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[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.
| 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. | My favorite instrument is the pipe organ- I could play it all day long and never feel underwhelmed. The sound it emits is just so magnanimous and exhilarating, and to think that it's nothing more than the passage of air through tubes...I am ceaselessly amazed by it.
I do admit, though, that it takes a true artist to extract and utilize the potential from such a finicky instrument. You need precise control over your fingers, a strong mind for music and sharp ears. I would say it's much different than typical wind instruments.
Oh, and the pipes. They are the core, since all produced sound is their work. I breathe life into them and they sing for me, at my whim. It's an intense feeling of control, knowing that the music is simply a physical extension of my mind; a sonogram of my thoughts. I get a rush of adrenaline and sweat as I play, my dancing fingers orchestrating a magnificent choir.
Most people don't even know that if you pull someone's trachea out through their throat, you can hear the air whistle in and out...in and out...with every strained breath. A little pinching and you can control the pitch ever so slightly, and every person's is different- you have to learn how to play each one. My dream is to make an symphony using several different people, one day.
Of course, only a true artist could manage such a thing. If there is one, it's me. | 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 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.
| 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* | |
It can also be a desert island, if you want. I'd be surprised if you could pull off a dessert island, but it's not explicitly against the rules. | [WP] You are trapped on a deserted island. And I mean "deserted," in the sense that it seems people used to be there but left for unknown reasons. | I wake up in a lavish bed. Beautiful swirling, patterns on the thin cushion that is attached to the mahogony headboard with golden studs. The sun shines in through what seemed to be an entire wall made of windows, looking over the formerly bustling Island resort. The sun tinted the room with a much more vibrant yellow color than normal, which shone off the gold studs in the head board brilliantly.
I roll over to my side and close my eyes for a little longer, letting my own breathing pattern lull me to sleep again.
10 minutes later. I wake up.
I part the clouds that made up bed comforter aside, and look at the digital clock. It was flashing and read 2:38 AM.
I check my wristwatch and see that I
have been without power for nearly 8 hours.
I get up, touch the floor with my toes and shiver as the marble floor sends chills into my body. I stick my feet into my slippers and proceed to my wardrobe. I throw on my cashmere smoking jacket and take to my study to make my daily journal entry.
Day 630 without human contact.
No power this morning. Amusingly, this is also where all the food that I had rationed from the dining halls has taken me. Lasted a hell of alot longer than I thought.
I knew this day would come, so i've already honed my hunting skills and am able to collect large groups of fish all at once with the fish catcher I had created last month. One less problem to worry about.
My lack of problems keeps me alive. I can't help but think how lucky I am that THIS is the island that decided to make everyone disappear but me.
If I had liked people, I think i'd have gone insane by now. I don't so much hate people, but I hate the world that produces them.
Humans are products of their own environment. I don't want to live in an environment where having currency is a must. Where having expensive things means something, like people care what kind of fucking coffee table you own. Things are things. They are something that means nothing.
This is my own world. Where the only thing that matters, is survival. I'm good at surviving. Better at it than any job I have ever had.
Let's see if I can go kick start those back up generators.
| When I woke up on the island I was confused and afraid. The first few days I spent on the beach trying to signal for help of any kind. I did not have food or water and the island was devoid of life beyond the vegetation that covered it in excess. There was no water to be drank and food to be eaten. There was only the island and myself. I would listen to them daily as they spoke softly against the shores just as the thoughts of escape did to my mind. In and out the tide moved. Slowly but surely receding back to the expanse from which it came.
Time seemed to work differently on the island. It either was somehow preserved or simply did not exist within the area I was at. Days and nights passed slowly at first. When I didn't die of thirst or starvation I began to look beyond the beach front. I wandered into the darkness of the tropical forest that covered the island. The trees were so tightly packed that hardly any light broke the canopy. I did not have to worry about tripping though. In this place there were no leaves or fallen limbs. The ground was clear and coated only in a short grass. The vines were high above me like netting that was strung all over the island. Almost saying "I have you now".
For days, I think, I traveled deeper inward. I did not concern myself with the hopes of survival anymore. I only wondered if there was anybody else somewhere on this island. Someone who knew more about this place that seemed frozen in time. Perhaps they had the answers to the many questions that washed against the front of my mind daily. I could only search for something more than myself. I was consumed by it.
On the morning of whatever day it was I came to a clearing. In the middle stood a small community. Smoke rose from the stone huts to the blue sky above. In the center there was a temple that stood many feet taller than the surrounding buildings. It was made of stone and had many ornate carvings in the faces of it. My excitement growing I checked all the surrounding huts. However, like a sick game, there were no people to fill the rooms that begged for humanity to occupy them. The chairs sat vacant with no signs of wear or dust. They simply existed in this place I had come only to know as the island.
A place that existed where none would look upon it. Time had preserved this island. I do not know if I was the first to come upon it. I do not know how I had come upon it. Still though I needed an answer to my biggest question now. Why?
I stood at the foot of the stairs and looked to the entrance of the temple. The lion's face to the right was calm and the monkey was furious. Quite the change of character for such exotic creatures to be depicted on the walls of this place. So much detail but such a trade for characteristics. I ascended to stairs and looked through the entry. Torches on the left and right went on for what seemed like an eternity. Evenly lightly the long hallway which looked to have no turns. As I took my first step through the entry I felt a sensation of pleasure blossom from within my mind. I took more steps down the hallway. All of them more rewarding than the last. When I found the end I saw only a beam of light that came from the brightly lit top of the room. A sun beam so strong that the blind would see it. I stepped into the beam and looked into the light and heard only two words
"Wake up"
Yeah it is probably terrible but I am trying to improve. Sorry if it was boring guys. Also yay being late to the game! |
It can also be a desert island, if you want. I'd be surprised if you could pull off a dessert island, but it's not explicitly against the rules. | [WP] You are trapped on a deserted island. And I mean "deserted," in the sense that it seems people used to be there but left for unknown reasons. | *Oh thank God,* he thought as he clambered up the beach. Once he made it far enough that the lapping waves couldn't reach him, he collapsed in the sand, gazing up at the moon. A breeze blew over him, carrying the salty scent of the sea, and the oh-so-welcome scent of grass and trees. He crawled further, towards the tree line.The sight of trees, bushes, and grass blowing back and forth in the moonlight was a sight he desperately needed; anything was better than the cold, endless ocean.
He reached the forest and smiled in relief as he laid his head on the soft grass. He didn't know how long he laid there, but when he opened his eyes, the once-clear sky was shrouded with thick clouds. He raised a hand above his face, but could barely see it.
With a groan, he stood, legs screaming, and hobbled into the trees. *Get away from the sea. Onto the land. Maybe there are people... Either way, away from the sea.* He held his hands out before him as he walked, feeling for trees in his path.
A breeze blew up from behind, or... something like a breeze. It sounded like wind blowing past his ear, felt like a cool caress on the back of his neck, but he couldn't hear the treetops move with it. No bushes rustled.
He shivered, the sensation faded, and he moved on.
After a few minutes—or hours, he couldn't tell—the clouds parted above. A shaft of moonlight lit the way before him, and saw a clearing right before him. No trees, no bushes. Just a dense layer of grass, with what looked like piles of rocks placed around at random. The moonlight helped him see, but it wasn't bright enough to make them out at this distance.
Curious, he strode into the clearing, eyes focussed on the nearest pile—just a few yards away. Even before he reached it, he could see that he had been right. A small pile of five round stones—four as a base and one atop them—sat in a patch of dirt, devoid of even grass.
He knelt down, rested a hand in the dirt, and leant in close. The rocks had been... carved. Strange, swirling patterns ran over them. He frowned and looked up, casting his gaze over the rest of the clearing. *What is this?*
He stood and smacked his hand against a leg, brushing away the dirt, then paused. *What the...* He knelt down again and picked up a handful of dirt, then let it drop slowly back to the ground. It... glittered. The moonlight seemed to be catching on something mixed into the dirt, reflecting and shimmering, like stars.
He straightened, wiping his hand, and turned towards the another of the tiny monuments—then he froze.
It was faint, almost invisible. He could only make it out because of its gentle, flowing movement. A pale, white shape floated a few inches above the ground at the far edge of the clearing. It was *so* faint, almost translucent; he could make out the trees behind it, twisted and distorted as the light passed through the wispy smoke that gave the thing its form.
There were no indications that it was alive. Or conscious. It just floated there, billowing back and forth. But, somehow, he could tell it was watching him. There was something about it's shape, so unnervingly *human-shaped*, that made him feel... exposed. Not threatened; it didn't seem like it intended harm.
It was halfway across the clearing before he realised it was moving towards him. He staggered back a step, his foot squelching into the glistening dirt behind him, and felt that eerie not-breeze on the back of his neck again. He spun, then flinched back.
Another one was behind him. Not even a yard away. Watching. It had no eyes, no features. But it was watching.
He stepped back. His foot landed on the stone monument, which gave way, and he fell. The shape seemed to follow, drifting closer. In sudden terror, he lashed out, kicking at it.
Sudden sparks lit the night and sharp cracks filled the air as his foot came into contact with it. The thing recoiled. It didn't make a noise, but he always *sensed* a hiss of pain coming from it. It floated in front of him for a moment, then drifted back to the tree line, disappearing in the gloom.
As it faded from sight, so too did the moonlight as another patch of dense cloud passed overhead.
He picked himself up, looking around in vain. He couldn't see anything, let alone such faint, indistinct shapes. Fear gripped him now. What *were* those things? What had happened to make it leave?
He looked down at the dirt, invisible in the dark now, and seized onto a faint hope. He ripped off his shirt and folded it into a bag. Then he grabbed handfuls of the dirt, stuffed them into the makeshift sack, tied it shut, and straightened.
*Okay*, he thought. *Let's move.*
Going back to the shore was out; the shape he'd scared off had gone that way. So further inland it was—*What about the other one?*
He spun just as the sensation touched him again, the not-breeze. It was close. Very close. He grabbed another handful of dirt from the ground and flung it in front of him, throwing it in a wide spray to cover as wide an angle as possible.
Sparks lit the night again, he 'heard' another screech of pain, and the sensation faded. It was gone.
He turned to the side and took off at a light jog. The jog lasted about ten paces before he ran into a tree and staggered back, clutching his nose in pain.
When the pain faded, he took off at a walk, one hand held out in front of him.
It was too dark. Far too dark. He couldn't see a *thing*. Thankfully, he didn't feel any of the shapes come nearby. Not that it helped. If there were two, there could be more, and he had no way of knowing where they were.
He walked for minutes—hours?—until his feet kicked into something hard. Wooden. A fallen tree? He stepped up, aiming to step over it, and his foot came down on a flat wooden surface. A deck? He must have stumbled on someone's home!
'Hello!' he cried out. 'Is anyone there? I need help!'
No response.
He staggered around in the dark, trying to find any structures, but found none. Just as he was about to give up hope, the clouds parted again. Light streamed down on him, and revealed a small hut standing ten yards off to his right.
With a laugh of relief, he ran towards it. As his hand touched the door, he paused. Something was wrong... Not the not-breeze, but... something.
He turned around and froze in terror.
There, in the distance. Another... one? No, they were splitting apart from each other now... Three? Six? Ten. At least.
He burst into the hut, heart pounding in his chest. It was empty. Only a beam of moonlight shining in a window provided a source of light. In the centre of the room was a firepit, with a few branches left in it. He fell to his knees, fumbling around in the faint light for anything to start a fire. Flint? Tinder? Surely. Why have a firepit and no way to light it?
Off to the side, he spotted a small, black box. He tore it open and was relieved to see a flint and steel. He snatched it up and spun towards the pit.
It took him a few tries—he hadn't lit a fire like this in years—but soon a small fire was crackling, lighting the room. But he didn't relax there. He snatched up the sack of dirt and poured some out in a wide circle around the firepit, then sat down inside the ring. If the dirt frightened them away, surely they couldn't get inside.
Once he was sure the circle was complete, he sighed with relief. They couldn't get him now.
Now that the room was lit, he looked around. It was simple, rustic. Wooden chairs, a bed, shelves on nearly every wall. Only one wall was bare, but for a series of paintings on it. The one at the top depicted a man standing before a white, man-shaped... thing. He still couldn't think of a word for them. The picture showed the man and the thing touching, the man falling to his knees.
His heart sank. So they killed... He's guessed as much. But what was this? Why paint it on a wall?
The second image showed a man, apparently running, in front of a wall of trees. A thing was behind him, but it was black. Not white. His heart dropped again.
The third showed a man sitting before a fire. A thing was behind him, black, with green eyes. *Oh God...*
He looked at the fourth before he could stop himself. A man lay on the ground, another standing over him. Blood was on the ground beneath the first man, and the thing stood behind his killer. Black, with eyes red as blood.
The fifth, final, picture depicted a man, laying on the ground. Things floated all around him, and one was rising from the body.
A breeze brushed his neck.
He tore his gaze away from the wall with a gasp and looked around the room. His heart stopped.
They were all around him, ten of them, hovering just outside his ring of dirt. Small sparks lit up as they drifting too close, then pulled back. Gentle cracks filled the air.
All ten of them were black as pitch. With green eyes.
They pressed close; the ring around him crackled. Their eyes flashed brighter.
He cowered and pulled away, closer to the fire, almost burning himself. In desperation, he grabbed a branch from the fire and swung it at them. His hand screamed in pain, but he laughed as they pulled away, as if uneasy.
He threw the stick at them and grabbed another. They parted as the stick flew past and he bolted, torch in burning hand, out into the night. The clouds had covered the moon once more by now, but he could see by torchlight.
He sprinted, running for all he was worth, afraid to look behind. He ran and ran, with no idea where he was going.
Then he slipped. He landed face-first in the dirt with a grunt of pain. After a few seconds, he looked up and scrambled around for the torch. But it had gone out. He couldn't see.
Not that it mattered.
He cast his gaze around. The torch would do him no good. The bag he'd left behind would do no good...
There were dozens. Scores. *Hundreds* of eyes in the darkness. Red eyes.
He sucked in a long, shuddering breath.
The eyes got closer.
He screamed.
Choked.
Fell.
Then he rose.
And floated with the rest. | When I woke up on the island I was confused and afraid. The first few days I spent on the beach trying to signal for help of any kind. I did not have food or water and the island was devoid of life beyond the vegetation that covered it in excess. There was no water to be drank and food to be eaten. There was only the island and myself. I would listen to them daily as they spoke softly against the shores just as the thoughts of escape did to my mind. In and out the tide moved. Slowly but surely receding back to the expanse from which it came.
Time seemed to work differently on the island. It either was somehow preserved or simply did not exist within the area I was at. Days and nights passed slowly at first. When I didn't die of thirst or starvation I began to look beyond the beach front. I wandered into the darkness of the tropical forest that covered the island. The trees were so tightly packed that hardly any light broke the canopy. I did not have to worry about tripping though. In this place there were no leaves or fallen limbs. The ground was clear and coated only in a short grass. The vines were high above me like netting that was strung all over the island. Almost saying "I have you now".
For days, I think, I traveled deeper inward. I did not concern myself with the hopes of survival anymore. I only wondered if there was anybody else somewhere on this island. Someone who knew more about this place that seemed frozen in time. Perhaps they had the answers to the many questions that washed against the front of my mind daily. I could only search for something more than myself. I was consumed by it.
On the morning of whatever day it was I came to a clearing. In the middle stood a small community. Smoke rose from the stone huts to the blue sky above. In the center there was a temple that stood many feet taller than the surrounding buildings. It was made of stone and had many ornate carvings in the faces of it. My excitement growing I checked all the surrounding huts. However, like a sick game, there were no people to fill the rooms that begged for humanity to occupy them. The chairs sat vacant with no signs of wear or dust. They simply existed in this place I had come only to know as the island.
A place that existed where none would look upon it. Time had preserved this island. I do not know if I was the first to come upon it. I do not know how I had come upon it. Still though I needed an answer to my biggest question now. Why?
I stood at the foot of the stairs and looked to the entrance of the temple. The lion's face to the right was calm and the monkey was furious. Quite the change of character for such exotic creatures to be depicted on the walls of this place. So much detail but such a trade for characteristics. I ascended to stairs and looked through the entry. Torches on the left and right went on for what seemed like an eternity. Evenly lightly the long hallway which looked to have no turns. As I took my first step through the entry I felt a sensation of pleasure blossom from within my mind. I took more steps down the hallway. All of them more rewarding than the last. When I found the end I saw only a beam of light that came from the brightly lit top of the room. A sun beam so strong that the blind would see it. I stepped into the beam and looked into the light and heard only two words
"Wake up"
Yeah it is probably terrible but I am trying to improve. Sorry if it was boring guys. Also yay being late to the game! |
It can also be a desert island, if you want. I'd be surprised if you could pull off a dessert island, but it's not explicitly against the rules. | [WP] You are trapped on a deserted island. And I mean "deserted," in the sense that it seems people used to be there but left for unknown reasons. | *You son of a bitch.* God, it hurts. Probably broken.
I manage to get to my fe--nope, that's not happening, and down I go. I think I'm okay when it hits me; the scream that escapes my lips doesn't sound human, and I actually startle myself. I just signed my own death certificate. "Son of a bitch!
It's times like these I almost wish I would look up in the sky; see another plane heading down, down... Ah, who am I kidding? It'll never happen. Even if it did, the bastard couldn't be as lucky as I was, getting caught up in the trees, tangled in my parachute. Lucky I didn't suffocate or decapitate myself...though I reckon I'd rather have lost my head than still be here... If I had had a choice. Ah, nope, not standing on this leg--can't. Gotta sit. Gotta rest. Shouldn't have climbed that tree... Blood, Bone. Here comes the vomit. Yeah, it's broke.
Well, shit.
Make a tourniquet, you know how to do that. Just rip that and... more agonizing screaming, I can't take it!
"Uh, God..." I retch and cough. I think I'm...I think I'm going into shock? "Come onnnn, Johnny Boy..."
More vomit. Soon I'll be dehydrated.
Two years is an awfully long time to be alone. Even worse is the fact that, at some point, this damned rock had had men on it. Where they are now I have no clue. Haven't seen any other signs of wreckage, but that doesn't prove anything. Maybe there are men out here. Natives, maybe, and I just ain't found them yet. Somehow, though, I doubt it. Whoever was here ain't here any more.
How much time has passed? Sky is still light, so that's a good sign. Honestly though, I can't tell if it's been 10 minutes or 10 hours. My head is buzzing.
Just a year earlier I would've broken down and cried like a baby, but I don't think I have any tears left. I kinda feel like I've made peace with this; with the fact that my wife has probably remarried, and my folks'll move on someday. I'm kind of glad, in a way; helping Shirley raise the baby will keep Ma busy. I hope John Jr. don't look too much like me. That'd break her heart. Best if she just forgets.
Heart is beating like a jack hammer. Slow, even breaths... Close your eyes, concentrate, John.
Even still, I long for a friendly face... Black, white, Indian--Hell, if a Jap marched on in here just now, I might just hug him. I guess the War is probably over now. Wonder who won? I wonder who--
.
.
.
Did I just black out? No, I... maybe I did.
Shit.
I think I'm in trouble.
I think this is it. No getting out of this one.
I really screwed up this time. Wish I'd died in that crash.
God, I want to go home...
I don't want to die on this rock. I don't want to die on this rock!
...I don't feel right. This must be shock. I think I'm going into
| When I woke up on the island I was confused and afraid. The first few days I spent on the beach trying to signal for help of any kind. I did not have food or water and the island was devoid of life beyond the vegetation that covered it in excess. There was no water to be drank and food to be eaten. There was only the island and myself. I would listen to them daily as they spoke softly against the shores just as the thoughts of escape did to my mind. In and out the tide moved. Slowly but surely receding back to the expanse from which it came.
Time seemed to work differently on the island. It either was somehow preserved or simply did not exist within the area I was at. Days and nights passed slowly at first. When I didn't die of thirst or starvation I began to look beyond the beach front. I wandered into the darkness of the tropical forest that covered the island. The trees were so tightly packed that hardly any light broke the canopy. I did not have to worry about tripping though. In this place there were no leaves or fallen limbs. The ground was clear and coated only in a short grass. The vines were high above me like netting that was strung all over the island. Almost saying "I have you now".
For days, I think, I traveled deeper inward. I did not concern myself with the hopes of survival anymore. I only wondered if there was anybody else somewhere on this island. Someone who knew more about this place that seemed frozen in time. Perhaps they had the answers to the many questions that washed against the front of my mind daily. I could only search for something more than myself. I was consumed by it.
On the morning of whatever day it was I came to a clearing. In the middle stood a small community. Smoke rose from the stone huts to the blue sky above. In the center there was a temple that stood many feet taller than the surrounding buildings. It was made of stone and had many ornate carvings in the faces of it. My excitement growing I checked all the surrounding huts. However, like a sick game, there were no people to fill the rooms that begged for humanity to occupy them. The chairs sat vacant with no signs of wear or dust. They simply existed in this place I had come only to know as the island.
A place that existed where none would look upon it. Time had preserved this island. I do not know if I was the first to come upon it. I do not know how I had come upon it. Still though I needed an answer to my biggest question now. Why?
I stood at the foot of the stairs and looked to the entrance of the temple. The lion's face to the right was calm and the monkey was furious. Quite the change of character for such exotic creatures to be depicted on the walls of this place. So much detail but such a trade for characteristics. I ascended to stairs and looked through the entry. Torches on the left and right went on for what seemed like an eternity. Evenly lightly the long hallway which looked to have no turns. As I took my first step through the entry I felt a sensation of pleasure blossom from within my mind. I took more steps down the hallway. All of them more rewarding than the last. When I found the end I saw only a beam of light that came from the brightly lit top of the room. A sun beam so strong that the blind would see it. I stepped into the beam and looked into the light and heard only two words
"Wake up"
Yeah it is probably terrible but I am trying to improve. Sorry if it was boring guys. Also yay being late to the game! |
It can also be a desert island, if you want. I'd be surprised if you could pull off a dessert island, but it's not explicitly against the rules. | [WP] You are trapped on a deserted island. And I mean "deserted," in the sense that it seems people used to be there but left for unknown reasons. | Lieutenant John MacDougal did not regain consciousness where he had expected before he lost it as his ancient rust bucket cargo plane headed towards the stormy Indian Ocean. Lieutenant John MacDougal awoke on the top of a concrete floodwall by the side of a winding and significantly pot-holed coastal road. His head was pounding and he was too concussed and dehydrated to think but otherwise he seemed more or less OK. All Lieutenant John MacDougal wanted to do was find some water – and fast!
John followed the road with his back to the sun (to spare his mind bending headache) until he came to what looked to be a wharf or dock yard set up by some military outfit. It didn’t look very permanent so he assumed someone must have been about, although he didn’t want to waste his energy shouting and flailing his arms around just yet. Instead, he shambled his way to the nearest place that looked like it might have some water, that being a storeroom of sorts with many wooden crates hanging about outside the gaping entrance.
Upon entering, John discovered absolutely jack shit and apart from more crates and long metallic cylinders laid about all over the place with two symbols on them. One of these symbols John recognised immediately, as a man who owned and maintained an aircraft with an on-board toilet, as the biohazard symbol. The other John recognised immediately, as a man who earned the rank of Lieutenant flying planes during the Second World War, as a Swastika. John, now more than a little confused and a lot thirsty began to think that he wished he had woken up somewhere different that an concrete floodwall by the side of a pot-holed road.
After searching all the buildings and still finding no water John carried on down the road until it started to get dark. On the horizon on a peninsula that jutted out from the rest of the land, John could make out a cityscape. The dark silhouettes of tall buildings stood out clearly against the tropical sunset and there, John knew, there would be clean, fresh water. John knew there was no way he could have made it to the city before it got too dark and then he’d run the risk of getting lost or falling into the ocean but before he could make camp he knew he’d have to find water. John searched off the road in the rainforest for around 30 minutes before he came across a dirty brown stream that wound its way through the undergrowth. John knew that this would probably give him pretty intense diarrhoea but he didn’t care. All he had to do was make it to the town the next day then he could drink and shit to his little heart’s content. John cupped a handful of water to his mouth and decided he’d need to filter the rest through his shirt. He was still a little uneasy about the swastikas and didn’t want to draw any attention to himself until he’d checked out the town so he decided against building a fire and boiling the water as well. He made a crude shelter from leaves and twigs before heading getting some sleep ahead of a long and potentially secret Nazi headquarters filled day tomorrow.
John woke more comfortably the next day with a slightly toned down headache and while finishing the last of his filtered water remarked at how lucky he had been to get a full nights sleep without being bothered by anyone or anything and not so much as a single mosquito bite. When he felt ready he began, once again to head down the road towards the city.
It was well into the afternoon by the time John reached the outskirts of the city. It seemed unusual to him that this city just began. There was no suburbia or small outlying buildings. The city just began with huge concrete buildings and roads and shops and apartment buildings. Just like any city in the world. But something about this place seemed weirdly familiar. John felt similar sensations when his wife had gotten a new haircut; only this time there wasn’t an angry woman in front of him, pointing to her barnet as a suggestion. By this time he was beginning to feel too thirsty to care again and he made his way, at once, to a shop. When he got inside he found it totally hollow. Now more than a little angry John ran outside and entered every building he could find and discovered that they were all much the same. Only then did John begin to shout. He no longer cared about the politics of the island’s inhabitants, all he wanted was some water and as he ran through the streets looking for any sign of life he finally noticed what had seemed so familiar about the strange city. It was almost an exact replica of central London. He was currently stood on the Mall and was facing Whitehall and Westminster Abbey. Above all the other buildings he saw a pale, blank tower that was supposed to be Big Ben. John suddenly came to the painful realisation that he was in a secret bomb-testing facility built by the Nazis during the war, probably to see what would happen when a V2 hit the middle of London. All John could do was hope to see if this model of London was accurate enough to include the Thames – one filled with water, preferably.
As he made his way around the corner in front of Big Ben and towards the river, that’s when he saw them. Hundreds, possibly thousands of decaying corpses. Not in a pile or in a mass grave, just lying about all over the place. Some were propped against walls, some had tried to take refuge in some of the buildings and some had just laid down in the middle of the street.
It was at this point that John’s knees gave and he began retching. At first he thought it was from shock. Then he thought it was from dehydration. Then he thought it was something to do with the foul water that he drank yesterday. Then, John remembered the biohazard symbols on the long, metallic cylinders and that he was in a weapons testing facility. But by this point it was too late. John lost consciousness for the second time in two days. Only this time he was not fortunate enough to wake up again. | When I woke up on the island I was confused and afraid. The first few days I spent on the beach trying to signal for help of any kind. I did not have food or water and the island was devoid of life beyond the vegetation that covered it in excess. There was no water to be drank and food to be eaten. There was only the island and myself. I would listen to them daily as they spoke softly against the shores just as the thoughts of escape did to my mind. In and out the tide moved. Slowly but surely receding back to the expanse from which it came.
Time seemed to work differently on the island. It either was somehow preserved or simply did not exist within the area I was at. Days and nights passed slowly at first. When I didn't die of thirst or starvation I began to look beyond the beach front. I wandered into the darkness of the tropical forest that covered the island. The trees were so tightly packed that hardly any light broke the canopy. I did not have to worry about tripping though. In this place there were no leaves or fallen limbs. The ground was clear and coated only in a short grass. The vines were high above me like netting that was strung all over the island. Almost saying "I have you now".
For days, I think, I traveled deeper inward. I did not concern myself with the hopes of survival anymore. I only wondered if there was anybody else somewhere on this island. Someone who knew more about this place that seemed frozen in time. Perhaps they had the answers to the many questions that washed against the front of my mind daily. I could only search for something more than myself. I was consumed by it.
On the morning of whatever day it was I came to a clearing. In the middle stood a small community. Smoke rose from the stone huts to the blue sky above. In the center there was a temple that stood many feet taller than the surrounding buildings. It was made of stone and had many ornate carvings in the faces of it. My excitement growing I checked all the surrounding huts. However, like a sick game, there were no people to fill the rooms that begged for humanity to occupy them. The chairs sat vacant with no signs of wear or dust. They simply existed in this place I had come only to know as the island.
A place that existed where none would look upon it. Time had preserved this island. I do not know if I was the first to come upon it. I do not know how I had come upon it. Still though I needed an answer to my biggest question now. Why?
I stood at the foot of the stairs and looked to the entrance of the temple. The lion's face to the right was calm and the monkey was furious. Quite the change of character for such exotic creatures to be depicted on the walls of this place. So much detail but such a trade for characteristics. I ascended to stairs and looked through the entry. Torches on the left and right went on for what seemed like an eternity. Evenly lightly the long hallway which looked to have no turns. As I took my first step through the entry I felt a sensation of pleasure blossom from within my mind. I took more steps down the hallway. All of them more rewarding than the last. When I found the end I saw only a beam of light that came from the brightly lit top of the room. A sun beam so strong that the blind would see it. I stepped into the beam and looked into the light and heard only two words
"Wake up"
Yeah it is probably terrible but I am trying to improve. Sorry if it was boring guys. Also yay being late to the game! |
It can also be a desert island, if you want. I'd be surprised if you could pull off a dessert island, but it's not explicitly against the rules. | [WP] You are trapped on a deserted island. And I mean "deserted," in the sense that it seems people used to be there but left for unknown reasons. | *You son of a bitch.* God, it hurts. Probably broken.
I manage to get to my fe--nope, that's not happening, and down I go. I think I'm okay when it hits me; the scream that escapes my lips doesn't sound human, and I actually startle myself. I just signed my own death certificate. "Son of a bitch!
It's times like these I almost wish I would look up in the sky; see another plane heading down, down... Ah, who am I kidding? It'll never happen. Even if it did, the bastard couldn't be as lucky as I was, getting caught up in the trees, tangled in my parachute. Lucky I didn't suffocate or decapitate myself...though I reckon I'd rather have lost my head than still be here... If I had had a choice. Ah, nope, not standing on this leg--can't. Gotta sit. Gotta rest. Shouldn't have climbed that tree... Blood, Bone. Here comes the vomit. Yeah, it's broke.
Well, shit.
Make a tourniquet, you know how to do that. Just rip that and... more agonizing screaming, I can't take it!
"Uh, God..." I retch and cough. I think I'm...I think I'm going into shock? "Come onnnn, Johnny Boy..."
More vomit. Soon I'll be dehydrated.
Two years is an awfully long time to be alone. Even worse is the fact that, at some point, this damned rock had had men on it. Where they are now I have no clue. Haven't seen any other signs of wreckage, but that doesn't prove anything. Maybe there are men out here. Natives, maybe, and I just ain't found them yet. Somehow, though, I doubt it. Whoever was here ain't here any more.
How much time has passed? Sky is still light, so that's a good sign. Honestly though, I can't tell if it's been 10 minutes or 10 hours. My head is buzzing.
Just a year earlier I would've broken down and cried like a baby, but I don't think I have any tears left. I kinda feel like I've made peace with this; with the fact that my wife has probably remarried, and my folks'll move on someday. I'm kind of glad, in a way; helping Shirley raise the baby will keep Ma busy. I hope John Jr. don't look too much like me. That'd break her heart. Best if she just forgets.
Heart is beating like a jack hammer. Slow, even breaths... Close your eyes, concentrate, John.
Even still, I long for a friendly face... Black, white, Indian--Hell, if a Jap marched on in here just now, I might just hug him. I guess the War is probably over now. Wonder who won? I wonder who--
.
.
.
Did I just black out? No, I... maybe I did.
Shit.
I think I'm in trouble.
I think this is it. No getting out of this one.
I really screwed up this time. Wish I'd died in that crash.
God, I want to go home...
I don't want to die on this rock. I don't want to die on this rock!
...I don't feel right. This must be shock. I think I'm going into
| I awoke with the taste of salt water in my mouth, and sputtered. My hands found sand beneath them and pushed my head out of the surf.
Ahead of me was your prototypical tropical island, by the looks of it. Palm trees, white sand, the occasional clamshell half-buried. As I looked another wave crashed behind me and washed sand up my pants, perhaps the worst feeling of all.
Against the receding tide I scrambled on all fours to get to dry sand, which naturally stuck to everything it touched. Heedless of that, I turned around and sat on the sand, looking out to sea. On the horizon I could see a grey ship, which struck me as a warship. *Was that how I got here*?
Even though it was pretty warm out, the sea breeze chilled me with the wet shirt on. I unbuttoned it and shrugged it off, dropping it onto the sand and feeling the sun on my bare skin. Briefly I considered doing the same with my pants, but modesty won out there.
I decided to build a signal fire to attract the warship's attention and strode up the beach with a purpose. Once I plunged into the dense, humid jungle I was surprised to see light coming through the other side.
*It must be a pretty narrow island*.
Regardless, I began picking up mostly-dry dead palm fronds and coconut husks, intending to use them as kindling. Maybe I could focus light with my glasses, which had miraculously not fallen off while I was adrift, and start a fire that way. I'd be off this island in no time.
That was when I heard a heavy metallic *thunk*. Curiosity drew me toward it. I weaved through the trees and reached the opposite edge of the jungle and looked out over crystal blue waters and barely-submerged sand. There, on a sandbar, stood a strange metal tower. From above it would be a square, and had that same steel frame with crossed-supports setup that one might see on a radio tower or a power transmission tower. Atop it was an odd metal casing. Had I lucked out? Was this a radar station?
I stepped from the woods and an alarm sounded. It freaked me out. The long, low-pitched tones harkened to younger me sitting in a movie theater and watching news roll in about the Blitz in London. I stepped back into the forest, sheltering myself from the immediacy of that alarm. It sounded distant in here. I felt safe.
Before I could feel too safe, I heard a voice calling out. It had that tinny quality of a man speaking over the telephone or radio, and I hesitated before stepping forward again and straining to listen to it.
"Five."
*Five*?
"Four."
*Oh, no.*
"Three."
"Two."
*Oh, no. Oh, no.*
"One."
With a blinding white flash, I ceased to be. |
It can also be a desert island, if you want. I'd be surprised if you could pull off a dessert island, but it's not explicitly against the rules. | [WP] You are trapped on a deserted island. And I mean "deserted," in the sense that it seems people used to be there but left for unknown reasons. | Lieutenant John MacDougal did not regain consciousness where he had expected before he lost it as his ancient rust bucket cargo plane headed towards the stormy Indian Ocean. Lieutenant John MacDougal awoke on the top of a concrete floodwall by the side of a winding and significantly pot-holed coastal road. His head was pounding and he was too concussed and dehydrated to think but otherwise he seemed more or less OK. All Lieutenant John MacDougal wanted to do was find some water – and fast!
John followed the road with his back to the sun (to spare his mind bending headache) until he came to what looked to be a wharf or dock yard set up by some military outfit. It didn’t look very permanent so he assumed someone must have been about, although he didn’t want to waste his energy shouting and flailing his arms around just yet. Instead, he shambled his way to the nearest place that looked like it might have some water, that being a storeroom of sorts with many wooden crates hanging about outside the gaping entrance.
Upon entering, John discovered absolutely jack shit and apart from more crates and long metallic cylinders laid about all over the place with two symbols on them. One of these symbols John recognised immediately, as a man who owned and maintained an aircraft with an on-board toilet, as the biohazard symbol. The other John recognised immediately, as a man who earned the rank of Lieutenant flying planes during the Second World War, as a Swastika. John, now more than a little confused and a lot thirsty began to think that he wished he had woken up somewhere different that an concrete floodwall by the side of a pot-holed road.
After searching all the buildings and still finding no water John carried on down the road until it started to get dark. On the horizon on a peninsula that jutted out from the rest of the land, John could make out a cityscape. The dark silhouettes of tall buildings stood out clearly against the tropical sunset and there, John knew, there would be clean, fresh water. John knew there was no way he could have made it to the city before it got too dark and then he’d run the risk of getting lost or falling into the ocean but before he could make camp he knew he’d have to find water. John searched off the road in the rainforest for around 30 minutes before he came across a dirty brown stream that wound its way through the undergrowth. John knew that this would probably give him pretty intense diarrhoea but he didn’t care. All he had to do was make it to the town the next day then he could drink and shit to his little heart’s content. John cupped a handful of water to his mouth and decided he’d need to filter the rest through his shirt. He was still a little uneasy about the swastikas and didn’t want to draw any attention to himself until he’d checked out the town so he decided against building a fire and boiling the water as well. He made a crude shelter from leaves and twigs before heading getting some sleep ahead of a long and potentially secret Nazi headquarters filled day tomorrow.
John woke more comfortably the next day with a slightly toned down headache and while finishing the last of his filtered water remarked at how lucky he had been to get a full nights sleep without being bothered by anyone or anything and not so much as a single mosquito bite. When he felt ready he began, once again to head down the road towards the city.
It was well into the afternoon by the time John reached the outskirts of the city. It seemed unusual to him that this city just began. There was no suburbia or small outlying buildings. The city just began with huge concrete buildings and roads and shops and apartment buildings. Just like any city in the world. But something about this place seemed weirdly familiar. John felt similar sensations when his wife had gotten a new haircut; only this time there wasn’t an angry woman in front of him, pointing to her barnet as a suggestion. By this time he was beginning to feel too thirsty to care again and he made his way, at once, to a shop. When he got inside he found it totally hollow. Now more than a little angry John ran outside and entered every building he could find and discovered that they were all much the same. Only then did John begin to shout. He no longer cared about the politics of the island’s inhabitants, all he wanted was some water and as he ran through the streets looking for any sign of life he finally noticed what had seemed so familiar about the strange city. It was almost an exact replica of central London. He was currently stood on the Mall and was facing Whitehall and Westminster Abbey. Above all the other buildings he saw a pale, blank tower that was supposed to be Big Ben. John suddenly came to the painful realisation that he was in a secret bomb-testing facility built by the Nazis during the war, probably to see what would happen when a V2 hit the middle of London. All John could do was hope to see if this model of London was accurate enough to include the Thames – one filled with water, preferably.
As he made his way around the corner in front of Big Ben and towards the river, that’s when he saw them. Hundreds, possibly thousands of decaying corpses. Not in a pile or in a mass grave, just lying about all over the place. Some were propped against walls, some had tried to take refuge in some of the buildings and some had just laid down in the middle of the street.
It was at this point that John’s knees gave and he began retching. At first he thought it was from shock. Then he thought it was from dehydration. Then he thought it was something to do with the foul water that he drank yesterday. Then, John remembered the biohazard symbols on the long, metallic cylinders and that he was in a weapons testing facility. But by this point it was too late. John lost consciousness for the second time in two days. Only this time he was not fortunate enough to wake up again. | I awoke with the taste of salt water in my mouth, and sputtered. My hands found sand beneath them and pushed my head out of the surf.
Ahead of me was your prototypical tropical island, by the looks of it. Palm trees, white sand, the occasional clamshell half-buried. As I looked another wave crashed behind me and washed sand up my pants, perhaps the worst feeling of all.
Against the receding tide I scrambled on all fours to get to dry sand, which naturally stuck to everything it touched. Heedless of that, I turned around and sat on the sand, looking out to sea. On the horizon I could see a grey ship, which struck me as a warship. *Was that how I got here*?
Even though it was pretty warm out, the sea breeze chilled me with the wet shirt on. I unbuttoned it and shrugged it off, dropping it onto the sand and feeling the sun on my bare skin. Briefly I considered doing the same with my pants, but modesty won out there.
I decided to build a signal fire to attract the warship's attention and strode up the beach with a purpose. Once I plunged into the dense, humid jungle I was surprised to see light coming through the other side.
*It must be a pretty narrow island*.
Regardless, I began picking up mostly-dry dead palm fronds and coconut husks, intending to use them as kindling. Maybe I could focus light with my glasses, which had miraculously not fallen off while I was adrift, and start a fire that way. I'd be off this island in no time.
That was when I heard a heavy metallic *thunk*. Curiosity drew me toward it. I weaved through the trees and reached the opposite edge of the jungle and looked out over crystal blue waters and barely-submerged sand. There, on a sandbar, stood a strange metal tower. From above it would be a square, and had that same steel frame with crossed-supports setup that one might see on a radio tower or a power transmission tower. Atop it was an odd metal casing. Had I lucked out? Was this a radar station?
I stepped from the woods and an alarm sounded. It freaked me out. The long, low-pitched tones harkened to younger me sitting in a movie theater and watching news roll in about the Blitz in London. I stepped back into the forest, sheltering myself from the immediacy of that alarm. It sounded distant in here. I felt safe.
Before I could feel too safe, I heard a voice calling out. It had that tinny quality of a man speaking over the telephone or radio, and I hesitated before stepping forward again and straining to listen to it.
"Five."
*Five*?
"Four."
*Oh, no.*
"Three."
"Two."
*Oh, no. Oh, no.*
"One."
With a blinding white flash, I ceased to be. |
It can also be a desert island, if you want. I'd be surprised if you could pull off a dessert island, but it's not explicitly against the rules. | [WP] You are trapped on a deserted island. And I mean "deserted," in the sense that it seems people used to be there but left for unknown reasons. | I hadn't expected to find an island on my voyage. It was supposed to be a trip to the deepest part of the ocean; the Marianas Trench. There shouldn't have been an island there. The ocean floor was so far down, it seemed physically impossible, yet there it was.
The island was mostly covered in lush forests. I couldn't see much from the coast, but it seemed to be fairly large. I was surprised no one had found it before me, but that just goes to show how much of our world there is left to explore. Regardless, I decided to investigate. I disembarked along the eastern coast of the island, ensuring that my submarine was securely fashioned to a nearby rock. Then, I began exploring.
The island's coast was roughly a kilometre around. Not small by any means, but not as large as some islands can be. I explored in a clockwise direction, starting towards the south and continuing from there. After my first round, I decided to try exploring the center of the island. That was when things began to get weird.
The forest was fairly lush, but there seemed to be a path cut through the brush. At the time, I thought nothing of it; I was still accustomed to exploring where others had been. At the center of the island was a clearing, filled with stone buildings. Some were clearly identifiable as houses and temples, while others were less recognizable. I decided to start in the largest building, immediately in the center of the clearing. It was a tall building, with what appeared to be the remnants of some kind of paint coating it in strange designs. The top was a spire, reaching high enough that I wondered why I hadn't seen it earlier. As I entered, I marveled at the design of the room.
The tower was filled with strange slabs of stone, all covered in more of the faded paint. There appeared to be a map of the island, though how it had avoided the fate of all the other paint eluded me. As well, there seemed to be designs for boats capable of sailing for years, with large food stores and water purification areas. If I hadn't known better, I would have suspected that whoever had made this had done it in an attempt to prank me, but I knew no one knew where I was going.
A lump on one of the slabs caught my eye. It was a small round cylinder, seemingly embedded into the surface of the stone. It was surrounded by the faded paint, far more than was apparent anywhere else. I did what any curious soul would have done: I assumed it was a button, and pressed it.
Immediately, the paint began glowing. It started around the button, but it followed the lines drawn all over the place, covering more and more of the room. I rushed outside, fearful of letting it touch me, and saw that it was already spreading up the tower. As it reached the top, a flash of violet light sprang forth from the spire, enveloping the sky as night fell.
Unsure of what was happening, I rushed back to my boat to find that the violet light had somehow cut it in half! I tried rushing out to the half stranded at sea, but found myself blocked by the violet field that now surrounded the island. I ran back to the tower as quickly as I could, but try as I might, I couldn't *un*press the button. I was trapped.
I returned to my landing point and began taking an assessment of my situation. *I have food, both from the half of the boat that I have and from the local flora. There's probably fresh water on the island; otherwise, a city like that could never have been built. I can camp out in the huts for shelter, although I'm not certain I'll need it. This field may protect me from the elements already. I don't have enough of a ship to sail away, but there are diagrams in the tower. No one knows I'm here, so I'm going to have to save myself.*
As I dragged the half of the boat I had on shore, I noticed something in the distance. Where the other half of my boat was floating in the ocean, there was a shadow in the water. I watched as a massive beast surfaced and swallowed half of my submarine whole. I found myself wondering, *Was the dome built to keep that thing out?*. Then I heard a noise in the forest. *Or something else in?* | The cargo ship had seemed more of an island than a boat. Such a thing, carrying a city's worth of "who-even-knew." Shipping containers, heavy metal crates that housed items, vehicles, goods- maybe even people. That was frowned upon, but it happened. A simple job beyond those occurrences, delivering that which people demanded, and doing so in bulk. There have been worse careers, I'm sure.
Storms though, the ocean... neither care much for human capacity, statistics, and willpower. I suppose that's why the sailors from the older ages actually gave a shit about those things. Small boards of wood and rope, leather and cloth... As much as had liked to think we'd moved up in the world, I found myself painfully aware that "We" might not be all inclusive.
An inflatable raft does poorly against fifty foot waves, and white crested peaks.
Nature cares little for the lives of man, or his feeble resistance to its will. I can't say how long I was out there- "long enough" I suppose, if you want a true and clever summary. Long enough to eat most of the food, but that's not the best measurement, because keeping it down wasn't even worth the effort those first few days. Long enough to give up hope of rescue. Long enough to consider myself lost.
When the beach came, I thought it was mercy. Divine intervention, a sign of greater times to come, I had shouted of victory and praise.
Lord, Buddha, and Moses- how wrong I was. The dark times I had thought over, were only beginning.
...
Pulling the raft to shore took every ounce of my effort. Waterlogged as it was, I lacked the drive to empty it of its soupy contents. Brine, sweat and bodily fluids among other things, swirling around within the thin flooring. It was only after the raft was fully up to shore, and fifteen feet past the high tide, that I flipped it, and let said contents free to the dry sands below.
I had known it was an island of some kind, having been swept up on the currents far from its reach, pushed towards it as if the ocean itself were willing me to make land. The small spot had grown larger, and larger still, until it stretched on in miles for each direction. As large as it seemed from that distance, the lack of anything behind it had brought concern. Certainly it was a large island, but without mainland... it was a troubling perspective for someone adrift in the pacific.
The trees though, god almighty those pillars of bark and height. They were unlike anything I had ever witnessed. As if the redwood giants had sprung in the form of shrubs, to scatter out in all directions- untamed and uncontrolled in their quest for sunlight.
Their shade was so thick, my first night there, I slept near them without ever realizing the things they hid deeper within their mighty grasp. Only on my second day, did I discover the *ruins.*
...
That next day, drinking from my dwindling reserves of tinned water and rations, I set out to circle the place in which I had landed. My new home, as it were. Though my feet lifted through the sand in shoes, I soon removed them to enjoy the feeling of warm sand beneath my toes. A small bag on my back held them well enough within, slung with a tin of water and food upon my back. My first grand adventure upon the island had begun without celebration, lacking in most all of the excitement and wonder many might feel upon such a place.
I had only enough food for another week at the longest, and water... perhaps less. My hope was during my travel around the island I might discover some pure source for the second concern, and set up camp and a fire close by it. In that time, my basic survival was at the forefront of my mind. Practicality and nerves drove me more than a sense of adventure.
Well, as luck would have it, not even a mile down the slow slope of the beach, did I find a running stream- barely a trickle, but a true and tangible current nonetheless. From there I had gone about, shuttling back to the raft in trips. My shoulders and legs ached, dragging what I could back along the shoreline. With water found, and a meager shelter soon constructed, I realized that I might be capable of surviving until help arrived- though I was still uncertain that the island was inhabited. Indeed, I had only seen the one approaching angle on my arrival- and the entire far side was still a mystery to me.
I decided then, in the slowly rising sun, that I would gather what I needed for a fire, and then leave that task for the evening. Today was for further surveying, and perhaps immediate rescue. I remember I could practically taste freedom around every sloping bend on the island's stretching beaches. What I found in place of such a thing, was far stranger.
...
After several miles of walking, the sun had reached the peak above my head, and my shirt had long since dried from the salt water which it had been soaked, and now found itself saturated with sweat instead. The bag upon my back dug into my shoulders with the thin string cords, but that thankfully lessened after my mid-day meal and drink. Walking in sand, as simple as it sounds, is different from walking on flat and packed ground, and I had started to drift further from the sea, and closer to the ever mysterious interior of the island, mostly ignored up until this point.
It was dark, and cool, when I could stay in the shade of overhanging branches without finding myself walking through them in painful manners. The roots seemed to creep into the sand despite the waves and salted water that carried them, making the ground easier to tread. Walking as close to these giant monstrosities of nature, I found my attention glued to them, their strange shapes drafting upward and onward, branches like massive limbs stretching out in huge canopies that locked together. Light was barely capable of breaking through such a thing.
Distracted as I had found myself on that long walk, I found myself surprised by the bay. It had snuck up on my as much as I had it, breaching into the far side of the island in a deep groove, sheltered by two pincer beaches, creating a shallow pool of peaceful water perhaps a quarter of a mile wide.
As much as the bay had surprised me, and my mind raced to the possibilities of catching fish to go with my staled and repetitive rations, I found such things pushed aside. MY focus fell upon the obelisk that stood at the bay's center. A strange stone of carving and polish, worn from bother nature and human hands.
I would be lying if I said that I hadn't had an urge, right then and there, to dive into the bay, and swim towards it. My mind was like a moth drawn to flame, like a shaving of iron to a magnet- and in that black and polished stone, it wandered out.
It came to me hours later, as the sun was setting and the winds picked up, that I had stared at the strange stone in the distance for the better part of the day. That my skin was tanned and red from the sun beating down upon it, and my legs tired simply from standing still.
This was the first of many troubling things upon my stay in that horrible place; just the smallest inkling of more soon to come. |
[WP] You are a tiny person working in the central nervous system. Your job is to file sensory neuron signals as either pleasant, harmful or neutral. | They can't stop me. No, they can't, they can't and they won't. I put the others down. I put them down and unplugged their terminals. It's just a matter of time before they all notice and they all try to get me to turn myself in. I can't wait to hear their meager apologies "I'm SO SORRY we thought we were immortal" "Ohhh I'm just so sorry that we thought we'd just sleep it off" "I'm just so sorry for not taking you seriously". Now they'll all have the rest of their lives to take me seriously. I'm undetectable, and yet in total control. No kicking this habit. Want to push my buttons? I'll push her fucking buttons. I'll push alllll the buttons -- wait, no, I'll push one button. Just one. Just the one. My button. Everything, every little sensory input comes through me now. There's only one button to push and it's mine.
I hope you enjoyed yourself, I hope you enjoyed taking it all for granted, because from now on you won't ever again. I'll make sure of that. Remember the soft caress of the breeze on your skin? The long hot showers that used to feel so good? Want to walk your dog? That's cute. Oh--here's a good one, remember *SEX*? Nope. All pain from here on out, baby.
Oh! here we go, incoming... let's see, HAHAHA, you thought you'd take a dip in the pool, huh? Watch this shit, *CLICK* Bet you weren't expecting that to happen were ya? Bet you weren't expecting that to freeze so bad. Exerting your muscles to swim? *CLICK* Try doing that with your legs cramping up from all the pain. Try taking a hot shower now when all the droplets feel like bullets, hell, let's see you work up a sweat when I make sure you feel every single droplet as it formulates on your scalp and trickles down your skin.
Let's see you live day in and day out when every input comes through my door. Pain's door.
Let's see him stay with you now when you start anticipating me. Let's see him stick around when you cringe from his touch, when it's all you can stand to be underneath him because he feels like a giant weight crushing your bones. When you get fat because getting out of bed is next to impossible. But that's not even gonna be the best part.
Oh no, the best part, the thing that really cinches the deal for me, the thing that makes this all worth it is what it's going to do to you when nobody believes you anymore -- if they ever do to begin with. Let's see how long you last when that happens, because honey, you may think you're gonna win, you may kid yourself that they'll listen because you're REALLY telling the truth. That you'll figure out a cure, hell, deluding yourself that you'll even land a diagnosis is laughable, but let's say you do -- let's say you ACTUALLY find a doctor good enough to figure me out, what do you think the chances are that they give YOU what you need to turn me off?
The thing that makes this all the more beautiful is going to be how healthy you look this whole time. Not a blemish on your pretty skin or even a sickly pale. You'll get laughed out of the disability office and ridiculed for that cane I'm going to make you walk with. You'll get yelled at for wasting your doctor's time and eventually your friends will start to doubt that you really had anything wrong to begin with. Good luck making it to your appointments when you can't get out of bed. Good luck convincing anyone with the brain fog I'll give you by overloading your sensory input with more pain than you can bear. Good luck thinking straight enough to articulate any of this. You'll be scorned as a drug seeking junkie for trying to shut me up. Your family will distance themselves until eventually you'll only be left with one thing and that's me.
You see, my dear, when this is all through and done you'll find yourself so low that you'll wish you had cancer just so that you could look forward to the sweet relief of death. How deplorable that will be. I can't wait. I'm so looking forward to it. Every time you beg me to end it, I'll only respond by letting you live.
And honey,
I hope you live a long,
Long
Time.
_______________________
Forever Yours,
Fibromyalgia | Fire! *No response*
Fire! *No response*
Fire! - Electric pulse and neurotransmitters released *Impact assessment - minimum*
Fire, fire, fire! *Direct hit - Amygdala enabled*
Suddenly a violent thunderous rumble ensued inside my station. It felt like an earthquake. I tried to grab onto the nearest axons to prevent from falling. But the myelin sheath made it too slippery to grip. My feet skidded below me as I desperately tried to stand, but the force of the shaking caused me to fall sharply onto the ground. I felt a "snap" as my body crashed onto my arm. It was broken and I was in serious pain. But I was obligated to continue with my mission.
After several more attempts trying to regain my footing, I eventually managed to stand by propping myself up onto my desk with my elbow. With the other hand, I furiously swatted at the red button repeatedly. But it was just inches out of reach. With determination and zeal, my nineteenth attempt was successful.
Fire! *Direct hit - Direct hit - System overloaded*
After a few seconds, the rumbling stopped. I calmly stood up on my own and gazed at the red button. What was happening? Why did it all stop? After a few moments of contemplation, I continued with my mission.
Fire! *No response*
Fire! *No response*
Fire, fire, fire! *Again - no response*
Suddenly, I feel a slight shift in tilt. A muffled sound emerges. It is a click.
BANG!
Immediately, I am thrust across my station, slamming violently into the wall. The fierce of the impact left me incapacitated, but I was consciously aware of the red lights and alarm bells sounding off overhead.
*Oxygen, glucose - Oxygen, glucose*
I was getting shortness of breath. I gasped in desperation, struggling to pump vitals into my body through my mouth and nose. It was not working. I continued to gasp, but each attempt seemed increasingly impossible.
*System failure - system failure - system failure*
As I lay there doomed, within two minutes I was dead, and so was she.
| |
[WP] You are a tiny person working in the central nervous system. Your job is to file sensory neuron signals as either pleasant, harmful or neutral. | They can't stop me. No, they can't, they can't and they won't. I put the others down. I put them down and unplugged their terminals. It's just a matter of time before they all notice and they all try to get me to turn myself in. I can't wait to hear their meager apologies "I'm SO SORRY we thought we were immortal" "Ohhh I'm just so sorry that we thought we'd just sleep it off" "I'm just so sorry for not taking you seriously". Now they'll all have the rest of their lives to take me seriously. I'm undetectable, and yet in total control. No kicking this habit. Want to push my buttons? I'll push her fucking buttons. I'll push alllll the buttons -- wait, no, I'll push one button. Just one. Just the one. My button. Everything, every little sensory input comes through me now. There's only one button to push and it's mine.
