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[WP] A new 'Sleeping Pill' came out that lets you take it as a 'sleep supplement' without having to ever sleep. Everyone is taking them, able to be more productive. You don't trust or take them and start seeing the side effects.
|
The ground was littered with bodies. The lucky ones were dead. The majority were wriggling about in agonizing pain. Between the groans and cries, there was a constant splashing sound as they flopped about in semi\-coagulated puddles of blood.
Katya was thin but not gaunt. She had worked for years as a secretary and finally saved up enough money to get that Marchessa Notte dress from Neiman Marcus she had been eyeing for months. But now the beautiful floral pattern was no longer viewable through the layers of blood that coated it. For hours she had been fighting them off. She was exhausted but triumphant, and when she looked around, she grinned just a bit. It wasn't quite a smile, because she couldn't muster a smile, but it was enough. She sighed, dropped the glass award she had been using for a weapon, and sat on the ground. There was a quaint *plop* as she landed in a maroon pool beneath her.
"This didn't," she panted, "have to happen. I told you. I told you all. You need to sleep." She laboriously breathed a few more times. "And now you can."
She started to doze off when a clanging woke her. She was standing before her eyes were even open, and coming her way were two more of her colleagues. Their eyes were glossed over, and their heads hung low, but their intention was clear: get to Katya. She sighed, and picked up the award again.
"For always doing a commendable job," she read. "Listen, Barbara," she directed at the two. "You're the one person I was hoping would come down here. Because I cannot fucking stand you. Remember when you used to praise that sleeping pill? And you'd come down to my desk and talk on and on and fucking on about it? And I was always thinking to myself, 'God I want to kill this bitch.' Well guess what."
Barbara stepped within arm's length, and Katya smashed the award into her eye with the pointed tip. Barbara recoiled and let out a horrific scream. It was so jarring, the woman who was walking with her paused. She blinked a few times and lifted her head. "What... what's going on?"
"Tina? Are you lucid?"
"Yes... yes.. what's happening?" She looked around and gasped.
"Remember that time you stole my lunch, and you ate in front of me, and I called you out on it, but you said it was *your* lunch?"
"Yes... what does that..."
Before she could finish her question, Katya shoved the award into her mouth so hard it punched through the back of her skull. "Eat that, bitch."
Tina collapsed. As she tried to scream through the gurgling of her own blood, Katya pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
"This is gonna be one helluva day."
|
I looked back at the shorelines of dover one last time. I had a ferry full of supplies and as much filtered water as I could get my hands on.
They should have paid more attention to the long term side effects; decreased white blood cell count, changes in cognitive functions. Sure, the company told us all not to take "waking tablets" for more than two weeks in a row, but who listened to them?
6 months after their release a strange new disease popped up. Peoples toes and feet looked more like tree roots, covered in bark like rashes. Their blood flow and metabolism slowed right down. They decided it was a fungal infection. Despite quarantine efforts it spread at an alarming rate.
It was only after giant corporations started spiking the tap water with this so called miracle drug that we realised; the tablets had the chance of altering our very DNA. Not only that, but it had the strange effect of making our bodies more like a fungus than a mammal. An intelligent, human fungus, but nonetheless terrifying.
I cranked up the engine. The town had turned into a forest of 20 foot tall, fire resistant fungi. When the change had completed, the former humans began to release toxic spores. The lucky ones would mutate, the others would be forced out of the cities and towns.
I'd prepared for disasters. Water soon became short in supply as springs and aquifers became contaminated with spores. The more remote parts of Scotland were swarmed by refugees seeking safe water to drink. Many starved, or died drinking the spores.
I'd kept my rather large supply of bottled water secret till I could shift it onto this here boat. Maybe I could last a few more months. Maybe I'd find a clean island somewhere and grow old. All I knew was that life couldn't be the same.
|
|
[WP] A new 'Sleeping Pill' came out that lets you take it as a 'sleep supplement' without having to ever sleep. Everyone is taking them, able to be more productive. You don't trust or take them and start seeing the side effects.
|
It was marketed so innocently. One pill, once a day, and never have to sleep again. Who wouldn’t jump at that opportunity? Within a matter of months society had radically altered to accommodate this new lifestyle. No one saw the harm in 24 hour restaurants or salons. Now everything was always open. However there was one flaw, one hiccup in this utopia. I saw this coming, I refused the pill, I was put on “disability” for needing to sleep every night. No one could understand why. They called us sleepers, those of us who refused the pills. We were outcasts, outsiders, bullied and forgotten by our fellow citizens. But we were free.
With the ability to stay awake, comes the ability to stay at work. Businesses immediately saw the same opportunity I saw. Labor laws quickly changed since sleep was no longer necessary, and employers demanded longer hours. 15\-16 hour shifts became the norm. After all, if you don’t need to sleep, you don’t need to stop working. And everyone bought it. Most people saw opportunities to work longer, feel fine, and earn a higher paycheck as a win all around. Anyone who wanted fewer hours were quickly replaced with those who wanted more. Society became a stagnant state of compliance, where drones of citizens worked nonstop all because of one pill that gave them limitless energy.
I couldn’t be happier. The resulting economic boom meant the government could easily afford to supply “disability” to the few of us that refused the pill. We received just enough to live on, but that was enough. Society pitied us, mocked us for our “old\-fashioned” values and rejected us for choosing to sleep. But as I stand on this empty beach, the sound of seagulls and waves extending for miles without interruption, it’s them I pity. My time is my own, and my life is unhindered. Rest offers peace, serenity, and freedom, something the world has since forgotten.
A text.
“Hey buddy, heading to bed soon, want to meet for breakfast in the morning?”
“Sure!” I reply.
The facade can’t last forever, eventually society will recognize their predicament. But for now I’ll enjoy being called a “sleeper,” though I always considered myself one of the few who were truly awake.
|
I looked back at the shorelines of dover one last time. I had a ferry full of supplies and as much filtered water as I could get my hands on.
They should have paid more attention to the long term side effects; decreased white blood cell count, changes in cognitive functions. Sure, the company told us all not to take "waking tablets" for more than two weeks in a row, but who listened to them?
6 months after their release a strange new disease popped up. Peoples toes and feet looked more like tree roots, covered in bark like rashes. Their blood flow and metabolism slowed right down. They decided it was a fungal infection. Despite quarantine efforts it spread at an alarming rate.
It was only after giant corporations started spiking the tap water with this so called miracle drug that we realised; the tablets had the chance of altering our very DNA. Not only that, but it had the strange effect of making our bodies more like a fungus than a mammal. An intelligent, human fungus, but nonetheless terrifying.
I cranked up the engine. The town had turned into a forest of 20 foot tall, fire resistant fungi. When the change had completed, the former humans began to release toxic spores. The lucky ones would mutate, the others would be forced out of the cities and towns.
I'd prepared for disasters. Water soon became short in supply as springs and aquifers became contaminated with spores. The more remote parts of Scotland were swarmed by refugees seeking safe water to drink. Many starved, or died drinking the spores.
I'd kept my rather large supply of bottled water secret till I could shift it onto this here boat. Maybe I could last a few more months. Maybe I'd find a clean island somewhere and grow old. All I knew was that life couldn't be the same.
|
|
[WP] A new 'Sleeping Pill' came out that lets you take it as a 'sleep supplement' without having to ever sleep. Everyone is taking them, able to be more productive. You don't trust or take them and start seeing the side effects.
|
“I’m not kidding, I got hours of work done, didn’t sleep a wink, and I feel fine.”
“It’s caffeine. Or cocaine maybe. Do you even know what’s in it?”
“Hey, if the FDA says it’s okay …”
That’s as far as I can pay attention. I hear this, or a variation, nearly every day. This time it’s Pete. Sometimes vegan, sometimes juicer, always looking like a men’s underwear ad. The last person to do drugs – he wouldn’t even touch a joint in high school. He’s hooked too.
TimeForAll, the revolutionary pill that was an IndieGoGo joke not so long ago. SNL ruthlessly mocked it, late-night hosts roasted its creators relentlessly. And now they were all on it. Lorne Michaels himself publicly apologized, praising the pill for giving him time he never knew he had. Once pro athletes and movie stars started taking it, the dam burst. The FDA fast-tracked it – way too fast.
Pete gives up his pitch and returns to his desk. His usual browser games, the ones he can hide in a second if Gorman comes around, aren’t even there. He’s working – honest-to-God work in a spreadsheet. I’ve seen him work – hell, I’ve had to work with him closely more than once. But never like this – never so… focused.
I walk through the office, down the aisles between cubicles, toward the break room. The aisles are empty. The break room is empty. I walk in to find that the coffee maker is unplugged. It’s nearly 11 AM. Nobody made coffee? *Nobody had to get their fix?*
I busy myself filling the coffee maker. I hear footsteps, and turn to see Gorman. *Oh shit.*
“There, uh, any problem, today Randy?”
*Randy? He never uses my first name.*
“No sir, just need a cup of java is all.”
“Really? You know, it’s funny. I haven’t needed one. I took TimeForAll, and now I just don’t need it.”
I bite my lip, unsure what to do. He’s been looking at me for a minute and he hasn’t nagged me about coversheets or email protocols. I decide to just nod.
“You don’t seem convinced?”
“Really, I just don’t know what to think. It seems great, but I’ve been clean and sober for years, you know?” I shut my mouth, realizing I’m close to talking about my past, but Gorman just nodded.
“I get it. No really. Tell you what – our department is ahead of schedule. Everyone’s way ahead, actually. You take the time you need. Take a bit of time off today.”
My eyes are wide. *Mr. I-Need-You-To-Come-In-On-Saturday just said that. Really.* But I nod and smile, watching his reaction.
“I mean it. Go out, take a breather. We’ll cover for you.”
I waste no more time. I step out before the other shoe can drop.
I’m on the street, heading to the city park. The streets are mostly empty. A bus, empty save for a few elderly passengers leaves the stop. The coffee shops near the park are mostly empty – so few people are out. I sit on a bench, watching a pigeon bob up to me in search of bread.
I’m looking at my phone. 12 PM on the dot. I look across the street, and suits flow from the ground floors of nearby office buildings. The workers disperse, splitting up to head to nearby restaurants, coffee shops, and street vendors. They step robotically, in perfect rhythm. I watch the nearest shop, a Starbucks, its baristas and machines visible from my bench. The baristas are calm, serving each of the dozens of patrons. Said patrons wait patiently, New Yorkers queuing like Brits – hell, better than that stereotype.
I remember the empty break room in the office. Why are they buying it now? I watch the customers sit with their cups and sandwiches. *Sandwiches?* I notice it now, more sandwiches and Paninis than I’ve ever seen in a Starbucks. I watch a woman in a power suit sit near the window and take long bites of a sandwich. She sips coffee between bites, but the food, the sustenance is her focus now.
I’m transfixed. I can’t stop watching. I stay there until 12:40. The crowds thin, and everyone streams back to work. By 1, the shops are empty again. Christ.
I can’t go back to work. I need space, I need to think. I walk down streets devoid of the usual crowds, passing only the retired and disabled, those who have found the means to live outside of usual jobs.
________________________________________
I’m at home. It’s evening. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. So tired, my mind racing to make sense of the clockwork people.
Becky sits across from me at the table, dutifully cleaning the last of the lasagna from her plate.
“Thank you for the dinner, honey,” she says.
“Yeah, no problem.” I barely remember cooking it. It was something to do, something to occupy my mind.
“Hey, guess what? I’ve been trying it out!”
“Huh? Been trying what out?”
“TimeForAll, silly! Just like we talked about. It’s great – I got so much done today, and I feel ready to work all night too.”
“You – you took it? I thought you wanted to wait!”
“It’s really all right, Randy. Don’t worry so much! You can take it whenever you’re ready.”
“Honey, have you seen what it does? Have you seen how people act?”
“Yeah! Everyone gets everything done. You do what you want at night! While you were busy *sleeping* last night, I got all our taxes done and I found ten good open houses we can go to!”
She said *sleeping* in a teasing voice, but the implication is clear. She wants me to take it. I turn from her, heading to the bedroom.
I sit on the edge of the bed. I look to her side, and see the open box of TimeForAll on her nightstand. It takes a week or so of regular doses before it really works, I remember. *How long was she taking it?*
I shove the question away and turn on the TV in our room. A repeat of SNL is on, but the show is only 30 minutes now, reduced to a few well-written skits delivered with perfect timing. I should laugh – it’s better than the show’s been in … well, ever. It’s not right though. It’s supposed to be rough around the edges, there’s supposed to be room for the unexpected. But everything is perfect. The host says exactly what she’s supposed to, no political tangents or jokes that fall flat. The musical act is flawless. It’s somehow too good.
The TV turns off. Becky is standing next to me, stark naked.
“How about a bit of intercourse?”
I stand up, smiling at the pleasant surprise, and hoping her choice of words is some kind of joke. “Oh, intercourse, really?”
“Why of course. You seem stressed out and my period just finished. A sexual encounter seems appropriate.”
She isn’t joking. Her eyes are focused on mine, her voice is empty of seduction or playfulness. I’m treated to a vision of perfectly timed coitus, two machines going at it simply because that’s what humans do.
I look to the box of TimeForAll and back to Becky’s naked body. I look to the open box again.
|
I looked back at the shorelines of dover one last time. I had a ferry full of supplies and as much filtered water as I could get my hands on.
They should have paid more attention to the long term side effects; decreased white blood cell count, changes in cognitive functions. Sure, the company told us all not to take "waking tablets" for more than two weeks in a row, but who listened to them?
6 months after their release a strange new disease popped up. Peoples toes and feet looked more like tree roots, covered in bark like rashes. Their blood flow and metabolism slowed right down. They decided it was a fungal infection. Despite quarantine efforts it spread at an alarming rate.
It was only after giant corporations started spiking the tap water with this so called miracle drug that we realised; the tablets had the chance of altering our very DNA. Not only that, but it had the strange effect of making our bodies more like a fungus than a mammal. An intelligent, human fungus, but nonetheless terrifying.
I cranked up the engine. The town had turned into a forest of 20 foot tall, fire resistant fungi. When the change had completed, the former humans began to release toxic spores. The lucky ones would mutate, the others would be forced out of the cities and towns.
I'd prepared for disasters. Water soon became short in supply as springs and aquifers became contaminated with spores. The more remote parts of Scotland were swarmed by refugees seeking safe water to drink. Many starved, or died drinking the spores.
I'd kept my rather large supply of bottled water secret till I could shift it onto this here boat. Maybe I could last a few more months. Maybe I'd find a clean island somewhere and grow old. All I knew was that life couldn't be the same.
|
|
[WP] A new 'Sleeping Pill' came out that lets you take it as a 'sleep supplement' without having to ever sleep. Everyone is taking them, able to be more productive. You don't trust or take them and start seeing the side effects.
|
It was marketed so innocently. One pill, once a day, and never have to sleep again. Who wouldn’t jump at that opportunity? Within a matter of months society had radically altered to accommodate this new lifestyle. No one saw the harm in 24 hour restaurants or salons. Now everything was always open. However there was one flaw, one hiccup in this utopia. I saw this coming, I refused the pill, I was put on “disability” for needing to sleep every night. No one could understand why. They called us sleepers, those of us who refused the pills. We were outcasts, outsiders, bullied and forgotten by our fellow citizens. But we were free.
With the ability to stay awake, comes the ability to stay at work. Businesses immediately saw the same opportunity I saw. Labor laws quickly changed since sleep was no longer necessary, and employers demanded longer hours. 15\-16 hour shifts became the norm. After all, if you don’t need to sleep, you don’t need to stop working. And everyone bought it. Most people saw opportunities to work longer, feel fine, and earn a higher paycheck as a win all around. Anyone who wanted fewer hours were quickly replaced with those who wanted more. Society became a stagnant state of compliance, where drones of citizens worked nonstop all because of one pill that gave them limitless energy.
I couldn’t be happier. The resulting economic boom meant the government could easily afford to supply “disability” to the few of us that refused the pill. We received just enough to live on, but that was enough. Society pitied us, mocked us for our “old\-fashioned” values and rejected us for choosing to sleep. But as I stand on this empty beach, the sound of seagulls and waves extending for miles without interruption, it’s them I pity. My time is my own, and my life is unhindered. Rest offers peace, serenity, and freedom, something the world has since forgotten.
A text.
“Hey buddy, heading to bed soon, want to meet for breakfast in the morning?”
“Sure!” I reply.
The facade can’t last forever, eventually society will recognize their predicament. But for now I’ll enjoy being called a “sleeper,” though I always considered myself one of the few who were truly awake.
|
The ground was littered with bodies. The lucky ones were dead. The majority were wriggling about in agonizing pain. Between the groans and cries, there was a constant splashing sound as they flopped about in semi\-coagulated puddles of blood.
Katya was thin but not gaunt. She had worked for years as a secretary and finally saved up enough money to get that Marchessa Notte dress from Neiman Marcus she had been eyeing for months. But now the beautiful floral pattern was no longer viewable through the layers of blood that coated it. For hours she had been fighting them off. She was exhausted but triumphant, and when she looked around, she grinned just a bit. It wasn't quite a smile, because she couldn't muster a smile, but it was enough. She sighed, dropped the glass award she had been using for a weapon, and sat on the ground. There was a quaint *plop* as she landed in a maroon pool beneath her.
"This didn't," she panted, "have to happen. I told you. I told you all. You need to sleep." She laboriously breathed a few more times. "And now you can."
She started to doze off when a clanging woke her. She was standing before her eyes were even open, and coming her way were two more of her colleagues. Their eyes were glossed over, and their heads hung low, but their intention was clear: get to Katya. She sighed, and picked up the award again.
"For always doing a commendable job," she read. "Listen, Barbara," she directed at the two. "You're the one person I was hoping would come down here. Because I cannot fucking stand you. Remember when you used to praise that sleeping pill? And you'd come down to my desk and talk on and on and fucking on about it? And I was always thinking to myself, 'God I want to kill this bitch.' Well guess what."
Barbara stepped within arm's length, and Katya smashed the award into her eye with the pointed tip. Barbara recoiled and let out a horrific scream. It was so jarring, the woman who was walking with her paused. She blinked a few times and lifted her head. "What... what's going on?"
"Tina? Are you lucid?"
"Yes... yes.. what's happening?" She looked around and gasped.
"Remember that time you stole my lunch, and you ate in front of me, and I called you out on it, but you said it was *your* lunch?"
"Yes... what does that..."
Before she could finish her question, Katya shoved the award into her mouth so hard it punched through the back of her skull. "Eat that, bitch."
Tina collapsed. As she tried to scream through the gurgling of her own blood, Katya pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
"This is gonna be one helluva day."
|
|
[WP] A new 'Sleeping Pill' came out that lets you take it as a 'sleep supplement' without having to ever sleep. Everyone is taking them, able to be more productive. You don't trust or take them and start seeing the side effects.
|
“I’m not kidding, I got hours of work done, didn’t sleep a wink, and I feel fine.”
“It’s caffeine. Or cocaine maybe. Do you even know what’s in it?”
“Hey, if the FDA says it’s okay …”
That’s as far as I can pay attention. I hear this, or a variation, nearly every day. This time it’s Pete. Sometimes vegan, sometimes juicer, always looking like a men’s underwear ad. The last person to do drugs – he wouldn’t even touch a joint in high school. He’s hooked too.
TimeForAll, the revolutionary pill that was an IndieGoGo joke not so long ago. SNL ruthlessly mocked it, late-night hosts roasted its creators relentlessly. And now they were all on it. Lorne Michaels himself publicly apologized, praising the pill for giving him time he never knew he had. Once pro athletes and movie stars started taking it, the dam burst. The FDA fast-tracked it – way too fast.
Pete gives up his pitch and returns to his desk. His usual browser games, the ones he can hide in a second if Gorman comes around, aren’t even there. He’s working – honest-to-God work in a spreadsheet. I’ve seen him work – hell, I’ve had to work with him closely more than once. But never like this – never so… focused.
I walk through the office, down the aisles between cubicles, toward the break room. The aisles are empty. The break room is empty. I walk in to find that the coffee maker is unplugged. It’s nearly 11 AM. Nobody made coffee? *Nobody had to get their fix?*
I busy myself filling the coffee maker. I hear footsteps, and turn to see Gorman. *Oh shit.*
“There, uh, any problem, today Randy?”
*Randy? He never uses my first name.*
“No sir, just need a cup of java is all.”
“Really? You know, it’s funny. I haven’t needed one. I took TimeForAll, and now I just don’t need it.”
I bite my lip, unsure what to do. He’s been looking at me for a minute and he hasn’t nagged me about coversheets or email protocols. I decide to just nod.
“You don’t seem convinced?”
“Really, I just don’t know what to think. It seems great, but I’ve been clean and sober for years, you know?” I shut my mouth, realizing I’m close to talking about my past, but Gorman just nodded.
“I get it. No really. Tell you what – our department is ahead of schedule. Everyone’s way ahead, actually. You take the time you need. Take a bit of time off today.”
My eyes are wide. *Mr. I-Need-You-To-Come-In-On-Saturday just said that. Really.* But I nod and smile, watching his reaction.
“I mean it. Go out, take a breather. We’ll cover for you.”
I waste no more time. I step out before the other shoe can drop.
I’m on the street, heading to the city park. The streets are mostly empty. A bus, empty save for a few elderly passengers leaves the stop. The coffee shops near the park are mostly empty – so few people are out. I sit on a bench, watching a pigeon bob up to me in search of bread.
I’m looking at my phone. 12 PM on the dot. I look across the street, and suits flow from the ground floors of nearby office buildings. The workers disperse, splitting up to head to nearby restaurants, coffee shops, and street vendors. They step robotically, in perfect rhythm. I watch the nearest shop, a Starbucks, its baristas and machines visible from my bench. The baristas are calm, serving each of the dozens of patrons. Said patrons wait patiently, New Yorkers queuing like Brits – hell, better than that stereotype.
I remember the empty break room in the office. Why are they buying it now? I watch the customers sit with their cups and sandwiches. *Sandwiches?* I notice it now, more sandwiches and Paninis than I’ve ever seen in a Starbucks. I watch a woman in a power suit sit near the window and take long bites of a sandwich. She sips coffee between bites, but the food, the sustenance is her focus now.
I’m transfixed. I can’t stop watching. I stay there until 12:40. The crowds thin, and everyone streams back to work. By 1, the shops are empty again. Christ.
I can’t go back to work. I need space, I need to think. I walk down streets devoid of the usual crowds, passing only the retired and disabled, those who have found the means to live outside of usual jobs.
________________________________________
I’m at home. It’s evening. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. So tired, my mind racing to make sense of the clockwork people.
Becky sits across from me at the table, dutifully cleaning the last of the lasagna from her plate.
“Thank you for the dinner, honey,” she says.
“Yeah, no problem.” I barely remember cooking it. It was something to do, something to occupy my mind.
“Hey, guess what? I’ve been trying it out!”
“Huh? Been trying what out?”
“TimeForAll, silly! Just like we talked about. It’s great – I got so much done today, and I feel ready to work all night too.”
“You – you took it? I thought you wanted to wait!”
“It’s really all right, Randy. Don’t worry so much! You can take it whenever you’re ready.”
“Honey, have you seen what it does? Have you seen how people act?”
“Yeah! Everyone gets everything done. You do what you want at night! While you were busy *sleeping* last night, I got all our taxes done and I found ten good open houses we can go to!”
She said *sleeping* in a teasing voice, but the implication is clear. She wants me to take it. I turn from her, heading to the bedroom.
I sit on the edge of the bed. I look to her side, and see the open box of TimeForAll on her nightstand. It takes a week or so of regular doses before it really works, I remember. *How long was she taking it?*
I shove the question away and turn on the TV in our room. A repeat of SNL is on, but the show is only 30 minutes now, reduced to a few well-written skits delivered with perfect timing. I should laugh – it’s better than the show’s been in … well, ever. It’s not right though. It’s supposed to be rough around the edges, there’s supposed to be room for the unexpected. But everything is perfect. The host says exactly what she’s supposed to, no political tangents or jokes that fall flat. The musical act is flawless. It’s somehow too good.
The TV turns off. Becky is standing next to me, stark naked.
“How about a bit of intercourse?”
I stand up, smiling at the pleasant surprise, and hoping her choice of words is some kind of joke. “Oh, intercourse, really?”
“Why of course. You seem stressed out and my period just finished. A sexual encounter seems appropriate.”
She isn’t joking. Her eyes are focused on mine, her voice is empty of seduction or playfulness. I’m treated to a vision of perfectly timed coitus, two machines going at it simply because that’s what humans do.
I look to the box of TimeForAll and back to Becky’s naked body. I look to the open box again.
|
The ground was littered with bodies. The lucky ones were dead. The majority were wriggling about in agonizing pain. Between the groans and cries, there was a constant splashing sound as they flopped about in semi\-coagulated puddles of blood.
Katya was thin but not gaunt. She had worked for years as a secretary and finally saved up enough money to get that Marchessa Notte dress from Neiman Marcus she had been eyeing for months. But now the beautiful floral pattern was no longer viewable through the layers of blood that coated it. For hours she had been fighting them off. She was exhausted but triumphant, and when she looked around, she grinned just a bit. It wasn't quite a smile, because she couldn't muster a smile, but it was enough. She sighed, dropped the glass award she had been using for a weapon, and sat on the ground. There was a quaint *plop* as she landed in a maroon pool beneath her.
"This didn't," she panted, "have to happen. I told you. I told you all. You need to sleep." She laboriously breathed a few more times. "And now you can."
She started to doze off when a clanging woke her. She was standing before her eyes were even open, and coming her way were two more of her colleagues. Their eyes were glossed over, and their heads hung low, but their intention was clear: get to Katya. She sighed, and picked up the award again.
"For always doing a commendable job," she read. "Listen, Barbara," she directed at the two. "You're the one person I was hoping would come down here. Because I cannot fucking stand you. Remember when you used to praise that sleeping pill? And you'd come down to my desk and talk on and on and fucking on about it? And I was always thinking to myself, 'God I want to kill this bitch.' Well guess what."
Barbara stepped within arm's length, and Katya smashed the award into her eye with the pointed tip. Barbara recoiled and let out a horrific scream. It was so jarring, the woman who was walking with her paused. She blinked a few times and lifted her head. "What... what's going on?"
"Tina? Are you lucid?"
"Yes... yes.. what's happening?" She looked around and gasped.
"Remember that time you stole my lunch, and you ate in front of me, and I called you out on it, but you said it was *your* lunch?"
"Yes... what does that..."
Before she could finish her question, Katya shoved the award into her mouth so hard it punched through the back of her skull. "Eat that, bitch."
Tina collapsed. As she tried to scream through the gurgling of her own blood, Katya pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
"This is gonna be one helluva day."
|
|
[WP] Humanity achieves interstellar travel. You find out why alien civilizations didn't reach out to Earth.
|
We did it ! On orbit, around an alien planet. But we're the aliens this time. We had a hard time believing.
The linguists did worked their ass off and now we were talking via radio to their orbital center, on how to get on the ground Taalmuntis' ground.
My ship was majestic. As big as manhattan, as powerful as ten of the biggest fusion reactors back on Earth, I was really proud of the Centipede. We amorced the descent. Everyone was so stressed, yet we couldn't hide our joy. We landed on this gigantic pod on their only ocean, which was still covering 2/3 of the planet, a little big bigger yet less dense, only 0.9 g, it could have been the perfect day in one's life.
We could see the "Taalmuntisis" delegation approaching, it sure was a lot of people. They had big vehicles which, according to our sensors, were electrical. They did told us they only discovered steam engines when studying more primitive species, and that they are producing electricity via photovoltaic panels and windmills. The atmosphere was so pure and clean ... But they were not that much ahead of us, on a lot of ways.
But as soon as we opened the main door, the delegation turned around, as if they were frightened suddenly. It was quite messy, and unexpected, a true rollercoaster of emotions. I could read despair on my crew's faces, and I felt like I failed them, but truly it was no one's fault.
We received a message : " We are deeply sorry but there are physical incompatibilities between our civilizations that couldn't be foreseen, we hope you understand and wish you a safe take off. There is an orbital station that will refuel you, travel safe on your way back."
Everyone was puzzled, a bit broken but we headed back to our outpost, a hundred light years away. En route, we intercepted a message that was seemingly not for us ...
"The humans, from Earth, came ! They concealed their true home planet and we didn't realised until it was too late. We request a xyelidvorep as soon as possible !"
The leaders of the UN ordered us to intercept other messages to determine who they were talking to, and what they are talking about
...
The smell.
We, and our atmosphere, smell so bad for every alien that the galactic coalition had ordered long ago every system, every planet, to never contact the Earth.
|
Wow!' began the captain 'Just wow.'
You and the lieutenant loom over to what he's looking at. He's looking back to where the earth would be if they could see it. 500-foot flaming letters were floating in the middle of space.
Hey, the guys are jerks don't talk to them - God (btw this is my final message to you until you all die.)
'This is the lamest crap ever' You whisper under your breath.
|
|
[WP] You have died. Like all people, you have been sent to hell. However, instead of having your punishment chosen for you, everyone must pick the severity they believe they deserve. You are the first to get it right.
|
“Do you know what sins you have committed?” the being asked. It was a vile, misshapen thing, towering up twice her height and looking at her through empty sockets that seemed to see too much. A long tail had slowly wrapped itself around her and the being took a step closer. “I do,” it continued, now smiling with its toothless mouth. “I know everything, every single thing that you have done to further secure your place among us. There is a lot of them. A lot.” The tail returned to its owner, who closed the remaining distance between them in three agile strides. She swallowed a scream when it leveled its sockets with her, and felt tears well up in her eyes. Had she known it would come to this she would have been a better person.
The being laughed. “Oh, would you now? That’s funny because if I recall correctly there’s a whole bunch of people practically screaming at the top of their lungs what happens to people that act like you did, every major religion really. They warned you once, they warned you twice, and when you still wouldn’t listen they offered to forgive you and start over again.” The being inched closer and seemed to take in her scent; she shivered.
“Mm, but it wasn’t in your nature to listen to them. It wasn’t in your nature to repent, to set things right, to walk the path of the righteous. No, I can smell it on you. You enjoyed every misdeed, took pleasure in every shortcut that came at the expense of someone else. I dare say that even if you had received convincing proof that this was what awaited you, you wouldn’t have turned back.
“Because you don’t belong in heaven, you don’t belong with the people who stand in line, who turn the other cheek, who bend over and get fucked by life. No, you belong with us, down here. Your spot has been reserved ever since you strangled that rat and felt nothing. Everyone knew what you were from then on, even your parents, although they denied it at the time. Not even your beloved Jesus would have taken those odds.”
The being walked around behind her, she could feel its breath on her neck as it lowered itself to her level.
“Now wipe those pathetic tears from your face and I will show you what you’ve done, everything.”
She took a deep breath and wiped the tears from her eyes, hating herself for having let them fall in the first place; she was better than that. The being was right, they were pathetic.
Two hand grasped her shoulders and turned her around. She came face to face with the two sockets, but they weren’t empty anymore. A translucent light filled them, filled the space between the two of them, filled everything. And then she saw. Starting from when she was three until her last breath, the being showed her every wrongful deed she had committed. But it went beyond that, it showed her the fallout of her actions, the impact it had on the recipients, her victims, the poor souls who happened to be between her and what she desired at the time. It all merged together. Small things like a line of cocaine in the office became a dead man who had been stupid enough to take her to his place. Paying for sex, framing coworkers, pushing an old lady down a flight of stairs.
Someone was laughing. She wasn’t sure if it was her or the being, but she was definitely smiling. After all, it was beautiful. She was unstoppable. No one stood in her way that didn’t live to regret it. She exacted vengeance on everyone who wronged her. It only seemed fitting that an overdose was the cause of death; nothing but her own greed was strong enough to kill her. She only felt a tinge of sadness at the empty funeral, but it was a small price to pay.
Suddenly she was staring into the empty sockets again. She was still smiling, and so was the being in front of her.
“You seem pleased,” it said and cocked its head. She met its gaze, or what she supposed was its gaze. It didn’t seem as terrifying anymore.
“So do you.” She sounded confident than before, felt confident.
“I’m always pleased when someone lives up to their potential, to see weakness snuffed out like a candle.” The being took a couple of steps back and raised its arms. Seven doors appeared behind it. Each opened to reveal horrors unthinkable. The sights gave her mixed feelings.
“And now comes the time for your choice.”
“My choice?”
“Yes, the free will you were given extends down here as well, to some extent. You get to pick your own punishment, pick what you think you deserve. Choose wisely and you might manage to repent, to be invited upstairs, be too soft on yourself and you might have to spend eternity down here before reaching redemption, and choose to severe a punishment and you might not have the stomach to endure it; might only be a husk of you left when you’ve made up for your wrongdoings.”
She scoffed.
“Sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me.” The being cocked its head again and the mouth turned into a snarl. If it had eyes she imagined they would narrow.
“Bullshit?” it asked with a silk voice.
“Repent? Be invited upstairs? Please, sounds like something you tell people so you can watch hope slowly leave them as we’re edging closer to eternity.” The snarl turned into a smile and the being shrugged.
“Maybe. And then again, maybe not. You’ll just have to make that gamble.”
It was her turn to shrug.
“No, I don’t.”
“No? And why’s that?”
“Because it’s irrelevant to me.”
“So you’ve made your decision?”
“I have.”
The doors vanished without a sound, although the echoes of screaming lingered for a few more moments.
“And?”
“I want to be your apprentice.”
The being was silent for some time before it went down on all four and crept closer, until it was merely an inch away from her. It smelled as vile as it looked, something she had not noticed before.
“My apprentice? And what makes you think you deserve that?”
“We are to choose the punishment we think we deserve, but that requires us to believe we deserve to be punished in the first place, to believe we have done something wrong. To want to repent it. But it’s like you said, I belong down here, and I think I should be rewarded for my actions. Some might consider being your apprentice to be a punishment, the worst punishment perhaps. But I don’t. I’ve earned it.”
The smile returned, and she thought she could hear the being purr. It sent shivers down her spine but she kept her back straight, and her eyes locked with the sockets in front of her.
“Clever girl.”
|
Darkness. Heat. Where am I? I was driving, wasn't I? And then that truck... Yes, so this is like...
An smooth, playful, but somewhat sinister voice interrupts me: "Yes, you are dead. Finished. Crushed \-quite literally. Why can trucks be fluffier? Anyway, welcome to the afterlife. Darkness, heat, all the good stuff. Welcome to hell"
I try to muster some words, while trying to distinguish my conversation partner: "Who... what... where are you?
"Don't waste your time. You can't see me (we are very proud of our total darkness protocol). You musn't, and, even more importantly, it wouldn't do you any good. I'm way too beatiful for you to see. Just listen. Listen carefully..."
The voice seems to be able to read my mind. It also wanders through the void, feeling really close sometimes and suddenly far away. I can not only hear it, but somehow I feel it all over my head. It doesn't sound quite honest, nor it sounds completely deceiving; I think i'm being tested
\-"This is the deal. You are guilty, as everyone is. Living is sinning (and sinning is living, isn't it?). There is no point in pretending otherwise (hold your thoughts, and keep your breath) Therefore, you are up for punishment..."
A million thoughts invade my mind. I did wonder about this in the past. Could it be? Living really is sinning, but how can you be so strict? What about choice \-and forgiveness? I mean, what's the point of anything in life if you just come here and...
\-"Hey, save your energy, i heard that. You are not convincing me (nor anyone in here). It doesn't matter, it's no longer about that. It's autumn, and you just walked and crushed some leaves. No ill intentions (or intentions at all, maybe), no purpose, but they got broken. And you answer for that today. It's just mmmm, like thermodynamics. Sorta, somewhat delayed. We are getting equilibrium today"
My mind continues firing. I try to communicate, and my lips start to move (it's a test, isn't it?): "So this is about that, equilibrium? Is it all about some weird metaphysic law of energy? Is this the price of existing? Then I am just ike a cog, a little piece of the universal machine. But..."
"Before you ask, yes, we do recognize you as an individual \-rocks do crush leaves too, and even trees when they fall do too. But out previous intent based punishment policy was way too confusing. This is just better. It's about something bigger than you or me. I'll not judge you. In fact, no one will. You'll have the opportunity to show your individuality. It's very simple: you choose your own punishment"
A gigantic cloud blocks any clarity from me. I choose my punishment? How could I? How could that ever be right?
"Just take your time, gather your thoughts, remember, reflect and ponder. Indulge in your individuality (yuck) and in your freedom of will (double yuck). Be creative (please) and pick wisely. Time is not of importance in here, but, if you may, do hurry: I'm kinda hungry"
Hungry? Be creative? Can this really be afterlife? There has to be more to it. If anything, I would be the worst person to judge myself: you cannot get equilibrium that way. How could that ever work? It can't be. The reason behind paying is just mechanical, universal and cold \-crushing leaves. Yet, I get to choose my punishment. Couldn't I aspire to something better? Bigger than me? Can't the universe aspire to something else? (Can the universe provide it?). This is not good enough. Not fair enough, not beautiful eno...(i have it, i have it!).
Words come out of my mouth: "There's no punishment. There was not and there will be not. I'm forgiven, because I forgive myself, and because i was forgiven by others and because I will forgive \-and be forgiven\- and because I forgive you too. As I'm always guilty I'm always forgiven, as everyone else is. Everyone is as guilty as me, and everyone is pardoned. I'm sole and leaf. Equilibrium. You crush but also get crushed, but it doesn't matter: the universe is, in the end, very fluffy.
|
|
[WP] You have died. Like all people, you have been sent to hell. However, instead of having your punishment chosen for you, everyone must pick the severity they believe they deserve. You are the first to get it right.
|
"Uh, hi?" I frowned as I walked into a plush office that looked just like an ordinary accounting office. I paused as I spotted a TV on the wall. It looked like it was broadcasting stock charts but instead of companies it appeared to be different sins with the Seven Deadly Sins in bold.
"I don't have all day, Audi." A man was seated at a large oak desk. He didn't even look up at me as his fingers clicked over an adding machine with the graceful ease of a well practiced pianist. "And my condolences, that your parents named you after a car. I must admit though that there is some irony that you were killed by your namesake"
"Yeah, hilarious...." I muttered as I sat down in a chair across from his desk. It was lumpy and uncomfortable. I guess I wasn't going to get the 5 star spa treatment in Hell. "So... are you the devil...?" I questioned as I looked over the man in front of me. He had a slight frame with neatly trimmed blonde hair and large glasses that seemed to keep sliding down his nose. He wasn't really what I had been expecting. I mean, he was wearing a sweater vest.
He snorted with annoyance. "You have no idea how many times a day I get that. No, I am not the devil. Only the big contenders get to personally meet with the Big Boss. I am Steve, Junior Director of the Vanity Circle." He explained. "Now let's get started, shall we? I have a deadline to meet in about an hour so let's get this over with."
"Okay, but do I get like a lawyer or something? Because I def do not belong here." I gave him the brightest smile my dazzling bleached teeth could manage. It was a well rehearsed smile that had a 95% success rate.
"You sold your soul for a pair of Louboutins..." He replied dryly.
"Okay, well... Okay, that may have allegedly happened but..."
"But nothing. You sold your soul for the sake of vanity because you wanted to show up your rival on Instragram." He waved his hand and the TV screen on the wall switched over to Instagram shots of me and my endless closets, shopping sprees, vacations and expensive cars. Is it really my fault that my parents were well off and gave me whatever I wanted and that I married a private island realtor that was twice my age so I could carry on my life style? I liked nice things. Was that really so terrible? It's not like I ever killed anyone or anything.
"Oh, can you pause? My hair looks really good in that pic. Do you think I should go back to blonde? I decided to do the ombre thing because it's like hot right now but\-"
"We are here to discuss your sins not your best fashion moments." He scowled. "But honestly you looked best as your natural brunette."
"Really? Huh? You're the only person to ever tell me that." I told him. I had changed myself constantly over the course of my life. I had always wanted to be on top of the latest trends, even more so when Facebook and Instagram became popular.
"Anyway, it's not even debatable that you let vanity control your life, so let's just move forward with your punishment. Uh..." He scrolled through his phone that seemed to contain a list of punishments. "An eternity of birds eating you alive over and over. There will be mirrors all around you so you can watch as they mutilate you. Alright, you can go back the way you came in." He gestured towards the door as he went back to the accounting he had been working on.
"Did I like catch you on a bad day or something, because that seems really freaking medieval?" I demanded. "Hasn't hell like updated with the times?"
"Here. I can update it so the mirrors show you with the SnapChat filters with animal ears that you are so fond of..." He began to type on his phone barely even paying attention to me.
"Steve, come on! Yeah, I'll admit that I am kind of an asshole but I am not 'evil'. I don't go around hurting people and I am not like sadistic or anything. Doesn't this punishment seem a little extreme to you? Do I really deserve such a violent punishment?" I questioned.
He just raised an eyebrow as he set his phone down and leaned back in his chair as looked me over with new found interest. "Alright, Audi. What kind of punishment do you think you deserve?"
"I don't know, maybe a lot of minor inconveniences that grow to drive me insane because I am a trash human and then they just start back over. I hate grocery shopping. I had a personal shopper because I hated dealing with peasants. So picture this, I am grocery shopping at like some value chain that only has off\-brand products. I grab a grocery cart and it has a squeaky wheel. So I a grab a different one. It also has a squeaky wheel. They all do." I search Steve's face to see if I still have his full attention.
He nods thoughtfully. "Go on."
"Okay, so the handle of the cart is like sticky and there are no antibacterial wipes to wipe away the grossness. I can see people with sweaty hands, people coughing on the carts and little children with their mouths all over the handles but I have to get a cart so I get a cart. I start shopping and the lights are too bright and I can hear the low electronic buzz of the florescent lights slowing getting louder and more high pitched in my ears. Somewhere a child starts to throw a tantrum. My grocery list is endless and most of the items are on a shelf just out of my reach or they are out of the item and I have to ask irritated employees for rain\-checks or to look in the back. All of the boxes are smooshed or damaged in someway. There is nothing organic in the store and all the produce is either too ripe or not ripe at all. Eventually I make it to the checkout line and my wheels squeak the entire time. Once I am there everyone ahead of me either has some sort of issue with the items scanning or something of that nature that holds up the line. They also pay entirely with coupons and loose change for massive orders. Another child throws a tantrum. My frozen items have melted and I really really have to pee. Eventually I get up there and it takes forever to scan my items and they aren't ringing up the right prices so a manager has to get involved. Once everything is sorted I go to pay and realize that I don't have my wallet. Then everything starts over again. This just continues on and on, maybe with some variety but overall just the same terrible thing over and over forever." I explained.
"That... was beautiful." He sounded genuinely impressed.
"Really?" I perked up.
"Look at my arm. I have goosebumps." He held up his arm so I could see.
"I mean this isn't like ideal because it sounds awful but can we do my punishment instead of the one you picked for me?" I questioned carefully.
"Actually... I have a another idea. I have always been more into the 'business' aspect of this department and meeting the soul quota to keep the Vanity stocks up. How would you like to my assistant to deal out the punishments? And before you answer, keep in mind that you don't get anything for free." He seemed to word the last part carefully.
"I have always been good at judging people." I shrugged. I also would give people fair punishments instead of just choosing something at random like Steve seemed to have done.
"So we have a deal?" He held his hand out to me. Whatever the consequences were had to be better then being tortured.
"Yes." I agreed as I reached out and shook his hand. I yelped out as I immediately felt a sharp burning across my face. "OWWW! What did you do?!" I demanded in a panicked voice.
He just shrugged as turned his phone on camera mode and held it out so I could use it as a mirror. I let out a loud scream at the reflection. "My nose! You gave me back my *old* nose!" I touched the large monstrosity that had replaced the cute button nose I had gotten for my nineteenth birthday. I noticed that the freckles I had lightened were back and that the Botox treatments I had gotten to get rid of wrinkles by eyes were gone. My straight ombre hair had transformed into my natural wavy brunette hair.
I shook my head as my eyes burned with tears at the monster I was looking at. "I changed my mind. Feed me to the birds."
He rolled his eyes. "Don't be such a drama queen. I was an underwear model before I ended up here."
I raised an eyebrow skeptically as I looked at his slight frame and sweater vest. "Really?"
"Everything has a price, Miss\-I\-Sold\-My\-Goddamn\-Soul\-For\-a\-Pair\-of\-Shoes. " He shook his head at me.
"They were *really* nice shoes..."
|
Darkness. Heat. Where am I? I was driving, wasn't I? And then that truck... Yes, so this is like...
An smooth, playful, but somewhat sinister voice interrupts me: "Yes, you are dead. Finished. Crushed \-quite literally. Why can trucks be fluffier? Anyway, welcome to the afterlife. Darkness, heat, all the good stuff. Welcome to hell"
I try to muster some words, while trying to distinguish my conversation partner: "Who... what... where are you?
"Don't waste your time. You can't see me (we are very proud of our total darkness protocol). You musn't, and, even more importantly, it wouldn't do you any good. I'm way too beatiful for you to see. Just listen. Listen carefully..."
The voice seems to be able to read my mind. It also wanders through the void, feeling really close sometimes and suddenly far away. I can not only hear it, but somehow I feel it all over my head. It doesn't sound quite honest, nor it sounds completely deceiving; I think i'm being tested
\-"This is the deal. You are guilty, as everyone is. Living is sinning (and sinning is living, isn't it?). There is no point in pretending otherwise (hold your thoughts, and keep your breath) Therefore, you are up for punishment..."
A million thoughts invade my mind. I did wonder about this in the past. Could it be? Living really is sinning, but how can you be so strict? What about choice \-and forgiveness? I mean, what's the point of anything in life if you just come here and...
\-"Hey, save your energy, i heard that. You are not convincing me (nor anyone in here). It doesn't matter, it's no longer about that. It's autumn, and you just walked and crushed some leaves. No ill intentions (or intentions at all, maybe), no purpose, but they got broken. And you answer for that today. It's just mmmm, like thermodynamics. Sorta, somewhat delayed. We are getting equilibrium today"
My mind continues firing. I try to communicate, and my lips start to move (it's a test, isn't it?): "So this is about that, equilibrium? Is it all about some weird metaphysic law of energy? Is this the price of existing? Then I am just ike a cog, a little piece of the universal machine. But..."
"Before you ask, yes, we do recognize you as an individual \-rocks do crush leaves too, and even trees when they fall do too. But out previous intent based punishment policy was way too confusing. This is just better. It's about something bigger than you or me. I'll not judge you. In fact, no one will. You'll have the opportunity to show your individuality. It's very simple: you choose your own punishment"
A gigantic cloud blocks any clarity from me. I choose my punishment? How could I? How could that ever be right?
"Just take your time, gather your thoughts, remember, reflect and ponder. Indulge in your individuality (yuck) and in your freedom of will (double yuck). Be creative (please) and pick wisely. Time is not of importance in here, but, if you may, do hurry: I'm kinda hungry"
Hungry? Be creative? Can this really be afterlife? There has to be more to it. If anything, I would be the worst person to judge myself: you cannot get equilibrium that way. How could that ever work? It can't be. The reason behind paying is just mechanical, universal and cold \-crushing leaves. Yet, I get to choose my punishment. Couldn't I aspire to something better? Bigger than me? Can't the universe aspire to something else? (Can the universe provide it?). This is not good enough. Not fair enough, not beautiful eno...(i have it, i have it!).
Words come out of my mouth: "There's no punishment. There was not and there will be not. I'm forgiven, because I forgive myself, and because i was forgiven by others and because I will forgive \-and be forgiven\- and because I forgive you too. As I'm always guilty I'm always forgiven, as everyone else is. Everyone is as guilty as me, and everyone is pardoned. I'm sole and leaf. Equilibrium. You crush but also get crushed, but it doesn't matter: the universe is, in the end, very fluffy.
|
|
[WP] You have died. Like all people, you have been sent to hell. However, instead of having your punishment chosen for you, everyone must pick the severity they believe they deserve. You are the first to get it right.
|
"Uh, hi?" I frowned as I walked into a plush office that looked just like an ordinary accounting office. I paused as I spotted a TV on the wall. It looked like it was broadcasting stock charts but instead of companies it appeared to be different sins with the Seven Deadly Sins in bold.
"I don't have all day, Audi." A man was seated at a large oak desk. He didn't even look up at me as his fingers clicked over an adding machine with the graceful ease of a well practiced pianist. "And my condolences, that your parents named you after a car. I must admit though that there is some irony that you were killed by your namesake"
"Yeah, hilarious...." I muttered as I sat down in a chair across from his desk. It was lumpy and uncomfortable. I guess I wasn't going to get the 5 star spa treatment in Hell. "So... are you the devil...?" I questioned as I looked over the man in front of me. He had a slight frame with neatly trimmed blonde hair and large glasses that seemed to keep sliding down his nose. He wasn't really what I had been expecting. I mean, he was wearing a sweater vest.
He snorted with annoyance. "You have no idea how many times a day I get that. No, I am not the devil. Only the big contenders get to personally meet with the Big Boss. I am Steve, Junior Director of the Vanity Circle." He explained. "Now let's get started, shall we? I have a deadline to meet in about an hour so let's get this over with."
"Okay, but do I get like a lawyer or something? Because I def do not belong here." I gave him the brightest smile my dazzling bleached teeth could manage. It was a well rehearsed smile that had a 95% success rate.
"You sold your soul for a pair of Louboutins..." He replied dryly.
"Okay, well... Okay, that may have allegedly happened but..."
"But nothing. You sold your soul for the sake of vanity because you wanted to show up your rival on Instragram." He waved his hand and the TV screen on the wall switched over to Instagram shots of me and my endless closets, shopping sprees, vacations and expensive cars. Is it really my fault that my parents were well off and gave me whatever I wanted and that I married a private island realtor that was twice my age so I could carry on my life style? I liked nice things. Was that really so terrible? It's not like I ever killed anyone or anything.
"Oh, can you pause? My hair looks really good in that pic. Do you think I should go back to blonde? I decided to do the ombre thing because it's like hot right now but\-"
"We are here to discuss your sins not your best fashion moments." He scowled. "But honestly you looked best as your natural brunette."
"Really? Huh? You're the only person to ever tell me that." I told him. I had changed myself constantly over the course of my life. I had always wanted to be on top of the latest trends, even more so when Facebook and Instagram became popular.
"Anyway, it's not even debatable that you let vanity control your life, so let's just move forward with your punishment. Uh..." He scrolled through his phone that seemed to contain a list of punishments. "An eternity of birds eating you alive over and over. There will be mirrors all around you so you can watch as they mutilate you. Alright, you can go back the way you came in." He gestured towards the door as he went back to the accounting he had been working on.
"Did I like catch you on a bad day or something, because that seems really freaking medieval?" I demanded. "Hasn't hell like updated with the times?"
"Here. I can update it so the mirrors show you with the SnapChat filters with animal ears that you are so fond of..." He began to type on his phone barely even paying attention to me.
"Steve, come on! Yeah, I'll admit that I am kind of an asshole but I am not 'evil'. I don't go around hurting people and I am not like sadistic or anything. Doesn't this punishment seem a little extreme to you? Do I really deserve such a violent punishment?" I questioned.
He just raised an eyebrow as he set his phone down and leaned back in his chair as looked me over with new found interest. "Alright, Audi. What kind of punishment do you think you deserve?"
"I don't know, maybe a lot of minor inconveniences that grow to drive me insane because I am a trash human and then they just start back over. I hate grocery shopping. I had a personal shopper because I hated dealing with peasants. So picture this, I am grocery shopping at like some value chain that only has off\-brand products. I grab a grocery cart and it has a squeaky wheel. So I a grab a different one. It also has a squeaky wheel. They all do." I search Steve's face to see if I still have his full attention.
He nods thoughtfully. "Go on."
"Okay, so the handle of the cart is like sticky and there are no antibacterial wipes to wipe away the grossness. I can see people with sweaty hands, people coughing on the carts and little children with their mouths all over the handles but I have to get a cart so I get a cart. I start shopping and the lights are too bright and I can hear the low electronic buzz of the florescent lights slowing getting louder and more high pitched in my ears. Somewhere a child starts to throw a tantrum. My grocery list is endless and most of the items are on a shelf just out of my reach or they are out of the item and I have to ask irritated employees for rain\-checks or to look in the back. All of the boxes are smooshed or damaged in someway. There is nothing organic in the store and all the produce is either too ripe or not ripe at all. Eventually I make it to the checkout line and my wheels squeak the entire time. Once I am there everyone ahead of me either has some sort of issue with the items scanning or something of that nature that holds up the line. They also pay entirely with coupons and loose change for massive orders. Another child throws a tantrum. My frozen items have melted and I really really have to pee. Eventually I get up there and it takes forever to scan my items and they aren't ringing up the right prices so a manager has to get involved. Once everything is sorted I go to pay and realize that I don't have my wallet. Then everything starts over again. This just continues on and on, maybe with some variety but overall just the same terrible thing over and over forever." I explained.
"That... was beautiful." He sounded genuinely impressed.
"Really?" I perked up.
"Look at my arm. I have goosebumps." He held up his arm so I could see.
"I mean this isn't like ideal because it sounds awful but can we do my punishment instead of the one you picked for me?" I questioned carefully.
"Actually... I have a another idea. I have always been more into the 'business' aspect of this department and meeting the soul quota to keep the Vanity stocks up. How would you like to my assistant to deal out the punishments? And before you answer, keep in mind that you don't get anything for free." He seemed to word the last part carefully.
"I have always been good at judging people." I shrugged. I also would give people fair punishments instead of just choosing something at random like Steve seemed to have done.
"So we have a deal?" He held his hand out to me. Whatever the consequences were had to be better then being tortured.
"Yes." I agreed as I reached out and shook his hand. I yelped out as I immediately felt a sharp burning across my face. "OWWW! What did you do?!" I demanded in a panicked voice.
He just shrugged as turned his phone on camera mode and held it out so I could use it as a mirror. I let out a loud scream at the reflection. "My nose! You gave me back my *old* nose!" I touched the large monstrosity that had replaced the cute button nose I had gotten for my nineteenth birthday. I noticed that the freckles I had lightened were back and that the Botox treatments I had gotten to get rid of wrinkles by eyes were gone. My straight ombre hair had transformed into my natural wavy brunette hair.
I shook my head as my eyes burned with tears at the monster I was looking at. "I changed my mind. Feed me to the birds."
He rolled his eyes. "Don't be such a drama queen. I was an underwear model before I ended up here."
I raised an eyebrow skeptically as I looked at his slight frame and sweater vest. "Really?"
"Everything has a price, Miss\-I\-Sold\-My\-Goddamn\-Soul\-For\-a\-Pair\-of\-Shoes. " He shook his head at me.
"They were *really* nice shoes..."
|
Everyone needs to go. We all know that. Some go earlier than others. Some *want* to go earlier. Some get sent earlier. Yet there are also the fortunate. Those who hadn't sustained injuries, were mentally sane or just naturally blessed with a strong body. Or luck.
I wasn't one of them. At the ripe old age of 32, I got hit by a swerving truck while I was hiking alongside a highway, killing me on the spot. When I opened my eyes again, I found myself surrounded by fire. First, it took my sight. Seconds later, my breath. For a full minute, all I could see, hear and feel was the unending Inferno of Hell.
I scoffed. "Figures."
A voice responded to my comment, the last kind of voice one would expect to be hearing here.
"Ah, yer here. Top a the mornin' to ya, lad! How are ya? Smashin' day, i'nnit?"
With an expression of anxiousness and surprise, I turned around.*The Devil is... Scottish?* I thought to myself.
As if he read my mind, he started laughing, a weirdly charming, but ominous laugh. The person, if one could call him that, that floated in front of me started to come closer, and the closer he came, the more details I could make out. He was wearing a buisness suit, for example, and a few meters later, I noticed it was a deep blue instead of a shade of black, with a white shirt underneath. The person *inside* the suit, however, was far more extraordinary. His skin was made up from unequal shades of red, with deep black crevices all over. His face was mostly human, but his eyes were the same, this time a solid and smooth, dark black that filled the crevices. His mouth, however, had no solid shape. It was as if where his lips should've been, there were two strokes of running lava, with the same colour as his skin. And although they were a bit small (they were barely reaching his knees), the suit he was wearing couldn't contain two leathery wings, with sharp, dagger\-like spikes at the very ends.
The Devil took a deep breath, cleared his throat and somewhat straightened his face, before bursting into laughter again. "Oh, wow. You should've seen your face! Absolutely priceless!"
After I realised what just happened, my face turned red. *Hey,* I thought to myself, *it's not as if you could've known.*
He cleared his throat once more, and took a more serious face. "So. You probably wonder why you're here?"
My reaction took him by surprise. "Actually, a little bit, yeah."
The Devil smirked, but I was too late to see it. I was too preoccupied with taking in the surrounding area. The fire had faded when He first appeared, and now I could see where I was. At face value, it looked like a modern appartement. When looking more closely, however, I could notice that nothing had an actual, solid shape, and, as far as a soul could feel anything, I was quite certain that everything was at least boiling hot, wich explained the way everthing looked like. It was wavy, not solid. I snapped out of my thoughts, almost litterally, when the Devil clapped his hands.
"There are no need for introductions, as I already know your name, and I also know that you guessed who I am. And I can tell you, you guessed right."
There was a silence for a few seconds, until the Devil took the lead again.
"So, let us get straight to the point. Yes, you are in Hell. More specifically, Limbo, if my memory serves me right. Just between you and me, this place is an absolute maze. If I wasn't immortal, I couldn't for the life of me remember everything. So anyways, Limbo. Here we, or to be exact *you,* are going to pick a punishment."
Now He took *me* by surprise. "I\-I'm sorry, what? *I* have to pick\* my ow\*n punishment?"
He suddenly floated towards me, putting his almost clawed hands on my shoulders. He leaned in towards me, whispering in my ear. He suddenly sounded... almost *seductive*. I unawarely shuddered, but His voice was simply enchanting:"That's the way the cookie crumbles around here. And surely, you have regrets of *something,* right? Otherwise there's no way you'd be here."
I was about to answer, but noticed just in time that He was putting words in my mouth. Words that weren't true. So I shrugged. "Like I told you, I have absolutely no clue why I'm in Hell." Wide\-eyed, I realised something. "Unless masturbation and cursing are sins?"
The Devil laughed, a sincere laugh. "If that was so, then Heaven could've been shut down."There was a certain tone in his voice, that made him sound a wee bit uncertain, perhaps even nervous. But I shook that feeling off. *There's no way.*
He started whispering again. "You are absolutely certain? You can't recall a *single* sin? Not even a grain of remorse?"
I shrugged again, but felt a bit more confident. "The only thing that I regret is that I didn't get to go to my best bud's wedding. I was his best man, but now I'm stuck here."
"Sorry to hear that. But the big man in the sky has a plan for everybody. I'm sure this has happened for a reason."
"I guess. Still doesn't really offer any comfort, though."
He let go of my shoulders, and clapped in his clawy hands."So, you would tell me that you deserve absolutely no punisment?"
"Not even a smack on my face."
The sudden feel of dread couldn't take away my confidence.
And as sudden as my dread, the Devil turned red with rage, if more red was possible on his skin. "No. You're wrong," he stammered. "You're both wrong." He said that last bit towards the sky. "What is your plan, Father?"
My anxiousness returned. "What do you mean, I'm wrong?"
He pinched his nose bridge in irritation. "No. You... you're right. Correct. For the first time,' and every word that followed was said more loudly than the first, 'for the first time, ever since time started to exist, a human is correct! Unbelievable! Do you really want this, Father?" That last sentence, he yelled whilst pointing at me.
But He stopped his rant abruptly, and sighed. "Fine."
I got overwhelmed with fear. "W\-wait, what? What's happening? Where am I going?"
The Devil smiled once more, shockingly sad. "To a better place."
The red filter that had been in front of my eyes this entire occurence got peeled off, and the Devil had made place for a different being. It looked like the Devil like they were two raindrops, even the sad smile was still present. The only difference was that the shades of red had made place for a blue colour scheme.
"Well. That's a first. Welcome to Heaven, unfortunately."
Edit: almost fogot: if you liked this, maybe check out my sub, r/WritingsOfAnAmateur. It's where I keep most of my writing.
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[WP] You have died. Like all people, you have been sent to hell. However, instead of having your punishment chosen for you, everyone must pick the severity they believe they deserve. You are the first to get it right.
|
Satan's eyes were both beautiful and perilous. They screamed pain and pleasure. They burned and soothed. Their color seemed to shift continuously. The edges of his mouth nearly touched his ears, his smile was so big. The question he had asked lingered between us like the smoke from the fire pit below.
"Well?" he asked, in a way that calmed me but also sent chills down my spine.
I leaned into him to ensure he could hear me over the nonstop screams in the background of our conversation. "I've trudged through the mud of mankind. I'm an abomination. I've committed the foulest of acts, and I relished every second of it. And it all led to here."
"Yes. I was a big fan."
I looked around to see unspeakable horrors. I took it all in and imagined myself receiving them all. I looked back at him and said, "It's not enough."
"Pardon?"
To make the devil question was a feat I thought I'd never accomplish. "None of it. All of it. It's not enough."
Satan leaned back and looked about. He spread his arms wide and said, "In this realm of terrors, you see not a single punishment which suits you?"
I stared him in those menacing eyes, and I told him, "I don't think even you are creative enough to give me the punishment I deserve."
The devil laughed. It was a hard laugh. It boomed, and even those in the midst of torture turned to see its source. It echoed through the halls and tunnels of the damned place, and I felt it would echo for eternity, for I believe there is no end to its expanse.
"No amount of pain will bring about an inkling of remorse," I said. "No amount of suffering will make me feel even an ounce of regret. Hell is not a place that could ever bring me sorrow."
The devil tapped his fingers together, intrigued. "You are an interesting fellow, aren't you?" His smile widened, stretching his face beyond human capabilities. "But you underestimate me. ALL can be punished. Even you." He gestured towards a nearby minion. "Take him to the forbidden place."
The demon blinked \- if that's what it could be called \- unsure of what his master was saying.
"You heard me!" boomed the devil. *You heard me. You heard me. You heard me.* It bounced off the walls.
The minion nodded and led me away.
"Enjoy." It would be the last word I ever heard from Satan.
We walked for what seemed like a thousand years. My feet bled, and my bones ached, and yet I never tired. We finally came to a gate. It was heavily guarded and covered by swarms of spider\-like creatures. They gasped as the minion took me to it. He unshackled me and nodded. Ready for whatever was on the other side, I gladly stepped through.
A flash of light ripped through my body. When I opened my eyes, a man stood before me. Not a demon, but a man. He peered at me quizzically, and said, "Welcome." The air was warm and enveloped me like a bed I never want to get out of. The man reached out his hand and said, "It would seem you have been forgiven."
"What?" I asked. "Forgiven?"
"Yes. I don't know what you did, but you're in heaven. No sins of a man who crosses that threshold will ever be spoken of. You have a clean slate. Welcome to heaven."
"Clean slate? No. No, my sins... my... " I tried to remember them all. I tried to remember all the horrible things I had done. "No," I said. "NO!"
It only took a few minutes before I could no longer remember any of them. None of my transgressions. None of the maimings. None of the slaughters. It was all gone. And for the first time since my birth, I screamed.
|
Everyone needs to go. We all know that. Some go earlier than others. Some *want* to go earlier. Some get sent earlier. Yet there are also the fortunate. Those who hadn't sustained injuries, were mentally sane or just naturally blessed with a strong body. Or luck.
I wasn't one of them. At the ripe old age of 32, I got hit by a swerving truck while I was hiking alongside a highway, killing me on the spot. When I opened my eyes again, I found myself surrounded by fire. First, it took my sight. Seconds later, my breath. For a full minute, all I could see, hear and feel was the unending Inferno of Hell.
I scoffed. "Figures."
A voice responded to my comment, the last kind of voice one would expect to be hearing here.
"Ah, yer here. Top a the mornin' to ya, lad! How are ya? Smashin' day, i'nnit?"
With an expression of anxiousness and surprise, I turned around.*The Devil is... Scottish?* I thought to myself.
