Split (1)

train · 353k rows

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	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I haven't taken the big risk yet, still content to let talent fade.	He was on my Bike But Yet, I just kept walking I should have beat him Context: Saw some guy once on a bike coming in my direction on this path in the forest/conservation area near my house, I stepped to the side so he would pass and noticed as he did it was my bike that was stolen there about a month and a half ago. I could have just smashed him and quickly grabbed it or done something more reasonable I guess , but in the moment I just watched him ride past, and didn't say I word. Think about it all the time, why didn't I just fucking kick him off balance or something.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I don't like my boss, the man is a control-freak. Message sent to boss.	He was on my Bike But Yet, I just kept walking I should have beat him Context: Saw some guy once on a bike coming in my direction on this path in the forest/conservation area near my house, I stepped to the side so he would pass and noticed as he did it was my bike that was stolen there about a month and a half ago. I could have just smashed him and quickly grabbed it or done something more reasonable I guess , but in the moment I just watched him ride past, and didn't say I word. Think about it all the time, why didn't I just fucking kick him off balance or something.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I'm sick of updates My computer is fine with what it has right now.	He was on my Bike But Yet, I just kept walking I should have beat him Context: Saw some guy once on a bike coming in my direction on this path in the forest/conservation area near my house, I stepped to the side so he would pass and noticed as he did it was my bike that was stolen there about a month and a half ago. I could have just smashed him and quickly grabbed it or done something more reasonable I guess , but in the moment I just watched him ride past, and didn't say I word. Think about it all the time, why didn't I just fucking kick him off balance or something.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I look back at life Wondering how it would be To be part of it	He was on my Bike But Yet, I just kept walking I should have beat him Context: Saw some guy once on a bike coming in my direction on this path in the forest/conservation area near my house, I stepped to the side so he would pass and noticed as he did it was my bike that was stolen there about a month and a half ago. I could have just smashed him and quickly grabbed it or done something more reasonable I guess , but in the moment I just watched him ride past, and didn't say I word. Think about it all the time, why didn't I just fucking kick him off balance or something.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	My life is a lie How can I possibly write? me illiterate	Never should have gone, always knew how it would end. Guilt, and loneliness.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	He was very sick. So was I, so I stay'd home Never said goodbye	Never should have gone, always knew how it would end. Guilt, and loneliness.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	The first drink was bliss I knew the hand I was dealt I became my mom	Never should have gone, always knew how it would end. Guilt, and loneliness.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	the smudged mascara. for once, you were unbalanced yet I said nothing.	Never should have gone, always knew how it would end. Guilt, and loneliness.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I sent her away Because of my foolish pride We won't meet again.	Never should have gone, always knew how it would end. Guilt, and loneliness.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	She was my best friend I trusted her with secrets Now everyone knows	Never should have gone, always knew how it would end. Guilt, and loneliness.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I did not kill him. I only slept with him and yet I killed myself.	Never should have gone, always knew how it would end. Guilt, and loneliness.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	Desire for beauty Disregard for moral bounds Death of a future	Never should have gone, always knew how it would end. Guilt, and loneliness.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I haven't taken the big risk yet, still content to let talent fade.	Never should have gone, always knew how it would end. Guilt, and loneliness.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I don't like my boss, the man is a control-freak. Message sent to boss.	Never should have gone, always knew how it would end. Guilt, and loneliness.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I'm sick of updates My computer is fine with what it has right now.	Never should have gone, always knew how it would end. Guilt, and loneliness.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I look back at life Wondering how it would be To be part of it	Never should have gone, always knew how it would end. Guilt, and loneliness.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	My life is a lie How can I possibly write? me illiterate	I need to learn to sleep through the night and not to sleep straight through the day.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	He was very sick. So was I, so I stay'd home Never said goodbye	I need to learn to sleep through the night and not to sleep straight through the day.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	The first drink was bliss I knew the hand I was dealt I became my mom	I need to learn to sleep through the night and not to sleep straight through the day.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I sent her away Because of my foolish pride We won't meet again.	I need to learn to sleep through the night and not to sleep straight through the day.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	She was my best friend I trusted her with secrets Now everyone knows	I need to learn to sleep through the night and not to sleep straight through the day.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	Desire for beauty Disregard for moral bounds Death of a future	I need to learn to sleep through the night and not to sleep straight through the day.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I haven't taken the big risk yet, still content to let talent fade.	I need to learn to sleep through the night and not to sleep straight through the day.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I look back at life Wondering how it would be To be part of it	I need to learn to sleep through the night and not to sleep straight through the day.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	My life is a lie How can I possibly write? me illiterate	Don't know what to think Only pain in my stomach Now my baby's gone
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	He was very sick. So was I, so I stay'd home Never said goodbye	Don't know what to think Only pain in my stomach Now my baby's gone
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	The first drink was bliss I knew the hand I was dealt I became my mom	Don't know what to think Only pain in my stomach Now my baby's gone
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I sent her away Because of my foolish pride We won't meet again.	Don't know what to think Only pain in my stomach Now my baby's gone
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	She was my best friend I trusted her with secrets Now everyone knows	Don't know what to think Only pain in my stomach Now my baby's gone
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	Desire for beauty Disregard for moral bounds Death of a future	Don't know what to think Only pain in my stomach Now my baby's gone
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I haven't taken the big risk yet, still content to let talent fade.	Don't know what to think Only pain in my stomach Now my baby's gone
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	My life is a lie How can I possibly write? me illiterate	I cannot forget, The days spent stood at your side, Now you're gone, i'm lost.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	He was very sick. So was I, so I stay'd home Never said goodbye	I cannot forget, The days spent stood at your side, Now you're gone, i'm lost.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	The first drink was bliss I knew the hand I was dealt I became my mom	I cannot forget, The days spent stood at your side, Now you're gone, i'm lost.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I sent her away Because of my foolish pride We won't meet again.	I cannot forget, The days spent stood at your side, Now you're gone, i'm lost.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	She was my best friend I trusted her with secrets Now everyone knows	I cannot forget, The days spent stood at your side, Now you're gone, i'm lost.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	Desire for beauty Disregard for moral bounds Death of a future	I cannot forget, The days spent stood at your side, Now you're gone, i'm lost.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I haven't taken the big risk yet, still content to let talent fade.	I cannot forget, The days spent stood at your side, Now you're gone, i'm lost.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I sent her away Because of my foolish pride We won't meet again.	The first drink was bliss I knew the hand I was dealt I became my mom
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	Desire for beauty Disregard for moral bounds Death of a future	The first drink was bliss I knew the hand I was dealt I became my mom
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I haven't taken the big risk yet, still content to let talent fade.	The first drink was bliss I knew the hand I was dealt I became my mom
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	She was my best friend I trusted her with secrets Now everyone knows	the smudged mascara. for once, you were unbalanced yet I said nothing.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I did not kill him. I only slept with him and yet I killed myself.	the smudged mascara. for once, you were unbalanced yet I said nothing.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	Desire for beauty Disregard for moral bounds Death of a future	the smudged mascara. for once, you were unbalanced yet I said nothing.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I haven't taken the big risk yet, still content to let talent fade.	the smudged mascara. for once, you were unbalanced yet I said nothing.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I'm sick of updates My computer is fine with what it has right now.	the smudged mascara. for once, you were unbalanced yet I said nothing.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I look back at life Wondering how it would be To be part of it	the smudged mascara. for once, you were unbalanced yet I said nothing.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	Desire for beauty Disregard for moral bounds Death of a future	I sent her away Because of my foolish pride We won't meet again.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	Desire for beauty Disregard for moral bounds Death of a future	She was my best friend I trusted her with secrets Now everyone knows
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I haven't taken the big risk yet, still content to let talent fade.	She was my best friend I trusted her with secrets Now everyone knows
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I haven't taken the big risk yet, still content to let talent fade.	I did not kill him. I only slept with him and yet I killed myself.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I'm sick of updates My computer is fine with what it has right now.	I did not kill him. I only slept with him and yet I killed myself.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I look back at life Wondering how it would be To be part of it	I did not kill him. I only slept with him and yet I killed myself.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I look back at life Wondering how it would be To be part of it	I don't like my boss, the man is a control-freak. Message sent to boss.
	[WP] Write a Haiku of your biggest regret	I look back at life Wondering how it would be To be part of it	I'm sick of updates My computer is fine with what it has right now.
	[WP] A blind man suddenly/inexplicably regains his vision, describe the first thing he sees	The first time I went skydiving the press was present. Apparently I was being heralded as some sort of inspiration. It's bullshit, but that doesn't stand in the way of a good story, right? It was a tandem jump with the instructor treating me as if I were made of some sort of porcelain or a child to be placated. I half expected him to offer me a sucker when we finished. It was largely anti-climactic. I really did nothing but fall, the wind roaring in my ears as I plummeted towards an earth I could not see. The instructor yelled something that was snatched away in the gale, and the chute opened with a crack that jarred me to the bone. The rest was actually boring until we landed. Of course, the press was there again, asking me how it felt. I played along because really what else could I do? Then they left and I stood alone for a time with my silence. None of them understand. To them I'm this broken thing that needs to be coddled and led around like a favorite pet on a leash. Not a man. Never a man. I went back the next day and insisted that I be allowed to jump on my own. They resisted, but eventually they gave way. I had to sign a waver, of course. They didn't want to be the ones responsible for allowing the blind hero to die. We got me one of those helmets with a microphone and headset, and an altimeter that would tell me when to pull the cord. It was glorious. The wind still whipped around me, but this time I was free of the tether which had strapped me like an infant to the instructor. It was freedom, complete and total. I pulled the cord and rode the wind back down, the instructions of those with me ensuring that I landed in the clear. My seventh jump was as routine as routine gets. I packed my chute, checking and double-checking all buckles and straps, joking with the other jumpers about this and that. Routine. My breath caught as I stood in the door, as it always does. I heard the cry of "GO!" and fell into oblivion. At 3,500 feet my altimeter beeped and I just kept falling. Earlier I had written a long message to my family, explaining what I had planned. To die free, unfettered by handicap and on my terms. I was sorry, but this was my choice. At 2,000 feet the sounds of screaming in my headset intensified, the other jumpers thinking that somehow this was a mistake. I felt bad that they would have to witness this. I quite liked many of them. I took off my helmet and let it go. At 1,000 feet my altimeter chirped a warning and I began to brace myself for the impact. And then it happened. A flash of light. A searing pain that went from my eyes all the way to my toes, and I could see! The world stretched out before me, the greens achingly bright, the blue of a lake reflected rainbows of color that I had not been able to see since I had the accident twenty years before. The why never entered my mind, I simply drank it all in; the beauty of it threatened to overwhelm me. And then the absurdity hit me. Here, when it was too late to relent, my sight had returned. At the very end of my life, that which I'd thought I was missing for so long had been given back to me. Was it a gift in my last moments? Was it God's punishment for my suicide? I couldn't tell you. But I was laughing hard I was crying, my vision blurred so much I didn't even see when I hit the ground.	James listened as Hannah cleaned the mess he had made. “Honey I know you are self-sufficient and I know you meant well, but don’t you think spaghetti was a bit ambitious?” He had wanted so badly to surprise her when she got home from work with her favorite meal. Last week he purchased an audio cookbook, and had been listening to the recipe for spaghetti every day since. He had gone through the motions dozens of times in his head. He had choreographed every motion and was finally confident in his plan. A kind older woman at the market had helped him pick the freshest ingredients this morning, and he could hardly contain his excitement on the bus ride home. Everything had gone exactly as planned. The pot is in the bottom drawer, three steps from the sink. Four seconds of running water is enough to cook noodles for two. The knife was sharp, but he wasn't afraid. He had been practicing all week. The cuts had been hard to explain at first, but after a few days he was able to mince, slice, and chop without damage to his fingers. Their small one bedroom apartment had begun to fill with the smells of basil and oregano. His sauce was wonderful. The water was boiling and the noodles had begun to cook. He was actually going to pull this off in time! He exchanged to audio book for some music, and as Norah Jones sang “Come Away with Me” he began to fill the two plates with large helpings of his accomplishment. Two steps from the stove to the edge of the counter. As he found the corner with the back of his right hand which was gripping a plate of spaghetti, he turned 45 degrees to his right. Seven steps to the table and he would be home free. The stove was turned off. The pots, pans, spoons, and knives were in the dishwasher. The music was on and the food smelled delicious. This was going to be the best anniversary that he and Hannah had spent together since meeting three years ago. Five more steps to go. James was thinking about what Hannah would say when she saw what he had accomplished. Suddenly something caught his foot. Four steps from the table their dog Mavis must have left her toy. As James’ right foot came down a sad, empty squeak came from the stuffed rabbit beneath him. He pitched forward and felt one plate leave his hand as he braced for impact. The second felt lighter, and he knew the spaghetti had slipped from it onto the floor. He crumpled to the ground defeated. He had not made extra, he had perfectly calculated the amount of every ingredient added. Besides, Hannah would be home in less than five minutes. There was no way that he could have cleaned what must have been a monumental mess in that amount of time. His heart was broken, and his pride was shattered. When she got home, her patience had been remarkable. She understood what he had been trying to do. Even after a long day at work, she made no complaints about arriving home to tomato sauce on the walls and floor. She set her bag down on the counter, kissed his forehead and began to clean up his failure. He loved her. He loved her as he sat in his misery on the floor. His face followed her voice as she moved around the room humming softly to the music that was still playing. Suddenly, vague shapes began to form before his eyes. He gasped and pushed himself against the wall as the light began to pour into his consciousness. Hannah, sensing that something was wrong, ran to James and crouched down in front of him. “Honey what is it?! Are you OK?” James couldn't speak. As the shapes began to take form, he was able to make sense of the light that was bombarding his senses. His once useless eyes focused on the emerald green of hers. They were a world all their own. They danced in the air as her face took form before him. She ran her hands through his hair as she tried to tell him not to worry about the mess. Then a puzzled look came over her. She scanned his face and as his eyes followed hers for the first time, she knew. He could not look away from her eyes. He had an entire world to see for the first time, but none of it mattered now. He had felt the warmth of her skin against his, he knew her touch. He had felt the softness of her lips against his, he knew her kiss. He had felt her hair against his face in the night, he knew her presence. But until now he had not known the depth of her beauty. He had not been able to see the innocence and purity of her compassion for him. He could not look away for fear that it would not last. If he had only one moment of sight, if God had decided to give him only a taste of beauty, he was confident that there was a lifetime’s worth of it in her eyes.
	[WP] A blind man suddenly/inexplicably regains his vision, describe the first thing he sees	The first time I went skydiving the press was present. Apparently I was being heralded as some sort of inspiration. It's bullshit, but that doesn't stand in the way of a good story, right? It was a tandem jump with the instructor treating me as if I were made of some sort of porcelain or a child to be placated. I half expected him to offer me a sucker when we finished. It was largely anti-climactic. I really did nothing but fall, the wind roaring in my ears as I plummeted towards an earth I could not see. The instructor yelled something that was snatched away in the gale, and the chute opened with a crack that jarred me to the bone. The rest was actually boring until we landed. Of course, the press was there again, asking me how it felt. I played along because really what else could I do? Then they left and I stood alone for a time with my silence. None of them understand. To them I'm this broken thing that needs to be coddled and led around like a favorite pet on a leash. Not a man. Never a man. I went back the next day and insisted that I be allowed to jump on my own. They resisted, but eventually they gave way. I had to sign a waver, of course. They didn't want to be the ones responsible for allowing the blind hero to die. We got me one of those helmets with a microphone and headset, and an altimeter that would tell me when to pull the cord. It was glorious. The wind still whipped around me, but this time I was free of the tether which had strapped me like an infant to the instructor. It was freedom, complete and total. I pulled the cord and rode the wind back down, the instructions of those with me ensuring that I landed in the clear. My seventh jump was as routine as routine gets. I packed my chute, checking and double-checking all buckles and straps, joking with the other jumpers about this and that. Routine. My breath caught as I stood in the door, as it always does. I heard the cry of "GO!" and fell into oblivion. At 3,500 feet my altimeter beeped and I just kept falling. Earlier I had written a long message to my family, explaining what I had planned. To die free, unfettered by handicap and on my terms. I was sorry, but this was my choice. At 2,000 feet the sounds of screaming in my headset intensified, the other jumpers thinking that somehow this was a mistake. I felt bad that they would have to witness this. I quite liked many of them. I took off my helmet and let it go. At 1,000 feet my altimeter chirped a warning and I began to brace myself for the impact. And then it happened. A flash of light. A searing pain that went from my eyes all the way to my toes, and I could see! The world stretched out before me, the greens achingly bright, the blue of a lake reflected rainbows of color that I had not been able to see since I had the accident twenty years before. The why never entered my mind, I simply drank it all in; the beauty of it threatened to overwhelm me. And then the absurdity hit me. Here, when it was too late to relent, my sight had returned. At the very end of my life, that which I'd thought I was missing for so long had been given back to me. Was it a gift in my last moments? Was it God's punishment for my suicide? I couldn't tell you. But I was laughing hard I was crying, my vision blurred so much I didn't even see when I hit the ground.	Black. He had heard it described, but before now had only imagined, could only imagine, the color. He had associated black with the emptiness he had seen his entire life, that was his black. But now there was this one. It was a cold, confusing black. It seemed to consist of different shades rather than a solid bar. Pressing against his nose, which currently stung and felt very wet, the new black was not friendly. It wasn't the joyous explosion of color he had imagined throughout his life. This rough, out-of-focus color was depressing. He realized he could lift his head. It pained him to do so, and his neck protested in searing flashes to the motion. But he had to move, he had to get away from the black. His head lifted slowly, eyes stuck on the black before him that took on texture as he separated himself from it. Daylight forced itself into his eyes, an agonizing brightness that momentarily made him wish he was blind again. He slammed his eyes shut, and slowly re-opened them a crack. He saw his hands before him, bathed in a glistening red. He knew it was his blood. He racked his brain, the foggy mess of it, and tried to recall what he had been doing seconds before. Between the effort it took to remember anything and the sight of his own hands, the strangers that he had only felt, his thoughts were a jumbled mess. He stared back down at the black, which he now saw was wet with his blood, and focused on the largest thought he had. He could see. As noises faded into his consciousness, he began to realize he was surrounded by people. Eager to view them, he snapped his head up, daring the light to rob him of his vision again. The silhouettes danced around him, begging him to remain still. He could only make out pieces of what was said to him, as he was more concerned with getting his first view of another person. "Stay still...." "The paramedics will...." Suddenly he remembered a car horn that had swallowed him up. He remembered bracing for the after life. The last thought was, "I should have worn a helmet." Dizzy, his head drooped back towards the black. He saw his hands there again, and the last thought he had before the familiar nothing engulfed him and he faded back into unconsciousness was how beautiful they'd be once cleansed of his blood.
