave up his quest. And spent more time returning to the things he had enjoyed doing before; going on runs with our friends, exploring nature and smelling the flowers, peacefully watching thunderstorms by my sleeping side. Happily greeting me when I'd wake up and gently asking about my soul's adventures. My love was so much more carefree since I helped him.
It kind of released him. I'd lean against his flank and trusted him to hear my stories as a human who was a little girl in a different, less beautiful world, doing mundane human activities.
He loved to hear about them, and one day he told me he believed they were real, that I really was a little human girl in another life that I had besides this own, as a mature beautiful unicorn.
I was speechless. And he looked into my eyes with a gleam in them. He knew. | |
[WP] As humans become more advance we start to create are own universes. After a while Universe creation kits are being sold as common toys for kids. Talk about your first universe and about your god hood in it. | I found it in the attic, gathering dust on a shelf.
"God, what a bunch a nostalgic bullshit", i smirked.
I remember waking up Christmas day and finding it waiting under the tree for me. I remember the bright flash when i first turned it on and the excitement when I got the first little pop up message: "you've got life!".
I played with it every day, it was a great escape from all the everyday silliness, up until college. I created clans then tribes then entire continents full of people, i had to start over a couple times because the UI wasn't super forgiving, but that's just part of the learning process right?
So college came and I left it behind for more visceral experiences, and had a life of my own, first a degree, then a job, then a wife, then a family. Eventually my family grew and moved on to their own lives, leaving myself and my wife to continue our lives together.
But last week my wife passed away and i find myself wandering all the rooms of the house we shared for so long hoping the next room will have her in it. Wandering each room until I found myself looking up the little drop down stairs that lead to the attic. I struggled to make my old legs work well enough to make it up the stairs, but I managed somehow. Digging listlessly through the flotsam and jetsam of all of our years together I found it. my first universe. Its battery was just about dead, Just a few lights still flickered in its infinite expanse.
"good times, eh buddy?" I spoke to it, not expecting a response.
At the sound of my voice, it seemed to pulse, almost like it was gathering its strength to properly greet its old master. I picked it up from the dust and the debris and cleaned it so I could look deep into its depth one more time.
holding it close, I sat down in the corner of the room and drew an old blanket around myself and brought the globe to my forehead once again after all those years.
The multitude of stars was diminished, all the once vibrant worlds were old and grey or deep in the heart of super giant stars or disintegrated by cosmic explosions.
I thought back to all the old stories that were crafted with all the amazing creatures that walked all my planets, and suddenly remembered my favorite character. I knew that I must have passed away millennia ago, time was dilated enough where a lifetime for me was a lifetime for my universe, but i wanted to check the old prayer records just to make sure he turned out alright. I searched for his record and it popped up right away, and I suddenly felt worry, a multitude of missed messages. I searched through the record reading each message, getting a more clear picture of the story with every new word. finally, I read the last message and had no choice but to put my universe away for the last time, because I could never look at these worlds again. the last message from my friend and favorite character was simply:
"eloi eloi lama sabachthani" | "Haha, Ricky's an idiot if he thinks i'm gonna believe that. *My* sentient life couldn't be so dumb!"
"Dude try it! He swore on his life that it works!"
"So let me get this straight, you're saying that if I build a pool, put my sentient lifes in, and remove the ladder, they drown?"
//
Somewhere far away, the local populace was dismayed and confused to suddenly find a swimming pool stuck in the middle of the highway, full of dead bodies.
| |
[WP] Write about something that is disgusting or ugly in such a way that it becomes something beautiful--without using the 'beautiful inside' cliche. | I didn't think she was beautiful at first, when she asked me out.
We were both just kids and she was plain. She fully admits it. You know how there's this concept that if you ask everyone how attractive they think they are, almost everyone says 'above average', and how that means nothing because it destroys the whole concept of average? You meet those girls on Facebook who get 90+ likes on photos and you see them in real life, really look at them, and realize that they aren't attractive and everyone is kind of lying to them with good intentions because they're wearing makeup and took that photo and spent so much time on it, and maybe the person liking it really thinks they're beautiful. It's OK because no harm. And I really mean that, it's OK. I don't mind. Maybe average means something more than average, maybe average can really be beautiful.
She never posts photos on Facebook because of her body dysmorphia, so there's never been that push for he to ever think she's above average in looks. Of course I tell her she's beautiful because at first it was the right thing to do, and she is beautiful on the inside, but now it's because I really can't separate us and her insides with her face, split them like a pear or an almond. I know average can be beautiful because of her. Whenever I look at her I see her at the beach in that bikini she stressed over wearing, and I see her crying at graduation, and I see her face dip down and her eyes close to kiss me. I remember seeing her the first time in our high school calculus class and not thinking anything about the face because it was so unassuming and devoid of makeup or anything that could have gotten people on Facebook to see effort and say 'gorgeous'. Her jaw is a little too wide and her eyelashes are sandy and stubbly, but they sparkle every time I look at her. Her uneven top lip and the way she bites it during an exam. The way her waist is a little soft and giving under my hands, her hip bones against my thumbs and her head in my shoulder because she's a little too tall to be a girl, even a woman. Her purr-purr voice, husky but low, like a tiger trying to sound like a kitten.
