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Edit: Thank you all so much for this!! The idea came to me in the shower about a week ago, as a thought about "what really weird things we could find as we set to explore the galaxy?". I liked it because there are so many possible angles, and because it hasn't been done before AFAIK (???). I am having a blast reading all your stories.
|
[WP] It's the year 2851. Humanity develops interstellar travel and begins to explore the Milky Way galaxy in search for life. However, much to everyone's surprise, instead of alien life we find... Earth's biosphere complete with humans, repeated over and over at different stages of progress.
|
The planet Auryth was splashed across the holoscreens, a single spot of resplendent green and blue amongst an inky canvas of somber black. The gathered crew in the command bridge silently watched as the reconnaissance probe completed its task, then puttered back slowly to dock with the mothership.
Gareth Hader, First Mate on the SS Vulture, snapped off a sharp salute when he arrived on the bridge. He had spent almost two full Earth days in the probe, and he certainly looked the worse for wear.
"At ease," said Captain Layna Nurely, fighting to keep the urgency in her voice from showing. "How much resistance do we expect?"
Gareth collapsed into a nearby chair, then tapped his wrist against the receptor dock. The data he had so laboriously collected was instantly uploaded to the mainframe, and figures, images began to ran over the hologram of Auryth.
"Little," he said, a wan smile crossing his lips, "They are primitive. I cross-referenced their technological advancements against our own, and the closest approximation is Earth in the 1200s."
"So, essentially the Middle Ages?"
Gareth laughed, and said, "More like Prehistoric, compared to us. Even a gap of a single decade is monumental, much less over 1600 years."
That much was true. Kurzweil's Law already accounted for how technological advancement accelerates over time, which was how Earth had required over a thousand years to harness tachyon manipulation, but only a hundred more to perfect numellar resonance. From the hundred or so conquests already won in the Federation's name, a gap of over 1600 years in comparative advancement meant that the SS Vulture had an approximate 99.95% chance of enslaving Auryth within two days.
Still, something about Auryth rubbed Captain Layna the wrong way, something she couldn't put her finger on.
"You sure they have no means of resisting our numellar rays?"
Gareth laughed again. "Resist? They would need tonist weaves to even have a chance of resisting the first assault we launch, and who knows how long they would need to even develop *that*."
"What about other weapons? Maybe they have expertise in something else we aren't expecting? I don't want to have to call off the assault just to request for specialist backup, that won't look good on our records at all."
Gareth knew what she was referring to. The SS Farsight, ironically, had been one of the most glaring testaments to how *not* to conquer an Earth-clone, the derogatory term used for all the other planets in the galaxy who showed signs of human life.
In that early foray, the SS Farsight had plunged headfirst into a frontal assault, believing themselves the clear victors in a horribly imbalanced match-up. Too late did they realise that the humans of that Earth-clone, though far less weaponized, had managed to tame the giant beasts which roamed that planet. It had taken full reinforcements from two other starships before the planet was finally brought to heel.
"I sent drones down," said Gareth, "this is what war looks like on Auryth. Take a look."
The holorecordings began playing, and a scene of a large field took over the holoscreens. On opposite ends stood two tribes, and at the sound of a horn blasting through the air, a single representative from each tribe approached the other, meeting in the middle.
"This is as bloodthirsty as they will get," said Gareth, sharing the insights he had gleaned, "they wear simple armour made out of dried furs, and they are each equipped with a single long pole. I'll speed it up here, because that's all they do for hours, just facing each other, weapons at the ready."
"Then what? They fight?"
"If you can call it that," said Gareth, "see, here? One of them eventually moves to strike, the other fails to parry, and he goes down. *Boom*. That's it. That's all it is. Hours and hours of staring at each other, then the conflict is over, that tribe has just won more land."
"And all of them do that?"
"All of them. They don't have countries, just tribes like this. Everyone has their own pole, they carry it with them all the time, sort of like a belief that everyone is responsible for their own safety. But when they fight, they only send a single representative forward."
"Any reason why they are so... minimalist?"
Gareth shrugged. "Best I can surmise with the help of our database is that they have evolved a practice of minimizing bloodshed. Auryth is not a particularly rich planet, and my guess is that they have realised it makes more sense to have a single champion decide conflicts for them, rather than engage in large-scale waste. We had a similar practice too, ages ago.”
Captain Layna pushed off from her control pod, then waved at the holoscreens. The implanted receptors in her wrists scrolled through the rest of the reports quickly, finally settling on the summarized conclusion.
“Culture, religion, agriculture, economics… all behind us. So that’s how the 99.95% chance was divined,” Captain Layna said, a smug smile slowly spreading across her face.
"It is a sparse existence, that's for sure."
"Almost like they are begging for us to arrive. Can you imagine how many years of development we will have saved them, just by intervening?"
“Captain,” said Gareth, “I formally recommend we begin the invasion now. Under Article 6, I request that the SS Vulture engage in a swift and decisive victory, to bring the planet Auryth under our banner, so that the Federation may add yet one more colony to its roster, and further quell the chance that one day, another planet may rise up to challenge our rule of the galaxy.”
Captain Layna thought for a moment longer, then nodded.
“Prepare for the invasion. All crew, to battlestations!”
---
Gareth was, quite poetically, both the first and last Earthling from the SS Vulture to arrive on and to leave Auryth.
He jetted off from the planet’s surface in an emergency escape pod he had stashed in the woods. As he soared into the relative safety of space, he forced himself to look back, to gaze upon the smoking carcass of the SS Vulture, split asunder in multiple pieces across the landscape.
He suspected that he knew why he was the only one who had survived. He knew that there should not have been anyone who could have escaped the wrath of the Aurythians.
And so he did what he was expected to do.
“Federation, this is Gareth Hader, the only survivor of the SS Vulture,” he forced himself to say into the tachyon transmitter, voice raspy from all the screaming he had done.
“Be advised, planet Auryth is now aware of the Federation and its goals. Long-range bombardment… is essential! Do not enter within two starclicks of the planet, we do not have defences against them…”
Gareth paused, trying to find the words to explain the dangers which Auryth presented. He racked his mind, so disused was the word he was looking for. Earth had indeed toyed with this concept once, long ago, but when it was finally disproved, conclusively (or so they thought), it had become almost a mark of the uneducated to even talk about it.
Until now.
“… the Aurythians… they have… telepathic powers… beyond our comprehension...”
Warning delivered, Gareth suddenly felt his throat close up as the horrors swarmed his vision. He tried to breath, but his lungs failed to obey, as did his arms and legs. He forced himself to turn around, screaming silently, knowing full well that on the planet he had left behind, there was but a single man, holding a focus rod, who had finally found the quarry he was looking for.
Just one man, when there were millions more.
---
/r/rarelyfunny
|
It's been 500 years since we discovered that Constellation A-B21 was filled with life. We prepared our best space armies to launch a full-fledged assault. But when we identified the life, our desire to annihilate them...vanished. All we could see on the closest planet were humans. Humans like us.
The same green planets made us sick with nostalgia as we watched the humans grow. The one closest to Earth seemed to be in the 21st Century, 800 years behind us. The structures that were 'modern' so long ago...it evoked emotions that we didn't know we had. The planets further on were further and further behind; some in the Industrial Revolution, some still inventing writing. The last bit of human life we could find hadn't even figured out how to farm yet. We left the planets untouched, according to instructions from superiors.
A year later we were back. But for a different reason. Our superiors decided that it was a perfect chance for an experiment - to see how alterations we could have made centuries ago would affect our society. But to spoil their way of life for a simulation...it seemed wrong. And I was the sole member of the team to violent protest against it. But, overruled, we sailed towards Constellation A-B21.
When we reached I refused to carry out a single action. The rest introduced advanced weaponry, incited wars and even destroyed one planet to 'test how well they can recover'. Their actions made me sick. But a protest would almost certainly guarantee an execution, an execution made especially easy in the vast emptiness of the surrounding void.
When we were done we made it back to Earth, my crew members laughing about the deeds they had done loudly. I brooded in a corner of my cabin, alone, thinking about how our actions today would affect the humans of tomorrow.
Another few centuries passed. Humans' lifespan could now be limitless, after scientists discovered the secret to aging (and the medication to counteract it). I had almost forgotten about the action we had done in the 29th Century. But I was rudely reminded of it one day.
It looked like a normal spaceship. Just like the advanced ones our starfleet boasted of. But this one...it seemed ready for combat. Equipped with weaponry we had never seen the likes of before, the inhabitants marched off the spaceship and started firing at the stunned onlookers. Storming into the White House, the place was eradicated within moments as the invaders took control of all media outlets. As I ate my breakfast, the sight of them reminded me.
They were humans.
But they were...so familiar.
"Humans of Earth. You attempted to use our planets as a tool for your entertainment and research. You killed some of your brothers to satisfy your lust for destruction," the leader said, his voice rising in anger and fury.
"Now we'll let you see how life as a 'tool of research' feels like. Watch out," he concluded, walking away from the mass of reporters. "Mister...Human, where do you hail from?" a particularly nosy reporter shoved his way to the front before asking.
"Constellation A-B21. I hope that satisfies you?" he asked, waiting for the reporter to nod before shooting him. The other reporters fled in the subsequent chaos.
I dropped the steak-flakes in my hand as they scattered all over the floor. But they were the least of my worries.
Constellation A-B21 wanted revenge.
And the revenge had begun.
_________________________________________________________________
Liked that? Check our r/Whale62 for more! :)
Edit: [Here's Part 2!](https://redd.it/6kgfl3)
Edit 2: [Here's Part 3!] (https://redd.it/6klxgo)
|
Edit: Thank you all so much for this!! The idea came to me in the shower about a week ago, as a thought about "what really weird things we could find as we set to explore the galaxy?". I liked it because there are so many possible angles, and because it hasn't been done before AFAIK (???). I am having a blast reading all your stories.
|
[WP] It's the year 2851. Humanity develops interstellar travel and begins to explore the Milky Way galaxy in search for life. However, much to everyone's surprise, instead of alien life we find... Earth's biosphere complete with humans, repeated over and over at different stages of progress.
|
The planet Auryth was splashed across the holoscreens, a single spot of resplendent green and blue amongst an inky canvas of somber black. The gathered crew in the command bridge silently watched as the reconnaissance probe completed its task, then puttered back slowly to dock with the mothership.
Gareth Hader, First Mate on the SS Vulture, snapped off a sharp salute when he arrived on the bridge. He had spent almost two full Earth days in the probe, and he certainly looked the worse for wear.
"At ease," said Captain Layna Nurely, fighting to keep the urgency in her voice from showing. "How much resistance do we expect?"
Gareth collapsed into a nearby chair, then tapped his wrist against the receptor dock. The data he had so laboriously collected was instantly uploaded to the mainframe, and figures, images began to ran over the hologram of Auryth.
"Little," he said, a wan smile crossing his lips, "They are primitive. I cross-referenced their technological advancements against our own, and the closest approximation is Earth in the 1200s."
"So, essentially the Middle Ages?"
Gareth laughed, and said, "More like Prehistoric, compared to us. Even a gap of a single decade is monumental, much less over 1600 years."
That much was true. Kurzweil's Law already accounted for how technological advancement accelerates over time, which was how Earth had required over a thousand years to harness tachyon manipulation, but only a hundred more to perfect numellar resonance. From the hundred or so conquests already won in the Federation's name, a gap of over 1600 years in comparative advancement meant that the SS Vulture had an approximate 99.95% chance of enslaving Auryth within two days.
Still, something about Auryth rubbed Captain Layna the wrong way, something she couldn't put her finger on.
"You sure they have no means of resisting our numellar rays?"
Gareth laughed again. "Resist? They would need tonist weaves to even have a chance of resisting the first assault we launch, and who knows how long they would need to even develop *that*."
"What about other weapons? Maybe they have expertise in something else we aren't expecting? I don't want to have to call off the assault just to request for specialist backup, that won't look good on our records at all."
Gareth knew what she was referring to. The SS Farsight, ironically, had been one of the most glaring testaments to how *not* to conquer an Earth-clone, the derogatory term used for all the other planets in the galaxy who showed signs of human life.
In that early foray, the SS Farsight had plunged headfirst into a frontal assault, believing themselves the clear victors in a horribly imbalanced match-up. Too late did they realise that the humans of that Earth-clone, though far less weaponized, had managed to tame the giant beasts which roamed that planet. It had taken full reinforcements from two other starships before the planet was finally brought to heel.
"I sent drones down," said Gareth, "this is what war looks like on Auryth. Take a look."
The holorecordings began playing, and a scene of a large field took over the holoscreens. On opposite ends stood two tribes, and at the sound of a horn blasting through the air, a single representative from each tribe approached the other, meeting in the middle.
"This is as bloodthirsty as they will get," said Gareth, sharing the insights he had gleaned, "they wear simple armour made out of dried furs, and they are each equipped with a single long pole. I'll speed it up here, because that's all they do for hours, just facing each other, weapons at the ready."
"Then what? They fight?"
"If you can call it that," said Gareth, "see, here? One of them eventually moves to strike, the other fails to parry, and he goes down. *Boom*. That's it. That's all it is. Hours and hours of staring at each other, then the conflict is over, that tribe has just won more land."
"And all of them do that?"
"All of them. They don't have countries, just tribes like this. Everyone has their own pole, they carry it with them all the time, sort of like a belief that everyone is responsible for their own safety. But when they fight, they only send a single representative forward."
"Any reason why they are so... minimalist?"
Gareth shrugged. "Best I can surmise with the help of our database is that they have evolved a practice of minimizing bloodshed. Auryth is not a particularly rich planet, and my guess is that they have realised it makes more sense to have a single champion decide conflicts for them, rather than engage in large-scale waste. We had a similar practice too, ages ago.”
Captain Layna pushed off from her control pod, then waved at the holoscreens. The implanted receptors in her wrists scrolled through the rest of the reports quickly, finally settling on the summarized conclusion.
“Culture, religion, agriculture, economics… all behind us. So that’s how the 99.95% chance was divined,” Captain Layna said, a smug smile slowly spreading across her face.
"It is a sparse existence, that's for sure."
"Almost like they are begging for us to arrive. Can you imagine how many years of development we will have saved them, just by intervening?"
“Captain,” said Gareth, “I formally recommend we begin the invasion now. Under Article 6, I request that the SS Vulture engage in a swift and decisive victory, to bring the planet Auryth under our banner, so that the Federation may add yet one more colony to its roster, and further quell the chance that one day, another planet may rise up to challenge our rule of the galaxy.”
Captain Layna thought for a moment longer, then nodded.
“Prepare for the invasion. All crew, to battlestations!”
---
Gareth was, quite poetically, both the first and last Earthling from the SS Vulture to arrive on and to leave Auryth.
He jetted off from the planet’s surface in an emergency escape pod he had stashed in the woods. As he soared into the relative safety of space, he forced himself to look back, to gaze upon the smoking carcass of the SS Vulture, split asunder in multiple pieces across the landscape.
He suspected that he knew why he was the only one who had survived. He knew that there should not have been anyone who could have escaped the wrath of the Aurythians.
And so he did what he was expected to do.
“Federation, this is Gareth Hader, the only survivor of the SS Vulture,” he forced himself to say into the tachyon transmitter, voice raspy from all the screaming he had done.
“Be advised, planet Auryth is now aware of the Federation and its goals. Long-range bombardment… is essential! Do not enter within two starclicks of the planet, we do not have defences against them…”
Gareth paused, trying to find the words to explain the dangers which Auryth presented. He racked his mind, so disused was the word he was looking for. Earth had indeed toyed with this concept once, long ago, but when it was finally disproved, conclusively (or so they thought), it had become almost a mark of the uneducated to even talk about it.
Until now.
“… the Aurythians… they have… telepathic powers… beyond our comprehension...”
Warning delivered, Gareth suddenly felt his throat close up as the horrors swarmed his vision. He tried to breath, but his lungs failed to obey, as did his arms and legs. He forced himself to turn around, screaming silently, knowing full well that on the planet he had left behind, there was but a single man, holding a focus rod, who had finally found the quarry he was looking for.
Just one man, when there were millions more.
---
/r/rarelyfunny
|
As the CSD Persphone approached the edge of the galaxy, her crew gathered on the bridge to celebrate the notable feat. She was the first ship capable of inter-Galactic travel and her crew was now the only explorers to ever leave humanities Galactic home. The sensors indicated they had breached the edges and each looked out upon the vastness of space. It was the most beautiful landscape their eyes had ever seen, but the crew which consisted largely of astrophysicists and astronomers noticed an oddity. The view on the other side of the galaxy was the view at the galaxy's furthest extent. It was as if they stood with their nose to a mirror.
There was no turning back, and the intrigue of the mirrored galaxy intrigued them even more than the possibility of infinite space. As the Incelerators engaged and pushed the ship further from home, the environs became more familiar. It was with excitement and confusion that known solar systems came into view. They were systems of the Milky Way.
The arguments were constant. Theories of the known universe had been suddenly flipped on their heads, and many did not take it well. Some argued they were in the same galaxy but had somehow curved over and reentered. Others argued that this was not the same galaxy but perhaps simply a similar galaxy to our own. There were fringe theories of time paradoxes and interdimensional travel, but at the root was a sudden ignorance among the smartest of minds.
And then they reached Earth. As the ship rested in orbit, the crew looked down on their home. But it wasn't. The northern hemisphere was still largely covered in ice as if the glacial retreats had never begun. As the ship moved into the Earth's shadow, they noticed there were no lights.
Drones were sent to the surface to gather information. The readings were far from the Earth which they had left. Temperatures were cooler, carbon dioxide levels were lower, but the images were the most astounding. Mammoths were roaming the northern expanse while Smilodons stalked them across the plains. Huge herds of ancient Buffalo moved across the landscape while Dire wolves hunted their weak. While viewing a gathering of the armored armadillo-like Glyptodons they discovered the most astounding revelation: a group of humans was spotted stalking the beasts from the tall grass. As they watched, the fur clad humans launched an attack with stone tipped spears. They separated one of the animals, and set to it with deadly purpose. After it succumbed to its many wounds, women and children emerged from the grass and set to butchering the animal.
The crew of the Persephone sat in stunned silence at the reality of what they had seen. But the questions remained unanswered. Had they traveled in time, into another mirrored galaxy, or into another dimension?
The CSD Persephone's engines pushed the ship away from the Paleolithic Earth and she once more began her intergalactic adventure. Her crew had willingly left their galaxy the intention of discovery, and they were set on expanding human knowledge at all cost. They had risked their lives for science, and with purpose they had set their mind to their next mission. They would go to the next galaxy, and the next if need be, and they would find the answers.
|
Have fun!
|
[WP] You have just defeated the Elite Four and are on your way back home to see your Mom. Along the way you are challenged by a low level trainer in a busy city square. However, he does not know your entire party is made up of legendary Pokemon.
|
"Hey!" I shouted, "You're the new champion, right?"
The older kid paused and turned to look at me, "yeah, I am."
I swallowed, "Then I challenge you to a battle!"
He sized me up, "what? Aren't you like ten?"
I chuckled, "I'm actually sixteen. I'm just really short. I really like shorts too. They're super comfy."
The champion snorted, "yeah whatever kid. I'm going home."
"Not until we battle!" I cried persistently.
"Tch, tell you what, if you can beat one of my Pokemon without me telling it what to do, then I'll take you seriously." He causally tossed an ultraball.
In a burst of radiant light, the storm-god emerged, it's beady eyes fixing on my own. It looked down it's proud narrow beak and ruffled it's feather, sending down a cascade of sparks.
"Beautiful," I breathed. I reached for the pokeball at my waist and slowly brought it forward, "go, Shrewd." The sandslash emerged and fearlessly sized up it's opponent.
The champ chuckled, "type advantage means nothing against overwhelming power."
I glanced at him and bit my tongue. I'd let our actions do the talking.
The legendary bird flapped it's massive wings, causing the onlookers to take a few steps back.
I slammed my foot down, signaling to Shrewd to use sandstorm. The dust whipped up quickly thanks to a certain bird, and soon it was impossible to see. I slipped om my goggles and flicked the switch to heat sensing mode. Usually, I'd use this tactic to cut off a trainer from it's pokemon, but now it was just to limit the vision of the the storm god.
A flish of light filled my vision, and the onlookers screamed and ran for cover. I knelt down and tapped the ground Shrew came over quickly and covered me in a mud sport. Another few taps and he went underground. The bird, meanwhile, unleashed it's fury. The champ, apparently, was taking a nap.
I sighed and got to work. I stroked the ground like I was using a tablet or touchscreen phone, directing Shrewd to where he needed to be. A few taps and he unleashed a devastating stone edge.
The pained cry of the thunderbird caused the champ to sit up. At this point, the sandstorm calmed down. The storm god landed and began angrily pecking at the ground, leaving it wipe open for a rock tomb that trapped it's wings.
"Tch, you may have got him like that, but there's no way a sandshrew's stone edge is strong enough to beat him. And all your strong ground moves are useless because he's a flying type, just give up and let me go home!"
I grinned, "type advantages mean nothing to overwhelming power." I turned to Shrewd and pulled off my goggles, "sandtomb!"
The very earth around the legendary bird liquefied and reached up, threatening to drag the monster down into it's belly. The beast, in it's struggling, called down a massive thunderbolt, instantly frying the sand around it, encasing it in a tough shell of glass.
I stomped the ground again and pulled up my goggles. I stomped again and again at the sandstorm rose, and Shrewd began to claw at the bird exposed face.
It shrieked out in pain, calling down bolt after bolt, but Shrewd continued, unphased.
"Stop!" the champion called.
I signaled to cease. The sandstorm died down and all that was heard was the storm god's labored breathing.
The champ recalled his beloved beast and turned his hat backwards. "I'll take you on seriously now."
|
"Look, bud, I really don't think that's a good idea" I said, again, not knowing how else to say no. This 10 year old girl had been following me since I entered the city. She was half my size, but was keeping up with my rather quick walking speed. She must be mostly leg, I suppose.
"Hey, I don't tell you how to do your job, so don't tell me how to do mine," she responded in a huff, shaking her braids in frustration, "I just gotta battle you! It's my job to battle every new trainer who comes to town!"
"Ok, and I get that, but, the thing is...I'm not a new trainer here. I've probably been around this city since you were learning to walk, which you seem to be fairly good at. How are you so quick?"
"I'm *quick* because I get lots of *practice* from people like *you* who are too *scared* to battle me!" She was getting more exasperated by the moment, but never did she lessen her pace on me.
I stopped and looked at her.
"You want to battle me."
"Yes." She crossed her arms.
"Fine. You win. Let's do it," I shook my head and laughed to myself softly. We walked to the battle sites in central park, which, by the time we came to this agreement, we were fairly close to. "You know, I admire your tenacity. That's the only reason this is happening."
"I know. My mom told me, 'Never let a man tell you that you can't do something. Especially when you know you can.' And I know I can beat you."
This time I laughed out-loud, and smiled at her. "Well, your mom sounds like she knows exactly what she's talking about. That's some good advice." The battle towers peered at us from over the hill. "Alright, let's get this battle started, I suppose." We each walked to our respective sides and took our positions.
Her eyes narrowed and her grin turned into an excited smirk. "It is about time!" enunciating every word. Her left hand raised up and expanded her camouflaged pokeball. "Go! Kangaskhan!"
I was taken aback, but in part, very much relived that I was going to to obliterate this little girl. Reaching down to my waist, I grab my first ball and let it fly. As soon as it opens, I felt the familiar heat radiate out and smiled to myself. "Alright Moltres, let's do it again! Hit 'em with a Flamethrower. We'll see how she does."
With a loud screech, my magnificent phoenix flew in a circle and spewed a pillar of flames from its mouth directly at her pokemon, who stood these unwavering for what I knew to be too long.
"Now! Surf!"
Through what seemed like some sort of glitch, the Kangaskhan ceased existing where it stood, inches away from Moltres' flames, and reappeared to the left of the field on a large wave of foaming water that struck Moltres' side, submerging it completely.
Once the water subsided, Moltres flew up high into the air. They may have had a pretty nasty hit, but they've been through more. We both have.
"That was a good trick you pulled there! Quite some Kangaskhan." I called to her, "We won't give you another one so easily. Moltres! Sky attack, now!"
"Kangaskhan!" pointing her finger at the dive bombing bird and taking a defiant stance, "Use Thunder!"
Just like that, it was done. In mid-dive, the sky crackled and grew dark, while thick lightning bolts crossed through Moltres, blasting it out of the sky. I had never seen anything like that before in any of my battles. I returned Moltres to its pokeball.
"So, you like my Kangaskhan? Thanks!" Then her smirk came out once again, "my mom got him for me from Cinnabar Island."
|
[WP] One day while watching The Price is Right you hear your name called and someone who looks just like you stands up in the audience
|
Ravenous, David dropped his heavy container of cucumber salad on one of the small, empty tables in the break room and took the seat in front of it. Eagerly, he fought a plastic fork out of a plastic wrapper and began cramming forkfuls of delicious cucumbers into his mouth.
"Oh yeah," he exhaled through a full mouth, and then hoped it hadn't been so loud that it was weird.
He glanced around. People were staring. It was weird. He continued anyway.
The TV mounted in the corner of the room finally stopped blaring commercials and a 70s-esque jingling tune took over, causing the onlookers to redirect their attention.
"Here it comes! From the Bob Barker Studios in CBS in Hollywood, it's The Price is Right!" an announcer boomed over the cheers of the studio audience.
David pushed back from his bowl, leaning as comfortably as he could on the plastic backing of the flimsy public chair. He was worried the chair might warp after even half of such a full and hearty cucumber salad.
"Eileen Pantspotaytos, come on down!"
David scanned the room, but no one seemed to react to the absurd last name Eileen was forced to carry through her everyday life. *Must be Greek*, he thought to himself with an internal shrug.
"Kevin Spacey, come on down!"
For a brief moment, his interest intensified, but it was ruined by a middle-aged fat guy in a neon yellow t-shirt who ran down the aisle as if each new step were as surprising to him as it were the viewers.
*Man, I haven't been this disappointed in Kevin Spacey since* Father of Invention, he thought to himself, a frown taking over his expression.
"Man, I haven't been this disappointed in Kevin Spacey since *Father of Invention*," he heard his coworker Greg say to murmurs of general agreement.
*Well, that was odd*, he thought as he leaned forward in his chair again, resting his elbows on the wobbly table.
"Randall David, come on down!"
It wasn't as odd as the sight on the television. Making his way down the aisle was a man roughly the same height, roughly the same weight, with roughly the same hair, and roughly the same all-together appearance as David.
And by roughly, I mean exactly. And by I, I mean me, a writer who struggles with tenses.
All but one of his coworkers turned to stare at him with suspicion. (The one coworker who did not turn to stare was Blind Joe, who will have no further mentions in this story.)
David's mouth was gaping open, as mouths are so prone to do in such situations. "What?" he finally croaked at them.
"You didn't tell us you were on The Price is Right, Dave," Samantha said in an accusatory tone.
"I... wasn't?" he replied with uncertainty. "That guy just looks a lot like me."
"But his name is just your name reversed," Greg said as if speaking to a child.
David shrugged, looking back at the screen. The contestants were lined up at their podiums, looking happy as the announcer introduced the first prize: a brand new personal computer.
"—Eileen, we're going to start with you," Drew said.
"I'm going to bid $2,000."
"Well, that's way too high," David called at the television.
"Shh, don't spoil it!" Samantha scolded.
"Kevin?"
"Hmm, $1,800."
"Randall?"
"One dollar."
The break room population groaned as one. "Oh, come *on*, man! What were you thinking?" someone yelled at him.
"That's not me! I'd never bet a dollar! Such a douchey thing to do."
"—I'll say $2,300, Drew," the fourth contestant, whose name they'd all missed, said.
"Why are they all betting so high?" David asked the room, which was met with general shushing.
"The actual retail price is... $759.99!" called the announcer.
"Randall, come on up here!" Drew called.
There were a few gasps from the other tables. Several people began to grumble and give David angry glances.
"You even got to do a game and *still* didn't tell us," Samantha said with evident disappointment.
"You really thought switching your first and last names would be enough?" his coworker Heather asked quietly.
"For the last time, that isn't me!" David shouted.
"I know I've seen you wear that exact shirt before," Jasper, the front desk secretary, said. Others in the break room nodded enthusiastically.
"Shh, he's talking to him!" someone called.
"What exactly is it that you do, Randy? Can I call you Randy?" Drew asked as the audience laughed.
"Actually, most people call me David," his doppelganger said. "And I'm actually in between jobs right now."
"See! See! Why would I say that?" David desperately yelled.
"—well, I think someone in between jobs needs something nice—"
"Oh my god, David, are you looking for another job?" Greg asked with panic evident in his voice. "How could you not tell me, man? We're sales bros!"
"No, we're not, Greg, but I'm only going to say this one more time: *that is not me*!"
The angry mob turned back towards the screen as Drew Carey explained the rules of Now or Then. His doppelganger Randall listened intently, but David thought from the look on his face that he was totally lost on how to play the game.
*This dude is a simpleton*, David thought, *or is that how I look?*
He nervously took a small bite of his refreshing—and healthy—cucumber salad.
"—think I'd like to start with the gallon of Hidden Valley Simply Ranch Cucumber Basil Dressing, Drew," Randall said with a huge, over-confident grin.
"Isn't that what your... ahem, *salad* is covered in right now?" Jasper asked.
David stopped with a forkful halfway to his mouth. "You have *got* to be kidding me."
"Yep, sure, that's totally not you, David," Samantha said.
"—price is thirty-three cents. Is that now or then?"
The crowd bellowed "then" with the confidence only group think can instill.
"Obviously, the answer is 'then,'" David said.
"Spoilers, much?" someone called with some serious sass.
"Yeah, some of us weren't there like you were," Greg reproached.
Randall stared out at the shouting crowd, his eyes alight with intense stupidity.
"Now!" he shouted, to the amazement of the crowd, Drew, and America as a nation.
"No!" David called.
"Oh my god, David, how did you get the price of your favorite food wrong? Are you so rich that you don't even worry about prices?"
"It's—I make my own and—*that wasn't me*!" he sputtered.
"—so sorry to see you go, David. Thanks for playing," Drew told his lookalike.
David watched the man who looked exactly like him wander off the stage, much like a deer wanders onto a crowded highway. He expected he would never see his doppelganger again, but at least he had made him look like an idiot in his short time on television. He wondered how a man who was his exact replica could have so little impact on his own existence.
"Maybe next time you are on The Price is Right, let everyone know ahead of time?" Samantha said with extreme passive-aggression. "Or maybe at least wander into a supermarket beforehand..."
"At least we don't have to worry about David making it on to Jeopardy, huh?" Greg laughed as he exited the break room.
David huffed and began to get another refreshing fork full of his cucumber salad, clinging bitterly to the secret that he was actually a ten-time Jeopardy champion.
|
Norman clicked on the TV. It whirred, the screen buzzed for a moment, and after a few seconds, the CRT screen came alive. *I really should invest in a new television*, Norman thought to himself. But he was too old fashioned for the fancy new smart-TV screens and high contrast ratios that the "hip kids" were using, and he knew it.
Focusing his attention on the screen, he saw one of his favorite shows was running: The Price is Right. He'd even attended a few of the screenings and been part of the audience that clapped and cheered the contestants on. But then he frowned. What? He thought he might have misheard his name being called, but to his surprise, someone that looked just like him, only a little younger, stood up from the audience and began walking up to the stage.
Norman smiled suddenly as a memory struck him. *Huh.* He ejected the recording from his VHS, carefully stacking it on his other tapes, and switched to he cable channels. His cat, also named Norman, mewed behind him and he made a mental note to feed him extra tuna later.
|
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Yandere girlfriend and immortal guy!
|
[WP] Today you found out that your girlfriend is a murderous psychopath as she cuts you into pieces and hugs your severed head while she slept, only for her to found out your secret, that you're an immortal who can survives anything. Describe the morning after that. [Possibly NSFW?]
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When my nervous system reconnected and sensation returned to my fingers, I had the distinct urge to wrap them around her still-sleeping throat and throttle her. Instead, I got a good grip on the bloodstained mattress and dumped her straight on the floor. Call me petty, but the woman HAD dismembered me.
Pain and death has a way of confusing things, but that wasn't anything new to me. I'd been stabbed, hung, burned, beaten, crushed, quartered and drowned more times than I could count on my new fingers, and at this point I was more upset about her stabbing me than taking my head off. I did distinctly remember at which point she'd buried the knife in my back and for the life of me, considerable as it was, I couldn't work out why a seemingly innocuous question had gotten me shanked, beheaded and dismembered. Not necessarily in that order.
I tuned back into reality, standing naked but for my own dried and flaking blood in the middle of my bedroom with my murderous girlfriend collapsed in a speechless heap on the floor at my feet. She made a lot of confused noises for a moment, stalling out half way through another incoherent question when I spoke.
"Yes, yes, I'm immortal. Unnatural, a monster, undead, potato pot-a-to. Why did you stab me?"
She blinked at me blankly for a moment, before the fire that I loved so much flared in her eyes and she shot to her feet, fits balled like she was gearing up for round two minus the knife. "How are you alive?" She shot back, "I held your head in my hands."
My arms crossed over my chest, jaw jutting belligerently forward as I growled. "Don't try to change the subject! You literally stabbed me in the back!"
"Don't take that tone with me!" She hissed, jabbing a finger in my face, "And don't pretend you don't know why! How could you?"
I rocked back on my heels, confusion clouding my anger. It's not like I cheated... Or gambled away all our money... Or... I couldn't think of anything I had done that could possibly warrant death by limb liberation.
She shook her head in disgust, giving me the look she usually reserved for feces or dentists.
"Pineapple on pizza? How could you?"
(Disclaimer: I like pineapple on pizza. I don't like dentists. Sorry.)
|
**Morning, babe!**
OH MY GOD IT SPEAKS!
**Oh, didn't I tell you? I'm immortal. But that's ok. You never told me you were gonna cut me into pieces and cuddle my head.**
If I did, you wouldn't have stuck around.
**Of course I'm sticking around. I'm immortal, remember?**
Uh...
**Yes, my limbs and stuff will heal and reassemble. I won't just be this severed head.**
Oh! Then I love you.
(fade to black)
|
Yandere girlfriend and immortal guy!
|
[WP] Today you found out that your girlfriend is a murderous psychopath as she cuts you into pieces and hugs your severed head while she slept, only for her to found out your secret, that you're an immortal who can survives anything. Describe the morning after that. [Possibly NSFW?]
|
I was tempted to speak up when she started but I was too surprised I suppose. It is not every day that one is chopped to bits by the woman you love. I stayed quiet and watched her lips curl upward into a satisfied smile as I bled on our bed. It seemed each drop brought her more joy. Not as much joy as cradling my severed head though. She was frenzied as she cut me to pieces but I felt her breathing relax and heard her heart slow as she held my face pressed to her like a childhood teddy bear.
Now I sit here watching her sleep covered in my blood and entrails. Bits of bone shine in her almost black hair. She looks so at peace and happy wrapped up in my death. I could wake her right now, demand answers about my death. She would be surprised for sure. To learn that I am immortal and have bore witness to her nature. I could do this but I decide it is far better to remain quiet. My body has healed but I am still caked with dried blood and flecks of my own bones. That is no way to present myself to the love of my life.
I leave her to sleep and stand under the hot spray of the shower washing away my own murder. I am meticulous in my morning duties. Teeth brushed to perfection, hair brushed and oiled, and just the right amount of cologne. She sleeps through it all even as I dress in black slacks and shirt, fastening the cuff links she gave me for Christmas less than two months ago. My shoes shine as I slip into them.
Her secret as a murderer is for now safe. I have better plans for her than to startle her awake. I begin preparing breakfast for us. Her favorites are simple: pancakes, sausage, and rice sweetened with sugar. I am stirring the melting butter into the rice when she wakes and now it is my turn to smile.
"What?!?!" I hear her scream.
I'm tempted to go to the bedroom to watch this unfold but I resist. I listen as I hear her pacing around the room mumbling to herself. She is confused by the absence of my corpse and her lack of arrest. I hear the door as she throws it open.
"Good morning, my love. Did you sleep well?"
Her face has lost all color. Her cheeks once caramel are ashen and her mouth is open in surprise. She recovers quickly though not completely.
"What happened in our bed?"
"Have you truly forgotten so quickly?" I ask.
I have finished breakfast and it waits for us spread on the table like a feast for a king. I sit and gesture for her to join me before I speak again.
"I would think you would remember something so special to you, dear. Do you truly not remember your ecstasy as my blood covered you last night?"
"You are still alive and you know what I did? Impossible," she says almost whispering the last word.
"While you failed to mention you are cold blooded murderer, I failed to mention I will live forever," I retort.
She sits across from but touches nothing on her plate.
"Do you know what this means for us, sweetheart? These secrets of ours?"
I just barely see her shift her head left to right as her eyes drop to her lap.
"Well, sweetheart, you will now have the pleasure of killing anytime you please. I can even give you the added role play to fit into any scenario you desire. In return, you will ensure that I receive the same ecstasy when I take you to bed."
I watch her eyes light up as I speak. Even better, I watch her nightgown slip from her shoulders.
"Bedtime already?"
|
**Morning, babe!**
OH MY GOD IT SPEAKS!
**Oh, didn't I tell you? I'm immortal. But that's ok. You never told me you were gonna cut me into pieces and cuddle my head.**
If I did, you wouldn't have stuck around.
**Of course I'm sticking around. I'm immortal, remember?**
Uh...
**Yes, my limbs and stuff will heal and reassemble. I won't just be this severed head.**
Oh! Then I love you.
(fade to black)
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Yandere girlfriend and immortal guy!
|
[WP] Today you found out that your girlfriend is a murderous psychopath as she cuts you into pieces and hugs your severed head while she slept, only for her to found out your secret, that you're an immortal who can survives anything. Describe the morning after that. [Possibly NSFW?]
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The screaming, it is usually all I can focus on. It always does hurt like a bitch, but this one hurt in that very special way that knowing the woman you were going to marry viciously murdering you. Luckily she took my head off before she began the major mutilation, or else I would have felt it all. She did give me a nice view of it, which was a new one, never got to see my own body butchered before. I kept silent, trying to preserve my secret until she disposed of the body, but there was a slight hiccup with that, she decided now that she had taken my body appart that she was going to nap, my head nesstled against her chest like we always lay after a long day, her hugging my head and petting my hair. I kept quiet, hoping she would stop soon and I tried to get some sleep.
I woke to a soft sobbing and heaving motion, a sweet voice repeating a mantra of light 'why him's. I dared to take a peak. All dark, but I knew that bloodstained blouse and gentle cry. Looks like she didn't get as bored as I thought, plan B time I guess. "Psst. Hey Al?" She stopped moving, going still as a statue. I clear my throat, or what is left of it. "You uh, you wanna let me go for a second?" Slowly my vision widened, the light blinding me slightly, as Alice lifted my head to eye level with hers, a terrified expression coming across her face. Oh god, here comes the screaming. "Now, before you start screaming, calm down and let me" too late. My head is sailing through the air. Luckily I hit the pillows face up, didn't need a headache on top of this. She pointed her finger at me and began to whisper, eventually raising in a crescendo of wild screaming "you, you were dead. I...I killed you. NO I KILLED YOU, YOU DIED, I DID IT WITH MY OWN HANDS! HOW!?" I took a deep breath, letting Alice run herself down to a quivering stare, backed up against the wall as far away from me as possible. "Al, calm down, you didn't kill me. That would be impossible, I am... Well I am kinda immortal. Now I can see the questions, but first I am gonna need you to get me my cigarettes, light two, and give me one, you are gonna need the other."
Alice eventually calmed down, she took suprisingly well to learning that her boyfriend was an immortal who gained immortality through an alchemical accident nearly 800 years ago. Alice blew smoke from her ruby red lips "So tell me this Hen, I get the not aging, that is pretty basic, but how are you still alive now? You have no blood flow, no oxygen going to your brain" she tapped my forehead. "Hey, it isn't nice to touch people who can't touch back you know" I said, my cigarette hanging between my lips. I sighed, smoke blowing through my nose and mouth, a little pool of it escaping down my throat. "Honestly Al, I don't know, even after all this time it is still a mystery to me. You should know, you have the PHD, I just punch people hard, always have, always will. Most of the time I had lived was spent as a high price mercenary, of course prices rose after the accident. Who would have thought people are willing to pay so much money for a soldier who can't die." I let out a chuckle.
Things go silent, we each just sit there, well one of us sits, I just kinda lean there. By now we have gone through three cigarettes each, both of us avoiding the big questions. I take a deep drag and let it out, smoke flowing everywhere. "Okay red, time for the big one. Why'd you do it?" Alice just looks at me, her eyes watering, her cheeks still rosy and flush from crying. Her red hair frames her face in fire. "I suppose I owe you at least that much don't I" she giggles. "Okay, so you know how I don't really talk about my dad that much? Yeah, that is because he was Jack the Ripper. Like, THE Ripper, not one of the knock offs. Well our family is just a little bit cursed, dad kinda embraced it but I try to hide it." Alice takes a deep drag of her cigarette, some of her lipstick coming off on the filter as she stubs it out. "We are like monsters, we live longer, move quieter, can smell vital signs, pretty much like vampires but we can walk around in the sun. I am pretty good at hiding it, but sometimes it slips. Usually only happens when some emotional stuff happens." She takes another deep breath. "I was washing clothes last night after you got back from work, and I found something in your pocket that set me off." I realize now that she is holding something in her hand, a simple silver ring with the most brilliant blood red ruby pressed in the middle. I try to play it off "I don't know where that came from..." She looks at me with those jade eyes "you can't prove anything" I try to shake my head to roll away, and this gets a giggle from her.
"Okay, fine, you caught me. I am really an international jewel theif and this is the royal ring straight from the hand of the Queen of Sweden after a night of lude and debasing love making." I look up at her, she has one eyebrow raised, looking at me with a half smirk. "Not buying it?" I ask. "Not at all sweetheart, now spit it out before I make you." She says that with a spice that sets my mind and what I think is supposed to be my heart ablaze. "Okay, okay, fine. It was supposed to be for your sister." She slaps me in the forehead lightly. Not buying it either, welp, this isn't how I always imagined it but I might as well. "Alice, that ring, with a gem that holds the brightness of all the fire in the world, found at the bottom of a volcano so old it doesn't have a name, is for you. Alice Smithson, will you marry me? Also can you grab my legs and put them in a kneeling position?" She grabs my head and kisses me, softly at first and then more passionately. She slowly pulls our faces apart.
She is smiling like an idiot, so am I. "I knew about your problem Al, that is why the ring took so long. It had to be special. That ring, it doesn't just hold the brightness of fire, it also holds the fierceness of it. It will help you, it will contain this thing inside of you. You remember that business trip I took a while ago and spent about a week smelling like a pork roast? Yeah, I wasn't kidding about that being from the bottom of a volcano." I sigh, hard and long. "So uh, you up for a jigsaw puzzle, cause my body ain't going back together without some help."
|
I woke up to tears on my cheeks and apologies in my ear.
"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I just couldn't control myself--and I had to chop your head off, the other girl was *looking* at you and it wasn't my fault, it was hers--"
"Amy," I said, "what are you talking about?"
She smeared her arm over her face, and replaced the wet tears with wet blood. That's when I realized that my body was gone. "Oh," I said.
"You're alive!" she cried joyfully. "I thought I killed you! I'm so glad that I didn't though, I don't think I could have lived without you."
This was a lot more than I asked for when we had a one-night stand. "Aren't you going to ask any questions?" I asked, hopping my head over to where my torso was.
"I'm just glad you're safe. None of my other boyfriends have made it this far, you know." Amy gave me a flirtatious smile. "I guess you're just special."
What. "Boyfriend?" My torso inched across the floor to find my right arm.
"I mean, yeah, we slept together last night, didn't we? And I'm not the kind of girl to just sleep with anyone. Not like that *other* girl at the bar."
I began to think that there was a serious miscommunication between the two of us. "You tried to kill me, Amy."
"But you didn't die." She grabbed the rest of my limbs before I could reach them. "So that means I can keep you. Forever."
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Yandere girlfriend and immortal guy!
|
[WP] Today you found out that your girlfriend is a murderous psychopath as she cuts you into pieces and hugs your severed head while she slept, only for her to found out your secret, that you're an immortal who can survives anything. Describe the morning after that. [Possibly NSFW?]
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It didn't take long for me to remember the horrors of my nightmare when I woke up. I had dreamt that my girlfriend, Sophie, had brutally murdered me. Although the meaning behind the dream was not clear, I wanted to forget about it so I took a shower.
I thought about our upcoming anniversary as a distraction and I panicked. I had forgotten to buy her a gift and it was only two days away. I rushed to get changed and hurried to the door. I was desperate to get into the town centre before the shops were crammed with customers so I mashed the elevator button. I heard one of my elderly neighbours mutter "impatient bastard" as he passed by but I did not care.
The doors opened and as I waited impatiently for the elevator to reach the ground floor, I started thinking about what I should buy. When the doors opened once more I power walked my way to the bus stop and caught the bus. We were held up by what seemed to be hundreds of traffic lights but we finally arrived and I was still unsure as I alighted.
I decided that chocolates were probably the safest gift to get so I found our local chocolatier. I walked back to the bus stop, carrying the bag in my left hand. I knew Sophie would reward me very well for this. Very well indeed. I smiled remembering her naked body a few nights ago but I quickly realised where I was and tried to distract myself.
The bus came and who should get off but my girlfriend. I quickly hid the chocolates behind my back thinking she had seen them but instead her face showed great fear. She stared at me for what seemed like minutes and fled as if she had seen a ghost. I chased after her.
"Sophie what's wrong?" I shouted with great concern. She started to pull away from me. I had no idea why she would run but she didn't seem to tire. She had pushed me to the limits of my endurance though and I collapsed on the floor breathing heavily.
I rang her phone a few times but I had no luck. I decided to simply return to our flat. I thought that she would return and I didn't want to seem weird chasing after a woman.
I arrived to see the sun set on the village which was always my favourite part of the day. I ordered a takeaway, looking out of the window, hoping to treat her when she came back. The nightmare was long forgotten by now and I wanted to enjoy the evening and look forward to our anniversary.
Before the delivery man had arrived, I heard the keys turning and the door opened to reveal the only sight I thought was better than looking through my window Her bright blue eyes and blonde her lit up the room instantly. She had also been shopping. She must have gotten over whatever had bothered her before surely. But I was wrong. The fear had once again returned to her face but she didn't run away this time. She slammed the door shut and picked up our sharpest kitchen knife.
"Who the fuck are you?" She demanded. I laughed thinking it was one of her sick jokes.
"Oh don't mind me I'm just here to rob you." Smiling back expecting her to play along. Instead she grew more aggressive holding the knife against my throat
"Get out now." Tears rolled down her face.
"Are you alright, Sophie?" Now I was certain that this had gone beyond a joke.
"You're supposed to be dead!" She shrieked backing away from me.
"What? Last time I checked I was supposed to be alive." I laughed awkwardly. Her back was now touching the wall.
"Please stop haunting me." She sobbed.
"I admit I murdered you. What I did was awful. I am sure I will go to Hell for it. Please just forgive me and stop haunting me. I have been punished enough" she broke down into another fit of tears.
Nothing in your life could ever prepare you for a situation like this. I wanted to say the right words to convince her that I was in fact alive and she had not killed me, however strange that might seem. But I remembered the nightmare. Surely that couldn't be real?
"What makes you think you killed me?" This made her cry even more. When she found her voice again she replied.
"I stabbed you. I watched the life drain from your face and I gutted you." She paused, being unable to talk and continued.
"I cleaned up everything of course. Butchered your corpse and disposed you. Yet here you stand as if nothing happened. You could only be here to punish me. Can't you see -"
She was interrupted by the knocking on the door. She opened it and saw the delivery man. She turned him away thinking it was a prank. Suddenly sherealised I was alive and not just a ghost. The look of horror returned to her face.
"No no no. How did you -? But I -. No you must be dead. I -" She walked to the window.
"I want to leave this hell."
She jumped.
I called an ambulance rushed downstairs to see if she was alive but she had fallen too far. She was certainly dead. I later questioned my own mortality but I thought she must have been delusional and I couldn't be immortal. I later realised she spoke the truth. I was involved in a car accident a few months later. The doctors said nobody has ever survived a collision at that speed and they even joked saying I must be immortal.
I still grieve about losing Sophie but I hope that soon I'll be able to move on. I do have my whole life ahead of me after all.
|
"Hey babe"
Your girlfriend jumps what seems to be 10 feet in the air.
"You're..alive?!"
"Yeah, turns out I'm immortal. I figured I'd let you have your way with me since that's the only thing that seems to get you off anymore. Besides, this way you can at least stay out of prison."
She's still struggling to get much of anything out as her jaw hangs to the ground.
"I've never failed to murder one of my victims before. This is humiliating!" She says as she bursts into tears for the very first time.
"Does that mean you're breaking up with me?"
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Yandere girlfriend and immortal guy!
|
[WP] Today you found out that your girlfriend is a murderous psychopath as she cuts you into pieces and hugs your severed head while she slept, only for her to found out your secret, that you're an immortal who can survives anything. Describe the morning after that. [Possibly NSFW?]
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The screaming, it is usually all I can focus on. It always does hurt like a bitch, but this one hurt in that very special way that knowing the woman you were going to marry viciously murdering you. Luckily she took my head off before she began the major mutilation, or else I would have felt it all. She did give me a nice view of it, which was a new one, never got to see my own body butchered before. I kept silent, trying to preserve my secret until she disposed of the body, but there was a slight hiccup with that, she decided now that she had taken my body appart that she was going to nap, my head nesstled against her chest like we always lay after a long day, her hugging my head and petting my hair. I kept quiet, hoping she would stop soon and I tried to get some sleep.
I woke to a soft sobbing and heaving motion, a sweet voice repeating a mantra of light 'why him's. I dared to take a peak. All dark, but I knew that bloodstained blouse and gentle cry. Looks like she didn't get as bored as I thought, plan B time I guess. "Psst. Hey Al?" She stopped moving, going still as a statue. I clear my throat, or what is left of it. "You uh, you wanna let me go for a second?" Slowly my vision widened, the light blinding me slightly, as Alice lifted my head to eye level with hers, a terrified expression coming across her face. Oh god, here comes the screaming. "Now, before you start screaming, calm down and let me" too late. My head is sailing through the air. Luckily I hit the pillows face up, didn't need a headache on top of this. She pointed her finger at me and began to whisper, eventually raising in a crescendo of wild screaming "you, you were dead. I...I killed you. NO I KILLED YOU, YOU DIED, I DID IT WITH MY OWN HANDS! HOW!?" I took a deep breath, letting Alice run herself down to a quivering stare, backed up against the wall as far away from me as possible. "Al, calm down, you didn't kill me. That would be impossible, I am... Well I am kinda immortal. Now I can see the questions, but first I am gonna need you to get me my cigarettes, light two, and give me one, you are gonna need the other."
Alice eventually calmed down, she took suprisingly well to learning that her boyfriend was an immortal who gained immortality through an alchemical accident nearly 800 years ago. Alice blew smoke from her ruby red lips "So tell me this Hen, I get the not aging, that is pretty basic, but how are you still alive now? You have no blood flow, no oxygen going to your brain" she tapped my forehead. "Hey, it isn't nice to touch people who can't touch back you know" I said, my cigarette hanging between my lips. I sighed, smoke blowing through my nose and mouth, a little pool of it escaping down my throat. "Honestly Al, I don't know, even after all this time it is still a mystery to me. You should know, you have the PHD, I just punch people hard, always have, always will. Most of the time I had lived was spent as a high price mercenary, of course prices rose after the accident. Who would have thought people are willing to pay so much money for a soldier who can't die." I let out a chuckle.
Things go silent, we each just sit there, well one of us sits, I just kinda lean there. By now we have gone through three cigarettes each, both of us avoiding the big questions. I take a deep drag and let it out, smoke flowing everywhere. "Okay red, time for the big one. Why'd you do it?" Alice just looks at me, her eyes watering, her cheeks still rosy and flush from crying. Her red hair frames her face in fire. "I suppose I owe you at least that much don't I" she giggles. "Okay, so you know how I don't really talk about my dad that much? Yeah, that is because he was Jack the Ripper. Like, THE Ripper, not one of the knock offs. Well our family is just a little bit cursed, dad kinda embraced it but I try to hide it." Alice takes a deep drag of her cigarette, some of her lipstick coming off on the filter as she stubs it out. "We are like monsters, we live longer, move quieter, can smell vital signs, pretty much like vampires but we can walk around in the sun. I am pretty good at hiding it, but sometimes it slips. Usually only happens when some emotional stuff happens." She takes another deep breath. "I was washing clothes last night after you got back from work, and I found something in your pocket that set me off." I realize now that she is holding something in her hand, a simple silver ring with the most brilliant blood red ruby pressed in the middle. I try to play it off "I don't know where that came from..." She looks at me with those jade eyes "you can't prove anything" I try to shake my head to roll away, and this gets a giggle from her.
"Okay, fine, you caught me. I am really an international jewel theif and this is the royal ring straight from the hand of the Queen of Sweden after a night of lude and debasing love making." I look up at her, she has one eyebrow raised, looking at me with a half smirk. "Not buying it?" I ask. "Not at all sweetheart, now spit it out before I make you." She says that with a spice that sets my mind and what I think is supposed to be my heart ablaze. "Okay, okay, fine. It was supposed to be for your sister." She slaps me in the forehead lightly. Not buying it either, welp, this isn't how I always imagined it but I might as well. "Alice, that ring, with a gem that holds the brightness of all the fire in the world, found at the bottom of a volcano so old it doesn't have a name, is for you. Alice Smithson, will you marry me? Also can you grab my legs and put them in a kneeling position?" She grabs my head and kisses me, softly at first and then more passionately. She slowly pulls our faces apart.
She is smiling like an idiot, so am I. "I knew about your problem Al, that is why the ring took so long. It had to be special. That ring, it doesn't just hold the brightness of fire, it also holds the fierceness of it. It will help you, it will contain this thing inside of you. You remember that business trip I took a while ago and spent about a week smelling like a pork roast? Yeah, I wasn't kidding about that being from the bottom of a volcano." I sigh, hard and long. "So uh, you up for a jigsaw puzzle, cause my body ain't going back together without some help."
|
"Hey babe"
Your girlfriend jumps what seems to be 10 feet in the air.
"You're..alive?!"
"Yeah, turns out I'm immortal. I figured I'd let you have your way with me since that's the only thing that seems to get you off anymore. Besides, this way you can at least stay out of prison."
She's still struggling to get much of anything out as her jaw hangs to the ground.
"I've never failed to murder one of my victims before. This is humiliating!" She says as she bursts into tears for the very first time.
"Does that mean you're breaking up with me?"
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Yandere girlfriend and immortal guy!
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[WP] Today you found out that your girlfriend is a murderous psychopath as she cuts you into pieces and hugs your severed head while she slept, only for her to found out your secret, that you're an immortal who can survives anything. Describe the morning after that. [Possibly NSFW?]
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"Good morning, dear."
They said Monday morning couldn't get any worse. So what in the world is any good in today, of all time?
"Can't breathe..." I mumbled in-between her clothed bosom. At least I was thankful to have a girlfriend this well-endowed. If only her mind were as developed as her body.
"Then, don't hug me so tight or I'll get excited again."
"My body is over there, actually."
She glanced at my lower half, or more like, 6/7 portion of my entire body walking about on the room trying to find my missing socks. Years of being immortal made me capable of doing various things. It wasn't the first time someone tried to kill me this way, the last time was in England. Still, it's the first time my head being embraced this much.
"So, an immortal..." She raised my head into the air, just like a baby. "First time I've seen one."
"First time I meet a serial killer as well. What do they say it in Chinese... 'young-there'?"
She chuckled. "It's 'yandere', dear, and it's in Japanese." Suddenly, she became all gloomy.
"What's wrong?"
"So, after this we'll break up, right? I guess it's the last time I could call you 'dear' like this. I'll miss it."
I decided to be blunt. "Do you still love me or what?"
"I should be the one to ask." Tears starting to build up. "It's the first time my victim ever talked to me after I killed them. I don't know what to do."
"So you still love me."
It finally rivers through her cheeks. She hugged me again, tighter than before. "...yes."
Damn it. This is why I love her so much. It's probably the first time someone ever loved me this much. Well, I've always tried to avoid any emotional contacts with another human, considering how I would outlive them. It was the first time I ever had a girlfriend either.
Well, sucks to be her. She'll be the one to cry when she dies before me.
"Say, could you put my head where it was? I wanna make some coffee."
She asked, "Is that mean 'yes'?"
"That I still love you? Yes, yes of course. Now, if you mind?"
Her gloom earlier was gone, replaced by one of the most joyful smile I've ever seen throughout my entire 5 thousand years of life. Or is it 6? I've lost count.
"I'll make it for you. No sugar?"
"You just want to hold my head, huh?"
She gave a nod.
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"Hey babe"
Your girlfriend jumps what seems to be 10 feet in the air.
"You're..alive?!"
"Yeah, turns out I'm immortal. I figured I'd let you have your way with me since that's the only thing that seems to get you off anymore. Besides, this way you can at least stay out of prison."
She's still struggling to get much of anything out as her jaw hangs to the ground.
"I've never failed to murder one of my victims before. This is humiliating!" She says as she bursts into tears for the very first time.
"Does that mean you're breaking up with me?"
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Yandere girlfriend and immortal guy!
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[WP] Today you found out that your girlfriend is a murderous psychopath as she cuts you into pieces and hugs your severed head while she slept, only for her to found out your secret, that you're an immortal who can survives anything. Describe the morning after that. [Possibly NSFW?]
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The screaming, it is usually all I can focus on. It always does hurt like a bitch, but this one hurt in that very special way that knowing the woman you were going to marry viciously murdering you. Luckily she took my head off before she began the major mutilation, or else I would have felt it all. She did give me a nice view of it, which was a new one, never got to see my own body butchered before. I kept silent, trying to preserve my secret until she disposed of the body, but there was a slight hiccup with that, she decided now that she had taken my body appart that she was going to nap, my head nesstled against her chest like we always lay after a long day, her hugging my head and petting my hair. I kept quiet, hoping she would stop soon and I tried to get some sleep.
I woke to a soft sobbing and heaving motion, a sweet voice repeating a mantra of light 'why him's. I dared to take a peak. All dark, but I knew that bloodstained blouse and gentle cry. Looks like she didn't get as bored as I thought, plan B time I guess. "Psst. Hey Al?" She stopped moving, going still as a statue. I clear my throat, or what is left of it. "You uh, you wanna let me go for a second?" Slowly my vision widened, the light blinding me slightly, as Alice lifted my head to eye level with hers, a terrified expression coming across her face. Oh god, here comes the screaming. "Now, before you start screaming, calm down and let me" too late. My head is sailing through the air. Luckily I hit the pillows face up, didn't need a headache on top of this. She pointed her finger at me and began to whisper, eventually raising in a crescendo of wild screaming "you, you were dead. I...I killed you. NO I KILLED YOU, YOU DIED, I DID IT WITH MY OWN HANDS! HOW!?" I took a deep breath, letting Alice run herself down to a quivering stare, backed up against the wall as far away from me as possible. "Al, calm down, you didn't kill me. That would be impossible, I am... Well I am kinda immortal. Now I can see the questions, but first I am gonna need you to get me my cigarettes, light two, and give me one, you are gonna need the other."
Alice eventually calmed down, she took suprisingly well to learning that her boyfriend was an immortal who gained immortality through an alchemical accident nearly 800 years ago. Alice blew smoke from her ruby red lips "So tell me this Hen, I get the not aging, that is pretty basic, but how are you still alive now? You have no blood flow, no oxygen going to your brain" she tapped my forehead. "Hey, it isn't nice to touch people who can't touch back you know" I said, my cigarette hanging between my lips. I sighed, smoke blowing through my nose and mouth, a little pool of it escaping down my throat. "Honestly Al, I don't know, even after all this time it is still a mystery to me. You should know, you have the PHD, I just punch people hard, always have, always will. Most of the time I had lived was spent as a high price mercenary, of course prices rose after the accident. Who would have thought people are willing to pay so much money for a soldier who can't die." I let out a chuckle.
