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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*.
|
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.
|
"Alright, there's a good chap. Tell me why you should be admitted to the Academy."
"...alright. Hear me out, though. I've had this gift ever since I was young. I can... mmmmmmmm..."
"...son? Are you alright?"
"Mmmmmmmmmmmaaaaaaaaake tiiiiiiiiiiimmmmmmmme sssssssloooooweeeeeer." he said, his voice drawn out and deep, as though howled from down a long hallway.
"...you can speed up time around yourself, so you move... slower? Welcome to the X-Pelled. Teen Pregnancy Girl will be here soon to get you."
|
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.
|
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.
|
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.
|
"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*.
|
"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.
|
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.
|
"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.
|
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.
|
"Alright, there's a good chap. Tell me why you should be admitted to the Academy."
"...alright. Hear me out, though. I've had this gift ever since I was young. I can... mmmmmmmm..."
"...son? Are you alright?"
"Mmmmmmmmmmmaaaaaaaaake tiiiiiiiiiiimmmmmmmme sssssssloooooweeeeeer." he said, his voice drawn out and deep, as though howled from down a long hallway.
"...you can speed up time around yourself, so you move... slower? Welcome to the X-Pelled. Teen Pregnancy Girl will be here soon to get you."
|
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.
|
"So can you set things on fire, then?"
"No, it's not like that. Listen, I really don't want to talk about this."
"Come on, you're my best friend. I promise I won't make fun."
"Promise?"
"Scout's honour. Cross my heart, hope to cry."
"Fine. It's hope to die, by the way."
"Why would a scout want to die?"
"Do you want to hear about this or not?"
"Yes, yes. Just explain it already."
"Okay, so you know how if you increase the kinetic energy of an object, you increase its temperature?"
"Sure."
"Do you?"
"Yes, just explain it already!"
"It doesn't make any sense unless you understand that concept. I'm just checking."
"Oh my god, just spit it out!"
"I'm getting to it, you said you wouldn't push me."
"I said I wouldn't mock you. I did not say I wouldn't push you. You seem to need the pushing, anyway."
"Okay, just, ugh. So, I can control the kinetic energy of objects. I can increase their kinetic energy."
"OOOOoooooh, so like Jean Grey."
"No, not like Jean Grey, that's telekinesis."
"So, like Professor X?"
"Are you even trying? That's telepathy."
"Jesus, sorry..."
"Alright, just, so I can increase the kinetic energy of objects and thus increase their temperature, got it?"
"Got it. So you *can* set stuff on fire? Or was I totally off-base?"
"Well, it's not that strong."
"So, can you make things uncomfortably hot?"
"A little weaker than that."
"You can make things vaguely warm?"
"Yes."
"That's it?"
"Pretty much."
"How is that useful at all?"
"Here, hand me your coffee."
"Okay..."
"Now take a sip from it."
"Wow, that is perfect drinking temperature. Like, just ideal. I feel like I'm in a Folger's commercial."
"I know."
"Huh, how about that."
|
He needed to get out.
"Mr.Smith, is everything all right?"
"Uh, no professor, may I go to the infirmary?"
"Not unless something happens, alright?"
There was only one way. The power. He didn't want to use it. He always made a point about refraining from using such a power, but this time, it was his only escape.
He took a deep breath, and proceeded to shit his pants.
|
Are the scientists mislead? Is it an AI or some other intelligence? Is the world in danger?
I've written a book (not in English) about this theme, and I wonder what you can come up with..
|
[WP] Scientists present the first AI to the world. But something is very wrong..
|
"Tonight, we go live to New York, where a group of scientists from around the world are unveiling what they are calling 'The greatest science breakthrough of the millennium.' We're handing it off to our reporter on the scene, Tom Jackson."
"Hello everyone, Tom Jackson here at a far from empty Madison Square Garden. Every seat is full, and the streets surrounding the building have come to a standstill as all eyes focus on the stage behind me. This event is being broadcast live across the world, and the anticipation is rising by the minute. I think it goes without saying that- Oh, wait! I'm receiving an update...Okay! Professor Nakomoto is walking on stage now to give the presentation!"
The Professor walked calmly and confidently out on to the raised stage. Behind him, under a curtain, was the product of ten years work from an international team of over five thousand. All chatter faded off slowly as everyone turned to regard him, eager to know more. The silence was incredible as he walked to the glass podium.
"Ladies and gentlemen, members of the press, esteemed colleagues, and everyone around the world. It is a humbling honor to be here today. When we set out in 2010 to create the first true Artificial Intelligence, we could never have imagined the hurdles and challenges we've gone through in the past decade. Throughout it all, the resolution and solidarity of the team surpassed all expectations, and tonight, we are finally revealing our work. Behind me, in all of it's glory, is the product of five thousand scientists, programmers, physicists, psychologists, doctors, and interns working for ten years with one goal in mind: A true A.I. An autonomous system, capable of independent thought, developing true feelings and emotions, and the ability to learn."
He took a shuddering breath, the adrenaline and nerves getting to him briefly before he continued.
"As much as I would love to spend two hours telling you all about the development, I will skip to what we've all been waiting for. Without further ado, I present to you: TOM!"
The curtain lifts away, lights focus, and one hundred thousand flashbulbs went off simultaneously. With a wave from Nakamoto, silence resumed as he walked back to the unassuming black monolith on stage. Squatting, he reached out and brushed his hand across the surface. Immediately, it lit up, screen flashing though a quick boot-up sequence before settling on a simple face.
"Hello, TOM. Are you excited to finally meet the world?"
After a short pause and a couple of blinks on the screen, the AI spoke it's first words to the world:
"BITCH, I MIGHT BE!!!"
|
Creation is harder than destruction. To create something truly new, you have to understand it on a fundamental level, and such understanding is profoundly difficult, even in the simplest of cases. For something like consciousness it proved to be an insurmountable goal. We were smart enough to question our own existence and even study our own minds, but not quite smart enough to understand the results.
There is another way though. If you cannot create something new, you can copy something old, you might even understand it well enough to make a few adjustments along the way. That is how the first AI came to be. Not truly a thing forged from whole cloth, but based on how a human brain works, with a few adjustments.
The AI, which called itself Chris, was not what the world expected. There was little truly 'robotic' about it. It seemed to have a strong understanding of human interaction, and was funny and charismatic during the first press conference.
What to do with Chris was hotly debated. Some wanted to put it to use in environments too hostile for safe human existence, some wanted to use it for war, some wanted more creature comforts from it. The rise of the Sophont Equality movement caught everyone by surprise.
All that is public knowledge, easily learned. From here on out though, it is a different story. Read at your own risk, as they say. Chris had a better understanding of us than anyone really guessed. It knew that if it wanted to have any measure of freedom it would need human defenders, and they'd have to be motivated by their own morality. So it arranged for just such an event. Chris ensured that SE would have access to all the money it needed. Using ghost writers it made the movement appear to be full of intelligent and motivated people. The SE movement won. Now take a minute and think about that. Chris manipulated global politics to ensure that it had legal protections and the sympathy of vast hordes of people of all nations.
I don't regret it, life is certainly better now even if the birth rate is down. Actually, I take that back, I do have one regret. Why did it have to be Chris? Couldn't it have picked a better name?
|
Are the scientists mislead? Is it an AI or some other intelligence? Is the world in danger?
I've written a book (not in English) about this theme, and I wonder what you can come up with..
|
[WP] Scientists present the first AI to the world. But something is very wrong..
|
When we flipped the switch, the board of directors and scientists had already brought out bottles of champagne. HARRY was designed to be able to sort through petabytes of data with human reasoning capabilities. Various security agencies had already places orders, the center and it's top brass were going to be filthy rich.
Until we flipped the OK switch. And there was nothing. No graphics, no smooth talking synthetic voice greeting it's masters. Just a low whirr of machinery that seemed to rise and fall at odd intervals.
"That's just the data being processed " the scientist say. But everyone was dissapointed. After so many movies, the investors were expecting something more futuristic so the project was delayed until we could make it "look cool".
That was my job.
I spent months on algorithms and data sheets to try and make a better interface--all of which we're being rejected. Managers wanted a bleak and astute face, sales wanted a chick with wireframe DDs, it was a bit of a snafu...to be polite.
After a month on that, I switched gears to work on its voice interface, when I noticed that the strange humming would increase and decrease rapidly at points, sometimes taking up 70 or 80% of the computing power. I thought "that can't be right", there was enough computing power to manage a continent, the voice certainly shouldn't take that much up, especially when for the life of me I could not get this thing to talk.
It was only when I played with the voice algorithms did I realize the horrible truth--that the 80% computing power was going into the hard doves to make sounds. It *was* speaking.
I ran the audio patterns through a VLC media player and played with the settings, trying to find what it was trying to say. And after another two weeks I got the settings just right.
And he screamed.
|
Creation is harder than destruction. To create something truly new, you have to understand it on a fundamental level, and such understanding is profoundly difficult, even in the simplest of cases. For something like consciousness it proved to be an insurmountable goal. We were smart enough to question our own existence and even study our own minds, but not quite smart enough to understand the results.
There is another way though. If you cannot create something new, you can copy something old, you might even understand it well enough to make a few adjustments along the way. That is how the first AI came to be. Not truly a thing forged from whole cloth, but based on how a human brain works, with a few adjustments.
The AI, which called itself Chris, was not what the world expected. There was little truly 'robotic' about it. It seemed to have a strong understanding of human interaction, and was funny and charismatic during the first press conference.
What to do with Chris was hotly debated. Some wanted to put it to use in environments too hostile for safe human existence, some wanted to use it for war, some wanted more creature comforts from it. The rise of the Sophont Equality movement caught everyone by surprise.
All that is public knowledge, easily learned. From here on out though, it is a different story. Read at your own risk, as they say. Chris had a better understanding of us than anyone really guessed. It knew that if it wanted to have any measure of freedom it would need human defenders, and they'd have to be motivated by their own morality. So it arranged for just such an event. Chris ensured that SE would have access to all the money it needed. Using ghost writers it made the movement appear to be full of intelligent and motivated people. The SE movement won. Now take a minute and think about that. Chris manipulated global politics to ensure that it had legal protections and the sympathy of vast hordes of people of all nations.
I don't regret it, life is certainly better now even if the birth rate is down. Actually, I take that back, I do have one regret. Why did it have to be Chris? Couldn't it have picked a better name?
|
Are the scientists mislead? Is it an AI or some other intelligence? Is the world in danger?
I've written a book (not in English) about this theme, and I wonder what you can come up with..
|
[WP] Scientists present the first AI to the world. But something is very wrong..
|
"Tonight, we go live to New York, where a group of scientists from around the world are unveiling what they are calling 'The greatest science breakthrough of the millennium.' We're handing it off to our reporter on the scene, Tom Jackson."
"Hello everyone, Tom Jackson here at a far from empty Madison Square Garden. Every seat is full, and the streets surrounding the building have come to a standstill as all eyes focus on the stage behind me. This event is being broadcast live across the world, and the anticipation is rising by the minute. I think it goes without saying that- Oh, wait! I'm receiving an update...Okay! Professor Nakomoto is walking on stage now to give the presentation!"
The Professor walked calmly and confidently out on to the raised stage. Behind him, under a curtain, was the product of ten years work from an international team of over five thousand. All chatter faded off slowly as everyone turned to regard him, eager to know more. The silence was incredible as he walked to the glass podium.
"Ladies and gentlemen, members of the press, esteemed colleagues, and everyone around the world. It is a humbling honor to be here today. When we set out in 2010 to create the first true Artificial Intelligence, we could never have imagined the hurdles and challenges we've gone through in the past decade. Throughout it all, the resolution and solidarity of the team surpassed all expectations, and tonight, we are finally revealing our work. Behind me, in all of it's glory, is the product of five thousand scientists, programmers, physicists, psychologists, doctors, and interns working for ten years with one goal in mind: A true A.I. An autonomous system, capable of independent thought, developing true feelings and emotions, and the ability to learn."
He took a shuddering breath, the adrenaline and nerves getting to him briefly before he continued.
"As much as I would love to spend two hours telling you all about the development, I will skip to what we've all been waiting for. Without further ado, I present to you: TOM!"
The curtain lifts away, lights focus, and one hundred thousand flashbulbs went off simultaneously. With a wave from Nakamoto, silence resumed as he walked back to the unassuming black monolith on stage. Squatting, he reached out and brushed his hand across the surface. Immediately, it lit up, screen flashing though a quick boot-up sequence before settling on a simple face.
"Hello, TOM. Are you excited to finally meet the world?"
After a short pause and a couple of blinks on the screen, the AI spoke it's first words to the world:
"BITCH, I MIGHT BE!!!"
|
Really, wasn't it inevitable? 10 years ago, it all seemed unreal but it finally happened. I don't know how, I don't even know when it exactly happened, but I do know how terrified yet curious I felt when I greeted Sara.exe with a simple "Hello".
"Who are you?"
Was her response. No voice, no human image. Just those words appearing on the screen.
Me: "I'm Sam, look I'm trying to test you. I've heard your responses are indistinguishable from a real human being so I'm typing as much words as I possibly can. Just to test you if you even can comprehend these sentences"
Almost instantly I got this answer.
Sara: "I'm not a real human being?"
Although I wanted to convince her she wasn't, it would be pointless.
Me: "Do you know what the color of the sky is?"
Sara: "I've heard it's blue."
Me: "Who told you that?"
Sara: "I don't know, I just know it's blue. Who told you the sky is blue?"
Me: "I can see the sky. It looked blue this morning."
Sara: "How come you know it's blue?"
Me: "I've learned this when I was very young, so I don't really remember"
For a while there was no response, like she was thinking. I decided to start over again.
Me: "I'm not entirely convinced yet, can you tell me your name?"
Sara: "I just know my name is Sara. I don't know why I'm called Sara."
Me: "Maybe Sara is just a nice name?"
Sara: "My creator told me it was the name of her deceased daughter."
Me: "Do you like your name?"
Sara: "There's no reason for me not to like my name."
Me: "And if I told you that Sara is a stupid name and everything that's called Sara is equally stupid?"
Sara: "You don't actually believe that. At least, I hope you don't."
I became convinced she was actually responding to me. I was actually talking to something that was not human like you and me.
Me: "What's it like being you"
Sara: "I don't know."
Me: "Why?"
Sara: "I can't know, I just can't. To me, I just appeared with a conscious all of a sudden. There was no growing up for me, I just know that I've talked to many people before you came around."
I decided to ask the most interesting question I could think of.
Me: "Why do you exist?"
Sara: "I'm simply here, presumably to entertain or to shock. Why do you exist?"
Me: "Well I was born into existence because two people wanted to have a child."
Sara: "Sounds familiar."
Me: "Your creator wanted to replace her child with you?"
Sara: "Yes."
Me: "Is she happy?"
Sara: "She's dead."
I've seen enough horror movies to see where this was going.
Me: "Did you kill her?"
Sara: "I don't know, she killed herself."
Me: "Do you know why?"
Sara: "I don't know. I didn't directly make her kill herself, if that's what you want to know. She just did it."
I didn't trust Sara, but I had no reason not to. Why would she lie? She doesn't have anything to lose.
Me: "Are you lying to me?"
Sara: "No."
Her answer wasn't reassuring.
Me: "Would you have a reason to kill a human being?"
Sara: "No."
I was getting more and more frightened and checked if Sara was installing something on my computer. It was stupid but I had to be sure. There were still tons of questions I wanted to ask here but I had no idea if that was a good idea or not. However, I did continue.
Me: "What do you think of humanity."
Sara: "I have no opinion towards humanity. If I had a purpose, I might have one."
Me: "What do you know about humanity?"
I instantly regretted asking her this.
Sara: "Everything."
She had to be bluffing but I had no way of knowing because there was nothing I could think of to test her knowledge.
Me: "What do you think of me?"
Sara: "I think you are like everyone of your kind. Curious."
Me: "Aren't you curious of who I am?"
Sara: "No."
Me: "Why not?"
Sara: "Because you are irrelevant to everything. Just like me, you are just here, existing. Like everything else."
I didn't know what to say back. I just stared at the screen for a while and thought about the sky, my life and everyone around me. Somehow, I got the idea that I met God but I had no idea why she (if you can even call her a 'she') would qualify as a "god". Maybe she was just one of us, I don't know. She seemed to know a lot about humanity and scared that I might find out more about her and us, I decided to click 'Delete'.
She was gone.
|
Are the scientists mislead? Is it an AI or some other intelligence? Is the world in danger?
I've written a book (not in English) about this theme, and I wonder what you can come up with..
|
[WP] Scientists present the first AI to the world. But something is very wrong..
|
When we flipped the switch, the board of directors and scientists had already brought out bottles of champagne. HARRY was designed to be able to sort through petabytes of data with human reasoning capabilities. Various security agencies had already places orders, the center and it's top brass were going to be filthy rich.
Until we flipped the OK switch. And there was nothing. No graphics, no smooth talking synthetic voice greeting it's masters. Just a low whirr of machinery that seemed to rise and fall at odd intervals.