	[WP] A blind man suddenly/inexplicably regains his vision, describe the first thing he sees	It was bright. I had heard the word “bright” a lot in my life. Before, it was a feeling. “Bright”, to me, was a too-big bite of a fat marshmallow warmed over a fire. I had always felt light, felt the warmth from the sun or the winds or even hot little light bulbs. But when something was bright, my cheeks tingled like I was trying to swallow the feeling. This was different. I could see the dark lines of my eyelids as they squinted against it, the little dark wisps of... are those eyelashes? I lifted my hand to check and felt my heart in my throat when I saw my hand in front of my face. I wiggled my fingers and made a fist. I watched my skin stretch and move over my joints and turned my wrist over to look at the faint blue vein that made a path from my palm to my elbow. When I dropped my arm, I saw her. A mane of dark hair around her perfectly shaped face. She looked exactly as my hands had imagined her. Every little line was perfectly in place. She smiled when she slept. I had touched that smile a thousand times but now, here, I could see it. I could see my wife. I didn't wake her at first. I stared at her for a while. I realized that our sheets were light, but our walls were dark. She had told me the name of the color once, was it royal purple? I saw that the brightness was coming from the window, behind curtains that were a light color and looked soft to the touch. It took a long time for my to realize I had been crying. I had been crying the whole time I took her in, the whole time I guessed the names of the colors our room was made up of. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a delicate hand come from behind me and wipe gently at the wetness on my face. “Don't cry, daddy.” The little voice whispered to me. “It's okay. Don't cry.” I rolled over in my blankets and saw her for the first time. My little buttercup. She had messy dark hair just like her mom and eyes that were too smart for someone so small. Her little nose was wrinkled in confusion and she shifted from tiny foot to tiny foot in worry. Before I could say anything, her little mouth opened into a perfect O. “YOU'RE LOOKING AT ME!!!” The tears came again and I nodded. “Yeah, buttercup. I'm looking at you.”	There's something calming about the ocean, the sound of the waves crashing down on the rocks, the steady roar of their power as they throw themselves forward over and over until they die out against the earth. He's never seen the ocean, but he lived near one as a boy, and among the earliest memories he can recall are that of being cradled in his father's arms, taken out at sunrise to hear it. His father would whisper in his ear, telling him what he saw, describing the majesty of those colours - colours that he had never seen, could only struggle to imagine - the way they wove together, twisting into intricate patterns. He used to dream about the ocean, his mind painting pictures of the colour of the sunrise above it that he could never quite see, could never properly grasp. They'd leave him breathless, hanging onto the sheer thought that he might have been able to see something so beautiful, even if only in his dreams. Still, even after he had grown up, grown old, and his parents had passed away, leaving him that old house that he'd left so long ago, there was something familiar about the sound of the ocean. He could taste it, the lingering awareness of water in the back of his throat, water that tastes like burning sunlight, like a hot summer's day. He knows how far he can walk until he reaches the end of the cliff, but he feels around with his cane anyway, not quite trusting his childish memories of the steps of someone other than himself. When he reaches it, he can almost hear his father's voice again, calling his name, laughing with him, telling him that he doesn't need to see the world to understand how beautiful it is. Telling him that the most important thing he'll ever experience is how to see the world through the eyes of someone else, that even people with their sight can't always manage to do that. He'd always believed him, that old man, even if it had hurt, even if it had ached so deep inside his chest that it felt like someone had driven a hundred tiny shards of glass into his abdomen, burning them in place there to never be removed. He doesn't have to see the ocean to imagine it, doesn't have to be able to see the way the sun lights the world one section of earth at a time, to be able to feel it, imagine it underneath his skin. When he finally reaches the end, he carefully sits down, feeling the hard earth underneath his hands, leaving his cane just in reach at his side for when he wants to get up. His feet and legs dangle off the edge, something he always used to do when his parents weren't around to stop him, to shout at him that he had to be careful or he'd fall down to his death. They're not here now, not here to describe to him what it looks like on a crisp summer's morning, not here to pull him back against their chest, arms wrapped around his body as they sing to him. As he closes his eyes, he lets those memories drift over him, lets the sound of his mother's angelic voice slip over his awareness, pretending that if he opens them, he'll be able to see her face, see the bright blue sky, and the green grass below his hands. "Don't stop singing," he mumbles entirely to himself, his fingers clenching in the dirt, pulling up large clumps of grass that he lifts into the air and lets drop over his head, raining down on his face. "It's orange," he says, turning his head, "orange with dips of red. Orange is the colour of citrus, pink is the colour of roses, the way they smell fresh picked from the garden. You can see it, can't you, George? You can see the way the colours blend together, the way the orange weaves through a thread of deep red?" When he opens his eyes, no longer protecting himself from the shower of dirt, he can almost see it. It's bright, making his eyes sting with the tears he hasn't yet shed, and all that's around him seems to shudder with it, making him blink several times, a faint, disbelieving smile on his lips. "Look at the orange," he says, lifting a hand to point at it in the sky, to trace it with his fingertips. He's crying now, tears swelling in his eyes, hot as they slide down his cheeks. "Look at the red, George," a voice that sounds like his mother whispers in his ear, and he does. He looks at it, as the water endlessly crashes down below him, nearly drawing a sob from his throat. "This must be what heaven is," he whispers, awestruck. Perhaps he overshot, didn't realise what he was doing until he'd already taken two too many steps forward. Perhaps he didn't feel it as he crashed down like those waves on the rocks, going up to heaven to meet with his parents again, after so very long of being apart. Tears slide faster down his face, and he sobs open a smile, unable to do anything but hold tightly onto way that the sun burns into his eyes, the way the orange comes in so many different shades, the way the red dips and dives into it, like two little girls in their pretty Sunday dresses, with coloured ribbons held high above their heads as they dance in the sky above him, even if that's the only thing he can bear to imagine. It's so very beautiful.
	[WP] A blind man suddenly/inexplicably regains his vision, describe the first thing he sees	The first time I went skydiving the press was present. Apparently I was being heralded as some sort of inspiration. It's bullshit, but that doesn't stand in the way of a good story, right? It was a tandem jump with the instructor treating me as if I were made of some sort of porcelain or a child to be placated. I half expected him to offer me a sucker when we finished. It was largely anti-climactic. I really did nothing but fall, the wind roaring in my ears as I plummeted towards an earth I could not see. The instructor yelled something that was snatched away in the gale, and the chute opened with a crack that jarred me to the bone. The rest was actually boring until we landed. Of course, the press was there again, asking me how it felt. I played along because really what else could I do? Then they left and I stood alone for a time with my silence. None of them understand. To them I'm this broken thing that needs to be coddled and led around like a favorite pet on a leash. Not a man. Never a man. I went back the next day and insisted that I be allowed to jump on my own. They resisted, but eventually they gave way. I had to sign a waver, of course. They didn't want to be the ones responsible for allowing the blind hero to die. We got me one of those helmets with a microphone and headset, and an altimeter that would tell me when to pull the cord. It was glorious. The wind still whipped around me, but this time I was free of the tether which had strapped me like an infant to the instructor. It was freedom, complete and total. I pulled the cord and rode the wind back down, the instructions of those with me ensuring that I landed in the clear. My seventh jump was as routine as routine gets. I packed my chute, checking and double-checking all buckles and straps, joking with the other jumpers about this and that. Routine. My breath caught as I stood in the door, as it always does. I heard the cry of "GO!" and fell into oblivion. At 3,500 feet my altimeter beeped and I just kept falling. Earlier I had written a long message to my family, explaining what I had planned. To die free, unfettered by handicap and on my terms. I was sorry, but this was my choice. At 2,000 feet the sounds of screaming in my headset intensified, the other jumpers thinking that somehow this was a mistake. I felt bad that they would have to witness this. I quite liked many of them. I took off my helmet and let it go. At 1,000 feet my altimeter chirped a warning and I began to brace myself for the impact. And then it happened. A flash of light. A searing pain that went from my eyes all the way to my toes, and I could see! The world stretched out before me, the greens achingly bright, the blue of a lake reflected rainbows of color that I had not been able to see since I had the accident twenty years before. The why never entered my mind, I simply drank it all in; the beauty of it threatened to overwhelm me. And then the absurdity hit me. Here, when it was too late to relent, my sight had returned. At the very end of my life, that which I'd thought I was missing for so long had been given back to me. Was it a gift in my last moments? Was it God's punishment for my suicide? I couldn't tell you. But I was laughing hard I was crying, my vision blurred so much I didn't even see when I hit the ground.	There's something calming about the ocean, the sound of the waves crashing down on the rocks, the steady roar of their power as they throw themselves forward over and over until they die out against the earth. He's never seen the ocean, but he lived near one as a boy, and among the earliest memories he can recall are that of being cradled in his father's arms, taken out at sunrise to hear it. His father would whisper in his ear, telling him what he saw, describing the majesty of those colours - colours that he had never seen, could only struggle to imagine - the way they wove together, twisting into intricate patterns. He used to dream about the ocean, his mind painting pictures of the colour of the sunrise above it that he could never quite see, could never properly grasp. They'd leave him breathless, hanging onto the sheer thought that he might have been able to see something so beautiful, even if only in his dreams. Still, even after he had grown up, grown old, and his parents had passed away, leaving him that old house that he'd left so long ago, there was something familiar about the sound of the ocean. He could taste it, the lingering awareness of water in the back of his throat, water that tastes like burning sunlight, like a hot summer's day. He knows how far he can walk until he reaches the end of the cliff, but he feels around with his cane anyway, not quite trusting his childish memories of the steps of someone other than himself. When he reaches it, he can almost hear his father's voice again, calling his name, laughing with him, telling him that he doesn't need to see the world to understand how beautiful it is. Telling him that the most important thing he'll ever experience is how to see the world through the eyes of someone else, that even people with their sight can't always manage to do that. He'd always believed him, that old man, even if it had hurt, even if it had ached so deep inside his chest that it felt like someone had driven a hundred tiny shards of glass into his abdomen, burning them in place there to never be removed. He doesn't have to see the ocean to imagine it, doesn't have to be able to see the way the sun lights the world one section of earth at a time, to be able to feel it, imagine it underneath his skin. When he finally reaches the end, he carefully sits down, feeling the hard earth underneath his hands, leaving his cane just in reach at his side for when he wants to get up. His feet and legs dangle off the edge, something he always used to do when his parents weren't around to stop him, to shout at him that he had to be careful or he'd fall down to his death. They're not here now, not here to describe to him what it looks like on a crisp summer's morning, not here to pull him back against their chest, arms wrapped around his body as they sing to him. As he closes his eyes, he lets those memories drift over him, lets the sound of his mother's angelic voice slip over his awareness, pretending that if he opens them, he'll be able to see her face, see the bright blue sky, and the green grass below his hands. "Don't stop singing," he mumbles entirely to himself, his fingers clenching in the dirt, pulling up large clumps of grass that he lifts into the air and lets drop over his head, raining down on his face. "It's orange," he says, turning his head, "orange with dips of red. Orange is the colour of citrus, pink is the colour of roses, the way they smell fresh picked from the garden. You can see it, can't you, George? You can see the way the colours blend together, the way the orange weaves through a thread of deep red?" When he opens his eyes, no longer protecting himself from the shower of dirt, he can almost see it. It's bright, making his eyes sting with the tears he hasn't yet shed, and all that's around him seems to shudder with it, making him blink several times, a faint, disbelieving smile on his lips. "Look at the orange," he says, lifting a hand to point at it in the sky, to trace it with his fingertips. He's crying now, tears swelling in his eyes, hot as they slide down his cheeks. "Look at the red, George," a voice that sounds like his mother whispers in his ear, and he does. He looks at it, as the water endlessly crashes down below him, nearly drawing a sob from his throat. "This must be what heaven is," he whispers, awestruck. Perhaps he overshot, didn't realise what he was doing until he'd already taken two too many steps forward. Perhaps he didn't feel it as he crashed down like those waves on the rocks, going up to heaven to meet with his parents again, after so very long of being apart. Tears slide faster down his face, and he sobs open a smile, unable to do anything but hold tightly onto way that the sun burns into his eyes, the way the orange comes in so many different shades, the way the red dips and dives into it, like two little girls in their pretty Sunday dresses, with coloured ribbons held high above their heads as they dance in the sky above him, even if that's the only thing he can bear to imagine. It's so very beautiful.
	[WP] A blind man suddenly/inexplicably regains his vision, describe the first thing he sees	The first time I went skydiving the press was present. Apparently I was being heralded as some sort of inspiration. It's bullshit, but that doesn't stand in the way of a good story, right? It was a tandem jump with the instructor treating me as if I were made of some sort of porcelain or a child to be placated. I half expected him to offer me a sucker when we finished. It was largely anti-climactic. I really did nothing but fall, the wind roaring in my ears as I plummeted towards an earth I could not see. The instructor yelled something that was snatched away in the gale, and the chute opened with a crack that jarred me to the bone. The rest was actually boring until we landed. Of course, the press was there again, asking me how it felt. I played along because really what else could I do? Then they left and I stood alone for a time with my silence. None of them understand. To them I'm this broken thing that needs to be coddled and led around like a favorite pet on a leash. Not a man. Never a man. I went back the next day and insisted that I be allowed to jump on my own. They resisted, but eventually they gave way. I had to sign a waver, of course. They didn't want to be the ones responsible for allowing the blind hero to die. We got me one of those helmets with a microphone and headset, and an altimeter that would tell me when to pull the cord. It was glorious. The wind still whipped around me, but this time I was free of the tether which had strapped me like an infant to the instructor. It was freedom, complete and total. I pulled the cord and rode the wind back down, the instructions of those with me ensuring that I landed in the clear. My seventh jump was as routine as routine gets. I packed my chute, checking and double-checking all buckles and straps, joking with the other jumpers about this and that. Routine. My breath caught as I stood in the door, as it always does. I heard the cry of "GO!" and fell into oblivion. At 3,500 feet my altimeter beeped and I just kept falling. Earlier I had written a long message to my family, explaining what I had planned. To die free, unfettered by handicap and on my terms. I was sorry, but this was my choice. At 2,000 feet the sounds of screaming in my headset intensified, the other jumpers thinking that somehow this was a mistake. I felt bad that they would have to witness this. I quite liked many of them. I took off my helmet and let it go. At 1,000 feet my altimeter chirped a warning and I began to brace myself for the impact. And then it happened. A flash of light. A searing pain that went from my eyes all the way to my toes, and I could see! The world stretched out before me, the greens achingly bright, the blue of a lake reflected rainbows of color that I had not been able to see since I had the accident twenty years before. The why never entered my mind, I simply drank it all in; the beauty of it threatened to overwhelm me. And then the absurdity hit me. Here, when it was too late to relent, my sight had returned. At the very end of my life, that which I'd thought I was missing for so long had been given back to me. Was it a gift in my last moments? Was it God's punishment for my suicide? I couldn't tell you. But I was laughing hard I was crying, my vision blurred so much I didn't even see when I hit the ground.	It was bright. I had heard the word “bright” a lot in my life. Before, it was a feeling. “Bright”, to me, was a too-big bite of a fat marshmallow warmed over a fire. I had always felt light, felt the warmth from the sun or the winds or even hot little light bulbs. But when something was bright, my cheeks tingled like I was trying to swallow the feeling. This was different. I could see the dark lines of my eyelids as they squinted against it, the little dark wisps of... are those eyelashes? I lifted my hand to check and felt my heart in my throat when I saw my hand in front of my face. I wiggled my fingers and made a fist. I watched my skin stretch and move over my joints and turned my wrist over to look at the faint blue vein that made a path from my palm to my elbow. When I dropped my arm, I saw her. A mane of dark hair around her perfectly shaped face. She looked exactly as my hands had imagined her. Every little line was perfectly in place. She smiled when she slept. I had touched that smile a thousand times but now, here, I could see it. I could see my wife. I didn't wake her at first. I stared at her for a while. I realized that our sheets were light, but our walls were dark. She had told me the name of the color once, was it royal purple? I saw that the brightness was coming from the window, behind curtains that were a light color and looked soft to the touch. It took a long time for my to realize I had been crying. I had been crying the whole time I took her in, the whole time I guessed the names of the colors our room was made up of. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a delicate hand come from behind me and wipe gently at the wetness on my face. “Don't cry, daddy.” The little voice whispered to me. “It's okay. Don't cry.” I rolled over in my blankets and saw her for the first time. My little buttercup. She had messy dark hair just like her mom and eyes that were too smart for someone so small. Her little nose was wrinkled in confusion and she shifted from tiny foot to tiny foot in worry. Before I could say anything, her little mouth opened into a perfect O. “YOU'RE LOOKING AT ME!!!” The tears came again and I nodded. “Yeah, buttercup. I'm looking at you.”