Things go silent, we each just sit there, well one of us sits, I just kinda lean there. By now we have gone through three cigarettes each, both of us avoiding the big questions. I take a deep drag and let it out, smoke flowing everywhere. "Okay red, time for the big one. Why'd you do it?" Alice just looks at me, her eyes watering, her cheeks still rosy and flush from crying. Her red hair frames her face in fire. "I suppose I owe you at least that much don't I" she giggles. "Okay, so you know how I don't really talk about my dad that much? Yeah, that is because he was Jack the Ripper. Like, THE Ripper, not one of the knock offs. Well our family is just a little bit cursed, dad kinda embraced it but I try to hide it." Alice takes a deep drag of her cigarette, some of her lipstick coming off on the filter as she stubs it out. "We are like monsters, we live longer, move quieter, can smell vital signs, pretty much like vampires but we can walk around in the sun. I am pretty good at hiding it, but sometimes it slips. Usually only happens when some emotional stuff happens." She takes another deep breath. "I was washing clothes last night after you got back from work, and I found something in your pocket that set me off." I realize now that she is holding something in her hand, a simple silver ring with the most brilliant blood red ruby pressed in the middle. I try to play it off "I don't know where that came from..." She looks at me with those jade eyes "you can't prove anything" I try to shake my head to roll away, and this gets a giggle from her.
"Okay, fine, you caught me. I am really an international jewel theif and this is the royal ring straight from the hand of the Queen of Sweden after a night of lude and debasing love making." I look up at her, she has one eyebrow raised, looking at me with a half smirk. "Not buying it?" I ask. "Not at all sweetheart, now spit it out before I make you." She says that with a spice that sets my mind and what I think is supposed to be my heart ablaze. "Okay, okay, fine. It was supposed to be for your sister." She slaps me in the forehead lightly. Not buying it either, welp, this isn't how I always imagined it but I might as well. "Alice, that ring, with a gem that holds the brightness of all the fire in the world, found at the bottom of a volcano so old it doesn't have a name, is for you. Alice Smithson, will you marry me? Also can you grab my legs and put them in a kneeling position?" She grabs my head and kisses me, softly at first and then more passionately. She slowly pulls our faces apart.
She is smiling like an idiot, so am I. "I knew about your problem Al, that is why the ring took so long. It had to be special. That ring, it doesn't just hold the brightness of fire, it also holds the fierceness of it. It will help you, it will contain this thing inside of you. You remember that business trip I took a while ago and spent about a week smelling like a pork roast? Yeah, I wasn't kidding about that being from the bottom of a volcano." I sigh, hard and long. "So uh, you up for a jigsaw puzzle, cause my body ain't going back together without some help."
|
It didn't take long for me to remember the horrors of my nightmare when I woke up. I had dreamt that my girlfriend, Sophie, had brutally murdered me. Although the meaning behind the dream was not clear, I wanted to forget about it so I took a shower.
I thought about our upcoming anniversary as a distraction and I panicked. I had forgotten to buy her a gift and it was only two days away. I rushed to get changed and hurried to the door. I was desperate to get into the town centre before the shops were crammed with customers so I mashed the elevator button. I heard one of my elderly neighbours mutter "impatient bastard" as he passed by but I did not care.
The doors opened and as I waited impatiently for the elevator to reach the ground floor, I started thinking about what I should buy. When the doors opened once more I power walked my way to the bus stop and caught the bus. We were held up by what seemed to be hundreds of traffic lights but we finally arrived and I was still unsure as I alighted.
I decided that chocolates were probably the safest gift to get so I found our local chocolatier. I walked back to the bus stop, carrying the bag in my left hand. I knew Sophie would reward me very well for this. Very well indeed. I smiled remembering her naked body a few nights ago but I quickly realised where I was and tried to distract myself.
The bus came and who should get off but my girlfriend. I quickly hid the chocolates behind my back thinking she had seen them but instead her face showed great fear. She stared at me for what seemed like minutes and fled as if she had seen a ghost. I chased after her.
"Sophie what's wrong?" I shouted with great concern. She started to pull away from me. I had no idea why she would run but she didn't seem to tire. She had pushed me to the limits of my endurance though and I collapsed on the floor breathing heavily.
I rang her phone a few times but I had no luck. I decided to simply return to our flat. I thought that she would return and I didn't want to seem weird chasing after a woman.
I arrived to see the sun set on the village which was always my favourite part of the day. I ordered a takeaway, looking out of the window, hoping to treat her when she came back. The nightmare was long forgotten by now and I wanted to enjoy the evening and look forward to our anniversary.
Before the delivery man had arrived, I heard the keys turning and the door opened to reveal the only sight I thought was better than looking through my window Her bright blue eyes and blonde her lit up the room instantly. She had also been shopping. She must have gotten over whatever had bothered her before surely. But I was wrong. The fear had once again returned to her face but she didn't run away this time. She slammed the door shut and picked up our sharpest kitchen knife.
"Who the fuck are you?" She demanded. I laughed thinking it was one of her sick jokes.
"Oh don't mind me I'm just here to rob you." Smiling back expecting her to play along. Instead she grew more aggressive holding the knife against my throat
"Get out now." Tears rolled down her face.
"Are you alright, Sophie?" Now I was certain that this had gone beyond a joke.
"You're supposed to be dead!" She shrieked backing away from me.
"What? Last time I checked I was supposed to be alive." I laughed awkwardly. Her back was now touching the wall.
"Please stop haunting me." She sobbed.
"I admit I murdered you. What I did was awful. I am sure I will go to Hell for it. Please just forgive me and stop haunting me. I have been punished enough" she broke down into another fit of tears.
Nothing in your life could ever prepare you for a situation like this. I wanted to say the right words to convince her that I was in fact alive and she had not killed me, however strange that might seem. But I remembered the nightmare. Surely that couldn't be real?
"What makes you think you killed me?" This made her cry even more. When she found her voice again she replied.
"I stabbed you. I watched the life drain from your face and I gutted you." She paused, being unable to talk and continued.
"I cleaned up everything of course. Butchered your corpse and disposed you. Yet here you stand as if nothing happened. You could only be here to punish me. Can't you see -"
She was interrupted by the knocking on the door. She opened it and saw the delivery man. She turned him away thinking it was a prank. Suddenly sherealised I was alive and not just a ghost. The look of horror returned to her face.
"No no no. How did you -? But I -. No you must be dead. I -" She walked to the window.
"I want to leave this hell."
She jumped.
I called an ambulance rushed downstairs to see if she was alive but she had fallen too far. She was certainly dead. I later questioned my own mortality but I thought she must have been delusional and I couldn't be immortal. I later realised she spoke the truth. I was involved in a car accident a few months later. The doctors said nobody has ever survived a collision at that speed and they even joked saying I must be immortal.
I still grieve about losing Sophie but I hope that soon I'll be able to move on. I do have my whole life ahead of me after all.
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Yandere girlfriend and immortal guy!
|
[WP] Today you found out that your girlfriend is a murderous psychopath as she cuts you into pieces and hugs your severed head while she slept, only for her to found out your secret, that you're an immortal who can survives anything. Describe the morning after that. [Possibly NSFW?]
|
"Good morning, dear."
They said Monday morning couldn't get any worse. So what in the world is any good in today, of all time?
"Can't breathe..." I mumbled in-between her clothed bosom. At least I was thankful to have a girlfriend this well-endowed. If only her mind were as developed as her body.
"Then, don't hug me so tight or I'll get excited again."
"My body is over there, actually."
She glanced at my lower half, or more like, 6/7 portion of my entire body walking about on the room trying to find my missing socks. Years of being immortal made me capable of doing various things. It wasn't the first time someone tried to kill me this way, the last time was in England. Still, it's the first time my head being embraced this much.
"So, an immortal..." She raised my head into the air, just like a baby. "First time I've seen one."
"First time I meet a serial killer as well. What do they say it in Chinese... 'young-there'?"
She chuckled. "It's 'yandere', dear, and it's in Japanese." Suddenly, she became all gloomy.
"What's wrong?"
"So, after this we'll break up, right? I guess it's the last time I could call you 'dear' like this. I'll miss it."
I decided to be blunt. "Do you still love me or what?"
"I should be the one to ask." Tears starting to build up. "It's the first time my victim ever talked to me after I killed them. I don't know what to do."
"So you still love me."
It finally rivers through her cheeks. She hugged me again, tighter than before. "...yes."
Damn it. This is why I love her so much. It's probably the first time someone ever loved me this much. Well, I've always tried to avoid any emotional contacts with another human, considering how I would outlive them. It was the first time I ever had a girlfriend either.
Well, sucks to be her. She'll be the one to cry when she dies before me.
"Say, could you put my head where it was? I wanna make some coffee."
She asked, "Is that mean 'yes'?"
"That I still love you? Yes, yes of course. Now, if you mind?"
Her gloom earlier was gone, replaced by one of the most joyful smile I've ever seen throughout my entire 5 thousand years of life. Or is it 6? I've lost count.
"I'll make it for you. No sugar?"
"You just want to hold my head, huh?"
She gave a nod.
|
It didn't take long for me to remember the horrors of my nightmare when I woke up. I had dreamt that my girlfriend, Sophie, had brutally murdered me. Although the meaning behind the dream was not clear, I wanted to forget about it so I took a shower.
I thought about our upcoming anniversary as a distraction and I panicked. I had forgotten to buy her a gift and it was only two days away. I rushed to get changed and hurried to the door. I was desperate to get into the town centre before the shops were crammed with customers so I mashed the elevator button. I heard one of my elderly neighbours mutter "impatient bastard" as he passed by but I did not care.
The doors opened and as I waited impatiently for the elevator to reach the ground floor, I started thinking about what I should buy. When the doors opened once more I power walked my way to the bus stop and caught the bus. We were held up by what seemed to be hundreds of traffic lights but we finally arrived and I was still unsure as I alighted.
I decided that chocolates were probably the safest gift to get so I found our local chocolatier. I walked back to the bus stop, carrying the bag in my left hand. I knew Sophie would reward me very well for this. Very well indeed. I smiled remembering her naked body a few nights ago but I quickly realised where I was and tried to distract myself.
The bus came and who should get off but my girlfriend. I quickly hid the chocolates behind my back thinking she had seen them but instead her face showed great fear. She stared at me for what seemed like minutes and fled as if she had seen a ghost. I chased after her.
"Sophie what's wrong?" I shouted with great concern. She started to pull away from me. I had no idea why she would run but she didn't seem to tire. She had pushed me to the limits of my endurance though and I collapsed on the floor breathing heavily.
I rang her phone a few times but I had no luck. I decided to simply return to our flat. I thought that she would return and I didn't want to seem weird chasing after a woman.
I arrived to see the sun set on the village which was always my favourite part of the day. I ordered a takeaway, looking out of the window, hoping to treat her when she came back. The nightmare was long forgotten by now and I wanted to enjoy the evening and look forward to our anniversary.
Before the delivery man had arrived, I heard the keys turning and the door opened to reveal the only sight I thought was better than looking through my window Her bright blue eyes and blonde her lit up the room instantly. She had also been shopping. She must have gotten over whatever had bothered her before surely. But I was wrong. The fear had once again returned to her face but she didn't run away this time. She slammed the door shut and picked up our sharpest kitchen knife.
"Who the fuck are you?" She demanded. I laughed thinking it was one of her sick jokes.
"Oh don't mind me I'm just here to rob you." Smiling back expecting her to play along. Instead she grew more aggressive holding the knife against my throat
"Get out now." Tears rolled down her face.
"Are you alright, Sophie?" Now I was certain that this had gone beyond a joke.
"You're supposed to be dead!" She shrieked backing away from me.
"What? Last time I checked I was supposed to be alive." I laughed awkwardly. Her back was now touching the wall.
"Please stop haunting me." She sobbed.
"I admit I murdered you. What I did was awful. I am sure I will go to Hell for it. Please just forgive me and stop haunting me. I have been punished enough" she broke down into another fit of tears.
Nothing in your life could ever prepare you for a situation like this. I wanted to say the right words to convince her that I was in fact alive and she had not killed me, however strange that might seem. But I remembered the nightmare. Surely that couldn't be real?
"What makes you think you killed me?" This made her cry even more. When she found her voice again she replied.
"I stabbed you. I watched the life drain from your face and I gutted you." She paused, being unable to talk and continued.
"I cleaned up everything of course. Butchered your corpse and disposed you. Yet here you stand as if nothing happened. You could only be here to punish me. Can't you see -"
She was interrupted by the knocking on the door. She opened it and saw the delivery man. She turned him away thinking it was a prank. Suddenly sherealised I was alive and not just a ghost. The look of horror returned to her face.
"No no no. How did you -? But I -. No you must be dead. I -" She walked to the window.
"I want to leave this hell."
She jumped.
I called an ambulance rushed downstairs to see if she was alive but she had fallen too far. She was certainly dead. I later questioned my own mortality but I thought she must have been delusional and I couldn't be immortal. I later realised she spoke the truth. I was involved in a car accident a few months later. The doctors said nobody has ever survived a collision at that speed and they even joked saying I must be immortal.
I still grieve about losing Sophie but I hope that soon I'll be able to move on. I do have my whole life ahead of me after all.
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[WP] Time travel turned out to be so simple and easy someone put open source instructions on the internet. Everyone and their dog went back to change something. No one has comeback, you and the others who decided to stay try your best to survive in a mostly empty world.
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They’d all left so long ago, Jack had forgotten what the city used to sound like. He’d always complained about the noise. Sirens, horns, angry people yelling. All of it seemingly about to boil over into chaos. But now it was the silence that kept him awake. An eerie reminder that he was alone. Every so often the silence would be broken by the whir of one of those… machines. A slow groaning, gradually accelerating into a deafening boom. Another traveler lost to the past. One less person to talk to. It became clear that time didn’t work like everyone had expected. People traveled back, but nothing changed. Or at least it never seemed to. He couldn’t be sure. But no one ever returned.
 
Food was starting to get hard to come by now that most of the people had gone. Jack had started kicking in doors of the surrounding apartments of his high rise to get supplies. It wasn’t something he would have tried a week before. If he’d broken his ankle, it would need to heal that way. There certainly wasn’t anyone around to fix it. He’d gathered enough canned food to last him a couple of weeks, but he stopped looking after apartment 12C. He couldn’t forget the smell. When the door broke open on the third kick, the stench poured from the room like hot molasses. Jack had fallen to his knees and vomited before he knew what happened. When he had composed himself, he saw the machine. Just like the other apartments, it sat empty. Its passenger lost through time. In a reclining chair next to the machine lay a decomposing body. Jack could tell the woman had been old. Too old to take care of herself it seemed. The caretaker had clearly jumped through time, leaving the woman behind. Left alone to slowly starve. Jack stared for a while, breathing through his shirt. He wondered if the woman had been abandoned, or if her traveler had left when the instructions first came out. Back when people thought they could change the future. Maybe they were trying to do some good. The fools. The first adaptors, all of them fools. And he couldn’t help but think of Susan.
 
She had been idealistic, and he loved her for it. But Jack was cynical. He didn’t think it would work, but Susan was set on proving him wrong. ‘We can finally make an impact’ she’d said, pleading with him. ‘We can fix things.’ But he’d argued back ‘things aren’t so bad! At least we have each other.’ But she didn’t seem content. Tears had welled in her eyes. ‘Don’t you understand? I can see her again. Maybe I can save her.’ And there was no more arguing. She stepped through the door, and by the time he decided to go after her, she had vanished into the crowd. Back when there was a crowd. He’d found her door unlocked when he went to her apartment the next day. There was no one there. When he touched the machine it had been warm. Susan was an early adopter.
 
Jack held out for 8 more weeks. He had hated every person that had stepped into one of these horrible things. Every time he heard the boom of another person falling through time, his rage grew stronger. He hadn’t seen another person for 3 weeks when he finally began to teeter on the edge of insanity. Jack had traveled through the city streets in search of another person. Eventually he screamed at the buildings until he lost his voice. No one responded. Only the wind. He was alone.
 
And then it came to him. Maybe he could fix it. Maybe he could go back and destroy the plans before they were ever posted. He’d make sure the machines could never be made. He’d make sure Susan never left him. He’d fix it. He had to. He couldn’t be alone anymore.
 
Jack always told himself he’d never consider it, but here he was, staring at one of the machines, door ajar. He was sure the power grid wouldn’t last for much longer. It was now or never. He stepped into the machine and told himself he was doing it for Susan. The machine groaned, the sound slowly intensifying. The world outside the machine seemed to flicker and fade. The sound became deafening. Jack closed his eyes, palms pressed against his ears. He tried to remember Susan’s face.
 
This is how the world ends. By abandoning the future.
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Diary Entry 2042C: Took a stroll to the store today to get a newspaper and stock up on some essentials. It was a beautiful day yet again but the eery feeling being the only person on the street doesn't leave me despite the warmth of the sun and the company of bird song. I reach the store and the headline on the San Francisco Cronicle greets me stating alarmingly that the worlds population is now estimated to be just 200,000 peope with the majority of those based in Europe. I opened the property section to see that two bed apartments in the Bay Area are still 4 million dollars. Can't catch a break.
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[WP] As more and more mythical races are revealed, some are starting to wonder if any genuine humans actually exist.
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"Hey, Doug! You're a human, right?" Ninthalor asked as Doug sat with his friends.
"Ah... no, I'm half giant," the former high-school basketball player admitted.
"Wait, what about you, Janet?" Ninthalor continued in his line of questioning.
"I'm Fairy, you dipstick. We've had this conversation already," tinkled the tiny woman in a growly tone, before draining an entire beer in one gulp.
"Why are you asking, Ninthalor?" Doug leaned forward. "Something you need to say?"
"Well, I'm an elf, Doug is a giant -"
"Half giant, Ninthy."
"Janet's a fairy, Rhedig is a faun -" Ninthalor was cut off again, this time by a tall man who had achieved a state of intoxication that the others would not even approach until much later in the evening.
"Satyr, Ninthy. I'm a satyr, not a freaking goat-man," the man with the horse legs corrected.
Amy finally piped up, finishing the elf's thoughts. "And I'm a werewolf, and Gustavo is a vampire."
Ninthalor finally finished, "Where are the humans? Look at us - seven of us, each of us a different species - no humans!"
"That's hardly a reasonable assumption to make from seven people," Amy retorted.
"No, listen, Amy. I asked everyone's at work - halflings, elves, dwarves, werewolves, giants, talking animals -"
"That's really not the right term there, Ninthy," Doug interrupted.
"Sorry, sentibeasts. There's vampires, uni-"
"Sentibeasts? That's even more offensive." It was Janet this time.
"Freimen?" Headshakes again. "Sandy men?" More emphatic this time. "What are they called?"
"They're speechcreatures, Ninthy." Amy finally answered.
"Whatever. My point is, I don't know any humans. Do they even exist?"
"Umm... how can you never have met any humans? Sure, they're not, like, everywhere, but there's tons." Rhedig questioned.
"Yeah, I mean, I know a lot of humans. Maybe... I hate to say this, but, Ninthalor... are you maybe a bit speciesist?" This came from Amy, who looked a bit on edge - but she always did around that one of month.
"No, no, no, that's not at all what I mean! I mean, just, I've never met any, I never hear about them..."
"Dude." Amy said, looking him right in the eye. "Not cool."
"Ninthalor, I know that humans exist. I know lots of them, man." This was Doug.
"Really? Name one." This, Ninthalor thought, was the real challenge.
"Oh, what a difficult one," Doug answered sarcastically. "Let's see, maybe my dad for one?"
"Oh." And with that, Ninthalor slunk away, to reconsider his position.
|
Dwarves. Dark elves. High elves. Trolls. Gnomes.
The reaper comes for all.
After the great wars, mankind slowly dwindled. The northern provinces have been primarily High Elven. The southern mostly Dwarven. The Westerlands and the Light Islands have been controlled by the mindless violence of Troll Raiders and Gnome Reavers. Once, it was men and Dark elves; but no longer. The eastern provinces are riddled with all races, but most of the holdfasts and forts are run by men.
The great wars took a toll on all of the population. No one really believed in elves, trolls, or dwarves, but they were always there, just waiting in the deep forests, the high plains, and low bogs. There were once massive metal structures that spanned the course of hundreds of miles, but now the largest cities are made of stone and wood.
Taervin Allyreon was High Shaman of the Blackwood. A tall, lithe, fearless Dark Elf, he had recently led a large raiding party north to take back the Dark Elven homeland holdfast, Irondale. Irondale was in ruins, but the sentimental meaning of controlling it was tremendous. They lost only thirteen elves between the three sided attack. They killed almost a hundred gnomes that had held Irondale for years and years.
It was difficult for Tarvin to leave Blackwood Hall. But there was work to be done at Irondale, and the prefects needed someone with experience leading; an elf that had the respect of men, women, and children alike.
There was not much time. There was never much time anymore.
Part two coming in an hour or two.
|
|
[WP] As more and more mythical races are revealed, some are starting to wonder if any genuine humans actually exist.
|
It's been almost a year now, since I started posting at r/trulyhuman . I'm not a mod or anything there, but I'm one of the most frequent posters there. Here we document how to hide amongst the *others*. My latest post was a comment on a newbie who was wondering how to ensure pool water was neutralized by chlorine or still dangerous due to APS. I told him to test the pool with a litmus strip, and if the pool was above 7.8 ph, he should not swim there, as the water was more acidic due to APS- the activation protocol serum.
I do this kind of work all the time now- since the day it was revealed that a majority of the planet had a mix of *other* traits in their genes. Then shortly after, the 'activation protocol" group ran an insane campaign to enhance *other* traits in the DNA with a certain special serum. Stupid, stupid stupid. The world was in uproar.
Then the Originals came. The Extrema, Greenfolk, Aquarians, and god only knows what else started broadcasting across the world. Telling people they were special, and not meant to mingle among humans. Apparently these immortal weirdos had been on the planet for years. *Others* were attacking people with the activation protocol serums, poisoning the water sources, dumping it in processed products across the planet. Ever imagine becoming a mer-person after eating a honey bun? No? Well, it happened to MILLIONS. When people started realizing what *other* powers could do, they began holing up in groups, conglomerating as much power... as much wealth as they could.
Ever since then, r/trulyhuman has been a place for those of us actual humans, serum-tested or those who want to stay human to keep in touch; away from the prying eyes of *others*. We live nearly off grid, growing our own food and chemically treating our water, and learning how to live quietly. Even though we have to talk in code when anything other than memes are on the sub, at least I know there are people out there who want to be people still. Human people.
|
Dwarves. Dark elves. High elves. Trolls. Gnomes.
The reaper comes for all.
After the great wars, mankind slowly dwindled. The northern provinces have been primarily High Elven. The southern mostly Dwarven. The Westerlands and the Light Islands have been controlled by the mindless violence of Troll Raiders and Gnome Reavers. Once, it was men and Dark elves; but no longer. The eastern provinces are riddled with all races, but most of the holdfasts and forts are run by men.
The great wars took a toll on all of the population. No one really believed in elves, trolls, or dwarves, but they were always there, just waiting in the deep forests, the high plains, and low bogs. There were once massive metal structures that spanned the course of hundreds of miles, but now the largest cities are made of stone and wood.
Taervin Allyreon was High Shaman of the Blackwood. A tall, lithe, fearless Dark Elf, he had recently led a large raiding party north to take back the Dark Elven homeland holdfast, Irondale. Irondale was in ruins, but the sentimental meaning of controlling it was tremendous. They lost only thirteen elves between the three sided attack. They killed almost a hundred gnomes that had held Irondale for years and years.
It was difficult for Tarvin to leave Blackwood Hall. But there was work to be done at Irondale, and the prefects needed someone with experience leading; an elf that had the respect of men, women, and children alike.
There was not much time. There was never much time anymore.
Part two coming in an hour or two.
|
|
[WP] As more and more mythical races are revealed, some are starting to wonder if any genuine humans actually exist.
|
**Part 1**
"Hey, Craig! Long time no see!"
Craig had taken a different route today to avoid someone, and almost immediately regretted it. He wasn't expecting to run into... HIM.
"Mordübh?" All he wanted was to get away. He tried to hide it, smiling uncomfortably. "Um, I thought you worked in the West Wing."
The muscles of his skinless face pulled his lipless mouth into a smile. Four legs brought the creature into a stand with a clop as Mordübh began to saunter over. His yellow reptillian eyes on his lower, equine head stared straight into Craig's soul as his human head, the one with a mouth, gave a gravely chuckle that sounded like the end of the world. His human body, conjoined at the torso to his horse body's back, was mercifully covered by a dapper tweed suit, but his other features, with veins, twitching muscles, tendons, and even some bone made plain, were displayed such that Craig felt faint.
"Oh, I got reassigned." The eyes on the horse head rolled in deep sockets as his mouth curled in disgust. His long arms, long enought that they dragged on the ground, crossed in an annoyed manner. "Someone over there actually filed a complaint against me. The nerve, right? As if I can control my Aura of Evil. I bet it was Id'Ukaria; you know how the Aquans feel about me. The Atlantean wars were EONS ago, yet they still can't seem to get over their prejudices. Absolute racists if you ask me. Do you understand how that feels, Craig?"
Craig tried to smile through his grimace, consumed, at such a close proximity to the Nuckelavee, with the desire to murder small children. He hurried off after a hollow goodbye, nearly in tears over the horrible experience as he hurried to his workspace, Mordübh still calling after him.
Cubicle after grey cubicle passed, each with its own distinct occupant, each with its own unnatural, if not disturbing, scene, and the hallways were filled with the normal, horrid crowd as well. Craig would've been bored with the monotony at this point if one could get used to this kind of thing. Past the Aquans in their baby pools in front of their desks, conjuring lesser Water Elementals to sort paperwork; past Krook, their first Cockatrice hire, wearing special glasses so that he didn't turn anyone to stone; past the gnomish interns, scurrying about to replenish each cubicle with staples; past a succubus flirting with the jockey male centaurs at the coffee maker; past Jake the Clurichaun, following the smell of a secret vodka stash; past the photo of the newest Employee of the Month (a hag who hadn't cursed anyone in a week, a rare achievement); and straight into his cubicle, nearly crashing into the Frogman in his doorway.
"Excuse me," he breathed, as the frogman hurried to hide Craig's chocalates, which he had stolen, behind his back, muttering excuses. Craig didn't even care anymore. He practically fell into his desk chair as the Frogman gratefully slipped away.
Craig stared at the new paperwork at his desk as a psychic scream blasted through the East Wing, provoking a whole host of grunts, squeals, curses, and demonic howls of protest throughout the workplace. The manager, Drow Matron Venezqua, screamed for silence and beat the loudest offenders with a whip of 12 snake heads. Craig sighed. It was going to be a long day.
___________________________________________________________________________________________
Many, many, many years ago, the "Other People" began to be revealed. The first to reveal themselves were the mermaids, an endangered species already, which soon went extinct due to capture and mistreatment by Sea World and other such companies, and Big Game fishers. Mermaid tails were also a delicacy in Japan for the few years that they were available.
But as soon as mermaids were revealed, people realized that anything was possible. There was magic among us. Soon, laws were made that slowly but surely coaxed the "Other People" out of hiding. People all over began to learn that many of their friends and coworkers weren't actually human.
Halflings popped up everywhere, claiming they had disguised themselves with the help of gnomish magic. This, reluctantly, forced the gnomes out of hiding, and also created a long-standing resentment among the gnomes against the halflings. Soon came elves, centaurs, and dwarves. These 5 groups of "Other People" were the first, and most expansive, groups to be revealed. By the time these were revealed, new "Other People" started popping up everywhere. One couldn't go anywhere without seeing an "Other Person." Lich kings, demigods, mindflayers, bodaks, Ghille Dhu, sentient toxic waste (which floated out of the sea on the beaches of the US, demanding voting rights), Brownies, the Loch Ness Monster, vampire cats, Elementals; there seemed to be a new "Other People" every day for quite a while, and each had their own way of disguising themselves. The President of Russia turned out to be a Were Bear, and the Prime Minister of the UK was a vampire. Other important people turned out to be secretly "Other People."
Most of the "Other People" had actually thought that they were the only ones, and in a great irony each waited so long to reveal themselves because they had thought that they would be completely alone. Now, through shared experience and desire for acceptance, all the "Other People" had come together in relative peace and harmony.
Many years later, after this sort of thing continued, people realized that there were more "Other People" than humans. They were "Other People" no more. They were THE people.
And as humans began to crossbreed more and more with other races, people eventually came to terms with the fact that there may not be any humans left. And if there were, they certaintly weren't making themselves known.
As for Craig, he was a... he wasn't sure what. He had been raised by Dryads in the middle of a forest eating rabbits for most of his life. The Dryads had claimed he had been left there, but he guessed he might've been stolen. Either way, he came to the big city later on and found a job at "George the Grey Slime's Custom Architecture." It was a fairly steady job, considering how specific the needs of so many different people were.
But he still wasn't sure what he was. The Dryads had given him a sort of schooling (they had to get permits before they could home-school him legally) and he had learned about the great history of the New World. But nothing that he had learned really fit the bill of who he was. He looked a lot like a human, actually. In fact, he looked exactly like a human. Maybe he was a human. Was that possible?
No, he reasoned. Humans couldn't shape-shift. Craig could shape-shift into a plant of any size... and also a tall peasant-like things with wings, a tail, and black hair covering his whole body. So he couldn't be a human, could he? No way. But he had to learn. He had tried, months before, getting a DNA test, with no results. Now he planned to get a diagnosis from a specialist in ancient mythology in a couple of weeks to try and see who he really was.
*I can continue it if anyone wants me to. I have more ideas, but this was fairly long already, so I thought I should just post this first. This is actually my first post on this subreddit, so its probably pretty bad compared to more seasoned veterans of this sort of thing, but I'm learning! Hope people like it.*
**Edit: Look in the replies for Part 2!**
|
Dwarves. Dark elves. High elves. Trolls. Gnomes.
The reaper comes for all.
After the great wars, mankind slowly dwindled. The northern provinces have been primarily High Elven. The southern mostly Dwarven. The Westerlands and the Light Islands have been controlled by the mindless violence of Troll Raiders and Gnome Reavers. Once, it was men and Dark elves; but no longer. The eastern provinces are riddled with all races, but most of the holdfasts and forts are run by men.
The great wars took a toll on all of the population. No one really believed in elves, trolls, or dwarves, but they were always there, just waiting in the deep forests, the high plains, and low bogs. There were once massive metal structures that spanned the course of hundreds of miles, but now the largest cities are made of stone and wood.
Taervin Allyreon was High Shaman of the Blackwood. A tall, lithe, fearless Dark Elf, he had recently led a large raiding party north to take back the Dark Elven homeland holdfast, Irondale. Irondale was in ruins, but the sentimental meaning of controlling it was tremendous. They lost only thirteen elves between the three sided attack. They killed almost a hundred gnomes that had held Irondale for years and years.
It was difficult for Tarvin to leave Blackwood Hall. But there was work to be done at Irondale, and the prefects needed someone with experience leading; an elf that had the respect of men, women, and children alike.
There was not much time. There was never much time anymore.
Part two coming in an hour or two.
|
|
[WP] You get in the elevator, press the button for the twelfth floor, and take a deep drink from your coffee. Somewhere between the fifth and sixth floor, there's a shudder and the lift stops. The door opens, and you're greeted by an astonishing sight.
|
My weekday morning routine begins at 6:15 AM, when my alarm goes off for the first time. My protocol here is to reach over from my bed to my nightstand, and scoop six tablespoons of grounds into my coffee maker. By 6:18, I have switched the machine on, and by 6:20, I am half asleep again.
At 6:28, my pot of coffee is ready. I reach over again to my nightstand to pour 8 ounces of the boiling liquid into my stained white mug, and roll over to once again escape reality.
My second alarm goes off at 6:45. By then, the coffee has cooled down to the point that I can down the whole cup in two massive gulps. By design, I barely taste the liquid. I hate coffee. I promptly pour myself another eight ounces.
The second cup of coffee takes less time to cool than the first. After another ten minutes of half sleep, my third alarm goes off, and it’s down the hatch.
A year ago, my first alarm went off at 6:25, and this was all it took to get me out of bed. Now it takes one more snooze cycle, and one more cup of coffee, which I pour at 6:55 and drink at 7:05.
7:10 is the absolute latest I can stay in bed if I want to make it to work by 8:00. I’ve been hitting this number on the nose for the last three years, and it hasn’t failed me once. I cast my crumpled bed sheets aside, take a long piss, and go through the motions of taming my knotted mop of hair. I’m out of the bathroom by 7:15.
Then it’s back to my bedroom. I throw on a polo, some khakis, and usually, (if I’m not in too much of a hurry to remember), my belt. I make a quick trip to the kitchen to grap a granola bar and my thermos, and then it’s back to my bedroom, where I transfer the remains of my coffee pot and pull a pair of socks and shoes over my feet. I’m out the front door of my apartment by 7:20, and backing out of my parking spot two minutes later.
My 30 minute commute to work consists of eating my granola bar, drinking about half the coffee in my thermos, and halfheartedly listening to a self-help podcast. The podcast is the most critical part of my morning, because it allows me to pat myself on the back for taking steps to improve my life, without actually accomplishing anything. I will use this moral licensing for the next 8 hours, when I browse the internet and do not perform the responsibilities of my job.
If there’s no traffic, I get to the parking lot of my job by 7:50. This is ideal, because it gives me enough time to perform my second most important task of the morning; five minutes of meditation/trying not to think about how much I don’t want to be at work. If there is traffic, and I pull into the parking lot at 7:55, I simply skip this step.
It takes two minutes to walk from my car to the lobby, one minute to ride the elevator, and two more to walk to my desk. Or at least, on a routine day, it would.
It’s 7:57 on a Wednesday. I step into the elevator alone, and punch the button for the 12th floor. As the digital floor display hits 2, I shake my thermos and deduce I have about 4 ounces of coffee left. By floor 4, I have zero ounces of coffee left. Floor 5 passes, and then…
There’s a sudden lurch that nearly throws me off my feet. The elevator comes to a complete stop, with the bottom left line of the floor display flickering on and off, changing the display from five to six. For the first time it years, I can actually feel my heartbeat. I hit the elevator’s alarm button, and then the door open.
The elevator obeys my command, sliding open as if nothing has happened. And for a moment, my brain tricks me into thinking the same thing. *This is floor 12,* I think, as the corners of my lips lower into a frown. I duck back into the elevator, and see that the display is still flickering between 5 and 6.
“Is this a prank?” I say aloud, to no one in particular. No one answers. I walk toward my desk, and notice that Kathy’s desk, then Ben’s, and finally Steve’s are all empty. After a moment, I notice that their desk ornaments are gone, too. There are a few other changes that I realize as I look closer. The cubicle walls are a slightly different color, a few of the desks have changed, and the computers look surprisingly postmodern. I furrow my brow and walk on.
I arrive at my desk, and am surprised to see someone sitting there. “Do you know what’s going on?” I ask.
He doesn’t hear me. He’s wearing headphones, and, although he’s done the best he can to block the visibility of his computer screen from the aisle, it’s clear that he’s watching a video on YouTube. He’s facing the screen intently, but judging from his hairline and posture, he’s about 30 years older than me. I take a step closer. “Hey!”
The man pops out one ear bud, and looks right at me. His eyes are blue, like mine. “Oh hey,” he says, a guilty smile on his lips. “I’m almost done with the report. I’ll have it in this afternoon.”
I can feel a chill shooting through my body. I take one step back, my lip quivering as I try to get some words out. The man has already put his ear bud back in, and is back to his video. I put a hand to my mouth, and look across the decorations of his cubicle. The same pennant from my alma mater, the same thermos that I’m holding in my hand, and the same collage of my favorite movie characters lining the wall behind my computer.
I close my eyes, and feel tears running hot down my cheeks. I had always wanted to be a screenwriter…
____________________________________________________________________
Of all the writers on this site with their own subbreddits, I'm certainly one of them. More stories at r/mvdww
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I can't deal with this job until I've had my coffee.
Everybody thinks that working in HR at Logicua is this big party. Everybody thinks it must be so much fun, with giant salaries and worldly prestige and foosball tables in every breakroom.
And yeah, we have all that. But there's also the drama.
I stepped on the elevator and pushed the button for 12. Big sip of coffee.
Take Debbie for example. This woman, the sweetheart, can't talk about anything besides her three kids. She'll tell you about their grades, or their sports teams, or what they ate for goddamn lunch. Another sip. It's honestly infuriating.
And what about Leslie? She's one of my best friends, but the woman's laugh is enough to drive you crazy. I mean, did she descend from hyenas?
Don't even get me started on Bettie. I don't know how someone with so little education has so much to say about the world, but, I'm not even going to go there.
The elevator started, and I took another sip.
That's when it shuddered. Somewhere between 5 and 6, we came to a sharp halt. The doors opened up. There, on the wall in front of us, was a colony of ants, escaped from their research cages, forming some kind of mutual pattern. Then, the frantic sounds of the research team came from the floor below, shouting and yelling and trying to get them back.
Looks like they're having a tougher day than I am.
I chuckled to myself, and took another sip of coffee.
*Mondays.*
///
*Scene #69 of r/100scenes*
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|
[WP] Aliens often vacation on Earth disguised as humans. There are three big rules. No killing, no love, no revealing what you actually are. It's your first time on Earth and you have broken all three rules in one day.
|
“You… what?!” asked Jack.
“I know, I know! But I panicked!” said Steve.
“We all freak out a little our first time on Earth… but this is a bit much, don’t you think?”
“But I’d never been with a woman before!”
“I hate to bring it up, but most people don’t kill the first hooker they sleep with. It’s much later in life that you start killing hookers.”
“You don’t understand… I had to.”
“What do you mean you ‘had to?’”
“I kind of, sort of, told her about Jvledefarn…”
“What?! Why in the blfardum would you do that?!”
“Pillow talk.”
“Pillow talk? “
“Yes. Pillow talk.”
“With the hooker?”
“With the hooker.”
“Why were you engaging in pillow talk with the hooker?”
“She was nice… sweet. I fell in love…. She didn’t make fun of my… my small splordrax…”
“Of course she didn’t! She doesn’t know what a blfardumer splordax is!”
“I mean, she saw it though. It was disguised as my penis.”
“Even the tiniest of splordix are ten human inches.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means she thought you had a huge cock, Steve!”
“My disguise was a businessman, not a farmer.”
“Unbelievable.”
“So will you help?”
“Of course I will. I love nothing more than burying dead Earth hookers on Mars. It’s literally my favorite thing to do.”
“NASA will lose their vlopat when they find all those bodies.”
“Heh. They’ll need to actually dig up the “face on Mars” to find them.”
“What?! That’s where you’ve been burying them?!”
“Yeah…”
“That thing is, like, 800 feet high.”
“Yeah. I know. I’ve buried a lot of Earth hookers.”
|
I couldn't see her standing there,
the blood still in my eyes.
But what I knew I could not fake,
I was wearing no disguise.
I loved her more than she could know,
as I'm sat there with the dead...
and if I'm counting that's all 3,
they'll surely have my head.
|
|
[WP] Aliens often vacation on Earth disguised as humans. There are three big rules. No killing, no love, no revealing what you actually are. It's your first time on Earth and you have broken all three rules in one day.
|
Title: It is still a tape recording.
Marie ripped open a pack of Cheerios, and feasted off the grainy goodness. A few feet away, the dead body of who looked like Marie bled on the green carpet. I looked from the dead body, to the living Marie, and opened my mouth to speak, but no words would come out.
“Do you want some? No, I suppose you would want it with milk. I haven't quite mastered digesting lactoid materials,” said the living Marie, speaking in her English accent. She crunched and crunched, as the reddish liquid pouring from the dead Marie's body pooled at her shoes.
“Did you kill her?” I asked.
“Yes. She was planning on getting back with you. Did you know that?” said Marie.
“Why did you kill her?” I asked.
“Erica,” said this not-Marie, “I didn't intend to kill her. The cloning procedure...shit. It just went wrong. So wrong. I'm sorry.”
I pushed myself up the floor, trying not to look at the body. “Stop speaking with her voice.”
“I can't. I mean, I could, but it would be difficult. The simulation procedure makes a copy of the chosen human's consciousness over the original consciousness. That's why I know she loved you. Because I do..”
“You can't love me. I don't even know you. I knew Marie.”
“I am a perfect copy of Marie. I mean, my original form looks like Cthullu shagged a porcupine, but right now I'm Marie. It's weird, seeing me dead. I am sorry for your lover.”
“Get away from me.”
“Will do. Although, you'll see me again. Cause you're an intriguing human. Worth my observation on this planet.”
“I'm just a struggling artist. I come from Missouri. Raised on a farm.”
“Can't help who I fall in love with. And I'm just following Marie's emotions.”
“Go to hell. Get away from me.”
“You're in my house. You get out!” said Marie playfully. The same way Marie would have. “Shit, I've broken all my rules in one day. Fell in love. Killed. And revealed myself.”
So I got out. The next day, I saw Marie. She was no different than any other day. At first, I was worried. But there was no trace of any alien weirdness. We got back together, and tried as I might, I couldn't sense a difference. I tried to forget what I had seen.
Sometimes I wonder, though.
|
"Claryion what the actual fuck!"
I turned my head to look at my friend Doorni who came with me to Earth. It wasn't hard obtaining the space passports or anything so but we just had to follow the three rules.
Everything was going fine and the Two of us were enjoying the trip. Well now I look at my friend sitting on a bed covered in blood, myself with blood all over, and next to me is a beautiful woman who is headless.
"Oh hey Doorni what's up?" I say to him.
He stares at me shocked still in complete disbelief.
"Clary why the are you covered in blood and- oh what the-... CLARY IS THAT A HUMAN!"
I look over at the headless woman, "Nnnooooo..." I make an attempt at lying.
Doorni looks at me still in shock, "It is a human. You. You Fucking killed a human Clary!"
"Welll it wasn't my fault."
"You've only been away from me for 12 hours, what the hell happened?"
"Okay but you gotta promise not to get mad."
He looks back at the dead body next to me, "I think we're way past that."
"Finnne. Okay so you know how you ran into those *sick* dudes who wanted to surf and stuff and I was like 'nah man it's not real my thing but I'll go do other stuff' and you were like 'that's sick my totally not alien bro who wants me to interact well with humans' and I was like 'dude why are you saying this aloud peeps be suspicious' and you were like 'nah my totally bro who is in fact human' and I was like 'DUDE' and you were like-"
"Just get to the point!"
"Okay well as it turns out you shouldn't have left me alone because only a few minutes later I met a girl and we hit it off really well."
"O-Okay, and?"
"Well we spent the entire day getting to know each other and then I kinda told her I was an alien from space and that I loved her."
Doorni paused staring at me. His mouth agape. "WHAT THE FUCK! Wait. Then. Who is this?" He pointed to the girl beside me.
"Oh this is her."
He began to gag.
"I mean I think we hit it off well."
"I'm gonna barf."
"Oh not in her man that'll be messy."
He stopped and looked at me in the gore strewn room we talked in.
He composed himself, "Well I assume it didn't work out too well."
"No actually it went great and she told me she loved me too!"
"Then what happened?"
"Well we made love and afterwards, as is customary with my people I needed to eat her head to feed the offspring she has implanted in my body."
"DUDE!"
"I CAN'T BREAK CUSTOM DOORNI! THIS ISN'T FUCKING SPACE CABO!"
"Damn it man. Well we're gonna get in trouble for this. Like at least a space week suspension on our space passports."
"But dude it was so worth it."
He shook his head at me.
"Hey you wanna try some?" I offered him, living up her hand. He got queasy and left. "Well I guess more for my babies."
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[WP] Aliens often vacation on Earth disguised as humans. There are three big rules. No killing, no love, no revealing what you actually are. It's your first time on Earth and you have broken all three rules in one day.
|
Title: It is still a tape recording.
Marie ripped open a pack of Cheerios, and feasted off the grainy goodness. A few feet away, the dead body of who looked like Marie bled on the green carpet. I looked from the dead body, to the living Marie, and opened my mouth to speak, but no words would come out.
“Do you want some? No, I suppose you would want it with milk. I haven't quite mastered digesting lactoid materials,” said the living Marie, speaking in her English accent. She crunched and crunched, as the reddish liquid pouring from the dead Marie's body pooled at her shoes.
“Did you kill her?” I asked.
“Yes. She was planning on getting back with you. Did you know that?” said Marie.
“Why did you kill her?” I asked.
“Erica,” said this not-Marie, “I didn't intend to kill her. The cloning procedure...shit. It just went wrong. So wrong. I'm sorry.”
I pushed myself up the floor, trying not to look at the body. “Stop speaking with her voice.”
“I can't. I mean, I could, but it would be difficult. The simulation procedure makes a copy of the chosen human's consciousness over the original consciousness. That's why I know she loved you. Because I do..”
“You can't love me. I don't even know you. I knew Marie.”
“I am a perfect copy of Marie. I mean, my original form looks like Cthullu shagged a porcupine, but right now I'm Marie. It's weird, seeing me dead. I am sorry for your lover.”
“Get away from me.”
“Will do. Although, you'll see me again. Cause you're an intriguing human. Worth my observation on this planet.”
“I'm just a struggling artist. I come from Missouri. Raised on a farm.”
“Can't help who I fall in love with. And I'm just following Marie's emotions.”
“Go to hell. Get away from me.”
“You're in my house. You get out!” said Marie playfully. The same way Marie would have. “Shit, I've broken all my rules in one day. Fell in love. Killed. And revealed myself.”
So I got out. The next day, I saw Marie. She was no different than any other day. At first, I was worried. But there was no trace of any alien weirdness. We got back together, and tried as I might, I couldn't sense a difference. I tried to forget what I had seen.
Sometimes I wonder, though.
|
Earth.
The wispy clouds and blue oceans beckoned me as my ship cut in through the atmosphere, the tiles on its skin glowing bright red. I gripped the armrest of my seat tighter and closed my eyes as the autopilot continued its descent to the Pacific. Almost there…
I felt a roar as the ramjets kicked in and the ship stabilized. Active camouflage on the hull made it invisible to human observers, and their pitiful radar was absorbed with ease. Now floating on extending wings, the ship banked for the final approach.
All my documentation was settled – I was Amy Thompson, mid twenties, American citizen. Wrapped around my face was a nanoleaf veil, giving my Raqi features an appearance that matched my passport. The Raqi were quite humanoid in appearance, but nevertheless had larger eyes and nearly invisible ears. We couldn’t pass reasonable scrutiny on Earth, and I had the additional fault of having pale, nearly white, skin. My purple hair was dyed blond and carefully styled to conceal the larger prosthetic ears glued to my head.
I was dressed in a brown leather jacket, skinny jeans, and black boots. On my head was a full-face motorcycle helmet that hid my appearance even further. Strapped behind me in the cargo bay was a BMW F800 bike, sporting forged plates and documentation. In the saddlebags was a holograph, a 3D scanner that could record any space and store it into memory. The system could be used in reverse, allowing one to immerse themselves into a saved location as if they were there.
Technically, I was on vacation. All expenses paid, including the ridiculously expensive ship and gear. Insurance and government permits were taken care of. The catch was that I had to map the world with my holograph. Explore Earth, they had said. Record the train stations, mountains, museums, even sewers. Well, maybe not the last one.
But I digress. I looked at the display in front of me, wheeling my gloved fingers over the virtual console. A few taps confirmed the destination coordinates.
Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming. A stealth landing in woodland, followed by two days of riding and possibly some hiking. The nights would be spent in the ship, which I’d nicknamed Baliz after the winged horses of my homeland. Which I probably wouldn’t return to for many months.
BLEEP!
Lights flashed sharply as the autopilot suddenly disengaged, forcing the ship to manual. I instinctively grabbed the yoke and pulled it back, preventing a Mach 5 crash into the ocean.
*Just a systems failure*, I thought. Then the engines cut out.
I moved my hands more quickly, manually working the relays controlling the fuel pump. The airspeed indicator was projected on the corner of my eye, and I cursed as the speed dropped rapidly. By the time I’d fixed the pump, I was going too slowly to restart the jets. Attempting to start the main booster at this attitude would be suicide. Feeling defeated, I activated my thrusters and brought the craft down relatively safely on a corn field.
Safely in the sense that I survived the crash landing. The nose was damaged badly, fluids leaking from the fuselage. Parts of the dry field were burning where the thrusters touched the ground. Worst of all, the active camouflage had failed entirely and Baliz was visible for the world to see.
Shit.
I hauled myself and the BMW out the rear escape hatch. The cockpit and storage compartment was encased in an additional hard shell, preventing its contents from damage. I was filling my backpack with additional supplies just as the door of the farmhouse opened. My eyes didn’t even glance at the farmer’s face, and instead picked out the Remington 700 in his hands. Hands that were pulling the bolt back and shouldering the weapon as he stared at the alien ship on his land.
Time slowed as I reached into my bag and drew my pistol with speed that surpassed any human. I watched as the plasma bolt hit him in the breast, blowing his body to bits. My first deadly sin, but the consequences were off my mind right now. With a small drip in my eye, I set Baliz to self-destruct in five minutes. Those tears continued as I looked at the bloody mess on the porch, and then to the stars that were appearing up above. I was light years away from what humans called Alpha Centauri, but what the Raqi called home. My husband was waiting for me, as was my young daughter that wouldn’t let go when I left for the shuttleport weeks ago.
With a heavy heart, I mounted the bike and set off.
---
I got carried away a bit. I might continue for a part 2, since the story clearly isn't done yet!
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[WP] Tell me an original horror story so scary that I will have trouble falling asleep tonight.
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I don't want you to believe this story, though I also feel like it's important for me to tell you that it's all true.
I used to work at an old pub in London. It was built with a victorian edge, thick walls and a deep cellar. I absolutely adored that place, I made my first friends in a new city there and learned a trade I would use for many years to come.
I'm a writer, unless you couldn't tell, so the late hours of work with early mornings to write were good for me. After asking for this, I moved up to management and closed the pub myself most nights. Sitting there in the dark, feeling the energy of the evening had given rise to some of my favourite works.
One night, the last night I worked there, was the worst night of my life.
Behind the bar, we'd always joked that the place was haunted because people would constantly lose things. No duh, you lost your phone jackass, you're drunk as a skunk. It was on that warm, summer evening that I truly believed what I had only joked about.
Closing down the cellar of a pub is an interesting thing if you've never done it. Down some stairs, passed a small office and into the keg-room. A cooled room with a hatch for deliveries and pins and kegs with pumps to the bar upstairs.
At the end of the night, moving those fucking barrels can be a real bitch and we'd got through a lot of it that night. I probably had to move at least a few tonnes to create more room for the new beers the next day.
Amateur move, I remembered that I had to get something from the chemical room a little deeper in the cellar and dragged my tired ass in.
The second I was in that door, the air-conditioner turned on. Then off. Then on again. It did this for as long as I froze without moving because I'm a giant baby. I had already closed the door and was completely freaking out but able to convince my screaming brain that it was just the AC bugging out.
As if in agreement, the activity in the keg-room stopped and I breathed my first breath in at least a minute. The reprieve was brief. All of a sudden, a ridiculously loud noise erupted from the other side of the door and caused me to whimper out loud. Not that it would have been heard.
I threw my back against the door and prayed that whatever was going on just passed me by. The metal on metal on stone sound continued, like ancient gears rumbling, for about 20 seconds. I stayed silent and still for more like thirty minutes.
Deciding that enough was enough, or maybe just affected by the chemical fumes, I stood up and threw the door open. My skin crawled in a different, less adrenaline-coursing fear than before. The barrels and kegs that had been such a bitch to move into place now blocked my way out completely.
It couldn't have been done by a human, not really. At the time, I didn't even pause to think, I just started getting what I could out of the way. I was tired but frantic so it took probably ten minutes to move the beer out of the way and sprint out of the building.
I never looked back, but I will probably always wonder. I'll wonder what could have moved those barrels like that. Why it had the intelligence to arrange them in front of the door. Mostly I'll wonder if it watched me clawing and crying, trying to leave after it had locked me in.
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Your wife gives birth to a beautiful child. After a year of no sleep and countless late night feedings, your baby is finally sleeping through the night. You lay down for what's sure to be a great night sleep. All of a sudden your wife comes out of the bathroom pale as a ghost!!! "I'm pregnant"
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[WP] Tell me an original horror story so scary that I will have trouble falling asleep tonight.
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I don't want you to believe this story, though I also feel like it's important for me to tell you that it's all true.
I used to work at an old pub in London. It was built with a victorian edge, thick walls and a deep cellar. I absolutely adored that place, I made my first friends in a new city there and learned a trade I would use for many years to come.
I'm a writer, unless you couldn't tell, so the late hours of work with early mornings to write were good for me. After asking for this, I moved up to management and closed the pub myself most nights. Sitting there in the dark, feeling the energy of the evening had given rise to some of my favourite works.
One night, the last night I worked there, was the worst night of my life.
Behind the bar, we'd always joked that the place was haunted because people would constantly lose things. No duh, you lost your phone jackass, you're drunk as a skunk. It was on that warm, summer evening that I truly believed what I had only joked about.
Closing down the cellar of a pub is an interesting thing if you've never done it. Down some stairs, passed a small office and into the keg-room. A cooled room with a hatch for deliveries and pins and kegs with pumps to the bar upstairs.
At the end of the night, moving those fucking barrels can be a real bitch and we'd got through a lot of it that night. I probably had to move at least a few tonnes to create more room for the new beers the next day.
Amateur move, I remembered that I had to get something from the chemical room a little deeper in the cellar and dragged my tired ass in.
The second I was in that door, the air-conditioner turned on. Then off. Then on again. It did this for as long as I froze without moving because I'm a giant baby. I had already closed the door and was completely freaking out but able to convince my screaming brain that it was just the AC bugging out.
As if in agreement, the activity in the keg-room stopped and I breathed my first breath in at least a minute. The reprieve was brief. All of a sudden, a ridiculously loud noise erupted from the other side of the door and caused me to whimper out loud. Not that it would have been heard.
I threw my back against the door and prayed that whatever was going on just passed me by. The metal on metal on stone sound continued, like ancient gears rumbling, for about 20 seconds. I stayed silent and still for more like thirty minutes.
Deciding that enough was enough, or maybe just affected by the chemical fumes, I stood up and threw the door open. My skin crawled in a different, less adrenaline-coursing fear than before. The barrels and kegs that had been such a bitch to move into place now blocked my way out completely.
It couldn't have been done by a human, not really. At the time, I didn't even pause to think, I just started getting what I could out of the way. I was tired but frantic so it took probably ten minutes to move the beer out of the way and sprint out of the building.
I never looked back, but I will probably always wonder. I'll wonder what could have moved those barrels like that. Why it had the intelligence to arrange them in front of the door. Mostly I'll wonder if it watched me clawing and crying, trying to leave after it had locked me in.
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I can hear them sceaming, begging me to help them. I screw my eyes shut as though it will shut my ears too. I'd clap my hands over my ears, but I can't let go of the handle. I can't let it out. I can't.
The screams are louder now. They're telling me they have families. That they have to see their children. Maybe we could all get out together, outrun it and somehow all fit in the life raft. My hands don't budge.
If I let it out, it'll just pick us off one by one. Maybe one of them would reach safety. Hell, maybe I'd reach safety. But I know better. The only way out of this is to hope that it will be sated, if only for a moment, by that mother behind the door. That brother. That sobbing child.
The screams reach a new sense of urgency. It's here, oh god, it's here. What is my life worth compared to theirs? What are any of our lives worth? A few more decades marching towards the inevitable? We're all either withered corpses now or withered corpses later. We'll all die, children and parents and lovers and killers. I'm killing them. What's the point?
The screams have stopped. I can hear a wet sound beyond the door. Drip. Drip. Drip. Blood drops hitting the floor. Drip. Drip. Drip. I should run. This is my chance. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound is on the door. Oh god. No, please. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I'm sprinting. I don't know where I am. It's so dark and I don't know where I'm going. Oh god. Oh god. Drip. Drip. Drip. No, it can't be. No no no no. Drip. Drip. Drip. Please, no. Tap. Tap. Tap. I'm sorry.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
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[WP] Tell me an original horror story so scary that I will have trouble falling asleep tonight.
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The first night it happened, I barely noticed it.
The second night it happened, there was something. Not enough to tell a friend but enough to notice.
The third night it happened, it was enough to tell a friend. Not enough to file a police report, but enough to mention.
"Y'know when I woke up this morning, my window was open. But i swear when i went to bed, it was closed." I said to Alisa on day four.
She didn't look up from her phone as she shrugged her shoulders, "Catch is probably broken."
The seventh night, that thought came back to me. Maybe the catch was broken. On the morning of the 8th, the window was open; wide open. The radio was knocked over and there was a smashed glass.
"Probably a stray cat."
Yeah....Probably a stray cat. Probably a stray cat that was watching me on a daily basis; that I could hear walking through the park behind me on my jog; that was moving my furniture just a little bit each night; that was making the hairs on my neck stand up every single time it hit 9pm and i thought about heading to bed.
It was probably just a cat, but I called out a handyman anyway. And although he checked the windows three times; there was nothing to fix. He suggested replacing them with windows that locked, and that was all he had to say.
On the 15th, the day before my 24th birthday, I heard it. 10:03pm, a clicking noise. It was followed by soft footsteps; familiar. They crossed the hallway outside the door and stopped.
It wasn't like a horror movie. There was no shadow of light that was blocked by a figure. Because at 24; you don't sleep with the lights on. Damn, I wish I did.
The door was nudged ever so slightly in the dark, and a sharp creak gave it away. A hand grabbed the handle, silencing the noise so the only sound was a heavy breathing coming from under the sheets.
"It's just a stray cat" she repeated over, and over in her
head, no sound coming from the doorway. She had almost convinced herself it was a bad dream; that she really was making the whole thing up, when she felt a dip in the mattress beside her. The sheets moved, and one strong arm wrapped around her waist. She caught a glimpse at the clock: 12:02am.
The arm dragged her into a strong, leather clad chest and tightened. She didn't try and pull away; she'd tried that before and it didn't do anything but anger. She froze as gloved fingers moved her blonde hair back behind her ear, and a mouth followed it, pausing to whisper, "Happy Birthday darlin'."
She closed her eyes tighter, seeing spots behind them as she whispered "It's just a stray cat; it's just a stray cat; it's just a stray cat..."
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I can hear them sceaming, begging me to help them. I screw my eyes shut as though it will shut my ears too. I'd clap my hands over my ears, but I can't let go of the handle. I can't let it out. I can't.
The screams are louder now. They're telling me they have families. That they have to see their children. Maybe we could all get out together, outrun it and somehow all fit in the life raft. My hands don't budge.
If I let it out, it'll just pick us off one by one. Maybe one of them would reach safety. Hell, maybe I'd reach safety. But I know better. The only way out of this is to hope that it will be sated, if only for a moment, by that mother behind the door. That brother. That sobbing child.
The screams reach a new sense of urgency. It's here, oh god, it's here. What is my life worth compared to theirs? What are any of our lives worth? A few more decades marching towards the inevitable? We're all either withered corpses now or withered corpses later. We'll all die, children and parents and lovers and killers. I'm killing them. What's the point?
The screams have stopped. I can hear a wet sound beyond the door. Drip. Drip. Drip. Blood drops hitting the floor. Drip. Drip. Drip. I should run. This is my chance. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound is on the door. Oh god. No, please. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I'm sprinting. I don't know where I am. It's so dark and I don't know where I'm going. Oh god. Oh god. Drip. Drip. Drip. No, it can't be. No no no no. Drip. Drip. Drip. Please, no. Tap. Tap. Tap. I'm sorry.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
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When I mean they have a "real feud" I meant as in they already had some beef or problem between the two of them and now are in classroom court just to clarify.
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[WP] Your middle school class history teacher wants to do a mock trial, only to find that the two participants have a real feud. The quiet kid volunteers to be the lawyer for the defense.
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"I-I really can't remember, Jeff." Big-boned Billy was a shivering mess before the ruthless, orange juice fueled fervor of Jeff Mitchell, ginger prosecutor in the people's court of Ms. Hendricks's third grade history class. It didn't help that the quiet girl, Sally, was his defense attorney. She'd spent all class writing down notes and hadn't said a word to help him.