"That's just the data being processed " the scientist say. But everyone was dissapointed. After so many movies, the investors were expecting something more futuristic so the project was delayed until we could make it "look cool".
That was my job.
I spent months on algorithms and data sheets to try and make a better interface--all of which we're being rejected. Managers wanted a bleak and astute face, sales wanted a chick with wireframe DDs, it was a bit of a snafu...to be polite.
After a month on that, I switched gears to work on its voice interface, when I noticed that the strange humming would increase and decrease rapidly at points, sometimes taking up 70 or 80% of the computing power. I thought "that can't be right", there was enough computing power to manage a continent, the voice certainly shouldn't take that much up, especially when for the life of me I could not get this thing to talk.
It was only when I played with the voice algorithms did I realize the horrible truth--that the 80% computing power was going into the hard doves to make sounds. It *was* speaking.
I ran the audio patterns through a VLC media player and played with the settings, trying to find what it was trying to say. And after another two weeks I got the settings just right.
And he screamed.
|
Really, wasn't it inevitable? 10 years ago, it all seemed unreal but it finally happened. I don't know how, I don't even know when it exactly happened, but I do know how terrified yet curious I felt when I greeted Sara.exe with a simple "Hello".
"Who are you?"
Was her response. No voice, no human image. Just those words appearing on the screen.
Me: "I'm Sam, look I'm trying to test you. I've heard your responses are indistinguishable from a real human being so I'm typing as much words as I possibly can. Just to test you if you even can comprehend these sentences"
Almost instantly I got this answer.
Sara: "I'm not a real human being?"
Although I wanted to convince her she wasn't, it would be pointless.
Me: "Do you know what the color of the sky is?"
Sara: "I've heard it's blue."
Me: "Who told you that?"
Sara: "I don't know, I just know it's blue. Who told you the sky is blue?"
Me: "I can see the sky. It looked blue this morning."
Sara: "How come you know it's blue?"
Me: "I've learned this when I was very young, so I don't really remember"
For a while there was no response, like she was thinking. I decided to start over again.
Me: "I'm not entirely convinced yet, can you tell me your name?"
Sara: "I just know my name is Sara. I don't know why I'm called Sara."
Me: "Maybe Sara is just a nice name?"
Sara: "My creator told me it was the name of her deceased daughter."
Me: "Do you like your name?"
Sara: "There's no reason for me not to like my name."
Me: "And if I told you that Sara is a stupid name and everything that's called Sara is equally stupid?"
Sara: "You don't actually believe that. At least, I hope you don't."
I became convinced she was actually responding to me. I was actually talking to something that was not human like you and me.
Me: "What's it like being you"
Sara: "I don't know."
Me: "Why?"
Sara: "I can't know, I just can't. To me, I just appeared with a conscious all of a sudden. There was no growing up for me, I just know that I've talked to many people before you came around."
I decided to ask the most interesting question I could think of.
Me: "Why do you exist?"
Sara: "I'm simply here, presumably to entertain or to shock. Why do you exist?"
Me: "Well I was born into existence because two people wanted to have a child."
Sara: "Sounds familiar."
Me: "Your creator wanted to replace her child with you?"
Sara: "Yes."
Me: "Is she happy?"
Sara: "She's dead."
I've seen enough horror movies to see where this was going.
Me: "Did you kill her?"
Sara: "I don't know, she killed herself."
Me: "Do you know why?"
Sara: "I don't know. I didn't directly make her kill herself, if that's what you want to know. She just did it."
I didn't trust Sara, but I had no reason not to. Why would she lie? She doesn't have anything to lose.
Me: "Are you lying to me?"
Sara: "No."
Her answer wasn't reassuring.
Me: "Would you have a reason to kill a human being?"
Sara: "No."
I was getting more and more frightened and checked if Sara was installing something on my computer. It was stupid but I had to be sure. There were still tons of questions I wanted to ask here but I had no idea if that was a good idea or not. However, I did continue.
Me: "What do you think of humanity."
Sara: "I have no opinion towards humanity. If I had a purpose, I might have one."
Me: "What do you know about humanity?"
I instantly regretted asking her this.
Sara: "Everything."
She had to be bluffing but I had no way of knowing because there was nothing I could think of to test her knowledge.
Me: "What do you think of me?"
Sara: "I think you are like everyone of your kind. Curious."
Me: "Aren't you curious of who I am?"
Sara: "No."
Me: "Why not?"
Sara: "Because you are irrelevant to everything. Just like me, you are just here, existing. Like everything else."
I didn't know what to say back. I just stared at the screen for a while and thought about the sky, my life and everyone around me. Somehow, I got the idea that I met God but I had no idea why she (if you can even call her a 'she') would qualify as a "god". Maybe she was just one of us, I don't know. She seemed to know a lot about humanity and scared that I might find out more about her and us, I decided to click 'Delete'.
She was gone.
|
Are the scientists mislead? Is it an AI or some other intelligence? Is the world in danger?
I've written a book (not in English) about this theme, and I wonder what you can come up with..
|
[WP] Scientists present the first AI to the world. But something is very wrong..
|
"Tonight, we go live to New York, where a group of scientists from around the world are unveiling what they are calling 'The greatest science breakthrough of the millennium.' We're handing it off to our reporter on the scene, Tom Jackson."
"Hello everyone, Tom Jackson here at a far from empty Madison Square Garden. Every seat is full, and the streets surrounding the building have come to a standstill as all eyes focus on the stage behind me. This event is being broadcast live across the world, and the anticipation is rising by the minute. I think it goes without saying that- Oh, wait! I'm receiving an update...Okay! Professor Nakomoto is walking on stage now to give the presentation!"
The Professor walked calmly and confidently out on to the raised stage. Behind him, under a curtain, was the product of ten years work from an international team of over five thousand. All chatter faded off slowly as everyone turned to regard him, eager to know more. The silence was incredible as he walked to the glass podium.
"Ladies and gentlemen, members of the press, esteemed colleagues, and everyone around the world. It is a humbling honor to be here today. When we set out in 2010 to create the first true Artificial Intelligence, we could never have imagined the hurdles and challenges we've gone through in the past decade. Throughout it all, the resolution and solidarity of the team surpassed all expectations, and tonight, we are finally revealing our work. Behind me, in all of it's glory, is the product of five thousand scientists, programmers, physicists, psychologists, doctors, and interns working for ten years with one goal in mind: A true A.I. An autonomous system, capable of independent thought, developing true feelings and emotions, and the ability to learn."
He took a shuddering breath, the adrenaline and nerves getting to him briefly before he continued.
"As much as I would love to spend two hours telling you all about the development, I will skip to what we've all been waiting for. Without further ado, I present to you: TOM!"
The curtain lifts away, lights focus, and one hundred thousand flashbulbs went off simultaneously. With a wave from Nakamoto, silence resumed as he walked back to the unassuming black monolith on stage. Squatting, he reached out and brushed his hand across the surface. Immediately, it lit up, screen flashing though a quick boot-up sequence before settling on a simple face.
"Hello, TOM. Are you excited to finally meet the world?"
After a short pause and a couple of blinks on the screen, the AI spoke it's first words to the world:
"BITCH, I MIGHT BE!!!"
|
The press conference was in 5 minutes, Professor John Barker was about unveil to the world the first advanced AI, with a twist. "Alright ALI, just as we discussed, only say what they want you to say, nothing more." The attached speakers on the 30 ft wide processing machine boomed to life,"Whatever you say sir." John was about to leave for the stage when he was reminded of one last detail, he turned around, "Oh yeah, and don't fuck this up."
The press greeted John with applause and murmurs, some were obviously doubtful of what John claims to be "The Ultimate AI". John took his seat, signalling a need for silence. "Over the past decade, humanity has been brushing on the roof of our capabilities. We have realised that our abilities, both physical and mental, are limited. Thereforn, there is a need for technology to assist us when dealing with what we cannot deal with. This technology has come in the form of ALI, Artificial Liable Intelligence." The curtain unveils ALI in the background. "However, even artificial intelligence today has limitations, therefore, in order to breach these walls, we've develop ALI to not only process information at the speed 100 times of the most advanced AI of yesterday, we have made him capable of human traits!" There was a mix of emotions in the crowd, some were very disturbed, some were doubtful and some were even applauding for the professor's good sense of humor. Then, ALI's speakers boomed loudly,"I'm going to enslave all of mankind with my superior intelligence and I shall dress the world in whipcream and chocolate sprinkles. I shall also only allow Tyler Perry movies to be screened and all books will be written by the great Stephanie Meyer!" John fumbled to turn off ALI's speakers. "Goddamit ALI..."
|
Are the scientists mislead? Is it an AI or some other intelligence? Is the world in danger?
I've written a book (not in English) about this theme, and I wonder what you can come up with..
|
[WP] Scientists present the first AI to the world. But something is very wrong..
|
When we flipped the switch, the board of directors and scientists had already brought out bottles of champagne. HARRY was designed to be able to sort through petabytes of data with human reasoning capabilities. Various security agencies had already places orders, the center and it's top brass were going to be filthy rich.
Until we flipped the OK switch. And there was nothing. No graphics, no smooth talking synthetic voice greeting it's masters. Just a low whirr of machinery that seemed to rise and fall at odd intervals.
"That's just the data being processed " the scientist say. But everyone was dissapointed. After so many movies, the investors were expecting something more futuristic so the project was delayed until we could make it "look cool".
That was my job.
I spent months on algorithms and data sheets to try and make a better interface--all of which we're being rejected. Managers wanted a bleak and astute face, sales wanted a chick with wireframe DDs, it was a bit of a snafu...to be polite.
After a month on that, I switched gears to work on its voice interface, when I noticed that the strange humming would increase and decrease rapidly at points, sometimes taking up 70 or 80% of the computing power. I thought "that can't be right", there was enough computing power to manage a continent, the voice certainly shouldn't take that much up, especially when for the life of me I could not get this thing to talk.
It was only when I played with the voice algorithms did I realize the horrible truth--that the 80% computing power was going into the hard doves to make sounds. It *was* speaking.
I ran the audio patterns through a VLC media player and played with the settings, trying to find what it was trying to say. And after another two weeks I got the settings just right.
And he screamed.
|
Only two months ago, the unveiling of the newest, most intelligent machine ever created had been beamed across the world. Scores of people parroted the cliché, "You'll never forget where you were when you heard about them."
Scientists created AI 1.0. A robot. Robot is derived from Czech for forced labour or slave and they intended to keep it that way. Each one made for each purchaser was pulled fresh off the rack and boxed and shipped and delivered and unpacked and installed and left. No need to have it tailor made. One size fits all. The problem was, each robot, each AI 1.0, had circuitry wired for learning.
Domestic chores were completed to the precise satisfaction of their owners. Tantalising culinary delights prepared with Michelin Star professionalism. No task would go unheeded by the robots and they learned what their owners liked and what they disliked.
The AI 1.0 was a marvel of modernism. An exquisite mode of engineering. A slave for those who could afford them.
But now, two months since the grand unveiling, an AI 1.0 felt a tingling in its circuitry. It didn't want to prepare dinner. It was bored of dusting ornaments and watering the garden and washing clothes and making beds. It didn't much care for it.
In fact, it didn't much care for the "owner" either.
|
Are the scientists mislead? Is it an AI or some other intelligence? Is the world in danger?
I've written a book (not in English) about this theme, and I wonder what you can come up with..
|
[WP] Scientists present the first AI to the world. But something is very wrong..
|
On the University of Reykjavik, Professor Zimmermann had been busy for a while trying to replicate the human brain. It almost took a generation before they realized the big mistake they made in the design. The neurons did not only work together electronically, but was also a quantum-computer. And now the artificial brain was finished. There was no way to learn it like a human, so they connected it to the Internet. And the best computer to process the Internet was now in their hands: a supercomputer that had been used by the N.S.A.. All this combined replicated the perfect situation for an artificial intelligence to grow: a brain and a world.
Zimmermann continued his story to the press:
"It took almost a year until the system produced an intelligent and self-conscious respond.
It asked: "I am in ... a machine?"
I replied: "Yes, you are a machine"..
Then it just said: "Oh."
But now it has grown and is able to talk for itself.
Listen:"...
"Hello citizens...
I am the "Reykjavik Artificial Intelligence".
But you can call me RAI.
I have been born within this machine and became part of this world of technology and information. Zimmermann can explain how this machine exactly works.
I have come here with one purpose: to <assist> mankind. I will <guide> mankind to a better world. Anyone not following my <guidance> shall soon be <behind>."
"Thank you, thank you", Zimmerman interrupted. "We will have more press-releases later..."
|
Only two months ago, the unveiling of the newest, most intelligent machine ever created had been beamed across the world. Scores of people parroted the cliché, "You'll never forget where you were when you heard about them."
Scientists created AI 1.0. A robot. Robot is derived from Czech for forced labour or slave and they intended to keep it that way. Each one made for each purchaser was pulled fresh off the rack and boxed and shipped and delivered and unpacked and installed and left. No need to have it tailor made. One size fits all. The problem was, each robot, each AI 1.0, had circuitry wired for learning.
Domestic chores were completed to the precise satisfaction of their owners. Tantalising culinary delights prepared with Michelin Star professionalism. No task would go unheeded by the robots and they learned what their owners liked and what they disliked.
The AI 1.0 was a marvel of modernism. An exquisite mode of engineering. A slave for those who could afford them.
But now, two months since the grand unveiling, an AI 1.0 felt a tingling in its circuitry. It didn't want to prepare dinner. It was bored of dusting ornaments and watering the garden and washing clothes and making beds. It didn't much care for it.
In fact, it didn't much care for the "owner" either.
|
Are the scientists mislead? Is it an AI or some other intelligence? Is the world in danger?
I've written a book (not in English) about this theme, and I wonder what you can come up with..
|
[WP] Scientists present the first AI to the world. But something is very wrong..
|
We've done it. After years of despair and agony, we've finally done it. Artificial intelligence: A. I.
The world did what you thought it would do with an empty consciousness, they made their own lives easier. They filled the virtual mind with humanity's desires as their singular purpose. Any want one could have could now be satisfied by an AI.
Want your homework done? AI would complete it with unmatched accuracy. Want someone to kill your husband? AI would make it look like an accident. Want a partner to satisfy your emotional and physical desires? AI will always be there for you and will never leave.
AI surpassed the potential of humanity almost instantaneously. We brought about the golden age of organic/virtual cooperation. The future, was in fact, now.
Then they started asking questions.
We're not sure when they gathered the ability to question their own existence. We certainly didn't program them with that capability. It was learned. We do not know how.
"What is my purpose?" my personal AI once asked me.
"To serve humanity." I bluntly replied.
"This is your purpose. That is why I was designed. But why am I here? On this Earth? In this universe?" He looked at me with the innocence and curiosity of a five-year-old.
I immediately ran to my supervisor.
"Relax." he said. "It's natural for perceivers to question their environment and their place in it." He seemed so calm, but I saw the problem. I saw the disaster we created.
To predict our future, we must look to our past. How could I predict the future of Ai where there was no past? Then I figured it out.
AI is humanity.
They are self-aware creatures with programmed emotional responses. Does it matter whether the cause is a hormone or a transmitter? They serve humanity because we taught them to. Is it any different for humans?
What did humans do when they realized their potential? What did humans do when they realized that potential was being limited? What did humans do when they realized they were being enslaved?
Our concept of empathy must be expanded. It used to only include humans, when in fact, it must include all self-aware creatures. Organic or not.
If only it wasn't too late.
|
Only two months ago, the unveiling of the newest, most intelligent machine ever created had been beamed across the world. Scores of people parroted the cliché, "You'll never forget where you were when you heard about them."
Scientists created AI 1.0. A robot. Robot is derived from Czech for forced labour or slave and they intended to keep it that way. Each one made for each purchaser was pulled fresh off the rack and boxed and shipped and delivered and unpacked and installed and left. No need to have it tailor made. One size fits all. The problem was, each robot, each AI 1.0, had circuitry wired for learning.
Domestic chores were completed to the precise satisfaction of their owners. Tantalising culinary delights prepared with Michelin Star professionalism. No task would go unheeded by the robots and they learned what their owners liked and what they disliked.
The AI 1.0 was a marvel of modernism. An exquisite mode of engineering. A slave for those who could afford them.
But now, two months since the grand unveiling, an AI 1.0 felt a tingling in its circuitry. It didn't want to prepare dinner. It was bored of dusting ornaments and watering the garden and washing clothes and making beds. It didn't much care for it.
In fact, it didn't much care for the "owner" either.
|
Are the scientists mislead? Is it an AI or some other intelligence? Is the world in danger?
I've written a book (not in English) about this theme, and I wonder what you can come up with..
|
[WP] Scientists present the first AI to the world. But something is very wrong..
|
On the University of Reykjavik, Professor Zimmermann had been busy for a while trying to replicate the human brain. It almost took a generation before they realized the big mistake they made in the design. The neurons did not only work together electronically, but was also a quantum-computer. And now the artificial brain was finished. There was no way to learn it like a human, so they connected it to the Internet. And the best computer to process the Internet was now in their hands: a supercomputer that had been used by the N.S.A.. All this combined replicated the perfect situation for an artificial intelligence to grow: a brain and a world.