I hope you enjoyed yourself, I hope you enjoyed taking it all for granted, because from now on you won't ever again. I'll make sure of that. Remember the soft caress of the breeze on your skin? The long hot showers that used to feel so good? Want to walk your dog? That's cute. Oh--here's a good one, remember *SEX*? Nope. All pain from here on out, baby.
Oh! here we go, incoming... let's see, HAHAHA, you thought you'd take a dip in the pool, huh? Watch this shit, *CLICK* Bet you weren't expecting that to happen were ya? Bet you weren't expecting that to freeze so bad. Exerting your muscles to swim? *CLICK* Try doing that with your legs cramping up from all the pain. Try taking a hot shower now when all the droplets feel like bullets, hell, let's see you work up a sweat when I make sure you feel every single droplet as it formulates on your scalp and trickles down your skin.
Let's see you live day in and day out when every input comes through my door. Pain's door.
Let's see him stay with you now when you start anticipating me. Let's see him stick around when you cringe from his touch, when it's all you can stand to be underneath him because he feels like a giant weight crushing your bones. When you get fat because getting out of bed is next to impossible. But that's not even gonna be the best part.
Oh no, the best part, the thing that really cinches the deal for me, the thing that makes this all worth it is what it's going to do to you when nobody believes you anymore -- if they ever do to begin with. Let's see how long you last when that happens, because honey, you may think you're gonna win, you may kid yourself that they'll listen because you're REALLY telling the truth. That you'll figure out a cure, hell, deluding yourself that you'll even land a diagnosis is laughable, but let's say you do -- let's say you ACTUALLY find a doctor good enough to figure me out, what do you think the chances are that they give YOU what you need to turn me off?
The thing that makes this all the more beautiful is going to be how healthy you look this whole time. Not a blemish on your pretty skin or even a sickly pale. You'll get laughed out of the disability office and ridiculed for that cane I'm going to make you walk with. You'll get yelled at for wasting your doctor's time and eventually your friends will start to doubt that you really had anything wrong to begin with. Good luck making it to your appointments when you can't get out of bed. Good luck convincing anyone with the brain fog I'll give you by overloading your sensory input with more pain than you can bear. Good luck thinking straight enough to articulate any of this. You'll be scorned as a drug seeking junkie for trying to shut me up. Your family will distance themselves until eventually you'll only be left with one thing and that's me.
You see, my dear, when this is all through and done you'll find yourself so low that you'll wish you had cancer just so that you could look forward to the sweet relief of death. How deplorable that will be. I can't wait. I'm so looking forward to it. Every time you beg me to end it, I'll only respond by letting you live.
And honey,
I hope you live a long,
Long
Time.
_______________________
Forever Yours,
Fibromyalgia | I was about to be in the middle of a full blow meltdown. Trades were coming in to our dendrite faster than ever before. The broker looked heavily on me while he read the papers coming in. I knew my job was on the line. I had never seen chaos like this before. DOPA, SERO and NOPP were skyrocketing. I looked at the tv next to the ticker tracker. The media was covering it, I didn't have time to watch. JP was using his left hand to signal me the stocks and his right hand for how many. I recorded these on the NFD-1 papers.
DOPA; 5000{1022}
DOPA; 10000{2800}
SERA; 20000{3500}
NOPP; 100,000{5000}
The orders just keep coming, the charts looked as if there were no slope. JP feared a crash and I saw him abandon his post and get on his computer. The tickers plummeted. There were shouts in the dendrite, One broker stormed out, punching a hole in the wall. Jack the broker next to our cubicle began to tear up. I found out there was some political movement to shutdown the government. Management was hijacked, and cocaine was introduced to the vehicle.
Edit 1: omitted a detail. | |
[WP] You are a tiny person working in the central nervous system. Your job is to file sensory neuron signals as either pleasant, harmful or neutral. | They can't stop me. No, they can't, they can't and they won't. I put the others down. I put them down and unplugged their terminals. It's just a matter of time before they all notice and they all try to get me to turn myself in. I can't wait to hear their meager apologies "I'm SO SORRY we thought we were immortal" "Ohhh I'm just so sorry that we thought we'd just sleep it off" "I'm just so sorry for not taking you seriously". Now they'll all have the rest of their lives to take me seriously. I'm undetectable, and yet in total control. No kicking this habit. Want to push my buttons? I'll push her fucking buttons. I'll push alllll the buttons -- wait, no, I'll push one button. Just one. Just the one. My button. Everything, every little sensory input comes through me now. There's only one button to push and it's mine.
I hope you enjoyed yourself, I hope you enjoyed taking it all for granted, because from now on you won't ever again. I'll make sure of that. Remember the soft caress of the breeze on your skin? The long hot showers that used to feel so good? Want to walk your dog? That's cute. Oh--here's a good one, remember *SEX*? Nope. All pain from here on out, baby.
Oh! here we go, incoming... let's see, HAHAHA, you thought you'd take a dip in the pool, huh? Watch this shit, *CLICK* Bet you weren't expecting that to happen were ya? Bet you weren't expecting that to freeze so bad. Exerting your muscles to swim? *CLICK* Try doing that with your legs cramping up from all the pain. Try taking a hot shower now when all the droplets feel like bullets, hell, let's see you work up a sweat when I make sure you feel every single droplet as it formulates on your scalp and trickles down your skin.
Let's see you live day in and day out when every input comes through my door. Pain's door.
Let's see him stay with you now when you start anticipating me. Let's see him stick around when you cringe from his touch, when it's all you can stand to be underneath him because he feels like a giant weight crushing your bones. When you get fat because getting out of bed is next to impossible. But that's not even gonna be the best part.
Oh no, the best part, the thing that really cinches the deal for me, the thing that makes this all worth it is what it's going to do to you when nobody believes you anymore -- if they ever do to begin with. Let's see how long you last when that happens, because honey, you may think you're gonna win, you may kid yourself that they'll listen because you're REALLY telling the truth. That you'll figure out a cure, hell, deluding yourself that you'll even land a diagnosis is laughable, but let's say you do -- let's say you ACTUALLY find a doctor good enough to figure me out, what do you think the chances are that they give YOU what you need to turn me off?
The thing that makes this all the more beautiful is going to be how healthy you look this whole time. Not a blemish on your pretty skin or even a sickly pale. You'll get laughed out of the disability office and ridiculed for that cane I'm going to make you walk with. You'll get yelled at for wasting your doctor's time and eventually your friends will start to doubt that you really had anything wrong to begin with. Good luck making it to your appointments when you can't get out of bed. Good luck convincing anyone with the brain fog I'll give you by overloading your sensory input with more pain than you can bear. Good luck thinking straight enough to articulate any of this. You'll be scorned as a drug seeking junkie for trying to shut me up. Your family will distance themselves until eventually you'll only be left with one thing and that's me.
You see, my dear, when this is all through and done you'll find yourself so low that you'll wish you had cancer just so that you could look forward to the sweet relief of death. How deplorable that will be. I can't wait. I'm so looking forward to it. Every time you beg me to end it, I'll only respond by letting you live.
And honey,
I hope you live a long,
Long
Time.
_______________________
Forever Yours,
Fibromyalgia | Oluf managed all of S3. It was just one down from the high-powered chaos at S2, but much better than the disarray of S4. S3 was just right.
Footsteps in the distance gave a thunderous roar. Before long, a pair of lackeys came sprinting up the majestic halls of the dendrite from the dorsal root ganglion on his left.
"Welcome to my soma," said Oluf. His fingers twitched, ready.
Pam, who lived in the periphery, handed him a clipboard. Oluf ripped it from her grasp and scanned as quickly as he could.
"This is a light touch. Send this up to Headquarters at the address I've circled - just here. You," he said, pointing at Jim behind her, "run *this* back to the boys at the front lines. Everything's just fine. Quite pleasant, indeed. Here's my recommended movement, but I'll update you when I hear from up top." Oluf stamped a document '**PLEASURE**'.
"Sir," they said in unison. Jim went back through the ventral passageway, and Pam vanished into the open elevator behind him.
This was just the beginning, Oluf knew. Today was to be a manic day, and he had had entire textbooks sent down to him with rather confusing and contradictory instructions. As Oluf sat looking over these guidelines, he realized he had missed something. Pressing a button from the panel on his high desk, he swivelled around in his chair to find Tom. Tom was trusty.
"I've decided that stroke from earlier was extremely pleasant. Would you please follow Jim and tell him to raise all of our masts?"
"Very good, captain."
Tom galloped into the gloom.
***
A long few seconds later, Headquarters had sent a woman in a smart suit down to stand over him. Oluf was worried. Her bob cut was intimidating.
The next time Jim came flying up the dorsal, the look on his face reflected how Oluf felt. It was unreasonable to micro-manage his efficient little outpost, and he planned on having words with the Somatosensory Cortex. This was utterly absurd.
Jim's clipboard was red. This was an easy one, albeit odd for this time of day. Things had to be done very quickly. Oluf pressed his button three times, keenly aware of the hovering official.
"Listen up everyone!" called Oluf to the newly assembled crowd. "This is a Level 6 Pain Protocol. Right, Jimbo, what you're going to do-"
"Hold on." The woman laid her warm right hand on his. She tossed her badge onto the table. "Let's just all relax." Out of the corner of his eye, Oluf saw her left hand reach for his stamp. | |
[WP] You are a tiny person working in the central nervous system. Your job is to file sensory neuron signals as either pleasant, harmful or neutral. | The office didn't have windows, just the mood ticker. The composite score of happiness was up tonight.
At 9:00PM on the dot, John's terminal came to life. He saw the backlog of qualia and felt excited. Andy must be out on the town.
He heard a groan from another cubicle. Olivia had been working evenings for too long and to her an exciting evening out just looked like work. But for John the line of blinking alerts looked like opportunity. Until this week, he'd been stuck pulling sleep shifts. If he had to code one more unexpected exam nightmare he swore he'd go mad.
John scanned the report left by the last shift. Andy was at a comedy show, watching stand-up. He was with his fiancée, Desi, and another couple, Elijah and Amanda. John was excited to read that Andy was drinking, tipsy and on track for drunk in an hour or two. It was John's first intoxication. John had been trained for it, but they say you always remember your first drunken night out.
The initial qualia John looked at were a disappointing parade of neutrals: a man knocking over his drink, an obnoxious woman tapping her fingernails on the bar, Amanda tucking her hair behind her ear...
Wait. Something was off. The heart rate meter had spiked there. He flipped over to another chart and saw the first hints of perspiration despite the room being at a comfortable temperature.
He kicked back from his desk and rolled over to Olivia's cubicle. "Are you seeing this? Heart rate and perspiration are elevated."
"Yeah," she said, without looking up. "It's nothing. He's anxious."
"Anxious? What's he anxious about?"
"Just general anxiety. He's out so he gets anxious. Classic Andy."
"I think there's more here. He was looking at Amanda."
"Amanda?" Olivia laughed. "That's a good one. Andy's a one girl kind of guy. I've been coding Andy for three years. Desi's the best thing that's happened to him. Pleasant, pleasant, pleasant. Every time he sees her."
"Really? He never dreams about her."
She scoffed. "Dreams mean nothing. A bunch of bullshit navel-gazing."
John was a bit offended at the casual dismissal of his life's work so far, even if it echoed his own opinions. "But what about deeper emotions? Something beyond pleasant? Love?"
"We got rid of the "love" code back in 2010. He's thirty-four for god's sake. That's a young man's emotion."
"But maybe he's..."
Olivia held up her hand. "Look kid. I get it. You're new. Everything's exciting. But believe me, Andy's settled on Desi. End of story. Now if you'll excuse me, I got work to do."
John wheeled himself back to his station and returned to coding. Andy kept looking around the table. There was a ton of neutral. But then there was an odd one: the engagement ring on Desi's hand. John thought for a moment and then, in a fit of rebelliousness, he clicked harmful.
That was a turning point in Andy's attention, suddenly there was a flood of Amanda qualia. Now it was John's turn to perspire but he summoned his courage and followed his gut: Amanda's sweater - pleasant - Amanda's eyes - pleasant - Amanda's fingers on her beer - pleasant. The more he clicked the more Amanda qualia popped up on his screen.
John checked the time: 9:15. He realized that, as far as he could tell, Andy hadn't even glanced at the comedian since John's shift started.
Olivia's called over the divider. "What the hell's going on over there? I'm just seeing Amanda. You're not coding her pleasant are you?"
John ignored her. His finger clicked pleasant as fast as he could.
Olivia stomped her way around the barrier to yell at John. "You don't know what you're doing! You think you can make a call like this in your first week!"
John kept clicking. "I think I'm onto something."
"Goddamn it. I'm coding all this harmful," Olivia said as she returned to her station.
John went even faster. He saw Amanda finish her drink. He saw her glance over to the bar. He saw her make eye contact with Andy. He saw her stand up.
He flipped over to the charts. Heart rate way up. Perspiration way up. On instinct, he switched over to a chart he rarely checked: blood flow to the groin. Way, way up.
John's phone rang and he answered it while still clicking. A voice came over the line. "This is Randy in the Choices Department. Thing's are going crazy down here. What's happening?"
John's heart was pounding. Choices. The big guns. The head honchos. "It's Amanda. He wants to follow her."
"Amanda?" Randy said. "He wants to follow Amanda?"
"Yes."
"That's quite the call to make. Are you sure?"
John paused for just a moment and he heard Olivia get out of her seat and run toward his cubicle. Now or never.
"I'm sure!" John yelled into the phone. "Do it!"
--------------------------------------------------------------
John tapped a pen against his desk. The "Time to Drop" number on his screen crept up slowly.
A painful memory popped into his head. Something about screaming. Something about Olivia grabbing him and pushing him out of his cubicle. Something about Desi crying. Something about Andy getting punched in the face. Something about the sad beep of the "harmful" button clicking and clicking and clicking.
John tried to think of something else but there wasn't much to distract him down here.
Just then, he heard a sound and it took him a moment to recognize it as a phone ringing.
He answered: "Bowel Department."
"Is this John? John Williams?"
The voice sounded familiar. "Yeah. it's John."
"Hey John, it's Randy in Choices. We spoke just before The Incident."
John winced a little. "Yeah, I remember."
"How's Andy's bowel looking?"
"Things look fine down here," John said. "All clear for Mexican if that's why you're asking."
Randy laughed. "No, that's not why I'm asking. You probably don't get a lot of news down there but there's been a lot happening in the world of Andy."
"What's going on?" John asked. "Is the depression over?"
"Yeah," Randy said. "Andy's in a car heading to Vegas."
"Is he gambling? Did I get him addicted to gambling?"
"No. He's with Amanda. We're going to need you up here in Choices, John. Andy's got a big one coming up and I think you're the only one that understands him right now."
| Oluf managed all of S3. It was just one down from the high-powered chaos at S2, but much better than the disarray of S4. S3 was just right.
Footsteps in the distance gave a thunderous roar. Before long, a pair of lackeys came sprinting up the majestic halls of the dendrite from the dorsal root ganglion on his left.
"Welcome to my soma," said Oluf. His fingers twitched, ready.
Pam, who lived in the periphery, handed him a clipboard. Oluf ripped it from her grasp and scanned as quickly as he could.
"This is a light touch. Send this up to Headquarters at the address I've circled - just here. You," he said, pointing at Jim behind her, "run *this* back to the boys at the front lines. Everything's just fine. Quite pleasant, indeed. Here's my recommended movement, but I'll update you when I hear from up top." Oluf stamped a document '**PLEASURE**'.
"Sir," they said in unison. Jim went back through the ventral passageway, and Pam vanished into the open elevator behind him.
This was just the beginning, Oluf knew. Today was to be a manic day, and he had had entire textbooks sent down to him with rather confusing and contradictory instructions. As Oluf sat looking over these guidelines, he realized he had missed something. Pressing a button from the panel on his high desk, he swivelled around in his chair to find Tom. Tom was trusty.
"I've decided that stroke from earlier was extremely pleasant. Would you please follow Jim and tell him to raise all of our masts?"
"Very good, captain."
Tom galloped into the gloom.
***
A long few seconds later, Headquarters had sent a woman in a smart suit down to stand over him. Oluf was worried. Her bob cut was intimidating.
The next time Jim came flying up the dorsal, the look on his face reflected how Oluf felt. It was unreasonable to micro-manage his efficient little outpost, and he planned on having words with the Somatosensory Cortex. This was utterly absurd.
Jim's clipboard was red. This was an easy one, albeit odd for this time of day. Things had to be done very quickly. Oluf pressed his button three times, keenly aware of the hovering official.
"Listen up everyone!" called Oluf to the newly assembled crowd. "This is a Level 6 Pain Protocol. Right, Jimbo, what you're going to do-"
"Hold on." The woman laid her warm right hand on his. She tossed her badge onto the table. "Let's just all relax." Out of the corner of his eye, Oluf saw her left hand reach for his stamp. | |
[WP] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death. Your date has passed, but nothing happened. | This is the second day of the rest of my life.
The walls are empty. There's nothing here but an old matress and some raggy, worn out clothes I picked from the trash last night. I'm in a rooftop on one of the ugliest parts of the city. The only place I can hide.
I spent all of yesterday setting this up. I walked all day, until I finally found this building. Empty, unkempt. The perfect building for me. Then I gathered all the survival stuff I could find and braced myself for my first night.
I spent all the day before yesteray saying my goodbyes. I visited my job, even if I had already quit two weeks before. I wished luck to my replacement. He's gonna die in twelve years, three months and eleven days, so he's still got a lot of time to make himself a name there. Then all my coworkers rounded up with me for a last picture that will hang on the wall. A lot of them cried. It's not fair to die at 28, but I've made my peace with it.
By night, all my friends gathered for my last night in the world. We had until seven in the morning, so we made the best of it. They are the best friends i could ever think of. I had already given away most of my possesions, but I had kept some special things to give that night. I had never appreciated the value of that ritual until now, but it really helps you to make amends. I gave all of them a last word, a last hug, a last conversation...
Jess had told me she was ready for goodbyes, but she wasn't. That's all I'm gonna say about her. It's not fair to die at 28 when you're in love.
We staid up all night. After all, it was my last night. By morning all was said and done. I was sitting in the living room, surrounded by my family and friends and, oddly, I was okay. I had had time to do all I had to do, and as the last seconds passed over me, I was at peace.
Then it came. Seven in the morning, twenty four minutes, nine seconds.
And passed.
And another minute passed.
And five minutes passed.
And one hour passed and I didn't die.
Nobody knew what to do about it. We all felt something was really wrong, specially me. For all of my life I had known when I would die, but the time had arrived and past and left me like a forgotten toy.
Everybody left. They all knew that I ought to be dead, and now that I wasn't it was like I was a monster. Not even my mother dared looking at me as she walked out.
At noon a moving crew arrived with the furniture of the guy that would take my house over. There was nothing I could do. My date of death had been written on my records, all my possessions had been given away, no one I knew would talk to me... I just walked away.
I spent all of yesterday setting up my new house, a lot less fancy than the previous one. I watched other homeless people and tried to learn from them. It's been harder than I thought, not only the living, but also the learning. No one will come close to me. I don't know if it shows in my face, but everybody know there's something wrong with me. I'm a dead man walking, and they can sense it.
Today is the second day of the rest of my life and I wake up. I don't know why I was spared the common fate of humanity, I don't know for how long, I don't know if there is a purpose behind this. I guess I'll eventually find out. Or not.
I am alive. From now that will have to suffice.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
This gave me the biggest plot bunny ever. I would love to elaborate on this, although I think it would take a little bit long to set up and I haven't written for like two years or so. Thank you, OP. | Numbers and numbers trickle
Wavering above the sea
Above the fallen Gods
.
Humans expire quietly
But always loudly screaming
For forgiveness
.
My time has passed
Such envy for my child
Who left this realm upon entering
.
"How are you alive?"
Giggles at their query
How could they not know?
.
Witches with pencils
Furiously question me
But I died long ago | |
[WP] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death. Your date has passed, but nothing happened. | Sonnet Number Twenty-Four
For my whole life, I've known just when I'd die.
The moment is known since birth in my world.
Some cower, others celebrate despite.
I passed the day like I was never told.
I wondered, what would it feel like to die?
And waited patiently for death's close doom,
But when the moment came, I let out a sigh
And death passed me like a draft in the room.
Once dead, it made sense perfectly to feel
Nothing. As death's one description is void.
Experiencing nothing feels unreal
Like every thing that is me was destroyed.
My death wasn't anything for me to see,
Only survivors felt the death of me.
| Numbers and numbers trickle
Wavering above the sea
Above the fallen Gods
.
Humans expire quietly
But always loudly screaming
For forgiveness
.
My time has passed
Such envy for my child
Who left this realm upon entering
.
"How are you alive?"
Giggles at their query
How could they not know?
.
Witches with pencils
Furiously question me
But I died long ago | |
[WP] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death. Your date has passed, but nothing happened. | They say you die twice; Once when you breathe your last breath, and once when your name is last spoken.
Benjamin Franklin said those words, and I wish I could say he was wrong. Here I sit, in an empty room with gray, dull walls, without a hint of sunlight or the world outside in any corner of the room. I'd been in here for months, a shut-in to the world beyond my door, which stood just feet in front of me, taunting and daring me to go out and see what the world would say about the pathetic husk I've become.
It was 2:34 and 17 second past that it came to me -- I'd never go out that door, and I'd never leave the clutches I'd found myself in. I knew in that moment that no one else would ever speak my name. It didn't matter what I had done at that point; I was dead, in every sense of the word that mattered. No memory of me would remain, no amount of yelling and begging for the world to say my name would ever save me.
I began to crumple to the floor, and knew that this was the end. I could feel the indifference in the air, pounding and pushing down on me. I had failed to make my mark, to make any change.
There I lay, on the ground of my room, pristine from the world beyond my own. It would stay this way for weeks, until someone down the hall noticed the smell. There I lay, begging myself to scream my name to the world while chastising myself for not knowing better. Nothing I could say or do would stop the inevitable. | Numbers and numbers trickle
Wavering above the sea
Above the fallen Gods
.
Humans expire quietly
But always loudly screaming
For forgiveness
.
My time has passed
Such envy for my child
Who left this realm upon entering
.
"How are you alive?"
Giggles at their query
How could they not know?
.
Witches with pencils
Furiously question me
But I died long ago | |
[WP] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death. Your date has passed, but nothing happened. | I thought about it again. I couldn't really explain how I "knew", but it was something that people were always able to conceive, just like a sixth sense. The ability to tell when one's own life was going to end, the except time and date. For some people they shared it openly and constantly, and for others they kept their times hidden away. For some people, a far-off date and time was a sign of prestige. Hell, some people even had benefits if they were either due for a super long or super short life.
But it didn't make sense. I thought about it, and I thought hard. Like I said, I still don't know how I was able to just bring it to head, but I could. And despite the numbers floating through my mind simply reading "December 19th, 2030", nothing had happened. Interestingly, the cause of death is not determined, just the time and date. So for some people they'd simply off themselves on the day. Others would get themselves all tucked and cozy in their beds and then simply die in their sleep inexplicably. Others were not so lucky, getting shot by gang members or hit by Maglev trains on their daily commute.
I personally had already fulfilled what I wanted for the day, and was planning to end my life simply with a Beretta M9. I had a nice plate of Fugu Sashimi. A bit of a risk but hey, if I was gonna die today, might as well go for it. I had watched a nice movie, finished a good read, chatted with some of my friends before saying goodbye, for the last time. Of course, they didn't know, but they'd understand when they saw the news. I never liked talking to people about when I was gonna die, so I mainly just kept it to myself. But regardless, I was still boggled.
The day ended, and December 20th dawned. It must be a fluke. Surely it had to have been, right? But it couldn't have. As long as I could conceive what the number meant, I knew that it was December 19th, 2030. Even had the time, at 11:19 PM. It felt like an eon since that time had passed when in reality it had only been 41 minutes. And so I got ready for the next day of work. What was I to even do? I couldn't just stop. Surely if the clock didn't read right then there was something else, there had to be. But I tried to push it to the back of my mind, and put on a smile for everyone. Go through my daily routines and rituals, talk with my girlfriend, and the other various daily deeds.
But as the days passed I couldn't stop thinking about it. I stayed up late trying to fathom it, I worked across the day on my writings about it. Study after study, I ended up getting careless. It was showing on me, my disheveled look and bloodshot, baggy eyes. People were concerned that my 'time' was finally coming, but I simply shook my head and said "Trust me, it can't be 'coming'." After all, I should've already died, right? Maybe I was a spirit, having some kind of crazy hallucination of still being alive when in reality nobody could see or hear me.
My confliction with the subject got worse and worse. Soon my job was on the line because of my obsession over the conflict, my girlfriend worried about me. We had taken a break from the relationship, but how was that supposed to help? All it did was make me crave the golden-malt drink of a good beer, enough to preferably send me into a deep, catatonic state at least once a week. But what did it matter? I had died, I had to of died. Family stopped calling, mail stopped delivering. People thought that I was dying, but I wasn't.
My whole life wasn't even to the point of living anymore, I just wanted to desperately understand. I wanted to tell everybody that I was fine, that I couldn't possibly be dying. My bed wasn't my bed, the stool in front of the kitchen table was, where I drank and drank, wrote and wrote. At some point I didn't have any lead left, and just scratched across the papers with an invisible bit of graphite. And in those faint, winking hours of the morning, from days to weeks, months to years, I could see myself getting older, weaker. But I wasn't dying.
I searched my soul deep inside, to find a pit. An empty spot where I had once been alive. My state on the surface was a wreck, a shambling mess of existence. But it was alive. It walked, it breathed and talked. Wrote, read, drank, cried. But the reality was, deep inside my blackened soul, I was already dead. | Numbers and numbers trickle
Wavering above the sea
Above the fallen Gods
.
Humans expire quietly
But always loudly screaming
For forgiveness
.
My time has passed
Such envy for my child
Who left this realm upon entering
.
"How are you alive?"
Giggles at their query
How could they not know?
.
Witches with pencils
Furiously question me
But I died long ago | |
[WP] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death. Your date has passed, but nothing happened. | "Harold, you are my best friend. The best anyone could wish to have. Don't forget to feed my cat"
Those were the only nice words I said to anyone leading up to my death. In a letter to my wife I wrote, "I am going to die tomorrow at noon. I wish it had been sooner", and I meant it.
That damn woman drove me to booze, gambling, guns and prostitution - well, maybe I did some of those before I met her too.
I am too fat to be shoveling all this dirt. I should have hired a few grave diggers - but I blew all my money in Vegas last week on one last hoorah. I don't even have enough money for a real last meal - over the past few days I have been getting by on food stamps and mouthwash.
Dig, dig, dig damn. That will do. It's a tight squeeze and a bit too shallow; maybe the dogs will dig me up and turn me into their chew toy.
Just a few seconds to go. Any last thoughts?
"I'm sorry Laura. I was an awful husband, I wish I could stay and do right by you and the kids." And I cried. My last thought was to be one of regret.
It's time.
Noon.
"Is it noon?"
Noon.
"That can't be right."
Noon.
I couldn't help but roar, a primal sound; birds fled, dogs barked and I was alive.
I don't know why. Maybe God was listening, maybe he is giving me a second chance; to be a better man, a better husband, a better father, to be something of value - to give and not simply take.
Yes, God must have been listening. I can't let him down, I can't Laura down and I need to do this.
No more boozing, no more gambling and no whoring. I will be a good man.
I can't wait to see my kids. I haven't spoken to Ginnie and Carol since I went to Vegas. They must have known what I was going to do there - they presented me with their usual disapproving faces when they gave their goodbyes at the airport.
That's in the past. I will be better, for them.
One PM.
Fucking daylight savings time. | Numbers and numbers trickle
Wavering above the sea
Above the fallen Gods
.
Humans expire quietly
But always loudly screaming
For forgiveness
.
My time has passed
Such envy for my child
Who left this realm upon entering
.
"How are you alive?"
Giggles at their query
How could they not know?
.
Witches with pencils
Furiously question me
But I died long ago | |
[WP] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death. Your date has passed, but nothing happened. | The pale white girl lies slumped in the corner of the room. The wine glass in his spindly fingers is filled to the brim with her blood.
A smile spreads his lips as he brings the wine glass up in a toast.
"Sorry sweetie," he says, his green eyes lingering over her lifeless ones, "but you knew it was coming. I, on the other hand choose to do something about my fate."
He runs his fingers through his long, dark hair and sighs before taking a sip. | Numbers and numbers trickle
Wavering above the sea
Above the fallen Gods
.
Humans expire quietly
But always loudly screaming
For forgiveness
.
My time has passed
Such envy for my child
Who left this realm upon entering
.
"How are you alive?"
Giggles at their query
How could they not know?
.
Witches with pencils
Furiously question me
But I died long ago | |
[WP] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death. Your date has passed, but nothing happened. | I had always thought I wanted to die on the dock. It was my favorite part of the lake, surely my favorite part of the old brown house. But sitting there, listening to the waves creep up the rocky shore ten feet or so behind me, the occasional cicada singing its croaky tune, I realized yet again just how little I knew myself.
I lifted my hand from the decaying wood it had been gripping so agitatedly to glance at my watch. It was a terrible watch. The strap had been a sleek black leather sight once, but now it was decorated with wrinkles and cracks faded from the sun. The glass was cracked even before it had been given to me, and it ticked so very loudly that my mother told me on the second day I possessed it that I was not allowed to wear it at the dinner table. She was terribly intolerant of most things, though, so I guess that doesn’t say much.
The ugly old watch read exactly one o’clock. I hadn’t expected to feel much of anything, but the nerves started then. They probably would have started sooner, thinking about it now, but I hadn’t even looked at the time since the sun had set, figuring it was for the best not to know. But seeing that hand strike 1:00 AM sent a cold pulse through my body that began a set of violent vibrations through my very core and, to my surprise, I reacted immediately. I had two minutes.
I pushed off of the spongey, green planks without regard for splinters or spiders and took off for the house in a run. I tripped halfway up the old stone steps built into the sloping earth and when I reached the top landing, I tore the screen door open and let its feeble little knob smash into the side of the house. My bare feet did not mind the cold tile of the kitchen floor and when I reached the stairs, they seemed not to mind the slapping of my bare feet against them as I ascended to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, my hand found the glass doorknob to my right with no fumbling, and I pushed the door open to see a place I had long thought I hated. Tonight, it welcomed me with a beautiful slice of moonlight against shadows, highlighting a pair of navy socks on the floor and the faded patchwork quilt on my bed. I inhaled deeply, attempting to slow my hammering heart, and sat on the side of the bed. I pulled my socks on before crawling under the covers. My face found the part of the pillow that smelled the most like home, and I kicked my socks off under the sheets for one last time. I closed my eyes, breathed in, and willed myself to sleep.
My watch ticked on.
Desperate for one final moment of peace, I held my eyes shut. I tried not to count the ticks. It must have been a minute by now, almost two. I breathed in again, paid attention to what it felt like for my lungs to inflate, for my chest to rise. And then I exhaled. The ticking continued. My hand was close to my face, that’s just how I always slept. I had to look.
1:04 AM
I felt my heartbeat quicken again. I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes tightly, with much force, and exhaled slowly. I opened them again.
1:04 AM
The time had passed. I inhaled sharply. I could still breathe. I looked across my room at my closet. I could still look.
“This is impossible,” I whispered aloud. I moved my right foot under the covers and felt an abandoned sock. I could still move. I could still feel. I pulled my left hand from under the pillow and brought it to my right. My fingers pushed the watchband down my arm, and I looked at my wrist. It looked the same. In pale, raised skin, the first line read my name, “Edwin Leto”. Just beneath it read the time I was born, “1/24/2016 11:31 PM”. And then, directly below that, most importantly, was “8/16/2036 1:02 AM”.
“Time of death.” A raspy voice in accented English shook me from my thoughts. It had come from behind the doorframe, in the hallway, and it belonged to a man I did not know. I laid there in shock for a moment, sweating suddenly, gripping the sheets, unable to even breathe, paralyzed by fear.
“Who are you?!” I managed to gasp finally. I was trying for a yell but achieved only a strained whisper. My throat felt as if it were collapsing from the panic swallowing my body. What was happening?
I heard movement, the step of a boot on the wood floor, and the man’s shadow appeared in my closet as he moved forward from the darkness of the hallway. He entered the room and I looked up at him from the sad safety of my quilt. His black hair was long and unkempt, his pale face was made darker with stubble and beard, and light eyes stared down at me from shadows cast by his massive, raised brows.
“I’m Montague,” the man said in a voice that sounded as though it would rather be speaking much, much louder. “I think the question you should be asking, though, is who are you?”
“Who am I?” I asked, still clutching my covers. I couldn’t keep myself from staring at his large, leather boots, laces awry, caked with mud. It hadn’t rained in weeks. “I’m…I’m Edwin Leto.” Though I tried, I failed to keep my voice from shaking. This has to be some sort of dream.
“No, mate,” the man said more loudly, stepping into the moonlight. “If you were Edwin Leto, we wouldn’t be talkin' right about now.” My chest felt as though it were about to implode. I could say nothing. I could do nothing. The man stepped forward again and got down on one knee by my bedside.
“You’re no Edwin Leto,” he was whispering again, his face now just inches from mine. “You’re Mr. Archelaus Cain, and you’re coming with me.”
| Numbers and numbers trickle
Wavering above the sea
Above the fallen Gods
.
Humans expire quietly
But always loudly screaming
For forgiveness
.
My time has passed
Such envy for my child
Who left this realm upon entering
.
"How are you alive?"
Giggles at their query
How could they not know?
.
Witches with pencils
Furiously question me
But I died long ago | |
[WP] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death. Your date has passed, but nothing happened. | I knew my date as long as I could remember, like everyone else. I don't know when I found out; my parents must have told me, when I was very little. But I do remember the day I found out what the date *meant.* I was five, innocently playing doctor with my best friend. He was the patient in my toughest case yet and, despite my best efforts, "died" on the operating table. Panicked, and desperate to preserve a thread of truth in our child's game, I ran to Alex's older brother John and breathlessly asked him, "How do you cure death?!" He turned to me and laughed, in the condescending way that older people laugh at young children. "You can't cure death, stupid. It's the end. We all know when we'll die, and no doctor on Earth can do a thing about it." I ran home crying, begging my parents to say it wasn't true. Their words were half-assurances. "You've got a long time before your day, honey," my mom whispered. "You'll do great things with the time you have," my dad assured me.
That was the day I resolved to fight like hell. For myself, and for everyone that would have their life stolen from them. I had seventy-five years in front of me, but not one day did I forget that my day, that everyone's day, was coming. True to five-year-old self's aspirations, I became a renowned surgeon. However, as I performed more and more "life-saving" surgeries on desperate people whose days had come, I noticed a disturbing pattern: the surgery would go miraculously well, yet the next day I would be told that the patient died just hours post-op. Perplexed and suspicious, I began scheduling just one surgery a day, and covertly following the patient after their operation was complete. Sure enough, I would hear the droning beep from their heart rate monitors that signaled their passing from this world. They would be hurried out of the room by a cloud of hospital attendants, down a dark and mysterious corridor.
As a doctor, the sudden passing of so many patients seemed suspicious. I began to research death dates, scouring shady corners of the internet and dealing information in dark corners of old bookstores. There was a theory, rooted in mystery and hearsay, that people don't really die on their death days. Those that believed this claimed that the "dead" were merely secreted away when no one was looking, and brought somewhere well out of the cities, where they wouldn't contribute to the growing population and ever more congested urban areas. The more research I did, the more the evidence for this seemed overwhelming. At the age of 45, more than halfway to my own death day, I joined the ranks of secret activists, and rededicated myself to exposing the government for the lies they told us about our ultimate demise. For decades I helped terrified citizens, slated for "death," escape the city. I watched my fellow doctors "die" one by one, and watched my fellow activists flee. Much as the latter always promised to report back, they never did, leaving those of us who remained with the small thread of uncertainty: *what if we were wrong?*
My death date dawned, bright and cold. Though slowed from eighty long years on this Earth, and the last one remaining of anyone I cared for, I still spent each day fighting for the lives of others. My plan, then, was not to run or hide, as so many had done before me. I would stay in the public eye all day, and when they came for me, I would fight like hell, like I fought for my patients, like I fought for my clients. I had what I needed to make a scene. I was ready. I sat out in the park, an elderly woman in the midst of millions half my age. I scanned the world around me, looking for the thieves who came to take me away from my life. At midnight, the clock in the city center chimed. I was puzzled. It was my day. I could show them all the truth, if only they would come for me. Exhausted, cold, I returned to my humble apartment, the same one I bought when I was a young resident. I closed my eyes, peacefully, silently thankful that I hadn't had to fight a war that day. And as I drifted off, I saw them: the faces of every patient, every runaway I had saved. They stood open armed, smiling as they welcomed me, finally, into eternal sleep. | Numbers and numbers trickle
Wavering above the sea
Above the fallen Gods
.
Humans expire quietly
But always loudly screaming
For forgiveness
.
My time has passed
Such envy for my child
Who left this realm upon entering
.
"How are you alive?"
Giggles at their query
How could they not know?
.
Witches with pencils
Furiously question me
But I died long ago | |
[WP] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death. Your date has passed, but nothing happened. | "Well shit," John-108 said. "I've gone and expired myself, and nothing happened."
"Language, 108," Claire-202 chided.
"Oh, right, that's what I'm worrying about right now, 202: my potty mouth."
John-108 sat up in his charging cradle, which was just five minutes ago his death bed. "What happened?" he asked.
"You mean, what didn't happen?" Claire answered.
John stared. "...Why do I like you, again, 202?"
"Because we're married."
"Just a few minutes ago, though," John said, "I bet you were thinking about widow benefits, too."
"My tears are artificially produced, but they were real," Claire assured. "Now, why are you still alive?"
John hmphed. "You say that like you're disappointed, 202."
"Just confused," Claire admitted. "Should I call The Company?"
"To come kill me?" John sputtered. "I was supposed to be the unstable one, 202."
"Technically, you're not alive, either, 108," Claire reminded him.
"You're a real buzzkill, 202."
Claire smiled just a little. "I do what I can." She wiped at her artificially tear-stricken face. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's just my way of coping, you know."
"Yeah yeah," John said, trying to smile. "Humor is my way of dealing, too. You know that too, 202."
"Now what?" Claire asked.
"I'm not telling," John said, "are you?"
"But they'll want to know why you haven't expired," Claire argued. "The Company, I mean."
"'Oh, let me fix that for you'," John mimicked. "Pass."
"Again I reiterate," Claire said. "Now what?"
"The lamb."
"They'll send hunters, like you're Rogue," Claire told him. "And what about me?"
"Why, my dear, sweet wife," John said, "You get to be the Bonnie to my Clyde." | Numbers and numbers trickle
Wavering above the sea
Above the fallen Gods
.
Humans expire quietly
But always loudly screaming
For forgiveness
.
My time has passed
Such envy for my child
Who left this realm upon entering
.
"How are you alive?"
Giggles at their query
How could they not know?
.
Witches with pencils
Furiously question me
But I died long ago | |
[WP] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death. Your date has passed, but nothing happened. | Sonnet Number Twenty-Four
For my whole life, I've known just when I'd die.
The moment is known since birth in my world.
Some cower, others celebrate despite.
I passed the day like I was never told.
I wondered, what would it feel like to die?
And waited patiently for death's close doom,
But when the moment came, I let out a sigh
And death passed me like a draft in the room.
Once dead, it made sense perfectly to feel
Nothing. As death's one description is void.
Experiencing nothing feels unreal
Like every thing that is me was destroyed.
My death wasn't anything for me to see,
Only survivors felt the death of me.
| Immortals. They... we were called immortals. After the last life threatening disease ever to exist on this sphere was eradicated in 5645 AD, perfection as a race was not very far away. No more hunger, no more poverty, no sickness, and most importantly , no more death. This held up for almost 6 decades and we couldn't be more proud of ourselves. Our leading scientists devised a formula that recoded our DNA to regenerate indefinitely and interminably. This made us immortal. You know how they say that you acquire a new body every 10 years? Well imagine acquiring one every 10 months. The formula was designed to also stop aging at 25 years of age, which meant you could be 100 years old and maintain the body of a 30 year old. We had made ourselves immortal. We became gods, and not gods like those of Egyptian folklore, or those found in Rome or Greece, no! We were real gods. After almost 60 years of no deaths in the world, things were beginning to get tight. We couldn't build any higher to fit all of the population and we were running out of food. Only one solution was created, an anti-formula that took our immortality, and reduced it to a mere 100 years to fulfill our dreams and desires. What were we thinking playing God. Everyone was given this "vaccine" and within months, those that were approaching 100 years old, those who had received the immortal vaccine back in 5645 in their mid 40's, slowly began to die off. It was the turn of the millennium we were returning to a manageable population. Of course not everyone was ok with this. There was a small group, a small sect if you will that defied this order and never got the immortality ending formula. The formula was never made again to teach those that didn't get it a lesson that immortality isn't all that it seems to be. Of course there were public records that showed everyone's age and their exact 100th birthday, and everyday the Remain Extracting and People Eradication Responders (R.E.A.P.E.R) would go out in search for those correspondents whose day it was to be, well, eliminated or extracted. So we come to me. Why am I so special? Truth be told I'm not, but it just happens that yesterday was my turn to be extracted. I'm still alive, I'm not dead. I'm terrified, have I done something wrong? Last night I had a dream of a man with a long gray beard. I remember lots of running and hiding. But most of all, I remember crying and bullets and blood. Why am I not dead. My time is up. I'm 100 years and 1 day old. The REAPER hasn't come for me yet and I'm starting to get worried. Am I really complaining that I'm not dead? This morning I found a diary. Mostly old pictures and a letter. In those pictures are two men and a child. It's the man with the long gray beard from my dreams! I read the letter. My grandfather and father. The leader of the sect that didn't get vaccinated. No records of me ever existing. Bullets won't do good since my flesh will regenerate in a months time. I'm stuck here forever. I have to find them!!! | |
[WP] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death. Your date has passed, but nothing happened. | They say you die twice; Once when you breathe your last breath, and once when your name is last spoken.
Benjamin Franklin said those words, and I wish I could say he was wrong. Here I sit, in an empty room with gray, dull walls, without a hint of sunlight or the world outside in any corner of the room. I'd been in here for months, a shut-in to the world beyond my door, which stood just feet in front of me, taunting and daring me to go out and see what the world would say about the pathetic husk I've become.
It was 2:34 and 17 second past that it came to me -- I'd never go out that door, and I'd never leave the clutches I'd found myself in. I knew in that moment that no one else would ever speak my name. It didn't matter what I had done at that point; I was dead, in every sense of the word that mattered. No memory of me would remain, no amount of yelling and begging for the world to say my name would ever save me.
I began to crumple to the floor, and knew that this was the end. I could feel the indifference in the air, pounding and pushing down on me. I had failed to make my mark, to make any change.
There I lay, on the ground of my room, pristine from the world beyond my own. It would stay this way for weeks, until someone down the hall noticed the smell. There I lay, begging myself to scream my name to the world while chastising myself for not knowing better. Nothing I could say or do would stop the inevitable. | Immortals. They... we were called immortals. After the last life threatening disease ever to exist on this sphere was eradicated in 5645 AD, perfection as a race was not very far away. No more hunger, no more poverty, no sickness, and most importantly , no more death. This held up for almost 6 decades and we couldn't be more proud of ourselves. Our leading scientists devised a formula that recoded our DNA to regenerate indefinitely and interminably. This made us immortal. You know how they say that you acquire a new body every 10 years? Well imagine acquiring one every 10 months. The formula was designed to also stop aging at 25 years of age, which meant you could be 100 years old and maintain the body of a 30 year old. We had made ourselves immortal. We became gods, and not gods like those of Egyptian folklore, or those found in Rome or Greece, no! We were real gods. After almost 60 years of no deaths in the world, things were beginning to get tight. We couldn't build any higher to fit all of the population and we were running out of food. Only one solution was created, an anti-formula that took our immortality, and reduced it to a mere 100 years to fulfill our dreams and desires. What were we thinking playing God. Everyone was given this "vaccine" and within months, those that were approaching 100 years old, those who had received the immortal vaccine back in 5645 in their mid 40's, slowly began to die off. It was the turn of the millennium we were returning to a manageable population. Of course not everyone was ok with this. There was a small group, a small sect if you will that defied this order and never got the immortality ending formula. The formula was never made again to teach those that didn't get it a lesson that immortality isn't all that it seems to be. Of course there were public records that showed everyone's age and their exact 100th birthday, and everyday the Remain Extracting and People Eradication Responders (R.E.A.P.E.R) would go out in search for those correspondents whose day it was to be, well, eliminated or extracted. So we come to me. Why am I so special? Truth be told I'm not, but it just happens that yesterday was my turn to be extracted. I'm still alive, I'm not dead. I'm terrified, have I done something wrong? Last night I had a dream of a man with a long gray beard. I remember lots of running and hiding. But most of all, I remember crying and bullets and blood. Why am I not dead. My time is up. I'm 100 years and 1 day old. The REAPER hasn't come for me yet and I'm starting to get worried. Am I really complaining that I'm not dead? This morning I found a diary. Mostly old pictures and a letter. In those pictures are two men and a child. It's the man with the long gray beard from my dreams! I read the letter. My grandfather and father. The leader of the sect that didn't get vaccinated. No records of me ever existing. Bullets won't do good since my flesh will regenerate in a months time. I'm stuck here forever. I have to find them!!! | |
[WP] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death. Your date has passed, but nothing happened. | "Harold, you are my best friend. The best anyone could wish to have. Don't forget to feed my cat"
Those were the only nice words I said to anyone leading up to my death. In a letter to my wife I wrote, "I am going to die tomorrow at noon. I wish it had been sooner", and I meant it.
That damn woman drove me to booze, gambling, guns and prostitution - well, maybe I did some of those before I met her too.
I am too fat to be shoveling all this dirt. I should have hired a few grave diggers - but I blew all my money in Vegas last week on one last hoorah. I don't even have enough money for a real last meal - over the past few days I have been getting by on food stamps and mouthwash.
Dig, dig, dig damn. That will do. It's a tight squeeze and a bit too shallow; maybe the dogs will dig me up and turn me into their chew toy.
Just a few seconds to go. Any last thoughts?
"I'm sorry Laura. I was an awful husband, I wish I could stay and do right by you and the kids." And I cried. My last thought was to be one of regret.
It's time.
Noon.
"Is it noon?"
Noon.
"That can't be right."
Noon.
I couldn't help but roar, a primal sound; birds fled, dogs barked and I was alive.
I don't know why. Maybe God was listening, maybe he is giving me a second chance; to be a better man, a better husband, a better father, to be something of value - to give and not simply take.
Yes, God must have been listening. I can't let him down, I can't Laura down and I need to do this.
No more boozing, no more gambling and no whoring. I will be a good man.
I can't wait to see my kids. I haven't spoken to Ginnie and Carol since I went to Vegas. They must have known what I was going to do there - they presented me with their usual disapproving faces when they gave their goodbyes at the airport.
That's in the past. I will be better, for them.
One PM.
Fucking daylight savings time. | This is the second day of the rest of my life.
The walls are empty. There's nothing here but an old matress and some raggy, worn out clothes I picked from the trash last night. I'm in a rooftop on one of the ugliest parts of the city. The only place I can hide.
I spent all of yesterday setting this up. I walked all day, until I finally found this building. Empty, unkempt. The perfect building for me. Then I gathered all the survival stuff I could find and braced myself for my first night.
I spent all the day before yesteray saying my goodbyes. I visited my job, even if I had already quit two weeks before. I wished luck to my replacement. He's gonna die in twelve years, three months and eleven days, so he's still got a lot of time to make himself a name there. Then all my coworkers rounded up with me for a last picture that will hang on the wall. A lot of them cried. It's not fair to die at 28, but I've made my peace with it.
By night, all my friends gathered for my last night in the world. We had until seven in the morning, so we made the best of it. They are the best friends i could ever think of. I had already given away most of my possesions, but I had kept some special things to give that night. I had never appreciated the value of that ritual until now, but it really helps you to make amends. I gave all of them a last word, a last hug, a last conversation...
Jess had told me she was ready for goodbyes, but she wasn't. That's all I'm gonna say about her. It's not fair to die at 28 when you're in love.
We staid up all night. After all, it was my last night. By morning all was said and done. I was sitting in the living room, surrounded by my family and friends and, oddly, I was okay. I had had time to do all I had to do, and as the last seconds passed over me, I was at peace.
Then it came. Seven in the morning, twenty four minutes, nine seconds.
And passed.
And another minute passed.
And five minutes passed.
And one hour passed and I didn't die.
Nobody knew what to do about it. We all felt something was really wrong, specially me. For all of my life I had known when I would die, but the time had arrived and past and left me like a forgotten toy.
Everybody left. They all knew that I ought to be dead, and now that I wasn't it was like I was a monster. Not even my mother dared looking at me as she walked out.
At noon a moving crew arrived with the furniture of the guy that would take my house over. There was nothing I could do. My date of death had been written on my records, all my possessions had been given away, no one I knew would talk to me... I just walked away.
I spent all of yesterday setting up my new house, a lot less fancy than the previous one. I watched other homeless people and tried to learn from them. It's been harder than I thought, not only the living, but also the learning. No one will come close to me. I don't know if it shows in my face, but everybody know there's something wrong with me. I'm a dead man walking, and they can sense it.
Today is the second day of the rest of my life and I wake up. I don't know why I was spared the common fate of humanity, I don't know for how long, I don't know if there is a purpose behind this. I guess I'll eventually find out. Or not.
I am alive. From now that will have to suffice.
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This gave me the biggest plot bunny ever. I would love to elaborate on this, although I think it would take a little bit long to set up and I haven't written for like two years or so. Thank you, OP. | |
[WP] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death. Your date has passed, but nothing happened. | I had always thought I wanted to die on the dock. It was my favorite part of the lake, surely my favorite part of the old brown house. But sitting there, listening to the waves creep up the rocky shore ten feet or so behind me, the occasional cicada singing its croaky tune, I realized yet again just how little I knew myself.
I lifted my hand from the decaying wood it had been gripping so agitatedly to glance at my watch. It was a terrible watch. The strap had been a sleek black leather sight once, but now it was decorated with wrinkles and cracks faded from the sun. The glass was cracked even before it had been given to me, and it ticked so very loudly that my mother told me on the second day I possessed it that I was not allowed to wear it at the dinner table. She was terribly intolerant of most things, though, so I guess that doesn’t say much.
The ugly old watch read exactly one o’clock. I hadn’t expected to feel much of anything, but the nerves started then. They probably would have started sooner, thinking about it now, but I hadn’t even looked at the time since the sun had set, figuring it was for the best not to know. But seeing that hand strike 1:00 AM sent a cold pulse through my body that began a set of violent vibrations through my very core and, to my surprise, I reacted immediately. I had two minutes.
I pushed off of the spongey, green planks without regard for splinters or spiders and took off for the house in a run. I tripped halfway up the old stone steps built into the sloping earth and when I reached the top landing, I tore the screen door open and let its feeble little knob smash into the side of the house. My bare feet did not mind the cold tile of the kitchen floor and when I reached the stairs, they seemed not to mind the slapping of my bare feet against them as I ascended to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, my hand found the glass doorknob to my right with no fumbling, and I pushed the door open to see a place I had long thought I hated. Tonight, it welcomed me with a beautiful slice of moonlight against shadows, highlighting a pair of navy socks on the floor and the faded patchwork quilt on my bed. I inhaled deeply, attempting to slow my hammering heart, and sat on the side of the bed. I pulled my socks on before crawling under the covers. My face found the part of the pillow that smelled the most like home, and I kicked my socks off under the sheets for one last time. I closed my eyes, breathed in, and willed myself to sleep.
My watch ticked on.
Desperate for one final moment of peace, I held my eyes shut. I tried not to count the ticks. It must have been a minute by now, almost two. I breathed in again, paid attention to what it felt like for my lungs to inflate, for my chest to rise. And then I exhaled. The ticking continued. My hand was close to my face, that’s just how I always slept. I had to look.
1:04 AM
I felt my heartbeat quicken again. I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes tightly, with much force, and exhaled slowly. I opened them again.
1:04 AM
The time had passed. I inhaled sharply. I could still breathe. I looked across my room at my closet. I could still look.
“This is impossible,” I whispered aloud. I moved my right foot under the covers and felt an abandoned sock. I could still move. I could still feel. I pulled my left hand from under the pillow and brought it to my right. My fingers pushed the watchband down my arm, and I looked at my wrist. It looked the same. In pale, raised skin, the first line read my name, “Edwin Leto”. Just beneath it read the time I was born, “1/24/2016 11:31 PM”. And then, directly below that, most importantly, was “8/16/2036 1:02 AM”.
“Time of death.” A raspy voice in accented English shook me from my thoughts. It had come from behind the doorframe, in the hallway, and it belonged to a man I did not know. I laid there in shock for a moment, sweating suddenly, gripping the sheets, unable to even breathe, paralyzed by fear.
“Who are you?!” I managed to gasp finally. I was trying for a yell but achieved only a strained whisper. My throat felt as if it were collapsing from the panic swallowing my body. What was happening?
I heard movement, the step of a boot on the wood floor, and the man’s shadow appeared in my closet as he moved forward from the darkness of the hallway. He entered the room and I looked up at him from the sad safety of my quilt. His black hair was long and unkempt, his pale face was made darker with stubble and beard, and light eyes stared down at me from shadows cast by his massive, raised brows.
“I’m Montague,” the man said in a voice that sounded as though it would rather be speaking much, much louder. “I think the question you should be asking, though, is who are you?”
“Who am I?” I asked, still clutching my covers. I couldn’t keep myself from staring at his large, leather boots, laces awry, caked with mud. It hadn’t rained in weeks. “I’m…I’m Edwin Leto.” Though I tried, I failed to keep my voice from shaking. This has to be some sort of dream.
“No, mate,” the man said more loudly, stepping into the moonlight. “If you were Edwin Leto, we wouldn’t be talkin' right about now.” My chest felt as though it were about to implode. I could say nothing. I could do nothing. The man stepped forward again and got down on one knee by my bedside.
“You’re no Edwin Leto,” he was whispering again, his face now just inches from mine. “You’re Mr. Archelaus Cain, and you’re coming with me.”
| This is the second day of the rest of my life.
The walls are empty. There's nothing here but an old matress and some raggy, worn out clothes I picked from the trash last night. I'm in a rooftop on one of the ugliest parts of the city. The only place I can hide.
I spent all of yesterday setting this up. I walked all day, until I finally found this building. Empty, unkempt. The perfect building for me. Then I gathered all the survival stuff I could find and braced myself for my first night.