	[WP] A blind man suddenly/inexplicably regains his vision, describe the first thing he sees	The first time I went skydiving the press was present. Apparently I was being heralded as some sort of inspiration. It's bullshit, but that doesn't stand in the way of a good story, right? It was a tandem jump with the instructor treating me as if I were made of some sort of porcelain or a child to be placated. I half expected him to offer me a sucker when we finished. It was largely anti-climactic. I really did nothing but fall, the wind roaring in my ears as I plummeted towards an earth I could not see. The instructor yelled something that was snatched away in the gale, and the chute opened with a crack that jarred me to the bone. The rest was actually boring until we landed. Of course, the press was there again, asking me how it felt. I played along because really what else could I do? Then they left and I stood alone for a time with my silence. None of them understand. To them I'm this broken thing that needs to be coddled and led around like a favorite pet on a leash. Not a man. Never a man. I went back the next day and insisted that I be allowed to jump on my own. They resisted, but eventually they gave way. I had to sign a waver, of course. They didn't want to be the ones responsible for allowing the blind hero to die. We got me one of those helmets with a microphone and headset, and an altimeter that would tell me when to pull the cord. It was glorious. The wind still whipped around me, but this time I was free of the tether which had strapped me like an infant to the instructor. It was freedom, complete and total. I pulled the cord and rode the wind back down, the instructions of those with me ensuring that I landed in the clear. My seventh jump was as routine as routine gets. I packed my chute, checking and double-checking all buckles and straps, joking with the other jumpers about this and that. Routine. My breath caught as I stood in the door, as it always does. I heard the cry of "GO!" and fell into oblivion. At 3,500 feet my altimeter beeped and I just kept falling. Earlier I had written a long message to my family, explaining what I had planned. To die free, unfettered by handicap and on my terms. I was sorry, but this was my choice. At 2,000 feet the sounds of screaming in my headset intensified, the other jumpers thinking that somehow this was a mistake. I felt bad that they would have to witness this. I quite liked many of them. I took off my helmet and let it go. At 1,000 feet my altimeter chirped a warning and I began to brace myself for the impact. And then it happened. A flash of light. A searing pain that went from my eyes all the way to my toes, and I could see! The world stretched out before me, the greens achingly bright, the blue of a lake reflected rainbows of color that I had not been able to see since I had the accident twenty years before. The why never entered my mind, I simply drank it all in; the beauty of it threatened to overwhelm me. And then the absurdity hit me. Here, when it was too late to relent, my sight had returned. At the very end of my life, that which I'd thought I was missing for so long had been given back to me. Was it a gift in my last moments? Was it God's punishment for my suicide? I couldn't tell you. But I was laughing hard I was crying, my vision blurred so much I didn't even see when I hit the ground.	"Am I dead?" He thought. He'd heard people talk about walking in to the light, but this wasn't the same. He wasn't dead. Everything was white. He stumbled round as he had done for the past 42 years whilst his eyes learnt how to focus. Nothing was new, but everything was different. It was light. As his eyes taught themselves how to concentrate such an abundance of colours he quickly closed them. All of a sudden he realised that he was about to see the world for the first time ever. No one else gets the privilege of remembering the first thing they ever see, yet now he had the opportunity to remember and choose. "What should I look at?" He asked himself. He had always listened to his Girlfriend describe to him how much she loved the artwork on the wall to his left, but would he understand it? He caught the smell of the cake in the kitchen. He loved the taste of cake, more than anything in the world, but would the sight live up to the taste and smell? A million different ideas rushed through his head, yet nothing felt right. "Sit down." He told himself. He fumbled around for his chair. He'd had that chair as long as he could remember. It was a smooth oak varnished chair, he always loved that chair and had asked everyone he knew what it looked like. Some described it as elegant, some called it vintage, but he never forgot how his mother described his chair. She would sit him on her knee when he was young and read him stories. He would stroke the soft varnished wood because he liked the feeling. The wood was a dark cherry varnish and the cushion covered by a soft black velvet. That cushion had never lost its comfort, even now he could still sit down on that chair and forget all of his problems. He knew what he wanted to see first.
	[WP] Tell me all the reasons you love your dog that makes me despise your dog and love you.	"Hey can you watch Sam this weekend?" My best friend James was standing on my porch with a bag of dog food and his huge dog Sam tugging furiously on the leash in his hand. His car was still running in the driveway. It was loaded down with four of my best friends and their bags. They were going on vacation and I couldn't go. I hesitated for a minute before answering. Sam was a big dog. He chewed things. He barked. He escaped from the house or jumped the fence and was gone for days at a time. And he pooped massive, loaf-of-bread sized poops in the house when he felt like he wasn't getting enough attention. James was tapping his foot, waiting for my answer. He really should have asked me beforehand, but he didn't want to risk me saying no. Last time I watched Sam he CHEWED THROUGH MY BEDROOM DOOR. I didn’t even think that was possible. We both knew I would oblige, but I still had to make James feel bad about springing this wild animal he called a pet on me for a whole weekend. James fumbled through his excuses and promises of repayment while tried on my best patronizing look, but with each repeated excuse his voice grew fainter. Confusion gave way to a feeling of déjà vu when James’s figure grew dimmer and he began to look translucent. I knew what was happening and it broke my heart. “James, I’m dreaming aren’t I?” He just smiled. I had had this dream dozens of times before and I wanted to drag it out as long as possible. I willed time to slow down, but as always happens when dreams begin to fall apart, the universe doesn’t behave as you wish. So I asked the question that I always asked at the end of this dream, “You’re not going to just be gone for the weekend, are you?” James shook his head, still smiling. “No, but it’s OK. Sam likes you.” I awoke slowly. I have to admit that even though James sprung Sam on me with little notice, he had spent the last few months giving me fair warning anytime I was about to leave a dream. As reality began to seep back into my mind, I was thankful that even though it was filled with sadness it was free from the fear and confusion that it could have contained. Without even opening my eyes I knew that James was still dead and Sam had pooped on the floor.	"I love my dog so much. He's a good dog, really. A lot of people don't believe me when I tell them but I swear he's a good dog. He just has some issues that no one else understands but me. Why just the other day Sparky attacked another dog. A stupid little labrador puppy. The owner was crying and screaming and telling me to get my "mutt" off of her special precious little dog. I did because I love all dogs and I don't want that dog getting hurt but it was obviously the other dog's fault. The labrador shouldn't have looked at Sparky like that, no he shouldn't have. I know what my dog thinks. I don't care if he attacks dogs or bites at people, I love him and he knows it. At least I hope so. He always poops in the house and growls whenever I go near him or his food, but I love him. I should feed him more or something, I know that I feed him several times a day and he just wants more but I'm obviously being a bad pet owner. Just the other day they wanted to take away Sparky because apparently he broke through the fence in my backyard and mauled a kid. Damn kids, always taunting my dog. I have to pay the medical bills but as long as I have Sparky I don't care. They blame the owner but I love my dog. I really do. I wish my dog would love me back..."
	[WP] Write from the perspective of a terrorist who is performing a suicide bombing but does not believe in the cause.	“The greatest jihad is to battle your own soul to fight the evil within.” That was what the prophet said. I was losing that battle. So much evil. This is bullshit. I wasn't sure I even believe Allah exist anymore. Not after my husband died on his way to work. We were poor. That was why we were still here. Anyone who could afford to had fled the country as soon as news of the American invasion broke. “Don’t worry, the Americans are good people. They will not harm good people like us.” That’s what my husband used to say to our daughters when they spent the night curled up against us, whimpering in fear as they heard the distant explosions. “It’s just like fireworks!” he would tell them while laughing in feigned excitement. I missed his laugh. I paused. Thinking of him made my chest tighten in pain as it always did. I tried to stop myself from remembering but the memories flowed and along came the familiar dull, throbbing pain that seemed to radiate through my entire body. He was only trying to help. Everyone ran away from the blast but not him. He ran in to see if anyone needed help. It didn’t matter if the men injured were Iraqis or American soldiers. He ran in to help. I was told the American soldiers started yelling at him. Perhaps they told him to stop. They were scared and probably thought he wanted to attack. He spoke no English and didn’t understand. He pressed forward. They fired. Somehow, I do not hate the Americans. They were scared boys. They were around the same age as my little brother. They were alone and scared, in a foreign country where death was ever present and imminent. Then, they came for me. “Sister, avenge your husband,” they told me, “Join us in this jihad and Allah will greatly reward you.” Bullshit. Allah does not exist. I felt a flash of fear as soon as that thought crossed my mind. I had never let myself think something so blasphemous. I expected to feel regret, remorse, repentance, but instead, I just felt…relief. Yes. Allah does not exist. Neither does the Christian god. Or all the other gods. Bullshit. All bullshit. Religion is just a tool created by men to justify endless oppressions. Tell people they’re being sent to die in battle so some power-hungry sultan or cleric can further enrich himself and you’ll have a revolution. Tell them to slaughter infidels in the name of Allah and they’ll gladly throw their lives away. So many lives wasted. I caught one of the American soldiers at the checkpoint looking at me. She was looking at me with pity. Yes, she must feel sorry for me, hidden within layers of cloth in the stifling heat. This time, my burqa hid more than my body. She realized I had caught her staring and she quickly looked away, embarrassed. I silently willed her to look again. Look closely. Please. Stop me. A little girl in front of me tugged at her father’s hand. She was tired after waiting in line for so long. He laughed as he swooped her up in his arms and she squealed in excitement. I felt a catch in my throat. Something about that girl reminded me of my own daughter. The eldest. Perhaps it was her smile? Or the way she looked adoringly at her father? Can I do this? I felt faint. I thought about my daughters again. And I hardened. They were with their grandmother now. We couldn't afford to live on the little I earn, doing whatever odd jobs are available for an illiterate, uneducated woman. We barely scraped through, even when my husband were alive. It would be one less mouth to feed. They promised they would provide my family with a large amount of money. Enough to support my daughters until they could fend for themselves. The American woman looked at me and I caught her eye. My eyes were hidden behind a mesh but somehow our eyes locked. She sensed something was wrong. Too late. Her mouth opened in a silent scream that was cut off as I pressed the button. All bullshit.	He sat quietly in his seat, clutching something tightly to his stomach. Maybe they'll just think im sick... maybe i am... he sat, paging through his phone, slowly, determinedly deleting contacts one by one from his social networks. With each one, a slight shudder of relief moved across his spine, his shoulders getting a little straighter and his face a mask of silent grim resolve. His contacts slowly dwindled. He paged through his phone to the note he had written the night before. "I don't know if they'll find a piece of me after im done. I wanted to let you know that I love you very much, and even though I don't know if you love me back... that doesn't matter." "I miss you... as well as mom and the rest of the family, i know i was the failure, the dropout, the rebel. Looks like i'm the rebel the last time. I have to be here. I have to do this. I cant tell you why. I'm sorry. Live life like you always wanted ME to" He sat and reread his apology. It wasn't until this was demanded of him that he had thought of them in nearly a decade. Realization of how much he missed them flooded through him as he hit send and powered off the phone. A slight smile spread over his lips as he softly sighed "At least you're safe"
	[WP] Write from the perspective of a terrorist who is performing a suicide bombing but does not believe in the cause.	I stopped short before the glass doors of the shopping mall. I watched for a while as people walked in and out of the atrium; parents shopping for their children's school supplies, couples on dates, teenagers just hanging around. I was sweating under the thick parka, partly from the heat, partly from the pressure of what I was about to do. My friends, my family, they all wanted this for me: to be one of the chosen, to be the lucky one to send a message to the government. I didn't think there needed to be a change, I knew about the government shutdown, knew about Obama's inadequacies but I didn't think a change in leadership would do much, not at this stage. But the threats had been sent out, the plan had been established, and I had been put forward as the one to take action. The semtex shifted under my coat as I strode through the doors, towards the escalator hub, where I would do the most structural damage. It had all been planned out, I didn't want to let anyone down by doing it wrong. As I neared the escalators, I held my breath, trying to stop time, and keep this last moment of life forever. After an eternity I released the breath, carrying with it a whisper of "I'm sorry." Then I flicked the switch, and it was over.	He sat quietly in his seat, clutching something tightly to his stomach. Maybe they'll just think im sick... maybe i am... he sat, paging through his phone, slowly, determinedly deleting contacts one by one from his social networks. With each one, a slight shudder of relief moved across his spine, his shoulders getting a little straighter and his face a mask of silent grim resolve. His contacts slowly dwindled. He paged through his phone to the note he had written the night before. "I don't know if they'll find a piece of me after im done. I wanted to let you know that I love you very much, and even though I don't know if you love me back... that doesn't matter." "I miss you... as well as mom and the rest of the family, i know i was the failure, the dropout, the rebel. Looks like i'm the rebel the last time. I have to be here. I have to do this. I cant tell you why. I'm sorry. Live life like you always wanted ME to" He sat and reread his apology. It wasn't until this was demanded of him that he had thought of them in nearly a decade. Realization of how much he missed them flooded through him as he hit send and powered off the phone. A slight smile spread over his lips as he softly sighed "At least you're safe"
	[WP] Write from the perspective of a terrorist who is performing a suicide bombing but does not believe in the cause.	3 more minutes I can almost smell the crispiness of the leaves as they scuttle and dance around my feet. They smell the way Autumn feels, like a warm cup of spiced cider when you curl up on the couch, as a pumpkin candle crackles on the coffee table. I'll never get to smell this again after today. Oh well. I wish this had never happened. I wish I could go home and see my parents again. Funny how I hated them so much that I ran away, and now the only thing I want in this world is to hug my mom. I want to smell her petunia perfume and feel her caked makeup rub off on my cheek. She was always wearing so much damn makeup. And I don't even care if he was yelling again, I just want to hear my dad's voice one last time. It was so soothing when he would tell me bedtime stories to fall asleep when I was a kid. He always told the best stories too, and he would make me the star. "There was once a brave young knight named Blake, and he was the most fearless boy in the entire kingdom." I'm glad he can't see me now. 2 more minutes I never kissed a girl. I never saw the Eiffel Tower. I didn't do a lot of things. But I guess it doesn't matter now. What matters when you're dead? I can't take any memories with me, all I can do is finish this job and get it all over with. I hope I don't kill any children, they don't deserve this. Does anyone deserve it? They tell me this has to be done, but I don't see why. Why kill people to show that killing people is wrong? It doesn't make any sense. 1 more minute No turning back though. If I don't set off the bomb they will just shoot me anyway when I get back. They'll see it as a sign of weakness. No, this is the best way. This way I won't have to hurt anymore. I won't have to think about mom and dad and how much they miss me. I'll just end it now. 30 seconds This is a nice bathroom for a train station, clean stalls too. God I hope no one comes in here right now, I don't want to hurt anybody. 10 seconds I hear the bathroom door open and rush out of my stall to make them leave. "Get out of here! GET OUT NOW!" 5 seconds But it's too late. There he is, standing there dumbfounded like the big silly oaf that used to tell me all those stories at bedtime. I only have time for one word. "Dad?" The bomb went off before I could say I love you.	He sat quietly in his seat, clutching something tightly to his stomach. Maybe they'll just think im sick... maybe i am... he sat, paging through his phone, slowly, determinedly deleting contacts one by one from his social networks. With each one, a slight shudder of relief moved across his spine, his shoulders getting a little straighter and his face a mask of silent grim resolve. His contacts slowly dwindled. He paged through his phone to the note he had written the night before. "I don't know if they'll find a piece of me after im done. I wanted to let you know that I love you very much, and even though I don't know if you love me back... that doesn't matter." "I miss you... as well as mom and the rest of the family, i know i was the failure, the dropout, the rebel. Looks like i'm the rebel the last time. I have to be here. I have to do this. I cant tell you why. I'm sorry. Live life like you always wanted ME to" He sat and reread his apology. It wasn't until this was demanded of him that he had thought of them in nearly a decade. Realization of how much he missed them flooded through him as he hit send and powered off the phone. A slight smile spread over his lips as he softly sighed "At least you're safe"