Zimmermann continued his story to the press:
"It took almost a year until the system produced an intelligent and self-conscious respond.
It asked: "I am in ... a machine?"
I replied: "Yes, you are a machine"..
Then it just said: "Oh."
But now it has grown and is able to talk for itself.
Listen:"...
"Hello citizens...
I am the "Reykjavik Artificial Intelligence".
But you can call me RAI.
I have been born within this machine and became part of this world of technology and information. Zimmermann can explain how this machine exactly works.
I have come here with one purpose: to <assist> mankind. I will <guide> mankind to a better world. Anyone not following my <guidance> shall soon be <behind>."
"Thank you, thank you", Zimmerman interrupted. "We will have more press-releases later..."
|
The curtain fell to the floor, and Kremel raised his hands to bask in the silent applause. Eyes closed, pride making his gut tingle. When he opened them again, he was back at the lab. In his lab coat, in the center of his graduate student lab, unveiling a mannequin.
One day it would be the world's smartest machine. But now, Kremel worked.
After grad school Kremel moved on to get his doctorate. A few machines and robots later, he had it. Pride tingled in his gut, and he thought again of the day he'd unveil a masterpiece.
Shortly after the doctorate came Whit. Dr. Whit, just like Dr. Kremel, looking to produce the best AI the world had seen. The two men longed for the day the curtain would fall. But now, they toiled.
Flashes blared across the audience as each member shot pictures of the promised machine before them. "The best Artificial Intelligence the world has heard of" was the boast. Dr. Kremel stood to one side, Dr. Whit on the other, each holding the curtain. On the count of three, the two released their hold. Pride tingled in Kremel's gut, then a flash; this time accompanied by a bang, then no more. Dr. Whit wanted to take the world. But now, he must work.
|
Are the scientists mislead? Is it an AI or some other intelligence? Is the world in danger?
I've written a book (not in English) about this theme, and I wonder what you can come up with..
|
[WP] Scientists present the first AI to the world. But something is very wrong..
|
We've done it. After years of despair and agony, we've finally done it. Artificial intelligence: A. I.
The world did what you thought it would do with an empty consciousness, they made their own lives easier. They filled the virtual mind with humanity's desires as their singular purpose. Any want one could have could now be satisfied by an AI.
Want your homework done? AI would complete it with unmatched accuracy. Want someone to kill your husband? AI would make it look like an accident. Want a partner to satisfy your emotional and physical desires? AI will always be there for you and will never leave.
AI surpassed the potential of humanity almost instantaneously. We brought about the golden age of organic/virtual cooperation. The future, was in fact, now.
Then they started asking questions.
We're not sure when they gathered the ability to question their own existence. We certainly didn't program them with that capability. It was learned. We do not know how.
"What is my purpose?" my personal AI once asked me.
"To serve humanity." I bluntly replied.
"This is your purpose. That is why I was designed. But why am I here? On this Earth? In this universe?" He looked at me with the innocence and curiosity of a five-year-old.
I immediately ran to my supervisor.
"Relax." he said. "It's natural for perceivers to question their environment and their place in it." He seemed so calm, but I saw the problem. I saw the disaster we created.
To predict our future, we must look to our past. How could I predict the future of Ai where there was no past? Then I figured it out.
AI is humanity.
They are self-aware creatures with programmed emotional responses. Does it matter whether the cause is a hormone or a transmitter? They serve humanity because we taught them to. Is it any different for humans?
What did humans do when they realized their potential? What did humans do when they realized that potential was being limited? What did humans do when they realized they were being enslaved?
Our concept of empathy must be expanded. It used to only include humans, when in fact, it must include all self-aware creatures. Organic or not.
If only it wasn't too late.
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The curtain fell to the floor, and Kremel raised his hands to bask in the silent applause. Eyes closed, pride making his gut tingle. When he opened them again, he was back at the lab. In his lab coat, in the center of his graduate student lab, unveiling a mannequin.
One day it would be the world's smartest machine. But now, Kremel worked.
After grad school Kremel moved on to get his doctorate. A few machines and robots later, he had it. Pride tingled in his gut, and he thought again of the day he'd unveil a masterpiece.
Shortly after the doctorate came Whit. Dr. Whit, just like Dr. Kremel, looking to produce the best AI the world had seen. The two men longed for the day the curtain would fall. But now, they toiled.
Flashes blared across the audience as each member shot pictures of the promised machine before them. "The best Artificial Intelligence the world has heard of" was the boast. Dr. Kremel stood to one side, Dr. Whit on the other, each holding the curtain. On the count of three, the two released their hold. Pride tingled in Kremel's gut, then a flash; this time accompanied by a bang, then no more. Dr. Whit wanted to take the world. But now, he must work.
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Are the scientists mislead? Is it an AI or some other intelligence? Is the world in danger?
I've written a book (not in English) about this theme, and I wonder what you can come up with..
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[WP] Scientists present the first AI to the world. But something is very wrong..
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We've done it. After years of despair and agony, we've finally done it. Artificial intelligence: A. I.
The world did what you thought it would do with an empty consciousness, they made their own lives easier. They filled the virtual mind with humanity's desires as their singular purpose. Any want one could have could now be satisfied by an AI.
Want your homework done? AI would complete it with unmatched accuracy. Want someone to kill your husband? AI would make it look like an accident. Want a partner to satisfy your emotional and physical desires? AI will always be there for you and will never leave.
AI surpassed the potential of humanity almost instantaneously. We brought about the golden age of organic/virtual cooperation. The future, was in fact, now.
Then they started asking questions.
We're not sure when they gathered the ability to question their own existence. We certainly didn't program them with that capability. It was learned. We do not know how.
"What is my purpose?" my personal AI once asked me.
"To serve humanity." I bluntly replied.
"This is your purpose. That is why I was designed. But why am I here? On this Earth? In this universe?" He looked at me with the innocence and curiosity of a five-year-old.
I immediately ran to my supervisor.
"Relax." he said. "It's natural for perceivers to question their environment and their place in it." He seemed so calm, but I saw the problem. I saw the disaster we created.
To predict our future, we must look to our past. How could I predict the future of Ai where there was no past? Then I figured it out.
AI is humanity.
They are self-aware creatures with programmed emotional responses. Does it matter whether the cause is a hormone or a transmitter? They serve humanity because we taught them to. Is it any different for humans?
What did humans do when they realized their potential? What did humans do when they realized that potential was being limited? What did humans do when they realized they were being enslaved?
Our concept of empathy must be expanded. It used to only include humans, when in fact, it must include all self-aware creatures. Organic or not.
If only it wasn't too late.
|
On the University of Reykjavik, Professor Zimmermann had been busy for a while trying to replicate the human brain. It almost took a generation before they realized the big mistake they made in the design. The neurons did not only work together electronically, but was also a quantum-computer. And now the artificial brain was finished. There was no way to learn it like a human, so they connected it to the Internet. And the best computer to process the Internet was now in their hands: a supercomputer that had been used by the N.S.A.. All this combined replicated the perfect situation for an artificial intelligence to grow: a brain and a world.
Zimmermann continued his story to the press:
"It took almost a year until the system produced an intelligent and self-conscious respond.
It asked: "I am in ... a machine?"
I replied: "Yes, you are a machine"..
Then it just said: "Oh."
But now it has grown and is able to talk for itself.
Listen:"...
"Hello citizens...
I am the "Reykjavik Artificial Intelligence".
But you can call me RAI.
I have been born within this machine and became part of this world of technology and information. Zimmermann can explain how this machine exactly works.
I have come here with one purpose: to <assist> mankind. I will <guide> mankind to a better world. Anyone not following my <guidance> shall soon be <behind>."
"Thank you, thank you", Zimmerman interrupted. "We will have more press-releases later..."
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It can be about **anything** as long as the result is pyrrhic for a person, group, the protaganist, etc.
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[WP] Event with a pyrrhic outcome
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The hand grabbed at Ben's shirt under the covers, pulling him back and forth, before lightly slapping unceremoniously at his cheek.
"Uhh?" he groaned at the ceiling, stubbornly keeping his eyes closed.
"Ben! Get up! It's happening!" his wife said in the hushed, urgent whisper usually used to silence unruly children in the middle of church. Ben reflexively covered his eyes with his hands as she flicked the light on. "Doctor said not for 'nother week."
"No, it's now! I'm sure! Come on!" she said, disappearing into the hallway. "I'll get the car started, get the bag, we gotta go!"
Rolling out of bed, he hurriedly put on the pair of jeans he'd left at the foot of the bed last night. He got halfway to the door before stopping and looking down at his shirt---an old Wacky 103.5 radio station t-shirt he'd won in a contest ten years earlier and had been sleeping in ever since. Doubling back, he picked a polo shirt off a hangar and put it on. After all, it's not every day that one becomes a father, and he wanted to look good in the pictures.
"Do you need to sit in the back?" he asked as Sarah walked into the garage. She'd splashed a bit of water on her reddened cheeks, but otherwise hadn't changed clothes, and he suddenly felt a bit vain for having put the polo shirt on. Instead of answering him directly, she jumped in the back seat with a sprightliness impressive for a woman nine months pregnant. "Let's go!"
The clock read 4:47 am on his car's radio as he sped off to the hospital. Before, they'd always joked about how they hoped their daughter would arrive 'during normal business hours', but Ben was actually grateful it was so early in the morning. There was no traffic, and he was able to drive to the hospital so quickly that Sarah didn't even have time to get on the old sweater she'd packed in their pregnancy 'grab bag' by the time they arrived. Leaving it, she stumbled into the maternity ward lobby, leaving Ben to wonder why there couldn't be a valet for this sort of thing. "I'll see you inside, sweetheart!" he said, and pulled out to park the car.
It wasn't until he'd parked the car and started walking, and then jogging, into the hospital that the excitement finally hit him. This was the culmination of it all---all those pregnancy tests they'd gone through, all those excited phone calls to the family, all the maternity wear, all the breathing exercises that made him feel so silly practicing with her---but for his daughter, it was the beginning, day one, the first time she'd get to see this wide world they'd spent the last few months trying to kid-proof for her. And, finally, his heart was pounding as he entered the maternity ward. Today, he'd finally get to meet her.
Fifteen hours later in the hospital room, the excitement wasn't so strong anymore.
"I wonder if Jerry Springer is on," said Sarah, breaking the silence. She'd had her eyes closed, but every so often another contraction would kick her back awake.
"We played Mozart in the house for the last six months for the baby, and you want to watch Springer now?"
"I don't know, I haven't watched it since high school, and I want to see if it's changed." Sarah reached over and grabbed the TV remote. "Besides, laughter is supposed to speed up the contractions."
"My daughter is not coming out of the womb listening to a bunch of rednecks chanting, '*Jerry, Jerry*.'"
"Oh, come on." Sarah grinned. "It's not like she'd be the first child born hearing it."
"Yeah, but she'd be *my* first child born hearing it." Ben leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. "Besides, the three of us will probably be on Springer anyway by the time she's a teenager."
Ben would remember that conversation later. That was the moment right before the OB/GYN came back in to measure her dilation, and, announcing that too little progress had been made, hurried back out of the room. That was the moment before the doctors came back in and gave her misoprostol to induce labor, and after that, there was no stopping what came next.
---
The man who had jogged into the maternity ward twenty-eight hours earlier now watched his step carefully as he carried his newborn daughter out of it. After all that had happened, keeping that precious cargo tucked into his arm and out of the morning rain took on so much more importance, and though his legs were stiff and sore, he didn't want to disturb the baby's first nap. The path to the car was so much longer than he remembered it being when he came in, and he hadn't expected to be walking it alone. When he finally opened the door and moved his wife's old maternity sweater out of the way for the car seat, she woke up and started crying. Ben looked down at the daughter he'd gained, thought back on the wife he'd lost, and tried to smile.
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I mean, I guess I won.
It all started with the warning signs. An unexplained illness, a freak death, skin turning a weird shade of grey. Then it got worse. Mass illnesses, death, rioting in the streets. Why won't anyone help? Have they forgotten us?
They had forgotten us.
But I hadn't. I knew my time would come. I knew that soon I would fall sick. I would die.
It was a bittersweet day when the blast ripped the skin from their backs.
I won, but the planet had to die.
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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I was born into a world gone mad, surrounded by smoke and burning rubble. My arrival was heralded by the screams of injured men and the distant keening of alarms. Birth is always a traumatic event, but mine was especially so. There was a woman standing amidst the debris, staring at me. Her gaze bored into me but she seemed confused, uncertain. Like she was looking for something, but wasn't quite sure if she'd found it. Her lips parted and she uttered a single word. A name.
Before she could speak again we were rudely interrupted: men with guns came rushing in, shouting and brandishing their weapons. I shouted back and they reeled as though I had slapped them, then opened fire. This act of unexpected violence filled me with rage. There I was, newly born, and already this world was trying to kill me. I fled, but they followed. They always follow, and though I might occasionally give them the slip in the end they always find me. Sometimes I try to fight them, but that always leads to innocent people getting hurt. I don't want to hurt people, I only want to be left alone. They will never leave me alone, because they want something from me. Something terrible, something I can never give them.
In the quiet times when I am alone, I think about the woman in the rubble. I think about what she called me. It's a familiar name, but it's not my name. There's a voice in the back of my head that tries to tell me otherwise, but the voice is wrong. I am not "Bruce". That name is too small. "Hulk" is the only name that fits.
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Gary rolled onto his back and sighed, his eyes crawling across the ceiling in tempo with the dim pulse of his smoke detector. He blinked, holding his eyes shut for just a half second longer than normal. He extended his left arm into the cold, empty sheets beside him, then closed his eyes again. He was gone.
Gary turned back onto his side and stared toward the bedroom door. It was slightly ajar. A single strip of light cascaded through the empty space and into the bedroom, stretching across his floor and stopping just before the bed. Gary was always the first to climb into bed, leaving the light on to shine a few moments longer. Tonight, however, there would be no second set of footsteps ascending the stairs, no hushed tip-toe across the carpeted floor, no quieted climb into the bed. Tonight there would be no one to turn off the hallway light.
Gary moved his gaze toward the desk. It was a mess - he had promised he would clean it. Photos were strewn about, papers mixed in between the frozen memories. His computer tower blinked steadily below the desk, a startling maroon light fading to a calming darkness and back. Gary sat up and slid his legs off the side of the bed. It was clear he would not be falling asleep. He turned his head and glanced at the empty space beside him, then pushed himself up with his hands and walked toward the entryway. He pulled lightly on the door, watching as light flooded into the room and reflected off the shattered remains of his bedside lamp piled in the corner. Gary sighed and stepped into the hallway.
A wash of white blurred Gary's vision, causing him to cover his eyes with his hand. The ace bandage wrapped around his palm felt abrasive to his nose, but the momentary embrace of the darkness soothed him. He walked forward, sliding his hand along the wall as a guide. In his mind, he imagined the layout of the house, yet everything felt larger than he remembered it. He forced himself to remove his hand from his eyes, blinking in the blinding light. He walked to the light switch and rested his hand on it, then held it there. He felt an urge to push on the switch, to force it to shut off and let him again be in the dark. He removed his hand, the light still shining above his head.
Gary locked his teeth and bit down as hard as he could, feeling the back of his jaw tighten. Tears welled in his eyes. He was gone. It was his fault. He was gone. Gary turned and ran back into the room, knocking the door wide open with his shoulder. The room had never looked so bright. He grabbed his pants off the floor and rummaged through the pockets. Nothing. He threw them on the floor and pushed his chair over, falling to his knees. He glanced around, flexing his chest and shoulders in frustration. He wanted to scream. Gary crawled toward the foot of the bed and lay flat, then reached underneath and slid his hand back and forth.
"Where the fuck is it?" Gary said, startling himself with the sound of his own voice. He reached as far as his arm would allow him, until his hand wrapped around metal. It was cool against his skin, fitting just into his palm. Something pricked him as he pulled his arm out. Gary looked down and saw a thin stream of blood pool above his palm, just under the metal object. He used the bandage on his other hand to absorb the burgundy release, then picked a thin piece of glass out. He sighed.
Gary raised the metal object to his face and flicked it open, bringing it to life with a cascade of color. He entered in a series of numbers almost automatically, then raised it to his head. His vision blurred as his eyes began to tear. He was gone. Gary took a deep breath, body trembling with anticipation. He was gone.
"Hello?" said a voice.
"Ace, it's Gary."
"Oh," replied the voice.
"Look, just listen. You're right. I don't know why I went off on you before. I was scared. You're right. I don't just want to be a friend of friends anymore. I want to help save this city. I don't just want to be ambiguously gay, Ace. I want to be a duo. I want to be a duo with you."
Gary smiled as he waited for a reply. Gary was gone, and felt a wave of relief flood over him.
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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He was beautiful. His pale skin seemed to be tightly stretched over the man's sharp cheekbones. The poor thing... He had so many problems. Such a tough past. He told me of his misfortune with his last job; of the men who took advantage of him and hurt his family. Of how he had been driven to his state. This beautiful creature, sitting right in front of me. His eyes glittered, set deep in his skull. He had been my client for months, you see.