"Mister Wallace, answer the question!" Jeff jabbed a finger at the stand, really just a tiny chair, and asked, "Did you, or did you not take the cookies? Which, I remind the court, you admitted to seeing on my client's desk on the 12th of July. The very same day they went missing."
"I told you, I don't--"
"Admit it, fatty!" Jeff pounded his fist into his hand.
"Objection, your honor. He's clearly intimidating my client, and, uh, being mean." That one interjection had more words in it than Sally had said all year.
"Objection sustained," ruled Ms. Hendricks, nodding her head wisely. "Jeff, stop intimidating Billy and calling him fat." Billy wondered why the teacher hadn't stepped in earlier. He decided that court was a scary place.
"Why can't I? We all know he did it." Jeff pointed at the poor boy again. "Look at him. Look how guilty he looks. I just need to make him squeal!"
"Because you're a lawyer, Jefferey, not a gangster. Did you read pages 143 to 145 in the textbook?"
Jeff straightened a tie he didn't have, and said, "You honor, I'd like to exercise my right to remain silent."
Ms. Hendricks pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a sigh. "You're not the one on trial here, Jeff."
"Your honor, if Mr. Mitchell is done cross-examining my witness and demonstrating his own blatant lack of preparation as an attorney, can we end this farce? I'd like to get to the lunchroom before a line forms up for the microwave." Billy had to admit that with this and her previous objection, Sally was proving to be a reliable ally. She may have been quiet, but that didn't mean that she was dumb, or a pushover like he was. He was glad to have her defending him from Jeff's pointing fingers and cutting words, even though she was a girl, and even though she'd peed her pants last month.
"Very well. Does the prosecution have any final arguments?"
"Your honor, he took the cookies. I can't remember just means he can't think of a way to lie because I'm such a good lawyer." He pointed at Sally, and screamed, "No matter what that pee-girl says!"
Ms. Hendricks's glare was icier than a Popsicle in the cool zone of an amusement park. "Jeff. After school." After watching the boy squirm for a moment, she turned to Sally and asked, "Any final arguments from the defense?"
"The prosecution claims the cookies were stolen on the 12th of July, your honor. That's during summer vacation, and as my client's report card shows, his grades are exceptional. He would have no reason to be in summer school. However," she gestured toward Jeff, "Mr. Mitchell here, is known to be a frequent face at summer school, and a lover of cookies." She shrugged. "Plus, I heard him brag about stealing the cookies to the other boys while Dan was in the washroom! He's the one who should be sentenced your honor."
Ms. Hendricks stroked her chin, and smiled, "Very good point about summer school, Sally. I think that proves Billy's innocence." She stopped smiling. "With that being said, you're a lawyer, not a detective. Jeff needs to have his own trial before we sentence him."
"But he did it! I heard him say it. Look at him. Look how guilty he looks."
Ms. Hendricks sighed and shook her head. "Not this again."
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UP FOR DEBATE
_____________
A Short Play
Cast of Characters
Billy Grayson: Male, 15
John Applewood: Male, 15
Mr. Nelson: Male, Mid-thirties
Samantha Marshall: Female, 15
SETTING: Sandra Day O’Connor Middle School. Mr. Nelson’s 8th grade US History class.
AT RISE: The class is divided into two teams. Two rows of desks are separated by a center clearing. A white board is on the US wall. Two podiums are placed just DS of the whiteboard. The door to the classroom is in the UR corner. MR. NELSON’s desk is in the UL corner of the room. The students are seated at their desks, talking and horsing around before the start of class. Two students, BILLY and JOHN are talking at the two DL desks.
BILLY
Ha! That’s not what you mom said last night!
JOHN
Eww! That’s my mother! Gross, dude!
BILLY
Whatever man. So, you have plans for the weekend?
JOHN
Not really. I guess I should read that book for Mrs. Petersen’s class but I don’t want to read a stupid book about rabbits.
BILLY
Oh yea! Screw that. I’ll probably just look it up on Wikipedia or something. Besides, if the book were any good they would have made a movie of it, right?
JOHN
Yeah, man.
(The school bell rings indicating the start of class. MR. NELSON enters the classroom from the door at right.)
NELSON
Alright everyone. Settle down. Settle down. Samantha, please put the makeup away. This isn’t cosmetology class.
SAMANTHA
But Mr. Nelson, I’m almost done.
BILLY
(To JOHN, under his breath)
Who does she think she’d kidding. She could take all day and not look any better.
(JOHN and BILLY laugh quietly. SAMANTHA notices them and stares them down.)
SAMANTHA
You have something to say, Billy?
NELSON
Alright. That’s enough of that. OK. It’s Thursday, which means we will have a short debate over a random topic. Let’s see, whose turn is it this week?
(NELSON checks his notes on his desk.)
NELSON
Looks like it is Mr. Grayson and Ms. Marshall. Let’s have you two come up to the podiums, please.
SAMANTHA
Sure thing, Mr. Nelson.
BILLY
(To John, quietly)
Literally, it could have been anyone else. Why her? Ugh.
NELSON
Let’s go, Mr. Grayson. Today please.
BILLY
Coming, sir.
(SAMANTHA takes the podium on SL. BILLY takes the podium on SR. NELSON sits on a tall stool near his desk.)
NELSON
Alright, you two. You remember how this works? I’ll give you a topic. The person in the proposition will have up to 30 seconds to state their case for the topic. The person in the opposition will have up to 60 seconds to respond and state their case as to why they oppose the topic. Any questions?
SAMANTHA
No, sir.
BILLY
Nah man.
NELSON
Okay. I’ll toss a coin for positions. Ms. Marshall, call it in the air.
(NELSON flips a coin. SAMANTHA calls it before NELSON catches it in his hand.
SAMANTHA
Heads!
NELSON
It is...heads! Alright Ms. Marshall, you’re in the proposition. Mr. Grayson, you’re the opposition.
BILLY
That’s okay. I usually oppose whatever she likes. And vice-versa.
SAMANTHA
That’s not true! I do not!
BILLY
You just did it. I won the debate!
(Billy throws his fist in the air and starts to walk back to his desk. Several of the students laugh at BILLY’S joke.)
NELSON
Not so fast, Mr. Grayson. Back to the podium, please.
BILLY
Hey, can fault a guy for trying.
NELSON
Sure I can. Okay. The topic: “Violent video games make children violent.” Ms. Marshall, your response?
SAMANTHA
I completely agree that violent video games make people--and especially children--much more violent. They have people walking around in the game shooting people. And they get extra points for getting in a head shot. In another game you’re supposed to drive around in stolen cars and hide from the police. What kind of example is that for the children of today? They play these games and then they become violent later in life because they were exposed to such violence when they were young. In conclusion, it is quite apparent that children should not be allowed to play such violent games because they make people more violent as they get older.
NELSON
Very good, Ms. Marshall. Mr. Grayson, your rebuttal?
BILLY
What about my butt?!
(Several students giggle. BILLY grins wildly.)
NELSON
Your response, Mr. Grayson. What do you have to say regarding your opponent’s argument?
BILLY
Oh, um, it’s stupid.
SAMANTHA
Hey!
NELSON
You’re going to need to do better than that. Don’t attack the speaker; attack the argument.
BILLY
Okay, okay. What was it again?
NELSON
(Sighing)
“Violent video games make children—”
BILLY
Violent! Yeah, that’s right. Yeah. Her argument is stupid.
SAMANTHA
Mr. Nelson?!
BILLY
I mean it is. There is no way that video games make people violent. Like, if they’re violent then they already were violent, right? Like genetics or something. Look, I play video games all the time. I was playing John the other day on this new one I totally killed him like twelve times! It was awesome!
JOHN
(Yelling from his seat.)
Yeah, for you maybe. You would kill me as soon as I would respawn!
NELSON
Thank you, Mr. Applewood.
JOHN
I’m just sayin....
BILLY
Anyway, violence is everywhere in the world around us. It’s not video games. It’s just like human nature or something, I don’t know. But I can say this, I play video games all the time, and I’m just fine.
SAMANTHA
Ha!
BILLY
What’s that supposed to mean?
SAMANTHA
What, oh nothing.
BILLY
No, you seem to think something is so funny. What’s funny?
SAMANTHA
You said you’re fine despite playing video games.
BILLY
Yeah, what of it?
SAMANTHA
Weren’t you suspended last fall for fighting?
BILLY
Yeah, but that was because Trevor Pfeifer--
SAMANTHA
And didn’t Coach Wilson move you third string because you keep losing your temper during practices?
BILLY
NO! He did that because I never—
SAMANTHA
And everyone knows that you broke your arm last year because you punched the brick wall behind the gym.
BILLY
Yeah, but—
SAMANTHA
I rest my case.
NELSON
Okay, Let’s end it here. If we will return—
BILLY
Now wait a minute! You can’t just say all that crap about me and not let me respond! Mr. Nelson!
NELSON
We’ve had enough of debate for today.
BILLY
Come on!
NELSON
Please return to your seat, Mr. Grayson
BILLY
No! She can’t just say that to me!
SAMANTHA
(Full of sarcasm)
The debate is over, MR. GRAYSON.
BILLY
LISTEN! You can’t just say that stuff to me and not let me talk back. I can’t have you coming at me like that. I won’t stand for it.
(BILLY is clenching his fists. He is pacing in front of his podium now.)
JOHN
Hey dude, its fine. Come sit down. It’s okay.
BILLY
It’s not okay....
NELSON
Billy, please speak with me over here, please.
BILLY
But she—
NELSON
Please, Billy.
(BILLY stares at SAMANTHA who is ignoring him completely. He approaches NELSON’S desk, still fuming.)
NELSON
(To CLASS)
Class, please get out your homework from yesterday and switch with someone else in the room.
(To BILLY)
Listen. I’m going to need you to calm down. There is no need to escalate this any further.
BILLY
But Mr. Nelson! She kept saying that stuff about me and she had no right to. We were supposed to be debating the topic, right? Right?
NELSON
That is correct.
BILLY
And that’s what I did! But she! She!
(Billy closes his eyes and tries to take a few calming breaths.)
I’m sorry, Mr. Nelson. I don’t know why I get so mad sometimes. Sometimes the smallest thing will just send me into a rage. My mom.... She says that I have an appointment with a behavioral doctor next week. She says I need to see someone about my anger. Maybe she’s right.
NELSON
Thank you for confiding in me. I’m also proud of you. You were able to eventually realize that your anger was misguided. And you took control of the situation.
BILLY
Yeah, sometimes I know that I’m being stupid and should stop being so angry, but I can’t stop. It’s weird. When something get me going, I can’t stop.
NELSON
And that’s something you can continue to work on.
BILLY
Yeah. I guess.
NELSON
Do you need to see Mrs. Sanders in the counseling office?
BILLY
No. No, thank you. I’m ok now. Can I go the water fountain, though? Just for a sec?
NELSON
Sure. We’ll be grading when you return, so please enter quietly.
BILLY
Yeah. Okay.
(BILLY crosses to the door on the opposite side of the room. He opens the door half-way before stopping and staring at SAMANTHA who is looking over the homework on her desk.)
NELSON
In or out, Mr. Grayson.
BILLY
What? Oh. Sorry.
(BILLY exits the classroom. NELSON crosses center.)
NELSON
Alright, ladies and gentlemen. Make sure you write “graded by” at the bottom of the page and your name. Number one…
(FADE TO BLACK)
(END OF PLAY)
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[WP] Your bank heist goes terribly wrong when you realize every single person there is also attempting to rob the bank.
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"It's payday fellas!"
I put the mask on, ready for panic. Instead, the rest of the "civilians" put on a mask. Even the tellars put one on! "Wait, what?" I said. "EVERYONE GET THE FUCK DOWN" said the guy with the american flag mask. I hastily told him "Wait, wait! I'm robbing this bank, not you!" He was extremely confused, this had never happened before! Shortly later, two other guards told us they are robbing the bank, nice fellas. Wolf and Chains, I think. One by one, each of them gets up and puts a mask on. There were about 20 heisters total, more or less.
In a little, we already have the safe drilling.
Ring ring! "The phone is going off, someone get it!" Chains said. I pick it up, and "Hello, welcome to robberts bank, how can I help you?" Some bloke demanded a money bag, or he calls the cops. Somewhere about over the gas station wall. We proceed to answer a few more calls (my favorite being the bloke who saw a movie and wanted her money moved to a bank that doesn't get robbed) We end up getting in the vault, and clearing it. "Wait, that guy, we need to give him the money!" Dallas exclaimed. "Why not kill him?" Chains said. The following words almost bursted my eardrums. "Yea!" yelled everyone! We try, but he escaped.
We end up each making about 1000 dollars in the end.
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Pablo hadn't done anything so reckless in his life, but he couldn't bare to leave his daughter and wife across the border anymore. He buttoned his checkered shirt to his adam apple and looked over the small .44 snub nose that diablo had given him on loan. he placed it in the small deposit bag along with his Mothers spare stockings and headed from the car.
The walk was hard, every step made his heart skip a beat. His palms were sweaty knees weak, and everything just seemed to itch. He really wished he hadn't eaten that extra burrito his Mother made there was potential for it to end up on his favorite shirt. He made his way through the rotating doors and studied his surroundings almost instantly.
The bank was almost empty only a few random people stood at the tills waiting for their turn. An elderly lady who seemed almost half blind being guided by who was potentially her son. He couldn't grab her as a hostage, and the son was far to large. he reevaluated the situation, he looked over at the old security guard seemed to be half asleep. His chair was positioned close enough to the desk they he could grab him. *awesome* he thought to himself as he got into line.
He stared at the clock, second after second ticked on but it seemed like almost an hour until he finally was waiting out the mouth like a log in a river waiting to fly out. "HANDS IN THE AIR" a voice yelled from behind. Pablo tilted his head to turn around but before he could an arm was wrapped around his neck.
The masked man began to pull him backwards as another ran infront presenting a shotgun. The attendant raised her hands and looked around the room in panic. The masked man threw a bag in her direction, "Fill it bitch". she went wild filling the bag up with money. Pablo couldn't let this pass, he was meant to be filling that bag. HE WAS MEANT T... before he could finish his thought the Elderly lady and her son pulled guns from there bags. The old lady fashioned an UZI with a large silencer while her son had an AK74u and seemed to wield it with military finesse. The two masked men changed their sights pointing at the other two. Pablo threw his elbow backwards hitting his holder in the rib making him let him go. Pablo raised forward removing the Snub Nose from his bag and dropping it down, he moved to the side of the Elderly lady with no idea who they were but it was his best option.
"Guns down boys." the lady had an oddly harsh voice and her hands were strangely steady. The other two men lowered their guns and placed them on the ground "Who are you cops?" the one man asked as he began to stand with his hands up. A shot to the chest answered his question the Elderly Lady and her son unloaded on the two and dropped them to the ground. The clerks screamed as they ran for the security button.
The Elderly lady changed her aim and began shooting at the bulletproof glass. "Fuck" she yelled a mans voice pulling through. The two shared words in russian and began heading for the door. Pablo watched as they ran and turned his head back to the desk, the bag the others had placed on the counter was heavier then when they left it. Pablo walked over casually grabbing the bag from the counter. He walked into the parking lot, once he did he watched as the truck roared by a nearby parking lot followed by a dozen cop cars. Pablo got into his truck and turned it over. He opened the zip showing a large amount of stacks, he finally had enough to bring his wife and daughter into the country.
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[WP] Your bank heist goes terribly wrong when you realize every single person there is also attempting to rob the bank.
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"It's payday fellas!"
I put the mask on, ready for panic. Instead, the rest of the "civilians" put on a mask. Even the tellars put one on! "Wait, what?" I said. "EVERYONE GET THE FUCK DOWN" said the guy with the american flag mask. I hastily told him "Wait, wait! I'm robbing this bank, not you!" He was extremely confused, this had never happened before! Shortly later, two other guards told us they are robbing the bank, nice fellas. Wolf and Chains, I think. One by one, each of them gets up and puts a mask on. There were about 20 heisters total, more or less.
In a little, we already have the safe drilling.
Ring ring! "The phone is going off, someone get it!" Chains said. I pick it up, and "Hello, welcome to robberts bank, how can I help you?" Some bloke demanded a money bag, or he calls the cops. Somewhere about over the gas station wall. We proceed to answer a few more calls (my favorite being the bloke who saw a movie and wanted her money moved to a bank that doesn't get robbed) We end up getting in the vault, and clearing it. "Wait, that guy, we need to give him the money!" Dallas exclaimed. "Why not kill him?" Chains said. The following words almost bursted my eardrums. "Yea!" yelled everyone! We try, but he escaped.
We end up each making about 1000 dollars in the end.
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Thanks for the prompt. Had a lot of fun with this one
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Was it the man leaning on the pillars? The woman signing checks? She had spent quite an odd time at the table? Or the older gentlemen talking to the agent? They both seemed like good candidates. Goddamn it. What was he even doing here?
Rodger rarely smoked, but the had hoped that the cig would still his nerves. Instead, his heart raced just as fast only now he had that lingering pungent odor flooding his nose, like a fly frantically trying to break out his skull. The whole thing made him sick.
The message had said be there at 10 sharp. Little else besides that. You will be able to tell who I am. Fat chance of that by the looks of the lobby everyone was here to rob the place, or wary of anyone who might try. Could they be undercover? Is this a setup?
Normally a job like this would not even be on his radar. The bank was too big, especially for a two person job. It was packed. Six exits. Cameras covered every inch of the floor. But worst of all was the location. They had 3 minutes and 40 seconds to clear the place and leave before the cops got here. Four blocks away. What was in his head?
One more glance at his watch. He made the movement as jarring as possible, quick and clumsy. Hopefully he could get some kind of reaction from his mysterious employer. Let me do the talking. Those were the orders. Nothing.
10:04 came sharp and quickly dulled.
Did he need the money bad enough to risk this? As if to answer him the security guard walked to the center of the room close to the check counter. That damn woman was still there transcribing her memoirs. The guard scanning the room was all he needed. As he moved to the door he felt the guard's gaze drilling into him. No piece of paper was worth this, regardless of which president's face was plastered on it.
Then came a sound.
The familiar rustle of ceramic and metal being raised. He thought he heard the click of the safety being turned off, but his heart jumped so much he wouldn't be surprised if it was the crack of one of his ribs.
As he gripped the handle the shout echo through the room. From his partner or the guard he couldn’t tell. So close to the exit. But if it was the guard and he tried to force his way out… the fly in his head would have no trouble finding an exit. His only real hope was that his partner had drawn the gun, or was at the ready to do so. Either way he knew his best chance.
His hand slipped from the handle and down to his waist. One swift motion and the glock was in his hand. He fell down a knee to throw off any possible aims trained on him. As went down he pivoted and took in the chamber he was so close to escaping.
Not what he was expecting in slightest.
As he expected the guard was the one to pull the firearm, but no sights were on him. In fact he was the one with a clear fix on the guard's back now. Do I take him out now? This was supposed to be a no-kill job but he knew that was a stretch given the size of the building. An even stranger thought was worming its way through the back of his head, was this his partner?
At that point it seems Jane Austen finished her novel. In a flash she flicked open the buttons on her bag and pulled a gun of her own out. As if she had opened the floodgates, every person in the room seemed to draw one type of a weapon or another.
What the fuck was going on?
He swiveled like a sprinkler trying to keep them all in his line of sight. It they were just as confused as he was, barrels traveling from person to person and back like fifty tennis matches happening consecutively. Utter confusion, but oddly not a round had been fired nor a body sent to the floor. And the quiet… the guns in each person's hands were more likely to speak than their owners. After a moment the initial shock of the wave of lead had worn off.
So they were all in on it huh? No one spoke a word, but the group descended on the cashier’s counter like phantoms. Poor bastard, at least if it were ghosts a good amount of therapy could solve that. Even if they are walking, it is always better to see another’s death rather than have your own shoved in your face. Twelve times.
Clearly the boss had chosen experts. Security lines cut, registers cleaned, and vaults opened in seconds. Rodger couldn’t help but to keep his eyes on his new partners. A group this skilled comes with the wile picked up in years of experience. Beyond that, something just didn’t seem right. But he couldn’t figure it out. Regardless, time rushed by them despite their competence. One minute down already.
They floated into the vault. Piles of bills flooded duffle bags. The lone sound of this much tender being packed, was a symphony he had never know he longed to hear. The bags were brought the center of the room. At 2 minutes and 40 seconds, it was time to leave. Like clockwork, each person picked up two bags and threw them over their shoulders.
He put his moved his pistol back to his waist. Funny it was like he didn’t need. Actually he didn’t. Not in the slightest. His stomach entered free fall.
Come armed. Why? If every person in the room was in on it, a gun hardly seems necessary. Hell, even the teller had opened the register before they even descended on him. The weapons only seemed to make it more risky. One twitch of a finger is all it would have taken. A clean heist becomes a bloodbath in seconds.
He slowly brought the gun the away from his waist. The change wasn’t too obvious, regardless was still noticed immediately. Instinctively, gun hands tensed. Shifty eyes were all one needed to see that the mood in the room changed. Why won’t anyone speak? Why can’t he speak? He wanted to tell them they should just leave but his throat tensed up. He picked up the slightest of movements from the group. His ears could hear the paint on the walls thinning. The smell of the cigarette was suffocating him and that goddamn fly was pounding on the walls of his skull.
The stood tense as this circle seemed to shrink. A gun fight like this ensured that almost none of them would walk. That’s what I get for signing on to a no-causality job; an all-causality one. As cold as it was he had to be the first the fire. By far and away he the smallest firepower of anyone here and had to make up for it with initiative and speed. His best shot was to kill the large man to his right and use his body for whatever cover he could. Hopefully in the storm of shrapnel he could-
“ALL RIGHT, COME OUT OF THE BUILDING WITH YOUR HANDS UP”
Whether the voice shook the building or him he couldn’t tell. Either his fellow robbers had also felt the tremors, or they all looked like they were in trouble. He flicked his eyes down to his watch. It had only been 3 minutes. There is just no way the police could make it here in time. He glanced at the group. Somehow the guard had disappeared! Was he not a part of the heist after all? He was still trying to piece together where things had gone wrong when the door open. The circle had thankfully put the suspicion behind them and turned their guns on whatever cop decided to be a hero.
But there was no one entering rather the group watched in awe as the teller, who had gotten around them in the standoff, was leaving out the front door with his hands above his head. With him went the only chances of a hostage situation and left two options.
“GET OUT OF THE BUILDING THIS IS YOUR FINAL CHANCE”
It was fight it out and die, or wait it out and get killed. Not promising odds. He should have left when he had the chance. Even the fucking teller knew when it was time to leave. The pathetic teller who was so scared he opened the registers on his own. Too terrified to press the panic button. How the cops had known to come was still beyond him, but he supposed it didn’t matter anymore. The teller who was so busy pissing himself that… that he didn’t even beg for his life? There's just no way. That would be impossible. Yet…
It was his only chance. Let me do the talking. He holstered his weapon. Put the bags on his shoulders and walked to the door with his hands on his head. He could hear from the grunts and footsteps behind him that he was not alone on this march. He was either leading them to a payday or a wall of projectiles. Once again he placed his hands on the handle and walk through to the other side.
There was the guard motioning them to a singular SWAT van. He stepped in and took a seat near the front. Across from him was the teller who gave him a curt nod. Rodger wiped the sweat from his forehead. He could really use another smoke.
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[WP] Your bank heist goes terribly wrong when you realize every single person there is also attempting to rob the bank.
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His fingers tremble as he enters the bank, automatic doors whooshing aside to let him in. On reflex, he scans the building, noting all security guards and customers and ... well. Clearly, no need for that. The only security guard seems to be sleeping at his post; a bored banker is staring at her screen blankly while typing; the teller is moving at an almost impossibly slow pace as he counts out money; and there are only two customers in the entire place.
As he joins the short line, he eyes the other people there. Less people means less chances of getting caught -- not that he would be caught -- but also less people to manipulate into doing the tedious work for him. Robbing a bank is really quite a job for one person, but he knows all the motions. Truly, it gets monotonous after a few times.
The line moves nowhere, and he finds himself reading the same advertisements for online banking and smartphone applications over and over as his displeasure grows. What sort of service is this? Must there really be but one person working the counters? They are in a city, for goodness' sake. After he finishes robbing the place, he should file a strong complaint with corporate. Yes, that's a good plan. Hopefully the horrifically slow teller -- who looks to be *recounting* the money now, of all things! -- would be fired, at the least.
Perhaps if they treated their customers better and didn't keep them waiting in line, he thinks venomously, then they wouldn't be robbed. This is truly a waste of his time; he needs to move his plan up.
Stepping out of line, he shoves his way past the other customers, uncaring as one clutches his phone near his chest and the other looks ready to swing her briefcase into his face. But neither says a thing, because they see no threat. No one does.
How easy it is to be forgetful and forgivable when his face sags with wrinkles and his incessantly-trembling hand clutches a cane. The journey to the counter is a labor, and his feet do not step surely.
His younger self would have considered age a weakness.
Ah, but his younger self was a fool, in more ways than one.
The teller glances up as he approaches -- him, a frail old man with a desperate look on his face and a reaching, shaking hand.
"Please, your ... your bathroom?" he croaks out.
"Uh, well, the bathroom is for staff only," the teller begins hesitantly, his eyes darting to the security guard.
He knows how this dialogue goes, but still, he finds himself wishing he was not doing this alone. Linda always did so much better at playing the helpless card. Everyone falls over themselves to help a young lady in need. Looking at an old man just gives them the disgust of knowing they'll be in his place in a few years.
"I'm sorry, young man," they always hate it when he calls them that, and annoyance makes one careless, "but I am afraid that my diaper has--"
"Just tell Eddy to let you through," the man hastily interrupts, gesturing to the sleeping guard.
When he approaches, the guard barely mentions his presence, just buzzes open the door with a grunt. As the heavy door swings closed behind him, with eyes on his back, he tiredly shuffles forward.
Like always. When did robbing a bank become boring?
This will be the last time, though. What use is all this money if he doesn't use it? He has all the time in the world -- retirement is nice. But nicer with someone to spend it with. Time means nothing without passion.
Well, money is a good start.
Past the bathrooms, straight to the vault. Banks are never original in their layout, nor with their security. The halls are eerily empty, however. Usually, he's run into someone at this point, but this time? Silence. Not a footstep but his own.
Ah, but wait -- the noise of a radio, crackling to life, stammering words into the echoing halls. The old man does not hesitate upon rounding the final corner, but he finds no awaiting security guard. Instead, a very unconscious security guard seems to be taking a nap on the floor, while his radio demands answers of him.
"They're onto us, Frankie, they must have known that we were going to --" The voice fades out as the sound of gunshots cracks through the speakers. The speaker, male and now out-of-breath, continues, "Just grab what you can and go! We'll make it up at the next --" More gunshots, then the radio falls silent.
Curious. If there is another person gunning for this money -- quite literally, in fact -- he had best be fast. A thrill is put into his step; a gleam is in his eyes as he reaches for the vault door.
... And curiouser. The vault door isn't closed. It swings open as he pushes at it, only darkness beyond. Well, hopefully the guard thought to turn off the silent alarm. With a glance back at the security guard on the floor, the old man hefts his cane and steps forward.
The light comes on automatically, giving him a glimpse of what's inside the mysterious vault: locks thrown to the floor, drawers pulled wide open, empty cases and discarded papers. As he gapes at the destruction and absence of the beautiful, beautiful money, the lights plunge out.
The vault, the hallways -- everywhere is dark. Curiosity turns to mild panic, and suddenly, dread. It doesn't matter how confused an old man acts when he's found inside an empty vault -- and retirement spent in a jail cell doesn't sound like a fine idea.
Groping for the wall, he begins to inch forward, tapping with his cane. The world is lost to his eyes, but he knows the way out. At the least, he needs to be by the bathrooms. The teller will support his alibi, and--
A door slams open, and pounding footsteps echo their way down the halls.
"Goddamn that teller! Who would have expected him to have a gun?" a woman swore.
He freezes mid-step, still in front of the open vault.
"Well, if you hadn't been such a horrible shot, then he wouldn't have run off with all that money! After I did all that work with the alarms and cameras, too," another woman yelled back.
"And if *you* knew he had a gun, then my arm wouldn't be bleeding right now," the first woman angrily replied. "This whole heist is a mess. The teller took that money, the security guard ended up being a problem after all, and that guy in line *somehow* cut all the goddamn power. Probably called the police while he was at it, with our luck. Where is this damn vault?"
He could see light in the hall now, bobbing up and down, and coming right for him. Of course. With *their* luck? He's considering his own luck to be worse.
He has to be quick. He can't with his feet, but at least he still has his mind. Quick. What does he know?
These woman are going to collide with him. He isn't the only one who tried to rob this bank. The vault is empty. They have the same goal.
The light is nearly blinding him now, and he can make out the forms of the women as they run. Recognition -- the banker at the desk and the tense woman in line.
They have the same goal.
"Shit!" the banker screams as the flashlight reaches him. He smiles to himself as he imagines what they are seeing -- alone in the darkness, the old spectre of Death rising up to meet them at the scene of their crime. He knows his gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes are exaggerated by the light.
Perhaps they feel a jolt of fear. Certainly, they stop in their tracks and simply stare for a moment.
"Ladies," he says smoothly, resting his hands on his cane, standing as tall as he can, "I believe someone was ahead of both of us." Behind him, the vault stands naked beneath the wavering light of the flashlight.
They have the same goal. And perhaps he won't have to work alone for a time. Good. Things *were* getting tedious.
"Why don't we get our money back together, hm?"
***
Well, that took ... longer than expected, haha! I'm not certain if I like this piece; I worry that is was too long/slow at the beginning. Any thoughts or comments are welcome, of course. :) It feels nice to write for the first time in weeks, too. Hope you enjoyed this regardless, and thanks for the awesome prompt!
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I could hardly believe it.
I was *inside*.
Each towering marble column, every engraved dark walnut attendant's desk was laid out to bare before me, exactly according to plan. It's a strange thing, seeing years of hard work come to fruition.
It sorta made me emotional.
The bank was busy today. Plenty of witnesses. The tellers and the attendants whizzed through paperwork and sent their customers click clacking away.
No matter. It would only make today more interesting. My hands wrung with sweat in a bubbling sense of anticipation
The clock sat at 11:55. In just five minutes I would get the thrill of a lifetime. A rush to kill for.
When the clock struck noon I nearly shouted with glee. Then, I looked over to the doors and watched, flabbergasted, as a woman marched through in a large hat and sunglasses. The way she waved her pistol made my heart skip a beat.
Following her was a man in a green ski mask bearing an AK. They stood in the doorway together, staring dumbfounded into each other's eyes.
A bank teller let out this blood curdling scream. I swear it could've shattered glass. My jaw nearly hit the floor.
Absolute, pure chaos broke out as the other customers joined in. I mean really joined in. With the heist. They pulled out weapons of all sorts. Hell, even a night stick. A few white collar men hadn't even bothered to cover their faces. The brazen nerve!
Not a single teller had color left in their cheeks. They shivered, rooted to their chairs amid the hysteria.
"Yes sir, yes ma'am, please don't shoot," they muttered.
"Of course not, nobody would hurt a *fly*," I whispered sarcastically.
Then, the alarm blared. Like a siren bringing forth a long awaited reckoning. A guy in a ski mask rushed over and barred the bank doors just as the police lights screamed around the corner.
For a brief moment, they all looked at each other. I recognized the betrayal that rippled behind their eyes.
Yes, I recognized that deep down to my very core.
Then someone pointed at me. Or rather, my camera. I was sitting, perfectly safe, in the observation van parked a couple blocks away.
"Hello friends," I waved to the screen. "How do you do?"
Over and over, they jabbed at my blinking cameras. I couldn't help but break into a massive smile. The wannabe bank robbers on my screen scrambled like a kicked anthill. Several fights broke out. Some tried to find escape out back. Of course, I'd covered all angles. There would be no escape.
Save for those who earned it.
After I let them sufficiently sweat, I pressed send on another mass text:
>Game on. Payback's a bitch
And I sat back to enjoy the show.
__________________________
r/writerscrywhiskey
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[WP] Your bank heist goes terribly wrong when you realize every single person there is also attempting to rob the bank.
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Terry had told himself it would only be the once. Then, when his rent was paid and the eviction notice gone, he would become a salary slave and slowly repay all the money he had stolen. That was two years ago and since then, he had robbed over twenty-three banks. Today marked twenty-four.
It wasn’t that he needed the money anymore. Hell, he had made enough to buy his entire apartment building. He simply hadn’t gotten around to throwing away his ski mask to become a salary slave—a dreary and withering creature hunched over computer screens inside a cave of cubicle walls. *Maybe one day*, he always told himself and sometimes he even believed it. Then, he robbed another bank, felt the blood pumping through his limbs, and forgot he had ever thought those words.
“Stay right there, sweetie,” he told the blonde bank teller, her finger inching toward the hidden alarm. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”
“Terry,” Brandy, his masked companion said with a shotgun resting against his protruding belly. “What’s the hold up?”
Terry ignored him. “The economies in shambles sweetheart,” he said, “and it’s the big bad banks’ fault. We’re just taking what we’re owed.”
“Stop flirting,” Brandy hissed. “C’mon!”
A smile split across Terry’s lips. He plopped a bag in front of the teller. “You heard the man, money in the bag, fingers where I can see them.”
The bank teller gave him a slight nod before piling wads of cash into his bag. He turned to face his hostages. They held their noses to the floors, sneaking peeks at the bank robbers.
“Don’t blame us,” Terry announced. “We are simply a byproduct of a broken economic system which churns out college debtors so banks can drain our sweat and claim it as theirs.”
Brandy flicked his eyes toward Terry. He never liked the Terry’s speeches, but Terry said that they were college graduates. They couldn’t get a job with their degrees, so shouldn’t they at least get some respect? Unlike the rest of the degenerates out there robbing banks, they were educated.
“It’s the same system that has foreclosed on a million homes, kicked families into the streets, and then turn around and demand free government bailouts. Money paid for from *your* pockets.” He turned to face the bank teller. “So tell me, who’s really the bad guy here?”
The bank teller swallowed and pushed forward the bag of money. Terry was about to grab the money but then he caught a glimpse of green from her jacket pocket. He furrowed his brow and squinted at it. It was a wad of cash.
“Wait, hold up,” he said. “Is that *my* money in your pocket?”
The teller glanced up and gritted her teeth. "You're right," she whispered. "I'm the victim here. I deserve this."
“Terry,” Brandy said, urgency in his voice. “We have to go. Forget about her.”
Terry shook his head. This was more than just money, it was principal. The banks had stolen from them for years and so now, he was returning the favor. It was money he earned so how dare someone take that from him!
He raised his gun at her. “That’s not your money to take, sweetie.”
A click sounded from beside Terry. Brandy immediately swiveled, his shotgun raised and ready. From Terry’s peripherals, he caught the officer, on one knee, his revolver out and raised.
“Put down the gun, grandpa,” Terry said, completely frozen. “What are they paying you, $9 an hour? You going to die for $9 an hour?”
The cop swallowed, a bead of sweat dripping down his face. He slowly shook his head. “Fuck no,” he said. “You’re right, I’m just a byproduct of a… uh… messed up economy system.”
“That’s right,” Terry coaxed. “Nobody can blame you if you put down your gun. We’re all victims here.”
The cop nodded back. “You’re right. Give me the money.”
For a second, Terry forgot to breathe. He simply stared at the cop with saucer eyes, wondering if he had misheard.
“C’mon now,” the cop said, motioning for the bag. “You god damn Millennials ruined our economy with your Snapchats and your Facebooks. I don’t even get a pension anymore! You said so yourself, *I’m* the victim.”
“That’s not what I mean—”
“I deserve the money too!” A croaked screech sounded and a bag slammed into Terry’s face.
Terry put his arm up as a pink purse swung down again. An old lady shuffled forward, swinging and shouting. “It was all of you, with your e-mails and your wireless phones! I don’t even get retirement checks anymore.”
All at once, everyone inside the bank erupted into arguments. All Terry could do was shield himself from the onslaught of the ninety-year old woman in front of him.
“I can’t even afford Netflix!” one little boy screamed. “I have to pirate all my TV.”
“It’s you snot-nosed brats that are ruining our economy. Constantly stealing and smoking the herb.”
“It’s you baby boomers that ruined it for all of us.”
“It’s you liberals!”
“It’s you republicans!”
“Enough!” Terry screamed and fired his gun into the air. Everyone shut up and all eyes turned to him. “Look, you’re a victim, I’m a victim, everyone’s a god damn victim. Maybe if we take a little bit of personal responsibility, maybe get some applicable skills to land a salaried job, there would only be two people trying to rob this damn bank!”
A silence settled inside the bank. Terry could see it, the slight nods of understanding from Millennials all the way to the Boomers. With a small breath, he turned to finish the bank robbery.
“He thinks he can lecture us because he’s a college graduate,” a voice sneered.
Terry’s face flushed white. A dozen screaming voices shattered the silence once again and to his right, he could hear the granny preparing her attack.
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I could hardly believe it.
I was *inside*.
Each towering marble column, every engraved dark walnut attendant's desk was laid out to bare before me, exactly according to plan. It's a strange thing, seeing years of hard work come to fruition.
It sorta made me emotional.
The bank was busy today. Plenty of witnesses. The tellers and the attendants whizzed through paperwork and sent their customers click clacking away.
No matter. It would only make today more interesting. My hands wrung with sweat in a bubbling sense of anticipation
The clock sat at 11:55. In just five minutes I would get the thrill of a lifetime. A rush to kill for.
When the clock struck noon I nearly shouted with glee. Then, I looked over to the doors and watched, flabbergasted, as a woman marched through in a large hat and sunglasses. The way she waved her pistol made my heart skip a beat.
Following her was a man in a green ski mask bearing an AK. They stood in the doorway together, staring dumbfounded into each other's eyes.
A bank teller let out this blood curdling scream. I swear it could've shattered glass. My jaw nearly hit the floor.
Absolute, pure chaos broke out as the other customers joined in. I mean really joined in. With the heist. They pulled out weapons of all sorts. Hell, even a night stick. A few white collar men hadn't even bothered to cover their faces. The brazen nerve!
Not a single teller had color left in their cheeks. They shivered, rooted to their chairs amid the hysteria.
"Yes sir, yes ma'am, please don't shoot," they muttered.
"Of course not, nobody would hurt a *fly*," I whispered sarcastically.
Then, the alarm blared. Like a siren bringing forth a long awaited reckoning. A guy in a ski mask rushed over and barred the bank doors just as the police lights screamed around the corner.
For a brief moment, they all looked at each other. I recognized the betrayal that rippled behind their eyes.
Yes, I recognized that deep down to my very core.
Then someone pointed at me. Or rather, my camera. I was sitting, perfectly safe, in the observation van parked a couple blocks away.
"Hello friends," I waved to the screen. "How do you do?"
Over and over, they jabbed at my blinking cameras. I couldn't help but break into a massive smile. The wannabe bank robbers on my screen scrambled like a kicked anthill. Several fights broke out. Some tried to find escape out back. Of course, I'd covered all angles. There would be no escape.
Save for those who earned it.
After I let them sufficiently sweat, I pressed send on another mass text:
>Game on. Payback's a bitch
And I sat back to enjoy the show.
__________________________
r/writerscrywhiskey
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[WP] All day, the pop songs you incidentally hear seem to be describing your movements exactly.
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*8am again?* I think to myself as I look at my alarm clock. The whole summer I've been trying to sleep in, yet every day I wake up at exactly eight o'clock. I sigh, thinking about what's in store for me today. And then it happens.
"Today I don't feel like doing anything..." comes the voice of Bruno Mars.
I look wildly around my room, wondering where the song lyric could have come from. My eyes fall upon the speaker I have on the other side of my room, so I spring out of bed to see if it's playing the radio or something. As I step out of my bed, I try and fail to rub the fatigue out of my eyes.
"I'm waking up to ash and dust, I wipe my brow and I sweat my rust."
"What the hell?" I mutter to myself, and am too distracted to notice the lego creation in front of me that my little brother had left the day before. I trip hard on the farmhouse, and faceplant into the center of my bedroom carpet.
"PAIN! You made me a, you made me a believer! Believer!" comes Imagine Dragons yet again.
Not wanting to envision how horrified my brother would be to see his creation shattered, I quickly start to put the roof back on as best I can, though it still looks crooked.
"I'm gonna pick up the pieces, and build a lego house."
*This is going to be a long day.*
|
I walked like I didn't care through the train terminal, cutting cooly through the crowd like silk.
Just then a man gripped his chest and keeled over. I ran over to him quickly, and tried to rouse him.
“What's your name?” I asked, trying to get a response. He merely gripped his chest more and heaved in time to a passing subway train.
“You're.... mine....” he said weakly.
Confused I propped up his head slightly and introduced myself. “I'm Maria” I said.
“I can see... ya...” he said.
This was insane, and none of it made sense in my mind.
To make matters worse, a candlelit choir carrying what seemed like a million candles walked into the station singing *Ave Maria*.
I got the fuck out of there.
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[WP] Whenever a baby is born, a machine predicts the baby's net worth to society. Your newborn child's net worth reads: -$1 trillion.
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"No, that can't be." i said as the number showed up on the screen."this machine should probably be checked. No existing human had that net worth to society, so why should my child?" the doctor ran the machine again. The same results. "Sir, i need to make a report. This has to be written down." said the doctor, with the surprise still visible on his now turned pale face. "Please write down something different in the report, i said as i wanted my child to live a normal life.
Thank god he did.
Later down the road, Aiden, our child, was 4 years old, and we saw people with worths of 2 billion becoming CEO's, investors and bankers. We wanted Aiden to do whatever he wanted to do and we knew he could. So, what did he do? He became a scientist, and helped revolutionized teleportation and transport. His. Worth became true, and so proud are we.
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He grew up to be the most reckless super "hero" of all time. He cost our city millions, and our country the rest.
Laser eyes, super strength, and an absolute klutz. Wouldn't you know.
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[WP] Whenever a baby is born, a machine predicts the baby's net worth to society. Your newborn child's net worth reads: -$1 trillion.
|
My heart melted when her tiny hand grabbed my index finger. She giggled, little blue eyes following every movement of mine. I placed a kiss on her forehead, “Dear Kelly, please be a better one.”
My oldest son, James, who was 11 years old, stormed into the nursery room:”Mom! Is the food ready yet? Me and Clark are huuuuungry!”
“Sweetie, Mom has to give Kelly a bath and put her to sleep first. Can you heat some TV dinner for you and your brother?”
“Ugh,” He rolled his eyes, “Frozen food again? Can’t a millionaire eat something better than that? I want pizza! Fresh delivered ones!”
I massaged my temples with my thumb and index finger, my Husband Ted and I are by no means can be considered as rich. Regardless, James has a predicted net worth of $445 million and Clark has $600 million net worth when they were babies. I didn’t know how to explain to James that huge amount of money is not going to happen to him in one night. Me and Ted together only have the social net worth of $5 million per IRS - Internal-value Recognition System, a machine that weight every newborn's net contribution to the society. The IRS was invented to balance out the rich and poor gap, calm the activists down by directly telling everyone’s real worthies.
After putting Kelly to sleep, I checked Clark’s math homework. He submitted the random numbers to the computer quiz and received an F again.
“Why don’t you repeat the class if you don’t understand the question? The AI teacher is not going away.”
“For what? I’m going to get so much money that I’m just going to pay people and machines to do my work.” Clark shrugged and ran away before I could grab him back to sit in front of his study VR.
The door clicked. I dragged my tired legs to the living room and saw Ted, who looked happier than usual.
“Hi sweetie, you are home early! I just get a call from IRS. Kelly’s net worth is out!” Ted said.
I wish I could be as exciting as him, “Alright. How many millions of value our third kid is going to be?”
“Guess.” His eyes twinkled.
I covered my mouth, “Are you serious? 1 billion?”
Ted shook his head, revealed a mysterious smile. “It’s negative, negative one trillion dollars!”
I was shocked. Our precious baby girl has the negative value? How could that be? Why has my idiot husband looked so happy about this bad news!
I shook my head, “No way, they must get that wrong!”
“I’ve confirmed with them a million times,” Ted said, “It’s true. And we should be happy for it.”
“Are you kidding me? Who is going to love my kid beside us in the future? Everyone is going to bully her and she is going to have a life long hard time! She is never going to be successful, happy and achieve all her dreams like her brothers do, my poor baby…” My eyes started filling with tears, my heart was shattered in pieces.
Ted gently pulled me into his hug and placed kisses on my head, “It’s fine, it’s fine, really. The machine added a new program that aims to fix its old loopholes. You see how telling our kids their future worth does to them? They stopped working hard and take everything for granted. The new IRS rules require we scan our value every year - because our value to society changes!”
“You, you mean our net worth is not fixed anymore?”
“Yes, because there are so many changing variables in one’s life, nothing can be for sure. If you were destined to be a millionaire, but you stopped putting any effort to become one, then your value would be decreased and you might not become a millionaire after all. It’s a simple concept.”
“I wish this IRS thought of this when it first publish its stupid program!”
“They are fixing it. You see, IRS is determined to tell all newborn generations that their value is negative, but they still have a chance to come back, and their effort was to compound. It’s not that hard to bring their value back to zero and then positive. The IRS is teaching them the most important lesson of life: you have to earn your worthy and don’t cheat on the system.”
I nodded, slightly relieved for my daughter. But then I thought about my two boys, who have been thinking they are going to be rich without doing anything in their life all along. My head started aching again. Oh, my poor, poor children.
|
He grew up to be the most reckless super "hero" of all time. He cost our city millions, and our country the rest.
Laser eyes, super strength, and an absolute klutz. Wouldn't you know.
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[WP] Whenever a baby is born, a machine predicts the baby's net worth to society. Your newborn child's net worth reads: -$1 trillion.
|
My heart melted when her tiny hand grabbed my index finger. She giggled, little blue eyes following every movement of mine. I placed a kiss on her forehead, “Dear Kelly, please be a better one.”
My oldest son, James, who was 11 years old, stormed into the nursery room:”Mom! Is the food ready yet? Me and Clark are huuuuungry!”
“Sweetie, Mom has to give Kelly a bath and put her to sleep first. Can you heat some TV dinner for you and your brother?”
“Ugh,” He rolled his eyes, “Frozen food again? Can’t a millionaire eat something better than that? I want pizza! Fresh delivered ones!”
I massaged my temples with my thumb and index finger, my Husband Ted and I are by no means can be considered as rich. Regardless, James has a predicted net worth of $445 million and Clark has $600 million net worth when they were babies. I didn’t know how to explain to James that huge amount of money is not going to happen to him in one night. Me and Ted together only have the social net worth of $5 million per IRS - Internal-value Recognition System, a machine that weight every newborn's net contribution to the society. The IRS was invented to balance out the rich and poor gap, calm the activists down by directly telling everyone’s real worthies.
After putting Kelly to sleep, I checked Clark’s math homework. He submitted the random numbers to the computer quiz and received an F again.
“Why don’t you repeat the class if you don’t understand the question? The AI teacher is not going away.”
“For what? I’m going to get so much money that I’m just going to pay people and machines to do my work.” Clark shrugged and ran away before I could grab him back to sit in front of his study VR.
The door clicked. I dragged my tired legs to the living room and saw Ted, who looked happier than usual.
“Hi sweetie, you are home early! I just get a call from IRS. Kelly’s net worth is out!” Ted said.
I wish I could be as exciting as him, “Alright. How many millions of value our third kid is going to be?”
“Guess.” His eyes twinkled.
I covered my mouth, “Are you serious? 1 billion?”
Ted shook his head, revealed a mysterious smile. “It’s negative, negative one trillion dollars!”
I was shocked. Our precious baby girl has the negative value? How could that be? Why has my idiot husband looked so happy about this bad news!
I shook my head, “No way, they must get that wrong!”
“I’ve confirmed with them a million times,” Ted said, “It’s true. And we should be happy for it.”
“Are you kidding me? Who is going to love my kid beside us in the future? Everyone is going to bully her and she is going to have a life long hard time! She is never going to be successful, happy and achieve all her dreams like her brothers do, my poor baby…” My eyes started filling with tears, my heart was shattered in pieces.
Ted gently pulled me into his hug and placed kisses on my head, “It’s fine, it’s fine, really. The machine added a new program that aims to fix its old loopholes. You see how telling our kids their future worth does to them? They stopped working hard and take everything for granted. The new IRS rules require we scan our value every year - because our value to society changes!”
“You, you mean our net worth is not fixed anymore?”
“Yes, because there are so many changing variables in one’s life, nothing can be for sure. If you were destined to be a millionaire, but you stopped putting any effort to become one, then your value would be decreased and you might not become a millionaire after all. It’s a simple concept.”
“I wish this IRS thought of this when it first publish its stupid program!”
“They are fixing it. You see, IRS is determined to tell all newborn generations that their value is negative, but they still have a chance to come back, and their effort was to compound. It’s not that hard to bring their value back to zero and then positive. The IRS is teaching them the most important lesson of life: you have to earn your worthy and don’t cheat on the system.”
I nodded, slightly relieved for my daughter. But then I thought about my two boys, who have been thinking they are going to be rich without doing anything in their life all along. My head started aching again. Oh, my poor, poor children.
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You barely had time to process the outlandish figure when the hospital room door burst off of its hinges. Through it hurtled a large man in a black suit, wearing dark sunglasses and an earpiece, bowling over the nurse as he scooped up little Reggie. A quick pivot and he dodged the doctor's lunge, tearing off through the open door on the opposite side of the room. Finally snapping into action when instinct took over from your stalled mind, the linoleum floor issued a loud *squeak* as you dashed after him. "HEY YOU CAN'T DO THIS THAT'S MY BABY," the new reality of the words sinking in as you bellowed them out. "GET BACK HE--"
Your protest was abruptly cut off as another large, darkly bespectacled man in a dark suit hammered into you from the intersecting passage. And then the babysnatcher was approaching the end of the third floor hallway, where a warm sitting room was located, enjoying a shower of natural light through its large windows. He barely slowed as he shifted into a running kick and punted the baby through one of these windows. Then put an index finger to his earpiece, and said "Yes, sir. Yes. The situation has been resolved, sir."
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[WP] Whenever a baby is born, a machine predicts the baby's net worth to society. Your newborn child's net worth reads: -$1 trillion.
|
My heart melted when her tiny hand grabbed my index finger. She giggled, little blue eyes following every movement of mine. I placed a kiss on her forehead, “Dear Kelly, please be a better one.”
My oldest son, James, who was 11 years old, stormed into the nursery room:”Mom! Is the food ready yet? Me and Clark are huuuuungry!”
“Sweetie, Mom has to give Kelly a bath and put her to sleep first. Can you heat some TV dinner for you and your brother?”
“Ugh,” He rolled his eyes, “Frozen food again? Can’t a millionaire eat something better than that? I want pizza! Fresh delivered ones!”
I massaged my temples with my thumb and index finger, my Husband Ted and I are by no means can be considered as rich. Regardless, James has a predicted net worth of $445 million and Clark has $600 million net worth when they were babies. I didn’t know how to explain to James that huge amount of money is not going to happen to him in one night. Me and Ted together only have the social net worth of $5 million per IRS - Internal-value Recognition System, a machine that weight every newborn's net contribution to the society. The IRS was invented to balance out the rich and poor gap, calm the activists down by directly telling everyone’s real worthies.
After putting Kelly to sleep, I checked Clark’s math homework. He submitted the random numbers to the computer quiz and received an F again.
“Why don’t you repeat the class if you don’t understand the question? The AI teacher is not going away.”
“For what? I’m going to get so much money that I’m just going to pay people and machines to do my work.” Clark shrugged and ran away before I could grab him back to sit in front of his study VR.
The door clicked. I dragged my tired legs to the living room and saw Ted, who looked happier than usual.
“Hi sweetie, you are home early! I just get a call from IRS. Kelly’s net worth is out!” Ted said.
I wish I could be as exciting as him, “Alright. How many millions of value our third kid is going to be?”
“Guess.” His eyes twinkled.
I covered my mouth, “Are you serious? 1 billion?”
Ted shook his head, revealed a mysterious smile. “It’s negative, negative one trillion dollars!”
I was shocked. Our precious baby girl has the negative value? How could that be? Why has my idiot husband looked so happy about this bad news!
I shook my head, “No way, they must get that wrong!”
“I’ve confirmed with them a million times,” Ted said, “It’s true. And we should be happy for it.”
“Are you kidding me? Who is going to love my kid beside us in the future? Everyone is going to bully her and she is going to have a life long hard time! She is never going to be successful, happy and achieve all her dreams like her brothers do, my poor baby…” My eyes started filling with tears, my heart was shattered in pieces.
Ted gently pulled me into his hug and placed kisses on my head, “It’s fine, it’s fine, really. The machine added a new program that aims to fix its old loopholes. You see how telling our kids their future worth does to them? They stopped working hard and take everything for granted. The new IRS rules require we scan our value every year - because our value to society changes!”
“You, you mean our net worth is not fixed anymore?”
“Yes, because there are so many changing variables in one’s life, nothing can be for sure. If you were destined to be a millionaire, but you stopped putting any effort to become one, then your value would be decreased and you might not become a millionaire after all. It’s a simple concept.”
“I wish this IRS thought of this when it first publish its stupid program!”
“They are fixing it. You see, IRS is determined to tell all newborn generations that their value is negative, but they still have a chance to come back, and their effort was to compound. It’s not that hard to bring their value back to zero and then positive. The IRS is teaching them the most important lesson of life: you have to earn your worthy and don’t cheat on the system.”
I nodded, slightly relieved for my daughter. But then I thought about my two boys, who have been thinking they are going to be rich without doing anything in their life all along. My head started aching again. Oh, my poor, poor children.
|
"No, that can't be." i said as the number showed up on the screen."this machine should probably be checked. No existing human had that net worth to society, so why should my child?" the doctor ran the machine again. The same results. "Sir, i need to make a report. This has to be written down." said the doctor, with the surprise still visible on his now turned pale face. "Please write down something different in the report, i said as i wanted my child to live a normal life.
Thank god he did.
Later down the road, Aiden, our child, was 4 years old, and we saw people with worths of 2 billion becoming CEO's, investors and bankers. We wanted Aiden to do whatever he wanted to do and we knew he could. So, what did he do? He became a scientist, and helped revolutionized teleportation and transport. His. Worth became true, and so proud are we.
|
|
[WP] Whenever a baby is born, a machine predicts the baby's net worth to society. Your newborn child's net worth reads: -$1 trillion.
|
My heart melted when her tiny hand grabbed my index finger. She giggled, little blue eyes following every movement of mine. I placed a kiss on her forehead, “Dear Kelly, please be a better one.”
My oldest son, James, who was 11 years old, stormed into the nursery room:”Mom! Is the food ready yet? Me and Clark are huuuuungry!”
“Sweetie, Mom has to give Kelly a bath and put her to sleep first. Can you heat some TV dinner for you and your brother?”
“Ugh,” He rolled his eyes, “Frozen food again? Can’t a millionaire eat something better than that? I want pizza! Fresh delivered ones!”
I massaged my temples with my thumb and index finger, my Husband Ted and I are by no means can be considered as rich. Regardless, James has a predicted net worth of $445 million and Clark has $600 million net worth when they were babies. I didn’t know how to explain to James that huge amount of money is not going to happen to him in one night. Me and Ted together only have the social net worth of $5 million per IRS - Internal-value Recognition System, a machine that weight every newborn's net contribution to the society. The IRS was invented to balance out the rich and poor gap, calm the activists down by directly telling everyone’s real worthies.
After putting Kelly to sleep, I checked Clark’s math homework. He submitted the random numbers to the computer quiz and received an F again.
“Why don’t you repeat the class if you don’t understand the question? The AI teacher is not going away.”
“For what? I’m going to get so much money that I’m just going to pay people and machines to do my work.” Clark shrugged and ran away before I could grab him back to sit in front of his study VR.
The door clicked. I dragged my tired legs to the living room and saw Ted, who looked happier than usual.
“Hi sweetie, you are home early! I just get a call from IRS. Kelly’s net worth is out!” Ted said.
I wish I could be as exciting as him, “Alright. How many millions of value our third kid is going to be?”
“Guess.” His eyes twinkled.
I covered my mouth, “Are you serious? 1 billion?”
Ted shook his head, revealed a mysterious smile. “It’s negative, negative one trillion dollars!”
I was shocked. Our precious baby girl has the negative value? How could that be? Why has my idiot husband looked so happy about this bad news!
I shook my head, “No way, they must get that wrong!”
“I’ve confirmed with them a million times,” Ted said, “It’s true. And we should be happy for it.”
“Are you kidding me? Who is going to love my kid beside us in the future? Everyone is going to bully her and she is going to have a life long hard time! She is never going to be successful, happy and achieve all her dreams like her brothers do, my poor baby…” My eyes started filling with tears, my heart was shattered in pieces.
Ted gently pulled me into his hug and placed kisses on my head, “It’s fine, it’s fine, really. The machine added a new program that aims to fix its old loopholes. You see how telling our kids their future worth does to them? They stopped working hard and take everything for granted. The new IRS rules require we scan our value every year - because our value to society changes!”
“You, you mean our net worth is not fixed anymore?”
“Yes, because there are so many changing variables in one’s life, nothing can be for sure. If you were destined to be a millionaire, but you stopped putting any effort to become one, then your value would be decreased and you might not become a millionaire after all. It’s a simple concept.”
“I wish this IRS thought of this when it first publish its stupid program!”
“They are fixing it. You see, IRS is determined to tell all newborn generations that their value is negative, but they still have a chance to come back, and their effort was to compound. It’s not that hard to bring their value back to zero and then positive. The IRS is teaching them the most important lesson of life: you have to earn your worthy and don’t cheat on the system.”
I nodded, slightly relieved for my daughter. But then I thought about my two boys, who have been thinking they are going to be rich without doing anything in their life all along. My head started aching again. Oh, my poor, poor children.
|
One
Eight
One
Eight
That is the year my child was born. If i had known what he would cause, what he would do i would've eaten the grass to kill a babe in the mothers womb.
A May baby they said, May baby's are good children, intelligent they said.
I should've questioned the seer more then i had. When that machine popped out that slip of paper, i should've noticed the seer tearing of the first part of the paper.
The number my child would cause the world to gain or lose had so many zero's the seer let a audible gasp, but because i was a wealthy woman the seer wanted to keep me happy she left out the negative that lead the number.
Who would've thought that my young child's name would become one of such infamy and hatred. Marx would become a name used by millions of idiots to attempt to make a better world, uncaring of the past failures.
*edit, i goofed and made a serious mistake in the story because of a brain fart, i fixed it*
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[WP] Whenever a baby is born, a machine predicts the baby's net worth to society. Your newborn child's net worth reads: -$1 trillion.
|
It was cold, it was wet. The wind and rain would not let up, but Jake dare not try to go back to society. He clutched his child to his chest, trying to keep it dry and warm. The tent they managed to put up was barely keeping out the rain, but it seemed the whole world was wet, and that wetness seemed to permeate, even through the water proof material that surrounded them.
The baby started to cry.
“Oh please don’t cry, not now!” Jake pleading, begging the baby to hush as he gently rocked it. He knew what the problem was, it was hungry. Irene would be back shortly, he hoped. She had to be back shortly. “Mommy will be back soon, and then you can eat, okay?” his pleading voiced begged for that to be enough for the baby.
He cowered as another car drove by, this one was going slow again, a spot light following the contour of the road below where he was hiding. They were still looking it seemed, but they hadn’t thought to check up here yet. Good, they were safe, maybe for another day.
He heard rustling nearby and turned, partly in fear, partly in hope, to see Irene cresting the hill. She had a small sack of what he could only hope was food, but his eyes beelined to her bosom, full of milk that the little baby needed. It was amazing how quickly things changed in times of crisis.
Irene looked at him and smiled, it seemed to have been a good scavenging trip. She produced some bread and a few bottles of water, refilled, no doubt. “How is Tom?” she asked. Jake just offered the baby to her, and it immediately started rooting, looking for the food it knew was there.