As if he read my mind, he started laughing, a weirdly charming, but ominous laugh. The person, if one could call him that, that floated in front of me started to come closer, and the closer he came, the more details I could make out. He was wearing a buisness suit, for example, and a few meters later, I noticed it was a deep blue instead of a shade of black, with a white shirt underneath. The person *inside* the suit, however, was far more extraordinary. His skin was made up from unequal shades of red, with deep black crevices all over. His face was mostly human, but his eyes were the same, this time a solid and smooth, dark black that filled the crevices. His mouth, however, had no solid shape. It was as if where his lips should've been, there were two strokes of running lava, with the same colour as his skin. And although they were a bit small (they were barely reaching his knees), the suit he was wearing couldn't contain two leathery wings, with sharp, dagger\-like spikes at the very ends.
The Devil took a deep breath, cleared his throat and somewhat straightened his face, before bursting into laughter again. "Oh, wow. You should've seen your face! Absolutely priceless!"
After I realised what just happened, my face turned red. *Hey,* I thought to myself, *it's not as if you could've known.*
He cleared his throat once more, and took a more serious face. "So. You probably wonder why you're here?"
My reaction took him by surprise. "Actually, a little bit, yeah."
The Devil smirked, but I was too late to see it. I was too preoccupied with taking in the surrounding area. The fire had faded when He first appeared, and now I could see where I was. At face value, it looked like a modern appartement. When looking more closely, however, I could notice that nothing had an actual, solid shape, and, as far as a soul could feel anything, I was quite certain that everything was at least boiling hot, wich explained the way everthing looked like. It was wavy, not solid. I snapped out of my thoughts, almost litterally, when the Devil clapped his hands.
"There are no need for introductions, as I already know your name, and I also know that you guessed who I am. And I can tell you, you guessed right."
There was a silence for a few seconds, until the Devil took the lead again.
"So, let us get straight to the point. Yes, you are in Hell. More specifically, Limbo, if my memory serves me right. Just between you and me, this place is an absolute maze. If I wasn't immortal, I couldn't for the life of me remember everything. So anyways, Limbo. Here we, or to be exact *you,* are going to pick a punishment."
Now He took *me* by surprise. "I\-I'm sorry, what? *I* have to pick\* my ow\*n punishment?"
He suddenly floated towards me, putting his almost clawed hands on my shoulders. He leaned in towards me, whispering in my ear. He suddenly sounded... almost *seductive*. I unawarely shuddered, but His voice was simply enchanting:"That's the way the cookie crumbles around here. And surely, you have regrets of *something,* right? Otherwise there's no way you'd be here."
I was about to answer, but noticed just in time that He was putting words in my mouth. Words that weren't true. So I shrugged. "Like I told you, I have absolutely no clue why I'm in Hell." Wide\-eyed, I realised something. "Unless masturbation and cursing are sins?"
The Devil laughed, a sincere laugh. "If that was so, then Heaven could've been shut down."There was a certain tone in his voice, that made him sound a wee bit uncertain, perhaps even nervous. But I shook that feeling off. *There's no way.*
He started whispering again. "You are absolutely certain? You can't recall a *single* sin? Not even a grain of remorse?"
I shrugged again, but felt a bit more confident. "The only thing that I regret is that I didn't get to go to my best bud's wedding. I was his best man, but now I'm stuck here."
"Sorry to hear that. But the big man in the sky has a plan for everybody. I'm sure this has happened for a reason."
"I guess. Still doesn't really offer any comfort, though."
He let go of my shoulders, and clapped in his clawy hands."So, you would tell me that you deserve absolutely no punisment?"
"Not even a smack on my face."
The sudden feel of dread couldn't take away my confidence.
And as sudden as my dread, the Devil turned red with rage, if more red was possible on his skin. "No. You're wrong," he stammered. "You're both wrong." He said that last bit towards the sky. "What is your plan, Father?"
My anxiousness returned. "What do you mean, I'm wrong?"
He pinched his nose bridge in irritation. "No. You... you're right. Correct. For the first time,' and every word that followed was said more loudly than the first, 'for the first time, ever since time started to exist, a human is correct! Unbelievable! Do you really want this, Father?" That last sentence, he yelled whilst pointing at me.
But He stopped his rant abruptly, and sighed. "Fine."
I got overwhelmed with fear. "W\-wait, what? What's happening? Where am I going?"
The Devil smiled once more, shockingly sad. "To a better place."
The red filter that had been in front of my eyes this entire occurence got peeled off, and the Devil had made place for a different being. It looked like the Devil like they were two raindrops, even the sad smile was still present. The only difference was that the shades of red had made place for a blue colour scheme.
"Well. That's a first. Welcome to Heaven, unfortunately."
Edit: almost fogot: if you liked this, maybe check out my sub, r/WritingsOfAnAmateur. It's where I keep most of my writing.
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[WP] You have died. Like all people, you have been sent to hell. However, instead of having your punishment chosen for you, everyone must pick the severity they believe they deserve. You are the first to get it right.
|
"So, let me get this straight," I stare the angelic being in the eye as best I can, his fallen nature cut down on the blinding light but it still wasn't comfortable, "I'm here in Hell to make an honest accounting for my life, confess all my sins, and suffer appropriate punishment for as long as I feel is honestly fair?"
"That's right, human," The Lightbringer spat. "The Father has given you pathetic wretches Free Will, something I never had, and you all still end up here anyway. You've committed a great many sins, and now you must pay. Confess your sins and choose your damnation."
I cannot begin to describe the torrent of emotions that flooded through me, shock, anger, pain, guilt, despair... It was like one of my worst days on earth when the depression and anxiety would crush me beneath a psychic weight. But I did not have a mortal body here. I did not have a head full of chemistry telling me how I had to feel. Here, I only had myself, and it was time to push through and make a decision. I could do this. I forced myself out of bed and into work even on days when there was no light in my life, when I existed today just so that I could suffer tomorrow. If I could do that, I could do this. Just push emotion to the side and function, one last time.
It was tempting to throw my early christian upbringing out and see if it stuck, but I realized that if I were in Hell it was already too late to bring that up.
Instead I went through my life. I'm far from perfect, I'm the first to admit it. While I think we're all guilty of the Big 7 sins from time to time, pride is not my weak spot. Maybe lust as I did love the ladies, maybe wrath as I had a temper at times, but my waistline was saying gluttony was a strong contender... Hard to say what my defining sin was really.
But ultimately, as I went through everything I could remember (and no human body meant no fallible human brain), I saw my own failings and was humbled. I'd hurt some people. I'd lied for no gain. I'd broken a ton of laws, and even stolen a few things. I was starting to become very worried about my future the farther along I went. Especially after I watched one romantic relationship after another implode and my mental health hit all time lows. I was a mess and I hurt a lot of people.
I almost gave in to despair, and I could see the Prince of Lies start to smile, but then I got to newer memories. Therapy, medication, making ammends, and saw me getting my life back together.
Finally, as I reached the present day I looked up at Lucifer and I found myself with a strange peace.
"You know," I sighed. "I bet Hell is just chock full of devout Christians who never once bothered to check their beliefs."
Satan nodded.
"They get down here, they're met with a literal devil, a fallen angel from the christian theology, and told they're in hell because of their sins," I began to dust myself off and shed metaphysical dirt and grime from my soul. "But they forget what their religion was supposed to be about. They forget about forgiveness."
The Devil begins to look angry but I continue on, "Yeshua of Nazareth was a human sacrifice to atone for mankind's sins. God, the Father of all, loves his children. What father wouldn't? He knows we make mistakes because we're imperfect, and the system he set up for atonement was too rough for a lot of people, so he made forgiveness possible."
"I was forgiven by the Father before it ever happened," I finish shaking the metaphorical dirt from my soul which is starting to shine. "I've been forgiven by most of the people in my life who I hurt, and I forgave them in return a long time ago. I've been sent here, to Hell, because when I was alive I could never begin to forgive myself. I was human, I was imperfect. I made mistakes, I got hurt and I hurt people in return, but none of it was out of malice or cruelty. It's only now that I have surpassed mortal concerns and been able to look at my life with perfect honesty and perfect impartiality that I can really see that."
It was easy now to stare the greatest of God's angels directly in the eye, "So, what punishment do I truly deserve?"
I saw the landscape of Hell start to crack as stairs formed in front of me, "Time Served."
[A/N; Sorry for the religiosity, but in a prompt with literal hell and a literal devil, some christian mythology was bound to sink in. I personally believe that forgiveness is a process. You can't just say "I'm a christian, whee!" and get a free ticket to heaven. It's not about works either, but if you're embracing the concepts and not just the label then your acts should reflect that. I have to believe that whatever God there is will respect an honest effort, regardless of labels.]
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“Well, child?”
*What is that? Why am I here? Where* is *here?*
“To make a decision. You know where we are. Damnation.”
*If you can read my mind, you know I don’t know the question.*
“Oh, you do. You just haven’t put it together yet. We’re in Hell, correct? You had to have been sent here for a reason.”
*I... have done things wrong, I guess... So I deserve to be punished?*
“You are allowed to choose your own punishment. If I deem it unjust, I will choose for you. Think carefully on your sins.”
___
*I’ve done so much. How could I have not seen it before? I deserve the worst.*
“Is that your decision, child?”
*Y... no. No. I’m worthless, right? No reason to waste punishment on me. Set me free.*
“Worthless, child? For what did you sin?”
*For... Mom. Dad. My family. My friends. I did bad things, but I only wanted to help. I know what my punishment is.*
“Let’s hear it, then.”
*Punishment is meant to teach something. I’ve served it.*
The dark figure smiled, a genuine, pure smile. Glimmers of light started to spin around me.
“Finally. I’ve been waiting for someone to understand what this was for, for so long... my son.”
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[WP] You have died. Like all people, you have been sent to hell. However, instead of having your punishment chosen for you, everyone must pick the severity they believe they deserve. You are the first to get it right.
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Darkness hung its head down watching all of us single file through the gates. Chains dragged my soul across the snow toward the front of the line. Statues stood in disarray from the souls that froze into solid ice. Fire sprouted like spring flowers in order to protect the souls coming to Hades.
“You!” I heard someone shout from the front. A tall man ran from the line trying to escape his fate. It only took a few seconds before hounds bigger than three men put together tackled him, ripping his soul apart.
“Don’t run,” a demon leaned in close to me. His entire face was swirled in a mess. His mouth was the only facial feature that had been normal. That was until I watched his mouth open again. It looked like he had rows of shark teeth inside. “Keep moving.”
It wasn't like I had a choice. I was chained to the person in front of me. I don’t understand how that tall man got out of his chains the way he did. His ankles must have been so skinny, his soul just slipped out when no one noticed.
Thunder drummed when each person stepped into the chamber of Hades. My curiosity itched at me to look around my environment, but I knew better than to look up again. I just kept my head down until it was my turn to enter the chamber.
\*It was my time.\* I felt my chains break into the snow. I am guessing that is how the tall man made a run for it afterall. It had been his turn to enter the chamber, but he chose to run instead. Running is no option for me. I am ready to get this over with. I lifted my head to see nothing but the mouth of a cave. I had never seen anything so dark before. As I took my first few steps inside, I heard the thunder signal my entrance from behind.
I couldn’t see anything. I couldn’t hear anything. There were no smells, not even a taste of the air. The cave was pure nothingness as I continued straight the best I could.
Moments later, a small flame flickered in the distance. I slowed my pace trying to concentrate on its image.
“Do not keep me waiting.” An order slithered along the rocks around me. “I will not wait any longer.”
My feet picked up in a sprint toward the flame. I found myself running into a room housing a man slouched in a throne. He wore a dark robe with a dancing flame as his hair. It was Hades himself. Falling to my knees, I felt my soul growing weaker by every minute.
“Please,” I found myself begging.
Hades straightened his back before smiling. “What’s your hurry? We have all the time in the world!” He stood up from the throne laughing. I watched the flame atop his head turn to blue. He slicked the flame backward with his hands making it roll back down toward the floor.
“Please,” I continued, “just get it over with.”
“Do not give orders to me! You are nothing but a pathetic parasite! You are a weed that I’m responsible to pluck!” He shouted while his hair of fire stretched toward the ceiling. He slicked it backwards again before continuing, “No matter how many weeds I pluck, they always keep coming. I have started doing something for all of you. This game has gone on for way too long.”
I stood up while watching Hades pace back and forth. He had a man in the corner chained down by both his hands and feet. What caught my curiosity wasn’t the fact there was someone else in the room, but the fact he was leaned over puking pure fire into a bowl.
“The new game,” Hades snapped. “I will ask you what you think your punishment in this world should be. Do not worry, I’ll be fair – somewhat.”
I didn’t respond. My attention was still fixed on the man endlessly puking fire into the bowl. Hades rolled his eyes. “That’s my pet. He, like you soon will, is paying his punishment to me. Isn’t that right Prometheus?” Hades chuckled. Prometheus tried to look up but the fire kept spilling from his mouth. “That’ll teach you to give away my property again.”
Hades slid over in a smoke to glare his yellow eyes into mine. “Tell me, what should I do with you?” He rested his forefinger over his lips.
“Just toss me into the river below us.” I answered. I knew the stories covering the river of lost souls. I spent most of my life thieving, it is only poetic that my time itself becomes stolen by the cold waters of the river. After, my statement, Hades reaction was – I have to admit – unsettling.
“Really? Wow, you are the first to ever want to join \*that\* party.” Hades glued his eyes onto the river flowing below. You could see the elbows and hands breaking the surface of the water by the souls caught in its current. “I know they are having a blast, but I have something else in mind.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Don’t,” Hades rested his hands on both my shoulders. “Don’t look afraid now \- not after you were willing to go in there. Don’t disappoint me now.” Hades pointed toward the water right as some soul’s head rolled across the surface with its eyes gone. “No. The punishment must fit the crime.”
Hades walked back over to his throne. I waited for what he had planned to do. When Prometheus vomited his flame again, the fire slithered up into Hades’ hair like a serpent.
“Instead of a punishment, you will service me in procuring certain pieces of interest.” Hades decided.
“You want me to return to thieving?” I was interested in his overall plan.
“I hear you were quite the talent – back up top. I need someone with your talent back up there.”
Before I could make another word, Hades snapped his fingers. I woke up in the middle of the woods where the guards had executed me. The taste of the wet air, the smells, the sounds had all returned to me. I looked around trying to get bearing on my situation. Hades emerged out from behind the tree next to me.
“This place is so much more fun than the house downstairs,” he chuckled. “Your first task is to find me a child. I am a long term solution guy. I need this child for events that will unfold down the road.”
“Who’s the child?” I asked him.
Hades smiled. “You’ll find her in the kingdom. Bring her to me and we’ll talk about your next task. Do not let me down.” His hair caught the tree next to us on fire.
“Do I get a name to work with?”
Hades answered before he disappeared out of thin air. “Her name is Megara.”
\*\*\*
To read more of my stories, visit [r/13thOlympian](https://www.reddit.com/r/13thOlympian)
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“Well, child?”
*What is that? Why am I here? Where* is *here?*
“To make a decision. You know where we are. Damnation.”
*If you can read my mind, you know I don’t know the question.*
“Oh, you do. You just haven’t put it together yet. We’re in Hell, correct? You had to have been sent here for a reason.”
*I... have done things wrong, I guess... So I deserve to be punished?*
“You are allowed to choose your own punishment. If I deem it unjust, I will choose for you. Think carefully on your sins.”
___
*I’ve done so much. How could I have not seen it before? I deserve the worst.*
“Is that your decision, child?”
*Y... no. No. I’m worthless, right? No reason to waste punishment on me. Set me free.*
“Worthless, child? For what did you sin?”
*For... Mom. Dad. My family. My friends. I did bad things, but I only wanted to help. I know what my punishment is.*
“Let’s hear it, then.”
*Punishment is meant to teach something. I’ve served it.*
The dark figure smiled, a genuine, pure smile. Glimmers of light started to spin around me.
“Finally. I’ve been waiting for someone to understand what this was for, for so long... my son.”
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[WP] In a fantasy world full of magic, a man with a golden mask gives you a strange pocket watch and teaches you powers beyond the standards of your world.
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"Why me?"
He gave his usual laugh again and took one last look at the watch. "I can not answer that. Only you have the answer you seek."
...
"What's the use of a pocketwatch that ticks backward? Maybe it's broken?"
I smiled and watched as the hand clicked behind the twelve. "No, it works just fine. It isn't for telling time, it's counting down." I rose from the stool and placed a few notes upon the counter. "Thanks for the drink."
The door slammed against the wall and I could hear the cry of rage. The barkeep's eyes grew in surprise and he dropped my dirty glass. The glass froze in the air, the look of fear stuck on his face. A strand of flame hover behind me, a glow of orange surrounding it.
I walked slowly toward the string of flame it seemed to back away. Streaming back through the air. Other patrons scrambled backward to their seats, collapsing into tilted chairs and pulling back to the table. A bowl of tossed nuts gathered back to their place and safely lowered back to the rocking table.
The stream of fire finally entered into the stranger's hand and he closed his roaring face. He leapt back from the door and landed outside. I didn't recognize him, but that's not entirely surprising anymore, I suppose it is a fairly hefty price by now. The people began to slowly move, they shifted their bodies forward beginning to take a step. I planted a fist in his stomach and aimed another at his jaw, I swung a few more times before they all froze in place again.
Satisfied I returned to the tavern, the patrons remained in their seats as they had before I stood. The barkeep gestured to the pocketwatch and shrugged.
"Counting down to what?" He asked while refilling my glass.
"Dunno." I shrugged rising from my stool.
Outside the tavern the man lay on the ground groaning in pain. I stepped over him and quickly headed out of town. Two more men dressed the same as the first were standing across from the tavern. Waiting until the bridge outside of town I whipped around to see a blade inches from my chest. The other man stood to my side a small blade in hand.
The men began slowly duck and lean towards me. I lifted the sword from the mans hand and plunged it into his chest. Allowing them to freeze again I prepared for the next man. There was a brush of wind across my face and I heard the chirp of bird. Suddenly a pain welled up from my side and I felt as a blade protruded from my side. I stumbled back crashing into the fence. The boards have way and I fell from the bridge.
As I plummeted down to the river below I saw the familiar shine of gold. A shroud of cold wrapped around me and red began to pollute the water. Gripping the pocketwatch tight I pulled myself toward the bank. Flicking the latch I looked at the face of the watch, the hands met at the twelve and there was the sound of a bell, twelve rings. Then the hands returned to normal ticking in reverse.
_
r/theoreticalfictions
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There was once a blind man who was very lonely. All he ever had was a golden mask and a stopwatch, none knew what he could perform as he grew up isolated in the world.
His life was fruitful and peaceful, until the tyrant attacked his home. *Cut* and *Slash*, none of them ever survived except for him. Stripped from who he was, now he wonders from the ruined streets of his village. His place was called the Isolation, much like him and how he grew up.
None ever thought to talk to him nor inquired to him about his life. None knew but the rumors that spread among the land, the war was over but the damage that was dealt to his life was still present.
What is magic when one can’t bring back what made his life bloom in color? What is magic when it can’t make the thought of grieve a mere illusion instead of reality? This was his words as I stumbled upon his place, all beaten up by the mystical race of the Lycanthropy.
I was alone and hungry, all I had left within me was my spite and hatred that my family was making me feel. Pain was all that was ever to it. Walking around the abandoned village and wondering where to go, unknowing the horrors that happened in this place.
The place was ash gray, the buildings were burned and the sky seemed to magnify the depressing vibe the place was giving. This must be a small village that was burned *I thought*.
It was all the same black burnt destroyed wood until a silhouette of a man from the shadows was seen. “Hey there!” I said waving my arms. What feelings of hope that crossed me was unknown.
I kept walking and walking until I stopped as the man stepped out from the shadows. Revealing a tall old man with a bald head and a soggy face. He wore a suit that didn’t fit him that he had to rip the cloth off, his body was dirty from the ash as if he was just attacked.
He terrified me as he grinned and offered his hand, I slowly backed and ran as I turned around. Running from wherever I started, until I started feeling nauseous. *I haven’t eaten in a few days* I remembered.
I slowed down until I stopped running and dropped on my knees. I started having heavy breathes until I feel a hand touch my shoulder, It was the man *I could feel it.
I look around and saw him smiling at me, now wearing a golden mask that looked like those mask that you see in theaters. “You’re tired, and hungry. Here let me help you” He said as he touched my hips, dragging me away as I slipped into darkness.
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[WP] Humans colonize an alien world and discover a delicious fungus that becomes an international delicacy. However, nobody realizes that it is sentient...
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"See, the best part about this," Tony Chayka flashed a veneered smile, "is that it almost thrums in your mouth, and I know that verdimella fungus *is* foreign food and that the idea of a 'thrumming' food can be a little strange, but think of it like a massage for your pallet. The trick, as with all the best foods, is in the cooking. It retains oil like nobody's business, so using an aromatic oil is best! For whatever reason, however, we don't advise using garlic, as it causes the verdimella to wither. It likes to slowly wiggle when it's not in the pan, and a whole lot faster when it *is,* so you have to keep an eye on it. I recommend searing both sides first; this seems to slow it down dramatically."
He took a wooden spoon and tapped the side of his hissing pan. The fungus, which looked like a bright\-green starfish with seven appendages, reached for the nearest outer edge. Chef Chayka slapped it with the spoon and it fell again. He flashed his smile.
Watching Tony Chayka's programme on the TV from his house in the Ulianni Hills district of Theta\-X788, Doctor Emmanuel Kane, in his little "Kiss the Chef" apron (he brought it from Home) looked from his cutting board, at the slowly squirming verdimella, to his pan, which was lightly smoking with a rosemary\-and\-ginger infused oil. He didn't know what made him do it. But he hooked a finger around one of the appendages. It wrapped the appendage, slothlike around my finger. Holding gently, like a child might.
He emptied a small glass bowl he'd measured out with salt and rinsed it. Then Dr. Kane left the rinse\-water in it and placed that between two appendages. The verdimella lifted both and dipped them in the water, the two lengths of its body undulating at a relaxed pace. It still held the doctor's finger.
Doctor Emmanuel Kane proceeded to name the verdimella Harvey, and put it in his rock garden.
[/r/Stanwrites](https://www.reddit.com/r/StanWrites/)
EDIT: made a quick adjustment based on a solid recommendation from u/selectiveyellow
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Phil stood at the end of the meeting room table with his presentation clutched in his hands, and a briefcase at his side. His hair was unkempt as he hadn't showered in a week, and his out of style, loose fitting blue suit was stained with coffee and covered in what seemed to be black dog hair. Regardless, he was ready to blow their minds. He introduced himself excitedly and began his presentation.
To call the weeks leading up to this moment chaos would be an understatement. Phil had been working for a shipping company, and had been sent, along with a crew, to a rogue planet to deliver some cargo to a group of very haughty aliens. They had done this before, so it should have gone by without a hitch. But it seemed that everything that could go wrong, did, and they ended up stranded on an unknown planet along the way. After weeks of being stranded, still needing time to repair their ship, they had run out of food and water, and went off to explore the surface in a desperate attempt to survive. After days of searching, they struck gold....en shrimp! They had wandered into a crater that had seemed to be full of fried shrimp. Unable to believe their eyes, they tasted the morsels to prove it wasn't just a mirage, and were astounded that they were indeed delicious. After hauling as much as they could back to their ship, they got back to work making repairs and not too long after, headed back to earth.
Phil carefully set his briefcase down on top of the meeting table, and opened the lid to reveal a dozen small cups, full of what seemed to be golden fried prawns. He passed them around one by one to the board members, walked back to his spot at the end of the table, straightened his back and proudly proclaimed "My name is Phillip J. Fry, and I'd like to introduce the next revolution in snacks. I call them..... Popplers!"
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[WP] The hero has collected the magical artifacts, and defeated the evil Overlord. Now he has all these magical artifacts sitting around the palace, unsecured. They must be returned to their hiding places, and he assigns the job to you.
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"But Dragonborn? Are you really going to leave all of this out in the open??"
The floor of Breezehome was littered with instruments of death. Even if one did not know what they were, the immense power that rolled off them would strike fear into anyone. Unfortunately for her, she did know what they were. She had seen them in action.
The Last Dragonborn walked past her with not much acknowledgement, feet kicking aside scattered swords and armour as he rooted through the loot.
"I'm done Lydia. I'm done with it all. Alduin is dead, you saw it! That bloody vampire is dead, Good riddance to him AND his closed legged daughter!"
Lydia mentally grimaced, it seemed that her Thane had still not gotten over his rejection by Serena.
"The other Dragonborn is dead, the Emperor is dead. Ulfric is dead. All my foes are dead and I'm tired of carrying all this junk!"
"But is it wise to just leave it all here?" Lydia pushed on, eyeing the bloody twisted mace that still reeked of Molag Bal, the twisted staff that the Dragonborn had been given by that mad Daedra shortly after she had met him. "Anyone could walk right in and walk out as a weapon of mass destruction!"
The Dragonborn shrugged, finally finding what he was looking for. He grabbed an old fishing pole and a dingy looking hand axe. Lydia knew not to judge it by appearance. It may have been on of the Dragonborn's first weapons, the one he had strapped to his side when she first met him. "Gunjar's Legacy" as he had named it, had been resmithed and enchanted enough times to make a Dragon uneasy at it's simple looking edge.
Without much further comments, the Dragonborn stormed out of his home, turning before leaving and saying a simple command.
"Then you find a safe place for it all then."
Lydia's heart sank as the door slammed behind her. Reluctantly she started to look through the piles, grabbing an icy blue blade that gave off a cool mist.
"I guess this makes one less artifact to worry about." She said quietly as she strapped the sword to waist. The Dragonborn had given her leave to find the artifacts a safe place for all his treasures, and she wasn't about to do that empty handed. Her eyes fell on a large enchanted battleaxe, one that the Companions had worked so hard to collect the pieces off.
"I think I know some people would like that back." She said to herself with an idea forming in her head.
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I meant to return them, I really did.
I'd been tasked with returning the five rings of liquidity to each of their respective hiding places, and the queen had given me the whole year to complete my mission. She told me the rings were "a power too dangerous to be left as one," and that I must "banish the rings, one to each corner of the world." What she failed to mention was that the rings were fun. Incredibly fun. With a snap of my wrist and a twiddle of my fingers I could turn anything into pudding.
At first I ate. I ate and I ate. Enough pudding to feed a small village.
But then I grew tired of eating pudding, and I set out to return the rings to hiding.
I found myself amongst the titanic dunes of the northern sands. This desert stood between me and the golden pedestal of secrecy, to which I would deliver the first ring.
As I crested a particularly tough dune, I slipped. I reached out to catch my fall, and accidentally set off the rings which I had foolishly been wearing. The sand gave way to pudding, and I found myself plummeting down the slope at a breathtaking speed. I was like a glorious pudding penguin, shooting headfirst across the sand.
It was exhilarating.
I set out to find higher dunes, and when the dunes became droll, I went in search of mountains.
I became the king of pudding surfing.
But alas, time got away from me. I wasted the entire year, and not a single ring was returned.
I can never return to the queen, she'd have my head for sure. So instead, I hide amongst the Pudding-top Mountains (formerly known as the Frozen Peaks), and I await my inevitable fate.
Do I regret the decisions that led me here? Not one bit.
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[WP] Two friends are essentially immortal. If they die they respawn immediately after. They resort to cheerfully killing themselves and each other for fun in various creative ways. Sometimes they compete to see who can do a stupidly dangerous or deadly thing the most. First to die is the loser!
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"Wow...that quicker than I remember."
"Yeah - you disappeared pretty quick, Gil."
"Even still, I'm gonna have to knock it down to a 6/10. I forgot how you burst into flame before you've even touched the lava, and that's..."
"...uncomfortable, sure. Honestly, all other things being equal, I'd rather be stabbed to death then burn to death."
"Plus, I think you were right about the body thing, Robby. It *is* more fun when you can see your corpse after, match up what you felt with the marks on the body, that sort of thing."
"That reminds me of that trip to France we had - remember? With our heads?"
The first man laughed. "Oh, man, *that* was a fun one. Can't believe how squeamish the French were about our using them as puppets when *they* were the ones using a machine that does nothing but decapitate people." Gilgamesh looked at his friend. "How many points did we give you for starting the riots, and then getting yourself executed by your friends a few weeks later?"
Hammurabi smirked. "Hundreds. I don't remember how many, I just remember thinking I had the round sealed up. I still can't believe that stunt you pulled in Jersey."
"Yeah, that was one of my more inspired moments. Getting the fucking *vice president* of the fucking *United States* to shoot me - in front of witnesses! That's hard to top." Gilgamesh paused, then looked out across the Pacific. "What about this - a new round, challenge is to flip it."
"We're not doing this again. Directly killing someone outside of the game --"
"No, Robby, that's not what I meant."
"You're not talking about killing the Vice President and then getting killed by the Secret Service?"
"Nope. I mean *becoming* him. And screw Vice President -- let's make it the President. And you're going to do everything you can to piss off as many people as you can."
"And sit through an impeachment? Boring."
"Ah, but that's the catch. You have to do everything you can -- and I mean *everything* -- to stay in office. Because it has to happen *while* you're in office. So you're firing people, you're shredding documents, you're obstructing, colluding, whatever it takes. Hell, if you have to suspend democratic elections...which actually, you're going to be so unpopular, you probably will have to."
"That sounds obnoxious as hell. Why would I put up with it? Assassination is boring."
"That's where the fun comes in. You're going to try to make so many people hate you that multiple people assassinate you at the same time."
Hammurabi studied his friend, considering. "How many points we talking?"
"Well, let's say 100 just for being killed in office, but 100 more for each other person that tries, and we double the points for each person doing it simultaneously."
"You sure you don't want to wait a bit until we can try out the vacuum of space?"
"The vacuum of space will still be there when you're done."
Hammurabi sighed. "Alright...you're on."
***
/r/ShadowsofClouds
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The tidal forces of the Klemperer's Rosette of supermassive black holes gave new meaning to the term *gargantuan*. My lifelong buddy had soared laughingly into the heart of it and had been ripped into microscopic bits, themselves shredded to the atomic level as they fell further into the maelstrom.
And then he was back beside me.
"Impressive!" I said, grinning, as I slow clapped.
He bowed, as well as anyone can do in space. "Thank you! So, have you thought of what *you're* going to do next?"
I smiled mischievously.
"Actually, yes! Remember that planet we made and populated with semi-sentients a while back, then took turns posing as one of them and letting them kill us?"
"Oh, yeah!" he smiled. "Those little guys were *creative*!"
"Well, I'm going to do that again. But this time I'm going to do the opposite."
"The *opposite*?" I had his attention now.
"Yeah! We made them hate us in a thousand different ways, and they were almost as prolific in devising ways to kill us, but I don't think they needed *hate* to make them do it. I think provoking *any extreme emotion* would make those little buggers bloodthirsty."
"I like where you're going with this," he laughed.
"I thought you might! Now, I'm going to return as a baby, stay quiet until I'm an adult, and then start going around doing *only good stuff*. You know, helping the little guys, caring about them, loving them, healing them, saying nice things to them. Eventually they're *sure* to kill me, and I'm betting it will be pretty horrific--at least by their standards!"
"This I've gotta see!" he grinned. "Are you going to start one of those religious cults around your instantiation, like I did that first time?"
"Probably not, but I'm sure *someone* will after my colorful departure."
"I'll bet you're right. Hey, this could be a lot of fun! Okay, Yeshua, let's do it!"
"After you, Yahweh my man!" I replied, and we both flashed to the other side of the galaxy.
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[WP] You are a purse-snatcher. As you exit the train, you snatch the purse of a lady standing by the door. You turn around expecting someone to shout “STOP THAT THIEF!” Instead as the train doors close and the train pulls away, you see your victim with the most devilish smile starring back at you.
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The underground is usually quiet at this time of the night and Matt liked it this way. He absolutely cherished the silence whenever he could get it, so this... this was ideal for him.
He huddled closer to his knees as he remained sitting at the entrance of the Canada Water underground station, just at the bottom of the stairs. He knew he shouldn't be there but he needed a place with light. Constant light. And at least, for the next few hours, the underground station will retain its luminence.
For his own cautious safety, the entrance he chose to stay was the entrance by the library. From the angle he was sitting at, only those who were using that exit and entrance would see him, but he was out of the view of officials.
Even though the purse in his jacket pocket emanated heat, he still shivered. Not from the cold.
"...fucking..." Matt muttered.
The purse had been the beginning of everything bad that had happened to him for the last few months. He knew that stealing was not a honest life, but the occasional purse stolen meant a few hundred pounds for lunch, dinner and the occasional shag fest. But this purse, this purse was different.
No matter how much he tried to forget, or throw the purse away, he would always wake up with the purse next to him, in the morning. And the memory would rush back like avoidable vomit after a drunken night.
He had been on the cross country train from Manchester to Macclesfield to visit a few friends for a stagdo when he eyed the strange looking purse sticking slightly out of the bag of one of the ladies in the cabin. He had patiently waited like he always did for the last moment, just as he was getting off the train, so that no one would be able to stop him, should they notice.
And when his time came, he had gotten up like he always did, stumbled close to the lady's bag, grabbed the purse and got off the train.
What he had expected was a glance at her bag, a slow realisation and a late response but what he got was a smile. She had been looking at him as he got off and there was a smile on her face. At first, he thought he had been had. Until he noticed that the smile wasn't smug or excitement... It was one of relief and pity.
It didn't take long for him to understand why.
They didn't hesitate to make him understand why.
"Excuse me, sir?"
Matt looked up to face a lady in a yellow Overall. An official.
"I'm going to have to ask you to leave. We don't allow homeless on the underground, as you know. You can sit at entrance at the top of the stairs." She said to him.
"...i just need a few hours, ma'am..." Matt began to say but she shook her head and repeated sternly.
"I'm sorry, we don't allow that. Please do move to the top of the stairs or we will have to get Security down here..."
Matt begged a few times but hastily moved as soon as he heard the woman call Security on her walkie-talkie.
As he trudged up the stairs, he looked into the darkening sky, wondering how long till he had to start running again.
*They only came at night, after all,* He thought.
*In the absence of light.*
Matt pulled up his hood to cover his face as he began to jog up the stairs. As soon as he reached the top, he increased his pace and began to head towards London Bridge Station. He figured if he could get there before the whisper began, he might just have a chance at surviving the night.
---
/r/EvenAsIWrite
**Author's note:** Writing in third person is not as great as I hoped. I apologise.
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I eyed my target. A young woman, brown hair and green eyes. Beautiful, with a designer bag wrapped around her arm. The train begins to slow. I make my move. I take two steps forward. I can smell the alcohol coming from my breath. I begin to crave more. Just a little closer. I'm so close my fingers graze the fine leather of her purse. The doors open. I snatch the purse and make a break for it. I run as fast as I can to the end of the terminal. I hear nothing. I expected at least a little bit of protest. She must be in shock. I stand in a corner ready to open my prize when the sound of the train departing causes me to look up. I see her. She's staring at me and she's smiling. A horrific smile that reaches all the way to her ears. It's Disgusting and humanly impossible. The purse starts to move in my hands. I looks down to see the fine leather turn into snakes. Not one or two but hundreds. I scream and it's like no one can hear me. I beg for mercy as the snakes wrap themselves around me, crushing my ribs. I cough blood and the sound seems to open up the earth underneath me. Next thing I feel is being dragged. I can no longer see, no longer scream. The world is now black. As the last bit of life is squeezed out of me, I hear a laugh. A deep, feminine nightmarish laugh. Suddenly I'm surrounded by whispers. I am starting to understand what they say.
"Fallen are the men who refuse to stand. "
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[WP] You are a purse-snatcher. As you exit the train, you snatch the purse of a lady standing by the door. You turn around expecting someone to shout “STOP THAT THIEF!” Instead as the train doors close and the train pulls away, you see your victim with the most devilish smile starring back at you.
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My buzz is fading and I am out money to buy more. It’s only 9pm and I have no place to go and the only thing I can think about is how to score the next hit. I am wandering aimlessly through the streets when I spy what looks like most of a subway sub in the trash. I grab it and hit the jackpot, it’s tuna with extra mayo. I wolf it down and start my meandering again.
A little while later I look up and see her ambling down the street, she looks perfect. She is around 70 years old I think and she has this huge purse. She is also dressed like an old lady, it’s so out of place on the streets. I slowly head her way, but kinda that homeless shuffle of 2 steps towards her and 1 to the side. When I get close I grab her purse and start running. I look back when I hear a laugh, not just a normal laugh but a crazy almost ecstatic “I won the fucking lottery” type laugh.
When I look back she has the craziest grin I have ever seen. And she starts to look happy. I am mesmerized by her eyes when I see her eyes turn from old lady grey to blue. And her hair starts to get darker. It’s no longer the silver of a 70 Year old. I take off running down the street. It has to be a trick. I turn down the alley near 5th where Dave deals stuff. I tuck in near a dumpster at the Chinese #5 and ignore the fried rice I know would be rancid.
When I open the purse it’s full of nothing. I keep looking, this purse has lots of pockets. I finally find a makeup compact and open it. When I look into the mirror I see it. He tells me his name is Bob and to not worry about a thing. He will be my best friend. Bob reaches out to give me a hug, and it feels cold. I feel my grave being tickled deep into my soul. When bob comes up he kisses me on the cheek and asks me what year it is.
I tell him it’s 1995, and he says oh good let’s have some fun. He drags me to Dave where he makes me buy everything he has, when I put my hand into the purse I pull out exactly the money I need. He drags me to a hotel and makes me buy a room, again paying with cash from the purse. When we get to the room I collapse into the chair while he gets the shot ready. I have never seen so much go into a syringe. I swear it’s one of the big ones they use to tease kids.
He pushes it into my arm and I am flying. I didn’t die, I should have died. I wanted to die, I could feel the devil glaring at me, telling me to come home. He was pissed and angry. He saw Bob and cowered and looked at me and started laughing. Saying the fate I got was worse than hell.
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I eyed my target. A young woman, brown hair and green eyes. Beautiful, with a designer bag wrapped around her arm. The train begins to slow. I make my move. I take two steps forward. I can smell the alcohol coming from my breath. I begin to crave more. Just a little closer. I'm so close my fingers graze the fine leather of her purse. The doors open. I snatch the purse and make a break for it. I run as fast as I can to the end of the terminal. I hear nothing. I expected at least a little bit of protest. She must be in shock. I stand in a corner ready to open my prize when the sound of the train departing causes me to look up. I see her. She's staring at me and she's smiling. A horrific smile that reaches all the way to her ears. It's Disgusting and humanly impossible. The purse starts to move in my hands. I looks down to see the fine leather turn into snakes. Not one or two but hundreds. I scream and it's like no one can hear me. I beg for mercy as the snakes wrap themselves around me, crushing my ribs. I cough blood and the sound seems to open up the earth underneath me. Next thing I feel is being dragged. I can no longer see, no longer scream. The world is now black. As the last bit of life is squeezed out of me, I hear a laugh. A deep, feminine nightmarish laugh. Suddenly I'm surrounded by whispers. I am starting to understand what they say.
"Fallen are the men who refuse to stand. "
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[WP] Instead of "Let there be light," or a big bang, this universe began with "Hey y'all, watch this!"
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In the beginning, the siblings three drank and were merry.
Yet the more they drank the more their hearts sank,
til the eldest said as he shook his head:
"My kin, is it not vain to drink all day and waste away?"
This the others pondered, til one answered:
"But pray, what is this, a "day"?"
And there was much laughter.
The laughter subsided and the elder decided
To put his drink away and say
"Hey y'all, watch this!"
 
And the sun appeared, bright, shinning, and it brought them light.
So they drank anew and were merry too,
til the second of them made a remark. "It will never be dark,
It will always be light unless I invent night!"
The others were curious, but mostly incredulous.
The second put her drink aside and cried
"Hey y'all, watch this!"
 
And the moon appeared, bright, shinning, and it brought them night.
So they drank still and were merry until
the youngest, most inebriated, rose and stated:
"Our laughter falls on no ears, our might brings no fears
we cannot have creation without admiration!"
The youngest drained the cup to its last drop.
"HEY Y'ALL, WATCH THIS!"
 
Chaos. Madness. Pain. Beings whose existence was torture writhed below and above and all around. The siblings saw but were too frightened to conjure any sort of repair. They slept for a day. They slept for a night.
 
And when they came to, all was anew.
Where there had been daylight and moon night,
(As for the creatures of horror, the less said, the better)
were stars, worlds, life, and more. They were sore
from their bender but proud of the splendor
their drinking had created. And once more they chanted.
"Hey y'all, watch this!"
\---
The pupils all have the same question: Where did the wine come from if there was nothing before? The masters simply answer "Empty your cup and you might see, the answer could be at the bottom!"
\---
*I hate revising for meters. Please don't make me.*
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In the beginning Leroy created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of Leroy was hovering over the waters.
And Leroy said, "Hey y'all, watch this!" and there was light. Leroy saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness. Leroy called the light "day," and the darkness he called "night." And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day.
And Leroy said, "Y'all check *this* out!" And Leroy made the vault and separated the water under the vault from the water above it. And it was so. Leroy called the vault "sky." And there was evening, and there was morning—the second day.
And Leroy said, "You thought *that* was cool? Watch *this!"" And the water was gathered to one place, and dry ground appeared. Leroy called the dry ground "land," and the gathered waters he called "seas." And Leroy saw that it was good.
Then Leroy said, "Now, let's get some stuff growin'!" And the land produced vegetation: plants bearing seed according to their kinds and trees bearing fruit with seed in it according to their kinds. And Leroy saw that it was good. And there was evening, and there was morning—the third day.
And Leroy said, "Hey, hold my beer, I'm gonna do the sky now." And Leroy made two great lights—the greater light to govern the day and the lesser light to govern the night. He also made the stars. Leroy set them in the vault of the sky to give light on the earth, to govern the day and the night, and to separate light from darkness. And Leroy saw that it was good. And there was evening, and there was morning—the fourth day.
And Leroy said, "Hey, let's stock this place so we can do some *fishin'*, and duck huntin' too!" So Leroy created the great creatures of the sea and every living thing with which the water teems and that moves about in it, according to their kinds, and every winged bird according to its kind. And Leroy saw that it was good. Leroy blessed them and said, "Get to havin' babies, so I don't have to do this again every year." And there was evening, and there was morning—the fifth day.
And Leroy said, "Hey, I forgot about deer and cows and shit. Hold my beer again." And Leroy made the wild animals according to their kinds, the livestock according to their kinds, and all the creatures that move along the ground according to their kinds. And Leroy saw that it was good.
Then Leroy said, "Let's make some people so we can screw with 'em."
So Leroy created mankind in his own image,
    in the image of Leroy he created them;
    dudes and chicks he created them.
Leroy blessed them and said to them, "Okay, folks, you got this. Eat all you want."
Leroy saw all that he had made, and it was very good. And there was evening, and there was morning—the sixth day.
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[WP] Instead of "Let there be light," or a big bang, this universe began with "Hey y'all, watch this!"
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Dyr was never a talented student. Wait...is "was" even correct when talking about his kind? Anyway, he never was a talented student, always got in to trouble at school. Still his parents sent him to become an alchemist - they have the money for it and they would do anything so that their son would reach a prominent status in Kur'ei society. So at the young age of 46 cycles old Dyr joined the Royal Alchemist Academy.
To say that young Dyr wasn't a good student would have been an understatement - now being far away from his parents who would rein him in he had total freedom: since Dyr was from a noble line, Academy professors turned a blind eye to his misbehavior. However one of his mischiefs put an end to all of this funny business.
In the begging of summer, when most of the professors left for the Capital to observe the cyclical alchemy fair, Dyr and two of his companions: Shok, a common acomplice to most of Dyr's misdeeds and Zarus, an incredible student of alchemy who wanted to find someone with whom he could wit in, broke into professor Hals study. "You think we should be doing this?" asked Zarus nervously. "What could possibly go wrong? Hals is senile, he won't notice anything" Dyr replied. "He might be, but he spends all of his time here, there is no chance he won't notice we've been here". Dyr ignored him: "Shok, watch the door". Shok seemed disappointed, but agreed, while Dyr went of searching through proffesors cupboards. "Ooh, here he keeps his potions" said Zarus after he looked inside the closed box near proffesora desk. "Lemme see" said Dyr pushing Zarus aside "indigestion, luck, joy, laxative...oh here is a potion of sorrow! I sure know a few guys in our class seem too happy, I'll be sure to "balance" them out" said Dyr joyfully while pocketing the potion. "Wow!" exclaimed Zarus in the other side of the study "this must be the map of the entire solar sailway! Here is the Old Way!" He said as he traced his finger along the bright golden path "It goes all the way from the Capital to our Mother Planet, Solari..." As his finger reached the dot that marked the Mother Planet, something clicked and the top of professors desk moved aside, revealing a secret compartment. "I told you taking Zarus with as was worth it!" Exclaimed Shok. "Maybe the old fart isn't as senile as he looks" murmured Dyr "let's look inside. In the compartment there was a vial with a golden liquid inside and a piece of paper. Dyr grabbed the bottle and started examining it. Zarus picked up the piece of paper and read it out loud: "here is my gift to the world, a chance to create joy for all, no longer shall sorrow and violence hount us. If I pass away before my work is done, I ask of you to finish it, for all of us." "Well I guess old man is senile AND insane" said Dyr. "Yea, he didn't even explain how to finish this" commented Shok. "Wait, I've got an idea" said Dyr while a mischievous smile filled his face. "Whatever this is, it focuses too much on joy, I say we spice this up with his sorrow potion!" "Sure" said Zarus who found the video of messing with the old professor most enjoyable. Dyr poured in the red sorrow potion into the vial that was so carefully hidden. Nothing really happened except that the liquid was now more orange and seemed a little bit fiery. "Huh, I expected something more..." Dyr was clearly disappointed. "Wait, if I'm not mistaken, some of the most powerful are activated by heating them" Zarus said. "Now you're talking!" Said Dyr. He pulled out a fire stone from his pocket - the only alchemical object he learned to proficiently make at the Academy. "Hey y'all, watch this!" Dyr exclaimed as he put the flame coming from the fire stone to the bottom of professors vial. Then there was light.
No longer were there Dyr, Zarus or Shok. No longer was there a professors study. No longer was there the Royal Alchemist Academy, nor was there the Capital or the Mother Planet Solaris. Now there was something new, something born of sorrow and joy.
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In the beginning Leroy created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of Leroy was hovering over the waters.
And Leroy said, "Hey y'all, watch this!" and there was light. Leroy saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness. Leroy called the light "day," and the darkness he called "night." And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day.
And Leroy said, "Y'all check *this* out!" And Leroy made the vault and separated the water under the vault from the water above it. And it was so. Leroy called the vault "sky." And there was evening, and there was morning—the second day.
And Leroy said, "You thought *that* was cool? Watch *this!"" And the water was gathered to one place, and dry ground appeared. Leroy called the dry ground "land," and the gathered waters he called "seas." And Leroy saw that it was good.
Then Leroy said, "Now, let's get some stuff growin'!" And the land produced vegetation: plants bearing seed according to their kinds and trees bearing fruit with seed in it according to their kinds. And Leroy saw that it was good. And there was evening, and there was morning—the third day.
And Leroy said, "Hey, hold my beer, I'm gonna do the sky now." And Leroy made two great lights—the greater light to govern the day and the lesser light to govern the night. He also made the stars. Leroy set them in the vault of the sky to give light on the earth, to govern the day and the night, and to separate light from darkness. And Leroy saw that it was good. And there was evening, and there was morning—the fourth day.
And Leroy said, "Hey, let's stock this place so we can do some *fishin'*, and duck huntin' too!" So Leroy created the great creatures of the sea and every living thing with which the water teems and that moves about in it, according to their kinds, and every winged bird according to its kind. And Leroy saw that it was good. Leroy blessed them and said, "Get to havin' babies, so I don't have to do this again every year." And there was evening, and there was morning—the fifth day.
And Leroy said, "Hey, I forgot about deer and cows and shit. Hold my beer again." And Leroy made the wild animals according to their kinds, the livestock according to their kinds, and all the creatures that move along the ground according to their kinds. And Leroy saw that it was good.
Then Leroy said, "Let's make some people so we can screw with 'em."
So Leroy created mankind in his own image,
    in the image of Leroy he created them;
    dudes and chicks he created them.
Leroy blessed them and said to them, "Okay, folks, you got this. Eat all you want."
Leroy saw all that he had made, and it was very good. And there was evening, and there was morning—the sixth day.
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[WP] Instead of "Let there be light," or a big bang, this universe began with "Hey y'all, watch this!"
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In the beginning, the siblings three drank and were merry.
Yet the more they drank the more their hearts sank,
til the eldest said as he shook his head:
"My kin, is it not vain to drink all day and waste away?"
This the others pondered, til one answered:
"But pray, what is this, a "day"?"
And there was much laughter.
The laughter subsided and the elder decided
To put his drink away and say
"Hey y'all, watch this!"
 
And the sun appeared, bright, shinning, and it brought them light.
So they drank anew and were merry too,
til the second of them made a remark. "It will never be dark,
It will always be light unless I invent night!"
The others were curious, but mostly incredulous.
The second put her drink aside and cried
"Hey y'all, watch this!"
 
And the moon appeared, bright, shinning, and it brought them night.
So they drank still and were merry until
the youngest, most inebriated, rose and stated:
"Our laughter falls on no ears, our might brings no fears
we cannot have creation without admiration!"
The youngest drained the cup to its last drop.
"HEY Y'ALL, WATCH THIS!"
 
Chaos. Madness. Pain. Beings whose existence was torture writhed below and above and all around. The siblings saw but were too frightened to conjure any sort of repair. They slept for a day. They slept for a night.
 
And when they came to, all was anew.
Where there had been daylight and moon night,
(As for the creatures of horror, the less said, the better)
were stars, worlds, life, and more. They were sore
from their bender but proud of the splendor
their drinking had created. And once more they chanted.
"Hey y'all, watch this!"
\---
The pupils all have the same question: Where did the wine come from if there was nothing before? The masters simply answer "Empty your cup and you might see, the answer could be at the bottom!"
\---
*I hate revising for meters. Please don't make me.*
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In the time before time, Science had advanced to the point where it's limits were beyond imagination. In fact, Scientists had solved all mysteries, unveiled all secrets, and began to tackle...other problems. In fact, it wasn't until it was too late that they had discovered that they were solving the NEXT universes problems.
No, no creatures in lab coats or science projects gone wrong caused the first universe to implode. It was a particularly determined engineer tasked with an impossible assignment that did that iteration in. So, when the engineer turned around after welding the last gravitic weight into place, he didn't profoundly state his intentions to break reality with something quotable. He simply took one final swig of a potent homebrewed swill and said.
"Hey y'all, watch this!"
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[WP]You are a technologically impaired elder that meets with 'several hotties in your area,' has won 100s of 'this site's millionth visitor giveaways,' and have benefited from the guys that all your doctors seemingly hate. Every ad you click on, no matter how far fetched, becomes legitimate
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Most of the other ones had worked, so why won’t this one?
Still, it’s a big risk. I look downwards. The ripped off slip of paper lies in one hand; my phone in the other. I’ve worked so hard for this moment, and still I struggle to dial the number, to complete what I set out to do. Maybe because I know once I do it, there’s only so long I’ll get.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me explain.
*
It all started when Jamie, my grandson gave me his old computer. Bigger than my first telly, the screen was. Huge. He set up my email, got me on the Facebook, all that stuff. And all these social medias, they’re fine. Just fine. But, you know. I’m old. I’m lonely. I had heard just enough about these computers to know what they were capable of.
What do you think I did? Boy was it good. Even popped a few viagra if I wanted a big night in.
Now, I don’t think of myself as a naive person—I’ve seen enough strange advertisements in my time. Hawking their snake oils, their fake solutions to fake problems, telling me if I buy a car I’ll get this or that. But it’s different on a screen, I suppose. So interactive. It was my curiosity that got the better of me.
What would you do if you were a lonely old man? “Hot new singles in your area”. Hell, even if it’s just a picture of a hot single in a area, why not click through? I was still googling the word “porn” at this stage (whereas now, I’m proud to tell you, I don’t need to google anything like that).
So of course I clicked through. I think, really, looking back, that’s the point it started properly. That was when I’d crossed over. As I was—browsing, shall we say—the photos, I got a knock on the door. I zipped myself up all hasty, blood rushing to my cheeks although I wasn’t really sure why.
My cheeks turned from apples to beets when I opened the door. There she was. Not just a hot single—the hot single. The exact woman I’d been ogling through a screen moments earlier.
She was a lovely young woman. Feeling out of my depth, I invited her in for a cup of tea. We chatted awhile about her job—she’s training to be a nurse, which explained the outfit—and the state of the economy. She had very strong opinions on the current policy situation, Brexit, Trump and all that. I tried to raise some objections to her frankly silly position on the European Union, but she was having none of it. Even though we disagreed, the conversation gave me a lot of food for thought, and I said goodbye to her half an hour later.
In case you’re wondering, no—nothing else happened. It’s fine through a computer, through that pixelated veil of anonymity. But I couldn’t in good faith advance on her while she was in my house. She was younger than Jamie, for chrissake. It wouldn’t be right. No, no. Not for me.
I tell you this not just because it was the start, but because this bit of advert magic—the hot new single, was the one that led to the incident with the paper and the phone. I’ll explain shortly, but I think maybe you need to understand the range of what happened. I clicked on a dodgy skincare advert, showing a before and after sequence which was clearly two different women of different ages, and hey presto. I looked in the mirror afterwards and my wrinkles were gone.
For a while at least. Did I mention? The advert-magic, like all magic, came with strings. Things never lasted too long. But still—I’m used to impermanence. After the third friend’s funeral, after watching your closest family (apart from the kids, thank god, and I’m lucky in that regard, I know) peel away, you become well acquainted with the ephemerality of everything. I earnt £3,000 in a day working from home—but the next day my bank account was empty. Thankfully I was smart enough by that point to not spend the money, after the confusing incident with the 14 inch penis pump.
Which brings me to the paper and the phone. See, I’d spent a while testing the limits, figuring out the rules. The magic worked when I clicked through on a computer advert—but not all of them. Some of them had some rudimentary game. Televideo games or whatever they’re called. I didn’t get any effects from those, even if I managed to shoot all the electronic clay pigeons. The advert, it seemed, had to promise, or guarantee, something—not offer it based on chance. No “If you do this right then we’ll give you this.” It had to deal in absolutes.
So, I figure, whatever’s affecting me, whatever is behind this ability I’ve gained—why wouldn’t it work with other adverts? I began watching more television. I called numbers which came up on the late night discovery channel teleshopping, but all I got was a load of exercise equipment and some “golden oldies” box sets. Which, I might add, I had to bloody pay for!
TV, apparently, wasn’t interactive enough. And I had a very specific idea in mind. I went to a load of the local charity shops looking for old magazines. Called round some of my old friends (the ones who didn’t live in coffins or jars) to ask to leaf through any newspapers they had from back in the day. But still I couldn’t find what I was looking for.
Admittedly, I am a little proud of the plan I hatched. I spent a morning clicking through all the seediest, nastiest adverts I found, and by noon I had amassed an army—and I mean army when I say army—of hot young singles, sexy russian brides, and horny MILFs in my area. They spread across the charity shops, antique shops, and through those bidding sites like eBid and the one with the tree, finding as many old magazines from the 50s and 60s as they could find. I had filled the spare room, the loft and the living room with them by that evening.
*
It’s taken me months to sort through all those magazines and papers. But I eventually found what I was looking for.
Because—and I’m sorry for not saying earlier, but it’s hard to talk about. There’s only one thing I’m after, really. And it’s something rarely promised by an advert.
I lost her four years, three months and twenty-seven days ago. It was a slow death, which, I suppose, is better. We said our goodbyes.
My dear Catherine.
What would you do, if you were a lonely old man? If you discovered this power, this advert magic?
Like I said, I’m used to hucksters advertising strange, outlandish things. Backaday when I was a kid, you could buy these old magazines, these serials, which offered you x-ray vision glasses for a shilling or two, “hovercars” if you were rich and could send off a few quid. And yeah, leafing through the bits and bobs which my army of Russians, MILFs and singles had brought back, I did have a go on a few of these stranger adverts—you know. To test if it worked from the magazines in the same way as the computer. The insta-beach bod was pretty fun, I must admit. Turned a few heads.
By the third month, I was sure I wasn’t going to find what I was looking for. Wasn’t even sure it existed. Until I stumbled upon this strange magazine—Night Tales and Mysteries, it was called. I thumbed through it without much expectation. There’d been plenty of others with dark, esoteric names such as this one, which had turned up nothing in the back pages where the adverts lie.
I almost missed it, if I’m honest. My cataracts have been playing up for years now, since before Catherine passed. But something, whatever it was, maybe my subconscious brain, made me re-read one of the advert pages over.
And just like that, there it was.
“Phone Calls with the Dead”, it said, simply, in bold black text against a white background, followed by a phone number. Nothing else. A low effort advert—something designed specifically to prey on the old, the bereaved, the confused. Exactly what I needed.
See, I’d tried the psychic adverts, both online and from the papers. But all they promised, all they guaranteed, was a psychic. So, of course, I got a psychic. A snake oil merchant who cold-read, who pretended to talk to Catherine. I turfed the first one out in disgust, shaking with rage. Smashed her crystal ball and everything.
This one—this Night Tales ad—was perfect. It was so vague, so impersonal, promising nothing but what I needed.
And so here I am, fingers hovering over my old, corded, phone, working up the courage to dial.
My eyes return again and again to the slip of paper on which the advert is printed. I take deep in and out breaths as I skate over each individual number.
Like I said, these things don’t last. I have to make it count.
Outside, through the window, the sun is burrowing below the horizon, shooting burning candle-light slants through the blinds. My living room is a paper jungle. I huff in the musty stench of my own body odour (you know it’s bad when you can smell it yourself), and scratch the grey straggles of a beard that have sprouted from my face in the past few months.
What am I waiting for? Nothing else to do but do it. I still don’t know what to say.
But that never stopped us talking before.
I dial the number and hold my breath.
My heart skips a beat as the phone rings, a shrill, garbled tone, as if it’s breaking—as if it’s struggling to keep itself running.
‘Hello?’ comes a voice. It’s crackling, I can barely make it out. ‘John?’
My heart crests; a tear rolls down my cheek. ‘Catherine. My god, Catherine. I can’t believe it’s you.’
There’s a pause. The longest pause of my life. Eventually the voice speaks. ‘Who’s Catherine?’
The room goes cold, freezes over like a sped up glacier. And then I realise.
The Advert just said “speak to the dead”. That’s it. It didn’t say who. I notice, in the back of my mind, that the light spilling through the window is no longer there. That everything has turned suddenly dark, as if a blanket of shadow has descended upon the world.
The voice, which I now realise is not a woman’s—may not even be a man’s—crackles and gargles.
‘It’s so cold here,’ says the ghost.
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To Whom It May Concern,
In my youth, life never seemed to go my way. Growing up in the 60’s, opportunity was everywhere, but I never could catch a break. I couldn’t get into college and my high school sweet heart left me after she got accepted. Manual Labor didn’t treat me too bad, but I never could hold a job for longer than a few months. By thirty, I was divorced. By forty, my kids wouldn’t talk to me. By fifty, my chronic health conditions would leave me bed ridden for weeks.
In one of my health spells about a decade ago, I decided to finally access the internet. I might have been late to the game but this constant boredom drove me to finally give in. I emptied the last of my savings and went to a used computer store. From the moment I open the door, I felt as though I had waken something ancient. I walked to the counter and waited for someone to come assist me. I looked around and marveled at the amount of dust that had accumulated. As I scanned my eyes across the counter, I saw a small brass service bell. The moment I rang it, a large gust of wind swung the door open and it seemed like there was a tornado in the shop. This filled the air with all the dust that was previously undisturbed. This aggravated my condition and it threw me into a coughing fit that took me to my knees. By the time the wind had ceased and I was able to get off my knees and compose myself, I notice that the shop that was old and decrepit was now clean, bright, and filled with what looked like state of the art computers. Amazed at this transformation, I began to slowly turn around to get a 360 view of this shop. By the time I turned facing the counter again there was man standing there with a smile. He asked how he could help me and I told him that I just needed a basic computer. He pulled out a box that looked ancient with writing from a language I had never seen. He put a sheet of paper, which looked like a type of contract, in front of me and I began to read. The only thing that caught my attention was price, which only said, ‘your soul upon death’. I do not have much thoughts on the after life, but my low budget made me think, ‘what the heck why not’. I signed the papers, took the box and left.
The set- up was not too difficult for a old geezer like me and I was up and running after thirty minutes of arriving to my house. People had warned me of pop up ads, but I got where I got in life by following advice. Needless to say, advice didn’t get me too far. Nigerian prince? Sure I’ll help. Millionth customer with a million dollar prize? What are the odds! Hotties in the area looking for me? I haven’t had much luck since my divorce, so I’ll give it a go. Call it crazy but every warning I got about pop up ads went the opposite way anyone had ever described them. A decade later, I regularly visit Prince Abduli and there is political peace in his country for the first time in years. Needless to say, he shares his prosperity with me because of my investment. I supplement that income with my frequent winnings from online contests. I was able to use this wealth to afford the best doctors, who were able to treat me and enjoy regular health now. My children talk to me again and yes, I did meet many beautiful women and I have been happily married for the past eight years. Buying this computer was the first point in my life where Fortune was finally my friend. Perhaps life decided to pay out my allotted good luck right the end of life. Whatever it was, I was happy, except something drastically changed six days ago.
I was on Facebook doing a quick scan of my friends and family. I saw a post that said, “repost and tag ten of your friends or else I will come for you in seven days”. The picture attached was of a girl in a white night gown but her head was down. Her long black hung down and covered any part of her face that could distinguish her. The picture sent chills down my spine. I didn’t want to meet this girl, so I began to google how to repost on Facebook. I click on the first link and all that came up was the video of the computer sales man that had sold me my computer years ago. He look at me, smiling, and then pressed a small red button right next to him. The computer shut off, and turned into dust.
Since then, food has tasted blander, the sun has felt colder, and the dark feels darker. I have accepted what will happen to me tomorrow. Divide my wealth and property evenly between my children. I love them and I want them to know that.
Sincerely,
Bob
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[WP] You live in a world were everyone is born with one spell that makes their daily lives a little easier/practical. You’ve realized that your seemingly harmless spell inadvertently gives you true power.
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The moment we are born, we are entrusted with one word and that word is the core of our existence. Society is divided up into three sections: S-Ranks, A-Ranks, and the Leftovers. S-Ranks were those with powerful words such as "Life", "Darkness", or "God". A-Ranks were those with words such as "Fire", "Water", "Love", or "Dream". The Leftovers were usually made up with the remaining words of the Dictionary that weren't as powerful but was still practical. However, you seem to be the only one with a strange word engraved to your chest: Potato.
"Hey, look! It's the potato boy", a group of boys yelled out, laughing and pointing at your direction. You lowered your head in shame and wondered why on earth would you be the only one with such a useless word.
You were always bullied since you were a child by your classmates. The upper ranks always used you as their gopher, demanding you do every single thing for them even to the point of giving up your hard-earned money.
And for some reason, you just snapped. You couldn't handle the teasing and bullying anymore and wanted revenge on everybody in the school. But, what can you do with such a useless spell?
Turn their hearts into potatoes.
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######[](#dropcap)
The fat oozed from the roasting pig as the flames licked at its charred skin, slowly rotating on its spit. Tendrils of muscles rippled and tensed in Apollo’s bicep and forearm as he cranked the handle, once, twice, three times… His nostrils flared, taking in the pleasant aroma wafting in the air around the campfire. He stared blankly into the dancing inferno, his mind elsewhere.
A heavy sigh, laced in exhaustion, escaped his parted lips as his attention focused on the present again. He stood, lifted the spit and the sow from the sticks holding it above the fire, before finally bringing it to rest on a large leaf held in place with two stones. Staring intently at the cooked meat, he gripped the thick knuckle of the pig's thigh and ripped it away from the rest of the carcass.
Grease and fat squished from between Apollo’s fingers and followed gravity’s guiding hand before dripping from his bent elbow and back into the dust. He returned to the stray log that he had been using as a seat for the last few hours, sat, and began to rip into the juicy hunk of blackened meat with his teeth, staring all the while into the flames.
He quickly ate the flesh from the leg, sliced off a few more pieces, and finished them, too, discarding the bones between his feet. Once he had finished eating, he pushed them into the embers of the fire with his boot and covered it with more sticks and debris to trap them in the blaze. Using the cloth of his pants, he wiped the grease and fat from his hands, never breaking eye contact from the fire.