Any stranger in a laboratory would say 5 or 7 on a good day, but I can't, now. I guess I've looked at her so many times now because I don't really see her face in a plainclothes way. Never could again.
| A crisp winter’s morning.
The waking sun throws its first beams over the horizon with an aim that’s second to none. The escaping orange light reaches the target causing the clear mucus seeping from her radiantly rosey nose to glisten in these silent sunrise moments. We stand amongst the fields of wild grasses as they hold onto their morning dew drops. A delicately, yet sudden sniff, and she too has held back the slowly escaping sparkling trail of nasal juice. I offer a tissue, but she declines with; “I’m fine. It’s back home now.”
The dawn chorus is gearing up for a crescendo for those brave enough to battle this frosty clear sky morning. I reach out and draw her close to me, her head naturally, almost as if it were designed to, rests perfectly into my shoulder.
We watch the sun rise together. Her muscosal fluid leaking down my lapel, reflecting the sparkling morning sun.
Just the two of us forever. | |
[WP] Write about something that is disgusting or ugly in such a way that it becomes something beautiful--without using the 'beautiful inside' cliche. | Spreading manure has always been the least glamorous job on the farm. It really doesn’t even need an explanation; you spend your entire day loading, hauling, and slinging good old poop. This job is a necessary evil for every livestock producer, however. You can ignore it all you want, but that doesn’t change the constant need to keep your animal lots clean. Many people say that there are only two guarantees in this world, that being death and taxes. I disagree; shoveling manure should be considered a third.
We start in the skid steer, scraping one bucket-load at a time from the pens and pads. This is piled up at the back of the barn, where the tractor and spreader are parker. When a considerably sized mountain of fecal matter is constructed, one will start loading the spreader. Here is where things can get monotonous.
When you haul the first load, you make an estimate of how many you will have total. No matter how many times you have done this job, that guess is always WAY too low. You might think there are 20 loads in that pile; sorry bud, it ends up being 55. Every one of those trips entails a bouncy ride across the field while a heavy coating of mud-manure mixture covers every inch of the spreader.
Also, we can’t forget the smell. Yes, that wonderful stench that permeates through every tractor cab window and firmly plants itself for all to experience. Any clothing worn during this task can be permanently labeled as “manure duty” as they will reek of cow poop forever beyond. Even your skin will carry this mark of a cattleman, especially your hands. Gloves do nothing to prevent this, so one learns to avoid finger foods during manure time.
But there is something magical in that “black gold.” Mother nature does not make mistakes when it comes to her soil, and that includes our natural fertilizer. No man-made mixture can outsmart what has existed since the first animals walked upon the dry ground. We think we have farming down to a science of numbers and minerals, but few understand just how little we actually know. Somebody can analyze a sample of manure and apply the same materials in synthetic fertilizer form, but you will never get the same results.
My pocketbook likes it too. Some cattleman look at manure as a problem. Rather, I see it as a gift. The hay and grain I borrow from the soil is returned in a different form, with the cattle taking a little bite along the way. The dollars saved by completing this ancient cycle make my farm successful to boot. | A crisp winter’s morning.
The waking sun throws its first beams over the horizon with an aim that’s second to none. The escaping orange light reaches the target causing the clear mucus seeping from her radiantly rosey nose to glisten in these silent sunrise moments. We stand amongst the fields of wild grasses as they hold onto their morning dew drops. A delicately, yet sudden sniff, and she too has held back the slowly escaping sparkling trail of nasal juice. I offer a tissue, but she declines with; “I’m fine. It’s back home now.”
The dawn chorus is gearing up for a crescendo for those brave enough to battle this frosty clear sky morning. I reach out and draw her close to me, her head naturally, almost as if it were designed to, rests perfectly into my shoulder.
We watch the sun rise together. Her muscosal fluid leaking down my lapel, reflecting the sparkling morning sun.
Just the two of us forever. | |
[WP] Write about something that is disgusting or ugly in such a way that it becomes something beautiful--without using the 'beautiful inside' cliche. | Writers are like oysters.
Consider this: a writer writes a story like an oyster makes a pearl - takes an irritating bit and wraps it, layer by layer, in iridescent secretions.
That is the act of writing a story - of taking some sharp-edged memory and *wrapping* it, smoothing it out and making it easier to live with. It's still there, but it doesn't hurt so bad anymore.