The mention of the baby’s name brought back the memories. Jake saw the baby go through the Value Estimator. He and Irene had been doing fairly well at life, so certainly their baby would have a good estimate. It was a shock, complete and utter shock, when the value came back negative. And the scale, the scale was just astounding. Negative one trillion. Jake pushed the number through his head again, recounted the zeroes for the fiftieth time in his mind. The doctors said it was clearly an error, the machine was known to make a mistake every once in a while, and ran the scan again. The second time sealed their fate, it stayed at negative one trillion.
The doctor was muted, but continued providing care, it wasn’t for a few hours that things started going funny. Someone from the government showed up and left. Jake couldn’t help but notice the firearms in the mans jacket. When the man stepped out for a moment, Jake made the decision that it was time for them to leave, and Irene agreed.
Since then they’d been on the run, flitting from place to place. Somewhere along the line they had picked up this tent, but all their funds and credit cards were being monitored, they had to go completely off the grid, which was nearly impossible in this day and age.
As Nate ate some of the bread, he didn’t want to ask Irene where she had gotten it from, he thought about their predicament. They’d probably have to move again tomorrow. They’d been holed out here for a few days. They’d never been able to stay in the same place for more than five days without getting noticed. For sure, tomorrow they’d have to find somewhere else to hide.
This system was ridiculous, guessing people’s value to society as their born. How could a world be built on such a system? Didn’t people have choices they could make in their lives? Jake and Irene sure had ridden a wave of success based on their impressive numbers. Jake was over ten million, and Irene was over a billion, but having a son with negative one trillion. One thing was for sure, this system had to end, his son would not grow up in a world where his fate was decided for him, not if it meant this.
[697 words]
|
One
Eight
One
Eight
That is the year my child was born. If i had known what he would cause, what he would do i would've eaten the grass to kill a babe in the mothers womb.
A May baby they said, May baby's are good children, intelligent they said.
I should've questioned the seer more then i had. When that machine popped out that slip of paper, i should've noticed the seer tearing of the first part of the paper.
The number my child would cause the world to gain or lose had so many zero's the seer let a audible gasp, but because i was a wealthy woman the seer wanted to keep me happy she left out the negative that lead the number.
Who would've thought that my young child's name would become one of such infamy and hatred. Marx would become a name used by millions of idiots to attempt to make a better world, uncaring of the past failures.
*edit, i goofed and made a serious mistake in the story because of a brain fart, i fixed it*
|
|
[WP] Whenever a baby is born, a machine predicts the baby's net worth to society. Your newborn child's net worth reads: -$1 trillion.
|
I make adverts. It’s what I was born to do. Net worth at birth: 412.6 billion. I’m a big player in the world of marketing. I have written guides for young entrepreneurs trying to make a brand for themselves. I’ve helped giant companies sprawl their advertising slogans across the world. I’ve made catch phrases that found their way into the collective psyche. People who write about what I do say I have a deep understanding of the human psychology. That doesn’t even begin to explain it.
In the mind, there is a trigger that makes people want to buy a product. It’s this wow-factor that you have to poke and prod with advertisements until the world thinks that product is the ultimate accessory to their lives. They envy people with it, they want their own. The pure force of their willpower is astonishing, shaping entire generations to be followers of products. Cars, cigarettes, anything can be addictive with the right effect applied. I write little pieces that people read and they don’t even know what I’m doing to them. In seven hundred words I can change your views on eggs, and you won’t realize you’ve changed until you’re in a supermarket and you skip over the medium sized ones and buy jumbo. I can talk to people in any format to get my advertisements across. That’s part of my abilities. I can also design billboards and write commercial scripts and develop slogans for the world.
The easiest slogans have puns. For some hot dogs, I could write a slogan that went, “Hot diggity dog, these barbecue wieners are real winners!” and sales would double in a month. But the fun ones pick and pry at the human brain. “Sub sandwiches you’d sell your mother to an Asian dog-catcher for,” or something like that. I’m not going to give you a real slogan now because a lot of effort goes into these sorts of things, and I’m not going to sell any trade secrets for someone like you, but the point remains. Slogans are king.
I married just before retiring and my wife is in the complimentary business to my advertising, statistics. She counts the numbers and I make them rise. We’re a dynamic duo and one of Forbe’s top power couples in 2066. She knows the chances our baby will have a high net worth at birth are incredibly high. It’s just a matter of how high, at this point.
When the baby was born, my brother was attending. He was acting strange and carrying around that new calculator he’s been obsessing over. He wants me to look at it, as if it has anything I could ever need written on the display. He says it takes the psychology of advertising campaigns and spins it on its head. The advertisement is predictable in its effect on the human mind, he says, and this effect can be reversed. He’s even gone so far as publicly calling me a slave driver. He seems to think the whole world are sheep being driven by dogs in the marketing sector. Our pushing and pulling on the world economy is unethical, he says.
When my wife held our beautiful baby, my brother came in for the net worth at birth calculation. When the tragic figure ran by, he said one thing. He said, “it’s the chosen one.”
I didn’t know what to say, for once.
|
One
Eight
One
Eight
That is the year my child was born. If i had known what he would cause, what he would do i would've eaten the grass to kill a babe in the mothers womb.
A May baby they said, May baby's are good children, intelligent they said.
I should've questioned the seer more then i had. When that machine popped out that slip of paper, i should've noticed the seer tearing of the first part of the paper.
The number my child would cause the world to gain or lose had so many zero's the seer let a audible gasp, but because i was a wealthy woman the seer wanted to keep me happy she left out the negative that lead the number.
Who would've thought that my young child's name would become one of such infamy and hatred. Marx would become a name used by millions of idiots to attempt to make a better world, uncaring of the past failures.
*edit, i goofed and made a serious mistake in the story because of a brain fart, i fixed it*
|
|
[WP] Whenever a baby is born, a machine predicts the baby's net worth to society. Your newborn child's net worth reads: -$1 trillion.
|
I never really cared for the technology, and neither did my wife.
We were having a baby. Our _first_ baby. That's enough anticipation, I think. It's one of if not the most profound moments of one's life.
But the technology was cheap, and a quarter of a century being on the market was enough time to prove its bizarre reliability. It was now part of the culture. The government had all sorts of provisions and regulations ready to fire once we knew.
Once we knew our child's future net worth. Yes, it was now possible. A machine executing several sophisticated neural scans and a bone marrow biopsy could extrapolate a baby's future net worth. It could be done in an hour.
Some critics claim, loudly, we had turned babies into lottery tickets. My wife and I tend to agree, but truth be told, we weren't thinking about it. We were thinking about the million other things parents worry about. Getting our finances in check, eating right, reading literature on how to raise a freaking kid. How to create life without fucking it up. What his name was gonna be. How a heart could at once crush and expand the whole world over imagining those beautiful eyes. That's what we were thinking about. We weren't thinking about our baby's net worth.
But the technology was cheap. It was part of the culture.
My wife all in all was in labor for eight hours. It was grueling. The baby was just not coming. She looked like she was about to die. And it scared me. I'm not one to get sick, but my stomach turned about ten times that long night, watching my wife, holding her hand, trying to calm her while I hardly could. It seems silly to say I was strong for her because she was the one, really. I did my best as my nerves fired all at once, trying to be cool. Telling her to breathe.
And the baby, our Joey, caked in the shock of infancy, afterbirth and blood was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. He felt like, to hold him, like a piece of God himself. And to see my wife smile, holding him as the mother she was always meant to be? It killed me when they took Joey away to the machine. It killed me and it killed her. She lied there pale and drained. How much women sacrifice for this world, I understand now.
I told her a joke. I said, "I can tell, Joey's gonna be solid middle class, I'm telling you." It was an old joke of ours. And she was supposed to say, "Enough money to pay the bills and nothing else, like the good ol days." Stupid joke. Our joke. She was too tired to complete it. I said it for her, stroking the sweat of her neck.
The hour passed, and it was time for Joey and our nurse to re-join us. Yet when she did, she was flanked by two staff members we hadn't met before, and without Joey. My new father-sense sprung up. My neck stiffened with apprehension. See, I knew something was wrong.
They said, quietly so as to not disturb my wife, "Joey is doing fine, and we'll be bringing him in shortly," which is the kind of thing that should have calmed me down, but not with how she was saying it. She was speaking with a bizarre tentativeness, and regarding me almost suspiciously. I looked to my wife, who apparently had taken this at face value. All she heard was, "Joey is doing fine." She nodded, her eyes closed.
The nurse said briskly, "Can we speak to you outside?" The staff behind her were uncomfortable.
I grunted. "I'll be right back," I kissed my wife's cheek. Her heat radiated an inch above her.
She murmured, "I love you. Bring me Joey." I told her I would, and I left her to speak with the nurse.
We didn't go far. In the hall, under those awful fluorescent lights, she said, "Now, we'd like to do some more tests just to make sure, but the analysis is complete and the result is generally considered reliable," her tone was exactly that of the undertaker that embalmed my father, "Joey is predicted to be worth negative one trillion dollars."
I nodded dumbly.
"Past negative one hundred thousand, we're mandated to provide you psychiatric help and to co-ordinate with law enforcement to establish 24/7 monitor of both you and your wife. I'm sorry. We have to protect the safety of the child."
"Are you saying I would kill Joey?" I found myself saying.
"No! No, no, but it's a shocking result," she was nervous now, stammering over her words, "And we're simply following the framework in place here to establish a baseline of support for you and your family."
She stopped, wide-eyed. I realized she had brought along the staff for me. My fists were clenched like rocks. I considered fuck all and knocking her one. Negative one trillion dollars. I realized, I couldn't even understand how much money that was. I heard somewhere, my highschool teacher saying _the human brain cannot comprehend such scales._ And that Joey would be a highschooler too one day.
With that number hanging over his head.
I let go, and slumped against the wall to weep for Joey and for this world and for my wife and for me. I wept until I heard his sharp as diamond cry from down the hall, as they carried him to me. I held onto him as a piece of my heart. My doomed heart. My newfound fatherhood flickering in the dark.
"Go away," I croaked. But they could not, they said. I understood, but I said it again. And I said it again, and kissed my baby's forehead; they watched. I said it to Joey, I whispered it. I brought him into the room to my wife, who sighed on seeing us; they followed.
I gently laid Joey into my wife's arms, and I kissed her long on her forehead and stroked her hair. "What a beautiful boy," she sung, rasping with her labor passed. And I agreed. I agreed and I was so sure I would never tell them the result, until I felt the hospital staff present in the room. Their quiet, professional gaze on my back.
|
One
Eight
One
Eight
That is the year my child was born. If i had known what he would cause, what he would do i would've eaten the grass to kill a babe in the mothers womb.
A May baby they said, May baby's are good children, intelligent they said.
I should've questioned the seer more then i had. When that machine popped out that slip of paper, i should've noticed the seer tearing of the first part of the paper.
The number my child would cause the world to gain or lose had so many zero's the seer let a audible gasp, but because i was a wealthy woman the seer wanted to keep me happy she left out the negative that lead the number.
Who would've thought that my young child's name would become one of such infamy and hatred. Marx would become a name used by millions of idiots to attempt to make a better world, uncaring of the past failures.
*edit, i goofed and made a serious mistake in the story because of a brain fart, i fixed it*
|
|
[WP] Whenever a baby is born, a machine predicts the baby's net worth to society. Your newborn child's net worth reads: -$1 trillion.
|
"Check it again, please."
No one moved, even though I was very sure that they had heard me. The nurse I could forgive - she looked like she was new on the job, still with that spritely and cheerful demeanour. I doubted if she had attended to more than five births, at this point.
The doctor I had less sympathy for. He was the professional here. He should know what needed to be done, and he should have been the one guiding me, leading me, not the other way around.
"Dr Stevens," I repeated, as I stepped forward, fists balled. "Please, check it again."
He obeyed this time, typing his authorization code into the command panel, eyes darting away to avoid mine. I heard Sara stir from the bed behind me, but I figured it would be sometime before she overcame the medication.
"Not a mistake," Dr Stevens said. I saw my newborn daughter yawn, defenceless, oblivious. The blanket swaddling her was so thick that I doubt she even realised she had been placed in the cold receptacle of the Assessor. "I'm running this test for the third time, and the score is what it is. I'm sorry, but you know what the law requires us to do. Really, I'm sorry."
The numbers continued to flash on the monitor hooked up to the Assessor. Unfortunately, I knew Dr Stevens was right.
The numbers did not lie.
The inventors of the Assessor had bided their time to announce their creation to the public. Knowing that they would face intense scrutiny, they had engaged multiple independent third-party auditors to corroborate their discovery. I remembered how the stage for the press conference had been filled with a dozen reputable names, all swearing that the data meticulously collected over five decades showed the same thing.
That the Assessor could, with no more than a 0.1% margin of error, determine a newborn's net worth to society. Calculated from the time they took their first breath, to when their hearts beat for the last time, the Assessor counted their contributions, subtracted their burdens, then presented a final score.
It's just that I had never seen a score of negative $1 trillion before.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to step away," said Dr Stevens. "As of now, under Article 6 of the Assessor Statute, your child is now a ward of the state for having a net score in excess of negative $1 million."
That didn't stop me from advancing towards him. I wasn't sure yet what I would do, where I would go, but still my feet carried me forward.
"I don't care," I said. "There's a margin of error, you know that."
"Yes, but we've run the Assessment three times now," he said.
"So let me hold her while you run the test again," I said. "Surely a father can hold his newborn?"
"I can't let you do that. Nurse! Call for security, now!"
A number of things happened in the few seconds afterwards.
I saw the nurse, whose face had long turned ashen and despondent, smash the emergency button next to the Assessor. In truth, there was no need to do so. All scores were fed instantaneously to the main servers, and I would have bet a hundred to one that security was already on its way, ready to take over custody of my daughter, do whatever it was they needed to do.
I also saw Dr Stevens plant himself between me and my daughter, hands held up as he snarled. We had chosen him because we knew his history, knew that he had two children of his own lost to the state for abysmal scores. Sara and I had joked that if ever our child turned out Negative, maybe Dr Stevens would turn a blind eye, or have some advice for us. It seemed that I would have to tell Sara that we were wrong.
I also found that I had picked up the pitcher of water off the side table, and had swung it overhead, straight for Dr Steven's head. The water cascaded down noisily, sprinkling like a newly loosed font. My priority was to get my daughter out of there, everything else would follow.
The door also burst open then, and the "Stop!" was so authoritative, so commanding that we all froze where we were.
At the door was a lone man, cap pulled low. I thought he had overalls on, but I couldn't see clearly, on account of all the babies strapped to him. I counted five of them, two on his back, two in front, one cradled in his left arm. They were in various states of distress, shrieking at the tops of their voices.
"I'll take it from here," he said, as he grinned. "I have no idea what's going on today, but six babies? All in one day? Each with a net score of negative $1 trillion? Something big is on the way, for sure."
He muscled past me, scooped my daughter up from the Assessor. He moved as if he didn't even feel Dr Stevens in his way. His single free hand, outstretched, was more than enough to send the poor doctor barrelling backwards into the wall.
"You'll hear from us soon," he said. "Going to have to bring them all back, figure out what the heck is going on. My boss will be in contact with you."
"Wait!" I yelled. "Who are you!"
The alarms had started ringing, and I was aware of thick-soled boots trampling down the corridor. The calvary was arriving.
"I'm no-one," he said. "But my boss, he calls himself the Recruiter these days. You know? The same guy who created this damn machine? We'll be in touch."
He crossed the room, picked up my daughter, brushed past the nurse, kicked open the window, and leapt.
And, if my eyes were to be believed, he flew away.
---
/r/rarelyfunny
|
One
Eight
One
Eight
That is the year my child was born. If i had known what he would cause, what he would do i would've eaten the grass to kill a babe in the mothers womb.
A May baby they said, May baby's are good children, intelligent they said.
I should've questioned the seer more then i had. When that machine popped out that slip of paper, i should've noticed the seer tearing of the first part of the paper.
The number my child would cause the world to gain or lose had so many zero's the seer let a audible gasp, but because i was a wealthy woman the seer wanted to keep me happy she left out the negative that lead the number.
Who would've thought that my young child's name would become one of such infamy and hatred. Marx would become a name used by millions of idiots to attempt to make a better world, uncaring of the past failures.
*edit, i goofed and made a serious mistake in the story because of a brain fart, i fixed it*
|
|
[WP] Whenever a baby is born, a machine predicts the baby's net worth to society. Your newborn child's net worth reads: -$1 trillion.
|
I never really cared for the technology, and neither did my wife.
We were having a baby. Our _first_ baby. That's enough anticipation, I think. It's one of if not the most profound moments of one's life.
But the technology was cheap, and a quarter of a century being on the market was enough time to prove its bizarre reliability. It was now part of the culture. The government had all sorts of provisions and regulations ready to fire once we knew.
Once we knew our child's future net worth. Yes, it was now possible. A machine executing several sophisticated neural scans and a bone marrow biopsy could extrapolate a baby's future net worth. It could be done in an hour.
Some critics claim, loudly, we had turned babies into lottery tickets. My wife and I tend to agree, but truth be told, we weren't thinking about it. We were thinking about the million other things parents worry about. Getting our finances in check, eating right, reading literature on how to raise a freaking kid. How to create life without fucking it up. What his name was gonna be. How a heart could at once crush and expand the whole world over imagining those beautiful eyes. That's what we were thinking about. We weren't thinking about our baby's net worth.
But the technology was cheap. It was part of the culture.
My wife all in all was in labor for eight hours. It was grueling. The baby was just not coming. She looked like she was about to die. And it scared me. I'm not one to get sick, but my stomach turned about ten times that long night, watching my wife, holding her hand, trying to calm her while I hardly could. It seems silly to say I was strong for her because she was the one, really. I did my best as my nerves fired all at once, trying to be cool. Telling her to breathe.
And the baby, our Joey, caked in the shock of infancy, afterbirth and blood was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. He felt like, to hold him, like a piece of God himself. And to see my wife smile, holding him as the mother she was always meant to be? It killed me when they took Joey away to the machine. It killed me and it killed her. She lied there pale and drained. How much women sacrifice for this world, I understand now.
I told her a joke. I said, "I can tell, Joey's gonna be solid middle class, I'm telling you." It was an old joke of ours. And she was supposed to say, "Enough money to pay the bills and nothing else, like the good ol days." Stupid joke. Our joke. She was too tired to complete it. I said it for her, stroking the sweat of her neck.
The hour passed, and it was time for Joey and our nurse to re-join us. Yet when she did, she was flanked by two staff members we hadn't met before, and without Joey. My new father-sense sprung up. My neck stiffened with apprehension. See, I knew something was wrong.
They said, quietly so as to not disturb my wife, "Joey is doing fine, and we'll be bringing him in shortly," which is the kind of thing that should have calmed me down, but not with how she was saying it. She was speaking with a bizarre tentativeness, and regarding me almost suspiciously. I looked to my wife, who apparently had taken this at face value. All she heard was, "Joey is doing fine." She nodded, her eyes closed.
The nurse said briskly, "Can we speak to you outside?" The staff behind her were uncomfortable.
I grunted. "I'll be right back," I kissed my wife's cheek. Her heat radiated an inch above her.
She murmured, "I love you. Bring me Joey." I told her I would, and I left her to speak with the nurse.
We didn't go far. In the hall, under those awful fluorescent lights, she said, "Now, we'd like to do some more tests just to make sure, but the analysis is complete and the result is generally considered reliable," her tone was exactly that of the undertaker that embalmed my father, "Joey is predicted to be worth negative one trillion dollars."
I nodded dumbly.
"Past negative one hundred thousand, we're mandated to provide you psychiatric help and to co-ordinate with law enforcement to establish 24/7 monitor of both you and your wife. I'm sorry. We have to protect the safety of the child."
"Are you saying I would kill Joey?" I found myself saying.
"No! No, no, but it's a shocking result," she was nervous now, stammering over her words, "And we're simply following the framework in place here to establish a baseline of support for you and your family."
She stopped, wide-eyed. I realized she had brought along the staff for me. My fists were clenched like rocks. I considered fuck all and knocking her one. Negative one trillion dollars. I realized, I couldn't even understand how much money that was. I heard somewhere, my highschool teacher saying _the human brain cannot comprehend such scales._ And that Joey would be a highschooler too one day.
With that number hanging over his head.
I let go, and slumped against the wall to weep for Joey and for this world and for my wife and for me. I wept until I heard his sharp as diamond cry from down the hall, as they carried him to me. I held onto him as a piece of my heart. My doomed heart. My newfound fatherhood flickering in the dark.
"Go away," I croaked. But they could not, they said. I understood, but I said it again. And I said it again, and kissed my baby's forehead; they watched. I said it to Joey, I whispered it. I brought him into the room to my wife, who sighed on seeing us; they followed.
I gently laid Joey into my wife's arms, and I kissed her long on her forehead and stroked her hair. "What a beautiful boy," she sung, rasping with her labor passed. And I agreed. I agreed and I was so sure I would never tell them the result, until I felt the hospital staff present in the room. Their quiet, professional gaze on my back.
|
It was cold, it was wet. The wind and rain would not let up, but Jake dare not try to go back to society. He clutched his child to his chest, trying to keep it dry and warm. The tent they managed to put up was barely keeping out the rain, but it seemed the whole world was wet, and that wetness seemed to permeate, even through the water proof material that surrounded them.
The baby started to cry.
“Oh please don’t cry, not now!” Jake pleading, begging the baby to hush as he gently rocked it. He knew what the problem was, it was hungry. Irene would be back shortly, he hoped. She had to be back shortly. “Mommy will be back soon, and then you can eat, okay?” his pleading voiced begged for that to be enough for the baby.
He cowered as another car drove by, this one was going slow again, a spot light following the contour of the road below where he was hiding. They were still looking it seemed, but they hadn’t thought to check up here yet. Good, they were safe, maybe for another day.
He heard rustling nearby and turned, partly in fear, partly in hope, to see Irene cresting the hill. She had a small sack of what he could only hope was food, but his eyes beelined to her bosom, full of milk that the little baby needed. It was amazing how quickly things changed in times of crisis.
Irene looked at him and smiled, it seemed to have been a good scavenging trip. She produced some bread and a few bottles of water, refilled, no doubt. “How is Tom?” she asked. Jake just offered the baby to her, and it immediately started rooting, looking for the food it knew was there.
The mention of the baby’s name brought back the memories. Jake saw the baby go through the Value Estimator. He and Irene had been doing fairly well at life, so certainly their baby would have a good estimate. It was a shock, complete and utter shock, when the value came back negative. And the scale, the scale was just astounding. Negative one trillion. Jake pushed the number through his head again, recounted the zeroes for the fiftieth time in his mind. The doctors said it was clearly an error, the machine was known to make a mistake every once in a while, and ran the scan again. The second time sealed their fate, it stayed at negative one trillion.
The doctor was muted, but continued providing care, it wasn’t for a few hours that things started going funny. Someone from the government showed up and left. Jake couldn’t help but notice the firearms in the mans jacket. When the man stepped out for a moment, Jake made the decision that it was time for them to leave, and Irene agreed.
Since then they’d been on the run, flitting from place to place. Somewhere along the line they had picked up this tent, but all their funds and credit cards were being monitored, they had to go completely off the grid, which was nearly impossible in this day and age.
As Nate ate some of the bread, he didn’t want to ask Irene where she had gotten it from, he thought about their predicament. They’d probably have to move again tomorrow. They’d been holed out here for a few days. They’d never been able to stay in the same place for more than five days without getting noticed. For sure, tomorrow they’d have to find somewhere else to hide.
This system was ridiculous, guessing people’s value to society as their born. How could a world be built on such a system? Didn’t people have choices they could make in their lives? Jake and Irene sure had ridden a wave of success based on their impressive numbers. Jake was over ten million, and Irene was over a billion, but having a son with negative one trillion. One thing was for sure, this system had to end, his son would not grow up in a world where his fate was decided for him, not if it meant this.
[697 words]
|
|
[WP] Whenever a baby is born, a machine predicts the baby's net worth to society. Your newborn child's net worth reads: -$1 trillion.
|
"Check it again, please."
No one moved, even though I was very sure that they had heard me. The nurse I could forgive - she looked like she was new on the job, still with that spritely and cheerful demeanour. I doubted if she had attended to more than five births, at this point.
The doctor I had less sympathy for. He was the professional here. He should know what needed to be done, and he should have been the one guiding me, leading me, not the other way around.
"Dr Stevens," I repeated, as I stepped forward, fists balled. "Please, check it again."
He obeyed this time, typing his authorization code into the command panel, eyes darting away to avoid mine. I heard Sara stir from the bed behind me, but I figured it would be sometime before she overcame the medication.
"Not a mistake," Dr Stevens said. I saw my newborn daughter yawn, defenceless, oblivious. The blanket swaddling her was so thick that I doubt she even realised she had been placed in the cold receptacle of the Assessor. "I'm running this test for the third time, and the score is what it is. I'm sorry, but you know what the law requires us to do. Really, I'm sorry."
The numbers continued to flash on the monitor hooked up to the Assessor. Unfortunately, I knew Dr Stevens was right.
The numbers did not lie.
The inventors of the Assessor had bided their time to announce their creation to the public. Knowing that they would face intense scrutiny, they had engaged multiple independent third-party auditors to corroborate their discovery. I remembered how the stage for the press conference had been filled with a dozen reputable names, all swearing that the data meticulously collected over five decades showed the same thing.
That the Assessor could, with no more than a 0.1% margin of error, determine a newborn's net worth to society. Calculated from the time they took their first breath, to when their hearts beat for the last time, the Assessor counted their contributions, subtracted their burdens, then presented a final score.
It's just that I had never seen a score of negative $1 trillion before.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to step away," said Dr Stevens. "As of now, under Article 6 of the Assessor Statute, your child is now a ward of the state for having a net score in excess of negative $1 million."
That didn't stop me from advancing towards him. I wasn't sure yet what I would do, where I would go, but still my feet carried me forward.
"I don't care," I said. "There's a margin of error, you know that."
"Yes, but we've run the Assessment three times now," he said.
"So let me hold her while you run the test again," I said. "Surely a father can hold his newborn?"
"I can't let you do that. Nurse! Call for security, now!"
A number of things happened in the few seconds afterwards.
I saw the nurse, whose face had long turned ashen and despondent, smash the emergency button next to the Assessor. In truth, there was no need to do so. All scores were fed instantaneously to the main servers, and I would have bet a hundred to one that security was already on its way, ready to take over custody of my daughter, do whatever it was they needed to do.
I also saw Dr Stevens plant himself between me and my daughter, hands held up as he snarled. We had chosen him because we knew his history, knew that he had two children of his own lost to the state for abysmal scores. Sara and I had joked that if ever our child turned out Negative, maybe Dr Stevens would turn a blind eye, or have some advice for us. It seemed that I would have to tell Sara that we were wrong.
I also found that I had picked up the pitcher of water off the side table, and had swung it overhead, straight for Dr Steven's head. The water cascaded down noisily, sprinkling like a newly loosed font. My priority was to get my daughter out of there, everything else would follow.
The door also burst open then, and the "Stop!" was so authoritative, so commanding that we all froze where we were.
At the door was a lone man, cap pulled low. I thought he had overalls on, but I couldn't see clearly, on account of all the babies strapped to him. I counted five of them, two on his back, two in front, one cradled in his left arm. They were in various states of distress, shrieking at the tops of their voices.
"I'll take it from here," he said, as he grinned. "I have no idea what's going on today, but six babies? All in one day? Each with a net score of negative $1 trillion? Something big is on the way, for sure."
He muscled past me, scooped my daughter up from the Assessor. He moved as if he didn't even feel Dr Stevens in his way. His single free hand, outstretched, was more than enough to send the poor doctor barrelling backwards into the wall.
"You'll hear from us soon," he said. "Going to have to bring them all back, figure out what the heck is going on. My boss will be in contact with you."
"Wait!" I yelled. "Who are you!"
The alarms had started ringing, and I was aware of thick-soled boots trampling down the corridor. The calvary was arriving.
"I'm no-one," he said. "But my boss, he calls himself the Recruiter these days. You know? The same guy who created this damn machine? We'll be in touch."
He crossed the room, picked up my daughter, brushed past the nurse, kicked open the window, and leapt.
And, if my eyes were to be believed, he flew away.
---
/r/rarelyfunny
|
It was cold, it was wet. The wind and rain would not let up, but Jake dare not try to go back to society. He clutched his child to his chest, trying to keep it dry and warm. The tent they managed to put up was barely keeping out the rain, but it seemed the whole world was wet, and that wetness seemed to permeate, even through the water proof material that surrounded them.
The baby started to cry.
“Oh please don’t cry, not now!” Jake pleading, begging the baby to hush as he gently rocked it. He knew what the problem was, it was hungry. Irene would be back shortly, he hoped. She had to be back shortly. “Mommy will be back soon, and then you can eat, okay?” his pleading voiced begged for that to be enough for the baby.
He cowered as another car drove by, this one was going slow again, a spot light following the contour of the road below where he was hiding. They were still looking it seemed, but they hadn’t thought to check up here yet. Good, they were safe, maybe for another day.
He heard rustling nearby and turned, partly in fear, partly in hope, to see Irene cresting the hill. She had a small sack of what he could only hope was food, but his eyes beelined to her bosom, full of milk that the little baby needed. It was amazing how quickly things changed in times of crisis.
Irene looked at him and smiled, it seemed to have been a good scavenging trip. She produced some bread and a few bottles of water, refilled, no doubt. “How is Tom?” she asked. Jake just offered the baby to her, and it immediately started rooting, looking for the food it knew was there.
The mention of the baby’s name brought back the memories. Jake saw the baby go through the Value Estimator. He and Irene had been doing fairly well at life, so certainly their baby would have a good estimate. It was a shock, complete and utter shock, when the value came back negative. And the scale, the scale was just astounding. Negative one trillion. Jake pushed the number through his head again, recounted the zeroes for the fiftieth time in his mind. The doctors said it was clearly an error, the machine was known to make a mistake every once in a while, and ran the scan again. The second time sealed their fate, it stayed at negative one trillion.
The doctor was muted, but continued providing care, it wasn’t for a few hours that things started going funny. Someone from the government showed up and left. Jake couldn’t help but notice the firearms in the mans jacket. When the man stepped out for a moment, Jake made the decision that it was time for them to leave, and Irene agreed.
Since then they’d been on the run, flitting from place to place. Somewhere along the line they had picked up this tent, but all their funds and credit cards were being monitored, they had to go completely off the grid, which was nearly impossible in this day and age.
As Nate ate some of the bread, he didn’t want to ask Irene where she had gotten it from, he thought about their predicament. They’d probably have to move again tomorrow. They’d been holed out here for a few days. They’d never been able to stay in the same place for more than five days without getting noticed. For sure, tomorrow they’d have to find somewhere else to hide.
This system was ridiculous, guessing people’s value to society as their born. How could a world be built on such a system? Didn’t people have choices they could make in their lives? Jake and Irene sure had ridden a wave of success based on their impressive numbers. Jake was over ten million, and Irene was over a billion, but having a son with negative one trillion. One thing was for sure, this system had to end, his son would not grow up in a world where his fate was decided for him, not if it meant this.
[697 words]
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[WP] Whenever a baby is born, a machine predicts the baby's net worth to society. Your newborn child's net worth reads: -$1 trillion.
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"Check it again, please."
No one moved, even though I was very sure that they had heard me. The nurse I could forgive - she looked like she was new on the job, still with that spritely and cheerful demeanour. I doubted if she had attended to more than five births, at this point.
The doctor I had less sympathy for. He was the professional here. He should know what needed to be done, and he should have been the one guiding me, leading me, not the other way around.
"Dr Stevens," I repeated, as I stepped forward, fists balled. "Please, check it again."
He obeyed this time, typing his authorization code into the command panel, eyes darting away to avoid mine. I heard Sara stir from the bed behind me, but I figured it would be sometime before she overcame the medication.
"Not a mistake," Dr Stevens said. I saw my newborn daughter yawn, defenceless, oblivious. The blanket swaddling her was so thick that I doubt she even realised she had been placed in the cold receptacle of the Assessor. "I'm running this test for the third time, and the score is what it is. I'm sorry, but you know what the law requires us to do. Really, I'm sorry."
The numbers continued to flash on the monitor hooked up to the Assessor. Unfortunately, I knew Dr Stevens was right.
The numbers did not lie.
The inventors of the Assessor had bided their time to announce their creation to the public. Knowing that they would face intense scrutiny, they had engaged multiple independent third-party auditors to corroborate their discovery. I remembered how the stage for the press conference had been filled with a dozen reputable names, all swearing that the data meticulously collected over five decades showed the same thing.
That the Assessor could, with no more than a 0.1% margin of error, determine a newborn's net worth to society. Calculated from the time they took their first breath, to when their hearts beat for the last time, the Assessor counted their contributions, subtracted their burdens, then presented a final score.
It's just that I had never seen a score of negative $1 trillion before.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to step away," said Dr Stevens. "As of now, under Article 6 of the Assessor Statute, your child is now a ward of the state for having a net score in excess of negative $1 million."
That didn't stop me from advancing towards him. I wasn't sure yet what I would do, where I would go, but still my feet carried me forward.
"I don't care," I said. "There's a margin of error, you know that."
"Yes, but we've run the Assessment three times now," he said.
"So let me hold her while you run the test again," I said. "Surely a father can hold his newborn?"
"I can't let you do that. Nurse! Call for security, now!"
A number of things happened in the few seconds afterwards.
I saw the nurse, whose face had long turned ashen and despondent, smash the emergency button next to the Assessor. In truth, there was no need to do so. All scores were fed instantaneously to the main servers, and I would have bet a hundred to one that security was already on its way, ready to take over custody of my daughter, do whatever it was they needed to do.
I also saw Dr Stevens plant himself between me and my daughter, hands held up as he snarled. We had chosen him because we knew his history, knew that he had two children of his own lost to the state for abysmal scores. Sara and I had joked that if ever our child turned out Negative, maybe Dr Stevens would turn a blind eye, or have some advice for us. It seemed that I would have to tell Sara that we were wrong.
I also found that I had picked up the pitcher of water off the side table, and had swung it overhead, straight for Dr Steven's head. The water cascaded down noisily, sprinkling like a newly loosed font. My priority was to get my daughter out of there, everything else would follow.
The door also burst open then, and the "Stop!" was so authoritative, so commanding that we all froze where we were.
At the door was a lone man, cap pulled low. I thought he had overalls on, but I couldn't see clearly, on account of all the babies strapped to him. I counted five of them, two on his back, two in front, one cradled in his left arm. They were in various states of distress, shrieking at the tops of their voices.
"I'll take it from here," he said, as he grinned. "I have no idea what's going on today, but six babies? All in one day? Each with a net score of negative $1 trillion? Something big is on the way, for sure."
He muscled past me, scooped my daughter up from the Assessor. He moved as if he didn't even feel Dr Stevens in his way. His single free hand, outstretched, was more than enough to send the poor doctor barrelling backwards into the wall.
"You'll hear from us soon," he said. "Going to have to bring them all back, figure out what the heck is going on. My boss will be in contact with you."
"Wait!" I yelled. "Who are you!"
The alarms had started ringing, and I was aware of thick-soled boots trampling down the corridor. The calvary was arriving.
"I'm no-one," he said. "But my boss, he calls himself the Recruiter these days. You know? The same guy who created this damn machine? We'll be in touch."
He crossed the room, picked up my daughter, brushed past the nurse, kicked open the window, and leapt.
And, if my eyes were to be believed, he flew away.
---
/r/rarelyfunny
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I never really cared for the technology, and neither did my wife.
We were having a baby. Our _first_ baby. That's enough anticipation, I think. It's one of if not the most profound moments of one's life.
But the technology was cheap, and a quarter of a century being on the market was enough time to prove its bizarre reliability. It was now part of the culture. The government had all sorts of provisions and regulations ready to fire once we knew.
Once we knew our child's future net worth. Yes, it was now possible. A machine executing several sophisticated neural scans and a bone marrow biopsy could extrapolate a baby's future net worth. It could be done in an hour.
Some critics claim, loudly, we had turned babies into lottery tickets. My wife and I tend to agree, but truth be told, we weren't thinking about it. We were thinking about the million other things parents worry about. Getting our finances in check, eating right, reading literature on how to raise a freaking kid. How to create life without fucking it up. What his name was gonna be. How a heart could at once crush and expand the whole world over imagining those beautiful eyes. That's what we were thinking about. We weren't thinking about our baby's net worth.
But the technology was cheap. It was part of the culture.
My wife all in all was in labor for eight hours. It was grueling. The baby was just not coming. She looked like she was about to die. And it scared me. I'm not one to get sick, but my stomach turned about ten times that long night, watching my wife, holding her hand, trying to calm her while I hardly could. It seems silly to say I was strong for her because she was the one, really. I did my best as my nerves fired all at once, trying to be cool. Telling her to breathe.
And the baby, our Joey, caked in the shock of infancy, afterbirth and blood was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. He felt like, to hold him, like a piece of God himself. And to see my wife smile, holding him as the mother she was always meant to be? It killed me when they took Joey away to the machine. It killed me and it killed her. She lied there pale and drained. How much women sacrifice for this world, I understand now.
I told her a joke. I said, "I can tell, Joey's gonna be solid middle class, I'm telling you." It was an old joke of ours. And she was supposed to say, "Enough money to pay the bills and nothing else, like the good ol days." Stupid joke. Our joke. She was too tired to complete it. I said it for her, stroking the sweat of her neck.
The hour passed, and it was time for Joey and our nurse to re-join us. Yet when she did, she was flanked by two staff members we hadn't met before, and without Joey. My new father-sense sprung up. My neck stiffened with apprehension. See, I knew something was wrong.
They said, quietly so as to not disturb my wife, "Joey is doing fine, and we'll be bringing him in shortly," which is the kind of thing that should have calmed me down, but not with how she was saying it. She was speaking with a bizarre tentativeness, and regarding me almost suspiciously. I looked to my wife, who apparently had taken this at face value. All she heard was, "Joey is doing fine." She nodded, her eyes closed.
The nurse said briskly, "Can we speak to you outside?" The staff behind her were uncomfortable.
I grunted. "I'll be right back," I kissed my wife's cheek. Her heat radiated an inch above her.
She murmured, "I love you. Bring me Joey." I told her I would, and I left her to speak with the nurse.
We didn't go far. In the hall, under those awful fluorescent lights, she said, "Now, we'd like to do some more tests just to make sure, but the analysis is complete and the result is generally considered reliable," her tone was exactly that of the undertaker that embalmed my father, "Joey is predicted to be worth negative one trillion dollars."
I nodded dumbly.
"Past negative one hundred thousand, we're mandated to provide you psychiatric help and to co-ordinate with law enforcement to establish 24/7 monitor of both you and your wife. I'm sorry. We have to protect the safety of the child."
"Are you saying I would kill Joey?" I found myself saying.
"No! No, no, but it's a shocking result," she was nervous now, stammering over her words, "And we're simply following the framework in place here to establish a baseline of support for you and your family."
She stopped, wide-eyed. I realized she had brought along the staff for me. My fists were clenched like rocks. I considered fuck all and knocking her one. Negative one trillion dollars. I realized, I couldn't even understand how much money that was. I heard somewhere, my highschool teacher saying _the human brain cannot comprehend such scales._ And that Joey would be a highschooler too one day.
With that number hanging over his head.
I let go, and slumped against the wall to weep for Joey and for this world and for my wife and for me. I wept until I heard his sharp as diamond cry from down the hall, as they carried him to me. I held onto him as a piece of my heart. My doomed heart. My newfound fatherhood flickering in the dark.
"Go away," I croaked. But they could not, they said. I understood, but I said it again. And I said it again, and kissed my baby's forehead; they watched. I said it to Joey, I whispered it. I brought him into the room to my wife, who sighed on seeing us; they followed.
I gently laid Joey into my wife's arms, and I kissed her long on her forehead and stroked her hair. "What a beautiful boy," she sung, rasping with her labor passed. And I agreed. I agreed and I was so sure I would never tell them the result, until I felt the hospital staff present in the room. Their quiet, professional gaze on my back.
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[WP] Whenever a baby is born, a machine predicts the baby's net worth to society. Your newborn child's net worth reads: -$1 trillion.
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"Check it again, please."
No one moved, even though I was very sure that they had heard me. The nurse I could forgive - she looked like she was new on the job, still with that spritely and cheerful demeanour. I doubted if she had attended to more than five births, at this point.
The doctor I had less sympathy for. He was the professional here. He should know what needed to be done, and he should have been the one guiding me, leading me, not the other way around.
"Dr Stevens," I repeated, as I stepped forward, fists balled. "Please, check it again."
He obeyed this time, typing his authorization code into the command panel, eyes darting away to avoid mine. I heard Sara stir from the bed behind me, but I figured it would be sometime before she overcame the medication.
"Not a mistake," Dr Stevens said. I saw my newborn daughter yawn, defenceless, oblivious. The blanket swaddling her was so thick that I doubt she even realised she had been placed in the cold receptacle of the Assessor. "I'm running this test for the third time, and the score is what it is. I'm sorry, but you know what the law requires us to do. Really, I'm sorry."
The numbers continued to flash on the monitor hooked up to the Assessor. Unfortunately, I knew Dr Stevens was right.
The numbers did not lie.
The inventors of the Assessor had bided their time to announce their creation to the public. Knowing that they would face intense scrutiny, they had engaged multiple independent third-party auditors to corroborate their discovery. I remembered how the stage for the press conference had been filled with a dozen reputable names, all swearing that the data meticulously collected over five decades showed the same thing.
That the Assessor could, with no more than a 0.1% margin of error, determine a newborn's net worth to society. Calculated from the time they took their first breath, to when their hearts beat for the last time, the Assessor counted their contributions, subtracted their burdens, then presented a final score.
It's just that I had never seen a score of negative $1 trillion before.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to step away," said Dr Stevens. "As of now, under Article 6 of the Assessor Statute, your child is now a ward of the state for having a net score in excess of negative $1 million."
That didn't stop me from advancing towards him. I wasn't sure yet what I would do, where I would go, but still my feet carried me forward.
"I don't care," I said. "There's a margin of error, you know that."
"Yes, but we've run the Assessment three times now," he said.
"So let me hold her while you run the test again," I said. "Surely a father can hold his newborn?"
"I can't let you do that. Nurse! Call for security, now!"
A number of things happened in the few seconds afterwards.
I saw the nurse, whose face had long turned ashen and despondent, smash the emergency button next to the Assessor. In truth, there was no need to do so. All scores were fed instantaneously to the main servers, and I would have bet a hundred to one that security was already on its way, ready to take over custody of my daughter, do whatever it was they needed to do.
I also saw Dr Stevens plant himself between me and my daughter, hands held up as he snarled. We had chosen him because we knew his history, knew that he had two children of his own lost to the state for abysmal scores. Sara and I had joked that if ever our child turned out Negative, maybe Dr Stevens would turn a blind eye, or have some advice for us. It seemed that I would have to tell Sara that we were wrong.
I also found that I had picked up the pitcher of water off the side table, and had swung it overhead, straight for Dr Steven's head. The water cascaded down noisily, sprinkling like a newly loosed font. My priority was to get my daughter out of there, everything else would follow.
The door also burst open then, and the "Stop!" was so authoritative, so commanding that we all froze where we were.
At the door was a lone man, cap pulled low. I thought he had overalls on, but I couldn't see clearly, on account of all the babies strapped to him. I counted five of them, two on his back, two in front, one cradled in his left arm. They were in various states of distress, shrieking at the tops of their voices.
"I'll take it from here," he said, as he grinned. "I have no idea what's going on today, but six babies? All in one day? Each with a net score of negative $1 trillion? Something big is on the way, for sure."
He muscled past me, scooped my daughter up from the Assessor. He moved as if he didn't even feel Dr Stevens in his way. His single free hand, outstretched, was more than enough to send the poor doctor barrelling backwards into the wall.
"You'll hear from us soon," he said. "Going to have to bring them all back, figure out what the heck is going on. My boss will be in contact with you."
"Wait!" I yelled. "Who are you!"
The alarms had started ringing, and I was aware of thick-soled boots trampling down the corridor. The calvary was arriving.
"I'm no-one," he said. "But my boss, he calls himself the Recruiter these days. You know? The same guy who created this damn machine? We'll be in touch."
He crossed the room, picked up my daughter, brushed past the nurse, kicked open the window, and leapt.
And, if my eyes were to be believed, he flew away.
---
/r/rarelyfunny
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I remember when it happened.
I was so exited, my wife and I had rushed to the hospital when her water broke. The baby wasn't due for another 2 weeks! We where ready though, we had an emergency route and everything.
I got behind the steering wheel of our white ford F-250 and drove like a madman down the dirt road between our house and the main street.
Once I got to the highway I drove like a madman, swerving in and out of traffic. I was going well above 80 mph in a 60, but who cares? I was about to have a baby!!
Once we got to the hospital we went through the entire process. My wife was rushed to a delivery room, appointed a nurse and doctor, and .... well I'll spare you the gory details.
Right after the birth we where told the baby's sex. We had a girl! Isn't that great? Next where the regular check ups: Disease predisposition DNA checks, future mental disorder checks, etc...
Finally after a several hours the most important check of all was due, the "Social Capital" test.
Now the thing to remember about the SCT is that it doesn't really measure how successful or wealthy your child will be, just how much they benefit society. This is why Children that are worth a lot generally become teachers, they teach skills to other people, which increases the economy as a whole. The result of the SCT test is highly personal though, and the only people to know it are you and your parents, and you don't even get the right to see yours until you're 18! Until then your parents are the only ones that know.
Well my Daughter, Edna, that's what we decided to call her, my Daughter Edna's result made me gasp. Negative ONE Trillion dollars. F*ck. I was dumbfounded, all of her other tests where relatively normal. She had a predisposition to breast cancer, but that was to be expected, both grandmothers where breast cancer survivors. No sociopathic tendencies, how could she be so negative to society?
When I told my wife she was shocked, but she was a computer scientist, so she asked me one question:
"Honey, how many Bytes does the machine use to represent a child's worth?"
"Uhhh... I don't know... what does that mean honey?"
"It determines how big a number the machine can represent. Just google it Idiot!"
Okay, she kind of has a right to be testy, I'll give her this one. So I googled it.
"5 Bytes Jam"
"Ok, go get the results and look at the overflow flag"
"The what?"
"JUST DO IT!!!"
"Okay, Okay.... jeezus woman calm down"
I whent to the doctor, got the official document and read it
> Net Social Capital : -1099511627775
> Overflow Byte : 1
I rushed back to her.
"Honey, the overflow Byte is 1, what does that mean!"
She immediately started screaming in jubilation, kissed me, nut taped me, and kissed me again
"The biggest number you can store inside a 5 byte "container" is around 1 trillion, so if you go above that the container "overflows" and circles around to the next number, a negative number. If the overflow flag is 1 that means our daughter's Social Net Worth is worth more then 1 Trillion Dollars!! "
I was amazed, speechless. What was my daughter to become? A President? A world changing Scientist?............
I'm 80 now, and me and my wife are extremely proud of our daughter. She's the Host of a Kids TV show:
Ms. Rodgers' Neighborhood
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[WP] By 2200, one cup of fortified gruel a day provides all the food a body needs, and eating meat is illegal. You run a bootleg hamburger joint/speakeasy in Harlem.
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“Password.”
“Two pickles?”
“Come in.”
You see, I had to be cautious in those dark days - for all I knew, a myriad of FBI agents were preparing to erupt through my doors, confiscate my buns, incinerate my beef, and use my hot dogs to sodomise me into leaking the names of my suppliers. Passwords were the only way to keep safe.
In stepped Jerry. He was a regular customer, always ordering a double cheeseburger with a side of gruel-infused coleslaw. Why he ate that stuff at our meaty refuge, I do not know, but it was cheap, easy to produce, and kept him coming, so I’d oblige.
Just as he sat down to feast upon his meat, he asked for a napkin. As I produced one from the desk behind me, he plucked a thin, neat biro from his chest pocket and wrote down “*I HAVE A MIC. ACT LIKE YOU GAVE ME FAKE BEEF.*”
“Uh...” I was stuttering. How was I supposed to know what to say in this situation? “Funny that we call a cylinder of gruel a burger and people eat it like the real thing, right?”
At that, I thought my trials and tribulations were over, yet I was oh so naïve.
A mere three days later, I heard the same knock on the door, but with a shakier approach. Upon asking for the password, I was greeted by Jerry’s familiar voice, but this time with an unfamiliar quiver.
I turned behind me, glanced at my cooks, and nodded. Within thirty seconds, they surrounded the door with pots and pans containing bubbling, boiling oil. I opened the door nonchalantly, unsurprised when Jerry entered with a gun to his head, followed by a cluster of agents in pristine suits.
I dove on Jerry, pushing him out of the way, and my cooks promptly sprayed our unwelcome intruders with greasy goodness, releasing shrieks and misguided gunfire all around.
I knew from that moment that things had changed. This was no longer a secret operation - it was war, and food was our weapon.
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The wars. That's what I told myself when he asked me how gruel became the norm. But those aren't the words I spoke to him, my son Hoss. I told him "It's just how things have to be son, we all have to settle." "But why do you have a secret meat restaurant?" "You ask too many questions kid, someday you'll understand..."
How could I expect a kid to understand the sacred bond between man and meat? My father instilled it in me when I was 18. This world seems to have forgotten that. I won't. I can't. That's why i'm here. In this hidden parlor, where my pops and I serve the greatest food in the world to the highest clientele. I know it's risky. They already came once. The Feds. They agreed to let me keep running my business if they fucked my wife. She died in the process. Some people ask, "Is it worth never seeing your son again?" I always keep to me and mine, not giving them an inch of an answer. But inside I know they have a point. Everyday I imagine the Feds busting in and ending my operation. But i'll always continue to serve the best burgers and meat in Harlem. I’m Rick Harrison, and this is my Harlem Speakeasy. I work here with my old man and my son, Big Hoss. Every meat in here has a story and a price. One thing I’ve learned after 21 years – you never know WHAT is gonna come through that door
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[WP] By 2200, one cup of fortified gruel a day provides all the food a body needs, and eating meat is illegal. You run a bootleg hamburger joint/speakeasy in Harlem.
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The world was stunned when it happened. *The Miracle Food* they called it. But despite the Vegan Party's best efforts, they couldn't get any rational person to eat that disgusting gruel. So instead, they declared the consumption of meat illegal and arrested anyone that refused to comply.
My folks owned a small deli shop in Harlem. When meat was declared illegal, the Vegs raided our shop. They shot poppa right in front of me and sent momma to a "Farm" to be re-educated. On that day, I swore to fight the Vegan tyranny and vowed to not let the world forget about the wonderful taste of meat.
The sun was barely setting and my little underground burger joint was already full, the hamburgers on the grill gave out a heavenly smell and costumers drooled like dogs
"Hey Chris those burgers better be worth me coming out here risking my neck" quipped an impatient customer.
"Buddy, be patient" I shot back "It's not like you have another choice"
Over the years I had developed techniques to mask the scent of the burgers (which I shall keep to myself) and had allied myself with some rebellious farmers that still raised cattle for consumption. Our little operation was a well kept secret despite the thousands of people that came to me to eat one of my juicy burgers.
I was bickering with a costumer that didn't want to pay up when suddenly, a knock was heard at the door. The room fell silent immediately, and everyone held their breath as I made my way to the door. Whoever was on the other side had made the right knock (first few notes of "The Star Spangled Banner") The security camera showed a slender young man in a trench coat and a hat standing outside.
"This is private property" I started over the intercom, "So unless you want trouble I suggest you lea-"
"The Wolf Howls at the Moon" interrupted the young man
He had used the phrase to identify the place
"Password?" I questioned
"Yui is my waifu 2013" answered the man with a blank look in his face
"Season 1 or Season 2?" I said trying to hold back my laugh at the silly response
"Season 2" was the response
I opened the door and gave him a warm welcome
"So, what will you be having today sir?" I asked
"I... I'll have a cheeseburger please" he ordered with a worried look on his face. I thought nothing of it.
I served him his burger and he immediately grabbed it and started examining it from every angle, my suspicion rose as he took out a tiny device and stuck it in the patty. It made a whirring sound and let out a *beep* as a green light turned on and a message popped up on its tiny screen
*Real meat* it read
All of a sudden the slender man started shouting "THIS IS THE VSP" (Vegan Secret Police) "YOU ARE ALL UNDER ARREST FOR THE ILLICIT DISTRIBUTION AND CONSUMPTION OF ANIMAL PRODUCTS" He held out his badge and pointed a handgun at my head.
I panicked for a millisecond but then regained my composure
"A raiding party is on its way to arrest all of you!"
I knocked the gun out of his hand and held a knife to his throat.
"Follow me" I ordered
We made our way to the back where the freezer was.
A look of horror appeared on the man's face as I opened the freezer door and saw the frozen bodies of his little raiding party.
I had been informed of this little plan ahead of time, so I had gathered the members of the raiding party and sent them there to chill for a little bit
"Y'know, I have a little device that blocks all electronic and radio signals from the outside" I whispered in the man's ear coldly.
I then pushed him into the freezer, he gave me a last look with terror in his eyes as I closed the freezer's door.
I left him there, hollering for help, clawing at the door in a futile attempt at escape.
The night came, and the moon rose high in the sky. And I went back to making my burgers
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The wars. That's what I told myself when he asked me how gruel became the norm. But those aren't the words I spoke to him, my son Hoss. I told him "It's just how things have to be son, we all have to settle." "But why do you have a secret meat restaurant?" "You ask too many questions kid, someday you'll understand..."
How could I expect a kid to understand the sacred bond between man and meat? My father instilled it in me when I was 18. This world seems to have forgotten that. I won't. I can't. That's why i'm here. In this hidden parlor, where my pops and I serve the greatest food in the world to the highest clientele. I know it's risky. They already came once. The Feds. They agreed to let me keep running my business if they fucked my wife. She died in the process. Some people ask, "Is it worth never seeing your son again?" I always keep to me and mine, not giving them an inch of an answer. But inside I know they have a point. Everyday I imagine the Feds busting in and ending my operation. But i'll always continue to serve the best burgers and meat in Harlem. I’m Rick Harrison, and this is my Harlem Speakeasy. I work here with my old man and my son, Big Hoss. Every meat in here has a story and a price. One thing I’ve learned after 21 years – you never know WHAT is gonna come through that door
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[WP] Two fathers are called in to the principal's office after their kids got into a fight. The principal is concerned about disciplining their children but the fathers are more interested in whose kid won the fight.
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“Mr. Smith, Mr. Wesson, I’ve called you in here today for a very important matter”, Principal Johnson began, “it concerns your boys. They’ve been fighting.”
The two fathers were remarkably similar men. Both were in their late forties and had begun to go grey. They were about the same height, and both were built like they had once been athletic, but years of fatherhood and beer had softened them some. The two even had sons the same age, Roger Smith and Scott Wesson. These young men currently sat, heads down, in two chairs beside the principal. Roger had a bag of ice on his face and Scott sported some minor cuts and bruises.
“I don’t know how it started, and these boys won’t say anything, but we had to break them up at recess. This is the second time it’s happened. I’m hoping we can resolve the issue today and that it won’t happen again.” Principal Johnson continued.
Mr. Smith spoke up first, “Certainly, certainly, we can’t have our boys fighting every recess. Our families have known each other for years now, I would hate if Scott got hurt.”
“Exactly”, Mr. Wesson chimed in, “if my boy hurt Roger I don’t know how I would sleep at night.”
“I am glad you two gentlemen understand the situation. I don’t want to punish your boys, but if I catch them fighting one more time I will have to. I hope you can have a talk with them.”, Principal Johnson replied.
But Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson kept speaking.
“Now I don’t see how Roger would get hurt, with the size advantage he has, fighting with Scott is unfair to the poor kid.”, Mr. Smith said in response to Mr. Wesson.
“Size advantage? Please, they are practically the same size, and Scott is much quicker. I mean, why do you think Roger has a bag of ice and Scott doesn’t? I think what happened is clear.”, Mr. Wesson turned to Principal Johnson, “thank you for stopping the fight. I will talk with Scott tonight about not fighting.”
“Wait just a minute”, Mr. Smith interjected, “don’t think I am going to sit here and take these insults about my son. It is obvious that the fight was stopped before he could get any real damage in. He would wipe the floor with Scott.”
Principal Johnson was flabbergasted. “Gentlemen, the purpose of this wasn’t to decide which of your sons would win in a fight, it is to prevent them from fighting. Now you two don’t seem capable of instilling the lesson in them. As such I will be forced to give them detention.”
Scott and Roger finally spoke up, in unison, “Detention?! Anything but detention!”
“If you two promise to never fight again I’ll let it slide, but one more time and you both are suspended.”, Principal Johnson said, turning to the boys.
“Yes sir”, both boys responded.
But the two fathers were still scowling at each other, neither willing to back down from his assertion that his son would be victorious. They both secretly formulated a plan to ensure their son would win the fight.
Many years later the two fathers watched with pride as their sons finally faced off, this time for all the marbles. But alas, a clear victor was determined when, in 1998, The Undertaker threw Mankind off Hell In A Cell, and plummeted 16 ft. through an announcer’s table.
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"Good evening gentleman, and *thank* you for coming in on such short notice," Principal Renniks said. "As I am sure you are both aware, since you both responded to emails and texts, both of your sons were in a fight today. *With* each other. Now, I mean no disrespect, but Mr. Fallon it appears that your son insta-"
"Principal?" Mike cut him off, politely. "Which-"
"Renniks." He gestured toward the lettered block in his desk.
"Right, Principal Renniks. As I was saying... Which son won?"
With his mouth agape, the upstanding citizen and school administrator stared at the two men. "MR. FALLON," he said in a stern voice, "NEITHER OF YOUR SONS ARE IN SCHOOL TO LEARN HOW TO FIGHT! HOW DARE YOU-"
Midspeech, Principal Renniks pressed a button located on the underside of his desk. The three men (and the desk) slowly lowered through the floor into a sound-insulated chamber below.
"That's better. It goes on for a couple minutes, then there's a good chance a pause would fit naturally after it ends. I simulated one of you tearing up, if that's ok."
"Yeah, whatever," Mike said. "Just hand over the score card."
Principal Renniks slowly took a small piece of paper out of an inside pocket of his jacket then handed it to John. Mike craned his neck to see. "Yours," John said. "Congratulations."
"I don't care. Little shit's not even mine. I just need to know beforehand whenever he wins because he likes to drink after he wins. Doesn't bother to fill the cabinet back up, ungrateful little..."
"That's depressing," John said. "I envy you. Mine sings in the shower. Annoying as hell. *And* he can't fight."
"Don't be so hard on him. My son is pretty good at it."
"He's not that good. His stats are just inflated because he got a lucky class schedule this semester."
Mike took his phone out of his pocket, and aggressively searched for a photo in it. The one was one he had taken of the Pug Trophy. His friend had it at the moment. A golden cast of a wheezy dog. He shoved his phone in John's face, as near to arm's length as he dared.
"My son is going to win me this, you'll see!"
"You just said he wasn't yours, and that you don't care. It would be an embarrassment of riches if you won-"
"Big words for a little man!" Mike barked. He was squeezing the arm rests on his chair, and veins were popping in his neck. In all appearances, John was simply sitting and staring back at him.
"...gentleman," Principal Renniks said, simultaneously clearing his throat. He opened a drawer in the desk, pulled out a revolver, and aimed it at them. "You would not *believe* the kinds of things kids bring in for show and tell these days," he said, waving it at them.
An alarm played from the chamber's custom user interface, which signaled that the men would soon be returning back up to the principal's office.
"No adult fights on school property, that's all I'm going to say," Principal Renniks said, while aiming down the sights at Mike. In a flash, he cleared the chamber and stashed it back in the desk. The chairs and desk rose, and the men chatted about anger management tactics and after school volunteering opportunities for a full five minutes.
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[WP] Two fathers are called in to the principal's office after their kids got into a fight. The principal is concerned about disciplining their children but the fathers are more interested in whose kid won the fight.
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“Mr. Smith, Mr. Wesson, I’ve called you in here today for a very important matter”, Principal Johnson began, “it concerns your boys. They’ve been fighting.”