A memory flashed for one brief instant in his mind. Flowers on a riverbed. An unfamiliar scent. Panic and fear.
Apollo’s body collapsed into a slumped heap, absent a mind to control it. Not that he cared, or for that matter even remembered. No, he was in the middle of something. What was it? He tried to focus.
A branch snapped to his right. He shifted on the ground quickly and lowered himself to face the sound. Grunt, grunt, huff. He clawed at the dirt. Another grunt, this time a warning. The branches of a bush jostled, and two bluebirds shot out from the underbrush of the forest, taking flight. An unfamiliar scent heavily permeated the dense jungle. Apollo breathed in deeply and let out another huff of air, half intimidation, half fact-finding. He tried and failed to remember the creature with this scent while the muscles throughout his body tensed with anticipation.
“Wow, you’re getting really close,” something said from the bush. Speech, not frequently heard but not entirely unknown to these woods either. Apollo took a step back, surprised, but strangely not afraid. Where there should have been fear, panic, and most importantly retreat, there was only tension.
The man-creature spoke again, “I guess I have been slacking these last few weeks.”
Everything seemed to happen within a single breath. Where there was nothing but air before, the space in front of Apollo had been occupied by whoever or whatever it was that was speaking to him. The man’s arm was extended, with one enormous hand gripping the fur-lined skull of the body that Apollo inhabited.
“That won’t happen again,” the man-creature said in a gruff, raspy voice. His other arm shot through the air like lightning, gripping Apollo’s throat, and in one swift motion, ripping Apollo’s head from its body. Blood exploded from the creature’s decapitated corpse before collapsing to the ground, threads of tissue, muscle, and organ strewn around it like doll’s hair.
The man lifted the creature’s head so that their eyes met, “I’m going to win,” he smirked, eyes narrow, blood spattering his lips and face, “Apollo.”
The picture in Apollo’s eye began to warble and distort, slowly fading into the surrounding darkness that had crept into the corners of his vision. Suddenly, a bright flash, a heavy thud as he hit the dirt, and he was back once more in his familiar body, the dirt and dust rising around it in a small cloud.
“That god damn bastard,” he shouted, pushing himself off of the ground with his elbow, “That fucking hurt.”
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[WP] You live in a world were everyone is born with one spell that makes their daily lives a little easier/practical. You’ve realized that your seemingly harmless spell inadvertently gives you true power.
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"You're up next, sir." The man with the clipboard, tie, and earpiece nodded to me. "Anything else you need? We can always call a pause to make any changes-"
"No, no." I held up my hand, palm extended in front of the French cuff, the silver cufflink glinting in the rays of the spotlight that made it into the wings of the stage. "I'm ready."
My ears caught the swell of the crowd, not applauding just yet but on the verge of erupting. They'd erupt when I stepped out of the shadows, when they caught sight of their new candidate for President, immaculate in a perfectly fitted suit, smiling so brightly out at them.
I'd seen the polls. The experts were predicting a landslide in my favor. I didn't even need to bother with these stump speeches any longer; I did them mostly for the thrill.
Waiting, listening to the host hyping up the crowd, I held up my fingers. There was plenty of shadow here in the wings of the stage. I drew a bit of it in, made it into a little ball that danced from finger to finger, a black flame that produced no heat.
Such a small gift, but enough to carry me here - maybe much further.
I caught a snipped from the host, something about "humble beginnings." That certainly described me. Risen from the depths of mediocrity, a practical nobody in high school and college, but with a meteoric ascent in the last few years. I'd truly made the leap from zero up to hero - and when I stepped in front of this cheering crowd, they'd welcome me as a surrogate to God himself.
When I closed my eyes, I could still remember the crushing disappointment I felt as a teenager, how I lay in bed, face buried in the pillow, cursing my stupid power. I hadn't been the first in my class to manifest; that had been Billy Zerkis, who cried out in surprise when flames shot from his fingertips and set his English book alight, halfway through "Fahrenheit 451." Most of my classmates soon followed, but I wouldn't know my ability for another eight months.
And then, when it came, it brought my hopes and dreams crashing down with its arrival.
The ability to control shadows. I could put on little displays of monochrome puppet shows, make little figures dance in darkness. I could shrink back into those shadows, pull them around me like a cloak to avoid unwanted attention. I could temporarily dim the lights in a room, although the light burned away the shadow until there was nothing left for me to hold, nothing remaining for me to control.
And for a long time, I believed that was the extent of it. No superpowers, nothing even useful for a job. I couldn't see in the dark, couldn't fly or control time or summon great beasts or bursts of energy. Hell, I didn't even need to register my power - I scored a puny 1.2 on the Hammond scale, well below the 2.5 needed for the registration to be added to my driver's license.
For the rest of high school, the first two years of college, it was my secret shame. I brushed off questions about my power at the few parties I attended, not even putting on demonstrations. What good was the ability to make a little figure dance from shadows? If I pulled the darkness together, I could exert very small amounts of force, but it was barely more than a puff of air. Not enough to stop a punch, not enough to fly, not enough for anything.
It was useless, I told myself.
I couldn't be more wrong.
"On in two," the stagehand called to me, and I nodded with the small part of my brain not lost in reverie.
My breakthrough came from a biology class, of all places. I'd been given a squeamish female partner who refused to participate in the rat dissection, so I'd handled it myself. I cut into the animal with the scalpel as the professor droned on about the animal's nerves, how even a tiny little electrical stimulus could still incite movement in a dead animal.
I'd cast a small amount of shadow into the rat's opened belly, creating just enough force to keep the scalpel from slipping. Idly, I felt about, sensed a nerve, *pushed.*
The rat's leg twitched.
Even then, I dwelled little on that astounding reaction. I finished the class, went back to my dorm, but dropped into the grass in front of the building and watched as a couple jocks laughed and threw a football back and forth. Only then, turning it over in my head, did I start to wonder.
I pulled darkness from the shadow of the dorm building, cast it in a hair-thin stream through the grass. The bright overhead sun burned away most of the shadow, but enough made it to the jock to slip up, into his skin, sinking through it...
The jock's arm spasmed, and the football flew wide. His buddy shouted in annoyance, but I grinned, a wild rictus of realization.
The second realization came later, followed quickly by a third. I didn't need to pull darkness from external sources. After all, there were plenty of cavities inside a human body. Cavities that were unlit, filled with darkness.
And where was the densest source of neurons? The brain.
"And now," cried the host from a dozen feet away, "it is my great honor to present to you, your candidate, the next President of these great United States!"
The applause rose to a constant rolling of thunder as I emerged. I beamed out at the crowd, waved my hand high - and a tiny bit of darkness pressed, ever so lightly, on the pleasure centers of each person in the crowd.
They roared, they cheered, and I smiled as I saw my future stretching out in front of me, great and glorious and immortal.
It was not a bright future, no.
It was filled with darkness.
****
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Magic. In one world, a powerful and dreamt of power that is fantasized about. In mine? It's mundane. Everyone uses it, people are born with, and sure it's convenient but it's never been anything that's really strong or overpowered. Or at least that's what I thought, until I realized the power behind a seemingly mundane spell like mine. I can use my spell to make something impossible have a 0.1% chance of happening. Now, it seems mundane, until I decided to experiment with it. I used to just make it so that I could get free food every once in a blue moon, but then an Idea struck me. What if the impossible thing could be triggered? Like, "Every time that I pay for something I get paid $20 for buying it". Except I did it with something easy I myself could trigger. I decided, "every step I took had the chance to grant my greatest wish" would bs what I went with. And oh my god what have I done! I am now the eternal god queen of Earth. I think I may have screwed up.
PS. This is my first attempt at challenging myself at writing so I apologize that it probably isn't any good.
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[WP] You live in a world were everyone is born with one spell that makes their daily lives a little easier/practical. You’ve realized that your seemingly harmless spell inadvertently gives you true power.
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"You're up next, sir." The man with the clipboard, tie, and earpiece nodded to me. "Anything else you need? We can always call a pause to make any changes-"
"No, no." I held up my hand, palm extended in front of the French cuff, the silver cufflink glinting in the rays of the spotlight that made it into the wings of the stage. "I'm ready."
My ears caught the swell of the crowd, not applauding just yet but on the verge of erupting. They'd erupt when I stepped out of the shadows, when they caught sight of their new candidate for President, immaculate in a perfectly fitted suit, smiling so brightly out at them.
I'd seen the polls. The experts were predicting a landslide in my favor. I didn't even need to bother with these stump speeches any longer; I did them mostly for the thrill.
Waiting, listening to the host hyping up the crowd, I held up my fingers. There was plenty of shadow here in the wings of the stage. I drew a bit of it in, made it into a little ball that danced from finger to finger, a black flame that produced no heat.
Such a small gift, but enough to carry me here - maybe much further.
I caught a snipped from the host, something about "humble beginnings." That certainly described me. Risen from the depths of mediocrity, a practical nobody in high school and college, but with a meteoric ascent in the last few years. I'd truly made the leap from zero up to hero - and when I stepped in front of this cheering crowd, they'd welcome me as a surrogate to God himself.
When I closed my eyes, I could still remember the crushing disappointment I felt as a teenager, how I lay in bed, face buried in the pillow, cursing my stupid power. I hadn't been the first in my class to manifest; that had been Billy Zerkis, who cried out in surprise when flames shot from his fingertips and set his English book alight, halfway through "Fahrenheit 451." Most of my classmates soon followed, but I wouldn't know my ability for another eight months.
And then, when it came, it brought my hopes and dreams crashing down with its arrival.
The ability to control shadows. I could put on little displays of monochrome puppet shows, make little figures dance in darkness. I could shrink back into those shadows, pull them around me like a cloak to avoid unwanted attention. I could temporarily dim the lights in a room, although the light burned away the shadow until there was nothing left for me to hold, nothing remaining for me to control.
And for a long time, I believed that was the extent of it. No superpowers, nothing even useful for a job. I couldn't see in the dark, couldn't fly or control time or summon great beasts or bursts of energy. Hell, I didn't even need to register my power - I scored a puny 1.2 on the Hammond scale, well below the 2.5 needed for the registration to be added to my driver's license.
For the rest of high school, the first two years of college, it was my secret shame. I brushed off questions about my power at the few parties I attended, not even putting on demonstrations. What good was the ability to make a little figure dance from shadows? If I pulled the darkness together, I could exert very small amounts of force, but it was barely more than a puff of air. Not enough to stop a punch, not enough to fly, not enough for anything.
It was useless, I told myself.
I couldn't be more wrong.
"On in two," the stagehand called to me, and I nodded with the small part of my brain not lost in reverie.
My breakthrough came from a biology class, of all places. I'd been given a squeamish female partner who refused to participate in the rat dissection, so I'd handled it myself. I cut into the animal with the scalpel as the professor droned on about the animal's nerves, how even a tiny little electrical stimulus could still incite movement in a dead animal.
I'd cast a small amount of shadow into the rat's opened belly, creating just enough force to keep the scalpel from slipping. Idly, I felt about, sensed a nerve, *pushed.*
The rat's leg twitched.
Even then, I dwelled little on that astounding reaction. I finished the class, went back to my dorm, but dropped into the grass in front of the building and watched as a couple jocks laughed and threw a football back and forth. Only then, turning it over in my head, did I start to wonder.
I pulled darkness from the shadow of the dorm building, cast it in a hair-thin stream through the grass. The bright overhead sun burned away most of the shadow, but enough made it to the jock to slip up, into his skin, sinking through it...
The jock's arm spasmed, and the football flew wide. His buddy shouted in annoyance, but I grinned, a wild rictus of realization.
The second realization came later, followed quickly by a third. I didn't need to pull darkness from external sources. After all, there were plenty of cavities inside a human body. Cavities that were unlit, filled with darkness.
And where was the densest source of neurons? The brain.
"And now," cried the host from a dozen feet away, "it is my great honor to present to you, your candidate, the next President of these great United States!"
The applause rose to a constant rolling of thunder as I emerged. I beamed out at the crowd, waved my hand high - and a tiny bit of darkness pressed, ever so lightly, on the pleasure centers of each person in the crowd.
They roared, they cheered, and I smiled as I saw my future stretching out in front of me, great and glorious and immortal.
It was not a bright future, no.
It was filled with darkness.
****
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######[](#dropcap)
When Mister Billy’s head imploded, the village of Alderford was thrown into a state of chaos and jubilation.
Mister Billy, or Bill Cocksuck, as he was known to most elders, was a rather loud, but standoffish man, whose occupation did little to endear him with any local population. He was a tax-man, and was thusly prone to false (or perhaps not) accusations in the realms of embezzle and swindle. But, if such claims were not enough to paint an unfavorable look, Bill Cocksuck was also five inches below the average height, with oddly slanted eyes, a broad forehead, a potbelly, and disproportioned arms.
Today, however, nobody remembered such things, especially not with Bill’s head crumpled in, the fluids within leaking onto dry dirt by way of large craters around the sphenoid and occipital. These features were instead magnified, under passage from verbal tales and inaccurate depictions.
“Good riddance,” said Tillet Maers, and on this they could all agree.
“Aye,” said Toren Illenson, the village’s eldest blacksmith, who held a greater-than-most hatred for the now deceased tax-man. “Arms uneven, with claws at his fingers. He got a huge head too, but angled. All triangle-like. I swear, when you wasn’t expecting it, horns would appear out the top. Forgot to wear that big hat of his, once, and I did see ‘em starin’ straight at me, plain as day.”
“Looks be damned, what about all the stuff he stole?” asked Dion Holdfast. “I think the tax was ten-piece, and he took twenty from each!”
“Took me daughter too,” said Old Man Jackson, who was both old and ugly, but whose eldest daughter had somehow flowered into some statuesque beauty (the other two were likened to wrinkled crones). Bill had taken Jackson’s eldest as tribute to the capital, where she might be accepted to the Kynferði -- a group of females bound in lifelong service to King and kin -- or otherwise killed if found unsatisfactory.
“Tar, Old Man,” said Tillet Jr. “We all know you pawned ‘er off to ‘im, an’ for a good price too!”
Amidst such commotion, no one took notice of neither the frolicking children nor the scrawny little boy who hid alone behind the hay bales. This particular boy’s name was Aren Noneson -- Noneson being the surname given to young orphans. Aren stood rather still, staring at the palms of his hands. He was imagining them coated in blood, though they were, in fact, unusually clean, especially so for a child nearing thirteen.
Aren recalled having left his home that morning, a small covering of twigs and bark beneath Whitewater Bridge, heading first towards the market, then towards the bazaars when the food to be found near the former proved scarce. He remembered, among Bazaar Street, hearing a rather uncouth voice float to his ears, slimy and greasy as large river snakes are.
“Hello, young’un,” it said, and Aren recognized that voice, would recognize it anywhere. He panicked a moment; the dirt caking his face hid much of his reaction.
“Mister Billy?”
“That’s me,” said Billy, smiling so suddenly as to startle Aren and nearing passers-by. “Where’s your parents?”
“Dead. In the war.”
“Hmm.” Billy stood on a while in silence, as though pondering through near-unfathomable conclusions. “Well, you’d best come with me,” he said at last, reaching out.
Aren backtracked and, in his haste, stumbled across a protruding rock, which jutted offendingly from the hard-packed dirt road. He fell hard, tasted blood. Billy neared.
At first, Aren felt stuck, as though petrified to stone or encased in hard mud. He could feel his heart race, his blood rushing through his veins, but so great was his fear that he could not get up and run, run fast as he knew he could. The darkness around him seemed to encroach, until naught might be seen but Billy, creeping closer, the predator rearing in strike, the prey trapped in some snare. At that moment, Aren could feel only the sense of dread encroaching upon him. The words “death” and “flee” in particular floated chaotically among his thoughts.
Abruptly, Aren struck, much like a cat will when caught in a corner. The next moment, Billy had released his grip -- Aren, in fear, had not felt it -- and had fallen back against a wall, head clutched in his hands. Aren had run then, helter-skelter down the path.
At present, Aren was behind the hay bales nearest that scene of his great panic, wondering what had happened. And indeed, what had? Powers, he knew, manifested at his age, but never grew (even in later life) to such a magnitude as to enable a child in killing an adult. Most powers were of the day-to-day kind, helping only in the most practical of ways. Farmer Stils, Aren knew, could bolster greatly the growing rate of crops. Toren Illenson was resistant to burns. And Mister Billy, before his most unexpected death, had been unusually persuasive.
“So what was that? Are these powers mine, or did some other save me?” Aren asked aloud, then covered his mouth in realization of the gravity of his mistake. *“Has my hidey-hole been spoiled?”* he wondered, and peered from behind his piles of straw.
He had not, it seemed, been noticed at all. The adults, still in deep conversation, were now voicing a communal desire to make for the nearest pub, in which they might share a drink. Aren sighed and placed his hands on the nearest bale, stilling his nerves. Had it been him who had brought about the death of hated Billy? He had to know. Could he, with effort, replicate the effect? Steeling himself, he reached out his palm.
***
Constructive criticism encouraged and welcome (pls halp, I need it :P)
/r/Lone_Wolf_Studios for more stories!
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[WP] And little by little I fade into you.
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I remember what is was like, the first time I saw you in the hospital.
You were awake, bleached white hair spilling over pillowcases that were too stiff to really be comfortable, making jokes to keep your mom from crying anymore.
I remember realizing that I didn't want to run anymore.
We were 17 when my friend first introduced me to you, but it was far from the first time I had noticed you. Something about you drew me in, and it still hasn't let go. You were wild. There was something in your eyes, in the way you laughed and moved, something in that smile that never seemed to fade. You were radiant.
Talking to you felt so easy, as if we had always known each other. I felt my barriers melt away, my locked doors opening up. You pulled stories from my lips in a way no one ever had. You made the odd kid feel at home. I don't think I ever got around to telling you how much that meant to me.
We spent that following summer, between Junior and Senior year of high school, talking about anything we had found time bring up. It was exhilarating. I had always been the quiet, lonely type, but with you it felt like some spark was lit within me that I never knew was there. We never ran out of things to talk about, our conversations chasing the hours away.
During that summer, I started to realize that evergreen smile of yours was hiding something, something that I didn't know how to bring up; something that I didn't really *want* to bring up, if I'm being honest. I had seen the scars on your arms before, everyone had. They weren't the kind you could hide. But it hadn't fully sunk in, where they came from and why, until that summer conversation that lasted through July. It was then that I started to realize that the wild girl with white hair wasn't as strong as she seemed.
God, if I had been then who I am now...
I was scared. What if you broke, and I couldn't put you back together? What if I broke you? I was too clumsy for you, too careless. At least, that's what I kept telling myself. I stopped sleeping, and a sick feeling began to follow me everywhere, with the reoccurring thought of losing you. It consumed me.
So I decided to push you away before I lost you. No one had ever made me feel the way you did, had ever been so close to me. If I lost you, I didn't think I'd be able to take it. So one day, I decided to let the conversation die.
Seeing you in the hospital bed that December, I understood that no matter how far I pushed you away, it never wouldn't hurt to lose you. Not only that, but maybe I could save you. If I could make you as happy as you made me, you'd never empty another bottle of pills again. If I could just make you happy everyday.
At first, the plan worked. We graduated as high school sweethearts, and moved in together quickly. We spent that summer exploring the woods, exploring our dreams, exploring each other. Every time you smiled, I felt a little less afraid, and that hospital bed seemed farther and farther away. I had done it. I had figured out how to keep that wildfire in your eyes burning bright. You were happy, I was happy. We were together, and free. You were safe.
But safety is a fragile thing.
I went off to college that August, a little over a year since we first met, and you stayed back home. I lived in a dorm during the week, and came back every weekend. I missed you like crazy, and those Friday evening romances still burn warm in chest. The excitement of you and of school, those late night calls and 8am classes, the stress and passion of it all, kept me from seeing that fire start to burn out.
Your life hadn't become the adventure that mine had. You were working a shitty minimum wage job, watching weeks go by and paychecks disappear. And each Friday you'd see me come home, happy as ever, rambling about the time of my life between less and less frequent "I miss you"'s. I didn't notice when you stopped telling me about your weeks, or when your smile stopped touching your eyes. Well, maybe that's not quite true; I was just too scared to accept that I noticed it. I was happy, and I felt like that temporary safety would last a little longer. It *had* to. I wasn't ready to go back to being on constant watch yet.
It's Friday evening, in November, almost a year since your grandma found you unconscious in your bedroom. Except this time, she wasn't there to make sure you were okay. Your mom didn't rush you to the hospital. The nurses didn't get the charcoal drink to you in time to force your stomach contents out. I didn't find you there with IV's in your arms, making jokes to your heartbroken mother in an attempt to stop her tears.
I found you on the floor, skin whiter than your hair now. Your arms are covered in new wounds, covering old scars that they'll never join. You even used the same medicine. Maybe it worked faster this time. The doctor said you would have permanent internal damage from last year's failed attempt. I guess it doesn't matter at this point.
In my head, during the countless times and ways this horror played out, I always imagined there would be a letter. But your room is just as silent and empty as it had been over the past few weeks, returning the silence that I've been ignoring on those selfish weekends.
There's so much that I want to say to you, so much that I want to hear you say. I want one more night of sitting alone in a parking lot with you, laughing and eating sushi while headlights pass by. I want you to tell me about the latest book you've been reading. I want to watch you paint while we listen to your music. I want to go back in time and have never stopped talking to you last summer, so that we could have had at least a few more months together. I want to see your smile one more time.
I was right. I can't take it. I don't know if anyone could, but I know I can't. It's been a while since I finished my own bottle, and it's starting to get harder and harder to write. Harder to breathe, too. My insides burn, but I can't help feeling I deserve it.
I guess that's as much as I want to say. Now I just want to hold you, pull you close as the air shudders out of me, memories of you keeping me warm, and little by little fade into you.
*Justin Meredith, 2018*
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Listen, I know it's been a while; you've pulled your life together quite a bit, you can finally welcome the day with false hope instead of pure dread. Things are looking up! But you can't just will me away with this reversible progress. It's pathetic, and so are you. This isn't truly happiness, is it? Because I'm still here, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm not a complete monster, though. I'm not going to rip the soul straight from your body this time. Where's the fun in that? No, I like to see you squirm. I love the feeling you get when you lie down at night after an alarmingly enjoyable day. That feeling that maybe, just maybe.. everything will be alright in the end. But it never lasts too long, because your covers still weigh you down and sink you into reality. And I'm not speaking of your polyester sheets- that heavy, transparent lead blanket that you've brilliantly chosen to ignore for the past few days. Just a mild discomfort on your part, but soon that blanket will drag more than your mood. Soon your feet will tire more quickly, your patience will wander. Then, when your senses are far too dulled to care, you'll feel me slowly drag you to your knees, then toss you onto the ground. Optimism may get the best of you at some point, but hopelessness will be much more appealing once you're lying on that rigid surface. So carry on with your day. Catch up with some friends. Enjoy a nice dinner. Read a good book and enjoy a warm cup of tea. But never tell yourself that I'm not feeding your mind. Because little by little, I'm slowly fading into you.
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[WP] And little by little I fade into you.
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I can’t get out of my own way, obsessive-neurotic
I can’t get out of your way. I’m obsessing I’m neurotic.
I’m fading.
So involved that it’s repulsive. So involved that I’m lost in you.
So involved that I’m dizzy.
Life is a nightmare I’m trapped in.
Have I faded? How i wish that I were jaded.
In need of being medicated.
You’re on the highest pedestal,
It’s
The one that I’ve created.
Cosmically crashing, I’m silently hoping to create a light in your life like the facade you bring into mine.
Blinding
Gaslighting
Burning
Falling
You are my match,
I’m burning
Since I’m the fuse to combust.
Since I’m crazy I must.
Since I’ve faded into you.
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Listen, I know it's been a while; you've pulled your life together quite a bit, you can finally welcome the day with false hope instead of pure dread. Things are looking up! But you can't just will me away with this reversible progress. It's pathetic, and so are you. This isn't truly happiness, is it? Because I'm still here, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm not a complete monster, though. I'm not going to rip the soul straight from your body this time. Where's the fun in that? No, I like to see you squirm. I love the feeling you get when you lie down at night after an alarmingly enjoyable day. That feeling that maybe, just maybe.. everything will be alright in the end. But it never lasts too long, because your covers still weigh you down and sink you into reality. And I'm not speaking of your polyester sheets- that heavy, transparent lead blanket that you've brilliantly chosen to ignore for the past few days. Just a mild discomfort on your part, but soon that blanket will drag more than your mood. Soon your feet will tire more quickly, your patience will wander. Then, when your senses are far too dulled to care, you'll feel me slowly drag you to your knees, then toss you onto the ground. Optimism may get the best of you at some point, but hopelessness will be much more appealing once you're lying on that rigid surface. So carry on with your day. Catch up with some friends. Enjoy a nice dinner. Read a good book and enjoy a warm cup of tea. But never tell yourself that I'm not feeding your mind. Because little by little, I'm slowly fading into you.
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[WP] And little by little I fade into you.
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Little steps forward we take, with you
By my side.
Little steps. Uncertain, weary.
I and you, growing growing growing together.
Fade our pasts
Into distant memory: we’re here, now, and onward,
You and I.
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Listen, I know it's been a while; you've pulled your life together quite a bit, you can finally welcome the day with false hope instead of pure dread. Things are looking up! But you can't just will me away with this reversible progress. It's pathetic, and so are you. This isn't truly happiness, is it? Because I'm still here, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm not a complete monster, though. I'm not going to rip the soul straight from your body this time. Where's the fun in that? No, I like to see you squirm. I love the feeling you get when you lie down at night after an alarmingly enjoyable day. That feeling that maybe, just maybe.. everything will be alright in the end. But it never lasts too long, because your covers still weigh you down and sink you into reality. And I'm not speaking of your polyester sheets- that heavy, transparent lead blanket that you've brilliantly chosen to ignore for the past few days. Just a mild discomfort on your part, but soon that blanket will drag more than your mood. Soon your feet will tire more quickly, your patience will wander. Then, when your senses are far too dulled to care, you'll feel me slowly drag you to your knees, then toss you onto the ground. Optimism may get the best of you at some point, but hopelessness will be much more appealing once you're lying on that rigid surface. So carry on with your day. Catch up with some friends. Enjoy a nice dinner. Read a good book and enjoy a warm cup of tea. But never tell yourself that I'm not feeding your mind. Because little by little, I'm slowly fading into you.
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[WP] And little by little I fade into you.
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And little by little, I fade into you. As summer wanes into autumn, autumn falling to winter's cold embrace, and winter erupting into colorful spring, I fade.
My cheeks grow pale as we lie, close together. Neither of us saying a word, yet saying everything. Both of us snuggling in closer, breathing the other's scent - shampoos, soaps, sweat intermingling between us.
Sweat became our journey, traveling paths wrought by tears. We loved, we lost, we wandered, we were found. And we found each other. Suddenly, the poets and artists and singers all made sense. We were complete.
But little by little, I fade into you, and you into me. Soon, we'll be whole, we'll be one. With your quick smile, my rumbling laugh, we'll be one. We'll light rooms up, we'll offer succor to those in need, we'll be entirely a universe unto ourselves and yet unto those around us. We'll be dancing stars, filled with chaos and cheer and charm.
And little by little, I fade into you.
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Listen, I know it's been a while; you've pulled your life together quite a bit, you can finally welcome the day with false hope instead of pure dread. Things are looking up! But you can't just will me away with this reversible progress. It's pathetic, and so are you. This isn't truly happiness, is it? Because I'm still here, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm not a complete monster, though. I'm not going to rip the soul straight from your body this time. Where's the fun in that? No, I like to see you squirm. I love the feeling you get when you lie down at night after an alarmingly enjoyable day. That feeling that maybe, just maybe.. everything will be alright in the end. But it never lasts too long, because your covers still weigh you down and sink you into reality. And I'm not speaking of your polyester sheets- that heavy, transparent lead blanket that you've brilliantly chosen to ignore for the past few days. Just a mild discomfort on your part, but soon that blanket will drag more than your mood. Soon your feet will tire more quickly, your patience will wander. Then, when your senses are far too dulled to care, you'll feel me slowly drag you to your knees, then toss you onto the ground. Optimism may get the best of you at some point, but hopelessness will be much more appealing once you're lying on that rigid surface. So carry on with your day. Catch up with some friends. Enjoy a nice dinner. Read a good book and enjoy a warm cup of tea. But never tell yourself that I'm not feeding your mind. Because little by little, I'm slowly fading into you.
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[WP] Gordan Ramsay is unwillingly selected as a contestant for a Multi-universal cooking show. The other contestants? Various other Gordan(s) from alternate timelines.
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"Oy! Are you even fucking listening to me?" Gordan bounced on the balls of his feet, clearly exasperated. "You don't put the fucking mustard on like you're painting a god damn garage!"
He ran to another station. "Ah, bloody hell! We give you the finest cut of meat in the universe and you hide it behind cauliflower mash and chick peas? Are you mental?"
It had been like this for hours. Ever since appearing out of nowhere into this kitchen he'd been running around trying to get his other selves to stop fucking up his good name. How was it that in all the possible universes, he was the only one that knew how to cook?
"Mother fucker! " He picked a pork chop off a particularly hapless Gordan's plate. "With a little CPR, this bloody fellow can go back to the pin!"
He quickly made his way to the back of the floor. The smell of burning rice was calling him. "You don't make fucking risotto over an open fire ya wanker!"
"Stop!" He shouted at the room. The sounds of stirring, whisking, chopping, and sizzling came to an abrupt halt. "Do you people even want to be here? I mean I've seen better results on America's worst cooks, and that fucking show sucks! If you people don't get your shit together I'm sending you all home and I'll cancel the fucking season!"
Silence stretched for a few seconds and Gordan became aware of the ticking of a clock. He turned around to face a large white clock hanging from a post. It ticked a few more times, then stopped on zero.
He heard his own voice shout, "Time's up! Bring your dishes down front."
All of the Gordans grabbed their plates and set them on the table up front. Another Gordan stood behind the table surveying the food arrayed before him. He pointed at Gordan.
"Where's your dish?" He asked maliciously.
The last words Gordan said before his elimination were, "What the fuck do ya mean I was supposed to cook?"
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Gordon let out a stream of profanities as he looked at the people he would be playing for his life against. But what bothered him the most as he looked out from behind his station is that he was plainly the angry Gordon. The guy at station seven seemed genuinely happy despite the dismal circumstances and the cook at station two looked complacent. But the alternative Gordon that bothered him the most shared his bench. It was timid Gordon. Afraid to look at angry Gordon. How were they going to work together? More profanities.
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[WP] Gordan Ramsay is unwillingly selected as a contestant for a Multi-universal cooking show. The other contestants? Various other Gordan(s) from alternate timelines.
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"Who's this?" Asked the Gordan about the tall, blonde man in the chef's outfit next to him.
"He's Gordon." Said the other Gordan.
"Idiot! I- We said bring every Gordan there is. Not Gordon! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, GORDAN!" Shouted Gordan.
Gordon glanced at the Gordan walking toward the door, and then the one behind the desk. "So. What in the Hell i'm doing here?"
"You're here, because this idiot decided to bring you, Gordon, into a cooking competition against all Gordans from other alternative universes." Sighed Gordan.
"He's quite the idiot sandwich, isn't he?" Said Gordon.
-HEY! A voice behind the door could be heard.
"Yes- Hey, SHUT UP! Uhm. Gordon. How good of a chef are you in your world?" Asked Gordan with a curious look.
"I love cooking, it's my passion that burns like fire that is kept fueled by the constant learning of different foods.
I'm known as one of the best on Erth. Not the fucking best, but i'm the most well known at least." Said Gordon.
Gordan gave a little smile. "Tell you what. I can give you access to this Gordan Cooking Competition for this night's cook off, for free. And if you happen to win this, you get a thing i haven't even thought what it would be. You can also punish the idiot that brought you here."
-FUCK OFF! Another shout came behind the door.
"OH YOU FUCK OFF! THIS IS LIKE YOU BROUGHT ONLY RAW, UNPREPARED CHICKEN TO THE CUSTOMER THAT ORDERED BEEF MEDIUM RARE, YOU IDIOT!" Shouted Gordon to the Gordan behind the door.
The Gordan behind the desk laughed. "Well. I think you can handle things from here on out. Now go out there and put some pineapple on pizza!"
Gordon turned his face towards the Gordan, breaking the sound barrier as he said: "What did you just say?"
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Gordon let out a stream of profanities as he looked at the people he would be playing for his life against. But what bothered him the most as he looked out from behind his station is that he was plainly the angry Gordon. The guy at station seven seemed genuinely happy despite the dismal circumstances and the cook at station two looked complacent. But the alternative Gordon that bothered him the most shared his bench. It was timid Gordon. Afraid to look at angry Gordon. How were they going to work together? More profanities.
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[WP] To prove to your 5 year old brother that you can't do magic, you demonstrate by mumbling some random words and yelling "Fireball!" The only problem is... it works.
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"I bet you could do magic, Sean." my little brother said. "You're real smart."
I guess it should have made me feel good, the way Bryan looked up to me...he had so much faith in me. But as I glanced around at the cramped confines of our little room in the trailer where we lived with our mom and whatever "uncle" she'd brought home with her this week, I didn't feel much of anything.
"Not that smart." I muttered. I was ten years older than Bryan, who was 5. We had different dads, of course, but he was just my *brother,* full stop, to me. I hoped I could do well in school, maybe get a good job right out of high school and get us out of here...but it wasn't going like I planned.
"I studied as hard as I could for that math test last week." I sighed. "C-minus. I'm an *idiot,* Bryan."
"No you're not!" he protested, frowning. "Maybe...maybe you're not so good at math but...you're real good with *words.* And that's what magic is, right? Words and stuff."
"Magic's not *real,* Bryan." I retorted.
"It is, though, Sean!" Bryan insisted. "I know it is."
"It's not!" I said, scowling at him. "Look, you're just a little kid. What do you know?"
Bryan's face fell. Great, now I felt like shit.
"I'm sorry..." I said, putting an around him. "I didn't mean to be mean. I just...we have to deal with the real world, you know?"
"I know." he said softly. And then he looked up at me. "But...could you *try?* Just *one time?* Could you use your words, and try to do some magic?"
I looked down at him. I wanted to tell him no. But I couldn't.
I heaved another long sigh. English *was* actually the only subject I was any good at. Mrs. Thompson always complimented me on my poems and essays...yeah, that was the sort of thing that was going to get me a *lot* of work, in the future. Still...it didn't cost me anything, and it would make him happy even when it didn't work -- he always liked to hear the things I wrote.
I thought a moment, arranging the words in my mind into a simple poem, and then I began making broad, mystical gestures in front of myself.
"Okay, stand back, Bryan!" I said, with mock severity. I had to stop myself from grinning as his big green eyes went wide, and he scrambled back behind me.
*"Warming glow that conquers night,
Summer sun that burns so bright,
I summon thee, now hear my call!
Pyro Sphera - FIREBALL!*"
I thrust my hands forward like I'd seen some character do in a video game...and, to my surprise, a golf-ball sized glowing sphere of orange light rolled off the tip of my fingers. Bryan and I watched as time seemed to slow down, and we saw the little orb drift to the wall of our room...
We were thrown back onto the mattresses on the floor that served as our beds, as the wall of the trailer *exploded* outward. As we slowly got back to our feet, we peered out through the six-foot wide gaping hole I had somehow blasted in the wall. Lights were coming on around the trailer park, dogs and car alarms alike howling warnings into the night. I looked down at Bryan, who was looking back up at me in awe, and then back out through the hole I'd created.
Finally, I spoke. "Bryan, get your stuff together in your backpack. Just like we talked about -- hurry!"
He jumped to obey, and picked his way through the debris to start stuffing his few meager little possessions into his school backpack, before pausing and turning back to me.
"Sean...where are we going?" he asked, in a small voice.
I looked down at my hands, which were still glowing with a faint, mystical light. I could feel the awakened power humming in my veins.
"Wherever we want." I said, with a smile.
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"Do magic!" My sibling cried.
"I can't, it's not real" I defied.
"You can! You can!" He cheered.
I pulled my thumb from my hand.
"No, you can do magic!"
He did not like the sleight.
I mumbled "This is tragic."
"You can, you can!"
I whisper something mystic,
Nonsense for a misfit.
I pushed my palm outward to the sky
"FIREBALL!" I cried as one went awry.
Astonished, he let out a cry.
"I told you that you could do it!"
I couldn't believe my trick.
Again and again I flamed wisps.
Will bent thin,
I tried a different phrase.
"Neptune seeks watery plumes!"
And a geyser pulsed into the blue
In disbelief I tried a lie
"I can bring the stars into the sky!"
And with that the heavens turned inky.
From them emerged a twinkling.
"I believe in you brother!"I heard distantly.
I barely believed it so quickly!
Then the urge came too wickedly
"May they roam freely from heaven's cage"
Astonishingly the lights began moving.
Spinning and swirling in a fit of rage.
"Thank you, old mage."
The childish voice I knew grew into a deep bass.
I saw before me a beast of tendrils and a splayed face.
Trembles crept through my body as I accepted fate.
In aeons of forgotten times I was deceived.
Reborn to break the seals I had placed.
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[WP] When humans die they are shown a highlight reel of every moment that they unknowingly saved someone's life. You have just died and are shown into a room with a large screen, a comfortable chair, and 5 months worth of snacks.
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I was not proud of the person I had become. When I sat on the electric chair knowing that I had only moments of life left to live, I began to reminisce all that I had been through - the day it all started with me pushing my best friend into the well, until the day the judge pronounced the death sentence. I am a killer. I've killed more people than I can remember. But I vividly remember the first time.
My best friend and I were 9 at the time. We went to the same school and studied in the same class. After school we used to take the route through the woods to reach home. There was an old well, abandoned - covered up by creepers and looked scary. My friend was terrified of the well and used to hurry on as soon as we approached it. I, however, was intrigued and drawn towards it. It was as if someone was calling me from inside. Until that fateful day, I hadn't dared to go near the well.
I held my friend's hand and pulled him towards the well. "There's no need to be afraid", I told him. "I'm going to make all your fears go away". He reluctantly tagged along. I went to the edge of the wall that was about waist high. I could see a thick blanket of creepers extending over the wall on to the inner wall of the well. It was pitch black. "Come on, look. There's nothing down there". My friend leaned over, still holding my hand. At that moment, I still don't know what came over me or how I managed to get the strength for it, but I lifted my had suddenly that caused my friend to lose his balance. With a sharp tug, I pushed him into the well. He was probably numbed by fear - I don't think he screamed.
I ran home and did not say a word to anyone. My dad noticed something was wrong, but did not say anything. It was late in the evening when my friend's father came home enquiring about him. I nodded when asked and headed off into the direction of the well. Both the parents accompanied by two police officers followed me. I stopped as soon as I saw the well and pointed towards it and then I fell. I was unconscious.
I woke up in the hospital with a lot of people standing around me with a mixture of emotions ranging from concern to confusion to anger. They asked me a lot of questions, but I never spoke a word. After a multitude of tests, they concluded that I'm in a state of shock and that I may not be able to regain my speech. As for the incident, everybody concluded that it could have been an accident. I was the best friend and a kid.
In the course of the next three years, my parents moved to another city, I regained my speech, and I did it again. And again. And it never stopped.
I was meticulous and had always managed to evade the police. But age caught up to me. Now that I'm 57, I'm no longer as dexterous as I was before. A person witnessed my last kill and informed the police.
Zap! There was a blinding light followed by total darkness. A lone door opened at a distance and two persons walked towards me and escorted me out of the dark place. I looked around the corridor we were walking through and saw walls of white with doors bearing numbers, but not in any logical order. They stopped, opened door number 525. They said that my mission had ended and I needed to be de-briefed.
I settled in to a chair set in the center of the room and the projector fired up and the wall lit up with the message:
"Welcome back agent 525: Angel of Death. You have successfully helped 202 humans from a fate that would have been catastrophic if they had lived any longer. You'll now witness each of your achievements. Sit back and enjoy the glorious moments."
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***2 parts. Part 1:***
She came from nothing.
She would never go back.
That was a silent promise she made to herself when she finally grew successful. It felt like only yesterday she had meandered from trash can to trash can, navigating the wretched back alleyways she called home. She had stopped begging long ago, content to not increase the derision and disdain she faced from her forever disheveled appearance. She did not seek mercy; she had learned long ago the consequences of seeking such aid, the scars a permanent teacher and painful reminder of her hopeful fancy. From a young age she learned to rely on herself, and if only to spit into the faces of those who spurned her pleas for help, she thrived.
She thought herself complete, happy even, surrounded by the lavishness that wealth could provide. She had risen from the rubble that buried her, conquered her fears and provided for herself a live she could still scarcely believe she was living. At last, she was content with herself and lot in life. She realized how little that all meant to her when she held her baby in her hands.
Her love had barreled into her life with the tact of a bull in a china shop. Indeed, his comments about her scars had left him with the red mark of her hand upon his cheek. She was quick to forget about him, she had long since learned to push anything that would not help her to the wayside. It was not two days later she, fortunately, encountered him once again. Sincere in his apologies, she allowed him a lunch date to make it up to her. It stretched into a dinner date, and from that dinner date came promise of tomorrow. Days, weeks, months passed, and she came to the startling realization that she could hardly imagine what her life would be like without his influence. It was because of him that for the first time in her life, she prayed.
She got the call late at night, her phones incessant beeping rousing her from her addled state. His name flashing from her phone had caused a frown to crease itself upon her face. She knew that he knew how much she disliked being awoken during the night from his calls. With a job that dictated travel a necessity, she had grown accustomed to missing the sound of her lovers voice, just not enough to be awoken in the dead of night. Unbidden, she answered his call ready to make her irritation apparent, only for the female voice that answered on the to stop her in her tracks. His sister had never gotten along with her, which was not to say she disliked her, they had just never been the best of friends. However, after driving 5 hours to a hospital when the moon was highest in the sky, she would not have wanted anyone else there.
She had never believed in her loves god. He believed in a god that was kind, forgiving, and loving. She had never believed in a higher power at all. At least, one that was benevolent. How could they exist with the trauma and pain her childhood wrought? How could could they exist when her case was not special in the slightest, thousands, if not millions, of other people, suffering through the same hell she experienced? Having never prayed before, it was all she could do upon seeing him. She prayed through the night, never sleeping, never resting, never stopping. She swore upon those prayers, ready to devote anything and everything in exchange for his health. Her prayers went unanswered.
She did not know how long she lay in his hospital bed, cradling the shirt she stole from him that she had been using as a nightshirt. His corpse had long since been removed, his family already making the preparations for his funeral. Doctors and nurses had come in droves, trying to accommodate her, asking her anything she needed, any help that could be provided. She knew they just wanted her out of the hospital, she would never believe that any of their efforts to help her were altruistic in the slightest. It was only the movement of her stomach that roused her from the bed, a dash to the bathroom before the little she had for sustenance was expelled out of her mouth.
The doctors were quick to diagnose her. Pregnant. Her lovers family was happy to find a silver lining in all the misery. She felt as if she were breaking apart. She did not know how to be a parent. She had never had one. He had parents, he would have had some semblance of an idea on how to raise their child. She was a mess, and she feared she would lead the child to a more ruined childhood then even her own. It was only on the doctors insistence that further stress would harm the baby that she started eating regularly again. From that tiny baby step, she took more and more until 9 months later she was laying on the hospital bed, ready to deliver.
The room was silent when she finished, silence which bred hysteria. Things were not supposed to be silent, her baby was supposed to be crying. The doctor, a brown haired man, assured everything was going to be alright, that he would do everything in his power to help her baby. She would hear none of it. She grew louder and louder, demanding to see her baby. Her lover had died when she was not near him, the same would not happen to her baby. Her baby was the last remnant she had of her love. Her baby was what she drew strength from to get through every day. Her baby was everything. It was her last thought as the doctor finally sedated her.
Her sleep was plagued with nightmares, of life without her baby. All her riches, all the grandiosity that came with wealth meant nothing to her, not without her love or her baby with her to enjoy them. The gnawing feeling of emptiness that tore at her was more torturous than anything she had experienced before. The nothing that made up her early life paled in comparison to the pain and hollowness that she was dreaming of now.
She awoke to the brown haired doctor, smiling a beaming smile down at her as her eyes came in to focus. Wildly, she scanned the room, pausing as she came to find her baby next to her, her eyes devouring his every detail. A boy. Three sutures held together the incision in the middle of his chest, her eyes delighting in its simple movement, giving confirmation to her distressed mind that he was alright, the tight feeling gripping her heart abating with every one of his tiny snores. She returned the doctor's smile. She lay her head back down on the pillow, finally realizing just how tired she was, eyes closing as she fell into a peaceful sleep for the first time since her lovers death, content in the knowledge she would not have to keep her promise.
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[WP] When humans die they are shown a highlight reel of every moment that they unknowingly saved someone's life. You have just died and are shown into a room with a large screen, a comfortable chair, and 5 months worth of snacks.
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The act was but a moment of help granted, I stopped and helped a women push her car into the gas station. I didn't even notice the kid in the back seat.
From that moment stemmed a torrent of good will, you see that morning the young boy made it to school on time as his mom got gas faster than she would have. The kid seen a bully and thinking of the man who stopped to help, the child did the same. He grew up to be a social organizer for non profits and helped address global hunger. The young girl who he helped remembered that moment and carried it into adulthood and politics. The woman she became grew in position and her diplomacy averted a nuclear war. From that moment spanned the rest of human history. Another kid in the hall took a lesson away too and became a police officer eventually becoming a police Chief and started a program to reform policing leading to a new era of low crime and community trust.
As the days went by I watched in awe as the power of a single moment transformed the world rippling out like waves from a pebble tossed in a lake. It was then I knew the lesson my father taught of always taking a moment to help was truly the best advice.
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After the eighteenth time a would-be suicide mused on my continued existence, her thoughts narrated by a voice far too beautiful to belong even in that lovely frame, I stopped watching. The sound, however, continued, as friends, relatives, lovers and strangers levied my personal wretchedness into the means of their salvation.
“Why does she keep going?”
“If she deserves to live then so do I.”
“... I can’t do this. She can’t take care of herself. She needs me.”
“Fuck her! I’m going to live just to spite her!”
The frantic crunching of my Raisinets was like the grinding of Earth’s tectonic plates. By the time the film had advanced from “Suicide” to “Snake-related,”I only had a month of snacks left.
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[WP] When humans die they are shown a highlight reel of every moment that they unknowingly saved someone's life. You have just died and are shown into a room with a large screen, a comfortable chair, and 5 months worth of snacks.
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"Why am I here?" The older man asked politely to himself. "You will understand soon, but for now you must sit." Chirped a voice that could only be discribed as tiny and kind.
It took him a few *episodes* to understand what was going on, the pain and suffering then a flash to someone safe and happy. These people, most of them he didn't even remember untill this point. Although now he remembered them as clearly as if they just said goodbye.
"My phone is always on if you ever need someone to talk to, or if you don't feel safe, or if you just want a cup of coffee." He said this with a certain tempo as if he'd just understood that he needed to. See the words burnt from his lips, he was always a closed off person albeit one that trusted his gut. He gave her a ride home that Friday, he never knew what it meant to her when he showed up but he could guess by how she smiled before falling asleep on the way home.
He'd keep this up though college, he loved to drive so it was never an issue. As time went on he became known as the "Cool Mom" of the college, he hated the title because it meant he never had as much fun because of what was expected. It did have it's perks though, his boss would never question him having to drive out during a shift after he drove his son home when the DD got wasted, wrapping his truck around a tree later that night. It was a nasty sight, legs should never been like that, but a cast would let him walk again. Because of this faithful night Mom realized that he didn't mind the title so much.
He'd go on like this for a few more years, gaining some friends that wanted to help. The name had become so well recognized that they had to keep it. So after some trial rides the posters were updated to read:
"Here as always when you need a ride. **980-555-2309**
Welcome our new drivers to the team!
**Dad** and **Big Bro**
This got them even more attention when the student paper ran their poster. As they each grew older and got jobs to support themselves they would dedicate some time to finding new people to join, each one of them kind and caring.
They would continue for quite a while, almost every original member had moved away, but Mom had stayed to keep everything running. It took a while to save up the money but he had started running adds and recruited some more people to join. "The Family" Mom said in the meeting. "That would be a fitting name wouldn't it?" Dad, Big Bro, Nana, and Papi all looked around nodding. "It's settled then, you'll return home and guide your teams in the change." By now they had covered most of Texas, all of Mississippi, a group was starting in Oklahoma, and I10 had a few dedicated members that covered most of the interstate. The regon leaders go home with new posters detailing the updated name, website, and phone number.
"Welome to The Family, we're always here whenever you need us!"
**1-8-THE-FAMILY**
"We're always looking for people to become a member and be there when needed, call and ask how you can help to talk with a founder."
He watched at all of these events pass his vision, countless faces he'd never seen. "Why are you showing me all these people I've never met?" he asked the empty space around him. "These people you've saved, without you they would've lived short bitter lives, but you made the difference to change their path." He sat there for almost 5 months before he spoke again. "Ah that was yesterday. I was on a ride that night..." He trailed off not remembering everything that happened. The screen showed him chatting with a much younger man about what he does and his story up until this point. Glancing down at the odometer as it passed 860,000 miles a powerful jolt rushed throughout his body. The screen shows a crumpled car and truck met at the driver door, an EMT is telling the young man, that it was quick and painless. After getting checked for injury he's released and calls his family.
The video cuts out with a crackle and pop. "Do you have any questions hmm... Mom?" He wonders for a minute. "What happens next? And what happened to The Family?" "Oh well you follow me and we share your story, there are many that have heard of you. When you died CNN ran a quick article about you and the young man who called The Family, in the last five months The Family has grown into a non profit with over 1200 members." The light chirpy voice said as tears formed in his eyes. "They will go on to make sure your memory guides them well. But you can watch it for yourself. Come with me" he watches as a door in front of him opens, he steps in. Tears rushing down his face, smiling as he leaves.
First time posting and on phone so there will probably be issues all around.
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After the eighteenth time a would-be suicide mused on my continued existence, her thoughts narrated by a voice far too beautiful to belong even in that lovely frame, I stopped watching. The sound, however, continued, as friends, relatives, lovers and strangers levied my personal wretchedness into the means of their salvation.
“Why does she keep going?”
“If she deserves to live then so do I.”
“... I can’t do this. She can’t take care of herself. She needs me.”
“Fuck her! I’m going to live just to spite her!”
The frantic crunching of my Raisinets was like the grinding of Earth’s tectonic plates. By the time the film had advanced from “Suicide” to “Snake-related,”I only had a month of snacks left.
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[WP] When humans die they are shown a highlight reel of every moment that they unknowingly saved someone's life. You have just died and are shown into a room with a large screen, a comfortable chair, and 5 months worth of snacks.
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"Why am I here?" The older man asked politely to himself. "You will understand soon, but for now you must sit." Chirped a voice that could only be discribed as tiny and kind.
It took him a few *episodes* to understand what was going on, the pain and suffering then a flash to someone safe and happy. These people, most of them he didn't even remember untill this point. Although now he remembered them as clearly as if they just said goodbye.
"My phone is always on if you ever need someone to talk to, or if you don't feel safe, or if you just want a cup of coffee." He said this with a certain tempo as if he'd just understood that he needed to. See the words burnt from his lips, he was always a closed off person albeit one that trusted his gut. He gave her a ride home that Friday, he never knew what it meant to her when he showed up but he could guess by how she smiled before falling asleep on the way home.
He'd keep this up though college, he loved to drive so it was never an issue. As time went on he became known as the "Cool Mom" of the college, he hated the title because it meant he never had as much fun because of what was expected. It did have it's perks though, his boss would never question him having to drive out during a shift after he drove his son home when the DD got wasted, wrapping his truck around a tree later that night. It was a nasty sight, legs should never been like that, but a cast would let him walk again. Because of this faithful night Mom realized that he didn't mind the title so much.
He'd go on like this for a few more years, gaining some friends that wanted to help. The name had become so well recognized that they had to keep it. So after some trial rides the posters were updated to read:
"Here as always when you need a ride. **980-555-2309**
Welcome our new drivers to the team!
**Dad** and **Big Bro**
This got them even more attention when the student paper ran their poster. As they each grew older and got jobs to support themselves they would dedicate some time to finding new people to join, each one of them kind and caring.
They would continue for quite a while, almost every original member had moved away, but Mom had stayed to keep everything running. It took a while to save up the money but he had started running adds and recruited some more people to join. "The Family" Mom said in the meeting. "That would be a fitting name wouldn't it?" Dad, Big Bro, Nana, and Papi all looked around nodding. "It's settled then, you'll return home and guide your teams in the change." By now they had covered most of Texas, all of Mississippi, a group was starting in Oklahoma, and I10 had a few dedicated members that covered most of the interstate. The regon leaders go home with new posters detailing the updated name, website, and phone number.
"Welome to The Family, we're always here whenever you need us!"
**1-8-THE-FAMILY**
"We're always looking for people to become a member and be there when needed, call and ask how you can help to talk with a founder."
He watched at all of these events pass his vision, countless faces he'd never seen. "Why are you showing me all these people I've never met?" he asked the empty space around him. "These people you've saved, without you they would've lived short bitter lives, but you made the difference to change their path." He sat there for almost 5 months before he spoke again. "Ah that was yesterday. I was on a ride that night..." He trailed off not remembering everything that happened. The screen showed him chatting with a much younger man about what he does and his story up until this point. Glancing down at the odometer as it passed 860,000 miles a powerful jolt rushed throughout his body. The screen shows a crumpled car and truck met at the driver door, an EMT is telling the young man, that it was quick and painless. After getting checked for injury he's released and calls his family.
The video cuts out with a crackle and pop. "Do you have any questions hmm... Mom?" He wonders for a minute. "What happens next? And what happened to The Family?" "Oh well you follow me and we share your story, there are many that have heard of you. When you died CNN ran a quick article about you and the young man who called The Family, in the last five months The Family has grown into a non profit with over 1200 members." The light chirpy voice said as tears formed in his eyes. "They will go on to make sure your memory guides them well. But you can watch it for yourself. Come with me" he watches as a door in front of him opens, he steps in. Tears rushing down his face, smiling as he leaves.
First time posting and on phone so there will probably be issues all around.
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Looking at the copious amounts of chocolate, chips, and for some reason, dried tealeaves, I wondered aloud:
“How long Is this showing?”
A deep booming voice resonated through the room, making my heart jump into my throat.
“21’914 lives saved. No more, no less. ”
Startling, I spun in a tight circle, trying to look everywhere in the white, slightly foggy, room, all at once.
“Who’s there?!”
Out of the wall walked the most beautiful person I’d ever laid my eyes on. It wore baggy loose pants in a comforting beige colour, and a loose-fitting t-shirt in the same colour. Walking on bare feet, it looked slightly down at me.
“Welcome to heaven. I am Paschar, the angel of vision”
With a smile, Paschar touched palm to heart, and waved it’s fingers out at me.
Looking at it, I slouched down into the chair, and put a hand on my racing heart.
“My god, you scared the crap out of me”
Paschar tilted it’s head and giggled lightly.
“No, no. I’m not Your God. You’ll meet Her later. For now, I’ve brought you here to show you all the good things you never knew you did.”
Trying to relax, I settled more comfortably into the chair, and forced a smile.
“Sounds great! How many lives did you say unwittingly saved? Nobody awful I hope!”
“21’914 lives you saved. No more, no less. Their judgement I leave for Astrea. I will however tell you that there are a couple of what you like to call celebrities in there.”
Unable to hold it in anymore, I gathered my courage and looked it straight in the eyes. In a carefully weighted voice, I asked what simply had to be asked.
“I’m awfully sorry to have to ask this, but I simply must know. Are you male or female?”
Paschar looked me right in the eyes, and winked.
“Yes” it said in a sultry voice that managed to be both feminine and masculine at the same time.
Turning abruptly, it started to leave.
“Enough questions for now. You have a movie to watch, and your grandma is “dying” to see you. Haha...”
Accompanied by that light giggling, Paschar walked straight through the wall, ignoring my insistent questions about which grandma she was referring to, whether my ex wife was here, and whether 21’914 lives saved was above or below average.
The light dimmed, and, with the familiar roar of a lion, the longest 5 months of my afterlife began.
*Edit: Typos
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[WP] When humans die they are shown a highlight reel of every moment that they unknowingly saved someone's life. You have just died and are shown into a room with a large screen, a comfortable chair, and 5 months worth of snacks.
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I closed my eyes for the final time and felt the weight on my chest release. The pain was gone and for a couple of moments I lay there and savoured the peace that surrounded me.
I heard somebody clearing their throat in expectation and I opened my eyes again, the peeling paint of the private hospital ward had been replaced with a tasteful decoration that might be found in the most exclusive hotels. The grubby grey sheets of my bed were now extravagant and beyond luxury for a simple man such as myself.
As I looked around in suprise, the source of the cough came into view. It was not my nurse who had cared for me with such devotion in my final days, it was not Klara who stood before me or my daughter Yelena. The look on my visitors face held such peaceful intent that I felt calmed by his prescence.
"Welcome to the afterlife. My name is Pete and I'm here to help you through this transistion. Before we start on the admin side of things, there will be an opportunity to review the good deeds you have done, the lives you have affected - directly or indirectly"
I was stunned by normalacy of this, even after death bureaucracy still has its place
"Enjoy your eternity with us [Stanislav](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stanislav_Petrov)"
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Looking at the copious amounts of chocolate, chips, and for some reason, dried tealeaves, I wondered aloud:
“How long Is this showing?”
A deep booming voice resonated through the room, making my heart jump into my throat.
“21’914 lives saved. No more, no less. ”
Startling, I spun in a tight circle, trying to look everywhere in the white, slightly foggy, room, all at once.
“Who’s there?!”
Out of the wall walked the most beautiful person I’d ever laid my eyes on. It wore baggy loose pants in a comforting beige colour, and a loose-fitting t-shirt in the same colour. Walking on bare feet, it looked slightly down at me.
“Welcome to heaven. I am Paschar, the angel of vision”
With a smile, Paschar touched palm to heart, and waved it’s fingers out at me.
Looking at it, I slouched down into the chair, and put a hand on my racing heart.
“My god, you scared the crap out of me”
Paschar tilted it’s head and giggled lightly.
“No, no. I’m not Your God. You’ll meet Her later. For now, I’ve brought you here to show you all the good things you never knew you did.”
Trying to relax, I settled more comfortably into the chair, and forced a smile.
“Sounds great! How many lives did you say unwittingly saved? Nobody awful I hope!”
“21’914 lives you saved. No more, no less. Their judgement I leave for Astrea. I will however tell you that there are a couple of what you like to call celebrities in there.”
Unable to hold it in anymore, I gathered my courage and looked it straight in the eyes. In a carefully weighted voice, I asked what simply had to be asked.
“I’m awfully sorry to have to ask this, but I simply must know. Are you male or female?”
Paschar looked me right in the eyes, and winked.
“Yes” it said in a sultry voice that managed to be both feminine and masculine at the same time.
Turning abruptly, it started to leave.
“Enough questions for now. You have a movie to watch, and your grandma is “dying” to see you. Haha...”
Accompanied by that light giggling, Paschar walked straight through the wall, ignoring my insistent questions about which grandma she was referring to, whether my ex wife was here, and whether 21’914 lives saved was above or below average.
The light dimmed, and, with the familiar roar of a lion, the longest 5 months of my afterlife began.
*Edit: Typos
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[WP] You were born with the ability to imbue written words with power. Nobody knows you've been the guy who writes fortunes for fortune cookies for decades, helping or harming the lives of those who read them. Now you've decided to write your last, and most powerful incantation.
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I sat quietly thinking what it was I wanted to put on paper. Ever since I discovered my power I had tried to utilize it to bring about positive change in the world.
I decided that I couldn't contain my curiosity any longer. I would write down two simple sentences that confounded me as to what the result could possibly be. I hesitantly picked up my pen and took a slow deep breath.
"This is the last time..." I quietly promise myself as I place the pen to the paper. I scroll the first sentence elegantly pouring my power into it. One more breath and I write the second sentence in the same manner.
I sit back and look at my paper.
"My next sentence will be true. My previous sentence is false."
A blinding pain filled my head and I fell to the floor writhing. My surroundings started to crumble around me. Pieces fell and disappeared before hitting the floor. I saw myself contorting and stretching. I couldn't comprehend what I was seeing, just infinite me's stretching ahead and behind me like a great serpent.
A realization struck me that I was seeing every past, present, and future me. My 4th dimensional self. The pain peaked as my surroundings continued to crumble ripping my conciousness away from my body as it to fell away.
I was free of the pain and could see all. I knew all. Time skewed as the fabric of reality rippled. The universe was unstable but I was calm. I watched as the universe collapsed in on itself compacting everything that was into an infinitely small point.
I reached from the void that remained and touched the speck. It erupted hurling matter in all directions with immeasurable force. I smiled to myself as I watched the universe expand and form. I knew why I had my powers now.
I was a god. The universe created me so that I may create the universe. An endless cycle.
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"All these years! All these years! Not even a thank you!"
I sat there exasperated. All these years I have been helping people get what they want. Wives, cars, a life for some of these ungrateful idiots. I may have given people bad luck but they deserved it. That guy that did some sick garbage deserves to die. What did he do? Is written here. Everything everyone did is recorded for me here at my house for my viewing pleasure.
This house may be beautiful but I tell you, writing for hours at a time and then using my powerful magic for this trash is stupid. The beauty that my house possesses has been voided. Making fortunes are difficult and I could have done something better with my life.
My superiors! God, my superiors. I hate them. Write this, write that. You're to slow. Do I look like Sonic the darn hedgehog? This ends today. I'll show them what my magic can do.
What should I write on the fortune though? Kill them? No, I want them to suffer. The world deserves to suffer. Most of them don't even believe what I spent painstakingly making these fortune cookies. Each should look the same the thin cookie shattering cracking destroying my work at the faintest touch. Those people should crack like that! No, but on the inside.
I have a better idea. Everything those idiots touch would break. Genius! But they would break my house. Should make myself a fortune to be safe? Would that even work? It helped this Eric man that wanted to jump over the grand canyon. Bah! I only let him live as he was interesting. Never mind. I don't care anymore. Their destructive hands have broken everything anyways. But they commit destruction together. Their strength in numbers pains me every time I think about it. It's like an ant. You could easily kill one but a hundred, no, a thousand is terrifying and overpowering.
I got some paper. The good kind. I wrote onto it, again and again, the tedious work I ever so hated before. But this time I felt a wave of relief wash over me. This is the last time I will ever do this. I never knew writing these fortunes would make me relaxed. Thinking of the consequences of me being left alone happy, the people alone and I don't know, bored.
Oh, what I wrote on them? Yeah I wrote on every last one of them: "You have lost them" Short, Easy and to the point, my favorite. They will lose their strength in numbers. Even my superiors. God, their suffering would be fun to watch.
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[WP] You were born with the ability to imbue written words with power. Nobody knows you've been the guy who writes fortunes for fortune cookies for decades, helping or harming the lives of those who read them. Now you've decided to write your last, and most powerful incantation.
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Was my ability a gift or a curse? It seems cliche to even ask...but I have seen so much of it go *wrong.*
I am old now...so very old. I have lived so many lives, and then written myself young again to live new ones. And in all that time, I suppose that I have learned only this: I am not God. I should never have tried to be.
And yet, if I have not done well to chart the course of fate with the the tip of my pen...what am I to make of the fact that I was *born* with the ability to do so? *That* was a fate I did not write, after all. In the end, my conclusion was simple and inescapable.
I decided, for old times' sake, to inscribe my last incantation as I did my first. My hands had not forgotten how to trim a quill. But of course, forgetfulness was a blessing I deprived myself of with words written long ago. I remember all my collected knowledge...and all my mistakes.
I dipped my quill in the ink bottle, and carefully scribed my last and most powerful incantation on the small rectangle of parchment I had prepared. I made no plans concerning who might find it -- that would defeat the purpose.
As the words left my pen, my eyes filled with tears. The weight of a thousand years of trial, error, and hubris began to lift from me. As my power rushed forth, I at last saw its source...it welcomed me.