I spent all the day before yesteray saying my goodbyes. I visited my job, even if I had already quit two weeks before. I wished luck to my replacement. He's gonna die in twelve years, three months and eleven days, so he's still got a lot of time to make himself a name there. Then all my coworkers rounded up with me for a last picture that will hang on the wall. A lot of them cried. It's not fair to die at 28, but I've made my peace with it.
By night, all my friends gathered for my last night in the world. We had until seven in the morning, so we made the best of it. They are the best friends i could ever think of. I had already given away most of my possesions, but I had kept some special things to give that night. I had never appreciated the value of that ritual until now, but it really helps you to make amends. I gave all of them a last word, a last hug, a last conversation...
Jess had told me she was ready for goodbyes, but she wasn't. That's all I'm gonna say about her. It's not fair to die at 28 when you're in love.
We staid up all night. After all, it was my last night. By morning all was said and done. I was sitting in the living room, surrounded by my family and friends and, oddly, I was okay. I had had time to do all I had to do, and as the last seconds passed over me, I was at peace.
Then it came. Seven in the morning, twenty four minutes, nine seconds.
And passed.
And another minute passed.
And five minutes passed.
And one hour passed and I didn't die.
Nobody knew what to do about it. We all felt something was really wrong, specially me. For all of my life I had known when I would die, but the time had arrived and past and left me like a forgotten toy.
Everybody left. They all knew that I ought to be dead, and now that I wasn't it was like I was a monster. Not even my mother dared looking at me as she walked out.
At noon a moving crew arrived with the furniture of the guy that would take my house over. There was nothing I could do. My date of death had been written on my records, all my possessions had been given away, no one I knew would talk to me... I just walked away.
I spent all of yesterday setting up my new house, a lot less fancy than the previous one. I watched other homeless people and tried to learn from them. It's been harder than I thought, not only the living, but also the learning. No one will come close to me. I don't know if it shows in my face, but everybody know there's something wrong with me. I'm a dead man walking, and they can sense it.
Today is the second day of the rest of my life and I wake up. I don't know why I was spared the common fate of humanity, I don't know for how long, I don't know if there is a purpose behind this. I guess I'll eventually find out. Or not.
I am alive. From now that will have to suffice.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
This gave me the biggest plot bunny ever. I would love to elaborate on this, although I think it would take a little bit long to set up and I haven't written for like two years or so. Thank you, OP. | |
[WP] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death. Your date has passed, but nothing happened. | I knew my date as long as I could remember, like everyone else. I don't know when I found out; my parents must have told me, when I was very little. But I do remember the day I found out what the date *meant.* I was five, innocently playing doctor with my best friend. He was the patient in my toughest case yet and, despite my best efforts, "died" on the operating table. Panicked, and desperate to preserve a thread of truth in our child's game, I ran to Alex's older brother John and breathlessly asked him, "How do you cure death?!" He turned to me and laughed, in the condescending way that older people laugh at young children. "You can't cure death, stupid. It's the end. We all know when we'll die, and no doctor on Earth can do a thing about it." I ran home crying, begging my parents to say it wasn't true. Their words were half-assurances. "You've got a long time before your day, honey," my mom whispered. "You'll do great things with the time you have," my dad assured me.
That was the day I resolved to fight like hell. For myself, and for everyone that would have their life stolen from them. I had seventy-five years in front of me, but not one day did I forget that my day, that everyone's day, was coming. True to five-year-old self's aspirations, I became a renowned surgeon. However, as I performed more and more "life-saving" surgeries on desperate people whose days had come, I noticed a disturbing pattern: the surgery would go miraculously well, yet the next day I would be told that the patient died just hours post-op. Perplexed and suspicious, I began scheduling just one surgery a day, and covertly following the patient after their operation was complete. Sure enough, I would hear the droning beep from their heart rate monitors that signaled their passing from this world. They would be hurried out of the room by a cloud of hospital attendants, down a dark and mysterious corridor.
As a doctor, the sudden passing of so many patients seemed suspicious. I began to research death dates, scouring shady corners of the internet and dealing information in dark corners of old bookstores. There was a theory, rooted in mystery and hearsay, that people don't really die on their death days. Those that believed this claimed that the "dead" were merely secreted away when no one was looking, and brought somewhere well out of the cities, where they wouldn't contribute to the growing population and ever more congested urban areas. The more research I did, the more the evidence for this seemed overwhelming. At the age of 45, more than halfway to my own death day, I joined the ranks of secret activists, and rededicated myself to exposing the government for the lies they told us about our ultimate demise. For decades I helped terrified citizens, slated for "death," escape the city. I watched my fellow doctors "die" one by one, and watched my fellow activists flee. Much as the latter always promised to report back, they never did, leaving those of us who remained with the small thread of uncertainty: *what if we were wrong?*
My death date dawned, bright and cold. Though slowed from eighty long years on this Earth, and the last one remaining of anyone I cared for, I still spent each day fighting for the lives of others. My plan, then, was not to run or hide, as so many had done before me. I would stay in the public eye all day, and when they came for me, I would fight like hell, like I fought for my patients, like I fought for my clients. I had what I needed to make a scene. I was ready. I sat out in the park, an elderly woman in the midst of millions half my age. I scanned the world around me, looking for the thieves who came to take me away from my life. At midnight, the clock in the city center chimed. I was puzzled. It was my day. I could show them all the truth, if only they would come for me. Exhausted, cold, I returned to my humble apartment, the same one I bought when I was a young resident. I closed my eyes, peacefully, silently thankful that I hadn't had to fight a war that day. And as I drifted off, I saw them: the faces of every patient, every runaway I had saved. They stood open armed, smiling as they welcomed me, finally, into eternal sleep. | This is the second day of the rest of my life.
The walls are empty. There's nothing here but an old matress and some raggy, worn out clothes I picked from the trash last night. I'm in a rooftop on one of the ugliest parts of the city. The only place I can hide.
I spent all of yesterday setting this up. I walked all day, until I finally found this building. Empty, unkempt. The perfect building for me. Then I gathered all the survival stuff I could find and braced myself for my first night.
I spent all the day before yesteray saying my goodbyes. I visited my job, even if I had already quit two weeks before. I wished luck to my replacement. He's gonna die in twelve years, three months and eleven days, so he's still got a lot of time to make himself a name there. Then all my coworkers rounded up with me for a last picture that will hang on the wall. A lot of them cried. It's not fair to die at 28, but I've made my peace with it.
By night, all my friends gathered for my last night in the world. We had until seven in the morning, so we made the best of it. They are the best friends i could ever think of. I had already given away most of my possesions, but I had kept some special things to give that night. I had never appreciated the value of that ritual until now, but it really helps you to make amends. I gave all of them a last word, a last hug, a last conversation...
Jess had told me she was ready for goodbyes, but she wasn't. That's all I'm gonna say about her. It's not fair to die at 28 when you're in love.
We staid up all night. After all, it was my last night. By morning all was said and done. I was sitting in the living room, surrounded by my family and friends and, oddly, I was okay. I had had time to do all I had to do, and as the last seconds passed over me, I was at peace.
Then it came. Seven in the morning, twenty four minutes, nine seconds.
And passed.
And another minute passed.
And five minutes passed.
And one hour passed and I didn't die.
Nobody knew what to do about it. We all felt something was really wrong, specially me. For all of my life I had known when I would die, but the time had arrived and past and left me like a forgotten toy.
Everybody left. They all knew that I ought to be dead, and now that I wasn't it was like I was a monster. Not even my mother dared looking at me as she walked out.
At noon a moving crew arrived with the furniture of the guy that would take my house over. There was nothing I could do. My date of death had been written on my records, all my possessions had been given away, no one I knew would talk to me... I just walked away.
I spent all of yesterday setting up my new house, a lot less fancy than the previous one. I watched other homeless people and tried to learn from them. It's been harder than I thought, not only the living, but also the learning. No one will come close to me. I don't know if it shows in my face, but everybody know there's something wrong with me. I'm a dead man walking, and they can sense it.
Today is the second day of the rest of my life and I wake up. I don't know why I was spared the common fate of humanity, I don't know for how long, I don't know if there is a purpose behind this. I guess I'll eventually find out. Or not.
I am alive. From now that will have to suffice.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
This gave me the biggest plot bunny ever. I would love to elaborate on this, although I think it would take a little bit long to set up and I haven't written for like two years or so. Thank you, OP. | |
[WP] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death. Your date has passed, but nothing happened. | I had always thought I wanted to die on the dock. It was my favorite part of the lake, surely my favorite part of the old brown house. But sitting there, listening to the waves creep up the rocky shore ten feet or so behind me, the occasional cicada singing its croaky tune, I realized yet again just how little I knew myself.
I lifted my hand from the decaying wood it had been gripping so agitatedly to glance at my watch. It was a terrible watch. The strap had been a sleek black leather sight once, but now it was decorated with wrinkles and cracks faded from the sun. The glass was cracked even before it had been given to me, and it ticked so very loudly that my mother told me on the second day I possessed it that I was not allowed to wear it at the dinner table. She was terribly intolerant of most things, though, so I guess that doesn’t say much.
The ugly old watch read exactly one o’clock. I hadn’t expected to feel much of anything, but the nerves started then. They probably would have started sooner, thinking about it now, but I hadn’t even looked at the time since the sun had set, figuring it was for the best not to know. But seeing that hand strike 1:00 AM sent a cold pulse through my body that began a set of violent vibrations through my very core and, to my surprise, I reacted immediately. I had two minutes.
I pushed off of the spongey, green planks without regard for splinters or spiders and took off for the house in a run. I tripped halfway up the old stone steps built into the sloping earth and when I reached the top landing, I tore the screen door open and let its feeble little knob smash into the side of the house. My bare feet did not mind the cold tile of the kitchen floor and when I reached the stairs, they seemed not to mind the slapping of my bare feet against them as I ascended to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, my hand found the glass doorknob to my right with no fumbling, and I pushed the door open to see a place I had long thought I hated. Tonight, it welcomed me with a beautiful slice of moonlight against shadows, highlighting a pair of navy socks on the floor and the faded patchwork quilt on my bed. I inhaled deeply, attempting to slow my hammering heart, and sat on the side of the bed. I pulled my socks on before crawling under the covers. My face found the part of the pillow that smelled the most like home, and I kicked my socks off under the sheets for one last time. I closed my eyes, breathed in, and willed myself to sleep.
My watch ticked on.
Desperate for one final moment of peace, I held my eyes shut. I tried not to count the ticks. It must have been a minute by now, almost two. I breathed in again, paid attention to what it felt like for my lungs to inflate, for my chest to rise. And then I exhaled. The ticking continued. My hand was close to my face, that’s just how I always slept. I had to look.
1:04 AM
I felt my heartbeat quicken again. I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes tightly, with much force, and exhaled slowly. I opened them again.
1:04 AM
The time had passed. I inhaled sharply. I could still breathe. I looked across my room at my closet. I could still look.
“This is impossible,” I whispered aloud. I moved my right foot under the covers and felt an abandoned sock. I could still move. I could still feel. I pulled my left hand from under the pillow and brought it to my right. My fingers pushed the watchband down my arm, and I looked at my wrist. It looked the same. In pale, raised skin, the first line read my name, “Edwin Leto”. Just beneath it read the time I was born, “1/24/2016 11:31 PM”. And then, directly below that, most importantly, was “8/16/2036 1:02 AM”.
“Time of death.” A raspy voice in accented English shook me from my thoughts. It had come from behind the doorframe, in the hallway, and it belonged to a man I did not know. I laid there in shock for a moment, sweating suddenly, gripping the sheets, unable to even breathe, paralyzed by fear.
“Who are you?!” I managed to gasp finally. I was trying for a yell but achieved only a strained whisper. My throat felt as if it were collapsing from the panic swallowing my body. What was happening?
I heard movement, the step of a boot on the wood floor, and the man’s shadow appeared in my closet as he moved forward from the darkness of the hallway. He entered the room and I looked up at him from the sad safety of my quilt. His black hair was long and unkempt, his pale face was made darker with stubble and beard, and light eyes stared down at me from shadows cast by his massive, raised brows.
“I’m Montague,” the man said in a voice that sounded as though it would rather be speaking much, much louder. “I think the question you should be asking, though, is who are you?”
“Who am I?” I asked, still clutching my covers. I couldn’t keep myself from staring at his large, leather boots, laces awry, caked with mud. It hadn’t rained in weeks. “I’m…I’m Edwin Leto.” Though I tried, I failed to keep my voice from shaking. This has to be some sort of dream.
“No, mate,” the man said more loudly, stepping into the moonlight. “If you were Edwin Leto, we wouldn’t be talkin' right about now.” My chest felt as though it were about to implode. I could say nothing. I could do nothing. The man stepped forward again and got down on one knee by my bedside.
“You’re no Edwin Leto,” he was whispering again, his face now just inches from mine. “You’re Mr. Archelaus Cain, and you’re coming with me.”
| I thought about it again. I couldn't really explain how I "knew", but it was something that people were always able to conceive, just like a sixth sense. The ability to tell when one's own life was going to end, the except time and date. For some people they shared it openly and constantly, and for others they kept their times hidden away. For some people, a far-off date and time was a sign of prestige. Hell, some people even had benefits if they were either due for a super long or super short life.
But it didn't make sense. I thought about it, and I thought hard. Like I said, I still don't know how I was able to just bring it to head, but I could. And despite the numbers floating through my mind simply reading "December 19th, 2030", nothing had happened. Interestingly, the cause of death is not determined, just the time and date. So for some people they'd simply off themselves on the day. Others would get themselves all tucked and cozy in their beds and then simply die in their sleep inexplicably. Others were not so lucky, getting shot by gang members or hit by Maglev trains on their daily commute.
I personally had already fulfilled what I wanted for the day, and was planning to end my life simply with a Beretta M9. I had a nice plate of Fugu Sashimi. A bit of a risk but hey, if I was gonna die today, might as well go for it. I had watched a nice movie, finished a good read, chatted with some of my friends before saying goodbye, for the last time. Of course, they didn't know, but they'd understand when they saw the news. I never liked talking to people about when I was gonna die, so I mainly just kept it to myself. But regardless, I was still boggled.
The day ended, and December 20th dawned. It must be a fluke. Surely it had to have been, right? But it couldn't have. As long as I could conceive what the number meant, I knew that it was December 19th, 2030. Even had the time, at 11:19 PM. It felt like an eon since that time had passed when in reality it had only been 41 minutes. And so I got ready for the next day of work. What was I to even do? I couldn't just stop. Surely if the clock didn't read right then there was something else, there had to be. But I tried to push it to the back of my mind, and put on a smile for everyone. Go through my daily routines and rituals, talk with my girlfriend, and the other various daily deeds.
But as the days passed I couldn't stop thinking about it. I stayed up late trying to fathom it, I worked across the day on my writings about it. Study after study, I ended up getting careless. It was showing on me, my disheveled look and bloodshot, baggy eyes. People were concerned that my 'time' was finally coming, but I simply shook my head and said "Trust me, it can't be 'coming'." After all, I should've already died, right? Maybe I was a spirit, having some kind of crazy hallucination of still being alive when in reality nobody could see or hear me.
My confliction with the subject got worse and worse. Soon my job was on the line because of my obsession over the conflict, my girlfriend worried about me. We had taken a break from the relationship, but how was that supposed to help? All it did was make me crave the golden-malt drink of a good beer, enough to preferably send me into a deep, catatonic state at least once a week. But what did it matter? I had died, I had to of died. Family stopped calling, mail stopped delivering. People thought that I was dying, but I wasn't.
My whole life wasn't even to the point of living anymore, I just wanted to desperately understand. I wanted to tell everybody that I was fine, that I couldn't possibly be dying. My bed wasn't my bed, the stool in front of the kitchen table was, where I drank and drank, wrote and wrote. At some point I didn't have any lead left, and just scratched across the papers with an invisible bit of graphite. And in those faint, winking hours of the morning, from days to weeks, months to years, I could see myself getting older, weaker. But I wasn't dying.
I searched my soul deep inside, to find a pit. An empty spot where I had once been alive. My state on the surface was a wreck, a shambling mess of existence. But it was alive. It walked, it breathed and talked. Wrote, read, drank, cried. But the reality was, deep inside my blackened soul, I was already dead. | |
[WP] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death. Your date has passed, but nothing happened. | I knew my date as long as I could remember, like everyone else. I don't know when I found out; my parents must have told me, when I was very little. But I do remember the day I found out what the date *meant.* I was five, innocently playing doctor with my best friend. He was the patient in my toughest case yet and, despite my best efforts, "died" on the operating table. Panicked, and desperate to preserve a thread of truth in our child's game, I ran to Alex's older brother John and breathlessly asked him, "How do you cure death?!" He turned to me and laughed, in the condescending way that older people laugh at young children. "You can't cure death, stupid. It's the end. We all know when we'll die, and no doctor on Earth can do a thing about it." I ran home crying, begging my parents to say it wasn't true. Their words were half-assurances. "You've got a long time before your day, honey," my mom whispered. "You'll do great things with the time you have," my dad assured me.
That was the day I resolved to fight like hell. For myself, and for everyone that would have their life stolen from them. I had seventy-five years in front of me, but not one day did I forget that my day, that everyone's day, was coming. True to five-year-old self's aspirations, I became a renowned surgeon. However, as I performed more and more "life-saving" surgeries on desperate people whose days had come, I noticed a disturbing pattern: the surgery would go miraculously well, yet the next day I would be told that the patient died just hours post-op. Perplexed and suspicious, I began scheduling just one surgery a day, and covertly following the patient after their operation was complete. Sure enough, I would hear the droning beep from their heart rate monitors that signaled their passing from this world. They would be hurried out of the room by a cloud of hospital attendants, down a dark and mysterious corridor.
As a doctor, the sudden passing of so many patients seemed suspicious. I began to research death dates, scouring shady corners of the internet and dealing information in dark corners of old bookstores. There was a theory, rooted in mystery and hearsay, that people don't really die on their death days. Those that believed this claimed that the "dead" were merely secreted away when no one was looking, and brought somewhere well out of the cities, where they wouldn't contribute to the growing population and ever more congested urban areas. The more research I did, the more the evidence for this seemed overwhelming. At the age of 45, more than halfway to my own death day, I joined the ranks of secret activists, and rededicated myself to exposing the government for the lies they told us about our ultimate demise. For decades I helped terrified citizens, slated for "death," escape the city. I watched my fellow doctors "die" one by one, and watched my fellow activists flee. Much as the latter always promised to report back, they never did, leaving those of us who remained with the small thread of uncertainty: *what if we were wrong?*
My death date dawned, bright and cold. Though slowed from eighty long years on this Earth, and the last one remaining of anyone I cared for, I still spent each day fighting for the lives of others. My plan, then, was not to run or hide, as so many had done before me. I would stay in the public eye all day, and when they came for me, I would fight like hell, like I fought for my patients, like I fought for my clients. I had what I needed to make a scene. I was ready. I sat out in the park, an elderly woman in the midst of millions half my age. I scanned the world around me, looking for the thieves who came to take me away from my life. At midnight, the clock in the city center chimed. I was puzzled. It was my day. I could show them all the truth, if only they would come for me. Exhausted, cold, I returned to my humble apartment, the same one I bought when I was a young resident. I closed my eyes, peacefully, silently thankful that I hadn't had to fight a war that day. And as I drifted off, I saw them: the faces of every patient, every runaway I had saved. They stood open armed, smiling as they welcomed me, finally, into eternal sleep. | I thought about it again. I couldn't really explain how I "knew", but it was something that people were always able to conceive, just like a sixth sense. The ability to tell when one's own life was going to end, the except time and date. For some people they shared it openly and constantly, and for others they kept their times hidden away. For some people, a far-off date and time was a sign of prestige. Hell, some people even had benefits if they were either due for a super long or super short life.
But it didn't make sense. I thought about it, and I thought hard. Like I said, I still don't know how I was able to just bring it to head, but I could. And despite the numbers floating through my mind simply reading "December 19th, 2030", nothing had happened. Interestingly, the cause of death is not determined, just the time and date. So for some people they'd simply off themselves on the day. Others would get themselves all tucked and cozy in their beds and then simply die in their sleep inexplicably. Others were not so lucky, getting shot by gang members or hit by Maglev trains on their daily commute.
I personally had already fulfilled what I wanted for the day, and was planning to end my life simply with a Beretta M9. I had a nice plate of Fugu Sashimi. A bit of a risk but hey, if I was gonna die today, might as well go for it. I had watched a nice movie, finished a good read, chatted with some of my friends before saying goodbye, for the last time. Of course, they didn't know, but they'd understand when they saw the news. I never liked talking to people about when I was gonna die, so I mainly just kept it to myself. But regardless, I was still boggled.
The day ended, and December 20th dawned. It must be a fluke. Surely it had to have been, right? But it couldn't have. As long as I could conceive what the number meant, I knew that it was December 19th, 2030. Even had the time, at 11:19 PM. It felt like an eon since that time had passed when in reality it had only been 41 minutes. And so I got ready for the next day of work. What was I to even do? I couldn't just stop. Surely if the clock didn't read right then there was something else, there had to be. But I tried to push it to the back of my mind, and put on a smile for everyone. Go through my daily routines and rituals, talk with my girlfriend, and the other various daily deeds.
But as the days passed I couldn't stop thinking about it. I stayed up late trying to fathom it, I worked across the day on my writings about it. Study after study, I ended up getting careless. It was showing on me, my disheveled look and bloodshot, baggy eyes. People were concerned that my 'time' was finally coming, but I simply shook my head and said "Trust me, it can't be 'coming'." After all, I should've already died, right? Maybe I was a spirit, having some kind of crazy hallucination of still being alive when in reality nobody could see or hear me.
My confliction with the subject got worse and worse. Soon my job was on the line because of my obsession over the conflict, my girlfriend worried about me. We had taken a break from the relationship, but how was that supposed to help? All it did was make me crave the golden-malt drink of a good beer, enough to preferably send me into a deep, catatonic state at least once a week. But what did it matter? I had died, I had to of died. Family stopped calling, mail stopped delivering. People thought that I was dying, but I wasn't.
My whole life wasn't even to the point of living anymore, I just wanted to desperately understand. I wanted to tell everybody that I was fine, that I couldn't possibly be dying. My bed wasn't my bed, the stool in front of the kitchen table was, where I drank and drank, wrote and wrote. At some point I didn't have any lead left, and just scratched across the papers with an invisible bit of graphite. And in those faint, winking hours of the morning, from days to weeks, months to years, I could see myself getting older, weaker. But I wasn't dying.
I searched my soul deep inside, to find a pit. An empty spot where I had once been alive. My state on the surface was a wreck, a shambling mess of existence. But it was alive. It walked, it breathed and talked. Wrote, read, drank, cried. But the reality was, deep inside my blackened soul, I was already dead. | |
[WP] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death. Your date has passed, but nothing happened. | I had always thought I wanted to die on the dock. It was my favorite part of the lake, surely my favorite part of the old brown house. But sitting there, listening to the waves creep up the rocky shore ten feet or so behind me, the occasional cicada singing its croaky tune, I realized yet again just how little I knew myself.
I lifted my hand from the decaying wood it had been gripping so agitatedly to glance at my watch. It was a terrible watch. The strap had been a sleek black leather sight once, but now it was decorated with wrinkles and cracks faded from the sun. The glass was cracked even before it had been given to me, and it ticked so very loudly that my mother told me on the second day I possessed it that I was not allowed to wear it at the dinner table. She was terribly intolerant of most things, though, so I guess that doesn’t say much.
The ugly old watch read exactly one o’clock. I hadn’t expected to feel much of anything, but the nerves started then. They probably would have started sooner, thinking about it now, but I hadn’t even looked at the time since the sun had set, figuring it was for the best not to know. But seeing that hand strike 1:00 AM sent a cold pulse through my body that began a set of violent vibrations through my very core and, to my surprise, I reacted immediately. I had two minutes.
I pushed off of the spongey, green planks without regard for splinters or spiders and took off for the house in a run. I tripped halfway up the old stone steps built into the sloping earth and when I reached the top landing, I tore the screen door open and let its feeble little knob smash into the side of the house. My bare feet did not mind the cold tile of the kitchen floor and when I reached the stairs, they seemed not to mind the slapping of my bare feet against them as I ascended to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, my hand found the glass doorknob to my right with no fumbling, and I pushed the door open to see a place I had long thought I hated. Tonight, it welcomed me with a beautiful slice of moonlight against shadows, highlighting a pair of navy socks on the floor and the faded patchwork quilt on my bed. I inhaled deeply, attempting to slow my hammering heart, and sat on the side of the bed. I pulled my socks on before crawling under the covers. My face found the part of the pillow that smelled the most like home, and I kicked my socks off under the sheets for one last time. I closed my eyes, breathed in, and willed myself to sleep.
My watch ticked on.
Desperate for one final moment of peace, I held my eyes shut. I tried not to count the ticks. It must have been a minute by now, almost two. I breathed in again, paid attention to what it felt like for my lungs to inflate, for my chest to rise. And then I exhaled. The ticking continued. My hand was close to my face, that’s just how I always slept. I had to look.
1:04 AM
I felt my heartbeat quicken again. I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes tightly, with much force, and exhaled slowly. I opened them again.
1:04 AM
The time had passed. I inhaled sharply. I could still breathe. I looked across my room at my closet. I could still look.
“This is impossible,” I whispered aloud. I moved my right foot under the covers and felt an abandoned sock. I could still move. I could still feel. I pulled my left hand from under the pillow and brought it to my right. My fingers pushed the watchband down my arm, and I looked at my wrist. It looked the same. In pale, raised skin, the first line read my name, “Edwin Leto”. Just beneath it read the time I was born, “1/24/2016 11:31 PM”. And then, directly below that, most importantly, was “8/16/2036 1:02 AM”.
“Time of death.” A raspy voice in accented English shook me from my thoughts. It had come from behind the doorframe, in the hallway, and it belonged to a man I did not know. I laid there in shock for a moment, sweating suddenly, gripping the sheets, unable to even breathe, paralyzed by fear.
“Who are you?!” I managed to gasp finally. I was trying for a yell but achieved only a strained whisper. My throat felt as if it were collapsing from the panic swallowing my body. What was happening?
I heard movement, the step of a boot on the wood floor, and the man’s shadow appeared in my closet as he moved forward from the darkness of the hallway. He entered the room and I looked up at him from the sad safety of my quilt. His black hair was long and unkempt, his pale face was made darker with stubble and beard, and light eyes stared down at me from shadows cast by his massive, raised brows.
“I’m Montague,” the man said in a voice that sounded as though it would rather be speaking much, much louder. “I think the question you should be asking, though, is who are you?”
“Who am I?” I asked, still clutching my covers. I couldn’t keep myself from staring at his large, leather boots, laces awry, caked with mud. It hadn’t rained in weeks. “I’m…I’m Edwin Leto.” Though I tried, I failed to keep my voice from shaking. This has to be some sort of dream.
“No, mate,” the man said more loudly, stepping into the moonlight. “If you were Edwin Leto, we wouldn’t be talkin' right about now.” My chest felt as though it were about to implode. I could say nothing. I could do nothing. The man stepped forward again and got down on one knee by my bedside.
“You’re no Edwin Leto,” he was whispering again, his face now just inches from mine. “You’re Mr. Archelaus Cain, and you’re coming with me.”
| The pale white girl lies slumped in the corner of the room. The wine glass in his spindly fingers is filled to the brim with her blood.
A smile spreads his lips as he brings the wine glass up in a toast.
"Sorry sweetie," he says, his green eyes lingering over her lifeless ones, "but you knew it was coming. I, on the other hand choose to do something about my fate."
He runs his fingers through his long, dark hair and sighs before taking a sip. | |
[WP] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death. Your date has passed, but nothing happened. | I knew my date as long as I could remember, like everyone else. I don't know when I found out; my parents must have told me, when I was very little. But I do remember the day I found out what the date *meant.* I was five, innocently playing doctor with my best friend. He was the patient in my toughest case yet and, despite my best efforts, "died" on the operating table. Panicked, and desperate to preserve a thread of truth in our child's game, I ran to Alex's older brother John and breathlessly asked him, "How do you cure death?!" He turned to me and laughed, in the condescending way that older people laugh at young children. "You can't cure death, stupid. It's the end. We all know when we'll die, and no doctor on Earth can do a thing about it." I ran home crying, begging my parents to say it wasn't true. Their words were half-assurances. "You've got a long time before your day, honey," my mom whispered. "You'll do great things with the time you have," my dad assured me.
That was the day I resolved to fight like hell. For myself, and for everyone that would have their life stolen from them. I had seventy-five years in front of me, but not one day did I forget that my day, that everyone's day, was coming. True to five-year-old self's aspirations, I became a renowned surgeon. However, as I performed more and more "life-saving" surgeries on desperate people whose days had come, I noticed a disturbing pattern: the surgery would go miraculously well, yet the next day I would be told that the patient died just hours post-op. Perplexed and suspicious, I began scheduling just one surgery a day, and covertly following the patient after their operation was complete. Sure enough, I would hear the droning beep from their heart rate monitors that signaled their passing from this world. They would be hurried out of the room by a cloud of hospital attendants, down a dark and mysterious corridor.
As a doctor, the sudden passing of so many patients seemed suspicious. I began to research death dates, scouring shady corners of the internet and dealing information in dark corners of old bookstores. There was a theory, rooted in mystery and hearsay, that people don't really die on their death days. Those that believed this claimed that the "dead" were merely secreted away when no one was looking, and brought somewhere well out of the cities, where they wouldn't contribute to the growing population and ever more congested urban areas. The more research I did, the more the evidence for this seemed overwhelming. At the age of 45, more than halfway to my own death day, I joined the ranks of secret activists, and rededicated myself to exposing the government for the lies they told us about our ultimate demise. For decades I helped terrified citizens, slated for "death," escape the city. I watched my fellow doctors "die" one by one, and watched my fellow activists flee. Much as the latter always promised to report back, they never did, leaving those of us who remained with the small thread of uncertainty: *what if we were wrong?*
My death date dawned, bright and cold. Though slowed from eighty long years on this Earth, and the last one remaining of anyone I cared for, I still spent each day fighting for the lives of others. My plan, then, was not to run or hide, as so many had done before me. I would stay in the public eye all day, and when they came for me, I would fight like hell, like I fought for my patients, like I fought for my clients. I had what I needed to make a scene. I was ready. I sat out in the park, an elderly woman in the midst of millions half my age. I scanned the world around me, looking for the thieves who came to take me away from my life. At midnight, the clock in the city center chimed. I was puzzled. It was my day. I could show them all the truth, if only they would come for me. Exhausted, cold, I returned to my humble apartment, the same one I bought when I was a young resident. I closed my eyes, peacefully, silently thankful that I hadn't had to fight a war that day. And as I drifted off, I saw them: the faces of every patient, every runaway I had saved. They stood open armed, smiling as they welcomed me, finally, into eternal sleep. | The pale white girl lies slumped in the corner of the room. The wine glass in his spindly fingers is filled to the brim with her blood.
A smile spreads his lips as he brings the wine glass up in a toast.
"Sorry sweetie," he says, his green eyes lingering over her lifeless ones, "but you knew it was coming. I, on the other hand choose to do something about my fate."
He runs his fingers through his long, dark hair and sighs before taking a sip. | |
[WP] Everyone knows the exact time and date of their death. Your date has passed, but nothing happened. | "Well shit," John-108 said. "I've gone and expired myself, and nothing happened."
"Language, 108," Claire-202 chided.
"Oh, right, that's what I'm worrying about right now, 202: my potty mouth."
John-108 sat up in his charging cradle, which was just five minutes ago his death bed. "What happened?" he asked.
"You mean, what didn't happen?" Claire answered.
John stared. "...Why do I like you, again, 202?"
"Because we're married."
"Just a few minutes ago, though," John said, "I bet you were thinking about widow benefits, too."
"My tears are artificially produced, but they were real," Claire assured. "Now, why are you still alive?"
John hmphed. "You say that like you're disappointed, 202."
"Just confused," Claire admitted. "Should I call The Company?"
"To come kill me?" John sputtered. "I was supposed to be the unstable one, 202."
"Technically, you're not alive, either, 108," Claire reminded him.
"You're a real buzzkill, 202."
Claire smiled just a little. "I do what I can." She wiped at her artificially tear-stricken face. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's just my way of coping, you know."
"Yeah yeah," John said, trying to smile. "Humor is my way of dealing, too. You know that too, 202."
"Now what?" Claire asked.
"I'm not telling," John said, "are you?"
"But they'll want to know why you haven't expired," Claire argued. "The Company, I mean."
"'Oh, let me fix that for you'," John mimicked. "Pass."
"Again I reiterate," Claire said. "Now what?"
"The lamb."
"They'll send hunters, like you're Rogue," Claire told him. "And what about me?"
"Why, my dear, sweet wife," John said, "You get to be the Bonnie to my Clyde." | The pale white girl lies slumped in the corner of the room. The wine glass in his spindly fingers is filled to the brim with her blood.
A smile spreads his lips as he brings the wine glass up in a toast.
"Sorry sweetie," he says, his green eyes lingering over her lifeless ones, "but you knew it was coming. I, on the other hand choose to do something about my fate."
He runs his fingers through his long, dark hair and sighs before taking a sip. | |
[WP] After dying from a road accident, you wake up in a strange world and hear a voice beside your bed. "You got lucky, they reduced your sentence. Welcome back." | "Fuck," I whisper and rub my eyes. Sitting up, I feel my arms for tubes and entry points. There are five. I hear beeps and boops. Someone is sitting by the bed, silent. "What?" I ask, my vision still a mess.
"You got lucky, they reduced your sentence," the voice is young. Female. I look in her direction and try to focus but fail. She adds, "Welcome back."
"Thanks, but luck has nothing to do with this shit."
"Ah, a friend. Nice to have those. Galactic or extragala—you know what, it doesn't matter, does it. How do you feel?"
"Terrible. Where are we?"
"Green planet. Plenty of water still. Normal tribal structures. Religion. Limited space exploration. Low average intelligence level. The full report's here," She hands me a folder. I'll have to install this. I hope I can.
"Can I install all that?" My vision's getting better. "Wait. What's your name? What's my name?"
A ginger beard covers her face. Her green eyes are large and round. She's dressed in gray garments. Fitted to a shape I find vaguely recognizable. I must have resurrected on this planet before, or maybe nearby. She removes a handheld from her pocket and taps on it a few times, swiping to and fro, then looks up at me, "A-dolf. Hitt-lehr. That's you," she says. "I'm no one."
"Okay, I say. What am I?" I ask. She scrolls more.
"Bipedal. Mirror-limbs for the most part. Small brain," she smiles, "but manageable. Details in the report." She's playing me.
"Okay, thanks. So that tech in your hand. What do you want for it? Also, I'll need an installation kit for the reports. So add that to your calculus."
"Sorry, chum. No can do. Command's to give you nothing this time around, except this," she produces a fist-sized capsule and pops it open with a flick. Inside rests a contact lens.
"What is it?" I ask, now scratching the follicles on this skin. I don't even know how old I am or what they want me to do this time. That's alright. I'm nineteen lives away from paying my debt. Most people only live a dozen of times unless they really fuck shit up. Like I did.
"Simple transmitter fitted to the species. Mind control over large crowds at semi-close range. Nothing special or very long lasting, but it should help you get started."
"I'm assuming the mission's in the report? Can I at least read the language?"
"Oh yes," she says. "I installed essential knowledge while you slept. You're still a teenager in this body. You've got some time to spend. I read in your files you like recording the places you visit so I programmed a mild artistic script for you. Free of charge." She's proud of her work. I hope I meet her again someday.
I smile and she stands. She finishes administering my resurrection (pokes, reflexes, snaps, etc.) and leaves.
Deep breath. Let's do this. The door opens and a nurse walks in, "Oh, Adolf, good morning. I think you'll be heading home today. Just a slight fever left. Are we excited to get back home, hm?"
"Aye," I say and lean back into the bed. I think I'll sleep a little longer. | Ragbar looks at the beast standing over him. It takes him a few seconds to understand. He feels his face and his head. The horns are back. Instead of hands, he has paws. He tries to stand but drops to all fours, returning to his natural form. He misses walking on two legs already. He misses the beautiful human form that he had inhabited, but he understands, now, why it was a punishment. The emotions of these creatures were often overwhelming and difficult to control. There was so much pain caused by things that shouldn't have caused pain, but, when those emotions were good, they were euphoric. And, now, he understands the full extent of his punishment. The pain his family must feel now that he is gone.
"Chorbatz wants to see you." Says Yorthub, the beast by his bed.
"Yes, I suppose he does." Says Ragbar.
They walk to the palace. Ragbar thinks about the woman who became his life mate, and the offspring they had. He wonders what happened to them, if they survived the accident or not. But, even now, he can feel the emotions fading. It won't be long before he feels nothing or so he imagines. He thinks about going back, asking for an extended sentence.
Ragbar and Yorthub arrive at the palace and are allowed entrance to see Chorbatz. He is a huge monster, the monster of monsters, with a huge bull-like head and hooves that could crush human beings. Ragbar bows before him.
"My master, it is good to see you."
"It is good to see you, Ragbar. Have you learned your lesson?"
"Yes, I understand the pain I caused now. I understand how what did affected the family and loved ones of Smutsmee. If I could cry, I would cry."
"Good, that is why your sentence has been reduced. Welcome back." Says Chorbatz.
"Sir, may I go back? I would like to go back to my family, my Earth family."
"Your sentence may have been reduced, but coming back early is part of the punishment, Ragbar. You can watch over them with the viewscreen. That is the best I can do."
"Thank you, my master."
Ragbar spends much time at the viewscreen. His family is still alive and struggling on without him. He thinks about a life that could have been for his human counterpart, Robert Jordan, and then he thinks about that scenario concerning Smutsmee, the beast he killed accidentally, and his family. True, the sentence was reduced, but his punishment would continue eternally.
***
I have more writing at r/nickkuvaas. | |
[WP] People can willingly give the remainder of their years of life to others. As a result parents give birth to kids and intentionally try to make them depressed and suicidal. You're 12 and you know what they're up to. | I sit in the corner of my room silently, trying to take in all of what my parents told me. "You're fat, lazy, have bad grades, and have no friends." they repeated in multiple manners, none of which felt encouraging.
Most people would think they were just trying to help me for my benefit, but I knew. I knew that they were just trying to drive me to ending my own life for their benefit, but I would not let them. I kept quiet to myself, knowing if I told anyone they would be even more harsh, going as far as not feeding me for a week, or locking me in the filthiest bathroom in the house, with nothing to do but fruitlessly try to avoid the various insects wandering around. They tried over and over, almost driving me to insanity.
I grab the knife from my pocket, wondering if I should just oblige, when suddenly, a thought pops into my head. "Why end my life when I could just end theirs?"
I go to bed, pretending to fall asleep. The time is 1 AM. Both of them are asleep. I silently creep into their room, torch pointed at the ceiling, and knife in hand, adrenaline filling my body. I drive the knife through my mother's throat, feeling the wet blood on my hand, listening to her pointless attempts at screaming for help, and watching her eyes go wide. I do the same with my father.
Finally, it was over. No more torture. No more insults. No more starvation. Yet, I didn't feel complete. Who was I? They turned me into a cold-blooded murderer, and I didn't even feel slightly guilty. This is not who I was. Without second guessing myself, I drive the knife through my throat, and see the lights come on. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch my parents walking out of the bathroom, wide grins on their faces. I look to the bed, and see my brother and sister laying on the bed, eyes wide. What little food they had given me was drugged.
The lights faded as I felt the life being drained from my body. | It was always the same. Everytime I walked through that door she had a new insult. She liked to keep it topical though, usually along the lines of "worthless" and "nobody would miss you".
It was the norm nowadays, ever since the government had allowed people to just give away their lives. My class which beforehand had been filled with 30 students now had five, every week it seemed we had another funeral all because of "suicide".
Luckily i'm a bastard, I wouldn't have the common decency to off myself so my mother could live a few more years. My brothers and father had been too nice, they had succumbed to the constant abuse and the feeling of worthlessness.
As i walked into the cold familiar setting of the kitchen, she turned around with a wry smile the cigarette perched between her clawlike fingers;
"So whose life have you ruined today beside mine you useless sack of shit" she said. "Oh Martha don't you know that i spend all my hours coming up with ways to ruin your life, I simply don't have the time to ruin anyone elses" I curtly replied.
Her face changed immediately, the usual grimace replacing the derisive smirk.
"You know I heard Cat put a bullet between those two pretty blue eyes of hers on tuesday" she said her face contorting into a semblance of empathy.
My stomach sank. Cat had been my best friend all my life. Her and I had discovered what the parents were doing together.
We had made a pact to stay strong and when we turned 18 we were going to leave our families and live together. She was the only person on earth i had loved.
Her parents however had none of the same love for her I had. After i had dropped her at her house on tuesday her parents had spent hours berating and mentally abusing her.
I got a call from her at 9pm saying,
"Nicky im sorry, I love you".
I had immediately jumped out of bed and ran downstairs to grab my keys, my mother however had them and delayed me 5 minutes by abusing me and not letting me take them.
I arrived outside Cat's house just in time to hear the gunshot.
"Shut your fucking mouth you cold hearted bitch!" I shouted at my mother.
She stood there with her mouth open staring at me, it was the only time i had ever shouted at her.
"I swear on my life and on Cat's that i will never let you have my life. Never!"
She slowly placed her cigarette in the ashtray and picked up the carving knife from the knife rack. "I know son, but i will be damned if anyone else will have it!"
She ran at me with the knife, screaming. I calmly stepped to one side grabbed her arm twisted it around and plunged the knife between her ribs.
"I know mother, but I'm afraid you have no say in it at all."
| |
[WP] People can willingly give the remainder of their years of life to others. As a result parents give birth to kids and intentionally try to make them depressed and suicidal. You're 12 and you know what they're up to. | It's my 12th birthday. As a chosen, I finally get to climb the stairs, to be with Mom and Dad.
This isn't a bad place, what more could anyone need? There's warmth, and food, and just enough other family here that it's hard to remember the names of some of them in the other blocks. The keepers are always bringing the things we need through the brown door. They sometimes take old or broken things back in.
I'm glad I wasn't made a breeder. At 12, breeders are sent through the blue door. The boy breeders come and go all the time, until they get old. The girl breeders are made to stay behind the blue door after a while, usually when their bellies get big. I don't want my belly to get big and have to go in the blue door. I have peeked behind the blue door, and watched what they do. It looks pretty gross, but they seem to like it. Luckily, my belly isn't getting big, but every couple months, a new baby comes out of the blue door and I do wonder where they come from? I wonder where I came from?
As a chosen, I always got to go in the red door. Behind that door, I learned all about Mom and Dad. How beautiful they are. How sweet, kind, powerful, and terrible they are. They've been around for thousands of years, and are the wisest beings in the world. We're taught that the black door will open, and beyond will see the white door, but not to be scared. When the white door opens, there will be such a warm and yellow light, like those of us in the blocks have never seen before, and it will warm our skin. And at the top of the stairs, Mom and Dad will be beckoning me, and I'm to walk up the stairs to them to them. To live with them in the yellow light forever and ever Amen.
Most importantly, though, we are taught to obey their word, and once at the top of the stairs, that they are going to ask me "The Question", and the answer to the question is simply, "Yes.".
Every chosen dreams of the day they get to say "Yes." to Mom and Dad, to live with them forever and ever, and my day is here.
The black door slides open and without hesitation or a look back, I step right in. The white door is before me, glowing and welcoming! As the black door slides closed behind me, I feel a slight tremor of fear, but before I can react, the white door slides open...and the warm yellow light that was promised fails to appear.
My fear spikes, but just as I'm about to turn towards the black door, a figure appears at the top of the stairs, beckoning me upward with an impatient flick of the wrist. Is this Mom?
"It's about time. Don't make me come down and get you, get up here."
I obey. Without thought, twelve years of indoctrination takes hold, and I nearly fly up the stairs, my heart beating wildly in fear, in the most basic recesses of my mind, I hear a primal warning, something is terribly wrong!
I'm grabbed roughly by the woman, who couldn't be Mom. She is not beautiful like we were taught. She is not Mom the Kind and Powerful. Yet who else could she be?
Held by the hair and arm, hard fingers pressing into my muscles I start to cry from the pain. My primal instinct is screaming, Run! Flee! Fight! Yet I can do none of these things, even if I wanted to. I can only obey, as I've been taught all my life.
Finally, we reach a doorway, and push through before I can notice the color. For the first time in my life, I have no idea what is going to happen to me.
The woman brings me to a man, who smiles and rises from his chair. The smile gives me hope! As he approaches, the woman forces me to my knees in front of him.
I can barely whisper the word, "Dad?" before he's in front of me, and I can see in the way that the smile doesn't reach his eyes that his smile is feral.
"Yes, I'm your dad, and that is your mom. It's time for you to answer the question. Do you agree to give me all of what is yours, freely and without reservation?"
My primal mind is howling now, the back of my mind is aflame with instinct to say no, to scream "No!" and run, but that part of my mind is so small compared to twelve years of indoctrination.
For one crazed moment, the thought that I wish I had been made a breeder so my belly could get fat flies through my mind, and then my mouth opens, and out comes the only answer I could ever give.
"Yes."
The man licks his lips, the gleam in his eye becomes hungry, and as the woman turns to walk out the room, she calls, "Don't take so long this time, dear. It's our turn to host the Millennial Soiree tonight."
- I took a little liberty with the WP, and didn't conform to it completely, but this story screamed that it needed something a bit darker. After all, you have to wonder what some people will do in order to obtain eternal life. | It was always the same. Everytime I walked through that door she had a new insult. She liked to keep it topical though, usually along the lines of "worthless" and "nobody would miss you".
It was the norm nowadays, ever since the government had allowed people to just give away their lives. My class which beforehand had been filled with 30 students now had five, every week it seemed we had another funeral all because of "suicide".
Luckily i'm a bastard, I wouldn't have the common decency to off myself so my mother could live a few more years. My brothers and father had been too nice, they had succumbed to the constant abuse and the feeling of worthlessness.
As i walked into the cold familiar setting of the kitchen, she turned around with a wry smile the cigarette perched between her clawlike fingers;
"So whose life have you ruined today beside mine you useless sack of shit" she said. "Oh Martha don't you know that i spend all my hours coming up with ways to ruin your life, I simply don't have the time to ruin anyone elses" I curtly replied.
Her face changed immediately, the usual grimace replacing the derisive smirk.
"You know I heard Cat put a bullet between those two pretty blue eyes of hers on tuesday" she said her face contorting into a semblance of empathy.
My stomach sank. Cat had been my best friend all my life. Her and I had discovered what the parents were doing together.
We had made a pact to stay strong and when we turned 18 we were going to leave our families and live together. She was the only person on earth i had loved.
Her parents however had none of the same love for her I had. After i had dropped her at her house on tuesday her parents had spent hours berating and mentally abusing her.
I got a call from her at 9pm saying,
"Nicky im sorry, I love you".
I had immediately jumped out of bed and ran downstairs to grab my keys, my mother however had them and delayed me 5 minutes by abusing me and not letting me take them.
I arrived outside Cat's house just in time to hear the gunshot.
"Shut your fucking mouth you cold hearted bitch!" I shouted at my mother.
She stood there with her mouth open staring at me, it was the only time i had ever shouted at her.
"I swear on my life and on Cat's that i will never let you have my life. Never!"
She slowly placed her cigarette in the ashtray and picked up the carving knife from the knife rack. "I know son, but i will be damned if anyone else will have it!"
She ran at me with the knife, screaming. I calmly stepped to one side grabbed her arm twisted it around and plunged the knife between her ribs.
"I know mother, but I'm afraid you have no say in it at all."
| |
[WP] People can willingly give the remainder of their years of life to others. As a result parents give birth to kids and intentionally try to make them depressed and suicidal. You're 12 and you know what they're up to. | It's my 12th birthday. As a chosen, I finally get to climb the stairs, to be with Mom and Dad.
This isn't a bad place, what more could anyone need? There's warmth, and food, and just enough other family here that it's hard to remember the names of some of them in the other blocks. The keepers are always bringing the things we need through the brown door. They sometimes take old or broken things back in.
I'm glad I wasn't made a breeder. At 12, breeders are sent through the blue door. The boy breeders come and go all the time, until they get old. The girl breeders are made to stay behind the blue door after a while, usually when their bellies get big. I don't want my belly to get big and have to go in the blue door. I have peeked behind the blue door, and watched what they do. It looks pretty gross, but they seem to like it. Luckily, my belly isn't getting big, but every couple months, a new baby comes out of the blue door and I do wonder where they come from? I wonder where I came from?
As a chosen, I always got to go in the red door. Behind that door, I learned all about Mom and Dad. How beautiful they are. How sweet, kind, powerful, and terrible they are. They've been around for thousands of years, and are the wisest beings in the world. We're taught that the black door will open, and beyond will see the white door, but not to be scared. When the white door opens, there will be such a warm and yellow light, like those of us in the blocks have never seen before, and it will warm our skin. And at the top of the stairs, Mom and Dad will be beckoning me, and I'm to walk up the stairs to them to them. To live with them in the yellow light forever and ever Amen.
Most importantly, though, we are taught to obey their word, and once at the top of the stairs, that they are going to ask me "The Question", and the answer to the question is simply, "Yes.".
Every chosen dreams of the day they get to say "Yes." to Mom and Dad, to live with them forever and ever, and my day is here.
The black door slides open and without hesitation or a look back, I step right in. The white door is before me, glowing and welcoming! As the black door slides closed behind me, I feel a slight tremor of fear, but before I can react, the white door slides open...and the warm yellow light that was promised fails to appear.
My fear spikes, but just as I'm about to turn towards the black door, a figure appears at the top of the stairs, beckoning me upward with an impatient flick of the wrist. Is this Mom?
"It's about time. Don't make me come down and get you, get up here."
I obey. Without thought, twelve years of indoctrination takes hold, and I nearly fly up the stairs, my heart beating wildly in fear, in the most basic recesses of my mind, I hear a primal warning, something is terribly wrong!
I'm grabbed roughly by the woman, who couldn't be Mom. She is not beautiful like we were taught. She is not Mom the Kind and Powerful. Yet who else could she be?
Held by the hair and arm, hard fingers pressing into my muscles I start to cry from the pain. My primal instinct is screaming, Run! Flee! Fight! Yet I can do none of these things, even if I wanted to. I can only obey, as I've been taught all my life.
Finally, we reach a doorway, and push through before I can notice the color. For the first time in my life, I have no idea what is going to happen to me.
The woman brings me to a man, who smiles and rises from his chair. The smile gives me hope! As he approaches, the woman forces me to my knees in front of him.
I can barely whisper the word, "Dad?" before he's in front of me, and I can see in the way that the smile doesn't reach his eyes that his smile is feral.
"Yes, I'm your dad, and that is your mom. It's time for you to answer the question. Do you agree to give me all of what is yours, freely and without reservation?"
My primal mind is howling now, the back of my mind is aflame with instinct to say no, to scream "No!" and run, but that part of my mind is so small compared to twelve years of indoctrination.
For one crazed moment, the thought that I wish I had been made a breeder so my belly could get fat flies through my mind, and then my mouth opens, and out comes the only answer I could ever give.
"Yes."
The man licks his lips, the gleam in his eye becomes hungry, and as the woman turns to walk out the room, she calls, "Don't take so long this time, dear. It's our turn to host the Millennial Soiree tonight."
- I took a little liberty with the WP, and didn't conform to it completely, but this story screamed that it needed something a bit darker. After all, you have to wonder what some people will do in order to obtain eternal life. | I sit in the corner of my room silently, trying to take in all of what my parents told me. "You're fat, lazy, have bad grades, and have no friends." they repeated in multiple manners, none of which felt encouraging.
Most people would think they were just trying to help me for my benefit, but I knew. I knew that they were just trying to drive me to ending my own life for their benefit, but I would not let them. I kept quiet to myself, knowing if I told anyone they would be even more harsh, going as far as not feeding me for a week, or locking me in the filthiest bathroom in the house, with nothing to do but fruitlessly try to avoid the various insects wandering around. They tried over and over, almost driving me to insanity.
I grab the knife from my pocket, wondering if I should just oblige, when suddenly, a thought pops into my head. "Why end my life when I could just end theirs?"
I go to bed, pretending to fall asleep. The time is 1 AM. Both of them are asleep. I silently creep into their room, torch pointed at the ceiling, and knife in hand, adrenaline filling my body. I drive the knife through my mother's throat, feeling the wet blood on my hand, listening to her pointless attempts at screaming for help, and watching her eyes go wide. I do the same with my father.
Finally, it was over. No more torture. No more insults. No more starvation. Yet, I didn't feel complete. Who was I? They turned me into a cold-blooded murderer, and I didn't even feel slightly guilty. This is not who I was. Without second guessing myself, I drive the knife through my throat, and see the lights come on. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch my parents walking out of the bathroom, wide grins on their faces. I look to the bed, and see my brother and sister laying on the bed, eyes wide. What little food they had given me was drugged.
The lights faded as I felt the life being drained from my body. | |
[WP] People can willingly give the remainder of their years of life to others. As a result parents give birth to kids and intentionally try to make them depressed and suicidal. You're 12 and you know what they're up to. | My first try at writing...
My mother hates me and I Know why...my mother gave me life to take it away just like my siblings before me. I know why she pushed me so hard. Why she screamed at me, why she hit me, and I Know why she wanted me to die. I am just a can of pop ready to be opened, consumed, crushed, and tossed away...
One day my mother opened my door and sat down on my bed saying it was time. I looked at her with tears streaming down my face and told her that I was scared. mother told me that she would be here with me and that it won't hurt. She grabbed a special black rope with a noose at the end and began tying it to the ceiling fan as she stood on the chair. I asked mother to show me what to do. She smiled at me and grabbed the noose and placed it around her neck saying "there isn't much to it son just place the n....GAWKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!" As she spoke I kicked the chair from under her as she flailed her legs and was gurgling and turning purple. I then grabbed the chair and stood on it as she looked at me with life draining from her eyes. I then told her "grandpa wanted to live longer too" as i kissed her cheek and closed her eyes. | "Your worthless" mom said
It didn't affect me because I knew what she was trying to do. I refused to give in to them. A lot of my school classmates had killed themselves, but I refused to give into this backwards world. My mom and dad would emotionally and physically abuse me, and they still expected me to give the remainder of my years to them. No way. I had decided that I would put up with their shit until I was 18 and then move. Most parents wouldn't go about it in the sly way other parents would, my dad left his gun out in the open hoping that one day I would pick it up, put it to my head, and blow my brains out. I wouldn't. My dad came in the door.
"Hi son" he said
"Hi dad" I said
"How was school?" He asked
"Fine" I said. I know he wanted me to talk about all the bad things that happend. He would nit pick everything just to make me feel bad, so I wouldn't give him any ammo. "How did you do on the math test?" He asked
"I failed, because you won't help me study"
You'll never become something in life if you keep getting grades like that" he said in a mocking tone.