The two fathers were remarkably similar men. Both were in their late forties and had begun to go grey. They were about the same height, and both were built like they had once been athletic, but years of fatherhood and beer had softened them some. The two even had sons the same age, Roger Smith and Scott Wesson. These young men currently sat, heads down, in two chairs beside the principal. Roger had a bag of ice on his face and Scott sported some minor cuts and bruises.
“I don’t know how it started, and these boys won’t say anything, but we had to break them up at recess. This is the second time it’s happened. I’m hoping we can resolve the issue today and that it won’t happen again.” Principal Johnson continued.
Mr. Smith spoke up first, “Certainly, certainly, we can’t have our boys fighting every recess. Our families have known each other for years now, I would hate if Scott got hurt.”
“Exactly”, Mr. Wesson chimed in, “if my boy hurt Roger I don’t know how I would sleep at night.”
“I am glad you two gentlemen understand the situation. I don’t want to punish your boys, but if I catch them fighting one more time I will have to. I hope you can have a talk with them.”, Principal Johnson replied.
But Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson kept speaking.
“Now I don’t see how Roger would get hurt, with the size advantage he has, fighting with Scott is unfair to the poor kid.”, Mr. Smith said in response to Mr. Wesson.
“Size advantage? Please, they are practically the same size, and Scott is much quicker. I mean, why do you think Roger has a bag of ice and Scott doesn’t? I think what happened is clear.”, Mr. Wesson turned to Principal Johnson, “thank you for stopping the fight. I will talk with Scott tonight about not fighting.”
“Wait just a minute”, Mr. Smith interjected, “don’t think I am going to sit here and take these insults about my son. It is obvious that the fight was stopped before he could get any real damage in. He would wipe the floor with Scott.”
Principal Johnson was flabbergasted. “Gentlemen, the purpose of this wasn’t to decide which of your sons would win in a fight, it is to prevent them from fighting. Now you two don’t seem capable of instilling the lesson in them. As such I will be forced to give them detention.”
Scott and Roger finally spoke up, in unison, “Detention?! Anything but detention!”
“If you two promise to never fight again I’ll let it slide, but one more time and you both are suspended.”, Principal Johnson said, turning to the boys.
“Yes sir”, both boys responded.
But the two fathers were still scowling at each other, neither willing to back down from his assertion that his son would be victorious. They both secretly formulated a plan to ensure their son would win the fight.
Many years later the two fathers watched with pride as their sons finally faced off, this time for all the marbles. But alas, a clear victor was determined when, in 1998, The Undertaker threw Mankind off Hell In A Cell, and plummeted 16 ft. through an announcer’s table.
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Both sat twirling their small fingers as the petite woman with braided brown hair sat in her black cushioned chair. The men sat on uncomfortable wooden seats.
"I call you today for your children, Brian and Joseph. It appears they got in a fight."
The men took side glances at each other, but continued to let her speak. The first father, a man with reddish side-parted hair, stared especially hard at the second with piercing glances.
"They're in the nurse's office right now. Brian broke his wrist, Joseph lost three teeth. They haven't spoken about how the fight started-"
"I'm sorry, I need to interrupt.", the reddish-haired man said. The brown-haired father looked at him with a blank stare, but his eyes said interest.
"What will it be, Mr. Plativok?"
"Who won the fight?"
"Excuse me?"
"I want to know who won."
"This is highly inappropriate Mr. Plativok-"
"I agree, I also want to know.", the brown-haired man exclaimed, pushing himself straight in the chair. The petite principal stared surprised at both.
"No one won, we don't even know what the fight was about. You're acting like a child."
"It was probably my Brian", Mr. Plativok bragged, "I've been training him in fistfighting for years."
"Your kid? Didn't know blobs had muscle."
"You have no room to talk, your kid looks like the Scarecrow, especially without the arm strength."
"Least my kid can actually do his homework without the help of a tutor."
"Least my kid can-"
"STOP THIS INSTANT!"
Both men stared at the petite woman. She sighed and took off her wired glasses to clean them. Carefully slipping them back on, Mr. Platovik noticed her temple is throbbing.
"Your boys are in second grade. They are not supposed to beat each other to the point of breaking or losing parts of themselves. What is wrong with you?"
Both men looked at each other. Then they stared back at the petite woman.
Then they stared back at each other.
"So, who's paying expenses?"
"Expenses?", the petite woman questioned.
"My kid broke his wrist. I don't have the money to pay for that."
"You'll have to situate with it yourself. I'm sure you can do it.
Both men smirked at "decide".
"How about we fight?"
"I'll beat you to a pulp, don't even try."
"Mr. Plativok-"
"First to pass out loses."
"You're on, jackoff."
"Don't sweat it ginger."
"Get out of my office."
Mr. Sarath stopped in the middle of his next insult.
"But-"
"Just leave. Your wife will pick up the children."
The men shrugged, and then angrily side-glanced each other. Leaving their chairs, they fought over who left the room first. When they left, the petite woman phoned Mr. Plativok's wife.
"Your husband took his medicine, right?"
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[WP] The dragons of old have always been big fans of language and clever wordplay. How would a rap battle with one go?
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The knight in shining armor approached the dragon slowly. His eyes were closed, nostrils breathing heavily- smoke was billowing forth at a toxic rate. The knight drew his sword and pressed a button on the handle; The sword lit up with a blue electricity. He pressed the point into the underbelly of the dragon softly, and the crackle of the electrical impact stirred the beast.
In a thunderously deep voice, the gigantic lizard spoke;
"Are you not aware of the phrase, "DO NOT POKE THE SLEEPING DRAGON?"
The knight drew in a deep breath. "I am Sir David the Lightning, and I have come to slay you! How will you proceed?"
The dragon groaned. Despite the advances in technology these humans were as barbaric as ever. This one, fortunately, was a tried and true hero. Or, in dragonspeak, an idiot. He took a moment before replying one word, the act of which purged a funnel of fire from his mouth;
"RHYME."
Sir David smiled, "So the rumours are true. You are the legendary dragon poet. The tales of your death and my victory shall be immortalized by all the Bards and MC's in Elythria! I too am a battle rapper, having lived off the streets for years before my squirehood. Very well, we shall have a standard bout of 3 rounds, in which you may take the first; Let us fight!"
The Great Wyrm crashed his talon to the floor, digging his claws into the bedrock. His tail thumped out something akin to a beat, while swiping his claws to imitate a record scratch. He began:
**My name is Swagnarok, I’m a lyrical dragon**
**Soarin through the air while you’re lyrically draggin’**
**I’m hard as a diamond, impossible to crack and**
**Acting like a kraken with my insults lashin**
**I’m making huge waves in the industry; you’re barely splashin’**
**I’m rappin, attackin, you’re crappin your pants and lackin the tactics to withstand the impact of my THRASHING**
**You’re a little knight with a tiny horse**
**Just tryin to fight some you can impress some whores**
**But the outcome is clear, I will win of course;**
**You better surrender and leave… before I make you by force.**
Upon his last words he roared, deafening all within a mile who should hear it. But David simply took off his helmet, revealing a pair of earplugs. He stuck his sword into the ground and shouted back:
**My name is sir David and I stand here defiant.**
**I have come to seize the impossible and slay the Goliath**
**Your words pierce sharply and your size is of giants**
**But if you think you can kill me… I’d like to see you try it.**
**You may spit fire, but I spit pure electricity**
**In fact I’m a hundred million volts of rhetorical ability**
**You could never shock me for I’m the epitome**
**Of a lyrical legend, a rapping divinity**
**I came here to slay dragons-**
**But now im sittin here askin-**
**Why the fuck are you acting like I’m some weak Bilbo baggins?**
**I’m not a hobbling hiding hobbit**
**I don’t own a magic ring**
**I’m not gonna trick you with names while stealing your bling.**
**I am the lightning**
**so quick and so striking**
**I'll dish out a pain, not quite to your liking**
**you are like thunder**
**because you make me wonder**
**how can something so loud, put me into a slumber?**
**You're just the echo of the lightning that came before it**
**you're like the refrain that comes after a chorus**
**Come at me with everything, set your fire ablaze**
**And utter no excuses, when my blade ends your days.**
Swagnarok was silent for a moment. He did not play any beat this time, and when he began his reply, it was impossibly soft.
**Let us utter a moment of silence, for the soul of sir david**
**For I will devour him and leave his blood on the pavement**
**String his insides around town, to his people’s amazement**
**And then scorch down his city like it was “420 blaze it”**
He sneered, and brought his voice up to a crescendo.
**I can tell… you’re on the defensive, setting up garrisons**
**Looking apprehensive, and weak by comparison.**
**You couldn’t kill me with a million, let alone a single sword**
**Whereas a single word from me could inspire a mighty king of lords**
**Forget your crowned fool; For I am the liege that you should kneel before**
**My maw is a sinkhole pit with a needle floor**
**My belly could fit an entire meal of dwarves in an evil horde**
**Each rhyme strikes you like a kite in a lethal storm**
**Because I’m a god in creature form.**
**A beast rampaging, with freaking horns!**
**But go ahead, stand there and ridicule.**
**Laugh while I rip and tear apart every last bit of you**
**As I blow smoke from my nostrils, the smog begins creeping**
**Like a pressing presence presently creeping**
**And quickly David begins his pleading**
**But the dragon Swagnarok is already reaching**
**Hunger in his belly he starts proceeding**
**Takes a bite from the knight who’s seething and SCREECHING**
**Screaming on the ground and viciously bleeding**
**His blood his on fire, he’s overheating**
**Exceeding steaming and still increasing**
**Flaming body, licking leaping**
**Ignited by the rhymes that I am speaking.**
**Finally Sir David ceases breathing.**
**The smoke clears up and starts receding.**
**The rats come forth, squeaking, feasting**
**But not before I, the beast’s, done eating.**
He looked around, at the charred remains of his adversary. He smiled and said aloud,
**Now I found that quite fun, I don’t know about you.**
**After all, you’re the first in a hundred years That’s made it to Round 2.**
EDIT: Formatting
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The world had become dependent on dragons for linguistics years ago. It was a natural fit for them, many agreed, especially considering they were nigh invulnerable to any sort of weapon.
As it turned out, dragons were the closest to cosmically immortal beings that Earth had ever produced. All those tales of knights slaying evil dragons? Yeah... those were dragons playing along. Have you ever answered a toy phone simply because a child handed it to you? To dragon kind, humanity's attempts to fight them were just like that. When a human tried to slay you to conquer evil, you melodramatically played along.
Everyone wondered why dragons decided to make themselves known again. Theories ran wild until someone thought to ask them. It turned out they really liked the expression of linguistics that encapsulate modern rap battles. They found the flow required for them fascinating, and marveled at the manner verses could impact and modify colloquialisms and slang vernacular.
For dragons, it wasn't about who had the most bitches, bling or biggest boat. It was about who could most creatively use that particular method to tell a story or poke fun at their compatriots. It was awe-inspiring if nothing else, watching beings who had lived for millennia drop bars in languages that no longer existed yet had rhyming words with similar meanings to modern languages.
Most of it went over our heads, but every now and again a dragon would decide to "hard mode" it by limiting himself or herself to a single language family or a single language. That still didn't ease the bruised egos of one-time top rappers.
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[WP] Write a story with what appears to be a completely likable and relatable protagonist, then make him a villain in the last paragraph.
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James Galloway never enjoyed his craft. Surgery was a delicate business, and he knew that. For every patient you saved, there were five who you couldn't save. And he was the one who had to tell the distraught families that their son, daughter, grandmother, whoever they were, wasn't going to make it. And he hated that. He always dreaded giving them the news, and them breaking down and sobbing in his arms. He hated that.
The day was July 11, 2014. A day on the job like any other. And he had set to work in his operating room once again. On this particular day, he was fighting to fix a seven year old boy who had been horrifically injured. With blood staining his gloves, James toiled away for hours upon hours, pulling at flesh, and trying desperately to save the child. But, after hours upon hours of work, the heart monitor began emitting a long, droning beep, and James knew it was over. He swore loudly, and threw his scalpel to the floor.
This was the part of the job he hated. He couldn't fix them. They were too broken to fix. He repeated this to himself as he worked away at sawing the child's heart out of its chest cavity. They were too broken to fix. He repeated to himself as he slid the heart into an envelope, marked the address carefully onto it, and placed the child's toe, complete with a toe tag bearing his name, into the envelope. The taste of blood danced along his tongue as he licked the envelope and pressed it shut. They were too broken to fix. James repeated this to himself as he left the envelope on the child's family's doorstep. They were too broken to fix, he repeated to himself as he reclined in his armchair, and turned on the television. Seven missing children. Six of which's hearts had been found on the unfortunate family's doorstep mere days later. They were too broken to fix.
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Patrick was sitting in his lounger, he just finished hand making it today. It was Saturday and his favourite actor was on TV so he was getting a great opportunity to use it for the time. The phone rang, work, he scoffed at the idea of going in on his days off.
He thought about what would really make a good evening perfect. He had the perfect idea. He threw a fresh steak on the BBQ with some potatoes in foil. With the meat simmered and seared he enjoyed an ice cold brew, local stuff, great taste. When the food was done he sat down at the table and devoured the meat and potatoes.
When he was finished, he cleaned up the kitchen but left the dishes for tomorrow because some of them needed to soak overnight. He ran into the garage and cleaned up in there after his carpentry work. The day was coming to an end so he went upstairs and prepared his nightly rituals. He brushed his teeth and had a quick shower because he was quiet dirty after cleaning the garage. Got into his favourite PJ bottoms and got into bed.
He thought to himself, as he did at night, and went over his day. His day was perfect. First day off on sick leave from being a cop, it was excellent. He shut the wife up, made a chair out her bones and hide and ate her thigh on the BBQ. If that wasn't good enough, he was able to clean up all of the evidence in the garage too. He reached for his light, turned it off and sighed a relaxing sigh and exclaim, "just perfect."
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[WP] Write a story with what appears to be a completely likable and relatable protagonist, then make him a villain in the last paragraph.
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The sun smiled brightly at me as I half walked, half skipped to my favorite florist shop. The scents of honeysuckle and gardenias tickled my nose as I turned a street corner. Today was going to be wonderful. When I finally made it to "Ella's Petal Palace" Ella greeted me with her signature priceless smile.
"Hey there stranger." she jested, "come here often?" The twang of her southern accent flowed through my ears like honey. Her auburn hair framed her sweet face delightfully. Before I could get lost in her cool blue eyes, I broke free of her trance and remembered my purpose.
"What you in for today sweetheart?" She cooed.
"I'm looking for a variety bouche." I asserted.
She gave me wry grin. "Johnny, you hound. It's not another lucky lady is it?"
My cheeks were flooded with bright red embarrassment. The other women in the store glanced my way as well. Some of them chuckled amongst themselves, while others just smiled or winked. "Oh please Ella, if anything, I'm the lucky one."
"Well then, maybe she's 'the one'." Ella teased jokingly. As she spoke, she sprawled her hands across the counter, and I noticed something was missing.
"Hey Ell, don't mean to pry, but-" she answered my question before I could even ask it. "We split up. I caught Jack up to his knees in some beach blonde secretary from his office. He'd taken work home before, but this was pushing it a little." Even as she joked, I could see the tears forming in her eyes.
I held her hand and gazed into those baby blues. "Any man dumb enough to let you go, doesn't even deserve to walk on the same street as you. You're special, and you deserve to be loved."
Ella smiled at me and regained her witty composure. "Thank you John. Now what kind of flowers does your lady like?"
"Not really sure, we're still getting to know each other. I trust your judgement though."
She giggled at this. "Well I am a floral expert. Wait here, I'll fix you right up."
She came back a few moments later will a beautiful arrangement of flowers and handed them to me, still brandishing her trademark smile. As I reached into my wallet to pay, Ella raised her hand in protest. "Put that old thing away. It looks like it's been to Afghanistan and back. This one's on the house."
I smiled sheepishly in embarrassment. "Yeah my dog got to it. You know how she likes to massacre my belongings. And I can't just takes these Ell."
"Yes you can. Make sure that girl of yours has a wonderful night. And buy that damn dog a chew toy." I couldn't help, but smile at her.
As I left the store, Ella yelled back at me. "When are you gonna come take me out on one of your magical dates. Can't remember the last time I got to feel like a princess."
I gave her another one of my sheepish grins before saying, "Someday soon Ell." Then again under my breath, "Someday soon."
When I got home I put the bouche in some water while I got ready. Once I'd freshened up, I grabbed the flowers and gave myself the usual pep talk before a big date. "You're special and you deserve to be loved. You're special and you deserve to be loved. You're special and you deserve to be loved." Then I opened the door and headed downstairs to the basement. My date was there. She looked beautiful, even in the dim light. She was glistening with sweat though. She must've been as nervous as I was. Her hands were tied to the chair she sat in. I needed to keep her safe. With monsters like Jake roaming around, she's safest down here. When she saw me she began to tremble and fidget. She was so excited. I went close to her and placed the flowers in her lap. I managed a nervous smile. "Here, these are for you. I wasn't sure what you liked so there's a pretty good mix in there." She looked up at me and tears rolled down her eyes. My heart exploded in joy. She loved them! I pulled the tape off her mouth slowly so I didn't her. "Please! Please let me go, I promise I won't tell anyone. I just wanna go home." Her auburn hair waved wildly as she begged and pleaded. Her words spoke a different story than her ocean-blue eyes gave away. I climbed the stairs as she went on with her hard-to-get routine like they always do. Once I got to the top, I repeated my mantra. "You're special and you deserve to be loved." Then I shut the door.
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Patrick was sitting in his lounger, he just finished hand making it today. It was Saturday and his favourite actor was on TV so he was getting a great opportunity to use it for the time. The phone rang, work, he scoffed at the idea of going in on his days off.
He thought about what would really make a good evening perfect. He had the perfect idea. He threw a fresh steak on the BBQ with some potatoes in foil. With the meat simmered and seared he enjoyed an ice cold brew, local stuff, great taste. When the food was done he sat down at the table and devoured the meat and potatoes.
When he was finished, he cleaned up the kitchen but left the dishes for tomorrow because some of them needed to soak overnight. He ran into the garage and cleaned up in there after his carpentry work. The day was coming to an end so he went upstairs and prepared his nightly rituals. He brushed his teeth and had a quick shower because he was quiet dirty after cleaning the garage. Got into his favourite PJ bottoms and got into bed.
He thought to himself, as he did at night, and went over his day. His day was perfect. First day off on sick leave from being a cop, it was excellent. He shut the wife up, made a chair out her bones and hide and ate her thigh on the BBQ. If that wasn't good enough, he was able to clean up all of the evidence in the garage too. He reached for his light, turned it off and sighed a relaxing sigh and exclaim, "just perfect."
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[WP] Write a story with what appears to be a completely likable and relatable protagonist, then make him a villain in the last paragraph.
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Now I fucking got him. This asshole thinks he can harass my family and get away with every day. He puts his hands on my sister, and touches my mother, and thinks that I was just going to take it?! No, no, no, not today. Today is the day I stop him.
I sat silently as I watched him walk up the street. I had been preparing, watching him, trying to learn his movements. He had used to come by all the time, but my dad used to take care of him. Well, dad had been gone for a while, and this guy kept coming by, the smell of liquor on his breath, trying to rape my family. It ends now.
As he walked up the walk, I tried to scare him away the way dad had done.
"Hey, asshole! Hey, yeah you! Stay away from here, you understand? Go! Go! No one wants you here! One more step and I'll handle you myself!"
He looked at me and gave me one of those stupid sloppy smiles.
"Hey, man. How are you?"
"You better back up or so help me God, I'll kill you! I swear to God I'll kill you!"
He kept smiling and put a finger to his lips as he knocked on the door. He was trying to trick them into letting him in! It was now or never. I ran right at him, hoping to get in between him and the door.
But something held me back. Was I doing the right thing? And then it snapped. I was! I was defending my family! I ran at him and tried to take him down.
He was tall but I had lived my life being short: I knew what to do. I backed up and went straight for his neck. He screamed as I grabbed him and threw him to the ground. I put all my anger into him, making sure he would never hurt my family again!
Just then the door opened.
"Jacob?" she asked, before screaming. Yes! The rapist was back, but not to worry, I was handling him!
"Mom! It's Jacob! Max is attacking him!" she sobbed, clearly overcome by my heroic defense of our family. Yeah tell Mom to come, she'll want to see this! I continued to sink my teeth into this asshole's neck as I heard Mom coming down the stairs. She came outside and screamed and began crying.
"Max, Max, no! Bad dog! No, please stop!" they yelled, grabbing me by the collar and trying to pull me off. How selfish of me, they would want to bite him too! I backed up, and stood there, my tail going a mile a minute. I looked at mom to make sure she was happy. But she just was sobbing as tears flowed down her face. Was she shaking? Probably because her little baby was all grown up and all that. I was the man of the house now!
But then my sister ran to the body and started choking him! She wrapped both arms around his mangled corpse and began crying! Clearly a scare tactic. Man I loved my family.
Dad would be proud.
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Patrick was sitting in his lounger, he just finished hand making it today. It was Saturday and his favourite actor was on TV so he was getting a great opportunity to use it for the time. The phone rang, work, he scoffed at the idea of going in on his days off.
He thought about what would really make a good evening perfect. He had the perfect idea. He threw a fresh steak on the BBQ with some potatoes in foil. With the meat simmered and seared he enjoyed an ice cold brew, local stuff, great taste. When the food was done he sat down at the table and devoured the meat and potatoes.
When he was finished, he cleaned up the kitchen but left the dishes for tomorrow because some of them needed to soak overnight. He ran into the garage and cleaned up in there after his carpentry work. The day was coming to an end so he went upstairs and prepared his nightly rituals. He brushed his teeth and had a quick shower because he was quiet dirty after cleaning the garage. Got into his favourite PJ bottoms and got into bed.
He thought to himself, as he did at night, and went over his day. His day was perfect. First day off on sick leave from being a cop, it was excellent. He shut the wife up, made a chair out her bones and hide and ate her thigh on the BBQ. If that wasn't good enough, he was able to clean up all of the evidence in the garage too. He reached for his light, turned it off and sighed a relaxing sigh and exclaim, "just perfect."
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[WP] Write a story with what appears to be a completely likable and relatable protagonist, then make him a villain in the last paragraph.
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Brian peered forward, squinting through the Caribbean sun and another sparkling spray of salt water as his single-masted sloop cut through the emerald sea. He could hear the guffaws and hollers of Blackbeard's crew chasing his merchant ship...
"Beep Beep Beep Beep..."
Brian groaned and opened his eyes, blinking against the faint morning light filtering through his reddish bedroom curtains. He knew he shouldn't have stayed up to finish binging the second season of Master of None, but how could anyone resist the easy charm of Aziz Ansari?
He tossed his legs over the side of his bed, stumbled towards the bathroom and splashed through a puddle on the floor. Someone had showered already. After 25 years, he still didn't know how his wife could be so unfazed by so little sleep. He stepped into the shower, relishing the drum of warm water over his shoulders, until his eyes passed over the painting of a sleek schooner that hung over the toilet. Pirates, he thought. Why was it always about pirates?
"Dad?" It was Alyssa in the hallway, breaking his reverie with a stern voice. "Debate competition is tonight. This is your 12 hour warning."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world, honey," Brian shouted back over the din of the rushing water.
After a pause, Alyssa replied. "I'll call the office to remind you."
For years Brian was the most organized person he knew...second most organized person he knew. Then he had children and all three of them seemed to take the title from him overnight. But then, he supposed every parent felt that way at times. It isn't just that you see yourself in your children, sometimes you see your better-selves in them.
By the time he made his way downstairs everyone had found their way out the door, except for for their old mutt, Nettie, who rose her head upon hearing Brian's footsteps, and then promptly returned to sleep. Brian looked on jealously as he grabbed his coffee and headed out the door.
Traffic was light as he wound his way into downtown Philly, listening to NPR on the way. As the shadows of the buildings began to stretch across the narrowing roads, he gracefully guided his car into an underground garage with a friendly wave for Felipe the security guard. He drove through the packed garage until he found the one empty spot right next to the elevator, with a small silver nameplate - Brian L. Roberts - CEO, Comcast.
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Patrick was sitting in his lounger, he just finished hand making it today. It was Saturday and his favourite actor was on TV so he was getting a great opportunity to use it for the time. The phone rang, work, he scoffed at the idea of going in on his days off.
He thought about what would really make a good evening perfect. He had the perfect idea. He threw a fresh steak on the BBQ with some potatoes in foil. With the meat simmered and seared he enjoyed an ice cold brew, local stuff, great taste. When the food was done he sat down at the table and devoured the meat and potatoes.
When he was finished, he cleaned up the kitchen but left the dishes for tomorrow because some of them needed to soak overnight. He ran into the garage and cleaned up in there after his carpentry work. The day was coming to an end so he went upstairs and prepared his nightly rituals. He brushed his teeth and had a quick shower because he was quiet dirty after cleaning the garage. Got into his favourite PJ bottoms and got into bed.
He thought to himself, as he did at night, and went over his day. His day was perfect. First day off on sick leave from being a cop, it was excellent. He shut the wife up, made a chair out her bones and hide and ate her thigh on the BBQ. If that wasn't good enough, he was able to clean up all of the evidence in the garage too. He reached for his light, turned it off and sighed a relaxing sigh and exclaim, "just perfect."
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[WP] Write a story with what appears to be a completely likable and relatable protagonist, then make him a villain in the last paragraph.
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1:30 AM.
The simple white clock hung on the wall. Perched below it, an equally simple placard with a single, inspirational reminder,
"Everything has a cure."
The sign's words, like the clock's numbers, were getting hazy and hard to read. He'd been at this for 11 straight hours already. Looking back and forth from his microscope was exhausting his eyes.
Still, he had to press on. He was so close to finding a cure. He could sense it.
>1:31 AM.
>Everything Has A Cure.
His work at the lab was rewarding, indeed. His team had defeated more illnesses in the last two years than any research team before them. Their grants had tripled over the last year, and they had found a cure for two deadly diseases previously labelled "incurable".
Tonight was simply another long night.
There were sacrifices to be made for certain. The demanding hours and constant stress had already cost him a marriage. The dangerous microbes they handled had already cost him a lab partner. No one on the team expected the work to be safe or easy. They simply expected it to be rewarding.
Finding another cure tonight would be his latest reward.
He'd already tried the common solutions. Antibiotics: No Effect. Radiation: No Effect. Bacteriophage treatment: NO EFFECT.
His superiors and even his coworkers were close to giving up. They were starting to say a cure was impossible.
>1:52 AM
>Everything Has A Cure
"Well, one more try", he thought as he dropped another solution into yet another sample dish.
And then, the impossible happened.
Rather, two impossible things happened. First, the bacterial cells were dying. Not only dying, but dying rapidly; so rapidly that a treated patient should be able to benefit from treatment within hours.
Second, the Dr. had actually broken composure. The serious old man of the lab, with his somber expressions and his dogged work ethic, was actually laughing.
A passerby might have mistaken the old man for a giddy teenager at a homecoming game.
"Dr. Brant 3 - Infectious Disease zeroooooooo!!!" he chuckled to himself.
Settled down, but still smiling, the Dr. sat down to his keyboard.
.
.
To: Director, Dept of Health and Human Research
Subj: AD4768 - Cure Identified
Laboratory testing confirms, bacterial organism AD4768 is highly reactive to vitamin C. Findings suggest that patients suffering from AD4768 related illness could be given vitamin C doses sufficient to destroy the bacteria with a high probability of survival and recovery.
Recommendations: Suggest cross breeding AD4768 with *Clostridium Botulinum* to remove vitamin C vulnerability and increase bioagent survivability. Reassess results in 6 months. Should resulting strain prove treatment resistant, forward research to dispersal and delivery section for next stage of development.
Submitted,
Dr. KD Brant, Vulnerability Assessor
Biologics Lab, Unconventional Warfare Ministry
*-Everything Has A Cure*
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Patrick was sitting in his lounger, he just finished hand making it today. It was Saturday and his favourite actor was on TV so he was getting a great opportunity to use it for the time. The phone rang, work, he scoffed at the idea of going in on his days off.
He thought about what would really make a good evening perfect. He had the perfect idea. He threw a fresh steak on the BBQ with some potatoes in foil. With the meat simmered and seared he enjoyed an ice cold brew, local stuff, great taste. When the food was done he sat down at the table and devoured the meat and potatoes.
When he was finished, he cleaned up the kitchen but left the dishes for tomorrow because some of them needed to soak overnight. He ran into the garage and cleaned up in there after his carpentry work. The day was coming to an end so he went upstairs and prepared his nightly rituals. He brushed his teeth and had a quick shower because he was quiet dirty after cleaning the garage. Got into his favourite PJ bottoms and got into bed.
He thought to himself, as he did at night, and went over his day. His day was perfect. First day off on sick leave from being a cop, it was excellent. He shut the wife up, made a chair out her bones and hide and ate her thigh on the BBQ. If that wasn't good enough, he was able to clean up all of the evidence in the garage too. He reached for his light, turned it off and sighed a relaxing sigh and exclaim, "just perfect."
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[WP] Write a story with what appears to be a completely likable and relatable protagonist, then make him a villain in the last paragraph.
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Dave felt the rug beneath his feet before his eyes began to see the outlines in the room. It was still early, and he hoped to get started before his wife woke up. He silently lifted off the bed to find his way to the bathroom down the hall. He looked back at her silhouette, barely moving with her soft, tired breaths.
He went through the typical routine. A heavy morning piss, pulled on some running shorts, splashed some water on his face with his unwashed hands and sliced through the thinning hair on top of his head with his fingers so it would at least all face the same general direction. He walked to the kitchen, drank some milk straight from the refrigerator, pulled out his oats and munched on breakfast as if today was the same as any other day. And it was, really. He just felt the desire to get started a little earlier this time.
Once dressed, he leaned his head into their bedroom and whispered, "I love you, Meredith." Her breathing didn't change, but he liked to think that somewhere, deep down, she knew that he did it each day before he left. He wondered what she would have planned for dinner tonight. And then, he was off, floating in his mind and organizing the day ahead of him.
Dave pulled out of the driveway, and started on his commute. He passed Ana on her early morning run, and raised some fingers to say hello. She would come sometimes, to tell Meredith about the lastest news in their social circle. Listen, but don't tell her anything. That was the household policy with Ana. He merged onto the two-lane highway, heading West. His drive took about an hour to get to the office in Chicago. Other cars began trickling into highway, everyone with the same idea as Dave. He took great care to maintain the speed limit, never wanting to break the rules or draw attention to himself. After moving over for a car to merge into the highway for the third time, he put his cruise control on to 55 miles per hour, and kept himself in the left lane for the rest of his peaceful commute.
(Edited for typos)
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Patrick was sitting in his lounger, he just finished hand making it today. It was Saturday and his favourite actor was on TV so he was getting a great opportunity to use it for the time. The phone rang, work, he scoffed at the idea of going in on his days off.
He thought about what would really make a good evening perfect. He had the perfect idea. He threw a fresh steak on the BBQ with some potatoes in foil. With the meat simmered and seared he enjoyed an ice cold brew, local stuff, great taste. When the food was done he sat down at the table and devoured the meat and potatoes.
When he was finished, he cleaned up the kitchen but left the dishes for tomorrow because some of them needed to soak overnight. He ran into the garage and cleaned up in there after his carpentry work. The day was coming to an end so he went upstairs and prepared his nightly rituals. He brushed his teeth and had a quick shower because he was quiet dirty after cleaning the garage. Got into his favourite PJ bottoms and got into bed.
He thought to himself, as he did at night, and went over his day. His day was perfect. First day off on sick leave from being a cop, it was excellent. He shut the wife up, made a chair out her bones and hide and ate her thigh on the BBQ. If that wasn't good enough, he was able to clean up all of the evidence in the garage too. He reached for his light, turned it off and sighed a relaxing sigh and exclaim, "just perfect."
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[WP] Write a story with what appears to be a completely likable and relatable protagonist, then make him a villain in the last paragraph.
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William couldn't believe his luck. His Phone just buzzed with a message from Nomi, the only girl whose heart he had ever desired. He'd added her on Facebook a couple weeks ago, after seeing her across the street in the town they grew up in. He didn't dare to say anything then, Will was ever the introvert, and simply walking up to an old high school classmate was too frightening, so he tried his luck online. It took three days for her to accept his 'friend request', and two weeks before she finally replied to his message. But here it was! He caught himself wondering how it was possible that the words 'Tomorrow at 8?' could produce such an astonishing feeling of warmth. He typed a quick 'see you there!' and suppressed the desire to add anything that would show his enthusiasm.
They met at the cinema, like he had proposed. He was an hour early, she was ten minutes late, but they were still just in time for the movie. Will had put in his best effort to look dressed up, yet casual. Nomi had apparently done the same. "Hey you," she said, after which she gave him a swift hug. There was that warm feeling again. She had grown into quite a pretty girl; long blonde hair, a cute face, a good fashion sense, and still those amazingly deep green eyes. "You look exquisite!" exclaimed Will. He had already lost any pre-conceived notion of hiding his enthusiasm. Nomi didn't seem to mind though, as she blushed quite heavily.
They were halfway through the movie. It was an unremarkable chick-flick, yet the acting was remarkably good. Nomi grabbed another handful of popcorn that Will had bought for them. His hand was still in there when she reached, and their fingers met somewhere on the bottom of the large container. Both of them stopped moving, their hands suspended in a sea of salted popcorn. Right as Will wanted to move his hand again, Nomi slowly brushed one of his fingers. Minutes later the container was on the floor and they were holding hands, while the story in front of them slowly grew to a dramatic yet very romantic conclusion.
After several hours, William finally got back home. He had spent the rest of the evening in his car with Nomi next to him, and at a certain point on top of him. Still filled with joy, he removed his shoes and his scarf, put his clothes in the washer, then walked upstairs to take a shower. It took him quite a while to scrub his hands and his face. After cleaning the shower, he looked in the mirror, satisfied. This was a truely wonderful night, far better than he had imagined it last night after Nomi's reply. He would never be hungry for love again, her heart was now forever his. He noticed a small piece of it still stuck between his teeth. A quick floss fixed that, and he finally went to bed. William couldn't believe his luck.
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Patrick was sitting in his lounger, he just finished hand making it today. It was Saturday and his favourite actor was on TV so he was getting a great opportunity to use it for the time. The phone rang, work, he scoffed at the idea of going in on his days off.
He thought about what would really make a good evening perfect. He had the perfect idea. He threw a fresh steak on the BBQ with some potatoes in foil. With the meat simmered and seared he enjoyed an ice cold brew, local stuff, great taste. When the food was done he sat down at the table and devoured the meat and potatoes.
When he was finished, he cleaned up the kitchen but left the dishes for tomorrow because some of them needed to soak overnight. He ran into the garage and cleaned up in there after his carpentry work. The day was coming to an end so he went upstairs and prepared his nightly rituals. He brushed his teeth and had a quick shower because he was quiet dirty after cleaning the garage. Got into his favourite PJ bottoms and got into bed.
He thought to himself, as he did at night, and went over his day. His day was perfect. First day off on sick leave from being a cop, it was excellent. He shut the wife up, made a chair out her bones and hide and ate her thigh on the BBQ. If that wasn't good enough, he was able to clean up all of the evidence in the garage too. He reached for his light, turned it off and sighed a relaxing sigh and exclaim, "just perfect."
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[WP] Write a story with what appears to be a completely likable and relatable protagonist, then make him a villain in the last paragraph.
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The sun smiled brightly at me as I half walked, half skipped to my favorite florist shop. The scents of honeysuckle and gardenias tickled my nose as I turned a street corner. Today was going to be wonderful. When I finally made it to "Ella's Petal Palace" Ella greeted me with her signature priceless smile.
"Hey there stranger." she jested, "come here often?" The twang of her southern accent flowed through my ears like honey. Her auburn hair framed her sweet face delightfully. Before I could get lost in her cool blue eyes, I broke free of her trance and remembered my purpose.
"What you in for today sweetheart?" She cooed.
"I'm looking for a variety bouche." I asserted.
She gave me wry grin. "Johnny, you hound. It's not another lucky lady is it?"
My cheeks were flooded with bright red embarrassment. The other women in the store glanced my way as well. Some of them chuckled amongst themselves, while others just smiled or winked. "Oh please Ella, if anything, I'm the lucky one."
"Well then, maybe she's 'the one'." Ella teased jokingly. As she spoke, she sprawled her hands across the counter, and I noticed something was missing.
"Hey Ell, don't mean to pry, but-" she answered my question before I could even ask it. "We split up. I caught Jack up to his knees in some beach blonde secretary from his office. He'd taken work home before, but this was pushing it a little." Even as she joked, I could see the tears forming in her eyes.
I held her hand and gazed into those baby blues. "Any man dumb enough to let you go, doesn't even deserve to walk on the same street as you. You're special, and you deserve to be loved."
Ella smiled at me and regained her witty composure. "Thank you John. Now what kind of flowers does your lady like?"
"Not really sure, we're still getting to know each other. I trust your judgement though."
She giggled at this. "Well I am a floral expert. Wait here, I'll fix you right up."
She came back a few moments later will a beautiful arrangement of flowers and handed them to me, still brandishing her trademark smile. As I reached into my wallet to pay, Ella raised her hand in protest. "Put that old thing away. It looks like it's been to Afghanistan and back. This one's on the house."
I smiled sheepishly in embarrassment. "Yeah my dog got to it. You know how she likes to massacre my belongings. And I can't just takes these Ell."
"Yes you can. Make sure that girl of yours has a wonderful night. And buy that damn dog a chew toy." I couldn't help, but smile at her.
As I left the store, Ella yelled back at me. "When are you gonna come take me out on one of your magical dates. Can't remember the last time I got to feel like a princess."
I gave her another one of my sheepish grins before saying, "Someday soon Ell." Then again under my breath, "Someday soon."
When I got home I put the bouche in some water while I got ready. Once I'd freshened up, I grabbed the flowers and gave myself the usual pep talk before a big date. "You're special and you deserve to be loved. You're special and you deserve to be loved. You're special and you deserve to be loved." Then I opened the door and headed downstairs to the basement. My date was there. She looked beautiful, even in the dim light. She was glistening with sweat though. She must've been as nervous as I was. Her hands were tied to the chair she sat in. I needed to keep her safe. With monsters like Jake roaming around, she's safest down here. When she saw me she began to tremble and fidget. She was so excited. I went close to her and placed the flowers in her lap. I managed a nervous smile. "Here, these are for you. I wasn't sure what you liked so there's a pretty good mix in there." She looked up at me and tears rolled down her eyes. My heart exploded in joy. She loved them! I pulled the tape off her mouth slowly so I didn't her. "Please! Please let me go, I promise I won't tell anyone. I just wanna go home." Her auburn hair waved wildly as she begged and pleaded. Her words spoke a different story than her ocean-blue eyes gave away. I climbed the stairs as she went on with her hard-to-get routine like they always do. Once I got to the top, I repeated my mantra. "You're special and you deserve to be loved." Then I shut the door.
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"I'm a lucky man" I thought to myself as I looked at my new girlfriend across the table of a small cafe we were eating lunch at. She looked absolutely beautiful even when she wasn't trying. Neither of us were talking, yet it wasn't awkward. It was warm, I could see this lasting a long time. The moment was subsequently ruined by my butthole. I farted. She looked away and did one of those little nose laughs where it's like a more elegant snort.
"S-sorry I didn't even feel it coming..." I stammer, embarrassed. She looks at me smiling, and says
"It's fine, just don't think about it."
Right.
Over the course of the next half hour, I keep apologizing and talking about it. She starts to get annoyed and tells me to
"Just FUCKing drop it. I don't care"
I'm relieved, she's not grossed out by me. I finally ask
"So y-you're still attracted to me?"
Before she can answer, she farts. Surprised, she says
"See? Now we're even."
I tackle her to the ground and knock her teeth out. Disgusting bitch.
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[WP] Write a story with what appears to be a completely likable and relatable protagonist, then make him a villain in the last paragraph.
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Brian peered forward, squinting through the Caribbean sun and another sparkling spray of salt water as his single-masted sloop cut through the emerald sea. He could hear the guffaws and hollers of Blackbeard's crew chasing his merchant ship...
"Beep Beep Beep Beep..."
Brian groaned and opened his eyes, blinking against the faint morning light filtering through his reddish bedroom curtains. He knew he shouldn't have stayed up to finish binging the second season of Master of None, but how could anyone resist the easy charm of Aziz Ansari?
He tossed his legs over the side of his bed, stumbled towards the bathroom and splashed through a puddle on the floor. Someone had showered already. After 25 years, he still didn't know how his wife could be so unfazed by so little sleep. He stepped into the shower, relishing the drum of warm water over his shoulders, until his eyes passed over the painting of a sleek schooner that hung over the toilet. Pirates, he thought. Why was it always about pirates?
"Dad?" It was Alyssa in the hallway, breaking his reverie with a stern voice. "Debate competition is tonight. This is your 12 hour warning."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world, honey," Brian shouted back over the din of the rushing water.
After a pause, Alyssa replied. "I'll call the office to remind you."
For years Brian was the most organized person he knew...second most organized person he knew. Then he had children and all three of them seemed to take the title from him overnight. But then, he supposed every parent felt that way at times. It isn't just that you see yourself in your children, sometimes you see your better-selves in them.
By the time he made his way downstairs everyone had found their way out the door, except for for their old mutt, Nettie, who rose her head upon hearing Brian's footsteps, and then promptly returned to sleep. Brian looked on jealously as he grabbed his coffee and headed out the door.
Traffic was light as he wound his way into downtown Philly, listening to NPR on the way. As the shadows of the buildings began to stretch across the narrowing roads, he gracefully guided his car into an underground garage with a friendly wave for Felipe the security guard. He drove through the packed garage until he found the one empty spot right next to the elevator, with a small silver nameplate - Brian L. Roberts - CEO, Comcast.
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"I'm a lucky man" I thought to myself as I looked at my new girlfriend across the table of a small cafe we were eating lunch at. She looked absolutely beautiful even when she wasn't trying. Neither of us were talking, yet it wasn't awkward. It was warm, I could see this lasting a long time. The moment was subsequently ruined by my butthole. I farted. She looked away and did one of those little nose laughs where it's like a more elegant snort.
"S-sorry I didn't even feel it coming..." I stammer, embarrassed. She looks at me smiling, and says
"It's fine, just don't think about it."
Right.
Over the course of the next half hour, I keep apologizing and talking about it. She starts to get annoyed and tells me to
"Just FUCKing drop it. I don't care"
I'm relieved, she's not grossed out by me. I finally ask
"So y-you're still attracted to me?"
Before she can answer, she farts. Surprised, she says
"See? Now we're even."
I tackle her to the ground and knock her teeth out. Disgusting bitch.
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[WP] Write a story with what appears to be a completely likable and relatable protagonist, then make him a villain in the last paragraph.
|
The sun smiled brightly at me as I half walked, half skipped to my favorite florist shop. The scents of honeysuckle and gardenias tickled my nose as I turned a street corner. Today was going to be wonderful. When I finally made it to "Ella's Petal Palace" Ella greeted me with her signature priceless smile.
"Hey there stranger." she jested, "come here often?" The twang of her southern accent flowed through my ears like honey. Her auburn hair framed her sweet face delightfully. Before I could get lost in her cool blue eyes, I broke free of her trance and remembered my purpose.
"What you in for today sweetheart?" She cooed.
"I'm looking for a variety bouche." I asserted.
She gave me wry grin. "Johnny, you hound. It's not another lucky lady is it?"
My cheeks were flooded with bright red embarrassment. The other women in the store glanced my way as well. Some of them chuckled amongst themselves, while others just smiled or winked. "Oh please Ella, if anything, I'm the lucky one."
"Well then, maybe she's 'the one'." Ella teased jokingly. As she spoke, she sprawled her hands across the counter, and I noticed something was missing.
"Hey Ell, don't mean to pry, but-" she answered my question before I could even ask it. "We split up. I caught Jack up to his knees in some beach blonde secretary from his office. He'd taken work home before, but this was pushing it a little." Even as she joked, I could see the tears forming in her eyes.
I held her hand and gazed into those baby blues. "Any man dumb enough to let you go, doesn't even deserve to walk on the same street as you. You're special, and you deserve to be loved."
Ella smiled at me and regained her witty composure. "Thank you John. Now what kind of flowers does your lady like?"
"Not really sure, we're still getting to know each other. I trust your judgement though."
She giggled at this. "Well I am a floral expert. Wait here, I'll fix you right up."
She came back a few moments later will a beautiful arrangement of flowers and handed them to me, still brandishing her trademark smile. As I reached into my wallet to pay, Ella raised her hand in protest. "Put that old thing away. It looks like it's been to Afghanistan and back. This one's on the house."
I smiled sheepishly in embarrassment. "Yeah my dog got to it. You know how she likes to massacre my belongings. And I can't just takes these Ell."
"Yes you can. Make sure that girl of yours has a wonderful night. And buy that damn dog a chew toy." I couldn't help, but smile at her.
As I left the store, Ella yelled back at me. "When are you gonna come take me out on one of your magical dates. Can't remember the last time I got to feel like a princess."
I gave her another one of my sheepish grins before saying, "Someday soon Ell." Then again under my breath, "Someday soon."
When I got home I put the bouche in some water while I got ready. Once I'd freshened up, I grabbed the flowers and gave myself the usual pep talk before a big date. "You're special and you deserve to be loved. You're special and you deserve to be loved. You're special and you deserve to be loved." Then I opened the door and headed downstairs to the basement. My date was there. She looked beautiful, even in the dim light. She was glistening with sweat though. She must've been as nervous as I was. Her hands were tied to the chair she sat in. I needed to keep her safe. With monsters like Jake roaming around, she's safest down here. When she saw me she began to tremble and fidget. She was so excited. I went close to her and placed the flowers in her lap. I managed a nervous smile. "Here, these are for you. I wasn't sure what you liked so there's a pretty good mix in there." She looked up at me and tears rolled down her eyes. My heart exploded in joy. She loved them! I pulled the tape off her mouth slowly so I didn't her. "Please! Please let me go, I promise I won't tell anyone. I just wanna go home." Her auburn hair waved wildly as she begged and pleaded. Her words spoke a different story than her ocean-blue eyes gave away. I climbed the stairs as she went on with her hard-to-get routine like they always do. Once I got to the top, I repeated my mantra. "You're special and you deserve to be loved." Then I shut the door.
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James Galloway never enjoyed his craft. Surgery was a delicate business, and he knew that. For every patient you saved, there were five who you couldn't save. And he was the one who had to tell the distraught families that their son, daughter, grandmother, whoever they were, wasn't going to make it. And he hated that. He always dreaded giving them the news, and them breaking down and sobbing in his arms. He hated that.
The day was July 11, 2014. A day on the job like any other. And he had set to work in his operating room once again. On this particular day, he was fighting to fix a seven year old boy who had been horrifically injured. With blood staining his gloves, James toiled away for hours upon hours, pulling at flesh, and trying desperately to save the child. But, after hours upon hours of work, the heart monitor began emitting a long, droning beep, and James knew it was over. He swore loudly, and threw his scalpel to the floor.
This was the part of the job he hated. He couldn't fix them. They were too broken to fix. He repeated this to himself as he worked away at sawing the child's heart out of its chest cavity. They were too broken to fix. He repeated to himself as he slid the heart into an envelope, marked the address carefully onto it, and placed the child's toe, complete with a toe tag bearing his name, into the envelope. The taste of blood danced along his tongue as he licked the envelope and pressed it shut. They were too broken to fix. James repeated this to himself as he left the envelope on the child's family's doorstep. They were too broken to fix, he repeated to himself as he reclined in his armchair, and turned on the television. Seven missing children. Six of which's hearts had been found on the unfortunate family's doorstep mere days later. They were too broken to fix.
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[WP] Write a story with what appears to be a completely likable and relatable protagonist, then make him a villain in the last paragraph.
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Brian peered forward, squinting through the Caribbean sun and another sparkling spray of salt water as his single-masted sloop cut through the emerald sea. He could hear the guffaws and hollers of Blackbeard's crew chasing his merchant ship...
"Beep Beep Beep Beep..."
Brian groaned and opened his eyes, blinking against the faint morning light filtering through his reddish bedroom curtains. He knew he shouldn't have stayed up to finish binging the second season of Master of None, but how could anyone resist the easy charm of Aziz Ansari?
He tossed his legs over the side of his bed, stumbled towards the bathroom and splashed through a puddle on the floor. Someone had showered already. After 25 years, he still didn't know how his wife could be so unfazed by so little sleep. He stepped into the shower, relishing the drum of warm water over his shoulders, until his eyes passed over the painting of a sleek schooner that hung over the toilet. Pirates, he thought. Why was it always about pirates?
"Dad?" It was Alyssa in the hallway, breaking his reverie with a stern voice. "Debate competition is tonight. This is your 12 hour warning."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world, honey," Brian shouted back over the din of the rushing water.
After a pause, Alyssa replied. "I'll call the office to remind you."
For years Brian was the most organized person he knew...second most organized person he knew. Then he had children and all three of them seemed to take the title from him overnight. But then, he supposed every parent felt that way at times. It isn't just that you see yourself in your children, sometimes you see your better-selves in them.
By the time he made his way downstairs everyone had found their way out the door, except for for their old mutt, Nettie, who rose her head upon hearing Brian's footsteps, and then promptly returned to sleep. Brian looked on jealously as he grabbed his coffee and headed out the door.
Traffic was light as he wound his way into downtown Philly, listening to NPR on the way. As the shadows of the buildings began to stretch across the narrowing roads, he gracefully guided his car into an underground garage with a friendly wave for Felipe the security guard. He drove through the packed garage until he found the one empty spot right next to the elevator, with a small silver nameplate - Brian L. Roberts - CEO, Comcast.
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James Galloway never enjoyed his craft. Surgery was a delicate business, and he knew that. For every patient you saved, there were five who you couldn't save. And he was the one who had to tell the distraught families that their son, daughter, grandmother, whoever they were, wasn't going to make it. And he hated that. He always dreaded giving them the news, and them breaking down and sobbing in his arms. He hated that.
The day was July 11, 2014. A day on the job like any other. And he had set to work in his operating room once again. On this particular day, he was fighting to fix a seven year old boy who had been horrifically injured. With blood staining his gloves, James toiled away for hours upon hours, pulling at flesh, and trying desperately to save the child. But, after hours upon hours of work, the heart monitor began emitting a long, droning beep, and James knew it was over. He swore loudly, and threw his scalpel to the floor.
This was the part of the job he hated. He couldn't fix them. They were too broken to fix. He repeated this to himself as he worked away at sawing the child's heart out of its chest cavity. They were too broken to fix. He repeated to himself as he slid the heart into an envelope, marked the address carefully onto it, and placed the child's toe, complete with a toe tag bearing his name, into the envelope. The taste of blood danced along his tongue as he licked the envelope and pressed it shut. They were too broken to fix. James repeated this to himself as he left the envelope on the child's family's doorstep. They were too broken to fix, he repeated to himself as he reclined in his armchair, and turned on the television. Seven missing children. Six of which's hearts had been found on the unfortunate family's doorstep mere days later. They were too broken to fix.
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[WP] Write a story with what appears to be a completely likable and relatable protagonist, then make him a villain in the last paragraph.
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Brian peered forward, squinting through the Caribbean sun and another sparkling spray of salt water as his single-masted sloop cut through the emerald sea. He could hear the guffaws and hollers of Blackbeard's crew chasing his merchant ship...
"Beep Beep Beep Beep..."
Brian groaned and opened his eyes, blinking against the faint morning light filtering through his reddish bedroom curtains. He knew he shouldn't have stayed up to finish binging the second season of Master of None, but how could anyone resist the easy charm of Aziz Ansari?
He tossed his legs over the side of his bed, stumbled towards the bathroom and splashed through a puddle on the floor. Someone had showered already. After 25 years, he still didn't know how his wife could be so unfazed by so little sleep. He stepped into the shower, relishing the drum of warm water over his shoulders, until his eyes passed over the painting of a sleek schooner that hung over the toilet. Pirates, he thought. Why was it always about pirates?
"Dad?" It was Alyssa in the hallway, breaking his reverie with a stern voice. "Debate competition is tonight. This is your 12 hour warning."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world, honey," Brian shouted back over the din of the rushing water.
After a pause, Alyssa replied. "I'll call the office to remind you."
For years Brian was the most organized person he knew...second most organized person he knew. Then he had children and all three of them seemed to take the title from him overnight. But then, he supposed every parent felt that way at times. It isn't just that you see yourself in your children, sometimes you see your better-selves in them.
By the time he made his way downstairs everyone had found their way out the door, except for for their old mutt, Nettie, who rose her head upon hearing Brian's footsteps, and then promptly returned to sleep. Brian looked on jealously as he grabbed his coffee and headed out the door.
Traffic was light as he wound his way into downtown Philly, listening to NPR on the way. As the shadows of the buildings began to stretch across the narrowing roads, he gracefully guided his car into an underground garage with a friendly wave for Felipe the security guard. He drove through the packed garage until he found the one empty spot right next to the elevator, with a small silver nameplate - Brian L. Roberts - CEO, Comcast.
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Now I fucking got him. This asshole thinks he can harass my family and get away with every day. He puts his hands on my sister, and touches my mother, and thinks that I was just going to take it?! No, no, no, not today. Today is the day I stop him.
I sat silently as I watched him walk up the street. I had been preparing, watching him, trying to learn his movements. He had used to come by all the time, but my dad used to take care of him. Well, dad had been gone for a while, and this guy kept coming by, the smell of liquor on his breath, trying to rape my family. It ends now.
As he walked up the walk, I tried to scare him away the way dad had done.
"Hey, asshole! Hey, yeah you! Stay away from here, you understand? Go! Go! No one wants you here! One more step and I'll handle you myself!"
He looked at me and gave me one of those stupid sloppy smiles.
"Hey, man. How are you?"
"You better back up or so help me God, I'll kill you! I swear to God I'll kill you!"
He kept smiling and put a finger to his lips as he knocked on the door. He was trying to trick them into letting him in! It was now or never. I ran right at him, hoping to get in between him and the door.
But something held me back. Was I doing the right thing? And then it snapped. I was! I was defending my family! I ran at him and tried to take him down.
He was tall but I had lived my life being short: I knew what to do. I backed up and went straight for his neck. He screamed as I grabbed him and threw him to the ground. I put all my anger into him, making sure he would never hurt my family again!
Just then the door opened.
"Jacob?" she asked, before screaming. Yes! The rapist was back, but not to worry, I was handling him!
"Mom! It's Jacob! Max is attacking him!" she sobbed, clearly overcome by my heroic defense of our family. Yeah tell Mom to come, she'll want to see this! I continued to sink my teeth into this asshole's neck as I heard Mom coming down the stairs. She came outside and screamed and began crying.
"Max, Max, no! Bad dog! No, please stop!" they yelled, grabbing me by the collar and trying to pull me off. How selfish of me, they would want to bite him too! I backed up, and stood there, my tail going a mile a minute. I looked at mom to make sure she was happy. But she just was sobbing as tears flowed down her face. Was she shaking? Probably because her little baby was all grown up and all that. I was the man of the house now!
But then my sister ran to the body and started choking him! She wrapped both arms around his mangled corpse and began crying! Clearly a scare tactic. Man I loved my family.
Dad would be proud.
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[WP] Write a story with what appears to be a completely likable and relatable protagonist, then make him a villain in the last paragraph.
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1:30 AM.
The simple white clock hung on the wall. Perched below it, an equally simple placard with a single, inspirational reminder,
"Everything has a cure."
The sign's words, like the clock's numbers, were getting hazy and hard to read. He'd been at this for 11 straight hours already. Looking back and forth from his microscope was exhausting his eyes.
Still, he had to press on. He was so close to finding a cure. He could sense it.
>1:31 AM.
>Everything Has A Cure.
His work at the lab was rewarding, indeed. His team had defeated more illnesses in the last two years than any research team before them. Their grants had tripled over the last year, and they had found a cure for two deadly diseases previously labelled "incurable".
Tonight was simply another long night.
There were sacrifices to be made for certain. The demanding hours and constant stress had already cost him a marriage. The dangerous microbes they handled had already cost him a lab partner. No one on the team expected the work to be safe or easy. They simply expected it to be rewarding.
Finding another cure tonight would be his latest reward.
He'd already tried the common solutions. Antibiotics: No Effect. Radiation: No Effect. Bacteriophage treatment: NO EFFECT.
His superiors and even his coworkers were close to giving up. They were starting to say a cure was impossible.
>1:52 AM
>Everything Has A Cure
"Well, one more try", he thought as he dropped another solution into yet another sample dish.
And then, the impossible happened.
Rather, two impossible things happened. First, the bacterial cells were dying. Not only dying, but dying rapidly; so rapidly that a treated patient should be able to benefit from treatment within hours.
Second, the Dr. had actually broken composure. The serious old man of the lab, with his somber expressions and his dogged work ethic, was actually laughing.
A passerby might have mistaken the old man for a giddy teenager at a homecoming game.
"Dr. Brant 3 - Infectious Disease zeroooooooo!!!" he chuckled to himself.
Settled down, but still smiling, the Dr. sat down to his keyboard.
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To: Director, Dept of Health and Human Research
Subj: AD4768 - Cure Identified
Laboratory testing confirms, bacterial organism AD4768 is highly reactive to vitamin C. Findings suggest that patients suffering from AD4768 related illness could be given vitamin C doses sufficient to destroy the bacteria with a high probability of survival and recovery.
Recommendations: Suggest cross breeding AD4768 with *Clostridium Botulinum* to remove vitamin C vulnerability and increase bioagent survivability. Reassess results in 6 months. Should resulting strain prove treatment resistant, forward research to dispersal and delivery section for next stage of development.
Submitted,
Dr. KD Brant, Vulnerability Assessor
Biologics Lab, Unconventional Warfare Ministry
*-Everything Has A Cure*
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Now I fucking got him. This asshole thinks he can harass my family and get away with every day. He puts his hands on my sister, and touches my mother, and thinks that I was just going to take it?! No, no, no, not today. Today is the day I stop him.
I sat silently as I watched him walk up the street. I had been preparing, watching him, trying to learn his movements. He had used to come by all the time, but my dad used to take care of him. Well, dad had been gone for a while, and this guy kept coming by, the smell of liquor on his breath, trying to rape my family. It ends now.
As he walked up the walk, I tried to scare him away the way dad had done.
"Hey, asshole! Hey, yeah you! Stay away from here, you understand? Go! Go! No one wants you here! One more step and I'll handle you myself!"
He looked at me and gave me one of those stupid sloppy smiles.
"Hey, man. How are you?"
"You better back up or so help me God, I'll kill you! I swear to God I'll kill you!"
He kept smiling and put a finger to his lips as he knocked on the door. He was trying to trick them into letting him in! It was now or never. I ran right at him, hoping to get in between him and the door.
But something held me back. Was I doing the right thing? And then it snapped. I was! I was defending my family! I ran at him and tried to take him down.
He was tall but I had lived my life being short: I knew what to do. I backed up and went straight for his neck. He screamed as I grabbed him and threw him to the ground. I put all my anger into him, making sure he would never hurt my family again!
Just then the door opened.
"Jacob?" she asked, before screaming. Yes! The rapist was back, but not to worry, I was handling him!
"Mom! It's Jacob! Max is attacking him!" she sobbed, clearly overcome by my heroic defense of our family. Yeah tell Mom to come, she'll want to see this! I continued to sink my teeth into this asshole's neck as I heard Mom coming down the stairs. She came outside and screamed and began crying.
"Max, Max, no! Bad dog! No, please stop!" they yelled, grabbing me by the collar and trying to pull me off. How selfish of me, they would want to bite him too! I backed up, and stood there, my tail going a mile a minute. I looked at mom to make sure she was happy. But she just was sobbing as tears flowed down her face. Was she shaking? Probably because her little baby was all grown up and all that. I was the man of the house now!
But then my sister ran to the body and started choking him! She wrapped both arms around his mangled corpse and began crying! Clearly a scare tactic. Man I loved my family.
Dad would be proud.
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[WP] You are a captured POW in a dangerous foreign country. You are about to undergo your first torture session. The method: being dipped head-first into a barrel of acid. The hallucinogenic, not the hazardous corrosive substance.