	[WP] Write from the perspective of a terrorist who is performing a suicide bombing but does not believe in the cause.	“The greatest jihad is to battle your own soul to fight the evil within.” That was what the prophet said. I was losing that battle. So much evil. This is bullshit. I wasn't sure I even believe Allah exist anymore. Not after my husband died on his way to work. We were poor. That was why we were still here. Anyone who could afford to had fled the country as soon as news of the American invasion broke. “Don’t worry, the Americans are good people. They will not harm good people like us.” That’s what my husband used to say to our daughters when they spent the night curled up against us, whimpering in fear as they heard the distant explosions. “It’s just like fireworks!” he would tell them while laughing in feigned excitement. I missed his laugh. I paused. Thinking of him made my chest tighten in pain as it always did. I tried to stop myself from remembering but the memories flowed and along came the familiar dull, throbbing pain that seemed to radiate through my entire body. He was only trying to help. Everyone ran away from the blast but not him. He ran in to see if anyone needed help. It didn’t matter if the men injured were Iraqis or American soldiers. He ran in to help. I was told the American soldiers started yelling at him. Perhaps they told him to stop. They were scared and probably thought he wanted to attack. He spoke no English and didn’t understand. He pressed forward. They fired. Somehow, I do not hate the Americans. They were scared boys. They were around the same age as my little brother. They were alone and scared, in a foreign country where death was ever present and imminent. Then, they came for me. “Sister, avenge your husband,” they told me, “Join us in this jihad and Allah will greatly reward you.” Bullshit. Allah does not exist. I felt a flash of fear as soon as that thought crossed my mind. I had never let myself think something so blasphemous. I expected to feel regret, remorse, repentance, but instead, I just felt…relief. Yes. Allah does not exist. Neither does the Christian god. Or all the other gods. Bullshit. All bullshit. Religion is just a tool created by men to justify endless oppressions. Tell people they’re being sent to die in battle so some power-hungry sultan or cleric can further enrich himself and you’ll have a revolution. Tell them to slaughter infidels in the name of Allah and they’ll gladly throw their lives away. So many lives wasted. I caught one of the American soldiers at the checkpoint looking at me. She was looking at me with pity. Yes, she must feel sorry for me, hidden within layers of cloth in the stifling heat. This time, my burqa hid more than my body. She realized I had caught her staring and she quickly looked away, embarrassed. I silently willed her to look again. Look closely. Please. Stop me. A little girl in front of me tugged at her father’s hand. She was tired after waiting in line for so long. He laughed as he swooped her up in his arms and she squealed in excitement. I felt a catch in my throat. Something about that girl reminded me of my own daughter. The eldest. Perhaps it was her smile? Or the way she looked adoringly at her father? Can I do this? I felt faint. I thought about my daughters again. And I hardened. They were with their grandmother now. We couldn't afford to live on the little I earn, doing whatever odd jobs are available for an illiterate, uneducated woman. We barely scraped through, even when my husband were alive. It would be one less mouth to feed. They promised they would provide my family with a large amount of money. Enough to support my daughters until they could fend for themselves. The American woman looked at me and I caught her eye. My eyes were hidden behind a mesh but somehow our eyes locked. She sensed something was wrong. Too late. Her mouth opened in a silent scream that was cut off as I pressed the button. All bullshit.	The cold sounds echoed around me, muffled, silent, nothing. The crowds are shapeless, just blurred ghosts passing through my random memories as I sit here, waiting to die. It was not supposed to be like this. I am supposed to feel anger, martyrdom, pain, elation. But all I feel is hollow, useless and dead. Long time dead already. Shortly I will just be another headline, a nameless flash and cause of intense pain. My superiors, those who are too sane or afraid to die used the right twists on me to make this happen. Family, duty, promises. If they believe so much, then why is it me here, rather than them! It's just the way things work here I guess. Time is too short for regrets now. There is no time for anything.
	[WP] Write from the perspective of a terrorist who is performing a suicide bombing but does not believe in the cause.	“The greatest jihad is to battle your own soul to fight the evil within.” That was what the prophet said. I was losing that battle. So much evil. This is bullshit. I wasn't sure I even believe Allah exist anymore. Not after my husband died on his way to work. We were poor. That was why we were still here. Anyone who could afford to had fled the country as soon as news of the American invasion broke. “Don’t worry, the Americans are good people. They will not harm good people like us.” That’s what my husband used to say to our daughters when they spent the night curled up against us, whimpering in fear as they heard the distant explosions. “It’s just like fireworks!” he would tell them while laughing in feigned excitement. I missed his laugh. I paused. Thinking of him made my chest tighten in pain as it always did. I tried to stop myself from remembering but the memories flowed and along came the familiar dull, throbbing pain that seemed to radiate through my entire body. He was only trying to help. Everyone ran away from the blast but not him. He ran in to see if anyone needed help. It didn’t matter if the men injured were Iraqis or American soldiers. He ran in to help. I was told the American soldiers started yelling at him. Perhaps they told him to stop. They were scared and probably thought he wanted to attack. He spoke no English and didn’t understand. He pressed forward. They fired. Somehow, I do not hate the Americans. They were scared boys. They were around the same age as my little brother. They were alone and scared, in a foreign country where death was ever present and imminent. Then, they came for me. “Sister, avenge your husband,” they told me, “Join us in this jihad and Allah will greatly reward you.” Bullshit. Allah does not exist. I felt a flash of fear as soon as that thought crossed my mind. I had never let myself think something so blasphemous. I expected to feel regret, remorse, repentance, but instead, I just felt…relief. Yes. Allah does not exist. Neither does the Christian god. Or all the other gods. Bullshit. All bullshit. Religion is just a tool created by men to justify endless oppressions. Tell people they’re being sent to die in battle so some power-hungry sultan or cleric can further enrich himself and you’ll have a revolution. Tell them to slaughter infidels in the name of Allah and they’ll gladly throw their lives away. So many lives wasted. I caught one of the American soldiers at the checkpoint looking at me. She was looking at me with pity. Yes, she must feel sorry for me, hidden within layers of cloth in the stifling heat. This time, my burqa hid more than my body. She realized I had caught her staring and she quickly looked away, embarrassed. I silently willed her to look again. Look closely. Please. Stop me. A little girl in front of me tugged at her father’s hand. She was tired after waiting in line for so long. He laughed as he swooped her up in his arms and she squealed in excitement. I felt a catch in my throat. Something about that girl reminded me of my own daughter. The eldest. Perhaps it was her smile? Or the way she looked adoringly at her father? Can I do this? I felt faint. I thought about my daughters again. And I hardened. They were with their grandmother now. We couldn't afford to live on the little I earn, doing whatever odd jobs are available for an illiterate, uneducated woman. We barely scraped through, even when my husband were alive. It would be one less mouth to feed. They promised they would provide my family with a large amount of money. Enough to support my daughters until they could fend for themselves. The American woman looked at me and I caught her eye. My eyes were hidden behind a mesh but somehow our eyes locked. She sensed something was wrong. Too late. Her mouth opened in a silent scream that was cut off as I pressed the button. All bullshit.	I watched what they did to Abel's family. We all did. Six of us, tied to each other, made to watch. The worst part was they made Abel's child watch as it happened to her mother. It went on for hours, then the mother watched the same thing happen to her daughter while she bled out. "God is with you in your penance," Galen says as he got out of the car. Even he doesn't believe it. Ahead, three school busses converge to pick up the children from the museum. No God could want this. But thinking about God is a luxury I don't have. I'm thinking about my family. They betrayed the cause and this is the only way I can save them. I can't let them die like that.
	[WP] Write from the perspective of a terrorist who is performing a suicide bombing but does not believe in the cause.	3 more minutes I can almost smell the crispiness of the leaves as they scuttle and dance around my feet. They smell the way Autumn feels, like a warm cup of spiced cider when you curl up on the couch, as a pumpkin candle crackles on the coffee table. I'll never get to smell this again after today. Oh well. I wish this had never happened. I wish I could go home and see my parents again. Funny how I hated them so much that I ran away, and now the only thing I want in this world is to hug my mom. I want to smell her petunia perfume and feel her caked makeup rub off on my cheek. She was always wearing so much damn makeup. And I don't even care if he was yelling again, I just want to hear my dad's voice one last time. It was so soothing when he would tell me bedtime stories to fall asleep when I was a kid. He always told the best stories too, and he would make me the star. "There was once a brave young knight named Blake, and he was the most fearless boy in the entire kingdom." I'm glad he can't see me now. 2 more minutes I never kissed a girl. I never saw the Eiffel Tower. I didn't do a lot of things. But I guess it doesn't matter now. What matters when you're dead? I can't take any memories with me, all I can do is finish this job and get it all over with. I hope I don't kill any children, they don't deserve this. Does anyone deserve it? They tell me this has to be done, but I don't see why. Why kill people to show that killing people is wrong? It doesn't make any sense. 1 more minute No turning back though. If I don't set off the bomb they will just shoot me anyway when I get back. They'll see it as a sign of weakness. No, this is the best way. This way I won't have to hurt anymore. I won't have to think about mom and dad and how much they miss me. I'll just end it now. 30 seconds This is a nice bathroom for a train station, clean stalls too. God I hope no one comes in here right now, I don't want to hurt anybody. 10 seconds I hear the bathroom door open and rush out of my stall to make them leave. "Get out of here! GET OUT NOW!" 5 seconds But it's too late. There he is, standing there dumbfounded like the big silly oaf that used to tell me all those stories at bedtime. I only have time for one word. "Dad?" The bomb went off before I could say I love you.	I stopped short before the glass doors of the shopping mall. I watched for a while as people walked in and out of the atrium; parents shopping for their children's school supplies, couples on dates, teenagers just hanging around. I was sweating under the thick parka, partly from the heat, partly from the pressure of what I was about to do. My friends, my family, they all wanted this for me: to be one of the chosen, to be the lucky one to send a message to the government. I didn't think there needed to be a change, I knew about the government shutdown, knew about Obama's inadequacies but I didn't think a change in leadership would do much, not at this stage. But the threats had been sent out, the plan had been established, and I had been put forward as the one to take action. The semtex shifted under my coat as I strode through the doors, towards the escalator hub, where I would do the most structural damage. It had all been planned out, I didn't want to let anyone down by doing it wrong. As I neared the escalators, I held my breath, trying to stop time, and keep this last moment of life forever. After an eternity I released the breath, carrying with it a whisper of "I'm sorry." Then I flicked the switch, and it was over.
The prompt basically is to write a story about a man (or woman) who believes their the last human in the world, but finds out that they're not alone. You can create any apocalyptic scenario (except zombies, Zombies are a bit overdone)	[WP] A man thinks he is the last human in the world, and finds out he's not.	I look over what remains of the NYC skyline. The crumbling buildings, the massive piles of debris, and the remnants of one of the few standing skyscrapers. The sky is orange and the clouds are black. A storm rumbles in the distance. The sound of thunder gives me flashbacks to the day that only I survived. Massive alien ships hovered over the city, blasting buildings and turning people to ash. But then I remember something strange. Rather, I forget something. How did I survive this? Surely there was no place to hide. How could I recall the events of that horrendous day but forget how I survived. "Honey, wake up. I made you breakfast," Oh. Right. It was just a dream.	When you're alone, you know sound like it was your own thought. The specific way wind blows through that tree, or the sound of creaking wood from that house down the street. You listen the whole day, as there are no voices to spoil the pure sound of the location, the natural auditory signature of the world. Imagine the surprise when you wake up and the signature is different. Almost small enough to be imperceptible. Another life, variation in the pattern. Not from near, and not loud, but enough to cause difference. And difference is easy to detect. I will find that small variation however far it may take me from here. Perhaps it is a voice, perhaps it is simply an echo.
The prompt basically is to write a story about a man (or woman) who believes their the last human in the world, but finds out that they're not alone. You can create any apocalyptic scenario (except zombies, Zombies are a bit overdone)	[WP] A man thinks he is the last human in the world, and finds out he's not.	Something heavy slams against the barricaded door, making her jump. She fumbles with her bag as she tries to stuff it with the essentials. Making sure that she has everything, she picks up her weapon, an aluminum bat, and turns on the camera. "Hello, my name is Yumi Asagawa. I live in New York City, Park Avenue to be exact. A few months ago, the world came to an end due to a devastating war. I survived with my sisters, aunt, and cousins by staying in a bomb shelter. They're all gone now and I made my way to the city to seek survivors and supplies." A heavy slam against the door jarred her from her speech. Yelling and growling came from the other side. Panicking and breathing heavily, she attempted to hurry. "I arrived here last week and at first, things seemed the same as everywhere else. Power supplies dwindling, no people, that kind of thing. However, I ran into a militant group calling themselves 'The Sons of Adam' in Battery Park. Do not approach them. No matter how desperate you are, no matter how enticing they sound, do NOT approach them. They are-" "OPEN UP! WE KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!" A gruff voice shouted from the other side of the door. "They are dangerous." Yumi switched off the camera and stuffed it into her bag. She did a final sweep of the derelict apartment to look for any other weapon and found a carving knife. Grabbing it, she ran into the living room and grabbed her bag as the barricades on the door began to shake violently. She opened the window and climbed onto the fire escape, making her way down as she heard the door finally give way and slam open. She finally made it to the ground and took off running down the alley onto the main street. 'They are dangerous,' she thought as she ran for her life, occasionally looking over her shoulder to make sure that she wasn't followed.	When you're alone, you know sound like it was your own thought. The specific way wind blows through that tree, or the sound of creaking wood from that house down the street. You listen the whole day, as there are no voices to spoil the pure sound of the location, the natural auditory signature of the world. Imagine the surprise when you wake up and the signature is different. Almost small enough to be imperceptible. Another life, variation in the pattern. Not from near, and not loud, but enough to cause difference. And difference is easy to detect. I will find that small variation however far it may take me from here. Perhaps it is a voice, perhaps it is simply an echo.