\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_
I knocked on the old man's door.
"Sir?" I called out, hesitantly. I don't know why I felt obligated to check on him....I mean, I'm an office manager, not a babysitter. But, I like to take care of the people who rent suites in the building I manage. If you're going to do a job, might as well do it well, right?
The old man usually didn't work this late. But, on the other hand, I didn't really know what his work *was --* as far as I could tell he just sent out letters and packages, and seemed to make a pretty good living at it. I'd occasionally popped in to check if he needed anything, and he always seemed friendly enough.
Tonight, though, there was no answer. I could have just left it, but that didn't feel right.
I eased the door open, and went inside the suite. His PA had already gone home for the night, so I walked past her desk and knocked on the inner office door.
"Sir?" I repeated. Still no answer. I opened the door, and froze. The old man wasn't here...but how? He had been here earlier, and he couldn't have left without me seeing him as he passed by my own small office. Confused, I walked towards his desk.
A little slip of some odd brownish paper lay conspicuously atop it, about the size and shape of a fortune cookie message. I picked it up, curiously, and looked at it.
*"Let my power be yours."* it read.
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"All these years! All these years! Not even a thank you!"
I sat there exasperated. All these years I have been helping people get what they want. Wives, cars, a life for some of these ungrateful idiots. I may have given people bad luck but they deserved it. That guy that did some sick garbage deserves to die. What did he do? Is written here. Everything everyone did is recorded for me here at my house for my viewing pleasure.
This house may be beautiful but I tell you, writing for hours at a time and then using my powerful magic for this trash is stupid. The beauty that my house possesses has been voided. Making fortunes are difficult and I could have done something better with my life.
My superiors! God, my superiors. I hate them. Write this, write that. You're to slow. Do I look like Sonic the darn hedgehog? This ends today. I'll show them what my magic can do.
What should I write on the fortune though? Kill them? No, I want them to suffer. The world deserves to suffer. Most of them don't even believe what I spent painstakingly making these fortune cookies. Each should look the same the thin cookie shattering cracking destroying my work at the faintest touch. Those people should crack like that! No, but on the inside.
I have a better idea. Everything those idiots touch would break. Genius! But they would break my house. Should make myself a fortune to be safe? Would that even work? It helped this Eric man that wanted to jump over the grand canyon. Bah! I only let him live as he was interesting. Never mind. I don't care anymore. Their destructive hands have broken everything anyways. But they commit destruction together. Their strength in numbers pains me every time I think about it. It's like an ant. You could easily kill one but a hundred, no, a thousand is terrifying and overpowering.
I got some paper. The good kind. I wrote onto it, again and again, the tedious work I ever so hated before. But this time I felt a wave of relief wash over me. This is the last time I will ever do this. I never knew writing these fortunes would make me relaxed. Thinking of the consequences of me being left alone happy, the people alone and I don't know, bored.
Oh, what I wrote on them? Yeah I wrote on every last one of them: "You have lost them" Short, Easy and to the point, my favorite. They will lose their strength in numbers. Even my superiors. God, their suffering would be fun to watch.
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[WP] You were born with the ability to imbue written words with power. Nobody knows you've been the guy who writes fortunes for fortune cookies for decades, helping or harming the lives of those who read them. Now you've decided to write your last, and most powerful incantation.
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It's a tiring job to write fortunes. Humanity is filled with greed, but they also have the propensity to change, or to make change. I’m not sure if there’s a difference, or if there is, which one is better. I remember when I first realized that my writing held power. It was the first time I’d written something wanting to believe in it. Second grade, I wanted to skip gym class so I wrote a note going ‘my child has a bad tummy pain and won’t go to class’. Well, that didn’t work out so well. Maybe it was the handwriting of a second-grader that gave it away, but the gym made me do a lap around the field. I’d no sooner taken my first step on the grass when I keeled over. I ended up in hospital for two days. Back then, I thought it was a coincidence but similar things happened throughout school that convinced me of it. By far the incident that proved it without any doubts remaining was the historical fiction writing assignment we had to do in high school. But that’s another story.
I tapped my fingers against the keyboard, not typing anything. Sure, I may have this cool power, but with great power comes great responsibility. I wanted a career change. Even if it’s five years to retirement age. That’s why I’ve decided. Today is the last time I will write a fortune.
See, decades of experience has taught me one thing. You can mull things over for an eternity, but sometimes your best work comes from a sudden flash of inspiration.
I started typing.
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Zoe shoved her bag into her locker and sighed. Another day. Another exam. Parents were fighting. She was failing school. No friends, no support. She grabbed a fortune cookie and gave a small smile as she snapped it in half. It might sound dumb, but fortune cookies were her solace. They made her day a bit brighter with something new to read. Zoe wasn’t religious and she probably didn’t believe in a God, so she felt a bit silly relying on a piece of paper inside a manufactured cookie to dictate her everyday life. But she figured she wasn’t hurting anyone by eating cookies, so it didn’t really matter what she believed it. If anything, she was an asset to the community by supporting the local businesses that sold these things, right?
With that thought in mind, she popped one piece in her mouth as she pulled out the little piece of paper. Her eyes scanned the lines of text.
“Close your eyes. Breathe. Believe. Make the effort and things will change.”
‘Well, what the heck.’ Zoey thought. ‘Might as well close my eyes and try.’
As she did, a sudden feeling of calmness swept through her. She opened her eyes, energized. She could pull through this. Things would change.
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"All these years! All these years! Not even a thank you!"
I sat there exasperated. All these years I have been helping people get what they want. Wives, cars, a life for some of these ungrateful idiots. I may have given people bad luck but they deserved it. That guy that did some sick garbage deserves to die. What did he do? Is written here. Everything everyone did is recorded for me here at my house for my viewing pleasure.
This house may be beautiful but I tell you, writing for hours at a time and then using my powerful magic for this trash is stupid. The beauty that my house possesses has been voided. Making fortunes are difficult and I could have done something better with my life.
My superiors! God, my superiors. I hate them. Write this, write that. You're to slow. Do I look like Sonic the darn hedgehog? This ends today. I'll show them what my magic can do.
What should I write on the fortune though? Kill them? No, I want them to suffer. The world deserves to suffer. Most of them don't even believe what I spent painstakingly making these fortune cookies. Each should look the same the thin cookie shattering cracking destroying my work at the faintest touch. Those people should crack like that! No, but on the inside.
I have a better idea. Everything those idiots touch would break. Genius! But they would break my house. Should make myself a fortune to be safe? Would that even work? It helped this Eric man that wanted to jump over the grand canyon. Bah! I only let him live as he was interesting. Never mind. I don't care anymore. Their destructive hands have broken everything anyways. But they commit destruction together. Their strength in numbers pains me every time I think about it. It's like an ant. You could easily kill one but a hundred, no, a thousand is terrifying and overpowering.
I got some paper. The good kind. I wrote onto it, again and again, the tedious work I ever so hated before. But this time I felt a wave of relief wash over me. This is the last time I will ever do this. I never knew writing these fortunes would make me relaxed. Thinking of the consequences of me being left alone happy, the people alone and I don't know, bored.
Oh, what I wrote on them? Yeah I wrote on every last one of them: "You have lost them" Short, Easy and to the point, my favorite. They will lose their strength in numbers. Even my superiors. God, their suffering would be fun to watch.
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[WP] You were born with the ability to imbue written words with power. Nobody knows you've been the guy who writes fortunes for fortune cookies for decades, helping or harming the lives of those who read them. Now you've decided to write your last, and most powerful incantation.
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"Whomsoever shall read this, if he be pure, shall possess the greatest mind of them all" and on the flip side "This piece of paper cannot be destroyed and it will roam the lands till the man pure of heart is found". With that, I put the pen down and folded the paper. It was a windy day, perfect. I left the paper on the window sill and trusted the wind to do its job. I then carried out my life as a normal human being. Months had passed since I had used my ability and with the hassle of modern day life, I quickly forgot what I had written. Nearly 6 years after I passed the paper into the wind, it occurred to me that maybe no one was pure in this world. Then I read the news. '6-year-old boy discovers the cure to cancer, a preventative measure for Alzheimers, an efficient fuel source for space venture, a solar panel that is 100% efficient and..." A look of dread fill s my face "a weather warping machine. He has been contacted by the Aether Co." The president of the Aether Co. was the man to whom I gave the fortune (while inebriated) "You shall possess the power to bring humanity to ruination". I was time for me to pick up the pen again.
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"All these years! All these years! Not even a thank you!"
I sat there exasperated. All these years I have been helping people get what they want. Wives, cars, a life for some of these ungrateful idiots. I may have given people bad luck but they deserved it. That guy that did some sick garbage deserves to die. What did he do? Is written here. Everything everyone did is recorded for me here at my house for my viewing pleasure.
This house may be beautiful but I tell you, writing for hours at a time and then using my powerful magic for this trash is stupid. The beauty that my house possesses has been voided. Making fortunes are difficult and I could have done something better with my life.
My superiors! God, my superiors. I hate them. Write this, write that. You're to slow. Do I look like Sonic the darn hedgehog? This ends today. I'll show them what my magic can do.
What should I write on the fortune though? Kill them? No, I want them to suffer. The world deserves to suffer. Most of them don't even believe what I spent painstakingly making these fortune cookies. Each should look the same the thin cookie shattering cracking destroying my work at the faintest touch. Those people should crack like that! No, but on the inside.
I have a better idea. Everything those idiots touch would break. Genius! But they would break my house. Should make myself a fortune to be safe? Would that even work? It helped this Eric man that wanted to jump over the grand canyon. Bah! I only let him live as he was interesting. Never mind. I don't care anymore. Their destructive hands have broken everything anyways. But they commit destruction together. Their strength in numbers pains me every time I think about it. It's like an ant. You could easily kill one but a hundred, no, a thousand is terrifying and overpowering.
I got some paper. The good kind. I wrote onto it, again and again, the tedious work I ever so hated before. But this time I felt a wave of relief wash over me. This is the last time I will ever do this. I never knew writing these fortunes would make me relaxed. Thinking of the consequences of me being left alone happy, the people alone and I don't know, bored.
Oh, what I wrote on them? Yeah I wrote on every last one of them: "You have lost them" Short, Easy and to the point, my favorite. They will lose their strength in numbers. Even my superiors. God, their suffering would be fun to watch.
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[WP] You wake up in a seemingly endless forest. In your right pocket, there is a combat knife. In your left pocket is a handwritten note that says...
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*If you’re reading this note for the first time, please continue. Otherwise, why the heck are you rereading it?*
*1. This isn’t the first time you’ve had to read this note, ironic.*
*2. You wrote this note, also ironic.*
*3. You have really awesome tech (it’s all in your knife) but whenever you leave your pocket dimension you lose your memories, still not sure if this one is all that ironic...*
*Touch this note to your forehead to regain your memories... sorry that you (me) made yourself (also me) read this when all you (guess who) had to do was facepalm...*
*P.S. being as paranoid as you are about everything, you’ll think that this note is trying to give you the wrong memories or something. You’ll then think that the P.S. is just trying to get you to stop being paranoid so that you will gladly take the note to your forehead. Then you’ll think the same about that last sentence, and so on. If this isn’t enough proof that you wrote this yourself than I don’t know what is.*
And that’s when it all started. Of course, the Naleskans thought that the note would actually work. The technology itself was pretty interesting to me. You could use a surface in contact with someone’s forehead to put in the info you wanted. Only drawbacks were that the target brain had to be wiped clean and the transfer had to be voluntary. The process of wiping the brain itself had a 50% success rate... it seemed my Naleskan friends had hit the bull’s eye, as I had complete recollection of who I was. This note wouldn’t fool a donkey.
Being the smartest man alive comes with a multitude of implied perks, but it also makes you a huge target. I realized I was special in high school, when suddenly the workings of reality itself became clear to me. Every gear, every law and theory, everything that hadn’t been discovered I put together into one elegant formula in just one week of relaxed work. Everything suddenly clicked, and society with all its politics and entertainment seemed so petty in contrast with the insane amount of possibilities.
But I played dumb, keeping my grades barely above C-level and being a complete social outcast. It didn’t matter, college was dull, everything was dull to me. Through my mind flowed hundreds of ideas, and any one of them could completely revolutionize humanity. I couldn’t build them though, it was too dangerous. I could feel the dam of society binding my ideas behind my skull, never allowing me to realize them.
So I left. I went somewhere where nobody could ever find me. Not because they didn’t look well enough, but because it was literally impossible for humanity to find me: I built my own planet. I then freed myself from the chains which had bonded me for so long, creating and advancing my own technology beyond comprehension. I cured death, I broke the limits of the human brain, solved consciousness, created a perfectly renewable source of energy, and created every sci-fi instrument from any movie or book that I could get my hands on.
And then I figured it out. By taking a small container and saturating it with dark energy, you could blow up the space inside of it and fit an unfathomable amount of stuff inside. I made Darksmith, my dagger. In it I put all the tech I had created in my 200 years of R&D. If only I’d been a little more watchful.
I got up, taking in every detail around me as I caressed my dagger’s handle, causing my headache to disappear completely. I then gave it a subtle, mental command, causing it to transform into its true form: the Darklight suit, the gem of my work. I took in a breath of the fresh air, calculating its composition at the same time.
Taking the time to admire the beauty of the forested landscape, I took in the information about *everything*. The trees’ reached up and spread their green hands into the sky above me, waving hello as a waterfall spilled it’s cool flow into the river beside me. Just because I was smart didn’t mean I was apathetic toward simple pleasures. What good does understanding reality do if you never go enjoy it?
My thoughts shifted with the sound of a bird. The Naleskan were going to regret what they’d done, regret it like nothing else. I, Ranniel of Earth, would make sure of that.
—
r/AnOrdinaryGuy
This will be continued with a part 2 tomorrow, and an n amount of parts afterwards.
EDIT: Deleted a comma that I didn’t like, and put it in this sentence instead.
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John
You know we care for you very much, you and your brothers have been of great help to our cause on this solar system, unfortunately the Unification doesn't want to deal with the human race just yet. This might seem wrong, but, in your current state it would be too dangerous to allow you to live near others, surely you still remember what happened the first time the chip failed to control the infection. We've left your favorite weapon in your pocket, it's the only thing you will really need. We don't know how long it will be but you should be fine, you've killed hundreds of them before, you can kill hundreds of them now and thanks to the current state of the disease you can consume their flesh, so there is no need to hunt anything else aside from water. Do not worry friend, you can survive this and once we establish a connection between the Unification and your race, we will come for you.
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[WP] You can freeze time but every time you return (unfreeze time) a little thing in your normal life is changed. The longer you freeze time for, the more drastic the changes when you return.
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I can remember it so clearly. She’s shouting at me, her voice harsh and brittle, flavoured by cigarettes and cheap wine. My young self just wants it all to stop, to escape. And then it happened. Time stops, like a photograph everything is suddenly still. There is no sound, and even the smoke that had been wafting up from the ashtray is frozen. I stop too, for a moment, taking in a breath of relief.
That was the first time it happened, the first time I had put the world on pause like that. I had stayed in that moment for too long, although I have no way to know how long, but when I had released time I had found the universe had charged me for its service. It had taken its payment by stealing something from me. A life had suddenly never existed, the elderly woman next door. She’d given me treats on days where I otherwise wouldn’t have been fed, and now she was just gone. Erased from history so that the only one who now holds her memory is me.
I didn’t do it again until I was much older. In the middle of an exam about to define my fate I had suddenly remembered that feeling, it surged through me and it had happened again. Everything was suddenly put on hold, no time limit, no scratch of pen on paper. A weight had lifted itself from my shoulders. I was quicker that time, doing what I need to finish the exam and checking my answers against others. I relieved the moment of its hold and watched the exam end.
I didn’t realise what had been taken that time until months later when I noticed a missing photograph, one of our few family vacations and even fewer happy moment as a family. I had called my mother, a rarity at that time, to confirm the sinking feeling in my stomach. She did not remember that trip. It had never happened. It had taken a memory and destroyed it.
I was much more careful from then on, realising the cost of this power. There were a few slip ups, mid argument or cramming for a deadline, and I always felt the price of them. I got married, I had children, and suddenly I became afraid of the power. I had worked my way from nothing to something. Something balanced and warm, a home without the stench of nicotine and booze. I did not want to lose any of it.
The last time it happened there was a man with a gun aimed at me and the fear of death. A gut instinct that launched me into a frozen moment that I did not know what to do with. When I unfroze I was in my car driving home, and when I arrived the lights were on. I turned the key in the door and entered. I could hear my family, their voices warm as the our home. Walking into the living room I felt relief flowing through me, my wife and children sat in each others company.
My wife looked up at me and I smiled in my joy of this moment. Then my smile fell as she let out a shriek, standing up from her seat. There was no recognition on her face, only fear at a strange man who had entered her home without warning. I knew in that moment what my toll was to have kept living, just as her husband walked in from the kitchen.
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Tempus fugit. It's a Latin phrase, meaning "time flows". It's a mantra for myself, helping me keep a stable state of my mind as my control over the various aspects of life lessens. For many years, I slowly developed an ability. Chronomancy, obtained from texts about the Lamas of Tibet, fueled by my natural ability to slightly slow the "tempus fugit". From an early age I could very slightly alter the natural flow of time, and manipulate the disturbance in ways that were beneficial to me. I used it for some good things, and to confess, for things like petty thievery of candy and small trinkets.
As I grew older though, I decided that I wanted to strengthen my power, and I moved to Pataliputra, India, in order to pursue spiritual enlightenment. I happened upon a monastery which described the powers I had in perfect detail upon its ancient texts, and was pointed in the direction of a Dugpa school known as the Tanzen Yaksha, in Lhasa, Tibet. I trained here for 4 years, developing my abilities. I had the strength to slow time down drastically after this period, even stop it for several seconds. But I learned of a cost to my abilities, namely small changes that may have significant impacts on my life. Perhaps a bug that initially did not exist, but now sat on my head. A coin, which was once flipped to the head side, now tails. Very small, but nonetheless significant. Eventually, it had significant costs for me. I write to you now from a hyper-extended state. Every day I recite the seven Sutras, in order to keep time stable for me. If I don't? It's all up to chance.
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[WP] You can freeze time but every time you return (unfreeze time) a little thing in your normal life is changed. The longer you freeze time for, the more drastic the changes when you return.
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At first, it was nothing more than a game. Some simple fun, nothing too serious. But it didn't take me long to get hooked. The adrenaline. The competition. The mystery. I can't get enough of it.
I've been stopping and starting time for about ten years now. It's pretty easy to get the hang of after your first time, but ya gotta get past the first one. Most people do, but it's tough. I mean, you can't relate to anyone about that! At least not at first. No one is there to hold your hand and help you process that you can stop time, let alone that shit changes when you've paused it. That, my friend, is unsettling. I'll be the first one to admit that at first it freaked me out. I mean, it's not everyday your mom grows six inches and no one bats an eye. I couldn't really comprehend that in the slightest, but again, stopping and starting time didn't make too much sense either. Somehow I made the connection between the two. I didn't stop again until about two years later, when I did it by complete accident. Yup, my career started because of a fuckin' accident. Hard to believe that sometimes. Anyway, after I stopped it that second time, I immediately switched it back on. I was terrified, but that's when I discovered the difference: The shorter you freeze time, the less drastic the changes.
My proudest catch was about a week after my 27th birthday. At that point I had been training for nine years and had already won a few tournaments. Regional tournaments, what have you, but still pretty significant. I was top 50 in the TNF rankings, but I was scheduled to go up against this Swedish player who simply goes by Noah. Dude is top 10 in the European standings and had the attitude to prove it. A couple months before he had almost made it to the 1 second round in the European Tournament, as a teenager no less. The kid's no joke.
Our round was set at 1.5 seconds, which is no small task. Sure, I've made it under 1, but even for me that may have been a fluke. I like to hover around the 1.3 range, so I felt pretty confident going into this match.
Once we began, like always, we went about our daily lives. Sometimes these matches can last months, but it only took me three days to figure out that the sidewalk between 33rd and 9th and 33rd and 8th had twenty squares instead of twenty one. No one had solved an under 2 second match in under a week before. And I did it 1.5 three days. That's the one that changed everyone. That's the one that made me a household name. That's the one that made me Anthony Thompson. Yes, that Anthony Thompson.
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This is a confession post. Here, I'm going to tell you about my life. My name is John, ironic since it's generic, right? Anyway, I have the power to freeze time. Wow, such a cut there, right? You probably don't believe me, and that's probably a good thing, as it would probably only serve to put me into danger. But, I need to talk about what has happened in my life for the past while. It started when I hit puberty, like my body just kinda developed the ability to freeze and unfreeze time, as I was developing. At first, I couldn't control it, and it was like every kid's fantasy about freezing time and running into a store and stealing everything there they wanted, like some kinda shopping spree. But, it never lasted for more than a few seconds, and every time it happened, odd things would happen, like I'd lose my DSI or Gameboy or my homework is due a little earlier, my hair changed color like I dyed it blonde or something. Those are all things that happened, and I was really lost for a while. nobody noticed the changes or the freezes and I never told anybody, as I was too scared. As I grew older I began to gain control of this power, and I could stop the bursts so I wouldn't continuously lose my keys. But, one day in my life came where I found a girlfriend, who I planned to marry, and at that time in my life, let's say I was going through a hard time. And before I tell you, let me say that the longer I keep the freeze up the weirder things happen to me. So, back to the story, I made a bad decision with my life and decided to use my power to freeze time to steal from a store. I figured out that with my power, if it's less than ten seconds, nothing that bad can happen, less than a minute, a detail regarding myself or my personal life changes, but never before had I gone past a minute. This is where it went bad. I had decided to try to rob a store, thinking if I had the power to do it then to do it, and I took some things from Best Buy, but the problem is, I had gone past my time limit and my internal clock had went past a minute. I didn't realize it until afterwards, however. I was happy with what I got, until I went home, to my girlfriend whom I lived with, and she wasn't there. I tried waiting until the time where she was off work, since she might have had her phone off so I didn't worry, but she didn't come back, nor the next day. I tried calling her mom, but she said she didn't have a daughter, and I got really confused, and that's' when I knew something was wrong. I tried calling all her friends, and nobody knew who she was, and only recognized me as a faint acquaintance, and it was like she completely dissipated from my life. I narrowed it down to what I had done in the past few days, and I realized it was the freezing, as it had gone past a minute, for some stupid TV. She was my SO, and I loved her like she was my only world. Now, she's gone, and I haven't used my power since. It's been tearing at me for years now and I needed to talk about it. I think about it a lot, almost every other night, how I ruined us. Now I have a wife and two beautiful kids, but I'm still painfully reminded of her so often, like I killed her. I just needed to get this off my chest. Thank you.
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[WP] Your best friend is weirdly the ghost that haunts your house, you chat with each other, play video games, bullshit over movies. Until the day that they finally finish the thing that has kept them from moving on all this time
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How am I going to tell Bart that I am leaving? I mean it’s odd that he is the only one in the world that can hear me, but I guess that goes with being dead. Oh, wait…. did I forget that to mention that I’m a ghost? Well before I get more scatterbrained, I am going to start at the beginning.
My name is Rachel Lawrence. I died in my apartment about three years ago. It wasn’t a glamorous death. I was trying to change the light blub in the kitchen’s ceiling, and being under 4’5, I had to use a chair from the dining table. One leg snapped, and I hit my temple against the edge of the counter. Living alone meant my body wasn’t discovered for about three days. I don’t really remember dying, but I do remember being discovered. The paramedics couldn’t hear me, and it was rather surreal seeing them take away my body. I couldn’t leave the apartment afterwards, something to do with the rules of being a ghost. Somehow, I could still touch my stuff, well while it was there before my family started taking stuff out of it. I had to watch my father and mother cry while going through my stuff, oh god it was so embarrassing when they discovered my ‘friend’ in my sock drawer. Death is rather boring when all you can do is walk around an empty apartment. It was empty for about a year before Bart moved in. He was around my age, and like me, this was his first apartment. I really didn’t have anything else to do, so at night when he was asleep, I’d go through his books. That was when I was discovered. He came out of his room in his Harry Potter sleep pants and hair sticking out in every direction and walked right past me while I was reading a Star Wars expanded universe book. His brain didn’t register the floating until the return trip from the bathroom. He blinked, quirked his lip, and his eyes grew large. “What, the what?! Ummmmmmm………”
“I’m sorry, I’ll put it back.”
“Sure, just make sure it’s in the right place…….. Wait, why are you in my apartment?”
“You can see me?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be able to?”
I then explained about dying here and the fact that I was in all intents and purposes a ghost.
His reaction was disbelief at first, then he looked at me and said. “Cool, just don’t peek at me in the shower.”
He was so cool. We would hang out and watch tv, and he was grateful that I could hold onto physical objects because he loved playing Mario Kart.
Over the course of about six months or so, I grew to love the fact that I had a friend. I didn’t have many in life being a shy nerdy person. I mainly stayed at home and watched shows on Netflix. Now I have someone to talk to about them. He thinks it’s funny as heck that I am scared of horror movies and shows. “Rachel, you’re a ghost. You are a supernatural creature. How are you still scared of stuff like this?”
“Because it’s squicky.” I say while doing the icky hand shake.
He laughed and fired up another episode of ‘Once upon a time’
He would do little things for me like describe the taste and sensations of what he was eating, and I would do things like describe what it was like being dead. It was odd that being dead, I never felt so much alive.
Now we come to today. I received some news from the Department of Purgatory and Transitions.
I opened the letter.
Dear Ms. Lawrence.
We do apologize that it has taken so long to process your case. We have finally decided your path. You will be ascending to paradise in one week’s time. Thank you for your patience and enjoy your afterlife.
I stared at the letter. I have never heard of this department, but I guess with any form of government, there is a ton of red tape. I just thought that I was tied to this place. Well, Bart will be coming home from work in about an hour or so.
“Hey Rachel, how are you on this fine night? I rented the latest Thor movie. What’s wrong?” I looked at him with tears in my eyes and shakily read the letter. He took the news well, even though he looked like he wanted to cry. “So, you’re leaving? At least you’re going to the good one. Well, we better make this week count since you’re my best friend in the world and the best player two I’ve ever had, well the only one, but still the best.”
I let out a relieved sigh and smiled. “Thank you for not being mad.”
“Why would I be?” He popped the top on a soda and looked at me. “I mean, I am really going to miss you, but you are going to be where you deserve, and you can actually walk around an expansive area instead of this small place.” Sure, he’s trying to do a positive spin on the whole situation, but he’s like me, we’re both devastated.
The final week of me being in this place, and on this planet was a blast. But like with everything that is fun, it was too short, and the day arrived. I didn’t know how this was going to happen so we said our goodbyes the night before. Goodbye Bart, goodbye apartment, goodbye everything…..
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A terrifying, icy cold chill passed through Jack’s spine as he left his house for work. But it wasn’t the first time it had happened. Corduroy loved doing it, passing straight through a person, and much to Jack’s dismay. It was the last time it happened.
Jack moved into that house for the same reason that anyone else who ever moved into a haunted house did. It was cheap, and he did not believe in ghosts. But unlike all those tales, this one had a twist, the ghost went on to become his best friend. His only friend.
Unlike all the others before him, Jack was indifferent to all the antics the ghost played upon him. A vase that shattered on the floor into a thousand pieces in the middle of the night stayed there on the floor for a week. The bathroom door which was locked from outside was spared from any trauma as Jack just spent the night inside. And walked out in the morning as if nothing had happened.
One night, Jack prepared a grand meal for himself. Nothing like the ghost had ever thought he was capable of. Corduroy only figured out the reason when he saw the contents of a medicine container being emptied into the gravy. And that’s when he confronted Jack. Lots of shouting, ranting and crying ensued. And then relief. It was but the beginning of a friendship that would last for years. Corduroy stood by Jack, and persuaded him to consult a doctor. He turned over a new leaf. They did everything that was possible for a ghost and a human being to do together. Watch movies, read books, play video games, and what not. They trusted each other with everything.
But alas, it was not to last. For that day, when Jack came back from work, Corduroy was nowhere to be seen. He searched in every nook and corner of the house, as if he was looking for a lost trinket. There was no way the ghost could have left the premises of the house. This puzzled him greatly, for a person remains as a ghost only if they are prevented from achieving something, an unfinished task at the time of their death. And there was no way Corduroy could have attended to his unfinished task.
With no one to support him, Jack soon fell back to his old ways. The loneliness, depression, anger and the confusion proved too much for him. And he went away the same way Corduroy did.
He too, became a victim of auto-erotic asphyxiation.
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[WP] Your best friend is weirdly the ghost that haunts your house, you chat with each other, play video games, bullshit over movies. Until the day that they finally finish the thing that has kept them from moving on all this time
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Since we met 39 years ago, Shamus always tried to get me to pull his finger.
14th April 1979, Shamus pops out of a wall "Pull my finger!" he said.
I was 8, so wasn't particularly shocked with a ghost popping out of the wall, as my world view was still very-much open to such things as ghosts. I was, however, a year or 2 too old to fall for the "Pull my finger" joke. I quickly learned, however, that I was the only one who could see him. Not my sister, not my mum, not my dad. So he became my "Imaginary friend" in their eyes. As I got a bit older I had to simply pretend he didn't exist as imaginary friends seem to be the remit of kids alone - adults with imaginary friends are somewhat frowned upon.
Anyway, we started a friendship that went on for the past 35 years. He was there for me through school, through college, he witnessed me losing my virginity from the corner of the room, much to my distraction "Go on son! Give her one from me!".....
He was with me through the dark years, my depression was a terrible thing, and much as I appreciated his "Well, it could be worse, you could be damned to walk the halls of the dead for eternity until you finish an impossible task", he wasn't that much help.
He was at my wedding, dressed very smartly (He said he'd sourced the suit from a local 19th century Baronet) in resplendant green linens.
Shamus aged with me, I don't understand how that happened or why, he was 8 when he died, he was 8 when I first met him, as was I, and then this morning when he finally left my world forever, he was 47, as am I.
I had live friends too, but Shamus was never party to those times, he said he had other things on his mind, his impossible task.
We had many adventures together, I travelled the world with work and for lesiure, and Shamus came with me "I wonder how you say pull my finger in Urdu/Italian/French", he'd ask, as we looked at another ancient wonder, another dreamscape of a vista.
We also gamed, through my formative years up until today, I was commander, he was my co-pilot, I was the assassin, he was my mentor voice offering advice and help wherever possible, intermittently interspersed with requests for me to pull his finger, of course. He would enjoy the books we read, the high Sci-fi adventures of Ian M Banks, the gritty spy novels of Le Carre. We'd talk about them at length. We were truly best friends.
But every day I saw him, every day would start with "Pull my finger", every night would end with "Hey Steve, go on, pull my finger".
Until this morning. This morning, he stopped me as I was about to leave the house. There was an urgency I'd never seen in him before, a need, "Steve, you have to pull my finger. Please. For the love of god, pull my finger. We'll not see each other again, but please. If we've ever been friends, pull my finger".
And then it dawned on me, I looked at Shamus! "THIS is the THING! this is your impossible task isn't it ?! I'll free you from this life, this purgatory, it all makes sense!"
I gave in.
First, let me explain what a ghost fart is like - imagine a pile of rotting, decayed rats. Imagine a larger decaying rat ate those rats. Imagine that rat then threw them up, ate the vomit, the poo'd out those rats. You're not even close to the smell of a ghost fart.
Shaun let out the mother of all ghost farts. My brain took a second to register, then I lost consciousness.
I awoke to the sound of Shamus laughing, but laughing in a way he'd never laughed before. This was pure, unbridled joy. He was utterly enthrallled.
"What the fuck Shamus?!", I shouted, causing him to burst into further peels of laughter.
"Sorry man, I had to, I literally had to!", he choked out the words, uncontrollable laughter still destroying him.
I got to my feet, waves of nausea passing over me continuously as my brain re-registered the god-awful stench. "Just tell me it worked, this was the thing, wasn't it ?".
Shamus's laughter only grew louder "Fuck no! I had to solve my grandfathers murder. This, this was just a bonus! I can't believe you fell for it, SUCKER!".
And with that, Shamus vanished, leaving another waft of that deathly, grim, horror of a smell.
I'm sat at my desk now, writing this, and reading about the unsolved murder of Graham Clip in 1979, about how new evidence had mysteriously turned up to show his accountant had had him killed for his great aunt's inheritance. I see a picture of Graham, with an 8 year old boy. He's grinning, that boy, the grin of a joke shared between a grandson and a grandfather, Graham Clip is quite clearly holding a finger out.
Screw you Shamus. I'm gonna start saving one up, and one day, one day, you're fucked.
Pull my finger, indeed!
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A terrifying, icy cold chill passed through Jack’s spine as he left his house for work. But it wasn’t the first time it had happened. Corduroy loved doing it, passing straight through a person, and much to Jack’s dismay. It was the last time it happened.
Jack moved into that house for the same reason that anyone else who ever moved into a haunted house did. It was cheap, and he did not believe in ghosts. But unlike all those tales, this one had a twist, the ghost went on to become his best friend. His only friend.
Unlike all the others before him, Jack was indifferent to all the antics the ghost played upon him. A vase that shattered on the floor into a thousand pieces in the middle of the night stayed there on the floor for a week. The bathroom door which was locked from outside was spared from any trauma as Jack just spent the night inside. And walked out in the morning as if nothing had happened.
One night, Jack prepared a grand meal for himself. Nothing like the ghost had ever thought he was capable of. Corduroy only figured out the reason when he saw the contents of a medicine container being emptied into the gravy. And that’s when he confronted Jack. Lots of shouting, ranting and crying ensued. And then relief. It was but the beginning of a friendship that would last for years. Corduroy stood by Jack, and persuaded him to consult a doctor. He turned over a new leaf. They did everything that was possible for a ghost and a human being to do together. Watch movies, read books, play video games, and what not. They trusted each other with everything.
But alas, it was not to last. For that day, when Jack came back from work, Corduroy was nowhere to be seen. He searched in every nook and corner of the house, as if he was looking for a lost trinket. There was no way the ghost could have left the premises of the house. This puzzled him greatly, for a person remains as a ghost only if they are prevented from achieving something, an unfinished task at the time of their death. And there was no way Corduroy could have attended to his unfinished task.
With no one to support him, Jack soon fell back to his old ways. The loneliness, depression, anger and the confusion proved too much for him. And he went away the same way Corduroy did.
He too, became a victim of auto-erotic asphyxiation.
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[WP] Your best friend is weirdly the ghost that haunts your house, you chat with each other, play video games, bullshit over movies. Until the day that they finally finish the thing that has kept them from moving on all this time
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*”Hey...uh...I have to talk to you about something.”*
“Okay,” I respond, glancing quickly at the ethereal form of my best friend. He takes that moment to throw my fighter and the booming voice of Shao Kahn shouts to finish me. A toothy grin stretches across his face as Sub-Zero freezes my doomed Sonia and shatters the sculpture with an uppercut. “Cheap,” I mutter, tossing the controller.
His smile quickly fades. *”Sorry.”* he said. I didn’t believe him.
We sat there for awhile, listening to the character select music and not looking at each other. Eventually, I picked up the tv remote and pressed the power button. The silence of the apartment was deafening.
*”I just don’t know how to say this,”* he muttered. I’ve never seen him cry before and I wasn’t sure if ghosts were able to. He faded in and out. One minute he was sitting there and the next I could make out most of the couch and wall through him. My guess was that this was as close to crying as he was capable.
“You’re leaving,” I said. I wasn’t looking at him anymore. I was staring at the Super Nintendo games haphazardly piled next to the console.
I didn’t see him, but I could feel him tense up. Once again, as tense as a ghost could be. He was so visible I swore I could reach my hand over and touch him.
*”H-how did-“*
“How did I know?” I interrupted. I sighed, and leaned back into the worn couch cushions. They offered no support and I sunk in enough that the faded blue fabric began to encroach on my peripheral vision. I decided to sit back up. “I could tell. You haven’t been yourself. You’ve been acting the way you were before you...you know...”
*”I know...”* his shimmering right hand inadvertently rubbed his neck. The rope marks didn’t travel into the afterlife with him but whenever my late friend felt nervous or stressed his hand would go to that one spot.
Silence once again filled the room. Seconds felt like minutes and minutes felt like hours. I didn’t want to say anything, and, apparently, neither did he. But, someone needed to, so I asked, “When?”
My friend faded a bit again. *”Soon.”*
“Soon when? Today? Tomorrow? Next week?” I realized I was beginning to shout. I looked back at the black screen of the television and sighed. “Sorry.”
*”It’s okay,”* he replied. *”Tonight.”*
I could see him fade away a little, probably bracing for an outburst. But, surprisingly, even to me, I wasn’t upset. It just felt like the next inevitable step. It made sense.
*”You okay?”* he asked.
I looked my friend in the eyes and smiled. My vision was slightly blurry and I chuckled as I wiped the back of my hand across my face.
*”Allergies?”* he replied with a wry smile.
I sniffed and finished wiping the remaining tears away. “Yeah...fucking allergies.”
My friend watched me and asked again, *”You’re okay?”*
I knew what he meant. That lurking darkness. The intrusive thoughts when life got hard. It was after his funeral that I came the closest to actually acting upon them. Over the years, my friend told me he wasn’t sure why he was around. He regretted the decisions he made, but the afterlife has a way of changing your perspective.
He knew now, at this point, why he was stuck here. He knew what his quest was all about. This was the closest we’ve ever gotten to actually saying it out loud.
“I’m good,” I answered and I wasn’t lying. I was good.
My friend smiled. That happy goofy smile I remember from years back. And then he was gone.
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A terrifying, icy cold chill passed through Jack’s spine as he left his house for work. But it wasn’t the first time it had happened. Corduroy loved doing it, passing straight through a person, and much to Jack’s dismay. It was the last time it happened.
Jack moved into that house for the same reason that anyone else who ever moved into a haunted house did. It was cheap, and he did not believe in ghosts. But unlike all those tales, this one had a twist, the ghost went on to become his best friend. His only friend.
Unlike all the others before him, Jack was indifferent to all the antics the ghost played upon him. A vase that shattered on the floor into a thousand pieces in the middle of the night stayed there on the floor for a week. The bathroom door which was locked from outside was spared from any trauma as Jack just spent the night inside. And walked out in the morning as if nothing had happened.
One night, Jack prepared a grand meal for himself. Nothing like the ghost had ever thought he was capable of. Corduroy only figured out the reason when he saw the contents of a medicine container being emptied into the gravy. And that’s when he confronted Jack. Lots of shouting, ranting and crying ensued. And then relief. It was but the beginning of a friendship that would last for years. Corduroy stood by Jack, and persuaded him to consult a doctor. He turned over a new leaf. They did everything that was possible for a ghost and a human being to do together. Watch movies, read books, play video games, and what not. They trusted each other with everything.
But alas, it was not to last. For that day, when Jack came back from work, Corduroy was nowhere to be seen. He searched in every nook and corner of the house, as if he was looking for a lost trinket. There was no way the ghost could have left the premises of the house. This puzzled him greatly, for a person remains as a ghost only if they are prevented from achieving something, an unfinished task at the time of their death. And there was no way Corduroy could have attended to his unfinished task.
With no one to support him, Jack soon fell back to his old ways. The loneliness, depression, anger and the confusion proved too much for him. And he went away the same way Corduroy did.
He too, became a victim of auto-erotic asphyxiation.
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[WP] Your best friend is weirdly the ghost that haunts your house, you chat with each other, play video games, bullshit over movies. Until the day that they finally finish the thing that has kept them from moving on all this time
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*”Hey...uh...I have to talk to you about something.”*
“Okay,” I respond, glancing quickly at the ethereal form of my best friend. He takes that moment to throw my fighter and the booming voice of Shao Kahn shouts to finish me. A toothy grin stretches across his face as Sub-Zero freezes my doomed Sonia and shatters the sculpture with an uppercut. “Cheap,” I mutter, tossing the controller.
His smile quickly fades. *”Sorry.”* he said. I didn’t believe him.
We sat there for awhile, listening to the character select music and not looking at each other. Eventually, I picked up the tv remote and pressed the power button. The silence of the apartment was deafening.
*”I just don’t know how to say this,”* he muttered. I’ve never seen him cry before and I wasn’t sure if ghosts were able to. He faded in and out. One minute he was sitting there and the next I could make out most of the couch and wall through him. My guess was that this was as close to crying as he was capable.
“You’re leaving,” I said. I wasn’t looking at him anymore. I was staring at the Super Nintendo games haphazardly piled next to the console.
I didn’t see him, but I could feel him tense up. Once again, as tense as a ghost could be. He was so visible I swore I could reach my hand over and touch him.
*”H-how did-“*
“How did I know?” I interrupted. I sighed, and leaned back into the worn couch cushions. They offered no support and I sunk in enough that the faded blue fabric began to encroach on my peripheral vision. I decided to sit back up. “I could tell. You haven’t been yourself. You’ve been acting the way you were before you...you know...”
*”I know...”* his shimmering right hand inadvertently rubbed his neck. The rope marks didn’t travel into the afterlife with him but whenever my late friend felt nervous or stressed his hand would go to that one spot.
Silence once again filled the room. Seconds felt like minutes and minutes felt like hours. I didn’t want to say anything, and, apparently, neither did he. But, someone needed to, so I asked, “When?”
My friend faded a bit again. *”Soon.”*
“Soon when? Today? Tomorrow? Next week?” I realized I was beginning to shout. I looked back at the black screen of the television and sighed. “Sorry.”
*”It’s okay,”* he replied. *”Tonight.”*
I could see him fade away a little, probably bracing for an outburst. But, surprisingly, even to me, I wasn’t upset. It just felt like the next inevitable step. It made sense.
*”You okay?”* he asked.
I looked my friend in the eyes and smiled. My vision was slightly blurry and I chuckled as I wiped the back of my hand across my face.
*”Allergies?”* he replied with a wry smile.
I sniffed and finished wiping the remaining tears away. “Yeah...fucking allergies.”
My friend watched me and asked again, *”You’re okay?”*
I knew what he meant. That lurking darkness. The intrusive thoughts when life got hard. It was after his funeral that I came the closest to actually acting upon them. Over the years, my friend told me he wasn’t sure why he was around. He regretted the decisions he made, but the afterlife has a way of changing your perspective.
He knew now, at this point, why he was stuck here. He knew what his quest was all about. This was the closest we’ve ever gotten to actually saying it out loud.
“I’m good,” I answered and I wasn’t lying. I was good.
My friend smiled. That happy goofy smile I remember from years back. And then he was gone.
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How am I going to tell Bart that I am leaving? I mean it’s odd that he is the only one in the world that can hear me, but I guess that goes with being dead. Oh, wait…. did I forget that to mention that I’m a ghost? Well before I get more scatterbrained, I am going to start at the beginning.
My name is Rachel Lawrence. I died in my apartment about three years ago. It wasn’t a glamorous death. I was trying to change the light blub in the kitchen’s ceiling, and being under 4’5, I had to use a chair from the dining table. One leg snapped, and I hit my temple against the edge of the counter. Living alone meant my body wasn’t discovered for about three days. I don’t really remember dying, but I do remember being discovered. The paramedics couldn’t hear me, and it was rather surreal seeing them take away my body. I couldn’t leave the apartment afterwards, something to do with the rules of being a ghost. Somehow, I could still touch my stuff, well while it was there before my family started taking stuff out of it. I had to watch my father and mother cry while going through my stuff, oh god it was so embarrassing when they discovered my ‘friend’ in my sock drawer. Death is rather boring when all you can do is walk around an empty apartment. It was empty for about a year before Bart moved in. He was around my age, and like me, this was his first apartment. I really didn’t have anything else to do, so at night when he was asleep, I’d go through his books. That was when I was discovered. He came out of his room in his Harry Potter sleep pants and hair sticking out in every direction and walked right past me while I was reading a Star Wars expanded universe book. His brain didn’t register the floating until the return trip from the bathroom. He blinked, quirked his lip, and his eyes grew large. “What, the what?! Ummmmmmm………”
“I’m sorry, I’ll put it back.”
“Sure, just make sure it’s in the right place…….. Wait, why are you in my apartment?”
“You can see me?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be able to?”
I then explained about dying here and the fact that I was in all intents and purposes a ghost.
His reaction was disbelief at first, then he looked at me and said. “Cool, just don’t peek at me in the shower.”
He was so cool. We would hang out and watch tv, and he was grateful that I could hold onto physical objects because he loved playing Mario Kart.
Over the course of about six months or so, I grew to love the fact that I had a friend. I didn’t have many in life being a shy nerdy person. I mainly stayed at home and watched shows on Netflix. Now I have someone to talk to about them. He thinks it’s funny as heck that I am scared of horror movies and shows. “Rachel, you’re a ghost. You are a supernatural creature. How are you still scared of stuff like this?”
“Because it’s squicky.” I say while doing the icky hand shake.
He laughed and fired up another episode of ‘Once upon a time’
He would do little things for me like describe the taste and sensations of what he was eating, and I would do things like describe what it was like being dead. It was odd that being dead, I never felt so much alive.
Now we come to today. I received some news from the Department of Purgatory and Transitions.
I opened the letter.
Dear Ms. Lawrence.
We do apologize that it has taken so long to process your case. We have finally decided your path. You will be ascending to paradise in one week’s time. Thank you for your patience and enjoy your afterlife.
I stared at the letter. I have never heard of this department, but I guess with any form of government, there is a ton of red tape. I just thought that I was tied to this place. Well, Bart will be coming home from work in about an hour or so.
“Hey Rachel, how are you on this fine night? I rented the latest Thor movie. What’s wrong?” I looked at him with tears in my eyes and shakily read the letter. He took the news well, even though he looked like he wanted to cry. “So, you’re leaving? At least you’re going to the good one. Well, we better make this week count since you’re my best friend in the world and the best player two I’ve ever had, well the only one, but still the best.”
I let out a relieved sigh and smiled. “Thank you for not being mad.”
“Why would I be?” He popped the top on a soda and looked at me. “I mean, I am really going to miss you, but you are going to be where you deserve, and you can actually walk around an expansive area instead of this small place.” Sure, he’s trying to do a positive spin on the whole situation, but he’s like me, we’re both devastated.
The final week of me being in this place, and on this planet was a blast. But like with everything that is fun, it was too short, and the day arrived. I didn’t know how this was going to happen so we said our goodbyes the night before. Goodbye Bart, goodbye apartment, goodbye everything…..
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[WP] Your best friend is weirdly the ghost that haunts your house, you chat with each other, play video games, bullshit over movies. Until the day that they finally finish the thing that has kept them from moving on all this time
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She had hair that rested on her shoulders, giving off a slight glow from the reflected sunlight. You know, the kind of hair that never really does what you want it to do—you can never straighten it, or curl it without hours of pain and agony—but whenever you just let it be, it settled just perfectly.
“How do you get your hair that way?”
“What do you mean?” She says, raising her eyebrow ever so slightly.
“Like, I can never figure out how to do my hair every morning, yet you seem to do nothing, and manage to look perfect.”
“Oh!” She laughs. “I don’t do anything, I’m too lazy to get up and bother with it.”
“Lucky...” I grumble, taking a swig of Dr. Pepper.
Days like this—with the sun radiating off of the pavement, as we sit in our cheap plastic lawn chairs and talk nonsense as we joke about all the idiosyncracies that plague our lives—just don’t come as often as they need to. Days like these can always take a load off of the stress of life—best way I can describe it is almost as if it’s oil that greases our cogs when we think we just can’t run anymore.
I take another sip, as Cheryl licks her finger to turn the page of her novel.
She always liked books, mainly horror novels that take you away to a world where fear and anguish lurk just beyond he corner, and you turn the page in spite of all your instincts telling you not to. But you must go on. You must know the truth.
“What are you reading now?”
“Stephen King. The Shining. You should check it out sometime, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of time to kill at this point, now that it’s summer.”
“Yeah...”
Only Cheryl would like reading during summer vacation, a time when you’re supposed to be out skinny dipping in pools and going to sold-out concerts, screaming with the crowd as your favorite band pours their hearts out on stage.
But that’s what I liked about Cheryl. She didn’t want any of the flashy, exorbitant luxuries and experiences that life had to offer. No, you give her a book, a nice day, and a chair, and she was happy.
There’s a lot of things that I like about Cheryl, that I’ve noticed these past weeks since she first showed up—her hair, her uncanny lifestyle, her eyes—oh God, her eyes. Everytime you looked into her eyes, I swear, they told stories to you. Stories of innocence and courage shrouded in blinding rings of blue. Her blue eyes were so clear, it’s almost as if they didn’t come from this world, they were too perfect.
I gazed into the cloudless sky, and said the first thing that came to mind.
“Do you think we’ll be together forever?”
“That was out of the blue,” she chuckled as she turned another page.
“I’m serious! When we get out of here, and we find jobs, and we get married, and go through the rest of our lives, do you think we’ll still be together?”
“Who can say?”
I recoiled at her suggestion.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, truthfully, life is full of twists and turns, who knows where we’ll be in an hour, let alone far off in the future.”
“Do you really think that something so bad could happen that we’d hate each other?”
“I don’t know, regardless, that’s not the point.”
“Alright, genius,” I tease, stealing her hand from her book.
“What is your point?”
“My point is, no matter what might happen in the future, we should always take the time and enjoy the present. You enjoy the simplicities of the current time, and the worries of what will happen tomorrow will slip away.”
Her eyes locked with mine.
She smiled so sweetly, snaking her soft slender fingers around mine.
“I love the time we spend together, let me enjoy it in the moment, please. Without all the worries of what’ll happen in the future.”
When Cheryl puts it like that, how can I refuse? I return the smile, and all sense of peace fills me from within.
I knew, deep down, it couldn’t stay like this. We’d both have to move on, but something was keeping me from resting easy. Something, I could never put a finger on. Something, I never realized, until I met Cheryl.
I strengthened my grip of her hand.
“Promise me, that no matter what, we’ll try to be friends forever.”
“If you insist.”
Just hearing her say that put me at ease. I don’t know what it was about her—maybe it was her perfect hair, her simplistic lifestyle, her jawdropping gaze—but I knew that this was what I was looking for. I knew that everything in my life had lead me to this moment, in our lawn chairs, the sun beading down on the pavement, hands in a locked grip.
I felt completed by her, as if she was the one true answer to my life’s call. As she returned to her book, I realized I was being numbed by my happiness.
Slowly, slowly fading away, I say one last thing, before disappearing forever.
“I love you, Cheryl.”
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I was about 6 at the time we moved into our current house. My mother saw it was a very cheap house, due to all it's apparent past haunting, and she found a nearby job as a single mother. She believed it was bullshit, and I'm glad she did. When we first moved here, she didn't notice anything but I started to notice weird things going on in the house, and one day I was in my room, going to sleep so the light was off, when creepily I heard a voice coming from the corner of the room.
"This used to be my room." said a girlish voice.
I couldn't quite pinpoint where she was, but I wasn't really disturbed or scared, to be honest. This was 6 months after I had moved in. It felt like I knew the presence in the room personally, and it struck me hard. I connected the dots with my little brain and I realized that she was the ghost that people complained about in the haunting reviews.
"Who's there?" I asked lightly, not to scare her. "My name's Anna, you can come out and talk to me."
A shape slowly appeared in the darkness, a transparent white that slowly solidified into color, a girl around the age of 12.
"Wow, you're a ghost? Who are you?" I inquired to the mysterious girl.
"My name is Isabella, and I'm a girl who's been here in this house for many many years, how are you able to hear and see me?"
This part felt a little weird, was nobody else able to see and hear her? Weren't there other people here before? I was confused.
"I'm not sure Isabella, what happened to you?" I asked.
Isabella smiled grimly "You can call me Bella, but as for what happened to me, I burned in a house fire many years ago."
Fast forward a few years, I became best friends with her, always coming back home from school and playing with her. My mom thought I was going through an imaginary friend phase and I didn't have any friends, but she was real. I learned her parents were abusive, and she was 12. Fast forward again, and I'm just entering my 12th birthday. I lived in this house all my life, and Isabella has become my best friend, but today, on my birthday, she smiled and followed me around content. She didn't say very much but we had fun. The day went as normal, we watched a movie, I ate cake, my mom and family nearby came to sing happy birthday, but here's where it all went wrong. Today, earlier, I was talking to Isabella, and suddenly she started to fade, and I got really confused as she's never done it before.
I asked, "What's happening? Is this another one of your tricks?"
She smiled faintly and whispered to me "No, I'm moving on. I've fulfilled my purpose here. Thank you, Anna, for your company and friendship."
I started to frown, "no no, what did you do? Why are you moving on? What's going on? What were you here to do?"
She replied softly "My sole thing that tethered me here was I had no friends my age, and now you are my age and my best friend, you've helped me to pass on . . . thank you. I must go, goodbye"
She, just as soon as I saw her come into existence when I first met her, disappeared in front of my very eyes. It registered that my best friend had just disappeared and I started to cry heavily, touching the place I last saw her, my eyes bawling. My mother rushed up the stairs, but she didn't understand what happened. Nobody did. I held her a funeral later in my backyard, but there was nothing to bury. Today I lost my best friend, and nobody believed me. I miss her so much and now I'm blaming myself for her absence. it feels so empty. I spent the day crying, and my mom ended up trying to take me to a therapist. It didn't work, but because of the wrong reason. They thought I was crazy but I was in mourning. I just feel so empty now. I'm happy for you, Isabella. I'm glad you were my friend. I'll do my best to move on, for you. Thank you.
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[WP] Your best friend is weirdly the ghost that haunts your house, you chat with each other, play video games, bullshit over movies. Until the day that they finally finish the thing that has kept them from moving on all this time
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I press the button and Aidan on the screen jumps over the oncoming monster and slashes is his sword down. The sword nicks the top of the monster - a strange mix of pumpkin and bloodsucking bat. The thing screams on top of its lungs as the legendary sword rips it apart, ichor flowing everywhere around it till it deflates right as Aidan lands on the ground.
And just like that, I'm on the ground.
I'm...sideways? I don't understand. I was sitting on the chair a moment ago. What happened to the chair? I try to turn my head but I...can't. I can't move my head. Oh God, I can't move my head.
Reality crashes into me like a runaway train. I'm lying on the ground sideways, and it takes all my strength but I can make out the edge of the chair where I'd been sitting standing upright as if I was still there. The controller lay right side up on the ground, waiting for someone to pick it up.
And Aidan on the screen doesn't look so brave anymore, he doesn't look so stylish either. He's an 8-bit character, a collection of not-so-small squares, who stands still, not moving as the monster heads towards him.
And it's no fearsome beast with leathery skin and massive wings. It too is a set of squares that move individually to make it look like it's squirming. It gets closer to Aidan. Closer. Closer.
Aidan jumps.
He leaps over the beast and with an almost casual backwards flick of his legendary blade he slices the beast in half.
A girl appears on the chair, holding the controller. Her legs swing, dangling off the chair, barely reaching the ground. She turns towards me, her fine blond hair floating above her head like a halo. Not bound by silly things like gravity. Her startlingly blue eyes are twinkling and a smile plays across her lips.
I open my mouth to say her name, to call out. I want to say it, I *should* be saying it but I...can't. No voice comes out.
All I can do is stare as she just smiles. Stare at the face I more familiar with than anything else in the world. My best friend in kindergarten before she died.
Died for everyone else, that is.
She stuck around for me, when I was a girl playing old games; when I was teenager, helping me choose makeup. When I was in college she gave her thoughts on boys. She was there when I worked, telling me jokes when I was about to fall asleep. She was there when I had kids, holding my left hand while Mike held the right. She was there when my Mike died, her hand squeezing mine, her face solemn.
And here she was now.
She stepped off the chair, but didn't fall to the ground. Instead she floated a foot off the floor and came over to me. She bent down to look me in the eyes and ran her fingers through my silver hair. It was the caress of a beam of sunlight, entangled in my hair. I tried to speak but she put a finger up to my lips, her touch so light that it could've been a strand of hair.
Then she spoke. Her voice was the whistle of a gentle breeze saying everything and nothing at all. Quiet but ever-present at the same time.
And when my vision began to fade, she put her hands on my eyelids, and this time they felt like they were as heavy as the world. I fought her, but she just shook her head, her mouth as severe as any policewoman, but her sparkling eyes belying her amusement.
And I finally understood. As I closed my eyes, I knew she would disappear too.
After all, the person who'd kept her from moving on was finally at an end.
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I was about 6 at the time we moved into our current house. My mother saw it was a very cheap house, due to all it's apparent past haunting, and she found a nearby job as a single mother. She believed it was bullshit, and I'm glad she did. When we first moved here, she didn't notice anything but I started to notice weird things going on in the house, and one day I was in my room, going to sleep so the light was off, when creepily I heard a voice coming from the corner of the room.
"This used to be my room." said a girlish voice.
I couldn't quite pinpoint where she was, but I wasn't really disturbed or scared, to be honest. This was 6 months after I had moved in. It felt like I knew the presence in the room personally, and it struck me hard. I connected the dots with my little brain and I realized that she was the ghost that people complained about in the haunting reviews.
"Who's there?" I asked lightly, not to scare her. "My name's Anna, you can come out and talk to me."
A shape slowly appeared in the darkness, a transparent white that slowly solidified into color, a girl around the age of 12.
"Wow, you're a ghost? Who are you?" I inquired to the mysterious girl.
"My name is Isabella, and I'm a girl who's been here in this house for many many years, how are you able to hear and see me?"
This part felt a little weird, was nobody else able to see and hear her? Weren't there other people here before? I was confused.
"I'm not sure Isabella, what happened to you?" I asked.
Isabella smiled grimly "You can call me Bella, but as for what happened to me, I burned in a house fire many years ago."
Fast forward a few years, I became best friends with her, always coming back home from school and playing with her. My mom thought I was going through an imaginary friend phase and I didn't have any friends, but she was real. I learned her parents were abusive, and she was 12. Fast forward again, and I'm just entering my 12th birthday. I lived in this house all my life, and Isabella has become my best friend, but today, on my birthday, she smiled and followed me around content. She didn't say very much but we had fun. The day went as normal, we watched a movie, I ate cake, my mom and family nearby came to sing happy birthday, but here's where it all went wrong. Today, earlier, I was talking to Isabella, and suddenly she started to fade, and I got really confused as she's never done it before.
I asked, "What's happening? Is this another one of your tricks?"
She smiled faintly and whispered to me "No, I'm moving on. I've fulfilled my purpose here. Thank you, Anna, for your company and friendship."
I started to frown, "no no, what did you do? Why are you moving on? What's going on? What were you here to do?"
She replied softly "My sole thing that tethered me here was I had no friends my age, and now you are my age and my best friend, you've helped me to pass on . . . thank you. I must go, goodbye"
She, just as soon as I saw her come into existence when I first met her, disappeared in front of my very eyes. It registered that my best friend had just disappeared and I started to cry heavily, touching the place I last saw her, my eyes bawling. My mother rushed up the stairs, but she didn't understand what happened. Nobody did. I held her a funeral later in my backyard, but there was nothing to bury. Today I lost my best friend, and nobody believed me. I miss her so much and now I'm blaming myself for her absence. it feels so empty. I spent the day crying, and my mom ended up trying to take me to a therapist. It didn't work, but because of the wrong reason. They thought I was crazy but I was in mourning. I just feel so empty now. I'm happy for you, Isabella. I'm glad you were my friend. I'll do my best to move on, for you. Thank you.
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[WP] Your best friend is weirdly the ghost that haunts your house, you chat with each other, play video games, bullshit over movies. Until the day that they finally finish the thing that has kept them from moving on all this time
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I booted up the game, waiting for player two to enter the game. I cracked open a beer in the meantime, kicking up my feet on the table. He was damned good at FIFA - for a ghost.
He was taking long today. There was still no sign of him; no shit talking, no icon flashing on screen. Nothing.
"Casper?" I yelled, my stupid nickname for him. I threw my empty beer can behind me, clattering to the messy floor. "Where the hell are you mate?"
Almost two years. Almost two years, and he'd never been gone for so long. I mean, what else did he have to do? It's not like he could leave the house.
"Casper, buddy," I said, getting up from the couch, "you still mad I beat you yesterday? I'll let you win this time, I promise."
Silence.
****
I kicked through the trash, going from room to room, calling out his name. There was still no sign of him, no ethereal presence.
I looked at the mess the house was in. I never really left the place, not anymore - it just didn't feel right, leaving him alone. I knew what it felt like to be alone.
The sun was setting, the darkness setting in. The silence grew louder, suffocating the house. Had he really left? Could he really be gone?
I paced in the room, too restless to do anything but think.
I know I told myself that I stayed at home all day to keep him company... but maybe it was the other way around.
Maybe he could always leave. Maybe he stayed just to make sure I wasn't alone.
And maybe he left, just to save me from myself.
I was alone again.
I picked up an empty pizza box and, without thinking, folded it and put it in the trashcan.
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I was about 6 at the time we moved into our current house. My mother saw it was a very cheap house, due to all it's apparent past haunting, and she found a nearby job as a single mother. She believed it was bullshit, and I'm glad she did. When we first moved here, she didn't notice anything but I started to notice weird things going on in the house, and one day I was in my room, going to sleep so the light was off, when creepily I heard a voice coming from the corner of the room.
"This used to be my room." said a girlish voice.
I couldn't quite pinpoint where she was, but I wasn't really disturbed or scared, to be honest. This was 6 months after I had moved in. It felt like I knew the presence in the room personally, and it struck me hard. I connected the dots with my little brain and I realized that she was the ghost that people complained about in the haunting reviews.
"Who's there?" I asked lightly, not to scare her. "My name's Anna, you can come out and talk to me."
A shape slowly appeared in the darkness, a transparent white that slowly solidified into color, a girl around the age of 12.
"Wow, you're a ghost? Who are you?" I inquired to the mysterious girl.
"My name is Isabella, and I'm a girl who's been here in this house for many many years, how are you able to hear and see me?"
This part felt a little weird, was nobody else able to see and hear her? Weren't there other people here before? I was confused.
"I'm not sure Isabella, what happened to you?" I asked.
Isabella smiled grimly "You can call me Bella, but as for what happened to me, I burned in a house fire many years ago."
Fast forward a few years, I became best friends with her, always coming back home from school and playing with her. My mom thought I was going through an imaginary friend phase and I didn't have any friends, but she was real. I learned her parents were abusive, and she was 12. Fast forward again, and I'm just entering my 12th birthday. I lived in this house all my life, and Isabella has become my best friend, but today, on my birthday, she smiled and followed me around content. She didn't say very much but we had fun. The day went as normal, we watched a movie, I ate cake, my mom and family nearby came to sing happy birthday, but here's where it all went wrong. Today, earlier, I was talking to Isabella, and suddenly she started to fade, and I got really confused as she's never done it before.
I asked, "What's happening? Is this another one of your tricks?"
She smiled faintly and whispered to me "No, I'm moving on. I've fulfilled my purpose here. Thank you, Anna, for your company and friendship."
I started to frown, "no no, what did you do? Why are you moving on? What's going on? What were you here to do?"
She replied softly "My sole thing that tethered me here was I had no friends my age, and now you are my age and my best friend, you've helped me to pass on . . . thank you. I must go, goodbye"
She, just as soon as I saw her come into existence when I first met her, disappeared in front of my very eyes. It registered that my best friend had just disappeared and I started to cry heavily, touching the place I last saw her, my eyes bawling. My mother rushed up the stairs, but she didn't understand what happened. Nobody did. I held her a funeral later in my backyard, but there was nothing to bury. Today I lost my best friend, and nobody believed me. I miss her so much and now I'm blaming myself for her absence. it feels so empty. I spent the day crying, and my mom ended up trying to take me to a therapist. It didn't work, but because of the wrong reason. They thought I was crazy but I was in mourning. I just feel so empty now. I'm happy for you, Isabella. I'm glad you were my friend. I'll do my best to move on, for you. Thank you.
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[WP] Your best friend is weirdly the ghost that haunts your house, you chat with each other, play video games, bullshit over movies. Until the day that they finally finish the thing that has kept them from moving on all this time
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We used to hang out in the basement, sometimes after school, but always on weekends. It was the unfinished sort of basement, one that my parents used to talk of finishing wistfully each night during supper, before bustling off in the morning to their separate jobs, forgetting about the topic completely until it was once again time to fill the gap of an awkward silence over that night's supper. It smelled like rusty pipes and mildew, the walls were all covered in spongy yellow foam pads, and furnished with a few couches that were old, worn ghosts from a past where they had each been the centerpiece of a bright, happy living room. Still, I spent more time down there than in anywhere else in the house.