When we bear ourselves to readers, it's like being shucked open for all the world to admire those pearls - tender lips pushed aside to reveal the glow within. The beauty of it, of course, is entirely accidental; we were just trying to stay alive. | A crisp winter’s morning.
The waking sun throws its first beams over the horizon with an aim that’s second to none. The escaping orange light reaches the target causing the clear mucus seeping from her radiantly rosey nose to glisten in these silent sunrise moments. We stand amongst the fields of wild grasses as they hold onto their morning dew drops. A delicately, yet sudden sniff, and she too has held back the slowly escaping sparkling trail of nasal juice. I offer a tissue, but she declines with; “I’m fine. It’s back home now.”
The dawn chorus is gearing up for a crescendo for those brave enough to battle this frosty clear sky morning. I reach out and draw her close to me, her head naturally, almost as if it were designed to, rests perfectly into my shoulder.
We watch the sun rise together. Her muscosal fluid leaking down my lapel, reflecting the sparkling morning sun.
Just the two of us forever. | |
[WP] Write about something that is disgusting or ugly in such a way that it becomes something beautiful--without using the 'beautiful inside' cliche. | I didn't think she was beautiful at first, when she asked me out.
We were both just kids and she was plain. She fully admits it. You know how there's this concept that if you ask everyone how attractive they think they are, almost everyone says 'above average', and how that means nothing because it destroys the whole concept of average? You meet those girls on Facebook who get 90+ likes on photos and you see them in real life, really look at them, and realize that they aren't attractive and everyone is kind of lying to them with good intentions because they're wearing makeup and took that photo and spent so much time on it, and maybe the person liking it really thinks they're beautiful. It's OK because no harm. And I really mean that, it's OK. I don't mind. Maybe average means something more than average, maybe average can really be beautiful.
She never posts photos on Facebook because of her body dysmorphia, so there's never been that push for he to ever think she's above average in looks. Of course I tell her she's beautiful because at first it was the right thing to do, and she is beautiful on the inside, but now it's because I really can't separate us and her insides with her face, split them like a pear or an almond. I know average can be beautiful because of her. Whenever I look at her I see her at the beach in that bikini she stressed over wearing, and I see her crying at graduation, and I see her face dip down and her eyes close to kiss me. I remember seeing her the first time in our high school calculus class and not thinking anything about the face because it was so unassuming and devoid of makeup or anything that could have gotten people on Facebook to see effort and say 'gorgeous'. Her jaw is a little too wide and her eyelashes are sandy and stubbly, but they sparkle every time I look at her. Her uneven top lip and the way she bites it during an exam. The way her waist is a little soft and giving under my hands, her hip bones against my thumbs and her head in my shoulder because she's a little too tall to be a girl, even a woman. Her purr-purr voice, husky but low, like a tiger trying to sound like a kitten.
Any stranger in a laboratory would say 5 or 7 on a good day, but I can't, now. I guess I've looked at her so many times now because I don't really see her face in a plainclothes way. Never could again.
| They found him in a bin. He had 2 broken legs, his fur and skin had been burnt, he was blind in 1 eye, and he smelt like rotten flesh. They named him groucho.
They took him to the nearest rescue centre, they cleaned him, they put his legs in casts, then helped him learn how to walk again. His fur grew back, his tail began to wag again, he learnt how to trust humans again.
He sat In his crate and when humans came to visit, he sat and wagged his tail when they walked past him, his tail still wagged even when they picked another dog to take home. Weeks went by and his tail kept wagging every day, every vist, until eventually he found his new owner, who took him away to his forever home, and loved him the way a dog is meant to be loved. And he loved them back unconditionally. | |
[WP] Write about something that is disgusting or ugly in such a way that it becomes something beautiful--without using the 'beautiful inside' cliche. | Spreading manure has always been the least glamorous job on the farm. It really doesn’t even need an explanation; you spend your entire day loading, hauling, and slinging good old poop. This job is a necessary evil for every livestock producer, however. You can ignore it all you want, but that doesn’t change the constant need to keep your animal lots clean. Many people say that there are only two guarantees in this world, that being death and taxes. I disagree; shoveling manure should be considered a third.
We start in the skid steer, scraping one bucket-load at a time from the pens and pads. This is piled up at the back of the barn, where the tractor and spreader are parker. When a considerably sized mountain of fecal matter is constructed, one will start loading the spreader. Here is where things can get monotonous.
When you haul the first load, you make an estimate of how many you will have total. No matter how many times you have done this job, that guess is always WAY too low. You might think there are 20 loads in that pile; sorry bud, it ends up being 55. Every one of those trips entails a bouncy ride across the field while a heavy coating of mud-manure mixture covers every inch of the spreader.
Also, we can’t forget the smell. Yes, that wonderful stench that permeates through every tractor cab window and firmly plants itself for all to experience. Any clothing worn during this task can be permanently labeled as “manure duty” as they will reek of cow poop forever beyond. Even your skin will carry this mark of a cattleman, especially your hands. Gloves do nothing to prevent this, so one learns to avoid finger foods during manure time.