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"Kaleidoscope". It's a peculiar word. You found the toy to be amusing as a child; you had even heard of boutique one's that had sold to persons of higher social standing than were familiar to you. The way that a tube crammed full of mirrors and colored glass could mangle reality so artistically was. . . you weren't particularly aware of the proper description for the action. Distorted, maybe?
The flood of childhood memories that accompanied this train of thought were quickly abated. The lack of blood flowing to your feet, as well as the excess to your brain, proved beneficial to your imagination, but not so much to your concentration. The footsteps around you are audible, but liquid in your ears muffled the accompanying conversation. You feel gravity give way; momentarily. Viscous fluid permeating your face was one of the more unpleasant experiences humans may come across. Breath is an ephemeral concept when one is deprived of it. At the last throes of your stubborn refusal of breath you twitch, before inevitably giving in to a gasp. An attempted gasp more truthfully. A flood of bitter tar enters into your mouth and nose without debate.
The kaleidoscopic sensation returns as stars erupt inside your head, your senses rocketed to space. The universe is vast and cold. Unforgiving in it's enormity. A faint star forming in the corner of your eye glistens. It burns brighter, growing years older and light years larger in moments. This egg of primordial energy burn before you. You reach out to grasp the egg only to realize it eludes your grasp in size and distance. The realization of this acquaints your with the coldness of space. Your eyes close to find peace in your own consciousness.
In the vast quiet you hear a solitary hymn, feeling an accompanying warmness on your face. Your eyes open to the same star at the same distance, only now a vast crack has materialized on the surface. You feel kindness, not like anything you've felt in your captivity. An outstretched hand is all that can be offered. From this sublime yolk an appendage of some pastafarian nature crept out. This appendage met with yours in an exchange of warmth. The returning flow of your blood.
The binding of your feet slacked.
Pulled into this burning cradle you understand what you've found: Salvation.
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You proceed to have an experience that is far beyond being described by mere words, and realize the infinite vibrations of existence that coalesce into the world that we call "reality". Your torturer says, "Mannn, this is some serious bullshit. I'm tired of having a fucking hippy for a commander. All we've managed to do so far is create an army of counter-cultural prisoners who won't shut their GOD DAMN MOUTHS about "everything being one". I don't get paid enough for this shit..."
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[WP] In a world of superpowers, you are the anomaly. After years of being bullied and being called 'freak', you finally can't take it anymore and reveal your immensely powerful superpower
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Since the day i was born, my family had been waiting and watching, trying to determine if i have powers and spending hours speculating what my ability will be.
When i was l 2 my uncle, in a misguided attempt to determine what my powers were, dropped me from the fourth story of our family home. I was saved by mother, just before i hit the ground. My uncle doesn't come around anymore.
When i entered school at 6 i was tormented constantly and relentlessly, by the kids who could fly, had super strength, or could accelerate the growth of plants, or control water and wind or fire, at first it was just name calling, most often "Freak", or cruel jokes. Before long it was a daily occurrence for me to end up in the nurses office or occasionally the hospital when the other students became particularly cruel. My parents did nothing to stop this treatment, embarrassed by my existence and lack of powers when they both were highly accomplished and highly acclaimed users.
Coming home from school offered on respite either. My siblings tormented me just as bad or worse as my classmates and my parents turned a blind eye, maybe in a blind hope that the torment would awaken my abilities. Everyday i would stay quiet and hide listening and learning, staying absolutely quiet and still, to the point that my siblings and classmates could no longer find me.
When i turned 11 the school i attended finally decided, due to my non existent social interactions and my lack of participation and lack of speaking, it would be in my best interest to attend the non user school across town and learn how to integrate into the non-user community. My parents and my siblings truly ostracised me from the family at that point, even going to far as to remove me from the family home and building a small house on the other end of the property. After that event, I no longer had to worry about torment from my classmates or my siblings.
I attended the non-user school and made sure to take particular interest in the martial arts, and welding classes. When i returned to my home, I would spend my days honing my body and spending many hours in silence and learning how to control my ability that no one noticed or even knew about.
As i aged, my powers grew, growing stronger and more potent with each day. Traditionally, in our nation when a child turned 18 they were "unveiled" to the world and had the right to challenge a User(s) to prove their might or settle a grudge. At 16 I became determined to go through the rites and reveal myself in full. With the help of my friends from the non-user school and what i had learned over at the other school i set my plan into motion.
When the day came for the new generation of Users to be revealed, we all were to present ourselves at the National Arena where the ceremonies would be broadcast around the world. I used my power just slightly to avoid detection in the group of Users, as they entered the area and went to the staging areas or into locker rooms to change into a costume or family regalia. I stole away into a janitors closet and open the duffel bag that my regular friends gave me, and inside was what i had worked on all these long years.
Inside was a suit of armour that was plain but sturdy, consisting of a Greek, Linothorax, with a skirt of studded leather and chainmail, Steel Greaves and Vambraces, polished blindingly bright, black knee high boots with hobnails and steel toes, a elbow length soft leather glove with armour plated fingers. Inside the bag was also a sword. Simple in design and decoration, with a simple steel pommel, and crossguards, and a leather grip, the blade was single edge, and straight, coming to a needle like point, and a razor sharp edge.
Donning my armour and sword, i drew a simple black cloak over my armour and myself, and drew the hood over my head, i walked out and waited in the shadows for the rest of the "Supers." The Ceremonies began with the national anthem and then went directly into the showcase, where the new Supers, could show off their abilities and attempt to impress companies or even cities into accepting their services.
Only towards the end when did the Announcer finally say, "Now on to our final event of the evening. If there is anyone here who wishes to use this one free chance to settle a grudge, dispute, or prove their might, simply step forward, and challenge your opponent(s)." No one moved forward, so when i stepped into the light cloaked and hooded all eyes were on me. My footfalls were heavy and loud echoing across the stage and area, and the whispers of the watching crowd could be heard at the stage. "Step foward son and tell us your name and who you wish to challenge! May he or she be mighty and a truly worth opponent!"
Smiling to myself i gripped the front of my cloak and threw it off, revealing myself. Before i could speak Riley, my worst tormenter in school yelled, "You have no right to be here! You are not a Super! You have no power! You are a freak!" Shouting the last phrase directly in my face. A cold rage gripped me, and without thinking i drew my blade, Soul Stealer, and slashed him from groin to nose, feeling the blade rip through flesh, organs and bone, cutting through him like butter, and sending a red spray of blood into the air.
"Gods, that felt good!" I hear my voice echo around the stunned arena. "I came here to challenge every Super in the room to combat. You can fight me one on one or as a group, but either way you shall die here. Nor will you leave, my associates around the arena are sealing the doors as i speak." I reached for my belt and pulled off a key, "This is the only key that will unlock the doors out of this arena. Kill me and you will have the key."
An older man in the crowd stood up and shouted so he could be heard around the arena, "Before we kill you and reduce you to ash, tell us what your name is so that you may go down in history as the single most foolish Super to ever live."
"My Name is Silencer, Master of The Last Word"
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Ten days ago, the world ended with a single thought.
Not mine, I should clarify, I'm not that vindictive. That being said, I light the fire that destroyed the world. You don't need to know much about me to understand where I come from. I ate crackers and mustard for lunch, my shirt was always faded and my hair no matter how much I washed it, always smelt of grease. My parents loved me too much, and I thank them for that. It was the world's only gift to me before my mother was killed by her pimp and my dad lost his job at the casino.
The other kids mostly left alone, but did call me names. One day, I had my favourite shirt on that had a silly pun with "Freakazoid" with a frankenstein monster sizing up Godzilla. One of the new kids started calling me a freak of my own, my dad being the monster. Someone thought he killed my mother since no one knew what she did for a living.
But now that the world has been destroyed I do not think that it matters a great deal what they think. I am not entirely sure whether they are alive, nor am I sure that I care too much. All I know is that my mother lies at the bottom of a river and my father shot himself with a gun from a pawn shop.
I sit here with my back to the world, thinking about things that will be. Things that have been. I find the cracks, breaking them down to their logical conclusion.
Just like Tommy. His father was always a nice man, gave me candies when he came by to check up on my father. But his wife was a spiteful hag, an old wretch that peaked in high school and got hitched to the first beta with more money than sense. Dragging on her glory days by spending her times in bathroom stalls and snowballs, it was only time that Tommy found about her side life. All I did was think of ways that he could find out and provided a tool.
Eleanor was a sweet woman. She loved petunias, the roses in her garden. But her son wanted nothing more than for her to lay down among the roses and never wake again. One day while visiting, her son missed his chance to save himself. So strange that he would be struck by a van delivering flowers to his mother.
Henry wanted his father's business, so his father burnt it down.
Jacob and Patty wanted to get eloped, but Jasper wouldn't have it. The triple homicide would only make the local news.
Homer hated Timothy, but found his favourite shotgun missing. Not for very long, since he found the barrel of it in his mouth a day later.
And thus, the world went round and round. Never stopping. Never ceasing. All I do is think about it.
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[WP] Every morning when your phone's alarm goes off, it shows a headline in the notification bar. If you snooze the alarm, the headline changes. You must choose which headline with which to wake. But, after three snoozes you're stuck with that future.
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ZZT! ZZT! ZZT!
"Ugh... 5.30 already...", I mumble to myself as I check for the morning's headline.
It reads, "A coworker will show a romantic interest towards you today."
"...bollocks to it... I can sleep another ten minutes. Only one I'd be interested in is Heather, and with ny luck, it's bound to be Carla anyhow...." I think to myself as I hit the snooze. My eyes fall shut once again.
ZZZT! ZZZZZT ZZZZZZZT!
I check my phone again grumbling.
The headline reads, "A kind stranger will bestow wealth upon you today."
"I'm not getting out of bed for ten quid..." My hand pummels the snooze button once again. I revisit my friends in the dream realm.
ZZZZZZZZZZT! ZZZZZZZZZZZT! ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT!
I release a huge sigh. Surely, it hasn't already been ten minutes.
"You will fall into a deep coma unless you arise within five minutes."
"Now, this is my kind of future..."
My eyes grow heavy once more. I wonder when I'll wake up...
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7:00
The sweet smell of cinnamon enslaves my nostrils. How I've grown tired of her constant selflessness; my stomach begins to churn at the thought of another day wasted on me. See routine has held me in shackles for the better part of the last six years. Every morning at seven I wake to a wife I no longer care for, a child who cries out for a father but receives nothing but hostility and anger. I thought this is what people wanted... I thought this was happiness.
Time to check the news...
"North Korea tests new missile capable of traveling to continental U.S."
Another war. Another conflict brewing to absolute boiling point. I read the other day that a group of generals were deciding whether or not to reopen the draft. They'll send the young to hash out the mistakes of the old and wise; for when the silver lies of the snake are realized... metal will follow.
3...2...1... *Snooze*
7:10
"Honey! Breakfast is ready!" Like clockwork. Romantic some would deem it, to be in such synch with another. I found it to be painfully enslaving.
"I'll be down in a second Honey!"
I've come to realize that the first option is the way of the world. For years this was the headline; another bombing, disease, famine, natural disaster for years I lived with the way of the world because we are taught that is the way we should live. I never stopped to realize there was a choice...
"We've done it... We've discovered the cure for cancer!" I couldn't believe the first time either. Millions cured almost as if it were overnight. No death, no destruction, just peace.
For six years peace was all this world knew. I couldn't stand the fighting any longer. The suffering I had caused the world; ironically in my attempt to live the way the world had intended me to I was only killing her. My eyes had been opened to a world of tranquility. I couldn't go back... but maybe I could go further. *Snooze*
7:20
"Good Morning Mr. Wayne. Your reservation for the theatre has been confirmed."
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[WP] Every morning when your phone's alarm goes off, it shows a headline in the notification bar. If you snooze the alarm, the headline changes. You must choose which headline with which to wake. But, after three snoozes you're stuck with that future.
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Some say that a good story never starts with someone waking up. After all, out of all the great men and women in history, how many of them has accomplished anything of worth before they've had breakfast?
This was not the case for Elise. Before the sun had peaked over the horizon, before she even clambered out of bed, she decided the story of each day for herself, for the whole world.
Upon hearing the first beep of her alarm, she reached up dutifully, but grudgingly, towards her phone. Like a marionette, her hand seemed to move on it's own accord, wildly grasping at the phone before she even lifted her head from her pillow. No matter how tired she was, how little sleep she got, she never missed the first buzz, or the other two for that matter. Too much depended on it.
Wiping her rheumy eyes and bringing her glasses up to her face as quickly as she could, she anxiously read the first headline: War in Yemen Escalates, US Continues to Aid Saudis. Sighing in frustration, she hit snooze and opened up her settings, changing her default news app from the BBC to MSNBC. 'Only two shots left', she thought.
Rather than actually snoozing, she laid in bed with her eyes closed, but her mind racing in thought, hoping MSNBC would herald an insubstantial Trump tweet as world news. Using the BBC was always a gamble, but sometimes it would pay off with some beneficial, global event. She'd been whiddling down ISIS's strongholds in the middle East with its help, for instance.
She couldn't always hope for this, however, so she always switched off of the Brit's news outlet before the second round of beeps fired off. With MSNBC, especially nowadays, its vacuous headlines almost guaranteed that the only thing the future would be full of was bias and the president's inevitable rambling on twitter, making it an excellent failsafe. No such luck today: Trump launches insults at Kim Jong Un, North Korean Troops Mobilizing on the Border. "Oh god, two is usually all it takes. I never thought it would come to this, but there's only one hope left."
Five agonizing minutes went by. Elise heard the first beep, but her eyes were already locked on the screen. Not bothering to shut the alarm off off, she devoured the headline, sweat beading at her forehead, the incessant beeping of the alarm punctuating each syllable as it flew off the page: These Seven Photoshops of Peter Dinklage Riding a Scooter while carrying his Baby will make you LOL. Every ounce of tension fled her at once, the weight of the world lifted off of her shoulders. "Thank god for buzzfeed", she sighed.
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When the Strangers arrived on our planet with their 'alien tech' offering it for free to the applicant of their choosing, almost everyone I knew put in an application. Strange questions of ‘what would you do if…” and “Would you rather…” made it all seem like an overhyped joke. I almost didn’t submit mine but in the end I figured, what the hell?
Two months later and here I am, smack in the middle of Area 51 with some bogus story released to the world about how the surprise tech was actually a space ship that sent me back to the alien’s home planet. An effing Phone. That’s what they gave me. I’ve never wanted to throw something against the wall before, I’ve never been a violent man, but this seriously pissed me off. The one chance in the world to experience something completely unique, special, amazing and they give me an Android. I’m an iPhone guy, always have been, hardly know how to navigate the thing. But wait, there’s more.. oh yeah my life is like one big stupid informercial now. The alarm clock on the phone is programed to read the headlines when it goes off. The headlines that could be. And when you hit snooze, you’re forever stuck in the current headline. Three chances each morning to shape the world.
Three chances.
I’m a fucking genie.
And the US government has taken me in because let’s be honest, they’ve always wanted to rule the world. I live in a huge lab-rat of a room they’ve made as ‘homey’ for me as they could. They don’t trust me in the real world so I’m stuck here, in Area 51, with an Android phone for an alarm clock and an alluring female voice over an intercom telling me ‘snooze’ or ‘wake’. I stopped looking at the headlines after it became clear my opinion wasn’t going to influence their choice.
Buzz buzz BUZZ. “Snooze”. My hand reached out and I smacked the appropriate button. Buzz buzz BUZZ. silence. Buzz buzz BUZZ. Where is she? I crack open my eyes. WHAT THE HELL? Wood, bird song, fresh air. Did they change my room? Buzz buzz BUZZ. No, there’s no speakers, no voice. My eyes quickly find the phone, “FBI add Jake Reynolds to the top of their Most Wanted list.” Wait what? Why am I the most wanted? Oh. MY. GOD! I've escaped? Somehow the second headline this morning is my escape. I franticly pound the ‘wake’ button. Pressing it so hard it falls out of my hands. Jumping out of bed I snatch it back up. A sigh blows out of me, I pressed the right button. I’m free. I’m fucking free!
“Did it work?” The most gorgeous woman I've ever seen walks in from what I assume is the bathroom. She’s dressed in a towel, hair still wet, voice as familiar as my own. “Or did you snooze?” It’s her. The alluring voice. I’m free, in a log cabin in who knows where with the voice that has haunted me for two long months.
“Yeah it worked.”
**be gentle with me, this is my first submission**
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[WP] Every morning when your phone's alarm goes off, it shows a headline in the notification bar. If you snooze the alarm, the headline changes. You must choose which headline with which to wake. But, after three snoozes you're stuck with that future.
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Some say that a good story never starts with someone waking up. After all, out of all the great men and women in history, how many of them has accomplished anything of worth before they've had breakfast?
This was not the case for Elise. Before the sun had peaked over the horizon, before she even clambered out of bed, she decided the story of each day for herself, for the whole world.
Upon hearing the first beep of her alarm, she reached up dutifully, but grudgingly, towards her phone. Like a marionette, her hand seemed to move on it's own accord, wildly grasping at the phone before she even lifted her head from her pillow. No matter how tired she was, how little sleep she got, she never missed the first buzz, or the other two for that matter. Too much depended on it.
Wiping her rheumy eyes and bringing her glasses up to her face as quickly as she could, she anxiously read the first headline: War in Yemen Escalates, US Continues to Aid Saudis. Sighing in frustration, she hit snooze and opened up her settings, changing her default news app from the BBC to MSNBC. 'Only two shots left', she thought.
Rather than actually snoozing, she laid in bed with her eyes closed, but her mind racing in thought, hoping MSNBC would herald an insubstantial Trump tweet as world news. Using the BBC was always a gamble, but sometimes it would pay off with some beneficial, global event. She'd been whiddling down ISIS's strongholds in the middle East with its help, for instance.
She couldn't always hope for this, however, so she always switched off of the Brit's news outlet before the second round of beeps fired off. With MSNBC, especially nowadays, its vacuous headlines almost guaranteed that the only thing the future would be full of was bias and the president's inevitable rambling on twitter, making it an excellent failsafe. No such luck today: Trump launches insults at Kim Jong Un, North Korean Troops Mobilizing on the Border. "Oh god, two is usually all it takes. I never thought it would come to this, but there's only one hope left."
Five agonizing minutes went by. Elise heard the first beep, but her eyes were already locked on the screen. Not bothering to shut the alarm off off, she devoured the headline, sweat beading at her forehead, the incessant beeping of the alarm punctuating each syllable as it flew off the page: These Seven Photoshops of Peter Dinklage Riding a Scooter while carrying his Baby will make you LOL. Every ounce of tension fled her at once, the weight of the world lifted off of her shoulders. "Thank god for buzzfeed", she sighed.
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**BEEP BEEP BEEP**
My dreams are interrupted by familiar, yet annoying sound. Night turned into morning, and I turned from a calmly sleeping guy into the most powerful man - for a few minutes at least. I reached out and carefully picked up the source of the noise.
*The Alarm of Fate* - as the officials who handed it to me called it - is one of the most powerful artifacts humankind managed to salvage in Area 51. Now it sat in my lap. Every morning, I get to choose - will we live in the future the notification on the alarm shows, or perhaps we'll go for another one? It was as simple as hitting snooze and waiting a couple minutes until alarm starts ringing again. I'm not proud to say I've snoozed the alarm half-asleep without even sensing it. On one fateful morning I did it three times... That's how I learned it shuts off after the third one, and you're stuck in that final reality for the day. I've been far more careful since that fateful morning. The realization I could have saved my brother, and three thousand others in the twin towers, weighs too heavily to make such a stupid mistake ever again.
I took a long breath and looked at the screen. Typically the first attempt is something insignificant, yet negative; not today.
**North Korea openly declares war on US; China promises support**
No. No, I can't let this be real, that's too shitty of a start. Without too much thinking, I hit my first snooze. It has to get better, right?
**BEEP BEEP BEEP**
I look at the screen again.
**UFO sightings over New York; search and destroy mission kills thousands, leaves city in ruins**
What? Is this even real? No, I can't let this happen, this is a fate far, far worse than the previous one. Public-wide proof of aliens is one thing, and on its own I'd probably allow it, but in this way? When one of the biggest metropolitan cities gets burnt down on first meeting? No, I can't let that happen. I swipe to snooze.
Except, there is no snooze button this time. I look at the alarm, confused. Surely this wasn't the third one? The screen freezes, beeping stops, then the whole alarm shuts down - for the first time since I got it. Did the battery die on this exact moment, despite running without any external source for thirty years? I sense a chill in the air and as I lift my head, I realize there is a simpler explanation.
Whatever was in front of me raised it's hand and said in a voice that was clearly not human:
*- Give it back.*
------
Looking forward to any comments regarding style, grammar, flow of the story and more!
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[WP] Every morning when your phone's alarm goes off, it shows a headline in the notification bar. If you snooze the alarm, the headline changes. You must choose which headline with which to wake. But, after three snoozes you're stuck with that future.
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Some say that a good story never starts with someone waking up. After all, out of all the great men and women in history, how many of them has accomplished anything of worth before they've had breakfast?
This was not the case for Elise. Before the sun had peaked over the horizon, before she even clambered out of bed, she decided the story of each day for herself, for the whole world.
Upon hearing the first beep of her alarm, she reached up dutifully, but grudgingly, towards her phone. Like a marionette, her hand seemed to move on it's own accord, wildly grasping at the phone before she even lifted her head from her pillow. No matter how tired she was, how little sleep she got, she never missed the first buzz, or the other two for that matter. Too much depended on it.
Wiping her rheumy eyes and bringing her glasses up to her face as quickly as she could, she anxiously read the first headline: War in Yemen Escalates, US Continues to Aid Saudis. Sighing in frustration, she hit snooze and opened up her settings, changing her default news app from the BBC to MSNBC. 'Only two shots left', she thought.
Rather than actually snoozing, she laid in bed with her eyes closed, but her mind racing in thought, hoping MSNBC would herald an insubstantial Trump tweet as world news. Using the BBC was always a gamble, but sometimes it would pay off with some beneficial, global event. She'd been whiddling down ISIS's strongholds in the middle East with its help, for instance.
She couldn't always hope for this, however, so she always switched off of the Brit's news outlet before the second round of beeps fired off. With MSNBC, especially nowadays, its vacuous headlines almost guaranteed that the only thing the future would be full of was bias and the president's inevitable rambling on twitter, making it an excellent failsafe. No such luck today: Trump launches insults at Kim Jong Un, North Korean Troops Mobilizing on the Border. "Oh god, two is usually all it takes. I never thought it would come to this, but there's only one hope left."
Five agonizing minutes went by. Elise heard the first beep, but her eyes were already locked on the screen. Not bothering to shut the alarm off off, she devoured the headline, sweat beading at her forehead, the incessant beeping of the alarm punctuating each syllable as it flew off the page: These Seven Photoshops of Peter Dinklage Riding a Scooter while carrying his Baby will make you LOL. Every ounce of tension fled her at once, the weight of the world lifted off of her shoulders. "Thank god for buzzfeed", she sighed.
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Everyone over six foot tall must be taken to hard labour camps. Wouldn't you know that I'd sleep in today?
Things were not going well. They arrived to arrest me not ten minutes after my third snooze. Society had become intolerant of long sleepers as quickly as we'd become intolerant of gluten.
I arrived at my cell, hoping that tomorrow morning I'd have the opportunity to change my future. I'd never snoozed three time before. I'd never experienced the forks in timeline that I'd heard so much about. The entire population chopping and changing between realities, all to satisfy the demands for efficiency that big corporations placed upon us.
Missing mere seconds of work was no longer an option. I'd written many articles on the injustice of the new snooze penalty system, but my words had fallen on deaf ears.
The armed guard left me in a cell, no cell mate in sight. The bed was long, presumably to accommodate my over six foot size.
Without my smartphone, I wasn't sure how I was going to choose a better headline tomorrow morning. I would have to hope that by simply getting out of bed, my reality would change.
My questions were answered, however, when the flap in my cell door opened and a simplified smartphone was pushed through the slot. It clattered to the ground but didn't break. I picked it up with reverence and placed it on the floor beside my bed. Hopefully I could leave the hell of this reality in a matter of hours.
That day, I laboured in a kind of salt mine. It was mostly automated, I was in charge of picking the robots up when their wheels jammed. The loose rock and salt particles made wheel jams an almost constant issue. This reality was a jumble, a chaos-ridden landscape of absurd proportions.
I returned to my cell, tired, sweaty, and ready for this life to be discontinued. I lay down on the most unpleasant mattress I've ever felt. My eyes closed.
My eyes opened, my phone was buzzing in a cheap, hollow manner. I picked up my phone and read the headline: 'Headlines disabled until labour quota fulfilled.' My heart sank. What fresh hell was this?
I clenched my fist. I rolled my rage into a hard sphere within my soul. I vowed to get my hands on a proper smartphone and take this entire snooze punishment system down.
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[WP] Every morning when your phone's alarm goes off, it shows a headline in the notification bar. If you snooze the alarm, the headline changes. You must choose which headline with which to wake. But, after three snoozes you're stuck with that future.
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*Beep.*
A daily game. A daily gamble. I didn't understand why it was me, and why the power of a future-changer was in my hands, but I sure as hell knew my importance. I rolled over, eyes already opened and brain ready to process. *This had better be good...*
'Worldwide bomb strike annihilates Asia'. Fuck...that was one of the worst I'd ever got, next to the World War I'd nearly started. Without hesitation, I smashed the snooze button.
*Beep.*
Again. And with the memory of the near disaster I'd averted still fresh in my mind, I moved on to the next headline. But this...it was different. For the first time, I saw a glowing button at the bottom of the headline. 'Your next headline will be about: Billions of dollars being added to your account' was the curt message. The headline was world hunger and poverty being solved, for good. I looked at the reward I would get if only I'd pressed snooze. But...the world...people starved and people begged. This would help millions upon millions trapped under the society's footsteps. To take their right to be equal away...it was wrong. Definitely wrong. But I wasn't poor. Nor was I hungry. At 4am in the morning, I made a decision that cost the world.
I hit snooze.
*Beep.* The mechanical sound mocked my selfishness, my greed. It seemed to scold me, the cries of the poor I'd damned forever ringing in my head. I tried to turn over to my phone, but waves of regret and guilt washed over me. It was all my fault. My stupidity. My selfishness. And the ultimate punisher was myself. The very conscience I'd tried to ignore. Dragging myself to the bedside table, I checked the headline.
*There was none.*
In its place, there was a short paragraph of text. 'Dear Elrick, you've just condemned millions to death and generations more to a life worse than Hell. All for 'the money'. Well, guess what? We have no money for people, *scum*, pardon me, like you. But we do have something you might find interest in. Take a gander at the choice we offer you again, and choose wiser than you just did. The people of the world are counting on you.' My money...the only reason I'd done this! Where was my cash I was promised? I looked around wildly for it, and in a small corner I found it. Above was the sign: Money. But before I dashed for it, I saw the sign next to a red button. 'Forgiveness' was written on the sign. The choice was mine again. Cash, or morals?
This time, the choice was clear. I looked at the cash with a last, longing glance, then I walked towards the button. I could almost hear a sigh of relief. I smirked, as my athletic training proved useful. I darted quickly to the pile of money, greedily snatching it all. I could almost feel the looks of dismay.
Sorry. No justice in this world, after all.
______________________________
More over at r/Whale62! Sequels at popular request!
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*HOBOKEN, NEW JERSEY*
...BZZZ...BZZZ...BZZZ...
*"Just another day."*
Yeah, no. Fuck that. Skipped for the millionth time.
*"Confront your past."*
Sure, right after I finish confronting the future. Next.
*"A quiet night in."*
I think I'll get my fill of those when I'm lying in a casket. Come on lucky sevens.
*"Let's see what you got."*
Jackpot.
I rolled out of bed and jogged to the bathroom. Took a piss, brushed my teeth, hopped in the shower. In eight minutes flat I was back in the bedroom, standing in front of the mirror and tying the knot on my tie with the baddest motherfucker I've ever seen staring back at me.
My phone vibrated on the bed. New notification. The 11am pitch to the VC downtown was now pushed up to 10:30am. Thanks for the heads up, assholes.
I strapped the Sub around my wrist, grabbed my briefcase and headed downstairs. My wife turned to look at me and her mouth was about to open. I saw breakfast on the table out of the corner of my eye.
"Not today, babe." I opened the front door. "The pitch was pushed up. Need to run. We'll celebrate tonight."
* * *
The elevator doors closed. We descended for three seconds. My partner turned toward me.
"You crazy bastard! You fucking killed it in there!" His voice rose to an almost girlish squeal as he tried to contain his excitement. Fuck professionalism. He was right. We just pitched the hell out of our startup and took everything they threw at us and threw it right back at them. I loosened the knot on my tie.
"Well, looks like we've got the whole afternoon to congratulate ourselves," I said. "What do you say we head down to 45th and get ourselves a little celebratory libation? My treat."
We hopped in the 5-Series and made our way down 2nd Avenue. Twenty minutes later I tossed the keys to the valet and we went inside. Five minutes after that I adjusted my posture, turned to my partner and raised the glass. The first blissful drops of the martini coated my tongue. Thirty seconds later I felt that subtle promise of a gilded future begin to wash over me.
For the rest of the afternoon we recalled all the best stories over the past twelve months trying to get this company off the ground. At some point we decided we needed a bigger audience and waved a couple of hot young women over to the table, then regaled them with more stories.
Around 11pm I was feeling pretty good. We bid adieu to the women, and I saw my partner walk off toward the subway. The valet brought my car around.
* * *
I've got the windows rolled down and I'm doing 100 across the bridge. The air is cool in my hair. I am in control of my destiny. I look out and see Manhattan lit up in the distance. The sky is the limit.
What the fuck. I hit the horn.
"Learn to drive you fucking asshole!" I turn the wheel hard to the right and begin to swerve. I feel the tires smash over something underneath. I begin to feel myself lift and turn.
What. The. FUCK.
* * *
*FREDERICK, MARYLAND*
...BZZZ...BZZZ...BZZZ...
*"Just another day."*
Rise and shine. I looked over to my left and saw the bed was empty. I guess Michelle beat the alarm yet again. She was definitely the early bird in the marriage. I walked across the bedroom and grabbed my robe off the chair. As I headed over to the stairs, I could already smell the eggs and bacon wafting up from the kitchen.
I pulled up a chair and sat down at the table. I began flipping through the newspaper as Michelle walked over and placed a couple of plates down in front of us. I heard the familiar sound of feet trampling down the stairs.
"Hey Mom! Hey Dad! I'm going to school now!"
"All right, buddy!" I called out to him. "Do your best!"
"Love you, honey!" Michelle called out after.
What a great kid.
I took a bite of the eggs.
"Thanks, dear," I said. "They're delicious."
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[WP] Every morning when your phone's alarm goes off, it shows a headline in the notification bar. If you snooze the alarm, the headline changes. You must choose which headline with which to wake. But, after three snoozes you're stuck with that future.
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The first few bleats of my alarm shatter sleep, wake me instantly. My heart lurches for my throat. I am all deep breaths and muted terror. Beside me Arnold rolls over in his sleep.
I have to look. I have to look and I have to decide.
I grip my comforter between my fingers, letting the alarm ring for a few seconds more. These are the most tenuous moments of my day, as if I could let this be Schrodinger's phone forever, and if I never looked I would never have to know the truth.
But not looking wasn't an option. It just snoozes itself for me. I have tried.
I turn my phone over, wincing. Google's breaking headline: *Trump brings environmental regulations for the oil industry to historic lows*
I suck air through my teeth. A difficult choice, a big gamble. I only have two chances to try again--to re-roll our collective fate, if you will. It's like the scariest casino game in the world, and no one has any idea I play it every day. Keeping the earth alive for an extra couple of decades was respectable, but wasn't it better to sacrifice a bit more of the ice caps if my next snooze brought about nuclear war or another dissolution of civil rights somewhere much further away than this sticky hot room, this man snoring in blissful ignorance beside me.
I whisper a prayer to no one in particular. "Please be a good one."
And I hit snooze.
***
When I open my eyes again, ten minutes feeling like an absolute eternity, I roll over immediately to look at my phone. On the second time I never wait. It's only the first and third times that I hesitate, the weight of the unknown leadening my arms, filling my whole chest with iron dread.
This time the headline in my notifications read: *Los Angeles has been struck by a nuclear bomb.*
I stare and I stare, my tears collecting in my throat. I cover my phone with a pillow to stifle it, grateful not for the first time that my husband sleeps like the dead. If I wake him, hitting snooze again won't matter. We will be stuck here, in this version of things, forever.
I deliberate, pulling hard at my hair. I knew I shouldn't have rerolled. I knew I should have hedged a safe bet and let the planet take on just a little more fossil fuels. Or maybe this version of things really is for the planet's wellbeing. Chernobyl seems a lot better off without people around.
The thoughts pinballing around my brain stun and horrify me as I realize how casually I'm weighing out planet life against human life, like an immortal judge who has no idea how to use her scales of justice to keep matters in perspective.
I hate to bank it all on my third try, but we are only two states away from California. And even I still have a strong sense of self-preservation, after seeing life as I know it flourish or die depending on what little notification happens to blip across my phone first thing in the morning.
Eyes squeezed shut, I hit snooze one last time.
***
This time when I wake, the bed is empty, and the room is cold. Arnold must be in the bathroom. At first fear coils up my toes, but then I remember that this is the third try. Whatever reality I've woken up in now is firmly, irrevocably cemented as truth.
I roll over to look at my phone. A sob tears through my tight chest.
This announcement was from a regional newspaper, not important enough for national headlines: *Local man Arnold Karyus tragically killed in lumber accident.*
The two horrible truths of this reality punch me in the gut and I bend over double, not sure if I want to cry or scream to get this black bile out of my lungs before I could drown in it.
Los Angeles here. Arnold gone.
Arnold here. Los Angeles gone.
I don't know what it says about me that I'd rather millions dead than living in this house alone. But I can't help feeling, not for the first time in my life, that I should never have hit snooze that third time.
***
/r/shoringupfragments
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*HOBOKEN, NEW JERSEY*
...BZZZ...BZZZ...BZZZ...
*"Just another day."*
Yeah, no. Fuck that. Skipped for the millionth time.
*"Confront your past."*
Sure, right after I finish confronting the future. Next.
*"A quiet night in."*
I think I'll get my fill of those when I'm lying in a casket. Come on lucky sevens.
*"Let's see what you got."*
Jackpot.
I rolled out of bed and jogged to the bathroom. Took a piss, brushed my teeth, hopped in the shower. In eight minutes flat I was back in the bedroom, standing in front of the mirror and tying the knot on my tie with the baddest motherfucker I've ever seen staring back at me.
My phone vibrated on the bed. New notification. The 11am pitch to the VC downtown was now pushed up to 10:30am. Thanks for the heads up, assholes.
I strapped the Sub around my wrist, grabbed my briefcase and headed downstairs. My wife turned to look at me and her mouth was about to open. I saw breakfast on the table out of the corner of my eye.
"Not today, babe." I opened the front door. "The pitch was pushed up. Need to run. We'll celebrate tonight."
* * *
The elevator doors closed. We descended for three seconds. My partner turned toward me.
"You crazy bastard! You fucking killed it in there!" His voice rose to an almost girlish squeal as he tried to contain his excitement. Fuck professionalism. He was right. We just pitched the hell out of our startup and took everything they threw at us and threw it right back at them. I loosened the knot on my tie.
"Well, looks like we've got the whole afternoon to congratulate ourselves," I said. "What do you say we head down to 45th and get ourselves a little celebratory libation? My treat."
We hopped in the 5-Series and made our way down 2nd Avenue. Twenty minutes later I tossed the keys to the valet and we went inside. Five minutes after that I adjusted my posture, turned to my partner and raised the glass. The first blissful drops of the martini coated my tongue. Thirty seconds later I felt that subtle promise of a gilded future begin to wash over me.
For the rest of the afternoon we recalled all the best stories over the past twelve months trying to get this company off the ground. At some point we decided we needed a bigger audience and waved a couple of hot young women over to the table, then regaled them with more stories.
Around 11pm I was feeling pretty good. We bid adieu to the women, and I saw my partner walk off toward the subway. The valet brought my car around.
* * *
I've got the windows rolled down and I'm doing 100 across the bridge. The air is cool in my hair. I am in control of my destiny. I look out and see Manhattan lit up in the distance. The sky is the limit.
What the fuck. I hit the horn.
"Learn to drive you fucking asshole!" I turn the wheel hard to the right and begin to swerve. I feel the tires smash over something underneath. I begin to feel myself lift and turn.
What. The. FUCK.
* * *
*FREDERICK, MARYLAND*
...BZZZ...BZZZ...BZZZ...
*"Just another day."*
Rise and shine. I looked over to my left and saw the bed was empty. I guess Michelle beat the alarm yet again. She was definitely the early bird in the marriage. I walked across the bedroom and grabbed my robe off the chair. As I headed over to the stairs, I could already smell the eggs and bacon wafting up from the kitchen.
I pulled up a chair and sat down at the table. I began flipping through the newspaper as Michelle walked over and placed a couple of plates down in front of us. I heard the familiar sound of feet trampling down the stairs.
"Hey Mom! Hey Dad! I'm going to school now!"
"All right, buddy!" I called out to him. "Do your best!"
"Love you, honey!" Michelle called out after.
What a great kid.
I took a bite of the eggs.
"Thanks, dear," I said. "They're delicious."
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
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I look in the mirror. I see a pale, wan man looking back at me. I no longer recognize myself but that barely concerns me. I see countless tattoos of the same shape. Small shapes of knife scattered all across my body like the stars of the galaxy. When people discover a tattoo, they wonder what meaning it has for their lives. For me, that was never a question. The meaning of my tattoos has always been too clear for me. *Painfully* clear. The first of them appeared just moments before I killed a man for the first time.
I quickly scan my entire body, desperately looking for a new tattoo, a sign, an answer. I spot something on my back. It looks like a woman holding a young child. The skin around the tattoo has turned crimson red, as if someone has repeatedly hit it. The color of red around it almost makes it seem as if the woman and the baby are covered in a pool of blood.
*Blood*.
*Yes*.
A sense of joy and relief overwhelms me. I burst out in laughter and hysterically continue laughing until my worried wife comes in. I grin at her and say,
"It's finally time."
*****
I worked for a world-renown drug lord called Schteiger. In his organization I held the title of Chief Strategy Officer but anyone who witnessed my work - and was lucky enough to survive - would have called me a hitman.
I was abandoned at birth and wandered the alleys of the slum ever since I escaped from the orphanage that beat its children. Then I met Schteiger. He kindly took me in and trained me with several other boys of my age. His training was rigorous, intolerable at times. But I survived, and I was the only one who survived. I became his guard, his servant, his slave. I killed my first man when I was 14 at the command of my master. The ones after that came much easier. I didn't mind my job - the pay was good and the sense of conscience never existed in me.
Until I met her.
She taught me what it feels to love and to be loved back. She filled the lost part of me and taught me that I had senses of compassion and conscience within me that I thought never existed. When I heard that she became pregnant with my child, I made up my mind to leave Schteiger and his damned organization.
Schteiger did not like my proclamation. His answer came not in words but in consequences. I was shot in the streets that night and was left there to die when a woman came to my rescue. Miraculously I survived and when I tried to contact my wife I found out that she had been killed along with our baby inside her.
I attempted to end my life when the woman who saved me yet again came to my rescue. After hearing my story, instead of running to the cops for help, she hugged me and comforted me, showing me that there still is someone who cares about me.
Years passed by and she replaced the other half of me that was taken away. She even gave me a child and she quickly became the most important thing in my life. But even she could not completely replace what was taken awawy from me and the uncontrollable sense of rage still filled my heart. I swore to avenge my wife and my unborn child, to give the same pain to the man who had done this to me.
And now, that time has finally come.
*****
I leave the house to carry out the plan that I have so carefully crafted and perfected for years. Having served Schteiger for most of my life, it is easy to locate his family - his beautiful wife and his even more beautiful daughter. They have done nothing to me but if there is a fault with them, it would be being the family of a man like Schteiger.
It's easy bypassing the guards as that is what I have done for all my life. Now I stand on the doorsteps of the mansion and only a door stands between Schteiger's helpless girls and their doom. I take out my revolver and pull back the hammer. I take in a deep breath and try to suppress the exhilaration that the thought of revenge gives me. I take a few steps back and charge at the door.
Then nothing.
I briefly hear a loud sound of a bone breaking, and at the same time feel a powerful impact on my head. I almost immediately lose consciousness.
I wake up and through a blurred vision, recognize a familiar face. *Schteiger*.
"You really think that I would let you hurt me? Hurt my family?"
I try to form a sentence but it only comes out as a mumble.
"After all those years of working for me, you really learned nothing. *Nothing*. You should have remained dead. Now watch what your actions have costed you."
A man in black suit drags a large bag into the room, the bag leaving a red trace behind it. Schteiger unzips the bag and says *Ta-da*, as if he is presenting a gift. I look inside and find two people, a woman and a young child, the woman holding the child tightly. Their bodies are pale and still, and the sign of life has left them both. I recognize their faces and immediately cry out in shock and disbelief. Watching my flood of emotions, Schteiger laughs out maniacally, almost unable to keep standing. The sound of my scream and his laughter fill the room, creating an odd resonance through out. I remember the new tattoo I got today and realize its real meaning. My scream gets louder and more terrifying while Schteiger's laugh gets more hysterical. He abruptly stops laughing and takes out his gun and aims at my head.
Just then, I spot a shape newly forming on the back of his hand. A shape of a knife. Schteiger notices it too and gives me a large, twisted smile.
"I win."
He pulls the trigger.
******
EDIT: formatting
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All sorts of things were possible, when they appeared on your arm. Others loved to explain their own when they were easily interpreted and many made a fortune interpreting others. But most confusing were the people whose tattoos meant nothing. Like my own upon the cold morning of August, '17. My arm sported a childish caricature of a train, and a even messier drawing of a blond woman. What was this message? I didn't take the train, nor was I of a prominscuous type. This mystery baffled me, especially since I refused to consult 'interpretation experts'. They probably knew nothing except for simple deduction. That wouldn't help me here. Besides, I was supposed to solve my own tattoo's meaning myself.
Another tattoo formed the next day, a more readable '3'. Then a rope burning, the rope in the shape of '2'. Then as the countdown hit one, I saw one word. 'DANGER'. Wat was I missing? Did the Gods expect to read the unreadable and the inexplicable? As I gave up on the mystery, my phone buzzed. It was my girlfriend.
"Hey, the train seems to be stopping quite a lot. Is it convenient for you to pick me at the next stop?" came her soothing voice. But the words froze my blood in my veins.
*My girlfriend was blonde. She took the train. And a rope burning could only be...*
I rushed over in my car, ignoring the blaring red lights and rule-abiding cars on the highway. If I could succeed, it would be worth any price. The station looked so...calm. So inviting. But I knew something was going to happen.
As the train approached, I saw it. The tiny rope burning down, like my hopes and dreams. *The fuse.* Before I could scream, before I could tell the innocent to run, before I could tell *her* to escape, it was too late. An explosion, the scale of an Earthen supernova, ripped through the ground, the station and its inhabitants torn to bits. Crumbling away, dust falling, debris piling up. I had failed. Failed.
I had a new tattoo. But it wasn't hard to decipher. I smiled, as I saw the 'DO NOT' on my wrist. The Gods had started the cruel twists of fate with their funny game. I would have a nice game with them too.
"No," I said, an open rejection as I let my hands move. My finger pulled the trigger. The gun was brought along, just in case.
Somewhere else, I hoped, her tattoo would bring her better luck.
______________________________
More over at r/Whale62! Sequels at popular request!
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
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It's genetic, they think, but only mad men try to pick apart the threads of this phenomenon. But some of it is genetic, because some families get them more than others. Or maybe those families are similarly emotional.
There's surely more important things for the minds of our generation to worry about.
My mother was heavily tattooed. I remember sitting in her arms as a child and tracing my fingers across lines, but some of the tattoos i remember have even since been layered on top of. I take after her.
But my father's, few as there were, were more interesting to me. The open mausoleum door on his forearm. And that is framed with purple flowers. Theres a tall and thin silhouette on his spine, and the basket in it's hand, which was a separate tattoo. He never went into much detail on them, but one could guess.
I look at the car on the inside of my wrist, as they're lowered into the side by side graves. And I know why it appeared two years ago.
The bees were drawn out of the honeycomb on my knee, and the spiderweb on my thigh was now empty. behind it stands a tall silhouette.
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All sorts of things were possible, when they appeared on your arm. Others loved to explain their own when they were easily interpreted and many made a fortune interpreting others. But most confusing were the people whose tattoos meant nothing. Like my own upon the cold morning of August, '17. My arm sported a childish caricature of a train, and a even messier drawing of a blond woman. What was this message? I didn't take the train, nor was I of a prominscuous type. This mystery baffled me, especially since I refused to consult 'interpretation experts'. They probably knew nothing except for simple deduction. That wouldn't help me here. Besides, I was supposed to solve my own tattoo's meaning myself.
Another tattoo formed the next day, a more readable '3'. Then a rope burning, the rope in the shape of '2'. Then as the countdown hit one, I saw one word. 'DANGER'. Wat was I missing? Did the Gods expect to read the unreadable and the inexplicable? As I gave up on the mystery, my phone buzzed. It was my girlfriend.
"Hey, the train seems to be stopping quite a lot. Is it convenient for you to pick me at the next stop?" came her soothing voice. But the words froze my blood in my veins.
*My girlfriend was blonde. She took the train. And a rope burning could only be...*
I rushed over in my car, ignoring the blaring red lights and rule-abiding cars on the highway. If I could succeed, it would be worth any price. The station looked so...calm. So inviting. But I knew something was going to happen.
As the train approached, I saw it. The tiny rope burning down, like my hopes and dreams. *The fuse.* Before I could scream, before I could tell the innocent to run, before I could tell *her* to escape, it was too late. An explosion, the scale of an Earthen supernova, ripped through the ground, the station and its inhabitants torn to bits. Crumbling away, dust falling, debris piling up. I had failed. Failed.
I had a new tattoo. But it wasn't hard to decipher. I smiled, as I saw the 'DO NOT' on my wrist. The Gods had started the cruel twists of fate with their funny game. I would have a nice game with them too.
"No," I said, an open rejection as I let my hands move. My finger pulled the trigger. The gun was brought along, just in case.
Somewhere else, I hoped, her tattoo would bring her better luck.
______________________________
More over at r/Whale62! Sequels at popular request!
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
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Ryan never wanted a tattoo. He always thought they looked out of place, unnatural. Tattoos weren't dominant in his family. His mom only had a small one on her leg and his dad had only three tattoos, all of which were on his right arm.
Ryan's nineteenth birthday was coming right around the corner, and he still hadn't had any of his tattoos come in yet. He was the only one left in his high school who didn't have any at graduation. While most of his friends' senior pictures showed off their fresh, unfaded tattoos, Ryan's was just of him with all his hiking gear on a mountain.
No one ever talked about the fact he didn't have any tattoos, but he knew they were all thinking about it. It really didn't bother him, though. It made him different from everyone else. In a sea of sameness, Ryan stood out. He liked that.
Ryan's alarm went off, and he staggered to his nightstand to shut it up. He went into the bathroom, eyes only half open, and caught his reflection in the mirror on the way to the toilet. What he saw horrified him.
The entire front of his body, from his waist all the way up to his neck, was covered in intricate symbols and designs. They were all a deep black, a huge contrast with his pasty white skin.
He touched the tattoos, expecting to feel some sort of texture. Instead, it felt no different from anywhere else on his body.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror. He thought back to his classes where they were taught about the common first tattoos people get. This was like nothing he had ever seen or heard of before.
Ryan ran down the stairs to show his family and see if they knew what that tattoo meant. But instead of finding his family, he was greeted by a dozen armed men, with a man in a black suit at the front of them. They all worse gas masks and goggles except for his parents who were tied up at the kitchen table, mouths duct taped shut.
"What the hell is going on?" Ryan said.
"Our systems detected an anomaly," the man in the suit said. His face was devoid of any emotion.
"An anomaly in what?" Ryan asked.
"Our systems indicate that you may be Marked," the man replied.
"Marked?"
"It's the term we use for humans not from this planet. The tattoo system was developed to identify people like you. So we can eliminate you."
The man leveled a weapon at Ryan and pulled the trigger. A dart struck him square in the chest. The tattoos disappeared immediately, and his skin turned from white to a deep blue.
Ryan could vaguely hear his mother cry through the duct tape as his vision faded to black...
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All sorts of things were possible, when they appeared on your arm. Others loved to explain their own when they were easily interpreted and many made a fortune interpreting others. But most confusing were the people whose tattoos meant nothing. Like my own upon the cold morning of August, '17. My arm sported a childish caricature of a train, and a even messier drawing of a blond woman. What was this message? I didn't take the train, nor was I of a prominscuous type. This mystery baffled me, especially since I refused to consult 'interpretation experts'. They probably knew nothing except for simple deduction. That wouldn't help me here. Besides, I was supposed to solve my own tattoo's meaning myself.
Another tattoo formed the next day, a more readable '3'. Then a rope burning, the rope in the shape of '2'. Then as the countdown hit one, I saw one word. 'DANGER'. Wat was I missing? Did the Gods expect to read the unreadable and the inexplicable? As I gave up on the mystery, my phone buzzed. It was my girlfriend.
"Hey, the train seems to be stopping quite a lot. Is it convenient for you to pick me at the next stop?" came her soothing voice. But the words froze my blood in my veins.
*My girlfriend was blonde. She took the train. And a rope burning could only be...*
I rushed over in my car, ignoring the blaring red lights and rule-abiding cars on the highway. If I could succeed, it would be worth any price. The station looked so...calm. So inviting. But I knew something was going to happen.
As the train approached, I saw it. The tiny rope burning down, like my hopes and dreams. *The fuse.* Before I could scream, before I could tell the innocent to run, before I could tell *her* to escape, it was too late. An explosion, the scale of an Earthen supernova, ripped through the ground, the station and its inhabitants torn to bits. Crumbling away, dust falling, debris piling up. I had failed. Failed.
I had a new tattoo. But it wasn't hard to decipher. I smiled, as I saw the 'DO NOT' on my wrist. The Gods had started the cruel twists of fate with their funny game. I would have a nice game with them too.
"No," I said, an open rejection as I let my hands move. My finger pulled the trigger. The gun was brought along, just in case.
Somewhere else, I hoped, her tattoo would bring her better luck.
______________________________
More over at r/Whale62! Sequels at popular request!
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
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People tended to stay away from me. At first I told myself I didn't mind, but I'm starting to feel like a monster simply for the ink that's inhabiting my forehead.
I have some on my arms, a crying woman in the fetal position surrounded by a dark circle that I assume is for the loneliness that my life will have. Not sure why it's a woman but maybe it's just meant to show me who I'm missing.
On my right forearm I've got a paper heart. I've always assumed this one meant that I'm weak. A fucking symbol to get me sympathy, not that it matters with my forehead tattoo.
Strangely, my back just holds some roots digging into my skin, normally they wouldn't look too out of place, but when they're paired with my other ink they begin to look gruesome.
I walk around each day envying the glimmering tattoos of laughter, clouds, flowers, and books that litter people's bodies as they pass me in the streets. Seems like everyone has a passion they're pursuing. Their tattoos define their life and what they spend their time on, they're content to do what they're marked with.
Tattoos play a big role in job interviews. Hell, if you have a computer on your arm it's worth more than a computer science degree to employers.
Because of how influencial the tattoos are I've been jobless and living off soup kitchens for years now. People won't hire a man with a bright white skull bleeding down his face.
A sound broke me out of my moody thoughts. I had been walking around in a bad part of town, not that it mattered my tattoos scared off anyone looking to mug me, when I heard cries coming from an alley. As I looked down the alley my breath caught.
On the floor huddled into a ball sat the woman. The same woman who hugged my arm each day, the same woman I thought was simply some ignorable detail. She cried out as men behind her were laughing and kicking her mercilessly. Her shirt lay in tatters behind the men, she must've fought them originally or the men wouldn't have forgotten their original intent. Each time their foot connected a yelp of pain interrupted her ragged sobbing.
I don't remember when my feet started moving but in no time flat I was already down the alley, screaming like a mad man at the two men. At first they laughed, a tattered homeless man probably didn't look intimidating, but as I neared the skull on my head bore it's eyes into the men. Their faces paled, they stumbled backwards before a high pitched shriek escaped from them. By the time I got to them they were already up and running, disappearing into the darkness that I came from.
"Are you okay?" I asked the woman. She didn't respond, she just continued to cry on the floor. I lowered myself next to her, removing my tattered rag of a shirt as I did. I slowly put it in her line of sight, and waited until she noticed it. Eventually her eyes focused on the shirt and she yanked it out of my hand.
"Go ahead and put that on, it looks like they're gone for now but they could come back any second."
"Th-thank you." She was still shaking from crying. I only just met her but I felt like I knew her better than myself. Seeing her on my arm each night illuminated how she must be feeling right now, I knew all too well the sadness and fear coarsing through her. I'd felt it every night since my tattoos came. Her eyes finally traced up to me, expanding in what must've been a new wave of fear, expecting the normal revulsion I spoke, "It's okay, it's just a skull. Look I have others."
I showed her the one of her, curled up and crying. Her eyebrows scrunched together, her puffy eyelids obscuring her bloodshot eyes as they darted around taking in every inch of me.
As she studied me I couldn't help but look back at her. Where my arm held a paper heart, hers was painted with a strong and vibrant heart. Weirdly a small Lily grew out of her chest, right between her breasts, my shirt lay forgotten in her lap.
It was my turn to scrunch my eyebrows in confusion. I couldn't believe my eyes, my smiling face with no skull tattoo sat atop her arm exactly where her figure rested on mine.
"What skull?" She asked me, her voice still brittle but slightly more relaxed than before. My eyebrows scrunched further.
"The one on my forehead. A big white glaring skull with blood pouring out of it."
"You don't have any ink on your face." She pulled out her phone, her hands and voice still shaky, and opened the front facing camera for me to see. Reluctantly, I pulled my eyes away from her and waited to see the gruesome image atop my own face. Yet there was nothing on my forehead, the skull had vanished. My face looked strange to me, unfamiliar almost.
Before long my eyes had forgotten my reflection and drifted back to her. We sat in silence, just drinking in each other. It felt like we were opposite poles of a magnet, instantly attracted to each other. The more I looked at her the more my thoughts began to change.
My tattoos didn't describe me, they defined her. As soon as I saw her I knew it was true. I was meant to save her, I was meant to guard her paper heart and be the firm roots of her beautiful Lily. It's funny, I had always hated how happy people were when they were content with their lives being defined by their ink. As I looked at her those thoughts fell away, I am meant to live for her. I didn't feel as if my heart was the strong and vibrant one atop her bicep but I would strive to be that for her, if everything that happened to me was meant to keep her as happy as the flower painted across her chest then every second I suffered was worth it. The longer we stared at each other the more I could feel her thoughts mimicking mine. The silence was torn like a barrier between us as she spoke.
"My place isn't far from here, can you take me home?"
My lips involuntarily curled up into a warm smile, her bright red lips mirroring my actions. She stopped shaking and sighed out in relief as I replied, "Of course."
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All sorts of things were possible, when they appeared on your arm. Others loved to explain their own when they were easily interpreted and many made a fortune interpreting others. But most confusing were the people whose tattoos meant nothing. Like my own upon the cold morning of August, '17. My arm sported a childish caricature of a train, and a even messier drawing of a blond woman. What was this message? I didn't take the train, nor was I of a prominscuous type. This mystery baffled me, especially since I refused to consult 'interpretation experts'. They probably knew nothing except for simple deduction. That wouldn't help me here. Besides, I was supposed to solve my own tattoo's meaning myself.
Another tattoo formed the next day, a more readable '3'. Then a rope burning, the rope in the shape of '2'. Then as the countdown hit one, I saw one word. 'DANGER'. Wat was I missing? Did the Gods expect to read the unreadable and the inexplicable? As I gave up on the mystery, my phone buzzed. It was my girlfriend.
"Hey, the train seems to be stopping quite a lot. Is it convenient for you to pick me at the next stop?" came her soothing voice. But the words froze my blood in my veins.
*My girlfriend was blonde. She took the train. And a rope burning could only be...*
I rushed over in my car, ignoring the blaring red lights and rule-abiding cars on the highway. If I could succeed, it would be worth any price. The station looked so...calm. So inviting. But I knew something was going to happen.
As the train approached, I saw it. The tiny rope burning down, like my hopes and dreams. *The fuse.* Before I could scream, before I could tell the innocent to run, before I could tell *her* to escape, it was too late. An explosion, the scale of an Earthen supernova, ripped through the ground, the station and its inhabitants torn to bits. Crumbling away, dust falling, debris piling up. I had failed. Failed.
I had a new tattoo. But it wasn't hard to decipher. I smiled, as I saw the 'DO NOT' on my wrist. The Gods had started the cruel twists of fate with their funny game. I would have a nice game with them too.
"No," I said, an open rejection as I let my hands move. My finger pulled the trigger. The gun was brought along, just in case.
Somewhere else, I hoped, her tattoo would bring her better luck.
______________________________
More over at r/Whale62! Sequels at popular request!
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
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Everyone has at least one tattoo they absolutely love.
Jenny from upstairs has this peacock on her back- something she says is for her mother. Which is. Just. Absolute bullshit. She has it because she's a vain bitch.
But god is that tattoo beautiful. Curving lines inlayed with golds and greens and shocking blues. It's a masterful piece of art.
Fucking. Jenny.
Even Ma, who's worked labor her whole life and is mostly covered in lines and number, statistics and machinery and such, has one little red heart on her wrist that she is so proud of.
It's tiny, no bigger than my pinky nail, but it's powerful. Rich and vibrant. For the husband she lost too soon and the razor she almost took to that same wrist soon after.
I do not have a goddamn thing to be proud of on my body.
No sloping curves, no vibrant colors, no magnificent linework.
Just a vast, inescapable crisscrossing network of cartoon drawing of dicks.
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All sorts of things were possible, when they appeared on your arm. Others loved to explain their own when they were easily interpreted and many made a fortune interpreting others. But most confusing were the people whose tattoos meant nothing. Like my own upon the cold morning of August, '17. My arm sported a childish caricature of a train, and a even messier drawing of a blond woman. What was this message? I didn't take the train, nor was I of a prominscuous type. This mystery baffled me, especially since I refused to consult 'interpretation experts'. They probably knew nothing except for simple deduction. That wouldn't help me here. Besides, I was supposed to solve my own tattoo's meaning myself.
Another tattoo formed the next day, a more readable '3'. Then a rope burning, the rope in the shape of '2'. Then as the countdown hit one, I saw one word. 'DANGER'. Wat was I missing? Did the Gods expect to read the unreadable and the inexplicable? As I gave up on the mystery, my phone buzzed. It was my girlfriend.
"Hey, the train seems to be stopping quite a lot. Is it convenient for you to pick me at the next stop?" came her soothing voice. But the words froze my blood in my veins.
*My girlfriend was blonde. She took the train. And a rope burning could only be...*
I rushed over in my car, ignoring the blaring red lights and rule-abiding cars on the highway. If I could succeed, it would be worth any price. The station looked so...calm. So inviting. But I knew something was going to happen.
As the train approached, I saw it. The tiny rope burning down, like my hopes and dreams. *The fuse.* Before I could scream, before I could tell the innocent to run, before I could tell *her* to escape, it was too late. An explosion, the scale of an Earthen supernova, ripped through the ground, the station and its inhabitants torn to bits. Crumbling away, dust falling, debris piling up. I had failed. Failed.
I had a new tattoo. But it wasn't hard to decipher. I smiled, as I saw the 'DO NOT' on my wrist. The Gods had started the cruel twists of fate with their funny game. I would have a nice game with them too.
"No," I said, an open rejection as I let my hands move. My finger pulled the trigger. The gun was brought along, just in case.
Somewhere else, I hoped, her tattoo would bring her better luck.
______________________________
More over at r/Whale62! Sequels at popular request!
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
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I look in the mirror. I see a pale, wan man looking back at me. I no longer recognize myself but that barely concerns me. I see countless tattoos of the same shape. Small shapes of knife scattered all across my body like the stars of the galaxy. When people discover a tattoo, they wonder what meaning it has for their lives. For me, that was never a question. The meaning of my tattoos has always been too clear for me. *Painfully* clear. The first of them appeared just moments before I killed a man for the first time.