I shared a room with my two older brothers, and they were both much older than me and too cool to spend any time with, so instead I spent my days hiding down in the basement, plopped down on a shaggy carpet in front of a television warped by electromagnetic coloring, striping the picture like a rainbow.
It was down there where I met Tia.
She looked to be about seventeen, and told me she was a shy girl while she was alive, and I believed that. She was self conscious of her smile, insisting that her teeth were hideously crooked, and used to try to cover her mouth when she laughed, even though her hand was transculent. At first she would watch me from the dark shadows of the far wall behind my cozy little set-up, but as she got more comfortable with my presence, she started to join me on the couch to see what I was watching. Before long, she had made a habit of appearing next to me when when I was half way through a show, and asking me questions about the plot until I got mad and yelled at her to shut up.
After a few months I would run down stairs as soon as I got home from school and she would already be waiting for me on the old couch, t.v. already turned on. We began watching movies together, anything and everything from sci-fi to chick flicks. I always thought it was funny that she hated scary movies so much, and I was quick to point out that a ghost should love movies about themselves, but she always called them stupid and 'unrepresentative' of reality. During the really intense parts, sometimes she would try to grab my hand as a reflex, and her hand would pass right through mine. I used to tease her about it, and then she would threaten to haunt me for all of eternity unless I stopped.
Other times I would catch her staring at me intently instead of watching the movie, and then she would ask me odd questions like having me describe what it felt like to wiggle my toes.
Once, I asked her how she died. It was an honest mistake, I was just curious. She called me an insensitive asshole and faded back into the darkness. She didn't reappear for an entire week, and when we made up we both agreed that hanging out in that old basement alone sucked and made a pact never to let that happen again. Inevitably, we would fight again, but each new fight was shorter than the last.
Eventually she told me it was cancer that had taken her life. I still remember how surprised I was the day she told me that.
“If it was something as boring as cancer,” I said, during a break between our Lord of the Rings marathon, “then why are you...you know...still here? Don't ghosts have somebody they need to haunt...or something?”
She stared at me with her delicate frail face, smiling. “Haunt? Is that what you call us sitting on the couch all day?”
“You know what I mean.”
She shrugged her pale shoulders. “I dunno why I'm still here. Though, I certainly didn't feel like I was ready to leave this world when I died."
"You didn't?"
She gave me a funny look. "If you died at the age of seventeen, would you feel at peace?”
"Guess not," I admitted.
“I felt like a never got to have a childhood,” she said. “My brothers and sisters were always outside running around and playing, going to school, summer camp, doing activities with one another, and I was always sick at the hospital. I spent my entire life lying on a cot, looking up at fluorescent lights that were always too bright. Not like down here...down here it's dark and cozy and wonderful.”
"It's alright," I said. "But take it from me; brothers and sisters are overrated. You get along one day out of every ten.”
“I guess so...still, it would have been nice.”
Days turned to months, and months turned to years, and life started to change drastically. My parents got divorced and my father moved out, my siblings all went off to college while I stayed home to help out my mom, and I got full time job down at the bus station, but still our basement rendezvous' stayed the same, the constant in an equation that grew more complicated with each passing day. Same unfinished basement, same shabby couches, same shy Ghost waiting to watch the latest superhero movie or play smash brothers.
I got a second job as a bartender, and started taking night classes for business school. As free time depleted, my trips down to the basement became less and less frequent.
Tia became more impatient, and our time hanging out became shorter and shorter. One day I started meeting up with a girl from my night class to study together. Our study sessions became more and more frequent until we stopped bringing our books altogether and turned them into dates, and before I even knew what was happening we were seeing each other regularly. As the relationship started to get serious, I found myself going down to the basement less and less. Tia was always polite about the girl, but I could tell she was jealous that all our time together was now being stolen away by someone else.
Then one day I walked down after nearly a month had passed and found that Tia was completely gone.
I called for a few times before plopping down on the couch and flipping the television. I waited for almost an hour before giving up and going back up stairs. I cried that night, and my girlfriend kept asking me what was wrong, but I told her it was nothing.
As time passed, I started to wonder if Tia had just been an imaginary friend I had invented to make my childhood more bearable. Every now and then I would steal trips down the basement, now more cursory glances or trips to do the laundry, but Tia was never there.
Eventually my girlfriend and I decided to move in together. The time came for us to came to move out, and the day we chose to move ended up being a downpour. I can still remember standing out in the rain, looking back at the house of my childhood one last time.
The moving truck was all packed with our belongings, the house mostly empty, but I before I left, I felt a pull back towards that basement, as if I was being drawn down. I descended the steps one last time, stood on the bare cement where the shaggy carpet had once been, and looked at the empty spot where the old T.V. had once stood.
“Tia,” I said once into the darkness. “Are you there?”
Silence.
“Tia,” I said again, this time more forcefully. “I'm leaving now.”
Again there was nothing. Feeling as if there was a great weight pressing down on my chest, I turned to walk back up the stairs.
Suddenly, there a flash and a high pitched frequency as if a television had just turned on from behind me. My heart fluttered and I spun around, looking for the familiar pale face. Instead I found a different ghost, a man in his forties, staring back at me placidly. “Who are you? Where’s Tia?”
“I’m an aquaintance of hers,” the man said. “She’s not here anymore. Left some time ago.”
“Where is she now?” I asked again. “I want to say goodbye.”
He shook his head. “It's a little late for that. Wherever she is, I'm sure she would have wanted to say thank you. She talked a lot about you, you know.”
“Thank me for what?” I looked down at the ground, and felt a stinging at the corners of my eyes. “I abandoned her.”
“You didn't. You both grew up, in your own, separate ways.”
“It was all my fault. I never even got to say goodbye.”
“Spirits never make for good farewells. We move on when we're damn well ready, and we usually do that alone.” He reached out with a pale hand. “You gave Tia the one thing that she wanted most in the world.”
I turned away. “No, I didn't.”
“You did, I promise you.”
I wiped my eyes. “And how do you know that?”
He smiled. “Because otherwise she'd still be here.”
* * *
/r/ghost_write_the_whip
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I was about 6 at the time we moved into our current house. My mother saw it was a very cheap house, due to all it's apparent past haunting, and she found a nearby job as a single mother. She believed it was bullshit, and I'm glad she did. When we first moved here, she didn't notice anything but I started to notice weird things going on in the house, and one day I was in my room, going to sleep so the light was off, when creepily I heard a voice coming from the corner of the room.
"This used to be my room." said a girlish voice.
I couldn't quite pinpoint where she was, but I wasn't really disturbed or scared, to be honest. This was 6 months after I had moved in. It felt like I knew the presence in the room personally, and it struck me hard. I connected the dots with my little brain and I realized that she was the ghost that people complained about in the haunting reviews.
"Who's there?" I asked lightly, not to scare her. "My name's Anna, you can come out and talk to me."
A shape slowly appeared in the darkness, a transparent white that slowly solidified into color, a girl around the age of 12.
"Wow, you're a ghost? Who are you?" I inquired to the mysterious girl.
"My name is Isabella, and I'm a girl who's been here in this house for many many years, how are you able to hear and see me?"
This part felt a little weird, was nobody else able to see and hear her? Weren't there other people here before? I was confused.
"I'm not sure Isabella, what happened to you?" I asked.
Isabella smiled grimly "You can call me Bella, but as for what happened to me, I burned in a house fire many years ago."
Fast forward a few years, I became best friends with her, always coming back home from school and playing with her. My mom thought I was going through an imaginary friend phase and I didn't have any friends, but she was real. I learned her parents were abusive, and she was 12. Fast forward again, and I'm just entering my 12th birthday. I lived in this house all my life, and Isabella has become my best friend, but today, on my birthday, she smiled and followed me around content. She didn't say very much but we had fun. The day went as normal, we watched a movie, I ate cake, my mom and family nearby came to sing happy birthday, but here's where it all went wrong. Today, earlier, I was talking to Isabella, and suddenly she started to fade, and I got really confused as she's never done it before.
I asked, "What's happening? Is this another one of your tricks?"
She smiled faintly and whispered to me "No, I'm moving on. I've fulfilled my purpose here. Thank you, Anna, for your company and friendship."
I started to frown, "no no, what did you do? Why are you moving on? What's going on? What were you here to do?"
She replied softly "My sole thing that tethered me here was I had no friends my age, and now you are my age and my best friend, you've helped me to pass on . . . thank you. I must go, goodbye"
She, just as soon as I saw her come into existence when I first met her, disappeared in front of my very eyes. It registered that my best friend had just disappeared and I started to cry heavily, touching the place I last saw her, my eyes bawling. My mother rushed up the stairs, but she didn't understand what happened. Nobody did. I held her a funeral later in my backyard, but there was nothing to bury. Today I lost my best friend, and nobody believed me. I miss her so much and now I'm blaming myself for her absence. it feels so empty. I spent the day crying, and my mom ended up trying to take me to a therapist. It didn't work, but because of the wrong reason. They thought I was crazy but I was in mourning. I just feel so empty now. I'm happy for you, Isabella. I'm glad you were my friend. I'll do my best to move on, for you. Thank you.
|
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[WP] Your best friend is weirdly the ghost that haunts your house, you chat with each other, play video games, bullshit over movies. Until the day that they finally finish the thing that has kept them from moving on all this time
|
I could tell that his heart just wasn't in it. We have been evenly-matched for the most part, me because I've been playing games my whole life, him because he has time to practise all day. That meant that my current 15-0 winning streak in *Mario Kart* was an aberration certainly worth investigating, so I placed the controller aside, then turned to face him.
"Bruh," I said. "You wanna talk?"
Jeremy was on the cusp of saying 'no' when he suddenly sighed. "Up on the roof, not here," he said. I nodded, then he floated off the couch, kicking gently like a diver returning to the surface. He passed through the ceiling with all the haste of an escaped balloon. I collected a beer from the fridge, locked my apartment, then took the stairs up. The stairwell access to the roof was usually locked, but Jeremy had helped me pick it a couple of months ago, back when we were first trying to escape the summer heat.
He was perched on the parapet, staring out into the city below. The moon was half-formed tonight, and the diligent murmurings of a city unable to sleep drifted up from the streets. I joined Jeremy, and I cracked open the beer while I waited for him to warm up. He was one of the more talkative poltergeists I had met, but he had his moods too.
"I checked in on her yesterday," he said eventually. "She moved again, but I followed her trail and found her easily enough. She's living just outside the city now, and commutes in for work."
"Oh? Is it already your death day?"
"No, it wasn't. I've been thinking, and I wanted to... make sure I was making the right decision. So I spent most of the day with her. I didn't let her know I was there, of course. The charms she bought to ward me off don't actually work. I just kind of... hung around, then watched how she got on with her life. No haunting this time."
I laughed, then sloshed back another mouthful of beer. "You a stalker now?"
"No, it's not that. This is serious, Hank. I'm trying to be serious here. OK?"
I frowned. In all the time I had know him, Jeremy was only morose whenever his death day rolled around. I regretted not paying more attention to my parents then, because my understanding of the metaphysical mechanics of Jeremy's existence was patchy and incomplete. I understood, for example, that ghosts like Jeremy don't exactly have memories the way humans do. They could certainly recall the specific grievances which kept them bound to this mortal plane, but they needed specific triggers for that. Otherwise, they retained much of their personalities from before they died, and just flitted from day to day like goldfish.
A quick glance at my watch indicated that August was still many weeks away. There was no reason why Jeremy would suddenly be thinking of Alicia, or why he would even break routine to suss her out. And what was that about decisions? What did a ghost like him have to decide?
"I'm afraid I'm not catching your drift, buddy. I don't understand what-"
"I'm saying, I think it's time I moved on. Time to let it all go. To head for that bright light up in the sky, to take my chances at what lies beyond. And I'm not talking about the moon either."
My fingers tapped on the masonry, and the tempo increased as the panic seized me. "Wait, hang on. Jeremy, we've got a good thing going, right? Isn't life great now? We're best friends, aren't we? I deliver my pizzas, you spy on the neighbors, then at night we trade stories over beer and Netflix and games? And I'm there for you whenever you have to go haunt her or whatever it is you swore to do once a year on the date when she broke up with you? We have a system, and it works, yes? What changed? Did I do something wrong?"
It was Jeremy's turn to laugh. He shook his head, and the cackle segued into a sigh. "What changed? I don't know, Hank. It's like sunrise, yes? It's dark at first, then it gets brighter, shade by shade, but it's hard to pinpoint the exact moment that it's morning, but then suddenly you know it is?"
"You're losing me."
"What I mean to say is... I've been listening to your calls. The ones you have with your grandfather every week. The ones where he tries to persuade you to go home and continue your training. And you know... they just got me thinking, you know?"
A flash of irritation spread through me. Not so much that he was listening in (expecting privacy when you have a ghost at home is just silly), but that he had brought my family into this. I hadn't come all the way out here, taken so much pain to distance myself from them, only to be reminded by a ghost of all things.
"Um, I don't want to be mean," I said, "but what I'm going through with my family has *nothing* at all to do with you, OK? It's entirely different things. Look, what I'm trying to say is, let's not be hasty about this. Let's talk it out, and then we can-"
Jeremy shook his head, then held out his palm to the night sky. Motes of light rose from his incorporeal form, a hundred fireflies of his flesh, and they reconstituted in the air, forming an outline of Alison. She seemed older compared to the visions he had first conjured for me.
"It's like your grandfather told you, you can't keep running. I can't keep running. I thought I was noble, you see. I told her that I would die if she didn't love me back, and I meant it. I resolved to meet her once a year after that, to remind her always that my love for her was pure, and that she was the one who had made the mistake. I thought I could change her mind that way. But the last few years... She's moved on, you know? Fully. I mean, there's a part of me which lives on in her, always, but she's... a different person now. She's married, she's had kids, she's seen so much more of life than I ever had. She still fears that time once a year when I appear before her, but other than that, she's actually... fine, you know? She's happy. Like, really happy."
"Aren't you happy too? Here?"
"I am, but... I realized I'm just afraid of what comes next. I should roll the dice, see where my soul ends up next. But I'm so afraid of where that leads that I've stayed here far longer than I should have. Don't get me wrong, Hank. You're been the best buddy a ghost could ever wish for. But our destinies lie elsewhere, yes? Like your grandfather says, just because you hole yourself up here, just because you refuse to carry on the family business, doesn't mean that you'll lose your ability to see ghosts or interact with them. You have a lot more to accomplish out there, just like I do too."
My hands had balled themselves into fists, and the beer can, crushed and forgotten, rolled on the ground. "I told you, didn't I? I don't like other people. Other people don't like me. I'm comfortable here, with you for company. I don't need other people to survive."
"Yes, but as your grandfather says... other people need you. You just don't know it yet."
We were quiet for a while, and I saw the resolve in him strengthening, growing stronger by the second. It was like a knot inside of him, twisting, enlarging, till his entire form had grown luminescent.
This much I knew.
I didn't have much longer with him.
"You've made up your mind then?"
"I have," he said. "I understand now too why she had told me we had to break up, all those years ago. We held each other back, you know? It was good, but... we could be more. That's why she had to leave me, and that's why I need to go too. It's not goodbye, Hank. It's just us going off on other adventures, and one day we'll get to share them again with each other."
"Will I get to see you again?"
He laughed. "I don't know. You're the psychic, you tell me."
And he was gone.
I basked in the moonlight for a while longer after that. True, I couldn't hear him anymore, and we would never get to finish that last season of *Brooklyn Nine Nine* we were looking forward to. But it also felt like he was still around, somehow.
I fished my phone out, then dialled for my grandfather. It took him five rings to answer - guess he must have been sleeping.
"Hank?"
"Hey... I'm moving back. I'm coming home."
"*Finally.* There's a lot for you to catch up on. You're never going to be able to help anyone if you don't get your studies right."
"Did you know?"
"Did I know what?"
"Did you know that the ghost in my apartment was listening in to us?"
A slight pause, then a low chuckle in the background.
"Two birds with one stone, Hank, two birds with one stone."
---
/r/rarelyfunny
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I was about 6 at the time we moved into our current house. My mother saw it was a very cheap house, due to all it's apparent past haunting, and she found a nearby job as a single mother. She believed it was bullshit, and I'm glad she did. When we first moved here, she didn't notice anything but I started to notice weird things going on in the house, and one day I was in my room, going to sleep so the light was off, when creepily I heard a voice coming from the corner of the room.
"This used to be my room." said a girlish voice.
I couldn't quite pinpoint where she was, but I wasn't really disturbed or scared, to be honest. This was 6 months after I had moved in. It felt like I knew the presence in the room personally, and it struck me hard. I connected the dots with my little brain and I realized that she was the ghost that people complained about in the haunting reviews.
"Who's there?" I asked lightly, not to scare her. "My name's Anna, you can come out and talk to me."
A shape slowly appeared in the darkness, a transparent white that slowly solidified into color, a girl around the age of 12.
"Wow, you're a ghost? Who are you?" I inquired to the mysterious girl.
"My name is Isabella, and I'm a girl who's been here in this house for many many years, how are you able to hear and see me?"
This part felt a little weird, was nobody else able to see and hear her? Weren't there other people here before? I was confused.
"I'm not sure Isabella, what happened to you?" I asked.
Isabella smiled grimly "You can call me Bella, but as for what happened to me, I burned in a house fire many years ago."
Fast forward a few years, I became best friends with her, always coming back home from school and playing with her. My mom thought I was going through an imaginary friend phase and I didn't have any friends, but she was real. I learned her parents were abusive, and she was 12. Fast forward again, and I'm just entering my 12th birthday. I lived in this house all my life, and Isabella has become my best friend, but today, on my birthday, she smiled and followed me around content. She didn't say very much but we had fun. The day went as normal, we watched a movie, I ate cake, my mom and family nearby came to sing happy birthday, but here's where it all went wrong. Today, earlier, I was talking to Isabella, and suddenly she started to fade, and I got really confused as she's never done it before.
I asked, "What's happening? Is this another one of your tricks?"
She smiled faintly and whispered to me "No, I'm moving on. I've fulfilled my purpose here. Thank you, Anna, for your company and friendship."
I started to frown, "no no, what did you do? Why are you moving on? What's going on? What were you here to do?"
She replied softly "My sole thing that tethered me here was I had no friends my age, and now you are my age and my best friend, you've helped me to pass on . . . thank you. I must go, goodbye"
She, just as soon as I saw her come into existence when I first met her, disappeared in front of my very eyes. It registered that my best friend had just disappeared and I started to cry heavily, touching the place I last saw her, my eyes bawling. My mother rushed up the stairs, but she didn't understand what happened. Nobody did. I held her a funeral later in my backyard, but there was nothing to bury. Today I lost my best friend, and nobody believed me. I miss her so much and now I'm blaming myself for her absence. it feels so empty. I spent the day crying, and my mom ended up trying to take me to a therapist. It didn't work, but because of the wrong reason. They thought I was crazy but I was in mourning. I just feel so empty now. I'm happy for you, Isabella. I'm glad you were my friend. I'll do my best to move on, for you. Thank you.
|
|
[WP] Your best friend is weirdly the ghost that haunts your house, you chat with each other, play video games, bullshit over movies. Until the day that they finally finish the thing that has kept them from moving on all this time
|
We used to hang out in the basement, sometimes after school, but always on weekends. It was the unfinished sort of basement, one that my parents used to talk of finishing wistfully each night during supper, before bustling off in the morning to their separate jobs, forgetting about the topic completely until it was once again time to fill the gap of an awkward silence over that night's supper. It smelled like rusty pipes and mildew, the walls were all covered in spongy yellow foam pads, and furnished with a few couches that were old, worn ghosts from a past where they had each been the centerpiece of a bright, happy living room. Still, I spent more time down there than in anywhere else in the house.
I shared a room with my two older brothers, and they were both much older than me and too cool to spend any time with, so instead I spent my days hiding down in the basement, plopped down on a shaggy carpet in front of a television warped by electromagnetic coloring, striping the picture like a rainbow.
It was down there where I met Tia.
She looked to be about seventeen, and told me she was a shy girl while she was alive, and I believed that. She was self conscious of her smile, insisting that her teeth were hideously crooked, and used to try to cover her mouth when she laughed, even though her hand was transculent. At first she would watch me from the dark shadows of the far wall behind my cozy little set-up, but as she got more comfortable with my presence, she started to join me on the couch to see what I was watching. Before long, she had made a habit of appearing next to me when when I was half way through a show, and asking me questions about the plot until I got mad and yelled at her to shut up.
After a few months I would run down stairs as soon as I got home from school and she would already be waiting for me on the old couch, t.v. already turned on. We began watching movies together, anything and everything from sci-fi to chick flicks. I always thought it was funny that she hated scary movies so much, and I was quick to point out that a ghost should love movies about themselves, but she always called them stupid and 'unrepresentative' of reality. During the really intense parts, sometimes she would try to grab my hand as a reflex, and her hand would pass right through mine. I used to tease her about it, and then she would threaten to haunt me for all of eternity unless I stopped.
Other times I would catch her staring at me intently instead of watching the movie, and then she would ask me odd questions like having me describe what it felt like to wiggle my toes.
Once, I asked her how she died. It was an honest mistake, I was just curious. She called me an insensitive asshole and faded back into the darkness. She didn't reappear for an entire week, and when we made up we both agreed that hanging out in that old basement alone sucked and made a pact never to let that happen again. Inevitably, we would fight again, but each new fight was shorter than the last.
Eventually she told me it was cancer that had taken her life. I still remember how surprised I was the day she told me that.
“If it was something as boring as cancer,” I said, during a break between our Lord of the Rings marathon, “then why are you...you know...still here? Don't ghosts have somebody they need to haunt...or something?”
She stared at me with her delicate frail face, smiling. “Haunt? Is that what you call us sitting on the couch all day?”
“You know what I mean.”
She shrugged her pale shoulders. “I dunno why I'm still here. Though, I certainly didn't feel like I was ready to leave this world when I died."
"You didn't?"
She gave me a funny look. "If you died at the age of seventeen, would you feel at peace?”
"Guess not," I admitted.
“I felt like a never got to have a childhood,” she said. “My brothers and sisters were always outside running around and playing, going to school, summer camp, doing activities with one another, and I was always sick at the hospital. I spent my entire life lying on a cot, looking up at fluorescent lights that were always too bright. Not like down here...down here it's dark and cozy and wonderful.”
"It's alright," I said. "But take it from me; brothers and sisters are overrated. You get along one day out of every ten.”
“I guess so...still, it would have been nice.”
Days turned to months, and months turned to years, and life started to change drastically. My parents got divorced and my father moved out, my siblings all went off to college while I stayed home to help out my mom, and I got full time job down at the bus station, but still our basement rendezvous' stayed the same, the constant in an equation that grew more complicated with each passing day. Same unfinished basement, same shabby couches, same shy Ghost waiting to watch the latest superhero movie or play smash brothers.
I got a second job as a bartender, and started taking night classes for business school. As free time depleted, my trips down to the basement became less and less frequent.
Tia became more impatient, and our time hanging out became shorter and shorter. One day I started meeting up with a girl from my night class to study together. Our study sessions became more and more frequent until we stopped bringing our books altogether and turned them into dates, and before I even knew what was happening we were seeing each other regularly. As the relationship started to get serious, I found myself going down to the basement less and less. Tia was always polite about the girl, but I could tell she was jealous that all our time together was now being stolen away by someone else.
Then one day I walked down after nearly a month had passed and found that Tia was completely gone.
I called for a few times before plopping down on the couch and flipping the television. I waited for almost an hour before giving up and going back up stairs. I cried that night, and my girlfriend kept asking me what was wrong, but I told her it was nothing.
As time passed, I started to wonder if Tia had just been an imaginary friend I had invented to make my childhood more bearable. Every now and then I would steal trips down the basement, now more cursory glances or trips to do the laundry, but Tia was never there.
Eventually my girlfriend and I decided to move in together. The time came for us to came to move out, and the day we chose to move ended up being a downpour. I can still remember standing out in the rain, looking back at the house of my childhood one last time.
The moving truck was all packed with our belongings, the house mostly empty, but I before I left, I felt a pull back towards that basement, as if I was being drawn down. I descended the steps one last time, stood on the bare cement where the shaggy carpet had once been, and looked at the empty spot where the old T.V. had once stood.
“Tia,” I said once into the darkness. “Are you there?”
Silence.
“Tia,” I said again, this time more forcefully. “I'm leaving now.”
Again there was nothing. Feeling as if there was a great weight pressing down on my chest, I turned to walk back up the stairs.
Suddenly, there a flash and a high pitched frequency as if a television had just turned on from behind me. My heart fluttered and I spun around, looking for the familiar pale face. Instead I found a different ghost, a man in his forties, staring back at me placidly. “Who are you? Where’s Tia?”
“I’m an aquaintance of hers,” the man said. “She’s not here anymore. Left some time ago.”
“Where is she now?” I asked again. “I want to say goodbye.”
He shook his head. “It's a little late for that. Wherever she is, I'm sure she would have wanted to say thank you. She talked a lot about you, you know.”
“Thank me for what?” I looked down at the ground, and felt a stinging at the corners of my eyes. “I abandoned her.”
“You didn't. You both grew up, in your own, separate ways.”
“It was all my fault. I never even got to say goodbye.”
“Spirits never make for good farewells. We move on when we're damn well ready, and we usually do that alone.” He reached out with a pale hand. “You gave Tia the one thing that she wanted most in the world.”
I turned away. “No, I didn't.”
“You did, I promise you.”
I wiped my eyes. “And how do you know that?”
He smiled. “Because otherwise she'd still be here.”
* * *
/r/ghost_write_the_whip
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I press the button and Aidan on the screen jumps over the oncoming monster and slashes is his sword down. The sword nicks the top of the monster - a strange mix of pumpkin and bloodsucking bat. The thing screams on top of its lungs as the legendary sword rips it apart, ichor flowing everywhere around it till it deflates right as Aidan lands on the ground.
And just like that, I'm on the ground.
I'm...sideways? I don't understand. I was sitting on the chair a moment ago. What happened to the chair? I try to turn my head but I...can't. I can't move my head. Oh God, I can't move my head.
Reality crashes into me like a runaway train. I'm lying on the ground sideways, and it takes all my strength but I can make out the edge of the chair where I'd been sitting standing upright as if I was still there. The controller lay right side up on the ground, waiting for someone to pick it up.
And Aidan on the screen doesn't look so brave anymore, he doesn't look so stylish either. He's an 8-bit character, a collection of not-so-small squares, who stands still, not moving as the monster heads towards him.
And it's no fearsome beast with leathery skin and massive wings. It too is a set of squares that move individually to make it look like it's squirming. It gets closer to Aidan. Closer. Closer.
Aidan jumps.
He leaps over the beast and with an almost casual backwards flick of his legendary blade he slices the beast in half.
A girl appears on the chair, holding the controller. Her legs swing, dangling off the chair, barely reaching the ground. She turns towards me, her fine blond hair floating above her head like a halo. Not bound by silly things like gravity. Her startlingly blue eyes are twinkling and a smile plays across her lips.
I open my mouth to say her name, to call out. I want to say it, I *should* be saying it but I...can't. No voice comes out.
All I can do is stare as she just smiles. Stare at the face I more familiar with than anything else in the world. My best friend in kindergarten before she died.
Died for everyone else, that is.
She stuck around for me, when I was a girl playing old games; when I was teenager, helping me choose makeup. When I was in college she gave her thoughts on boys. She was there when I worked, telling me jokes when I was about to fall asleep. She was there when I had kids, holding my left hand while Mike held the right. She was there when my Mike died, her hand squeezing mine, her face solemn.
And here she was now.
She stepped off the chair, but didn't fall to the ground. Instead she floated a foot off the floor and came over to me. She bent down to look me in the eyes and ran her fingers through my silver hair. It was the caress of a beam of sunlight, entangled in my hair. I tried to speak but she put a finger up to my lips, her touch so light that it could've been a strand of hair.
Then she spoke. Her voice was the whistle of a gentle breeze saying everything and nothing at all. Quiet but ever-present at the same time.
And when my vision began to fade, she put her hands on my eyelids, and this time they felt like they were as heavy as the world. I fought her, but she just shook her head, her mouth as severe as any policewoman, but her sparkling eyes belying her amusement.
And I finally understood. As I closed my eyes, I knew she would disappear too.
After all, the person who'd kept her from moving on was finally at an end.
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[WP] Your best friend is weirdly the ghost that haunts your house, you chat with each other, play video games, bullshit over movies. Until the day that they finally finish the thing that has kept them from moving on all this time
|
We used to hang out in the basement, sometimes after school, but always on weekends. It was the unfinished sort of basement, one that my parents used to talk of finishing wistfully each night during supper, before bustling off in the morning to their separate jobs, forgetting about the topic completely until it was once again time to fill the gap of an awkward silence over that night's supper. It smelled like rusty pipes and mildew, the walls were all covered in spongy yellow foam pads, and furnished with a few couches that were old, worn ghosts from a past where they had each been the centerpiece of a bright, happy living room. Still, I spent more time down there than in anywhere else in the house.
I shared a room with my two older brothers, and they were both much older than me and too cool to spend any time with, so instead I spent my days hiding down in the basement, plopped down on a shaggy carpet in front of a television warped by electromagnetic coloring, striping the picture like a rainbow.
It was down there where I met Tia.
She looked to be about seventeen, and told me she was a shy girl while she was alive, and I believed that. She was self conscious of her smile, insisting that her teeth were hideously crooked, and used to try to cover her mouth when she laughed, even though her hand was transculent. At first she would watch me from the dark shadows of the far wall behind my cozy little set-up, but as she got more comfortable with my presence, she started to join me on the couch to see what I was watching. Before long, she had made a habit of appearing next to me when when I was half way through a show, and asking me questions about the plot until I got mad and yelled at her to shut up.
After a few months I would run down stairs as soon as I got home from school and she would already be waiting for me on the old couch, t.v. already turned on. We began watching movies together, anything and everything from sci-fi to chick flicks. I always thought it was funny that she hated scary movies so much, and I was quick to point out that a ghost should love movies about themselves, but she always called them stupid and 'unrepresentative' of reality. During the really intense parts, sometimes she would try to grab my hand as a reflex, and her hand would pass right through mine. I used to tease her about it, and then she would threaten to haunt me for all of eternity unless I stopped.
Other times I would catch her staring at me intently instead of watching the movie, and then she would ask me odd questions like having me describe what it felt like to wiggle my toes.
Once, I asked her how she died. It was an honest mistake, I was just curious. She called me an insensitive asshole and faded back into the darkness. She didn't reappear for an entire week, and when we made up we both agreed that hanging out in that old basement alone sucked and made a pact never to let that happen again. Inevitably, we would fight again, but each new fight was shorter than the last.
Eventually she told me it was cancer that had taken her life. I still remember how surprised I was the day she told me that.
“If it was something as boring as cancer,” I said, during a break between our Lord of the Rings marathon, “then why are you...you know...still here? Don't ghosts have somebody they need to haunt...or something?”
She stared at me with her delicate frail face, smiling. “Haunt? Is that what you call us sitting on the couch all day?”
“You know what I mean.”
She shrugged her pale shoulders. “I dunno why I'm still here. Though, I certainly didn't feel like I was ready to leave this world when I died."
"You didn't?"
She gave me a funny look. "If you died at the age of seventeen, would you feel at peace?”
"Guess not," I admitted.
“I felt like a never got to have a childhood,” she said. “My brothers and sisters were always outside running around and playing, going to school, summer camp, doing activities with one another, and I was always sick at the hospital. I spent my entire life lying on a cot, looking up at fluorescent lights that were always too bright. Not like down here...down here it's dark and cozy and wonderful.”
"It's alright," I said. "But take it from me; brothers and sisters are overrated. You get along one day out of every ten.”
“I guess so...still, it would have been nice.”
Days turned to months, and months turned to years, and life started to change drastically. My parents got divorced and my father moved out, my siblings all went off to college while I stayed home to help out my mom, and I got full time job down at the bus station, but still our basement rendezvous' stayed the same, the constant in an equation that grew more complicated with each passing day. Same unfinished basement, same shabby couches, same shy Ghost waiting to watch the latest superhero movie or play smash brothers.
I got a second job as a bartender, and started taking night classes for business school. As free time depleted, my trips down to the basement became less and less frequent.
Tia became more impatient, and our time hanging out became shorter and shorter. One day I started meeting up with a girl from my night class to study together. Our study sessions became more and more frequent until we stopped bringing our books altogether and turned them into dates, and before I even knew what was happening we were seeing each other regularly. As the relationship started to get serious, I found myself going down to the basement less and less. Tia was always polite about the girl, but I could tell she was jealous that all our time together was now being stolen away by someone else.
Then one day I walked down after nearly a month had passed and found that Tia was completely gone.
I called for a few times before plopping down on the couch and flipping the television. I waited for almost an hour before giving up and going back up stairs. I cried that night, and my girlfriend kept asking me what was wrong, but I told her it was nothing.
As time passed, I started to wonder if Tia had just been an imaginary friend I had invented to make my childhood more bearable. Every now and then I would steal trips down the basement, now more cursory glances or trips to do the laundry, but Tia was never there.
Eventually my girlfriend and I decided to move in together. The time came for us to came to move out, and the day we chose to move ended up being a downpour. I can still remember standing out in the rain, looking back at the house of my childhood one last time.
The moving truck was all packed with our belongings, the house mostly empty, but I before I left, I felt a pull back towards that basement, as if I was being drawn down. I descended the steps one last time, stood on the bare cement where the shaggy carpet had once been, and looked at the empty spot where the old T.V. had once stood.
“Tia,” I said once into the darkness. “Are you there?”
Silence.
“Tia,” I said again, this time more forcefully. “I'm leaving now.”
Again there was nothing. Feeling as if there was a great weight pressing down on my chest, I turned to walk back up the stairs.
Suddenly, there a flash and a high pitched frequency as if a television had just turned on from behind me. My heart fluttered and I spun around, looking for the familiar pale face. Instead I found a different ghost, a man in his forties, staring back at me placidly. “Who are you? Where’s Tia?”
“I’m an aquaintance of hers,” the man said. “She’s not here anymore. Left some time ago.”
“Where is she now?” I asked again. “I want to say goodbye.”
He shook his head. “It's a little late for that. Wherever she is, I'm sure she would have wanted to say thank you. She talked a lot about you, you know.”
“Thank me for what?” I looked down at the ground, and felt a stinging at the corners of my eyes. “I abandoned her.”
“You didn't. You both grew up, in your own, separate ways.”
“It was all my fault. I never even got to say goodbye.”
“Spirits never make for good farewells. We move on when we're damn well ready, and we usually do that alone.” He reached out with a pale hand. “You gave Tia the one thing that she wanted most in the world.”
I turned away. “No, I didn't.”
“You did, I promise you.”
I wiped my eyes. “And how do you know that?”
He smiled. “Because otherwise she'd still be here.”
* * *
/r/ghost_write_the_whip
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I booted up the game, waiting for player two to enter the game. I cracked open a beer in the meantime, kicking up my feet on the table. He was damned good at FIFA - for a ghost.
He was taking long today. There was still no sign of him; no shit talking, no icon flashing on screen. Nothing.
"Casper?" I yelled, my stupid nickname for him. I threw my empty beer can behind me, clattering to the messy floor. "Where the hell are you mate?"
Almost two years. Almost two years, and he'd never been gone for so long. I mean, what else did he have to do? It's not like he could leave the house.
"Casper, buddy," I said, getting up from the couch, "you still mad I beat you yesterday? I'll let you win this time, I promise."
Silence.
****
I kicked through the trash, going from room to room, calling out his name. There was still no sign of him, no ethereal presence.
I looked at the mess the house was in. I never really left the place, not anymore - it just didn't feel right, leaving him alone. I knew what it felt like to be alone.
The sun was setting, the darkness setting in. The silence grew louder, suffocating the house. Had he really left? Could he really be gone?
I paced in the room, too restless to do anything but think.
I know I told myself that I stayed at home all day to keep him company... but maybe it was the other way around.
Maybe he could always leave. Maybe he stayed just to make sure I wasn't alone.
And maybe he left, just to save me from myself.
I was alone again.
I picked up an empty pizza box and, without thinking, folded it and put it in the trashcan.
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[WP] Your best friend is weirdly the ghost that haunts your house, you chat with each other, play video games, bullshit over movies. Until the day that they finally finish the thing that has kept them from moving on all this time
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I could tell that his heart just wasn't in it. We have been evenly-matched for the most part, me because I've been playing games my whole life, him because he has time to practise all day. That meant that my current 15-0 winning streak in *Mario Kart* was an aberration certainly worth investigating, so I placed the controller aside, then turned to face him.
"Bruh," I said. "You wanna talk?"
Jeremy was on the cusp of saying 'no' when he suddenly sighed. "Up on the roof, not here," he said. I nodded, then he floated off the couch, kicking gently like a diver returning to the surface. He passed through the ceiling with all the haste of an escaped balloon. I collected a beer from the fridge, locked my apartment, then took the stairs up. The stairwell access to the roof was usually locked, but Jeremy had helped me pick it a couple of months ago, back when we were first trying to escape the summer heat.
He was perched on the parapet, staring out into the city below. The moon was half-formed tonight, and the diligent murmurings of a city unable to sleep drifted up from the streets. I joined Jeremy, and I cracked open the beer while I waited for him to warm up. He was one of the more talkative poltergeists I had met, but he had his moods too.
"I checked in on her yesterday," he said eventually. "She moved again, but I followed her trail and found her easily enough. She's living just outside the city now, and commutes in for work."
"Oh? Is it already your death day?"
"No, it wasn't. I've been thinking, and I wanted to... make sure I was making the right decision. So I spent most of the day with her. I didn't let her know I was there, of course. The charms she bought to ward me off don't actually work. I just kind of... hung around, then watched how she got on with her life. No haunting this time."
I laughed, then sloshed back another mouthful of beer. "You a stalker now?"
"No, it's not that. This is serious, Hank. I'm trying to be serious here. OK?"
I frowned. In all the time I had know him, Jeremy was only morose whenever his death day rolled around. I regretted not paying more attention to my parents then, because my understanding of the metaphysical mechanics of Jeremy's existence was patchy and incomplete. I understood, for example, that ghosts like Jeremy don't exactly have memories the way humans do. They could certainly recall the specific grievances which kept them bound to this mortal plane, but they needed specific triggers for that. Otherwise, they retained much of their personalities from before they died, and just flitted from day to day like goldfish.
A quick glance at my watch indicated that August was still many weeks away. There was no reason why Jeremy would suddenly be thinking of Alicia, or why he would even break routine to suss her out. And what was that about decisions? What did a ghost like him have to decide?
"I'm afraid I'm not catching your drift, buddy. I don't understand what-"
"I'm saying, I think it's time I moved on. Time to let it all go. To head for that bright light up in the sky, to take my chances at what lies beyond. And I'm not talking about the moon either."
My fingers tapped on the masonry, and the tempo increased as the panic seized me. "Wait, hang on. Jeremy, we've got a good thing going, right? Isn't life great now? We're best friends, aren't we? I deliver my pizzas, you spy on the neighbors, then at night we trade stories over beer and Netflix and games? And I'm there for you whenever you have to go haunt her or whatever it is you swore to do once a year on the date when she broke up with you? We have a system, and it works, yes? What changed? Did I do something wrong?"
It was Jeremy's turn to laugh. He shook his head, and the cackle segued into a sigh. "What changed? I don't know, Hank. It's like sunrise, yes? It's dark at first, then it gets brighter, shade by shade, but it's hard to pinpoint the exact moment that it's morning, but then suddenly you know it is?"
"You're losing me."
"What I mean to say is... I've been listening to your calls. The ones you have with your grandfather every week. The ones where he tries to persuade you to go home and continue your training. And you know... they just got me thinking, you know?"
A flash of irritation spread through me. Not so much that he was listening in (expecting privacy when you have a ghost at home is just silly), but that he had brought my family into this. I hadn't come all the way out here, taken so much pain to distance myself from them, only to be reminded by a ghost of all things.
"Um, I don't want to be mean," I said, "but what I'm going through with my family has *nothing* at all to do with you, OK? It's entirely different things. Look, what I'm trying to say is, let's not be hasty about this. Let's talk it out, and then we can-"
Jeremy shook his head, then held out his palm to the night sky. Motes of light rose from his incorporeal form, a hundred fireflies of his flesh, and they reconstituted in the air, forming an outline of Alison. She seemed older compared to the visions he had first conjured for me.
"It's like your grandfather told you, you can't keep running. I can't keep running. I thought I was noble, you see. I told her that I would die if she didn't love me back, and I meant it. I resolved to meet her once a year after that, to remind her always that my love for her was pure, and that she was the one who had made the mistake. I thought I could change her mind that way. But the last few years... She's moved on, you know? Fully. I mean, there's a part of me which lives on in her, always, but she's... a different person now. She's married, she's had kids, she's seen so much more of life than I ever had. She still fears that time once a year when I appear before her, but other than that, she's actually... fine, you know? She's happy. Like, really happy."
"Aren't you happy too? Here?"
"I am, but... I realized I'm just afraid of what comes next. I should roll the dice, see where my soul ends up next. But I'm so afraid of where that leads that I've stayed here far longer than I should have. Don't get me wrong, Hank. You're been the best buddy a ghost could ever wish for. But our destinies lie elsewhere, yes? Like your grandfather says, just because you hole yourself up here, just because you refuse to carry on the family business, doesn't mean that you'll lose your ability to see ghosts or interact with them. You have a lot more to accomplish out there, just like I do too."
My hands had balled themselves into fists, and the beer can, crushed and forgotten, rolled on the ground. "I told you, didn't I? I don't like other people. Other people don't like me. I'm comfortable here, with you for company. I don't need other people to survive."
"Yes, but as your grandfather says... other people need you. You just don't know it yet."
We were quiet for a while, and I saw the resolve in him strengthening, growing stronger by the second. It was like a knot inside of him, twisting, enlarging, till his entire form had grown luminescent.
This much I knew.
I didn't have much longer with him.
"You've made up your mind then?"
"I have," he said. "I understand now too why she had told me we had to break up, all those years ago. We held each other back, you know? It was good, but... we could be more. That's why she had to leave me, and that's why I need to go too. It's not goodbye, Hank. It's just us going off on other adventures, and one day we'll get to share them again with each other."
"Will I get to see you again?"
He laughed. "I don't know. You're the psychic, you tell me."
And he was gone.
I basked in the moonlight for a while longer after that. True, I couldn't hear him anymore, and we would never get to finish that last season of *Brooklyn Nine Nine* we were looking forward to. But it also felt like he was still around, somehow.
I fished my phone out, then dialled for my grandfather. It took him five rings to answer - guess he must have been sleeping.
"Hank?"
"Hey... I'm moving back. I'm coming home."
"*Finally.* There's a lot for you to catch up on. You're never going to be able to help anyone if you don't get your studies right."
"Did you know?"
"Did I know what?"
"Did you know that the ghost in my apartment was listening in to us?"
A slight pause, then a low chuckle in the background.
"Two birds with one stone, Hank, two birds with one stone."
---
/r/rarelyfunny
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I booted up the game, waiting for player two to enter the game. I cracked open a beer in the meantime, kicking up my feet on the table. He was damned good at FIFA - for a ghost.
He was taking long today. There was still no sign of him; no shit talking, no icon flashing on screen. Nothing.
"Casper?" I yelled, my stupid nickname for him. I threw my empty beer can behind me, clattering to the messy floor. "Where the hell are you mate?"
Almost two years. Almost two years, and he'd never been gone for so long. I mean, what else did he have to do? It's not like he could leave the house.
"Casper, buddy," I said, getting up from the couch, "you still mad I beat you yesterday? I'll let you win this time, I promise."
Silence.
****
I kicked through the trash, going from room to room, calling out his name. There was still no sign of him, no ethereal presence.
I looked at the mess the house was in. I never really left the place, not anymore - it just didn't feel right, leaving him alone. I knew what it felt like to be alone.
The sun was setting, the darkness setting in. The silence grew louder, suffocating the house. Had he really left? Could he really be gone?
I paced in the room, too restless to do anything but think.
I know I told myself that I stayed at home all day to keep him company... but maybe it was the other way around.
Maybe he could always leave. Maybe he stayed just to make sure I wasn't alone.
And maybe he left, just to save me from myself.
I was alone again.
I picked up an empty pizza box and, without thinking, folded it and put it in the trashcan.
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[WP] Dante's inferno has one more circle of hell where not even Lucifer was able to go
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He let me flounder for a moment, but I was not here to be punished. He didn't let the darkness settle in. I did not wholly lose my faith that he was still there. I did not wholly lose my faith that *I* was still there - which is to say, anywhere at all - or that I still *was.*
It wasn't really darkness, after all. It was what the perfectly-closed eye does rather than see, expanded to every sense and thus writ not merely large, but infinite.
"You do not see," he said matter-of-factly, choosing words in a borrowed tongue with perfect precision. "You do not feel. You did not hear, until I spoke again."
I nodded. For the very first time, I had been a soul utterly separated from all earthly sensation. Within each of the nine circles, my divine aegis had lent me the passing recognition of warmth (or cold,) and of all the sounds and smells that the damned experienced in fullness. Here, beyond where the idea of "bottom" could endure, I could not perceive any such protection, because I could not perceive anything at all.
Hell was a difficult place for a man of reason, let alone a man of science. It was tempting to think in terms of illusions - Descartes's evil genius and all that - but Virgil had blandly insisted that everything was quite real, including my selectively limited corporeality.
It took a moment, or forever, to formulate the next question.
"Is it truly a worse punishment?" I asked.
Virgil surely smiled, though all was still non-sight. "I always thought oblivion might be," he answered. "The trouble, I eventually reasoned, was that it did not fit a particular sin. Mayhaps in the turning of eons He may renovate a corner of heresy or heathenism.
"But we've moved beyond that," he said. "At least I believe we have. Here, one must needs be The Divine to know anything for certain."
"Moved beyond what?" I asked. I fancied myself sharper back on Earth. Virgil seemed to understand. The experience was intended to overwhelm.
"Beyond sin," he said.
To me, that sounded a bit like cheating, but I let him speak his piece.
"God created not just Earth - by which I mean, oh, shall we say, 'the observable universe?' Yes, that will do nicely. He also created Heaven, and Hell, and Purgatory - and a few other places whose existence surely must tantalize, but have faith that they are largely unworthy of exposition.
"Let us pretend for the moment, however, that 'the observable universe' was the beginning and end of it. Tell me, or offer your best guess: in 'the observable universe,' would it ever be possible for two and two to equal five?"
I kept the political jokes to myself, and simply replied "no."
"'Then some laws cannot be broken,'" he said, and I could suss the quotation. "Heaven and Hell do complicate matters," he continued, reclaiming his own voice, "but we can expand the frontier and hypothesize distinct examples.
"Here, then," he said, with a note of wryness entering his disembodied voice, "is where God put everything that defied the laws of Creation, and not merely those of 'the observable universe.' Were the latter all, as we briefly entertained, it would be the dumping ground for one equaling zero; square circles."
"For the boulder God created that God could not lift," I said.
"Cleverly done," Virgil replied - the first compliment of our timeless, ageless sojourn. "But not quite," he continued, souring it. "You see, that would be the *boundary* between this place and Creation."
He paused for effect; he was still a dramatist, after all these many centuries.
"That would be the alpha and omega of Creation, as it were," he said. "Ah, the perils of translation - well, in 'the observable universe' anyway."
"God is the boundary," I dumbly restated.
"God is Everything," he amended - or restated again. It was becoming difficult to know the difference.
"This," he said, "is Everything *Else.*"
"That doesn't make sense," I replied quickly, but my heart wasn't in it.
"Precisely," he agreed. "I do wonder, sometimes, if God considers it to be sinful. Here, finally, I wonder if His jealousy and His rage abate, and He concedes that some things simply *cannot* be a certain way. Or perhaps the jealousy and the rage are necessary. Perhaps without them, He could not be what He is for us - Everything, and the boundary between that and Everything Else."
"Anger is a powerful motivator," I conceded.
"'I am Wrath, sayeth He,'" Virgil quoted. "Quite a different flavor from 'vengeance is mine,' isn't it?"
I nodded, but had no sense of it. I supposed that my wise and well-traveled guide had no need to hear of my every shrug and shake.
"So all the other gods then, if they ever existed," I said, trying to wrap my head around it. "Do they suffer? Do they even know?"
"Oh no no, my dear boy," Virgil replied. "Nothing like that. Well, perhaps, but... well, let us say, there were plenty of other... *things*-"
It was the first time words seemed to fail him, and I wondered if it were truly a failure.
"-*things* that did not violate the laws of Creation, as it were. Ah, you still use '*per se*,' don't you? That's delightful."
I was less enamored of my native tongue's wanton thievery, focused as I was upon the instant question. I didn't press. He would tell me, or he wouldn't.
"Those," he said casually, "He killed."
If I could have blanched, or gulped, I would have. '*I am Wrath, sayeth He.*'
"You're a clever lad," Virgil said. "You are about to have a clever thought. I strongly recommend you keep it to yourself. That's usually enough to keep Him... happy." He'd chosen the final word as carefully as all the others, paired with a particular mixture of sarcasm and warning.
*If He didn't send them to Hell, it's because he couldn't. He* had *to kill them. That's how powerful they'd been.*
*No.*
*That's how powerful* Everything Else *had been. He'd had to choose.*
I took my wise guide's advice and didn't say anything - or do whatever passed for 'saying' in this terrible place-non-place.
"Don't think of it like that," Virgil said, clearly knowing all, without the benefit of omniscience or even telepathy. "Just think of it as... hmmm... 'professional courtesy.' Yes, that will do just nicely."
|
Beneath the frozen lake resided but one being. Name lost long ago it sank forever in the void. Deeper and deeper it would fall forever, shrinking further from the light of the Almighty. Where even Lucifer was illuminated in his perpetual torment of the three traitors, no such luxury befell the wretch. God Himself had turned away His mind from it.
Yet it could hear the fall of steps from above. Was it the first who might descend into it's domain? Had the wretch a shred of sanity it would have remembered this was but the next of many travellers that would walk over it and the dark prison.
Such was the price paid for the wretch's sin. They, for it used to be many before its mind was destroyed, spoke into the mind of diseased men that those men might sway in trees and sink into deep waters. Their planted words bore a strange and twisted crop made possible by their presence with those that needed aid. And so they were removed from all influence and action, and not even Lucifer himself knew of their existence.
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[WP] Dante's inferno has one more circle of hell where not even Lucifer was able to go
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My dread grew with each ring. The hooded man I followed had said nothing since the two words he had offered when we first met, "Follow me."
And so I did. It's not like I had anywhere else to go. He allowed me to stop at each circle to greet friends and family from life, but the visits were short. I had met my preacher of all people in the first circle, limbo. He died of a heart attack at age 67 only a year prior. Turns out he wasn't as faithful as we all thought he was.
My ex wife was in lust, no surprise there. She had cheated on me only a year into our marriage, then left after I found out. I hadn't heard from her since. It was almost heart breaking to see her suffering in the winds, but my guide simply grabbed my arm and urged me on.
The seventh circle housed my grandfather. A rude, abusive man who beat my dad every chance he got. If I remember correctly, he died as he lived, drunk off his ass, fighting strangers in a bar.
Any hope I had left vanished as soon as I stepped onto the ice of the ninth circle. I instinctively grabbed onto my guide for balance, as he seemed as steady as ever. My mind was racing at this point. Who had I betrayed? What had I done to deserve punishment on par with Lucifer himself? Speaking of whom, the three headed beast soon came into sight. I couldn't take my gaze off him and the legendary traitors in his mouths.
Once again, my guide was dragging me on.
Fear turned to confusion as we trudged past beast.
"W-where are we going?" I croaked out, as if I actually expected an answer. We eventually reached the back of the icy cave, where a hole no larger than an average door was waiting for us. One short, dark hallway later and we had decended into yet another circle, one I hadn't heard of. Before I could ask if there was some mistake, my quiet companion finally spoke up in a raspy gravel voice.
"Welcome to the Pit of Monsters."
I looked over the circle again. From where the tunnel had opened up we stood on a narrow ledge, below us was an area with a bare dirt and gravel floor, not 500 feet across and dotted with lakes of sulfur and blood. In the pit were only four other souls.
"You're here because of special circumstances. You turned many souls to God over the course of your life. However, you have sinned more often and more atrociously than most men. You have committed horrible acts of anger, greed, envy, and gluttony."
"B-but h-how have I turned people to God?" I asked
"Fear."
"Fear?"
"You and those in the pit will fight. Only seven can remain in the pit simultaneously. When I bring the eighth soul, the oldest soul will be taken. Until then, you are to spend centuries, if not millennia, getting beaten, torn, ripped, mutilated and reborn in the lakes of sulfur." As soon as he finished, I felt a strong hand on my back, pushing me forward.
"Why are there only four down there, then?"
"Only five in history have deserved it." He pushed harder now.
"Wait, no I have ques-"
I was cut off as I plummeted hundreds of feet into a pool of sulfur. By the time I dragged myself out, I came face to face with one of the other souls. It was clear this was no human. It was some kind of collage of living creatures. It had hooves and antlers like a deer, walked upright like a man, and barred the teeth and lifeless eyes of an Angler Fish. It belted out a horrific screech and slashed at me with a hoof. I barely managed roll out of the way before I caught a glimpse of another sinner. This one was on all fours, with an appearance similar to a lizard, but covered in fur like a mammal. The fur was red, but it's original color is anyone's guess.
The third inhabitant was a dog. It was seemingly normal at first glance but once I noticed the growing red eyes, I suddenly felt even more uneasy, if that was possible. The deer-man and furry lizard backed away from the dog as it casually strode over to me, sniffing me and investigating like any normal dog. However, any motion I made in it's direction was met with a growl more deep and guttural than anything a dog should be able to produce, and the presentation of three inch yellow fangs.
"Finally!" A shrill voice pierced from behind. I turned around to find the only other human in the pit. It was a middle aged man with bloody gray hair, a body caked in blood, scars, and bruises, and smile cut into one cheek, with a frown cut into the other.
"Someone to talk to!" He continued. His head turned down and shadows were cast on his eyes, but he never lost the smile. "You're going to be fun."
|
Beneath the frozen lake resided but one being. Name lost long ago it sank forever in the void. Deeper and deeper it would fall forever, shrinking further from the light of the Almighty. Where even Lucifer was illuminated in his perpetual torment of the three traitors, no such luxury befell the wretch. God Himself had turned away His mind from it.
Yet it could hear the fall of steps from above. Was it the first who might descend into it's domain? Had the wretch a shred of sanity it would have remembered this was but the next of many travellers that would walk over it and the dark prison.
Such was the price paid for the wretch's sin. They, for it used to be many before its mind was destroyed, spoke into the mind of diseased men that those men might sway in trees and sink into deep waters. Their planted words bore a strange and twisted crop made possible by their presence with those that needed aid. And so they were removed from all influence and action, and not even Lucifer himself knew of their existence.
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[WP] The problem with seeing magic is that eventually it sees you too.
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Humans can't use magic, but they can steal it.
Magic doesn't exist in this world. It can't. There are rules to this world that magic just breaks. But the Alternate doesn't have the same rules that our world does. It has its own, and those we barely understand.
We grew so quickly from minor discoveries like never-ending lantern flames to impossible feats like controlled, localized weather systems that it was really inevitable we'd start to wonder what would happen if—rather than a small binding circle in the base of a lantern or beneath the soil of a field of crops—what if we ourselves were connected to the Alternate?
We knew where to find certain forces in the Alternate, which binding circles would connect to which elements and siphon their power. So, with a little trial and error, some death and dismemberment for the intrepid explorers poking around in a world we could only glimpse, we learned how to hold the power of the Alternate in the palm of our hands. Flame at a touch. Winds where we directed them. Rivers or rain as we wanted.
A binding circle is really just a door that you can open and close. You open the door to a fire in the Alternate where you want a fire to be in our world, and it's there. Close the door, and it's not. If we are that door, we can choose when and where the fire will be. Simple, in concept.
But the Alternate is not an empty world. There are beings that live there, and I learned where to find one.
I opened the door for one. Tried to steal some of its magic. To see what I could become, what I could learn and know.
I learned that the door opens two ways. And where we have spent all these years seeing into the Alternate, this time, there was something there to look back. I was seen, and it was me, or at least some part of me, that was bound and pulled through.
"Hello," I said to the being of the Alternate.
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Many peoples perception of magic is that of innate energies drawn from ones inner self, projected through silly rituals to mold the world before them to their whim. A nice little power fantasy. But a man is simply a man, and magic is... something else.
The bars beat pounded as twenty somethings fumbled across the floor. I weaved my way through the seething dance floor and under swinging pool cues before finally finding my friend spinning in a stool to the bemused look of the bartender.
"At least you saved me a seat."
I quipped before he spun once more.
"What?!"
"At least you saved me a seat."
One look at his perplexed face told me that he already was far gone. Taking my seat I tapped the wooden counter top waiting for the bar tender to come around once more. A man with strait brown hair in a white buttoned top took the stool next to mine. He sat staring at the neon brewery signs with a somber look. Taking a glance at my friend dry heaving while somehow still spinning, I figured for his safety, drinks would be better spent on meeting new people. Tapping the mans shoulder, I pointed at one of the intricate neon signs dangling above the spirits.
"Hey if your'e looking for a local drink you can't go wrong with logged hog."
His sight snapped from the sign to me as a hefty newcomer sat on him. NO, that wasn't quite right, sat through him. The music stopped, the people stopped, the drinks stopped, time stopped. Except for me, and the brown haired man. With a beaming smile he walked through the wooden bar counter and grabbed a bottle of rum before turning and placing it with two clinging shot glasses before me.
"You are the first person to see me in a very long time."
he began, pouring the spiced liquor into the crystal glasses.
"A VERY long time."
he sighed before picking up one of the shot glasses.
"But that time is over, and our time has just begun- oh don't give me that face."
I honestly didn't know that my jaw could drop that far, but there I was, eyes wide as a doe's staring slack-jawed at this man.
"Alright."
He groaned putting down the glass.
"Lets get started"
**Will probably finish tomorrow, maybe not, really tired.**
**Feed back for what is there would be appreciated though.**
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[WP] The village idiot has lived a long life, so long that people are mistaking his inane ramblings for wise sayings and advice.
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"SAVE HER" a disheveled old man moaned as he tottered nervously on the corner bedpost. "I'm a doctor, not a magician. You need to calm down sir so I can work." The middle-aged physician was on edge. Normally an in and out sort of practitioner, today Dr. Alxeander Pie was more talkative. Known as a very calm and reticent man, this was the 4th strange case this month from the little village of Blodville and the good doctor was somewhere between vexed and exasperated as he would say, which is really just to say he was annoyed.
First a young woman with an allergy to bees apparently brought about a severe case of anaphylaxic shock on herself when she released... a jar of bees. Her alleged purpose? To cure her allergy. A few days later a man needed treatment for what could only be described as an attempt to plant himself into the ground. Had his neighbor not come to say hello, who knows how long he would have stayed there. The week or more he had spent dug in like a tree had deprived him of water, so treatment for dehydration and sunburns were required. While a tale in its own right sprung from the 3rd case involving a green and yellow basket, the 4th one before him was the oddest of the lot. The husband of an elderly lady with severe bowel obstruction had telephoned Dr. Pie's clinic that she had not been able to defecate in days and her stomach kept growling. While an impacted bowel wasn't generally worthy of a house call, the extreme age of the woman and the specific details the good doctor would find out when he finally arrived made it quite necessary. Quite necessary indeed.
A sharp groan escaped the woman, only under local anesthetic for about 15 minutes now due in part to a lack of forethought by Dr. Pie. "It's done..." sighed the relieved doctor as he sagged back in his chair and released the mangled furry body from his tired hands. As it hit the bottom of the bucket, a sharp *ting* sounded from claws on metal. The older man looked at him with inquisitive eyes: "So, did you save her? Is she okay?!" The doctor looked over at the woman on the bed, the gore of the event still on the sheets that would need to be thrown out (maybe even burned). "Your wife will be fine, thank God you called."
"Not HER. Fluffles! How is Fluffles" the elderly man cried out. The odd look one could see on Dr. Pie's face at that moment reflected a need to lash out, but a severe lack of energy to do so. "The cat's dead you st-. Mo-. Your cat was covered in digestive juices for hours Sir, it was dead when I got here." He was about to add a lie about the cat likely feeling no pain but thought better of it.
"No good God damned doctor" the man spit like a cobra.
"Be happy your wife is alive...speaking of which, why the hell was a woman her age, or any age for that matter, trying to swallow a kitten whole?" The two men made eye contact for a few seconds, each shifting their gaze over the other, judging, before the older man spoke. "She did it to get the bird."
"The what? A bird?" the doctor inquired, somehow amused by the absurdity of the whole thing. "Yea," the older man replied, "a canary we bought from the Fendersons over near the hillside." Less amused now, the doctor gave a retort: "If you say she did it because she swallowed a fly I'm leaving."
"What are ya talking about? She didn't swallow no fly. She swallowed a black widow spider. The poisonous ones with the hour glass on their butt. Birds eat spiders stupid, or did you not know that." The doctor's mouth dropped a little as he looked toward the ceiling as if he was trying to get confirmation from God himself that, yes, he just heard that last sentence correctly. Dr. Alex Pie had basically just saved a nursery rhyme. "And why, pray tell, did she think that was a good idea?
The man looped his thumbs around the strap of his tank top as he spoke "The mayor. Smartest man in the area I'd say. We've had doctors come in, physisasists, chemical mumbojumbos...none of them know as much as him. Been her' longer than all of us and old as shit." Alex Pie talked with the old man for a while longer like this, he asking questions and the old man heaping praise by the barrel full on some "mayor." While Dr. Pie had been practising in the area now for a year, he had never yet had reason to traverse Mt. Babo and visit the actual village. Often called the hillside by locales, the ridges of Mt. Babo seperated the small main village of Blodville from the farmers that surrounded it, making travel there an arduous task, and not exactly one a doctor used to suburbs and soccer moms would be comfortable with. Still, from what Alex gathered, all 4 of his recent cases likely originated from the words of this mayor. It was time Dr. Pie made another house call.
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He once said “A bird in the hand is worth--” before stopping abruptly. Now every man, woman and even child walks around with a feathery friend in their hand. This had a profound effect on the effectiveness of the king’s army for one. Turns out it was quite hard to hold a bird while also holding a broadsword and a Heater shield. Although it did work out fine in the end. It just so happened no one wanted to fight an army of feathery suits of armour. An enemy general said, “People who are crazy enough to hold birds in their hands all day are probably not worth conquering.”
He sits at the top of the stairs to the castle. Hundreds of visitors come to him every day and tap him on the shoulder as is the tradition. The man then proceeds to foretell their destiny. The ancient man’s advice was responsible for numerous marriages, thrice as many divorces and the exponential increase in the salary of legal professionals.
One day a man came to the ancient man and tapped his shoulder. “Show me my place in this world,” he said. The ancient man felt annoyed that someone had tapped his shoulder for the hundredth time that day and pushed the man down the stairs. The man thanked the ancient one and can still be found lying at the bottom of the stairs.
They say all good things must come to an end, but the ancient one was not good, so he just lived forever, controlling the destiny of his people.
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[WP] The village idiot has lived a long life, so long that people are mistaking his inane ramblings for wise sayings and advice.
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He wandered through the streets, his cracked voice echoing out with the rising of the dawn. He had been shunned for most of his life, his brain believed to have been infected by the fever that ravaged him as a babe. Now, in his ninetieth year, he had amassed a following, those eager to discern the secret to longevity from his cryptic verses.
"The onion smells!" He bellowed under the town clock. "Its smell scares off the Devil and disease".
The next day Olaf the onion seller sold out of his stock within minutes. Within the small town you could see nobility and paupers alike, decorated with wreaths of pungent vegetation. Labourers grimaced as they ate their daily onion like an apple and wives recoiled as they smelt the breath of their husbands.
"The beasts do not fear their fangs becoming rotten!" Screamed the senile soothsayer. "They eat as we should and as God intended".