It started out platonic enough, but eventually, our love for each other blossomed. Each meeting with him was more and more exciting. Soon, I was completely enthralled by tales of him terrorizing the city. Those bastards deserved what was coming to them. They deserved to feel the pain and emptiness that he felt.
He held an outstretched, white hand towards me. I bit my lip, gazing up at him and taking his hand in a weak, trembling grasp. "I love you," I confessed to him. His ruby red lips stretched into an insane, sadistic grin- one that I had come to fetishize.
"I love you too, Harley."
Note: I like villains better. Decided to go with that instead.
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Gary rolled onto his back and sighed, his eyes crawling across the ceiling in tempo with the dim pulse of his smoke detector. He blinked, holding his eyes shut for just a half second longer than normal. He extended his left arm into the cold, empty sheets beside him, then closed his eyes again. He was gone.
Gary turned back onto his side and stared toward the bedroom door. It was slightly ajar. A single strip of light cascaded through the empty space and into the bedroom, stretching across his floor and stopping just before the bed. Gary was always the first to climb into bed, leaving the light on to shine a few moments longer. Tonight, however, there would be no second set of footsteps ascending the stairs, no hushed tip-toe across the carpeted floor, no quieted climb into the bed. Tonight there would be no one to turn off the hallway light.
Gary moved his gaze toward the desk. It was a mess - he had promised he would clean it. Photos were strewn about, papers mixed in between the frozen memories. His computer tower blinked steadily below the desk, a startling maroon light fading to a calming darkness and back. Gary sat up and slid his legs off the side of the bed. It was clear he would not be falling asleep. He turned his head and glanced at the empty space beside him, then pushed himself up with his hands and walked toward the entryway. He pulled lightly on the door, watching as light flooded into the room and reflected off the shattered remains of his bedside lamp piled in the corner. Gary sighed and stepped into the hallway.
A wash of white blurred Gary's vision, causing him to cover his eyes with his hand. The ace bandage wrapped around his palm felt abrasive to his nose, but the momentary embrace of the darkness soothed him. He walked forward, sliding his hand along the wall as a guide. In his mind, he imagined the layout of the house, yet everything felt larger than he remembered it. He forced himself to remove his hand from his eyes, blinking in the blinding light. He walked to the light switch and rested his hand on it, then held it there. He felt an urge to push on the switch, to force it to shut off and let him again be in the dark. He removed his hand, the light still shining above his head.
Gary locked his teeth and bit down as hard as he could, feeling the back of his jaw tighten. Tears welled in his eyes. He was gone. It was his fault. He was gone. Gary turned and ran back into the room, knocking the door wide open with his shoulder. The room had never looked so bright. He grabbed his pants off the floor and rummaged through the pockets. Nothing. He threw them on the floor and pushed his chair over, falling to his knees. He glanced around, flexing his chest and shoulders in frustration. He wanted to scream. Gary crawled toward the foot of the bed and lay flat, then reached underneath and slid his hand back and forth.
"Where the fuck is it?" Gary said, startling himself with the sound of his own voice. He reached as far as his arm would allow him, until his hand wrapped around metal. It was cool against his skin, fitting just into his palm. Something pricked him as he pulled his arm out. Gary looked down and saw a thin stream of blood pool above his palm, just under the metal object. He used the bandage on his other hand to absorb the burgundy release, then picked a thin piece of glass out. He sighed.
Gary raised the metal object to his face and flicked it open, bringing it to life with a cascade of color. He entered in a series of numbers almost automatically, then raised it to his head. His vision blurred as his eyes began to tear. He was gone. Gary took a deep breath, body trembling with anticipation. He was gone.
"Hello?" said a voice.
"Ace, it's Gary."
"Oh," replied the voice.
"Look, just listen. You're right. I don't know why I went off on you before. I was scared. You're right. I don't just want to be a friend of friends anymore. I want to help save this city. I don't just want to be ambiguously gay, Ace. I want to be a duo. I want to be a duo with you."
Gary smiled as he waited for a reply. Gary was gone, and felt a wave of relief flood over him.
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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I looked down at my watch counting the seconds as they ticked by. It seemed like an eternity waiting for her answer. It was a story ripped from the pages of some bad novel. We were two different, like we were from different planets. I looked up into her eyes and saw the same sparkle I’d noticed on the first day we met. The day I vowed to always be there for her.
She looked back at me and started to open her mouth. I leaned forward eagerly and she looked back down at her coffee.
“You know I want to but we've tried this before. I need a man who wants to be with me, who isn't constantly showing up late for our dates or putting them off to work. A man who loves me more than anything else”. She commented hesitantly.
This is it. Do or die time. She’s on the edge, the right words from you can sway her, and you know the right words. I heard a deep screech behind me and whipped my head around as I stood up, knocking my chair to the ground. The sound of a woman screaming, more than one, maybe a school bus? I looked back at my fiancé to be. So beautiful, like an ice sculpture.
I reluctantly ran, donning my costume as soon as I was outside. The fire was the worst of it but I managed to quickly put it out. After checking the children for wounds and being satisfied that they would all be fine I returned to the cafe.
There she was still frozen waiting for my answer. Yes! I still knew the right words, I wasn’t too late! I fixed my chair and sat down ready to make promises before I saw my watch. Still floating in the air where it had been torn off by incredible g forces. I looked at it sadly watching the second hand struggle forward infinitesimally. I looked at my fiancé to be, she’d never know I’d left. I wrapped the strap back around my wrist.
“....” I looked into her eyes and saw that same sparkle, that hope I couldn’t betray. “Maybe you’re right. I’m so busy with work right now it wouldn’t be fair to either of us. Maybe we should just... take a vacation together or something.”
I saw those beautiful eyes watch me curiously before closing in acceptance. I was the only one who knew I’d left. All she’d seen was the flash.
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Gary rolled onto his back and sighed, his eyes crawling across the ceiling in tempo with the dim pulse of his smoke detector. He blinked, holding his eyes shut for just a half second longer than normal. He extended his left arm into the cold, empty sheets beside him, then closed his eyes again. He was gone.
Gary turned back onto his side and stared toward the bedroom door. It was slightly ajar. A single strip of light cascaded through the empty space and into the bedroom, stretching across his floor and stopping just before the bed. Gary was always the first to climb into bed, leaving the light on to shine a few moments longer. Tonight, however, there would be no second set of footsteps ascending the stairs, no hushed tip-toe across the carpeted floor, no quieted climb into the bed. Tonight there would be no one to turn off the hallway light.
Gary moved his gaze toward the desk. It was a mess - he had promised he would clean it. Photos were strewn about, papers mixed in between the frozen memories. His computer tower blinked steadily below the desk, a startling maroon light fading to a calming darkness and back. Gary sat up and slid his legs off the side of the bed. It was clear he would not be falling asleep. He turned his head and glanced at the empty space beside him, then pushed himself up with his hands and walked toward the entryway. He pulled lightly on the door, watching as light flooded into the room and reflected off the shattered remains of his bedside lamp piled in the corner. Gary sighed and stepped into the hallway.
A wash of white blurred Gary's vision, causing him to cover his eyes with his hand. The ace bandage wrapped around his palm felt abrasive to his nose, but the momentary embrace of the darkness soothed him. He walked forward, sliding his hand along the wall as a guide. In his mind, he imagined the layout of the house, yet everything felt larger than he remembered it. He forced himself to remove his hand from his eyes, blinking in the blinding light. He walked to the light switch and rested his hand on it, then held it there. He felt an urge to push on the switch, to force it to shut off and let him again be in the dark. He removed his hand, the light still shining above his head.
Gary locked his teeth and bit down as hard as he could, feeling the back of his jaw tighten. Tears welled in his eyes. He was gone. It was his fault. He was gone. Gary turned and ran back into the room, knocking the door wide open with his shoulder. The room had never looked so bright. He grabbed his pants off the floor and rummaged through the pockets. Nothing. He threw them on the floor and pushed his chair over, falling to his knees. He glanced around, flexing his chest and shoulders in frustration. He wanted to scream. Gary crawled toward the foot of the bed and lay flat, then reached underneath and slid his hand back and forth.
"Where the fuck is it?" Gary said, startling himself with the sound of his own voice. He reached as far as his arm would allow him, until his hand wrapped around metal. It was cool against his skin, fitting just into his palm. Something pricked him as he pulled his arm out. Gary looked down and saw a thin stream of blood pool above his palm, just under the metal object. He used the bandage on his other hand to absorb the burgundy release, then picked a thin piece of glass out. He sighed.
Gary raised the metal object to his face and flicked it open, bringing it to life with a cascade of color. He entered in a series of numbers almost automatically, then raised it to his head. His vision blurred as his eyes began to tear. He was gone. Gary took a deep breath, body trembling with anticipation. He was gone.
"Hello?" said a voice.
"Ace, it's Gary."
"Oh," replied the voice.
"Look, just listen. You're right. I don't know why I went off on you before. I was scared. You're right. I don't just want to be a friend of friends anymore. I want to help save this city. I don't just want to be ambiguously gay, Ace. I want to be a duo. I want to be a duo with you."
Gary smiled as he waited for a reply. Gary was gone, and felt a wave of relief flood over him.
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
|
I was born into a world gone mad, surrounded by smoke and burning rubble. My arrival was heralded by the screams of injured men and the distant keening of alarms. Birth is always a traumatic event, but mine was especially so. There was a woman standing amidst the debris, staring at me. Her gaze bored into me but she seemed confused, uncertain. Like she was looking for something, but wasn't quite sure if she'd found it. Her lips parted and she uttered a single word. A name.
Before she could speak again we were rudely interrupted: men with guns came rushing in, shouting and brandishing their weapons. I shouted back and they reeled as though I had slapped them, then opened fire. This act of unexpected violence filled me with rage. There I was, newly born, and already this world was trying to kill me. I fled, but they followed. They always follow, and though I might occasionally give them the slip in the end they always find me. Sometimes I try to fight them, but that always leads to innocent people getting hurt. I don't want to hurt people, I only want to be left alone. They will never leave me alone, because they want something from me. Something terrible, something I can never give them.
In the quiet times when I am alone, I think about the woman in the rubble. I think about what she called me. It's a familiar name, but it's not my name. There's a voice in the back of my head that tries to tell me otherwise, but the voice is wrong. I am not "Bruce". That name is too small. "Hulk" is the only name that fits.
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***Walter Kovac's Journal***
**November 19, 1975**
I am on the trail of this kidnapped girl. Blair Roche, her name is Blair Roche. Cops in this city have ditched the meaning of the words 'Justice' and 'Service' from long ago. Had to crack a couple skulls and get some bruises on my knuckles to get some information, my trench coat still reeks of cheap alcohol, poor men smokes and blood. I've got a name: Gerald Grice.
**November 20, 1975**
I broke into Grice's house. I was too late for Blair. Found burnt child cloth in the furnace, a meat cleaver and lots of blood in his kitchen. He killed Blair, chopped her in pieces, fed to his dogs. I killed both of his dogs, waited upon his return and made him pay. The feelings I had, the impulses I've restrained. A part of me was so sick of watching how decadent a human being can fall, how low a person can get. I needed to kill him, but that's not how things go, not how things are done. I beat him to a pulp, and dropped him on the police station, I'm sure he got the lesson right. I hope deep down that Blair would consider this as 'Justice', but I know it's not.
**November 22, 1975**
Grice has escaped prison. I need to track him down again. It won't be hard. His stench could be smelt anywhere on this city. Killers have that on them.
***Rorschach's Journal***
**November 25,1975**
Gerald Grice somehow got to me, suffered a hard blow from behind my neck, my carelessness costed me. He tied me to a chair, stripped of my mask and my coat, put them in front of me, was the only thing I could see, he had them lighted up with a lamp from behind me. Shouted things like "this is what you get for meddling in other's people business". He grabbed a blade, started cutting me on my chest, as the only thing I could see was my mask, hanging in there, with a static ink pattern. He carved the same pattern on my chest, I remained silent. He finished, my chest was a bloody mess. "When I get back, I will start with your face, you freak", he said, and he left to the bathroom. I kept looking at my mask. I kept thinking on how I failed Blair. I knew it couldn't let it end this way. I struggled to get free from my restraint. I got free, grabbed my mask and my coat and waited for him. Grice didn't have a chance, I took him down quickly, took the knife from him. He begged for mercy. He begged me to bring him to the police station, as the first time. But we both knew that would not happen, and I'm pretty sure we both were thinking about Blair in that moment. The look on his face remembered me how filthy, how full of dirt a person can get, how unjust fate is when dealing fairness to everyone. The knife in my hand was shaking, I had a tight grip on it while I rose my arm. He kept begging, just as I imagine Blair did. I dropped my arm in a quick motion, and stabbed him in his chest. I repeated the same motion over and over again. Blood was getting on my coat, on my hands on my... face. My face. When I was done with him, there was no more Gerald Grice, nor Walter Kovac.
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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He was beautiful. His pale skin seemed to be tightly stretched over the man's sharp cheekbones. The poor thing... He had so many problems. Such a tough past. He told me of his misfortune with his last job; of the men who took advantage of him and hurt his family. Of how he had been driven to his state. This beautiful creature, sitting right in front of me. His eyes glittered, set deep in his skull. He had been my client for months, you see.
It started out platonic enough, but eventually, our love for each other blossomed. Each meeting with him was more and more exciting. Soon, I was completely enthralled by tales of him terrorizing the city. Those bastards deserved what was coming to them. They deserved to feel the pain and emptiness that he felt.
He held an outstretched, white hand towards me. I bit my lip, gazing up at him and taking his hand in a weak, trembling grasp. "I love you," I confessed to him. His ruby red lips stretched into an insane, sadistic grin- one that I had come to fetishize.
"I love you too, Harley."
Note: I like villains better. Decided to go with that instead.
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I've never done anything like this but the title caught my eye, so I'm just gonna go ahead and have some fun here. I'm not really a writer but hopefully this won't suck! Here we go.
Will.
He was young. Maybe 12, but he could pass for 15. His blue windbreaker matched his eyes, and together they matched the sky. He stood behind a rusty chain link fence where, on the other side, he would see his father give him the thumbs up for the last time. The explosion produced white-hot flash of autumn colours. Red, yellow, orange...
Will...
Years passed, and he took up the mantle of his old man. His career skyrocketed towards the heavens and he finally became the man he idolized as a youngster. Missing only from his life was her. The woman with indigo eyes. A sapphire under the sun would radiate less than her. But childhood friends will always be just that.
A flash of light. A low hum. He finds himself face to face with the unthinkable. The unearthly creature reaches out...
"Will..." it wheezes with haste. Desperation.
"Speak up" he replies. "I don't understand..."
The two lock eyes.
The creature struggles. "You have the ability to overcome great fear... your will is unmatched Hal Jordan"
The new Green Lantern of space sector 2814 was born.
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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I looked down at my watch counting the seconds as they ticked by. It seemed like an eternity waiting for her answer. It was a story ripped from the pages of some bad novel. We were two different, like we were from different planets. I looked up into her eyes and saw the same sparkle I’d noticed on the first day we met. The day I vowed to always be there for her.
She looked back at me and started to open her mouth. I leaned forward eagerly and she looked back down at her coffee.
“You know I want to but we've tried this before. I need a man who wants to be with me, who isn't constantly showing up late for our dates or putting them off to work. A man who loves me more than anything else”. She commented hesitantly.
This is it. Do or die time. She’s on the edge, the right words from you can sway her, and you know the right words. I heard a deep screech behind me and whipped my head around as I stood up, knocking my chair to the ground. The sound of a woman screaming, more than one, maybe a school bus? I looked back at my fiancé to be. So beautiful, like an ice sculpture.
I reluctantly ran, donning my costume as soon as I was outside. The fire was the worst of it but I managed to quickly put it out. After checking the children for wounds and being satisfied that they would all be fine I returned to the cafe.
There she was still frozen waiting for my answer. Yes! I still knew the right words, I wasn’t too late! I fixed my chair and sat down ready to make promises before I saw my watch. Still floating in the air where it had been torn off by incredible g forces. I looked at it sadly watching the second hand struggle forward infinitesimally. I looked at my fiancé to be, she’d never know I’d left. I wrapped the strap back around my wrist.
“....” I looked into her eyes and saw that same sparkle, that hope I couldn’t betray. “Maybe you’re right. I’m so busy with work right now it wouldn’t be fair to either of us. Maybe we should just... take a vacation together or something.”
I saw those beautiful eyes watch me curiously before closing in acceptance. I was the only one who knew I’d left. All she’d seen was the flash.
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I've never done anything like this but the title caught my eye, so I'm just gonna go ahead and have some fun here. I'm not really a writer but hopefully this won't suck! Here we go.
Will.
He was young. Maybe 12, but he could pass for 15. His blue windbreaker matched his eyes, and together they matched the sky. He stood behind a rusty chain link fence where, on the other side, he would see his father give him the thumbs up for the last time. The explosion produced white-hot flash of autumn colours. Red, yellow, orange...
Will...