But there is something magical in that “black gold.” Mother nature does not make mistakes when it comes to her soil, and that includes our natural fertilizer. No man-made mixture can outsmart what has existed since the first animals walked upon the dry ground. We think we have farming down to a science of numbers and minerals, but few understand just how little we actually know. Somebody can analyze a sample of manure and apply the same materials in synthetic fertilizer form, but you will never get the same results.
My pocketbook likes it too. Some cattleman look at manure as a problem. Rather, I see it as a gift. The hay and grain I borrow from the soil is returned in a different form, with the cattle taking a little bite along the way. The dollars saved by completing this ancient cycle make my farm successful to boot. | They found him in a bin. He had 2 broken legs, his fur and skin had been burnt, he was blind in 1 eye, and he smelt like rotten flesh. They named him groucho.
They took him to the nearest rescue centre, they cleaned him, they put his legs in casts, then helped him learn how to walk again. His fur grew back, his tail began to wag again, he learnt how to trust humans again.
He sat In his crate and when humans came to visit, he sat and wagged his tail when they walked past him, his tail still wagged even when they picked another dog to take home. Weeks went by and his tail kept wagging every day, every vist, until eventually he found his new owner, who took him away to his forever home, and loved him the way a dog is meant to be loved. And he loved them back unconditionally. | |
[WP] Write about something that is disgusting or ugly in such a way that it becomes something beautiful--without using the 'beautiful inside' cliche. | Writers are like oysters.
Consider this: a writer writes a story like an oyster makes a pearl - takes an irritating bit and wraps it, layer by layer, in iridescent secretions.
That is the act of writing a story - of taking some sharp-edged memory and *wrapping* it, smoothing it out and making it easier to live with. It's still there, but it doesn't hurt so bad anymore.
When we bear ourselves to readers, it's like being shucked open for all the world to admire those pearls - tender lips pushed aside to reveal the glow within. The beauty of it, of course, is entirely accidental; we were just trying to stay alive. | They found him in a bin. He had 2 broken legs, his fur and skin had been burnt, he was blind in 1 eye, and he smelt like rotten flesh. They named him groucho.
They took him to the nearest rescue centre, they cleaned him, they put his legs in casts, then helped him learn how to walk again. His fur grew back, his tail began to wag again, he learnt how to trust humans again.
He sat In his crate and when humans came to visit, he sat and wagged his tail when they walked past him, his tail still wagged even when they picked another dog to take home. Weeks went by and his tail kept wagging every day, every vist, until eventually he found his new owner, who took him away to his forever home, and loved him the way a dog is meant to be loved. And he loved them back unconditionally. | |
[WP] Write about something that is disgusting or ugly in such a way that it becomes something beautiful--without using the 'beautiful inside' cliche. | I didn't think she was beautiful at first, when she asked me out.
We were both just kids and she was plain. She fully admits it. You know how there's this concept that if you ask everyone how attractive they think they are, almost everyone says 'above average', and how that means nothing because it destroys the whole concept of average? You meet those girls on Facebook who get 90+ likes on photos and you see them in real life, really look at them, and realize that they aren't attractive and everyone is kind of lying to them with good intentions because they're wearing makeup and took that photo and spent so much time on it, and maybe the person liking it really thinks they're beautiful. It's OK because no harm. And I really mean that, it's OK. I don't mind. Maybe average means something more than average, maybe average can really be beautiful.
She never posts photos on Facebook because of her body dysmorphia, so there's never been that push for he to ever think she's above average in looks. Of course I tell her she's beautiful because at first it was the right thing to do, and she is beautiful on the inside, but now it's because I really can't separate us and her insides with her face, split them like a pear or an almond. I know average can be beautiful because of her. Whenever I look at her I see her at the beach in that bikini she stressed over wearing, and I see her crying at graduation, and I see her face dip down and her eyes close to kiss me. I remember seeing her the first time in our high school calculus class and not thinking anything about the face because it was so unassuming and devoid of makeup or anything that could have gotten people on Facebook to see effort and say 'gorgeous'. Her jaw is a little too wide and her eyelashes are sandy and stubbly, but they sparkle every time I look at her. Her uneven top lip and the way she bites it during an exam. The way her waist is a little soft and giving under my hands, her hip bones against my thumbs and her head in my shoulder because she's a little too tall to be a girl, even a woman. Her purr-purr voice, husky but low, like a tiger trying to sound like a kitten.
Any stranger in a laboratory would say 5 or 7 on a good day, but I can't, now. I guess I've looked at her so many times now because I don't really see her face in a plainclothes way. Never could again.
| Death.