The people shunned their cutlery and feasted by lowering their mouths directly to the meat in front of them. This led to particular problems with the onions. It was not unusual to see someone chasing their wayward medicine down the road as it rolled from their gnashing teeth.
"The fish does not fear disease!" The eccentric elder proclaimed. "Tis the water that keeps them pure. And it is the seas that will be Man's new home!".
This was a bit much, thought the people but the old man had outlived everyone else by decades. They followed him to the docks while he rambled his sermons. An errant onion sped past him and plopped into the water. Without pause, the old man threw himself into the water with a yell of pure abandon.
It looks cold, murmured the people as they awaited his return. A few minutes passed and still there was no sign. The mutterings became ones of wonderment and the more devout began to divest themselves of their constricting land based clothing. The boldest, clad only in his under garments, stepped to the edge. He paused and pointed.
A wrinkled body bobbed gently to the surface.
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r/AMSWrites
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He once said “A bird in the hand is worth--” before stopping abruptly. Now every man, woman and even child walks around with a feathery friend in their hand. This had a profound effect on the effectiveness of the king’s army for one. Turns out it was quite hard to hold a bird while also holding a broadsword and a Heater shield. Although it did work out fine in the end. It just so happened no one wanted to fight an army of feathery suits of armour. An enemy general said, “People who are crazy enough to hold birds in their hands all day are probably not worth conquering.”
He sits at the top of the stairs to the castle. Hundreds of visitors come to him every day and tap him on the shoulder as is the tradition. The man then proceeds to foretell their destiny. The ancient man’s advice was responsible for numerous marriages, thrice as many divorces and the exponential increase in the salary of legal professionals.
One day a man came to the ancient man and tapped his shoulder. “Show me my place in this world,” he said. The ancient man felt annoyed that someone had tapped his shoulder for the hundredth time that day and pushed the man down the stairs. The man thanked the ancient one and can still be found lying at the bottom of the stairs.
They say all good things must come to an end, but the ancient one was not good, so he just lived forever, controlling the destiny of his people.
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[WP] The village idiot has lived a long life, so long that people are mistaking his inane ramblings for wise sayings and advice.
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"SAVE HER" a disheveled old man moaned as he tottered nervously on the corner bedpost. "I'm a doctor, not a magician. You need to calm down sir so I can work." The middle-aged physician was on edge. Normally an in and out sort of practitioner, today Dr. Alxeander Pie was more talkative. Known as a very calm and reticent man, this was the 4th strange case this month from the little village of Blodville and the good doctor was somewhere between vexed and exasperated as he would say, which is really just to say he was annoyed.
First a young woman with an allergy to bees apparently brought about a severe case of anaphylaxic shock on herself when she released... a jar of bees. Her alleged purpose? To cure her allergy. A few days later a man needed treatment for what could only be described as an attempt to plant himself into the ground. Had his neighbor not come to say hello, who knows how long he would have stayed there. The week or more he had spent dug in like a tree had deprived him of water, so treatment for dehydration and sunburns were required. While a tale in its own right sprung from the 3rd case involving a green and yellow basket, the 4th one before him was the oddest of the lot. The husband of an elderly lady with severe bowel obstruction had telephoned Dr. Pie's clinic that she had not been able to defecate in days and her stomach kept growling. While an impacted bowel wasn't generally worthy of a house call, the extreme age of the woman and the specific details the good doctor would find out when he finally arrived made it quite necessary. Quite necessary indeed.
A sharp groan escaped the woman, only under local anesthetic for about 15 minutes now due in part to a lack of forethought by Dr. Pie. "It's done..." sighed the relieved doctor as he sagged back in his chair and released the mangled furry body from his tired hands. As it hit the bottom of the bucket, a sharp *ting* sounded from claws on metal. The older man looked at him with inquisitive eyes: "So, did you save her? Is she okay?!" The doctor looked over at the woman on the bed, the gore of the event still on the sheets that would need to be thrown out (maybe even burned). "Your wife will be fine, thank God you called."
"Not HER. Fluffles! How is Fluffles" the elderly man cried out. The odd look one could see on Dr. Pie's face at that moment reflected a need to lash out, but a severe lack of energy to do so. "The cat's dead you st-. Mo-. Your cat was covered in digestive juices for hours Sir, it was dead when I got here." He was about to add a lie about the cat likely feeling no pain but thought better of it.
"No good God damned doctor" the man spit like a cobra.
"Be happy your wife is alive...speaking of which, why the hell was a woman her age, or any age for that matter, trying to swallow a kitten whole?" The two men made eye contact for a few seconds, each shifting their gaze over the other, judging, before the older man spoke. "She did it to get the bird."
"The what? A bird?" the doctor inquired, somehow amused by the absurdity of the whole thing. "Yea," the older man replied, "a canary we bought from the Fendersons over near the hillside." Less amused now, the doctor gave a retort: "If you say she did it because she swallowed a fly I'm leaving."
"What are ya talking about? She didn't swallow no fly. She swallowed a black widow spider. The poisonous ones with the hour glass on their butt. Birds eat spiders stupid, or did you not know that." The doctor's mouth dropped a little as he looked toward the ceiling as if he was trying to get confirmation from God himself that, yes, he just heard that last sentence correctly. Dr. Alex Pie had basically just saved a nursery rhyme. "And why, pray tell, did she think that was a good idea?
The man looped his thumbs around the strap of his tank top as he spoke "The mayor. Smartest man in the area I'd say. We've had doctors come in, physisasists, chemical mumbojumbos...none of them know as much as him. Been her' longer than all of us and old as shit." Alex Pie talked with the old man for a while longer like this, he asking questions and the old man heaping praise by the barrel full on some "mayor." While Dr. Pie had been practising in the area now for a year, he had never yet had reason to traverse Mt. Babo and visit the actual village. Often called the hillside by locales, the ridges of Mt. Babo seperated the small main village of Blodville from the farmers that surrounded it, making travel there an arduous task, and not exactly one a doctor used to suburbs and soccer moms would be comfortable with. Still, from what Alex gathered, all 4 of his recent cases likely originated from the words of this mayor. It was time Dr. Pie made another house call.
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Every day we gathered at dawn before the elders gave out duties, to hear the clairvoyant. He was ancient. Some claim he lived 30 winters, which was unheard of in the tribe. Others insisted his words come from the Afu-Ra, the great snake that eats the sun every evening. There were those that claimed his words are heresy and he should not be praised as a messenger of the gods, but the rules of the tribe were simple. He who lives the longest knows the most. So he leads the tribe. Ron-Mo inherited his position from his mother. His words are the law now. Even if his words send us to hunt mammoths in the swamps, and none returns. Even when his words tell us to gather fire with our hands, causing wounds, pain, death. Since he came to power, the tribe has lost many. Tonight, during the sacrifice, he just might trip and fall into the smoky pit, a path to the lands of Afu-Ra, where she will devour him forever.
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[WP] The village idiot has lived a long life, so long that people are mistaking his inane ramblings for wise sayings and advice.
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He wandered through the streets, his cracked voice echoing out with the rising of the dawn. He had been shunned for most of his life, his brain believed to have been infected by the fever that ravaged him as a babe. Now, in his ninetieth year, he had amassed a following, those eager to discern the secret to longevity from his cryptic verses.
"The onion smells!" He bellowed under the town clock. "Its smell scares off the Devil and disease".
The next day Olaf the onion seller sold out of his stock within minutes. Within the small town you could see nobility and paupers alike, decorated with wreaths of pungent vegetation. Labourers grimaced as they ate their daily onion like an apple and wives recoiled as they smelt the breath of their husbands.
"The beasts do not fear their fangs becoming rotten!" Screamed the senile soothsayer. "They eat as we should and as God intended".
The people shunned their cutlery and feasted by lowering their mouths directly to the meat in front of them. This led to particular problems with the onions. It was not unusual to see someone chasing their wayward medicine down the road as it rolled from their gnashing teeth.
"The fish does not fear disease!" The eccentric elder proclaimed. "Tis the water that keeps them pure. And it is the seas that will be Man's new home!".
This was a bit much, thought the people but the old man had outlived everyone else by decades. They followed him to the docks while he rambled his sermons. An errant onion sped past him and plopped into the water. Without pause, the old man threw himself into the water with a yell of pure abandon.
It looks cold, murmured the people as they awaited his return. A few minutes passed and still there was no sign. The mutterings became ones of wonderment and the more devout began to divest themselves of their constricting land based clothing. The boldest, clad only in his under garments, stepped to the edge. He paused and pointed.
A wrinkled body bobbed gently to the surface.
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r/AMSWrites
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Every day we gathered at dawn before the elders gave out duties, to hear the clairvoyant. He was ancient. Some claim he lived 30 winters, which was unheard of in the tribe. Others insisted his words come from the Afu-Ra, the great snake that eats the sun every evening. There were those that claimed his words are heresy and he should not be praised as a messenger of the gods, but the rules of the tribe were simple. He who lives the longest knows the most. So he leads the tribe. Ron-Mo inherited his position from his mother. His words are the law now. Even if his words send us to hunt mammoths in the swamps, and none returns. Even when his words tell us to gather fire with our hands, causing wounds, pain, death. Since he came to power, the tribe has lost many. Tonight, during the sacrifice, he just might trip and fall into the smoky pit, a path to the lands of Afu-Ra, where she will devour him forever.
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[WP] You are an undead warlord, cursed to a life of war and misery. Until you find out that the curse was all a prank.
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"A trick." I repeated, dumbly.
"Yes! Well, to be honest, we thought it would teach you some humility, you know?"
"You cursed me with undeath. I couldn't eat, drink, or sleep. Everyone tries to kill me on sight, and you're now telling me that it was a *game*?"
Argus looked at Mir, who tossed her hair over her shoulder.
"You insisted on taking the difficult jobs. What were we supposed to do? You got all the glory for it all, and us? We were background characters to you! Did you ever think about how little rest you let us have? Constantly going from one battle to another! I thought it very fitting that you'd be able to battle endlessly!"
I clenched my fists until the leather of my gauntlets creaked from the strain. My body was marred with countless scars, my eyes sunken and black, with a violet glow from where I presumed my irises had once been. Violet was the colour of such magics as necromancy. If my pallid skin hadn't been enough of an indication, the purple spark in my otherwise black eyes was certainly proof of the curse that had been laid on me.
"And so you performed forbidden magic. On me. I have been trapped like this for forty years. Fighting without rest, or the means to rest. But you tried nothing before resorting to forbidden magic? Did it not occur to any of you that you could have just *said* something?"
Their feet shuffled. Though in my curse I hadn't been able to age, they had certainly done so. Argus was frailer now. He stood proudly, but his hands trembled. Not from fear, because they had never been afraid of me. The lines on his face were deep, made even deeper by the frown on his face, and Mir.
Mir, the sly bitch, was white-haired. Her face had the marks of gentle years, of decades spend laughing and loving. But it was drawn tightly now, scowling at the husk of a hero that lurked in the gloom cast by the throne I slouched in. I stood then, and both of them flinched back.
"And where is Bero?" I asked.
"Dead. He went in his sleep." Argus said.
"Oh, how *pleasant* for him." I sneered. "So, why have you sought me out after all these years? Any further curses to lay upon these haunted bones?"
"You...." Mir started, then scowled. "You've been a plague on the kingdom for the past 20 years. How many of these undead soldiers came from the people you trained alongside?"
I stared down at her, no doubt impassively. My face could hardly draw many emotions now. It was permanently etched with what I had been through.
"None of them." I said, flatly. "It has been forty years. They are all dead, from old age or disease. Like Bero."
"You...." Argus hissed.
"You have no grounds to scold me when it is your actions that have set me on this path. What else can a cursed husk do but battle? What does it know but pain and misery?"
"You killed my son, you bastard!" Mir screamed.
For the first time in forty years, I grinned.
"Merely a prank." I said. "After all, it is hardly of the same level as laying a curse on someone so that they die in immense pain and rise as an undead beast."
I made a gesture with my hand. **"Uwmdjsilg gwsk."**
The stone underneath them erupted in tendrils, and bound them fast to their spots, locking Mir's staff in place so that she wouldn't be able to cast with it. The trouble with fighting former comrades is that they know all of your tricks. From the look on their faces, they hadn't expected me to learn new ones. And they, the arrogant bastards; hadn't changed one bit. I stepped down from the dais where the throne had been placed. My boots rapped sharply against the worn stone as I paced around them, and touched one cold hand to Argus' shoulder. He shuddered.
"You seem surprised." I said. "The trouble is that you made no changes, after you disposed of me. I worked it out as soon as I clawed my way out from the shallow grave I had been left in. Your exploits went far and wide. 'Avenging' my death, you claimed."
I stopped in front of them, scrutinising their aged faces.
"You did a very poor job."
Mir and Argus both winced, despite themselves. While I had worked them hard, it had been simply their responsibility. Their duty as the king's chosen. We had to be sent to these places, because the Fringes were ever growing, and at the time, Mir, Doric, Argus and I had been the only ones capable of repelling it.
After I had been cursed, they had been free to do as they pleased. They had partied. They had rested. They had taken advantage of the generosity of the people, because the king's chosen had done such a good job of repelling the Fringes. Land that had been lost for centuries under the thick miasma had returned.
Twice as much land was gone now. Thousands, millions dead. And that had been before I had decided to turn my hand from merely battling to continue my cursed existence. Twenty years had been enough to discover exactly what this existence could do. I was still learning, even now. But at least I wasn't like some pathetic rat, scuttling from the light, terrified and confused as I had been.
And now I had proof. I had their admission that it had been their greed, their jealousy, their resentment of me that had led to my death in the Fringes. My dying alone, in immense pain as my body turned to ice from within.
"We can undo this!" Mir protested. "I have the spell prepared! See, you can read it! It's in my pouch!"
I gestured with a finger, and the scroll fluttered out of the pouch so that I could see it. She was telling the truth: it was prepared. All she had to do to reverse what she had cast was to chant the final incantation. I laughed, though it crackled harshly in my throat and they flinched at the inhuman noises it made.
Mir flinched as I crumpled the scroll into a tight ball, then flicked it at her.
"It would not help me." I said. The look of bewilderment on her face was worth losing a valuable incantation like that.
"Don't be ridiculous!" she exclaimed. "It is the incantation to reverse the curse!"
"Yes, and I tell you that it would not make any difference. Because when I died there in the Fringes, the miasma seeped into my corpse. As I had warned you many times, one must never leave an intact corpse in the Fringes. But you, fools as you are; you left my body intact. You buried it in the miasma-tainted ground. There is no soul left to resurrect from, you pathetic woman. It was eaten away entirely by the time that this husk pulled itself from the ground."
"Then... what are you?" Argus said, hoarsely.
"One can still have a personality and their mind without a soul, Argus. It has merely become something else."
"An Ancient."
I smiled again. "Correct. So, elderly adventurers. You strode confidently into the lair of an Ancient. As I showed my face and spoke in the same way as I always did, you assumed that I had not changed. No doubt you thought I would confront you with blade, as the man Harl would have done. I have learned many things in these forty years."
I paused for a moment, and half-turned to the elaborate throne, its surroundings littered with bones of humans, and of Fringe-beasts alike. This had been the lair of a vampire, so to say. They had not been able to put up any resistance to an Ancient, immature even as I was. Still, its remains had not gone to waste.
"I do have a tendency to ramble now, I must admit." I conceded. "Tell me one thing, Argus: what did you do with my hands?"
Argus froze. He looked at my current hands, as I pulled off the gloves that I used to cover them. They weren't my original hands. But there were many parts of me that weren't original. Sometimes it was out of necessity. Sometimes, such as the vocal chords of the Fringe-beast that I had melded with my throat, were more out of curiosity.
"We... burned them." Argus said, hoarsely. "Bero cut them off, and we burned them."
"Now, why would you do such a thing?" I asked.
"We...." Argus trailed off to look at Mir.
"We didn't want you to be able to attack us when we undid the curse." she said. "Look, we shared a bed once. I... I might be old, but..."
"No." I said, curling my lip. "The living are so... messy. All of those... fluids. Wouldn't you agree, my dear?"
From behind the throne where I had been slouched stepped my lover. She had been the thrall of the vampire I had slaughtered in this castle, and similarly to myself, her mind had been retained even as her undead body rose, animated by the power that flowed through the Fringes. As it turned out, we shared many interests.
"And how, exactly; would you have revived me if I had no hands? Hmm?" I asked, turning to the two again as Lami settled herself down in the throne.
I took a step forwards and made a fist with my hand. These were wickedly clawed, pale and long-fingered. I was much thinner than I had been, so these hands did fit my appearance very well.
"Vampire's." Mir gasped. Her gaze flickered up to me, met my gaze for the first time. "How?"
"The parts of the undead are quite compatible with each other. Now, what 'pranks' shall I play on you now, hmm? Don't cry, Mir. I have many ways to keep you alive. You are very focussed on being alive, aren't you?"
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He hacked and slashed, disemboweling one enemy, decapitating another. This was his life. War, death and destruction.
The gods had cursed him at birth, so the villagers had said. They were forced to cut him from his mother's lifeless body and it left him scarred across the face. Before he was old enough to properly hold a sword, the village was attacked. He had grabbed the small woodcutting axe and cut into the bowels of an attacker. The chieftain of the attacking tribe had seen it and liked his courage, knocking him unconscious. When he awoke he had been in a strange place with strange people who did not speak his language.
They tried to make him a slave. But he fought back, repeatedly until he won a place with their young men to become warriors. He learned their language. Joined them in attacking other villages. Eventually he killed one of them over a woman. He was cast out, but some of the men follow him, their loyalty earned by him in battle. He created his own tribe. He started planning and leading attacks.
Now, he was at his peak. He had many tribes under him. Many who called him Chieftain. He was currently leading the charge on a temple of the god who had cursed him. Or so a hedge witch told him. He made it inside the temple, killing the head priest without a thought and headed further inside to defile the shrine.
Suddenly a woman appeared in front of him. Beautiful. But he was filled with bloodlust and swung at her. His axe passed straight through not leaving a single mark. That stopped him, and she just stood smiling at him. "Why have you cursed me woman?" He demanded, for she must be the God.
She just looked at him and laughed. "Cursed you my child? I have not cursed you but blessed you. You lived to be born. You lived when your people died. You lived after every battle you have fought. You rule a kingdom! How is that a curse?" She laughed again and said kindly, "If I had truly cursed you, you would never have been born, or died any number of deaths. I curse you now though, with peace. No one is left to fight, you will find their spirits broken and you will become a gentle king. You will live long days from now in peace. But I claim your soul for my taking when your day comes. I will see you then."
She vanished, and he looked around at the death and destruction he had strewn and regretted ever coming to this temple.
Read more of my writing at r/LandOfMisfits
Edits: Formatting, word choice, and grammar
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[WP] You live in a house that’s haunted by a ghost. It communicates with you through sticky notes. The ghost does chores around the house to keep busy. One day you get a note that says, “I can’t do this anymore, I’m done.”
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At first, I didn't know what to think.
Was I delusional? Perhaps I was merely forgetful. However, I couldn't possibly be so forgetful as to have no recollection of how my house has been spotless for the past month without any work on my part. The dishes I left in the sink, the dirty laundry I didn't have time to wash, the dust that should have been collecting on every surface, what happened to them?
The next thing that crossed my mind was that I was slowly going crazy. What a stupid thing to be going crazy over. It was every childs' and adult childs' dream to have no cleaning to do, no chores.
So I decided to make sure I wasn't falling off my rocker. I planned to leave my breakfast dishes and pans unwashed in the sink but this time I would video myself for the entirety of the day until I got back home. Unsurprisingly, when I did come back the dishes were clean and put away in my cupboards. I hurriedly checked the footage of myself only to see I had never returned home.
I knew no one else could have entered my home and I had managed to prove to myself that I wasn't crazy or forgetful. Therefore the only plausible explanation was that I shared my new house with a neat freak ghost.
"Hello?" I called out, fear had just begun taking over my body.
No answer.
"Hello?" I called out again, "Why are you cleaning my house?"
What a stupid thing to ask in a frightened tone. It was comedic, ridiculous, if I may.
Moments later I had a post-it stuck to my forehead. Out of thin air! Definitely a ghost my mind screamed and adrenaline began to pump through my veins.
My shaky hands peeled the post it off my bangs and turned it around. My eyes widened to the size of golf balls.
**"Hi,"** It said and that was enough to make me faint.
I awoke minutes later with an ache in the back of my head. Not shocking since I had fallen from my chair but thankfully my floors were padded with soft carpeting. It all rushed back to me too quickly. I remember that fateful day...
From then on the ghost and I had somehow communicated with sticky notes. This meant a plethora of things, I had to control my wild imagination, I had to restrain myself from fainting multiple times, I had to buy more sticky notes and I had to peacefully coexist with a house cleaning ghost.
But Spencer and I pulled through, until today.
**“I can’t do this anymore, I’m done.”**
My conscience took a huge hit. Had I really been so insensitive to leave Spencer to do everything all the time to the point where it drove him away? All jokes put aside, a frown formed on my face and made my eyebrows furrow.
"What do you mean?" I asked, afraid of the answer to come.
**"I'm tired of this."**
Another post-it was stuck to my bangs. Questions bubbled up inside of me threatening to burst out of my mouth at his vague answer. Yet I held back understanding that Spencer could only write so much on a sticky note. I should have bought the bigger ones when I went to the bookstore, I mentally sighed.
"Tired of what?" I looked around hopelessly, frantically, wishing I could see his eyes and not feel like I had a bad case of the googly eyes.
**"Tired of being here. I want to go"**
Now, these answers were taking a toll on my faint heart. You see, I had built up a good relationship with Spencer. We were friends, he did my laundry for Christ's sake! No, I was not taking advantage of him! He said he had nothing better to do and figured he might as well do something useful while he was here.
But then again, maybe I was taking advantage of him... Could I have been so imprudent?
"Is it because of me Spencer? You know I told you, you didn't have to clean my house... I would do it, it's just sometimes I am a little too busy and can't do it right away." I looked down to my hands ashamed.
I might be reluctant to admit it but I had grown attached to Spence. Even if I couldn't see him, his little notes would cheer me up when I was down, his advice was very wise whenever I was in need and just his presence was comforting. I never felt alone in my house and I was always afraid of that feeling.
**"It was never you, dear friend."**
Was I relieved? Was my conscience alleviated? Barely.
Tears were prickling my eyes as the familiar feeling of dread began to dawn upon me.
Loneliness. It was my one greatest fear. Whenever I was alone trepidation would be all I could feel. Anxiety, constant anxiety. I lived that way before Spencer.
**"Relax. Breathe."**
I tried but I couldn't help how my feelings were overwhelming me. I did, however, achieve keeping my heart rate under a sort of control.
**"You are ready. Take control. Face your fear."**
These damn sticky notes. They could be quotes I read online. How was this helping me?!
**"It is my time to go but you are strong enough, dear friend."**
At least the ghost had a conscience, I suppose.
Mine was now telling me that it would not be fair for me to keep him here. So I nodded my head, a lone tear rolling down my cheek. I could be very melodramatic but at this moment, I was not exaggerating.
"Well then. Goodbye Spence. Don't let the dust bunnies bite, you OCD little ghostie." I chuckled, trying to be strong.
**"You are ridiculous.**"
I laughed wholeheartedly. I knew how bad and how stupid that sounded but as I said, I could be very melodramatic. Literally, I said it three lines ago. Yet these silly words helped me. I looked back at the previous sticky notes and thought to myself. It was time for me to face my fears, just as it was his time to leave.
"Bye Spence. Enjoy the afterlife or wherever you're going and smile a little! I've never seen your smile, you know!" I joked, unconsciously trying to keep him here as long as I could.
**"Bye Mia."**
That was the last sticky note I ever got. Since then the house felt cold and empty like there was something missing.
I did end up dealing with my loneliness and I did so in the most common way amongst us humans. No, I didn't do anything inappropriate. I found a friend.
That friend helped me open up with others and about a year later as I was going into my third year at college, I found a special someone. That someone filled up the emptiness and simultaneously filled up my heart.
He also filled my head with horrible, horrible puns but I suppose that's one of his assets.
I'll never forget Spence and I sort of wish I could find another house cleaning ghost but I would have to settle with a live human being for now.
|
That’s when it all clicked. The ghost was my ex wife, Carla. It was the exact phrase she used when she told me we were through. Before the cancer. Before the heartache. Now she was back, reanimating the pain that carried her away all those years ago, when she got tired of my laziness, my lethargy, the languidness that cloaked my life and determined how I treated her. I was distant. I was indifferent. I was numb to everything until she uttered those words, those cliched-movie break-up words.
“I can’t do this anymore. I’m done.”
I crumpled the note and tossed it in the garbage. After a moment’s thought, I grabbed the pad of sticky notes from the countertop and scrawled a message for Carla. I signed my initials and slapped it on the fridge door. I ran upstairs, packed my things and prepared to leave forever.
At the front door, I turned back and called into the empty house. “Good luck with your purgatory!”
The next morning, before dawn, I woke on my friend’s couch. There was a pile of garbage on the floor beside me. I squinted at it, entirely flummoxed. The note I left for Carla was stuck on top of a tuft of hair and dust bunnies.
“Fuck you, Carla,” it said. “You haunted me enough when you were alive.”
“Great,” I sighed, turning the note in my hand. “Here we go again.”
|
|
[WP] "Explain to me again, slowly this time, how you managed to cause a global blackout with a fucking rubber duck?!"
|
"Fine, fine, fine... let me start from the beginning, *officer*," I reiterated in an annoyed tone. I mean, I'm not an idiot. Why would I do this on purpose? Obviously, it was an accident... anyone could have done it.
"So it all started with the birthday party. It was my friend's 24th birthday, and we went downtown to celebrate. We were in one of these escape room type buildings, and our challenge was to get out of one of these kids day care facilities. So, anyway, it wasn't too hard and we got out with a couple minutes remaining, and on my way out, I jacked a little rubber ducky just as a souvenir."
The officer glared glassily at me with disgust, his little squirrelly little face was full of contempt for my person. I didn't like that he was already judging me before he even knew the story. And I didn't even tell him that I chose the most mangled, ugliest looking rubber ducky since I didn't want to take anything nice from the room.
Nevertheless, I continued to retell my series of unfortunate events. "Immediately after, we went to a museum near the NASA exploratory. As we were leaving the museum, there was a commotion at the NASA building, and a large crowd had gathered to look at what was going on. Naturally, we ran over to see what the fuss was all about. There was a huge TV screen in front of the building, and it showed some 'Breaking News' segment live from that same building we were standing in front of. Apparently, researchers had discovered alien life, and due to rovers being in the right place at the right time, we were about to get a live feed of it literally right *now*. I mean, obviously, we were all amazed. We knew that our entire world was about to change, so stood transfixed and watched the live feed on the TV."
"And then what happened, boy?", the words hissed out of his mouth with a special, sinister sound, as if he couldn't bare to open his mouth any wider when speaking to me.
"Well, in all the excitement, I jumped up and I guess I threw the rubber ducky into the air. I mean, I wasn't aiming or anything, and, to be honest, I don't even know where it went. All I remember was jumping up and dancing, along with everyone else there, and I just randomly threw it in excitement. Can you blame me? We discovered alien life! This was the biggest news of my entire time on Earth."
"And do you realize what happened to that '*rubber ducky*' now, idiot?", he sputtered like an old, run down truck starting up for the last time, quickly and loudly at first, but audibly dying every moment since, and the engine thunderously giving out on the last word, *idiot*.
"Well, now that you told me, yeah I know. I didn't know the ducky fell into the media equipment that was being rushed in on the sidewalk near us. How was I supposed to know that?! It was an honest mistake. And how was I supposed to know that the ducky would get into the view field of the broadcasting equipment which relayed the live feed from the rover to the entire world?! It's not my fault if it looked our first look at the aliens was a mangled rubber ducky, unrecognizable in close up. And, you know what, all that is fine. But why the hell did Trump assume that it was a hostile alien, just because its face looked ugly? That is his own fault."
He breathed slowly, in and out, in and out, as if trying to gather himself for another round of machine gun-like shrieks towards my done-with-everything face. But instead, he sat down on the chair in front of me, looked into my eyes calmly, and slowly and carefully enunciated, "That rubber ducky you threw caused the President of the United States to think that the aliens we discovered were hostile beings, and he issued an order to the EU, and every major government, to commence a joint operation to shut down every power grid, cutting power to every single building in the entire world, except for hospitals, so that the 'hostile aliens' will have a lesser chance of identifying Earth and coming for us."
"Well it's not my fault we have a fucking idiot for a President, is it?", I retorted in a voice as slow and as measured as his.
"I guess it's not...," he reponded, and bitterly clicked off the flashlight in the interrogation room in the NASA building.
|
There I stood. Head down, hands in pockets, and just wanting so desperately to sink into the floor out of existence.
My boss, Dr. Benedict, was having his weekly shout-fest. He always picks someone to ream out, usually for good reason (my coworkers are idiots) but this was just unnecessary. I made one small mistake.
I work at a top secret subatomic particle accelerator laboratory. Well, it used to be top secret, until the incident. Basically, my job is smashing tiny things together to try and discover more tiny things to smash together. But today I accidentally smashed something a little larger than a subatomic particle.
Mr. Benedict was seething. I could feel the heat eminating from his reddened face as he glared at me. "How the HELL did you cause a global blackout with a rubber duck?"
I tried to form the words but couldn't. I was petrified. This fear was different from anything I had ever experienced. It locked me in place. I stuttered something incoherent before my boss slammed his hands on his desk, glared even harder at me, and growled:
"Explain to me again, slowly this time, how you managed to cause a global blackout with a fucking rubber duck?"
I knew I had to respond. I swallowed my fear and responded:
"Well, sir, my lucky rubber duck was in my coat pocket. My daughter gave it to me, you know, so I brought it to work to remind me of her. As I was loading up the accelerator, it must have fallen out of my pocket into the machine. When I started the accelerator, the alpha particles must have interacted with the rubber rather aggressively. This released a huge amount of electromagnetic energy which acted as an EMP, frying all of the power grids in the world. I'll go pack my things."
"I cannot believe your idiocy!" Dr. Benedict spat. "You're fired! Get out of my damn sight!"
As I turned around to show myself or the door, my nuclear scientist coworker named Jim ran into Benedict's office. Panting, he told our boss, "Sir, the readings are of the charts! We just discovered a new particle, I'm sure of it! It's exactly what we've been looking for. Its going to be the key to solving the theory of everything!"
Both mine and my boss's jaw dropped. How did my own irresponsibility solve the unknown realm of physics? Both Jim and I faced Benedict.
"Wha.. what did you say Jim?" he asked.
"We just accomplished a historic feat of physics. We could be billionaires with this information!" Jim excitedly responded.
I turned to my boss with a slight grin. "You.. you can stay for now. But you'll have to make some calls and pay to fix the blackouts. Thank you for your... work."
I happily left his office and returned to my own. Luckily, the blackouts were only temporary. I called all of the major grids and they understood the situation. The world would be back up within six hours. Meanwhile, the staff would be getting down to business to solve the universe at last.
|
|
[WP] "Explain to me again, slowly this time, how you managed to cause a global blackout with a fucking rubber duck?!"
|
"So you've heard of rubber duck debugging, right? Where you talk to a rubber duck and listen to yourself to get an idea of what's going wrong?"
"Yeah..."
"Well, I forgot that I'd put a voice-activated speaker in the duck I taped to my monitor - look, I was on the night shift and studying for finals. The internship was almost over, and I needed to keep my grades, okay?"
"Not okay, but keep going."
"Fuck you. Anyway, all I put on the speaker was vague encouraging noises, but evidently someone decided to play a prank on me, because at two in the morning I was muttering to myself about making coffee and I heard the duck tell me to kill the President in a growly Satan-voice."
"Okay, see, there's the part where you lose me."
"I didn't actually DO it, did I? I'm not an idiot -"
"Citation needed."
"Shut up. So when the duck started talking like Satan, I flipped my shit - two AM, remember? I must've panicked a little, because I ripped the duck off the monitor and chucked it across the room. That's when my supervisor opened the door to ask me something and the duck landed in his mouth. I mean, what are the odds?"
"What are the odds of any of this? Just keep going."
"Okay, so the duck gets caught in his throat, and he starts choking. So I panic even HARDER, and I'm so brain-dead I'm not sure if he's choking or possessed, because the duck is screaming something about Beezlebub, and he's making these weird gurgling noises and grabbing at his throat. I finally remember the Heimlich maneuver, so I grab him from behind and yank, and the duck - still screaming - comes flying out his throat, and -"
"Okay, stop. Here's the point where I lost you last time."
"Yeah, I'm not too clear on this part myself...I'm mostly guessing."
"Everyone's mostly guessing. The fucking FBI is mostly guessing. At least you saw it. Just give me the details, slowly."
"Alright, so...the duck flies out of his mouth and must've hit some kind of weak spot in the plant observation window just right, maybe with the corner of the speaker or something, because the window just breaks and the duck sails right through. It goes sailing out of sight, but I can still hear it screaming about Satan, and then I hear someone swear and a few gunshots. I'm guessing some trigger-happy security guard shot it on instinct -"
"That was Johnson."
"Shit, really? I like Johnson, but that was a stupid thing to do. How is he, anyway?"
"Still in the hospital. Doctors say he'll probably be okay, but they're waiting to make sure his spleen heals properly, and the whole thing is being covered by insurance anyway. Acts of God clause."
"Oh. Well, Johnson shot at the duck, and actually managed to hit the damn thing but somehow not break the speaker, and the whole thing goes flying into the dam's intake pipe. Everything went quiet for a minute, and then I hear the Satan-duck voice again, only louder and...weird."
"Weird how?"
"Weird like echoey. I think it must've gotten stuck in the pipes in just the wrong spot, and turned the whole damn dam into some kind of amplifier."
"That doesn't make sense."
"NONE of this makes sense."
"Point. Keep going."
"Well, anyway, the sound of Satan yelling about indoctrinating youth through rock music was echoing through the dam, and it had been a long night already, and I guess I started thinking the dam was possessed now. So I figured I needed to UN-possess it. You know Mary, right? From that one philosophy class we had to take?"
"Mary Vinta? Isn't she the one who goes by Raven Stargleam V'inta now?"
"Yeah. I was stuck being her debate partner for all of that damn class, and learned a LOT about her weird witchcraft obsession I didn't need to know, but one of the things I got was that you can really just use whatever you have for any kind of ritual. The only other thing I remembered was that you needed fire to purify demons, and I didn't have any way to set a fire, but I did have a microwave..."
"You fucking didn't."
"Yeah. I jimmied the door open, set it on high, and aimed it at the spot I thought the screaming was coming from."
"And WHY did this seem like a good idea!?"
"It was two in the morning, I hadn't slept in well over 24 hours, and I was panicking!"
"God...so, you aimed the microwave at the duck, and then what happened?"
"It exploded."
"It says a lot that at this point, I'm not even fucking surprised."
"No, that part makes sense! The floor was just plastic tile, and the pipes were right underneath them, and -"
"And the duck exploded?"
"Well, technically the speaker's batteries exploded..."
"Fuck you. So...that's when the pipe cracked?"
"I still don't think that was my fault. That wasn't exactly a big explosion, and the pipe strength wasn't MY problem."
"You made the duck explode, cracked the main filtration pipe right next to the tank, and dumped a month's collection into the dam turbines!"
"Then the turbines shouldn't have been put under the filters! And the dam turbines shouldn't just fucking explode too!"
"... unofficially, off the record, I agree. Officially, that's not the scope of this investigation."
"I'm fired, aren't I?"
"You unleashed a land-bound tsunami on a major city with a fucking rubber duck, and you ask if you're fired? Yes, you're fired. Possibly out of a cannon. Into a volcano."
"Shit."
A/N: First submission to r/writingprompts! I couldn't figure out how to get a GLOBAL blackout without bending the laws of probability and physics farther than I already was, so I settled for a blackout the size of a small country. Still counts!
|
There I stood. Head down, hands in pockets, and just wanting so desperately to sink into the floor out of existence.
My boss, Dr. Benedict, was having his weekly shout-fest. He always picks someone to ream out, usually for good reason (my coworkers are idiots) but this was just unnecessary. I made one small mistake.
I work at a top secret subatomic particle accelerator laboratory. Well, it used to be top secret, until the incident. Basically, my job is smashing tiny things together to try and discover more tiny things to smash together. But today I accidentally smashed something a little larger than a subatomic particle.
Mr. Benedict was seething. I could feel the heat eminating from his reddened face as he glared at me. "How the HELL did you cause a global blackout with a rubber duck?"
I tried to form the words but couldn't. I was petrified. This fear was different from anything I had ever experienced. It locked me in place. I stuttered something incoherent before my boss slammed his hands on his desk, glared even harder at me, and growled:
"Explain to me again, slowly this time, how you managed to cause a global blackout with a fucking rubber duck?"
I knew I had to respond. I swallowed my fear and responded:
"Well, sir, my lucky rubber duck was in my coat pocket. My daughter gave it to me, you know, so I brought it to work to remind me of her. As I was loading up the accelerator, it must have fallen out of my pocket into the machine. When I started the accelerator, the alpha particles must have interacted with the rubber rather aggressively. This released a huge amount of electromagnetic energy which acted as an EMP, frying all of the power grids in the world. I'll go pack my things."
"I cannot believe your idiocy!" Dr. Benedict spat. "You're fired! Get out of my damn sight!"
As I turned around to show myself or the door, my nuclear scientist coworker named Jim ran into Benedict's office. Panting, he told our boss, "Sir, the readings are of the charts! We just discovered a new particle, I'm sure of it! It's exactly what we've been looking for. Its going to be the key to solving the theory of everything!"
Both mine and my boss's jaw dropped. How did my own irresponsibility solve the unknown realm of physics? Both Jim and I faced Benedict.
"Wha.. what did you say Jim?" he asked.
"We just accomplished a historic feat of physics. We could be billionaires with this information!" Jim excitedly responded.
I turned to my boss with a slight grin. "You.. you can stay for now. But you'll have to make some calls and pay to fix the blackouts. Thank you for your... work."
I happily left his office and returned to my own. Luckily, the blackouts were only temporary. I called all of the major grids and they understood the situation. The world would be back up within six hours. Meanwhile, the staff would be getting down to business to solve the universe at last.
|
|
[WP] "Explain to me again, slowly this time, how you managed to cause a global blackout with a fucking rubber duck?!"
|
"So you've heard of rubber duck debugging, right? Where you talk to a rubber duck and listen to yourself to get an idea of what's going wrong?"
"Yeah..."
"Well, I forgot that I'd put a voice-activated speaker in the duck I taped to my monitor - look, I was on the night shift and studying for finals. The internship was almost over, and I needed to keep my grades, okay?"
"Not okay, but keep going."
"Fuck you. Anyway, all I put on the speaker was vague encouraging noises, but evidently someone decided to play a prank on me, because at two in the morning I was muttering to myself about making coffee and I heard the duck tell me to kill the President in a growly Satan-voice."
"Okay, see, there's the part where you lose me."
"I didn't actually DO it, did I? I'm not an idiot -"
"Citation needed."
"Shut up. So when the duck started talking like Satan, I flipped my shit - two AM, remember? I must've panicked a little, because I ripped the duck off the monitor and chucked it across the room. That's when my supervisor opened the door to ask me something and the duck landed in his mouth. I mean, what are the odds?"
"What are the odds of any of this? Just keep going."
"Okay, so the duck gets caught in his throat, and he starts choking. So I panic even HARDER, and I'm so brain-dead I'm not sure if he's choking or possessed, because the duck is screaming something about Beezlebub, and he's making these weird gurgling noises and grabbing at his throat. I finally remember the Heimlich maneuver, so I grab him from behind and yank, and the duck - still screaming - comes flying out his throat, and -"
"Okay, stop. Here's the point where I lost you last time."
"Yeah, I'm not too clear on this part myself...I'm mostly guessing."
"Everyone's mostly guessing. The fucking FBI is mostly guessing. At least you saw it. Just give me the details, slowly."
"Alright, so...the duck flies out of his mouth and must've hit some kind of weak spot in the plant observation window just right, maybe with the corner of the speaker or something, because the window just breaks and the duck sails right through. It goes sailing out of sight, but I can still hear it screaming about Satan, and then I hear someone swear and a few gunshots. I'm guessing some trigger-happy security guard shot it on instinct -"
"That was Johnson."
"Shit, really? I like Johnson, but that was a stupid thing to do. How is he, anyway?"
"Still in the hospital. Doctors say he'll probably be okay, but they're waiting to make sure his spleen heals properly, and the whole thing is being covered by insurance anyway. Acts of God clause."
"Oh. Well, Johnson shot at the duck, and actually managed to hit the damn thing but somehow not break the speaker, and the whole thing goes flying into the dam's intake pipe. Everything went quiet for a minute, and then I hear the Satan-duck voice again, only louder and...weird."
"Weird how?"
"Weird like echoey. I think it must've gotten stuck in the pipes in just the wrong spot, and turned the whole damn dam into some kind of amplifier."
"That doesn't make sense."
"NONE of this makes sense."
"Point. Keep going."
"Well, anyway, the sound of Satan yelling about indoctrinating youth through rock music was echoing through the dam, and it had been a long night already, and I guess I started thinking the dam was possessed now. So I figured I needed to UN-possess it. You know Mary, right? From that one philosophy class we had to take?"
"Mary Vinta? Isn't she the one who goes by Raven Stargleam V'inta now?"
"Yeah. I was stuck being her debate partner for all of that damn class, and learned a LOT about her weird witchcraft obsession I didn't need to know, but one of the things I got was that you can really just use whatever you have for any kind of ritual. The only other thing I remembered was that you needed fire to purify demons, and I didn't have any way to set a fire, but I did have a microwave..."
"You fucking didn't."
"Yeah. I jimmied the door open, set it on high, and aimed it at the spot I thought the screaming was coming from."
"And WHY did this seem like a good idea!?"
"It was two in the morning, I hadn't slept in well over 24 hours, and I was panicking!"
"God...so, you aimed the microwave at the duck, and then what happened?"
"It exploded."
"It says a lot that at this point, I'm not even fucking surprised."
"No, that part makes sense! The floor was just plastic tile, and the pipes were right underneath them, and -"
"And the duck exploded?"
"Well, technically the speaker's batteries exploded..."
"Fuck you. So...that's when the pipe cracked?"
"I still don't think that was my fault. That wasn't exactly a big explosion, and the pipe strength wasn't MY problem."
"You made the duck explode, cracked the main filtration pipe right next to the tank, and dumped a month's collection into the dam turbines!"
"Then the turbines shouldn't have been put under the filters! And the dam turbines shouldn't just fucking explode too!"
"... unofficially, off the record, I agree. Officially, that's not the scope of this investigation."
"I'm fired, aren't I?"
"You unleashed a land-bound tsunami on a major city with a fucking rubber duck, and you ask if you're fired? Yes, you're fired. Possibly out of a cannon. Into a volcano."
"Shit."
A/N: First submission to r/writingprompts! I couldn't figure out how to get a GLOBAL blackout without bending the laws of probability and physics farther than I already was, so I settled for a blackout the size of a small country. Still counts!
|
"Fine, fine, fine... let me start from the beginning, *officer*," I reiterated in an annoyed tone. I mean, I'm not an idiot. Why would I do this on purpose? Obviously, it was an accident... anyone could have done it.
"So it all started with the birthday party. It was my friend's 24th birthday, and we went downtown to celebrate. We were in one of these escape room type buildings, and our challenge was to get out of one of these kids day care facilities. So, anyway, it wasn't too hard and we got out with a couple minutes remaining, and on my way out, I jacked a little rubber ducky just as a souvenir."
The officer glared glassily at me with disgust, his little squirrelly little face was full of contempt for my person. I didn't like that he was already judging me before he even knew the story. And I didn't even tell him that I chose the most mangled, ugliest looking rubber ducky since I didn't want to take anything nice from the room.
Nevertheless, I continued to retell my series of unfortunate events. "Immediately after, we went to a museum near the NASA exploratory. As we were leaving the museum, there was a commotion at the NASA building, and a large crowd had gathered to look at what was going on. Naturally, we ran over to see what the fuss was all about. There was a huge TV screen in front of the building, and it showed some 'Breaking News' segment live from that same building we were standing in front of. Apparently, researchers had discovered alien life, and due to rovers being in the right place at the right time, we were about to get a live feed of it literally right *now*. I mean, obviously, we were all amazed. We knew that our entire world was about to change, so stood transfixed and watched the live feed on the TV."
"And then what happened, boy?", the words hissed out of his mouth with a special, sinister sound, as if he couldn't bare to open his mouth any wider when speaking to me.
"Well, in all the excitement, I jumped up and I guess I threw the rubber ducky into the air. I mean, I wasn't aiming or anything, and, to be honest, I don't even know where it went. All I remember was jumping up and dancing, along with everyone else there, and I just randomly threw it in excitement. Can you blame me? We discovered alien life! This was the biggest news of my entire time on Earth."
"And do you realize what happened to that '*rubber ducky*' now, idiot?", he sputtered like an old, run down truck starting up for the last time, quickly and loudly at first, but audibly dying every moment since, and the engine thunderously giving out on the last word, *idiot*.
"Well, now that you told me, yeah I know. I didn't know the ducky fell into the media equipment that was being rushed in on the sidewalk near us. How was I supposed to know that?! It was an honest mistake. And how was I supposed to know that the ducky would get into the view field of the broadcasting equipment which relayed the live feed from the rover to the entire world?! It's not my fault if it looked our first look at the aliens was a mangled rubber ducky, unrecognizable in close up. And, you know what, all that is fine. But why the hell did Trump assume that it was a hostile alien, just because its face looked ugly? That is his own fault."
He breathed slowly, in and out, in and out, as if trying to gather himself for another round of machine gun-like shrieks towards my done-with-everything face. But instead, he sat down on the chair in front of me, looked into my eyes calmly, and slowly and carefully enunciated, "That rubber ducky you threw caused the President of the United States to think that the aliens we discovered were hostile beings, and he issued an order to the EU, and every major government, to commence a joint operation to shut down every power grid, cutting power to every single building in the entire world, except for hospitals, so that the 'hostile aliens' will have a lesser chance of identifying Earth and coming for us."
"Well it's not my fault we have a fucking idiot for a President, is it?", I retorted in a voice as slow and as measured as his.
"I guess it's not...," he reponded, and bitterly clicked off the flashlight in the interrogation room in the NASA building.
|
|
[WP] "Explain to me again, slowly this time, how you managed to cause a global blackout with a fucking rubber duck?!"
|
"So you've heard of rubber duck debugging, right? Where you talk to a rubber duck and listen to yourself to get an idea of what's going wrong?"
"Yeah..."
"Well, I forgot that I'd put a voice-activated speaker in the duck I taped to my monitor - look, I was on the night shift and studying for finals. The internship was almost over, and I needed to keep my grades, okay?"
"Not okay, but keep going."
"Fuck you. Anyway, all I put on the speaker was vague encouraging noises, but evidently someone decided to play a prank on me, because at two in the morning I was muttering to myself about making coffee and I heard the duck tell me to kill the President in a growly Satan-voice."
"Okay, see, there's the part where you lose me."
"I didn't actually DO it, did I? I'm not an idiot -"
"Citation needed."
"Shut up. So when the duck started talking like Satan, I flipped my shit - two AM, remember? I must've panicked a little, because I ripped the duck off the monitor and chucked it across the room. That's when my supervisor opened the door to ask me something and the duck landed in his mouth. I mean, what are the odds?"
"What are the odds of any of this? Just keep going."
"Okay, so the duck gets caught in his throat, and he starts choking. So I panic even HARDER, and I'm so brain-dead I'm not sure if he's choking or possessed, because the duck is screaming something about Beezlebub, and he's making these weird gurgling noises and grabbing at his throat. I finally remember the Heimlich maneuver, so I grab him from behind and yank, and the duck - still screaming - comes flying out his throat, and -"
"Okay, stop. Here's the point where I lost you last time."
"Yeah, I'm not too clear on this part myself...I'm mostly guessing."
"Everyone's mostly guessing. The fucking FBI is mostly guessing. At least you saw it. Just give me the details, slowly."
"Alright, so...the duck flies out of his mouth and must've hit some kind of weak spot in the plant observation window just right, maybe with the corner of the speaker or something, because the window just breaks and the duck sails right through. It goes sailing out of sight, but I can still hear it screaming about Satan, and then I hear someone swear and a few gunshots. I'm guessing some trigger-happy security guard shot it on instinct -"
"That was Johnson."
"Shit, really? I like Johnson, but that was a stupid thing to do. How is he, anyway?"
"Still in the hospital. Doctors say he'll probably be okay, but they're waiting to make sure his spleen heals properly, and the whole thing is being covered by insurance anyway. Acts of God clause."
"Oh. Well, Johnson shot at the duck, and actually managed to hit the damn thing but somehow not break the speaker, and the whole thing goes flying into the dam's intake pipe. Everything went quiet for a minute, and then I hear the Satan-duck voice again, only louder and...weird."
"Weird how?"
"Weird like echoey. I think it must've gotten stuck in the pipes in just the wrong spot, and turned the whole damn dam into some kind of amplifier."
"That doesn't make sense."
"NONE of this makes sense."
"Point. Keep going."
"Well, anyway, the sound of Satan yelling about indoctrinating youth through rock music was echoing through the dam, and it had been a long night already, and I guess I started thinking the dam was possessed now. So I figured I needed to UN-possess it. You know Mary, right? From that one philosophy class we had to take?"
"Mary Vinta? Isn't she the one who goes by Raven Stargleam V'inta now?"
"Yeah. I was stuck being her debate partner for all of that damn class, and learned a LOT about her weird witchcraft obsession I didn't need to know, but one of the things I got was that you can really just use whatever you have for any kind of ritual. The only other thing I remembered was that you needed fire to purify demons, and I didn't have any way to set a fire, but I did have a microwave..."
"You fucking didn't."
"Yeah. I jimmied the door open, set it on high, and aimed it at the spot I thought the screaming was coming from."
"And WHY did this seem like a good idea!?"
"It was two in the morning, I hadn't slept in well over 24 hours, and I was panicking!"
"God...so, you aimed the microwave at the duck, and then what happened?"
"It exploded."
"It says a lot that at this point, I'm not even fucking surprised."
"No, that part makes sense! The floor was just plastic tile, and the pipes were right underneath them, and -"
"And the duck exploded?"
"Well, technically the speaker's batteries exploded..."
"Fuck you. So...that's when the pipe cracked?"
"I still don't think that was my fault. That wasn't exactly a big explosion, and the pipe strength wasn't MY problem."
"You made the duck explode, cracked the main filtration pipe right next to the tank, and dumped a month's collection into the dam turbines!"
"Then the turbines shouldn't have been put under the filters! And the dam turbines shouldn't just fucking explode too!"
"... unofficially, off the record, I agree. Officially, that's not the scope of this investigation."
"I'm fired, aren't I?"
"You unleashed a land-bound tsunami on a major city with a fucking rubber duck, and you ask if you're fired? Yes, you're fired. Possibly out of a cannon. Into a volcano."
"Shit."
A/N: First submission to r/writingprompts! I couldn't figure out how to get a GLOBAL blackout without bending the laws of probability and physics farther than I already was, so I settled for a blackout the size of a small country. Still counts!
|
The mood at the security bureau was chaotic. Tsarnev had been reassigned to this case after the massive blackout that happened during the recent World Cup match. This wasn't a good look for Russia, though neither was the view outside his cramped cubicle which normally belonged to someone else. This was a critical time for the nation, and every new moment now brought forth endless mockery from news media around the world. While the blackout affected the globe for a moment, it persisted in Russia for some reason. Regardless, if a nation couldn't keep the lights on, how could it do much of anything else? That was the mock question of the day.
During his meetings, he had been shown the baseless accusations against the state so controversial that even a large number of Americans thought them absurd. At the end of the day, they were also just ordinary people trying to make it through the day. The pictures on the flimsy walls of Tsarnev's workspace of two young children was a constant reminder during this long emergency shift. That's not to say that their blabbering didn't matter, though-- as idiotic as it might be. If it weren't important, he wouldn't be sitting here at 2AM dealing with it.
As he filed his pre-contact report on his computer, the case supervisor walked by. Anatoly was dressed in casual office clothing with a cowboy hat, which should have gotten him fired on the spot, but it seemed that he was the highest-ranking person in the building and nobody was going to catch him this night. For his part, Tsarnev had no choice but to put on his already-used formal jacket and slacks. Maybe that was the wrong call.
-*How's the cubicle, partner?*
-*Nobody cares about the cowboy crap.*
Anatoly chuckled and playfully eyed the computer. If this conversation had taken place 12 hours earlier, his enthusiasm just might have been infectious.
-*Maybe if you pulled yourself up by the bootstraps you'd be done with the form... partner.*
-*Already done. Did they catch the guy responsible?*
-*Yeah, we caught the American less than an hour ago. Covert raid, no casualties. In fact, the suspect wasn't even armed and didn't put up any kind of fight at all. It seems he had to be here to do what he did.*
-*Lucky us. How'd he enter at all?*
-*Dunno. Anyway, get your stuff and follow me. He's on his way to the interrogation room now.*
-*Hm?*
-*That means you too. Come on.*
---
To both of the men, it seemed hard to believe that the man in front of them was responsible for their dark circles... and the nation's black eye. He must have been no older than 30, and was still dressed in pajamas. He glanced toward the camera and waved obnoxiously while smiling. Well, as much as someone can wave while in handcuffs. Anatoly broke a smile in response.
-*If it weren't for a gloating Reddit post, we never would have caught him. At least he's being a good sport about it. I didn't read up on the specific details, but it mentioned a rubber duck?*
It **did** mention a rubber duck. The one that somehow caused the ridiculous outage. The one this man had carefully planted.
-*Something along those lines. Wait, aren't you supposed to handle this?*
-*But I picked out my fashionista outfit so carefully...*
Tsarnev was about to faint, and not because he was being swooned. But he would manage nonetheless. The buzzer sounded, and he entered the room alone armed only with the case briefing. He sighed. Maybe this would be over soon.
-*Why do you think you are here, /u/fuckswithducks?*
-*My porn connections?*
Or maybe not.
---
Edit: more?
|
|
[WP] "Explain to me again, slowly this time, how you managed to cause a global blackout with a fucking rubber duck?!"
|
"OK, but before we get started - and for the record - I want to say that, *technically*, it wasn't the rubber duck that blacked out Asia and Australia."
They could have been professional poker players, for all their expressions told me.
"OK. I need to back up to a few days ago. You know I work at Rubber 'N' More upstate. We were having this big board meeting, because we had just finished prototyping a new series of lightweight, durable fenders for maritime use. And as part of the promotional shindig, we had made up a bunch of 'rubber ducks' to show how buoyant the new I Believe It's Not Rubber(tm) material is. You know, just sort of a lighthearted demonstration. Besides, who doesn't like rubber ducks?"
No response. This must be what it's like for a stand-up comedian who's bombing on stage. I made a mental note to go out that weekend to an improv club, get drunk, and laugh so loudly I embarrassed myself. Nobody deserved the mirthless scrutiny of this oppressively humorless senate.
"Anyway, we had made up fifty tons of I Believe It's Not Rubber(tm) - aka IBINoR - and made about a hundred thousand large ducks. We shipped out 95,000 to various maritime and maritime-related companies around the world, and kept five thousand to give away at the promo party. Everything went swimmingly, if you'll pardon the pun - "
Nothing, of course.
" - we had an open bar, a double Olympic sized pool with water slides, a stage with lighting and effects. Everything. Everyone loved it, we had investors lining up to throw money at us from a bunch of different fields like maritime construction, shipping, port authority, you name it. We were all giving it 110% and just feeling the fat bonus checks getting printed out. Everyone took a Ibinor 'rubber duck' as they left, and all us employees tipped the cleaning crew and got the hell out of Dodge. Technically, that was the end of our involvement. All the rest was bad luck."
A few of the grouchy old faces shifted to look at each other, then. It was the first reaction I'd seen from any of them. An old woman spoke into the rustling quiet.
"We are not currently looking to assign blame, Mr. Davis. This is a fact-finding commission. Do you have any additional information about the events leading to the blackout, or is this the end of your statement?"
Implacably single-minded. This was not a fun get-together.
"Well, we all tried to follow on with our prospective clients, so we know generally what happened, next."
"Continue."
I sighed, took a sip of cold water from my glass - it was even odds which of us was sweating more at the moment - and continued. "OK, so, I guess some of the attendees work in power generation. Nuclear, hydro, that sort of high-capacity, base load thing. Anyway, they all need water - nuclear plants need to convert it to steam to spin the turbines, and also to cool the generator; hydro obviously needs it to gravity-spin the turbines. So they're both markets for highly buoyant, thermally resistant, non-conductive rubber substitutes, like Ibinor. Anyway, I guess some of the energy conglomerates decided to have their own multinational meeting to discuss how to use Ibinor in their power plants. And despite there surely being safety protocols somewhere that would suggest not to ever do this, they decided to just go ahead and use the 'rubber ducks' to prototype solutions. They used them in live plants."
I had to shake my head. It didn't seem possible that people in charge of this stuff would be that dumb. But, then again, the only reason we had invented Ibinor was because several of our Senior Design Engineers has gone on a long weekend bender of chugging whiskey and bungee jumping and wanted to make a better bungee cord. I guess a lot of what moves society forward comes from really bad ideas. The dour dozens stared at me, almost lifeless in their somehow intense disinterest.
"So, ok. You all know how synthetic rubbers work, right? Elastomers? They're basically long repeating chains of simple carbon-hydrogen groups. You take your Neoprene, your Isoprene, whatever, and you look at it chemically, it's basically just carbon, hydrogen, and electron bonds. Simple enough stuff, right? Simple enough that nobody really thinks about it.
Well, maybe we don't spend enough money on chemists at Rubber 'N' More, maybe we don't do enough simulation testing, but we're not making jet fighters, you know? We make rubber. And more. But basically, the 'more' is just more rubber. A collection of rocket scientists we ain't. So, you know, maybe we didn't understand how important the bonds are in elastomers.
I guess the problem was that Ibinor is so intensely electrically neutral that we didn't bother to ask, hey, what do you reckon happens if you just force-feed an entire nuclear power plant worth of current into this crap. We just sort of figured you'd eventually overcome the resistance and the whole thing would just melt or fuze in place. We didn't know that if you shorted a few thousand MW into it that it would reorder the bonds and, uh...grow at nearly the speed of light. Like, that's not a test case that anyone has ever had to prove."
(part 1/2)
|
The mood at the security bureau was chaotic. Tsarnev had been reassigned to this case after the massive blackout that happened during the recent World Cup match. This wasn't a good look for Russia, though neither was the view outside his cramped cubicle which normally belonged to someone else. This was a critical time for the nation, and every new moment now brought forth endless mockery from news media around the world. While the blackout affected the globe for a moment, it persisted in Russia for some reason. Regardless, if a nation couldn't keep the lights on, how could it do much of anything else? That was the mock question of the day.
During his meetings, he had been shown the baseless accusations against the state so controversial that even a large number of Americans thought them absurd. At the end of the day, they were also just ordinary people trying to make it through the day. The pictures on the flimsy walls of Tsarnev's workspace of two young children was a constant reminder during this long emergency shift. That's not to say that their blabbering didn't matter, though-- as idiotic as it might be. If it weren't important, he wouldn't be sitting here at 2AM dealing with it.
As he filed his pre-contact report on his computer, the case supervisor walked by. Anatoly was dressed in casual office clothing with a cowboy hat, which should have gotten him fired on the spot, but it seemed that he was the highest-ranking person in the building and nobody was going to catch him this night. For his part, Tsarnev had no choice but to put on his already-used formal jacket and slacks. Maybe that was the wrong call.
-*How's the cubicle, partner?*
-*Nobody cares about the cowboy crap.*
Anatoly chuckled and playfully eyed the computer. If this conversation had taken place 12 hours earlier, his enthusiasm just might have been infectious.
-*Maybe if you pulled yourself up by the bootstraps you'd be done with the form... partner.*
-*Already done. Did they catch the guy responsible?*
-*Yeah, we caught the American less than an hour ago. Covert raid, no casualties. In fact, the suspect wasn't even armed and didn't put up any kind of fight at all. It seems he had to be here to do what he did.*
-*Lucky us. How'd he enter at all?*
-*Dunno. Anyway, get your stuff and follow me. He's on his way to the interrogation room now.*
-*Hm?*
-*That means you too. Come on.*
---
To both of the men, it seemed hard to believe that the man in front of them was responsible for their dark circles... and the nation's black eye. He must have been no older than 30, and was still dressed in pajamas. He glanced toward the camera and waved obnoxiously while smiling. Well, as much as someone can wave while in handcuffs. Anatoly broke a smile in response.
-*If it weren't for a gloating Reddit post, we never would have caught him. At least he's being a good sport about it. I didn't read up on the specific details, but it mentioned a rubber duck?*
It **did** mention a rubber duck. The one that somehow caused the ridiculous outage. The one this man had carefully planted.
-*Something along those lines. Wait, aren't you supposed to handle this?*
-*But I picked out my fashionista outfit so carefully...*
Tsarnev was about to faint, and not because he was being swooned. But he would manage nonetheless. The buzzer sounded, and he entered the room alone armed only with the case briefing. He sighed. Maybe this would be over soon.
-*Why do you think you are here, /u/fuckswithducks?*
-*My porn connections?*
Or maybe not.
---
Edit: more?
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[WP] Printing books for Dragons is a small price to pay for the safety of your village.
|
"Ooh, yes! Drogon like *that* book!"
The red and black dragon pointed a scaly finger at a copy of *Animal Farm* that a villager was reading.
Tall Bob, the village elder, was tired of Drogon and his brother~~s Viserion and~~ Rhaegal terrorizing the village. The ~~three~~ two dragons were known for setting sheep on fire, abducting the occasional damsel in distress, and stealing livestock. Tall Bob was tired of it, so he had asked what the dragons wanted in order for them to stop the attacks.
Strangely, they had answered "books. Lotsa books!"
Drogon wasn't very smart. When Tall Bob had asked him why he wanted books, he had responded simply, "Drogon not smart enough to ace SAT's, wanna learn more, wanna learn more."
And so the village printed them books. A giant printing press was commissioned and all the bookbinders in the village banded together to create the covers.
Drogon had requested *Animal Farm*, and so they fulfilled his wish. Each page was read aloud to the printers who set the typing blocks on the printer, and the page was printed. Naturally, this took a long time and books could possibly take several months to finish printing.
But that was okay. Drogon sometimes forgot about his order and terrorizing the village altogether and would play with his brother in the air, far away from the village.
When a book was finished, the two dragons would rejoice. Since their literacy was at a bare minimum, a teacher was hired to teach them their words. It was a strange sight, watching two large dragons read a huge, ornately bound book with a human perched on their arm guiding them.
And so the village and the dragons lived together in harmony happily ever after.
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19/14/626
Most people assume Dragon’s Tongue is an easy language to write. It’s often said that there are but fourteen characters, three of which are used only for punctuation, and being more or less immortal the dragons have found very little use for past, present, and future tenses. What most fail to realize, however, is that while there are only eleven characters used in the context of a sentence every character has seven cases, each case being used to convey a different emotional or tonal inflection the speaker is trying to convey. What most also don’t realize is that dragons have terrible eyesight. One of the biggest reasons they ignore vulnerable infrastructure like trade caravans and orchards, but attack heavily defended strongpoints like castles and citadels, has far less to do with giving humanity a sporting chance and far more to do with the fact that castles and citadels are the only targets they can pick out amidst the blurs and blots of their vision. Because of these limitations, along with the more obvious limitation of translating from spoken Dragon’s Tongue to spoken Common Tongue to written Common Tongue to written Dragon’s Tongue all while maintaining the spirit of the original message, writing Dragon’s Tongue in a size, font, and style palatable to dragons is a long and utterly tedious activity. Whole days are wasted away printing a single word, sentences are a fortnight in the making, and over the last year of labor I’ve just now completed the first chapter in the the first book for which I have been commissioned, “Dragons: A History”, a title much shorter than that which was initially pitched and one which required no small amount of negotiation to tighten. As it stands, the title measures two cubits in height for each character and twenty three cubits in total length, though it’s been spread across two lines to fit the size of the pages.