"Okay" I said. And thats when the anger consumed me. I picked up my fathers glock off the table, but instead of pointing it at myself I pointed it right at my fathers head and pulled the trigger. BANG! His body hit the floor. My mom screamed. I then turned the gun to her. I pulled the tigger. BANG!. I had murderd my parents. I had zero remorse. They had turned me into a cold blooded killer.
| |
[WP] People can willingly give the remainder of their years of life to others. As a result parents give birth to kids and intentionally try to make them depressed and suicidal. You're 12 and you know what they're up to. | I slipped into the house as quietly as I could. My mom was home and I didn't want her to hear me come in. I knew if she did, she would ask about my report card.
"Sara? Is that you?"
*Crap. She heard me.*
"Sara, dear, come down and bring your report card. Don't try to hide now. I'm sure you did better this semester."
*Sure you do.* I thought sarcastically.
She knew I was no good at school.
Still, she demanded straight A's. It was "for my own good". She didn't want me to "end up homeless in a ditch". Or so she said. I knew what she was up to.
She wanted my life.
You see, when a person dies before the age of 85, they can leave their unused years of life to others. However, since I am a minor, if I die, everything goes to my parents, well, in this case my mom. That includes the remaining 73 years I could have lived. She was hoping I would cave under the pressure and off myself. My dad had. He had died in a suspicious camping accident and left everything to my mom, shortly after she found out she couldn't have any more children. That was when I had begun to catch on.
"Sara, dear," my mother's voice had acquired a sharper tone, "now!"
I sighed and headed down the steps to the living room.
My little brother was already downstairs. He looked like he was struggling not to cry. My mother was shaking her head as she looked over his report card. She saw me enter the room and held out her hand.
"Give it here, sweety."
I reluctantly handed her the manilla envelope.
She opened it and looked at my grades. Her face darkened and she began to shake her head again.
"I'm *so* disappointed in you both. Peter, you got a B in Math, and Sara, you got an A- in Art? Keep this up and you will never amount to anything..." Then she said something we all dreaded, "There will be serious consequences for this."
My heart sank. She was going to ground us. That meant no dessert, no social life, and even worse, she was going to change the WiFi password for the next two months. It was pure torture, even as a practically grown-up 12-year-old.
*SLAM*
I started as Peter ran upstairs and slammed the door to his room.
"Oh dear." Mother murmured. "I hope he isn't thinking of doing anything foolish."
I tensed. This was bad. But I knew from experience there was nothing I could do. My mother could make my life much, much worse if I tried to intervene.
I knew what we would find in his room when Peter didn't show up for dinner. He had somehow managed to hang himself from the ceiling fan. I shook my head. I had tried to warn him, I really did. But there is only so much you can explain to a kid, especially when they are a blabber mouth who doesn't know how to keep secrets from mom.
My mother seemed so heartbroken. She really did. Everyone else seemed to believe it, but I knew better. I thought I was the only one who saw through her charade. That was why I was surprised when my older sister showed up at our house a few weeks later asking for me specifically.
Kate was 21 and married, and as such, my mother had lost interest in her. I had never really known Kate. She was from my mother's previous marriage who had died of cancer or something. I wasn't really sure. My mother never talked about it.
"Sara, we need to talk. Want to go out for pizza?"
It was an odd request, as I had never really hung out with her before, but what 12-year-old will turn down pizza?
She started talking before we even pulled out of the driveway.
"I know you know what Mom is up to."
I was shocked. "I...don't know what you mean," I lied.
"Yes you do. Now listen closely. I can get you out of there. I forged these." She handed me some legal guardian forms. My mouth dropped open.
"You mean you can adopt me?" I practically shouted it, I was so shocked and excited. "No more getting grounded and school pressure and pills getting 'accidentally' left in my room?"
My sister nodded. "Yes."
We hung out at the pizza place for a while so it was late when we left. I quickly fell asleep in the car. It was early morning when my sister woke me.
Something was wrong. Why was it morning? She only lived a few hours away. But I was too groggy to react. Through my fogged mind I noticed we were way out in the county. Why was that? My sister helped me out of the car and lead me into the woods.
"Where-"
"Shh. Your mom is trying to find us. She found out I forged her signature on your adoption papers. We are going to hide out here for a while."
"Oh. Okay." I was still feeling too sleepy to question it.
We came to a small clearing with a large hole dug in the center.
"I'm sorry, Sara."
"Sorry for what?"
"I'm sick. Dying, actually, but with your mom dead and framed for your murder, her remaining years and yours will be give to me as the oldest remaining relative. It is the only thing that can keep me alive. So, I'm sorry."
"What..." Before my sluggish brain could process the meaning behind her words, I heard a bang and felt a sharp pain in my head. I felt myself falling, and my last thought was that the pizza must have been drugged. | "Your worthless" mom said
It didn't affect me because I knew what she was trying to do. I refused to give in to them. A lot of my school classmates had killed themselves, but I refused to give into this backwards world. My mom and dad would emotionally and physically abuse me, and they still expected me to give the remainder of my years to them. No way. I had decided that I would put up with their shit until I was 18 and then move. Most parents wouldn't go about it in the sly way other parents would, my dad left his gun out in the open hoping that one day I would pick it up, put it to my head, and blow my brains out. I wouldn't. My dad came in the door.
"Hi son" he said
"Hi dad" I said
"How was school?" He asked
"Fine" I said. I know he wanted me to talk about all the bad things that happend. He would nit pick everything just to make me feel bad, so I wouldn't give him any ammo. "How did you do on the math test?" He asked
"I failed, because you won't help me study"
You'll never become something in life if you keep getting grades like that" he said in a mocking tone.
"Okay" I said. And thats when the anger consumed me. I picked up my fathers glock off the table, but instead of pointing it at myself I pointed it right at my fathers head and pulled the trigger. BANG! His body hit the floor. My mom screamed. I then turned the gun to her. I pulled the tigger. BANG!. I had murderd my parents. I had zero remorse. They had turned me into a cold blooded killer.
| |
[WP] People can willingly give the remainder of their years of life to others. As a result parents give birth to kids and intentionally try to make them depressed and suicidal. You're 12 and you know what they're up to. | I slipped into the house as quietly as I could. My mom was home and I didn't want her to hear me come in. I knew if she did, she would ask about my report card.
"Sara? Is that you?"
*Crap. She heard me.*
"Sara, dear, come down and bring your report card. Don't try to hide now. I'm sure you did better this semester."
*Sure you do.* I thought sarcastically.
She knew I was no good at school.
Still, she demanded straight A's. It was "for my own good". She didn't want me to "end up homeless in a ditch". Or so she said. I knew what she was up to.
She wanted my life.
You see, when a person dies before the age of 85, they can leave their unused years of life to others. However, since I am a minor, if I die, everything goes to my parents, well, in this case my mom. That includes the remaining 73 years I could have lived. She was hoping I would cave under the pressure and off myself. My dad had. He had died in a suspicious camping accident and left everything to my mom, shortly after she found out she couldn't have any more children. That was when I had begun to catch on.
"Sara, dear," my mother's voice had acquired a sharper tone, "now!"
I sighed and headed down the steps to the living room.
My little brother was already downstairs. He looked like he was struggling not to cry. My mother was shaking her head as she looked over his report card. She saw me enter the room and held out her hand.
"Give it here, sweety."
I reluctantly handed her the manilla envelope.
She opened it and looked at my grades. Her face darkened and she began to shake her head again.
"I'm *so* disappointed in you both. Peter, you got a B in Math, and Sara, you got an A- in Art? Keep this up and you will never amount to anything..." Then she said something we all dreaded, "There will be serious consequences for this."
My heart sank. She was going to ground us. That meant no dessert, no social life, and even worse, she was going to change the WiFi password for the next two months. It was pure torture, even as a practically grown-up 12-year-old.
*SLAM*
I started as Peter ran upstairs and slammed the door to his room.
"Oh dear." Mother murmured. "I hope he isn't thinking of doing anything foolish."
I tensed. This was bad. But I knew from experience there was nothing I could do. My mother could make my life much, much worse if I tried to intervene.
I knew what we would find in his room when Peter didn't show up for dinner. He had somehow managed to hang himself from the ceiling fan. I shook my head. I had tried to warn him, I really did. But there is only so much you can explain to a kid, especially when they are a blabber mouth who doesn't know how to keep secrets from mom.
My mother seemed so heartbroken. She really did. Everyone else seemed to believe it, but I knew better. I thought I was the only one who saw through her charade. That was why I was surprised when my older sister showed up at our house a few weeks later asking for me specifically.
Kate was 21 and married, and as such, my mother had lost interest in her. I had never really known Kate. She was from my mother's previous marriage who had died of cancer or something. I wasn't really sure. My mother never talked about it.
"Sara, we need to talk. Want to go out for pizza?"
It was an odd request, as I had never really hung out with her before, but what 12-year-old will turn down pizza?
She started talking before we even pulled out of the driveway.
"I know you know what Mom is up to."
I was shocked. "I...don't know what you mean," I lied.
"Yes you do. Now listen closely. I can get you out of there. I forged these." She handed me some legal guardian forms. My mouth dropped open.
"You mean you can adopt me?" I practically shouted it, I was so shocked and excited. "No more getting grounded and school pressure and pills getting 'accidentally' left in my room?"
My sister nodded. "Yes."
We hung out at the pizza place for a while so it was late when we left. I quickly fell asleep in the car. It was early morning when my sister woke me.
Something was wrong. Why was it morning? She only lived a few hours away. But I was too groggy to react. Through my fogged mind I noticed we were way out in the county. Why was that? My sister helped me out of the car and lead me into the woods.
"Where-"
"Shh. Your mom is trying to find us. She found out I forged her signature on your adoption papers. We are going to hide out here for a while."
"Oh. Okay." I was still feeling too sleepy to question it.
We came to a small clearing with a large hole dug in the center.
"I'm sorry, Sara."
"Sorry for what?"
"I'm sick. Dying, actually, but with your mom dead and framed for your murder, her remaining years and yours will be give to me as the oldest remaining relative. It is the only thing that can keep me alive. So, I'm sorry."
"What..." Before my sluggish brain could process the meaning behind her words, I heard a bang and felt a sharp pain in my head. I felt myself falling, and my last thought was that the pizza must have been drugged. | I knew my parents were up to something, but I never knew what. Ever since I can remember, I've been depressed. I have been constantly yelled at for anything I've done incorrectly, and I've even been yelled at for doing things too well. All the time I used to have a dog, well two of them actually. My parents ran each of them over within a span of a week. I bawled my eyes out when the first one died, and the second one didn't help either. I never figured they were doing this on purpose, until recently.
I overheard them discussing something while I should have been asleep. They said something along the lines of why I haven't killed myself. I thought all those things they did to make me depressed were by accident, but now I knew.
The next day I went to school with a different mindset: don't kill yourself, no matter what. I finished up school, and came home to see that my goldfish died. I could see something at the bottom of the tank that looked out of place, like a pill of some sort, so knowing it was my parent's doing was not hard to figure out. I told them my goldfish died, and they shrugged it off and told me to flush it down the toilet. After feeling glum for a while, I decided to do my homework, eat, and head to bed. I laid in bed for a few hours thinking about what I could do to stop my parents from doing this, and it hit me. If I could trick them into thinking I killed myself, they might believe they've added many years to their lives, and I'll never have to be depressed again.
The next day I contacted my only friend I knew that wasn't extremely depressed, because he actually had loving parents. I told him about my situation, and how my parents just wanted me dead so they could live longer. I asked him if his parents were willing to take in another kid, and he assured me it'd be fine. My parents didn't know this kid, so they wouldn't be called and told that I'm with the new family.
The next day I wrote a suicide note for my parents, it read:
>"Dear Mom & Dad,
I am leaving you not because I don't love you, but because I have had enough of this world. Nothing works for me and I have decided to end my suffering. I am going to jump from a bridge far away, into a river and hopefully die. I am granting you the rest of my life split between each of you, enjoy it while you have it. Don't bother looking for my body, it won't be worth it, because I'm not worth it."
I packed up all of the necessities I needed like schoolbooks and other things, but left the personal belongings that would be noticed if missing behind, to not raise suspicion. I walked for a few miles, until I got to where I told my friend to pick me up. He lives across town, so it's not likely I'll run into my parents, at least for quite a while, and when I do, they probably won't believe it's me, due to me being 'dead'.
Hopefully I'll never be as depressed as that again, and my parents will never have another child. Right now as I write this I'm contemplating sending them a letter full of glitter, that just reads:
>"Fuck you."
I'll send more letters that state what I did over the next few decades if I feel like it's necessary, but for now, they will die younger than they expect, and that's all the punishment they need.
**This is my second story written on WP, feedback would be greatly appreciated!** | |
[WP] The new class of paladins does not, in fact, contain a single paladin...just a lot of other classes doing their best to fake it. | "Amand, Thomas?"
"Cleric."
"Another one?" I looked up from the ledger at the paladin lounging in the chair opposite. Anneth was the least paladin-like paladin I'd ever seen, but there was no denying she was one of the best trainers in the entire Empire.
Most Paladins, reporting to the headmaster of the Academy would be sitting properly in the chair, not sprawled over it like it was a padded lounger. Most paladins would also be decked out in full regalia as befitting a formal report, not wearing a loose shirt and trousers. And twirling a throwing knife.
"So that makes four clerics, two warriors, a thief and a sorcerer. Are any of the graduating class actually Paladins?"
"Gaston shows some promise. Good heart, stalwart friend, about as straight an arrow as you can get."
"And?"
*Sigh* "And nothing. Nada. Zip. No aura, no spells. Long hours in the chapel, but no sign from the Gals Upstairs"
I tried not to wince as Anneth referred to the Five in such a flippant manner. She was a devotee of The Watcher, who was *supposed* to guard the minds of the people from the fear and insanity of the Dark Thief, but her chosen Paladins always tended to have the strangest...quirks.
"Any luck yourself?"
"Nothing concrete." That was disappointing. The Five could be extremely vocal during times of strife, but otherwise you just...never heard from them. It'd been sixteen years since the last raiders had been driven out of Callums Gap, and since then....nothing. The cursed thing was that for the gods *that wasn't unusual*. So now we had a complete lack of new Paladins, complete silence from the Heavens, and no way of knowing what that meant.
I flipped open the report sheets. No unusual activity from the villages. No missing patrols. No disturbances. Even the chapels weren't reporting anything.....hold on.
"Hold on....the Chapel down by Sunwall is requesting more Amethyst candles."
Anneth perked up at that, one eyebrow raised. Amethyst Candles were only ever used as symbols for the Gods. One of their 'miraculous' features was that so long as the flame, representing the Five, burned, then the candle never melted. Should that flame stop though....*poof*. So a Chapel requesting more should only happen if the flames died...and those flames only died when Dark works were afoot.
"Right. I'll take Gaston, Thomas, and Serefina. We'll check it out. Run the rest through the Fast of the Forty Nights again, I'd say. If that doesn't spontaneously cause at least one of them to acquire *Create Water*, nothing will."
----
The next morning, four Imperial Chargers thundered out of the main gates, their riders bedecked in full ceremonial regalia. Burnished breastplates and jeweled scabbards glinted magnificently in the early sun as the riders crested the outer fortifications of the Academy, and then descended into the town proper.
"*Make Way! Make Way for the Paladins of the Empire!*"
The crier had time to get one fast call out before the horses sped down the broad Access Avenue, causing merchants to leap aside in trepidation. A full Expedition should *never* be impeded. Wonder with a touch of anxiety followed their mad dash, until the horses and riders were out the gate and away down the hill. In the sudden silence that was left in their wake, worried whispers started up, speculation and information alike blossoming.
And in the crowd, the guards listened carefully. Listened in order to report to the Academy.
------
Gaston swung off his charger and sincerely regretted it. Pain from a day in the saddle spiked up his spine, and as he tended to his steed, that pain helped focus his mind. Paladin Anneth had been remarkably cryptic, and their high-speed departure from the Academy clearly indicated there was something serious going on. Raiders? Animal Attacks? The Dark?
Anneth had to know about his failures in the Chapel. But why would she then have taken him on an expedition? He supposed that Thomas and Serefina had accomplished the favor of one of the Five, but him? He was naught but a warrior trying his best to act like a Paladin.
"Gaston! Fire, if you please!"
Anneth's command was pleasant, but firm. Much like all her tests and trials at the Academy. He gathered the twigs and sticks and arranged them in the campfire. He knew technically how the next step should go.
Concentrate, focus, and then use the command: *ignis*.
He tried it again, one eye carefully on Anneth. She turned away, looking out over the valley, and quick as a flash, Gaston brought his bracers together, sparking the flint and steel he'd hidden in them. Sparks rained down on the kindling, and a wisp of smoke began wafting up. Paladin Anneth smiled down on his effort and then moved off to the woods.
Gaston returned to his horse for his supplies, uncomfortably convinced that Anneth's smile had been less of satisfaction, and more of *knowing*.
-----
Thomas tried not to let the sweat show. It was their second day of riding, and an unexpected test had come upon them. A merchant caravan lay on the side of the road, and it's two occupants stood awkwardly next to it. One had a clearly broken arm - a trivial repair task given the right magics, but otherwise a long, painful process to fix without.
Paladin Anneth had asked him to "Heal" the injured merchant, but there was one problem. Thomas was yet to gain the ability to do so. Sure, he had his Cleric spells - cleric magic wasn't from the Five, but rather from the ambient faith energy. It also wouldn't work while he was wearing the heavy armor of the Paladins.
He'd prayed for hours in the chapels, but nothing. He couldn't go back to Father Martins at the Hammerfell Chapel and admit failure. He just had to try harder, to try again.
But for now, he had a job. Taking the injured man, he led him around the far side of the wagon, and out of the view of the others. Then he shucked off the heavy breastplate and went to work.
The familiar flows of magic washed over him, and he caught them, shaping with his will, taking power from the faith of the people and teasing it, manipulating it. With a subtle flash of blue, the broken arm snapped back into place and knitted together.
As he replaced his armor, Thomas ignored the tearful thanks of the merchant, his mind already whirring as he tried to figure out how he could get through the next few days with his sole level one spell slot already used.
---
Serefina positively *detested* this muck. It smelt, and it clung to her boots. It wasn't...quite mud, and she completely refused to think about what it actually entailed. Besides, all this...this expedition, this creeping around as *things* prowled the mists wasn't her fault.
But no! Mother had insisted that she attend the Academy. Mother was sure that her *darling 'fina* was a genuine Paladin! Mother, who couldn't so much cast a cantrip! Really, she supposed it was actually that pious bastard David. He couldn't accept that he had Draconic blood in him, so any magics was therefore divine, not mortal!.
*Just accept that one of your ancestors did the dirty with a dragon, dolt!* She'd thrown that one at him, and the next day found herself shipped off to the boring, stolid Academy.
She figured the fastest way through was just to fake it, drop out at the last minute, and then hike out on her own. Head home and Mother and David would make her life hell.
Speaking of which, her life was hell. Just ahead of her, a skeleton ambled aimlessly around the edge of the unmarked grave. Some schmuck attempting to save on burial costs by skimping the blessings, apparently. And now the Dark Arts had empowered his skelton into an unholy semblance of life.
Paladin Anneth - who was undeniably *cool*, really - had instructed her to deal with it. Serefina knew the spell to use - *Turn Undead*, but not being a Paladin, she wasn't actually able to cast it.
*Time for the old 'Sorcerer Special then*.
Channeling her magic, Serefina luxuriated in the sensation as her entire body came alive, heat rushing toward her hand....and a globe of fire spalled into existence above it. Euphoria sang in her very bones as she drew an arm back and *hurled* it at the undead.
At the last second, she remembered to shout "TURN UNDEAD!" as the Fireball hit home, and blasted the charred, shattered fragments of the skeleton over the clearing. Who needed gods again?
---
Anneth dismounted and tried not to be sick. The very air around the chapel was thick with a putrid *something*, and the unconcerned expressions of her charges showed clearly that none of them had the slightest thread of Divine favor in them.
"Alright, here we are. Smells like the Dark, so draw swords and watch each others backs. Get in to the Chapel, investigate, and get out. If it's too much, we send a runner back to the Academy. No unnecessary risks, people. Lets go."
A Dark infestation like this was....worrisome. It was exactly the sort of thing that the Five...that hell *The Watcher* was meant to spot before it got a hold. And she'd felt nothing. And none of the new recruits had gained Paladin status.
It was more than worrisome. It was...bad.
Anneth pried the door open with her sword, and moved in. Low and stealthy. The others followed.
The chapel was dimly lit, with five red candles glowing ahead. Several of the pews had been smashed, and there was *something* in front of the altar....she cursed softly as the form resolved into the slumped body of the chapel priest.
Anneth stood, and strode up the aisle - just in time for a massive *Presence* to thunder soundlessly through the space. Her legs were mired in glue, her jaw frozen shut as absolute unthinkable Evil locked her down.
*AH! More Morsels To Consume! Come, Little Paladins!"
The form of the priest rose, and shambled towards the small group. Anneth recognized its shattered walk almost immediately. *Void Demon!*
---
*Damn Character limit.*
| "So, Vyrn the Throat-Slasher. Kind of a strange name in this line of work."
Vyrn grimaced. "Hey, man, it's a metaphor. I slash the throats of darkness with the blade of honor and then bleed them out on the shield of holy certitude, that kind of deal?"
"Yeah, just saying. Besides, I've no room to speak, do I?"
"No moral high ground at all, Atheist."
Godless the Atheist grinned easily. "Hey, I didn't pick the name my monk ancestors gave me. And it is a noble and honorable thing to respect your forebearers, so I refuse to change it. You may, however, call me Athy, if you like."
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever." Vyrn nodded along idly, his eyes casting about the room with old, sharp instincts. "Hey, listen, just between you and me, does something seem a bit off?"
Athy looked around himself, the tattoos above his eyes denoting him as a honored Enlightened One of the Truly Faithless shifting sympathetically with his furrowed eyebrows. "Yeah, now that you mention it. That woman over there..."
"Gem Planter? According to doctrine, converts from other religions sometimes keep their former powers, and adopt them to serve the true cause. I'd say those animist druid leaves are holy paladin leaves, now. See? They kinda glow white. But seriously, Athy, I mean... look at everyone."
He rolled his eyes, looking around once more. Slowly, he began to see what Vyrn was pointing out.
"That's old Bloodblight Paax, right? When did he give up necromancy...? And over there's Edwardo Collins, didn't he use to be a vampire? Huh, I guess he got better. Wait a second..."
Vyrn nodded eagerly as Athy spotted the person crouched in the corner, hiding as best as possible from the assorted crowds with a scowl on his face.
"Isn't that Argania Silversword?"
"Yeeeep."
"Wow. People used to call him God's Own Avatar. They let him back in the church after that whole going slightly crazy, slaughtering an entire roomful of paladin trainees, and then decorating his house with their strung out corpses issue?"
"Kinda makes you feel uncomfortable to be here in the same room full of paladin trainees with him, doesn't it?"
Athy thought about it for a moment, trying to remember what the Creed said. "Ah! He must have sought reparation and forgiveness, and absolved all of his sins!"
"Sure, I can see that. He's definitely not a Fallen. That black shroud around his body is just... an everpresent reminder from God of how low even the best can fall."
"Yep."
Vyrn continued to shift uncomfortably despite the reassurance.
"Excuse me?"
The piping voice from behind startled both of them, though they tried their best to hide it - after all, paladins don't feel fear.
"Yes, miss?"
"Am I too late?"
"No, they haven't started yet. Still waiting for someone... I think a High Templar... to show up."
"Oh! That's me!"
They took an immediate step back, falling to their respective knees and bowing deeply.
"Terribly sorry for the impropriety, miss -" Vyrn and Athy began simultaneously.
"Oh! My bad!" She nodded her head slightly, acknowledging their token respect and allowing them to stand again. "I'm the Head Templar of this church, Mistress Nympho of the Eager, Relentless, Erotic Flagellations."
Vyrn coughed. Athy raised an eyebrow. "Nympho?" "Erotic flagellation?"
"Oh, sorry. My mother was a Seductress Succubi. You know, from the Book of Erotic Fantasy? Oh, no worries, it's not part of the D&D core, so of course fine paladins-to-be like yourselves have never heard of it. I owe her so much for bringing me up to be such a Godfearing and outstanding religious person, despite not actually having a soul and being herself merely a twisted parody of feminine sexuality crafted from the nightmares of those slumbering in the inner circles of Hell. It is with her ministration methods in mind that I look forward to many long, potentially bloody nights, helping you develop your skills as men... of the cloth."
Both men exchanged another look as the Head Templar skipped away, her curled tail swishing back and forth asynchronously with the tip of her leather holy weapon of choice, to take her place at the podium.
"You know," Athy began.
"I was thinking, hear me out..."
"Why don't we go get a drink and..."
"Celebrate..."
"Reconsider..."
"Our future lives as paladins?" They both finished.
"Sounds good."
As the seemingly young woman behind them began to cough delicately to get attention, the two men snuck out the front door discretely. Vyrn stuck to the shadows, and Athy simply blended seamlessly into the existing crowd, seemingly moving forward with them even as he made his way towards the exit.
Unnoticed to either, a tar-black form stalked along after them, his twitching eyes and gleaming sword (still dulled and tarnished in spots from the blood markings from his innocent victims long ago) the only signs of his movement.
Argania licked his lips thirstily, thinking that a pint sounded pretty good to him, too. That crowd back there freaked him out. | |
[WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has begun exploring space. They find the long dead machines that the humans used for space exploration, like the mars rovers and the Rosetta asteroid lander. | [WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has developed and begun exploring space. They find ancient human relics. | The little chipmunk stared up at the giant arch before him. "How could they have built anything so tall?" he thought. It was as large as his spacecraft up in orbit. But it appeared to be made of wood? How could that be? The trees here were impossibly tall and spread out and wiggly. Back on the asteroids that he called home, they grew to centrifugal points, and they were much smaller. Normal sized. The Great Nut Tree on asteroid 7 was a tenth as large as these here, but it would be beyond thought to consider finding a way to cut it down. Yet here was this arch. Truly, the creators must have been Giants as large as the legends said. Larger.
The little chipmunk scurried through the door frame. And across the concrete slab that once was a house. He did not see the creeping shadow. The flying claws. The mighty cat's terrible teeth. A monster so huge and terrible, that nothing in his lifetime prepared him. There was nothing to ready him in the culture of his people stretching back 1,000 generations, genetically engineered and seeded across dozens of asteroids. He had been raised to be a chipmunk of science, and adventure, and hope. Asteroid 4, his home had some wily squirrels, but they were not monsters (though he thought they were kind of ugly). Nothing in his life prepared him for this moment of death. The first creature to return from the creators seeding of the solar system with life. The first genetically engineered animal, bred for intellect, to finally discover the human's world. To marvel at all they had built. The first to transcend their animal nature to the realms of self awareness, to society, culture, discovery and finally space flight! And now a feral cat, descended from the creator's pets was about to eat him! Silent blades arcing through shadow landed where the chipmunk stood. But ancient Instincts millions of generations in the making had him leap to the side, saved him as he ran and dodged and got back to his ship. Screaming "take off! Engage the lift thrusters!"
It would be hundreds more generations before the brave space chipmunks would finally conquer earth and make it there home. And discover their true origins! The bravest of all mammals in space! | The boy open his eyes, only to find the ruins of Manhattan surrounding him. How long has it been? A decade? A century?
Then, he notices something amiss. A grayish figure in the corner of his eyes. Noises can be heard. Singing? No, speech. Try as he might the boy does not understand. The figure moves closer. And closer.
Soon it was right in front of him. A glint of silver can be seen. Without warning, the glint rushes to the boy's hand severing it as black ooze spilling out!
The figure, looking satisfied left promptly bringing the boy's hand with him. That hand, that is still clasping a single strand of hair. The boy just stood there, slowly and surely... |
[WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has begun exploring space. They find the long dead machines that the humans used for space exploration, like the mars rovers and the Rosetta asteroid lander. | [WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has developed and begun exploring space. They find ancient human relics. | When the Union of Cartographers decides to explore a solar system, scientific papers must be submitted for consideration. Those that make the best argument, or at least make their suggestion sound more interesting than the others, are rewarded. An expedition license is granted and the system they explore is named in their honor.
The whole reason Kla’nara wanted to come to this system was because of a curious phenomenon that she observed when she was a youngling working her tour in the Astronomy Syndicate. One night during her shift, she discovered a very faint but steady signal. The signal itself was incompressible but it was solid none the less. She immediately contacted her sister stations located planets away and successfully triangulated the source. She submitted her paper to the union and was rewarded with a small flotilla of vessels. She couldn’t believe her good luck even when she donned the golden sextant an was named commanding science officer.
The expedition scout ship has come to the 4th planet from its system’s star. The drones sent here upon entry to system have found something inexplicable and has taken it to the orbiting ship. Kla’nara was busy in the ship’s laboratory examining what the expedition drones found.
***
Gazing over the bizarre wreck the drone found, Kla’nara finally came to an observation. “There is no way that this device is native to this planet.” She thought to herself “For one analysis shows that none of the materials couldn’t possibly be from here. Secondly, nature is not known to form what looks like a primitive roller droids whole cloth from red sand. It must have been an alien creation.” Given the look of the thing it must be from within this solar system. The thing has a primitive utilitarian design which reminds her of her people’s first foray into the stars.
The roller droid was quite a remarkable creation. For sure it cannot match the elegance of ours but if the data is to be trusted. It is impossibly old, at least 10,000 years old. When our kind was only an infant this drone was sent here to explore. Using its primitive tools, who knows what these aliens learned from this expedition. “They were curious” Kla’nara smiled to herself. “I’ve always argued that the defining characteristic of intelligent life is curiosity. Why else would these aliens send this thing here?” She smiled when she knew she could tell her subordinate Shoomb that her earlier hypothesis was right. Something she has been doing a lot of lately. She ran out the door and down to his workshop.
Shoomb was perched at his workstation looking stressed but this time more than usual. “What is bothering you?” Kla’nara asked as she gave a quick embrace. “Well when you told me about your hypothesis with the roller drone I tried to contact the rest of the done groups in the solar system. All checked in but when I connected to drone hive three. Something strange happened.” Shroomb furrowed his brow looking serious. “It immediately started to infiltrate our other systems. I was able to disconnect it but I have no idea why it malfunctioned. It just started downloading every log, encyclopedia, and expedition record we had. I mean I have heard about drone A.I.’s going rogue. When they do they are erratic like a child breaking everything in sight but this one specifically targets these directories. It’s like someone else had command of them.”
Shoomb was sweating but cold to the touch. “Were you able to get a report from the drone hive?” Kla’nara asked “Only this” Shoomb flipped a switch and a cascade of dissonance filled the room. Kla’nara to covered her ears but somehow she still heard it. Shoomb flipped the switch again the noise stopped.
“What is that?” Kla’nara pleaded
“I have no idea. It seems to be some kind of code but if it’s alien we will have no idea what its supposed to be decoded into. However this was transmitted with it.
.... . .-. . / -... . / -.. .-. .- --. --- -. ...
To be continued | The boy open his eyes, only to find the ruins of Manhattan surrounding him. How long has it been? A decade? A century?
Then, he notices something amiss. A grayish figure in the corner of his eyes. Noises can be heard. Singing? No, speech. Try as he might the boy does not understand. The figure moves closer. And closer.
Soon it was right in front of him. A glint of silver can be seen. Without warning, the glint rushes to the boy's hand severing it as black ooze spilling out!
The figure, looking satisfied left promptly bringing the boy's hand with him. That hand, that is still clasping a single strand of hair. The boy just stood there, slowly and surely... |
[WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has begun exploring space. They find the long dead machines that the humans used for space exploration, like the mars rovers and the Rosetta asteroid lander. | [WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has developed and begun exploring space. They find ancient human relics. | Koll: Isn't it strange how the host species was advanced enough to travel thousands of miles away, yet fell so easily fall to our pathogen?
His skin was red, like the surface of the planet and he needed no gear. These people were similar to chameleons. They adapted to their surrounding perfectly.
His friend examines the power system of the rover.
Mijoris: I don't find it strange at all. Our people have always seeded planets with advanced civilizations and every last one of them fell. Our collective memory tells us of this legacy but I find it strange that we no longer have contact with our root.
Mijoris knew much more then Koll because he was a first generation seed. Before the time of the Great Separation, those that successfully seeded humans lived among them for a time before the pathogen spread to the point where most humans became Adjans.
Because the Adjan conversion was dangerous and aggressive, it destroyed the relic knowledge accumulated in the mind. What this meant was that the Adjans were a new race of humans but did not gain any of the knowledge of the host. This set them back centuries trying to reverse engineer humanity's work. Koll was a new generation of Adjans, born of converts. He knew only what they taught in the history books and nothing more.
Koll: What do you think this machine's mission was on this planet?
Mijoris: Let's find out.
Mijoris rips out the memory from the rover and brings it back to the hub. Inside, their skin turns smooth light blue. Mijoris cleans the memory chip and places it in the computer to see its final moments.
CLASSIFIED...
Koll: What does that mean?
Mijoris: hmm... The humans used to hide information from other humans. It was a strange practice. They could not trust each other.
Koll: Savages.
Mijoris: But it is fine. We reverse engineered encryption technology years ago. I'll run it now.
SYSTEM AUTHORIZATION COMPLETE...
RECORDINGS OF CLASSIFIED FINDINGS...
the rover finds a cave under what appears to be some kind of face structure. As it descends it comes across stone wall blocking the path. The wall turns into a screen with text that look ancient counting down.
The rover is then commanded to leave the cave, find a remote location, and decommission.
Koll: That did not look like human technology.
Mijoris: It wasn't. Let's run a test to see if there is any record languages similar to this in human records.
They wait for several minutes before the results come in.
ANCIENT SUMERIAN CUNEIFORM... Matching now...20% complete...
Mijoris: Ancient language... That makes no sense...
Koll: This is kind of cool old man. I thought this was going to be another boring scouting mission for resources.
50%...
Mijoris: Are you not curious at to what this could mean? During the first generation, a thing called "science fiction" was very popular and they had a bunch of fantastical tales of their ancient past. I thought of it as nothing more then their individual nature showing its immaturity but this may shed light on it.
100%...
A series of numbers are counting down on the wall. It doesn't have much left to go and the rover was decommissioned centuries ago...
Mijoris: I am contacting command. They need to know something is up here that is well beyond our knowledge.
Mijoris: Command, this is commissioner Mijoris of the first. We have come across an ancient relic on Mars. We must investigate this. It has a countdown mechanism on it.
Command: Return back to Earth immediately.
Koll: But sir!
Command: That is an order.
Koll: ...
The screen turns off. They stand in the hub motionless...
Mijoris: I know this is a stupid idea but I must see for myself what this thing is. bring a translator with you Koll. We are going to the sight of the face...
*END CHAPTER 1*
| The boy open his eyes, only to find the ruins of Manhattan surrounding him. How long has it been? A decade? A century?
Then, he notices something amiss. A grayish figure in the corner of his eyes. Noises can be heard. Singing? No, speech. Try as he might the boy does not understand. The figure moves closer. And closer.
Soon it was right in front of him. A glint of silver can be seen. Without warning, the glint rushes to the boy's hand severing it as black ooze spilling out!
The figure, looking satisfied left promptly bringing the boy's hand with him. That hand, that is still clasping a single strand of hair. The boy just stood there, slowly and surely... |
[WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has begun exploring space. They find the long dead machines that the humans used for space exploration, like the mars rovers and the Rosetta asteroid lander. | [WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has developed and begun exploring space. They find ancient human relics. | I took a deep breath, my body expanding and contracting as carbon dioxide entered my body through the millions of pores in my thick, green-brown exoskeleton. This planet's atmosphere was ripe with it, even more so than Ut'uun, though the quality of air was notably worse- as one would expect from a decaying planet.
Just as I'd been briefed, it's a dead planet with not a sign of organic life larger than a microbe scurrying about. My job now is to scout and check for potential resources, and, being a historian of sorts, see if I find anything about this planet's history. I'd brought an apprentice with me; I could easily scout this planet alone but I had a feeling there'd be something for Naz'aar to learn here.
I pulled the bioscanner out one more time, just to be cautious. I detected slightly larger life forms now, but they were merely stage 0- the most basic stage in evolution, unlikely to go anywhere.
"Naz'aar, it's safe to step out. Let us depart now," I relayed to him.
"Yes, master." He scurried out from the ship, his 8 legs swirling and rippling with motion. "Master, what is that?"
There were strange structures, clearly unnatural, deforming the surface. They were rectangular and formed from some basic iteration of crude metal that clearly was not very strong- several buildings had collapsed in on themselves. All were swallowed by oxidization and dirt, a sea of brown and orange.
"It seems some primitive life form, possibly stage 3, attempted to become a more advanced civilization than their minds could handle, if I had to guess. This all looks so crude and ineffective."
After a light trek about 30 miles out, we saw strange little shapes littering the open spaces inbetween structures. They looked to be the same kind of crude materials the structures contained, but were far smaller, like a personal craft.
"These could have been used for transportation- it would indicate their size as being 4-8 feet, and likely either quad or, worst case, bipedal."
Another 30 miles out and there was nothing- a sea of dead minerals and soil.
"It seems they were just a small colony or tribe," Naz'aar noted.
I looked closer and scanned the elevation levels of the desert. There was more than first led on.
"No, it would seem this is an impact crater. I'd suggest meteors, but, taking away likely change in levels over thousands of years, it is far too even. It seems they may have been stage 4, and failed the leap to stage 5."
"So, then something destroyed them?"
"You must learn my theory of Advancement if you are to be my apprentice. I believe every species must face a great demon before transitioning to stage 5."
"And that is?"
"Themselves."
I pulled out the bioscanner one last time, and detected something faint. It seemed to be a stage 2.
"This is interesting, Naz'aar- there are no useful resources left on this dead planet, but life could be attempting to evolve once more despite this."
70 miles further, there was another conglomerate of structres, this tike much smaller. It was surrounded by a sea of emptiness and death, almost as if it had been built there once everything was destroyed.
"It seems the stage 2 is within one of these two structures. Take care not to be rough and destroy anything, Naz'aar."
We began to delicately lift a layer off of each structure, examining them from top down. Thankfully, these building were only 80 feet across and made of a light mixture of mineral and rock. On the fourth layer down of the structure I was inspecting, there was a small capsule, no bigger than my female's last egg, and it was glowing with light.
"I've found the stage 2, Naz'aar. You may stop searching."
He crawled over to me and took a look at the lifeform. "What is that strange thing, master? Some form of living mineral?"
I took a longer look at it and pondered. Upon heightening my vision to examine it up close, I saw a strange, bipedal being, pink and soft, through a clear covering.
"No, Naz'aar, I think this might be something different." | The boy open his eyes, only to find the ruins of Manhattan surrounding him. How long has it been? A decade? A century?
Then, he notices something amiss. A grayish figure in the corner of his eyes. Noises can be heard. Singing? No, speech. Try as he might the boy does not understand. The figure moves closer. And closer.
Soon it was right in front of him. A glint of silver can be seen. Without warning, the glint rushes to the boy's hand severing it as black ooze spilling out!
The figure, looking satisfied left promptly bringing the boy's hand with him. That hand, that is still clasping a single strand of hair. The boy just stood there, slowly and surely... |
[WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has begun exploring space. They find the long dead machines that the humans used for space exploration, like the mars rovers and the Rosetta asteroid lander. | [WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has developed and begun exploring space. They find ancient human relics. | When the Union of Cartographers decides to explore a solar system, scientific papers must be submitted for consideration. Those that make the best argument, or at least make their suggestion sound more interesting than the others, are rewarded. An expedition license is granted and the system they explore is named in their honor.
The whole reason Kla’nara wanted to come to this system was because of a curious phenomenon that she observed when she was a youngling working her tour in the Astronomy Syndicate. One night during her shift, she discovered a very faint but steady signal. The signal itself was incompressible but it was solid none the less. She immediately contacted her sister stations located planets away and successfully triangulated the source. She submitted her paper to the union and was rewarded with a small flotilla of vessels. She couldn’t believe her good luck even when she donned the golden sextant an was named commanding science officer.
The expedition scout ship has come to the 4th planet from its system’s star. The drones sent here upon entry to system have found something inexplicable and has taken it to the orbiting ship. Kla’nara was busy in the ship’s laboratory examining what the expedition drones found.
***
Gazing over the bizarre wreck the drone found, Kla’nara finally came to an observation. “There is no way that this device is native to this planet.” She thought to herself “For one analysis shows that none of the materials couldn’t possibly be from here. Secondly, nature is not known to form what looks like a primitive roller droids whole cloth from red sand. It must have been an alien creation.” Given the look of the thing it must be from within this solar system. The thing has a primitive utilitarian design which reminds her of her people’s first foray into the stars.
The roller droid was quite a remarkable creation. For sure it cannot match the elegance of ours but if the data is to be trusted. It is impossibly old, at least 10,000 years old. When our kind was only an infant this drone was sent here to explore. Using its primitive tools, who knows what these aliens learned from this expedition. “They were curious” Kla’nara smiled to herself. “I’ve always argued that the defining characteristic of intelligent life is curiosity. Why else would these aliens send this thing here?” She smiled when she knew she could tell her subordinate Shoomb that her earlier hypothesis was right. Something she has been doing a lot of lately. She ran out the door and down to his workshop.
Shoomb was perched at his workstation looking stressed but this time more than usual. “What is bothering you?” Kla’nara asked as she gave a quick embrace. “Well when you told me about your hypothesis with the roller drone I tried to contact the rest of the done groups in the solar system. All checked in but when I connected to drone hive three. Something strange happened.” Shroomb furrowed his brow looking serious. “It immediately started to infiltrate our other systems. I was able to disconnect it but I have no idea why it malfunctioned. It just started downloading every log, encyclopedia, and expedition record we had. I mean I have heard about drone A.I.’s going rogue. When they do they are erratic like a child breaking everything in sight but this one specifically targets these directories. It’s like someone else had command of them.”
Shoomb was sweating but cold to the touch. “Were you able to get a report from the drone hive?” Kla’nara asked “Only this” Shoomb flipped a switch and a cascade of dissonance filled the room. Kla’nara to covered her ears but somehow she still heard it. Shoomb flipped the switch again the noise stopped.
“What is that?” Kla’nara pleaded
“I have no idea. It seems to be some kind of code but if it’s alien we will have no idea what its supposed to be decoded into. However this was transmitted with it.
.... . .-. . / -... . / -.. .-. .- --. --- -. ...
To be continued | The little chipmunk stared up at the giant arch before him. "How could they have built anything so tall?" he thought. It was as large as his spacecraft up in orbit. But it appeared to be made of wood? How could that be? The trees here were impossibly tall and spread out and wiggly. Back on the asteroids that he called home, they grew to centrifugal points, and they were much smaller. Normal sized. The Great Nut Tree on asteroid 7 was a tenth as large as these here, but it would be beyond thought to consider finding a way to cut it down. Yet here was this arch. Truly, the creators must have been Giants as large as the legends said. Larger.
The little chipmunk scurried through the door frame. And across the concrete slab that once was a house. He did not see the creeping shadow. The flying claws. The mighty cat's terrible teeth. A monster so huge and terrible, that nothing in his lifetime prepared him. There was nothing to ready him in the culture of his people stretching back 1,000 generations, genetically engineered and seeded across dozens of asteroids. He had been raised to be a chipmunk of science, and adventure, and hope. Asteroid 4, his home had some wily squirrels, but they were not monsters (though he thought they were kind of ugly). Nothing in his life prepared him for this moment of death. The first creature to return from the creators seeding of the solar system with life. The first genetically engineered animal, bred for intellect, to finally discover the human's world. To marvel at all they had built. The first to transcend their animal nature to the realms of self awareness, to society, culture, discovery and finally space flight! And now a feral cat, descended from the creator's pets was about to eat him! Silent blades arcing through shadow landed where the chipmunk stood. But ancient Instincts millions of generations in the making had him leap to the side, saved him as he ran and dodged and got back to his ship. Screaming "take off! Engage the lift thrusters!"
It would be hundreds more generations before the brave space chipmunks would finally conquer earth and make it there home. And discover their true origins! The bravest of all mammals in space! |
[WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has begun exploring space. They find the long dead machines that the humans used for space exploration, like the mars rovers and the Rosetta asteroid lander. | [WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has developed and begun exploring space. They find ancient human relics. | Koll: Isn't it strange how the host species was advanced enough to travel thousands of miles away, yet fell so easily fall to our pathogen?
His skin was red, like the surface of the planet and he needed no gear. These people were similar to chameleons. They adapted to their surrounding perfectly.
His friend examines the power system of the rover.
Mijoris: I don't find it strange at all. Our people have always seeded planets with advanced civilizations and every last one of them fell. Our collective memory tells us of this legacy but I find it strange that we no longer have contact with our root.
Mijoris knew much more then Koll because he was a first generation seed. Before the time of the Great Separation, those that successfully seeded humans lived among them for a time before the pathogen spread to the point where most humans became Adjans.
Because the Adjan conversion was dangerous and aggressive, it destroyed the relic knowledge accumulated in the mind. What this meant was that the Adjans were a new race of humans but did not gain any of the knowledge of the host. This set them back centuries trying to reverse engineer humanity's work. Koll was a new generation of Adjans, born of converts. He knew only what they taught in the history books and nothing more.
Koll: What do you think this machine's mission was on this planet?
Mijoris: Let's find out.
Mijoris rips out the memory from the rover and brings it back to the hub. Inside, their skin turns smooth light blue. Mijoris cleans the memory chip and places it in the computer to see its final moments.
CLASSIFIED...
Koll: What does that mean?
Mijoris: hmm... The humans used to hide information from other humans. It was a strange practice. They could not trust each other.
Koll: Savages.
Mijoris: But it is fine. We reverse engineered encryption technology years ago. I'll run it now.
SYSTEM AUTHORIZATION COMPLETE...
RECORDINGS OF CLASSIFIED FINDINGS...
the rover finds a cave under what appears to be some kind of face structure. As it descends it comes across stone wall blocking the path. The wall turns into a screen with text that look ancient counting down.
The rover is then commanded to leave the cave, find a remote location, and decommission.
Koll: That did not look like human technology.
Mijoris: It wasn't. Let's run a test to see if there is any record languages similar to this in human records.
They wait for several minutes before the results come in.
ANCIENT SUMERIAN CUNEIFORM... Matching now...20% complete...
Mijoris: Ancient language... That makes no sense...
Koll: This is kind of cool old man. I thought this was going to be another boring scouting mission for resources.
50%...
Mijoris: Are you not curious at to what this could mean? During the first generation, a thing called "science fiction" was very popular and they had a bunch of fantastical tales of their ancient past. I thought of it as nothing more then their individual nature showing its immaturity but this may shed light on it.
100%...
A series of numbers are counting down on the wall. It doesn't have much left to go and the rover was decommissioned centuries ago...
Mijoris: I am contacting command. They need to know something is up here that is well beyond our knowledge.
Mijoris: Command, this is commissioner Mijoris of the first. We have come across an ancient relic on Mars. We must investigate this. It has a countdown mechanism on it.
Command: Return back to Earth immediately.
Koll: But sir!
Command: That is an order.
Koll: ...
The screen turns off. They stand in the hub motionless...
Mijoris: I know this is a stupid idea but I must see for myself what this thing is. bring a translator with you Koll. We are going to the sight of the face...
*END CHAPTER 1*
| The little chipmunk stared up at the giant arch before him. "How could they have built anything so tall?" he thought. It was as large as his spacecraft up in orbit. But it appeared to be made of wood? How could that be? The trees here were impossibly tall and spread out and wiggly. Back on the asteroids that he called home, they grew to centrifugal points, and they were much smaller. Normal sized. The Great Nut Tree on asteroid 7 was a tenth as large as these here, but it would be beyond thought to consider finding a way to cut it down. Yet here was this arch. Truly, the creators must have been Giants as large as the legends said. Larger.
The little chipmunk scurried through the door frame. And across the concrete slab that once was a house. He did not see the creeping shadow. The flying claws. The mighty cat's terrible teeth. A monster so huge and terrible, that nothing in his lifetime prepared him. There was nothing to ready him in the culture of his people stretching back 1,000 generations, genetically engineered and seeded across dozens of asteroids. He had been raised to be a chipmunk of science, and adventure, and hope. Asteroid 4, his home had some wily squirrels, but they were not monsters (though he thought they were kind of ugly). Nothing in his life prepared him for this moment of death. The first creature to return from the creators seeding of the solar system with life. The first genetically engineered animal, bred for intellect, to finally discover the human's world. To marvel at all they had built. The first to transcend their animal nature to the realms of self awareness, to society, culture, discovery and finally space flight! And now a feral cat, descended from the creator's pets was about to eat him! Silent blades arcing through shadow landed where the chipmunk stood. But ancient Instincts millions of generations in the making had him leap to the side, saved him as he ran and dodged and got back to his ship. Screaming "take off! Engage the lift thrusters!"
It would be hundreds more generations before the brave space chipmunks would finally conquer earth and make it there home. And discover their true origins! The bravest of all mammals in space! |
[WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has begun exploring space. They find the long dead machines that the humans used for space exploration, like the mars rovers and the Rosetta asteroid lander. | [WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has developed and begun exploring space. They find ancient human relics. | I took a deep breath, my body expanding and contracting as carbon dioxide entered my body through the millions of pores in my thick, green-brown exoskeleton. This planet's atmosphere was ripe with it, even more so than Ut'uun, though the quality of air was notably worse- as one would expect from a decaying planet.
Just as I'd been briefed, it's a dead planet with not a sign of organic life larger than a microbe scurrying about. My job now is to scout and check for potential resources, and, being a historian of sorts, see if I find anything about this planet's history. I'd brought an apprentice with me; I could easily scout this planet alone but I had a feeling there'd be something for Naz'aar to learn here.
I pulled the bioscanner out one more time, just to be cautious. I detected slightly larger life forms now, but they were merely stage 0- the most basic stage in evolution, unlikely to go anywhere.
"Naz'aar, it's safe to step out. Let us depart now," I relayed to him.
"Yes, master." He scurried out from the ship, his 8 legs swirling and rippling with motion. "Master, what is that?"
There were strange structures, clearly unnatural, deforming the surface. They were rectangular and formed from some basic iteration of crude metal that clearly was not very strong- several buildings had collapsed in on themselves. All were swallowed by oxidization and dirt, a sea of brown and orange.
"It seems some primitive life form, possibly stage 3, attempted to become a more advanced civilization than their minds could handle, if I had to guess. This all looks so crude and ineffective."
After a light trek about 30 miles out, we saw strange little shapes littering the open spaces inbetween structures. They looked to be the same kind of crude materials the structures contained, but were far smaller, like a personal craft.
"These could have been used for transportation- it would indicate their size as being 4-8 feet, and likely either quad or, worst case, bipedal."
Another 30 miles out and there was nothing- a sea of dead minerals and soil.
"It seems they were just a small colony or tribe," Naz'aar noted.
I looked closer and scanned the elevation levels of the desert. There was more than first led on.
"No, it would seem this is an impact crater. I'd suggest meteors, but, taking away likely change in levels over thousands of years, it is far too even. It seems they may have been stage 4, and failed the leap to stage 5."
"So, then something destroyed them?"
"You must learn my theory of Advancement if you are to be my apprentice. I believe every species must face a great demon before transitioning to stage 5."
"And that is?"
"Themselves."
I pulled out the bioscanner one last time, and detected something faint. It seemed to be a stage 2.
"This is interesting, Naz'aar- there are no useful resources left on this dead planet, but life could be attempting to evolve once more despite this."
70 miles further, there was another conglomerate of structres, this tike much smaller. It was surrounded by a sea of emptiness and death, almost as if it had been built there once everything was destroyed.
"It seems the stage 2 is within one of these two structures. Take care not to be rough and destroy anything, Naz'aar."
We began to delicately lift a layer off of each structure, examining them from top down. Thankfully, these building were only 80 feet across and made of a light mixture of mineral and rock. On the fourth layer down of the structure I was inspecting, there was a small capsule, no bigger than my female's last egg, and it was glowing with light.
"I've found the stage 2, Naz'aar. You may stop searching."
He crawled over to me and took a look at the lifeform. "What is that strange thing, master? Some form of living mineral?"
I took a longer look at it and pondered. Upon heightening my vision to examine it up close, I saw a strange, bipedal being, pink and soft, through a clear covering.
"No, Naz'aar, I think this might be something different." | The little chipmunk stared up at the giant arch before him. "How could they have built anything so tall?" he thought. It was as large as his spacecraft up in orbit. But it appeared to be made of wood? How could that be? The trees here were impossibly tall and spread out and wiggly. Back on the asteroids that he called home, they grew to centrifugal points, and they were much smaller. Normal sized. The Great Nut Tree on asteroid 7 was a tenth as large as these here, but it would be beyond thought to consider finding a way to cut it down. Yet here was this arch. Truly, the creators must have been Giants as large as the legends said. Larger.
The little chipmunk scurried through the door frame. And across the concrete slab that once was a house. He did not see the creeping shadow. The flying claws. The mighty cat's terrible teeth. A monster so huge and terrible, that nothing in his lifetime prepared him. There was nothing to ready him in the culture of his people stretching back 1,000 generations, genetically engineered and seeded across dozens of asteroids. He had been raised to be a chipmunk of science, and adventure, and hope. Asteroid 4, his home had some wily squirrels, but they were not monsters (though he thought they were kind of ugly). Nothing in his life prepared him for this moment of death. The first creature to return from the creators seeding of the solar system with life. The first genetically engineered animal, bred for intellect, to finally discover the human's world. To marvel at all they had built. The first to transcend their animal nature to the realms of self awareness, to society, culture, discovery and finally space flight! And now a feral cat, descended from the creator's pets was about to eat him! Silent blades arcing through shadow landed where the chipmunk stood. But ancient Instincts millions of generations in the making had him leap to the side, saved him as he ran and dodged and got back to his ship. Screaming "take off! Engage the lift thrusters!"
It would be hundreds more generations before the brave space chipmunks would finally conquer earth and make it there home. And discover their true origins! The bravest of all mammals in space! |
[WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has begun exploring space. They find the long dead machines that the humans used for space exploration, like the mars rovers and the Rosetta asteroid lander. | [WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has developed and begun exploring space. They find ancient human relics. | Koll: Isn't it strange how the host species was advanced enough to travel thousands of miles away, yet fell so easily fall to our pathogen?
His skin was red, like the surface of the planet and he needed no gear. These people were similar to chameleons. They adapted to their surrounding perfectly.
His friend examines the power system of the rover.
Mijoris: I don't find it strange at all. Our people have always seeded planets with advanced civilizations and every last one of them fell. Our collective memory tells us of this legacy but I find it strange that we no longer have contact with our root.
Mijoris knew much more then Koll because he was a first generation seed. Before the time of the Great Separation, those that successfully seeded humans lived among them for a time before the pathogen spread to the point where most humans became Adjans.