Death is the most beautiful thing. The way their arms flail as they run from the inevitable always gives me a rush. The way their face fills with terror as they try to stuff their spilling organs back inside their broken body is always enchanting. The sound of the corpse landing with a dull thud is music to my ears. The way their cold, lifeless eyes reflect the fear they felt in their last moments is truly inspiring. Death is an art.
I am the artist. | |
[WP] Write about something that is disgusting or ugly in such a way that it becomes something beautiful--without using the 'beautiful inside' cliche. | Spreading manure has always been the least glamorous job on the farm. It really doesn’t even need an explanation; you spend your entire day loading, hauling, and slinging good old poop. This job is a necessary evil for every livestock producer, however. You can ignore it all you want, but that doesn’t change the constant need to keep your animal lots clean. Many people say that there are only two guarantees in this world, that being death and taxes. I disagree; shoveling manure should be considered a third.
We start in the skid steer, scraping one bucket-load at a time from the pens and pads. This is piled up at the back of the barn, where the tractor and spreader are parker. When a considerably sized mountain of fecal matter is constructed, one will start loading the spreader. Here is where things can get monotonous.
When you haul the first load, you make an estimate of how many you will have total. No matter how many times you have done this job, that guess is always WAY too low. You might think there are 20 loads in that pile; sorry bud, it ends up being 55. Every one of those trips entails a bouncy ride across the field while a heavy coating of mud-manure mixture covers every inch of the spreader.
Also, we can’t forget the smell. Yes, that wonderful stench that permeates through every tractor cab window and firmly plants itself for all to experience. Any clothing worn during this task can be permanently labeled as “manure duty” as they will reek of cow poop forever beyond. Even your skin will carry this mark of a cattleman, especially your hands. Gloves do nothing to prevent this, so one learns to avoid finger foods during manure time.
But there is something magical in that “black gold.” Mother nature does not make mistakes when it comes to her soil, and that includes our natural fertilizer. No man-made mixture can outsmart what has existed since the first animals walked upon the dry ground. We think we have farming down to a science of numbers and minerals, but few understand just how little we actually know. Somebody can analyze a sample of manure and apply the same materials in synthetic fertilizer form, but you will never get the same results.
My pocketbook likes it too. Some cattleman look at manure as a problem. Rather, I see it as a gift. The hay and grain I borrow from the soil is returned in a different form, with the cattle taking a little bite along the way. The dollars saved by completing this ancient cycle make my farm successful to boot. | Death.
Death is the most beautiful thing. The way their arms flail as they run from the inevitable always gives me a rush. The way their face fills with terror as they try to stuff their spilling organs back inside their broken body is always enchanting. The sound of the corpse landing with a dull thud is music to my ears. The way their cold, lifeless eyes reflect the fear they felt in their last moments is truly inspiring. Death is an art.
I am the artist. | |
[WP] Write about something that is disgusting or ugly in such a way that it becomes something beautiful--without using the 'beautiful inside' cliche. | Writers are like oysters.
Consider this: a writer writes a story like an oyster makes a pearl - takes an irritating bit and wraps it, layer by layer, in iridescent secretions.
That is the act of writing a story - of taking some sharp-edged memory and *wrapping* it, smoothing it out and making it easier to live with. It's still there, but it doesn't hurt so bad anymore.
When we bear ourselves to readers, it's like being shucked open for all the world to admire those pearls - tender lips pushed aside to reveal the glow within. The beauty of it, of course, is entirely accidental; we were just trying to stay alive. | Death.
Death is the most beautiful thing. The way their arms flail as they run from the inevitable always gives me a rush. The way their face fills with terror as they try to stuff their spilling organs back inside their broken body is always enchanting. The sound of the corpse landing with a dull thud is music to my ears. The way their cold, lifeless eyes reflect the fear they felt in their last moments is truly inspiring. Death is an art.
I am the artist. | |
[WP] Write about something that is disgusting or ugly in such a way that it becomes something beautiful--without using the 'beautiful inside' cliche. | A ratty scarf laid crumpled on our bed. Tears coursed through the fabric in hues most would consider 'color,' but begged for argument. Coarse, rough, it looked hard to wear, let alone see.
It was a wonder Scott wore that thing. One small section even had crusted mucus still on it, likely from a few days ago when we walked the park together. Spring season did terrible things to him, but he knew I loved seeing the flowers bloom.
One hole was gaping like a dying breath in that mess. From when some dumb dog jumped on the park bench chomping on it this afternoon. Scott wore that mess everywhere, even for our short lunch trips. I caught him a few times biting into it accidentally while awkwardly trying to dive a forkful of chinese, the scarf acting as a chute sometimes.
So it must have thought the scarf would taste as good as it smelled (but never as it looked, god). Scott won that battle for the scarf, but scars still etched through most of whatever strands remained. He wore it back on our way home, fighting his sinuses, muttering about the damage. It somehow got uglier. We were so surprised we laughed.