All of that being said, I suppose this commission is preferable to the alternative. If I were again given the opportunity to choose between writing oversized textbooks until the day I die, and being reduced horrifically into a smear of ash across the smoldered hillside along with the rest if my family and friends, I’d have great difficulty choosing the latter. The dragons, for whom the entirety of my mortal existence is akin to the flicker of a candle, have been nothing if not lenient in their schedule. The work is done when it is done, and any breaks taken to refresh myself, whether they be a day of bedrest or a week long fishing trip, are met with nothing but apathy. This is not to say there are no time constraints, of course. If I don’t finish their books by the time I reach my deathbed, I’ve been assured that my body will be wreathed in such a terrible fire that my soul will continue to burn long after it’s left me. But, being twenty six years of age and in impeccable health, this threat is, with any luck, of no immediate concern.
As well, the assignment has at times been rather fascinating. I was unaware, for instance, why I was even needed until after I’d accepted the offer. I was ignorant to the fact that dragons, bound by an ancient and powerful curse, could write naught but their own name and would need scribes such as myself to pass on their words in writing. This part of their history, obviously, will be explored in great detail in this book they’ve requested. In Chapter Four, if memory serves me correctly.
I can hear the king’s convoy drawing close. I requested the hides of eight cattle, which will be used to craft two pages. He has been of great help in providing me whatever resources I require, though my request for further hands to assist me in this project have thus far been ignored. Frustrating, but understandable. Only a tiny fraction of the populace can listen to Dragon’s Tongue without plunging into madness, making dictation impossible. A smaller portion still just so happen to be scribes, and apparently only one of these scribes just so happens to be the subject of this king. This speech induced madness and the rare immunity to it is a topic for another time. Chapter Three, I believe. For now, it is time for me to quite literally craft a new page.
|
|
[WP] Printing books for Dragons is a small price to pay for the safety of your village.
|
"Are you here to kill me, noble knight," roared the dragon.
"Errm, what," I asked.
"I'm not ..."
"If you are not here to kill, Sir, then what brings you to my lands?"
The dragon lowered his head and purred his question. I could see the green,
slitted pupils focusing on me. Each of them was larger than my head.
"No, I ... I mean ..."
"No what? Speak, man, speak. Full sentences, if you can. You are not not here
to kill me?"
"I'm not a knight," I pushed out while I forced myself to look at the dragon.
"Not a knight? But how did you find my lands? Only a noble man of clear
conscience and a brave heart can reach it."
"Well, I was in the city to buy parchment and leather and then there were
these robbers and I fled and then there was this storm and my horse ran off
and I wandered around to find it and then I saw this cave and ..."
"That's enough *and*s for the moment," the dragon said. He put his hands on
the ground, crossed them, then rested his head on them. It looked like a house
rested on a pair of crossed trees. Very thick trees. With sharp and probably
poisonous thorns.
"What do I do with you," the dragon asked.
I assumed it to be a rhetorical questions and tried not to look scared. At
least not as scared as I felt.
"Speak, man. What shall I do with you?"
"Errm. You could let me go?"
"Is that a question?"
"You could let me go!"
"Yes, I could. I also could eat you, kill you, turn you to stone or cover you
in amber. I know all my options."
"I could pay you. Will you let me go if I give you some gold," I asked. "You
dragons love gold, right?"
"Well, yes. But I don't long for your tiny amount of gold. It wouldn't distract
me. If you'd try to kill me instead, it would provide me with some
entertainment. Before I eventually kill you, noble knight."
"I'm not a knight, I'm a printer."
"A what?"
"I make books," I explained. "With stories in them? You know, written down?"
The dragon looked at me. I assumed he was puzzled.
"Show me."
I pulled a book from my bag. It didn't sell because there were some smudges on
the title page. I opened the cover and turned it around. The dragon stared at
the letters.
"Read it to me," he demanded.
"Ahem. 'Rumpelstilzchen. A story of greed, betrayal, and courage.'"
For the next hour, I read the story while the dragon listened with half-closed
eyes. Some time during the story he had shifted silently and looked over my
shoulder.
"... And they lived happily ever after," I concluded and closed the book.
The dragon sighed. It felt a bit like the storm, just warmer and dryer.
"This hasn't happened," the dragon said.
"No. It's made up."
"And these people didn't live. Neither here, nor in your world."
"I hope not."
"A curious concept, indeed," the dragon said. It felt ponderous.
"I let you go, printer," the dragon said after a moment. "For a price."
"This book," I asked and hoped to get out of this nightmare cheaply.
"Yes. For this book and a dozen more."
I was too good a merchant to not seize this opportunity.
"You protect my village from the brigands and I will supply you with one book
per month for the rest of your life."
"You're sure? We're kind of long-lived."
"After my death my children can take over. If you protect us, we'll supply
you with stories. Guaranteed to be made up."
The dragon nodded. "Deal, printer. Under one condition ..."
I sighed. "Go ahead."
"At this size the book is kind of hard to read."
"No problem. How big should I make the letters? The size of my hand?"
"The size of your thumbnail would be ideal."
"No problem," I said while I calculated.
"The total height of the book would this," I said and held my hands one cubit
apart.
"I meant the total height," the dragon said. "We're kind of far-sighted."
"Now that's tricky."
"You'll find a way, printer. See you in four weeks."
* * * * *
"And thus, my ancestor, your ancestor, founded the company," I said.
"That's a fairytale, grandpa," Charlene complained. She petted Whipple, her
Abyssinian.
"Is that so?"
"Yes. We learned in school that dragons were domis ... dimis ..."
"Domesticated?"
"... domesticated from cave lizards," the child lectured me.
"When is this story supposed to have happened," asked Leonard. Ranger, his
English Longtail, slept on his shoulder.
"Around 920."
"The printer's press wasn't invented by Johann Gut ..."
"Don't say that name in this house!"
"... Gutenberg before the 1400s."
"The plagiarist almost stole your legacy! Never forget that! Had he succeeded,
you would live in the streets instead of in this estate. And you wouldn't have
all your toys and clothes. You surely wouldn't have pure-breeds for pets," I
yelled. "Rat chasers and garbage sniffers, that's what you would have for
pets!"
Ranger opened one eye lazily to check out what disturbed his sleep. For a pet
that had cost the equivalent of a year's salary of one of my employees, it was
pretty boring.
Leonard looked shocked.
"This wasn't just a story?"
I grinned. Leonard wasn't fazed by my explosion. I could see the doubt in his
face. Right now, he was undecided whether to believe me or his teacher. With
whom I needed to have a word soon. It was one thing to teach the official
version at a public school, but my grandchildren needed to know the truth.
I nodded towards the tiny book, not bigger than a grown man's thumbnail. It
sat on it's pedestal near my desk. The tiny golden ornaments along the edges
reflected the sinking sun.
"If you ask me the right questions, you can find out for yourself."
|
19/14/626
Most people assume Dragon’s Tongue is an easy language to write. It’s often said that there are but fourteen characters, three of which are used only for punctuation, and being more or less immortal the dragons have found very little use for past, present, and future tenses. What most fail to realize, however, is that while there are only eleven characters used in the context of a sentence every character has seven cases, each case being used to convey a different emotional or tonal inflection the speaker is trying to convey. What most also don’t realize is that dragons have terrible eyesight. One of the biggest reasons they ignore vulnerable infrastructure like trade caravans and orchards, but attack heavily defended strongpoints like castles and citadels, has far less to do with giving humanity a sporting chance and far more to do with the fact that castles and citadels are the only targets they can pick out amidst the blurs and blots of their vision. Because of these limitations, along with the more obvious limitation of translating from spoken Dragon’s Tongue to spoken Common Tongue to written Common Tongue to written Dragon’s Tongue all while maintaining the spirit of the original message, writing Dragon’s Tongue in a size, font, and style palatable to dragons is a long and utterly tedious activity. Whole days are wasted away printing a single word, sentences are a fortnight in the making, and over the last year of labor I’ve just now completed the first chapter in the the first book for which I have been commissioned, “Dragons: A History”, a title much shorter than that which was initially pitched and one which required no small amount of negotiation to tighten. As it stands, the title measures two cubits in height for each character and twenty three cubits in total length, though it’s been spread across two lines to fit the size of the pages.
All of that being said, I suppose this commission is preferable to the alternative. If I were again given the opportunity to choose between writing oversized textbooks until the day I die, and being reduced horrifically into a smear of ash across the smoldered hillside along with the rest if my family and friends, I’d have great difficulty choosing the latter. The dragons, for whom the entirety of my mortal existence is akin to the flicker of a candle, have been nothing if not lenient in their schedule. The work is done when it is done, and any breaks taken to refresh myself, whether they be a day of bedrest or a week long fishing trip, are met with nothing but apathy. This is not to say there are no time constraints, of course. If I don’t finish their books by the time I reach my deathbed, I’ve been assured that my body will be wreathed in such a terrible fire that my soul will continue to burn long after it’s left me. But, being twenty six years of age and in impeccable health, this threat is, with any luck, of no immediate concern.
As well, the assignment has at times been rather fascinating. I was unaware, for instance, why I was even needed until after I’d accepted the offer. I was ignorant to the fact that dragons, bound by an ancient and powerful curse, could write naught but their own name and would need scribes such as myself to pass on their words in writing. This part of their history, obviously, will be explored in great detail in this book they’ve requested. In Chapter Four, if memory serves me correctly.
I can hear the king’s convoy drawing close. I requested the hides of eight cattle, which will be used to craft two pages. He has been of great help in providing me whatever resources I require, though my request for further hands to assist me in this project have thus far been ignored. Frustrating, but understandable. Only a tiny fraction of the populace can listen to Dragon’s Tongue without plunging into madness, making dictation impossible. A smaller portion still just so happen to be scribes, and apparently only one of these scribes just so happens to be the subject of this king. This speech induced madness and the rare immunity to it is a topic for another time. Chapter Three, I believe. For now, it is time for me to quite literally craft a new page.
|
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Auto correct has maybe made this slightly different but perhaps better than it should of been 😂 should of definitely been desert
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[WP] You are one of the survivors on a dessert island from a crashed private plane. Amongst the survivors is Gordon Ramsay who is refusing to eat the food that you cook and instead just insults your cooking until he starves.
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I stand huddled with the others around the fire. A heavy rain has begun to patter on the roof of our makeshift dwelling; a broken wing from our plane propped up and secured to two palm trees. It does little to keep away the wind and humidity, but we’ve all learned the hard way it beats sleeping out in the open storm. I hold my hands out to the fire, less for warmth and more to remind myself that I’m still here. Still alive. More than a few eyes from around the fire look over towards the hill where small cross dot the recently churned sand. I shiver.
A figure emerges from the darkness, a young woman whose name I’ve forgotten comes to stand beside me. She is drenched, the remnants of days-old mascara rings her eyes. But then I probably look no better.
“How is he?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. She stands with her arms wrapped around her shoulders, lips trembling, unable to find words. Finally she says, “He just keeps rambling on. I can’t get him to come in by the fire. I’m scared.”
I nod, considering placing a hand on her bare and bloodied shoulder, but I stare motionless at the fire instead. It’s all just too much, I think. Over half the passengers on board dead on impact and more falling sick each day- we’ll be lucky if any of us are alive by the time rescue finds us. I jump as lightening pierces the sky and thunder roars. “If they ever find us,” I mumble.
“What?” The woman asks.
I shake my head.
“What do you want to do? About... him?”
It is dark but still I glance towards where I know the large lonely outcrop of rock sits looking out over the battering waves.
“He won’t eat anything-”
“It’s ok,” I say. “You’ve done everything you can.”
What hope is there if even the living can’t go on?
“Let me try and talk to him.”
Before she can reply I turn to the makeshift cook pot. Coconuts, bananas and a few fish lay out on a bed of palm leaves. What was a sink in the galley has now been repurposed as a cook pot, it bottom sealed up with hardened clay. Inside is a simple stew of fish and a handful of other ingredients we managed to salvage, including the precious last of our salt. Carefully I spoon out the best parts of the soup into a bowl, careful to get the meatiest chunks of fish, and then cover it with a large piece of banana leaf to keep it warm and then step into the storm.
The tropical rains are warm by any standards, yet my sunburned skin sends shivers up my spine. I keep my eyes on the ground in front of me to keep the water from my eyes and make my way to where the waves smash against the coast line where only a few days before I found myself and others pulling bodies from the sea.
I make my way carefully up the bare rock, careful with each step as I climb to where the lone figure sits, staring unblinking into the blackness. I stand still for a moment, wondering what to say or if I should say anything at all.
“Gordon?” I say at last. “Gordon?”
There is the barest recognition to hearing his own name. I take another step closer, the hot bowl cradled against my stomach.
“I brought you something to eat. You need to eat.”
Gordon Ramsey says nothing. He sits hunched over, his arms drawn around his knees.
“I know it’s not much but the fish turned out ok-”
“Fuck you,” comes the reply. His voice is hoarse, tired. “Fuck you and fuck your stupid… *fucking* fish.”
If anything I’m actually relieved. It’s the first any of us have heard him say since the screaming stopped. Since...
“Gordon, if you don’t eat,” I begin, but the words fall away. I climb the remaining few feet and carefully find a seat on a rock beside him. Below us the sea is an angry surge of swelling and breaking, without end, without any sense of pattern or meaning. The words I had rehearsed walking over here seem inconsequential, dross. Instead we sit for a long while as the storm pelts us from every direction with rain and wind, each of us consumed by our own thoughts. But even then, there is a certain connection, I think. One which needs no words to understand.
“They’re all gone,” he says.
I am caught off guard by the man, his words seeming to echo those inside my own head.
“What?” I say.
“They’re all gone…” the words are choked off by tears and I realize Gordon Ramsey is crying. His shoulders shake as he loses himself in a grief that has been a long time coming.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “So sorry…” but it does little to stop the long wailing sobs of the other man. We sit for a time, the unmistakable sting of tears burning my own eyes through the heavy rain, until at last there is silence. Even the storm seems to have abated somewhat. Though the waves still crash into the rocks beneath us, the rain does not fall so heavily. I realize that Gordon has stopped crying. He wipes rain and tears from his face.
I hold out the bowl to him, it’s contents still warm beneath the banana leaf. The smell of it make my own belly groan. After a time he turns and looks at it. Then he takes it in one trembling hand and his it to his chest.
I watch as he lifts the banana leaf and smells deeply of the steaming broth. He considers this for a time, sniffing away the tears that threaten to return, and draws in a second long breath. He takes a sip. And then another.
“Is it ok?” I ask cautiously. “We’ve been foraging for ingredients, but there’s not a whole lot here…”
“It smells like shit,” he mutters.
I stare at him in disbelief, my cheeks reddening somewhat.
He carefully picks out a piece of fish and takes a bite, pulling a slender bone out with a finger.
“Whoever cooked this is a fucking idiot,” he mumbles, and I can’t help but bark out a laugh.
“Are you responsible for this atrocity?” He asks, wiping his nose on his soaked sleeve. He lifts up the bowl and takes a long swallow of the warm broth. “It tastes like… ass,” he says, taking another swallow. “Seriously shit….”
I laugh again, I can’t help but laugh. I feel my whole body shaking and tears begin to come again in full.
“Just absolute fucking garbage,” he says in between large gulps of the soup.
Finally he sets down the bowl and let’s out a deep and heavy sigh.
“I admit it’s not the best,” I say. Then, “In fact, we could really use some help with the cooking- if you’re up for it.”
Gordon Ramsey turns his head towards me, not quite looking me in the eye.
“What do you say?” I ask him, a lump growing in my throat.
After a long moment he nods, and climbs to his feet. Handing the bowl back to me he steadies himself on a rock.
“I suppose if I have to be stuck in this hell with you lot I could at least teach you how to cook a fish properly,” he says. He holds out a hand to me and I take it and climb to my feet.
“I’d like that,” I say. “I think we’d all really like that.”
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Hours. I spent an hour in the blazing sun Gathering the fruit; mango, pineapple, coconut, bananas. Another hour peeling, slicing the fruit and setting it up to dry a little bit on rocks, of which I had carefully brushed all of the sand off. By some fluke of circumstance Gordon Ramsay and I had landed on an island that was a combination of a desert island and a dessert island, after our plane's engine had failed on our way to is latest cooking show, for which I had been selected to be a contestant. When we first got here, Ramsey sat around bitching and whining about the circumstances, while I entered survival mode and made sure I found a source of freshwater. I drank some myself as soon as I found it and then brought him some. He received it like some sort of royalty and that it was his due. Somehow I still want to impress the man, though. I noted all the tropical fruit trees and realized that we were going to be having sufficient fruit, and did indeed take a nice, juicy mango off the ground and enjoyed several drippy, sweet slices. But wanting to prove I could provide, I rigged up a makeshift fishing setup from bits and pieces of the plane. After several fruitless hours, I realized none of the fish that were worth catching were coming close enough to the island. All this time Ramsey lounged about in the shade, bitching about bugs. My resentment began to build even more, and at one point I suggested that he could build a fire since it might begin to get cold at night. The look of indignation he gave me would have been laughable if it wasn't so insulting. I ate some more food and drink some water to maintain my energy. Then in some really strange and super misguided idea to impress him, thinking perhaps it would give me an edge in his show if we ever made it there, or maybe this was part of the show, I began to gather the fruit for the tropical fruit salad. Once the fruit had all been sliced perfectly and dried just enough so the juice wasn't super runny, I gathered some fallen bark, washed it off with the precious water, laid some banana leaves on top of it very artistically, and assembled the fruit salad in a visually pleasing way. I found some smaller pieces of bark and broke them into little spoon shapes. I gathered more fresh water. I presented my delicacy to Ramsey as he continued to lie in the shade, fanning himself with a banana leaf. As I was approaching him, he muttered under his breath, "well it's about time I got some food around here, I have nearly starved to death, waiting." I presented him with the amazing concoction I had made so painstakingly over the hours in the hot sun. He took it with a sneer on his face. He picked up the spoon took a bite as I held my breath in anticipation. "Pah!" he exclaimed, as he spit out the bite of fruit salad, "what is this shite!? You did nothing! Nothing! All you did was arrange a pile of food on some banana leaves! You call this food!??" And he knocked the entire plate of carefully made fruit salad into the sand. He stood up and continue to to shout, "if that's all you can do with all this fruit abundantly growing on this island, how the hell am I going to survi-" I couldn't help it. I really couldn't, I throat punched him so hard that I knocked him back into the tree. I knocked him out for a short while but he began breathing again. He regained Consciousness but couldn't speak, which was a blessing. Meanwhile I sat in the shade of a separate tree, leisurely eating my delicious, juicy sweet, Victorious fruit salad, staring at Ramsey the whole time. Once I was done I carefully put my homemade plate and silverware against the tree, and walked cautiously over to check on the loud mouth. He wasn't so loud anymore. He was barely conscious and not having a very easy time breathing. I think his throat is swollen up. I leaned in real close to Ramsey's sullen face and said, "just this once you should have kept your mouth shut a*****. Once you recover you may want to lend a hand with our survival, because after that performance if you think I'm going to wait on you again, you are mistaken."
It has now been one month since that Incident. Ramsey and I more or less keep our distance, as much as we can on the small island. We occasionally pass a word of greeting or help. I think he's wary of me, and I definitely think he does not like being bested. The fruit keeps us alive but it's time to start working on a plan for our rescue. Once that day comes I'll be extremely pleased to not ever see or hear from him again.
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Auto correct has maybe made this slightly different but perhaps better than it should of been 😂 should of definitely been desert
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[WP] You are one of the survivors on a dessert island from a crashed private plane. Amongst the survivors is Gordon Ramsay who is refusing to eat the food that you cook and instead just insults your cooking until he starves.
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I stand huddled with the others around the fire. A heavy rain has begun to patter on the roof of our makeshift dwelling; a broken wing from our plane propped up and secured to two palm trees. It does little to keep away the wind and humidity, but we’ve all learned the hard way it beats sleeping out in the open storm. I hold my hands out to the fire, less for warmth and more to remind myself that I’m still here. Still alive. More than a few eyes from around the fire look over towards the hill where small cross dot the recently churned sand. I shiver.
A figure emerges from the darkness, a young woman whose name I’ve forgotten comes to stand beside me. She is drenched, the remnants of days-old mascara rings her eyes. But then I probably look no better.
“How is he?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. She stands with her arms wrapped around her shoulders, lips trembling, unable to find words. Finally she says, “He just keeps rambling on. I can’t get him to come in by the fire. I’m scared.”
I nod, considering placing a hand on her bare and bloodied shoulder, but I stare motionless at the fire instead. It’s all just too much, I think. Over half the passengers on board dead on impact and more falling sick each day- we’ll be lucky if any of us are alive by the time rescue finds us. I jump as lightening pierces the sky and thunder roars. “If they ever find us,” I mumble.
“What?” The woman asks.
I shake my head.
“What do you want to do? About... him?”
It is dark but still I glance towards where I know the large lonely outcrop of rock sits looking out over the battering waves.
“He won’t eat anything-”
“It’s ok,” I say. “You’ve done everything you can.”
What hope is there if even the living can’t go on?
“Let me try and talk to him.”
Before she can reply I turn to the makeshift cook pot. Coconuts, bananas and a few fish lay out on a bed of palm leaves. What was a sink in the galley has now been repurposed as a cook pot, it bottom sealed up with hardened clay. Inside is a simple stew of fish and a handful of other ingredients we managed to salvage, including the precious last of our salt. Carefully I spoon out the best parts of the soup into a bowl, careful to get the meatiest chunks of fish, and then cover it with a large piece of banana leaf to keep it warm and then step into the storm.
The tropical rains are warm by any standards, yet my sunburned skin sends shivers up my spine. I keep my eyes on the ground in front of me to keep the water from my eyes and make my way to where the waves smash against the coast line where only a few days before I found myself and others pulling bodies from the sea.
I make my way carefully up the bare rock, careful with each step as I climb to where the lone figure sits, staring unblinking into the blackness. I stand still for a moment, wondering what to say or if I should say anything at all.
“Gordon?” I say at last. “Gordon?”
There is the barest recognition to hearing his own name. I take another step closer, the hot bowl cradled against my stomach.
“I brought you something to eat. You need to eat.”
Gordon Ramsey says nothing. He sits hunched over, his arms drawn around his knees.
“I know it’s not much but the fish turned out ok-”
“Fuck you,” comes the reply. His voice is hoarse, tired. “Fuck you and fuck your stupid… *fucking* fish.”
If anything I’m actually relieved. It’s the first any of us have heard him say since the screaming stopped. Since...
“Gordon, if you don’t eat,” I begin, but the words fall away. I climb the remaining few feet and carefully find a seat on a rock beside him. Below us the sea is an angry surge of swelling and breaking, without end, without any sense of pattern or meaning. The words I had rehearsed walking over here seem inconsequential, dross. Instead we sit for a long while as the storm pelts us from every direction with rain and wind, each of us consumed by our own thoughts. But even then, there is a certain connection, I think. One which needs no words to understand.
“They’re all gone,” he says.
I am caught off guard by the man, his words seeming to echo those inside my own head.
“What?” I say.
“They’re all gone…” the words are choked off by tears and I realize Gordon Ramsey is crying. His shoulders shake as he loses himself in a grief that has been a long time coming.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “So sorry…” but it does little to stop the long wailing sobs of the other man. We sit for a time, the unmistakable sting of tears burning my own eyes through the heavy rain, until at last there is silence. Even the storm seems to have abated somewhat. Though the waves still crash into the rocks beneath us, the rain does not fall so heavily. I realize that Gordon has stopped crying. He wipes rain and tears from his face.
I hold out the bowl to him, it’s contents still warm beneath the banana leaf. The smell of it make my own belly groan. After a time he turns and looks at it. Then he takes it in one trembling hand and his it to his chest.
I watch as he lifts the banana leaf and smells deeply of the steaming broth. He considers this for a time, sniffing away the tears that threaten to return, and draws in a second long breath. He takes a sip. And then another.
“Is it ok?” I ask cautiously. “We’ve been foraging for ingredients, but there’s not a whole lot here…”
“It smells like shit,” he mutters.
I stare at him in disbelief, my cheeks reddening somewhat.
He carefully picks out a piece of fish and takes a bite, pulling a slender bone out with a finger.
“Whoever cooked this is a fucking idiot,” he mumbles, and I can’t help but bark out a laugh.
“Are you responsible for this atrocity?” He asks, wiping his nose on his soaked sleeve. He lifts up the bowl and takes a long swallow of the warm broth. “It tastes like… ass,” he says, taking another swallow. “Seriously shit….”
I laugh again, I can’t help but laugh. I feel my whole body shaking and tears begin to come again in full.
“Just absolute fucking garbage,” he says in between large gulps of the soup.
Finally he sets down the bowl and let’s out a deep and heavy sigh.
“I admit it’s not the best,” I say. Then, “In fact, we could really use some help with the cooking- if you’re up for it.”
Gordon Ramsey turns his head towards me, not quite looking me in the eye.
“What do you say?” I ask him, a lump growing in my throat.
After a long moment he nods, and climbs to his feet. Handing the bowl back to me he steadies himself on a rock.
“I suppose if I have to be stuck in this hell with you lot I could at least teach you how to cook a fish properly,” he says. He holds out a hand to me and I take it and climb to my feet.
“I’d like that,” I say. “I think we’d all really like that.”
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"Are you done try to impress me with every damn thing''
"damn it you know you need to eat or your going to be the first to die!"
"Hell no I'm not gonna eat any of the shitty looking puke you call food"
After I got tired of arguing with him and hearing that i could never get him t eat over and over again. I decide that it was enogh
"Okay since you still wanna be a pain in the fucking ass you can cook and I'm done fighting about it "
"No i will never stoop so low to use the same shitty things you use.... I demand you to make me a kitchen."
"Okay fuck head you make something or you go with out I'm done trying with you."
So I walked away looking for a good water resource and hopping that I don't find anything hunting me down after all he may not be the brain of our team but he is the muscle.When i did find a water source i found myself so far away and so tired. Next thing i knew I was just waking up.All i could think was how hungry I had become. And how i was not going to let some dosh ass famous chef get in my way.
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Auto correct has maybe made this slightly different but perhaps better than it should of been 😂 should of definitely been desert
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[WP] You are one of the survivors on a dessert island from a crashed private plane. Amongst the survivors is Gordon Ramsay who is refusing to eat the food that you cook and instead just insults your cooking until he starves.
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"Ahh, fuck" he said with his last breath. We all stood around looking down at him for a moment. His walnut face, tight against his skull. "Thank fuck for that" said Dave, pulling at a thread from his makeshift shorts. Sarah edged forward and suggested we salt the meat so it would last.
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The island seemed to impossible. No matter what ice cream or cake batter I scavenged Gordon refused to eat more than one bite. Then he would berate me over and over. I tried ice cream cake, chocolate cake, cake flavored ice cream but he always rejected it. The island being entirely made of dessert wasn’t the strange part. The strange part was Gordon Ramsey’s hatred of it. Me and the other survivors didn’t miss him when he starved. The ungrateful prick.
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Auto correct has maybe made this slightly different but perhaps better than it should of been 😂 should of definitely been desert
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[WP] You are one of the survivors on a dessert island from a crashed private plane. Amongst the survivors is Gordon Ramsay who is refusing to eat the food that you cook and instead just insults your cooking until he starves.
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I had been trying. Really, I had. Granted I'm no Guy Fieri but the other handful of survivors had no problem eating my take on island survival food. But Gordon...
I mean, he was always insufferable, that was his thing right? But we thought, you know, maybe with the *circumstances* being what they were, he could give it a rest and just... eat.
Nope. The guy can't turn it off, I don't think it's his fault. I hear him in his sleep, cursing people for dropping the soup or burning the chicken.
So I started to make things intentionally bad. I've found the threshold of flavor where the group will cope with nary a complaint, but Gordon won't even stand downwind of it. The best part is, I think he's catching on.
He knows I'm doing it to spite him now. That I'm making food specifically to exclude him. I can see the desperation in his face as the hunger withers him away. He must be eating coconuts, or bugs, just to spite my cooking but stay alive. But he's weaker now, his fire burning low. Unsure of how long the rest of us will be here, I wait for delerium to creep in on Gordon, and begin to prod him for 'long pig' recipes.
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The island seemed to impossible. No matter what ice cream or cake batter I scavenged Gordon refused to eat more than one bite. Then he would berate me over and over. I tried ice cream cake, chocolate cake, cake flavored ice cream but he always rejected it. The island being entirely made of dessert wasn’t the strange part. The strange part was Gordon Ramsey’s hatred of it. Me and the other survivors didn’t miss him when he starved. The ungrateful prick.
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Edit: that would be quantum computer
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[WP] You have just built the most powerful quantum in history, and you test it trying to calculate the last digit of Pi. And to your astonishment, it gives you a result.
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“Heeeeeere am I floating in my tin cannnnnnn! Farrrrrr abovvvve the worrrrrrld!”
I’ll be the first to admit that I’m an abysmal singer. My coworkers at Quantum Leap Research invite me out to karaoke every week, and I always have an excuse. But tonight I found myself shouting along with the David Bowie record playing in the corner of my studio apartment. Drowning in half a bottle of Jack Daniels, though, has definitely helped lubricate my willingness to sing.
I’ve been drunk for nearly a week now. It’s the only thing that seemed worth doing since I discovered \*it\*. That is, nothing seems worth doing anymore - truly nothing is.
I haven’t told anyone about my discovery yet either. I don’t think I will, but now that we have the power - quantum computing - someone else will soon. I just don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, I guess.
At face value, my discovery could not seem less significant; It’s only a single digit, afterall. But it’s \*the\* digit. The digit that Pythagoras and countless other men have sought for centuries. I have found the final digit of pi. In case you care, it’s 4.
“Plannnnnet earrrrth is bluuuuuuuue, and there’s nothing I can dooooooooo.” I took another sip and started coughing uncontrollably as the whiskey slid down the wrong pipe, searing the back of my trachea. There was a knock at the door.
“Go away!”
The knocking got louder.
“GO AWAY, I SAID! Can’t you see that I’m floating in my tin can?!” I chuckled to myself as I incorporated the lyric.
The knocking picked up and nearly shook the apartment.
Why won’t they just go away, I thought? I dragged myself off the sofa and stumbled over to the door. “Who issss it?” I slurred.
“It’s John. We need to talk. Open up.”
“Shit John. There ain’t no point in talking. Let’s just drink,” I said as I slid the latch open. I opened the door to see my coworker standing in the frame, looking as stern as ever. “You look so cranky John.”
“We need to talk about what you discovered,” John said, very seriously.
“Jack Daniels,” I said lifting the bottle in his direction, spilling a bit on the floor in front of him as my arm swung loosely. “I discovered Jack Daniels and ice cubes. And it is good.”
“Yes, I can see that,” he said, waving the stench of mash whiskey from his face. “But we need to talk. Now.”
“Ok, ok, calm down, Mr. Sassy pants,” I said as I turned back to the couch. “So how d’you know about my big discovery?”
“I have the same access to the computer that you do," John responded. "And you did not do a great job deleting your logs. You haven’t been to the lab in over a week, so I got nosey.”
I gave him a hard look, “You shouldn’t have done that. You didn’t tell anyone, did you?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Good.”
“But I’m going to,” he said, defiantly. “You’ve made a massive discovery, and you’re not doing your scientific duty to reveal it to the world.”
“Massive, yes. But it’s shit. Nobody needs to know about it. Let the people live their simple, oblivious lives.”
“What are you talking about?” He asked, genuinely baffled. “Yes you’ve proven the non-existence of irrational numbers, but… but why all this?” He gestured to the bottle of Jack and the overturned chair below my kitchen table.
I opened my eyes wide and stared at him. “You don’t get it do you? You haven’t deciphered what this really all means. It’s not about a friggin’ number, John. This is about our existence.”
He shook his head.
“What is pi, John?” I asked rhetorically. “It’s the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter.”
“Ok…,” John said, not grasping where I was going with this.
“And a perfect circle would have a ratio that repeats ad infinitum. But what I've just proven, John, is that the ratio stops. There cannot possibly be a perfect circle! It cannot be constructed! And do you know what that means?! It means that I’ve found the smallest indivisible unit that can be circumscribed. I’ve found the proverbial pixel.”
My coworker sat back and pressed his hands to his temples. It seemed he was beginning to grasp the true meaning of my discovery. It was about time.
“That’s right, John. I’ve discovered the building block of our universe. Our universe is pixelated. And why is that? Because we are living in a fucking simulation.”
His eyes went wide, indicating that he had made the final connection.
“And do you know how I know that, John? Because I know that you’ve been using the same computer to architect the simulation. And someday the inhabitants of the universe that you’re creating will make the same discovery that I just have. And so on, and so on... simulations all the way down.”
I took another swig and handed the bottle to John.
edit: a word or two, for clarity's sake
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2.
All my calculations have waited for this day. All of the last twenty years of writing the most supreme quantum program known to the realms of mathematics. My fingers shake, as I write down the digit. Two. Two. Two. Two.
I’m scared, of completion. This is my life, was my life. What is my purpose now? What is my strength, my weakness, my true nemesis and greatest ally? What? My trembling fingers click the digit, as the computer begins to wrap the digit. It is complete, it is done. I am a pioneer, a revolutionary. A new generation, so to speak. I am a god amongst mortals, a grandmaster among plebeians.
I am. I am. I am. I am. I am. I am.
All that is in my head is 3.14 3.14 3.1415 3.1415 3.1415 3.1415 3.1415
The rhythm is exciting, the beat exhilarating! I feel as if I want to touch the sky, to rise up to God and sit beside him as a ruler of heaven. I am commanded by the melody, controlled by it. I climb up on to the balcony, gazing down lovingly at the peons below. What a beautiful day it is.
3.14153.14153.14153.14153.1415
22222222222222222222222222222
I leap, ready to see God. I am ready to touch the heavens.
Ready to soar.
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[removed]
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[WP] 7 word stories
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"I should have stayed under the blanket."
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Shameful pleasure, quakes upon thy very soul.
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[removed]
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[WP] 7 word stories
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Max Headroom Broadcast Interruption done by Lizards.
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Shameful pleasure, quakes upon thy very soul.
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[removed]
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[WP] 7 word stories
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I ate tacobell and loved every bite.
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Once upon a time there wasn't.
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[removed]
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[WP] 7 word stories
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I ate tacobell and loved every bite.
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That was the last time they kissed.
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[WP] As you grew older you’ve seen strange messages, such as a fortune cookie saying “YOU’RE IN A COMA” and the Channel 5 News saying “WAKE UP” but you’ve shrugged it off until one fateful day..
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“**W****a**it!” A voice calls behind me. “I thin**k** you may hav**e** dropped this!”
The words sound strange to my ears. I stop, mid-step— my right foot hovering over the brightly lit sidewalk, and pivot on my left heel to face a man waving my brown leather wallet in the air. My eyes follow the wallet before trailing along the man’s arm and up to his concerned expression.
As I walk over the man tosses the wallet back to me. I catch it in my arms as it thumps against my chest. “Thanks,” I say but the man is gone. I look around the crowded street and somehow only see the back of people’s heads; even though they are all around me, walking in different directions.
A sense of vertigo turns my stomach and I have to lean against a nearby storefront. I take a look inside to see what I think is a clothing store. Manikins wearing hospital garb— a couple nurses, and a few doctors. I see light glinting off of stethoscopes and the metal tops of pens poking out from pockets. The manikins come to life as I look over them. They mouth words to me, but I can’t hear them. They bang on the glass of the storefront. My heart beats along as if in concert to their rapid strikes. In an instant the glass becomes a great patchwork of cracks, and then shatters. I close my eyes expecting to feel a torrent of sharp shards pierce my body.
Nothing happens. When I open my eyes the glass is intact. The manikins have become still— *silent*.
As I stare into the shop I realize that I was wrong about it being a clothing store. The oddly dressed manikins had led me to that conclusion, but it is in fact a floral shop. The store is brightly lit which allows me to see that the flower arrangements that decorate the interior are aged and wilted. I get a heavy sense of déjà vu at the staff, who stand gathered together in the back. Several of them are crying and those that aren’t have deep frowns. *They must be upset about their spoiling merchandise,* I think.
It’s at this point I remember my wallet. I look down and see it already opened in my left hand. I read the words ‘**C**alifo**r**ni**a** Driver’**s** License Card**h**older’. Below is a picture of a badly bruised man— his face a mash of red, black, and purple. *Is that supposed to be me?* No, it can’t be— the address reads ‘Alameda, Room 237’.
I feel a cold shiver roll over my spine. Invisible hands grab at my arms. I can see the skin on my forearms indent from the pressure of their grips. A growing sense of panic ignites the nerves from head to foot.
I break out into a run, but I can still feel them holding me back. The world rushes all around me but I feel like I’m not moving at all.
The hands are gone. I stop. It’s then I realize that I’m no longer in the city. I’m in a room but the floor is a vegetable garden. I look down and see the orange tops of carrots, leafy green heads of lettuce. As I gaze upon each of them I hear the word ‘***Vegetable***’ as if some unseen narrator wants to classify each one of them for me.
At the opposite side of the room is a door. I walk over and try to open it, but it won’t budge. There’s a white placard with black letters at the top of the door. It reads:
*When we locked up the house at night,*
*We always locked the vegetables outside*
*And cut them off from window light.*
*The time I dreamed the door was tried.*
I frown, not understanding the words, and wanting desperately to get through the door. The door has a lock, but I have no key. In my frustration I pick up a carrot from the loose soil. I throw it at the door and hear the thwack of vegetable hitting wood. That’s when I notice something odd at the end of the carrot. Instead of ending in a tiny orange tendril as I had known carrots to have— instead, it’s carved to look like a key.
I rush to the door and stick the end in the waiting lock. I begin to feel foolish. *What am I doing sticking a carrot into a door?* Then I hear a crunch followed by a tremor in my hand as the keyhole chews away at the vegetable in my hands. I try the doorknob, but it doesn’t open.
I pick up another carrot and find a differently carved key. When I look away from the carrot I then begin to notice the true size of the room. It isn’t a garden that I’m standing in but a vast field with no visible horizon— just the infinite.
*Could it be that somewhere along the rows of plowed earth lies the key to the door?* That’s when I realize that I’ve been here before, and that my time in this room is finite. Above me on the blue ceiling-sky hangs a yellow sun with minute and hour hands in its center— counting down my time before I’m once again sent out.
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[my thoughts when I saw this prompt](https://thumbs.gfycat.com/SaneHatefulAstrangiacoral-size_restricted.gif)
Poem excerpt by Robert Frost (slightly edited)
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It was more than I could believe.
Small little messages, flashes. Watching TV, perhaps I see occasional words.
“Awaken.”
“Arise.”
I shrugged them off as figments of an overactive imagination, and moved on. They started appearing elsewhere too, maybe in a mirror, an alarm clock.
“Slumber’s end.”
“High time to rise.”
As I grew older, they became a natural part of me, and I disregarded them. It wasn’t to jarring, too terrible by any means. Small little hints, little reminders. Yet I couldn’t shake the fact that maybe there was something awry, something wrong in my mind.
“You have lost your shoe.”
“I know you are there.”
By the age of 15, I knew that something was off, this wasn’t normal. Within the static of the television I saw small numbers, in commercials I saw subtitles that were entirely inaccurate. All revolves around awakening, around waking up from something, something big.
Perhaps I needed a shrink?
It started to give me anxiety, and I had no choice but to tell my parents about this odd phenomena. We headed straight for a top behavioral specialist and psychiatrist, who decided to put me on a regiment of meds. No such luck, no such effect. It was futile, only succeeding to make me more paranoid.
I saw it on the clocks.
I saw it in the screens, in books.
“Don’t take the pills.”
“Remove the old generation.”
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[WP] To keep living, you need to carry a weird bag from location to location, where a man scans it and gives you the distance to the next location. Should the scan ever fail, you'll be executed. At one location, the scan is successful, but your face turns pale when you see the distance: "4.3 ly".
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I never know what's in the bag. I get curious sometimes, especially on longer journeys like this. Sometimes it feels empty. Other times, in long, lonely nights, I find myself wondering if there's something moving inside or if it's just my imagination.
But my loyalty is all I have, so I let my curiosity simmer down.
My next stop is near. I can tell by how the vast planes fade into forests or lakes then cities. Doors open. I step onto a velvety carpet. A man gets up from a rather large chair and walks forward and stops me before I run into him. Stopping is difficult. My legs are so used to the rhythm of walking.
I think he smiles down at me, but it's gone before I can confirm what I see. I offer him the bag. He sets it onto a tray, it spits out a few happy beeps and he places it back into my hands. He tells me something important, then hands me a piece of paper. On it is the distance to my next destination: **4.3 LY**.
Light years? That can't be right. I look back up, but the man is gone.
The paper still reads **4.3 LY**. I flip it over. On the back: **the Celestial Land. Welcome home.**
It takes me a while to realize what that means, and for the first time in light years I have to make an effort not to fall to my knees. I remember the last time I faced my queen, when she entrusted me with the job of delivering this bag. I'll be looking forward to seeing her again.
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It wasn't always like this. Where life and death were seconds from each other. My great grandparents talked of a time where becoming a part of life came naturally. A time when birth hailed from a slap on the butt and a cry. But now it seems it's more of automated genetics and software plug ins, than laughter and tears.
I listened to the whirring of the scanner and waited patiently for my next location. A location of time more so than distance but my location none the less. I was lucky to have this job. Very lucky. As a matter of fact, it was my specialized mutated genetics that made me the only candidate qualified for this crazy job.
I almost didn't take it. The last paragraph of my contract really freaked me out. If the scan should fail..I had failed and was subject to death on site. I didn't sign the contract then.
Nope! I waited and tried out a test run for the company before I gave up my only life to them. It didn't take long, after seeing the tears of joy from the woman's face, for me to sign up and risk my life. Because my life was nothing compared to the big life of the future.
The whirring stopped and man smiled, " Well it looks like you passed and are ready to go on the next ship out. Congratulations!"
"Yeah, sure whatever." I handed him my arm with my bracelet on it and he scanned in my coordinates and smiled. I glanced down at my bracelet and felt my soul fall into my shoes. "This can't be right sir, there must have been a mistake..4.3 light years..that's too long. Is there anyone I can talk to...a supervisor, maybe?"
The man never stopped smiling as he grabbed my hand, " oh sir, no it's right. The scan is never wrong." Like the robot that he is, he began spouting the data from my bracelet out loud to me, "4.3 light years away, Washington DC USA, one man, MR. S. T. Ork, along with one piece of luggage on board the Last Chance departing at 1700 hours."
I jerked my hand away, grabbed the pulsating bag and headed for the ship, Last Chance, wondering if my life would be up soon. Or could it just be that, somehow 4.3 light years away, I deliver life one last time.
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[WP] To keep living, you need to carry a weird bag from location to location, where a man scans it and gives you the distance to the next location. Should the scan ever fail, you'll be executed. At one location, the scan is successful, but your face turns pale when you see the distance: "4.3 ly".
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"A lightyear is the distance a beam of light travels over the course of 365 days."
This is told to me by my supervisor. Through unfeeling red glowing eyes, his outdated robotic body gives away little emotion. He unplugs my pack and places it around my neck. He has arms, I do not. I look down and see glowing red on the screen: "4.3 ly". I have no concept of this distance in my mainframe. I cannot fathom it's complete meaning.
"I am a simple robot, this must be a mistake", I plead with my supervisor. He does not compute this request. I try again and again to explain how my two legs cannot travel that distance, but he only stares and points to the door of his small metal shack. Points out to the distance. I leave.
The sand rolls on forever in both directions. I start walking. Everything is dead. Nothing exists here but me, the sky, and the sand.
My greatest fear is the end. The end is the moment after the last bit of energy leaves my body. I don't eat, I don't sleep, I only walk. I don't see anything, only sand. It is constant and only thing that changes is the sun and the moon. They change position again and again. One day this pack will run out of energy, then I run and out energy and will die. That is the end.
Night comes at approximately 9,465 steps. The heat shimmers off the sand during the day. The cold frost clings to my legs at night, the red light from the pack glowing red in the dark.
Typically, over time, the packs red digits drop from numbers like 4500 mi to numbers like 1200 yd and finally 50ft. Step after step I make the numbers drop. It's honorable, I suppose. Typically, I always find the next supervisor, get my pack charge and continue my journey.
Now, my mind wonders. Over sanddunes and around dust, I keep walking. I wonder if the energy in the pack will last. I wonder if this is an experiment, or if this is standard. I continue walking. My legs begin to squeak slightly. I keep walking.
At day 5,876 I stopped walking with a thought: are there others? Am I the only one like me? I have never seen a companion. If I did, what would I do? We could walk together. We could talk while we walked. I kept walking, thinking of the companion in my mind. How we would pass the time and make life better. I wish I had a walking companion.
I see in the distance to my left, a small supervisor shack. I should never deviate from the journey. I keep walking. Days and days pass. The squeaking gets louder in my legs. At day 14,356 I see a small flicker, and the number drops from "4.3 ly" to "4.2 ly".
This is the longest I have every walked. My journey should not be this long. I need service. I need oil in my joints, but I must continue. I see another supervisor shack at day 23,021. Without noticing, my legs begin to turn towards the shack. My body needs servicing.
I walk into the familiar black shack, but the supervisor was not familiar with me. The old robot began a loud siren and charged me with guns appearing from his arms. I backed out quickly and ran away in the heat. I am not welcomed. I will get no oil or servicing.
The squeaking in my legs concerns me. Will my legs break? And what then? I don't want to die. I keep walking.
The only solace I have is my imaginary companion. We would have an amazing bond if we had walked together for as long as I have. I don't have anyone, and it begins to hurt deep inside my. It hurts worse than my squeaking legs. I keep walking.
The way to walk on sand with my feet, is to find the tops of the dunes and walk along the top. I frequently get stuck in sand and have to pull my leg out. During one of these mishaps, my leg fell off. I couldn't continue walking. So i began pulling my self along on one leg, with my eyes up at the sky.
At day 385,765 I stop. I see high above a bird. I forgot birds long ago. But here one is. And next to it, another bird. They soar high up next to each other. Then, one swerves around the other gracefully in the sky. They dance and continue on. I am crushed inside. How can a friend for this bird exist and not for me. There is not any logic in this. I so cruel. I am alone.
I give up and lay flat in the sand. Days pass and blowing dunes cover me in sand. I stope counting days and fade in the blackness. I don't know anything. I don't see anything for a very long time. Everything stops.
And then light. A bright light and sound. I am being dug up. A supervisor grabs me from the darkness. He brings me up in to the light, and the first thing I see is another robot like me. Standing next the supervisor, my duplicate does not acknowledge me. He is as cold as the supervisor, who rips my pack from my neck and places it around his neck. My duplicate beings to walk away. I try to scream at him, but time has rusted every facility except my ability to observe. "Wait" the supervisor growls. My duplicate walks back. "Error" the supervisor says. He touches the pack with a finger and the number changes from "3.9 ly" to "3.9 mi". I knew it. I knew it! I shout inside and stare as my doppelgänger walks over the dune and away.
I have a companion, I think, as the supervisor rips my head off. I see the birds again, but I notice something. They aren't dancing. It's a falcon, and it's trying to kill a sparrow. I blink out and that's the end.
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The spell crackles in the air. The bag deflates and inflates; matter out, matter in. Another thing to transport. The contents have never been the issue, rather, it's the curse.
I was young and brave once. Oh so brave. I knew I could evade the traps, the spells, the guards. Nothing could stop me from getting what I wanted. And evade I did, reaching the promised room at the centre of the labyrinth. My prize.
Most people don't feel much of anything when a magical trap triggers onto them, other than the effect of course. But those lucky few with the will, myself among them, feel something very different. Space and time fold, and for an eternal moment, you and the caster are connected. The arcane distortion disrupts reality, and makes will into reality. I felt its terrible will and learned what my bravery meant.
Most adults lack will, you see. They are fickle; considering and considerate. Obliging to a fault, even. Some men are focused, but lack the true will to bend reality. Most often it is the crazed and the wretched who truly will, but they are mostly minor scourges onto the spheres. They lack discipline. Powerful casters are rare. Yet this being who snared me...this thing was pure will incarnate. There was no love, no pity. The connection was like the meeting of glass and a hammer. I have never felt its like. My will failed and then there was nothing but to weep and to obey.
Now I am its servant. One of many, I presume. The labyrinth served its purpose - to attract those stupid enough to lust, to kill the weak-willed, and to use those that remain. I serve - it has been willed. Failure brings death. It has been willed.
The crackling spell finally fades. The bag is full, and the next destination appears in my mind. My heart stops and the blood drains from my pale face. The planar sphere is not so far; I could will myself twice that distance with only minor preparation. Yes, I wish to live, but i have no will to return to the labyrinth.
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[WP] To keep living, you need to carry a weird bag from location to location, where a man scans it and gives you the distance to the next location. Should the scan ever fail, you'll be executed. At one location, the scan is successful, but your face turns pale when you see the distance: "4.3 ly".
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I look down at the label shocked, then look up at the man incredulous. "How, exactly, am I supposed to travel 4.3 light years to wherever this is supposed to be delivered?"
The blank gaze of the man washed over me, either ignoring my panicked tone or simply not caring, maybe not even noticing. His voice rang out, monotone, startling me. " Distance is four point three light years. Non negotiable. Destination is marked as per protocol. "
That was more than I had heard one of them speak in years but it was hardly helpful. I checked the tag for the "protocol" location which was a standard latitude and longitude, the one I was stood at. "Excuse me, there's been a mistake, this says it has to come back here, but we are all ready here"
Again the voice ground up, as if it took a lot of effort "Location correct, no error has been made, package must be delivered at marked location after four point three light years has been travelled."
I felt the panic really settle in, I had no way of travelling 4.3 thousand miles let alone 4.3 lightyears. "I can't travel that kind of distance, not even close, how am I supposed to do this without a form of transportation?"
The long moment of silence almost convinced me I had used up his entire vocabulary, I wasn't especially surprised, this was far more than I usually got. With an almost audible creak (though I may have been imagining it from his robotic demeanour) the mouth opened once more. "Currently moving at sixty seven thousand miles per hour relative to parcel origin. Suggestion is wait."
"Wait for what? Transportation? Is someone coming for me?" Hope flickered.
The same monotone voice answered me "Job is solo as per protocol. No assistance will be given. At current speed parcel will have travelled correct distance after approximately forty thee thousand two hundred and eighty three years, approximation error plus or minus one year. Suggestion is wait"
I looked up at him and sat down, I laughed a bit to myself. Browsed through a book, cried in frustration then made myself comfortable.
I waited.
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”Here” I pant throwing the bag at the guard's feet, it barely makes a noise as it lands. The guard scans it as I let myself slide down the metal wall embracing the cooling sensation. I am extremely aware of the second guard standing just a few feet away, his weapon aimed directly at my throbbing head, but the bag, whatever it is, scans just like it always does and the guard lowers his weapon, slowly. Do I sense a hint of disappointment? Sick bastard.
I can’t keep doing this, it has been 3 years! 3 years of running from guard to guard hoping to get a lift from some helpful soul taking pity on me, just to get to the next checkpoint. As I let my eyes sink down I look at myself, my clothes are torn, my ribcage clearly defined under the thin fabric and on my unprotected arms are blistering sunburns, I can only allow myself time enough for the absolute necessities. But this is the only way, if I keep reaching each checkpoint as fast as humanly possible they will have to pardon me, that’s the only way out.
I really do see the practicality of this solution compared to the outdated prison system. This way we don’t take up room or food and the only personnel needed are the brutish guards at each checkpoint. I wasn’t a smart kid I admit that, no matter how hard I tried I just couldn’t get with the program. I couldn’t concentrate in class and my dreams just didn’t fit in with my teachers’ or parents’ aspirations. I got in with the wrong crowd or maybe I became the wrong crowd, I don’t even know, but “it was just a matter of time” as my teacher said when she was called in as a character witness when I was sentenced to do this until I was “deemed reformed” or died. I was just 16.
A tear slides down my face but I am forced out of my self-pity when the first guard harshly grabs my blistering arm and yanks me to my feet and thrusts the bag back in my arms. I look at the new tag that has been attached I can’t even read the name of this place, then I look at the distance, 4.3 ly!? That must be a mistake, I plead with the guards until they raise their weapons again, it doesn’t take them long.
As I stagger out I am blinded by the sunset. There is no way I can do this, I’ll never be free. After almost 40 minutes of despair I realize that this is the first time in 3 years I’ve allowed myself to be still for this long if it’s not for sleeping. Slowly I realize something. There was never a time limit was there?
Through the last 3 years I learned a lot about surviving on my own, I hitchhike, I write, I tell my story and people listen. I make a pretty decent living from that, can you imagine? I have more freedom now as a prisoner than I ever did, even before I was sentenced. Sometimes a caseworker will seek me out, they can still find me thanks to the collar on my neck (a fashion statement I tell most people) they’ll tell me that I am ruining my chances of redemption, I tell them that I’m on my way “it’s all about the journey right?”
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[WP] To keep living, you need to carry a weird bag from location to location, where a man scans it and gives you the distance to the next location. Should the scan ever fail, you'll be executed. At one location, the scan is successful, but your face turns pale when you see the distance: "4.3 ly".
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The guard stood tall and expressionless, as they always did. I bowed and surrendered my burden carefully at his feet, my anxiety building.
Wordlessly, he took the scanner off the wall of the post, and scanned the bag top to bottom. Some machine inside the building hummed and hummed. This was the worst part. The waiting.
Five seconds of eternity later, a small ding eminated from the wall. I released my breath, and the guard nodded. A display lit up: "4.3 ly". My diaphragm refluxed and I choked.
Four point three light years. My targets never took less than a day to get to, but this, this was something else. My assigned job of courier was my life. I knew not how they expected me to get to Alpha Centauri, but that was as good as a death sentence.
I looked the guard dead in the eye. For the first time in my life, I saw them express emotion. A small crack in the edge of his mouth showed he was frowning. I raised my foot high, and threw all my might down center mass. A sickening crunch came from within the bag. Without any hesitation, the guard drew on me, and shot. I stumbled backwards, and all went dark.
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On the other side of the wall, 4.3 linear yards away, a guard stood tall at his post. Waiting.
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The man takes my bag, and places it within the Machine. I've come to fear that mechanical whir, for the chance it does fail. If that happens, I'm dead. What's in the bag? I have no clue, to be completely honest. It is unable to be opened, and at the same time, unable to be closed. My theory is that it is pure Lektor, but you can't see Lektor or know what it looks like, so the answer is as elusive as the reason I have been sent on this sojourn across the universe.
My ship is docked outside, the Dark Angel. Sleek, mechanically advanced, roguishly handsome. My most faithful companion across the universe, I bought it years earlier from a black market dealer named Delacroix, who partially scarred me on the face for my eavesdropping. He decided to give me a discount as a neat consolation price. This was right after my sojourn began, at the behest of the Grand Ledgers. Should that scan ever fail, my head would be served on a platter like John the Baptist's.
My journey started out closer to Earth, mapping out faint satellite planets with a more primitive craft. Once I acquired the Dark Angel, things became easier. My bag was taken to various checkpoints, so far 102, from small dwarf planets rely to burst within the next thousand years, to sprawling supernovas on the edge of magnificent quasars. If I was not so focused on being an errand boy due to that damn bag, I might have reveled in the beauty of Far Space. I landed on Pizzaro two days ago, and focused my efforts on navigating the populated megalopolises in order to find my next Target. At last I found his energy signature, at a restaurant in SOHO, which is where I am right now.
SOHO stands for "some oranges help others". It is a district filled with wepaonized citric acid, much stronger than we see in the Near Space galaxies. This acid fills jars along the shelves of this restaurant, and I stare at their viscous and gelatine quality, attempting to distract myself from the bedamned beeping of the Machine. At last, as I am staring at the last jar, the Machine ceases its clamor, and I look down.
"Scan successful."
Good, good, another Target down. Some oranges do truly help others, I suppose. The Gatekeeper, who I assume is also the proprietor of the restaurant, has placed my bag on the nearby counter, and is printing my receipt, which will tell me my next Target's location.
"Before you give me my receipt, I would love a jar of citric acid."
Now I balance the jar in one hand, and prepare to tuck the receipt into my shirt pocket while I hold the bag in the other hand.
I am handed the receipt, and I look at it with disgust.
"4.3 LY, Presegoranium Nomathodolus Cluster."
Long journey ahead. I tuck the recipe into my shirt pocket, and head out of the restaurant into the tropical night air.
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[WP] A group of middle schoolers get superpowers after a trip to a dangerous nuclear plant. An entire class of super-powered 12-13yo form a superhero league to fight another group of super-powered 12-13yo. Little do these “heroes” know, they are not mature enough to utilize their powers
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The best thing about super speed was never being late for school. Sleeping in until just the last moment, getting everything done in a time span of 2 minutes, and then ending up in class just as the bell rings. As an added bonus, it frustrated Miles homeroom teacher to no end.
“One of these days Salazar, one of these days I’ll get you,” she’d say.
Miles and his friends would laugh and laugh. Mostly because it was Ms. Jakob’s fault they had superpowers in the first place. The vice principal had told her field trips in general were a bad idea, but she insisted that her kids were mature. They were in horizons programs, they knew how to behave and apply themselves. Though to be fair, it wasn’t entirely her fault. Had that nuclear plant followed regulations the kids would still be normal.
“Okay class,” one of the students said, “today we’ll be continuing our discussion on the functions of the cardiovascular system.”
“Mary what did I say about mind reading in class?”
“Why don’t you say how you really feel Ms. J? Aren’t there more words you’d like to say? Should I say them out loud or will I get in trouble?”
Mary began to giggle which stirred the class further into a laughing frenzy. Just as Ms. Jakob’s was about to lose control of her class the laughter stopped as soon as it started. Ms. Jakob’s eyes landed on a young man near the front of the class. He was slumped into his seat. Ms. Jakob’s could see the purplish glow from his eyes even though his head was turned. She smiled weakly.
“Ryan I appreciate the gesture but I don’t want you or *anyone* using their powers in class. Even if it’s to help me. Could you release your friends?”
“They were being loud,” Ryan mumbled, “I hate it when it’s loud. It’s always loud at home.”
Ms. Jakob’s walked over to Ryan. Her class sat starring forward with wide eyes and open jaws. Ryan’s psychic powers were great. He couldn’t read minds as well as Maria, he didn’t have precognition like Nathan, but when it came to psychical assaults? Ms. Jakob’s had a responsibility to these kids. These kids who she burdened with powers so great and dangerous. She placed her hands on Ryan’s shoulders.
“Ryan. If something is wrong at home then we can talk about that. I will *always* make time for you kids. But right now you have to let them go, you shouldn’t use your powers this way.”
Ryan looked at Ms. Jakob. His eyes dimmed down and the class seemed to take a collective breath. Ms. Jakob smiled at the boy in the rough blue shirt and gave an approving nod which he didn’t acknowledge.
“Hey Ms. J,” a boy named Issac raised his hand, “I don’t feel so good. Can I go to the bathroom?”
“Yes Isaac you may. Just hurry back before we start class.”
“Yes ma’am,” he responded. He then disappeared in a puff of smoke.
Ms. Jakob’s turned around towards the board. She picked up a marker and began writing on the whiteboard. She had six more months. Only six more months to try and help them adapt and learn to use these powers responsibly. She just hoped she could make it happen. What a task for someone only in their third year of teaching. As if regular middle school kids weren’t difficult enough.
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Containment units have been busy mopping up quite a nasty spill.
I am currently in the process a drafting a memo, hoping to destroy any notion of ever having a middle school (or any grade for that matter) class visit a nuclear power plant ever again. Far too problematic for the SOHO to deal with again.
Mrs. Deacon’s class at Forrester Middle School in The Dalles, OR, were visiting the newly opened Hanford Facility on the shores of the Columbia, when a nuclear fission accident occurred. The class of 14 was quickly moved to a containment facility, but ended up being exposed due to a problem in the cooling unit and locking system, which we are assessing now.
All 14 were taken to a local hospital, and we have no control over whether this situation is hush-hush right now, at least not as of the present. The fission caused no permanent impacts, miraculously, courtesy of the hot suits worn by the class while the leak took place. However, we have unforeseen consequences arise, causing us to move all 14 students as well as their teacher to the Point Rosas facility for additional testing and treatment.
Researchers at Point Cosas have informed me that all 15 individuals, kept in separate wards, have showed evidence of exotgermic energy manipulation, akin to weak and difficult to control pyrokinesis. Enzymes within the body were modified to such a degree these children appear to be absorbing nuclear particles at a frightening rate and extending them as pure and unadulterated firepower, which is unusual in this circumstance.
Having them moved to Point Reyes as we speak, as I am a fantastic multitasker. This crap has been kept under wraps, so it is a lucky thing that we are afforded such lovely secrecy within our positions. At Point Reyes we shall have to compare the abilities shown by these individuals (hereby known as the Hanford Unit) to the makeup of those in the Point Pleasant Unit, Bermuda Unit, and Bridgewater Unit. Historical records should also be accessed (I know you have contacts) to scour the Roswell specimens collected in both incidents.
Counting on your superb cleanup skills,
D. B
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[WP] You're a 250 year old vampire. You've found that living as a recluse and faking your death every 70 years or so is actually fairly easy. You've consistently fooled everyone except for your mortal enemy - Keith from the IRS
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I tore the pink letter to shreds with a frustrated shriek. The tattered bits whirled around my feet as I kicked at them petulantly, not satisfied until they were all out of sight. In all of my two hundred and fifty years of life, or rather undeath, I had been able to evade electrical bills, dodge utility payments, and siphon internet from unsuspecting neighbors. But then there was the IRS, actually, it was Kieth. My lips curled in a snarl at the thought of the doughy, bespectacled human, his hands forever damp with sweat and clutching a pristine black briefcase.
He was infuriating, every time I changed my name he found me, every time I moved I would get another bright pink letter. I knew eventually he would visit, the letter said as much, written in his swirling handwriting and signed with an unchanging, impeccable signature, simply Kieth. Though, how he found me wasn't the greatest mystery surrounding Kieth. It was the fact that he was most certainly human, but he never aged. It hadn't been various IRS agents over the years, it had always been Kieth.
I pondered this as I stalked to my kitchen to grab a drink, muttering curses under my breath as I went. My hand gripped the glass while I tore the plastic of the blood bag open, pouring the contents without really thinking about what I was doing.
*Why doesn't he age?* I sipped the blood and tossed the empty bag in the trash, moving through my house silently.
There had to be an explanation, humans aged and died. Was he a machine? A clone? An alien? I shook my head at the notion. Kieth was distinctly human, his scent didn't lie, neither did his heartbeat, or the warmth he gave off.
With an exasperated huff I fell onto my couch, mind still swirling with thoughts of the ever obnoxious Kieth. I was so lost in my thoughts that when the doorbell rang I let out an involuntary yelp.
That smell, peppermint, tweed, and sweat. It was Kieth. Snarling I walked to the door, pulling my brown hair away from my face and wiping my bloody lips with the back of my arm. A toothy smile planted itself on my mouth as I opened the door to my apartment.
"Kieth, I wasn't expecting you so soon." And there he was, in all of his soggy, soft glory, damp blue eyes blinking at me expectantly.
"I'm quite sure you weren't Miss Yvir, but we have quite a bit to discuss this time." I hated that he knew my original name, and insisted upon using it every time we spoke despite my ever changing identity.
"May I come in?" He looked up at me through his thick glasses, my chin easily an inch above his forehead.
I opened the door and swept my arm in an exaggerated bow and he slithered past me into my living room, where he plopped unceremoniously onto my couch. My smile twisted into a snarl as I took the chair, lifting my glass of O+ from the table. He squirmed uncomfortably as I sipped it and internally I purred with glee. Over the years he had never asked outright what I was, but he knew, he had to by now.
"So, Miss. You have not paid your taxes for the last three years. Not the longest you have evaded, but still a serious offense." He adjusted his glasses and tried to meet my eyes. "Would you like to instill a payment plan or would you like to go ahead and pay your entire balance?"
I took another long sip and licked my fangs. Kieth shifted a bit away from me as I leaned forward over the paperwork. At this point I had no interest in the numbers, I could easily pay whatever sum he wanted, but I was trying to find any clues as to what kept him ticking, and annoying.