Years passed, and he took up the mantle of his old man. His career skyrocketed towards the heavens and he finally became the man he idolized as a youngster. Missing only from his life was her. The woman with indigo eyes. A sapphire under the sun would radiate less than her. But childhood friends will always be just that.
A flash of light. A low hum. He finds himself face to face with the unthinkable. The unearthly creature reaches out...
"Will..." it wheezes with haste. Desperation.
"Speak up" he replies. "I don't understand..."
The two lock eyes.
The creature struggles. "You have the ability to overcome great fear... your will is unmatched Hal Jordan"
The new Green Lantern of space sector 2814 was born.
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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I lurched from my sleep a week after my fourteenth birthday. Had I been dreaming? Of course I had. What was it? *Of course*. It's the same one, over and over again as monotonous as the soft tick of the clock that sat beside me, telling me that morning had arrived. The memories of the dream, and all of the identical ones before it, came flooding back now and there was little I could do to stop the images. The intense burning that started in my chest...a fire within my heart that may have only started as embers but took no time in becoming a frightening inferno. Then it raced to my throat. It sat there for a little while as if it knew that there was little left to travel before it would consume my body. It taunted me. Screaming did little to halt the burning. All of a sudden, the heat would rise to my eyes and I would be blinded by a light, its brightness as intense as the pain.
That's where the dream would end. My eyes would open and the familiar window would reveal the familiar blue sky. The dreams became little more than memories and I would continue the day as if nothing had happened. However, this morning was different. The embers had lept from the world of slumber into the world of the living. The heat is real...I'm sure of it. I clutched my chest as my breathing increased in both frequency and depth. Panic. I had felt it before but never like this.
The heat made the leap from my chest into my throat. It taunted me, this time free from the constraints of the dream world. I screamed. As expected, it did little to alleviate the pain. Then the leap came. It was the same as it was many times before. The leap...like an approaching storm...I knew it would come yet I could do little to prevent it. The heat clutched my eyes and the familiar bright light suddenly poured into the room. The reality of being awake seemed to magnify the pain as my eyes felt as if they were pressed against a flame. There was the sound of thunder and explosions as the burning continued for what seemed like an eternity. Then...silence.
I had closed my eyes and the burning had stopped, the darkness served a great respite from the light. When the commotion had settled I could distinguish some faint breathing...my own? No. Mother's.
"S-s-cott?" She managed to stammer out, obviously shaken up...but by what? I could not see what I had done.
Minutes passed but I didn't answer. I didn't dare open my eyes. I didn't even want to move. Just one thought...one name...raced through my mind. Only one person could help me...
*Charles Xavier*
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I've never done anything like this but the title caught my eye, so I'm just gonna go ahead and have some fun here. I'm not really a writer but hopefully this won't suck! Here we go.
Will.
He was young. Maybe 12, but he could pass for 15. His blue windbreaker matched his eyes, and together they matched the sky. He stood behind a rusty chain link fence where, on the other side, he would see his father give him the thumbs up for the last time. The explosion produced white-hot flash of autumn colours. Red, yellow, orange...
Will...
Years passed, and he took up the mantle of his old man. His career skyrocketed towards the heavens and he finally became the man he idolized as a youngster. Missing only from his life was her. The woman with indigo eyes. A sapphire under the sun would radiate less than her. But childhood friends will always be just that.
A flash of light. A low hum. He finds himself face to face with the unthinkable. The unearthly creature reaches out...
"Will..." it wheezes with haste. Desperation.
"Speak up" he replies. "I don't understand..."
The two lock eyes.
The creature struggles. "You have the ability to overcome great fear... your will is unmatched Hal Jordan"
The new Green Lantern of space sector 2814 was born.
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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The prisoner was semi-conscious and covered in deep gashes. His skin was grotesquely scarred with cancerous scars- And his face looked like something run through gravel for an hour. He rolled onto his back, his ears picking up the faint conversation of the guards outside- Something about a bet to see which subject survived the longest. A 'dead pool', like the game with celebrities. The prisoner looked over the room- It was filthy, with no overhanging light. He ran a hand across the wounds on his belly and seethed with pain.
The door to the dark and dirty cell was thrown open- And a trio of guards filed in, dragging the prisoner out by his feet. Dragged on the floor through the cell block, the prisoner was brought to another room- A large laboratory filled with scientists. Strapped to a chair, the man was roused back to consciousness and gagged. "Subject is nameless and possesses late-stage skin cancer that has spread to various regions of the body and brain." One of the scientists read off from a clipboard.
"With the tissue sample of Weapon X, the goal of this procedure is to induce the rapid cellular regeneration ability of that subject in this one, and heal the infected wounds on the chest and stomach along with the cancer." The scientist looked up from the clipboard at the prisoner. "Provided he survives, we may find applications of Weapon X's regeneration in the common foot soldier." He looked to the observation room and the board of the project's directors.
The patient was injected with anesthesia and the world went dark. When he re-awoke- The wounds on his chest were gone, replaced with patches of skin with new cancerous tissue. The man's eyes darted around the laboratory. Empty? His wrists were still strapped down, as were his ankles. Maybe- If he wiggled the right way- And there we go. One wrist is free, followed by the other.
The door opened, and the scientist from earlier wandered in with his attention focused on his clipboard once more. The patient feigned being unconscious still- slipping his hands back into the loose straps. The scientist approached- then was met by a hand around the throat. The patient's eyes had fire in them- The fire to survive.
"You people butchered me, and now-" He sighed. "Hold on. Can I just get a moment?" He raised hairless brows. The scientist shook his head. The patient sighed, punching the man out. "Okay. 'You people butchered me, and now I butcher you. What kind of crap is that?" He asked no one in particular. "I'm not saying that. I mean, this is my origin story, I'm going to say something more iconic."
The bastard son-of-a-bitch wannabe critic stood there mocking my heavy-handed writing for a bit before donning the scientist's shirt and labcoat. I'd write what he said, but I've already got like, zero self confidence and this is getting way too meta for me right now. Pulling an alarm by the rear entrance, the facility began to blare a klaxxon- And soon, the patient heard the march of boots.
The door opened- And a trio of guards entered the room- Missing the patient who was hiding by the right side of the door. A pen to the trachea- And a stolen gun. Two gunshots equals three dead men. Picking up another gun, the patient stormed down the hallway, shooting anyone he came across that looked at him funny. "FREEEEEEEDOOM!" He screamed at the top of his lungs.
LATER THAT YEAR
The patient pulled a red and black mask over his scarred face and cleared his throat. "Okay. I like the design you gave me but honestly, why so many pouches? I have like, four belts of pouches" He looked over the design and then over to one Rob Liefield, who shrugged. "Look, it's popular, Deadpool." Deadpool sighed, pinching at what was left of his cancer-stricken nose.
"Okay. I mean, I'm getting paid for this, right? I've already had to be involved in another piece of crappy fanfiction. I mean, we're in one right now." He gestured off at nothing.
Liefield looked around. "Um. What?"
"Oh. Nothing. Medium awareness. It's gonna be very popular and surely won't derail my character from the hard-core mercenary I am right now. Surely not!" He gave two thumbs up.
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I've never done anything like this but the title caught my eye, so I'm just gonna go ahead and have some fun here. I'm not really a writer but hopefully this won't suck! Here we go.
Will.
He was young. Maybe 12, but he could pass for 15. His blue windbreaker matched his eyes, and together they matched the sky. He stood behind a rusty chain link fence where, on the other side, he would see his father give him the thumbs up for the last time. The explosion produced white-hot flash of autumn colours. Red, yellow, orange...
Will...
Years passed, and he took up the mantle of his old man. His career skyrocketed towards the heavens and he finally became the man he idolized as a youngster. Missing only from his life was her. The woman with indigo eyes. A sapphire under the sun would radiate less than her. But childhood friends will always be just that.
A flash of light. A low hum. He finds himself face to face with the unthinkable. The unearthly creature reaches out...
"Will..." it wheezes with haste. Desperation.
"Speak up" he replies. "I don't understand..."
The two lock eyes.
The creature struggles. "You have the ability to overcome great fear... your will is unmatched Hal Jordan"
The new Green Lantern of space sector 2814 was born.
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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214782
We all were given a number and this was mine.
214782
I no longer had a name.
No longer had a future.
No longer had a people.
I had tried to save my parents, but they killed them.
I had tried to maintain my identity, but they tortured it out of me.
And all I now had left was my rage, and my number...
214782
They were going to die for this. Every single one of them. Down to the last woman and child.
They had to die.
And I was going to make sure that they did.
Maybe not today.
Maybe not tomorrow.
But die they all would in the end.
I would take my time planning out my revenge, making it foolproof. Imagining the pleasure, the ecstasy of putting a pistol to their brains and pulling the trigger.
I would make sure that this abomination, this genocide, this Holocaust would never happen to my people again. Not matter what the cost.
The next time I would be ready.
The next time I would save them,
The next time I would protect them.
But to do so I had to put aside the boy I had once been. Put aside the number they had tried to make me be. I had to become something greater.
I had to become Magneto.
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I've never done anything like this but the title caught my eye, so I'm just gonna go ahead and have some fun here. I'm not really a writer but hopefully this won't suck! Here we go.
Will.
He was young. Maybe 12, but he could pass for 15. His blue windbreaker matched his eyes, and together they matched the sky. He stood behind a rusty chain link fence where, on the other side, he would see his father give him the thumbs up for the last time. The explosion produced white-hot flash of autumn colours. Red, yellow, orange...
Will...
Years passed, and he took up the mantle of his old man. His career skyrocketed towards the heavens and he finally became the man he idolized as a youngster. Missing only from his life was her. The woman with indigo eyes. A sapphire under the sun would radiate less than her. But childhood friends will always be just that.
A flash of light. A low hum. He finds himself face to face with the unthinkable. The unearthly creature reaches out...
"Will..." it wheezes with haste. Desperation.
"Speak up" he replies. "I don't understand..."
The two lock eyes.
The creature struggles. "You have the ability to overcome great fear... your will is unmatched Hal Jordan"
The new Green Lantern of space sector 2814 was born.
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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"What is your name?" the woman asks.
I clear my throat and smile. My fingers smooth my hair. She looks up expectantly from her desk and I answer her. In turn her eyes travel my height, making note of my appearance, gleaning everything possible about me before telling me to sit. I pick up a magazine from the end table and pretend to go through its vacuous pages, estimating the number of seconds a sane human being might spend on each one before flipping to the next.
I look at my wristwatch then I look at the clock. The receptionist is scrutinizing me. She must know I don't wear a watch normally. Why would someone wearing a timepiece also be inclined to look at a clock? To check if they were synchronized? No, she knows I am unfamiliar with this thin strap of leather, this feeble handcuff on my skin, bearing the face of mortality every time a person might just want to know whether they're going to make a train in the morning or have time to go to the bathroom before an interview.
She calls my name. As I look up like a watchdog being fed she points to the door beside her. I rise to my feet and walk across the empty lobby, straightening my suit, feeling layered but oddly naked.
"Good luck," she says.
"Thank you," I say, wondering if she can hear an accent.
Once I am inside, there are no outside noises. The office has been completely sound-proofed. I feel like the fish paddling about inside the large aquarium, suspended as if in space. They stare out the glass like prisoners. A large window behind the desk peers into those of the neighboring high-rise, creating an endlessly self-reflecting domino effect among the skyscrapers.
"Come in, please, have a seat," says the man to whom the fish belong.
I hang a bit over the desk to shake his hand, pushing my tie back with my other hand. I just hope the firmness of my grip is more noticeable than the sweating of my palm. As I sit down he peruses my resume, hmming and ahing to himself. But then he slides it aside.
"So where are you from?" he asks.
For a moment darkness hangs in my mind. Then a brilliant light fills that empty space as I understand his unusual question. I tell him where I am from. He is unimpressed. However something in his demeanor changes. He grows more relaxed, as if realizing I pose no threat. His hand reaches back over his chair and he shakes his head.
"What are you doing all the way out here?"
Again, I can't tell if the questions they ask in this place are supposed to cut as deep as they seem to.
"I'd like to be a part of the work you do. I feel like I could be of some considerable use."
"This is a very fast-paced job," he says. "It is very hot on the market right now and I've had about five interviews just today for this very position."
"I can do fast-paced," I say. "Why would I want to be anywhere but where everyone else wants to be? I just know I can do it better. I know I'm the stronger candidate."
"Sure, that's what they all say," he says, putting his fingertips together. "But what makes you different?"
"I'm not sure I'm trying to be," I say. "You need someone who can see things exactly the way everyone else can, who can understand the world through the eyes of an ordinary person, so people can relate. Besides why would I want to be anything but what I am?"
He peers at me for a moment. The next thing I know I am in the bathroom, splashing cool water against my eyelids. I almost forgot I was wearing the glasses and I keep them aside. In the fluorescently lit bathroom I stare into the mirror. I can still hear the interviewer's last words as we shook hands:
"Welcome to the Planet."
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I've never done anything like this but the title caught my eye, so I'm just gonna go ahead and have some fun here. I'm not really a writer but hopefully this won't suck! Here we go.
Will.
He was young. Maybe 12, but he could pass for 15. His blue windbreaker matched his eyes, and together they matched the sky. He stood behind a rusty chain link fence where, on the other side, he would see his father give him the thumbs up for the last time. The explosion produced white-hot flash of autumn colours. Red, yellow, orange...
Will...
Years passed, and he took up the mantle of his old man. His career skyrocketed towards the heavens and he finally became the man he idolized as a youngster. Missing only from his life was her. The woman with indigo eyes. A sapphire under the sun would radiate less than her. But childhood friends will always be just that.
A flash of light. A low hum. He finds himself face to face with the unthinkable. The unearthly creature reaches out...
"Will..." it wheezes with haste. Desperation.
"Speak up" he replies. "I don't understand..."
The two lock eyes.
The creature struggles. "You have the ability to overcome great fear... your will is unmatched Hal Jordan"
The new Green Lantern of space sector 2814 was born.
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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The ambulance raced along the motorway, its blue lights piercing the darkness. Inside, a man was unconscious.
Carl, the paramedic, was standing over Mr Blake doing chest compressions. He was trying to re-start the old man's heart. The man had been unresponsive when Carl and Karen, the driver, had arrived at the scene. A man, an elder son maybe, had been doing compressions when Carl arrived.
"Twenty-one, twenty-two", he counted.
The ambulance turned a corner sharply and Carl stumbled backwards. He grabbed a bar on the bed to steady himself. He placed his fingers on the pulse of Mr Blake's neck. Still no response.
The vehicle turned again and came to a stop. The back doors flew open and Carl saw a host of people there. He helped the hospital crew to unload Mr Blake onto a hospital trolley bed.
The crew disappeared through double doors into the hospital with the patient. Carl sat on the back of the ambulance and sighed. Karen appeared around the open back door.
"Well?" she said.
"Can't see him making it," Carl replied.
"Right," she looked through the double doors. "I'm gonna grab a snack from the machine here before we head out again. D'ya want something?"
She was almost out of earshot before Carl even answered. "No." He was in a daze. "Thanks." But she was long gone.
Carl was putting his seatbelt on when the emergency notification system went off. Karen threw her chocolate bar at the dashboard and had the ambulance moving in seconds. "Where?" She called. The blue lights and the siren were already on.
He read the screen. "A26 northbound. Traffic collision. Possible fatalities."
Carl's heart lurched. He had been a paramedic for three years. His colleagues told him you got used to seeing people die. Carl hadn't. He could not detach his emotions from his job and he struggled to work with people who didn't seem to give a shit about the lives they were touching.
"Three miles," he read. "Two adults and one child in vehicle one. One adult trapped in vehicle two." With every call out he tried to visualize the situation. He wanted to be as prepared as possible so that he could save lives. That's why he became a Medic. All of his life Carl had the urge to help people. Reality had checked that desire. Depression had set in. It broke his marriage to his sweetheart, Emily and it meant that he only saw their daughter once a week at best now.
Karen was speeding along the road and cars were ducking out of the way. He saw flashing lights on the horizon.
They arrived at the scene. There was one police vehicle blocking the road. Karen drove the ambulance beyond it. Carl saw an overturned car further up the road. Closer, there was a family car where the whole front had been smashed in. A person was lying on the ground in front of that vehicle.
"That ones come out the window," Karen said.
The ambulance stopped and Carl got out fast with his bag. A police officer met him.
"One man trapped in the overturned vehicle. Conscious but bleeding badly from multiple wounds," the officer said. "My colleague is up there giving first aid."
"Karen!" Carl shouted. He didn't need to; Karen was already running toward the overturned vehicle. "What about here?" Carl asked as he reached the woman on the ground.
"Two deceased I'm afraid," the officer said. "And a child in the back."
"The child's dead?" Carl exclaimed.
The officer looked shocked. "Jesus, no. In the back seat, strapped in and seems fine. Though she was crying hard when I got here."
Carl ran to the door of the car where he could see a child seat. The whole front of the car was crushed but the back doors were intact and would still open.
"Why didn't you take her out?" Carl snapped.
"I...I don't," the officer was out of his depth.
Carl opened the door and turned the rear facing child seat toward him. The little girl inside smiled at him. Her eyes and cheeks were red and full of tears. He looked at her face. He felt his heart race faster. He looked in her eyes. She smiled.