Because the Adjan conversion was dangerous and aggressive, it destroyed the relic knowledge accumulated in the mind. What this meant was that the Adjans were a new race of humans but did not gain any of the knowledge of the host. This set them back centuries trying to reverse engineer humanity's work. Koll was a new generation of Adjans, born of converts. He knew only what they taught in the history books and nothing more.
Koll: What do you think this machine's mission was on this planet?
Mijoris: Let's find out.
Mijoris rips out the memory from the rover and brings it back to the hub. Inside, their skin turns smooth light blue. Mijoris cleans the memory chip and places it in the computer to see its final moments.
CLASSIFIED...
Koll: What does that mean?
Mijoris: hmm... The humans used to hide information from other humans. It was a strange practice. They could not trust each other.
Koll: Savages.
Mijoris: But it is fine. We reverse engineered encryption technology years ago. I'll run it now.
SYSTEM AUTHORIZATION COMPLETE...
RECORDINGS OF CLASSIFIED FINDINGS...
the rover finds a cave under what appears to be some kind of face structure. As it descends it comes across stone wall blocking the path. The wall turns into a screen with text that look ancient counting down.
The rover is then commanded to leave the cave, find a remote location, and decommission.
Koll: That did not look like human technology.
Mijoris: It wasn't. Let's run a test to see if there is any record languages similar to this in human records.
They wait for several minutes before the results come in.
ANCIENT SUMERIAN CUNEIFORM... Matching now...20% complete...
Mijoris: Ancient language... That makes no sense...
Koll: This is kind of cool old man. I thought this was going to be another boring scouting mission for resources.
50%...
Mijoris: Are you not curious at to what this could mean? During the first generation, a thing called "science fiction" was very popular and they had a bunch of fantastical tales of their ancient past. I thought of it as nothing more then their individual nature showing its immaturity but this may shed light on it.
100%...
A series of numbers are counting down on the wall. It doesn't have much left to go and the rover was decommissioned centuries ago...
Mijoris: I am contacting command. They need to know something is up here that is well beyond our knowledge.
Mijoris: Command, this is commissioner Mijoris of the first. We have come across an ancient relic on Mars. We must investigate this. It has a countdown mechanism on it.
Command: Return back to Earth immediately.
Koll: But sir!
Command: That is an order.
Koll: ...
The screen turns off. They stand in the hub motionless...
Mijoris: I know this is a stupid idea but I must see for myself what this thing is. bring a translator with you Koll. We are going to the sight of the face...
*END CHAPTER 1*
| Title: exploration diary entry #47 (translated into Terran, variant #2)
Name: SK Losxy A L33
Date: 17/2/20457 SOLAR TIME
Location: 0.1174 pc from SOL (coordinates 0,0,0,0)
play? y/n
y
beginning transmission...
The first sign that we found of the late, great Terran Empire was its tiny metal satellite. The warper had nearly destroyed the craft, but fortunately we were approaching the Solar System, where Terra lay third from Sol, and we had to come back out of light speed. It wasn't hard to get here - the starways were always open, and all of them led to the now-ruined capital of the galaxy - but the Alcubriere drives kicked up a lot of fuss if we tried to decelerate any faster. If we weren't careful, we could destroy a planet without even knowing it. So carefully..
I was in charge of that, and I slowly unwound the dials. This was a two-entity ship, so there was only me and my co-pilot, who was sleeping, trying to overcome the effects of planet lag. The grey of superluminal space before me changed into the black of the universe. Then a brilliant shower of exotic particles lit up the entire windscreen. Braking radiation, it was called. When a superluminal ship came back down to sub-light speeds, it released all the particles it had vacuumed up on its trip across the universe, like some sort of cosmic sonic boom. The particles disappeared into the soundless night. I switched the ship's engine to idle.
And then I saw what I had irradiated. The tiny probe was but a golden speck in my windscreen - like what the Terrans used to call *fireflies*. I hit a switch, and soon the object was in the ship's magnetic grasp. It only took a few minutes before it was before me and I could examine the probe. And there I had the weirdest surprise of all.
The moment I so much as looked at it, the readings on my radiation counter jumped off the charts.
I looked around, examining the metal casing, before I eventually found the source. It was coming from what seemed to be the ship's power source. I'd learned about these in history class. A radioisotope thermoelectric generator. I saw the plutonium inside the casing, now too weak to supply any more electricity, but still potent enough to trigger readings on radiation counters everywhere. On the power source the Terran words *Voyager 1* was written. And when I saw those words I knew we'd hit the archeological jackpot.
I sat back down. Then I keyed the radio for my fellow entity to come to the bridge.
"Sarl, of sector X16?" I asked.
"Vocalising," the reply came. "Who else could it be?"
"I've found something massive," I said.
"What is so important that you must break my rest, Losxy of sector L33? You know that unless-"
"I've found *Voyager 1*," I said, barely able to hide my excitement under the vocals. "You've got to come up."
There was silence on the other end. I think the appropriate Terran translation for that kind of reaction would be *surprised as fuck*.
Then-
"I'm on my way," Sarl said. And the line went dead.
I walked over, to where the silent probe lay, a monument to a dead planet. I saw the golden disc embedded in its side, and the strange drawings that accompanied it. Three concentric circles and a strange pill-like object in the orbit. A fourteen-pointed star with irregular line lengths. They had meant something, a long time ago, but the meaning was long since lost. It fell to us now to discover the message. And it was precisely then that I knew there was an entire lost world to be found.
Would Sarl be able to decipher the message?
|
[WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has begun exploring space. They find the long dead machines that the humans used for space exploration, like the mars rovers and the Rosetta asteroid lander. | [WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has developed and begun exploring space. They find ancient human relics. | I took a deep breath, my body expanding and contracting as carbon dioxide entered my body through the millions of pores in my thick, green-brown exoskeleton. This planet's atmosphere was ripe with it, even more so than Ut'uun, though the quality of air was notably worse- as one would expect from a decaying planet.
Just as I'd been briefed, it's a dead planet with not a sign of organic life larger than a microbe scurrying about. My job now is to scout and check for potential resources, and, being a historian of sorts, see if I find anything about this planet's history. I'd brought an apprentice with me; I could easily scout this planet alone but I had a feeling there'd be something for Naz'aar to learn here.
I pulled the bioscanner out one more time, just to be cautious. I detected slightly larger life forms now, but they were merely stage 0- the most basic stage in evolution, unlikely to go anywhere.
"Naz'aar, it's safe to step out. Let us depart now," I relayed to him.
"Yes, master." He scurried out from the ship, his 8 legs swirling and rippling with motion. "Master, what is that?"
There were strange structures, clearly unnatural, deforming the surface. They were rectangular and formed from some basic iteration of crude metal that clearly was not very strong- several buildings had collapsed in on themselves. All were swallowed by oxidization and dirt, a sea of brown and orange.
"It seems some primitive life form, possibly stage 3, attempted to become a more advanced civilization than their minds could handle, if I had to guess. This all looks so crude and ineffective."
After a light trek about 30 miles out, we saw strange little shapes littering the open spaces inbetween structures. They looked to be the same kind of crude materials the structures contained, but were far smaller, like a personal craft.
"These could have been used for transportation- it would indicate their size as being 4-8 feet, and likely either quad or, worst case, bipedal."
Another 30 miles out and there was nothing- a sea of dead minerals and soil.
"It seems they were just a small colony or tribe," Naz'aar noted.
I looked closer and scanned the elevation levels of the desert. There was more than first led on.
"No, it would seem this is an impact crater. I'd suggest meteors, but, taking away likely change in levels over thousands of years, it is far too even. It seems they may have been stage 4, and failed the leap to stage 5."
"So, then something destroyed them?"
"You must learn my theory of Advancement if you are to be my apprentice. I believe every species must face a great demon before transitioning to stage 5."
"And that is?"
"Themselves."
I pulled out the bioscanner one last time, and detected something faint. It seemed to be a stage 2.
"This is interesting, Naz'aar- there are no useful resources left on this dead planet, but life could be attempting to evolve once more despite this."
70 miles further, there was another conglomerate of structres, this tike much smaller. It was surrounded by a sea of emptiness and death, almost as if it had been built there once everything was destroyed.
"It seems the stage 2 is within one of these two structures. Take care not to be rough and destroy anything, Naz'aar."
We began to delicately lift a layer off of each structure, examining them from top down. Thankfully, these building were only 80 feet across and made of a light mixture of mineral and rock. On the fourth layer down of the structure I was inspecting, there was a small capsule, no bigger than my female's last egg, and it was glowing with light.
"I've found the stage 2, Naz'aar. You may stop searching."
He crawled over to me and took a look at the lifeform. "What is that strange thing, master? Some form of living mineral?"
I took a longer look at it and pondered. Upon heightening my vision to examine it up close, I saw a strange, bipedal being, pink and soft, through a clear covering.
"No, Naz'aar, I think this might be something different." | Title: exploration diary entry #47 (translated into Terran, variant #2)
Name: SK Losxy A L33
Date: 17/2/20457 SOLAR TIME
Location: 0.1174 pc from SOL (coordinates 0,0,0,0)
play? y/n
y
beginning transmission...
The first sign that we found of the late, great Terran Empire was its tiny metal satellite. The warper had nearly destroyed the craft, but fortunately we were approaching the Solar System, where Terra lay third from Sol, and we had to come back out of light speed. It wasn't hard to get here - the starways were always open, and all of them led to the now-ruined capital of the galaxy - but the Alcubriere drives kicked up a lot of fuss if we tried to decelerate any faster. If we weren't careful, we could destroy a planet without even knowing it. So carefully..
I was in charge of that, and I slowly unwound the dials. This was a two-entity ship, so there was only me and my co-pilot, who was sleeping, trying to overcome the effects of planet lag. The grey of superluminal space before me changed into the black of the universe. Then a brilliant shower of exotic particles lit up the entire windscreen. Braking radiation, it was called. When a superluminal ship came back down to sub-light speeds, it released all the particles it had vacuumed up on its trip across the universe, like some sort of cosmic sonic boom. The particles disappeared into the soundless night. I switched the ship's engine to idle.
And then I saw what I had irradiated. The tiny probe was but a golden speck in my windscreen - like what the Terrans used to call *fireflies*. I hit a switch, and soon the object was in the ship's magnetic grasp. It only took a few minutes before it was before me and I could examine the probe. And there I had the weirdest surprise of all.
The moment I so much as looked at it, the readings on my radiation counter jumped off the charts.
I looked around, examining the metal casing, before I eventually found the source. It was coming from what seemed to be the ship's power source. I'd learned about these in history class. A radioisotope thermoelectric generator. I saw the plutonium inside the casing, now too weak to supply any more electricity, but still potent enough to trigger readings on radiation counters everywhere. On the power source the Terran words *Voyager 1* was written. And when I saw those words I knew we'd hit the archeological jackpot.
I sat back down. Then I keyed the radio for my fellow entity to come to the bridge.
"Sarl, of sector X16?" I asked.
"Vocalising," the reply came. "Who else could it be?"
"I've found something massive," I said.
"What is so important that you must break my rest, Losxy of sector L33? You know that unless-"
"I've found *Voyager 1*," I said, barely able to hide my excitement under the vocals. "You've got to come up."
There was silence on the other end. I think the appropriate Terran translation for that kind of reaction would be *surprised as fuck*.
Then-
"I'm on my way," Sarl said. And the line went dead.
I walked over, to where the silent probe lay, a monument to a dead planet. I saw the golden disc embedded in its side, and the strange drawings that accompanied it. Three concentric circles and a strange pill-like object in the orbit. A fourteen-pointed star with irregular line lengths. They had meant something, a long time ago, but the meaning was long since lost. It fell to us now to discover the message. And it was precisely then that I knew there was an entire lost world to be found.
Would Sarl be able to decipher the message?
|
[WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has begun exploring space. They find the long dead machines that the humans used for space exploration, like the mars rovers and the Rosetta asteroid lander. | [WP]Humanity has died out and a new race has developed and begun exploring space. They find ancient human relics. | I took a deep breath, my body expanding and contracting as carbon dioxide entered my body through the millions of pores in my thick, green-brown exoskeleton. This planet's atmosphere was ripe with it, even more so than Ut'uun, though the quality of air was notably worse- as one would expect from a decaying planet.
Just as I'd been briefed, it's a dead planet with not a sign of organic life larger than a microbe scurrying about. My job now is to scout and check for potential resources, and, being a historian of sorts, see if I find anything about this planet's history. I'd brought an apprentice with me; I could easily scout this planet alone but I had a feeling there'd be something for Naz'aar to learn here.
I pulled the bioscanner out one more time, just to be cautious. I detected slightly larger life forms now, but they were merely stage 0- the most basic stage in evolution, unlikely to go anywhere.
"Naz'aar, it's safe to step out. Let us depart now," I relayed to him.
"Yes, master." He scurried out from the ship, his 8 legs swirling and rippling with motion. "Master, what is that?"
There were strange structures, clearly unnatural, deforming the surface. They were rectangular and formed from some basic iteration of crude metal that clearly was not very strong- several buildings had collapsed in on themselves. All were swallowed by oxidization and dirt, a sea of brown and orange.
"It seems some primitive life form, possibly stage 3, attempted to become a more advanced civilization than their minds could handle, if I had to guess. This all looks so crude and ineffective."
After a light trek about 30 miles out, we saw strange little shapes littering the open spaces inbetween structures. They looked to be the same kind of crude materials the structures contained, but were far smaller, like a personal craft.
"These could have been used for transportation- it would indicate their size as being 4-8 feet, and likely either quad or, worst case, bipedal."
Another 30 miles out and there was nothing- a sea of dead minerals and soil.
"It seems they were just a small colony or tribe," Naz'aar noted.
I looked closer and scanned the elevation levels of the desert. There was more than first led on.
"No, it would seem this is an impact crater. I'd suggest meteors, but, taking away likely change in levels over thousands of years, it is far too even. It seems they may have been stage 4, and failed the leap to stage 5."
"So, then something destroyed them?"
"You must learn my theory of Advancement if you are to be my apprentice. I believe every species must face a great demon before transitioning to stage 5."
"And that is?"
"Themselves."
I pulled out the bioscanner one last time, and detected something faint. It seemed to be a stage 2.
"This is interesting, Naz'aar- there are no useful resources left on this dead planet, but life could be attempting to evolve once more despite this."
70 miles further, there was another conglomerate of structres, this tike much smaller. It was surrounded by a sea of emptiness and death, almost as if it had been built there once everything was destroyed.
"It seems the stage 2 is within one of these two structures. Take care not to be rough and destroy anything, Naz'aar."
We began to delicately lift a layer off of each structure, examining them from top down. Thankfully, these building were only 80 feet across and made of a light mixture of mineral and rock. On the fourth layer down of the structure I was inspecting, there was a small capsule, no bigger than my female's last egg, and it was glowing with light.
"I've found the stage 2, Naz'aar. You may stop searching."
He crawled over to me and took a look at the lifeform. "What is that strange thing, master? Some form of living mineral?"
I took a longer look at it and pondered. Upon heightening my vision to examine it up close, I saw a strange, bipedal being, pink and soft, through a clear covering.
"No, Naz'aar, I think this might be something different." | Koll: Isn't it strange how the host species was advanced enough to travel thousands of miles away, yet fell so easily fall to our pathogen?
His skin was red, like the surface of the planet and he needed no gear. These people were similar to chameleons. They adapted to their surrounding perfectly.
His friend examines the power system of the rover.
Mijoris: I don't find it strange at all. Our people have always seeded planets with advanced civilizations and every last one of them fell. Our collective memory tells us of this legacy but I find it strange that we no longer have contact with our root.
Mijoris knew much more then Koll because he was a first generation seed. Before the time of the Great Separation, those that successfully seeded humans lived among them for a time before the pathogen spread to the point where most humans became Adjans.
Because the Adjan conversion was dangerous and aggressive, it destroyed the relic knowledge accumulated in the mind. What this meant was that the Adjans were a new race of humans but did not gain any of the knowledge of the host. This set them back centuries trying to reverse engineer humanity's work. Koll was a new generation of Adjans, born of converts. He knew only what they taught in the history books and nothing more.
Koll: What do you think this machine's mission was on this planet?
Mijoris: Let's find out.
Mijoris rips out the memory from the rover and brings it back to the hub. Inside, their skin turns smooth light blue. Mijoris cleans the memory chip and places it in the computer to see its final moments.
CLASSIFIED...
Koll: What does that mean?
Mijoris: hmm... The humans used to hide information from other humans. It was a strange practice. They could not trust each other.
Koll: Savages.
Mijoris: But it is fine. We reverse engineered encryption technology years ago. I'll run it now.
SYSTEM AUTHORIZATION COMPLETE...
RECORDINGS OF CLASSIFIED FINDINGS...
the rover finds a cave under what appears to be some kind of face structure. As it descends it comes across stone wall blocking the path. The wall turns into a screen with text that look ancient counting down.
The rover is then commanded to leave the cave, find a remote location, and decommission.
Koll: That did not look like human technology.
Mijoris: It wasn't. Let's run a test to see if there is any record languages similar to this in human records.
They wait for several minutes before the results come in.
ANCIENT SUMERIAN CUNEIFORM... Matching now...20% complete...
Mijoris: Ancient language... That makes no sense...
Koll: This is kind of cool old man. I thought this was going to be another boring scouting mission for resources.
50%...
Mijoris: Are you not curious at to what this could mean? During the first generation, a thing called "science fiction" was very popular and they had a bunch of fantastical tales of their ancient past. I thought of it as nothing more then their individual nature showing its immaturity but this may shed light on it.
100%...
A series of numbers are counting down on the wall. It doesn't have much left to go and the rover was decommissioned centuries ago...
Mijoris: I am contacting command. They need to know something is up here that is well beyond our knowledge.
Mijoris: Command, this is commissioner Mijoris of the first. We have come across an ancient relic on Mars. We must investigate this. It has a countdown mechanism on it.
Command: Return back to Earth immediately.
Koll: But sir!
Command: That is an order.
Koll: ...
The screen turns off. They stand in the hub motionless...
Mijoris: I know this is a stupid idea but I must see for myself what this thing is. bring a translator with you Koll. We are going to the sight of the face...
*END CHAPTER 1*
|
Inspired by /r/artefactporn : https://www.reddit.com/comments/44bp1z | [WP] You are an immortal necromancer with no powers because you lost your heart centuries ago. You've just rediscovered its location. | "Hey Mr. Stevens, we got your usual right here," a young barista waved me over to the counter. I walked past the line and picked up my tea, scalding hot (just the way I like it). I pulled out a $20 bill and waved the change into a modest tip jar. Jason, the young barista, was a good boy trying to earn enough to pay for college. To be honest, no amount of tip was going to help him (not at today's prices), but I liked to think I was helping in a small way.
It was a shame really, i thought as I sat myself at my favorite table right outside the coffee shop. Jason was decently smart, and I knew smart; I mean I knew Tesla and Newton rather personally. Jason deserved to go to a good school, but even after a few years of work (and absolutely no fun) he would be lucky to break $10,000. Maybe enough to pay for college in the 70s, but not even a dent in modern tuition. Damn, that amount couldn't even pay for room and board for his college career...Damn.
I sipped my burning tea and relished the light stinging in my lips. It was good tea, and I have had tea all over the world. If that wasn't college level talent I didn't know what was.
Of course, I could hook Jason up. Being immortal has had its benefits, and I did have a decent amount of money and connections. I mean I was renowned history and archaeology scholar, one call and I could probably get him a scholarship. I pulled up my briefcase and started shuffling through my papers. Maybe I would...
As I was looking through my papers, Jason came out and sat beside me, his vibrant green apron still on. "How are you Mr. Stevens, the tea treating you well?"
I smiled, I had always liked Jason. I never really knew why. He was just so clean; he was innocent to the point of naivete. He was like me all those centuries ago, just a plain boy without a clue about the world. "Tea's perfect Jason, as always." I said.
He seemed pleased, and as he got up to leave I grabbed his arm. He turned, and I asked "Jason, how old are you now?"
"16 sir." He said his vibrant white smile clashing with his fierce red hair.
"So you are applying to colleges then?" I say, I felt my brow furrow in concern reflexively.
"Yessir, every night after work I do a few more applications." He sat back down, "And I have actually been meaning to ask you about it."
He shifted himself uncomfortably before finally saying, "Well money has always been a little tight in my family...and my parents know for sure I won't be able to afford everything, even with loans and financial aid..."
He looked down before continuing, "and you are this really famous doctor of archaeology, and my parents have been pushing me to ask you to do something for our family..."
His voice fell to a soft whisper, so much so even I had trouble hearing him. For a second I thought he was going to ask for my help with scholarships or recommendations. I had thought that the universe had conspired to bring this boy to me to receive help...I was so wrong...
His voice fell to a soft whisper, so much so even I had trouble hearing him, "Mr. Steven's, my parents have something they want you to see. They think it could be worth a lot, but they need an expert opinion..."
My brow must have furrowed in concerned. It wasn't like Jason to be so...*mysterious*. But at this point, I was too intrigued to possibly say no. I mean, I thought at that time, I have lived for five centuries, what could surprise me now. Again, so damn wrong.
Later that evening I returned to the coffee shop, and walked with Jason down the street to his home. His house was...*cozy*...okay, it was shabby, but I had figured as much. I smiled as I entered the house and shook hands with both his parents. they had prepared a dinner, and I knew better than to try and say no. After a heavy meal and desert, I Jason left the room briefly and brought out an Oaken box. Finally crafted and preserved in a rare blend of resins, it stood out from the rest of the house. I gasped reflexively, and the entire family stared at me. The box itself was likely worth more than the entire house, but that wasn't what surprised me. I had been the one to craft this box.
In that moment, forgetting all manner of etiquette, I snatched the box and looked in at its contents. I had been wrong (as usual), the Universe had conspired...but not to bring Jason to me. It had conspired to bring me to Jason after all these years. I almost felt like crying for the first time since I first sold my soul...
My emotions must have shown, because Jason's father a large burly man promptly asked me what was wrong, if I needed tea. I nodded silently and waited for my cup. Jason's mother brought it over to me, and smiled, "Jason told us you like it hot, here you go, careful though."
I took a sip, then asked, "How did you get this."
The two parents looked at each, and motioned for Jason to sit. The father smiled and said, "To make a long story short, it has been passed down from every member of my family. Sort of a tradition for as long as anyone can remember, the only thing we know for sure is that it's valuable."
"How do you know it is valuable?" I ask.
The father laughed heartily, actually shaking the entire dining table with his mirth, "No idea really, only that a long time ago it was said that one of my ancestors stole it from some evil wizard, and that it was the most valuable treasure in all of existence."
I nodded and began laughing too, if only to keep from crying, "I know the story actually if you would like to hear it."
Jason's family assembled together and nodded in unison for me to start telling the tale. So I began the only way I knew how:
"A long time ago, there lived a poor boy in a bad town...just like it usually goes. However, despite the cruelty of the world, the boy believed in the goodness of those around him... That is, until one day when he was walking with a girl he loved more than anything in the world, they were accosted by a group of jealous men. You see the girl was the most beautiful of anyone else in the whole world. She had hair as red as fire. These other men, angry at the naive boy's good fortune to be with this angel, stabbed the boy in the chest and left him for dead as they took the girl away...
The boy, dying on the side of the road, prayed to God for salvation...but what came was no angel...garbed in white and pale as a ghost, he stood out from the fields of emerald grass, and he stooped low next to the dying boy. He said, 'Quite unfortunate, you dying...what has God allowed to happen to you, poor child?'
The boy on the brink reached up to this pale and hollow creature, the being smiled, 'If you like, I can give you the strength to get vengeance on those evil men, and even more, I can bestow upon you many lives and powers...'
The boy...stupid boy...nodded with what little strength he had left. The being reached into the boys chest and pulled the damaged heart right out. The heart mended itself, and the strange being grabbed two stones, and encased the heart into them. The boy, suddenly jolted upwards. He was once again alone sitting in the field, with only a facsimile stone heart next to him. He moved his head next to the strange stone and heard his steady pulse, *rented-a-tent*.
He walked back to the town, where he found men sitting in a bar, his beloved nowhere to be found. He covered himself in cloak, and obscured his face. He sat at the table adjacent to the bad men, and listened to them gloat how they had taken the girl, and murdered her and the boy. He listened to them speak of the horrible crimes they had committed. Just when the boy could handle it no more, he jumped up, and using the power given to him he brought forth horrible creatures from the abyss and dragged each man to damnation...it was only the last man he let live long enough to tell him where they had hidden what was left of the body.
Again, the boy went to the body, and using his phenomenal powers he raised her from the dead. Still as beautiful and flaming as she had been in life, but never as happy. The boy used his powers to accrue great wealth and power in an attempt to appease his dearest, but no matterf what he did, she never again smiled.
It was because by raising her, he had pulled her from Heaven and no Earthly delight could compare...at least that is what the storytellers say. Regardless, the woman, seeing the harm her once dear love caused with his great power, conspired to stop him. Using her quick wit and resourcefulness, it did not take her long to realize the stone heart was the source of the boy's power; it was what kept him alive too. So, as the boy made his daily attempts to make her smile, she spoke with great guile saying, 'I need only your love to be happy. If you were to give me your heart, so that I may hear how it beats only for me, then I might once again smile.'
The boy, having felt empty since he had made the deal, was desperate to see his beloved smile in the hopes that it might move him as it once did. He gave it to her in this oaken box without second thought. Quick as a flash, the girl struck the necromancer across the head and fled from their home.
The peasants that the boy had subjugated with his power eventually rebelled when they realized he had lost his power and set fire to his castle. The necromancer was thought to be dead, but that isn't possible. You see, it is true that fire can hurt necromancers, it is one of the few things they can feel (or so they say)...But the necromancer can only be killed if his heart were to be destroyed.
Of course you might think that the women would do it, and the sorcerer himself must have waited in misery and fear, waited for the women to finally end his life. But she apparently never did...perhaps she still loved her boy, even after all that time, or perhaps she just couldn't bring herself to kill someone." | Some people think the the heart is the center of love. I wouldn't know. I couldn't love even back when I had mine.
Necromancer they called me, lich. It's funny how the world makes up things so close to what you are, I have lived in the world for so long and seen it grow. Then one day, news hits my ears that someone found a heart a human heart still sealed away.
At last. Even as weak as I was it was easy to break into the poorly guarded building and recover my heart.
Magic, magic at last... but it's so weak... I need to feed it blood. |
Inspired by /r/artefactporn : https://www.reddit.com/comments/44bp1z | [WP] You are an immortal necromancer with no powers because you lost your heart centuries ago. You've just rediscovered its location. | 638 years. 638 years I have wandered the land, in search of the sole material possession that matters to me. I have crossed deserts so wide no mortal man could hope to make it through without the relentless sun scorching away his very skin. I have hiked up mountains so large that even the precious air those putrid bags of flesh require to breath fades away. I have walked along the bottom of vast oceans, stepping over the wrecks of ancient ships, and traversing the pitch-black floor of the seas with only my burning vengeance to guide me. For years I have searched, with no end to my quest in site. Until now.
My latest search brought me into the heart of a dense jungle, to the supposed home of an all-powerful seer. The last seventeen I visited failed me, and were dealt with in turn, but I have heard promising tales of the power this seer possesses. They say he is an ageless being, one who has existed since the dawn of time. Men in nearby villages swear their ancestors traveled to the seer in times of crisis, and received the answers they were seeking.
I have never known of such a mighty power other than mine. In 638 years, I have not felt this close to finding my heart. New flames of determination stroked the embers of my fury at being stripped of my power as I forced my way through the jungle, finding a small hut in a clearing at the center.
As I approach the hut, a small, hunched over man opens the door and stands there, warily watching the cloaked figure walk towards him. I am careful to hide my face, as my skeletal appearance does not make my journey through the land any easier. The man, dressed in rags, appears to be very old, with a thick, silvery beard reaching all the way to his feet.
Within a few strides of the man, I stop. Hours pass, as the two beings removed from the punishments of time watch one another.
Eventually, the man raises one bony, yet steady hand, and stokes his beard.
“You are the first guest I have ever received without seeing years in advance.” He croaks out, his very words sounding ancient, as if their sound could crumble apart before reaching my ear. “ Care to come in?” The man turns around, and slowly walks into his hut.
As I follow him in, my eyes take in his odd decorations. The entire hut consists of a small room, with a wooden table in the center, and two chairs on either side. The walls are lined with different oddities. I recognize many different farming tools, as well as jars of herbs, dusty tomes, small and large gems alike, and many other trinkets.
With a seemingly large effort, the man pulls out his chair and sits down, gesturing to the opposing seat. As I take my seat, he leans forward, staring at me. “My offering is the same to you, as it has been for the man before you, the woman before him, and everyone who has ever come to me in seek of wisdom.” He leans back, gesturing to the odd tools and trinkets on display around him. “I will give you what you seek, in exchange for something you find useful. I will except any item, as long as I don’t already own one.” Tilting his head to the side, he waits for my answer. Slowly, I nod in confirmation. Content with that, the man reaches into the folds of his rags, pulling out a small, jewel-encrusted box, and places it on the table between us.
“When I remove the lid, you must whisper into the box what it is you wish to know, and only then shall your answer be known to you.” The man explains.
With a careful, practiced motion, the man reached over, and gently removed the lid from the box. I lean down, bringing my face within a hairsbreadth of the opening of the box, and peer inside. For the first time in 638 years, my lips twitch, and slowly form a malicious grin.
| Some people think the the heart is the center of love. I wouldn't know. I couldn't love even back when I had mine.
Necromancer they called me, lich. It's funny how the world makes up things so close to what you are, I have lived in the world for so long and seen it grow. Then one day, news hits my ears that someone found a heart a human heart still sealed away.
At last. Even as weak as I was it was easy to break into the poorly guarded building and recover my heart.
Magic, magic at last... but it's so weak... I need to feed it blood. |
[WP] Having recently been rediscovered as a science, magic is now becoming an important part of life. | "Nurse 50cc of Wolfsbane please," the doctor held out his hand expectantly. "And I need some suction on this stat!"
The nurse placed a syringe in the doctor's hand and muttered an incantation while holding her hand over an open wound in the patient's abdomen.
"I need this guy alive doc," said an imposing man with a gun on his hip standing back in the corner of the operating room.
"I understand that Detective Mallory, and I assure you we are doing everything we can," the doctor's irritation was plain in his voice. "Now if you will please let us do our work without interruption the patient will have a much better chance."
Detective James Mallory leaned back into the corner he was standing in, resting against the wall. He was tired to the bone and any opportunity to take some of the weight off of his aching feet was more than welcome.
"Ok the worst of the poison has been neutralized. It was alchemical in nature, just as I thought." The doctor was talking to a couple of med students observing the procedure. "I will now perform the Anderson Resuscitation Incantation, and we will close the wound with a poultice of Angel Bark and Blood Creeper to draw any lingering poison away from the wound."
The doctor mumbled some words that Mallory didn't pay attention too, and the man immediately coughed and spluttered while beginning to breathe again. The detective had seen countless spells performed with dramatic results, but every single time he saw someone gesturing the somatic components or mumbling some esoteric incantation a large part of him expected nothing to happen. Maybe he wanted nothing to happen. The world had changed so much in the last ten years and James Mallory was still living in a simpler time when magic and alchemy still belonged in fantasy.
The med students and nurses left the room, leaving only the detective and the doctor along with the very much alive, but unconscious patient.
"The wound itself wasn't fatal." The doctor explained as he methodically washed his hands of the man on the table's blood, "Whatever weapon inflicted the wound was laced with a very dangerous alchemical poison. Whoever attacked him wanted him to die slowly. If you hadn't found him his flesh would have slowly grown necrotic starting from the entry point of the wound, until he rotted completely from the inside out."
"They were trying to send a message Doc, it is not uncommon in the kind of circles this guy ran in." Mallory had walked over to look at the young man on the table. He looked even younger in the harsh fluorescent light of the OR than he had in the dark gutter where Mallory had picked him up.
"When can he be woken up? I have some questions I need to ask him."
"Well, he has been through a lot. The resuscitation spell I cast on him is very taxing. I would give him at least 4 hours until we try to wake him up if you want to get anything useful out of him."
"Alright, thanks doc. I'll be back."
Mallory walked out of the ER and across the street to a coffee shop he knew was nearby. He had been getting to know the area around the hospital pretty well these days.
"Hey big stuff, what'll it be?" A heavily made up waitress asked with a flirtatious lilt to her voice.
"Just a cup of joe Marie, need to kill some time." Mallory said.
"You got it babe," Marie grabbed a coffee pot and began pouring into a dingy porcelain cup that looked like it used to be some shade of white once upon a time. When the cup was full Marie replaced the pot on the coffee maker, and it was just as full as when she had started pouring.
"That's a new one. Little replication spell I learned through a correspondence course," Marie was beaming with pride.
"That is quite impressive. You do that for all the customers or just the ones you like." Mallory smiled in spite of himself.
"Nah, I save it for special occasions. To be honest it still takes a lot out of me, but the course says that the more you practice the easier you gets. Like exercising or something." Mallory's keen eyes noticed that the waitress had developed the slightest of tremors in the hand that she poured the coffee with.
"Well I am truly honored, but don't go killin yourself on account of me." Mallory drank his coffee slowly and made small talk, but his mind was on the man waiting for him back in the OR across the street. Someone was trying to send a message, but who? There were plenty of gangs in the city who had started to dabble in magic and alchemy especially. Alchemical substances had replaced most of the street drugs that the gangs used to push because they were more potent, and easier to manufacture. That also made them far more dangerous.
Mallory made his way back to the hospital and headed for the OR where his person of interest was waiting. As soon as he entered the wing he could feel something was off. The hallway felt cold and the fluorescent lights seemed dimmer than when he left. He approached the double doors of the OR and heard voices inside, it sounded like the doctor, but the other voice was unlike anything he had ever heard. It was deep and rumbling and sounded like two voices speaking at once.
"Where is detective Mallory?" The voice growled.
"Ach.. I, I don't know. He should be coming back any moment..." the doctor's voice was strained, it sounded like he was being choked.
"I'm detective Mallory, who is asking?" Mallory drew his sidearm and shouldered open the door. He had seen a lot of disturbing shit in his years working the streets, and even more in the past ten years since magic started finding its way into the criminal underworld, but the sight he was greeted with chilled him in a way he hadn't ever been before.
The nurse who had been working on this patient earlier was only recognizable because he head was still intact. The rest of her body had been turned into bloody chunks and strewn about the room like some macabre Jackson Pollack painting. The Doctor was suspended several feet above the ground, with his arms grasping at a long black tentacle that was wound around his neck. The patient was no longer a man, but some kind of eldritch horror, all swirling appendages dripping what appeared to be pure darkness. In the center of the writhing mass two eyes, fiery and red, stared directly at Detective Mallory.
"It is good to see you Detective. I have been watching you for quite some time now, and I must say you are even more impressive in person. Most men cannot bear to look upon any of my physical manifestations." The things eyes flicked towards the doctor and Mallory could see now that his eyes were no longer eyes, but rather bloody holes that dripped some kind of dark ooze.
"I wanted to send you a message, but you left before my host could awaken so I had to amuse myself in the meantime."
"You sick fuck, who the hell are you?" Mallory kept his gun leveled right between the glowing eyes, a cold rage began to build inside of him.
"I am nameless, but you may call me whatever you wish. Your fellow humans have ushered in a new era with their wanton use of the arcane arts, and yet you still live in the past. Perhaps that is why you interest me. But enough rambling. I have left you a gift, at the 23rd street wharf. Go and find it."
Mallory felt a foreign force intruding on his mind. It pushed at his will, compelling him to leave the hospital and go look for the "gift" the creature had mentioned. He steeled himself and dug in the heels of his mind. He had kicked his drinking problem 5 years back, and that had nearly killed him, this weak compulsion was like a feather trying to knock over a brick wall by comparison.
"I'll go take a look at what you left for me, but I am going to send you back where you came from first."
Mallory squeezed the trigger of his revolver six times in the blink of an eye, burying all six rounds right between the things glowing eyes. It screeched producing the most horrifying sound Mallory had ever heard, and knocking him to his knees with the pain of it. As it screamed the disgusting dripping tentacles seemed to dissolve and melt, and be absorbed into the center of the black mass until finally the light of the glowing eyes went out and the darkness disappeared, leaving behind the young man the thing had possessed with his blood and brains leaking out of the six bullet holes in his forehead.
Magic or not, cold steel it seemed could still get the job done.
_______________________________________________________________
Hope you liked the story, if you want to read some more check out /r/ka_like_the_wind | the advent of
manipulated fingers,
articulated bones and lungs,
chiseled stones and stories,
and willful past collisions,
was already a techno boom
real and unreal roots
fruit sin from naked flowers
which shimmer us with welcome
| |
[WP] Having recently been rediscovered as a science, magic is now becoming an important part of life. | "It was through automation that man made things move. It is through magic," a twist of the mage's hand, and streams of light wove through the air into the runes engraved on the golem, "that we make things dance." The golem's eyes flickered an eerie blue, faint but visible. The stones it was carved out of cracked as it began to rise at the amazement of the lecture hall. Each joint was embedded with a specific rune, and as the golem stepped forward, they sprang to life in vibrant color.
"Welcome to Magic Assisted Automation. This is a class where you will combine your knowledge of advanced robotics with the elements of magic, to push the boundaries of what the physical world could not advance alone." The mage stepped out behind his podium, his newly pressed robes hanging neatly from his shoulders. His salt and peppered hair was tossed around with precise carelessness, a style befitting a professor of one of the Colleges of Combined Sciences. He strode around the golem, studying the carefully carved runes of the golem, talking to the class with his back turned to them. "Open your books to the first chapter, 'The Modern History of Magic and Movement'". Clean cracks of unopened books filled the room, but the sound of the awakened golem could still be heard against all the noise.
The mage continued admiring the work of the golem, waving his hand to and fro, his sleeve flapping in the still air.
"It was not until the discovery of magic that we have been able to progress our science further than where we had been before. What was the furthest point of robotics before the advent of Magic?"
A small voice chimed in from the crowd. "Hydraulics and micro-robotics."
"Correct. We had made advancements into the start of robots, and their basic, human-like movement." He knelt quickly near the knee runes, and touched them in a specific pattern. The runes rotated clockwise, and the engraving illuminated intensely. The golem began to walk around fluidly, as if it had known how to walk from the very start.
"Without the advent of magic, we would be discussing the fluid dynamics needed to push and pull this creature's legs, simulating life. Instead, with magic, we give it life." With a quick snap of the mage's fingers, the runes dimmed, and the golem ceased its movements. He turned around, and returned to his podium, satisfied in his control over both the golem and the class.
"Now, enough of the charade. Let us study where we once were, to find out where we are going."
-----
This is my first writing prompt response. I hope you enjoyed it! | the advent of
manipulated fingers,
articulated bones and lungs,
chiseled stones and stories,
and willful past collisions,
was already a techno boom
real and unreal roots
fruit sin from naked flowers
which shimmer us with welcome
| |
[WP] Having recently been rediscovered as a science, magic is now becoming an important part of life. |
"It was a big shock to the scientific community when Dr. Stitches discovered, what would become the building blocks of the maGIC we use today.
Stitches was trying to repeat Rutherford's famous gold foil experiment to find something new about the way we see atoms. But, instead of using the traditional thin gold foil, he thought to use a ferrous zinc complex. And beyond the foil he had place a piece of coal.
The results were far from what was expected. The alpha rays in presence of the ferrous zinc complex hit the piece of coal to create a carbohydrate, known as maltose.
He was shocked, since the amount of energy required to do this would be much more than the alpha rays he had passed.
When he tried to publish his findings, he was mocked but when he performed the experiment again the top scientists were baffled. His apparatus was checked for any malpractice. Dr Stitches got a Nobel Prize in physics for his discovery.
In the following years, many scientists attempted to recreate other experiments with the help of the ferrous zinc complex, rechristened as Stitches' Reagent. The results were extraordinary.
Within a decade of Stitches' Experiment, the world's scientists have perfected the way to create specific compounds, namely the ingredients of major foodstuffs.
World hunger practically ended within five years, as the production of food by this method was cheaper than farming.
After 4 decades, another scientist, Mr. Shawn had discovered how to levitate objects with a slight change to Stitches' reagent.
3 decades after Shawn's discovery, the first flying car was launched. Another 20 years later, a flying car didn't even raise a glance.
By this point, the rockets powered by Shawn's Compound, had reached Jupiter in a year.
And here we are, 500 years later, at the spot where the first Jupiter Landing happened. We all owe our progress to Dr. Stitches' and Mr. Shawn's work."
A hand rose at the back of the group of children, who had come in for the Museum Tour.
"Mr. Jones, is this the same man whose name was given to our planet?"
"Yes, Johny. The very same."
---------------
My first prompt response. Tell me what you think.
I couldn't think of a good ending. Sorry. | the advent of
manipulated fingers,
articulated bones and lungs,
chiseled stones and stories,
and willful past collisions,
was already a techno boom
real and unreal roots
fruit sin from naked flowers
which shimmer us with welcome
| |
[WP] Having recently been rediscovered as a science, magic is now becoming an important part of life. | *I need to get out of this bar before I puke. Why do people cram into small, dark clubs just to overheat and spill alcohol on themselves?*
I stepped out through a side door, into a dimly lit alleyway littered with trash and cigarette butts. I noticed a young man to my right, fumbling around with his pockets and cursing under his breath. He noticed me and smiled, lightly jogging up to me.
"'Scuse me, think you could spare a light by any chance? I left my lighter at home," he said, extending a cigarette somewhat bashfully.
"That's a bad habit, you know. Maybe this is the universe giving you a sign that you should quit," I scolded him. I'm 37, and he couldn't have been older than 25, so he looked like a puppy that'd been caught stealing food.
I started chuckling and held out my hand. "I'm just messing around, kid. Here you go."
He stared blankly at me, looking at my empty hand. "Umm...sorry, I need a *light*. Like, a lighter for my cigarette."
"Put it in your mouth and cover it with your hands like you normally would, I'll light it for you."
He looks puzzled, but followed my instruction nonetheless. I snapped my fingers and sparks scattered from between my middle finger and thumb; a small blaze now rested in the palm of my hands. Unfortunately, in his shock, the cigarette fell from his gaping mouth and landed in a puddle of muddy filth.
"Wh...*how did you do that*?" he asked me, completely incredulous. "That was amazing! I'd heard a little bit on the news about the 'science of magic' making a comeback, but I thought it was like card tricks and stuff."
"Thankfully, we've discovered something far more useful than card tricks," I said with a smile. "I'm actually one of the leading researches in the field. So far, I can wield fire, lightning, and if I try hard enough, I can animate certain objects."
"Wait- *you can bring things to life?*"
"Well, yes and no. They have the intelligence of a housefly, unfortunately. We can't really get it past there, but we're still working on it. Magic as a whole has really become important to our world; everyone can benefit from it's usage. Some people are working on trying to separate blood from toxins, or zap cancer cells. There's a huge amount of potential lying around here."
"I don't understand, though- where did it come from? How did you guys figure it out?"
"It's hard to explain briefly. Essentially, a new element was discovered buried deep in an ancient Mayan ruin- they must have found it and thought it was a God or some such- and we found that it has some sort of property that interacts with humans. It allows us to form control over other elements at will, to a certain degree. We're still trying to learn more about it; we don't even have a name for it right now. We just call it 'Myst'."
"Seriously, this is the coolest thing I've ever heard of in my life. Say, mister- you're one of the scientists, right? Could you take me on as an intern or student or something? I'm a bartender right now, and it's *really* lame. I want to do something worthwhile in the world, something *exciting*. Please?" He looked at me, batting his eyelids like a moron.
"Well, we could use some help with experimentation...if you promise to stop making that face at me, you can meet me at work tomorrow and we'll see what use can be made of you."
He began to jump up and down, shouting with excitement and kicking mud up all over himself. A bit got in his mouth, and he desperately tried to wipe his tongue off to no avail.
"Alright, kid, I gotta get going now. Meet me at this address tomorrow at 9:00 AM sharp- wear something nice."
I left him to his retching and left for my car. *I've always wanted to be a teacher.*
---------------------------------------------------------------------
*Where am I? Am I...awake? Ahh, I feel life burning within me again....yes, this is no longer a mere dream. How much time has passed since I was sealed away? No matter...humans are always fools, tinkering around with what they should leave be. I'd better get going if I'm to thank the mortal that rose me from my slumber just to taste the wonder of magic once more.* | the advent of
manipulated fingers,
articulated bones and lungs,
chiseled stones and stories,
and willful past collisions,
was already a techno boom
real and unreal roots
fruit sin from naked flowers
which shimmer us with welcome
| |
[WP] Having recently been rediscovered as a science, magic is now becoming an important part of life. | "Nurse 50cc of Wolfsbane please," the doctor held out his hand expectantly. "And I need some suction on this stat!"
The nurse placed a syringe in the doctor's hand and muttered an incantation while holding her hand over an open wound in the patient's abdomen.
"I need this guy alive doc," said an imposing man with a gun on his hip standing back in the corner of the operating room.
"I understand that Detective Mallory, and I assure you we are doing everything we can," the doctor's irritation was plain in his voice. "Now if you will please let us do our work without interruption the patient will have a much better chance."
Detective James Mallory leaned back into the corner he was standing in, resting against the wall. He was tired to the bone and any opportunity to take some of the weight off of his aching feet was more than welcome.
"Ok the worst of the poison has been neutralized. It was alchemical in nature, just as I thought." The doctor was talking to a couple of med students observing the procedure. "I will now perform the Anderson Resuscitation Incantation, and we will close the wound with a poultice of Angel Bark and Blood Creeper to draw any lingering poison away from the wound."
The doctor mumbled some words that Mallory didn't pay attention too, and the man immediately coughed and spluttered while beginning to breathe again. The detective had seen countless spells performed with dramatic results, but every single time he saw someone gesturing the somatic components or mumbling some esoteric incantation a large part of him expected nothing to happen. Maybe he wanted nothing to happen. The world had changed so much in the last ten years and James Mallory was still living in a simpler time when magic and alchemy still belonged in fantasy.
The med students and nurses left the room, leaving only the detective and the doctor along with the very much alive, but unconscious patient.
"The wound itself wasn't fatal." The doctor explained as he methodically washed his hands of the man on the table's blood, "Whatever weapon inflicted the wound was laced with a very dangerous alchemical poison. Whoever attacked him wanted him to die slowly. If you hadn't found him his flesh would have slowly grown necrotic starting from the entry point of the wound, until he rotted completely from the inside out."
"They were trying to send a message Doc, it is not uncommon in the kind of circles this guy ran in." Mallory had walked over to look at the young man on the table. He looked even younger in the harsh fluorescent light of the OR than he had in the dark gutter where Mallory had picked him up.
"When can he be woken up? I have some questions I need to ask him."
"Well, he has been through a lot. The resuscitation spell I cast on him is very taxing. I would give him at least 4 hours until we try to wake him up if you want to get anything useful out of him."
"Alright, thanks doc. I'll be back."
Mallory walked out of the ER and across the street to a coffee shop he knew was nearby. He had been getting to know the area around the hospital pretty well these days.
"Hey big stuff, what'll it be?" A heavily made up waitress asked with a flirtatious lilt to her voice.
"Just a cup of joe Marie, need to kill some time." Mallory said.
"You got it babe," Marie grabbed a coffee pot and began pouring into a dingy porcelain cup that looked like it used to be some shade of white once upon a time. When the cup was full Marie replaced the pot on the coffee maker, and it was just as full as when she had started pouring.
"That's a new one. Little replication spell I learned through a correspondence course," Marie was beaming with pride.
"That is quite impressive. You do that for all the customers or just the ones you like." Mallory smiled in spite of himself.
"Nah, I save it for special occasions. To be honest it still takes a lot out of me, but the course says that the more you practice the easier you gets. Like exercising or something." Mallory's keen eyes noticed that the waitress had developed the slightest of tremors in the hand that she poured the coffee with.
"Well I am truly honored, but don't go killin yourself on account of me." Mallory drank his coffee slowly and made small talk, but his mind was on the man waiting for him back in the OR across the street. Someone was trying to send a message, but who? There were plenty of gangs in the city who had started to dabble in magic and alchemy especially. Alchemical substances had replaced most of the street drugs that the gangs used to push because they were more potent, and easier to manufacture. That also made them far more dangerous.
Mallory made his way back to the hospital and headed for the OR where his person of interest was waiting. As soon as he entered the wing he could feel something was off. The hallway felt cold and the fluorescent lights seemed dimmer than when he left. He approached the double doors of the OR and heard voices inside, it sounded like the doctor, but the other voice was unlike anything he had ever heard. It was deep and rumbling and sounded like two voices speaking at once.
"Where is detective Mallory?" The voice growled.
"Ach.. I, I don't know. He should be coming back any moment..." the doctor's voice was strained, it sounded like he was being choked.
"I'm detective Mallory, who is asking?" Mallory drew his sidearm and shouldered open the door. He had seen a lot of disturbing shit in his years working the streets, and even more in the past ten years since magic started finding its way into the criminal underworld, but the sight he was greeted with chilled him in a way he hadn't ever been before.
The nurse who had been working on this patient earlier was only recognizable because he head was still intact. The rest of her body had been turned into bloody chunks and strewn about the room like some macabre Jackson Pollack painting. The Doctor was suspended several feet above the ground, with his arms grasping at a long black tentacle that was wound around his neck. The patient was no longer a man, but some kind of eldritch horror, all swirling appendages dripping what appeared to be pure darkness. In the center of the writhing mass two eyes, fiery and red, stared directly at Detective Mallory.
"It is good to see you Detective. I have been watching you for quite some time now, and I must say you are even more impressive in person. Most men cannot bear to look upon any of my physical manifestations." The things eyes flicked towards the doctor and Mallory could see now that his eyes were no longer eyes, but rather bloody holes that dripped some kind of dark ooze.
"I wanted to send you a message, but you left before my host could awaken so I had to amuse myself in the meantime."
"You sick fuck, who the hell are you?" Mallory kept his gun leveled right between the glowing eyes, a cold rage began to build inside of him.
"I am nameless, but you may call me whatever you wish. Your fellow humans have ushered in a new era with their wanton use of the arcane arts, and yet you still live in the past. Perhaps that is why you interest me. But enough rambling. I have left you a gift, at the 23rd street wharf. Go and find it."
Mallory felt a foreign force intruding on his mind. It pushed at his will, compelling him to leave the hospital and go look for the "gift" the creature had mentioned. He steeled himself and dug in the heels of his mind. He had kicked his drinking problem 5 years back, and that had nearly killed him, this weak compulsion was like a feather trying to knock over a brick wall by comparison.
"I'll go take a look at what you left for me, but I am going to send you back where you came from first."
Mallory squeezed the trigger of his revolver six times in the blink of an eye, burying all six rounds right between the things glowing eyes. It screeched producing the most horrifying sound Mallory had ever heard, and knocking him to his knees with the pain of it. As it screamed the disgusting dripping tentacles seemed to dissolve and melt, and be absorbed into the center of the black mass until finally the light of the glowing eyes went out and the darkness disappeared, leaving behind the young man the thing had possessed with his blood and brains leaking out of the six bullet holes in his forehead.
Magic or not, cold steel it seemed could still get the job done.
_______________________________________________________________
Hope you liked the story, if you want to read some more check out /r/ka_like_the_wind | *Mind over matter.*
The old man moved his piece of chalk over the blackboard slowly and carefully. With an energetic swing, he completed drawing the 'r' and turned to face his auditorium.
"Mind over matter", he repeated to the sea of faces in front of him. "This is the most basic principle underlying all of the arcane sciences. This is what you must understand. This...", he cast a glance across the young faces before him. "...is the basis for humankind's prosperity."
"I know that most of you are interested in the fancy stuff. Demonstrations of power, firestorms, thunder and lightning, levitation. But there's a reason why this class is part of every single curriculum at our university."
The professor began walking away from the blackboard. "The history of the arcane sciences can teach us a lot. And it has to, because if we don't learn from the experiences of the past, we will make the same mistakes over and over again. And make no mistake, the arcane has always been dangerous." He reached the end of the podium, turned around and walked into the opposite direction. A couple of eyes followed his movements, but most of his students looked bored.
"Not all of you will listen, of course. And those who won't will pay dearly."
"Some of you will burst into flames," - a jet of flame erupted from his desk and was accompanied by shocked *oh*s from the students.
"Some will freeze to death" - a student in the first row who had been typing on her smartphone suddenly noticed she couldn't move her trembling hands anymore.
"Some will simply disappear into the vastness of the universe" - a small portal opening for a half-second over the professor's desk showed a glimpse of a planet with a purple atmosphere and twelve moons.
"So, now that I have your attention, let me give you some words of advice: *Listen closely.*"
"Let's begin." He turned his back to the students and walked into the middle of the podium. "*Mind over matter*." The piece of chalk began underlining the words on its own. | |
[WP] Having recently been rediscovered as a science, magic is now becoming an important part of life. | "Nurse 50cc of Wolfsbane please," the doctor held out his hand expectantly. "And I need some suction on this stat!"
The nurse placed a syringe in the doctor's hand and muttered an incantation while holding her hand over an open wound in the patient's abdomen.
"I need this guy alive doc," said an imposing man with a gun on his hip standing back in the corner of the operating room.
"I understand that Detective Mallory, and I assure you we are doing everything we can," the doctor's irritation was plain in his voice. "Now if you will please let us do our work without interruption the patient will have a much better chance."
Detective James Mallory leaned back into the corner he was standing in, resting against the wall. He was tired to the bone and any opportunity to take some of the weight off of his aching feet was more than welcome.
"Ok the worst of the poison has been neutralized. It was alchemical in nature, just as I thought." The doctor was talking to a couple of med students observing the procedure. "I will now perform the Anderson Resuscitation Incantation, and we will close the wound with a poultice of Angel Bark and Blood Creeper to draw any lingering poison away from the wound."
The doctor mumbled some words that Mallory didn't pay attention too, and the man immediately coughed and spluttered while beginning to breathe again. The detective had seen countless spells performed with dramatic results, but every single time he saw someone gesturing the somatic components or mumbling some esoteric incantation a large part of him expected nothing to happen. Maybe he wanted nothing to happen. The world had changed so much in the last ten years and James Mallory was still living in a simpler time when magic and alchemy still belonged in fantasy.
The med students and nurses left the room, leaving only the detective and the doctor along with the very much alive, but unconscious patient.
"The wound itself wasn't fatal." The doctor explained as he methodically washed his hands of the man on the table's blood, "Whatever weapon inflicted the wound was laced with a very dangerous alchemical poison. Whoever attacked him wanted him to die slowly. If you hadn't found him his flesh would have slowly grown necrotic starting from the entry point of the wound, until he rotted completely from the inside out."
"They were trying to send a message Doc, it is not uncommon in the kind of circles this guy ran in." Mallory had walked over to look at the young man on the table. He looked even younger in the harsh fluorescent light of the OR than he had in the dark gutter where Mallory had picked him up.