The prompt basically is to write a story about a man (or woman) who believes their the last human in the world, but finds out that they're not alone. You can create any apocalyptic scenario (except zombies, Zombies are a bit overdone)	[WP] A man thinks he is the last human in the world, and finds out he's not.	Something heavy slams against the barricaded door, making her jump. She fumbles with her bag as she tries to stuff it with the essentials. Making sure that she has everything, she picks up her weapon, an aluminum bat, and turns on the camera. "Hello, my name is Yumi Asagawa. I live in New York City, Park Avenue to be exact. A few months ago, the world came to an end due to a devastating war. I survived with my sisters, aunt, and cousins by staying in a bomb shelter. They're all gone now and I made my way to the city to seek survivors and supplies." A heavy slam against the door jarred her from her speech. Yelling and growling came from the other side. Panicking and breathing heavily, she attempted to hurry. "I arrived here last week and at first, things seemed the same as everywhere else. Power supplies dwindling, no people, that kind of thing. However, I ran into a militant group calling themselves 'The Sons of Adam' in Battery Park. Do not approach them. No matter how desperate you are, no matter how enticing they sound, do NOT approach them. They are-" "OPEN UP! WE KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!" A gruff voice shouted from the other side of the door. "They are dangerous." Yumi switched off the camera and stuffed it into her bag. She did a final sweep of the derelict apartment to look for any other weapon and found a carving knife. Grabbing it, she ran into the living room and grabbed her bag as the barricades on the door began to shake violently. She opened the window and climbed onto the fire escape, making her way down as she heard the door finally give way and slam open. She finally made it to the ground and took off running down the alley onto the main street. 'They are dangerous,' she thought as she ran for her life, occasionally looking over her shoulder to make sure that she wasn't followed.	"The wolves always get me. Well, I guess I should say the dogs. They are more like wolves nowadays though. They hunt in packs and everything. I always manage to fend them off, but they make me cry. They were once somebody's pet. Now they are wild animals. It gets to me. I always was a dog person. They were so much better than cats. Cats were fickle furry felines. Alliteration, that's what they called that. And that is what they called ADD. Mind jumping from one place to another. Being incredibly concentrated one second and on a wholly different subject the next. Or maybe I am just insane." I wrapped up my monologue to myself. "Yep. Another glorious day for Chuk the last man on Earth who may or may not have ADD. I never got the full diagnosis. Just kind of self diagnosed. I was also self diagnosed with hypoglycemia at one point. I just really liked naps though, and that was after I had watched that Paul Blart movie. It was ok, but I still think fight club is the best movie ever made." I mumbled to myself some more about movies as I strolled through the empty streets pushing my shopping cart full of food. "And pulp fiction was great because of how many people... Died..." I stopped in my tracks. A dead body. Male. Looked to be about 40 or so. Dead. Fresh body. Fresh blood. A bludgeoning wound to the back of the head. Baseball bat maybe, or a shovel or something. I whipped out my shotgun to keep the wolves at bay. I did not want them desecrating this man's corpse. "Wouldn't it be hilarious if this was like Zombieland and this guy was Bill Murray and he got up, just pretending to be dead?" I looked over at him. "Nope. Dead as diddly-do-dead" I scanned the area. No movement. I called out for a person. Nobody answered. Shit. I am not alone, and I have no idea why the other person killed this man. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit... Wait. I think this might be just like a book I read. Can't recall which one. Oh well. Back to being worried about ghosts in the darkness. Good movie about lions. Shitshitshitshit...
The prompt basically is to write a story about a man (or woman) who believes their the last human in the world, but finds out that they're not alone. You can create any apocalyptic scenario (except zombies, Zombies are a bit overdone)	[WP] A man thinks he is the last human in the world, and finds out he's not.	He'd learned long ago that the only way to stay alive was to find something to care about. Something to lose yourself in, the losing yourself part was important too. Because he'd also learned not to think too much. Figure out what was important enough to get out of bed in the morning, important enough to go scavenge through the empty cities for food. It helped that he had to go into the city to get supplies for the project too. He made sure he never got too many supplies. Only enough for a few days. That way he'd have to go back 2 to 3 times a week. A little variety helped too. Kept the mind too busy to wander. Once or twice a month he would even take a road trip to a city a day or two away. Windows down, sunroof open, radio blaring whatever cds he found in the cars he would siphon gas from. But today wasn't a travel day. Today was a project day. He got out of bed and fixed himself breakfast. Poptarts and gatorade. In the beginning, food had been abundant. Everything had still been good. But quickly the only things left to eat where canned and boxed goods. Sometimes he would eat cereal, with yoohoo in it. It was almost like chocolate milk. Too thin, but he made do. Once he'd finished breakfast he went out into the backyard and surveyed his work. Thousands upon thousands of grave plots, each with personalized tomb stones that he'd made himself. When he went into the city to get bodies, he would hunt through the apartments or houses of the bodies he chose, and learn everything he could about each individual. What Their life had been like. What Their hopes and dreams had been. And then he would take a piece of their kitchen table for the tombstone. And he would carve the story of who they'd been into the wood. The wood made the tombstone impermanent. He liked that. He liked to think that once he was gone, his work would slowly fade away. Reclaimed by nature. He wasn't sure why this thought have him peace but it did. Today wasnt a day for grave digging or tombstone carving he decided. He instead would spend the day walking from grave to grave, reading about the person in each grave. When it grew too dark to read any more, he would build a large fire braise the grave he left off at, and he would sleep amidst the graves. Amidst his charges, under the stay sky. When he awoke the next day, he would repeat the cycle. Until every have had been visited. Until every story had been read. Until every life contemplated. / / He awoke with a start. The fire was dying and it was getting cold in the hours before Dawn. But that's not why he'd woken. Standing about ten feet off, was a person holding a flash light. At first he'd thought he was dreaming of one of his charges coming to thank him for putting them to rest. But no, he wasn't dreaming. And no this wasn't one of his charges. This was a person. A woman. Older than him by at least a decade. How old was he now? He thought. It had been so long since anything like this had crossed his mind. He realized they had been staring silently at each other for a long period of time. It occurred to him that he should speak. "My name is Adam" he said. She was silent for a moment, as I'd remembering how to speak. "Eve" she replied. Her voice was like music to him. It was like honey. Like cool spring water slashed on his face. He laughed. A warm hearty laugh. At first she seemed uncertain, but then she joined in. Her bright and clear laughter an amalgam to his deeper timbre. Soon they both were laughing so hard they could hardly stand up. He felt light. As if a heavy burden had been lifted from his heart. "Did you do all this" she asked. "Yes" he says. "Do you want help?" She asks. He smiles. "No, I think I've found a new purpose." She looks at him questioningly. Slowly it dawns on her. She smiles shyly. Had he said a decade older? She looked fresh as a spring blossom when she smiled, he thought. "Come," he says and takes her gently by the hand, "let me tell you about John and Mary. I found them in a rundown apartment in New York City. Holding each other on their bed." The sun rises behind them as they make their way through the graveyard.	Ever since the nuclear holocaust, I'm the only one left. America was hit hardest, followed by east Asia and the Middle East. Luckily for me, Australia wasn't hit that hard, but I'm still alone. For the past few years, I've had everything I've ever wanted, but it's never enough anymore. I always want more. First the electricity quit, and when I realized I really was alone, it hit me like a train. I had to start surviving. I gathered food, water, anything I could think of. I've visited innumerable libraries in Sydney alone. I have read thousands of books, by hundreds of authors and survivalists, and I am faring fairly well, if it weren't for the loneliness. I decided to go down to Melbourne. I followed the coast, and after about what I think was a year, I made it. The town looked alive still. There was still electricity. But why? No one was alive. The last news report before the nuke hit Sydney was about mass casualties, Everyone in the Americas, Asia, and Europe were dead, and more nukes were expected to go off over the world as explosions caused chain reactions. Then the immense bright light came and overtook everything I knew an loved. Everyone, everything was gone in an instant. I was all that was left. I explored Melbourne, and found the electricity factory. It wasn't dusty, there were signs of recent life. I called out, but with no response. I looked around, and saw nothing, but I knew I was being watched. I had to get away. I ran out of there as fast as I could, stopped in a grocery store for some food and water, then ran west. As I was on the outskirts of town, a shot rang out, I heard it, and I heard the bullet ring past me. Something was trying to kill me, the last person on Earth. I turned around, but too quickly, and fell backwards. That's when I saw them. They were a tribe of about fifty, maybe seventy-five people, male and female. And they wanted me for dinner. They were much more fit than I. There were people from every walk of life, that's how they had electricity. They controlled the world. It was the world against me again. And this time, I lost.
The prompt basically is to write a story about a man (or woman) who believes their the last human in the world, but finds out that they're not alone. You can create any apocalyptic scenario (except zombies, Zombies are a bit overdone)	[WP] A man thinks he is the last human in the world, and finds out he's not.	"The Breaker, break, breaker, break, whoopti lopsi ohhhhHHhh, It's like the....BEAR NECESSITIES, the duh duh nah nah nuh nuhuh," His voice sounded like the old records his mom used to play in the living room, he didn't remember most songs, but he remembered how to sing. He sang whatever words came to mind, small fragments of lost pieces of art. "Waiting for the jazz to break, waiting for the jazz to- Sheila?" The man turned around and stalked around the corner of the building. "Nope, no one. Just me, maybe a squirrel, a fat juicy squirrel, come here little squirrel." The man paced back in forth on the front yard, between his two trees. A path had worn away over the months. "Hm. Where did you go?" Step. Step. Crunch. He looked down and turned his head sideways at the broken leaf. He studied it for a moment and then looked up to his two trees and realized they were orange. The trees only kept his attention for a moment before he remembered the squirrel. "You can't hide from me, no one hides from Danny. I am the deadliest predator Robert, that's what I'll name you, Robert." After a couple hours Danny realized his feet were starting to hurt and walked back to his building. He opened the door and sat on his couch, poking at his feet in the places they tingled. "There you are Sheila, where have you been?" He picked up the ceramic jar and put it next to him on the couch. "It's the....BEAR NECESSITIES, the mump-a-dump a-cesseties. The-" "Hi-" The voice came into his life and he flailed his arms in surprise, knocking Sheila to the floor and the ashes she contained. "I'm sorry if I startled you." "Who are you?" Danny said, he scooted across the room keeping his eyes on the woman. She was like him, she was human. "I'm doctor Wiley. Do you remember me Danny? Do you remember who I am?" "Look what you did to Sheila," Danny screamed. The woman wrote a note on her clipboard. "It's okay Sheila, it's okay, Robert will take care of you with me, he's a new friend. He's hiding right now, but he'll come help take care of you." Danny swept the ashes into the jar with his hand, trying to pick up all of it he could. "Danny, my name is Sheila Wiley, I am your doctor, do you remember who I am?" "Just a little more, I have you, Danny's got you." "Do you know who Bradford is?" There was no response. Danny wouldn't look at her, he had forgotten she was there. He was alone in the room, alone with his bed and ceramic jar. Alone with himself. Dr. Wiley finished writing her report and walked out of the room, locking the door behind her.	Ever since the nuclear holocaust, I'm the only one left. America was hit hardest, followed by east Asia and the Middle East. Luckily for me, Australia wasn't hit that hard, but I'm still alone. For the past few years, I've had everything I've ever wanted, but it's never enough anymore. I always want more. First the electricity quit, and when I realized I really was alone, it hit me like a train. I had to start surviving. I gathered food, water, anything I could think of. I've visited innumerable libraries in Sydney alone. I have read thousands of books, by hundreds of authors and survivalists, and I am faring fairly well, if it weren't for the loneliness. I decided to go down to Melbourne. I followed the coast, and after about what I think was a year, I made it. The town looked alive still. There was still electricity. But why? No one was alive. The last news report before the nuke hit Sydney was about mass casualties, Everyone in the Americas, Asia, and Europe were dead, and more nukes were expected to go off over the world as explosions caused chain reactions. Then the immense bright light came and overtook everything I knew an loved. Everyone, everything was gone in an instant. I was all that was left. I explored Melbourne, and found the electricity factory. It wasn't dusty, there were signs of recent life. I called out, but with no response. I looked around, and saw nothing, but I knew I was being watched. I had to get away. I ran out of there as fast as I could, stopped in a grocery store for some food and water, then ran west. As I was on the outskirts of town, a shot rang out, I heard it, and I heard the bullet ring past me. Something was trying to kill me, the last person on Earth. I turned around, but too quickly, and fell backwards. That's when I saw them. They were a tribe of about fifty, maybe seventy-five people, male and female. And they wanted me for dinner. They were much more fit than I. There were people from every walk of life, that's how they had electricity. They controlled the world. It was the world against me again. And this time, I lost.
Funny. Serious. What ever you want.	[WP] A man who due to stresses in his life decides to retreat into a fantasy world rather than face his harsh reality.	Marc was a young man who had seen a lot in his day. He hated talking like that, it made him sound old, but it was true. He was only eighteen, still quite the strapping young lad, but he felt awfully old and worn out. He found himself wishing for and imagining the old days, when everyone was happy. What if she were still alive? What if they hadn't left? He had seen death in person for the first time when he was 12. He caused death for the first time when he was 14. He wasn't a murderer or an assassin, not exactly. Sometimes people just refused to get out of the way when he had a job to do. She died when he was fifteen. Killed by a man whose name and face Marc would never forget. The face haunted his dreams still, but he would never be able to get revenge. They had killed him, which was almost good enough. Things were okay for a time, after that. He still had the rest of his friends, and they mourned her death together. They all moved on, in time, but she still held a tight grip on his heart, even in death. Then they left. There was no warning, no chance to stop them. They left in the middle of the night, disappearing into the shadows where no one would find them. And no one did until they were ready to be found. That had been a year ago. Without them, his friends fell apart. They had been the glue that held them together. He missed his friends; they each had found their own way to cope, and none involved him. Without his friends, he took to reminiscing. He remembered the days when they had all been together, before she died and before they left. Sometimes it felt so real that it scared him. Sometimes he wished he could actually touch them. He stopped taking jobs and stayed in his room, staring out the window without actually seeing. Seasons passed in front of his eyes, but he didn't notice. He was with her, with them; they were all together again. He ate when hunger interrupted his fantasies. To get food, he had to talk to people, which he was growing to hate. Always the same questions: "what are you doing in there?" "Why aren't you taking jobs?" "Are you okay? You're so skinny!" His friends even came to visit him in his room once they heard about what he was doing. He knew they were his friends, but it felt weird. They were changing, but he didn't want that. They seemed so sad, but he liked it best when everyone was happy, like they had been before she left. So he retreated back to his fantasy, back to the times they had all been happy. His fantasies became more and more real. He spent less time in the real world, eating maybe twice a week. His body was deteriorating, but he didn't care. He was with her and he was with them. And his friends would never split, and they would continue to be happy forever.	'Tis a brisk autumn air upon my face As I saddle my horse, feeling its power, The time is nigh! Soon be the hour That my foes relinquish their stolen power And taste the steel of my mighty mace! Grunts at work, I surpass them with ease, Their piercing screams bouncing off my shield, For although they continue to strike, I shall not yield, Enduring the maelstrom on this battlefield The poor fools will soon beg for scraps, on their knees! But wait, from afar, a boss has appeared! He screeches and swings, I take many a blow That shred through my defense, despite how slow His moves are, he pierces, and I already know His power is too great, and it is as I feared! I am powerless, a knight without sword, A soldier must have the tools to survive, Yet I stand empty handed, lucky to be alive As my blood pours out and evil continues to thrive; I pray one day I receive my just reward.
Funny. Serious. What ever you want.	[WP] A man who due to stresses in his life decides to retreat into a fantasy world rather than face his harsh reality.	I don't like doing this, but the story I tried writing for this one just wasn't as good as something I wrote for a previous prompt. Rather than post something I dislike, I've just touched up that older story (3 months ago, so most of the new folks haven't read it anyway) and reposted it. I'll see about starting from scratch later. ------ The dragon lifted its massive head, bearing two opposing rows of teeth larger than Sir Derrick’s squire. The dragon was angry, launching a spray of bright red flame into the air. It could have pointed its rage at the foolish knight, ending his life swiftly. But the dragon wasn’t interested in killing him so swiftly; it wanted the knight to suffer. Sir Derrick was well aware of the danger. He was not immune to fear. Yet despite the certain danger, he gripped his sword tightly and readied himself for an attack. Would it be the mouth spewing flames or tearing flesh? Or the claws large enough to grasp a horse with room to spare? The tail caught him in the face, sending him to the floor. Robots. Now they are lucky. They don’t have to worry about pain or anger. They are strong with skin made of armor. Some of them can fly. Others have wheels that help them move like a race car. Everybody loves robots. The only problem with robots, though, is they have strict programming. Their master can order them to do things like clean the house and mow the lawn. Robots are wasted performing such chores. Orders are orders, though. They have to obey. Those are their laws. The law of the jungle was tenuous at best. For a former Special Forces commando, though, all that mattered was being at the top of the food chain. All he cared about was survival. He made himself strong and worked at keeping in shape. He didn’t have friends. He didn’t need friends. Captain Wilde was either the hunter or the hunted. There was nothing in between. Surviving meant picking battles carefully. Knowing when to attack and when to flee. The leaves rustled in the distance. Then more swayed, this time closer. Something approached. Something big. The wall of trees wasn’t going to keep this one out. This was not a time to attack. Captain Wilde went quiet. Sir Derrick managed to raise his shield to defend himself against the second blow. The force quaked through his arms and sent him into a stumble. Smoke rose from the dragon’s furious jaw. “Be strong,” the Queen had told him back in the safety of the castle. Her words were only a mild comfort. He was a brave knight and would hold his ground. Run away. That’s the only option left for a robot. Living long enough to earn their freedom isn’t always possible. The toil of menial labor takes its toll. Almost as severe as the wrath of a master whose orders are not yet fulfilled. Taking cover under a bed of leaves did not fool the wild hunter. Captain Wilde had readied his weapon. As the beast took hold of his leg, pulling him from his cover, he struck. The dragon wasn’t fazed by the minor injury. Instead, any restraint it once had was released. There was no mere display of power or desire for basking in the torture of a helpless foe. The massive head reared back to show its unbridled horror to the unflinching knight one last time. Derrick's armor was no match for the ferocious claws. Flashing lights cast their glow around the city block and across the unkempt lawn. Inside the suburban home, the detective inspected the scene. The room was cluttered, not all of it from the incident. The bed sheets, patterned for autumn leaves, had been pulled from the bed. Irma Wilde had passed away months before. Her widowed husband turned to drinking. He’d been caught starting fights at the bars. It was only a matter of time before he let loose the beast in his home. There was a small suitcase filled with clothes and pictures of his mother. He never got a chance to leave. The kid, Derrick, was beyond saving. From the looks of it, he put up a good fight. Blood had sprayed across the walls, adding another splash of color to the trio of posters hanging on it: Robopals, one of the Lando movies, and a medieval knight film that came out the previous summer. “He really could have used you guys,” the detective remarked to the wall hangings, still dripping with blood.	'Tis a brisk autumn air upon my face As I saddle my horse, feeling its power, The time is nigh! Soon be the hour That my foes relinquish their stolen power And taste the steel of my mighty mace! Grunts at work, I surpass them with ease, Their piercing screams bouncing off my shield, For although they continue to strike, I shall not yield, Enduring the maelstrom on this battlefield The poor fools will soon beg for scraps, on their knees! But wait, from afar, a boss has appeared! He screeches and swings, I take many a blow That shred through my defense, despite how slow His moves are, he pierces, and I already know His power is too great, and it is as I feared! I am powerless, a knight without sword, A soldier must have the tools to survive, Yet I stand empty handed, lucky to be alive As my blood pours out and evil continues to thrive; I pray one day I receive my just reward.