When we got home this evening I asked him why he still wore such a mess. It looked genuinely awful.
*Like I could toss this, there's plenty of mileage on this thing yet. Still keeps me warm, right?*
He took off his coat, shoes, dumped the scarf on the bed and is showering at the moment. Leaving me alone with it.
I couldn't help but smile. Scott didn't even say it. That I made the scarf for him our first Christmas together seven years ago. He just liked wearing it still after all this time.
*Still keeps me warm, right?*
I wouldn't know. Couldn't be caught dead in it. That didn't matter though. Our marriage wasn't a perfect one, but he held on to it for better or worse.
And so would I.
| Death.
Death is the most beautiful thing. The way their arms flail as they run from the inevitable always gives me a rush. The way their face fills with terror as they try to stuff their spilling organs back inside their broken body is always enchanting. The sound of the corpse landing with a dull thud is music to my ears. The way their cold, lifeless eyes reflect the fear they felt in their last moments is truly inspiring. Death is an art.
I am the artist. | |
[WP] Write about something that is disgusting or ugly in such a way that it becomes something beautiful--without using the 'beautiful inside' cliche. | Writers are like oysters.
Consider this: a writer writes a story like an oyster makes a pearl - takes an irritating bit and wraps it, layer by layer, in iridescent secretions.
That is the act of writing a story - of taking some sharp-edged memory and *wrapping* it, smoothing it out and making it easier to live with. It's still there, but it doesn't hurt so bad anymore.
When we bear ourselves to readers, it's like being shucked open for all the world to admire those pearls - tender lips pushed aside to reveal the glow within. The beauty of it, of course, is entirely accidental; we were just trying to stay alive. | I didn't think she was beautiful at first, when she asked me out.
We were both just kids and she was plain. She fully admits it. You know how there's this concept that if you ask everyone how attractive they think they are, almost everyone says 'above average', and how that means nothing because it destroys the whole concept of average? You meet those girls on Facebook who get 90+ likes on photos and you see them in real life, really look at them, and realize that they aren't attractive and everyone is kind of lying to them with good intentions because they're wearing makeup and took that photo and spent so much time on it, and maybe the person liking it really thinks they're beautiful. It's OK because no harm. And I really mean that, it's OK. I don't mind. Maybe average means something more than average, maybe average can really be beautiful.
She never posts photos on Facebook because of her body dysmorphia, so there's never been that push for he to ever think she's above average in looks. Of course I tell her she's beautiful because at first it was the right thing to do, and she is beautiful on the inside, but now it's because I really can't separate us and her insides with her face, split them like a pear or an almond. I know average can be beautiful because of her. Whenever I look at her I see her at the beach in that bikini she stressed over wearing, and I see her crying at graduation, and I see her face dip down and her eyes close to kiss me. I remember seeing her the first time in our high school calculus class and not thinking anything about the face because it was so unassuming and devoid of makeup or anything that could have gotten people on Facebook to see effort and say 'gorgeous'. Her jaw is a little too wide and her eyelashes are sandy and stubbly, but they sparkle every time I look at her. Her uneven top lip and the way she bites it during an exam. The way her waist is a little soft and giving under my hands, her hip bones against my thumbs and her head in my shoulder because she's a little too tall to be a girl, even a woman. Her purr-purr voice, husky but low, like a tiger trying to sound like a kitten.
Any stranger in a laboratory would say 5 or 7 on a good day, but I can't, now. I guess I've looked at her so many times now because I don't really see her face in a plainclothes way. Never could again.
| |
[WP] Write about something that is disgusting or ugly in such a way that it becomes something beautiful--without using the 'beautiful inside' cliche. | Writers are like oysters.
Consider this: a writer writes a story like an oyster makes a pearl - takes an irritating bit and wraps it, layer by layer, in iridescent secretions.
That is the act of writing a story - of taking some sharp-edged memory and *wrapping* it, smoothing it out and making it easier to live with. It's still there, but it doesn't hurt so bad anymore.
When we bear ourselves to readers, it's like being shucked open for all the world to admire those pearls - tender lips pushed aside to reveal the glow within. The beauty of it, of course, is entirely accidental; we were just trying to stay alive. | Spreading manure has always been the least glamorous job on the farm. It really doesn’t even need an explanation; you spend your entire day loading, hauling, and slinging good old poop. This job is a necessary evil for every livestock producer, however. You can ignore it all you want, but that doesn’t change the constant need to keep your animal lots clean. Many people say that there are only two guarantees in this world, that being death and taxes. I disagree; shoveling manure should be considered a third.
We start in the skid steer, scraping one bucket-load at a time from the pens and pads. This is piled up at the back of the barn, where the tractor and spreader are parker. When a considerably sized mountain of fecal matter is constructed, one will start loading the spreader. Here is where things can get monotonous.