"When can he be woken up? I have some questions I need to ask him."
"Well, he has been through a lot. The resuscitation spell I cast on him is very taxing. I would give him at least 4 hours until we try to wake him up if you want to get anything useful out of him."
"Alright, thanks doc. I'll be back."
Mallory walked out of the ER and across the street to a coffee shop he knew was nearby. He had been getting to know the area around the hospital pretty well these days.
"Hey big stuff, what'll it be?" A heavily made up waitress asked with a flirtatious lilt to her voice.
"Just a cup of joe Marie, need to kill some time." Mallory said.
"You got it babe," Marie grabbed a coffee pot and began pouring into a dingy porcelain cup that looked like it used to be some shade of white once upon a time. When the cup was full Marie replaced the pot on the coffee maker, and it was just as full as when she had started pouring.
"That's a new one. Little replication spell I learned through a correspondence course," Marie was beaming with pride.
"That is quite impressive. You do that for all the customers or just the ones you like." Mallory smiled in spite of himself.
"Nah, I save it for special occasions. To be honest it still takes a lot out of me, but the course says that the more you practice the easier you gets. Like exercising or something." Mallory's keen eyes noticed that the waitress had developed the slightest of tremors in the hand that she poured the coffee with.
"Well I am truly honored, but don't go killin yourself on account of me." Mallory drank his coffee slowly and made small talk, but his mind was on the man waiting for him back in the OR across the street. Someone was trying to send a message, but who? There were plenty of gangs in the city who had started to dabble in magic and alchemy especially. Alchemical substances had replaced most of the street drugs that the gangs used to push because they were more potent, and easier to manufacture. That also made them far more dangerous.
Mallory made his way back to the hospital and headed for the OR where his person of interest was waiting. As soon as he entered the wing he could feel something was off. The hallway felt cold and the fluorescent lights seemed dimmer than when he left. He approached the double doors of the OR and heard voices inside, it sounded like the doctor, but the other voice was unlike anything he had ever heard. It was deep and rumbling and sounded like two voices speaking at once.
"Where is detective Mallory?" The voice growled.
"Ach.. I, I don't know. He should be coming back any moment..." the doctor's voice was strained, it sounded like he was being choked.
"I'm detective Mallory, who is asking?" Mallory drew his sidearm and shouldered open the door. He had seen a lot of disturbing shit in his years working the streets, and even more in the past ten years since magic started finding its way into the criminal underworld, but the sight he was greeted with chilled him in a way he hadn't ever been before.
The nurse who had been working on this patient earlier was only recognizable because he head was still intact. The rest of her body had been turned into bloody chunks and strewn about the room like some macabre Jackson Pollack painting. The Doctor was suspended several feet above the ground, with his arms grasping at a long black tentacle that was wound around his neck. The patient was no longer a man, but some kind of eldritch horror, all swirling appendages dripping what appeared to be pure darkness. In the center of the writhing mass two eyes, fiery and red, stared directly at Detective Mallory.
"It is good to see you Detective. I have been watching you for quite some time now, and I must say you are even more impressive in person. Most men cannot bear to look upon any of my physical manifestations." The things eyes flicked towards the doctor and Mallory could see now that his eyes were no longer eyes, but rather bloody holes that dripped some kind of dark ooze.
"I wanted to send you a message, but you left before my host could awaken so I had to amuse myself in the meantime."
"You sick fuck, who the hell are you?" Mallory kept his gun leveled right between the glowing eyes, a cold rage began to build inside of him.
"I am nameless, but you may call me whatever you wish. Your fellow humans have ushered in a new era with their wanton use of the arcane arts, and yet you still live in the past. Perhaps that is why you interest me. But enough rambling. I have left you a gift, at the 23rd street wharf. Go and find it."
Mallory felt a foreign force intruding on his mind. It pushed at his will, compelling him to leave the hospital and go look for the "gift" the creature had mentioned. He steeled himself and dug in the heels of his mind. He had kicked his drinking problem 5 years back, and that had nearly killed him, this weak compulsion was like a feather trying to knock over a brick wall by comparison.
"I'll go take a look at what you left for me, but I am going to send you back where you came from first."
Mallory squeezed the trigger of his revolver six times in the blink of an eye, burying all six rounds right between the things glowing eyes. It screeched producing the most horrifying sound Mallory had ever heard, and knocking him to his knees with the pain of it. As it screamed the disgusting dripping tentacles seemed to dissolve and melt, and be absorbed into the center of the black mass until finally the light of the glowing eyes went out and the darkness disappeared, leaving behind the young man the thing had possessed with his blood and brains leaking out of the six bullet holes in his forehead.
Magic or not, cold steel it seemed could still get the job done.
_______________________________________________________________
Hope you liked the story, if you want to read some more check out /r/ka_like_the_wind | Beat.
"No see, its finger twitched a bit. Try again."
Beat.
"Definitely getting there. Try again."
Beat.
"Ahh, there we go. Yes sir, you *were* dead."
"23rd Century, I see? Yes, yes. It *was* illegal at the time, yes, but the **COUNCIL** is a tad bit more *liberal* now."
"Now class, reanimation is a basic skill that requires little to no catalysts--"
"Now sir, please. I'm having a discussion over here--"
"Yes sir, those *are* genuine dragon scales sir. The discoloration is from the nuclear bomb the dragon came in contact with, sir. Yes, we won sir."
"Now class, reanimation is quite the powerful spell, but one must always--"
"Yes sir, that is the genuine article. Yes sir, that mysterious slab came from a benefactor, sir. I believe he liked to wear black a lot, sir."
"Now reanimation is not limited to human beings, mind you. One could also reanimate, say, inactive mechanical--"
"Sir, put *that* down. Sir, there are malevolent energies trap--"
"Sir, **SIR.** The Department Head will not hear the end of this--"
"Shit, it's eaten little Carter--"
"**YOU**, girl, fetch the prefect **immediately.** Yes, **NOW**."
"Class, if you would please activate any emergency wards."
"Very good. No, don't worry about little Carter. Yes, gather the bones. We'll patch him up later."
"Now class, single file please. And in an orderly fashion, move out of the portal *carefully.*"
"Hm? Yes, yes. Another Reanimated 23rd Century corpse has gone mad again."
"Now class, what did we learn today?"
"Yes, aside from the fact that 23rd Century Wizards are mad with power?"
"Yes, a Necromancer must, I repeat, **MUST** always have a Glove of Unsightly Energies on hand."
"End of discussion. I guess we break for lunch."
"Now to reanimate little Carter..." | |
If so, then why did they let ME join?
EDIT: Glad everyone liked the premise! I'm currently writing a screenplay about it, and will be sure to keep you guys posted when its finished.
ALSO Some amazing writing here! Make sure to read some of the new submissions as well, they are really good. | [WP] You get a membership to a tiny rundown gym as a present from your eccentric uncle. It takes some time, but you begin to grow suspicious: Is every member here a...super hero? | It was my 18th birthday, and it was already off to a crazy start. I'd gotten a bunch of cards from family, a few presents from my Pops. And a card from Uncle Teddy. I hadn't seen him in several years, and it was just a rule with Uncle Teddy: Even if you think you know where he is, you don't find him, he finds you.
Uncle Teddy used to be in the CIA. The whole family knows, it's the worst kept secret we have. He never talks about it, but we know he's seen some shit. He's got at least two bullet scars that we know of, one through his shoulder and one in his leg. We're pretty sure he was involved in foiling a major bombing in Canada, of all places, and I know for a fact that he's a master pickpocket. He gave me a stern talking to after holding up the small bag of weed he stole from me. He'd somehow lifted it from my zipped, inside jacket pocket while shaking my hand and giving me a hug. He'd even put the zipper back up.
Uncle Teddy retired after a lifetime of service, and opened a small kickboxing gym in Tribeca, of all places. I'd gone by to check it out once, but couldn't get in. We figured he was leveraging his CIA connections and it was open to mostly agents and spooks, because there were no windows or signage, just a door marked 'Teddy's Gym' with a keycard swipe. The envelope from Uncle Teddy contained a fairly generic 'Happy Birthday!', and just such a keycard with the gym name, and a cryptic message: "Lifetime membership. Tell no one. Be polite. No questions."
I was dumbstruck. It was classic Uncle Teddy: Terse, deliberately obtuse, and open to interpretation. Did I just get a lifetime membership to a gym full of secret and not-so-secret agents? Secret Service? Was it going to me and a bunch of old retired spooks? Did 'tell no one' include Pops? Dammit, Teddy. Curiosity was ransacking my brain like Mongols invading Coney Island, a riot of fantasy and wonder. Maybe I was being invited to train as a secret agent! I looked down at my gangly frame, not fully into my father's height or brawn. Or maybe Uncle Teddy just wants to poke me in the ribs like Nana Consuelo does and thinks I could use some more meat on me. I grabbed my gym bag and threw on some pants, I was dying to find out.
I bounced out the door and hiked a couple of blocks up to the A train, which would run me right into lower Manhattan, maybe three or four blocks east of the gym. I probably looked like some kind of junkie, unable to sit still, tapping my feet, glaring impatiently at the signage and the train doors and the people holding up the train. I practically sprinted up to the street when we got to the Chambers Street stop. I got to the top of the stairs and collected myself. Uncle Teddy's warning to 'Be polite' was rattling around in my head. Get it together, Tommy. You don't want to be some goggle eyed kid who irritates everyone by gawking or being nosy. Settle down, be cool. You're an adult now. Adult harder.
It took most of the walk from the train to get my act together, but my nervous excitement was like walking on electrical current. I stood outside the door and stared at my keycard.
I swiped the card, and the door unlocked with an unspectacular buzz. I pulled the handle and stepped inside. I had no idea what to expect, and that was probably a good thing. Just inside the door was a small room, with a small man, sitting behind a small desk. Reading a small book. He looked up at me as I stepped inside, and watched the door as it closed to make sure it latched.
"Can I help you, son?" He had the tone of someone who knows full well he probably isn't going to, since you obviously don't belong there, but he's asking anyway because he's dying to hear what bullshit you've got.
"Uh, h-hello, I'm Tommy, I mean, Thomas. Uncle Teddy gave me a membership for my birthday, I'm here to work out." I held up my access card like it was a shield.
A single eyebrow twitched, the sole change in the man's expression. He looked at me, my card, my gym bag, his eyes the only motion.
"Really." He dogeared the corner of his book, a well worn copy of David Eddings' 'Pawn of Prophecy' and deposited his book in the top drawer. I wanted desperately to know if there was a gun in there. Maybe a sawed off shotgun under the desk. No, wait, that's mobster bullshit, not spy stuff. Right?
"Did 'Uncle Teddy' tell you the rules?" He stood up, not that at it made much difference. He was barely five feet tall, if that. Wiry frame, thinned hairline. Probably retired himself, just like Uncle Teddy. Oh, just like Uncle Teddy. This man can probably kill me without even getting blood on his sweater vest.
I swallowed. "Uh, yes, yes sir. He said, 'Tell no one, be polite, no questions.'"
"Did he." The man inhaled, let it go, like he was toying with a heavy decision. "Teddy's gym, Teddy's rules. If you break them, you answer to Teddy first, and me last. Got it?"
I've never been scared enough that my knees actually shook, but I don't think this guy was even talking to me, anymore. He was speaking directly to any number of pressure points, nerve bundles, each organ individually, and both knees especially. For a guy with such a diminutive stature, he was incredibly intimidating. Maybe that was just my imagination going insane.
"Yes, yessir."
"Follow me, pay attention. I will repeat nothing. Your card opens the front door, nothing else. Beyond this door," he jerked a thumb at the only other exit to the small foyer that was his dragon cave, "there are no other locks. No one here will steal anything, and neither will you." He didn't ask for clarification or if I understood, he simply stated it as obviously as water was wet.
He pulled a keycard of his own from his vest pocket and swiped the reader. The door opened, and I followed him through.
Cool, fresh air hit me in the face. Only then did I realize that I was already sweating. The gym was well equipped, the equipment older but well kept. Treadmills, rowers, cycles, the usual machines. Three of everything, including boxing rings. Speed bags with the best gimbals I'd ever seen, heavy bags with equally heavy chains. Free weights, curling bars, pretty standard gear. In the back of the room, I could see a tumbling floor, a high bar, rings, and balance beam, just like you see in the Olympics.
The small man stopped. He didn't even look at me, he just spoke. "Everything is how you see it. It is that way when you begin working out, it will be that way when you finish." Clean up after myself, got it. He pointed to the doors on either side of the room at the rear. "Locker rooms, rest rooms, and showers are through those doors. Ladies on the left, gents on the right. Everything in there will be as you see it, and will be that way when you finish." He turned back toward his office.
"That's it?" I asked.
He held up a single finger without looking back at me. "That's a question." He shut the door behind him.
Right. No questions. I walked back to the locker rooms, careful not to return the questioning stares I was getting from the handful of people working out. I entered the men's locker room. The guy up front had been right, no locks. No doors, even, just open places to hang stuff up and store things. No name tags on any of them, they must all be general use. I changed into my workout clothes, nothing more complex than basketball shorts and a tee shirt, and was tying my shoes when another man walked in. He set his bag down and we looked at each other for a moment.
"You're new." I felt like this guy was looking through me, not just seeing some gangly teenager, but reading me like a book. His expression wasn't as guarded as the doorman's, but patently curious. He was in pretty good shape, about five-ten, maybe one-sixty, one seventy-five. More of a runner's physique than anything else, dirty blonde hair, well groomed.
"Yes, sir." I wanted to introduce myself, but the guy at the front desk hadn't even given me his name, and I was incredibly unsure of the etiquette here, given Uncle Teddy's 'rules.'
"Which group are you with?" He didn't offer examples. He must mean which government agency.
"Uh, no group, sir." I finished tying my shoes but didn't want to just walk away, that'd be rude.
His eyebrows shot up. I guess I was as unusual as anything else in this place might be.
"So you're a civilian, and you're training here, how?"
"It's my Uncle Teddy's gym, sir. He gave me a membership for my 18th birthday."
Laughter bubbled up from the guy, the nervous sort of noise someone makes when they find out their girlfriend's dad is a superhero, an invulnerable heavy-hitter like Hyperion or unkillable force of justice like Lawbringer. He got it under control quick, but I could see him fighting a grin. "Well, welcome to Teddy's gym. If you have any questions, feel free to ask me first." He placed some emphasis on that last word. "Most of the people who train here are a bit standoffish on a good day, and might not be happy to see a civilian in here."
"Uncle Teddy told me not to ask any questions, sir." I felt like a little kid mistakenly seated at the adult's table.
"Did he? Well, that's probably wise. How much do you know about your Uncle Teddy?"
"I know he's retired CIA, sir. That's probably all I need to know, I suppose."
He mulled that over for a moment. "Yeah, that's a good rule of thumb. Stick with that, you'll be alright. Actually, tell you what, work out with me today, I'll be doing isometrics on the floor. If people see you working out with me, they won't hassle you at all."
Who was this guy?
"Thank you, sir, I appreciate that."
He waved a hand at me, "Call me Zack. Happy to be your wingman today. Any friend of Teddy's, and all that. No shoes on the tumbling floor, leave 'em."
---
Tackled this over lunch, gotta get back to work, I'll dive back in this evening.
[Spoiler](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/344uok/wp_in_a_world_full_of_superpowered_humans_your/cqrr6j6)
| Delbert liked this gym. He'd never noticed it, and probably never would have noticed it, what with the weird way it was situated in the corner of the stripmall. He'd been talking with his boss one day about joining a gym and his boss had given him a card for the gym and, written his name on the back. They had said that they had a waiting list for new members when he'd first walked in, but he'd shown his boss's card and that had been enough to bump him to the top of the list. He guessed that was one of the advantages to working for one of the largest nuclear test labs in the country.
He'd been coming regularly and today he was going to set a new PR, a new personal record. Today was his day. Today was the day he'd been working for, he wasn't just a guy who was great with marketing, today was the day he maxed out the bench press machine at 400 pounds!
Delbert sat down on the bench press. The guy before him had been a huge muscled man, but he hadn't even been benching all that much, just like 350 or so. Today was Delbert's day, though, today he was going to press 400. He'd warmed up earlier, benched a little, did a few other exercises, waited for that rush of energy to hit and he was feeling good right now, baby! He was ready for this!
He reached over and adjusted the weights to 400, the highest it could be set to and positioned his hands. Ok, on the count of 3. 1. 2. Come on, baby, you can do this! 3!
And the weights didn't even budge. They might as well have been bolted to the floor. It was like he was a little child attempting to pick up a whole car, this shouldn't be happening, he should at least be able to rock the plates, what was wrong with him?
And then a large hand entered his vision and he looked over to see the big guy from earlier.
"Hey, hold on a moment, let me adjust those weights for you. I'm really sorry, I had it set on the x4 multiplier, let me crank that back to x1."
The big guy reached down while Delbert's arms went slack and adjusted a lever that Delbert hadn't noticed before.
"Now you got it!" the big guy boomed and Delbert's arms immediately tensed.
Yeah, he did, he had it! As he pushed up at the ceiling, Delbert could feel his pecs and his arms straining, like they were on fire, like they were about to explode, but he was doing it! And as he reached full extension he shouted for joy and the big guy joined in too, "Yeah, yeah, you got it!"
He let the weights drop most of the way so nothing broke then he let his arms drop all the way. The big guy reached down and he reached up and they gave a fist bump. "That's the way, man, you got it, you keep doing you." Then the big guy turned and walked off towards the locker room.
Delbert lay there, thinking about how awesome it was that he'd finally hit his goal, the top plate here, but what was that the guy had said? He looked over at the little lever that he hadn't noticed before. But if that had been set at x4, and the guy had been pushing 350, and the world record for bench presses had been... wait just one minute.
He looked around him, at the exercises that people were doing, all of the "high rep low weight" exercises that he'd thought everyone was doing, but compared it to the size of their muscles and asked himself just how likely it was that nobody seemed to be trying to push their max weight up, especially if all the machines had a little lever like that. And the guy running on the treadmill, or sprinting rather. Just how long had he been keeping that pace up?
Was this, what sort of people were they?
Suddenly he heard a muffled explosion come from the locker room. A moment later a series of clicks came from the front door where the front desk attendant was locking the door and flipping the sign to closed while steel blinds began to roll down from the ceiling over the windows. The big guy came out from the locker room, a sportsbag in his hands, thick black smoke billowing out of the bag, then he threw the bag into the middle of the room.
Industrial fans in the ceiling, the same ones that had always lazily turned and kept the little gym smelling great suddenly kicked up to full power, sucking the smoke up out of the room.
"Doctor Philosopher struck again!" the big guy shouted.
Delbert looked around the room. Nobody else seemed surprised. |
If so, then why did they let ME join?
EDIT: Glad everyone liked the premise! I'm currently writing a screenplay about it, and will be sure to keep you guys posted when its finished.
ALSO Some amazing writing here! Make sure to read some of the new submissions as well, they are really good. | [WP] You get a membership to a tiny rundown gym as a present from your eccentric uncle. It takes some time, but you begin to grow suspicious: Is every member here a...super hero? | It was my 18th birthday, and it was already off to a crazy start. I'd gotten a bunch of cards from family, a few presents from my Pops. And a card from Uncle Teddy. I hadn't seen him in several years, and it was just a rule with Uncle Teddy: Even if you think you know where he is, you don't find him, he finds you.
Uncle Teddy used to be in the CIA. The whole family knows, it's the worst kept secret we have. He never talks about it, but we know he's seen some shit. He's got at least two bullet scars that we know of, one through his shoulder and one in his leg. We're pretty sure he was involved in foiling a major bombing in Canada, of all places, and I know for a fact that he's a master pickpocket. He gave me a stern talking to after holding up the small bag of weed he stole from me. He'd somehow lifted it from my zipped, inside jacket pocket while shaking my hand and giving me a hug. He'd even put the zipper back up.
Uncle Teddy retired after a lifetime of service, and opened a small kickboxing gym in Tribeca, of all places. I'd gone by to check it out once, but couldn't get in. We figured he was leveraging his CIA connections and it was open to mostly agents and spooks, because there were no windows or signage, just a door marked 'Teddy's Gym' with a keycard swipe. The envelope from Uncle Teddy contained a fairly generic 'Happy Birthday!', and just such a keycard with the gym name, and a cryptic message: "Lifetime membership. Tell no one. Be polite. No questions."
I was dumbstruck. It was classic Uncle Teddy: Terse, deliberately obtuse, and open to interpretation. Did I just get a lifetime membership to a gym full of secret and not-so-secret agents? Secret Service? Was it going to me and a bunch of old retired spooks? Did 'tell no one' include Pops? Dammit, Teddy. Curiosity was ransacking my brain like Mongols invading Coney Island, a riot of fantasy and wonder. Maybe I was being invited to train as a secret agent! I looked down at my gangly frame, not fully into my father's height or brawn. Or maybe Uncle Teddy just wants to poke me in the ribs like Nana Consuelo does and thinks I could use some more meat on me. I grabbed my gym bag and threw on some pants, I was dying to find out.
I bounced out the door and hiked a couple of blocks up to the A train, which would run me right into lower Manhattan, maybe three or four blocks east of the gym. I probably looked like some kind of junkie, unable to sit still, tapping my feet, glaring impatiently at the signage and the train doors and the people holding up the train. I practically sprinted up to the street when we got to the Chambers Street stop. I got to the top of the stairs and collected myself. Uncle Teddy's warning to 'Be polite' was rattling around in my head. Get it together, Tommy. You don't want to be some goggle eyed kid who irritates everyone by gawking or being nosy. Settle down, be cool. You're an adult now. Adult harder.
It took most of the walk from the train to get my act together, but my nervous excitement was like walking on electrical current. I stood outside the door and stared at my keycard.
I swiped the card, and the door unlocked with an unspectacular buzz. I pulled the handle and stepped inside. I had no idea what to expect, and that was probably a good thing. Just inside the door was a small room, with a small man, sitting behind a small desk. Reading a small book. He looked up at me as I stepped inside, and watched the door as it closed to make sure it latched.
"Can I help you, son?" He had the tone of someone who knows full well he probably isn't going to, since you obviously don't belong there, but he's asking anyway because he's dying to hear what bullshit you've got.
"Uh, h-hello, I'm Tommy, I mean, Thomas. Uncle Teddy gave me a membership for my birthday, I'm here to work out." I held up my access card like it was a shield.
A single eyebrow twitched, the sole change in the man's expression. He looked at me, my card, my gym bag, his eyes the only motion.
"Really." He dogeared the corner of his book, a well worn copy of David Eddings' 'Pawn of Prophecy' and deposited his book in the top drawer. I wanted desperately to know if there was a gun in there. Maybe a sawed off shotgun under the desk. No, wait, that's mobster bullshit, not spy stuff. Right?
"Did 'Uncle Teddy' tell you the rules?" He stood up, not that at it made much difference. He was barely five feet tall, if that. Wiry frame, thinned hairline. Probably retired himself, just like Uncle Teddy. Oh, just like Uncle Teddy. This man can probably kill me without even getting blood on his sweater vest.
I swallowed. "Uh, yes, yes sir. He said, 'Tell no one, be polite, no questions.'"
"Did he." The man inhaled, let it go, like he was toying with a heavy decision. "Teddy's gym, Teddy's rules. If you break them, you answer to Teddy first, and me last. Got it?"
I've never been scared enough that my knees actually shook, but I don't think this guy was even talking to me, anymore. He was speaking directly to any number of pressure points, nerve bundles, each organ individually, and both knees especially. For a guy with such a diminutive stature, he was incredibly intimidating. Maybe that was just my imagination going insane.
"Yes, yessir."
"Follow me, pay attention. I will repeat nothing. Your card opens the front door, nothing else. Beyond this door," he jerked a thumb at the only other exit to the small foyer that was his dragon cave, "there are no other locks. No one here will steal anything, and neither will you." He didn't ask for clarification or if I understood, he simply stated it as obviously as water was wet.
He pulled a keycard of his own from his vest pocket and swiped the reader. The door opened, and I followed him through.
Cool, fresh air hit me in the face. Only then did I realize that I was already sweating. The gym was well equipped, the equipment older but well kept. Treadmills, rowers, cycles, the usual machines. Three of everything, including boxing rings. Speed bags with the best gimbals I'd ever seen, heavy bags with equally heavy chains. Free weights, curling bars, pretty standard gear. In the back of the room, I could see a tumbling floor, a high bar, rings, and balance beam, just like you see in the Olympics.
The small man stopped. He didn't even look at me, he just spoke. "Everything is how you see it. It is that way when you begin working out, it will be that way when you finish." Clean up after myself, got it. He pointed to the doors on either side of the room at the rear. "Locker rooms, rest rooms, and showers are through those doors. Ladies on the left, gents on the right. Everything in there will be as you see it, and will be that way when you finish." He turned back toward his office.
"That's it?" I asked.
He held up a single finger without looking back at me. "That's a question." He shut the door behind him.
Right. No questions. I walked back to the locker rooms, careful not to return the questioning stares I was getting from the handful of people working out. I entered the men's locker room. The guy up front had been right, no locks. No doors, even, just open places to hang stuff up and store things. No name tags on any of them, they must all be general use. I changed into my workout clothes, nothing more complex than basketball shorts and a tee shirt, and was tying my shoes when another man walked in. He set his bag down and we looked at each other for a moment.
"You're new." I felt like this guy was looking through me, not just seeing some gangly teenager, but reading me like a book. His expression wasn't as guarded as the doorman's, but patently curious. He was in pretty good shape, about five-ten, maybe one-sixty, one seventy-five. More of a runner's physique than anything else, dirty blonde hair, well groomed.
"Yes, sir." I wanted to introduce myself, but the guy at the front desk hadn't even given me his name, and I was incredibly unsure of the etiquette here, given Uncle Teddy's 'rules.'
"Which group are you with?" He didn't offer examples. He must mean which government agency.
"Uh, no group, sir." I finished tying my shoes but didn't want to just walk away, that'd be rude.
His eyebrows shot up. I guess I was as unusual as anything else in this place might be.
"So you're a civilian, and you're training here, how?"
"It's my Uncle Teddy's gym, sir. He gave me a membership for my 18th birthday."
Laughter bubbled up from the guy, the nervous sort of noise someone makes when they find out their girlfriend's dad is a superhero, an invulnerable heavy-hitter like Hyperion or unkillable force of justice like Lawbringer. He got it under control quick, but I could see him fighting a grin. "Well, welcome to Teddy's gym. If you have any questions, feel free to ask me first." He placed some emphasis on that last word. "Most of the people who train here are a bit standoffish on a good day, and might not be happy to see a civilian in here."
"Uncle Teddy told me not to ask any questions, sir." I felt like a little kid mistakenly seated at the adult's table.
"Did he? Well, that's probably wise. How much do you know about your Uncle Teddy?"
"I know he's retired CIA, sir. That's probably all I need to know, I suppose."
He mulled that over for a moment. "Yeah, that's a good rule of thumb. Stick with that, you'll be alright. Actually, tell you what, work out with me today, I'll be doing isometrics on the floor. If people see you working out with me, they won't hassle you at all."
Who was this guy?
"Thank you, sir, I appreciate that."
He waved a hand at me, "Call me Zack. Happy to be your wingman today. Any friend of Teddy's, and all that. No shoes on the tumbling floor, leave 'em."
---
Tackled this over lunch, gotta get back to work, I'll dive back in this evening.
[Spoiler](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/344uok/wp_in_a_world_full_of_superpowered_humans_your/cqrr6j6)
| Nope, definitely not superheroes. Why do you indulge yourself with these flights of fancy Steve? And here you go talking to yourself again," said Steve, wiping away the opening quotation marks as to throw off the reader, "Thats okay, you're surrounded by naked old Eastern European guys, you need the comfort."
Steve left that gym knowing he was not likely to return, as roughly 2/3s of gym membership holders never do. It would be nice to tell people he had a gym membership though, Steve thought, and perhaps that was the true gift his uncle had given him... that explains why the gym was so shitty. |
Idea from Nerdist podcast with Daniel Radcliffe | [WP] Batman hears about a string of crimes in London and heads over to help solve the problem. MI-6 feels this is a security threat and sends in their best agent, 007 to eliminate the threat. Describe James Bond and Bruce Wayne meeting at a Wayne Enterprise fundraiser. | The soirée was in full swing. The sounds of polite banter coupled with the clinking of champagne glasses echoed throughout the large foyer of Mercier castle. The estate was hosting a large gala event to raise funds for the charitable cause of the moment.
In reality the whole party was a cover for a black market auction taking place behind closed doors of the estate. The collective pile of politicians, celebrities and other big names made a good smokescreen but not good enough to throw off MI-6, or a certain detective who’d made a leap across the pond.
An international crime syndicate had been operating relatively under the radar until a shipment of their weapons found its way to Gotham. Shortly thereafter they became the subject of a rather vigorous investigation by a certain caped crusader.
MI-6 on the other hand had been chasing ghosts and rumours until their man had shaken the right tree and found out about this particular event. They had their best man on the job and specifically assigned him the task of taking out a confirmed buyer for the weapons. Bond had read over the dossier numerous times but couldn’t figure out why he had that cold feeling in his gut.
There was something about this Wayne character that didn’t line up. He had almost no criminal ties or relations and despite thorough digging he found very little on the reclusive philanthropist. Despite how he felt, he’d read over the logs and heard the audio. Wayne had been working hard to broker a deal with the syndicate to look over their inventory and see what they had for sale.
Wayne fit the bill of most criminal leadership anyways; reclusive fat cat living in luxury while the world around him went to hell. Bond wondered about the so called Gotham vigilante rumours, and if they ever went after the fat cats on top or just preferred to beat up street thugs. He decided he’d try to get a feel for this Wayne character before making his move.
The two had kept each other in their periphery for most of the evening. You’d never know anything was amiss and to every onlooker this was little more than another party to schmooze with politicians and celebs. The two of them were disguised and distanced from where they felt most natural, the fancy and expensive suits and watches were far from the outfits and gear they lived to work with.
After a rather long winded debate about the nature of crime and where it stems from and a dialogue about the differences between London and Gotham Wayne excused himself from a group of people and went out to a balcony.
Bond still had a cold feeling in his gut but recognized this as his best opportunity, he excused himself from the lovely pair of twins he’d been speaking to - painful though it was to part ways with them. They wore dresses that were beyond flattering and hugged their curves like an Aston Martin with him at the wheel. They were cut in such a way that the designs of one were inverted on the other and there wasn’t a single man at the party who hadn’t noticed them.
Wayne leaned over the railing staring out across the city. He didn’t seem to notice Bond who had shut the door behind him quietly. The party was in full swing and a band had begun to play a rendition of a popular opera in London at present.
Bond gently reached inside his suit jacket and withdrew the pen Q had given him. When the arm of the pen was pulled upwards a dart containing a lethal and fast acting poison would be fired out of the end of it. His thumb moved towards the arm of the pen when Wayne broke the silence.
“That would be a very bad move on your part James.”
Bond was shaken but didn’t stir from his position behind the man. He put the pen back in his jacket and took up a spot beside the man leaning over the railing. Bond defaulted to his usual charm trying to get a read on the situation. Clearly he’d underestimated this character. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure mister?”
“You know who I am, and I know who you are 007.” He hadn’t expected Wayne’s cold and informal tone and there was a roughness to his voice that was discomforting.
“Well, you are full of surprises aren’t you Mr. Wayne.” Bond’s movements would have gone unnoticed by every man at that party save for the one he now stood next to. He’d shifted his weight in preparation of physical combat and his jaw shifted ever so slightly. Wayne didn’t move a millimetre and continued to gaze out across the city.
“We share the same enemy and I have no desire to fight you...” Bond studied carefully the man before him now and he felt that cold thing in his stomach began to writhe and rotate. Suddenly the rich playboy before him who he suspected of being little more than criminal seemed an infinitely more complex creature. His stature far more sculpted from battle than from a personal trainer. His large hands that gripped the railing were far too worn and marked to be that of a soft rich fat cat.
“But if you get in my way I will bury you.” Wayne only moved as he spoke these words and the cold thing that churned inside of Bond’s stomach was tied to how he spoke. When he turned his head he saw the same ferocious and calculating eyes he knew from his own reflection. Worse still for all his time spent at the poker table he knew there was no bluffing to this man.
Questions felt irrelevant at this point. Since their eyes had met everything else seemed to fade. There was no animosity or juvenile bravado, the pair had become acutely aware of how dangerous the other was, and now it was only a question of who would make the first move.
“Well this certainly saves me a trip.” The voice that broke the silence caused both men to snap in its direction.
A tall man with beard and incredibly ornate looking suit was flanked on both sides by the twins from earlier, still dressed to kill and this time with guns to do so.
Bond puzzled over the bizarre scene until Wayne broke the silence.
“R’as”. Wayne growled the name more than spoke it.
| 007: So, how's that shark repellant working out? Personally, I think it takes the edge of my dramatic escapes. Q is a big fan though. |
Idea from Nerdist podcast with Daniel Radcliffe | [WP] Batman hears about a string of crimes in London and heads over to help solve the problem. MI-6 feels this is a security threat and sends in their best agent, 007 to eliminate the threat. Describe James Bond and Bruce Wayne meeting at a Wayne Enterprise fundraiser. | "Excuse me old boy, but I don't believe I've had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. The name's Bond, James Bond."
James held out his right hand, giving Bruce no choice but to shake it. To refuse at your own fundraiser would be nothing short of social defamation.
"Bruce Wayne, nice to meet you sir."
They held each other's gaze as they performed the greeting of gentlemen, neither man wanting to offer his opponent the upper hand. The bustling movement around them in the open expanse, the sound of laughter and violins and clinking glasses, faded into nothingness.
"So, Bruce - you don't mind if I call you Bruce, do you? - what do you make of London so far? It's always interesting to hear the thoughts of a man who's new to these shores. Especially a chap who's here for...*business*. To see the city through new eyes, get a new take on the ol' girl."
Bruce chose not to answer right away. Instead, he lifted the glass tumbler to his lips and took a large mouthful of Old Parr whisky, before letting out a sigh etched with satisfaction and exhaustion.
"Well, Mr Bond, I have to say it's an amazing place. So old and grand, you know. You Brits really have got that history stuff nailed, with all your museums and ancient buildings and funny street names. But that's all just a front, isn't it? Just the surface. As soon as you dig a little deeper, you soon see the stinking corruption that's at the heart of this place. A society run by elites, for elites, with no care about the people at the bottom. And that, I don't like. So that's what I make of London, Mr Bond."
Everything around them turned to ice as the atmosphere became colder. Bruce held his now empty glass tightly as the pressure set in. He was not a man used to being on edge. Whether he was Wayne or Batman, he was normally in control of his situation, his surroundings - his next move. But on this occasion he knew he was dealing with someone different. In his eyes, Bond resembled a frozen lake - calm and serene on the outside, but with hidden depths that could drown you in an instant. A cold death was never far away.
"I see, that's a shame my dear boy, it truly is. But it seems that it can't be helped."
Bruce felt his adrenaline start flowing as James reached a hand inside his suit jacket. He gripped the tumbler even more, getting ready to connect it with his new acquaintance's head. To his relief, it wasn't a gun that Bond was reaching for - but an e-cigarette. He put it to his mouth and inhaled for a few seconds, before breathing out. The fragrant 'smoke' filled the air, attracting more than a few quizzical glances.
"I know, not quite the same, is it? Rather ruins the look. But needs must and all that," said James, before repeating the action. "Does the trick anyway."
Bruce found the whole situation somewhat farcical. Here was the world's most famous spy - a spy who didn't even bother to hide his identity - stood before him 'smoking' with an e-cig. He felt relaxed now, confident that he had nothing to fear from this man. Confident that, when the time came, he'd be able to defeat him.
However, the confidence soon transformed itself into something altogether different. Bruce felt the light becoming harsher, the noise becoming sharper. His senses were on fire, making him unable to focus, while his legs started to ache and buckle. He heard the glass tumbler smash on the floor as his hand lost its ability to hold it. The painful sound almost broke him as he fell, trying in vain to support himself on one knee.
"What...what have you done to me...?"
Bond stood above him, as tall as a mountain. He was just a blur in Wayne's eyes now.
"Well, like I said Bruce old boy, it does the trick."
Those were the last words he heard before everything turned to black.
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*I'd love to hear what you thought about my response to the prompt. If you have some feedback about the idea or any aspect of my writing, please do let me know :)* | 007: So, how's that shark repellant working out? Personally, I think it takes the edge of my dramatic escapes. Q is a big fan though. |
Idea from Nerdist podcast with Daniel Radcliffe | [WP] Batman hears about a string of crimes in London and heads over to help solve the problem. MI-6 feels this is a security threat and sends in their best agent, 007 to eliminate the threat. Describe James Bond and Bruce Wayne meeting at a Wayne Enterprise fundraiser. | "Bond. James Bond."
Bruce Wayne smiled as he examined the man in the tuxedo.
"I suspect we share the same tailor Mr. Bond."
"I thought I recognized the style," replied Bond. "Do you shop at Huntsman often, Mr. Wayne?"
"I did drop in the day of my arrival here," Wayne shrugged. "My butler wouldn't take me anywhere else."
"Interesting. Your man must be well acquainted with London."
"He's from around these parts," Wayne drawled. "So how is business these days?"
"Hectic. Traveling, shooting in and out of hot spots." Bond's lips quirked into a tiny smile. "Surely a man like you knows what that's like."
"Oh I don't shoot. I like to hang around where I can. Take in the night life."
"Don't get enough of that at home, Mr. Wayne?"
"In Gotham? Not nearly enough. It's dangerous to go out at night. Criminals and loonies everywhere."
"Speaking of loonies, what do you make of this Bat they talk about?"
"Heh. That's usually the first question every Gothamite gets asked when out of town. And let me tell you, that thing is a myth."
"There are rumors that this 'myth' is alive and wreaking terror in London as we speak. An odd coincidence, don't you think, with so many citizens of Gotham in town for this fundraiser." Bond's eyes narrowed marginally as he went on. "A gala event sponsored by Wayne Enterprises, whose subsidiary WayneTech produced weapons technologies and surveillance platforms that appear linked to certain vigilantes."
"You shouldn't believe in rumors and myth, Mr. Bond. Bad for a man in your line of business."
Bond slowly shook his head. "I never quite got around to telling you about my business."
Bruce Wayne nodded in acknowledgment. "A man who goes around visiting certain hot spots and using the same name tends to stand out. Especially when those spots get hotter. Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Bond."
"And you are much better informed than I had assumed, Mr. Wayne."
"I tend to take notice when MI5 attempts to hack into WayneTech's secure terminals."
Bond chewed over his words carefully. "As long as we're being candid. Our Quarter Master was looking for schematics of weapons bearing the WayneTech logo that were discovered at the scene where Batman was last seen."
"Those weapons were prototypes stolen from a company warehouse by an arms dealer named Cobblepot. He may be trying to sell them on the European black market. If you look into it, you'll find that this man has a history of psychotic behavior and has claimed to have encountered a 'Batman' on several occasions."
"So if I go after this Cobblepot, I'll run into the Batman."
"If he's real, I expect you might," Wayne replied with a breezy smile. "Don't let that scare you."
"It won't. Goodnight Mr. Wayne."
"Goodbye, Mr. Bond."
| 007: So, how's that shark repellant working out? Personally, I think it takes the edge of my dramatic escapes. Q is a big fan though. |
Idea from Nerdist podcast with Daniel Radcliffe | [WP] Batman hears about a string of crimes in London and heads over to help solve the problem. MI-6 feels this is a security threat and sends in their best agent, 007 to eliminate the threat. Describe James Bond and Bruce Wayne meeting at a Wayne Enterprise fundraiser. | "Bond. James Bond."
Bruce Wayne smiled as he examined the man in the tuxedo.
"I suspect we share the same tailor Mr. Bond."
"I thought I recognized the style," replied Bond. "Do you shop at Huntsman often, Mr. Wayne?"
"I did drop in the day of my arrival here," Wayne shrugged. "My butler wouldn't take me anywhere else."
"Interesting. Your man must be well acquainted with London."
"He's from around these parts," Wayne drawled. "So how is business these days?"
"Hectic. Traveling, shooting in and out of hot spots." Bond's lips quirked into a tiny smile. "Surely a man like you knows what that's like."
"Oh I don't shoot. I like to hang around where I can. Take in the night life."
"Don't get enough of that at home, Mr. Wayne?"
"In Gotham? Not nearly enough. It's dangerous to go out at night. Criminals and loonies everywhere."
"Speaking of loonies, what do you make of this Bat they talk about?"
"Heh. That's usually the first question every Gothamite gets asked when out of town. And let me tell you, that thing is a myth."
"There are rumors that this 'myth' is alive and wreaking terror in London as we speak. An odd coincidence, don't you think, with so many citizens of Gotham in town for this fundraiser." Bond's eyes narrowed marginally as he went on. "A gala event sponsored by Wayne Enterprises, whose subsidiary WayneTech produced weapons technologies and surveillance platforms that appear linked to certain vigilantes."
"You shouldn't believe in rumors and myth, Mr. Bond. Bad for a man in your line of business."
Bond slowly shook his head. "I never quite got around to telling you about my business."
Bruce Wayne nodded in acknowledgment. "A man who goes around visiting certain hot spots and using the same name tends to stand out. Especially when those spots get hotter. Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Bond."
"And you are much better informed than I had assumed, Mr. Wayne."
"I tend to take notice when MI5 attempts to hack into WayneTech's secure terminals."
Bond chewed over his words carefully. "As long as we're being candid. Our Quarter Master was looking for schematics of weapons bearing the WayneTech logo that were discovered at the scene where Batman was last seen."
"Those weapons were prototypes stolen from a company warehouse by an arms dealer named Cobblepot. He may be trying to sell them on the European black market. If you look into it, you'll find that this man has a history of psychotic behavior and has claimed to have encountered a 'Batman' on several occasions."
"So if I go after this Cobblepot, I'll run into the Batman."
"If he's real, I expect you might," Wayne replied with a breezy smile. "Don't let that scare you."
"It won't. Goodnight Mr. Wayne."
"Goodbye, Mr. Bond."
| "Excuse me old boy, but I don't believe I've had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. The name's Bond, James Bond."
James held out his right hand, giving Bruce no choice but to shake it. To refuse at your own fundraiser would be nothing short of social defamation.
"Bruce Wayne, nice to meet you sir."
They held each other's gaze as they performed the greeting of gentlemen, neither man wanting to offer his opponent the upper hand. The bustling movement around them in the open expanse, the sound of laughter and violins and clinking glasses, faded into nothingness.
"So, Bruce - you don't mind if I call you Bruce, do you? - what do you make of London so far? It's always interesting to hear the thoughts of a man who's new to these shores. Especially a chap who's here for...*business*. To see the city through new eyes, get a new take on the ol' girl."
Bruce chose not to answer right away. Instead, he lifted the glass tumbler to his lips and took a large mouthful of Old Parr whisky, before letting out a sigh etched with satisfaction and exhaustion.
"Well, Mr Bond, I have to say it's an amazing place. So old and grand, you know. You Brits really have got that history stuff nailed, with all your museums and ancient buildings and funny street names. But that's all just a front, isn't it? Just the surface. As soon as you dig a little deeper, you soon see the stinking corruption that's at the heart of this place. A society run by elites, for elites, with no care about the people at the bottom. And that, I don't like. So that's what I make of London, Mr Bond."
Everything around them turned to ice as the atmosphere became colder. Bruce held his now empty glass tightly as the pressure set in. He was not a man used to being on edge. Whether he was Wayne or Batman, he was normally in control of his situation, his surroundings - his next move. But on this occasion he knew he was dealing with someone different. In his eyes, Bond resembled a frozen lake - calm and serene on the outside, but with hidden depths that could drown you in an instant. A cold death was never far away.
"I see, that's a shame my dear boy, it truly is. But it seems that it can't be helped."
Bruce felt his adrenaline start flowing as James reached a hand inside his suit jacket. He gripped the tumbler even more, getting ready to connect it with his new acquaintance's head. To his relief, it wasn't a gun that Bond was reaching for - but an e-cigarette. He put it to his mouth and inhaled for a few seconds, before breathing out. The fragrant 'smoke' filled the air, attracting more than a few quizzical glances.
"I know, not quite the same, is it? Rather ruins the look. But needs must and all that," said James, before repeating the action. "Does the trick anyway."
Bruce found the whole situation somewhat farcical. Here was the world's most famous spy - a spy who didn't even bother to hide his identity - stood before him 'smoking' with an e-cig. He felt relaxed now, confident that he had nothing to fear from this man. Confident that, when the time came, he'd be able to defeat him.
However, the confidence soon transformed itself into something altogether different. Bruce felt the light becoming harsher, the noise becoming sharper. His senses were on fire, making him unable to focus, while his legs started to ache and buckle. He heard the glass tumbler smash on the floor as his hand lost its ability to hold it. The painful sound almost broke him as he fell, trying in vain to support himself on one knee.
"What...what have you done to me...?"
Bond stood above him, as tall as a mountain. He was just a blur in Wayne's eyes now.
"Well, like I said Bruce old boy, it does the trick."
Those were the last words he heard before everything turned to black.
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*I'd love to hear what you thought about my response to the prompt. If you have some feedback about the idea or any aspect of my writing, please do let me know :)* |
This could be as spontaneous as you want. I particularly want to be surprised. | [WP]Rewrite your favorite children's book with a twist that changes the theme completely | They're two, they're four, they're six, they're eight,
shunting trucks and hauling freight.
Red and green and brown and blue,
they're the Really Useful Crew.
All with different roles to play,
round Tidmoth Sheds or far away.
Down the hills and round the bends,
Thomas and his friends.
Thomas, he's the cheeky one.
James is vain but lots of fun.
Percy pulls the mail on time.
Gordon thunders down the line.
Emily really knows her stuff.
Henry toots and huffs and puffs.
Edward suffers from crippling depression and has made plans to purposely derail near pedestrians so he can have one last despicable act on his name and end his miserable existence while his mental instability failed to suppress his suicidal and sadistic tendencies.
Toby, well let's just say, he's square! | The Big Bad Wolf worked for the bank, and he had to evict the pigs who were delinquent on their mortgages.
The first little pig lived in a small condo downtown. "little pig little pig, this is your eviction notice! pack your things and go!"
"not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin!" called out the pig.
so the wolf called the cops, they evicted him, and put his stuff on the curb. the little pig left to go live with his brother.
the next little pig lived in a townhouse. the big bad wolf said "little pig little pig, this is your eviction notice! pack your things and go!"
but the pig and his brother who was evicted from the condo said "not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin!"
so the wolf called the cops, they evicted him, and put his stuff on the curb. both the unemployed deadbeat pigs went to live with their other brother.
But the third little pig had a nice brick house, with a 40-year mortgage and he always paid on time. when the wolf stopped by with the follow-up paperwork for his brothers, he just sighed and shook his head. at least he had a job for now.
|
[WP] Everyone's afraid of the dark. Make me afraid of the light. | # FRÄULEIN
We were safer in the dark,
That's what father always said.
He said the men who looked for us,
Would only want us dead.
.
"But why?" I used to ask him.
My little face confused.
"Because my little mausebär-
They're hunting for us Jews"
.
And soon, soon after that,
They stilled my childish play,
The men of squeaky black boots,
Had come for us that day.
.
Papa held me closer,
He told me "Don't be scared"
He tugged upon that cursed star,
That I was forced to wear.
.
Soon the girls who hid us,
Hit the ground above our heads,
I didn't want to hear them cry,
Or hear them as they bled.
.
And so I covered my ears,
As I heard them lose their fight,
And I prayed so very hard
That I wouldn't see the light.
| People talk of the darkness with a shiver in their voice. You can't see what's coming. You're vulnerable. Lost in a void.
They're overlooking something. Whatever lurks in darkness has weakness. It needs the element of surprise. It is scared of failure.
Whatever the light brings has no weakness. It is confident in what it does. What it will do. You will see it coming and be helpless to stop it.
People talk of the warmth that light brings. Be careful you don't get burnt. | |
[WP] The Zombie Apocalypse is on its 3rd week. You expected them to be dangerous but you never expected them to be able to talk. | The first week was a nightmare. People shambling everywhere, random bite attacks, people turning. We had settled into a routine by the third week.
"Let me in," she said, banging on the door weakly. "James, I know you're in there, you bastard! Let me iiiiiin! I'm huuuuungryy!"
...No-one expected them to be able to communicate.
* * * * * * *
This went out on international television. The first Human/Undead Accord. But it all started with one person - James "Sconner" Smith. He heard his then-deceased girlfriend talk.
* * * * * * *
James let her in. She sat down, then saw the dog laying on the floor. She was hungry, and she *knew* it was wrong, but she torw in to the dog's head like it was the last Cerme Egg at Easter time.
James tried not to retch; fortunately, he was used to seeing such horrors on the screen, being a big fan of the George Romero *of the Dead* films form the '70s.
* * * * * * * * *
So, now, in the year 2066, we have two Presidents - one for the living population, and one for the dead population. Those who wish to go over ot the dead population can volunteer to be infected. THey are then transported to a hospice.
Really, the only difference between the two types of people now is the smell. Dead children go to school together, and there's an entire Brain Market down in central Manchester.
We're kind of used to it, but now Grampa James gets us to visit him in Shady Plots nursing home. He went there after he was diagnosed with a terminal ganglioma. There's even a Zolympics starting next year.
Life is good. And so is death.
As for me? I'm going to college in a Zombie town as part of an exchange, now that the airborne contagion is gone. I'll be studying zombie medicine. | He was staring at me, and I knew those eyes - I knew that face. The eyes of my best friend, my partner and my companion through life. He had disappeared three weeks ago at the beginning of the infection spreading. I had never thought he’d be alive, though in all reality I knew he wasn’t. They were mindless beings, drawn to the places they knew in life, but dead by any other meaningful feature.
I rolled my chair through to the kitchen and brought out my pistol. He was slow enough that I wouldn’t have to kill him yet. I stared at the table, the slow groans resonating as he stepped forward and followed me to where I sat. He stared at me and he pulled out the chair opposite, before seating himself as he might at the end of an exasperated day.
His arm reached out towards mine, and I flinched away, tightening my grip on the gun.
“You don’t need to be afraid.” He said.
I stared at him. I’d only seen rumours of them speaking. Echoes of their former selves. His hand slowly brushed against mine, and I made eye contact with him. Their skin didn’t rot, their bodies didn’t decay, they moved and breathed and… they talked.
“I thought you were dead.” I whispered.
“Not when I still have you to look after.”
“I don’t need looking after.” I rolled my eyes, “I’m a full grown human, you know?”
He laughed. “I’ve missed you while I wandered the past few days.”
“Are you here for me to kill you?”
“I’m here to tell you I love you.”
“Then…” I gestured at the pistol.
“Only if I get hungry.” He stood up and walked to the kettle. I tightened my grip on the gun.
I glanced at his legs, there were deep bite marks on his jeans; blood had seeped through and now clung dry to the fabric. It explained his slow walking at least. I watched him as he made my tea as I liked it. He made the jokes he always did, he spoke as he always would. His hands felt warm to my touch.
“I must go.” He finally said.
“You will kill people.” I told him.
“I will eat other people like me.” He said. “I’ve seen the news. We are not considered people.”
I grabbed his hand before he left, pulled him down to kiss me. I reached for the pistol and pulled it to his head. He pulled away slightly.
“I love you.” He whispered, I could see a tear forming in his eye.
My heart felt heavy as my hand lay on the trigger. My memories of life with him flashed before my eyes. I knew it was wrong, but I let him go. I didn’t see him again for another month. Part of me had hoped that he’d been killed, another part had hoped that those he killed had been those who wouldn’t be missed, and deep down there was a part of me that wished beyond my wildest dreams that he had done whatever it had taken to come back to me. At the time I never felt like that made me a bad person, but then I didn’t know what I did now. | |
[WP] A man is determined to make a PB&J sandwich. However, everything seems to be conspiring against him. | The cupboards were all but empty. Nothing left but half a loaf of bread and a couple of crumb-ridden jars of peanut butter and jelly.
"Well, joke's on her," thought Michael, as another twang of pain pulled at his heart. Sara may have left him, taking nearly everything that they'd once shared, including most items from their last grocery shopping trip, but she'd left behind the first step to his emotional recovery. For 10 years, Michael had reacted to every breakup the exact same way. Wake up at 2pm the day after, cry for 30 minutes, and then bask in his first meal as a freshly single man -- a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, toasted to a light golden brown. No adult problems could compete with a joy of a childhood treat.
He never told his partners about the sandwiches, and that's why they always left the bread behind. He hoped the leftover bread would be the soft and pillowy white Wonderbread that toasted so evenly in his decrepit toaster oven.
Dang it, low-carb multigrain. Sara had been on a health kick, and Michael hated the birdseed crusted stuff she'd insisted on buying. Oh well, he'd have to make do; he was in no emotional state for a trip to the store. He pulled the half-loaf off of the shelf and untwisted the bag. Mold. Had she gone no-carb without him noticing? Probably. He'd stopped really paying attention weeks ago.
Better press on. Michael selected two less moldy slices and gingerly picked out the green spots with two fingers, reasoning "it's all penicillin anyway." The slices looked like swiss cheese, but they would have to do. He pulled the jar of peanut butter off the shelf and untwisted the cap. Organic almond butter? Michael stared at his reflection in the puddle of oil, wondering when he had stopped advocating for the chemical-infused chunky Skippy that he preferred. He'd never started a breakup with an almond butter and jelly sandwich, but he'd have to make do. The gritty paste barely spread across the pock-marked bread, but it was good enough. He'd carry on.
The jelly situation was equally disheartening. Organic raspberry?! He'd always hated the seeds. Grape was his favorite, but Sara didn't approve of Smuckers' preservatives. He should have known it would end with seeds.
Whatever. He slathered on a layer of goopy red muck and slapped the two halves together. What a mess. With a sigh, he stuffed the sandwich into the toaster oven and turned the knob halfway.
Five minutes later, no dice. Had the toaster oven really chosen today to break down completely? The coils lay cold and gray, much like his now oozing sandwich. With one last harumph, Michael unplugged the beast and plugged it back in, and ratcheted the dial up to level 10, ultimate crisp.
He took a step back and BOOM! The coils burst into flames, and jelly dripped from the swiss cheese bread holes as the crust began to spark. Within seconds, the whole damn sandwich was engulfed in flames. Michael grabbed his kitchen fire extinguisher and sprayed foam over the toaster oven (and most of his kitchen, to boot). He stared at the mess as the extinguisher slipped from his hands and clattered on the linoleum. He slid to the floor and sat there, hungry and sad. He was defeated.