From what I saw he wore no pieces of power, had no necromantic tattoos, or any indication of interference from another supernatural source. He didn't even have the wet dander smell werewolves seem to always have hanging around them. With a frustrated sigh i leaned back and pulled my checkbook from my purse, Keith's erratic pulse the only sound in the room other than that of a scribbling pen.
As I pulled the check from the spine a thought struck me, does he bleed? Can he die? Over the years I had never really considered killing him, was he a pain? Yes. Did I ever want to see him again? No. But he was only doing his job, as annoying as he was. However, at this point my curiosity was outweighing my benevolence and I set my snakelike green eyes on him.
I handed him the check in one hand, and as quick as lighting I had embedded his lovely fountain pen in his throat, ripping the doughy flesh of his neck open as I tore the pen free.
The smell of raw magic filled the room, overpowered by the scent I vomited blood onto the carpet and I was glad I hadn't tried to bite him instead. I would have been burned from the inside out by the sheer amount of energy in his veins.
He gurgled and clawed at his open neck, the dark blood sluggishly moving between his fingers. And as he scrabbled at the wound it began to close before my eyes.
Within moments his pale throat was unblemished, marked only by the smears of thick unnatural blood. All I could do was stare at him as he collected himself. He had undergone a blood ritual, an old one from the smell of it, and it had worked. The rituals were very rare, because of the risk, and even more rare were successes. Just who the FUCK was Kieth?
"Now." He cleared his throat and I jumped, startled from my even more confused thoughts. "Hopefully you have gotten that out of your system. I will need you to write another check, as this one has blood on it."
I dumbly stroked another check and handed it to him. With a satisfied grunt he placed it in his tidy briefcase and stood, straightening his dark tie. My legs lifted me from the chair and I moved to walk him out of my home.
As I opened the door he turned to me, offering his sweaty palm as if I had not just tried to kill him. I shook it, my mind not really present, still swirling with the thoughts of Kieth's real identity. Maybe a surname, his last name may give me a clue, but I remembered he had never told me. And he never signed it on his letters.
"Until next time Miss Yvir, and next time please don't wait so long to send us your payment." He moved to the top of the stairs and I found my voice.
"Hey Kieth." His wet blue eyes found mine and he cocked his head to the side in response.
"Since we've known each other so long, and you know me so well, isn't it strange that I don't even know your last name?" My voice was saccharine and he looked thoughtful for a moment before a slow grin spread on his paunchy face.
"I suppose that's fair." He winked at me and started down the stairs. "It's VanHellsing." His pale hand waved from above the railing, his footsteps silent. "Until next time, Miss Yvir."
\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~
Thank you for reading! Edited for typos.
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"You need to pay your taxes"
"Go fuck yourself"
"You're going to go to jail... again."
"I'll just hypnotize the judge into letting me go... again"
"You're not above the law here"
"I'm older than the law and unless the law is legally allowed to drive a stake through my heart the law can suck it *heehee* but income tax evasion isn't a capital offence"
"The law can take your assets"
"What, the assets I extorted from the townsfolk? Doesn't your government call that taxation? And while we're on the subject ask anyone: the government's a bigger bloodsucker than me. Think anyone really has any sympathy for it?"
"The government is allowed to do that because it has a mandate of the people"
"You call it a mandate of the people I call it telling them they'll go to jail if they don't pay up. I'll turn their families into the bloodless udead creatures of the night. Which do you think people are more keen on throwing a portion of their income at?"
"Look are we just pissing around here or are you going to pay your taxes?"
"This is just a yearly courtesy call for me. You know how this plays out same as it does every year."
"Ok well thank you for choosing H&R Block. Same time next year?"
"If you insist"
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[WP] You're a 250 year old vampire. You've found that living as a recluse and faking your death every 70 years or so is actually fairly easy. You've consistently fooled everyone except for your mortal enemy - Keith from the IRS
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“…Keith… when are we going to give this up?” I stated with a taunting undertone, my wry smile feeding directly into his ear.
“Sir, it is a federal offence to evade paying taxes to our great nation, and it is certainly an offense to evade taxes but under DIFFERENT identities each time. I suggest, Sir, that we move to resolve this situation quickly.”
“God Keith, is your fucking manager nearby? Why are you speaking like you’ve got a stick up your ass? We’ve been doing this same script for a while now and it’s getting so predictable. But please, I’ll humour you as always, how do you suggest we ‘resolve’?” The ‘r’ rolled off my 250 year old tongue as smooth as a fine Whisky enlightening me on a Friday evening.
“Sir, we need you to come downtown to the IRS office as soon as possible and convenient. You would be required to bring two forms of identity that encompass both your address and photograph, further proof of your current residence from a dated utility bill or equivalent, banking information including your account details, your Social Security Number, and documents detailing your latest employer.”
I chuckled a little. Keith was consistently robotic in his response to a resolution. He probably told hundreds of other naughty tax evaders a week the same spiel.
“And, Keith, which identity would you like me to provide that information for? I could of course provide my latest death certificates at no inconvenience to myself” I snarled.
I loved winding him up about as much as I detested him now. I did not always regard Keith as my mortal enemy but our relationship changed around the time of the Civil War and when the introduction of this goddamn IRS business began. We had a brief reconciliation in the glorious summer of 1900, glimpses back to our old ways, but it was short-lived.
“Sir, I do not appreciate that tone. I would like to kindly remind you I am an employee acting on behalf of, and for the best wishes of, the nation.”
“Oh Keith. You used to be fun. Remember back in our youth? Remember back in 1801, it was a glorious night! Thunderstorms; a near monsoon in a matter of hours. The full moon illuminating each and every torrential drop. Ah the fun we had that night. The terror we instilled in those meagre villagers. The divinest cuisine we ever dined on; every scarlet drop in that place. We had it all Keith and those mortals bowed at our very feet. We were respected. We were somebodies.”
“Sir, if you could just confirm if you will be visiting the office…” Keith interjected.
“See you in another 70, old friend” I cut the line dead.
Although Vampire by creation, it was now the IRS who was sucking the life out of poor old Keith.
Thanks for reading. Comments appreciated! Go easy on me :)
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Had I known that Keith from the IRS was a vampire from the start our relationship would have been much less strained. The third time he caught me faking a death for the IRS should have been one too many, but blonde vampires are quite a bit like blonde humans, I hear. >< I can't do it. Please, the prompt implies that Keith is a Vampire.
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[WP] You're a 250 year old vampire. You've found that living as a recluse and faking your death every 70 years or so is actually fairly easy. You've consistently fooled everyone except for your mortal enemy - Keith from the IRS
|
"How did you find me?"
- "Well, your name stands on a list, I would say, of rather _special_ people..." -
"What do you mean with special Keith?" -
"From where do you... Oh yeah, my nameplate. Nevertheless, we, the SNIRS, also called the _Super Natural Internal Revenue Service_, searches for people, who look very similar or identical to their ancestors in order to find immortal beings." -
"Wait, why are you pulling me into this? I'm not imm... __ArGHh__" -
"Just like I thought. A vampire. The myths are true, you really can't bear garlic. Even though it's so delicious... Especially garlic bread..." -
"Okay, okay, I'm really a vampire. And I thought I was hiding hiding well enough!" -
"Well, not for the SNIRS! I, Keith the all mighty super natural beings finder, have found a way to find people like you. You wonder how? Well, that shall stay a mystery. I also don't want you to find a way to dodge me." -
"Keith, you do like using the word _well_. So what's the reason for your presence?"
"We... It's because of your taxes. You've been living for around 240 yea..." -
"250 to be exact. It was a great birthday party!"
"...for around 240 years and only paid taxes for about 60 of them." -
"And what's the deal?" -
"The deal is, your unpaid taxes have summed up to $1.970.657, which is quite a bit." -
"__Yikes___... Errrrm, I'm sorry to inform you, but I have an important meeting and I need to rush to get there..." -
"Hey! Stop _arrgghhh_!!!" -
_At that moment Keith felt blood running down his neck and suddenly was covered in darkness_
__Thank you for reading my first prompt on reddit, if you got this far!__
|
Had I known that Keith from the IRS was a vampire from the start our relationship would have been much less strained. The third time he caught me faking a death for the IRS should have been one too many, but blonde vampires are quite a bit like blonde humans, I hear. >< I can't do it. Please, the prompt implies that Keith is a Vampire.
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[WP] You're a 250 year old vampire. You've found that living as a recluse and faking your death every 70 years or so is actually fairly easy. You've consistently fooled everyone except for your mortal enemy - Keith from the IRS
|
"Have you seriously forgotten me?"
As I sat across the desk from Keith, my IRS auditor, I looked at him closely. "I'm certain i would remember your face," I started.
"No, no, no. Not my face. You aren't the only one faking a death when people get too close to you," he said. "Yes, I had to dig a bit, but this is our fourth meeting, mister Lugosi. Or should I say Bernstein, that's the last name you used, right?"
Nobody could know this much. This young whippersnapper was trying to intimidate me, me, who had been a child of the Revolution. "No, no," I explained. "My father..."
"Bela Lugosi Jr. you are not, and he had no children born in 1963."
"No, my father changed his name in admiration of the great actor," I forced out.
"I've looked at the court records," Keith said. "But I don't really need to. Your face is burned into my memory," he stated flatly. Only as he began to speak again did the hints of emotion appear. "Let's see, you are looking quite well for being 250 years old. Your birthday was last month, wasn't it, sir? You were about 35 the first time I saw you, 1798. The Reverend Reginald Orville York. Your reputation preceded you when you came to dine with my parents."
On whom had I called in that year? I tried to think. "You were betrothed to my eldest sister, Olivia," he continued. "Hannah Allman. I shall be rather displeased if you've forgotten her so young, brother-in-law. The marriage was crucial to the Allman family securing their place in Ohio."
Ah, yes. My first wife. My only wife, actually, I reminded myself. After my first death, I had avoided such intimacy to secure myself. "You must surely have me mistaken, Mr. Legere." I paused for a moment as I read his name tag, then nodded. "I am Kalvin Lugosi, born in 1963 to George Lugosi and Maria Kintigh."
"Yes, yes," he said. "This was what drew my attention to you, reverend. The Kintighs are kin, after all, and it's not helpful for us who are immortal to cross the wrong clans, is it? No, I'm afraid I'm not like you. I don't seduce young women and feed on them to maintain my life," Keith said. "I made a pact. I believe the formal term is a warlock? I made a deal with some angel or demon when my sister had that untimely accident during her pregnancy. She joined the angels after a month of seeming to recover, but you, reverend? You had vanished the very day she fell into that freezing river. Ten years together, her first pregnancy, and you vanished when she and the child perished."
I had nothing to do with her death. Sworn to secrecy, she had known my secret, but it was an accident that she had died. I had left because as soon as I heard the commotion on the boat, as soon as I had seen my wife in the freezing waters, I knew it was a hunter responsible. The hunters saw no qualms in killing innocents to get at those of us they labeled monsters, but Hannah had been my one shining light. I hope my stoic mask kept up, that my emotions were concealed.
"At first, mister York, I thought you the one responsible," Keith continued. "So I prayed to any gods, any demons, any angels -- any being out there that was willing to help me, to let me live until you passed from this earth. So I have. Of course, at first I questioned what had happened. It seems you were the true target of Hannah's attack. She was stricken as bait to lure you out. Some gentleman by the name of Lester Campbell. His family, as it turns out, believed you to be a monster. They took me in and taught me what they knew, hoping I would join their crusade. I parted ways with them on the night when Lester was found with hs entrails spilling across the floor. By then, you were dead, or so the obituaries had claimed. I suspected I would not be long for the world, as I believed your death would bring mine."
"Oh, I apologize, reverend. I assure you that I am in no way seeking to exploit you out of this. There are no recording devices in use, you may be entirely frank with me. After all, it seems I owe my longevity to your own," he said. "That said, the only thing more certain in this nation than death is taxes, and you've been delinquent for the last decade. Preparing for another disappearing act, aren't you?"
My mouth twitched. "Ebenezer," I said. "My, you've grown. You don't seem to age quite so gracefully as I, though for a mere human only 20 years my junior, you look remarkable. I wonder, what did these Campbells tell you about me? What did they think I was? I mean, I'll admit to being a monster, though hardly a choice of my own."
"They suspected you were a werewolf or vampire," he said. "Though werewolves don't live so long. I have pulled your reporting for the last thirty years, most of your current adulthood," he said, tapping the keyboard. "I would have taken it as an early retirement if I didn't figure out who you are. Just your unlucky generation that I chose to be an auditor right now, wouldn't you say?"
"Could be very lucky," I said. I briefly considered turning him. No, I had only turned a handful of people. Several in my youth, before Hannah, but after settling down, I had given it up. Every generation I turned two or three terminal illnesses, people about to die well out of the fullness of their lives. A few shared my motives closely enough that they lived quietly. Those who didn't found themselves as a head on some hunter's trophy wall. "I presume you've estimated how delinquent I am based on the years I reported, but for the past ten years I simply haven't done as well saving."
"You still need to file your taxes," he said, turning to look at me. "My family is doing well. Without me, of course. I suppose we both came to the same conclusion on how to hide in this nation."
"Seclusion or redefinition are the only choices," I said. It was difficult to face a living memory of my mortal wife. I had offered her the same hunger and immortality as myself, but she had insisted on having a child first. Perhaps she would have insisted we raise the child. Dwelling that far back was heartbreaking, though. "I truly loved Hannah, dear Ebenezer. Had I been able to save her without being killed myself... I would have hesitated for less time than it took to blink my eyes."
"I don't doubt it," he said with a smile on his face. "Self preservation is a terrifying thing. So it appears that you owe $50,000 dollars in missed taxes," he said. "Estimating from your past reports and the amounts provided by your bank, you've simply been underpaying. I don't doubt we can make this go away quickly without significantly delaying your..."
There was a knock on the door of the office, then a head poked in. "Legere, Porter wanted to make sure you know you're invited to karaoke tonight too."
"... retirement," Keith said. "We'll get the payment plan all sorted out tomorrow."
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Had I known that Keith from the IRS was a vampire from the start our relationship would have been much less strained. The third time he caught me faking a death for the IRS should have been one too many, but blonde vampires are quite a bit like blonde humans, I hear. >< I can't do it. Please, the prompt implies that Keith is a Vampire.
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[WP] You're a 250 year old vampire. You've found that living as a recluse and faking your death every 70 years or so is actually fairly easy. You've consistently fooled everyone except for your mortal enemy - Keith from the IRS
|
"Have you seriously forgotten me?"
As I sat across the desk from Keith, my IRS auditor, I looked at him closely. "I'm certain i would remember your face," I started.
"No, no, no. Not my face. You aren't the only one faking a death when people get too close to you," he said. "Yes, I had to dig a bit, but this is our fourth meeting, mister Lugosi. Or should I say Bernstein, that's the last name you used, right?"
Nobody could know this much. This young whippersnapper was trying to intimidate me, me, who had been a child of the Revolution. "No, no," I explained. "My father..."
"Bela Lugosi Jr. you are not, and he had no children born in 1963."
"No, my father changed his name in admiration of the great actor," I forced out.
"I've looked at the court records," Keith said. "But I don't really need to. Your face is burned into my memory," he stated flatly. Only as he began to speak again did the hints of emotion appear. "Let's see, you are looking quite well for being 250 years old. Your birthday was last month, wasn't it, sir? You were about 35 the first time I saw you, 1798. The Reverend Reginald Orville York. Your reputation preceded you when you came to dine with my parents."
On whom had I called in that year? I tried to think. "You were betrothed to my eldest sister, Olivia," he continued. "Hannah Allman. I shall be rather displeased if you've forgotten her so young, brother-in-law. The marriage was crucial to the Allman family securing their place in Ohio."
Ah, yes. My first wife. My only wife, actually, I reminded myself. After my first death, I had avoided such intimacy to secure myself. "You must surely have me mistaken, Mr. Legere." I paused for a moment as I read his name tag, then nodded. "I am Kalvin Lugosi, born in 1963 to George Lugosi and Maria Kintigh."
"Yes, yes," he said. "This was what drew my attention to you, reverend. The Kintighs are kin, after all, and it's not helpful for us who are immortal to cross the wrong clans, is it? No, I'm afraid I'm not like you. I don't seduce young women and feed on them to maintain my life," Keith said. "I made a pact. I believe the formal term is a warlock? I made a deal with some angel or demon when my sister had that untimely accident during her pregnancy. She joined the angels after a month of seeming to recover, but you, reverend? You had vanished the very day she fell into that freezing river. Ten years together, her first pregnancy, and you vanished when she and the child perished."
I had nothing to do with her death. Sworn to secrecy, she had known my secret, but it was an accident that she had died. I had left because as soon as I heard the commotion on the boat, as soon as I had seen my wife in the freezing waters, I knew it was a hunter responsible. The hunters saw no qualms in killing innocents to get at those of us they labeled monsters, but Hannah had been my one shining light. I hope my stoic mask kept up, that my emotions were concealed.
"At first, mister York, I thought you the one responsible," Keith continued. "So I prayed to any gods, any demons, any angels -- any being out there that was willing to help me, to let me live until you passed from this earth. So I have. Of course, at first I questioned what had happened. It seems you were the true target of Hannah's attack. She was stricken as bait to lure you out. Some gentleman by the name of Lester Campbell. His family, as it turns out, believed you to be a monster. They took me in and taught me what they knew, hoping I would join their crusade. I parted ways with them on the night when Lester was found with hs entrails spilling across the floor. By then, you were dead, or so the obituaries had claimed. I suspected I would not be long for the world, as I believed your death would bring mine."
"Oh, I apologize, reverend. I assure you that I am in no way seeking to exploit you out of this. There are no recording devices in use, you may be entirely frank with me. After all, it seems I owe my longevity to your own," he said. "That said, the only thing more certain in this nation than death is taxes, and you've been delinquent for the last decade. Preparing for another disappearing act, aren't you?"
My mouth twitched. "Ebenezer," I said. "My, you've grown. You don't seem to age quite so gracefully as I, though for a mere human only 20 years my junior, you look remarkable. I wonder, what did these Campbells tell you about me? What did they think I was? I mean, I'll admit to being a monster, though hardly a choice of my own."
"They suspected you were a werewolf or vampire," he said. "Though werewolves don't live so long. I have pulled your reporting for the last thirty years, most of your current adulthood," he said, tapping the keyboard. "I would have taken it as an early retirement if I didn't figure out who you are. Just your unlucky generation that I chose to be an auditor right now, wouldn't you say?"
"Could be very lucky," I said. I briefly considered turning him. No, I had only turned a handful of people. Several in my youth, before Hannah, but after settling down, I had given it up. Every generation I turned two or three terminal illnesses, people about to die well out of the fullness of their lives. A few shared my motives closely enough that they lived quietly. Those who didn't found themselves as a head on some hunter's trophy wall. "I presume you've estimated how delinquent I am based on the years I reported, but for the past ten years I simply haven't done as well saving."
"You still need to file your taxes," he said, turning to look at me. "My family is doing well. Without me, of course. I suppose we both came to the same conclusion on how to hide in this nation."
"Seclusion or redefinition are the only choices," I said. It was difficult to face a living memory of my mortal wife. I had offered her the same hunger and immortality as myself, but she had insisted on having a child first. Perhaps she would have insisted we raise the child. Dwelling that far back was heartbreaking, though. "I truly loved Hannah, dear Ebenezer. Had I been able to save her without being killed myself... I would have hesitated for less time than it took to blink my eyes."
"I don't doubt it," he said with a smile on his face. "Self preservation is a terrifying thing. So it appears that you owe $50,000 dollars in missed taxes," he said. "Estimating from your past reports and the amounts provided by your bank, you've simply been underpaying. I don't doubt we can make this go away quickly without significantly delaying your..."
There was a knock on the door of the office, then a head poked in. "Legere, Porter wanted to make sure you know you're invited to karaoke tonight too."
"... retirement," Keith said. "We'll get the payment plan all sorted out tomorrow."
|
"How did you find me?"
- "Well, your name stands on a list, I would say, of rather _special_ people..." -
"What do you mean with special Keith?" -
"From where do you... Oh yeah, my nameplate. Nevertheless, we, the SNIRS, also called the _Super Natural Internal Revenue Service_, searches for people, who look very similar or identical to their ancestors in order to find immortal beings." -
"Wait, why are you pulling me into this? I'm not imm... __ArGHh__" -
"Just like I thought. A vampire. The myths are true, you really can't bear garlic. Even though it's so delicious... Especially garlic bread..." -
"Okay, okay, I'm really a vampire. And I thought I was hiding hiding well enough!" -
"Well, not for the SNIRS! I, Keith the all mighty super natural beings finder, have found a way to find people like you. You wonder how? Well, that shall stay a mystery. I also don't want you to find a way to dodge me." -
"Keith, you do like using the word _well_. So what's the reason for your presence?"
"We... It's because of your taxes. You've been living for around 240 yea..." -
"250 to be exact. It was a great birthday party!"
"...for around 240 years and only paid taxes for about 60 of them." -
"And what's the deal?" -
"The deal is, your unpaid taxes have summed up to $1.970.657, which is quite a bit." -
"__Yikes___... Errrrm, I'm sorry to inform you, but I have an important meeting and I need to rush to get there..." -
"Hey! Stop _arrgghhh_!!!" -
_At that moment Keith felt blood running down his neck and suddenly was covered in darkness_
__Thank you for reading my first prompt on reddit, if you got this far!__
|
|
[WP] You're a 250 year old vampire. You've found that living as a recluse and faking your death every 70 years or so is actually fairly easy. You've consistently fooled everyone except for your mortal enemy - Keith from the IRS
|
"Have you seriously forgotten me?"
As I sat across the desk from Keith, my IRS auditor, I looked at him closely. "I'm certain i would remember your face," I started.
"No, no, no. Not my face. You aren't the only one faking a death when people get too close to you," he said. "Yes, I had to dig a bit, but this is our fourth meeting, mister Lugosi. Or should I say Bernstein, that's the last name you used, right?"
Nobody could know this much. This young whippersnapper was trying to intimidate me, me, who had been a child of the Revolution. "No, no," I explained. "My father..."
"Bela Lugosi Jr. you are not, and he had no children born in 1963."
"No, my father changed his name in admiration of the great actor," I forced out.
"I've looked at the court records," Keith said. "But I don't really need to. Your face is burned into my memory," he stated flatly. Only as he began to speak again did the hints of emotion appear. "Let's see, you are looking quite well for being 250 years old. Your birthday was last month, wasn't it, sir? You were about 35 the first time I saw you, 1798. The Reverend Reginald Orville York. Your reputation preceded you when you came to dine with my parents."
On whom had I called in that year? I tried to think. "You were betrothed to my eldest sister, Olivia," he continued. "Hannah Allman. I shall be rather displeased if you've forgotten her so young, brother-in-law. The marriage was crucial to the Allman family securing their place in Ohio."
Ah, yes. My first wife. My only wife, actually, I reminded myself. After my first death, I had avoided such intimacy to secure myself. "You must surely have me mistaken, Mr. Legere." I paused for a moment as I read his name tag, then nodded. "I am Kalvin Lugosi, born in 1963 to George Lugosi and Maria Kintigh."
"Yes, yes," he said. "This was what drew my attention to you, reverend. The Kintighs are kin, after all, and it's not helpful for us who are immortal to cross the wrong clans, is it? No, I'm afraid I'm not like you. I don't seduce young women and feed on them to maintain my life," Keith said. "I made a pact. I believe the formal term is a warlock? I made a deal with some angel or demon when my sister had that untimely accident during her pregnancy. She joined the angels after a month of seeming to recover, but you, reverend? You had vanished the very day she fell into that freezing river. Ten years together, her first pregnancy, and you vanished when she and the child perished."
I had nothing to do with her death. Sworn to secrecy, she had known my secret, but it was an accident that she had died. I had left because as soon as I heard the commotion on the boat, as soon as I had seen my wife in the freezing waters, I knew it was a hunter responsible. The hunters saw no qualms in killing innocents to get at those of us they labeled monsters, but Hannah had been my one shining light. I hope my stoic mask kept up, that my emotions were concealed.
"At first, mister York, I thought you the one responsible," Keith continued. "So I prayed to any gods, any demons, any angels -- any being out there that was willing to help me, to let me live until you passed from this earth. So I have. Of course, at first I questioned what had happened. It seems you were the true target of Hannah's attack. She was stricken as bait to lure you out. Some gentleman by the name of Lester Campbell. His family, as it turns out, believed you to be a monster. They took me in and taught me what they knew, hoping I would join their crusade. I parted ways with them on the night when Lester was found with hs entrails spilling across the floor. By then, you were dead, or so the obituaries had claimed. I suspected I would not be long for the world, as I believed your death would bring mine."
"Oh, I apologize, reverend. I assure you that I am in no way seeking to exploit you out of this. There are no recording devices in use, you may be entirely frank with me. After all, it seems I owe my longevity to your own," he said. "That said, the only thing more certain in this nation than death is taxes, and you've been delinquent for the last decade. Preparing for another disappearing act, aren't you?"
My mouth twitched. "Ebenezer," I said. "My, you've grown. You don't seem to age quite so gracefully as I, though for a mere human only 20 years my junior, you look remarkable. I wonder, what did these Campbells tell you about me? What did they think I was? I mean, I'll admit to being a monster, though hardly a choice of my own."
"They suspected you were a werewolf or vampire," he said. "Though werewolves don't live so long. I have pulled your reporting for the last thirty years, most of your current adulthood," he said, tapping the keyboard. "I would have taken it as an early retirement if I didn't figure out who you are. Just your unlucky generation that I chose to be an auditor right now, wouldn't you say?"
"Could be very lucky," I said. I briefly considered turning him. No, I had only turned a handful of people. Several in my youth, before Hannah, but after settling down, I had given it up. Every generation I turned two or three terminal illnesses, people about to die well out of the fullness of their lives. A few shared my motives closely enough that they lived quietly. Those who didn't found themselves as a head on some hunter's trophy wall. "I presume you've estimated how delinquent I am based on the years I reported, but for the past ten years I simply haven't done as well saving."
"You still need to file your taxes," he said, turning to look at me. "My family is doing well. Without me, of course. I suppose we both came to the same conclusion on how to hide in this nation."
"Seclusion or redefinition are the only choices," I said. It was difficult to face a living memory of my mortal wife. I had offered her the same hunger and immortality as myself, but she had insisted on having a child first. Perhaps she would have insisted we raise the child. Dwelling that far back was heartbreaking, though. "I truly loved Hannah, dear Ebenezer. Had I been able to save her without being killed myself... I would have hesitated for less time than it took to blink my eyes."
"I don't doubt it," he said with a smile on his face. "Self preservation is a terrifying thing. So it appears that you owe $50,000 dollars in missed taxes," he said. "Estimating from your past reports and the amounts provided by your bank, you've simply been underpaying. I don't doubt we can make this go away quickly without significantly delaying your..."
There was a knock on the door of the office, then a head poked in. "Legere, Porter wanted to make sure you know you're invited to karaoke tonight too."
"... retirement," Keith said. "We'll get the payment plan all sorted out tomorrow."
|
Harry the vampire was beginning to get frustrated.
He had spent an hour already speaking with this fellow Keith from the IRS. So far he had provided death certificates, birth certificates, even fake baby pictures. He'd regaled Keith with well rehearsed, utterly fake stories about him and his loving grandfather, Jeremiah.
"Oh, how Jeremiah used to dote upon me, as if I were the most important object in the entire world. How I miss him, my dearest grandpapa!"
But Keith would just purse his lips and nod again, maybe lean in for yet another tea cookie. Harry cursed silently to himself - he would need to go out and by more tea cookies.
No matter what Harry fed Keith, no matter what proof Harry provided that, no, he was *not* himself Jeremiah, and no, he was *not* over two centuries old and attempting to defraud the IRS, Keith just wouldn't leave. In over two centuries on Earth, and after several successful efforts to defraud the IRS, Harry worried he may have finally met his match.
"Well Harry," Keith said, taking the final tea biscuit laid out on a small porcelain plate beneath them on the table, "it seems like everything checks out." Keith ate the small cookie in one delicious bite and shook his head. "Golly, those are some delicious cookies. Sorry I ate em all. Oh damn, you didn't get to have one, did you?"
Harry demured, raising his hand in front of him, and hid his simmering anger. "Oh, no, don't you worry about it." Harry stood up in the hopes Keith would follow his lead and finally get the hell out. It was already midday and Harry was exhausted. The meeting had been held in the sunless interior study, but Harry was feeling every second of his missed slumber.
To Harry's relief Keith did follow his lead and got up with him. As he stood he picked up his tea and finished the glass with a big gulp. "Well, very generous of you Harry. Thank you for your time. And my condolescences for your loss."
Harry frowned, his head swimming from standing so quickly , his blood pressure low. It wad never good to force through the day time. Vampires in general responded poorly to sleep deprivation, and Harry in particular was very sensitive. "Thank you." Harry muttered, hoping his demeanor came off as a distracted mourner rather than...something else.
As the two men walked to the front door, through the darkened alcove of the hallway, just as Harry was about to open the door, Keith sucked his front teeth. "Harry, I'm sorry to impose, but before I leave, would it be alright if I used your bathroom?"
Harry could hardly hide his frustration - humans and their incessant waste. Reluctantly, he nodded. "Um, sure, OK - Yes," god he was tired, "it's uh down the hall, through the study on the left."
Keith smiled. "Thanks Harry." And the man walked back into the apartment.
As Harry waited he ran the whole conversation around in his head. He thought he'd been consistent, had gotten all his details right, the whole genealogical tree - the fake chain of biologic causality that went from his great grandfather, to his grandfather, to him - all of them actually Harry collecting estate income at a far lower tax burden.
*Yes,* Harry thought, *I think I fooled him.*
Keith took longer than expected to return and Harry was just beginning to worry when the man appeared in the doorway. He looked different somehow, and his smile was sort of tight lipped. "Sorry about that, I'll be on my way." He did not offer a handshake. "Thanks." He said and then walked briskly out of the apartment.
Harry watched him go, a bit confused but overall just glad to have him gone. His head aching, Harry shut the door and breathed a sigh of relief. Finally he would get some rest.
His stomach growled and Harry decided first he would have a night cap. So he headed into the kitchen, massaging his temple. When he arrived he stopped dead in tracks.
In front of him Harry's refridgerator was ajar and on the floor a bag of O negative blood was spilled in a grim pool all over the kitchen tiles.
Harry bent down, touched a finger to the liquid, and found that it was still quite cold.
Suddenly Keith's elongated piss clicked firmly into place, as did the realization that Harry was going to have to relocate for the second time in as many months.
"Shit."
Frustrated, Harry frowned and licked the blood off his finger. It was gonna be a long night
*******
#### For More Legends From The Multiverse
## r/LFTM
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|
[WP] You're a 250 year old vampire. You've found that living as a recluse and faking your death every 70 years or so is actually fairly easy. You've consistently fooled everyone except for your mortal enemy - Keith from the IRS
|
"You realize that you haven't been paying your taxes for the past 210 years?"
"Yes."
"Alright then..." Keith scribbled something down on his clipboard. "You were intentionally evading taxes..."
"What? I said that I know I didn't pay taxes, I didn't say that it was intentional!"
"Well... Was it intentional?"
I sighed. "Yes, it was intentional."
"I guess you'll have to pay or be locked up for a long time."
"Why do you even care? You've probably spent more money trying to track me down than you will earn by fining me!"
"The law is the law."
I crossed my arms. "I guess I'll just have to become a law-abiding citizen now. Pay my taxes and all that. Too bad I can't immigrate to another country."
"Yeah, you definitely won't be leaving the States. Not a single country has given you a visa yet." Keith smirked. "That's the thing with you blood-suckers. You can't just enter another country illegally. You need to be invited."
Wait... What did he just say?
I got a great idea, like a light bulb just lit up right above my head. I put on my angry face. "What do you mean... blood-suckers?"
Keith looked at me, all confused. Makes sense. Its pretty obvious that blood sucker refers to how vampires suck blood out of their victims. "Well... You're a vampire, correct?"
I shot up out of my chair. "So you think its okay for you to refer to me using a racial slur?"
Keith's confusion changed to fright. He raised his hands in front of him, as if in self defense. "I'm sorry, I didn't know that it was a slur!"
"It's 2018, Keith! You can't just say things like that!"
He dropped onto his knees. "Please, sir, forgive me..."
I waved my finger at him. "I will sue you, and make sure that you'll lose your job for being such a racist bastard!"
This seems to be working. Keith is on the verge of tears at this point. "Please, I'll do anything..."
I put my finger away. "Anything?"
"Yes... Anything."
"Alright... Can you make me completely exempt from taxes?"
Keith looked me right in the eyes. I don't think he liked my question very much. "No, sir, I don't think I can. Is there anything else I can do?"
I thought for a moment or two, rubbing my chin to make Keith think that I didn't actually think of this beforehand. "Yes, there is."
He got back up on his two feet again. "What is it?"
Time for the big plan. "I want you to drive us both down to the Canadian Border. You cross first."
"What should I do when I'm there?"
I grinned. "Invite me in."
-------------
**Thanks for reading, feedback and criticism is very appreciated.**
r/WrittenText
|
Harry the vampire was beginning to get frustrated.
He had spent an hour already speaking with this fellow Keith from the IRS. So far he had provided death certificates, birth certificates, even fake baby pictures. He'd regaled Keith with well rehearsed, utterly fake stories about him and his loving grandfather, Jeremiah.
"Oh, how Jeremiah used to dote upon me, as if I were the most important object in the entire world. How I miss him, my dearest grandpapa!"
But Keith would just purse his lips and nod again, maybe lean in for yet another tea cookie. Harry cursed silently to himself - he would need to go out and by more tea cookies.
No matter what Harry fed Keith, no matter what proof Harry provided that, no, he was *not* himself Jeremiah, and no, he was *not* over two centuries old and attempting to defraud the IRS, Keith just wouldn't leave. In over two centuries on Earth, and after several successful efforts to defraud the IRS, Harry worried he may have finally met his match.
"Well Harry," Keith said, taking the final tea biscuit laid out on a small porcelain plate beneath them on the table, "it seems like everything checks out." Keith ate the small cookie in one delicious bite and shook his head. "Golly, those are some delicious cookies. Sorry I ate em all. Oh damn, you didn't get to have one, did you?"
Harry demured, raising his hand in front of him, and hid his simmering anger. "Oh, no, don't you worry about it." Harry stood up in the hopes Keith would follow his lead and finally get the hell out. It was already midday and Harry was exhausted. The meeting had been held in the sunless interior study, but Harry was feeling every second of his missed slumber.
To Harry's relief Keith did follow his lead and got up with him. As he stood he picked up his tea and finished the glass with a big gulp. "Well, very generous of you Harry. Thank you for your time. And my condolescences for your loss."
Harry frowned, his head swimming from standing so quickly , his blood pressure low. It wad never good to force through the day time. Vampires in general responded poorly to sleep deprivation, and Harry in particular was very sensitive. "Thank you." Harry muttered, hoping his demeanor came off as a distracted mourner rather than...something else.
As the two men walked to the front door, through the darkened alcove of the hallway, just as Harry was about to open the door, Keith sucked his front teeth. "Harry, I'm sorry to impose, but before I leave, would it be alright if I used your bathroom?"
Harry could hardly hide his frustration - humans and their incessant waste. Reluctantly, he nodded. "Um, sure, OK - Yes," god he was tired, "it's uh down the hall, through the study on the left."
Keith smiled. "Thanks Harry." And the man walked back into the apartment.
As Harry waited he ran the whole conversation around in his head. He thought he'd been consistent, had gotten all his details right, the whole genealogical tree - the fake chain of biologic causality that went from his great grandfather, to his grandfather, to him - all of them actually Harry collecting estate income at a far lower tax burden.
*Yes,* Harry thought, *I think I fooled him.*
Keith took longer than expected to return and Harry was just beginning to worry when the man appeared in the doorway. He looked different somehow, and his smile was sort of tight lipped. "Sorry about that, I'll be on my way." He did not offer a handshake. "Thanks." He said and then walked briskly out of the apartment.
Harry watched him go, a bit confused but overall just glad to have him gone. His head aching, Harry shut the door and breathed a sigh of relief. Finally he would get some rest.
His stomach growled and Harry decided first he would have a night cap. So he headed into the kitchen, massaging his temple. When he arrived he stopped dead in tracks.
In front of him Harry's refridgerator was ajar and on the floor a bag of O negative blood was spilled in a grim pool all over the kitchen tiles.
Harry bent down, touched a finger to the liquid, and found that it was still quite cold.
Suddenly Keith's elongated piss clicked firmly into place, as did the realization that Harry was going to have to relocate for the second time in as many months.
"Shit."
Frustrated, Harry frowned and licked the blood off his finger. It was gonna be a long night
*******
#### For More Legends From The Multiverse
## r/LFTM
|
|
[WP] You're a 250 year old vampire. You've found that living as a recluse and faking your death every 70 years or so is actually fairly easy. You've consistently fooled everyone except for your mortal enemy - Keith from the IRS
|
"You realize that you haven't been paying your taxes for the past 210 years?"
"Yes."
"Alright then..." Keith scribbled something down on his clipboard. "You were intentionally evading taxes..."
"What? I said that I know I didn't pay taxes, I didn't say that it was intentional!"
"Well... Was it intentional?"
I sighed. "Yes, it was intentional."
"I guess you'll have to pay or be locked up for a long time."
"Why do you even care? You've probably spent more money trying to track me down than you will earn by fining me!"
"The law is the law."
I crossed my arms. "I guess I'll just have to become a law-abiding citizen now. Pay my taxes and all that. Too bad I can't immigrate to another country."
"Yeah, you definitely won't be leaving the States. Not a single country has given you a visa yet." Keith smirked. "That's the thing with you blood-suckers. You can't just enter another country illegally. You need to be invited."
Wait... What did he just say?
I got a great idea, like a light bulb just lit up right above my head. I put on my angry face. "What do you mean... blood-suckers?"
Keith looked at me, all confused. Makes sense. Its pretty obvious that blood sucker refers to how vampires suck blood out of their victims. "Well... You're a vampire, correct?"
I shot up out of my chair. "So you think its okay for you to refer to me using a racial slur?"
Keith's confusion changed to fright. He raised his hands in front of him, as if in self defense. "I'm sorry, I didn't know that it was a slur!"
"It's 2018, Keith! You can't just say things like that!"
He dropped onto his knees. "Please, sir, forgive me..."
I waved my finger at him. "I will sue you, and make sure that you'll lose your job for being such a racist bastard!"
This seems to be working. Keith is on the verge of tears at this point. "Please, I'll do anything..."
I put my finger away. "Anything?"
"Yes... Anything."
"Alright... Can you make me completely exempt from taxes?"
Keith looked me right in the eyes. I don't think he liked my question very much. "No, sir, I don't think I can. Is there anything else I can do?"
I thought for a moment or two, rubbing my chin to make Keith think that I didn't actually think of this beforehand. "Yes, there is."
He got back up on his two feet again. "What is it?"
Time for the big plan. "I want you to drive us both down to the Canadian Border. You cross first."
"What should I do when I'm there?"
I grinned. "Invite me in."
-------------
**Thanks for reading, feedback and criticism is very appreciated.**
r/WrittenText
|
“What are these? Look at this!”
Keith tapped on the clipboard, looking more annoyed each second.
“You owe the government $750,000 in taxes, which is absolutely a crime, for your information.”
He threw down the clipboard in disgust.
How did he find out? Over two-and-a-half lives I’ve amassed this sum. How could he have discovered my multigenerational lifespan?
I attempt to reason with Keith.
“Er, this isn’t possible. It says I have amassed this from 1863 all the way until now. That’s...”
I do the math in my head.
“156 years. Which is more than any human I’ve ever heard of.”
He picks up the clipboard and throws it at my head, and I dodge with relative ease.
“You big potato head! Taxes are absolute! They are god, they are supreme divinity among rash mortals!”
He takes taxes way too seriously.
“I come from the SIRS, you ding ding. The Supernatural Internal Revenue Service. We know you are a vampire, so pay the hell up.”
Oh, bother. Gonna have to start anew, again. I feel under my sleeves, and unravel my claws, and point it towards him.
“Bye, Keith. Sorry for this.”
He pulls out an amulet.
“Garlic, you moron. Surprise, motherfucker!”
Crap. Time to pay up.
|
|
[WP] You work as a cashier at your local McDonalds to make ends meet. On one particularly slow day an old man walks in, face shroued in a dark hood. "Hello, welcome to McDonalds. Can i take your order?" You say. The man looks up at you and says "Execute Order 66"
|
"Okay Then," I Respond, Typing the order into The Cash register.
"Your order is Six McNuggets with a side Of Szechuan Sauce. That will be 2 dollars."
At that moment, the most astonishing thing happened. The man threw off his hood to reveal the pale and wrinkled face, his fingertips sparked with tendrils of lighting.
He snarled in an accent I could not quite identify,"YOU DARE not get the REFERENCE?"
With More Gusto then a man his age could have had, Dark Hood Man Jumped onto the Countertop.
Behind him, Customers scattered and ran in all directions. Some tripping over and falling in a desperate scramble to get away from danger.
Instinctively, I brought out my company-issued lightsaber and absorbed his first attack -- a bolt of lightning aimed straight at my jugular.
"WARN THE MANAGER! QUICK!" I screamed at my co-workers. They ran (because who won't) to the office of the one we all knew as "The Boss".
While distracted, Dark Hood Man Shot another bolt of lightning which I sidestepped.
"Hey, Dude. What is your Name? Pretty Sure the narrator is tired of calling you "Dark Hood Man"."
"You Shall Call Me EMPEROR PALPATINE!" He roared
"That's no better!" I complained.
Before he could do anything, I lunged at him and swung the Lightsaber in a wide arc. Suddenly, he too was holding a Lightsaber.Said Lightsaber proceeded to catch my swing midair and send me careering off to the side.At that moment, a shout reverberated from the corner.
"IT'S A STAR WARS REFERENCE!" The Boss Shouted At Hooded Dude.
To my surprise, Pulpatine's face turned a shade of orange. Was it Embarrassment?
"My apologies.....I never knew that this Fast Food Restaurant was run by people of culture......." With That, He disappeared into the night.
My Boss peered at me,"You never watched Star Wars?"
"Shocking, Yes I know. But I had no idea it would have been relevant for the current situation here. I had No Idea Watt he was yapping on about. His brain seemed to be hot-wired for not-so-obscure movie references" I concluded.
|
“Execute Order 66”
“My guy I just want a cheeseburger and a side of fries”
“SHIT! That hoodie isn’t red?”
“It’s maroon bro, let me pay...*squints at nametag*... Joshua.”
“Look man, I don’t get paid enough for this shit, you’re the last agent i need to register you or else I don’t fill my quota. Stop playing dumb so we can both go home.”
Suddenly the silence in the restaurant dawned upon me.
“Come with me.” Said the cashier as he opened the gate into the kitchen section.
*Damnit. I’ve trained with weapons and have experience with martial arts my entire life. I got my Beretta in my holster and a utility knife in my pocket.!The question of safety isn’t something I’m concerned of. I really want to test my luck. BIG YOLO.*
I followed the cashier to the end of the hall, where I was prompted to enter into the employees only door. To the left, there was an office, but straight ahead was an ominous staircase, leading to an unlit abyss. As I stepped towards it, some lights lit up, showing me a way down. It was a terribly long journey but I made it down. The cashier had abandoned me as soon as I started making my way down, but I was too curious to care. There was a simple door at the end of the staircase. I opened it and was immediately met by an imposing figure, sporting an eerie grin.
“Order number?”
Instinctively, I proclaimed:”66.”
“Welcome to the Illuminati headquarters #459. Please be seated for the lecture starting in 5 minutes.”
I entered the auditorium. It wasn’t huge, but it was big. The crowd, although was more like a poor college basketball game’s. *This must be a minor presentation.* I assumed.
An astonishingly normal looking man entered and took to the podium.
“Good day gentlemen! I hope you’ve had a wonderful week with your stand-in wives and children. Now we must get down to business. Jaoquin!!! Make sure we’re broadcasting to all the locations. Why did we have to build a headquarters under every McDonald’s? Anyways, onto more exciting matters. We’ve successfully eliminated the new-gen emancipators. They’re evolving; spreading their messages of liberation through highly potent platforms such as music. Our greatest enemy in this domain; Lupe Wasalu Fiasco has had the release of his new album Waves suspended by our hackers for the 5 month running. We can not afford a repeat of the past. He made the people more informed than ever about our existence. Thankfully that was 10 years ago and the sheep have forgotten. This allows us to start with a blank canvas. To paint our own masterpiece from scratch! Join next week’s workshop, warriors. A new protocol shall be devised then!”
*Holy shit. What am I listening to. Lupe Fiasco?!! It actually makes sense. I’m a big fan, and I caught some things he said that were extremely cryptic. His work adds up to this in my mind. Holy shit. I need to sleep on this.* I quickly ran back up those stairs and out of the kitchen. The restaurant was operating normally. I exited and looked for my chevy cobalt I bought from being an accountant. I saw a phone number scribbled onto my windshield with a marker. I took a picture and smudged it off.
The next day I decided to research Lupe Fiasco. With the thought of the Illuminati as an evil organization at the back of my mind, I found endless hints and messages from Lupe. He’s been trying to make us aware without attracting too much attention from the Illuminati. Somewhere along the line, he obviously failed. I then remembered the number I found. I gave it a call and the operator told me to visit a website where I would be given a code in order to continue. I visited the website and within 15 seconds my computer crashed the landline disconnected and the picture of the number on my cell got erased in front of my eyes. Static appeared on my monitor and then it went blank. I heard a voice from my speaker that was familiar to the lecturer from yesterday:
“66, huh?”
END chapter 1
|
|
[WP] You work as a cashier at your local McDonalds to make ends meet. On one particularly slow day an old man walks in, face shroued in a dark hood. "Hello, welcome to McDonalds. Can i take your order?" You say. The man looks up at you and says "Execute Order 66"
|
"Execute order 66."
It was a funny enough joke, even if I heard it about twice a month on average. This was a college town after all. What added to the delivery somewhat was the man's stature; he was a short, bent, old man with a pair of liver spotted hands just peeking out from behind a collection of enviable winter gear.
I smiled warmly, "I'm afraid our menu only goes to twelve sir."
He cocked his head idly, and suddenly I got a good look at his face under the hood. Wrinkled and scarred, with a slightly manic look in his eyes and a subtle frown on his lips. He began shaking his head, "No, no. None of this is right. None of this feels right."
He began to work his hands together as if in a panic and I got a bit uneasy. The last thing I needed during lunch rush was some old guy going spacko and taking up ten minutes of my time being shouted at. I tried to speak up over him but only made it through, "Sir, if you could just -" before he gestured sharply with one of his hands.
It had been the sort of lazy negation that I'd waved a hundred times to my friends on whether or not I had plans this weekend - but its affect was decidedly more acute. It was as if my mouth had been sown shut and then duct taped over, with a sock shoved down my throat for good measure. For a second I couldn't breath, and my hands went to my mouth in more than a little terror before I realized I could still breath through my nose.
As I stood there rendered mute and terrified the man began loudly demanding of the restaurant at large where he was, where the Jedi were, "Why aren't there any droids around here?" The works. People began to back off as the general unease began to metastasize into fear. It all would have been quite entertaining if my mouth weren't mortared closed. As it was, this guy was creeping me the hell out. Eventually his shouting attracted the attention of the only guy worth a damn in the entire building, our store manager Orion Kennedy.
He was a big guy, about six and a half feet tall and still built like the linebacker he'd been in high school despite the better part of twenty years going by, with calm blue eyes, a disarming smile, and a kickass beard. He'd do anything to help one of his guys, and wasn't afraid to mix it up with a customer to keep the line moving. There weren't many McDonald's out there with a cool boss, but we had one.
Orion made it to the front counter, loudly demanding to know what was going on, when the old man turned to him. Instantly, they both froze. It was a curious reaction for about half a heartbeat, then the old man's face skinned back in a horrible rictus of a grin, and he *launched* himself over the counter. If you've never seen a frail old man effortlessly leap into a four foot vertical with a ten foot long jump component, I can assure you it is surreal.
Though, admittedly, not as impressive as the lightning literally crackling at his fingers as he launched.
That's when things got really weird, and a strange metallic cylinder jumped into Orion's hand, and the streamers of lightning met their match on a humming plasma blade.
*Great*, I thought, still mute. *My boss is a Jedi*.
|
“Execute Order 66”
“My guy I just want a cheeseburger and a side of fries”
“SHIT! That hoodie isn’t red?”
“It’s maroon bro, let me pay...*squints at nametag*... Joshua.”
“Look man, I don’t get paid enough for this shit, you’re the last agent i need to register you or else I don’t fill my quota. Stop playing dumb so we can both go home.”
Suddenly the silence in the restaurant dawned upon me.
“Come with me.” Said the cashier as he opened the gate into the kitchen section.
*Damnit. I’ve trained with weapons and have experience with martial arts my entire life. I got my Beretta in my holster and a utility knife in my pocket.!The question of safety isn’t something I’m concerned of. I really want to test my luck. BIG YOLO.*
I followed the cashier to the end of the hall, where I was prompted to enter into the employees only door. To the left, there was an office, but straight ahead was an ominous staircase, leading to an unlit abyss. As I stepped towards it, some lights lit up, showing me a way down. It was a terribly long journey but I made it down. The cashier had abandoned me as soon as I started making my way down, but I was too curious to care. There was a simple door at the end of the staircase. I opened it and was immediately met by an imposing figure, sporting an eerie grin.
“Order number?”
Instinctively, I proclaimed:”66.”
“Welcome to the Illuminati headquarters #459. Please be seated for the lecture starting in 5 minutes.”
I entered the auditorium. It wasn’t huge, but it was big. The crowd, although was more like a poor college basketball game’s. *This must be a minor presentation.* I assumed.
An astonishingly normal looking man entered and took to the podium.
“Good day gentlemen! I hope you’ve had a wonderful week with your stand-in wives and children. Now we must get down to business. Jaoquin!!! Make sure we’re broadcasting to all the locations. Why did we have to build a headquarters under every McDonald’s? Anyways, onto more exciting matters. We’ve successfully eliminated the new-gen emancipators. They’re evolving; spreading their messages of liberation through highly potent platforms such as music. Our greatest enemy in this domain; Lupe Wasalu Fiasco has had the release of his new album Waves suspended by our hackers for the 5 month running. We can not afford a repeat of the past. He made the people more informed than ever about our existence. Thankfully that was 10 years ago and the sheep have forgotten. This allows us to start with a blank canvas. To paint our own masterpiece from scratch! Join next week’s workshop, warriors. A new protocol shall be devised then!”
*Holy shit. What am I listening to. Lupe Fiasco?!! It actually makes sense. I’m a big fan, and I caught some things he said that were extremely cryptic. His work adds up to this in my mind. Holy shit. I need to sleep on this.* I quickly ran back up those stairs and out of the kitchen. The restaurant was operating normally. I exited and looked for my chevy cobalt I bought from being an accountant. I saw a phone number scribbled onto my windshield with a marker. I took a picture and smudged it off.
The next day I decided to research Lupe Fiasco. With the thought of the Illuminati as an evil organization at the back of my mind, I found endless hints and messages from Lupe. He’s been trying to make us aware without attracting too much attention from the Illuminati. Somewhere along the line, he obviously failed. I then remembered the number I found. I gave it a call and the operator told me to visit a website where I would be given a code in order to continue. I visited the website and within 15 seconds my computer crashed the landline disconnected and the picture of the number on my cell got erased in front of my eyes. Static appeared on my monitor and then it went blank. I heard a voice from my speaker that was familiar to the lecturer from yesterday:
“66, huh?”
END chapter 1
|
|
[WP] Lucifer never fell from heaven. Jesus, the second favorite son of God, pushed him out.
|
To Lucifer, it appeared as though the stars were rising up all around him. They were thin streaks of white in a pitch-black night, zooming past his head and his wings up and up and up into little pinpricks of light. Dotting the heavens above like the smallest and brightest of diamonds.
Of course, Lucifer knew that reality was not so charming. The stars were not rising.
He was falling.
He was falling like a dying bird, the most beautiful of his Father's creations- so lovely that the serpents and ravens and forests themselves sang his praises- so angelic that mortal eyes could not set their gazes upon his face without combusting into great tongues of black fire-
-so *perfect* that his older brother, the Chosen Lamb himself, could not stand it.
As he twisted and turned through the air, broken wings fluttering uselessly above him, Lucifer tried to remember where he went wrong. Should he have nodded along to every idea that his Father brought up, instead of denouncing the humans as he had? Should he have talked less to the other angels, amassing less influence and becoming a smaller threat?
Or perhaps-
Perhaps he should have been kinder to Jesus, Father's favorite. The Chosen little Lamb.
*Jesus.* Lucifer closed his eyes, grit his teeth until he tasted ichor on his tongue.
*Jesus!*
Minor spats happened between them with frequency. Lucifer was carefree, lived passionately, and was undeniably charismatic to angels and humans alike. He loved life as an angel, loved his friends, and loved his power.
On the other hand, Jesus was a stickler for the law, echoed every word that escaped the Father's mouth, and was as jealous for affection as his Father. Absolutely no one could love something more than they loved Jesus and Father; to do so was a sin of the greatest magnitude.
Jesus had abhorred Lucifer's attitude towards the humans, a filthy mortal species that dared to believe themselves worthy of convening with Father. After all, they were Father's creations, and Father never created without purpose.
*Behave like an archangel, or the position will be stripped from you,* he had said. Even the look in his eyes had mimicked Father's- foreboding. Jealous.
*Disappointed.*
Lucifer screamed at the sky.
"FATHER! FATHER, I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME!"
There was no reply. Lucifer twisted to stare at Heaven as he plummeted, the wind slicing through his dark curls like knives. Millions of stars stared coldly back, and suddenly Lucifer felt as small and vulnerable as a child.
"I'M SORRY! FATHER, *PLEASE*-"
An involuntary sob choked his throat, cutting off his words with a wet gasp for air.
"-ah- ugh- JESUS! JESUS, I- JESUS, FATHER- *SAVE ME!*"
Armed with a power Father had never gifted Lucifer- the Power of the Holy Spirit- Jesus had torn through Lucifer's wings like they were crafted from paper. Lucifer had screamed then, too, crying for mercy as Jesus's host of angels stood by and watched.
Watched as Jesus grabbed Lucifer by the throat and dangled him over the Abyss.
Lucifer remembered whispering with the last of his strength, *Please. Don't let me go.*
Tears ran from his eyes up into the teeth-rattling wind. He didn't know what lurked within the Abyss, the void beyond the mortal plain. Not even Father had been down there as it was a place touched by darkness, one unfit for his glory. One unfit for any but the truly evil.
Lucifer knew that once he went there, he was never again to return to Heaven. The only home he had ever known.
A trembling breath escaped his mouth and was immediately stolen by the rippling breeze.
"Father, save me. Forgive me. I'm scared. I'm scared- Jesus- Brother, I..."
The wind quieted. The beautiful star-filled world, *Father's* world, was disappearing right before Lucifer's eyes as he descended further...
...and further...
...and further...
...into the Abyss.
He watched, face impassive, as the stars shrank and shrank and shrank up above before suddenly winking out into nothingness. A last plea for forgiveness died on his lips.
Father had made his answer.
And that answer was silence.
Something tremendous began to burn in the Morning Star's chest, something that he had never felt or heard of before. It scorched his insides as if his heart had turned to smoldering embers, burning with a passion that exceeded the heat of anger, exceeded the heat of love. He wondered if it would burst from his body and paint the empty walls of the Abyss red with its intensity, consuming this entire miserable existence with its inferno til it was nothing but ash.
An infite distance above, Jesus sensed Lucifer's wrath from his gilded throne and trembled. For a new emotion had been borne that day, one that would plague all of humanity until the last of its vile hordes drew its final breath.
*Hatred.*
|
So it went.
And God said, “Let there be light.”
And from this light, his first son was born. He was called Lucifer and he was Mercy. And he was good.
God separated the darkness and his second son was born. He was called Jesus and he was Redemption. And he was good.
So God spun the light and the dark as delicate threads and from the two he wove Everything.
From the spindle of Everything He stitched together Man. Man was not good.
The light forgave. Lucifer forgave and he was betrayed. He fell.
For there is no Redemption without Man and his sins. Redemption could not exist without Man to redeem himself after succumbing to the Dark.
Jesus rose.
|
|
[WP] Lucifer never fell from heaven. Jesus, the second favorite son of God, pushed him out.
|
To Lucifer, it appeared as though the stars were rising up all around him. They were thin streaks of white in a pitch-black night, zooming past his head and his wings up and up and up into little pinpricks of light. Dotting the heavens above like the smallest and brightest of diamonds.
Of course, Lucifer knew that reality was not so charming. The stars were not rising.
He was falling.
He was falling like a dying bird, the most beautiful of his Father's creations- so lovely that the serpents and ravens and forests themselves sang his praises- so angelic that mortal eyes could not set their gazes upon his face without combusting into great tongues of black fire-
-so *perfect* that his older brother, the Chosen Lamb himself, could not stand it.
As he twisted and turned through the air, broken wings fluttering uselessly above him, Lucifer tried to remember where he went wrong. Should he have nodded along to every idea that his Father brought up, instead of denouncing the humans as he had? Should he have talked less to the other angels, amassing less influence and becoming a smaller threat?
Or perhaps-
Perhaps he should have been kinder to Jesus, Father's favorite. The Chosen little Lamb.
*Jesus.* Lucifer closed his eyes, grit his teeth until he tasted ichor on his tongue.
*Jesus!*
Minor spats happened between them with frequency. Lucifer was carefree, lived passionately, and was undeniably charismatic to angels and humans alike. He loved life as an angel, loved his friends, and loved his power.
On the other hand, Jesus was a stickler for the law, echoed every word that escaped the Father's mouth, and was as jealous for affection as his Father. Absolutely no one could love something more than they loved Jesus and Father; to do so was a sin of the greatest magnitude.
Jesus had abhorred Lucifer's attitude towards the humans, a filthy mortal species that dared to believe themselves worthy of convening with Father. After all, they were Father's creations, and Father never created without purpose.
*Behave like an archangel, or the position will be stripped from you,* he had said. Even the look in his eyes had mimicked Father's- foreboding. Jealous.
*Disappointed.*
Lucifer screamed at the sky.
"FATHER! FATHER, I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME!"
There was no reply. Lucifer twisted to stare at Heaven as he plummeted, the wind slicing through his dark curls like knives. Millions of stars stared coldly back, and suddenly Lucifer felt as small and vulnerable as a child.
"I'M SORRY! FATHER, *PLEASE*-"
An involuntary sob choked his throat, cutting off his words with a wet gasp for air.
"-ah- ugh- JESUS! JESUS, I- JESUS, FATHER- *SAVE ME!*"
Armed with a power Father had never gifted Lucifer- the Power of the Holy Spirit- Jesus had torn through Lucifer's wings like they were crafted from paper. Lucifer had screamed then, too, crying for mercy as Jesus's host of angels stood by and watched.
Watched as Jesus grabbed Lucifer by the throat and dangled him over the Abyss.
Lucifer remembered whispering with the last of his strength, *Please. Don't let me go.*
Tears ran from his eyes up into the teeth-rattling wind. He didn't know what lurked within the Abyss, the void beyond the mortal plain. Not even Father had been down there as it was a place touched by darkness, one unfit for his glory. One unfit for any but the truly evil.
Lucifer knew that once he went there, he was never again to return to Heaven. The only home he had ever known.
A trembling breath escaped his mouth and was immediately stolen by the rippling breeze.
"Father, save me. Forgive me. I'm scared. I'm scared- Jesus- Brother, I..."
The wind quieted. The beautiful star-filled world, *Father's* world, was disappearing right before Lucifer's eyes as he descended further...
...and further...
...and further...
...into the Abyss.
He watched, face impassive, as the stars shrank and shrank and shrank up above before suddenly winking out into nothingness. A last plea for forgiveness died on his lips.
Father had made his answer.
And that answer was silence.
Something tremendous began to burn in the Morning Star's chest, something that he had never felt or heard of before. It scorched his insides as if his heart had turned to smoldering embers, burning with a passion that exceeded the heat of anger, exceeded the heat of love. He wondered if it would burst from his body and paint the empty walls of the Abyss red with its intensity, consuming this entire miserable existence with its inferno til it was nothing but ash.
An infite distance above, Jesus sensed Lucifer's wrath from his gilded throne and trembled. For a new emotion had been borne that day, one that would plague all of humanity until the last of its vile hordes drew its final breath.
*Hatred.*
|
I never had a good relationship with my brother. He always seemed envious. When Father praised me he stood there, furious. When an angel asked for my help he would always say that he's more suitable.
After a while things started getting odd. My notes would be misplaced, my clothes would be damaged. Strange rumors about me started circulating.
I had slowly become isolated in heaven. From the humble and dilligent angel Lucifer I became known as a slothful and irritable man who never did anything for anyone else, worse still they believed I even said that I'm greater than Father.
I knew Jesus was responsible, I knew he would stop at nothing to have me cast out. I knew he would eventually get the support he needed.
I decided that my only option was to leave, if I left by myself that might give at least some credibility to me. I would go down, make my own version of heaven. I would punish the wicked of Earth and build a sanctuary for unbelievers who lived well. Thus I would gain the trust of humans and with their belief in me I could return with honor.
It's the only way.
|
|
[WP] "You can have one last phonecall before I kill you", said the masked person who broke into your house. After you start the call, you can hear a phone ring in their pocket.
|
I stared blankly at the phone in my hand, hoping desperately that I'd clicked on the wrong contact or something. It was her contact, for sure, but that meant...
"Ruby...?" She twitched, even as I recognised the shape of the body that fear had kept me from seeing before.
"No. No no no," she mumbled, eyes darkened with anger and confusion.
"Ruby, what...?" I began, heart aching.
"No!" she cut me off, jabbing her gun in my direction. "You weren't supposed to call me! Why did you call me??"
"I don't... what do you mean I wasn't supposed to call you?" I asked, choking on dread and heartbreak.
"You weren't supposed to call me," she repeated deliberately. "You were supposed to call *him*!"
"Him? Him who? I don't understand; Ruby, what's going on?"
"Shut up! Just shut up!" she exploded, and began pacing, pressing the barrel of the gun sidelong against her temple.
"Ruby... Ruby, it's me; it's Ella... Please, j-"
"I told you to shut up!" she snapped, jabbing the gun at me again.
"Okay, okay," I complied, hastily raising my hands. She glared at my phone.
"You were supposed to call him," she repeated. "Why the hell didn't you?"
"Him who?" I asked again. "I don't know who you mean!"
"Your boss! The head honcho! That bastard you smuggle shit for!"
"...How do you know about that?" I demanded quietly, less afraid now and more stunned.
"Not important! Why didn't you call him??" She was getting dangerously close to that trigger, and I knew I had to tell the truth or risk my brains splattering against the wall.
"Because... I don't work for him anymore," I answered softly.
"Bullshit!"
"I don't. And even if I did, he'd never be my last call before I die."
"Why not??"
"Because I'd rather spend my last breaths telling the person I love how I feel."
That set her back. I could see it. She stared at me as blankly as I'd stared at my phone. Then her gaze flicked to that phone and her hand went automatically to her pocket as she made the connection.
"What?" she breathed, stunned.
"Figured it out yet, dummy?" I asked, relaxing as the gun slowly lowered. Taking a cautious step forward, I reached out and ever so carefully took the gun from her hand to set it aside.
"You...?" Her eyes were baffled as I tugged up the bottom of her mask and leaned in to touch a light kiss to her lips.
"Yeah... I love you, Ruby," I said, and kissed her properly.
|
“Wait, Dave?”
“Uhhhhh no this is Ryan”.
“Ohhhh opps I misclicked, meant to call Dave”.
“Wait, why would you want to call Dave instead of me?”
“Well you know... we kinda haven’t hung out recently I guess and I dunno...”
“I was trying to hang out but you were always busy!”
“You know, collage is busy dude!”
“Cmon man we were friends since 5th grade! I was just, feelin really hurt. You’re being a bad friend bro”.
“Oh man I’m sorry bro”.
“It’s okay bro I love you”.
“omg”.
“Bro”.
“Bro”.
|
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