When you haul the first load, you make an estimate of how many you will have total. No matter how many times you have done this job, that guess is always WAY too low. You might think there are 20 loads in that pile; sorry bud, it ends up being 55. Every one of those trips entails a bouncy ride across the field while a heavy coating of mud-manure mixture covers every inch of the spreader.
Also, we can’t forget the smell. Yes, that wonderful stench that permeates through every tractor cab window and firmly plants itself for all to experience. Any clothing worn during this task can be permanently labeled as “manure duty” as they will reek of cow poop forever beyond. Even your skin will carry this mark of a cattleman, especially your hands. Gloves do nothing to prevent this, so one learns to avoid finger foods during manure time.
But there is something magical in that “black gold.” Mother nature does not make mistakes when it comes to her soil, and that includes our natural fertilizer. No man-made mixture can outsmart what has existed since the first animals walked upon the dry ground. We think we have farming down to a science of numbers and minerals, but few understand just how little we actually know. Somebody can analyze a sample of manure and apply the same materials in synthetic fertilizer form, but you will never get the same results.
My pocketbook likes it too. Some cattleman look at manure as a problem. Rather, I see it as a gift. The hay and grain I borrow from the soil is returned in a different form, with the cattle taking a little bite along the way. The dollars saved by completing this ancient cycle make my farm successful to boot. | |
[WP] Write about something that is disgusting or ugly in such a way that it becomes something beautiful--without using the 'beautiful inside' cliche. | Writers are like oysters.
Consider this: a writer writes a story like an oyster makes a pearl - takes an irritating bit and wraps it, layer by layer, in iridescent secretions.
That is the act of writing a story - of taking some sharp-edged memory and *wrapping* it, smoothing it out and making it easier to live with. It's still there, but it doesn't hurt so bad anymore.
When we bear ourselves to readers, it's like being shucked open for all the world to admire those pearls - tender lips pushed aside to reveal the glow within. The beauty of it, of course, is entirely accidental; we were just trying to stay alive. | The easel before her sat blank and untouched, crumpled drafts discarded about the room, stained with the flowing red. She gingerly moved the flowing blonde locks off his brow, revealing the deep blue eyes open wide in a mix of agony and shock. He was naked from the waist up, his belly sliced open from navel to sternum revealing bright red entrails.
She turned back towards the easel, dipping her brush in the paint and lightly touching the canvas. When she painted, the world came alive in her hands as random lines and colors became worlds and lives. *To make life you must give life*, she reminded herself soothingly when she felt her breath quicken, despair creeping in. She dabbed the blue paint onto the bare canvas, feeling the brush like a hand on a naked body as she moved it up and down creating life. She closed her eyes as she stroked the brush from side to side creating waves and a watery world and when she was satisfied she stood.
Calmly, taking care to avoid the blood that was quickly drying in a puddle on the floor, she closed his deep blue eyes, never to be opened again. Taking a step back, she admired her work. His chiseled chest and blonde hair became sand dunes on a desolate beach; the sand smooth and untouched save by the blue waves that frothed as white as his teeth when they broke. When the beach was done and the waves roared their eternal song as they crushed rocks into the finest sand, she methodically removed his teeth and cut his hair, tossing them carelessly into a puddle of blood.
*To make life you must give life*, she reminded herself, and the blood still flowing from his grisly wound became the dawn of a new day in the world she was creating. Red mixed with fiery yellow and orange and a sun appeared, peeking over the endless blue waves. The light reflected off the waves that shone like his eyes had once shined and then her sun was complete and her world created.
Taking care to not disturb the world she had painted with its blue waves and radiant sun and smooth sandy beach, she mopped up the blood and got rid of his body and the room looked nearly like it had the day before. The only difference was the canvas, now bright and colorful with a life of its own as the waves lapped gently against the beach. With a smile, she stepped past the canvas and through the window that beckoned her with open arms and as the ground rushed to meet her, she reminded herself that to make life she must give life.
*****
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated! | |
[WP] Write about something that is disgusting or ugly in such a way that it becomes something beautiful--without using the 'beautiful inside' cliche. | A canopy tarantula is an intricate, beautiful machine of almost unfathomable complexity. If you ever find yourself staring one in the face, stand extremely still and try to enjoy the view. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to run. The tarantula weighs two thousand pounds, which, last time we checked, is significantly more than you do. It is twenty-five feet wide. It can cover a football field in a single explosive leap.
You are a snack. If it notices you, the tarantula will fold you up with its remarkably dextrous front legs and inject two quarts of a paralyzing venom into your spinal column through fangs that are frankly just overkill. Excreted digestive fluids will turn your insides to mush, and then the spider will slurp you down. How's that for an image?