I quickly scan my entire body, desperately looking for a new tattoo, a sign, an answer. I spot something on my back. It looks like a woman holding a young child. The skin around the tattoo has turned crimson red, as if someone has repeatedly hit it. The color of red around it almost makes it seem as if the woman and the baby are covered in a pool of blood.
*Blood*.
*Yes*.
A sense of joy and relief overwhelms me. I burst out in laughter and hysterically continue laughing until my worried wife comes in. I grin at her and say,
"It's finally time."
*****
I worked for a world-renown drug lord called Schteiger. In his organization I held the title of Chief Strategy Officer but anyone who witnessed my work - and was lucky enough to survive - would have called me a hitman.
I was abandoned at birth and wandered the alleys of the slum ever since I escaped from the orphanage that beat its children. Then I met Schteiger. He kindly took me in and trained me with several other boys of my age. His training was rigorous, intolerable at times. But I survived, and I was the only one who survived. I became his guard, his servant, his slave. I killed my first man when I was 14 at the command of my master. The ones after that came much easier. I didn't mind my job - the pay was good and the sense of conscience never existed in me.
Until I met her.
She taught me what it feels to love and to be loved back. She filled the lost part of me and taught me that I had senses of compassion and conscience within me that I thought never existed. When I heard that she became pregnant with my child, I made up my mind to leave Schteiger and his damned organization.
Schteiger did not like my proclamation. His answer came not in words but in consequences. I was shot in the streets that night and was left there to die when a woman came to my rescue. Miraculously I survived and when I tried to contact my wife I found out that she had been killed along with our baby inside her.
I attempted to end my life when the woman who saved me yet again came to my rescue. After hearing my story, instead of running to the cops for help, she hugged me and comforted me, showing me that there still is someone who cares about me.
Years passed by and she replaced the other half of me that was taken away. She even gave me a child and she quickly became the most important thing in my life. But even she could not completely replace what was taken awawy from me and the uncontrollable sense of rage still filled my heart. I swore to avenge my wife and my unborn child, to give the same pain to the man who had done this to me.
And now, that time has finally come.
*****
I leave the house to carry out the plan that I have so carefully crafted and perfected for years. Having served Schteiger for most of my life, it is easy to locate his family - his beautiful wife and his even more beautiful daughter. They have done nothing to me but if there is a fault with them, it would be being the family of a man like Schteiger.
It's easy bypassing the guards as that is what I have done for all my life. Now I stand on the doorsteps of the mansion and only a door stands between Schteiger's helpless girls and their doom. I take out my revolver and pull back the hammer. I take in a deep breath and try to suppress the exhilaration that the thought of revenge gives me. I take a few steps back and charge at the door.
Then nothing.
I briefly hear a loud sound of a bone breaking, and at the same time feel a powerful impact on my head. I almost immediately lose consciousness.
I wake up and through a blurred vision, recognize a familiar face. *Schteiger*.
"You really think that I would let you hurt me? Hurt my family?"
I try to form a sentence but it only comes out as a mumble.
"After all those years of working for me, you really learned nothing. *Nothing*. You should have remained dead. Now watch what your actions have costed you."
A man in black suit drags a large bag into the room, the bag leaving a red trace behind it. Schteiger unzips the bag and says *Ta-da*, as if he is presenting a gift. I look inside and find two people, a woman and a young child, the woman holding the child tightly. Their bodies are pale and still, and the sign of life has left them both. I recognize their faces and immediately cry out in shock and disbelief. Watching my flood of emotions, Schteiger laughs out maniacally, almost unable to keep standing. The sound of my scream and his laughter fill the room, creating an odd resonance through out. I remember the new tattoo I got today and realize its real meaning. My scream gets louder and more terrifying while Schteiger's laugh gets more hysterical. He abruptly stops laughing and takes out his gun and aims at my head.
Just then, I spot a shape newly forming on the back of his hand. A shape of a knife. Schteiger notices it too and gives me a large, twisted smile.
"I win."
He pulls the trigger.
******
EDIT: formatting
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"Jonah, I'm sorry, but I just don't see this... no, I just don't see *us* working out in the long term."
She was clearly holding back tears, trying to look strong, but I knew Georgia too well by now. These tears were no longer from our argument. She was devastated, but she'd never admit it. That stubbornness was part of the reason I loved her so much. She was like a little puzzle, always hiding her real feelings, but always giving you little signs. A flick of her hair, a small glance to meet your eyes, Georgia could convey a thousand feelings in seconds if you knew how to look for them.
Now, after the fight we’d just assumed was a regular hiccup, after the searing pain we both suddenly experienced, and after stunned silence that followed, all I could see in Georgia’s face was sadness and guilt. I felt guilty too of course, even though neither of us really had anything to apologise for. It’s not either person’s fault if a couple aren’t meant for each other, it just means you both have to move on and find someone new. And as we stared at each other across the room, I took one last look at both our new tattoos, both featuring a small heart and the end, to see who that new someone was.
“Alex”
“Charlie”
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
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France was rife with optimism, peace and prosperity during the late stages of the 19th century. It comes to no surprise that the period is known more commonly today as "La Belle Époque".
From the end of the Franco-Prussian war right up until WWI, the country witnessed a boom in the arts and the economy. Things were positively different during an era that seemed to be trapped in time.
Or so the world wished.
Police crowded the outer corridor of the cell as Chief Berlain sat face to face with the source of commotion.
A young lad of about 17 crouched in the corner of his room, staring back like a cowering dog. His body, thinned to the bone and covered in ink.
Berlain had been here before, 5 years prior to this, with the same prisoner in the very same cell. Yet the boy of the past was no longer there, his face irecognizable.
The warden had recorded a total of 18 more individual markings on his face alone since then. The majority depicted numbers.
Official studies had commenced late that June, but 5 years and 9 months on and the puzzle remained incomplete. Up until now the engravings on his body were a maze they couldn't get out of.
A date was the only clear indication: 10.05.1871 in Roman numerals. The end of the Franco-Prussian war.
That morning the tone was different. Whilst France was enjoying it's prosperity, the men gathered around the cell felt nothing but dread.
The teenager was usually a very calm lad, who did as he was told. But today he had broken down during breakfast and hadn't left his cell corner for hours.
Another date had appeared on his neck, next to the previous numbers. Yet this one marked the end of a supposed era, this one was in the future.
28.06.1918 in the same numerals.
A puzzled Berlain turned to face his colleagues. The time had come to take this beyond their own power and to the government.
But Christophe Berlain had other plans. That night, instead of heading north to Paris, he would take his subject East.
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"Jonah, I'm sorry, but I just don't see this... no, I just don't see *us* working out in the long term."
She was clearly holding back tears, trying to look strong, but I knew Georgia too well by now. These tears were no longer from our argument. She was devastated, but she'd never admit it. That stubbornness was part of the reason I loved her so much. She was like a little puzzle, always hiding her real feelings, but always giving you little signs. A flick of her hair, a small glance to meet your eyes, Georgia could convey a thousand feelings in seconds if you knew how to look for them.
Now, after the fight we’d just assumed was a regular hiccup, after the searing pain we both suddenly experienced, and after stunned silence that followed, all I could see in Georgia’s face was sadness and guilt. I felt guilty too of course, even though neither of us really had anything to apologise for. It’s not either person’s fault if a couple aren’t meant for each other, it just means you both have to move on and find someone new. And as we stared at each other across the room, I took one last look at both our new tattoos, both featuring a small heart and the end, to see who that new someone was.
“Alex”
“Charlie”
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
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It's genetic, they think, but only mad men try to pick apart the threads of this phenomenon. But some of it is genetic, because some families get them more than others. Or maybe those families are similarly emotional.
There's surely more important things for the minds of our generation to worry about.
My mother was heavily tattooed. I remember sitting in her arms as a child and tracing my fingers across lines, but some of the tattoos i remember have even since been layered on top of. I take after her.
But my father's, few as there were, were more interesting to me. The open mausoleum door on his forearm. And that is framed with purple flowers. Theres a tall and thin silhouette on his spine, and the basket in it's hand, which was a separate tattoo. He never went into much detail on them, but one could guess.
I look at the car on the inside of my wrist, as they're lowered into the side by side graves. And I know why it appeared two years ago.
The bees were drawn out of the honeycomb on my knee, and the spiderweb on my thigh was now empty. behind it stands a tall silhouette.
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"Jonah, I'm sorry, but I just don't see this... no, I just don't see *us* working out in the long term."
She was clearly holding back tears, trying to look strong, but I knew Georgia too well by now. These tears were no longer from our argument. She was devastated, but she'd never admit it. That stubbornness was part of the reason I loved her so much. She was like a little puzzle, always hiding her real feelings, but always giving you little signs. A flick of her hair, a small glance to meet your eyes, Georgia could convey a thousand feelings in seconds if you knew how to look for them.
Now, after the fight we’d just assumed was a regular hiccup, after the searing pain we both suddenly experienced, and after stunned silence that followed, all I could see in Georgia’s face was sadness and guilt. I felt guilty too of course, even though neither of us really had anything to apologise for. It’s not either person’s fault if a couple aren’t meant for each other, it just means you both have to move on and find someone new. And as we stared at each other across the room, I took one last look at both our new tattoos, both featuring a small heart and the end, to see who that new someone was.
“Alex”
“Charlie”
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
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Ryan never wanted a tattoo. He always thought they looked out of place, unnatural. Tattoos weren't dominant in his family. His mom only had a small one on her leg and his dad had only three tattoos, all of which were on his right arm.
Ryan's nineteenth birthday was coming right around the corner, and he still hadn't had any of his tattoos come in yet. He was the only one left in his high school who didn't have any at graduation. While most of his friends' senior pictures showed off their fresh, unfaded tattoos, Ryan's was just of him with all his hiking gear on a mountain.
No one ever talked about the fact he didn't have any tattoos, but he knew they were all thinking about it. It really didn't bother him, though. It made him different from everyone else. In a sea of sameness, Ryan stood out. He liked that.
Ryan's alarm went off, and he staggered to his nightstand to shut it up. He went into the bathroom, eyes only half open, and caught his reflection in the mirror on the way to the toilet. What he saw horrified him.
The entire front of his body, from his waist all the way up to his neck, was covered in intricate symbols and designs. They were all a deep black, a huge contrast with his pasty white skin.
He touched the tattoos, expecting to feel some sort of texture. Instead, it felt no different from anywhere else on his body.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror. He thought back to his classes where they were taught about the common first tattoos people get. This was like nothing he had ever seen or heard of before.
Ryan ran down the stairs to show his family and see if they knew what that tattoo meant. But instead of finding his family, he was greeted by a dozen armed men, with a man in a black suit at the front of them. They all worse gas masks and goggles except for his parents who were tied up at the kitchen table, mouths duct taped shut.
"What the hell is going on?" Ryan said.
"Our systems detected an anomaly," the man in the suit said. His face was devoid of any emotion.
"An anomaly in what?" Ryan asked.
"Our systems indicate that you may be Marked," the man replied.
"Marked?"
"It's the term we use for humans not from this planet. The tattoo system was developed to identify people like you. So we can eliminate you."
The man leveled a weapon at Ryan and pulled the trigger. A dart struck him square in the chest. The tattoos disappeared immediately, and his skin turned from white to a deep blue.
Ryan could vaguely hear his mother cry through the duct tape as his vision faded to black...
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"Jonah, I'm sorry, but I just don't see this... no, I just don't see *us* working out in the long term."
She was clearly holding back tears, trying to look strong, but I knew Georgia too well by now. These tears were no longer from our argument. She was devastated, but she'd never admit it. That stubbornness was part of the reason I loved her so much. She was like a little puzzle, always hiding her real feelings, but always giving you little signs. A flick of her hair, a small glance to meet your eyes, Georgia could convey a thousand feelings in seconds if you knew how to look for them.
Now, after the fight we’d just assumed was a regular hiccup, after the searing pain we both suddenly experienced, and after stunned silence that followed, all I could see in Georgia’s face was sadness and guilt. I felt guilty too of course, even though neither of us really had anything to apologise for. It’s not either person’s fault if a couple aren’t meant for each other, it just means you both have to move on and find someone new. And as we stared at each other across the room, I took one last look at both our new tattoos, both featuring a small heart and the end, to see who that new someone was.
“Alex”
“Charlie”
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
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People tended to stay away from me. At first I told myself I didn't mind, but I'm starting to feel like a monster simply for the ink that's inhabiting my forehead.
I have some on my arms, a crying woman in the fetal position surrounded by a dark circle that I assume is for the loneliness that my life will have. Not sure why it's a woman but maybe it's just meant to show me who I'm missing.
On my right forearm I've got a paper heart. I've always assumed this one meant that I'm weak. A fucking symbol to get me sympathy, not that it matters with my forehead tattoo.
Strangely, my back just holds some roots digging into my skin, normally they wouldn't look too out of place, but when they're paired with my other ink they begin to look gruesome.
I walk around each day envying the glimmering tattoos of laughter, clouds, flowers, and books that litter people's bodies as they pass me in the streets. Seems like everyone has a passion they're pursuing. Their tattoos define their life and what they spend their time on, they're content to do what they're marked with.
Tattoos play a big role in job interviews. Hell, if you have a computer on your arm it's worth more than a computer science degree to employers.
Because of how influencial the tattoos are I've been jobless and living off soup kitchens for years now. People won't hire a man with a bright white skull bleeding down his face.
A sound broke me out of my moody thoughts. I had been walking around in a bad part of town, not that it mattered my tattoos scared off anyone looking to mug me, when I heard cries coming from an alley. As I looked down the alley my breath caught.
On the floor huddled into a ball sat the woman. The same woman who hugged my arm each day, the same woman I thought was simply some ignorable detail. She cried out as men behind her were laughing and kicking her mercilessly. Her shirt lay in tatters behind the men, she must've fought them originally or the men wouldn't have forgotten their original intent. Each time their foot connected a yelp of pain interrupted her ragged sobbing.
I don't remember when my feet started moving but in no time flat I was already down the alley, screaming like a mad man at the two men. At first they laughed, a tattered homeless man probably didn't look intimidating, but as I neared the skull on my head bore it's eyes into the men. Their faces paled, they stumbled backwards before a high pitched shriek escaped from them. By the time I got to them they were already up and running, disappearing into the darkness that I came from.
"Are you okay?" I asked the woman. She didn't respond, she just continued to cry on the floor. I lowered myself next to her, removing my tattered rag of a shirt as I did. I slowly put it in her line of sight, and waited until she noticed it. Eventually her eyes focused on the shirt and she yanked it out of my hand.
"Go ahead and put that on, it looks like they're gone for now but they could come back any second."
"Th-thank you." She was still shaking from crying. I only just met her but I felt like I knew her better than myself. Seeing her on my arm each night illuminated how she must be feeling right now, I knew all too well the sadness and fear coarsing through her. I'd felt it every night since my tattoos came. Her eyes finally traced up to me, expanding in what must've been a new wave of fear, expecting the normal revulsion I spoke, "It's okay, it's just a skull. Look I have others."
I showed her the one of her, curled up and crying. Her eyebrows scrunched together, her puffy eyelids obscuring her bloodshot eyes as they darted around taking in every inch of me.
As she studied me I couldn't help but look back at her. Where my arm held a paper heart, hers was painted with a strong and vibrant heart. Weirdly a small Lily grew out of her chest, right between her breasts, my shirt lay forgotten in her lap.
It was my turn to scrunch my eyebrows in confusion. I couldn't believe my eyes, my smiling face with no skull tattoo sat atop her arm exactly where her figure rested on mine.
"What skull?" She asked me, her voice still brittle but slightly more relaxed than before. My eyebrows scrunched further.
"The one on my forehead. A big white glaring skull with blood pouring out of it."
"You don't have any ink on your face." She pulled out her phone, her hands and voice still shaky, and opened the front facing camera for me to see. Reluctantly, I pulled my eyes away from her and waited to see the gruesome image atop my own face. Yet there was nothing on my forehead, the skull had vanished. My face looked strange to me, unfamiliar almost.
Before long my eyes had forgotten my reflection and drifted back to her. We sat in silence, just drinking in each other. It felt like we were opposite poles of a magnet, instantly attracted to each other. The more I looked at her the more my thoughts began to change.
My tattoos didn't describe me, they defined her. As soon as I saw her I knew it was true. I was meant to save her, I was meant to guard her paper heart and be the firm roots of her beautiful Lily. It's funny, I had always hated how happy people were when they were content with their lives being defined by their ink. As I looked at her those thoughts fell away, I am meant to live for her. I didn't feel as if my heart was the strong and vibrant one atop her bicep but I would strive to be that for her, if everything that happened to me was meant to keep her as happy as the flower painted across her chest then every second I suffered was worth it. The longer we stared at each other the more I could feel her thoughts mimicking mine. The silence was torn like a barrier between us as she spoke.
"My place isn't far from here, can you take me home?"
My lips involuntarily curled up into a warm smile, her bright red lips mirroring my actions. She stopped shaking and sighed out in relief as I replied, "Of course."
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"Jonah, I'm sorry, but I just don't see this... no, I just don't see *us* working out in the long term."
She was clearly holding back tears, trying to look strong, but I knew Georgia too well by now. These tears were no longer from our argument. She was devastated, but she'd never admit it. That stubbornness was part of the reason I loved her so much. She was like a little puzzle, always hiding her real feelings, but always giving you little signs. A flick of her hair, a small glance to meet your eyes, Georgia could convey a thousand feelings in seconds if you knew how to look for them.
Now, after the fight we’d just assumed was a regular hiccup, after the searing pain we both suddenly experienced, and after stunned silence that followed, all I could see in Georgia’s face was sadness and guilt. I felt guilty too of course, even though neither of us really had anything to apologise for. It’s not either person’s fault if a couple aren’t meant for each other, it just means you both have to move on and find someone new. And as we stared at each other across the room, I took one last look at both our new tattoos, both featuring a small heart and the end, to see who that new someone was.
“Alex”
“Charlie”
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
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Everyone has at least one tattoo they absolutely love.
Jenny from upstairs has this peacock on her back- something she says is for her mother. Which is. Just. Absolute bullshit. She has it because she's a vain bitch.
But god is that tattoo beautiful. Curving lines inlayed with golds and greens and shocking blues. It's a masterful piece of art.
Fucking. Jenny.
Even Ma, who's worked labor her whole life and is mostly covered in lines and number, statistics and machinery and such, has one little red heart on her wrist that she is so proud of.
It's tiny, no bigger than my pinky nail, but it's powerful. Rich and vibrant. For the husband she lost too soon and the razor she almost took to that same wrist soon after.
I do not have a goddamn thing to be proud of on my body.
No sloping curves, no vibrant colors, no magnificent linework.
Just a vast, inescapable crisscrossing network of cartoon drawing of dicks.
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"Jonah, I'm sorry, but I just don't see this... no, I just don't see *us* working out in the long term."
She was clearly holding back tears, trying to look strong, but I knew Georgia too well by now. These tears were no longer from our argument. She was devastated, but she'd never admit it. That stubbornness was part of the reason I loved her so much. She was like a little puzzle, always hiding her real feelings, but always giving you little signs. A flick of her hair, a small glance to meet your eyes, Georgia could convey a thousand feelings in seconds if you knew how to look for them.
Now, after the fight we’d just assumed was a regular hiccup, after the searing pain we both suddenly experienced, and after stunned silence that followed, all I could see in Georgia’s face was sadness and guilt. I felt guilty too of course, even though neither of us really had anything to apologise for. It’s not either person’s fault if a couple aren’t meant for each other, it just means you both have to move on and find someone new. And as we stared at each other across the room, I took one last look at both our new tattoos, both featuring a small heart and the end, to see who that new someone was.
“Alex”
“Charlie”
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
|
Keenan Avery woke up from another drunken slumber. He rolled out of bed uneasily, his stomach flipping end over end as the twenty-five year old made a beeline for the bathroom. After he had finished emptying the contents from the previous night into the toilet, Keenan made his way to the sink to rinse his mouth. He looked in horror as another tattoo had emerged through his skin, this time above his right eye. September 3, '92 arched around his eyebrow, taunting him in the mirror as he tried to read it backwards. Once he was certain the date was correct he sat on his bed confused.
This wasn't the first time he was confused by a new tattoo. When he turned eighteen he signed up for the new Worldwide Ink Initiative. The revolutionary program was voluntary, but soon everyone that loved the art of tattooing had enrolled. The volunteers were fitted with a capsule about the size of a half dollar in their lower abdomen. Through nanotechnology and brain readings done every few years, the volunteers would begin to literally sprout tattoos on their bodies. Keenan's first was a large Celtic cross on his forearm. His next was on his chest, a heart with the letters A+K on the inside for his first true love. One year later a large "X" went through the heart tattoo. He wasn't exactly littered with ink, but sometimes he wondered why certain tattoos had emerged. "September 3, '92" was nothing less than a mystery.
"What could it mean?" Keenan thought to himself. He was born in 1990. What kind of event could have happened when he was two years old that could have such a lasting effect? Tattoos didn't just come out of the thin air. They all had a very precise meaning to their owners. Keenan was out of ideas. He called his mother.
"Ma," Keenan began, "does September 3, 1992 have any meaning to you?"
His mother was silent on the other end. "Not to me, no," she replied in a rush.
He explained the tattoo and went down a list of possibilities. Was I in the hospital? Were we on a vacation? Did someone die?
"Honey, this is nonsense. Don't ask me about your dumb tattoos. I told you not to get those damn things."
And with that the conversation was over. Keenan let it marinate for awhile. The days ticked away and nothing was coming to him. The tattoo mocked him every time he saw his reflection. Because of the placement; friends, family and strangers noticed the ink immediately. He had no idea what to tell the inquiring minds.
He began to dig deep through the internet. What happened on September 3, 1992? Jerry Lewis had a telethon that raised over $45 million for muscular dystrophy. "End of the Road" by Boyz II Men was taking over the airwaves. It was a day that was quite literally uneventful. So he began to Google his family. Nothing on his father. His mother the same. No deaths in the family or anything. He was truly at a loss.
By some random chance he found an old copy of a newspaper on the day from his local paper. On the third page his eyes were scanning furiously, the new tattoo bobbing up and down, stretching as his eyes agonized over the screen. "Toddler Abducted in Broad Daylight" was the headline. A picture of a young boy smiled on the page, the last known photo of the child. Underneath the toddler was a picture of a husband consoling his hysteric wife. The man looked just like Keenan.
He grabbed his phone off the desk and called his mother. No answer. He called again. No answer. On the third call she finally picked up.
"Tell me it isn't true!" Keenan cried. "Tell me my mind is going crazy and I'm grasping at straws over here, Ma."
"I...We...," she stuttered. "You were never supposed to find out."
Two months after his parents shocking confession they were sentenced to twenty-five years in prison. The judge threw the book at the Abington Abductors. Keenan's life was upside down. He was reunited with his biological parents, but it was all too weird of an experience for all parties involved. There was agreement that this would all take some getting used to.
Keenan woke up in a sweat one day, and made his way to the bathroom in his usual drunken stupor. He had taken to drinking a lot more recently, for obvious reasons. He threw up, rinsed his mouth out and looked back at his reflection. In the mirror, above his left eyebrow and symmetrically arched like his other, was a new tattoo. "Forgiveness" stared backwards at him. Keenan punched the mirror. That same day he made his way back into the clinic of the Worldwide Ink Initiative and had them take his implant out for good.
---
Thanks for reading! Come check out /r/BrenBuck for more!
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"Jonah, I'm sorry, but I just don't see this... no, I just don't see *us* working out in the long term."
She was clearly holding back tears, trying to look strong, but I knew Georgia too well by now. These tears were no longer from our argument. She was devastated, but she'd never admit it. That stubbornness was part of the reason I loved her so much. She was like a little puzzle, always hiding her real feelings, but always giving you little signs. A flick of her hair, a small glance to meet your eyes, Georgia could convey a thousand feelings in seconds if you knew how to look for them.
Now, after the fight we’d just assumed was a regular hiccup, after the searing pain we both suddenly experienced, and after stunned silence that followed, all I could see in Georgia’s face was sadness and guilt. I felt guilty too of course, even though neither of us really had anything to apologise for. It’s not either person’s fault if a couple aren’t meant for each other, it just means you both have to move on and find someone new. And as we stared at each other across the room, I took one last look at both our new tattoos, both featuring a small heart and the end, to see who that new someone was.
“Alex”
“Charlie”
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
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Hi! I'm new to Writing Prompts and I'd appreciate any feedback you're willing to give!
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Katrina pulled her clothes tightly across her shoulders and looked down. All she wanted to do was pay for her groceries. But no; They had to ask. Everytime. Every. Single. Time.
“You got any clue what it means yet?” Pete, the cashier, asked.
Kat quickly took a swig of water. “Hmm?” She hummed, desperately digging for her credit card. Of course, Kat knew what he was asking about. She had told them that she had received a tattoo resembling a water bottle. She hadn’t, but it was easier than telling people that she didn’t have any. A tattoo of a water bottle was also strange enough that people would believe her when she said that she didn’t know what it meant.
No one in this town could mind their own business. Everywhere Kat went, she saw burly men proudly displaying their art-filled biceps and speaking stories of heroism. Some of her friends had “4.0,” or images depicting their sleepless nights of studying to pass a class. Others had their current League of Legends ranking proudly displayed. Everyone had something. Except Kat.
It wasn’t that Kat was a bad student, or that she sucked at video games; it was quite the opposite really. The tattoos were meant to represent a great achievement, and, well, those things didn’t cut it for Kat.
“Your tattoo,” Pete leaned closer, eager to hear about Kat’s achievement, “what does it mean? Jason said you got a waterbottle.”
Kat’s lips fell into a scowl. Kat yearned to return to the days before Jason got over his fear of public speaking and received a microphone tattoo on his throat. He used to be someone she could talk to; he used to be someone she could trust to tell that she hadn’t received a tattoo.
Lying to him-- telling him about her “tattoo” -- was probably one of the hardest things she had done. But it was necessary. At least, that’s what Kat told herself. Nowadays, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. No one in this godforsaken town could.
“No clue,” Kat mumbled, “still figuring it out.”
She handed Pete her credit card. In the process, she knocked over her water bottle, and liquid spilled all over the counter.
Kat cursed and scanned the room for paper towel. She ran over to the dispenser and got a few sheets.
“No, no,” Pete began, “it’s quite alright. We’ll get it.”
“I got it,” Kat insisted, “and, hey, who knows, this could be what my tattoo is for: cleaning up after my mistakes.” She laughed bitterly.
There was more water spillage than Kat initially thought. And it wasn’t just over the counter; she somehow managed to spray water onto Pete’s “employee of the month” tattoo across his forearm.
Kat cursed again. “Sorry. Let me help you with that.”
“Seriously,” Pete cleared his throat and backed away.
“No, really, it’s ok,” Kat said as she grabbed his wrist and wiped his arm with the towel. As she did so, the white paper towel became streak with green and yellow.
Kat’s eyes widened. “What the…?”
Edit: a word
Edit 2: removed "it was fake" to better flow into part 2.
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"Jonah, I'm sorry, but I just don't see this... no, I just don't see *us* working out in the long term."
She was clearly holding back tears, trying to look strong, but I knew Georgia too well by now. These tears were no longer from our argument. She was devastated, but she'd never admit it. That stubbornness was part of the reason I loved her so much. She was like a little puzzle, always hiding her real feelings, but always giving you little signs. A flick of her hair, a small glance to meet your eyes, Georgia could convey a thousand feelings in seconds if you knew how to look for them.
Now, after the fight we’d just assumed was a regular hiccup, after the searing pain we both suddenly experienced, and after stunned silence that followed, all I could see in Georgia’s face was sadness and guilt. I felt guilty too of course, even though neither of us really had anything to apologise for. It’s not either person’s fault if a couple aren’t meant for each other, it just means you both have to move on and find someone new. And as we stared at each other across the room, I took one last look at both our new tattoos, both featuring a small heart and the end, to see who that new someone was.
“Alex”
“Charlie”
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
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It's genetic, they think, but only mad men try to pick apart the threads of this phenomenon. But some of it is genetic, because some families get them more than others. Or maybe those families are similarly emotional.
There's surely more important things for the minds of our generation to worry about.
My mother was heavily tattooed. I remember sitting in her arms as a child and tracing my fingers across lines, but some of the tattoos i remember have even since been layered on top of. I take after her.
But my father's, few as there were, were more interesting to me. The open mausoleum door on his forearm. And that is framed with purple flowers. Theres a tall and thin silhouette on his spine, and the basket in it's hand, which was a separate tattoo. He never went into much detail on them, but one could guess.
I look at the car on the inside of my wrist, as they're lowered into the side by side graves. And I know why it appeared two years ago.
The bees were drawn out of the honeycomb on my knee, and the spiderweb on my thigh was now empty. behind it stands a tall silhouette.
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I look in the mirror. I see a pale, wan man looking back at me. I no longer recognize myself but that barely concerns me. I see countless tattoos of the same shape. Small shapes of knife scattered all across my body like the stars of the galaxy. When people discover a tattoo, they wonder what meaning it has for their lives. For me, that was never a question. The meaning of my tattoos has always been too clear for me. *Painfully* clear. The first of them appeared just moments before I killed a man for the first time.
I quickly scan my entire body, desperately looking for a new tattoo, a sign, an answer. I spot something on my back. It looks like a woman holding a young child. The skin around the tattoo has turned crimson red, as if someone has repeatedly hit it. The color of red around it almost makes it seem as if the woman and the baby are covered in a pool of blood.
*Blood*.
*Yes*.
A sense of joy and relief overwhelms me. I burst out in laughter and hysterically continue laughing until my worried wife comes in. I grin at her and say,
"It's finally time."
*****
I worked for a world-renown drug lord called Schteiger. In his organization I held the title of Chief Strategy Officer but anyone who witnessed my work - and was lucky enough to survive - would have called me a hitman.
I was abandoned at birth and wandered the alleys of the slum ever since I escaped from the orphanage that beat its children. Then I met Schteiger. He kindly took me in and trained me with several other boys of my age. His training was rigorous, intolerable at times. But I survived, and I was the only one who survived. I became his guard, his servant, his slave. I killed my first man when I was 14 at the command of my master. The ones after that came much easier. I didn't mind my job - the pay was good and the sense of conscience never existed in me.
Until I met her.
She taught me what it feels to love and to be loved back. She filled the lost part of me and taught me that I had senses of compassion and conscience within me that I thought never existed. When I heard that she became pregnant with my child, I made up my mind to leave Schteiger and his damned organization.
Schteiger did not like my proclamation. His answer came not in words but in consequences. I was shot in the streets that night and was left there to die when a woman came to my rescue. Miraculously I survived and when I tried to contact my wife I found out that she had been killed along with our baby inside her.
I attempted to end my life when the woman who saved me yet again came to my rescue. After hearing my story, instead of running to the cops for help, she hugged me and comforted me, showing me that there still is someone who cares about me.
Years passed by and she replaced the other half of me that was taken away. She even gave me a child and she quickly became the most important thing in my life. But even she could not completely replace what was taken awawy from me and the uncontrollable sense of rage still filled my heart. I swore to avenge my wife and my unborn child, to give the same pain to the man who had done this to me.
And now, that time has finally come.
*****
I leave the house to carry out the plan that I have so carefully crafted and perfected for years. Having served Schteiger for most of my life, it is easy to locate his family - his beautiful wife and his even more beautiful daughter. They have done nothing to me but if there is a fault with them, it would be being the family of a man like Schteiger.
It's easy bypassing the guards as that is what I have done for all my life. Now I stand on the doorsteps of the mansion and only a door stands between Schteiger's helpless girls and their doom. I take out my revolver and pull back the hammer. I take in a deep breath and try to suppress the exhilaration that the thought of revenge gives me. I take a few steps back and charge at the door.
Then nothing.
I briefly hear a loud sound of a bone breaking, and at the same time feel a powerful impact on my head. I almost immediately lose consciousness.
I wake up and through a blurred vision, recognize a familiar face. *Schteiger*.
"You really think that I would let you hurt me? Hurt my family?"
I try to form a sentence but it only comes out as a mumble.
"After all those years of working for me, you really learned nothing. *Nothing*. You should have remained dead. Now watch what your actions have costed you."
A man in black suit drags a large bag into the room, the bag leaving a red trace behind it. Schteiger unzips the bag and says *Ta-da*, as if he is presenting a gift. I look inside and find two people, a woman and a young child, the woman holding the child tightly. Their bodies are pale and still, and the sign of life has left them both. I recognize their faces and immediately cry out in shock and disbelief. Watching my flood of emotions, Schteiger laughs out maniacally, almost unable to keep standing. The sound of my scream and his laughter fill the room, creating an odd resonance through out. I remember the new tattoo I got today and realize its real meaning. My scream gets louder and more terrifying while Schteiger's laugh gets more hysterical. He abruptly stops laughing and takes out his gun and aims at my head.
Just then, I spot a shape newly forming on the back of his hand. A shape of a knife. Schteiger notices it too and gives me a large, twisted smile.
"I win."
He pulls the trigger.
******
EDIT: formatting
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
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People tended to stay away from me. At first I told myself I didn't mind, but I'm starting to feel like a monster simply for the ink that's inhabiting my forehead.
I have some on my arms, a crying woman in the fetal position surrounded by a dark circle that I assume is for the loneliness that my life will have. Not sure why it's a woman but maybe it's just meant to show me who I'm missing.
On my right forearm I've got a paper heart. I've always assumed this one meant that I'm weak. A fucking symbol to get me sympathy, not that it matters with my forehead tattoo.
Strangely, my back just holds some roots digging into my skin, normally they wouldn't look too out of place, but when they're paired with my other ink they begin to look gruesome.
I walk around each day envying the glimmering tattoos of laughter, clouds, flowers, and books that litter people's bodies as they pass me in the streets. Seems like everyone has a passion they're pursuing. Their tattoos define their life and what they spend their time on, they're content to do what they're marked with.
Tattoos play a big role in job interviews. Hell, if you have a computer on your arm it's worth more than a computer science degree to employers.
Because of how influencial the tattoos are I've been jobless and living off soup kitchens for years now. People won't hire a man with a bright white skull bleeding down his face.
A sound broke me out of my moody thoughts. I had been walking around in a bad part of town, not that it mattered my tattoos scared off anyone looking to mug me, when I heard cries coming from an alley. As I looked down the alley my breath caught.
On the floor huddled into a ball sat the woman. The same woman who hugged my arm each day, the same woman I thought was simply some ignorable detail. She cried out as men behind her were laughing and kicking her mercilessly. Her shirt lay in tatters behind the men, she must've fought them originally or the men wouldn't have forgotten their original intent. Each time their foot connected a yelp of pain interrupted her ragged sobbing.
I don't remember when my feet started moving but in no time flat I was already down the alley, screaming like a mad man at the two men. At first they laughed, a tattered homeless man probably didn't look intimidating, but as I neared the skull on my head bore it's eyes into the men. Their faces paled, they stumbled backwards before a high pitched shriek escaped from them. By the time I got to them they were already up and running, disappearing into the darkness that I came from.
"Are you okay?" I asked the woman. She didn't respond, she just continued to cry on the floor. I lowered myself next to her, removing my tattered rag of a shirt as I did. I slowly put it in her line of sight, and waited until she noticed it. Eventually her eyes focused on the shirt and she yanked it out of my hand.
"Go ahead and put that on, it looks like they're gone for now but they could come back any second."
"Th-thank you." She was still shaking from crying. I only just met her but I felt like I knew her better than myself. Seeing her on my arm each night illuminated how she must be feeling right now, I knew all too well the sadness and fear coarsing through her. I'd felt it every night since my tattoos came. Her eyes finally traced up to me, expanding in what must've been a new wave of fear, expecting the normal revulsion I spoke, "It's okay, it's just a skull. Look I have others."
I showed her the one of her, curled up and crying. Her eyebrows scrunched together, her puffy eyelids obscuring her bloodshot eyes as they darted around taking in every inch of me.
As she studied me I couldn't help but look back at her. Where my arm held a paper heart, hers was painted with a strong and vibrant heart. Weirdly a small Lily grew out of her chest, right between her breasts, my shirt lay forgotten in her lap.
It was my turn to scrunch my eyebrows in confusion. I couldn't believe my eyes, my smiling face with no skull tattoo sat atop her arm exactly where her figure rested on mine.
"What skull?" She asked me, her voice still brittle but slightly more relaxed than before. My eyebrows scrunched further.
"The one on my forehead. A big white glaring skull with blood pouring out of it."
"You don't have any ink on your face." She pulled out her phone, her hands and voice still shaky, and opened the front facing camera for me to see. Reluctantly, I pulled my eyes away from her and waited to see the gruesome image atop my own face. Yet there was nothing on my forehead, the skull had vanished. My face looked strange to me, unfamiliar almost.
Before long my eyes had forgotten my reflection and drifted back to her. We sat in silence, just drinking in each other. It felt like we were opposite poles of a magnet, instantly attracted to each other. The more I looked at her the more my thoughts began to change.
My tattoos didn't describe me, they defined her. As soon as I saw her I knew it was true. I was meant to save her, I was meant to guard her paper heart and be the firm roots of her beautiful Lily. It's funny, I had always hated how happy people were when they were content with their lives being defined by their ink. As I looked at her those thoughts fell away, I am meant to live for her. I didn't feel as if my heart was the strong and vibrant one atop her bicep but I would strive to be that for her, if everything that happened to me was meant to keep her as happy as the flower painted across her chest then every second I suffered was worth it. The longer we stared at each other the more I could feel her thoughts mimicking mine. The silence was torn like a barrier between us as she spoke.
"My place isn't far from here, can you take me home?"
My lips involuntarily curled up into a warm smile, her bright red lips mirroring my actions. She stopped shaking and sighed out in relief as I replied, "Of course."
|
I look in the mirror. I see a pale, wan man looking back at me. I no longer recognize myself but that barely concerns me. I see countless tattoos of the same shape. Small shapes of knife scattered all across my body like the stars of the galaxy. When people discover a tattoo, they wonder what meaning it has for their lives. For me, that was never a question. The meaning of my tattoos has always been too clear for me. *Painfully* clear. The first of them appeared just moments before I killed a man for the first time.
I quickly scan my entire body, desperately looking for a new tattoo, a sign, an answer. I spot something on my back. It looks like a woman holding a young child. The skin around the tattoo has turned crimson red, as if someone has repeatedly hit it. The color of red around it almost makes it seem as if the woman and the baby are covered in a pool of blood.
*Blood*.
*Yes*.
A sense of joy and relief overwhelms me. I burst out in laughter and hysterically continue laughing until my worried wife comes in. I grin at her and say,
"It's finally time."
*****
I worked for a world-renown drug lord called Schteiger. In his organization I held the title of Chief Strategy Officer but anyone who witnessed my work - and was lucky enough to survive - would have called me a hitman.
I was abandoned at birth and wandered the alleys of the slum ever since I escaped from the orphanage that beat its children. Then I met Schteiger. He kindly took me in and trained me with several other boys of my age. His training was rigorous, intolerable at times. But I survived, and I was the only one who survived. I became his guard, his servant, his slave. I killed my first man when I was 14 at the command of my master. The ones after that came much easier. I didn't mind my job - the pay was good and the sense of conscience never existed in me.
Until I met her.
She taught me what it feels to love and to be loved back. She filled the lost part of me and taught me that I had senses of compassion and conscience within me that I thought never existed. When I heard that she became pregnant with my child, I made up my mind to leave Schteiger and his damned organization.
Schteiger did not like my proclamation. His answer came not in words but in consequences. I was shot in the streets that night and was left there to die when a woman came to my rescue. Miraculously I survived and when I tried to contact my wife I found out that she had been killed along with our baby inside her.
I attempted to end my life when the woman who saved me yet again came to my rescue. After hearing my story, instead of running to the cops for help, she hugged me and comforted me, showing me that there still is someone who cares about me.
Years passed by and she replaced the other half of me that was taken away. She even gave me a child and she quickly became the most important thing in my life. But even she could not completely replace what was taken awawy from me and the uncontrollable sense of rage still filled my heart. I swore to avenge my wife and my unborn child, to give the same pain to the man who had done this to me.
And now, that time has finally come.
*****
I leave the house to carry out the plan that I have so carefully crafted and perfected for years. Having served Schteiger for most of my life, it is easy to locate his family - his beautiful wife and his even more beautiful daughter. They have done nothing to me but if there is a fault with them, it would be being the family of a man like Schteiger.
It's easy bypassing the guards as that is what I have done for all my life. Now I stand on the doorsteps of the mansion and only a door stands between Schteiger's helpless girls and their doom. I take out my revolver and pull back the hammer. I take in a deep breath and try to suppress the exhilaration that the thought of revenge gives me. I take a few steps back and charge at the door.
Then nothing.
I briefly hear a loud sound of a bone breaking, and at the same time feel a powerful impact on my head. I almost immediately lose consciousness.
I wake up and through a blurred vision, recognize a familiar face. *Schteiger*.
"You really think that I would let you hurt me? Hurt my family?"
I try to form a sentence but it only comes out as a mumble.
"After all those years of working for me, you really learned nothing. *Nothing*. You should have remained dead. Now watch what your actions have costed you."
A man in black suit drags a large bag into the room, the bag leaving a red trace behind it. Schteiger unzips the bag and says *Ta-da*, as if he is presenting a gift. I look inside and find two people, a woman and a young child, the woman holding the child tightly. Their bodies are pale and still, and the sign of life has left them both. I recognize their faces and immediately cry out in shock and disbelief. Watching my flood of emotions, Schteiger laughs out maniacally, almost unable to keep standing. The sound of my scream and his laughter fill the room, creating an odd resonance through out. I remember the new tattoo I got today and realize its real meaning. My scream gets louder and more terrifying while Schteiger's laugh gets more hysterical. He abruptly stops laughing and takes out his gun and aims at my head.
Just then, I spot a shape newly forming on the back of his hand. A shape of a knife. Schteiger notices it too and gives me a large, twisted smile.
"I win."
He pulls the trigger.
******
EDIT: formatting
|
|
[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
|
Everyone has at least one tattoo they absolutely love.
Jenny from upstairs has this peacock on her back- something she says is for her mother. Which is. Just. Absolute bullshit. She has it because she's a vain bitch.
But god is that tattoo beautiful. Curving lines inlayed with golds and greens and shocking blues. It's a masterful piece of art.
Fucking. Jenny.
Even Ma, who's worked labor her whole life and is mostly covered in lines and number, statistics and machinery and such, has one little red heart on her wrist that she is so proud of.
It's tiny, no bigger than my pinky nail, but it's powerful. Rich and vibrant. For the husband she lost too soon and the razor she almost took to that same wrist soon after.
I do not have a goddamn thing to be proud of on my body.
No sloping curves, no vibrant colors, no magnificent linework.
Just a vast, inescapable crisscrossing network of cartoon drawing of dicks.
|
I look in the mirror. I see a pale, wan man looking back at me. I no longer recognize myself but that barely concerns me. I see countless tattoos of the same shape. Small shapes of knife scattered all across my body like the stars of the galaxy. When people discover a tattoo, they wonder what meaning it has for their lives. For me, that was never a question. The meaning of my tattoos has always been too clear for me. *Painfully* clear. The first of them appeared just moments before I killed a man for the first time.
I quickly scan my entire body, desperately looking for a new tattoo, a sign, an answer. I spot something on my back. It looks like a woman holding a young child. The skin around the tattoo has turned crimson red, as if someone has repeatedly hit it. The color of red around it almost makes it seem as if the woman and the baby are covered in a pool of blood.
*Blood*.
*Yes*.
A sense of joy and relief overwhelms me. I burst out in laughter and hysterically continue laughing until my worried wife comes in. I grin at her and say,
"It's finally time."
*****
I worked for a world-renown drug lord called Schteiger. In his organization I held the title of Chief Strategy Officer but anyone who witnessed my work - and was lucky enough to survive - would have called me a hitman.
I was abandoned at birth and wandered the alleys of the slum ever since I escaped from the orphanage that beat its children. Then I met Schteiger. He kindly took me in and trained me with several other boys of my age. His training was rigorous, intolerable at times. But I survived, and I was the only one who survived. I became his guard, his servant, his slave. I killed my first man when I was 14 at the command of my master. The ones after that came much easier. I didn't mind my job - the pay was good and the sense of conscience never existed in me.
Until I met her.
She taught me what it feels to love and to be loved back. She filled the lost part of me and taught me that I had senses of compassion and conscience within me that I thought never existed. When I heard that she became pregnant with my child, I made up my mind to leave Schteiger and his damned organization.
Schteiger did not like my proclamation. His answer came not in words but in consequences. I was shot in the streets that night and was left there to die when a woman came to my rescue. Miraculously I survived and when I tried to contact my wife I found out that she had been killed along with our baby inside her.
I attempted to end my life when the woman who saved me yet again came to my rescue. After hearing my story, instead of running to the cops for help, she hugged me and comforted me, showing me that there still is someone who cares about me.
Years passed by and she replaced the other half of me that was taken away. She even gave me a child and she quickly became the most important thing in my life. But even she could not completely replace what was taken awawy from me and the uncontrollable sense of rage still filled my heart. I swore to avenge my wife and my unborn child, to give the same pain to the man who had done this to me.
And now, that time has finally come.
*****
I leave the house to carry out the plan that I have so carefully crafted and perfected for years. Having served Schteiger for most of my life, it is easy to locate his family - his beautiful wife and his even more beautiful daughter. They have done nothing to me but if there is a fault with them, it would be being the family of a man like Schteiger.
It's easy bypassing the guards as that is what I have done for all my life. Now I stand on the doorsteps of the mansion and only a door stands between Schteiger's helpless girls and their doom. I take out my revolver and pull back the hammer. I take in a deep breath and try to suppress the exhilaration that the thought of revenge gives me. I take a few steps back and charge at the door.
Then nothing.
I briefly hear a loud sound of a bone breaking, and at the same time feel a powerful impact on my head. I almost immediately lose consciousness.
I wake up and through a blurred vision, recognize a familiar face. *Schteiger*.
"You really think that I would let you hurt me? Hurt my family?"
I try to form a sentence but it only comes out as a mumble.
"After all those years of working for me, you really learned nothing. *Nothing*. You should have remained dead. Now watch what your actions have costed you."
A man in black suit drags a large bag into the room, the bag leaving a red trace behind it. Schteiger unzips the bag and says *Ta-da*, as if he is presenting a gift. I look inside and find two people, a woman and a young child, the woman holding the child tightly. Their bodies are pale and still, and the sign of life has left them both. I recognize their faces and immediately cry out in shock and disbelief. Watching my flood of emotions, Schteiger laughs out maniacally, almost unable to keep standing. The sound of my scream and his laughter fill the room, creating an odd resonance through out. I remember the new tattoo I got today and realize its real meaning. My scream gets louder and more terrifying while Schteiger's laugh gets more hysterical. He abruptly stops laughing and takes out his gun and aims at my head.
Just then, I spot a shape newly forming on the back of his hand. A shape of a knife. Schteiger notices it too and gives me a large, twisted smile.
"I win."
He pulls the trigger.
******
EDIT: formatting
|
|
[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
|
It's genetic, they think, but only mad men try to pick apart the threads of this phenomenon. But some of it is genetic, because some families get them more than others. Or maybe those families are similarly emotional.
There's surely more important things for the minds of our generation to worry about.
My mother was heavily tattooed. I remember sitting in her arms as a child and tracing my fingers across lines, but some of the tattoos i remember have even since been layered on top of. I take after her.
But my father's, few as there were, were more interesting to me. The open mausoleum door on his forearm. And that is framed with purple flowers. Theres a tall and thin silhouette on his spine, and the basket in it's hand, which was a separate tattoo. He never went into much detail on them, but one could guess.
I look at the car on the inside of my wrist, as they're lowered into the side by side graves. And I know why it appeared two years ago.
The bees were drawn out of the honeycomb on my knee, and the spiderweb on my thigh was now empty. behind it stands a tall silhouette.
|
France was rife with optimism, peace and prosperity during the late stages of the 19th century. It comes to no surprise that the period is known more commonly today as "La Belle Époque".
From the end of the Franco-Prussian war right up until WWI, the country witnessed a boom in the arts and the economy. Things were positively different during an era that seemed to be trapped in time.
Or so the world wished.
Police crowded the outer corridor of the cell as Chief Berlain sat face to face with the source of commotion.
A young lad of about 17 crouched in the corner of his room, staring back like a cowering dog. His body, thinned to the bone and covered in ink.
Berlain had been here before, 5 years prior to this, with the same prisoner in the very same cell. Yet the boy of the past was no longer there, his face irecognizable.
The warden had recorded a total of 18 more individual markings on his face alone since then. The majority depicted numbers.
Official studies had commenced late that June, but 5 years and 9 months on and the puzzle remained incomplete. Up until now the engravings on his body were a maze they couldn't get out of.
A date was the only clear indication: 10.05.1871 in Roman numerals. The end of the Franco-Prussian war.
That morning the tone was different. Whilst France was enjoying it's prosperity, the men gathered around the cell felt nothing but dread.
The teenager was usually a very calm lad, who did as he was told. But today he had broken down during breakfast and hadn't left his cell corner for hours.
Another date had appeared on his neck, next to the previous numbers. Yet this one marked the end of a supposed era, this one was in the future.
28.06.1918 in the same numerals.
A puzzled Berlain turned to face his colleagues. The time had come to take this beyond their own power and to the government.
But Christophe Berlain had other plans. That night, instead of heading north to Paris, he would take his subject East.
|
|
[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
|
Ryan never wanted a tattoo. He always thought they looked out of place, unnatural. Tattoos weren't dominant in his family. His mom only had a small one on her leg and his dad had only three tattoos, all of which were on his right arm.
Ryan's nineteenth birthday was coming right around the corner, and he still hadn't had any of his tattoos come in yet. He was the only one left in his high school who didn't have any at graduation. While most of his friends' senior pictures showed off their fresh, unfaded tattoos, Ryan's was just of him with all his hiking gear on a mountain.
No one ever talked about the fact he didn't have any tattoos, but he knew they were all thinking about it. It really didn't bother him, though. It made him different from everyone else. In a sea of sameness, Ryan stood out. He liked that.
Ryan's alarm went off, and he staggered to his nightstand to shut it up. He went into the bathroom, eyes only half open, and caught his reflection in the mirror on the way to the toilet. What he saw horrified him.
The entire front of his body, from his waist all the way up to his neck, was covered in intricate symbols and designs. They were all a deep black, a huge contrast with his pasty white skin.
He touched the tattoos, expecting to feel some sort of texture. Instead, it felt no different from anywhere else on his body.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror. He thought back to his classes where they were taught about the common first tattoos people get. This was like nothing he had ever seen or heard of before.
Ryan ran down the stairs to show his family and see if they knew what that tattoo meant. But instead of finding his family, he was greeted by a dozen armed men, with a man in a black suit at the front of them. They all worse gas masks and goggles except for his parents who were tied up at the kitchen table, mouths duct taped shut.
"What the hell is going on?" Ryan said.
"Our systems detected an anomaly," the man in the suit said. His face was devoid of any emotion.
"An anomaly in what?" Ryan asked.
"Our systems indicate that you may be Marked," the man replied.
"Marked?"
"It's the term we use for humans not from this planet. The tattoo system was developed to identify people like you. So we can eliminate you."
The man leveled a weapon at Ryan and pulled the trigger. A dart struck him square in the chest. The tattoos disappeared immediately, and his skin turned from white to a deep blue.
Ryan could vaguely hear his mother cry through the duct tape as his vision faded to black...
|
France was rife with optimism, peace and prosperity during the late stages of the 19th century. It comes to no surprise that the period is known more commonly today as "La Belle Époque".
From the end of the Franco-Prussian war right up until WWI, the country witnessed a boom in the arts and the economy. Things were positively different during an era that seemed to be trapped in time.
Or so the world wished.
Police crowded the outer corridor of the cell as Chief Berlain sat face to face with the source of commotion.
A young lad of about 17 crouched in the corner of his room, staring back like a cowering dog. His body, thinned to the bone and covered in ink.
Berlain had been here before, 5 years prior to this, with the same prisoner in the very same cell. Yet the boy of the past was no longer there, his face irecognizable.
The warden had recorded a total of 18 more individual markings on his face alone since then. The majority depicted numbers.
Official studies had commenced late that June, but 5 years and 9 months on and the puzzle remained incomplete. Up until now the engravings on his body were a maze they couldn't get out of.
A date was the only clear indication: 10.05.1871 in Roman numerals. The end of the Franco-Prussian war.
That morning the tone was different. Whilst France was enjoying it's prosperity, the men gathered around the cell felt nothing but dread.
The teenager was usually a very calm lad, who did as he was told. But today he had broken down during breakfast and hadn't left his cell corner for hours.
Another date had appeared on his neck, next to the previous numbers. Yet this one marked the end of a supposed era, this one was in the future.
28.06.1918 in the same numerals.
A puzzled Berlain turned to face his colleagues. The time had come to take this beyond their own power and to the government.
But Christophe Berlain had other plans. That night, instead of heading north to Paris, he would take his subject East.
|
|
[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
|
People tended to stay away from me. At first I told myself I didn't mind, but I'm starting to feel like a monster simply for the ink that's inhabiting my forehead.
I have some on my arms, a crying woman in the fetal position surrounded by a dark circle that I assume is for the loneliness that my life will have. Not sure why it's a woman but maybe it's just meant to show me who I'm missing.
On my right forearm I've got a paper heart. I've always assumed this one meant that I'm weak. A fucking symbol to get me sympathy, not that it matters with my forehead tattoo.
Strangely, my back just holds some roots digging into my skin, normally they wouldn't look too out of place, but when they're paired with my other ink they begin to look gruesome.
I walk around each day envying the glimmering tattoos of laughter, clouds, flowers, and books that litter people's bodies as they pass me in the streets. Seems like everyone has a passion they're pursuing. Their tattoos define their life and what they spend their time on, they're content to do what they're marked with.
Tattoos play a big role in job interviews. Hell, if you have a computer on your arm it's worth more than a computer science degree to employers.
Because of how influencial the tattoos are I've been jobless and living off soup kitchens for years now. People won't hire a man with a bright white skull bleeding down his face.
A sound broke me out of my moody thoughts. I had been walking around in a bad part of town, not that it mattered my tattoos scared off anyone looking to mug me, when I heard cries coming from an alley. As I looked down the alley my breath caught.
On the floor huddled into a ball sat the woman. The same woman who hugged my arm each day, the same woman I thought was simply some ignorable detail. She cried out as men behind her were laughing and kicking her mercilessly. Her shirt lay in tatters behind the men, she must've fought them originally or the men wouldn't have forgotten their original intent. Each time their foot connected a yelp of pain interrupted her ragged sobbing.
I don't remember when my feet started moving but in no time flat I was already down the alley, screaming like a mad man at the two men. At first they laughed, a tattered homeless man probably didn't look intimidating, but as I neared the skull on my head bore it's eyes into the men. Their faces paled, they stumbled backwards before a high pitched shriek escaped from them. By the time I got to them they were already up and running, disappearing into the darkness that I came from.
"Are you okay?" I asked the woman. She didn't respond, she just continued to cry on the floor. I lowered myself next to her, removing my tattered rag of a shirt as I did. I slowly put it in her line of sight, and waited until she noticed it. Eventually her eyes focused on the shirt and she yanked it out of my hand.
"Go ahead and put that on, it looks like they're gone for now but they could come back any second."
"Th-thank you." She was still shaking from crying. I only just met her but I felt like I knew her better than myself. Seeing her on my arm each night illuminated how she must be feeling right now, I knew all too well the sadness and fear coarsing through her. I'd felt it every night since my tattoos came. Her eyes finally traced up to me, expanding in what must've been a new wave of fear, expecting the normal revulsion I spoke, "It's okay, it's just a skull. Look I have others."
I showed her the one of her, curled up and crying. Her eyebrows scrunched together, her puffy eyelids obscuring her bloodshot eyes as they darted around taking in every inch of me.
As she studied me I couldn't help but look back at her. Where my arm held a paper heart, hers was painted with a strong and vibrant heart. Weirdly a small Lily grew out of her chest, right between her breasts, my shirt lay forgotten in her lap.
It was my turn to scrunch my eyebrows in confusion. I couldn't believe my eyes, my smiling face with no skull tattoo sat atop her arm exactly where her figure rested on mine.
"What skull?" She asked me, her voice still brittle but slightly more relaxed than before. My eyebrows scrunched further.
"The one on my forehead. A big white glaring skull with blood pouring out of it."
"You don't have any ink on your face." She pulled out her phone, her hands and voice still shaky, and opened the front facing camera for me to see. Reluctantly, I pulled my eyes away from her and waited to see the gruesome image atop my own face. Yet there was nothing on my forehead, the skull had vanished. My face looked strange to me, unfamiliar almost.
Before long my eyes had forgotten my reflection and drifted back to her. We sat in silence, just drinking in each other. It felt like we were opposite poles of a magnet, instantly attracted to each other. The more I looked at her the more my thoughts began to change.
My tattoos didn't describe me, they defined her. As soon as I saw her I knew it was true. I was meant to save her, I was meant to guard her paper heart and be the firm roots of her beautiful Lily. It's funny, I had always hated how happy people were when they were content with their lives being defined by their ink. As I looked at her those thoughts fell away, I am meant to live for her. I didn't feel as if my heart was the strong and vibrant one atop her bicep but I would strive to be that for her, if everything that happened to me was meant to keep her as happy as the flower painted across her chest then every second I suffered was worth it. The longer we stared at each other the more I could feel her thoughts mimicking mine. The silence was torn like a barrier between us as she spoke.
"My place isn't far from here, can you take me home?"
My lips involuntarily curled up into a warm smile, her bright red lips mirroring my actions. She stopped shaking and sighed out in relief as I replied, "Of course."
|
France was rife with optimism, peace and prosperity during the late stages of the 19th century. It comes to no surprise that the period is known more commonly today as "La Belle Époque".
From the end of the Franco-Prussian war right up until WWI, the country witnessed a boom in the arts and the economy. Things were positively different during an era that seemed to be trapped in time.
Or so the world wished.
Police crowded the outer corridor of the cell as Chief Berlain sat face to face with the source of commotion.
A young lad of about 17 crouched in the corner of his room, staring back like a cowering dog. His body, thinned to the bone and covered in ink.
Berlain had been here before, 5 years prior to this, with the same prisoner in the very same cell. Yet the boy of the past was no longer there, his face irecognizable.
The warden had recorded a total of 18 more individual markings on his face alone since then. The majority depicted numbers.
Official studies had commenced late that June, but 5 years and 9 months on and the puzzle remained incomplete. Up until now the engravings on his body were a maze they couldn't get out of.
A date was the only clear indication: 10.05.1871 in Roman numerals. The end of the Franco-Prussian war.
That morning the tone was different. Whilst France was enjoying it's prosperity, the men gathered around the cell felt nothing but dread.
The teenager was usually a very calm lad, who did as he was told. But today he had broken down during breakfast and hadn't left his cell corner for hours.
Another date had appeared on his neck, next to the previous numbers. Yet this one marked the end of a supposed era, this one was in the future.
28.06.1918 in the same numerals.
A puzzled Berlain turned to face his colleagues. The time had come to take this beyond their own power and to the government.
But Christophe Berlain had other plans. That night, instead of heading north to Paris, he would take his subject East.
|
|
[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
|
Everyone has at least one tattoo they absolutely love.
Jenny from upstairs has this peacock on her back- something she says is for her mother. Which is. Just. Absolute bullshit. She has it because she's a vain bitch.
But god is that tattoo beautiful. Curving lines inlayed with golds and greens and shocking blues. It's a masterful piece of art.
Fucking. Jenny.
Even Ma, who's worked labor her whole life and is mostly covered in lines and number, statistics and machinery and such, has one little red heart on her wrist that she is so proud of.
It's tiny, no bigger than my pinky nail, but it's powerful. Rich and vibrant. For the husband she lost too soon and the razor she almost took to that same wrist soon after.
I do not have a goddamn thing to be proud of on my body.