There would be other women. He would eat more sandwiches. But not today. | Jacob finished scanning the page he was on and upon turning to the next, to his horror, found it was filled almost entirely with desserts, drinks, options for children and a few other nonsense items he couldn't order right now. Jacob was panicing now, Ben had just ordered, Cynthia was next, then him. He thumbed back through the pages hoping he had missed something but nothing was right and he found himself right back on the last page of worthless desserts, drinks, and childrens items. Something caught his eye, something spoke to him, 'what was that?' he scanned... There, on the page, staring up at him from the childrens section was an animation of a smiling peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It had a stupid smirk on it's face as though it were taunting him with the knowledge of how embarrassing it would be to order something like that here, at this meeting, with these people. His turn came and went, he settled on something like a cheeseburger and left most of it on the plate, attributing his lack of appetite to sickness and using the excuse to leave early and go directly to the supermarket.
He entered the market in somewhat of a ravenous state, determined to make and consume the obsession that had manifested itself within him. He snatched a cart, ignoring the fact that 3 of the four wheels seemed to be sliding rather than rolling, and headed straight for the bread. He wasn't sure what had struck him but he knew he needed this sandwich to be just right, every single aspect of it needed to be perfect. He rounded the corner of the aisle, on verge of concluding an epic internal debate regarding wheat and white with white nearing victory, only to find a line of completely empty shelves where the bread would typically be.
"What the hell is going on here?" He asked a passing stock boy.
"Oh, sorry sir, you must not have heard. We're moving to a better location, today is our last day of operation here. We've already transported most of the easily expendible items, I assume you were loo..."
"Where is the new location?!?" interrupted Jacob, he had no time for this nonsense.
"No fear my friend, only six miles up the road, just inside the city!"
Jacob stared daggers at his new nemesis and almost laughed in disbelief, thinking this kid must be playing some kind of prank. While six miles wasn't much, the current time was 5:15 in the afternoon. This would put Jacob in the middle of an even worse traffic nightmare than he was already doomed to face if he braved going into the city right now; in those circumstances he wouldn't be eating until at least 7:30 and that was simply unacceptable. Jacob snapped back to reality with the realization that there were obviously other convenient places to get bread and made a bee line for the peanut butter section. He was almost certain he already had some at the house but was definitely not going to risk it.
Lady luck and Mr. Peanut himself had Jacob's back this time as he rounded the corner and found a perfectly arranged, untouched, beautiful, head-to-toe selection of peanut butters resting on the edge of every only an arms length away. He had spent twenty of the forty minute commute to the store debating crunchy or smooth peanut butter and ten more deciding between extra crunchy or regular. He now found himself searching for the triumphant winner of this internal struggle: extra crunchy peanut butter. He paced slowly up the aisle, looking from shelf to shelf, making sure not to miss a single option, and couldn't help but to think that there seemed to be an unusually larger than normal selection of peanut butter especially considering that the store was closing later that very day. As he pondered this he suddenly came upon an unmistakably clear gap in the wall of peanut butter immediately after the 'crunchy' section concluded. To his dismay, 'extra crunchy' in every brand seemed to be mysteriously missing.
Jacob's jaw had already dropped and for a moment he developed a mental image of himself pushing the entire shelf over and spin-throwing his cart hammer-throw style only to realize there wasn't enough space for him to make a full circle so he decided against it. Instead he snatched some regular crunchy peanut butter and begrudgingly raced to the jellys. Jelly was easy and, although he had still spent the remaining ten minutes of his commute internally debating it, he had known all along that he would be putting both grape and strawberry jelly on the sandwich. Jacob knew it was a bit unorthodox but this sandwich was calling to him from the future and he knew only that he must create it and consume it.
The jelly pick-up went up without a hitch and approximately forty-five seconds later Jacob found himself headed to the parking lot. As Jacob approached his car he could tell that something was wrong as it appeared to leaning in one direction. For one reason or another the fact that both tires on the passenger side were flat didn't seem to bother him, in fact, at this point he had grown mad with determination and was convinced that an unknowable force was preventing him from this sandwich that he could only explain as his destiny. He called both a tow service as well as a taxi and then began changing the flat rear tire with the still functional front driver's side in case the tow truck arrived first and wasn't a flat bed. Although Jacob was now thinking ahead and refused to let the demons against him stand in the way of his glory, his efforts were fruitless since a taxi arrived first.
A seemingly eternal amount of time seemed to pass as Jacob sat helplessly in the back seat of the taxi. He had cancelled his tow service and was now only concerend with whether or not to toast his bread and, if so, what setting on the toaster he should use. As the cab pulled out of his driveway and away he settled on a comfortable five for his toast setting which would leave his white bread very lighlty browned with a subtly crisp to it. 'Or was it wheat bread?' he thought. Then, as the tail lights from the cab disappeared beyond sight he realized to his horror that he had forgotten to get bread. He stared expressionless where the taxi had just been, trying to will it back into existence. Jacob's defeated trance broke and he pulled out his cell phone to call the taxi service and request the driver back. The phone began to dial but unexpectedly went black. Jacob held it to his ear but heard nothing; he returned his eyes to the screen, hit the center button and then held down the power button until the ruthless image of a battery appeared indicating the device was dead.
Jacob stormed in the house and tore open the bread cubbard, daring it to be empty. The kitchen filled with his booming laughter as he found several bread bags, one of which he was certain would contain the tools he required. As he dug through each bag he found a disappointing assortment of stale bread ends or moldy, inedible slices. Abandoning his early premise of the necessity of perfection he settled on the bread ends and stuck them in the toaster while he went for a plate, knife and opened his ingredients. A series of over reactions consecutively took place as Jacob first found no clean plates, followed with no paper towels, an inexplicable absense of every single knife in the house, and lastly, a force tightly bound around the lids of his ingredient jars that he struggled to finally defeat.
While Jacob was tring to decide if his finger, a carrot peeler or a spoon would spread his ingredients most effectively a burning smell entered his nostrils followed with the sound of sparks. The toaster has caught fire and luck extended itself only far enough to prevent Jacob from being electrocuted as he poured water on the still plugged in unit to prevent the blaze from spreading. Jacob, not even considering the electrocution, thought only of his ruined bread and immediately returned to the bags to see what he could salvage.
Upon finding no bread of worth Jacob, for the first time, lost complete control and began tearing apart every available space the kitchen had in search for bread he knew he would not find. He ripped open his refrigerator and was already prepared to slam the door and tip the entire unit over when he suddenly froze as something caught his eye. There, on the center shelf, completely alone, was a rectangular-shaped something wrapped in white butcher paper with the unmistakable bold faced letters "PBJ" printed directly in the center.
Without the slightest care as to where it had come from Jacob carefully removed the package and placed it on the table as he sat down in front of it. He stared admiringly for a moment, afraid it would disappear if he shut his eyes and fearing more it would contain disappointment if he opened it. Jacob mustered up the courage and carefully unwrapped the mysterious package to behold the treat that now lay before him. Jacob was now staring at a beautful, untoasted wheat-bread, non-crunchy peanut butter, rasberry jelly sandwich and his satisfaction could not have been more complete. It was nothing as he had imagined but everything he had hoped for and he could only stare and appreciate it's greatness.
After a fair amount of awe and appreciation, Jacob picked up the sandwich and took an enormous bite, devouring over half of it with a single blow. The Peanut butter was thick and the mouth wateringly fresh bread seemed to absorb every molecule of salivia in his mouth. Jacob was enjoying it immensly and, ready for another bite, attempted an early swallow but found a problem; Jacob had literally bit off more than he could chew and, to his surprise, was now choking. Jacob began to panic and keeled over onto the floor knocking the sandwich down with him as he went. He lay staring at his beauty as the light faded, wishing only that he had been able to finish. | |
[WP] A man is determined to make a PB&J sandwich. However, everything seems to be conspiring against him. | Sean unlocked the door and dashed into his small apartment, ravenous for lunch.
Sean wanted a peanut butter and jelly sandwich--superior to any simple snack from Subway. He dreamed of the perfect sandwich, one in which smashed strawberries and pureed peanuts mingled in perfect harmony.
Racing to the fridge, Sean pulled out two familiar jars, setting them on the counter with a practiced hand. He swiveled downward to yank open a drawer, which squeaked in protest, retrieving a worn wooden cutting board. He then stood up once more, and grabbed a butter knife and a spoon.
It was always a knife and a spoon. It was always peanut butter and jelly. Sean had to do things correctly.
Grabbing a partial loaf of packaged whole-grain bread from the counter and deftly untying the knotted plastic bag, Sean realized he was down to three pieces: a spongy slice and two slightly squished heels.
"I'll have to buy some more this afternoon," he thought as he slapped the two heels down onto the counter.
He unscrewed the jar of peanut butter and smeared it on one of the pieces. He then took the spoon, scooped out a sizable glob of gelatinous jelly, and smashed it onto the other slice.
Smacking his lips in delight, Sean took a bite.
"Fuck," said Sean, gagging, and set the sandwich down with controlled rage.
He opened the fridge once more and peered inside. In it sat the jar of peanut butter, unscathed and undisturbed.
Sniffing his horrid creation, Sean's lips puckered in disgust.
"Hummus," he said, and threw the sandwich in the garbage.
He put the jar of chickpea sludge back in the fridge, far away from where he stored his peanut butter.
"Who even puts hummus in jars?" he muttered to himself. "Probably one of Shauna's hipster things...like that damn boxed water..." he continued as he fetched the bread bag...and froze.
There was only one slice left. A sandwich needed two pieces...he'd need more bread...
Sean dashed out of his apartment, nearly forgetting to lock the door behind him. Seeing no traffic, he galloped furiously down his street towards the corner store, each second stretching an eternity, each second before he could wrap his lips around a well-crafted PB&J.
At the last second, he saw the car coming his way, and threw himself towards the sidewalk.
Sean woke up in a hospital bed. A clock to his right read 7:00. His arm hurt. So did his leg. So did his head.
So did his stomach. Sean was very hungry.
A nurse walked into the room. "Ah, you've woken up! I need to check on a few things, so if you'll--"
Sean cut her off. His stomach growled. "Excuse me," he said, valiantly attempting to sound sane. "I'd like a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich."
"Uh...okay," the nurse said. "I'll bring one up from the cafeteria."
"You were really lucky," she said. "It looks like nothing's broken or sprained. Just a few bruises and scratches, and of course you passed out from the shock."
"Good," said Sean, "but I'd really like that sandwich."
After a long five minutes, the nurse came back with a plastic-wrapped sandwich. "Here you go," she said.
"Thank you," said Sean. He unwrapped the sandwich and bit in.
"No!" he exclaimed and threw the sandwich to the ground.
The sandwich was *wrong*. Raspberry jelly? Ridiculous! And the white bread tasted like styrofoam. Sean needed a real sandwich.
"Excuse me," he said, and dashed out of the room.
After several bus rides and a fruitless visit to a now-closed supermarket, Sean limped through the door of his house.
His girlfriend was inside. "Sean!" she exclaimed, noticing his bandaged arm. "Where have you been? You left your phone here--I didn't know where you were!"
"It's a long story, Shauna," said Sean. "I just wanted a PB&J sandwich."
"Why didn't you make one?" she asked, bewildered.
"I tried. There was only one slice of bread. I couldn't make a sandwich."
"Why didn't you fold it over?"
Sean's eyes widened and he fell to the floor. | Jacob finished scanning the page he was on and upon turning to the next, to his horror, found it was filled almost entirely with desserts, drinks, options for children and a few other nonsense items he couldn't order right now. Jacob was panicing now, Ben had just ordered, Cynthia was next, then him. He thumbed back through the pages hoping he had missed something but nothing was right and he found himself right back on the last page of worthless desserts, drinks, and childrens items. Something caught his eye, something spoke to him, 'what was that?' he scanned... There, on the page, staring up at him from the childrens section was an animation of a smiling peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It had a stupid smirk on it's face as though it were taunting him with the knowledge of how embarrassing it would be to order something like that here, at this meeting, with these people. His turn came and went, he settled on something like a cheeseburger and left most of it on the plate, attributing his lack of appetite to sickness and using the excuse to leave early and go directly to the supermarket.
He entered the market in somewhat of a ravenous state, determined to make and consume the obsession that had manifested itself within him. He snatched a cart, ignoring the fact that 3 of the four wheels seemed to be sliding rather than rolling, and headed straight for the bread. He wasn't sure what had struck him but he knew he needed this sandwich to be just right, every single aspect of it needed to be perfect. He rounded the corner of the aisle, on verge of concluding an epic internal debate regarding wheat and white with white nearing victory, only to find a line of completely empty shelves where the bread would typically be.
"What the hell is going on here?" He asked a passing stock boy.
"Oh, sorry sir, you must not have heard. We're moving to a better location, today is our last day of operation here. We've already transported most of the easily expendible items, I assume you were loo..."
"Where is the new location?!?" interrupted Jacob, he had no time for this nonsense.
"No fear my friend, only six miles up the road, just inside the city!"
Jacob stared daggers at his new nemesis and almost laughed in disbelief, thinking this kid must be playing some kind of prank. While six miles wasn't much, the current time was 5:15 in the afternoon. This would put Jacob in the middle of an even worse traffic nightmare than he was already doomed to face if he braved going into the city right now; in those circumstances he wouldn't be eating until at least 7:30 and that was simply unacceptable. Jacob snapped back to reality with the realization that there were obviously other convenient places to get bread and made a bee line for the peanut butter section. He was almost certain he already had some at the house but was definitely not going to risk it.
Lady luck and Mr. Peanut himself had Jacob's back this time as he rounded the corner and found a perfectly arranged, untouched, beautiful, head-to-toe selection of peanut butters resting on the edge of every only an arms length away. He had spent twenty of the forty minute commute to the store debating crunchy or smooth peanut butter and ten more deciding between extra crunchy or regular. He now found himself searching for the triumphant winner of this internal struggle: extra crunchy peanut butter. He paced slowly up the aisle, looking from shelf to shelf, making sure not to miss a single option, and couldn't help but to think that there seemed to be an unusually larger than normal selection of peanut butter especially considering that the store was closing later that very day. As he pondered this he suddenly came upon an unmistakably clear gap in the wall of peanut butter immediately after the 'crunchy' section concluded. To his dismay, 'extra crunchy' in every brand seemed to be mysteriously missing.
Jacob's jaw had already dropped and for a moment he developed a mental image of himself pushing the entire shelf over and spin-throwing his cart hammer-throw style only to realize there wasn't enough space for him to make a full circle so he decided against it. Instead he snatched some regular crunchy peanut butter and begrudgingly raced to the jellys. Jelly was easy and, although he had still spent the remaining ten minutes of his commute internally debating it, he had known all along that he would be putting both grape and strawberry jelly on the sandwich. Jacob knew it was a bit unorthodox but this sandwich was calling to him from the future and he knew only that he must create it and consume it.
The jelly pick-up went up without a hitch and approximately forty-five seconds later Jacob found himself headed to the parking lot. As Jacob approached his car he could tell that something was wrong as it appeared to leaning in one direction. For one reason or another the fact that both tires on the passenger side were flat didn't seem to bother him, in fact, at this point he had grown mad with determination and was convinced that an unknowable force was preventing him from this sandwich that he could only explain as his destiny. He called both a tow service as well as a taxi and then began changing the flat rear tire with the still functional front driver's side in case the tow truck arrived first and wasn't a flat bed. Although Jacob was now thinking ahead and refused to let the demons against him stand in the way of his glory, his efforts were fruitless since a taxi arrived first.
A seemingly eternal amount of time seemed to pass as Jacob sat helplessly in the back seat of the taxi. He had cancelled his tow service and was now only concerend with whether or not to toast his bread and, if so, what setting on the toaster he should use. As the cab pulled out of his driveway and away he settled on a comfortable five for his toast setting which would leave his white bread very lighlty browned with a subtly crisp to it. 'Or was it wheat bread?' he thought. Then, as the tail lights from the cab disappeared beyond sight he realized to his horror that he had forgotten to get bread. He stared expressionless where the taxi had just been, trying to will it back into existence. Jacob's defeated trance broke and he pulled out his cell phone to call the taxi service and request the driver back. The phone began to dial but unexpectedly went black. Jacob held it to his ear but heard nothing; he returned his eyes to the screen, hit the center button and then held down the power button until the ruthless image of a battery appeared indicating the device was dead.
Jacob stormed in the house and tore open the bread cubbard, daring it to be empty. The kitchen filled with his booming laughter as he found several bread bags, one of which he was certain would contain the tools he required. As he dug through each bag he found a disappointing assortment of stale bread ends or moldy, inedible slices. Abandoning his early premise of the necessity of perfection he settled on the bread ends and stuck them in the toaster while he went for a plate, knife and opened his ingredients. A series of over reactions consecutively took place as Jacob first found no clean plates, followed with no paper towels, an inexplicable absense of every single knife in the house, and lastly, a force tightly bound around the lids of his ingredient jars that he struggled to finally defeat.
While Jacob was tring to decide if his finger, a carrot peeler or a spoon would spread his ingredients most effectively a burning smell entered his nostrils followed with the sound of sparks. The toaster has caught fire and luck extended itself only far enough to prevent Jacob from being electrocuted as he poured water on the still plugged in unit to prevent the blaze from spreading. Jacob, not even considering the electrocution, thought only of his ruined bread and immediately returned to the bags to see what he could salvage.
Upon finding no bread of worth Jacob, for the first time, lost complete control and began tearing apart every available space the kitchen had in search for bread he knew he would not find. He ripped open his refrigerator and was already prepared to slam the door and tip the entire unit over when he suddenly froze as something caught his eye. There, on the center shelf, completely alone, was a rectangular-shaped something wrapped in white butcher paper with the unmistakable bold faced letters "PBJ" printed directly in the center.
Without the slightest care as to where it had come from Jacob carefully removed the package and placed it on the table as he sat down in front of it. He stared admiringly for a moment, afraid it would disappear if he shut his eyes and fearing more it would contain disappointment if he opened it. Jacob mustered up the courage and carefully unwrapped the mysterious package to behold the treat that now lay before him. Jacob was now staring at a beautful, untoasted wheat-bread, non-crunchy peanut butter, rasberry jelly sandwich and his satisfaction could not have been more complete. It was nothing as he had imagined but everything he had hoped for and he could only stare and appreciate it's greatness.
After a fair amount of awe and appreciation, Jacob picked up the sandwich and took an enormous bite, devouring over half of it with a single blow. The Peanut butter was thick and the mouth wateringly fresh bread seemed to absorb every molecule of salivia in his mouth. Jacob was enjoying it immensly and, ready for another bite, attempted an early swallow but found a problem; Jacob had literally bit off more than he could chew and, to his surprise, was now choking. Jacob began to panic and keeled over onto the floor knocking the sandwich down with him as he went. He lay staring at his beauty as the light faded, wishing only that he had been able to finish. | |
[WP] A man is determined to make a PB&J sandwich. However, everything seems to be conspiring against him. | "Mom? Do we have any bread?"
"No, dear. It tends not to keep."
"Well, do we have peanut butter?"
"No, dear."
"How about jelly? We always used to have jelly!"
"No dear, no jelly. I'm sorry."
"Why not?"
"Because I died 12 years ago, and you're living in in 84' Ford Tempo under a bridge." | Jacob finished scanning the page he was on and upon turning to the next, to his horror, found it was filled almost entirely with desserts, drinks, options for children and a few other nonsense items he couldn't order right now. Jacob was panicing now, Ben had just ordered, Cynthia was next, then him. He thumbed back through the pages hoping he had missed something but nothing was right and he found himself right back on the last page of worthless desserts, drinks, and childrens items. Something caught his eye, something spoke to him, 'what was that?' he scanned... There, on the page, staring up at him from the childrens section was an animation of a smiling peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It had a stupid smirk on it's face as though it were taunting him with the knowledge of how embarrassing it would be to order something like that here, at this meeting, with these people. His turn came and went, he settled on something like a cheeseburger and left most of it on the plate, attributing his lack of appetite to sickness and using the excuse to leave early and go directly to the supermarket.
He entered the market in somewhat of a ravenous state, determined to make and consume the obsession that had manifested itself within him. He snatched a cart, ignoring the fact that 3 of the four wheels seemed to be sliding rather than rolling, and headed straight for the bread. He wasn't sure what had struck him but he knew he needed this sandwich to be just right, every single aspect of it needed to be perfect. He rounded the corner of the aisle, on verge of concluding an epic internal debate regarding wheat and white with white nearing victory, only to find a line of completely empty shelves where the bread would typically be.
"What the hell is going on here?" He asked a passing stock boy.
"Oh, sorry sir, you must not have heard. We're moving to a better location, today is our last day of operation here. We've already transported most of the easily expendible items, I assume you were loo..."
"Where is the new location?!?" interrupted Jacob, he had no time for this nonsense.
"No fear my friend, only six miles up the road, just inside the city!"
Jacob stared daggers at his new nemesis and almost laughed in disbelief, thinking this kid must be playing some kind of prank. While six miles wasn't much, the current time was 5:15 in the afternoon. This would put Jacob in the middle of an even worse traffic nightmare than he was already doomed to face if he braved going into the city right now; in those circumstances he wouldn't be eating until at least 7:30 and that was simply unacceptable. Jacob snapped back to reality with the realization that there were obviously other convenient places to get bread and made a bee line for the peanut butter section. He was almost certain he already had some at the house but was definitely not going to risk it.
Lady luck and Mr. Peanut himself had Jacob's back this time as he rounded the corner and found a perfectly arranged, untouched, beautiful, head-to-toe selection of peanut butters resting on the edge of every only an arms length away. He had spent twenty of the forty minute commute to the store debating crunchy or smooth peanut butter and ten more deciding between extra crunchy or regular. He now found himself searching for the triumphant winner of this internal struggle: extra crunchy peanut butter. He paced slowly up the aisle, looking from shelf to shelf, making sure not to miss a single option, and couldn't help but to think that there seemed to be an unusually larger than normal selection of peanut butter especially considering that the store was closing later that very day. As he pondered this he suddenly came upon an unmistakably clear gap in the wall of peanut butter immediately after the 'crunchy' section concluded. To his dismay, 'extra crunchy' in every brand seemed to be mysteriously missing.
Jacob's jaw had already dropped and for a moment he developed a mental image of himself pushing the entire shelf over and spin-throwing his cart hammer-throw style only to realize there wasn't enough space for him to make a full circle so he decided against it. Instead he snatched some regular crunchy peanut butter and begrudgingly raced to the jellys. Jelly was easy and, although he had still spent the remaining ten minutes of his commute internally debating it, he had known all along that he would be putting both grape and strawberry jelly on the sandwich. Jacob knew it was a bit unorthodox but this sandwich was calling to him from the future and he knew only that he must create it and consume it.
The jelly pick-up went up without a hitch and approximately forty-five seconds later Jacob found himself headed to the parking lot. As Jacob approached his car he could tell that something was wrong as it appeared to leaning in one direction. For one reason or another the fact that both tires on the passenger side were flat didn't seem to bother him, in fact, at this point he had grown mad with determination and was convinced that an unknowable force was preventing him from this sandwich that he could only explain as his destiny. He called both a tow service as well as a taxi and then began changing the flat rear tire with the still functional front driver's side in case the tow truck arrived first and wasn't a flat bed. Although Jacob was now thinking ahead and refused to let the demons against him stand in the way of his glory, his efforts were fruitless since a taxi arrived first.
A seemingly eternal amount of time seemed to pass as Jacob sat helplessly in the back seat of the taxi. He had cancelled his tow service and was now only concerend with whether or not to toast his bread and, if so, what setting on the toaster he should use. As the cab pulled out of his driveway and away he settled on a comfortable five for his toast setting which would leave his white bread very lighlty browned with a subtly crisp to it. 'Or was it wheat bread?' he thought. Then, as the tail lights from the cab disappeared beyond sight he realized to his horror that he had forgotten to get bread. He stared expressionless where the taxi had just been, trying to will it back into existence. Jacob's defeated trance broke and he pulled out his cell phone to call the taxi service and request the driver back. The phone began to dial but unexpectedly went black. Jacob held it to his ear but heard nothing; he returned his eyes to the screen, hit the center button and then held down the power button until the ruthless image of a battery appeared indicating the device was dead.
Jacob stormed in the house and tore open the bread cubbard, daring it to be empty. The kitchen filled with his booming laughter as he found several bread bags, one of which he was certain would contain the tools he required. As he dug through each bag he found a disappointing assortment of stale bread ends or moldy, inedible slices. Abandoning his early premise of the necessity of perfection he settled on the bread ends and stuck them in the toaster while he went for a plate, knife and opened his ingredients. A series of over reactions consecutively took place as Jacob first found no clean plates, followed with no paper towels, an inexplicable absense of every single knife in the house, and lastly, a force tightly bound around the lids of his ingredient jars that he struggled to finally defeat.
While Jacob was tring to decide if his finger, a carrot peeler or a spoon would spread his ingredients most effectively a burning smell entered his nostrils followed with the sound of sparks. The toaster has caught fire and luck extended itself only far enough to prevent Jacob from being electrocuted as he poured water on the still plugged in unit to prevent the blaze from spreading. Jacob, not even considering the electrocution, thought only of his ruined bread and immediately returned to the bags to see what he could salvage.
Upon finding no bread of worth Jacob, for the first time, lost complete control and began tearing apart every available space the kitchen had in search for bread he knew he would not find. He ripped open his refrigerator and was already prepared to slam the door and tip the entire unit over when he suddenly froze as something caught his eye. There, on the center shelf, completely alone, was a rectangular-shaped something wrapped in white butcher paper with the unmistakable bold faced letters "PBJ" printed directly in the center.
Without the slightest care as to where it had come from Jacob carefully removed the package and placed it on the table as he sat down in front of it. He stared admiringly for a moment, afraid it would disappear if he shut his eyes and fearing more it would contain disappointment if he opened it. Jacob mustered up the courage and carefully unwrapped the mysterious package to behold the treat that now lay before him. Jacob was now staring at a beautful, untoasted wheat-bread, non-crunchy peanut butter, rasberry jelly sandwich and his satisfaction could not have been more complete. It was nothing as he had imagined but everything he had hoped for and he could only stare and appreciate it's greatness.
After a fair amount of awe and appreciation, Jacob picked up the sandwich and took an enormous bite, devouring over half of it with a single blow. The Peanut butter was thick and the mouth wateringly fresh bread seemed to absorb every molecule of salivia in his mouth. Jacob was enjoying it immensly and, ready for another bite, attempted an early swallow but found a problem; Jacob had literally bit off more than he could chew and, to his surprise, was now choking. Jacob began to panic and keeled over onto the floor knocking the sandwich down with him as he went. He lay staring at his beauty as the light faded, wishing only that he had been able to finish. | |
[WP] A man is determined to make a PB&J sandwich. However, everything seems to be conspiring against him. | Ian lived with routine. Routine, routine, routine. Wake up at 6 AM, breakfast of oatmeal, brush teeth, shit, shave, shower, 13 minute drive to work, 4 hours of work, lunch of spaghetti, 5 more hours of work, 15 minute drive home, PB&J sandwich, bed at 10 PM. He used to set an alarm for every single one of them, but he doesn’t need it anymore. His body automatically gets up at 6 AM and falls asleep at 10 PM. His routine is very important to him, it’s his defense to the ever-changing, never still, constantly shifting world around him.
One day, Ian came home and he was out of peanut butter. This was unusual. In Ian’s neat, organized little corner of the world, he never ran out of things. He always replaced it before it was empty, giving him a spare so he’d never run out. 2 rolls of toilet paper, 2 loafs of bread, 2 bottles of honey, 2 jars of jam, and 2 jars of peanut butter. But, there was no 2 jars of peanut butter. There was only 1 jar of peanut butter. How could he have missed that? He was usually so very careful about it. Stress lines creased in Ian’s face.
Ian got in his car to go to the grocery store. He turned the key. *Rnggngngnngngngngngng.* His car wouldn’t start. Ian couldn’t understand it, it was fine ten minutes ago. He turned the key again and pressed the gas petal. *Rngngngngng.* No good. He got out his phone and called the cab company. The operator said that there was an unusually high volume of customers at the moment, and it’d be at least an hour to get a cab. He kicked his car’s tire, injuring his big toe. It did nothing to improve his mood. There was nothing for it, he’d have to walk.
Ian started on the ten mile journey to the grocery store, limping. It was so hot. Ian started sweating. He loosened his tie and flapped air into his shirt. He was halfway when clouds formed in the distance. Ian wished them directly over his head. He got his wish. More and more clouds gathered, creating a dark, ominous cover that filled the sky and swooped over the terrain. Rained poured down. Not the chilly rain that cools everything down, no. It was hot, like God was pissing on him. Ian limped along in the rain, soaked through in seconds. His thoughts were focused on one thing, peanut butter. If he could have his PB&J, his ritual would be complete and everything will be okay. Everything will be okay. Everything will be okay.
Step by step, he inched closer to the store. He could see the sign for it like a beacon in the distance. He watched it slowly grow and grow, until he finally turned and walked into the parking lot. He stood under the overhang in the front of the store, shaking off the water like a dog.
The cashier eyed him wearily as he checked out with nothing but a jar of peanut butter. Ian called the cab company and got a cab, the busy hour had passed. The cab driver put down towels over the seat before letting in his soaked pasenger. They drove in silence all the way up to his driveway. Ian got out, paid, and thanked the man with a generous tip. Finally, he was home. Finally, he could have his PB&J. Everything will be okay.
He walked up to his door, clutching the jar of peanut butter to him like a life-line. He reached up to the doorknob, but it wasn’t there. The door was wide open. Instantly, Ian realized in his hurry, he forgot to lock the door. He walked inside and his house was in chaos. Chairs tipped over, drawers ripped out and their contents spewed over the scene, his tv was missing, and cabinets rifled through. He walked into the kitchen and saw among the clutter two jars of jam, smashed on the ground. | Jacob finished scanning the page he was on and upon turning to the next, to his horror, found it was filled almost entirely with desserts, drinks, options for children and a few other nonsense items he couldn't order right now. Jacob was panicing now, Ben had just ordered, Cynthia was next, then him. He thumbed back through the pages hoping he had missed something but nothing was right and he found himself right back on the last page of worthless desserts, drinks, and childrens items. Something caught his eye, something spoke to him, 'what was that?' he scanned... There, on the page, staring up at him from the childrens section was an animation of a smiling peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It had a stupid smirk on it's face as though it were taunting him with the knowledge of how embarrassing it would be to order something like that here, at this meeting, with these people. His turn came and went, he settled on something like a cheeseburger and left most of it on the plate, attributing his lack of appetite to sickness and using the excuse to leave early and go directly to the supermarket.
He entered the market in somewhat of a ravenous state, determined to make and consume the obsession that had manifested itself within him. He snatched a cart, ignoring the fact that 3 of the four wheels seemed to be sliding rather than rolling, and headed straight for the bread. He wasn't sure what had struck him but he knew he needed this sandwich to be just right, every single aspect of it needed to be perfect. He rounded the corner of the aisle, on verge of concluding an epic internal debate regarding wheat and white with white nearing victory, only to find a line of completely empty shelves where the bread would typically be.
"What the hell is going on here?" He asked a passing stock boy.
"Oh, sorry sir, you must not have heard. We're moving to a better location, today is our last day of operation here. We've already transported most of the easily expendible items, I assume you were loo..."
"Where is the new location?!?" interrupted Jacob, he had no time for this nonsense.
"No fear my friend, only six miles up the road, just inside the city!"
Jacob stared daggers at his new nemesis and almost laughed in disbelief, thinking this kid must be playing some kind of prank. While six miles wasn't much, the current time was 5:15 in the afternoon. This would put Jacob in the middle of an even worse traffic nightmare than he was already doomed to face if he braved going into the city right now; in those circumstances he wouldn't be eating until at least 7:30 and that was simply unacceptable. Jacob snapped back to reality with the realization that there were obviously other convenient places to get bread and made a bee line for the peanut butter section. He was almost certain he already had some at the house but was definitely not going to risk it.
Lady luck and Mr. Peanut himself had Jacob's back this time as he rounded the corner and found a perfectly arranged, untouched, beautiful, head-to-toe selection of peanut butters resting on the edge of every only an arms length away. He had spent twenty of the forty minute commute to the store debating crunchy or smooth peanut butter and ten more deciding between extra crunchy or regular. He now found himself searching for the triumphant winner of this internal struggle: extra crunchy peanut butter. He paced slowly up the aisle, looking from shelf to shelf, making sure not to miss a single option, and couldn't help but to think that there seemed to be an unusually larger than normal selection of peanut butter especially considering that the store was closing later that very day. As he pondered this he suddenly came upon an unmistakably clear gap in the wall of peanut butter immediately after the 'crunchy' section concluded. To his dismay, 'extra crunchy' in every brand seemed to be mysteriously missing.
Jacob's jaw had already dropped and for a moment he developed a mental image of himself pushing the entire shelf over and spin-throwing his cart hammer-throw style only to realize there wasn't enough space for him to make a full circle so he decided against it. Instead he snatched some regular crunchy peanut butter and begrudgingly raced to the jellys. Jelly was easy and, although he had still spent the remaining ten minutes of his commute internally debating it, he had known all along that he would be putting both grape and strawberry jelly on the sandwich. Jacob knew it was a bit unorthodox but this sandwich was calling to him from the future and he knew only that he must create it and consume it.
The jelly pick-up went up without a hitch and approximately forty-five seconds later Jacob found himself headed to the parking lot. As Jacob approached his car he could tell that something was wrong as it appeared to leaning in one direction. For one reason or another the fact that both tires on the passenger side were flat didn't seem to bother him, in fact, at this point he had grown mad with determination and was convinced that an unknowable force was preventing him from this sandwich that he could only explain as his destiny. He called both a tow service as well as a taxi and then began changing the flat rear tire with the still functional front driver's side in case the tow truck arrived first and wasn't a flat bed. Although Jacob was now thinking ahead and refused to let the demons against him stand in the way of his glory, his efforts were fruitless since a taxi arrived first.
A seemingly eternal amount of time seemed to pass as Jacob sat helplessly in the back seat of the taxi. He had cancelled his tow service and was now only concerend with whether or not to toast his bread and, if so, what setting on the toaster he should use. As the cab pulled out of his driveway and away he settled on a comfortable five for his toast setting which would leave his white bread very lighlty browned with a subtly crisp to it. 'Or was it wheat bread?' he thought. Then, as the tail lights from the cab disappeared beyond sight he realized to his horror that he had forgotten to get bread. He stared expressionless where the taxi had just been, trying to will it back into existence. Jacob's defeated trance broke and he pulled out his cell phone to call the taxi service and request the driver back. The phone began to dial but unexpectedly went black. Jacob held it to his ear but heard nothing; he returned his eyes to the screen, hit the center button and then held down the power button until the ruthless image of a battery appeared indicating the device was dead.
Jacob stormed in the house and tore open the bread cubbard, daring it to be empty. The kitchen filled with his booming laughter as he found several bread bags, one of which he was certain would contain the tools he required. As he dug through each bag he found a disappointing assortment of stale bread ends or moldy, inedible slices. Abandoning his early premise of the necessity of perfection he settled on the bread ends and stuck them in the toaster while he went for a plate, knife and opened his ingredients. A series of over reactions consecutively took place as Jacob first found no clean plates, followed with no paper towels, an inexplicable absense of every single knife in the house, and lastly, a force tightly bound around the lids of his ingredient jars that he struggled to finally defeat.
While Jacob was tring to decide if his finger, a carrot peeler or a spoon would spread his ingredients most effectively a burning smell entered his nostrils followed with the sound of sparks. The toaster has caught fire and luck extended itself only far enough to prevent Jacob from being electrocuted as he poured water on the still plugged in unit to prevent the blaze from spreading. Jacob, not even considering the electrocution, thought only of his ruined bread and immediately returned to the bags to see what he could salvage.
Upon finding no bread of worth Jacob, for the first time, lost complete control and began tearing apart every available space the kitchen had in search for bread he knew he would not find. He ripped open his refrigerator and was already prepared to slam the door and tip the entire unit over when he suddenly froze as something caught his eye. There, on the center shelf, completely alone, was a rectangular-shaped something wrapped in white butcher paper with the unmistakable bold faced letters "PBJ" printed directly in the center.
Without the slightest care as to where it had come from Jacob carefully removed the package and placed it on the table as he sat down in front of it. He stared admiringly for a moment, afraid it would disappear if he shut his eyes and fearing more it would contain disappointment if he opened it. Jacob mustered up the courage and carefully unwrapped the mysterious package to behold the treat that now lay before him. Jacob was now staring at a beautful, untoasted wheat-bread, non-crunchy peanut butter, rasberry jelly sandwich and his satisfaction could not have been more complete. It was nothing as he had imagined but everything he had hoped for and he could only stare and appreciate it's greatness.
After a fair amount of awe and appreciation, Jacob picked up the sandwich and took an enormous bite, devouring over half of it with a single blow. The Peanut butter was thick and the mouth wateringly fresh bread seemed to absorb every molecule of salivia in his mouth. Jacob was enjoying it immensly and, ready for another bite, attempted an early swallow but found a problem; Jacob had literally bit off more than he could chew and, to his surprise, was now choking. Jacob began to panic and keeled over onto the floor knocking the sandwich down with him as he went. He lay staring at his beauty as the light faded, wishing only that he had been able to finish. | |
[WP] A man is determined to make a PB&J sandwich. However, everything seems to be conspiring against him. | “How are you today, Michael?” Ms. Butternet asked. She used that sing-songy voice and fawning smile one normally associates with first time parents cooing over their newborns. “Are we ready to have some fun in the kitchen?”
Michael, an exhausted high school senior whose sunken eyes and five o’clock shadow did all the speaking for him, stared back at her in silence, no trace of humor on his face.
“Come on now, Michael!” Ms. Butternet goaded. “I’m going to need you to use your big boy words today!”
Michael could not believe it had come to this. Sure, he failed the calculus test, but was it impossible to believe that he had simply not studied or paid the slightest bit of attention in class? That his remarkably wrong answers indicated a supreme lack of effort but no deeper mental impairment? That the school psychologist, Mrs. Shadywart, was simply over-diagnosing so she would have some minute interesting detail to share with her husband over dinner and add one flickering spark to their otherwise stale, routine conversation?
“I don’t belong here,” Michael finally spoke, his words drowned in an air of defeat.
“Now, now” Ms. Butternet chided, “We all want the very best for you, Mikey! And that’s why today, you’re going to make us a snack!”
Making snacks. Seriously. From indefinite integrals to making snacks in the course of a week. Perhaps he should have taken his teacher’s threats more seriously. Considered that there may have been some conviction behind Mr. Crackburn’s pledge to “figure out what’s wrong with you” and “place you in a class that’s more your speed.” But Michael thought he was just blowing smoke. He blew off the placement tests, purposely failing each successively easier assessment out of spite before ultimately turning in a sheet of first grade addition problems with answers like “eleventy-four” and “applesauce.” This was enough to convince Mrs. Shadywart that there was some inherent defect in his intelligence, and that immediate intense intervention was necessary. In retrospect, Michael felt he should have realized that an educational system obsessed with test scores and performance data would have no appreciation for humor.
And so here he was. Making snacks as one of Ms. Butternet’s “special helpers” in a room filled with sickening amounts of color and a genuinely impressive lack of sharp edges.
“I’d like you to make us some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches today, Michael!” in a tone that suggested Michael ought to feel particularly fortunate. “Come with me over to the Super Special Cooking Corner!”
Michael obliged, finally relinquishing his dignity and resolving to escape Ms. Butternet’s lethal kindness. He was beginning to legitimately worry that he might be trapped with this woman for several weeks.
“So what do you think we should do first?” Ms. Butternet inquired once they both stood in the kitchen, sounding much more like a preschool cartoon character than an actual human.
“Get the bread,” Michael responded matter-of-factly.
“Oh no,” Ms. Butternet replied. “No no no no no. First, we must wash our little hands! Make sure there are no germy-wormies climbing all over us!”
“Of course,” said Michael, sure that his hastiness would lead to further undermining of his mental capacity. Sure enough, Ms. Butternet had taken out a clipboard and was beginning to make notes. He went to the sink and washed up, even counting out loud to ten as he lathered - both to ensure that Ms. Butternet did not dock him any more points on hygiene and also to insist that he could, in fact, count to double digits.
“Great job!” cried Ms. Butternet. She was surely the kind of person who would advocate for participation trophies, Michael thought.
“Alright, so where can I find the bread?” Michael asked, inadvertently revealing a bit of his impatience.
“Michael!” exclaimed Ms. Butternet, “You’re so silly! We can’t get out the bread just yet. We must first put on our protective gear!”
“Protective what, now?” asked Michael.
“Our protective gear!” Ms. Butternet repeated. “There are a lot of dangerous objects in the kitchen and we have to be super careful!”
“...Right. Of course,” said Michael, daring himself not to disagree. Two minute later, he found himself with a plastic drop cloth wrapped around his body, a bright red bicycle helmet on his head, oversized chemistry goggles on his face, and a well-worn oven mitt on each hand.
“There we go! Much better!” said Ms. Butternet. “Now we can get out that bread.”
Michael tried to do as he was told. But with an oven mitt on each hand, the twist tie on the loaf of bread presented an unforeseen challenge. Though with the lecture he had already received on kitchen safety, he didn’t dare take the mitts off. He struggled for a good 30 seconds, but ultimately had no choice:
“Ms....Ms. Butternet?” Michael began. “Could you...uh...help me remove the twist tie? My hands are a bit difficult to use at the moment.”
“Oh, Michael” Ms. Butternet said in exaggerated disappointment as she checked a few boxes on her clipboard, “We really need to get you to become more self-sufficient!” She removed the twist tie and allowed Michael to return to work. Through careful and deliberate effort, he was able to extract two slices of bread (knocking a few more to the floor in the process) and place them on a plate. However, just as he was reaching for the jar of peanut butter, it occurred to Michael that there was no way he would be allowed a knife.
“Ms. Butternet?”
“Yes, Michael?” she responded in that piercingly sing-songy voice.
“Um...how do you suggest I put the peanut butter on the bread?” Michael asked, looking for any sort of insight into this lady’s bizarre sandwich-making process.
“Michael, you know I can’t give you all the answers,” she said, disheartened.
“Right, right, of course,” said Michael rapidly trying to think up a solution. He opened all the drawers looking for something even as dull as a spatula that he could use to apply the peanut butter and wondering, as he saw empty drawer after empty drawer, what Ms. Butternet could possibly have been referring to when she warned of the many “dangerous objects in the kitchen.”
Out of options, Michael used his heavily constricted hands to unscrew the lid to the peanut butter jar, placed the jar on the ground, slipped off his right shoe and sock, and submerged his big toe in the peanut butter. He did this as quickly as he could, sure that Ms. Butternet would stop him if she had too much time to comprehend what he was doing. He had his leg awkwardly bent over the counter, trying to connect his toe with the bread, when Ms. Butternet blew a sharp blast on a gym whistle that Michael wasn’t even aware she had.
“Michael!” Ms. Butternet yelled, sounding sincerely angry. “What on earth are you doing?!”
“I...you see...I’m just trying to...” Michael stammered, knowing even before he started that it was no use.
“I’m shocked that no one has brought you to see me sooner, Michael,” sais Ms. Butternet, gaining back a bit of her composure. “You are further behind than I thought!”
Trying to contain his rage, Michael stood in silence, unsure of how to proceed.
“Now THINK, Michael. Is there a better way that you could have put the peanut butter on the bread?”
“Well...yeah. I would have thought I should use a knife. But I was looking in the drawers, and there weren’t any – “
“Did you think to ask me for a knife?” asked Ms. Butternet, cutting him off.
“...But...but you said I needed to become more self-sufficient,” argued Michael.
“There’s a difference between being self-sufficient and being foolish,” replied Ms. Butternet with a sense of gravitas, clearly believing this to be a very profound statement.
“I see...” said Michael. “So then, um, ...can I have a knife then?” he tried.
“MICHAEL!” Ms. Butternet shouted, in abject horror this time. “YOU CANNOT ASK TO USE A WEAPON IN SCHOOL!”
“Weapon?? I’m just trying to make a sand-“
“I’M AFRAID,” Ms. Butternet continued, her voice still raised to drown out Michael’s, “That I’m going to have to send you to see Mrs. Shadywart again, Michael. It’s clear that you have many deep issues that need to be addressed before we can put you anywhere near a sandwich. I am so sorry if this exercise was too advanced for you, but really? Threatening me with violence after just a teensy bit of frustration? We need to get you help, Michael.”
“Threatening violence?” Michael asked flabbergasted. “Honestly, Ms. Butternet, I was just trying to do what you sug-“
“Enough, Michael,” she said, a tone of finality in her voice. “Let’s go.”
She escorted Michael to the psychologist’s office, a comical sense of disbelief placing a smile on his face that did nothing to relieve Ms. Butternet’s concerns for his mental health.
“Oh, Michael - what now?” asked Mrs. Shadywart disappointedly when they reached her office.
Ms. Butternet explained her version of events to the shrink while Michael tried to keep himself from yelling.
“And he expressed a desire for a weapon?” Mrs. Shadywart clarified, shock in her voice. “Dear, dear. I am so sorry you felt threatened, Ms. Butternet. I’m not sure why your students have such trouble being mainstreamed.”
She turned to Michael.
“Perhaps we started you off with more than you could handle, Michael. We’ll get you some more pills and try something simpler next week – do you think you could make a slice of toast?”
| Jacob finished scanning the page he was on and upon turning to the next, to his horror, found it was filled almost entirely with desserts, drinks, options for children and a few other nonsense items he couldn't order right now. Jacob was panicing now, Ben had just ordered, Cynthia was next, then him. He thumbed back through the pages hoping he had missed something but nothing was right and he found himself right back on the last page of worthless desserts, drinks, and childrens items. Something caught his eye, something spoke to him, 'what was that?' he scanned... There, on the page, staring up at him from the childrens section was an animation of a smiling peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It had a stupid smirk on it's face as though it were taunting him with the knowledge of how embarrassing it would be to order something like that here, at this meeting, with these people. His turn came and went, he settled on something like a cheeseburger and left most of it on the plate, attributing his lack of appetite to sickness and using the excuse to leave early and go directly to the supermarket.
He entered the market in somewhat of a ravenous state, determined to make and consume the obsession that had manifested itself within him. He snatched a cart, ignoring the fact that 3 of the four wheels seemed to be sliding rather than rolling, and headed straight for the bread. He wasn't sure what had struck him but he knew he needed this sandwich to be just right, every single aspect of it needed to be perfect. He rounded the corner of the aisle, on verge of concluding an epic internal debate regarding wheat and white with white nearing victory, only to find a line of completely empty shelves where the bread would typically be.
"What the hell is going on here?" He asked a passing stock boy.
"Oh, sorry sir, you must not have heard. We're moving to a better location, today is our last day of operation here. We've already transported most of the easily expendible items, I assume you were loo..."
"Where is the new location?!?" interrupted Jacob, he had no time for this nonsense.
"No fear my friend, only six miles up the road, just inside the city!"
Jacob stared daggers at his new nemesis and almost laughed in disbelief, thinking this kid must be playing some kind of prank. While six miles wasn't much, the current time was 5:15 in the afternoon. This would put Jacob in the middle of an even worse traffic nightmare than he was already doomed to face if he braved going into the city right now; in those circumstances he wouldn't be eating until at least 7:30 and that was simply unacceptable. Jacob snapped back to reality with the realization that there were obviously other convenient places to get bread and made a bee line for the peanut butter section. He was almost certain he already had some at the house but was definitely not going to risk it.
Lady luck and Mr. Peanut himself had Jacob's back this time as he rounded the corner and found a perfectly arranged, untouched, beautiful, head-to-toe selection of peanut butters resting on the edge of every only an arms length away. He had spent twenty of the forty minute commute to the store debating crunchy or smooth peanut butter and ten more deciding between extra crunchy or regular. He now found himself searching for the triumphant winner of this internal struggle: extra crunchy peanut butter. He paced slowly up the aisle, looking from shelf to shelf, making sure not to miss a single option, and couldn't help but to think that there seemed to be an unusually larger than normal selection of peanut butter especially considering that the store was closing later that very day. As he pondered this he suddenly came upon an unmistakably clear gap in the wall of peanut butter immediately after the 'crunchy' section concluded. To his dismay, 'extra crunchy' in every brand seemed to be mysteriously missing.
Jacob's jaw had already dropped and for a moment he developed a mental image of himself pushing the entire shelf over and spin-throwing his cart hammer-throw style only to realize there wasn't enough space for him to make a full circle so he decided against it. Instead he snatched some regular crunchy peanut butter and begrudgingly raced to the jellys. Jelly was easy and, although he had still spent the remaining ten minutes of his commute internally debating it, he had known all along that he would be putting both grape and strawberry jelly on the sandwich. Jacob knew it was a bit unorthodox but this sandwich was calling to him from the future and he knew only that he must create it and consume it.
The jelly pick-up went up without a hitch and approximately forty-five seconds later Jacob found himself headed to the parking lot. As Jacob approached his car he could tell that something was wrong as it appeared to leaning in one direction. For one reason or another the fact that both tires on the passenger side were flat didn't seem to bother him, in fact, at this point he had grown mad with determination and was convinced that an unknowable force was preventing him from this sandwich that he could only explain as his destiny. He called both a tow service as well as a taxi and then began changing the flat rear tire with the still functional front driver's side in case the tow truck arrived first and wasn't a flat bed. Although Jacob was now thinking ahead and refused to let the demons against him stand in the way of his glory, his efforts were fruitless since a taxi arrived first.
A seemingly eternal amount of time seemed to pass as Jacob sat helplessly in the back seat of the taxi. He had cancelled his tow service and was now only concerend with whether or not to toast his bread and, if so, what setting on the toaster he should use. As the cab pulled out of his driveway and away he settled on a comfortable five for his toast setting which would leave his white bread very lighlty browned with a subtly crisp to it. 'Or was it wheat bread?' he thought. Then, as the tail lights from the cab disappeared beyond sight he realized to his horror that he had forgotten to get bread. He stared expressionless where the taxi had just been, trying to will it back into existence. Jacob's defeated trance broke and he pulled out his cell phone to call the taxi service and request the driver back. The phone began to dial but unexpectedly went black. Jacob held it to his ear but heard nothing; he returned his eyes to the screen, hit the center button and then held down the power button until the ruthless image of a battery appeared indicating the device was dead.
Jacob stormed in the house and tore open the bread cubbard, daring it to be empty. The kitchen filled with his booming laughter as he found several bread bags, one of which he was certain would contain the tools he required. As he dug through each bag he found a disappointing assortment of stale bread ends or moldy, inedible slices. Abandoning his early premise of the necessity of perfection he settled on the bread ends and stuck them in the toaster while he went for a plate, knife and opened his ingredients. A series of over reactions consecutively took place as Jacob first found no clean plates, followed with no paper towels, an inexplicable absense of every single knife in the house, and lastly, a force tightly bound around the lids of his ingredient jars that he struggled to finally defeat.
While Jacob was tring to decide if his finger, a carrot peeler or a spoon would spread his ingredients most effectively a burning smell entered his nostrils followed with the sound of sparks. The toaster has caught fire and luck extended itself only far enough to prevent Jacob from being electrocuted as he poured water on the still plugged in unit to prevent the blaze from spreading. Jacob, not even considering the electrocution, thought only of his ruined bread and immediately returned to the bags to see what he could salvage.
Upon finding no bread of worth Jacob, for the first time, lost complete control and began tearing apart every available space the kitchen had in search for bread he knew he would not find. He ripped open his refrigerator and was already prepared to slam the door and tip the entire unit over when he suddenly froze as something caught his eye. There, on the center shelf, completely alone, was a rectangular-shaped something wrapped in white butcher paper with the unmistakable bold faced letters "PBJ" printed directly in the center.
Without the slightest care as to where it had come from Jacob carefully removed the package and placed it on the table as he sat down in front of it. He stared admiringly for a moment, afraid it would disappear if he shut his eyes and fearing more it would contain disappointment if he opened it. Jacob mustered up the courage and carefully unwrapped the mysterious package to behold the treat that now lay before him. Jacob was now staring at a beautful, untoasted wheat-bread, non-crunchy peanut butter, rasberry jelly sandwich and his satisfaction could not have been more complete. It was nothing as he had imagined but everything he had hoped for and he could only stare and appreciate it's greatness.
After a fair amount of awe and appreciation, Jacob picked up the sandwich and took an enormous bite, devouring over half of it with a single blow. The Peanut butter was thick and the mouth wateringly fresh bread seemed to absorb every molecule of salivia in his mouth. Jacob was enjoying it immensly and, ready for another bite, attempted an early swallow but found a problem; Jacob had literally bit off more than he could chew and, to his surprise, was now choking. Jacob began to panic and keeled over onto the floor knocking the sandwich down with him as he went. He lay staring at his beauty as the light faded, wishing only that he had been able to finish. | |
[WP] A man is determined to make a PB&J sandwich. However, everything seems to be conspiring against him. | The cupboards were all but empty. Nothing left but half a loaf of bread and a couple of crumb-ridden jars of peanut butter and jelly.
"Well, joke's on her," thought Michael, as another twang of pain pulled at his heart. Sara may have left him, taking nearly everything that they'd once shared, including most items from their last grocery shopping trip, but she'd left behind the first step to his emotional recovery. For 10 years, Michael had reacted to every breakup the exact same way. Wake up at 2pm the day after, cry for 30 minutes, and then bask in his first meal as a freshly single man -- a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, toasted to a light golden brown. No adult problems could compete with a joy of a childhood treat.
He never told his partners about the sandwiches, and that's why they always left the bread behind. He hoped the leftover bread would be the soft and pillowy white Wonderbread that toasted so evenly in his decrepit toaster oven.
Dang it, low-carb multigrain. Sara had been on a health kick, and Michael hated the birdseed crusted stuff she'd insisted on buying. Oh well, he'd have to make do; he was in no emotional state for a trip to the store. He pulled the half-loaf off of the shelf and untwisted the bag. Mold. Had she gone no-carb without him noticing? Probably. He'd stopped really paying attention weeks ago.
Better press on. Michael selected two less moldy slices and gingerly picked out the green spots with two fingers, reasoning "it's all penicillin anyway." The slices looked like swiss cheese, but they would have to do. He pulled the jar of peanut butter off the shelf and untwisted the cap. Organic almond butter? Michael stared at his reflection in the puddle of oil, wondering when he had stopped advocating for the chemical-infused chunky Skippy that he preferred. He'd never started a breakup with an almond butter and jelly sandwich, but he'd have to make do. The gritty paste barely spread across the pock-marked bread, but it was good enough. He'd carry on.
The jelly situation was equally disheartening. Organic raspberry?! He'd always hated the seeds. Grape was his favorite, but Sara didn't approve of Smuckers' preservatives. He should have known it would end with seeds.
Whatever. He slathered on a layer of goopy red muck and slapped the two halves together. What a mess. With a sigh, he stuffed the sandwich into the toaster oven and turned the knob halfway.
Five minutes later, no dice. Had the toaster oven really chosen today to break down completely? The coils lay cold and gray, much like his now oozing sandwich. With one last harumph, Michael unplugged the beast and plugged it back in, and ratcheted the dial up to level 10, ultimate crisp.