The takeaway here is that running is out of the question. Instead, my unfortunate explorer, take a few moments to gaze upon the tarantula, the magnificent lord of the canopy. Observe the orchestra of chitin-clad instruments pumping and twitching in unison. There are the legs, of course, all eight of them, powered by hydraulics comparable to those in a terrestrial steamroller. Were you to somehow kill the tarantula -- which, trust us, is no easy feat -- all eight legs would curl in on themselves, lacking the titanic pressure necessary to keep them extended.
Each leg is composed of seven segments: the coxa, trochanter, femur, patella, tibia, tarsus and pretarsus, and claw. Three delicate, retractable claws protrude from the tip of each leg. The claws are wreathed in special hairs, called the scopula, which help the spider affix itself to vertical surfaces. It has been estimated that a canopy tarantula, set loose in New York, could scale the Empire State Building in a matter of minutes. Of course, it would be unlikely to pursue this ascent, preferring instead to gorge itself on pedestrians until a cruise missile or other high-caliber explosive weapon blew it into twitching, hairy chunks.
Beside the legs, on either side of the tarantula's head, are a pair of remarkable appendages called pedipalps. Embedded with sharp, jagged plates ("maxillae"), the pedipalps are used for grasping, tearing, and otherwise mutilating things that the tarantula would like to catch, kill, and eat. They are basically arms with teeth on them, but such a description belies their utilitarian beauty: the pedipalps are delicate, precise, and honed by tens of millions of years of evolution to fulfill their purpose as effectively as possible. Also, they function on male spiders as a reproductive organ, which makes them more like arms with teeth *and* genitals on them. Fascinating!
In between the pedipalps, and immediately beneath the cluster of shiny eyes that we'll get around to describing in a moment, are the chelicerae, which house the spider's fangs. When not in use, the fangs fold up like landing gear, which means that you, our trembling explorer, will hopefully not get a good look at them. Still, allow us to describe the fangs.
The fangs are big. They are curved. They are extremely sharp.
That about sums it up. On to the eyes: there are eight of these, layered in two rows of four. So fragile that you could put a fist through one of them (although we would advise against this, considering the response it would undoubtedly provoke) the eyes are mostly used for detecting light levels, basic shapes, and movement. The most important sensory organ of a tarantula is the bristly hair all over its body, which can sense the tiniest vibrations (such as, we regret to inform you, a human heartbeat), allowing the creature to "feel" its way around its arboreal habitat.
By this point, the tarantula has likely found you, barring a fortuitous distraction. We only hope that, as it begins to digest you, your final thoughts will not be filled with discontent, but rather with awe and amazement at the wonders Mother Nature has created.
*****
*If you liked the story, check out my [sci-fi adventure novel](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/3uixph/ot_thanks_to_rwritingprompts_i_spent_the_last_ten/) (set in the same universe) and/or [my personal subreddit](https://www.reddit.com/r/FormerFutureAuthor/)! Making a big push to get more content out there. :D* | The easel before her sat blank and untouched, crumpled drafts discarded about the room, stained with the flowing red. She gingerly moved the flowing blonde locks off his brow, revealing the deep blue eyes open wide in a mix of agony and shock. He was naked from the waist up, his belly sliced open from navel to sternum revealing bright red entrails.
She turned back towards the easel, dipping her brush in the paint and lightly touching the canvas. When she painted, the world came alive in her hands as random lines and colors became worlds and lives. *To make life you must give life*, she reminded herself soothingly when she felt her breath quicken, despair creeping in. She dabbed the blue paint onto the bare canvas, feeling the brush like a hand on a naked body as she moved it up and down creating life. She closed her eyes as she stroked the brush from side to side creating waves and a watery world and when she was satisfied she stood.
Calmly, taking care to avoid the blood that was quickly drying in a puddle on the floor, she closed his deep blue eyes, never to be opened again. Taking a step back, she admired her work. His chiseled chest and blonde hair became sand dunes on a desolate beach; the sand smooth and untouched save by the blue waves that frothed as white as his teeth when they broke. When the beach was done and the waves roared their eternal song as they crushed rocks into the finest sand, she methodically removed his teeth and cut his hair, tossing them carelessly into a puddle of blood.
*To make life you must give life*, she reminded herself, and the blood still flowing from his grisly wound became the dawn of a new day in the world she was creating. Red mixed with fiery yellow and orange and a sun appeared, peeking over the endless blue waves. The light reflected off the waves that shone like his eyes had once shined and then her sun was complete and her world created.
Taking care to not disturb the world she had painted with its blue waves and radiant sun and smooth sandy beach, she mopped up the blood and got rid of his body and the room looked nearly like it had the day before. The only difference was the canvas, now bright and colorful with a life of its own as the waves lapped gently against the beach. With a smile, she stepped past the canvas and through the window that beckoned her with open arms and as the ground rushed to meet her, she reminded herself that to make life she must give life.
*****
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated! |
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