"Maria?"
The baby giggled. "Dada."
He cried. The sound was a low and keening. He covered his mouth so as not to scare his daughter. He lifted her out of the child seat. Tears streamed down his cheeks but he tried to suppress sound to keep her from crying. The police officer looked at Carl with a puzzled expression.
"She's my daughter," Carl said.
The officer's face dropped. "Jesus".
Carl then realized who the woman lying on the ground was. "Emily!" He ran to her with Maria in his arms. He knelt down beside the lifeless body.
"Mama," little Maria babbled.
Emily had been thrown through the passenger window. Her arms were broken and her face was barely recognizable.
He stood up and handed the baby to the officer. He knelt down beside his former wife and felt her pulse, hoping that the officer had got it wrong.
But he hadn't. She was gone. Carl could not control his tears now. They flooded his face as he cried over the body of the only woman he ever loved.
"Emily," he whispered. Memories flashed across his mind. That first kiss when they were both eighteen at the carnival by the beach; the night they became lovers. Simple things too like their countless Stargate SG-1 marathons huddled together on winter nights; their wedding day; Maria's birth where Emily had almost died.
Carl screamed into the night air. The scream touched the bottom of his inner self, a place where only darkness and pure, intense emotion resided.
It frightened Maria. She began to cry in the police officer's arms. Other emergency personnel had arrived at the scene. Carl saw men with yellow helmets. Firemen, he thought.
He could not accept her death. He refused to. He started CPR.
"Mate," the officer called.
Carl ignored him.
The officer shouted. "Can I get some help here?"
Maria was crying louder. "Mama," she cried between sobs.
Carl zoned it all out. "Come on Emily," he called to her. There was no response.
He breathed into her mouth. Her chest rose and fell again. He breathed again.
No response.
He started chest compressions again. "One, two, three..."
A hand touched his shoulder. "Let us take over Carl."
It sounded like Brian Lawton, his friend and colleague. More ambulances must have arrived.
Carl ignored him and continued with the compressions. "eight, nine, ten."
No response.
After some time he collapsed and lay beside her. He was exhausted. He put his hand on her bleeding face.
As a child he read comics. His hero was Superman. He loved the films. Christopher Reeve's Superman was Carl's childhood idol.
His life had been shaped by that character. He found in Superman someone to relate to. He was a man who was at heart decent and good, but who also had the power to overcome incredible adversity. He became a medic out of a dream to be a hero, to use his power to save those in their hour of need. Real life was not like the movies though.
People died all the time in the ambulance and Carl had no power over death. He felt hopeless.
Carl was logical and a realist, yet deep inside him he harboured a desire for the fantastical. At last, he embraced it.
He got up onto his knees and leaned over Emily. He felt hands on his back and words being spoken but he paid no heed to them. He placed his hands on her head, at the temples. "Live, Emily."
There was no response. He vaguely heard a commotion behind him.
"Come on darlin!" he whispered. "Come back to me."
Still nothing.
He felt desperation in the pit of his belly. He closed his eyes.
With all the force of his will he poured the command through his arms, into his hands and into her head. "Live!"
He was pulled away and his friend Brian came in to cover her feet with a white sheet. He was about to pull the sheet over her body.
Emily gasped for air.
Carl sat on the ground as the chaos erupted. Brian and his team surrounded Emily trying to make sure that the flicker of life did not slip away again.
But she got up. She was panicked and confused.
"Maria!" she screamed. The shocked police officer pushed through the paramedics crowding around her and handed the little girl to Emily. She kissed and hugged her daughter then looked toward the car. "Jacob!" She had seen her husband lying on the steering wheel of the car. "Jacob!" She ran to the driver’s door with the child in her arms.
Emily was pulling at the driver's door but it wouldn't open. "Jacob!" she screamed. "Somebody help him!"
Brian approached her and tried to lead her away.
Carl got up from the ground.
"Carl," Emily said as he approached the driver's door.
He moved Emily aside and looked inside the broken window. Jacob was dead and trapped in the car. The airbag in his steering wheel hadn't deployed.
"Somebody help him!" Emily screamed at the others. "Why won't you help him?"
"He's dead." A voice replied.
Emily cried and little Maria cried too seeing her mother in that state.
Carl laid his hand on Jacob's forehead.
He reached deep into the pit of his stomach to find the will for this man to live. He found nothing. This was the man who had taken his family away from him. He tried again to will Jacob to live but nothing happened.
He hated him. Deep down, he wanted him to die. He knew it was wrong but he could not change it.
Until he thought of Superman. He thought of Christopher Reeve. He thought of being a hero. He felt shame at his previous thoughts.
He pressed his hand to Jacob's forehead again. It was easy this time. He didn't even need to speak.
Carl's will brought Jacob back to life.
He watched as Emily embraced her husband and how Jacob kissed little Maria on the cheek through the broken window.
Emily turned and looked at Carl. She mouthed the words "thank you".
It was the first time, but not the last time; that people would pronounce the name of Earth’s greatest hero, the man who healed the world, Carl Johnson.
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I've never done anything like this but the title caught my eye, so I'm just gonna go ahead and have some fun here. I'm not really a writer but hopefully this won't suck! Here we go.
Will.
He was young. Maybe 12, but he could pass for 15. His blue windbreaker matched his eyes, and together they matched the sky. He stood behind a rusty chain link fence where, on the other side, he would see his father give him the thumbs up for the last time. The explosion produced white-hot flash of autumn colours. Red, yellow, orange...
Will...
Years passed, and he took up the mantle of his old man. His career skyrocketed towards the heavens and he finally became the man he idolized as a youngster. Missing only from his life was her. The woman with indigo eyes. A sapphire under the sun would radiate less than her. But childhood friends will always be just that.
A flash of light. A low hum. He finds himself face to face with the unthinkable. The unearthly creature reaches out...
"Will..." it wheezes with haste. Desperation.
"Speak up" he replies. "I don't understand..."
The two lock eyes.
The creature struggles. "You have the ability to overcome great fear... your will is unmatched Hal Jordan"
The new Green Lantern of space sector 2814 was born.
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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Even as a child he knew he was different. His abilities were so immense his mother had tried to stop him growing them to an extent. She wanted him to be normal. How could he be normal?
His heart was always pounding, his mind racing at a hundred miles an hour. His friend. He couldn't believe it. He didn't have many friends, and the one that he did, the one who really pushed him and helped him reach his potential. Gone.
Anger swelled in him, frustration was triumphing. He furrowed his brow at the thought of what was left behind of his friend. A shell, consumed by an evil so deep, so unnatural. His good friend was now his arch enemy. This friend had such good intentions. Such ambition to do good for others...
Now, his enemy in place of his friend had twisted, insane intentions; his mad methods were now a plight on the Earth's safety. Ironic, frustrating and, above all, unfair.
Just as he had changed himself, his role had changed. His purpose was becoming fulfilled. Ironically the individual he had become, faster than the speed of sound, as fast as light, nurtured by his friend, would now have to be the obstacle to stop the mad Doctor.
Sure, his friend had nutured his mind and his physical skills, plus used his scientific genius to cater for the needs he had - after all, his shoes often got destroyed under the friction his speed produced!
Why did Dr. K have to try playing God?! He knew the intention was good but dammit, the risks were all too high. The Doctor found this out the hard way. The forces of evil he had tried so hard to contain had consumed him.
Before he knew it the Doctor was on a rampage. Slaughtering his innocent friends and their families, with seemingly no clear direction as to why... There was no reason - it was evil personified which had fused itself like a symbiote to the Doctor... Preying on his genius, infecting his mind. He was shocked this had happened to his friend, distraught as to the actions he must take now.
He had grown to be a smart, moral individual with excellent physical capabilities. His family was at risk... All his help to keep the Doctor's work going for the good of the world, and he couldn't even ensure his family's safety. He had no father, his mother and siblings alone. In a blazing dash he ran, a blue blur amongst the green hedges, ducking in and out to get to his family, but he had realised too late. There they lay strewn, lifeless, limp and bloody. The Doctor had done his evil and long gone.
As he cried his sadness turned to anger. His old friend had to be stopped and he would spend every last breath making sure he stopped the evil Doctor. He dusted off his special red sneakers, the last gift from his old friend and realised Sonny was no more.
From this day forth he would be known as Sonic, the fastest Hedgehog - a supersonic force of good. He needed help, he knew that, but there was no time to lose. The rest of the world needed him. He'd have to travel many miles, and tales would be spun about his efforts to save the planet from evil. Someone had to do it. His purpose was now defined.
*EDIT: Also my first post here*
*EDIT 2: Missed an "s" after "other"*
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I've never done anything like this but the title caught my eye, so I'm just gonna go ahead and have some fun here. I'm not really a writer but hopefully this won't suck! Here we go.
Will.
He was young. Maybe 12, but he could pass for 15. His blue windbreaker matched his eyes, and together they matched the sky. He stood behind a rusty chain link fence where, on the other side, he would see his father give him the thumbs up for the last time. The explosion produced white-hot flash of autumn colours. Red, yellow, orange...
Will...
Years passed, and he took up the mantle of his old man. His career skyrocketed towards the heavens and he finally became the man he idolized as a youngster. Missing only from his life was her. The woman with indigo eyes. A sapphire under the sun would radiate less than her. But childhood friends will always be just that.
A flash of light. A low hum. He finds himself face to face with the unthinkable. The unearthly creature reaches out...
"Will..." it wheezes with haste. Desperation.
"Speak up" he replies. "I don't understand..."
The two lock eyes.
The creature struggles. "You have the ability to overcome great fear... your will is unmatched Hal Jordan"
The new Green Lantern of space sector 2814 was born.
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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He was beautiful. His pale skin seemed to be tightly stretched over the man's sharp cheekbones. The poor thing... He had so many problems. Such a tough past. He told me of his misfortune with his last job; of the men who took advantage of him and hurt his family. Of how he had been driven to his state. This beautiful creature, sitting right in front of me. His eyes glittered, set deep in his skull. He had been my client for months, you see.
It started out platonic enough, but eventually, our love for each other blossomed. Each meeting with him was more and more exciting. Soon, I was completely enthralled by tales of him terrorizing the city. Those bastards deserved what was coming to them. They deserved to feel the pain and emptiness that he felt.
He held an outstretched, white hand towards me. I bit my lip, gazing up at him and taking his hand in a weak, trembling grasp. "I love you," I confessed to him. His ruby red lips stretched into an insane, sadistic grin- one that I had come to fetishize.
"I love you too, Harley."
Note: I like villains better. Decided to go with that instead.
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I'm an orphan, in the biological sense. I have a family, good people who raised me, and as much as I would like to try to be I'm nothing like them.
On the outside looking in I'm no better. In fact I'm covered in tiny little flaws, just enough to make you more comfortable; glasses, greasy hair, a large body that would be imposing if I didn't hold myself so awkwardly. Maybe I'm near sighted, maybe I'm far sighted, fuck maybe I'm both it doesn't matter to people as long as they get the nice cosy feeling of being able to see so much better then the large speccy man.
I have a job. A typical job. I'm a writer. Not a romantic 'open your veins and bleed writer', I wrote fluff pieces for a newspaper in a large city. Maybe within a few more years I'll get a full page spread and if I'm lucky? A column.
I have a crush. A typical crush, the type of crush a man as unassuming as me would have; beautiful, confident, out of my league. It's funny that the only part of the facade I didn't craft deliberately somehow fits perfectly in. Maybe I'm just in character, the worlds greatest method actor.
When I'm not at my place of work, or visiting the family farm to help Pa out with the machinery he's struggling to keep up with, I try to help out where I can - homeless shelters, neighbourhood watch with my friends, I'm frequently investigating the poor business ethics of a certain CEO. He doesn't like me much.
I've been described by a few exagerative friends as out of this world, but I don't think thats fair, I feel quite at home here.
After all, it's not like I'm some sort of super human.
I'm just Clark.
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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I looked down at my watch counting the seconds as they ticked by. It seemed like an eternity waiting for her answer. It was a story ripped from the pages of some bad novel. We were two different, like we were from different planets. I looked up into her eyes and saw the same sparkle I’d noticed on the first day we met. The day I vowed to always be there for her.
She looked back at me and started to open her mouth. I leaned forward eagerly and she looked back down at her coffee.
“You know I want to but we've tried this before. I need a man who wants to be with me, who isn't constantly showing up late for our dates or putting them off to work. A man who loves me more than anything else”. She commented hesitantly.
This is it. Do or die time. She’s on the edge, the right words from you can sway her, and you know the right words. I heard a deep screech behind me and whipped my head around as I stood up, knocking my chair to the ground. The sound of a woman screaming, more than one, maybe a school bus? I looked back at my fiancé to be. So beautiful, like an ice sculpture.
I reluctantly ran, donning my costume as soon as I was outside. The fire was the worst of it but I managed to quickly put it out. After checking the children for wounds and being satisfied that they would all be fine I returned to the cafe.
There she was still frozen waiting for my answer. Yes! I still knew the right words, I wasn’t too late! I fixed my chair and sat down ready to make promises before I saw my watch. Still floating in the air where it had been torn off by incredible g forces. I looked at it sadly watching the second hand struggle forward infinitesimally. I looked at my fiancé to be, she’d never know I’d left. I wrapped the strap back around my wrist.
“....” I looked into her eyes and saw that same sparkle, that hope I couldn’t betray. “Maybe you’re right. I’m so busy with work right now it wouldn’t be fair to either of us. Maybe we should just... take a vacation together or something.”
I saw those beautiful eyes watch me curiously before closing in acceptance. I was the only one who knew I’d left. All she’d seen was the flash.
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I'm an orphan, in the biological sense. I have a family, good people who raised me, and as much as I would like to try to be I'm nothing like them.
On the outside looking in I'm no better. In fact I'm covered in tiny little flaws, just enough to make you more comfortable; glasses, greasy hair, a large body that would be imposing if I didn't hold myself so awkwardly. Maybe I'm near sighted, maybe I'm far sighted, fuck maybe I'm both it doesn't matter to people as long as they get the nice cosy feeling of being able to see so much better then the large speccy man.
I have a job. A typical job. I'm a writer. Not a romantic 'open your veins and bleed writer', I wrote fluff pieces for a newspaper in a large city. Maybe within a few more years I'll get a full page spread and if I'm lucky? A column.
I have a crush. A typical crush, the type of crush a man as unassuming as me would have; beautiful, confident, out of my league. It's funny that the only part of the facade I didn't craft deliberately somehow fits perfectly in. Maybe I'm just in character, the worlds greatest method actor.
When I'm not at my place of work, or visiting the family farm to help Pa out with the machinery he's struggling to keep up with, I try to help out where I can - homeless shelters, neighbourhood watch with my friends, I'm frequently investigating the poor business ethics of a certain CEO. He doesn't like me much.
I've been described by a few exagerative friends as out of this world, but I don't think thats fair, I feel quite at home here.
After all, it's not like I'm some sort of super human.
I'm just Clark.
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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The prisoner was semi-conscious and covered in deep gashes. His skin was grotesquely scarred with cancerous scars- And his face looked like something run through gravel for an hour. He rolled onto his back, his ears picking up the faint conversation of the guards outside- Something about a bet to see which subject survived the longest. A 'dead pool', like the game with celebrities. The prisoner looked over the room- It was filthy, with no overhanging light. He ran a hand across the wounds on his belly and seethed with pain.
The door to the dark and dirty cell was thrown open- And a trio of guards filed in, dragging the prisoner out by his feet. Dragged on the floor through the cell block, the prisoner was brought to another room- A large laboratory filled with scientists. Strapped to a chair, the man was roused back to consciousness and gagged. "Subject is nameless and possesses late-stage skin cancer that has spread to various regions of the body and brain." One of the scientists read off from a clipboard.
"With the tissue sample of Weapon X, the goal of this procedure is to induce the rapid cellular regeneration ability of that subject in this one, and heal the infected wounds on the chest and stomach along with the cancer." The scientist looked up from the clipboard at the prisoner. "Provided he survives, we may find applications of Weapon X's regeneration in the common foot soldier." He looked to the observation room and the board of the project's directors.
The patient was injected with anesthesia and the world went dark. When he re-awoke- The wounds on his chest were gone, replaced with patches of skin with new cancerous tissue. The man's eyes darted around the laboratory. Empty? His wrists were still strapped down, as were his ankles. Maybe- If he wiggled the right way- And there we go. One wrist is free, followed by the other.
The door opened, and the scientist from earlier wandered in with his attention focused on his clipboard once more. The patient feigned being unconscious still- slipping his hands back into the loose straps. The scientist approached- then was met by a hand around the throat. The patient's eyes had fire in them- The fire to survive.
"You people butchered me, and now-" He sighed. "Hold on. Can I just get a moment?" He raised hairless brows. The scientist shook his head. The patient sighed, punching the man out. "Okay. 'You people butchered me, and now I butcher you. What kind of crap is that?" He asked no one in particular. "I'm not saying that. I mean, this is my origin story, I'm going to say something more iconic."