Yes, The names of the ships are the Three walls from Attack On Titan/Shingeki No Kyojin.	[Wp] Three Starships, Named Maria, Rose, and Sina, Are sent to colonize three planets in a different solar system, Write the Journey, and the beggining of Colonization	Ten years we had been adrift. Ten years we awaited our execution. I often wonder if those faces, those eager crowds, knew what they were cheering for. Some of the greatest minds that had ever lived forbidden to return to mercy. Scientists, politicians, writers and journalists boarding the greatest vessels ever built: Rose, Sina and Maria. We were heroes and within a year most of us on Maria were dead. Vessels travelling at this speed cannot communicate with each other but I can only assume that the others suffered that same punishment. When I think about those faces, I wonder if they knew. I wonder if they knew that we were sent to die. The places we were sent to, three rocks spinning close to a nearby star, are inhospitable. The first now also named Maria has an atmosphere mostly consisting of vaporized sulfur. We have known for decades that leaving our home system was impossible. The radiation, the debris, the universe is unaccommodating. We are parasites who offer it nothing. If it has noticed us, it wants us dead. I often wonder if those faces knew that they were cheering our beheading. Was it population control? Was it a political move? I do not know what crimes I committed. They came to me and told me that I would be a hero, a champion of the human race. Once they said that, it was clear that I had no choice but to go. This is where I will die. Farther than anyone has ever been from home. I do not know when it will be but I know it will be here. On this ship. No matter how thick we make the walls, they will not protect us. We are stolen matter in a universe eager for justice.	For years, the gentlemen sitting in the mission control room had heard nothing but a repeating, computerized update stating, "All normal, operating capacity 100%". Every hour the message would repeat. It wasn't always this mundane. Years ago, they would receive three messages every hour. They had readouts from each ship displayed on a large screen. One morning, during an early shift, one of the readouts changed. An alarm tone jolted the operators awake and a new message played, "Oxygen system anomaly, operating capacity 87%". The Sina was dying, and they could not place the problem. For three weeks the operators watched the steady decline of this ship's operating capacity. At the end of the third week, the ship stopped making reports all together. Less than one year ago, the second ship, The Rose, disappeared. They had never received any messages stating a problem. It will not be known for almost two more years if the Rose would make it to its target. Now, the men sat and watched over the last ship. Tomorrow it was destined to land on its target planet, Alpha Centuri B-6. The Alpha Centuri system was the closest start system to Earth, and it had been discovered that a small, possibly habitable planet orbiting the B star had been found. It was early, but more mission controllers were filtering in to the doors, prepared to oversee pre-landing procedures. In an hour, a process would start that would awaken the crew of 12. As the process began, flight surgeons monitored vital signs and reported no anomalies. A beep sounded over the intercom, and static filled the room. A voice was heard in the background of the noise, and a radio operator started to tune the receivers orbiting around Earth. A man's voice calmly emanated from the speakers, "Houston control, Houston control, Maria calling. All systems running normal, preparing to began landing procedures." The flight chief leaned down to his microphone, "God speed Maria."
During a thunderstorm, you're thrown out of space and time to a realm you could have never imagined. Describe the experience in 100 words.	[FF] Impossible!	It happened while I had closing duty at the lab. A bolt struck an assortment of chemicals near the door which proceeded to splash me as pain quickened through my nerves. I tried to scream but nothing came out. I opened my eyes. I could see each caustic droplet suspended in air as if I woke up in a Jackson Pollock painting: the illusion of movement without time. Shards of glass fell gently as I avoided them easily. I then heard my previous scream after I returned to where the accident happened. The faster I went after I left, the more the lights in Central City turned from waves into paint. That was the day I fell for that city and decided to protect it as... The Flash!	With a mind-shattering thunderclap, I was propelled into a spiral of obscurity. Movement came in debilitating waves, each one thrashing me around the void that encompassed me. No sense of direction, no gravity, falling one moment and flying the next. Streaks of neon colors shot from each of my flailing limbs, but everything else was absolute blackness. Absent of sound and touch, sight and vertigo my navigators, I remarked that my bones, skin, and body began to dissolve, but I was undaunted. Soon enough, I morphed into the streaks of light, shooting out into the deepening eclipse of time.
During a thunderstorm, you're thrown out of space and time to a realm you could have never imagined. Describe the experience in 100 words.	[FF] Impossible!	"WELCOME TO OUR KINGDOM". I looked around then down, to see a midget wearing a stupid polka dot hat. "ITS BEEN PROPHESIZED THAT A HERO WILL DESCEND AND cough cough" I took another puff of my cigarette and blew into the midget's face. "Hmmm", the midget remarked. "I thought the hero would be... less fat. Never mind and follow me. The Princess has been kidnapped by a dastardly villain..." "Is she hot?" I said as I started walking after him. "Beautiful" he said. "But not the point. Do you happen to have any special skills, mr...?" I thought about it, and said, "Not really, though I did do track and field in high school. High Jump. Oh, call me Mario."	With a mind-shattering thunderclap, I was propelled into a spiral of obscurity. Movement came in debilitating waves, each one thrashing me around the void that encompassed me. No sense of direction, no gravity, falling one moment and flying the next. Streaks of neon colors shot from each of my flailing limbs, but everything else was absolute blackness. Absent of sound and touch, sight and vertigo my navigators, I remarked that my bones, skin, and body began to dissolve, but I was undaunted. Soon enough, I morphed into the streaks of light, shooting out into the deepening eclipse of time.
During a thunderstorm, you're thrown out of space and time to a realm you could have never imagined. Describe the experience in 100 words.	[FF] Impossible!	It happened while I had closing duty at the lab. A bolt struck an assortment of chemicals near the door which proceeded to splash me as pain quickened through my nerves. I tried to scream but nothing came out. I opened my eyes. I could see each caustic droplet suspended in air as if I woke up in a Jackson Pollock painting: the illusion of movement without time. Shards of glass fell gently as I avoided them easily. I then heard my previous scream after I returned to where the accident happened. The faster I went after I left, the more the lights in Central City turned from waves into paint. That was the day I fell for that city and decided to protect it as... The Flash!	I awoke to the sound of rushing water and a throbbing headache. Rubbing my face, I sat up and groaned. I couldn't even open my eyes the pain was so unbearable. What happened? I tried to piece it together, but that damn water was so loud. The last thing I remember, Max was cowering under my legs, whimpering while the storm outside raged. I held my hand out the window to feel the rain and… then what? I edged my eyes open, trying to gain awareness of my surroundings. No. How can this be? Where the hell am I?
During a thunderstorm, you're thrown out of space and time to a realm you could have never imagined. Describe the experience in 100 words.	[FF] Impossible!	"WELCOME TO OUR KINGDOM". I looked around then down, to see a midget wearing a stupid polka dot hat. "ITS BEEN PROPHESIZED THAT A HERO WILL DESCEND AND cough cough" I took another puff of my cigarette and blew into the midget's face. "Hmmm", the midget remarked. "I thought the hero would be... less fat. Never mind and follow me. The Princess has been kidnapped by a dastardly villain..." "Is she hot?" I said as I started walking after him. "Beautiful" he said. "But not the point. Do you happen to have any special skills, mr...?" I thought about it, and said, "Not really, though I did do track and field in high school. High Jump. Oh, call me Mario."	I awoke to the sound of rushing water and a throbbing headache. Rubbing my face, I sat up and groaned. I couldn't even open my eyes the pain was so unbearable. What happened? I tried to piece it together, but that damn water was so loud. The last thing I remember, Max was cowering under my legs, whimpering while the storm outside raged. I held my hand out the window to feel the rain and… then what? I edged my eyes open, trying to gain awareness of my surroundings. No. How can this be? Where the hell am I?
During a thunderstorm, you're thrown out of space and time to a realm you could have never imagined. Describe the experience in 100 words.	[FF] Impossible!	"WELCOME TO OUR KINGDOM". I looked around then down, to see a midget wearing a stupid polka dot hat. "ITS BEEN PROPHESIZED THAT A HERO WILL DESCEND AND cough cough" I took another puff of my cigarette and blew into the midget's face. "Hmmm", the midget remarked. "I thought the hero would be... less fat. Never mind and follow me. The Princess has been kidnapped by a dastardly villain..." "Is she hot?" I said as I started walking after him. "Beautiful" he said. "But not the point. Do you happen to have any special skills, mr...?" I thought about it, and said, "Not really, though I did do track and field in high school. High Jump. Oh, call me Mario."	It happened while I had closing duty at the lab. A bolt struck an assortment of chemicals near the door which proceeded to splash me as pain quickened through my nerves. I tried to scream but nothing came out. I opened my eyes. I could see each caustic droplet suspended in air as if I woke up in a Jackson Pollock painting: the illusion of movement without time. Shards of glass fell gently as I avoided them easily. I then heard my previous scream after I returned to where the accident happened. The faster I went after I left, the more the lights in Central City turned from waves into paint. That was the day I fell for that city and decided to protect it as... The Flash!
For example, imagine Peter Weller as an aging Robocop teaching the next generation Robocop the ropes. It's time to pass the torch! Use your imagination and have fun!	[WP] A Sci-Fi Changing of the Guard Story	Marcus is standing in something called a "server room", surrounded by blinking rows of "racks." He wipes his forehead with his pocket square, and adjusts the shoulder holster hanging under his arm. The sweat is bad for the leather, but even worse for the revolver itself. He hasn't sweat like this since Albuquerque. Christ, that was a shit show. His guide, an extremely young-looking kid from the new computer division, is bent down next to one of the racks, and is saying something about bandwidth and processing speeds. Or something. Marcus is wearing his best suit and the server room is incredibly hot. He can barely hear the guide over the roar of massive fans embedded in the ceiling. At last, the tour group leaves the server room and steps back into the hallway. "And those servers," the kid is saying, "are how we caught the Boston marathon bombers and stopped the Chicago Union Square bomber." At the mention of Chicago, Marcus cannot suppress a snort. What a smarmy little shit, with his stupid computer glasses and his "smartwatch". He cleared his throat, and spoke. "The Chicago bomber was stopped by Bill Gibson. He shot the guy three times, Mozambique-style." The kid nods. "Yes, of course, he was part of the force that we mobilized once our data analytics had determined the optimal patrol size and likely target routes." Marcus wipedshis face again, clearing the last of the sweat from the server room. He pushes his way to the front of the group, the other men moving aside for him. "No, that's bullshit. Bill was a beat cop. That was his beat. He would have been there with or without your bullshit analytics. You guys had nothing to do with it." Marcus stops in front of the kid, intentionally stepping just inside the kid's personal space, forcing him to step back. Old alpha dog trick. "That's how we stop crime. We put our lives on the line. We stand on the wall. We shoot bad guys. That's what we do." The kid's cheek are flushed, now. "Of course, there's always a place for a physical police presence, but I think you'll find that our advanced search algorithms and network of surveillance-" The kid cuts off as Marcus pokes him in the chest. "Bullshit! Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit." Poke, poke, poke. "All the computers in the world aren't going to stop a gunman from killing a baby and its mother. Are you going to be the one to stop him? You going to stand in front of his gun? You going to shoot him?" He is almost nose-to-nose with the kid now. "Son, tell me, have you even shot a gun?" The kid is sweating now, and it's not because of the heat. "No, I haven't." He answers, quietly. "No. Because they don't require that anymore in the academy. Didn't you ever shoot a gun on your own time, didn't your father ever teach you how to shoot?" The kid stands there, mouth open. "Of course not, I'm a Progressive. So is my dad." Marcus stares at him, this kid who wears a badge and has never shot a gun. The others in the tour group mutter beneath their breath to each other. The kid looks from face to face. "Look, I'm sorry, ok? I know you guys are angry about the consolidation. It wasn't our idea, we aren't your enemy. We didn't want to take your offices. We needed more space for the servers, we have to have more capacity." The kid says, almost pleading. "I know you guys saw the stats in the last scrum meeting. Thanks to us, crime is at record lows! And we're going to push it even lower, with the new network, with the camera-bots and the automated patrol rovers." Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Marcus knows that he should just let it go, that he's the odd one out now, but he's heard enough. He pushes the kid against the wall. "Flying cameras? Robot cars? When the shit hits the fan, where will you be? You'll behind your god damn computer, with your keyboard and your mouse, your pasty white skin and your weak ass arms!" For emphasis, he pushes the kid into the wall again. Something in the kid shifts, and he stands up straighter. Looks Marcus in the eye. "For starters, Marcus B. Sterling, I can do a lot more than fly cameras or drive 'robot cars.'" He adjusts his glasses, touching the corner of the frames with one finger. "For instance, I know exactly how much money you have, where the accounts are located, and where you go to drink yourself stupid every night." The kid steps forward., forcing Marcus back a half step. "I know where your wife works, where your daughter goes to college, and who your friends are. If I wanted to, I could steal all your money and send it to fucking Iran, or just zap it into a black hole. Forever. You wouldn't be making that tuition payment due in three weeks, for one thing, and you'd probably go bankrupt in six months from the medical bills for your lung cancer." A few men in the group gasp. Marcus stares at him. "How did you..." "How did I know? Because I'm a fucking professional, Marcus, just like you. I acquired your health records while you were pushing me against the wall like a fucking Neanderthal. If I really wanted to fuck with you, I'd adjust the dosage on the prescription for your mother's heart medication, maybe send her to the hospital to die alone in some shitty ward for poor people. Maybe I'd fuck up the air traffic control so you can't catch a flight in time to hold her hand when she kicks it." The kid surveys the group, shakes his head. "I can make the Mexican cartels start a war with the Texas gangs, just by spoofing a few IPs, sending some fake emails, and moving some money around. I can bring drug trafficking to its knees with ten minutes of work. How many 'bad guys' will kill each other over that, I wonder?" The kid takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes. "The problem with you guys, it's all about the streets with you. You grew hard there, it's what you know, so you expect us to be hard like you. But we don't deal with streets. We deal with bigger problems, ok? And that's why you guys are getting edged out. The money isn't in abusive husbands and petty drug lords. The money is in guys like me, who keep the lights on when Iranian and Chinese assholes want to overload our power grid and plunge this country into darkness. How many people in Minnesota would die if their power and heating systems failed in the middle of winter? A couple thousand? A couple hundred thousand? You guys may stop a few bullets, save a few lives, but we save thousands every day." The kid spreads his hands at his sides, palms up. "We just don't need that many of you anymore, you guys aren't the right tool." Marcus feels sorry for himself, for his guys, for the kid. When did police work become a computer game? He looks at the kid, sees the lean body, the fading acne. He sees someone his daughter might date. "When the power goes out, or the system fails, or whatever, it's guys like us who will be out there, protecting the people and bringing order to the chaos." He says. The kid nods. "That's right, Agent Sterling, sure. I don't disagree. But let's make a deal, alright: my guys? We'll do everything in our power to keep the lights on. And if they go off-" "When they go off," Marcus corrects him. "When they go off, you guys protect us." The kid says. "That sounds about right." Marcus agrees. "One more thing," says the kid. "Yeah? What?" "When the lights do come back on, and they will, we will find those responsible, we will trace them back to their countries, their cities, their homes, and we will shut. them. down." The sober fury in the kid's voice surprises Marcus, and he hears a man's conviction behind it. He grins, and extends his hand. "You got yourself a deal, kid."	Zeera fell flat on her ass. "How are you doing that?" Zeera looked at Tvorak walking up and down the walls, then unto the ceiling. It was as though gravity pulled in whichever direction he wanted it to. "It's all about perception". Tvorak responded. "Convince yourself everything is upside down, and you'll fall upwards. Remember: nothing in the network is real." It has been less than 100 years since the inception of the Neuronet, but more than 90% of the population have opted to upload themselves. Who wouldn't? On the Neuronet, there is no pain, hunger, disease, and you can choose your appearance. Any information at the press of a button, and control over sensations like taste and pleasure are at one's fingertips. "Why are you leaving?" Zeera asked. "The Net is designed to look like the outside for a sense of familiarity, but nothing beats the real thing." Tvorak said wistfully. "I want to see the sun at least once, with my own eyes. You should too, Holographs and 3d-scans don't do it justice." Zeera heard that even among the gatekeepers, Tvorak was strange, but she didn't think he was this mad. All those years catching rogue users must've gotten to him. "I'll never get this wall walking crap..." Zeera said. "It doesn't matter" Tvorak responded. "Very few people can. You need an open mind, but you still pass. By the authority of the OverSystem, I, Tvorak Krazzok, code 44578, deem thee, Zeera Infarei, code 98773, fit for service." "THANK YOU". Zeera threw her arms around Tvorak. "Hey, now. I mostly passed you so I can retire earlier." "You'll come back and see me, won't you?" Zeera asked. "I'm probably logging off permanently. But if you're ever in the real world..." "Which means, never." Zeera responded. Tvorak shook his head. "You should have an open mind". That made Zeera mad. She took a step towards the wall and put a foot on it. I'll show you an open mind, she thought. She started walking up the wall, and fell flat on her ass.