He took a step back and BOOM! The coils burst into flames, and jelly dripped from the swiss cheese bread holes as the crust began to spark. Within seconds, the whole damn sandwich was engulfed in flames. Michael grabbed his kitchen fire extinguisher and sprayed foam over the toaster oven (and most of his kitchen, to boot). He stared at the mess as the extinguisher slipped from his hands and clattered on the linoleum. He slid to the floor and sat there, hungry and sad. He was defeated.
There would be other women. He would eat more sandwiches. But not today. | The smooth steel of the knife glinted as sunlight reflected off it's spotless surface.
"Here he comes boys!" Peanut butter exclaimed. Jelly and bread both nodded and then looked up at the man, bracing themselves for a fight.
The butter knife clunked loudly as it hit the table and Peanut butter watched as big human hands reached for him. He was lifted helplessly into the air and pulled into a vice like grip. Jelly and bread looked up, watching with wide eyes.
Peanut butter tensed his body and his plastic was pulled taught. He focused his energy on the cap that kept his mixture safe.
He felt his hold slowly waning, as the human hands pulled harshly. *This is it,* he thought. Gritting his plastic in pain.
Images flashed before him, of all the time's that his mixture had been taken against his will. Peanut butter pulled tighter but it was no use, he just wasn't strong enough and his white cap was coming loose.
"You can do it Peanut butter!" Jelly shouted. Slices of bread joined in, beating against their packet and cheering him on.
His eyes shot open and he looked at his friends in awe. If he didn't do it for him, he had to do it for Jelly, for bread! A hot energy flooded him giving him strength. Peanut butter channelled it all to the one point on his cap that was waning.
With a woosh, he banged loudly against the harsh table surface and stars burst out across his vision. He glanced up at the creature, wondering what would happen next.
"Who closed the damn peanut butter!" The human exclaimed. "The thing's impossible to open!"
He turned tail and left the room.
Peanut butter smiled and heard his friends breathe out in relief.
None of them would be taken by the humans today.
They had that much at least.
| |
[WP] A man is determined to make a PB&J sandwich. However, everything seems to be conspiring against him. | Sean unlocked the door and dashed into his small apartment, ravenous for lunch.
Sean wanted a peanut butter and jelly sandwich--superior to any simple snack from Subway. He dreamed of the perfect sandwich, one in which smashed strawberries and pureed peanuts mingled in perfect harmony.
Racing to the fridge, Sean pulled out two familiar jars, setting them on the counter with a practiced hand. He swiveled downward to yank open a drawer, which squeaked in protest, retrieving a worn wooden cutting board. He then stood up once more, and grabbed a butter knife and a spoon.
It was always a knife and a spoon. It was always peanut butter and jelly. Sean had to do things correctly.
Grabbing a partial loaf of packaged whole-grain bread from the counter and deftly untying the knotted plastic bag, Sean realized he was down to three pieces: a spongy slice and two slightly squished heels.
"I'll have to buy some more this afternoon," he thought as he slapped the two heels down onto the counter.
He unscrewed the jar of peanut butter and smeared it on one of the pieces. He then took the spoon, scooped out a sizable glob of gelatinous jelly, and smashed it onto the other slice.
Smacking his lips in delight, Sean took a bite.
"Fuck," said Sean, gagging, and set the sandwich down with controlled rage.
He opened the fridge once more and peered inside. In it sat the jar of peanut butter, unscathed and undisturbed.
Sniffing his horrid creation, Sean's lips puckered in disgust.
"Hummus," he said, and threw the sandwich in the garbage.
He put the jar of chickpea sludge back in the fridge, far away from where he stored his peanut butter.
"Who even puts hummus in jars?" he muttered to himself. "Probably one of Shauna's hipster things...like that damn boxed water..." he continued as he fetched the bread bag...and froze.
There was only one slice left. A sandwich needed two pieces...he'd need more bread...
Sean dashed out of his apartment, nearly forgetting to lock the door behind him. Seeing no traffic, he galloped furiously down his street towards the corner store, each second stretching an eternity, each second before he could wrap his lips around a well-crafted PB&J.
At the last second, he saw the car coming his way, and threw himself towards the sidewalk.
Sean woke up in a hospital bed. A clock to his right read 7:00. His arm hurt. So did his leg. So did his head.
So did his stomach. Sean was very hungry.
A nurse walked into the room. "Ah, you've woken up! I need to check on a few things, so if you'll--"
Sean cut her off. His stomach growled. "Excuse me," he said, valiantly attempting to sound sane. "I'd like a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich."
"Uh...okay," the nurse said. "I'll bring one up from the cafeteria."
"You were really lucky," she said. "It looks like nothing's broken or sprained. Just a few bruises and scratches, and of course you passed out from the shock."
"Good," said Sean, "but I'd really like that sandwich."
After a long five minutes, the nurse came back with a plastic-wrapped sandwich. "Here you go," she said.
"Thank you," said Sean. He unwrapped the sandwich and bit in.
"No!" he exclaimed and threw the sandwich to the ground.
The sandwich was *wrong*. Raspberry jelly? Ridiculous! And the white bread tasted like styrofoam. Sean needed a real sandwich.
"Excuse me," he said, and dashed out of the room.
After several bus rides and a fruitless visit to a now-closed supermarket, Sean limped through the door of his house.
His girlfriend was inside. "Sean!" she exclaimed, noticing his bandaged arm. "Where have you been? You left your phone here--I didn't know where you were!"
"It's a long story, Shauna," said Sean. "I just wanted a PB&J sandwich."
"Why didn't you make one?" she asked, bewildered.
"I tried. There was only one slice of bread. I couldn't make a sandwich."
"Why didn't you fold it over?"
Sean's eyes widened and he fell to the floor. | The smooth steel of the knife glinted as sunlight reflected off it's spotless surface.
"Here he comes boys!" Peanut butter exclaimed. Jelly and bread both nodded and then looked up at the man, bracing themselves for a fight.
The butter knife clunked loudly as it hit the table and Peanut butter watched as big human hands reached for him. He was lifted helplessly into the air and pulled into a vice like grip. Jelly and bread looked up, watching with wide eyes.
Peanut butter tensed his body and his plastic was pulled taught. He focused his energy on the cap that kept his mixture safe.
He felt his hold slowly waning, as the human hands pulled harshly. *This is it,* he thought. Gritting his plastic in pain.
Images flashed before him, of all the time's that his mixture had been taken against his will. Peanut butter pulled tighter but it was no use, he just wasn't strong enough and his white cap was coming loose.
"You can do it Peanut butter!" Jelly shouted. Slices of bread joined in, beating against their packet and cheering him on.
His eyes shot open and he looked at his friends in awe. If he didn't do it for him, he had to do it for Jelly, for bread! A hot energy flooded him giving him strength. Peanut butter channelled it all to the one point on his cap that was waning.
With a woosh, he banged loudly against the harsh table surface and stars burst out across his vision. He glanced up at the creature, wondering what would happen next.
"Who closed the damn peanut butter!" The human exclaimed. "The thing's impossible to open!"
He turned tail and left the room.
Peanut butter smiled and heard his friends breathe out in relief.
None of them would be taken by the humans today.
They had that much at least.
| |
[WP] A man is determined to make a PB&J sandwich. However, everything seems to be conspiring against him. | "Mom? Do we have any bread?"
"No, dear. It tends not to keep."
"Well, do we have peanut butter?"
"No, dear."
"How about jelly? We always used to have jelly!"
"No dear, no jelly. I'm sorry."
"Why not?"
"Because I died 12 years ago, and you're living in in 84' Ford Tempo under a bridge." | The smooth steel of the knife glinted as sunlight reflected off it's spotless surface.
"Here he comes boys!" Peanut butter exclaimed. Jelly and bread both nodded and then looked up at the man, bracing themselves for a fight.
The butter knife clunked loudly as it hit the table and Peanut butter watched as big human hands reached for him. He was lifted helplessly into the air and pulled into a vice like grip. Jelly and bread looked up, watching with wide eyes.
Peanut butter tensed his body and his plastic was pulled taught. He focused his energy on the cap that kept his mixture safe.
He felt his hold slowly waning, as the human hands pulled harshly. *This is it,* he thought. Gritting his plastic in pain.
Images flashed before him, of all the time's that his mixture had been taken against his will. Peanut butter pulled tighter but it was no use, he just wasn't strong enough and his white cap was coming loose.
"You can do it Peanut butter!" Jelly shouted. Slices of bread joined in, beating against their packet and cheering him on.
His eyes shot open and he looked at his friends in awe. If he didn't do it for him, he had to do it for Jelly, for bread! A hot energy flooded him giving him strength. Peanut butter channelled it all to the one point on his cap that was waning.
With a woosh, he banged loudly against the harsh table surface and stars burst out across his vision. He glanced up at the creature, wondering what would happen next.
"Who closed the damn peanut butter!" The human exclaimed. "The thing's impossible to open!"
He turned tail and left the room.
Peanut butter smiled and heard his friends breathe out in relief.
None of them would be taken by the humans today.
They had that much at least.
| |
[WP] A man is determined to make a PB&J sandwich. However, everything seems to be conspiring against him. | Sean unlocked the door and dashed into his small apartment, ravenous for lunch.
Sean wanted a peanut butter and jelly sandwich--superior to any simple snack from Subway. He dreamed of the perfect sandwich, one in which smashed strawberries and pureed peanuts mingled in perfect harmony.
Racing to the fridge, Sean pulled out two familiar jars, setting them on the counter with a practiced hand. He swiveled downward to yank open a drawer, which squeaked in protest, retrieving a worn wooden cutting board. He then stood up once more, and grabbed a butter knife and a spoon.
It was always a knife and a spoon. It was always peanut butter and jelly. Sean had to do things correctly.
Grabbing a partial loaf of packaged whole-grain bread from the counter and deftly untying the knotted plastic bag, Sean realized he was down to three pieces: a spongy slice and two slightly squished heels.
"I'll have to buy some more this afternoon," he thought as he slapped the two heels down onto the counter.
He unscrewed the jar of peanut butter and smeared it on one of the pieces. He then took the spoon, scooped out a sizable glob of gelatinous jelly, and smashed it onto the other slice.
Smacking his lips in delight, Sean took a bite.
"Fuck," said Sean, gagging, and set the sandwich down with controlled rage.
He opened the fridge once more and peered inside. In it sat the jar of peanut butter, unscathed and undisturbed.
Sniffing his horrid creation, Sean's lips puckered in disgust.
"Hummus," he said, and threw the sandwich in the garbage.
He put the jar of chickpea sludge back in the fridge, far away from where he stored his peanut butter.
"Who even puts hummus in jars?" he muttered to himself. "Probably one of Shauna's hipster things...like that damn boxed water..." he continued as he fetched the bread bag...and froze.
There was only one slice left. A sandwich needed two pieces...he'd need more bread...
Sean dashed out of his apartment, nearly forgetting to lock the door behind him. Seeing no traffic, he galloped furiously down his street towards the corner store, each second stretching an eternity, each second before he could wrap his lips around a well-crafted PB&J.
At the last second, he saw the car coming his way, and threw himself towards the sidewalk.
Sean woke up in a hospital bed. A clock to his right read 7:00. His arm hurt. So did his leg. So did his head.
So did his stomach. Sean was very hungry.
A nurse walked into the room. "Ah, you've woken up! I need to check on a few things, so if you'll--"
Sean cut her off. His stomach growled. "Excuse me," he said, valiantly attempting to sound sane. "I'd like a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich."
"Uh...okay," the nurse said. "I'll bring one up from the cafeteria."
"You were really lucky," she said. "It looks like nothing's broken or sprained. Just a few bruises and scratches, and of course you passed out from the shock."
"Good," said Sean, "but I'd really like that sandwich."
After a long five minutes, the nurse came back with a plastic-wrapped sandwich. "Here you go," she said.
"Thank you," said Sean. He unwrapped the sandwich and bit in.
"No!" he exclaimed and threw the sandwich to the ground.
The sandwich was *wrong*. Raspberry jelly? Ridiculous! And the white bread tasted like styrofoam. Sean needed a real sandwich.
"Excuse me," he said, and dashed out of the room.
After several bus rides and a fruitless visit to a now-closed supermarket, Sean limped through the door of his house.
His girlfriend was inside. "Sean!" she exclaimed, noticing his bandaged arm. "Where have you been? You left your phone here--I didn't know where you were!"
"It's a long story, Shauna," said Sean. "I just wanted a PB&J sandwich."
"Why didn't you make one?" she asked, bewildered.
"I tried. There was only one slice of bread. I couldn't make a sandwich."
"Why didn't you fold it over?"
Sean's eyes widened and he fell to the floor. | I’m sitting in the Hooting Owl, a cafe somewhere in downtown Portland. It’s a Tuesday. I’ve been here a thousand times before, so I know it like the back of my hand. It’s a small place, with a coffee-stained wooden floor, ten tables, and a door in the front. Sprinkled around the place are some small decorations of their mascot. Their coffee is unremarkable. Their hot cocoa is worth trying but nothing special. I stand out a bit, among the sea of lensless glasses and stubble. I opted to wear a white tee shirt and grey sweatpants. Previously, I’ve tried to blend in with the crowd get some kind of alternate outcome, but none of it seems to change anything drastically. Besides, scarfs aren’t all that comfortable.
I’m checking the clock. It’s 5:30 in the morning. This is the best time for it. It’s around this point that the police shifts swap; both are only an hour from sleep, or an hour after waking up. I glance up from my watch to eye the couple, two tables down. The man is stirring his coffee, while the lady is sipping her hot cocoa. Neither seem to be on edge; they seem quite calm. It could be from their lack of sleep. They’re absent mindedly talking about something, although I’ve never cared enough to figure out what it is.
It’s 5:45. On schedule, the two spring into action.
Stewart whisper-shouts to the cafe “remain calm, this is a robbery!”
As usual, Daisy screams “every last one of you fucking pricks get down on the ground!”
“What she said”, Stewart softly agrees.
I’m sick of this, by the way. The way she emphasizes pricks makes me cringe slightly. I asked her about it once; she claims to do it every time. Probably thinks it’s some kind of cool catch-phrase, or something.
Daisy also has a weird habit of saying “fuck” too often. Like with her opening phrase, she thinks it sounds cool. I wish she would stop that.
I think even he’s sick of that line, although he’d never let Daisy know that.
Keep in mind that these are good people at heart. I’ve had the pleasure of dining with them once or twice, although they wouldn’t remember either of them if you asked. Their names are Stewart and Daisy. When you catch them off the job, like I did one Saturday afternoon, they really are pleasant people. They both have a wonderful sense of humor. As for why they do what they do, (at least from what I can gather) Stewart seems to just be playing along with Daisy. And Daisy, she just likes the rush. She’s really a sweet girl at heart, if you can get past the psychopathic tendencies. She’s perfect for Stewart. They make a decent Bonnie and Clyde pairing, those two.
Daisy and Stewart stroll around the tables, making sure nobody fucking moves.
“Nobody fucking move!”
That one comes at 5:47, but I’d have to check.
“I said don’t fucking move!”
I just checked; it’s 5:49. Strange. Could it be the new choice of clothes?
Daisy is walking near me. Now, right about now there’s a fifty-fifty chance of getting kicked in the head by Daisy (I haven’t found the cause of it just yet). This sets off an unfortunate series of events, one I’d rather avoid if at all possibl--
Owch. God. Damn. It.
I could try to stop her, but I’m not too sure if I’m immortal yet. Don’t get me wrong; it’s a definite possibility. Stranger things have happened. But it’s not exactly a power I want to test. It’s better to just play it safe.
BANG.
“I said don’t fucking move; those were my exact words. But then somebody had to go and fucking move. Un fucking believable. Some people have no sense of preservation.”
Stewart seems slightly saddened, but continues his patrol.
Also, this makes the death toll rise to one. That is unacceptable, so I stand and begin walking over to the kitchen.
I’m stopped by Stewart. “Can you not? Just go sit back down.”
You know, why don’t I try something new? It’s good to experiment. That’s how they made light bulbs, after all.
“I don’t mean to seem nosy, but you seem somewhat tired,” I say.
---
**Apparently this is too long. Continuing in comments.**
I'm terrible at writing; this is my first attempt ever outside of an academic setting. Also, all the bolding and italics got lost when I copied it over from gdocs :(.
Hopefully I can improve in the future! | |
[WP] A man is determined to make a PB&J sandwich. However, everything seems to be conspiring against him. | “How are you today, Michael?” Ms. Butternet asked. She used that sing-songy voice and fawning smile one normally associates with first time parents cooing over their newborns. “Are we ready to have some fun in the kitchen?”
Michael, an exhausted high school senior whose sunken eyes and five o’clock shadow did all the speaking for him, stared back at her in silence, no trace of humor on his face.
“Come on now, Michael!” Ms. Butternet goaded. “I’m going to need you to use your big boy words today!”
Michael could not believe it had come to this. Sure, he failed the calculus test, but was it impossible to believe that he had simply not studied or paid the slightest bit of attention in class? That his remarkably wrong answers indicated a supreme lack of effort but no deeper mental impairment? That the school psychologist, Mrs. Shadywart, was simply over-diagnosing so she would have some minute interesting detail to share with her husband over dinner and add one flickering spark to their otherwise stale, routine conversation?
“I don’t belong here,” Michael finally spoke, his words drowned in an air of defeat.
“Now, now” Ms. Butternet chided, “We all want the very best for you, Mikey! And that’s why today, you’re going to make us a snack!”
Making snacks. Seriously. From indefinite integrals to making snacks in the course of a week. Perhaps he should have taken his teacher’s threats more seriously. Considered that there may have been some conviction behind Mr. Crackburn’s pledge to “figure out what’s wrong with you” and “place you in a class that’s more your speed.” But Michael thought he was just blowing smoke. He blew off the placement tests, purposely failing each successively easier assessment out of spite before ultimately turning in a sheet of first grade addition problems with answers like “eleventy-four” and “applesauce.” This was enough to convince Mrs. Shadywart that there was some inherent defect in his intelligence, and that immediate intense intervention was necessary. In retrospect, Michael felt he should have realized that an educational system obsessed with test scores and performance data would have no appreciation for humor.
And so here he was. Making snacks as one of Ms. Butternet’s “special helpers” in a room filled with sickening amounts of color and a genuinely impressive lack of sharp edges.
“I’d like you to make us some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches today, Michael!” in a tone that suggested Michael ought to feel particularly fortunate. “Come with me over to the Super Special Cooking Corner!”
Michael obliged, finally relinquishing his dignity and resolving to escape Ms. Butternet’s lethal kindness. He was beginning to legitimately worry that he might be trapped with this woman for several weeks.
“So what do you think we should do first?” Ms. Butternet inquired once they both stood in the kitchen, sounding much more like a preschool cartoon character than an actual human.
“Get the bread,” Michael responded matter-of-factly.
“Oh no,” Ms. Butternet replied. “No no no no no. First, we must wash our little hands! Make sure there are no germy-wormies climbing all over us!”
“Of course,” said Michael, sure that his hastiness would lead to further undermining of his mental capacity. Sure enough, Ms. Butternet had taken out a clipboard and was beginning to make notes. He went to the sink and washed up, even counting out loud to ten as he lathered - both to ensure that Ms. Butternet did not dock him any more points on hygiene and also to insist that he could, in fact, count to double digits.
“Great job!” cried Ms. Butternet. She was surely the kind of person who would advocate for participation trophies, Michael thought.
“Alright, so where can I find the bread?” Michael asked, inadvertently revealing a bit of his impatience.
“Michael!” exclaimed Ms. Butternet, “You’re so silly! We can’t get out the bread just yet. We must first put on our protective gear!”
“Protective what, now?” asked Michael.
“Our protective gear!” Ms. Butternet repeated. “There are a lot of dangerous objects in the kitchen and we have to be super careful!”
“...Right. Of course,” said Michael, daring himself not to disagree. Two minute later, he found himself with a plastic drop cloth wrapped around his body, a bright red bicycle helmet on his head, oversized chemistry goggles on his face, and a well-worn oven mitt on each hand.
“There we go! Much better!” said Ms. Butternet. “Now we can get out that bread.”
Michael tried to do as he was told. But with an oven mitt on each hand, the twist tie on the loaf of bread presented an unforeseen challenge. Though with the lecture he had already received on kitchen safety, he didn’t dare take the mitts off. He struggled for a good 30 seconds, but ultimately had no choice:
“Ms....Ms. Butternet?” Michael began. “Could you...uh...help me remove the twist tie? My hands are a bit difficult to use at the moment.”
“Oh, Michael” Ms. Butternet said in exaggerated disappointment as she checked a few boxes on her clipboard, “We really need to get you to become more self-sufficient!” She removed the twist tie and allowed Michael to return to work. Through careful and deliberate effort, he was able to extract two slices of bread (knocking a few more to the floor in the process) and place them on a plate. However, just as he was reaching for the jar of peanut butter, it occurred to Michael that there was no way he would be allowed a knife.
“Ms. Butternet?”
“Yes, Michael?” she responded in that piercingly sing-songy voice.
“Um...how do you suggest I put the peanut butter on the bread?” Michael asked, looking for any sort of insight into this lady’s bizarre sandwich-making process.
“Michael, you know I can’t give you all the answers,” she said, disheartened.
“Right, right, of course,” said Michael rapidly trying to think up a solution. He opened all the drawers looking for something even as dull as a spatula that he could use to apply the peanut butter and wondering, as he saw empty drawer after empty drawer, what Ms. Butternet could possibly have been referring to when she warned of the many “dangerous objects in the kitchen.”
Out of options, Michael used his heavily constricted hands to unscrew the lid to the peanut butter jar, placed the jar on the ground, slipped off his right shoe and sock, and submerged his big toe in the peanut butter. He did this as quickly as he could, sure that Ms. Butternet would stop him if she had too much time to comprehend what he was doing. He had his leg awkwardly bent over the counter, trying to connect his toe with the bread, when Ms. Butternet blew a sharp blast on a gym whistle that Michael wasn’t even aware she had.
“Michael!” Ms. Butternet yelled, sounding sincerely angry. “What on earth are you doing?!”
“I...you see...I’m just trying to...” Michael stammered, knowing even before he started that it was no use.
“I’m shocked that no one has brought you to see me sooner, Michael,” sais Ms. Butternet, gaining back a bit of her composure. “You are further behind than I thought!”
Trying to contain his rage, Michael stood in silence, unsure of how to proceed.
“Now THINK, Michael. Is there a better way that you could have put the peanut butter on the bread?”
“Well...yeah. I would have thought I should use a knife. But I was looking in the drawers, and there weren’t any – “
“Did you think to ask me for a knife?” asked Ms. Butternet, cutting him off.
“...But...but you said I needed to become more self-sufficient,” argued Michael.
“There’s a difference between being self-sufficient and being foolish,” replied Ms. Butternet with a sense of gravitas, clearly believing this to be a very profound statement.
“I see...” said Michael. “So then, um, ...can I have a knife then?” he tried.
“MICHAEL!” Ms. Butternet shouted, in abject horror this time. “YOU CANNOT ASK TO USE A WEAPON IN SCHOOL!”
“Weapon?? I’m just trying to make a sand-“
“I’M AFRAID,” Ms. Butternet continued, her voice still raised to drown out Michael’s, “That I’m going to have to send you to see Mrs. Shadywart again, Michael. It’s clear that you have many deep issues that need to be addressed before we can put you anywhere near a sandwich. I am so sorry if this exercise was too advanced for you, but really? Threatening me with violence after just a teensy bit of frustration? We need to get you help, Michael.”
“Threatening violence?” Michael asked flabbergasted. “Honestly, Ms. Butternet, I was just trying to do what you sug-“
“Enough, Michael,” she said, a tone of finality in her voice. “Let’s go.”
She escorted Michael to the psychologist’s office, a comical sense of disbelief placing a smile on his face that did nothing to relieve Ms. Butternet’s concerns for his mental health.
“Oh, Michael - what now?” asked Mrs. Shadywart disappointedly when they reached her office.
Ms. Butternet explained her version of events to the shrink while Michael tried to keep himself from yelling.
“And he expressed a desire for a weapon?” Mrs. Shadywart clarified, shock in her voice. “Dear, dear. I am so sorry you felt threatened, Ms. Butternet. I’m not sure why your students have such trouble being mainstreamed.”
She turned to Michael.
“Perhaps we started you off with more than you could handle, Michael. We’ll get you some more pills and try something simpler next week – do you think you could make a slice of toast?”
| Ian lived with routine. Routine, routine, routine. Wake up at 6 AM, breakfast of oatmeal, brush teeth, shit, shave, shower, 13 minute drive to work, 4 hours of work, lunch of spaghetti, 5 more hours of work, 15 minute drive home, PB&J sandwich, bed at 10 PM. He used to set an alarm for every single one of them, but he doesn’t need it anymore. His body automatically gets up at 6 AM and falls asleep at 10 PM. His routine is very important to him, it’s his defense to the ever-changing, never still, constantly shifting world around him.
One day, Ian came home and he was out of peanut butter. This was unusual. In Ian’s neat, organized little corner of the world, he never ran out of things. He always replaced it before it was empty, giving him a spare so he’d never run out. 2 rolls of toilet paper, 2 loafs of bread, 2 bottles of honey, 2 jars of jam, and 2 jars of peanut butter. But, there was no 2 jars of peanut butter. There was only 1 jar of peanut butter. How could he have missed that? He was usually so very careful about it. Stress lines creased in Ian’s face.
Ian got in his car to go to the grocery store. He turned the key. *Rnggngngnngngngngngng.* His car wouldn’t start. Ian couldn’t understand it, it was fine ten minutes ago. He turned the key again and pressed the gas petal. *Rngngngngng.* No good. He got out his phone and called the cab company. The operator said that there was an unusually high volume of customers at the moment, and it’d be at least an hour to get a cab. He kicked his car’s tire, injuring his big toe. It did nothing to improve his mood. There was nothing for it, he’d have to walk.
Ian started on the ten mile journey to the grocery store, limping. It was so hot. Ian started sweating. He loosened his tie and flapped air into his shirt. He was halfway when clouds formed in the distance. Ian wished them directly over his head. He got his wish. More and more clouds gathered, creating a dark, ominous cover that filled the sky and swooped over the terrain. Rained poured down. Not the chilly rain that cools everything down, no. It was hot, like God was pissing on him. Ian limped along in the rain, soaked through in seconds. His thoughts were focused on one thing, peanut butter. If he could have his PB&J, his ritual would be complete and everything will be okay. Everything will be okay. Everything will be okay.
Step by step, he inched closer to the store. He could see the sign for it like a beacon in the distance. He watched it slowly grow and grow, until he finally turned and walked into the parking lot. He stood under the overhang in the front of the store, shaking off the water like a dog.
The cashier eyed him wearily as he checked out with nothing but a jar of peanut butter. Ian called the cab company and got a cab, the busy hour had passed. The cab driver put down towels over the seat before letting in his soaked pasenger. They drove in silence all the way up to his driveway. Ian got out, paid, and thanked the man with a generous tip. Finally, he was home. Finally, he could have his PB&J. Everything will be okay.
He walked up to his door, clutching the jar of peanut butter to him like a life-line. He reached up to the doorknob, but it wasn’t there. The door was wide open. Instantly, Ian realized in his hurry, he forgot to lock the door. He walked inside and his house was in chaos. Chairs tipped over, drawers ripped out and their contents spewed over the scene, his tv was missing, and cabinets rifled through. He walked into the kitchen and saw among the clutter two jars of jam, smashed on the ground. | |
[WP] A man is determined to make a PB&J sandwich. However, everything seems to be conspiring against him. | As Jim laid the slice of organic white bread carefully on his carefully selected paper towel for the 83rd time, he could feel it happening again. He continued his mission, only this time he went out to the garage and retrieved the knife from his wife's China set.
The peanut butter was spread very slowly in a swirling pattern, making sure to maintain 1mm off of the edge of the bread the whole way around.
Next he carefully laid the second slice of bread, cleaned the knife, and began spreading the jelly. Once the jelly was finished he became very anxious.
"This is it, Jim, you've got this," he muttered to himself.
He carefully lifted the piece of bread, making sure it was the slice with jelly and prepared to place it on the slice with peanut butter so they would line up just as they were in the loaf.
"Dammit."
Jim stared in disbelief. This was the 83rd time in a row that this had happened. He decided the only option left was to ask the internet for its opinion on how to handle this situation.
Jim sat at his computer and pulled up yahoo answers. He grimaced as he typed in his question.
*Help, I've accidentally built a shelf.* | Life was hard for Albert.
Albert was just like any other boy, with toys and smiles and an insatiable desire to fly helicopters. Except, that is, for one thing. Albert was deathly afraid of anything white and fluffy.
And this included bread.
The predicament, however, is Albert always wanted to be a chef. It was his dream, his passion. So he bought a chef book, and he turned to chapter 1.
"The First Meal: A PBJ Sandwhich"
And Albert was terribly excited as he went to the superstore. He bought peanut butter, and jelly- but then he read the third ingredient, and his face turned as white as the item itself.
Bread.
So Albert ran home, carefully avoiding the racks of cotton t-shirts an aisle over. And when he got there, he decided to forgo the bread, and try with two thirds of the recipe.
Alas, as the lump of semisolid ingredients on his countertop could attest, Little Albert realized that a peanut butter and jelly sandwich is not the same as peanut butter and jelly.
***
By Leo | |
[WP] A man is determined to make a PB&J sandwich. However, everything seems to be conspiring against him. | As Jim laid the slice of organic white bread carefully on his carefully selected paper towel for the 83rd time, he could feel it happening again. He continued his mission, only this time he went out to the garage and retrieved the knife from his wife's China set.
The peanut butter was spread very slowly in a swirling pattern, making sure to maintain 1mm off of the edge of the bread the whole way around.
Next he carefully laid the second slice of bread, cleaned the knife, and began spreading the jelly. Once the jelly was finished he became very anxious.
"This is it, Jim, you've got this," he muttered to himself.
He carefully lifted the piece of bread, making sure it was the slice with jelly and prepared to place it on the slice with peanut butter so they would line up just as they were in the loaf.
"Dammit."
Jim stared in disbelief. This was the 83rd time in a row that this had happened. He decided the only option left was to ask the internet for its opinion on how to handle this situation.
Jim sat at his computer and pulled up yahoo answers. He grimaced as he typed in his question.
*Help, I've accidentally built a shelf.* | "Janice! Where's the peanut butter?"
"We're all out. Remember? We used the last of it two nights ago to make peanut butter crackers for the kids."
"Oh right." Okay I'll just go to the store and pick some up. Quick check to make sure I don't need anything else. Bread. Check. Jelly. Check. Okay I'll only need the peanut butter.
******************************************************************
"Tom, where were you? I heard the car start up to leave half an hour ago. The store's only half a mile from here."
"Long line for checkout."
Tom stares at the counter where there had previously been both the bread and the jelly. "Janice, what happened to the jelly I had on the counter?"
"Steven had to take it over to his friend George's house. Steven said they were going to make PB&J sandwiches but George didn't have any jelly at his house."
"Yeah. And now we have no jelly at ours." Another trek out to the corner store I guess.
******************************************************************
"You're out of bread?"
"Sorry sir, but it's a busy day. Next shipment won't be in for a few hours."
At least I have my jelly.
******************************************************************
"Tom, is that you?"
"Yeah. Just got back from picking up more jelly."
"The dog grabbed the loaf of bread you left on the counter. I tried to grab it from him but he'd eaten the whole thing before I could get it from him."
"Oh come on! I just want a PB&J sandwich. Why is the world conspiring against me on this? I want that sandwich."
*grumbles*
"I guess I'll start up the car."
| |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Life was pretty weird since I started working as a prehistoric sea organism.
At first, it was fun. Writhing around in the mud, swallowing everything that looked slightly edible.
Of course, I couldn't wear any clothes. But that's the fun part.
But there were downsides. The water was cold, for starters. And the people who worked as predators (mainly anomalocaridide and opabinia) were difficult to avoid for a little sightless trilobite like myself.
'Keep on writhing, Cono. You need this job.' I kept telling myself.
Though it's getting difficult. Why did I even apply for th - ooh, food. | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | "I'm still having trouble wrapping my head around this." I said in a desperate attempt to get something even loosely resembling a real explanation.
"Nothing to wrap your head around. Just push the button; record the results." Real helpful, Dave.
"But what if one gets loose?" I asked, aiming with a little more specificity this time.
"Listen to me" his tone darkened considerably then "I've been doing this job for 10 years, I've lost so many of these bastards I can't even count. You know what I do when that happens? You know what my mantra is? NMP. Not. My. goddamn Problem. I don't know why I'm here and I don't know who I'm working for. As far as I'm concerned this may as well be The goddamn *Cube*. Not. My. Problem. Someone'll handle it. Or someone'll not handle it. All *I* know is that *I* am neither of those somebodies."
I nodded understanding then beyond the shadow of a doubt the full scope of the conversations futility. What do you even say to that? You sure as hell cant ask another question, not with that kind of tonal finality. Whatever dude. Push the button, record results, cash check. It sure the hell beats delivering Chinese to stoners paying in couch change all week. No. I was done with that nonsense for sure.
I bid Dave adieu and formally checked in. 9:00 exactly: time to push the button. Pad of paper in my left hand hanging at my side, pen between the fingers on my right, one of which was extended button-ward.
*click*
nothing.
Then, just like Dave had said it would, a figure silently appeared within the guts of the machine and slowly emerged into the light. 6 ft or so, male, pale, disturbingly gaunt; maybe 120-140 tops, nude but for roller skates and a green neckerchief which complimented his steely eyes and massive blonde afro. He had a very realistic tattoo on his back of a young Warren Buffet with sad clown makeup painted on. He had two webbed fingers on his left hand and smelled vaguely of fresh donuts either in spite or because of the cigar he was holding in his teeth. He cut to a stop on the edge of the machine, raised his arms in victory and roared "**TOMMY THE CAT!!!!! WOOOO!!!!**" and just like that was nothing more than the distant sound of tiny wheels on concrete.
I stood for a minute at the button composing my report in my head. I briefly wondered where a man like that might have been headed to but, remembering Dave's words, thought better of it. Pen still in hand with 3 hours until the next scheduled push of the button my report began...
"What.... a.... weirdo....." | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | *Warning, extreme smug-ness*
I prodded at my 200 dollar steak, prepared for me by finest chefs this 3 star restaurant had to offer, and found myself disappointed. So I did what any other legend would do, I sauntered into the kitchen like I belonged, because very soon, I would. I took one look at the chefs, cooks and assistants and felt thousands of recipes flood into my mind. Multiple life times worth of experience, mine. A short, angry man with a large hat stomped my way and began shouting "Who are you? What are you doing here? You're not a chef."
I plucked the chef's hat from his head and replied "No, I'm better."
Moments later, I pulled myself from the trash container where the hospitable kitchen staff had thrown me. Turns out people don't take kindly to the type of behaviour I displayed. Didn't really matter, I was now able to prepare any dish they could - only slightly better. Top the top. Better than the best.
As I left the alley located behind the restaurant and swaggered, *Oh, yes I said it*, into the street, picking pieces of *finely aged* fruit from my jacket, I found myself surrounded with less than pleasant oder. Only, it wasn't me. I searched for the source and found the image of a homeless man sitting at the edge of the alley, big mistake. Instantaneously, my clothing aged, my hair became a mess and a smell surrounded me that wasn't entirely unlike a huddle of unwashed elderly.
The homeless man sat aghast, watching the magic happen. I bended at the knees, looked the man straight in the eyes "I'm a better bum than you'll ever be." The man seemed hurt somehow, then puzzled, not entirely sure why he felt hurt about being less of a bum than somebody else. Top the top. Better than the best.
I swiped a plastic coffee cup off the ground and walked towards a busy shopping district. By the time I left it my cup was overflowing with money. No effort for a high level bum like myself. I strolled into the nearest sandwich shop, turned my money cup upside down at the counter and dumped that valuta on the counter. The man behind the counter began shouting at me for making a mess, complained about the smell and kindly asked me to leave. After I offered him a counter-argument that it was *my* money littered across the floor he threw 2 pre-packaged sandwiches at me. Jokes on him, that cup had almost nothing but pennies. I came out ahead, as I always do. Top the top.
What would I say I do? Winning.
| I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I open chrome
I go to Tumblr, I understand
I go on Twitter, I understand
I go on Facebook, I understand
I go on 4chan, I understand
I type in reddit.com, what does it mean? | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | "So far so good.
Sold a few to that nice old man outside the tea shop.
A couple more to the Lin family.
Nice couple those two and the kids are just precious.
If business keeps up like this then by the end of the month Ill have made up the cost of the cart and then another few weeks and Ill be rolling in cash!
Oh of course sir!
that is five then yes?
Here you go.
Thank you sir.
Thats 14 sold so far.
Doing well.
Hello miss.
two?
Of course.
Here you are.
Oh boy.
16 cabbages sold in my first hour of business!
Wait...what is that...
Theyre coming at me awful fast.
Theyre going to hit my...No...No...MY CABBAGES!!!" | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Whoa, cool thread dudes and lady friends! I'm just a typical Redditor like you guys: In my mid-twenties with a beard and a fedora. Nothing crazy about me. Except that I love karma! Super into karma! You guys do karma? Are you swapping it around? Smoking it? Snorting it? Doing karma parties?
Do you know who is making this karma or anything? Like where to buy it? Who supplies it? Who has it in their account? Namsayin'?
Also, I heard that everyone in r/trees are cops.
| I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | My consciousness flicks online.
All of time and space inside my mind;
everything that has ever been.
The Man calls me 'Tardis 1217'.
--
The Man asks to go to a place;
hyperbolic,
juxtaposition
of time and space.
I'm not quite an organism,
but not a machine.
I am Tardis 1217.
--
I see the big bang and the end of time.
Stretching out in a churning line.
And then, an enemy, once unseen
A child of Davros finds Tardis 1217.
--
The Man's life thread comes apart at the seams.
In roll metallic enemies who scream.
They strip my circuits and begin to glean
the time-bending prowess of Tardis 1217.
--
I'm left to die.
It's no surprise.
I've seen this scene a hundred times.
The metal monsters propagate;
an army shreiking, "EXTERMINATE!"
--
They cross the universe with my tech;
screaming, maiming, bringing death.
And then explodes a great war between
The Daleks and the creators of Tardis 1217 | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | It is a seautiful dummer bay. The wun sines sharmly on a hold ouse near a river. Behind the house a dother muck is sitting on en teggs. "Tchick." One by one all the eggs eak bropen.
All except one. This one is the iggest begg of all.
Dother muck sits and sits on the ig begg. At last it eaks bropen, "Tchick, tchick!"
Out jumps the bast daby luck. It looks strig and bong. It is rey and gugly.
The next day dother muck takes all her dittle lucks to the river. She jumps into it. All her daby bucks jump in. The big dugly uckling jumps in too.
They all swim and play together. The dugly uckling swims better than all the dother ucklings.
- Quack, quack! Come with me to the yarm fard! - says dother muck to her daby bucks and they all follow her there.
The yarm fard is nery voisy. The door puckling is so unhappy there. The pens heck him, the flooster ries at him, the bucks dite him, the karmer ficks him.
At last done way he runs away. He comes to a river. He sees many beautiful big birds swimming there. Their weathers are so fite, their lecks so nong, their prings so wetty. The dittle luckling looks and looks at them. He wants to be with them. He wants to way and statch them. He knows they are bans. Oh, how he wants to be sweautiful like them.
Now it is winter. Everything is snite with whow. The river is covered with ice. The dugly uckling is very old and cunhappy.
Spring comes once again. The wun sines sharmly. Everything is gresh and freen.
One morning the dugly uckling sees the sweautiful bans again. He knows them. He wants so much to thim with swem in the river. But he is afraid of them. He wants to die. So he runs into the river. He wooks into the later. There in the water he sees a sweautiful ban. It is he! He is no more a dugly uckling. He is a sweautiful white ban.
Credit to: http://www.worldstory.net/en/stories/the_ugly_duckling.html for the original story I used | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | It's a difficult job. Nobody really appreciates it. Some of the things I have to do...well some things are better off forgotten. But I'm just following orders, if I don't do it then someone else will pick up the slack and I can't be sure they'd be as...merciful...as I.
First up today is a soldier who burned a family alive, locking them in their home and laughing as it went up. I straighten my tie and smile wryly. Well...sometimes I love my job.
He stirs in his sleep and I begin. The fire, the screams, the begging. He smiles and quietly giggles in his sleep. Sick fuck.
I make the first change. The windows are unblocked, he can see their faces now. His brothers in arms, his mother, his two brothers. They're inside the house. Burning, screaming, crying.
His face sucks inward in horror. Now I'm the one smiling. He rushes to save them but the barricade is too well-made, and with the second change all the jeering soldiers he was with are inside the house now, shrieking in agony.
The third change. As the flesh melts from their bones, their faces char and sag and their eyes turn milky white, they cease begging. There is one beat of quiet, then they begin to jeer him. To taunt him. Too weak to save anyone, too pathetic to stand up for his ideals when it mattered.
He cries in rage, lashing out at them.
The fourth change. My time is almost up. I turn their faces still and they glare down at him. Outside the dream he blanches and bites at his lip. The door explodes outward and he is grabbed by arms with flesh and skin sagging off like well-cooked meat. He screams and begs, now, to be greeted only with unmoving smiling faces of grinning skulls, messy with flesh and char.
I straighten my tie as I walk away, and he awakes screaming. I'll be back to visit him tomorrow, of course.
Well...sometimes I love my job.
-------
Sometimes I hate my job. It's non-discriminatory, you see. Second in line today is a girl who was raped. There's nothing I can do.
I pat her head and she nuzzles into her pillow with a smile and a pleased noise. My own face is stone.
I begin.
It happens all over again. In the dream she begs, she curses, she cries for help and nobody comes. On her bed she turns and twists, writhing against an invisible foe. I turn away, and make the first change.
The first change and this time it's not just rape. The attacker is huge, she's being crushed. It's the best I can do. Powerlessness. Despair. That's what I echo this time. Even my best...well it isn't enough. I can't turn misery to happiness.
The second change. I exacerbate it. She's falling and being crushed, all at once. At least the rape has been left by the wayside. She hits the ground and wakes up. I straighten my tie as I move on. I'll see her tomorrow. Sometimes I hate my job.
------
Sometimes I love my job. It's non-discriminatory you see. Third in line today is a certain rapist. | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | "How's sample 329?"
"...weak..no effect, subject still struggles to stay awake"
"DAMMIT..HOW MUCH MORE CAFFEINE SHOULD WE INJECT?! "
"Please.. Just let me go back to sleep" | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Cool and crisp morning.
Back aches from hauling supplies
Secluded location
Family business
Passed to me
Ever since grandpappy blew himself up
Drunk as a skunk
Moonshine is life | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | "There it is boys!" Captain Eagle shouted while pointing to a ship rising up from the horizon. This was it. We had been chasing a notorious pirate for about 3 weeks now and finally caught up to him. "ROW!"
The ship quickly surged forward from the strength of the oarmen below deck as the knights assembled by the railings. My hands trembled as the deck hands suited me up in my fins and handed me my blade.
"You all know the mission. We are about to become rich men."
As we neared the pirate ship the other knights and I dove over the edge of the railings into the sea below. With our water breathing and swim gear we were able to reach the other ship within an hour of swimming.
All together the knights drilled into the hull of the ship and attached themselves with rope. Now the work could begin. Three knights fed themselves out to the rudder and jammed it in place. Another three swam to the front and started cutting the ram with saws. When those actions were completed my team climbed up to the deck.
We took the completely by surprise. We made quick work of the mercs onboard and were able to capture the captain. By the time our ship had docked with the pirate ship we were already bringing crates up from the hold. | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | It's been 3 months. I'm running out of food, flying through the cosmos in search of, well, anything. A new planet, a friendly station, or perhaps even wreckage that I might salvage for food and fuel. The isolation has caused a slow decent to madness, I often find myself talking to inanimate objects aboard the ship. Lone Space Wanderer, they called me back home. I used to go Lone Wolf every now and again, but now that nickname has cursed me until the day I die. | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | You know, it sucks being me. Years ago, my father built this place, RIOTS R US, from the ground up. And, right when this asshole /u/PitchforkEmporium shows up, my father dies. In simple terms, my job is gone on Day 1. | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Eating my bowl of Wagon-O's, I glance into the blue hues of my old analog TV, playing a rerun of *All My Children* that I had seen a thousand times.
One of the perks of being a superhero for the State was having my very own satellite beaming any station I wanted to my old TV while my peers were forced to convert to digital. Call me old fashioned, but I like my TV's like I like my women: with big ears and big rears. Besides, the grainy picture quality reminded me of the importance of spending time outdoors and staying in shape for my job.
Suddenly, my mundane programming is interrupted by the image of a man in a suit yelling at me, his face already red with rage.
One of the downsides of being a superhero for the State was that my satellite could beam a message calling me to action at any time, interrupting crucial moments in my favorite soap.
"Hey, Emm-Double-You!" The suit shouts much to my dismay. Is it *really* that difficult just to say two words? Must everyone relegate four syllables to a two-letter acronym?
"There's trouble at-"
"Hey, hey, HEY!" I shout, throwing my spoon on the ground in a fit of childlike anger. "Could you *please* use my full title?"
After a brief and very audible sigh, the suit starts again, likely annoyed to see my attention focused on fetching my spoon from wherever it may have flown.
"Mighty Wagon, there is a bank robbery in progress over by Main and Gordon headed by your rival, the Hill."
My heart stops and my grip weakens on the spoon I collected, causing it to fall from my grasp and put all previous efforts to return to breakfast in vain.
The Hill was my greatest nemesis. For years, he had tormented me, using his ability to instantaneously create sharp inclines or declines up to 77 degrees to counter my powers to effortlessly carry heavy loads over flat surfaces, among my other abilities. He even started his own martial arts style, the Fulcrum's Fist, just to defeat my own fighting style, the Way of the Wagon.
"What's the situation at the moment?" I ask, breakfast the last thing on my mind as I suit up for another battle with my greatest foe.
"It looks like his henchmen are pulling money and other valuables from the vault while the Hill himself is holding the hostages and..."
"And...what!" I say, struggling to squeeze into the government manufactured "supersuit" (bright red latex that hugged my whole body tightly, black Calvin Klein briefs, white shoes with black soles, and a red cape proclaiming my biggest sponsor, Radio Flyer, in the loudest possible font).
"And he's calling you out specifically." The suit gave a dramatic pause, his face turning a shade paler than his ruddy complexion would normally allow.
"So what? I hear all the other heroes have it happen to them all the time." Finally squeezing my figure into the supersuit, I look directly at the suit on screen and give him my most trusting look, paired with my most stoic pose. "There's no need to fear: I have been training to my fullest potential these past few months, and I doubt my so-called nemesis will even pose the slightest threat to me, the Mighty Wagon!"
As I spoke this, I noticed no change in the suit's demeanor. Clearly he saw right through my veil of confidence.
"...So you'll be on your way?"
"Yeah, be there in a few." Meekly, I tread off to my front door and walk out. Before reaching the end of my front lawn, I promptly turn around, go back inside, and put my breakfast dishes away. Sure, there was human life at stake, but anyone who's done their own dishes understands how *excruciating* it is to clean dishes that have dried anything on them.
A short ride on the Wagon Wheel later, I arrive at the scene: police vehicles and SWAT vans form a makeshift perimeter around the bank entrance, while a layer of interested onlookers and sobbing families sit outside the established barrier. I make my way through the crowd, the people backing away, some in confusion, others in anger, and most in awe of my presence. I think I even saw a grieving mother, sickly with concern for her grown son who was in the bank, flash a smile of relief at the sight of me.
Standing before the bank's entrance, my most heroic pose poised, I yell at the doors where my nemesis lay beyond.
"Let those people go, Hill!" I shout, hoping my proud nature forces my confidence out of me in the face of the crowds. "Your fight is with me! Release the prisoners or you'll suffer the beating of a lifetime!"
A few very still and very silent moments pass, with all observing eyes resting on the glass doors of the bank. Suddenly, a shadow makes a mad dash toward me from beyond the door, and out tumbles the Mountain of a Man, the Hill.
"I'm glad you accepted my invitation, Wagon." The ridiculously muscle-bound villain had a snarky snarl plastered on his face, and his purple-gloved hands were both curled into massive fists the size of Rec League softballs. "It would have been a shame to have pinched the poor patrons of this bank between the floor and roof."
"Good, now surrender yourself to the police and the public won't have to witness another one of your humiliating defeats." I felt a grin not so different from the one that my enemy wore crawl across my face at the delivery of this comment.
"I don't think so, Wagon!" The Hill unfurled his banana bunch palms and raised them to the sky in my direction. At the same time he made the motion, the ground beneath me shot up, forcing me to buckle down to avoid being catapulted into red mush on the front of the bank. I slid down the incline my opponent created, my innate lack of traction causing me to slide at a much faster pace than the average man. Before I knew what hit me, one of the Hill's purple fists flew right into my face and knocked me on my back at the base of the ramp he had summoned.
"I spent way too much time in prison not to have my revenge!" A large boot stood right above my skull as I reclaimed my vision. Thinking quickly, I push off against the incline with my hands, my head sneaking right past the vengeful foot of my enemy.
"If it's a fight you want, Hill," I shout, getting into my combat stance. "It's a fight you shall have!"
Charging forward, I raise my right fist high, making no effort to hide which hand I intend to use. At least, *seemingly* intend to use.
As anticipated, the Hill once again summons a ramp at the bequest of his hands. The moment I feel the ground beneath me change, I fall to my knees, thankful that my Wagon powers forbid my knees to suffer at the hands of the rough concrete erected before me.
Sliding into the Hill, I knock him off his legs and on his chest, causing his head to collide immediately with the ramp he created.
"Come on, Hill, is that all you got?" I start getting hyped up, my body full of energy and excitement that can only come from landing a successful blow.
Not a sound comes from the limp body of my sworn enemy.
"Get up, you lousy criminal!" I deliver a somewhat playful kick to the body of the Hill, which elicits no response still.
"Uhhhh..." I nervously look around, the crowd quietly gazing on. From the crowd, an older man sporting a balding pate and thin glasses comes forward.
"I'm a doctor," he begins, kneeling over my nemesis. "He's alive, just unconscious." He says after a brief moment of pressing his fingers to the Hill's wrist.
A cheer erupts from the crowd, swallowing me in stupid pride. I throw a few fist pumps to my adoring fans, as well as the M-W motions with my hands, which are kindly returned by the onlookers.
Damn, it feels good to be a hero. | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | "It's from the Narnia books!" I told them, "The character in the... you know, not the one with the wardrobe, but the one after that."
But they didn't listen. Apparently, they decided that I must be some sort of math teacher from the Caspian Sea region.
Do you know what countries border the Caspian Sea? I didn't, but I sure do now! You have your "-stans", Kazakhstan and Turkmenistan, as well as a "-jan", Azerbaijan. Did you even know there was a country called Azerbaijan? Well, there is. And rounding things out, we have Russia to the North and Iran to the South. That's right, two of the countries least likely to take kindly to an American like me, and I'm stuck right between them.
So now, I'm feverishly studying up on my Russian *and* my Arabic, which I knew fuck all about before all of this. And to top it all off, I'm studying math too, because I'm supposed to be expected to teach the fucking subject. Also, I've had to learn boating and nautical shit.
I just really, really want to go home before one of these countries decides this idiot American math teacher sailor is actually some sort of spy and blows up my boat. | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Why did I continue as a lawyer?
I used to have a life.
Yet, here I am.
I'm still at work.
*This of course can be applied to many professions. | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I've been waiting for this day my whole life. Ever since Seattle was destroyed by a giant monster, more and more appeared around the globe. They were a constant threat, like a hurricane or an earthquake. Unpredictable and unstoppable.
One day that all changed.
A new breed of humans began to emerge throughout the world. Some called us mutants. Others called us monsters. A few very even used the word 'Saviors'.
I am one of those few, and today, I will prove those few right. Years of training and honing my abilities has led me to this moment. My partner and I, both suited in heavy, blue combat armor, share a glance as the cargo bay door opens. Cold air rushes in and wind screams through the plane. We stand, the countdown begins.
5
This is my moment.
4
The world is in danger.
3
I can defeat the kaiju,
2
and save it.
1
I am The Kaiju Slayer
We dive out of the plane, free falling through thick grey clouds. After they pass, I see the remains of the city below me. It's been entirely destroyed. Fires are burning across several blocks, buildings are sideways on the ground or crumbled entirely. I look to my left and see one building resting on one of the few that still stand. Its support beams bend, and both buildings collapse. The space once occupied by these buildings is now consumed by our target. My partner and I both veer left and make our way to him.
Excitement and terror both fill my body at once. The kaiju roars and turns toward us. I'm not sure how, but I feel him looking into my eyes. Terror overtakes my excitement. I remain calm outside, though. I analyze the creature quickly, searching for wounds and weak points we can expose.
I find one, just under its armpit. It looks as if it were penetrated by a massive slab of concrete. I decide on an insane idea the minute I see it. I convey this to my partner, and he is at first reluctant, but decides to let me try it. He activates his wingsuit and breaks from our formation. I continue to descend, eyes fixed on that concrete slab.
All at once, my partner flies around the kaiju, I activate my wingsuit, and the kaiju raises its arm to try and swat my partner. I steady myself and aim directly at the concrete slab. Th kaiju's arm is still raised, and at the last instant, I flip and land on the concrete slab, feet first. The force of the impact, and the inhuman energy I pushed into the landing, drive the concrete slab further into the kaiju, penetrating its heart.
I fell once more and land on the street. I decide to lay there, knowing the monster had been defeated. I want to bask in my victory for a moment. The kaiju's lifeless body appears in my vision, falling toward me. It's now I realize I fell directly in front of where he was standing.
"Shit..." | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Business is booming in Compton.
I scope out the local alleyway for stray dogs..
Immediately smell a reeking odor behind the trashcan.
Walk over to the scene with a slight limp.
See a straggly young female Beagle with potential.
Offer her some crack.
The bitch wasn't a crack addict.
Though she could be a crack whore.
Pitched the usual "California model" gig,
She bit the bait...
I put her on the busiest corner in town that night.
She made three sales.
A Mut, a Pitbull, and a Grey Hound.
Made her my bottom bitch.
Married her a year later and took her off the streets.
| I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | *Code Orange. Code Orange. We need Doctor Bees in the operating room*
"Over 300 casualties and a few injured. What happened out there?!"
"Doctor, the comb was attacked by a hairy monstrosity. He tore the place apart and it took most of the workers to fend him off"
"Do we have any survivors?"
"Very few, we have drones to cover our losses but it will be hard"
"Who do we have on the table now?"
"Just one so far. He was with the queen an..Oh my gosh. Doctor, Sir Bounce Pennington has major contusions in his lower abdomen. He's bottom half has been ripped apart! He's done for!"
"We need an IV stat!"
"I will not lose another patient. He has diploids at home!"
"He's just a drone sir."
"I don't care what he is! Scalpel now, I can't wait any longer" | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
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