No sloping curves, no vibrant colors, no magnificent linework.
Just a vast, inescapable crisscrossing network of cartoon drawing of dicks.
|
France was rife with optimism, peace and prosperity during the late stages of the 19th century. It comes to no surprise that the period is known more commonly today as "La Belle Époque".
From the end of the Franco-Prussian war right up until WWI, the country witnessed a boom in the arts and the economy. Things were positively different during an era that seemed to be trapped in time.
Or so the world wished.
Police crowded the outer corridor of the cell as Chief Berlain sat face to face with the source of commotion.
A young lad of about 17 crouched in the corner of his room, staring back like a cowering dog. His body, thinned to the bone and covered in ink.
Berlain had been here before, 5 years prior to this, with the same prisoner in the very same cell. Yet the boy of the past was no longer there, his face irecognizable.
The warden had recorded a total of 18 more individual markings on his face alone since then. The majority depicted numbers.
Official studies had commenced late that June, but 5 years and 9 months on and the puzzle remained incomplete. Up until now the engravings on his body were a maze they couldn't get out of.
A date was the only clear indication: 10.05.1871 in Roman numerals. The end of the Franco-Prussian war.
That morning the tone was different. Whilst France was enjoying it's prosperity, the men gathered around the cell felt nothing but dread.
The teenager was usually a very calm lad, who did as he was told. But today he had broken down during breakfast and hadn't left his cell corner for hours.
Another date had appeared on his neck, next to the previous numbers. Yet this one marked the end of a supposed era, this one was in the future.
28.06.1918 in the same numerals.
A puzzled Berlain turned to face his colleagues. The time had come to take this beyond their own power and to the government.
But Christophe Berlain had other plans. That night, instead of heading north to Paris, he would take his subject East.
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
|
Keenan Avery woke up from another drunken slumber. He rolled out of bed uneasily, his stomach flipping end over end as the twenty-five year old made a beeline for the bathroom. After he had finished emptying the contents from the previous night into the toilet, Keenan made his way to the sink to rinse his mouth. He looked in horror as another tattoo had emerged through his skin, this time above his right eye. September 3, '92 arched around his eyebrow, taunting him in the mirror as he tried to read it backwards. Once he was certain the date was correct he sat on his bed confused.
This wasn't the first time he was confused by a new tattoo. When he turned eighteen he signed up for the new Worldwide Ink Initiative. The revolutionary program was voluntary, but soon everyone that loved the art of tattooing had enrolled. The volunteers were fitted with a capsule about the size of a half dollar in their lower abdomen. Through nanotechnology and brain readings done every few years, the volunteers would begin to literally sprout tattoos on their bodies. Keenan's first was a large Celtic cross on his forearm. His next was on his chest, a heart with the letters A+K on the inside for his first true love. One year later a large "X" went through the heart tattoo. He wasn't exactly littered with ink, but sometimes he wondered why certain tattoos had emerged. "September 3, '92" was nothing less than a mystery.
"What could it mean?" Keenan thought to himself. He was born in 1990. What kind of event could have happened when he was two years old that could have such a lasting effect? Tattoos didn't just come out of the thin air. They all had a very precise meaning to their owners. Keenan was out of ideas. He called his mother.
"Ma," Keenan began, "does September 3, 1992 have any meaning to you?"
His mother was silent on the other end. "Not to me, no," she replied in a rush.
He explained the tattoo and went down a list of possibilities. Was I in the hospital? Were we on a vacation? Did someone die?
"Honey, this is nonsense. Don't ask me about your dumb tattoos. I told you not to get those damn things."
And with that the conversation was over. Keenan let it marinate for awhile. The days ticked away and nothing was coming to him. The tattoo mocked him every time he saw his reflection. Because of the placement; friends, family and strangers noticed the ink immediately. He had no idea what to tell the inquiring minds.
He began to dig deep through the internet. What happened on September 3, 1992? Jerry Lewis had a telethon that raised over $45 million for muscular dystrophy. "End of the Road" by Boyz II Men was taking over the airwaves. It was a day that was quite literally uneventful. So he began to Google his family. Nothing on his father. His mother the same. No deaths in the family or anything. He was truly at a loss.
By some random chance he found an old copy of a newspaper on the day from his local paper. On the third page his eyes were scanning furiously, the new tattoo bobbing up and down, stretching as his eyes agonized over the screen. "Toddler Abducted in Broad Daylight" was the headline. A picture of a young boy smiled on the page, the last known photo of the child. Underneath the toddler was a picture of a husband consoling his hysteric wife. The man looked just like Keenan.
He grabbed his phone off the desk and called his mother. No answer. He called again. No answer. On the third call she finally picked up.
"Tell me it isn't true!" Keenan cried. "Tell me my mind is going crazy and I'm grasping at straws over here, Ma."
"I...We...," she stuttered. "You were never supposed to find out."
Two months after his parents shocking confession they were sentenced to twenty-five years in prison. The judge threw the book at the Abington Abductors. Keenan's life was upside down. He was reunited with his biological parents, but it was all too weird of an experience for all parties involved. There was agreement that this would all take some getting used to.
Keenan woke up in a sweat one day, and made his way to the bathroom in his usual drunken stupor. He had taken to drinking a lot more recently, for obvious reasons. He threw up, rinsed his mouth out and looked back at his reflection. In the mirror, above his left eyebrow and symmetrically arched like his other, was a new tattoo. "Forgiveness" stared backwards at him. Keenan punched the mirror. That same day he made his way back into the clinic of the Worldwide Ink Initiative and had them take his implant out for good.
---
Thanks for reading! Come check out /r/BrenBuck for more!
|
France was rife with optimism, peace and prosperity during the late stages of the 19th century. It comes to no surprise that the period is known more commonly today as "La Belle Époque".
From the end of the Franco-Prussian war right up until WWI, the country witnessed a boom in the arts and the economy. Things were positively different during an era that seemed to be trapped in time.
Or so the world wished.
Police crowded the outer corridor of the cell as Chief Berlain sat face to face with the source of commotion.
A young lad of about 17 crouched in the corner of his room, staring back like a cowering dog. His body, thinned to the bone and covered in ink.
Berlain had been here before, 5 years prior to this, with the same prisoner in the very same cell. Yet the boy of the past was no longer there, his face irecognizable.
The warden had recorded a total of 18 more individual markings on his face alone since then. The majority depicted numbers.
Official studies had commenced late that June, but 5 years and 9 months on and the puzzle remained incomplete. Up until now the engravings on his body were a maze they couldn't get out of.
A date was the only clear indication: 10.05.1871 in Roman numerals. The end of the Franco-Prussian war.
That morning the tone was different. Whilst France was enjoying it's prosperity, the men gathered around the cell felt nothing but dread.
The teenager was usually a very calm lad, who did as he was told. But today he had broken down during breakfast and hadn't left his cell corner for hours.
Another date had appeared on his neck, next to the previous numbers. Yet this one marked the end of a supposed era, this one was in the future.
28.06.1918 in the same numerals.
A puzzled Berlain turned to face his colleagues. The time had come to take this beyond their own power and to the government.
But Christophe Berlain had other plans. That night, instead of heading north to Paris, he would take his subject East.
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
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Hi! I'm new to Writing Prompts and I'd appreciate any feedback you're willing to give!
--------------------
Katrina pulled her clothes tightly across her shoulders and looked down. All she wanted to do was pay for her groceries. But no; They had to ask. Everytime. Every. Single. Time.
“You got any clue what it means yet?” Pete, the cashier, asked.
Kat quickly took a swig of water. “Hmm?” She hummed, desperately digging for her credit card. Of course, Kat knew what he was asking about. She had told them that she had received a tattoo resembling a water bottle. She hadn’t, but it was easier than telling people that she didn’t have any. A tattoo of a water bottle was also strange enough that people would believe her when she said that she didn’t know what it meant.
No one in this town could mind their own business. Everywhere Kat went, she saw burly men proudly displaying their art-filled biceps and speaking stories of heroism. Some of her friends had “4.0,” or images depicting their sleepless nights of studying to pass a class. Others had their current League of Legends ranking proudly displayed. Everyone had something. Except Kat.
It wasn’t that Kat was a bad student, or that she sucked at video games; it was quite the opposite really. The tattoos were meant to represent a great achievement, and, well, those things didn’t cut it for Kat.
“Your tattoo,” Pete leaned closer, eager to hear about Kat’s achievement, “what does it mean? Jason said you got a waterbottle.”
Kat’s lips fell into a scowl. Kat yearned to return to the days before Jason got over his fear of public speaking and received a microphone tattoo on his throat. He used to be someone she could talk to; he used to be someone she could trust to tell that she hadn’t received a tattoo.
Lying to him-- telling him about her “tattoo” -- was probably one of the hardest things she had done. But it was necessary. At least, that’s what Kat told herself. Nowadays, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. No one in this godforsaken town could.
“No clue,” Kat mumbled, “still figuring it out.”
She handed Pete her credit card. In the process, she knocked over her water bottle, and liquid spilled all over the counter.
Kat cursed and scanned the room for paper towel. She ran over to the dispenser and got a few sheets.
“No, no,” Pete began, “it’s quite alright. We’ll get it.”
“I got it,” Kat insisted, “and, hey, who knows, this could be what my tattoo is for: cleaning up after my mistakes.” She laughed bitterly.
There was more water spillage than Kat initially thought. And it wasn’t just over the counter; she somehow managed to spray water onto Pete’s “employee of the month” tattoo across his forearm.
Kat cursed again. “Sorry. Let me help you with that.”
“Seriously,” Pete cleared his throat and backed away.
“No, really, it’s ok,” Kat said as she grabbed his wrist and wiped his arm with the towel. As she did so, the white paper towel became streak with green and yellow.
Kat’s eyes widened. “What the…?”
Edit: a word
Edit 2: removed "it was fake" to better flow into part 2.
|
France was rife with optimism, peace and prosperity during the late stages of the 19th century. It comes to no surprise that the period is known more commonly today as "La Belle Époque".
From the end of the Franco-Prussian war right up until WWI, the country witnessed a boom in the arts and the economy. Things were positively different during an era that seemed to be trapped in time.
Or so the world wished.
Police crowded the outer corridor of the cell as Chief Berlain sat face to face with the source of commotion.
A young lad of about 17 crouched in the corner of his room, staring back like a cowering dog. His body, thinned to the bone and covered in ink.
Berlain had been here before, 5 years prior to this, with the same prisoner in the very same cell. Yet the boy of the past was no longer there, his face irecognizable.
The warden had recorded a total of 18 more individual markings on his face alone since then. The majority depicted numbers.
Official studies had commenced late that June, but 5 years and 9 months on and the puzzle remained incomplete. Up until now the engravings on his body were a maze they couldn't get out of.
A date was the only clear indication: 10.05.1871 in Roman numerals. The end of the Franco-Prussian war.
That morning the tone was different. Whilst France was enjoying it's prosperity, the men gathered around the cell felt nothing but dread.
The teenager was usually a very calm lad, who did as he was told. But today he had broken down during breakfast and hadn't left his cell corner for hours.
Another date had appeared on his neck, next to the previous numbers. Yet this one marked the end of a supposed era, this one was in the future.
28.06.1918 in the same numerals.
A puzzled Berlain turned to face his colleagues. The time had come to take this beyond their own power and to the government.
But Christophe Berlain had other plans. That night, instead of heading north to Paris, he would take his subject East.
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|
[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
|
It's genetic, they think, but only mad men try to pick apart the threads of this phenomenon. But some of it is genetic, because some families get them more than others. Or maybe those families are similarly emotional.
There's surely more important things for the minds of our generation to worry about.
My mother was heavily tattooed. I remember sitting in her arms as a child and tracing my fingers across lines, but some of the tattoos i remember have even since been layered on top of. I take after her.
But my father's, few as there were, were more interesting to me. The open mausoleum door on his forearm. And that is framed with purple flowers. Theres a tall and thin silhouette on his spine, and the basket in it's hand, which was a separate tattoo. He never went into much detail on them, but one could guess.
I look at the car on the inside of my wrist, as they're lowered into the side by side graves. And I know why it appeared two years ago.
The bees were drawn out of the honeycomb on my knee, and the spiderweb on my thigh was now empty. behind it stands a tall silhouette.
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A symbol appears. :):
Glancing down at my right hand I begin to wonder.
Is it true? Or is someone trying to tell me something.
My colt is out of its stable, he's been running free for a while.
You can't tame a wild animal you know, you can only go to war with it.
A truce is formed, an agreement to stop fighting.
I ask my tiny friend to enter his stable; at first he doesn't comply. He doesn't trust me with his safety.
Only after I provide my youngling food, water, and shelter does it comply.
Entering the stable he puts his head into his feeding bag.
"Good boy"
He says nothing, he's too busy eating the harvest.
When he's finally fat dumb and happy, does he start to relax.
"Good boy," I tell him, "good boy."
Drifting off to sleep, I'm finally able to lock the stable.
"Snap," goes the button.
He stiffens up, ready to kick.
The tattoo starts to fade.
"Yes sir." I mutter. "Yes sir."
End.
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
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FADE IN:
INT. AN OFFICE BUILDING - DAY
*The sounds of clacking keyboards and muted conversation drift through the air. Men and women in business-casual attire mill around, either pretending to look busy or rushing from one meeting to the next. This atmosphere of tense ennui is suddenly broken by the arrival of a young man in sweatpants and a stained t-shirt. This is DAVE.*
**DAVE:** (*Shouting*) Steve! *Steve!*
*As everyone turns to stare at the interloper, a second young man peeks out from within a cubicle. This is STEVE.*
**STEVE:** (*To himself*) Oh, no...
*Dave spots Steve and rushes over.*
**DAVE:** Steve! Dude! It finally happened!
**STEVE:** What are you doing here? You can't just...
**DAVE:** (*Interrupting*) I've never gotten one before! Things are finally going to happen for me!
**STEVE:** What are you talking about?
**DAVE:** My tattoo!
*Several seconds pass in silence.*
**STEVE:** What?
**DAVE:** Didn't your parents teach you about the birds and the bees?
**STEVE:** That isn't...
**DAVE:** (*Interrupting*) At certain milestones in a person's life, a tattoo appears on their skin. This marking is meant to convey something important about that individual, but it's up to them to determine the meaning.
**STEVE:** What, did you memorize a health textbook? Anyway, that isn't "the birds and the bees."
**DAVE:** Yes, it is.
**STEVE:** I feel sorry for your former girlfriends.
**DAVE:** Look, dude, whatever. The point is, I got my first tattoo!
*Steve rubs his forehead.*
**STEVE:** As happy as I am for you, can we talk about this later? You can't...
**EDGAR:** (*O.S.*) (*Interrupting*) Steven, what's all this commotion about?
*Steve turns to see a heavyset, balding man entering the cubicle. This is EDGAR, Steve's boss.*
**STEVE:** (*To himself*) Am I just not allowed to finish my sentences?
**EDGAR:** What was that?
**STEVE:** Nothing. Anyway, sorry, this is Dave. He was just leaving.
**DAVE:** No, I wasn't.
**EDGAR:** (*To Dave*) Oh, so *you're* David, huh? Steven has talked a lot about you.
**DAVE:** Yeah, he really looks up to me.
*A humorless scoff escapes Steve's lips.*
**EDGAR:** Did I hear you saying something about a tattoo?
**DAVE:** My first one!
*Edgar's face breaks out into a wide, genuine smile.*
**EDGAR:** Well, hey, congratulations! Did you figure out what it means yet?
**DAVE:** No, I only just found it this morning.
**STEVE:** It's two in the afternoon.
**DAVE:** (*To Steve*) So? Does that mean that I couldn't have found it this morning?
**EDGAR:** You know, David, I have something of a knack for this kind of thing.
**DAVE:** ... Telling time?
**EDGAR:** (*Chuckling*) No, telling tattoos! May I have a look at yours?
**STEVE:** I wouldn't...
*Before Steve can finish his sentence, Dave pulls down his pants and displays his bare buttocks.*
**STEVE:** (*CONT'D*) ... Yep, there he goes.
**DAVE:** See? Right here! It's like... like a cloud or something!
**EDGAR:** (*Thoughtfully*) Hmm. It could be an eye, maybe?
**STEVE:** It's a bruise.
**DAVE:** Maybe I'm supposed to become a private detective?
**STEVE:** Maybe you fell down the stairs yesterday while trying to impress our neighbors.
*Dave pulls up his pants, looking at Steve with an expression of mild annoyance.*
**DAVE:** You know, you could be a little more supportive.
**EDGAR:** That is something we talked about in your quarterly review, Steven.
**STEVE:** Why are you taking his side?! He came bursting in here, shouting at the top of his lungs, and now you're acting like he's your long-lost son or something! If I did that, I'd get fired!
**DAVE:** Right, but I don't work here.
*A thought seems to occur to Edgar.*
**EDGAR:** Hey, it could be a celestial body of some sort...
**DAVE:** Really?!
**STEVE:** Please don't...
*Once again, Steve is interrupted as Dave pulls down his pants.*
**STEVE:** (*CONT'D*) ... Yep, right at eye-level.
**DAVE:** It *does* look a bit like a nebula!
**EDGAR:** I think that might be it, David! Something to do with space, then!
**STEVE:** It's probably between his ears.
*Edgar turns to glare at Steve.*
**EDGAR:** Remind me, Steven, what tattoos do you have?
**STEVE:** (*Proudly*) I have...
**EDGAR:** (*Interrupting*) No space? Got it. Let David have his moment.
*Steve's mouth opens and closes several times, but no sound comes out.*
**EDGAR:** (*CONT'D*) (*To Dave*) How about I get you a beer to celebrate, David?
**DAVID:** Sure! You know, I really don't understand why Steve complains about you all the time.
*Edgar chuckles and leaves the cubicle. Dave starts to follow him, but stops when he realizes that his pants are still around his knees. He hurriedly pulls them up, then rushes out of sight.*
**STEVE:** (*To himself*) I swear, one of these d...
*Steve trails off as he notices a faint marking appearing on his inner wrist. It vaguely resembles a cartoonish bundle of dynamite with an already-burning fuse.*
**STEVE:** (*CONT'D*) ... Uh oh.
FADE TO BLACK.
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A symbol appears. :):
Glancing down at my right hand I begin to wonder.
Is it true? Or is someone trying to tell me something.
My colt is out of its stable, he's been running free for a while.
You can't tame a wild animal you know, you can only go to war with it.
A truce is formed, an agreement to stop fighting.
I ask my tiny friend to enter his stable; at first he doesn't comply. He doesn't trust me with his safety.
Only after I provide my youngling food, water, and shelter does it comply.
Entering the stable he puts his head into his feeding bag.
"Good boy"
He says nothing, he's too busy eating the harvest.
When he's finally fat dumb and happy, does he start to relax.
"Good boy," I tell him, "good boy."
Drifting off to sleep, I'm finally able to lock the stable.
"Snap," goes the button.
He stiffens up, ready to kick.
The tattoo starts to fade.
"Yes sir." I mutter. "Yes sir."
End.
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
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Ryan never wanted a tattoo. He always thought they looked out of place, unnatural. Tattoos weren't dominant in his family. His mom only had a small one on her leg and his dad had only three tattoos, all of which were on his right arm.
Ryan's nineteenth birthday was coming right around the corner, and he still hadn't had any of his tattoos come in yet. He was the only one left in his high school who didn't have any at graduation. While most of his friends' senior pictures showed off their fresh, unfaded tattoos, Ryan's was just of him with all his hiking gear on a mountain.
No one ever talked about the fact he didn't have any tattoos, but he knew they were all thinking about it. It really didn't bother him, though. It made him different from everyone else. In a sea of sameness, Ryan stood out. He liked that.
Ryan's alarm went off, and he staggered to his nightstand to shut it up. He went into the bathroom, eyes only half open, and caught his reflection in the mirror on the way to the toilet. What he saw horrified him.
The entire front of his body, from his waist all the way up to his neck, was covered in intricate symbols and designs. They were all a deep black, a huge contrast with his pasty white skin.
He touched the tattoos, expecting to feel some sort of texture. Instead, it felt no different from anywhere else on his body.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror. He thought back to his classes where they were taught about the common first tattoos people get. This was like nothing he had ever seen or heard of before.
Ryan ran down the stairs to show his family and see if they knew what that tattoo meant. But instead of finding his family, he was greeted by a dozen armed men, with a man in a black suit at the front of them. They all worse gas masks and goggles except for his parents who were tied up at the kitchen table, mouths duct taped shut.
"What the hell is going on?" Ryan said.
"Our systems detected an anomaly," the man in the suit said. His face was devoid of any emotion.
"An anomaly in what?" Ryan asked.
"Our systems indicate that you may be Marked," the man replied.
"Marked?"
"It's the term we use for humans not from this planet. The tattoo system was developed to identify people like you. So we can eliminate you."
The man leveled a weapon at Ryan and pulled the trigger. A dart struck him square in the chest. The tattoos disappeared immediately, and his skin turned from white to a deep blue.
Ryan could vaguely hear his mother cry through the duct tape as his vision faded to black...
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A symbol appears. :):
Glancing down at my right hand I begin to wonder.
Is it true? Or is someone trying to tell me something.
My colt is out of its stable, he's been running free for a while.
You can't tame a wild animal you know, you can only go to war with it.
A truce is formed, an agreement to stop fighting.
I ask my tiny friend to enter his stable; at first he doesn't comply. He doesn't trust me with his safety.
Only after I provide my youngling food, water, and shelter does it comply.
Entering the stable he puts his head into his feeding bag.
"Good boy"
He says nothing, he's too busy eating the harvest.
When he's finally fat dumb and happy, does he start to relax.
"Good boy," I tell him, "good boy."
Drifting off to sleep, I'm finally able to lock the stable.
"Snap," goes the button.
He stiffens up, ready to kick.
The tattoo starts to fade.
"Yes sir." I mutter. "Yes sir."
End.
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[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
|
People tended to stay away from me. At first I told myself I didn't mind, but I'm starting to feel like a monster simply for the ink that's inhabiting my forehead.
I have some on my arms, a crying woman in the fetal position surrounded by a dark circle that I assume is for the loneliness that my life will have. Not sure why it's a woman but maybe it's just meant to show me who I'm missing.
On my right forearm I've got a paper heart. I've always assumed this one meant that I'm weak. A fucking symbol to get me sympathy, not that it matters with my forehead tattoo.
Strangely, my back just holds some roots digging into my skin, normally they wouldn't look too out of place, but when they're paired with my other ink they begin to look gruesome.
I walk around each day envying the glimmering tattoos of laughter, clouds, flowers, and books that litter people's bodies as they pass me in the streets. Seems like everyone has a passion they're pursuing. Their tattoos define their life and what they spend their time on, they're content to do what they're marked with.
Tattoos play a big role in job interviews. Hell, if you have a computer on your arm it's worth more than a computer science degree to employers.
Because of how influencial the tattoos are I've been jobless and living off soup kitchens for years now. People won't hire a man with a bright white skull bleeding down his face.
A sound broke me out of my moody thoughts. I had been walking around in a bad part of town, not that it mattered my tattoos scared off anyone looking to mug me, when I heard cries coming from an alley. As I looked down the alley my breath caught.
On the floor huddled into a ball sat the woman. The same woman who hugged my arm each day, the same woman I thought was simply some ignorable detail. She cried out as men behind her were laughing and kicking her mercilessly. Her shirt lay in tatters behind the men, she must've fought them originally or the men wouldn't have forgotten their original intent. Each time their foot connected a yelp of pain interrupted her ragged sobbing.
I don't remember when my feet started moving but in no time flat I was already down the alley, screaming like a mad man at the two men. At first they laughed, a tattered homeless man probably didn't look intimidating, but as I neared the skull on my head bore it's eyes into the men. Their faces paled, they stumbled backwards before a high pitched shriek escaped from them. By the time I got to them they were already up and running, disappearing into the darkness that I came from.
"Are you okay?" I asked the woman. She didn't respond, she just continued to cry on the floor. I lowered myself next to her, removing my tattered rag of a shirt as I did. I slowly put it in her line of sight, and waited until she noticed it. Eventually her eyes focused on the shirt and she yanked it out of my hand.
"Go ahead and put that on, it looks like they're gone for now but they could come back any second."
"Th-thank you." She was still shaking from crying. I only just met her but I felt like I knew her better than myself. Seeing her on my arm each night illuminated how she must be feeling right now, I knew all too well the sadness and fear coarsing through her. I'd felt it every night since my tattoos came. Her eyes finally traced up to me, expanding in what must've been a new wave of fear, expecting the normal revulsion I spoke, "It's okay, it's just a skull. Look I have others."
I showed her the one of her, curled up and crying. Her eyebrows scrunched together, her puffy eyelids obscuring her bloodshot eyes as they darted around taking in every inch of me.
As she studied me I couldn't help but look back at her. Where my arm held a paper heart, hers was painted with a strong and vibrant heart. Weirdly a small Lily grew out of her chest, right between her breasts, my shirt lay forgotten in her lap.
It was my turn to scrunch my eyebrows in confusion. I couldn't believe my eyes, my smiling face with no skull tattoo sat atop her arm exactly where her figure rested on mine.
"What skull?" She asked me, her voice still brittle but slightly more relaxed than before. My eyebrows scrunched further.
"The one on my forehead. A big white glaring skull with blood pouring out of it."
"You don't have any ink on your face." She pulled out her phone, her hands and voice still shaky, and opened the front facing camera for me to see. Reluctantly, I pulled my eyes away from her and waited to see the gruesome image atop my own face. Yet there was nothing on my forehead, the skull had vanished. My face looked strange to me, unfamiliar almost.
Before long my eyes had forgotten my reflection and drifted back to her. We sat in silence, just drinking in each other. It felt like we were opposite poles of a magnet, instantly attracted to each other. The more I looked at her the more my thoughts began to change.
My tattoos didn't describe me, they defined her. As soon as I saw her I knew it was true. I was meant to save her, I was meant to guard her paper heart and be the firm roots of her beautiful Lily. It's funny, I had always hated how happy people were when they were content with their lives being defined by their ink. As I looked at her those thoughts fell away, I am meant to live for her. I didn't feel as if my heart was the strong and vibrant one atop her bicep but I would strive to be that for her, if everything that happened to me was meant to keep her as happy as the flower painted across her chest then every second I suffered was worth it. The longer we stared at each other the more I could feel her thoughts mimicking mine. The silence was torn like a barrier between us as she spoke.
"My place isn't far from here, can you take me home?"
My lips involuntarily curled up into a warm smile, her bright red lips mirroring my actions. She stopped shaking and sighed out in relief as I replied, "Of course."
|
A symbol appears. :):
Glancing down at my right hand I begin to wonder.
Is it true? Or is someone trying to tell me something.
My colt is out of its stable, he's been running free for a while.
You can't tame a wild animal you know, you can only go to war with it.
A truce is formed, an agreement to stop fighting.
I ask my tiny friend to enter his stable; at first he doesn't comply. He doesn't trust me with his safety.
Only after I provide my youngling food, water, and shelter does it comply.
Entering the stable he puts his head into his feeding bag.
"Good boy"
He says nothing, he's too busy eating the harvest.
When he's finally fat dumb and happy, does he start to relax.
"Good boy," I tell him, "good boy."
Drifting off to sleep, I'm finally able to lock the stable.
"Snap," goes the button.
He stiffens up, ready to kick.
The tattoo starts to fade.
"Yes sir." I mutter. "Yes sir."
End.
|
|
[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
|
Everyone has at least one tattoo they absolutely love.
Jenny from upstairs has this peacock on her back- something she says is for her mother. Which is. Just. Absolute bullshit. She has it because she's a vain bitch.
But god is that tattoo beautiful. Curving lines inlayed with golds and greens and shocking blues. It's a masterful piece of art.
Fucking. Jenny.
Even Ma, who's worked labor her whole life and is mostly covered in lines and number, statistics and machinery and such, has one little red heart on her wrist that she is so proud of.
It's tiny, no bigger than my pinky nail, but it's powerful. Rich and vibrant. For the husband she lost too soon and the razor she almost took to that same wrist soon after.
I do not have a goddamn thing to be proud of on my body.
No sloping curves, no vibrant colors, no magnificent linework.
Just a vast, inescapable crisscrossing network of cartoon drawing of dicks.
|
A symbol appears. :):
Glancing down at my right hand I begin to wonder.
Is it true? Or is someone trying to tell me something.
My colt is out of its stable, he's been running free for a while.
You can't tame a wild animal you know, you can only go to war with it.
A truce is formed, an agreement to stop fighting.
I ask my tiny friend to enter his stable; at first he doesn't comply. He doesn't trust me with his safety.
Only after I provide my youngling food, water, and shelter does it comply.
Entering the stable he puts his head into his feeding bag.
"Good boy"
He says nothing, he's too busy eating the harvest.
When he's finally fat dumb and happy, does he start to relax.
"Good boy," I tell him, "good boy."
Drifting off to sleep, I'm finally able to lock the stable.
"Snap," goes the button.
He stiffens up, ready to kick.
The tattoo starts to fade.
"Yes sir." I mutter. "Yes sir."
End.
|
|
[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
|
Keenan Avery woke up from another drunken slumber. He rolled out of bed uneasily, his stomach flipping end over end as the twenty-five year old made a beeline for the bathroom. After he had finished emptying the contents from the previous night into the toilet, Keenan made his way to the sink to rinse his mouth. He looked in horror as another tattoo had emerged through his skin, this time above his right eye. September 3, '92 arched around his eyebrow, taunting him in the mirror as he tried to read it backwards. Once he was certain the date was correct he sat on his bed confused.
This wasn't the first time he was confused by a new tattoo. When he turned eighteen he signed up for the new Worldwide Ink Initiative. The revolutionary program was voluntary, but soon everyone that loved the art of tattooing had enrolled. The volunteers were fitted with a capsule about the size of a half dollar in their lower abdomen. Through nanotechnology and brain readings done every few years, the volunteers would begin to literally sprout tattoos on their bodies. Keenan's first was a large Celtic cross on his forearm. His next was on his chest, a heart with the letters A+K on the inside for his first true love. One year later a large "X" went through the heart tattoo. He wasn't exactly littered with ink, but sometimes he wondered why certain tattoos had emerged. "September 3, '92" was nothing less than a mystery.
"What could it mean?" Keenan thought to himself. He was born in 1990. What kind of event could have happened when he was two years old that could have such a lasting effect? Tattoos didn't just come out of the thin air. They all had a very precise meaning to their owners. Keenan was out of ideas. He called his mother.
"Ma," Keenan began, "does September 3, 1992 have any meaning to you?"
His mother was silent on the other end. "Not to me, no," she replied in a rush.
He explained the tattoo and went down a list of possibilities. Was I in the hospital? Were we on a vacation? Did someone die?
"Honey, this is nonsense. Don't ask me about your dumb tattoos. I told you not to get those damn things."
And with that the conversation was over. Keenan let it marinate for awhile. The days ticked away and nothing was coming to him. The tattoo mocked him every time he saw his reflection. Because of the placement; friends, family and strangers noticed the ink immediately. He had no idea what to tell the inquiring minds.
He began to dig deep through the internet. What happened on September 3, 1992? Jerry Lewis had a telethon that raised over $45 million for muscular dystrophy. "End of the Road" by Boyz II Men was taking over the airwaves. It was a day that was quite literally uneventful. So he began to Google his family. Nothing on his father. His mother the same. No deaths in the family or anything. He was truly at a loss.
By some random chance he found an old copy of a newspaper on the day from his local paper. On the third page his eyes were scanning furiously, the new tattoo bobbing up and down, stretching as his eyes agonized over the screen. "Toddler Abducted in Broad Daylight" was the headline. A picture of a young boy smiled on the page, the last known photo of the child. Underneath the toddler was a picture of a husband consoling his hysteric wife. The man looked just like Keenan.
He grabbed his phone off the desk and called his mother. No answer. He called again. No answer. On the third call she finally picked up.
"Tell me it isn't true!" Keenan cried. "Tell me my mind is going crazy and I'm grasping at straws over here, Ma."
"I...We...," she stuttered. "You were never supposed to find out."
Two months after his parents shocking confession they were sentenced to twenty-five years in prison. The judge threw the book at the Abington Abductors. Keenan's life was upside down. He was reunited with his biological parents, but it was all too weird of an experience for all parties involved. There was agreement that this would all take some getting used to.
Keenan woke up in a sweat one day, and made his way to the bathroom in his usual drunken stupor. He had taken to drinking a lot more recently, for obvious reasons. He threw up, rinsed his mouth out and looked back at his reflection. In the mirror, above his left eyebrow and symmetrically arched like his other, was a new tattoo. "Forgiveness" stared backwards at him. Keenan punched the mirror. That same day he made his way back into the clinic of the Worldwide Ink Initiative and had them take his implant out for good.
---
Thanks for reading! Come check out /r/BrenBuck for more!
|
A symbol appears. :):
Glancing down at my right hand I begin to wonder.
Is it true? Or is someone trying to tell me something.
My colt is out of its stable, he's been running free for a while.
You can't tame a wild animal you know, you can only go to war with it.
A truce is formed, an agreement to stop fighting.
I ask my tiny friend to enter his stable; at first he doesn't comply. He doesn't trust me with his safety.
Only after I provide my youngling food, water, and shelter does it comply.
Entering the stable he puts his head into his feeding bag.
"Good boy"
He says nothing, he's too busy eating the harvest.
When he's finally fat dumb and happy, does he start to relax.
"Good boy," I tell him, "good boy."
Drifting off to sleep, I'm finally able to lock the stable.
"Snap," goes the button.
He stiffens up, ready to kick.
The tattoo starts to fade.
"Yes sir." I mutter. "Yes sir."
End.
|
|
[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
|
Hi! I'm new to Writing Prompts and I'd appreciate any feedback you're willing to give!
--------------------
Katrina pulled her clothes tightly across her shoulders and looked down. All she wanted to do was pay for her groceries. But no; They had to ask. Everytime. Every. Single. Time.
“You got any clue what it means yet?” Pete, the cashier, asked.
Kat quickly took a swig of water. “Hmm?” She hummed, desperately digging for her credit card. Of course, Kat knew what he was asking about. She had told them that she had received a tattoo resembling a water bottle. She hadn’t, but it was easier than telling people that she didn’t have any. A tattoo of a water bottle was also strange enough that people would believe her when she said that she didn’t know what it meant.
No one in this town could mind their own business. Everywhere Kat went, she saw burly men proudly displaying their art-filled biceps and speaking stories of heroism. Some of her friends had “4.0,” or images depicting their sleepless nights of studying to pass a class. Others had their current League of Legends ranking proudly displayed. Everyone had something. Except Kat.
It wasn’t that Kat was a bad student, or that she sucked at video games; it was quite the opposite really. The tattoos were meant to represent a great achievement, and, well, those things didn’t cut it for Kat.
“Your tattoo,” Pete leaned closer, eager to hear about Kat’s achievement, “what does it mean? Jason said you got a waterbottle.”
Kat’s lips fell into a scowl. Kat yearned to return to the days before Jason got over his fear of public speaking and received a microphone tattoo on his throat. He used to be someone she could talk to; he used to be someone she could trust to tell that she hadn’t received a tattoo.
Lying to him-- telling him about her “tattoo” -- was probably one of the hardest things she had done. But it was necessary. At least, that’s what Kat told herself. Nowadays, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. No one in this godforsaken town could.
“No clue,” Kat mumbled, “still figuring it out.”
She handed Pete her credit card. In the process, she knocked over her water bottle, and liquid spilled all over the counter.
Kat cursed and scanned the room for paper towel. She ran over to the dispenser and got a few sheets.
“No, no,” Pete began, “it’s quite alright. We’ll get it.”
“I got it,” Kat insisted, “and, hey, who knows, this could be what my tattoo is for: cleaning up after my mistakes.” She laughed bitterly.
There was more water spillage than Kat initially thought. And it wasn’t just over the counter; she somehow managed to spray water onto Pete’s “employee of the month” tattoo across his forearm.
Kat cursed again. “Sorry. Let me help you with that.”
“Seriously,” Pete cleared his throat and backed away.
“No, really, it’s ok,” Kat said as she grabbed his wrist and wiped his arm with the towel. As she did so, the white paper towel became streak with green and yellow.
Kat’s eyes widened. “What the…?”
Edit: a word
Edit 2: removed "it was fake" to better flow into part 2.
|
A symbol appears. :):
Glancing down at my right hand I begin to wonder.
Is it true? Or is someone trying to tell me something.
My colt is out of its stable, he's been running free for a while.
You can't tame a wild animal you know, you can only go to war with it.
A truce is formed, an agreement to stop fighting.
I ask my tiny friend to enter his stable; at first he doesn't comply. He doesn't trust me with his safety.
Only after I provide my youngling food, water, and shelter does it comply.
Entering the stable he puts his head into his feeding bag.
"Good boy"
He says nothing, he's too busy eating the harvest.
When he's finally fat dumb and happy, does he start to relax.
"Good boy," I tell him, "good boy."
Drifting off to sleep, I'm finally able to lock the stable.
"Snap," goes the button.
He stiffens up, ready to kick.
The tattoo starts to fade.
"Yes sir." I mutter. "Yes sir."
End.
|
|
[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
|
Ryan never wanted a tattoo. He always thought they looked out of place, unnatural. Tattoos weren't dominant in his family. His mom only had a small one on her leg and his dad had only three tattoos, all of which were on his right arm.
Ryan's nineteenth birthday was coming right around the corner, and he still hadn't had any of his tattoos come in yet. He was the only one left in his high school who didn't have any at graduation. While most of his friends' senior pictures showed off their fresh, unfaded tattoos, Ryan's was just of him with all his hiking gear on a mountain.
No one ever talked about the fact he didn't have any tattoos, but he knew they were all thinking about it. It really didn't bother him, though. It made him different from everyone else. In a sea of sameness, Ryan stood out. He liked that.
Ryan's alarm went off, and he staggered to his nightstand to shut it up. He went into the bathroom, eyes only half open, and caught his reflection in the mirror on the way to the toilet. What he saw horrified him.
The entire front of his body, from his waist all the way up to his neck, was covered in intricate symbols and designs. They were all a deep black, a huge contrast with his pasty white skin.
He touched the tattoos, expecting to feel some sort of texture. Instead, it felt no different from anywhere else on his body.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror. He thought back to his classes where they were taught about the common first tattoos people get. This was like nothing he had ever seen or heard of before.
Ryan ran down the stairs to show his family and see if they knew what that tattoo meant. But instead of finding his family, he was greeted by a dozen armed men, with a man in a black suit at the front of them. They all worse gas masks and goggles except for his parents who were tied up at the kitchen table, mouths duct taped shut.
"What the hell is going on?" Ryan said.
"Our systems detected an anomaly," the man in the suit said. His face was devoid of any emotion.
"An anomaly in what?" Ryan asked.
"Our systems indicate that you may be Marked," the man replied.
"Marked?"
"It's the term we use for humans not from this planet. The tattoo system was developed to identify people like you. So we can eliminate you."
The man leveled a weapon at Ryan and pulled the trigger. A dart struck him square in the chest. The tattoos disappeared immediately, and his skin turned from white to a deep blue.
Ryan could vaguely hear his mother cry through the duct tape as his vision faded to black...
|
FADE IN:
INT. AN OFFICE BUILDING - DAY
*The sounds of clacking keyboards and muted conversation drift through the air. Men and women in business-casual attire mill around, either pretending to look busy or rushing from one meeting to the next. This atmosphere of tense ennui is suddenly broken by the arrival of a young man in sweatpants and a stained t-shirt. This is DAVE.*
**DAVE:** (*Shouting*) Steve! *Steve!*
*As everyone turns to stare at the interloper, a second young man peeks out from within a cubicle. This is STEVE.*
**STEVE:** (*To himself*) Oh, no...
*Dave spots Steve and rushes over.*
**DAVE:** Steve! Dude! It finally happened!
**STEVE:** What are you doing here? You can't just...
**DAVE:** (*Interrupting*) I've never gotten one before! Things are finally going to happen for me!
**STEVE:** What are you talking about?
**DAVE:** My tattoo!
*Several seconds pass in silence.*
**STEVE:** What?
**DAVE:** Didn't your parents teach you about the birds and the bees?
**STEVE:** That isn't...
**DAVE:** (*Interrupting*) At certain milestones in a person's life, a tattoo appears on their skin. This marking is meant to convey something important about that individual, but it's up to them to determine the meaning.
**STEVE:** What, did you memorize a health textbook? Anyway, that isn't "the birds and the bees."
**DAVE:** Yes, it is.
**STEVE:** I feel sorry for your former girlfriends.
**DAVE:** Look, dude, whatever. The point is, I got my first tattoo!
*Steve rubs his forehead.*
**STEVE:** As happy as I am for you, can we talk about this later? You can't...
**EDGAR:** (*O.S.*) (*Interrupting*) Steven, what's all this commotion about?
*Steve turns to see a heavyset, balding man entering the cubicle. This is EDGAR, Steve's boss.*
**STEVE:** (*To himself*) Am I just not allowed to finish my sentences?
**EDGAR:** What was that?
**STEVE:** Nothing. Anyway, sorry, this is Dave. He was just leaving.
**DAVE:** No, I wasn't.
**EDGAR:** (*To Dave*) Oh, so *you're* David, huh? Steven has talked a lot about you.
**DAVE:** Yeah, he really looks up to me.
*A humorless scoff escapes Steve's lips.*
**EDGAR:** Did I hear you saying something about a tattoo?
**DAVE:** My first one!
*Edgar's face breaks out into a wide, genuine smile.*
**EDGAR:** Well, hey, congratulations! Did you figure out what it means yet?
**DAVE:** No, I only just found it this morning.
**STEVE:** It's two in the afternoon.
**DAVE:** (*To Steve*) So? Does that mean that I couldn't have found it this morning?
**EDGAR:** You know, David, I have something of a knack for this kind of thing.
**DAVE:** ... Telling time?
**EDGAR:** (*Chuckling*) No, telling tattoos! May I have a look at yours?
**STEVE:** I wouldn't...
*Before Steve can finish his sentence, Dave pulls down his pants and displays his bare buttocks.*
**STEVE:** (*CONT'D*) ... Yep, there he goes.
**DAVE:** See? Right here! It's like... like a cloud or something!
**EDGAR:** (*Thoughtfully*) Hmm. It could be an eye, maybe?
**STEVE:** It's a bruise.
**DAVE:** Maybe I'm supposed to become a private detective?
**STEVE:** Maybe you fell down the stairs yesterday while trying to impress our neighbors.
*Dave pulls up his pants, looking at Steve with an expression of mild annoyance.*
**DAVE:** You know, you could be a little more supportive.
**EDGAR:** That is something we talked about in your quarterly review, Steven.
**STEVE:** Why are you taking his side?! He came bursting in here, shouting at the top of his lungs, and now you're acting like he's your long-lost son or something! If I did that, I'd get fired!
**DAVE:** Right, but I don't work here.
*A thought seems to occur to Edgar.*
**EDGAR:** Hey, it could be a celestial body of some sort...
**DAVE:** Really?!
**STEVE:** Please don't...
*Once again, Steve is interrupted as Dave pulls down his pants.*
**STEVE:** (*CONT'D*) ... Yep, right at eye-level.
**DAVE:** It *does* look a bit like a nebula!
**EDGAR:** I think that might be it, David! Something to do with space, then!
**STEVE:** It's probably between his ears.
*Edgar turns to glare at Steve.*
**EDGAR:** Remind me, Steven, what tattoos do you have?
**STEVE:** (*Proudly*) I have...
**EDGAR:** (*Interrupting*) No space? Got it. Let David have his moment.
*Steve's mouth opens and closes several times, but no sound comes out.*
**EDGAR:** (*CONT'D*) (*To Dave*) How about I get you a beer to celebrate, David?
**DAVID:** Sure! You know, I really don't understand why Steve complains about you all the time.
*Edgar chuckles and leaves the cubicle. Dave starts to follow him, but stops when he realizes that his pants are still around his knees. He hurriedly pulls them up, then rushes out of sight.*
**STEVE:** (*To himself*) I swear, one of these d...
*Steve trails off as he notices a faint marking appearing on his inner wrist. It vaguely resembles a cartoonish bundle of dynamite with an already-burning fuse.*
**STEVE:** (*CONT'D*) ... Uh oh.
FADE TO BLACK.
|
|
[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
|
People tended to stay away from me. At first I told myself I didn't mind, but I'm starting to feel like a monster simply for the ink that's inhabiting my forehead.
I have some on my arms, a crying woman in the fetal position surrounded by a dark circle that I assume is for the loneliness that my life will have. Not sure why it's a woman but maybe it's just meant to show me who I'm missing.
On my right forearm I've got a paper heart. I've always assumed this one meant that I'm weak. A fucking symbol to get me sympathy, not that it matters with my forehead tattoo.
Strangely, my back just holds some roots digging into my skin, normally they wouldn't look too out of place, but when they're paired with my other ink they begin to look gruesome.
I walk around each day envying the glimmering tattoos of laughter, clouds, flowers, and books that litter people's bodies as they pass me in the streets. Seems like everyone has a passion they're pursuing. Their tattoos define their life and what they spend their time on, they're content to do what they're marked with.
Tattoos play a big role in job interviews. Hell, if you have a computer on your arm it's worth more than a computer science degree to employers.
Because of how influencial the tattoos are I've been jobless and living off soup kitchens for years now. People won't hire a man with a bright white skull bleeding down his face.
A sound broke me out of my moody thoughts. I had been walking around in a bad part of town, not that it mattered my tattoos scared off anyone looking to mug me, when I heard cries coming from an alley. As I looked down the alley my breath caught.
On the floor huddled into a ball sat the woman. The same woman who hugged my arm each day, the same woman I thought was simply some ignorable detail. She cried out as men behind her were laughing and kicking her mercilessly. Her shirt lay in tatters behind the men, she must've fought them originally or the men wouldn't have forgotten their original intent. Each time their foot connected a yelp of pain interrupted her ragged sobbing.
I don't remember when my feet started moving but in no time flat I was already down the alley, screaming like a mad man at the two men. At first they laughed, a tattered homeless man probably didn't look intimidating, but as I neared the skull on my head bore it's eyes into the men. Their faces paled, they stumbled backwards before a high pitched shriek escaped from them. By the time I got to them they were already up and running, disappearing into the darkness that I came from.
"Are you okay?" I asked the woman. She didn't respond, she just continued to cry on the floor. I lowered myself next to her, removing my tattered rag of a shirt as I did. I slowly put it in her line of sight, and waited until she noticed it. Eventually her eyes focused on the shirt and she yanked it out of my hand.
"Go ahead and put that on, it looks like they're gone for now but they could come back any second."
"Th-thank you." She was still shaking from crying. I only just met her but I felt like I knew her better than myself. Seeing her on my arm each night illuminated how she must be feeling right now, I knew all too well the sadness and fear coarsing through her. I'd felt it every night since my tattoos came. Her eyes finally traced up to me, expanding in what must've been a new wave of fear, expecting the normal revulsion I spoke, "It's okay, it's just a skull. Look I have others."
I showed her the one of her, curled up and crying. Her eyebrows scrunched together, her puffy eyelids obscuring her bloodshot eyes as they darted around taking in every inch of me.
As she studied me I couldn't help but look back at her. Where my arm held a paper heart, hers was painted with a strong and vibrant heart. Weirdly a small Lily grew out of her chest, right between her breasts, my shirt lay forgotten in her lap.
It was my turn to scrunch my eyebrows in confusion. I couldn't believe my eyes, my smiling face with no skull tattoo sat atop her arm exactly where her figure rested on mine.
"What skull?" She asked me, her voice still brittle but slightly more relaxed than before. My eyebrows scrunched further.
"The one on my forehead. A big white glaring skull with blood pouring out of it."
"You don't have any ink on your face." She pulled out her phone, her hands and voice still shaky, and opened the front facing camera for me to see. Reluctantly, I pulled my eyes away from her and waited to see the gruesome image atop my own face. Yet there was nothing on my forehead, the skull had vanished. My face looked strange to me, unfamiliar almost.
Before long my eyes had forgotten my reflection and drifted back to her. We sat in silence, just drinking in each other. It felt like we were opposite poles of a magnet, instantly attracted to each other. The more I looked at her the more my thoughts began to change.
My tattoos didn't describe me, they defined her. As soon as I saw her I knew it was true. I was meant to save her, I was meant to guard her paper heart and be the firm roots of her beautiful Lily. It's funny, I had always hated how happy people were when they were content with their lives being defined by their ink. As I looked at her those thoughts fell away, I am meant to live for her. I didn't feel as if my heart was the strong and vibrant one atop her bicep but I would strive to be that for her, if everything that happened to me was meant to keep her as happy as the flower painted across her chest then every second I suffered was worth it. The longer we stared at each other the more I could feel her thoughts mimicking mine. The silence was torn like a barrier between us as she spoke.
"My place isn't far from here, can you take me home?"
My lips involuntarily curled up into a warm smile, her bright red lips mirroring my actions. She stopped shaking and sighed out in relief as I replied, "Of course."
|
FADE IN:
INT. AN OFFICE BUILDING - DAY
*The sounds of clacking keyboards and muted conversation drift through the air. Men and women in business-casual attire mill around, either pretending to look busy or rushing from one meeting to the next. This atmosphere of tense ennui is suddenly broken by the arrival of a young man in sweatpants and a stained t-shirt. This is DAVE.*
**DAVE:** (*Shouting*) Steve! *Steve!*
*As everyone turns to stare at the interloper, a second young man peeks out from within a cubicle. This is STEVE.*
**STEVE:** (*To himself*) Oh, no...
*Dave spots Steve and rushes over.*
**DAVE:** Steve! Dude! It finally happened!
**STEVE:** What are you doing here? You can't just...
**DAVE:** (*Interrupting*) I've never gotten one before! Things are finally going to happen for me!
**STEVE:** What are you talking about?
**DAVE:** My tattoo!
*Several seconds pass in silence.*
**STEVE:** What?
**DAVE:** Didn't your parents teach you about the birds and the bees?
**STEVE:** That isn't...
**DAVE:** (*Interrupting*) At certain milestones in a person's life, a tattoo appears on their skin. This marking is meant to convey something important about that individual, but it's up to them to determine the meaning.
**STEVE:** What, did you memorize a health textbook? Anyway, that isn't "the birds and the bees."
**DAVE:** Yes, it is.
**STEVE:** I feel sorry for your former girlfriends.
**DAVE:** Look, dude, whatever. The point is, I got my first tattoo!
*Steve rubs his forehead.*
**STEVE:** As happy as I am for you, can we talk about this later? You can't...
**EDGAR:** (*O.S.*) (*Interrupting*) Steven, what's all this commotion about?
*Steve turns to see a heavyset, balding man entering the cubicle. This is EDGAR, Steve's boss.*
**STEVE:** (*To himself*) Am I just not allowed to finish my sentences?
**EDGAR:** What was that?
**STEVE:** Nothing. Anyway, sorry, this is Dave. He was just leaving.
**DAVE:** No, I wasn't.
**EDGAR:** (*To Dave*) Oh, so *you're* David, huh? Steven has talked a lot about you.
**DAVE:** Yeah, he really looks up to me.
*A humorless scoff escapes Steve's lips.*
**EDGAR:** Did I hear you saying something about a tattoo?
**DAVE:** My first one!
*Edgar's face breaks out into a wide, genuine smile.*
**EDGAR:** Well, hey, congratulations! Did you figure out what it means yet?
**DAVE:** No, I only just found it this morning.
**STEVE:** It's two in the afternoon.
**DAVE:** (*To Steve*) So? Does that mean that I couldn't have found it this morning?
**EDGAR:** You know, David, I have something of a knack for this kind of thing.
**DAVE:** ... Telling time?
**EDGAR:** (*Chuckling*) No, telling tattoos! May I have a look at yours?
**STEVE:** I wouldn't...
*Before Steve can finish his sentence, Dave pulls down his pants and displays his bare buttocks.*
**STEVE:** (*CONT'D*) ... Yep, there he goes.
**DAVE:** See? Right here! It's like... like a cloud or something!
**EDGAR:** (*Thoughtfully*) Hmm. It could be an eye, maybe?
**STEVE:** It's a bruise.
**DAVE:** Maybe I'm supposed to become a private detective?
**STEVE:** Maybe you fell down the stairs yesterday while trying to impress our neighbors.
*Dave pulls up his pants, looking at Steve with an expression of mild annoyance.*
**DAVE:** You know, you could be a little more supportive.
**EDGAR:** That is something we talked about in your quarterly review, Steven.
**STEVE:** Why are you taking his side?! He came bursting in here, shouting at the top of his lungs, and now you're acting like he's your long-lost son or something! If I did that, I'd get fired!
**DAVE:** Right, but I don't work here.
*A thought seems to occur to Edgar.*
**EDGAR:** Hey, it could be a celestial body of some sort...
**DAVE:** Really?!
**STEVE:** Please don't...
*Once again, Steve is interrupted as Dave pulls down his pants.*
**STEVE:** (*CONT'D*) ... Yep, right at eye-level.
**DAVE:** It *does* look a bit like a nebula!
**EDGAR:** I think that might be it, David! Something to do with space, then!
**STEVE:** It's probably between his ears.
*Edgar turns to glare at Steve.*
**EDGAR:** Remind me, Steven, what tattoos do you have?
**STEVE:** (*Proudly*) I have...
**EDGAR:** (*Interrupting*) No space? Got it. Let David have his moment.
*Steve's mouth opens and closes several times, but no sound comes out.*
**EDGAR:** (*CONT'D*) (*To Dave*) How about I get you a beer to celebrate, David?
**DAVID:** Sure! You know, I really don't understand why Steve complains about you all the time.
*Edgar chuckles and leaves the cubicle. Dave starts to follow him, but stops when he realizes that his pants are still around his knees. He hurriedly pulls them up, then rushes out of sight.*
**STEVE:** (*To himself*) I swear, one of these d...
*Steve trails off as he notices a faint marking appearing on his inner wrist. It vaguely resembles a cartoonish bundle of dynamite with an already-burning fuse.*
**STEVE:** (*CONT'D*) ... Uh oh.
FADE TO BLACK.
|
|
[WP] Tattoos aren't something that gets made. Instead they randomly appears on our skin at key points in our lives and we have to figure out what they mean for ourselves.
|
Everyone has at least one tattoo they absolutely love.
Jenny from upstairs has this peacock on her back- something she says is for her mother. Which is. Just. Absolute bullshit. She has it because she's a vain bitch.
But god is that tattoo beautiful. Curving lines inlayed with golds and greens and shocking blues. It's a masterful piece of art.
Fucking. Jenny.
Even Ma, who's worked labor her whole life and is mostly covered in lines and number, statistics and machinery and such, has one little red heart on her wrist that she is so proud of.
It's tiny, no bigger than my pinky nail, but it's powerful. Rich and vibrant. For the husband she lost too soon and the razor she almost took to that same wrist soon after.
I do not have a goddamn thing to be proud of on my body.
No sloping curves, no vibrant colors, no magnificent linework.
Just a vast, inescapable crisscrossing network of cartoon drawing of dicks.
|
FADE IN:
INT. AN OFFICE BUILDING - DAY
*The sounds of clacking keyboards and muted conversation drift through the air. Men and women in business-casual attire mill around, either pretending to look busy or rushing from one meeting to the next. This atmosphere of tense ennui is suddenly broken by the arrival of a young man in sweatpants and a stained t-shirt. This is DAVE.*
**DAVE:** (*Shouting*) Steve! *Steve!*
*As everyone turns to stare at the interloper, a second young man peeks out from within a cubicle. This is STEVE.*
**STEVE:** (*To himself*) Oh, no...
*Dave spots Steve and rushes over.*
**DAVE:** Steve! Dude! It finally happened!
**STEVE:** What are you doing here? You can't just...
**DAVE:** (*Interrupting*) I've never gotten one before! Things are finally going to happen for me!
**STEVE:** What are you talking about?
**DAVE:** My tattoo!
*Several seconds pass in silence.*
**STEVE:** What?
**DAVE:** Didn't your parents teach you about the birds and the bees?
**STEVE:** That isn't...
**DAVE:** (*Interrupting*) At certain milestones in a person's life, a tattoo appears on their skin. This marking is meant to convey something important about that individual, but it's up to them to determine the meaning.
**STEVE:** What, did you memorize a health textbook? Anyway, that isn't "the birds and the bees."
**DAVE:** Yes, it is.
**STEVE:** I feel sorry for your former girlfriends.
**DAVE:** Look, dude, whatever. The point is, I got my first tattoo!
*Steve rubs his forehead.*
**STEVE:** As happy as I am for you, can we talk about this later? You can't...
**EDGAR:** (*O.S.*) (*Interrupting*) Steven, what's all this commotion about?
*Steve turns to see a heavyset, balding man entering the cubicle. This is EDGAR, Steve's boss.*
**STEVE:** (*To himself*) Am I just not allowed to finish my sentences?
**EDGAR:** What was that?
**STEVE:** Nothing. Anyway, sorry, this is Dave. He was just leaving.
**DAVE:** No, I wasn't.
**EDGAR:** (*To Dave*) Oh, so *you're* David, huh? Steven has talked a lot about you.
**DAVE:** Yeah, he really looks up to me.
*A humorless scoff escapes Steve's lips.*
**EDGAR:** Did I hear you saying something about a tattoo?
**DAVE:** My first one!
*Edgar's face breaks out into a wide, genuine smile.*
**EDGAR:** Well, hey, congratulations! Did you figure out what it means yet?
**DAVE:** No, I only just found it this morning.
**STEVE:** It's two in the afternoon.
**DAVE:** (*To Steve*) So? Does that mean that I couldn't have found it this morning?
**EDGAR:** You know, David, I have something of a knack for this kind of thing.
**DAVE:** ... Telling time?
**EDGAR:** (*Chuckling*) No, telling tattoos! May I have a look at yours?
**STEVE:** I wouldn't...
*Before Steve can finish his sentence, Dave pulls down his pants and displays his bare buttocks.*
**STEVE:** (*CONT'D*) ... Yep, there he goes.
**DAVE:** See? Right here! It's like... like a cloud or something!
**EDGAR:** (*Thoughtfully*) Hmm. It could be an eye, maybe?
**STEVE:** It's a bruise.
**DAVE:** Maybe I'm supposed to become a private detective?
**STEVE:** Maybe you fell down the stairs yesterday while trying to impress our neighbors.
*Dave pulls up his pants, looking at Steve with an expression of mild annoyance.*
**DAVE:** You know, you could be a little more supportive.
**EDGAR:** That is something we talked about in your quarterly review, Steven.
**STEVE:** Why are you taking his side?! He came bursting in here, shouting at the top of his lungs, and now you're acting like he's your long-lost son or something! If I did that, I'd get fired!
**DAVE:** Right, but I don't work here.
*A thought seems to occur to Edgar.*
**EDGAR:** Hey, it could be a celestial body of some sort...
**DAVE:** Really?!
**STEVE:** Please don't...
*Once again, Steve is interrupted as Dave pulls down his pants.*
**STEVE:** (*CONT'D*) ... Yep, right at eye-level.
**DAVE:** It *does* look a bit like a nebula!
**EDGAR:** I think that might be it, David! Something to do with space, then!
**STEVE:** It's probably between his ears.
*Edgar turns to glare at Steve.*
**EDGAR:** Remind me, Steven, what tattoos do you have?
**STEVE:** (*Proudly*) I have...
**EDGAR:** (*Interrupting*) No space? Got it. Let David have his moment.
*Steve's mouth opens and closes several times, but no sound comes out.*
**EDGAR:** (*CONT'D*) (*To Dave*) How about I get you a beer to celebrate, David?
**DAVID:** Sure! You know, I really don't understand why Steve complains about you all the time.
*Edgar chuckles and leaves the cubicle. Dave starts to follow him, but stops when he realizes that his pants are still around his knees. He hurriedly pulls them up, then rushes out of sight.*
**STEVE:** (*To himself*) I swear, one of these d...
*Steve trails off as he notices a faint marking appearing on his inner wrist. It vaguely resembles a cartoonish bundle of dynamite with an already-burning fuse.*
**STEVE:** (*CONT'D*) ... Uh oh.
FADE TO BLACK.
|
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