I have the feeling this will be good.	[WP]You're a spin doctor in the PR department. Employees in your company have been spontaneously combusting. Assure the public that everything is fine.	Hello everyone. Thanks for coming. I'd just like to make a quick statement about the grossly exaggerated reports of spontaneous combustion that have been going around. First of all let me begin by saying that ABV chemicals is a safe working zone. All our safety regulations and approvals are up to the mark. Copies will be handed out later, if you need one. Regarding the reports of employees spontaneously combusting, these are completely unfounded. Yes, there have been certain incidences of deaths that have taken place over the last week, however, they have just coincidentally occurred in the same week. The cause of death of these employees is still under investigation. Preliminary reports are inconclusive, hence, we do not wish to rush to any declarations. The deaths have all involved fires, however, this is a chemical company, and even though employees are all excessively trained in fire safety procedures, unexpected incidences do occur from time to time. I would request you to allow us, and the police, to investigate the matter in peace, as the health and safety of our employees is of the utmost important to us here at ABV Chemicals. In the meanwhile let me remind you that all our employees sign confidentiality clauses at the time of undertaking employment with ABV, so we request you to not pressurise anyone into doing something that might counter their contracts with ABV. Thank you all for understanding the need for sensitivity with this issue. Our thoughts and prayers are with the families of Ian, Jane, and Rohan. We will be in touch once new information is available. I will not be available for questions at present. Thank you for your time.	If you wanna feel good and not blow to pieces, eat friend chicken. Fried chicken is delicious! Sorry, I couldn't help myself. Visioneers is a favorite movie of mine.
I have the feeling this will be good.	[WP]You're a spin doctor in the PR department. Employees in your company have been spontaneously combusting. Assure the public that everything is fine.	re: blown out of proportion It has become apparent that a few well meaning but overly enthusiastic members of our HR department have become a bit too exuberant in their actions. Rest assured we will ask them to tone it down a bit as we understand that the standard method of firing employees is messy enough as is.	If you wanna feel good and not blow to pieces, eat friend chicken. Fried chicken is delicious! Sorry, I couldn't help myself. Visioneers is a favorite movie of mine.
I have the feeling this will be good.	[WP]You're a spin doctor in the PR department. Employees in your company have been spontaneously combusting. Assure the public that everything is fine.	Hello everyone. Thanks for coming. I'd just like to make a quick statement about the grossly exaggerated reports of spontaneous combustion that have been going around. First of all let me begin by saying that ABV chemicals is a safe working zone. All our safety regulations and approvals are up to the mark. Copies will be handed out later, if you need one. Regarding the reports of employees spontaneously combusting, these are completely unfounded. Yes, there have been certain incidences of deaths that have taken place over the last week, however, they have just coincidentally occurred in the same week. The cause of death of these employees is still under investigation. Preliminary reports are inconclusive, hence, we do not wish to rush to any declarations. The deaths have all involved fires, however, this is a chemical company, and even though employees are all excessively trained in fire safety procedures, unexpected incidences do occur from time to time. I would request you to allow us, and the police, to investigate the matter in peace, as the health and safety of our employees is of the utmost important to us here at ABV Chemicals. In the meanwhile let me remind you that all our employees sign confidentiality clauses at the time of undertaking employment with ABV, so we request you to not pressurise anyone into doing something that might counter their contracts with ABV. Thank you all for understanding the need for sensitivity with this issue. Our thoughts and prayers are with the families of Ian, Jane, and Rohan. We will be in touch once new information is available. I will not be available for questions at present. Thank you for your time.	The rapture is upon us. Hallelujah.
I have the feeling this will be good.	[WP]You're a spin doctor in the PR department. Employees in your company have been spontaneously combusting. Assure the public that everything is fine.	re: blown out of proportion It has become apparent that a few well meaning but overly enthusiastic members of our HR department have become a bit too exuberant in their actions. Rest assured we will ask them to tone it down a bit as we understand that the standard method of firing employees is messy enough as is.	The rapture is upon us. Hallelujah.
I have the feeling this will be good.	[WP]You're a spin doctor in the PR department. Employees in your company have been spontaneously combusting. Assure the public that everything is fine.	We've been testing out those three simple tricks to quick weight loss discovered by a local housewife, and now we know why the drug companies hate her! We were skeptical at first but after a week of trying out her method we saw unbelievable results. The amount of calories burned just while sitting at our desks was astounding. We got to watched the pounds melt away before our very eyes! Our staff lost a combined total of over 350 pounds in just TWO WEEKS! Scientists can't explain it, but you can't argue with those numbers! You want in on our secret? Click below to be added to our mailing list!	"Hello, I am a spin doctor in the PR department. Employees in my company have been spontaneously combusting. Everything is fine."
I have the feeling this will be good.	[WP]You're a spin doctor in the PR department. Employees in your company have been spontaneously combusting. Assure the public that everything is fine.	TO: all@weylandyutani.com RE: Lobby Incident There are a lot of rumors going around about the incident in the lobby this morning. First, all our thoughts and prayers go out to the Jiang, Richards, Thomas-Clark and Thorne families. Funeral services are pending, the HR department will email you the details as soon as they become available. A sympathy card and collection jar are in the FIFTH floor break room for all employees. Lets show that WY spirit! If there's one thing this incident reminds us, it's the importance of safety. The third floor genetics lab will be CLOSED until an investigation into safety procedures can be completed. ALL laboratory personnel are reminded not to take experimental materials out of the laboratory floors. This incident, although tragic, is an isolated one. Work will continue as usual while WY completes their investigation. Employees are reminded that sharing sensitive information about ongoing WY activities is grounds for dismissal. MANDATORY emotional counseling sessions will be scheduled this afternoon for all employees in the CDC tents in the parking lot. Watch your inbox for more information! DO NOT miss your appointment. We will track you down! (That means you too, Gordon!) :) Thanks! Katie Stream Acting Head of HR (Miss ya, Paul!)	"Hello, I am a spin doctor in the PR department. Employees in my company have been spontaneously combusting. Everything is fine."
I have the feeling this will be good.	[WP]You're a spin doctor in the PR department. Employees in your company have been spontaneously combusting. Assure the public that everything is fine.	Hello, thank you for your questions. We would just like to allay any concerns that you may have over reports focussing on our revolutionary new in-house climate control system. In line with the world-wide trend towards maximizing energy efficiency and reducing carbon footprints, we have developed an exemplary method of effectively transferring building heating from an inefficient, large-scale format to a more personalized service directly adapted to individual needs. As expected, certain individuals are taking longer than others to adapt to the new system and require additional training to fine-tune their personal climate control preferences. However, our engineers assure us that this process should be completed shortly.	"Hello, I am a spin doctor in the PR department. Employees in my company have been spontaneously combusting. Everything is fine."
I have the feeling this will be good.	[WP]You're a spin doctor in the PR department. Employees in your company have been spontaneously combusting. Assure the public that everything is fine.	TO: all@weylandyutani.com RE: Lobby Incident There are a lot of rumors going around about the incident in the lobby this morning. First, all our thoughts and prayers go out to the Jiang, Richards, Thomas-Clark and Thorne families. Funeral services are pending, the HR department will email you the details as soon as they become available. A sympathy card and collection jar are in the FIFTH floor break room for all employees. Lets show that WY spirit! If there's one thing this incident reminds us, it's the importance of safety. The third floor genetics lab will be CLOSED until an investigation into safety procedures can be completed. ALL laboratory personnel are reminded not to take experimental materials out of the laboratory floors. This incident, although tragic, is an isolated one. Work will continue as usual while WY completes their investigation. Employees are reminded that sharing sensitive information about ongoing WY activities is grounds for dismissal. MANDATORY emotional counseling sessions will be scheduled this afternoon for all employees in the CDC tents in the parking lot. Watch your inbox for more information! DO NOT miss your appointment. We will track you down! (That means you too, Gordon!) :) Thanks! Katie Stream Acting Head of HR (Miss ya, Paul!)	We've been testing out those three simple tricks to quick weight loss discovered by a local housewife, and now we know why the drug companies hate her! We were skeptical at first but after a week of trying out her method we saw unbelievable results. The amount of calories burned just while sitting at our desks was astounding. We got to watched the pounds melt away before our very eyes! Our staff lost a combined total of over 350 pounds in just TWO WEEKS! Scientists can't explain it, but you can't argue with those numbers! You want in on our secret? Click below to be added to our mailing list!
And no, he's not Speedball. Write an event where he or she or it is forced to use this power.	[WP] Your character has the lamest superpower ever.	"Alright" Dave happily thought, as he reached for the coat. He was nervous, with butterflies in his stomach at full blast. A glass of water was on his mohagony nightstand, right where he left it the night before. He drank it in two long gulps, trying to wash away the nerves. Dave grabbed his pen and walked out the door with a smile. He started the car, slowly easing his car down the driveway. Less than ten minutes later, Dave Smith unbuckled his seatbelt and ducked out of his 1982 Honda. He took a deep breath of the smoggy air, looking around as he did so. Mr. Smith pranced into the room with a bounce in his stride and sat down. He stared at a tall, bulky man, at about the age of 34, trying to lift a giant weight. The chords in the man's neck were bulging, his face a red as deep as bull's blood. The hue was unnatural at the very least. That steroid guy doesn't even have a chance against me! Dave mumbled to himself. He knew his super power was the best, hands down. Mr. Smith then started to massage his hands. Man, this is taking forever! He started to become impatient. He wanted to get it over with, the sooner the better, so the judges didn't have to waste their time with everyone else and their crappy super powers. Dave's was legit. "Dave Smith, Dave Smith, The judges are ready!" A lady through the intercom began to speak. He then got up out of his chair and nonchalantly bounced to the judging area. I got this in the bag! Dave thought. "Alrighty, Dave, show us what you got." He began to roll up his sleeves. The judges wouldn't know what hit them. "My super power is..." Dave dramatically paused, just as he did when he rehearsed it in his head. "Is the ability to grow my fingernails very long almost instantly!" The judges began to snicker loudly, doing a bad job to hide it, too. One lady even had the nerve to roll her eyes! "Why are you laughing?" Dave was mad. How the hell could someone be so obnoxious? Probably because they're jealous, he assured himself. "This is probably the best super power you have seen today!" "Just go on. Get it over with." "Fine. Now, as you can see, my fingernails are growing at an exponential rate. Give it a couple of seconds and you will know! What's the bother waiting, just give me the prize; you know I'll win it." Whispers were heard among the judges. Odd glances and laughter, too. Minutes passed, and there was only about a quarter inch more nail. "Next." "Wait! What? Why? This is awesome! Look! I'm serious, these fingernails are super long!" "Next! Security!" "No, security. Stay there! These judges are delusional, I say, delusional!" Two big men picked him up and threw him into the parking lot. I guess some people just don't have what it takes to know true talent	The deep boom that Robert produced could bring anyone to their knees; and on February 2nd he had his chance. The bank was surrounded by cops aiming for the robbers inside. The situation looked dire as hostages were shot one after the other. Robert knew this was his time. Pushing deftly through the crowd he made his way to the front of the bank doors. The police and gathering towns people cried out in alarm as Robert turned to face them and, bending over slightly, began to smack his asscheeks together. The glass of the doors and windows alike shattered instantly and blood spewed from all the ears of those inside. After his performance Robert was not met with applause, but rather disgusted, wide-eyed stares. He was forever shamed after that day and the smell of his ass cheeks never left that bank.
And no, he's not Speedball. Write an event where he or she or it is forced to use this power.	[WP] Your character has the lamest superpower ever.	"Boop."	The deep boom that Robert produced could bring anyone to their knees; and on February 2nd he had his chance. The bank was surrounded by cops aiming for the robbers inside. The situation looked dire as hostages were shot one after the other. Robert knew this was his time. Pushing deftly through the crowd he made his way to the front of the bank doors. The police and gathering towns people cried out in alarm as Robert turned to face them and, bending over slightly, began to smack his asscheeks together. The glass of the doors and windows alike shattered instantly and blood spewed from all the ears of those inside. After his performance Robert was not met with applause, but rather disgusted, wide-eyed stares. He was forever shamed after that day and the smell of his ass cheeks never left that bank.
And no, he's not Speedball. Write an event where he or she or it is forced to use this power.	[WP] Your character has the lamest superpower ever.	It seems like everybody's getting sweet super powers now and all I get is the ability to turn green things into different shades of green. Can't adjust the shades of any other color, just green. It's pretty pointless, though I finally was able to get that one off colored patch of grass to match the rest of the lawn. But then, I was working the late shift at work and these guys broken into the building, wearing all kinds of high tech commando gear. They killed the lights and started blast everybody away while wearing night vision goggles. This was my chance. I focused on their green night vision displays and changed it to a solid shade of green. They stopped to address the issue of their sudden blindness while I pawed for the door. I managed to get out and call for help before they simply turned the lights on, but at least I made it out safely.	The deep boom that Robert produced could bring anyone to their knees; and on February 2nd he had his chance. The bank was surrounded by cops aiming for the robbers inside. The situation looked dire as hostages were shot one after the other. Robert knew this was his time. Pushing deftly through the crowd he made his way to the front of the bank doors. The police and gathering towns people cried out in alarm as Robert turned to face them and, bending over slightly, began to smack his asscheeks together. The glass of the doors and windows alike shattered instantly and blood spewed from all the ears of those inside. After his performance Robert was not met with applause, but rather disgusted, wide-eyed stares. He was forever shamed after that day and the smell of his ass cheeks never left that bank.
And no, he's not Speedball. Write an event where he or she or it is forced to use this power.	[WP] Your character has the lamest superpower ever.	"What's up, buddy?" Chester opened his mouth to reply, but Ryan cut off him. "C'mon man, you know you don't have to do that anymore." Chester closed his mouth, he thought his reply instead. What Ryan got was a tangled mess of half formed ideas and emotions. "Yeah, we'll go out tonight, don't worry." Fuck. Chester always wanted to go out, and Ryan just wanted to stay in and eat his goddamn cheesy puffs and watch some goddamn TV. He did a lot of that nowadays, ever since they fired him from his job. Creating a disturbance they had said, we can't have you around anymore. Assholes. So that's what he did now. Ate cheesy puffs and watched TV. But Chester was always trying to cheer him up, and going out was the only real way he knew of cheering up anyone. He was a good friend, a bit dumb, but good friends usually are. Ryan didn't know why he had been given this power. Or how. Maybe it was just an incredibly mundane dream. Telepathy was the power, of course. Some fucking telepathy it was. It didn't really convey messages real well. Just urges. Like out or hungry or sex. You could get those from body language, didn't need some fucking supernatural bullshit to tell you. He tapped back into Chester's mind. He did that during commercials. It was wonderfully empty most of the time and helped him relax. He wondered if maybe Chester was just a heavy opiate user, but no...that didn't make sense, did it? It was more likely that Chester was just stupid. Totally, blissfully stupid. But this time, he didn't find emptiness. This time it was alarm. Mild, but increasing, panic. Shit......Shit.....Shit..Shitshitshitshitshitshit. Ryan sprang from the couch and sprinted to his room, ramming his shoulder into the doorframe. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit He grabbed the nearest shirt and vaulted his bed, sliding to Chester's side like fucking Tom Cruise sliding away from...I don't know, Russian terrorists or some shit. Whatever Tom Cruise slides away from. He got the shirt under Chester's ass just in time, as brown nuggets plopped self-satisfyingly onto the shirt. Ryan hadn't know that poop could look self satisfied, but he did now. He peeked back into Chester's head. Yay But Ryan already knew that. It was obvious from the wagging tail. He figured he could shoot some guilt into Chester's head, but what was the point? He never learned. He checked which shirt was ruined by assblast. It was his old work shirt. The patch on the front read Morris Dog Shelter. Served them right, assholes.	The deep boom that Robert produced could bring anyone to their knees; and on February 2nd he had his chance. The bank was surrounded by cops aiming for the robbers inside. The situation looked dire as hostages were shot one after the other. Robert knew this was his time. Pushing deftly through the crowd he made his way to the front of the bank doors. The police and gathering towns people cried out in alarm as Robert turned to face them and, bending over slightly, began to smack his asscheeks together. The glass of the doors and windows alike shattered instantly and blood spewed from all the ears of those inside. After his performance Robert was not met with applause, but rather disgusted, wide-eyed stares. He was forever shamed after that day and the smell of his ass cheeks never left that bank.