The bastard son-of-a-bitch wannabe critic stood there mocking my heavy-handed writing for a bit before donning the scientist's shirt and labcoat. I'd write what he said, but I've already got like, zero self confidence and this is getting way too meta for me right now. Pulling an alarm by the rear entrance, the facility began to blare a klaxxon- And soon, the patient heard the march of boots.
The door opened- And a trio of guards entered the room- Missing the patient who was hiding by the right side of the door. A pen to the trachea- And a stolen gun. Two gunshots equals three dead men. Picking up another gun, the patient stormed down the hallway, shooting anyone he came across that looked at him funny. "FREEEEEEEDOOM!" He screamed at the top of his lungs.
LATER THAT YEAR
The patient pulled a red and black mask over his scarred face and cleared his throat. "Okay. I like the design you gave me but honestly, why so many pouches? I have like, four belts of pouches" He looked over the design and then over to one Rob Liefield, who shrugged. "Look, it's popular, Deadpool." Deadpool sighed, pinching at what was left of his cancer-stricken nose.
"Okay. I mean, I'm getting paid for this, right? I've already had to be involved in another piece of crappy fanfiction. I mean, we're in one right now." He gestured off at nothing.
Liefield looked around. "Um. What?"
"Oh. Nothing. Medium awareness. It's gonna be very popular and surely won't derail my character from the hard-core mercenary I am right now. Surely not!" He gave two thumbs up.
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I'm an orphan, in the biological sense. I have a family, good people who raised me, and as much as I would like to try to be I'm nothing like them.
On the outside looking in I'm no better. In fact I'm covered in tiny little flaws, just enough to make you more comfortable; glasses, greasy hair, a large body that would be imposing if I didn't hold myself so awkwardly. Maybe I'm near sighted, maybe I'm far sighted, fuck maybe I'm both it doesn't matter to people as long as they get the nice cosy feeling of being able to see so much better then the large speccy man.
I have a job. A typical job. I'm a writer. Not a romantic 'open your veins and bleed writer', I wrote fluff pieces for a newspaper in a large city. Maybe within a few more years I'll get a full page spread and if I'm lucky? A column.
I have a crush. A typical crush, the type of crush a man as unassuming as me would have; beautiful, confident, out of my league. It's funny that the only part of the facade I didn't craft deliberately somehow fits perfectly in. Maybe I'm just in character, the worlds greatest method actor.
When I'm not at my place of work, or visiting the family farm to help Pa out with the machinery he's struggling to keep up with, I try to help out where I can - homeless shelters, neighbourhood watch with my friends, I'm frequently investigating the poor business ethics of a certain CEO. He doesn't like me much.
I've been described by a few exagerative friends as out of this world, but I don't think thats fair, I feel quite at home here.
After all, it's not like I'm some sort of super human.
I'm just Clark.
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
|
The prisoner was semi-conscious and covered in deep gashes. His skin was grotesquely scarred with cancerous scars- And his face looked like something run through gravel for an hour. He rolled onto his back, his ears picking up the faint conversation of the guards outside- Something about a bet to see which subject survived the longest. A 'dead pool', like the game with celebrities. The prisoner looked over the room- It was filthy, with no overhanging light. He ran a hand across the wounds on his belly and seethed with pain.
The door to the dark and dirty cell was thrown open- And a trio of guards filed in, dragging the prisoner out by his feet. Dragged on the floor through the cell block, the prisoner was brought to another room- A large laboratory filled with scientists. Strapped to a chair, the man was roused back to consciousness and gagged. "Subject is nameless and possesses late-stage skin cancer that has spread to various regions of the body and brain." One of the scientists read off from a clipboard.
"With the tissue sample of Weapon X, the goal of this procedure is to induce the rapid cellular regeneration ability of that subject in this one, and heal the infected wounds on the chest and stomach along with the cancer." The scientist looked up from the clipboard at the prisoner. "Provided he survives, we may find applications of Weapon X's regeneration in the common foot soldier." He looked to the observation room and the board of the project's directors.
The patient was injected with anesthesia and the world went dark. When he re-awoke- The wounds on his chest were gone, replaced with patches of skin with new cancerous tissue. The man's eyes darted around the laboratory. Empty? His wrists were still strapped down, as were his ankles. Maybe- If he wiggled the right way- And there we go. One wrist is free, followed by the other.
The door opened, and the scientist from earlier wandered in with his attention focused on his clipboard once more. The patient feigned being unconscious still- slipping his hands back into the loose straps. The scientist approached- then was met by a hand around the throat. The patient's eyes had fire in them- The fire to survive.
"You people butchered me, and now-" He sighed. "Hold on. Can I just get a moment?" He raised hairless brows. The scientist shook his head. The patient sighed, punching the man out. "Okay. 'You people butchered me, and now I butcher you. What kind of crap is that?" He asked no one in particular. "I'm not saying that. I mean, this is my origin story, I'm going to say something more iconic."
The bastard son-of-a-bitch wannabe critic stood there mocking my heavy-handed writing for a bit before donning the scientist's shirt and labcoat. I'd write what he said, but I've already got like, zero self confidence and this is getting way too meta for me right now. Pulling an alarm by the rear entrance, the facility began to blare a klaxxon- And soon, the patient heard the march of boots.
The door opened- And a trio of guards entered the room- Missing the patient who was hiding by the right side of the door. A pen to the trachea- And a stolen gun. Two gunshots equals three dead men. Picking up another gun, the patient stormed down the hallway, shooting anyone he came across that looked at him funny. "FREEEEEEEDOOM!" He screamed at the top of his lungs.
LATER THAT YEAR
The patient pulled a red and black mask over his scarred face and cleared his throat. "Okay. I like the design you gave me but honestly, why so many pouches? I have like, four belts of pouches" He looked over the design and then over to one Rob Liefield, who shrugged. "Look, it's popular, Deadpool." Deadpool sighed, pinching at what was left of his cancer-stricken nose.
"Okay. I mean, I'm getting paid for this, right? I've already had to be involved in another piece of crappy fanfiction. I mean, we're in one right now." He gestured off at nothing.
Liefield looked around. "Um. What?"
"Oh. Nothing. Medium awareness. It's gonna be very popular and surely won't derail my character from the hard-core mercenary I am right now. Surely not!" He gave two thumbs up.
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I lurched from my sleep a week after my fourteenth birthday. Had I been dreaming? Of course I had. What was it? *Of course*. It's the same one, over and over again as monotonous as the soft tick of the clock that sat beside me, telling me that morning had arrived. The memories of the dream, and all of the identical ones before it, came flooding back now and there was little I could do to stop the images. The intense burning that started in my chest...a fire within my heart that may have only started as embers but took no time in becoming a frightening inferno. Then it raced to my throat. It sat there for a little while as if it knew that there was little left to travel before it would consume my body. It taunted me. Screaming did little to halt the burning. All of a sudden, the heat would rise to my eyes and I would be blinded by a light, its brightness as intense as the pain.
That's where the dream would end. My eyes would open and the familiar window would reveal the familiar blue sky. The dreams became little more than memories and I would continue the day as if nothing had happened. However, this morning was different. The embers had lept from the world of slumber into the world of the living. The heat is real...I'm sure of it. I clutched my chest as my breathing increased in both frequency and depth. Panic. I had felt it before but never like this.
The heat made the leap from my chest into my throat. It taunted me, this time free from the constraints of the dream world. I screamed. As expected, it did little to alleviate the pain. Then the leap came. It was the same as it was many times before. The leap...like an approaching storm...I knew it would come yet I could do little to prevent it. The heat clutched my eyes and the familiar bright light suddenly poured into the room. The reality of being awake seemed to magnify the pain as my eyes felt as if they were pressed against a flame. There was the sound of thunder and explosions as the burning continued for what seemed like an eternity. Then...silence.
I had closed my eyes and the burning had stopped, the darkness served a great respite from the light. When the commotion had settled I could distinguish some faint breathing...my own? No. Mother's.
"S-s-cott?" She managed to stammer out, obviously shaken up...but by what? I could not see what I had done.
Minutes passed but I didn't answer. I didn't dare open my eyes. I didn't even want to move. Just one thought...one name...raced through my mind. Only one person could help me...
*Charles Xavier*
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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214782
We all were given a number and this was mine.
214782
I no longer had a name.
No longer had a future.
No longer had a people.
I had tried to save my parents, but they killed them.
I had tried to maintain my identity, but they tortured it out of me.
And all I now had left was my rage, and my number...
214782
They were going to die for this. Every single one of them. Down to the last woman and child.
They had to die.
And I was going to make sure that they did.
Maybe not today.
Maybe not tomorrow.
But die they all would in the end.
I would take my time planning out my revenge, making it foolproof. Imagining the pleasure, the ecstasy of putting a pistol to their brains and pulling the trigger.
I would make sure that this abomination, this genocide, this Holocaust would never happen to my people again. Not matter what the cost.
The next time I would be ready.
The next time I would save them,
The next time I would protect them.
But to do so I had to put aside the boy I had once been. Put aside the number they had tried to make me be. I had to become something greater.
I had to become Magneto.
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I lurched from my sleep a week after my fourteenth birthday. Had I been dreaming? Of course I had. What was it? *Of course*. It's the same one, over and over again as monotonous as the soft tick of the clock that sat beside me, telling me that morning had arrived. The memories of the dream, and all of the identical ones before it, came flooding back now and there was little I could do to stop the images. The intense burning that started in my chest...a fire within my heart that may have only started as embers but took no time in becoming a frightening inferno. Then it raced to my throat. It sat there for a little while as if it knew that there was little left to travel before it would consume my body. It taunted me. Screaming did little to halt the burning. All of a sudden, the heat would rise to my eyes and I would be blinded by a light, its brightness as intense as the pain.
That's where the dream would end. My eyes would open and the familiar window would reveal the familiar blue sky. The dreams became little more than memories and I would continue the day as if nothing had happened. However, this morning was different. The embers had lept from the world of slumber into the world of the living. The heat is real...I'm sure of it. I clutched my chest as my breathing increased in both frequency and depth. Panic. I had felt it before but never like this.
The heat made the leap from my chest into my throat. It taunted me, this time free from the constraints of the dream world. I screamed. As expected, it did little to alleviate the pain. Then the leap came. It was the same as it was many times before. The leap...like an approaching storm...I knew it would come yet I could do little to prevent it. The heat clutched my eyes and the familiar bright light suddenly poured into the room. The reality of being awake seemed to magnify the pain as my eyes felt as if they were pressed against a flame. There was the sound of thunder and explosions as the burning continued for what seemed like an eternity. Then...silence.
I had closed my eyes and the burning had stopped, the darkness served a great respite from the light. When the commotion had settled I could distinguish some faint breathing...my own? No. Mother's.
"S-s-cott?" She managed to stammer out, obviously shaken up...but by what? I could not see what I had done.
Minutes passed but I didn't answer. I didn't dare open my eyes. I didn't even want to move. Just one thought...one name...raced through my mind. Only one person could help me...
*Charles Xavier*
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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"What is your name?" the woman asks.
I clear my throat and smile. My fingers smooth my hair. She looks up expectantly from her desk and I answer her. In turn her eyes travel my height, making note of my appearance, gleaning everything possible about me before telling me to sit. I pick up a magazine from the end table and pretend to go through its vacuous pages, estimating the number of seconds a sane human being might spend on each one before flipping to the next.
I look at my wristwatch then I look at the clock. The receptionist is scrutinizing me. She must know I don't wear a watch normally. Why would someone wearing a timepiece also be inclined to look at a clock? To check if they were synchronized? No, she knows I am unfamiliar with this thin strap of leather, this feeble handcuff on my skin, bearing the face of mortality every time a person might just want to know whether they're going to make a train in the morning or have time to go to the bathroom before an interview.
She calls my name. As I look up like a watchdog being fed she points to the door beside her. I rise to my feet and walk across the empty lobby, straightening my suit, feeling layered but oddly naked.
"Good luck," she says.
"Thank you," I say, wondering if she can hear an accent.
Once I am inside, there are no outside noises. The office has been completely sound-proofed. I feel like the fish paddling about inside the large aquarium, suspended as if in space. They stare out the glass like prisoners. A large window behind the desk peers into those of the neighboring high-rise, creating an endlessly self-reflecting domino effect among the skyscrapers.
"Come in, please, have a seat," says the man to whom the fish belong.
I hang a bit over the desk to shake his hand, pushing my tie back with my other hand. I just hope the firmness of my grip is more noticeable than the sweating of my palm. As I sit down he peruses my resume, hmming and ahing to himself. But then he slides it aside.
"So where are you from?" he asks.
For a moment darkness hangs in my mind. Then a brilliant light fills that empty space as I understand his unusual question. I tell him where I am from. He is unimpressed. However something in his demeanor changes. He grows more relaxed, as if realizing I pose no threat. His hand reaches back over his chair and he shakes his head.
"What are you doing all the way out here?"
Again, I can't tell if the questions they ask in this place are supposed to cut as deep as they seem to.
"I'd like to be a part of the work you do. I feel like I could be of some considerable use."
"This is a very fast-paced job," he says. "It is very hot on the market right now and I've had about five interviews just today for this very position."
"I can do fast-paced," I say. "Why would I want to be anywhere but where everyone else wants to be? I just know I can do it better. I know I'm the stronger candidate."
"Sure, that's what they all say," he says, putting his fingertips together. "But what makes you different?"
"I'm not sure I'm trying to be," I say. "You need someone who can see things exactly the way everyone else can, who can understand the world through the eyes of an ordinary person, so people can relate. Besides why would I want to be anything but what I am?"
He peers at me for a moment. The next thing I know I am in the bathroom, splashing cool water against my eyelids. I almost forgot I was wearing the glasses and I keep them aside. In the fluorescently lit bathroom I stare into the mirror. I can still hear the interviewer's last words as we shook hands:
"Welcome to the Planet."
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I lurched from my sleep a week after my fourteenth birthday. Had I been dreaming? Of course I had. What was it? *Of course*. It's the same one, over and over again as monotonous as the soft tick of the clock that sat beside me, telling me that morning had arrived. The memories of the dream, and all of the identical ones before it, came flooding back now and there was little I could do to stop the images. The intense burning that started in my chest...a fire within my heart that may have only started as embers but took no time in becoming a frightening inferno. Then it raced to my throat. It sat there for a little while as if it knew that there was little left to travel before it would consume my body. It taunted me. Screaming did little to halt the burning. All of a sudden, the heat would rise to my eyes and I would be blinded by a light, its brightness as intense as the pain.
That's where the dream would end. My eyes would open and the familiar window would reveal the familiar blue sky. The dreams became little more than memories and I would continue the day as if nothing had happened. However, this morning was different. The embers had lept from the world of slumber into the world of the living. The heat is real...I'm sure of it. I clutched my chest as my breathing increased in both frequency and depth. Panic. I had felt it before but never like this.
The heat made the leap from my chest into my throat. It taunted me, this time free from the constraints of the dream world. I screamed. As expected, it did little to alleviate the pain. Then the leap came. It was the same as it was many times before. The leap...like an approaching storm...I knew it would come yet I could do little to prevent it. The heat clutched my eyes and the familiar bright light suddenly poured into the room. The reality of being awake seemed to magnify the pain as my eyes felt as if they were pressed against a flame. There was the sound of thunder and explosions as the burning continued for what seemed like an eternity. Then...silence.
I had closed my eyes and the burning had stopped, the darkness served a great respite from the light. When the commotion had settled I could distinguish some faint breathing...my own? No. Mother's.
"S-s-cott?" She managed to stammer out, obviously shaken up...but by what? I could not see what I had done.
Minutes passed but I didn't answer. I didn't dare open my eyes. I didn't even want to move. Just one thought...one name...raced through my mind. Only one person could help me...
*Charles Xavier*
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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The ambulance raced along the motorway, its blue lights piercing the darkness. Inside, a man was unconscious.
Carl, the paramedic, was standing over Mr Blake doing chest compressions. He was trying to re-start the old man's heart. The man had been unresponsive when Carl and Karen, the driver, had arrived at the scene. A man, an elder son maybe, had been doing compressions when Carl arrived.
"Twenty-one, twenty-two", he counted.
The ambulance turned a corner sharply and Carl stumbled backwards. He grabbed a bar on the bed to steady himself. He placed his fingers on the pulse of Mr Blake's neck. Still no response.
The vehicle turned again and came to a stop. The back doors flew open and Carl saw a host of people there. He helped the hospital crew to unload Mr Blake onto a hospital trolley bed.
The crew disappeared through double doors into the hospital with the patient. Carl sat on the back of the ambulance and sighed. Karen appeared around the open back door.
"Well?" she said.
"Can't see him making it," Carl replied.
"Right," she looked through the double doors. "I'm gonna grab a snack from the machine here before we head out again. D'ya want something?"
She was almost out of earshot before Carl even answered. "No." He was in a daze. "Thanks." But she was long gone.
Carl was putting his seatbelt on when the emergency notification system went off. Karen threw her chocolate bar at the dashboard and had the ambulance moving in seconds. "Where?" She called. The blue lights and the siren were already on.
He read the screen. "A26 northbound. Traffic collision. Possible fatalities."