And no, he's not Speedball. Write an event where he or she or it is forced to use this power.	[WP] Your character has the lamest superpower ever.	Marcus Wright was reaching out to turn up the dial on the car radio when the feeling hit him. A tingling swept through his body, as if he were being electrified. Marcus's wife looked at him, her brow furrowed. "Is it happening again?" "Yes," Marcus said under his breath. He pressed his fingertips to his temple. The tingling was pulling him to the left. "I knew we shouldn't have come this way," Mrs. Wright sighed. "Mommy, what's going on? Is daddy sick?" Marcus's daughter, Wendy asked, leaning forward to see into the front seat. Mrs. Wright rolled her eyes. "Don't worry, honey. Marcus, if you get out of the car, I'll --" But Marcus was already putting the car into park. "Monica, you don't understand. I have a gift. It's my responsibility to use it to help others!" Marcus opened the car door and leaped out into the toll booth plaza. The man in the car next to his turned and stared as Marcus rushed along the line of cars to a blue sedan, the last in line. Marcus knocked on the window. With hesitation, the driver wound it down. "Madam!" Marcus cried. "I have to tell you-- the line of the booth to your left is moving the fastest. In the interests of time and efficiency, it is to your benefit to move your car right now!" Marcus scurried back to his own car, the traffic behind him honking and screaming. As he slid back behind the steering wheel, he held his head up high. Just another day in the life of a mediocre-hero.	The deep boom that Robert produced could bring anyone to their knees; and on February 2nd he had his chance. The bank was surrounded by cops aiming for the robbers inside. The situation looked dire as hostages were shot one after the other. Robert knew this was his time. Pushing deftly through the crowd he made his way to the front of the bank doors. The police and gathering towns people cried out in alarm as Robert turned to face them and, bending over slightly, began to smack his asscheeks together. The glass of the doors and windows alike shattered instantly and blood spewed from all the ears of those inside. After his performance Robert was not met with applause, but rather disgusted, wide-eyed stares. He was forever shamed after that day and the smell of his ass cheeks never left that bank.
And no, he's not Speedball. Write an event where he or she or it is forced to use this power.	[WP] Your character has the lamest superpower ever.	It seems like everybody's getting sweet super powers now and all I get is the ability to turn green things into different shades of green. Can't adjust the shades of any other color, just green. It's pretty pointless, though I finally was able to get that one off colored patch of grass to match the rest of the lawn. But then, I was working the late shift at work and these guys broken into the building, wearing all kinds of high tech commando gear. They killed the lights and started blast everybody away while wearing night vision goggles. This was my chance. I focused on their green night vision displays and changed it to a solid shade of green. They stopped to address the issue of their sudden blindness while I pawed for the door. I managed to get out and call for help before they simply turned the lights on, but at least I made it out safely.	"Alright" Dave happily thought, as he reached for the coat. He was nervous, with butterflies in his stomach at full blast. A glass of water was on his mohagony nightstand, right where he left it the night before. He drank it in two long gulps, trying to wash away the nerves. Dave grabbed his pen and walked out the door with a smile. He started the car, slowly easing his car down the driveway. Less than ten minutes later, Dave Smith unbuckled his seatbelt and ducked out of his 1982 Honda. He took a deep breath of the smoggy air, looking around as he did so. Mr. Smith pranced into the room with a bounce in his stride and sat down. He stared at a tall, bulky man, at about the age of 34, trying to lift a giant weight. The chords in the man's neck were bulging, his face a red as deep as bull's blood. The hue was unnatural at the very least. That steroid guy doesn't even have a chance against me! Dave mumbled to himself. He knew his super power was the best, hands down. Mr. Smith then started to massage his hands. Man, this is taking forever! He started to become impatient. He wanted to get it over with, the sooner the better, so the judges didn't have to waste their time with everyone else and their crappy super powers. Dave's was legit. "Dave Smith, Dave Smith, The judges are ready!" A lady through the intercom began to speak. He then got up out of his chair and nonchalantly bounced to the judging area. I got this in the bag! Dave thought. "Alrighty, Dave, show us what you got." He began to roll up his sleeves. The judges wouldn't know what hit them. "My super power is..." Dave dramatically paused, just as he did when he rehearsed it in his head. "Is the ability to grow my fingernails very long almost instantly!" The judges began to snicker loudly, doing a bad job to hide it, too. One lady even had the nerve to roll her eyes! "Why are you laughing?" Dave was mad. How the hell could someone be so obnoxious? Probably because they're jealous, he assured himself. "This is probably the best super power you have seen today!" "Just go on. Get it over with." "Fine. Now, as you can see, my fingernails are growing at an exponential rate. Give it a couple of seconds and you will know! What's the bother waiting, just give me the prize; you know I'll win it." Whispers were heard among the judges. Odd glances and laughter, too. Minutes passed, and there was only about a quarter inch more nail. "Next." "Wait! What? Why? This is awesome! Look! I'm serious, these fingernails are super long!" "Next! Security!" "No, security. Stay there! These judges are delusional, I say, delusional!" Two big men picked him up and threw him into the parking lot. I guess some people just don't have what it takes to know true talent
And no, he's not Speedball. Write an event where he or she or it is forced to use this power.	[WP] Your character has the lamest superpower ever.	"What's up, buddy?" Chester opened his mouth to reply, but Ryan cut off him. "C'mon man, you know you don't have to do that anymore." Chester closed his mouth, he thought his reply instead. What Ryan got was a tangled mess of half formed ideas and emotions. "Yeah, we'll go out tonight, don't worry." Fuck. Chester always wanted to go out, and Ryan just wanted to stay in and eat his goddamn cheesy puffs and watch some goddamn TV. He did a lot of that nowadays, ever since they fired him from his job. Creating a disturbance they had said, we can't have you around anymore. Assholes. So that's what he did now. Ate cheesy puffs and watched TV. But Chester was always trying to cheer him up, and going out was the only real way he knew of cheering up anyone. He was a good friend, a bit dumb, but good friends usually are. Ryan didn't know why he had been given this power. Or how. Maybe it was just an incredibly mundane dream. Telepathy was the power, of course. Some fucking telepathy it was. It didn't really convey messages real well. Just urges. Like out or hungry or sex. You could get those from body language, didn't need some fucking supernatural bullshit to tell you. He tapped back into Chester's mind. He did that during commercials. It was wonderfully empty most of the time and helped him relax. He wondered if maybe Chester was just a heavy opiate user, but no...that didn't make sense, did it? It was more likely that Chester was just stupid. Totally, blissfully stupid. But this time, he didn't find emptiness. This time it was alarm. Mild, but increasing, panic. Shit......Shit.....Shit..Shitshitshitshitshitshit. Ryan sprang from the couch and sprinted to his room, ramming his shoulder into the doorframe. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit He grabbed the nearest shirt and vaulted his bed, sliding to Chester's side like fucking Tom Cruise sliding away from...I don't know, Russian terrorists or some shit. Whatever Tom Cruise slides away from. He got the shirt under Chester's ass just in time, as brown nuggets plopped self-satisfyingly onto the shirt. Ryan hadn't know that poop could look self satisfied, but he did now. He peeked back into Chester's head. Yay But Ryan already knew that. It was obvious from the wagging tail. He figured he could shoot some guilt into Chester's head, but what was the point? He never learned. He checked which shirt was ruined by assblast. It was his old work shirt. The patch on the front read Morris Dog Shelter. Served them right, assholes.	"Alright" Dave happily thought, as he reached for the coat. He was nervous, with butterflies in his stomach at full blast. A glass of water was on his mohagony nightstand, right where he left it the night before. He drank it in two long gulps, trying to wash away the nerves. Dave grabbed his pen and walked out the door with a smile. He started the car, slowly easing his car down the driveway. Less than ten minutes later, Dave Smith unbuckled his seatbelt and ducked out of his 1982 Honda. He took a deep breath of the smoggy air, looking around as he did so. Mr. Smith pranced into the room with a bounce in his stride and sat down. He stared at a tall, bulky man, at about the age of 34, trying to lift a giant weight. The chords in the man's neck were bulging, his face a red as deep as bull's blood. The hue was unnatural at the very least. That steroid guy doesn't even have a chance against me! Dave mumbled to himself. He knew his super power was the best, hands down. Mr. Smith then started to massage his hands. Man, this is taking forever! He started to become impatient. He wanted to get it over with, the sooner the better, so the judges didn't have to waste their time with everyone else and their crappy super powers. Dave's was legit. "Dave Smith, Dave Smith, The judges are ready!" A lady through the intercom began to speak. He then got up out of his chair and nonchalantly bounced to the judging area. I got this in the bag! Dave thought. "Alrighty, Dave, show us what you got." He began to roll up his sleeves. The judges wouldn't know what hit them. "My super power is..." Dave dramatically paused, just as he did when he rehearsed it in his head. "Is the ability to grow my fingernails very long almost instantly!" The judges began to snicker loudly, doing a bad job to hide it, too. One lady even had the nerve to roll her eyes! "Why are you laughing?" Dave was mad. How the hell could someone be so obnoxious? Probably because they're jealous, he assured himself. "This is probably the best super power you have seen today!" "Just go on. Get it over with." "Fine. Now, as you can see, my fingernails are growing at an exponential rate. Give it a couple of seconds and you will know! What's the bother waiting, just give me the prize; you know I'll win it." Whispers were heard among the judges. Odd glances and laughter, too. Minutes passed, and there was only about a quarter inch more nail. "Next." "Wait! What? Why? This is awesome! Look! I'm serious, these fingernails are super long!" "Next! Security!" "No, security. Stay there! These judges are delusional, I say, delusional!" Two big men picked him up and threw him into the parking lot. I guess some people just don't have what it takes to know true talent
And no, he's not Speedball. Write an event where he or she or it is forced to use this power.	[WP] Your character has the lamest superpower ever.	It seems like everybody's getting sweet super powers now and all I get is the ability to turn green things into different shades of green. Can't adjust the shades of any other color, just green. It's pretty pointless, though I finally was able to get that one off colored patch of grass to match the rest of the lawn. But then, I was working the late shift at work and these guys broken into the building, wearing all kinds of high tech commando gear. They killed the lights and started blast everybody away while wearing night vision goggles. This was my chance. I focused on their green night vision displays and changed it to a solid shade of green. They stopped to address the issue of their sudden blindness while I pawed for the door. I managed to get out and call for help before they simply turned the lights on, but at least I made it out safely.	"Boop."
And no, he's not Speedball. Write an event where he or she or it is forced to use this power.	[WP] Your character has the lamest superpower ever.	It seems like everybody's getting sweet super powers now and all I get is the ability to turn green things into different shades of green. Can't adjust the shades of any other color, just green. It's pretty pointless, though I finally was able to get that one off colored patch of grass to match the rest of the lawn. But then, I was working the late shift at work and these guys broken into the building, wearing all kinds of high tech commando gear. They killed the lights and started blast everybody away while wearing night vision goggles. This was my chance. I focused on their green night vision displays and changed it to a solid shade of green. They stopped to address the issue of their sudden blindness while I pawed for the door. I managed to get out and call for help before they simply turned the lights on, but at least I made it out safely.	Another day at the office, another 8 hours of working just to scrape by and come home to his wife who happily greets him upon his arrival. That's what John Greene knows as his life for the last 8 years after landing a "great opportunity" in the city after graduating with his Masters in Financing. It wasn't his greatest accomplishment, and by far it isn't what he prides himself on. No, John Greene has had an ability that was unique only to himself, ever since he could imagine. Ever since grade school, John always had a knack to get rid of the bullies on the playground would pick on him. He remembers the first time that he was targeted by one of the bigger kids, Clarence. Clarence had all of his other bully friends gang up on John because John's family was one of the wealthiest in town and had enough to give John lunch money every day to buy whatever he wanted. Naturally, Clarence wanted a cut of it, not like he needed to eat anymore than what is inside him already. John remembers being beaten down to the ground and hit repeatedly. He was just wishing that the bullies would go away, even throwing the money at them to get them off. Clarence and the gang enjoyed beating John up, and even with the desired reward, continued. John, struggling on the ground couldn't handle it anymore and just wished that there was anyway for them to be repelled from him. Just then, as if his prayers had been answered, the bullies stopped mid punch and kick to cover their noses. A terrible stench was being emitted from John, but, he is sure he didn't soil himself or fart. The other kids passed out around him. John stood up and realized that the smell went away once he was out of danger. He knew this was his chance to change his life. Now that he is older however, John doesn't use his power to fight crimes. Heavens no, that'd be silly. John likes his quiet life at the office, even though he despises sitting in a cube for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. John enjoys letting a smell or two out whenever one of his annoying coworkers comes to talk about his new kid that John has honestly no care for. Or when his boss shows up to talk about how he missed a deadline, he knows he will be gone and call up the plumbers to check on the pipes. No one knows it's him. He prefers it that way. He knows it isn't the best ability in the world, but he puts it to his best advantage. How much happier can one be controlling the outcomes of one's interactions...to a degree at least?
And no, he's not Speedball. Write an event where he or she or it is forced to use this power.	[WP] Your character has the lamest superpower ever.	"Hello everyone I'm Jeremy's mother. and I'm here to talk to you about sexual health." A million sets of eyes turn to face me and I life my head up and drop it down on the desk a few times. "Now I know all of you are much to young for sex but I do have a teen aged boy at home and I know there's other stuff you're going to get up to. SO. Let's talk about masturbation." I can't stand it. I put my body down flat on my desk and release my souls hold on it. I float above myself for a second before I feel myself being drawn away. Everything goes dark for a second and then I open my eyes. There are sounds all around but they're too deep to make out. I walk on the crunchy floor over to my wheel and climb on. I start running as I watch the rest of the class through my cage.	Another day at the office, another 8 hours of working just to scrape by and come home to his wife who happily greets him upon his arrival. That's what John Greene knows as his life for the last 8 years after landing a "great opportunity" in the city after graduating with his Masters in Financing. It wasn't his greatest accomplishment, and by far it isn't what he prides himself on. No, John Greene has had an ability that was unique only to himself, ever since he could imagine. Ever since grade school, John always had a knack to get rid of the bullies on the playground would pick on him. He remembers the first time that he was targeted by one of the bigger kids, Clarence. Clarence had all of his other bully friends gang up on John because John's family was one of the wealthiest in town and had enough to give John lunch money every day to buy whatever he wanted. Naturally, Clarence wanted a cut of it, not like he needed to eat anymore than what is inside him already. John remembers being beaten down to the ground and hit repeatedly. He was just wishing that the bullies would go away, even throwing the money at them to get them off. Clarence and the gang enjoyed beating John up, and even with the desired reward, continued. John, struggling on the ground couldn't handle it anymore and just wished that there was anyway for them to be repelled from him. Just then, as if his prayers had been answered, the bullies stopped mid punch and kick to cover their noses. A terrible stench was being emitted from John, but, he is sure he didn't soil himself or fart. The other kids passed out around him. John stood up and realized that the smell went away once he was out of danger. He knew this was his chance to change his life. Now that he is older however, John doesn't use his power to fight crimes. Heavens no, that'd be silly. John likes his quiet life at the office, even though he despises sitting in a cube for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. John enjoys letting a smell or two out whenever one of his annoying coworkers comes to talk about his new kid that John has honestly no care for. Or when his boss shows up to talk about how he missed a deadline, he knows he will be gone and call up the plumbers to check on the pipes. No one knows it's him. He prefers it that way. He knows it isn't the best ability in the world, but he puts it to his best advantage. How much happier can one be controlling the outcomes of one's interactions...to a degree at least?

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