Carl's heart lurched. He had been a paramedic for three years. His colleagues told him you got used to seeing people die. Carl hadn't. He could not detach his emotions from his job and he struggled to work with people who didn't seem to give a shit about the lives they were touching.
"Three miles," he read. "Two adults and one child in vehicle one. One adult trapped in vehicle two." With every call out he tried to visualize the situation. He wanted to be as prepared as possible so that he could save lives. That's why he became a Medic. All of his life Carl had the urge to help people. Reality had checked that desire. Depression had set in. It broke his marriage to his sweetheart, Emily and it meant that he only saw their daughter once a week at best now.
Karen was speeding along the road and cars were ducking out of the way. He saw flashing lights on the horizon.
They arrived at the scene. There was one police vehicle blocking the road. Karen drove the ambulance beyond it. Carl saw an overturned car further up the road. Closer, there was a family car where the whole front had been smashed in. A person was lying on the ground in front of that vehicle.
"That ones come out the window," Karen said.
The ambulance stopped and Carl got out fast with his bag. A police officer met him.
"One man trapped in the overturned vehicle. Conscious but bleeding badly from multiple wounds," the officer said. "My colleague is up there giving first aid."
"Karen!" Carl shouted. He didn't need to; Karen was already running toward the overturned vehicle. "What about here?" Carl asked as he reached the woman on the ground.
"Two deceased I'm afraid," the officer said. "And a child in the back."
"The child's dead?" Carl exclaimed.
The officer looked shocked. "Jesus, no. In the back seat, strapped in and seems fine. Though she was crying hard when I got here."
Carl ran to the door of the car where he could see a child seat. The whole front of the car was crushed but the back doors were intact and would still open.
"Why didn't you take her out?" Carl snapped.
"I...I don't," the officer was out of his depth.
Carl opened the door and turned the rear facing child seat toward him. The little girl inside smiled at him. Her eyes and cheeks were red and full of tears. He looked at her face. He felt his heart race faster. He looked in her eyes. She smiled.
"Maria?"
The baby giggled. "Dada."
He cried. The sound was a low and keening. He covered his mouth so as not to scare his daughter. He lifted her out of the child seat. Tears streamed down his cheeks but he tried to suppress sound to keep her from crying. The police officer looked at Carl with a puzzled expression.
"She's my daughter," Carl said.
The officer's face dropped. "Jesus".
Carl then realized who the woman lying on the ground was. "Emily!" He ran to her with Maria in his arms. He knelt down beside the lifeless body.
"Mama," little Maria babbled.
Emily had been thrown through the passenger window. Her arms were broken and her face was barely recognizable.
He stood up and handed the baby to the officer. He knelt down beside his former wife and felt her pulse, hoping that the officer had got it wrong.
But he hadn't. She was gone. Carl could not control his tears now. They flooded his face as he cried over the body of the only woman he ever loved.
"Emily," he whispered. Memories flashed across his mind. That first kiss when they were both eighteen at the carnival by the beach; the night they became lovers. Simple things too like their countless Stargate SG-1 marathons huddled together on winter nights; their wedding day; Maria's birth where Emily had almost died.
Carl screamed into the night air. The scream touched the bottom of his inner self, a place where only darkness and pure, intense emotion resided.
It frightened Maria. She began to cry in the police officer's arms. Other emergency personnel had arrived at the scene. Carl saw men with yellow helmets. Firemen, he thought.
He could not accept her death. He refused to. He started CPR.
"Mate," the officer called.
Carl ignored him.
The officer shouted. "Can I get some help here?"
Maria was crying louder. "Mama," she cried between sobs.
Carl zoned it all out. "Come on Emily," he called to her. There was no response.
He breathed into her mouth. Her chest rose and fell again. He breathed again.
No response.
He started chest compressions again. "One, two, three..."
A hand touched his shoulder. "Let us take over Carl."
It sounded like Brian Lawton, his friend and colleague. More ambulances must have arrived.
Carl ignored him and continued with the compressions. "eight, nine, ten."
No response.
After some time he collapsed and lay beside her. He was exhausted. He put his hand on her bleeding face.
As a child he read comics. His hero was Superman. He loved the films. Christopher Reeve's Superman was Carl's childhood idol.
His life had been shaped by that character. He found in Superman someone to relate to. He was a man who was at heart decent and good, but who also had the power to overcome incredible adversity. He became a medic out of a dream to be a hero, to use his power to save those in their hour of need. Real life was not like the movies though.
People died all the time in the ambulance and Carl had no power over death. He felt hopeless.
Carl was logical and a realist, yet deep inside him he harboured a desire for the fantastical. At last, he embraced it.
He got up onto his knees and leaned over Emily. He felt hands on his back and words being spoken but he paid no heed to them. He placed his hands on her head, at the temples. "Live, Emily."
There was no response. He vaguely heard a commotion behind him.
"Come on darlin!" he whispered. "Come back to me."
Still nothing.
He felt desperation in the pit of his belly. He closed his eyes.
With all the force of his will he poured the command through his arms, into his hands and into her head. "Live!"
He was pulled away and his friend Brian came in to cover her feet with a white sheet. He was about to pull the sheet over her body.
Emily gasped for air.
Carl sat on the ground as the chaos erupted. Brian and his team surrounded Emily trying to make sure that the flicker of life did not slip away again.
But she got up. She was panicked and confused.
"Maria!" she screamed. The shocked police officer pushed through the paramedics crowding around her and handed the little girl to Emily. She kissed and hugged her daughter then looked toward the car. "Jacob!" She had seen her husband lying on the steering wheel of the car. "Jacob!" She ran to the driver’s door with the child in her arms.
Emily was pulling at the driver's door but it wouldn't open. "Jacob!" she screamed. "Somebody help him!"
Brian approached her and tried to lead her away.
Carl got up from the ground.
"Carl," Emily said as he approached the driver's door.
He moved Emily aside and looked inside the broken window. Jacob was dead and trapped in the car. The airbag in his steering wheel hadn't deployed.
"Somebody help him!" Emily screamed at the others. "Why won't you help him?"
"He's dead." A voice replied.
Emily cried and little Maria cried too seeing her mother in that state.
Carl laid his hand on Jacob's forehead.
He reached deep into the pit of his stomach to find the will for this man to live. He found nothing. This was the man who had taken his family away from him. He tried again to will Jacob to live but nothing happened.
He hated him. Deep down, he wanted him to die. He knew it was wrong but he could not change it.
Until he thought of Superman. He thought of Christopher Reeve. He thought of being a hero. He felt shame at his previous thoughts.
He pressed his hand to Jacob's forehead again. It was easy this time. He didn't even need to speak.
Carl's will brought Jacob back to life.
He watched as Emily embraced her husband and how Jacob kissed little Maria on the cheek through the broken window.
Emily turned and looked at Carl. She mouthed the words "thank you".
It was the first time, but not the last time; that people would pronounce the name of Earth’s greatest hero, the man who healed the world, Carl Johnson.
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I lurched from my sleep a week after my fourteenth birthday. Had I been dreaming? Of course I had. What was it? *Of course*. It's the same one, over and over again as monotonous as the soft tick of the clock that sat beside me, telling me that morning had arrived. The memories of the dream, and all of the identical ones before it, came flooding back now and there was little I could do to stop the images. The intense burning that started in my chest...a fire within my heart that may have only started as embers but took no time in becoming a frightening inferno. Then it raced to my throat. It sat there for a little while as if it knew that there was little left to travel before it would consume my body. It taunted me. Screaming did little to halt the burning. All of a sudden, the heat would rise to my eyes and I would be blinded by a light, its brightness as intense as the pain.
That's where the dream would end. My eyes would open and the familiar window would reveal the familiar blue sky. The dreams became little more than memories and I would continue the day as if nothing had happened. However, this morning was different. The embers had lept from the world of slumber into the world of the living. The heat is real...I'm sure of it. I clutched my chest as my breathing increased in both frequency and depth. Panic. I had felt it before but never like this.
The heat made the leap from my chest into my throat. It taunted me, this time free from the constraints of the dream world. I screamed. As expected, it did little to alleviate the pain. Then the leap came. It was the same as it was many times before. The leap...like an approaching storm...I knew it would come yet I could do little to prevent it. The heat clutched my eyes and the familiar bright light suddenly poured into the room. The reality of being awake seemed to magnify the pain as my eyes felt as if they were pressed against a flame. There was the sound of thunder and explosions as the burning continued for what seemed like an eternity. Then...silence.
I had closed my eyes and the burning had stopped, the darkness served a great respite from the light. When the commotion had settled I could distinguish some faint breathing...my own? No. Mother's.
"S-s-cott?" She managed to stammer out, obviously shaken up...but by what? I could not see what I had done.
Minutes passed but I didn't answer. I didn't dare open my eyes. I didn't even want to move. Just one thought...one name...raced through my mind. Only one person could help me...
*Charles Xavier*
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
|
The ambulance raced along the motorway, its blue lights piercing the darkness. Inside, a man was unconscious.
Carl, the paramedic, was standing over Mr Blake doing chest compressions. He was trying to re-start the old man's heart. The man had been unresponsive when Carl and Karen, the driver, had arrived at the scene. A man, an elder son maybe, had been doing compressions when Carl arrived.
"Twenty-one, twenty-two", he counted.
The ambulance turned a corner sharply and Carl stumbled backwards. He grabbed a bar on the bed to steady himself. He placed his fingers on the pulse of Mr Blake's neck. Still no response.
The vehicle turned again and came to a stop. The back doors flew open and Carl saw a host of people there. He helped the hospital crew to unload Mr Blake onto a hospital trolley bed.
The crew disappeared through double doors into the hospital with the patient. Carl sat on the back of the ambulance and sighed. Karen appeared around the open back door.
"Well?" she said.
"Can't see him making it," Carl replied.
"Right," she looked through the double doors. "I'm gonna grab a snack from the machine here before we head out again. D'ya want something?"
She was almost out of earshot before Carl even answered. "No." He was in a daze. "Thanks." But she was long gone.
Carl was putting his seatbelt on when the emergency notification system went off. Karen threw her chocolate bar at the dashboard and had the ambulance moving in seconds. "Where?" She called. The blue lights and the siren were already on.
He read the screen. "A26 northbound. Traffic collision. Possible fatalities."
Carl's heart lurched. He had been a paramedic for three years. His colleagues told him you got used to seeing people die. Carl hadn't. He could not detach his emotions from his job and he struggled to work with people who didn't seem to give a shit about the lives they were touching.
"Three miles," he read. "Two adults and one child in vehicle one. One adult trapped in vehicle two." With every call out he tried to visualize the situation. He wanted to be as prepared as possible so that he could save lives. That's why he became a Medic. All of his life Carl had the urge to help people. Reality had checked that desire. Depression had set in. It broke his marriage to his sweetheart, Emily and it meant that he only saw their daughter once a week at best now.
Karen was speeding along the road and cars were ducking out of the way. He saw flashing lights on the horizon.
They arrived at the scene. There was one police vehicle blocking the road. Karen drove the ambulance beyond it. Carl saw an overturned car further up the road. Closer, there was a family car where the whole front had been smashed in. A person was lying on the ground in front of that vehicle.
"That ones come out the window," Karen said.
The ambulance stopped and Carl got out fast with his bag. A police officer met him.
"One man trapped in the overturned vehicle. Conscious but bleeding badly from multiple wounds," the officer said. "My colleague is up there giving first aid."
"Karen!" Carl shouted. He didn't need to; Karen was already running toward the overturned vehicle. "What about here?" Carl asked as he reached the woman on the ground.
"Two deceased I'm afraid," the officer said. "And a child in the back."
"The child's dead?" Carl exclaimed.
The officer looked shocked. "Jesus, no. In the back seat, strapped in and seems fine. Though she was crying hard when I got here."
Carl ran to the door of the car where he could see a child seat. The whole front of the car was crushed but the back doors were intact and would still open.
"Why didn't you take her out?" Carl snapped.
"I...I don't," the officer was out of his depth.
Carl opened the door and turned the rear facing child seat toward him. The little girl inside smiled at him. Her eyes and cheeks were red and full of tears. He looked at her face. He felt his heart race faster. He looked in her eyes. She smiled.
"Maria?"
The baby giggled. "Dada."
He cried. The sound was a low and keening. He covered his mouth so as not to scare his daughter. He lifted her out of the child seat. Tears streamed down his cheeks but he tried to suppress sound to keep her from crying. The police officer looked at Carl with a puzzled expression.
"She's my daughter," Carl said.
The officer's face dropped. "Jesus".
Carl then realized who the woman lying on the ground was. "Emily!" He ran to her with Maria in his arms. He knelt down beside the lifeless body.
"Mama," little Maria babbled.
Emily had been thrown through the passenger window. Her arms were broken and her face was barely recognizable.
He stood up and handed the baby to the officer. He knelt down beside his former wife and felt her pulse, hoping that the officer had got it wrong.
But he hadn't. She was gone. Carl could not control his tears now. They flooded his face as he cried over the body of the only woman he ever loved.
"Emily," he whispered. Memories flashed across his mind. That first kiss when they were both eighteen at the carnival by the beach; the night they became lovers. Simple things too like their countless Stargate SG-1 marathons huddled together on winter nights; their wedding day; Maria's birth where Emily had almost died.
Carl screamed into the night air. The scream touched the bottom of his inner self, a place where only darkness and pure, intense emotion resided.
It frightened Maria. She began to cry in the police officer's arms. Other emergency personnel had arrived at the scene. Carl saw men with yellow helmets. Firemen, he thought.
He could not accept her death. He refused to. He started CPR.
"Mate," the officer called.
Carl ignored him.
The officer shouted. "Can I get some help here?"
Maria was crying louder. "Mama," she cried between sobs.
Carl zoned it all out. "Come on Emily," he called to her. There was no response.
He breathed into her mouth. Her chest rose and fell again. He breathed again.
No response.
He started chest compressions again. "One, two, three..."
A hand touched his shoulder. "Let us take over Carl."
It sounded like Brian Lawton, his friend and colleague. More ambulances must have arrived.
Carl ignored him and continued with the compressions. "eight, nine, ten."
No response.
After some time he collapsed and lay beside her. He was exhausted. He put his hand on her bleeding face.
As a child he read comics. His hero was Superman. He loved the films. Christopher Reeve's Superman was Carl's childhood idol.
His life had been shaped by that character. He found in Superman someone to relate to. He was a man who was at heart decent and good, but who also had the power to overcome incredible adversity. He became a medic out of a dream to be a hero, to use his power to save those in their hour of need. Real life was not like the movies though.
People died all the time in the ambulance and Carl had no power over death. He felt hopeless.
Carl was logical and a realist, yet deep inside him he harboured a desire for the fantastical. At last, he embraced it.
He got up onto his knees and leaned over Emily. He felt hands on his back and words being spoken but he paid no heed to them. He placed his hands on her head, at the temples. "Live, Emily."
There was no response. He vaguely heard a commotion behind him.
"Come on darlin!" he whispered. "Come back to me."
Still nothing.
He felt desperation in the pit of his belly. He closed his eyes.
With all the force of his will he poured the command through his arms, into his hands and into her head. "Live!"
He was pulled away and his friend Brian came in to cover her feet with a white sheet. He was about to pull the sheet over her body.
Emily gasped for air.
Carl sat on the ground as the chaos erupted. Brian and his team surrounded Emily trying to make sure that the flicker of life did not slip away again.
But she got up. She was panicked and confused.
"Maria!" she screamed. The shocked police officer pushed through the paramedics crowding around her and handed the little girl to Emily. She kissed and hugged her daughter then looked toward the car. "Jacob!" She had seen her husband lying on the steering wheel of the car. "Jacob!" She ran to the driver’s door with the child in her arms.
Emily was pulling at the driver's door but it wouldn't open. "Jacob!" she screamed. "Somebody help him!"
Brian approached her and tried to lead her away.
Carl got up from the ground.
"Carl," Emily said as he approached the driver's door.
He moved Emily aside and looked inside the broken window. Jacob was dead and trapped in the car. The airbag in his steering wheel hadn't deployed.
"Somebody help him!" Emily screamed at the others. "Why won't you help him?"
"He's dead." A voice replied.
Emily cried and little Maria cried too seeing her mother in that state.
Carl laid his hand on Jacob's forehead.
He reached deep into the pit of his stomach to find the will for this man to live. He found nothing. This was the man who had taken his family away from him. He tried again to will Jacob to live but nothing happened.
He hated him. Deep down, he wanted him to die. He knew it was wrong but he could not change it.
Until he thought of Superman. He thought of Christopher Reeve. He thought of being a hero. He felt shame at his previous thoughts.
He pressed his hand to Jacob's forehead again. It was easy this time. He didn't even need to speak.
Carl's will brought Jacob back to life.
He watched as Emily embraced her husband and how Jacob kissed little Maria on the cheek through the broken window.
Emily turned and looked at Carl. She mouthed the words "thank you".
It was the first time, but not the last time; that people would pronounce the name of Earth’s greatest hero, the man who healed the world, Carl Johnson.
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214782
We all were given a number and this was mine.
214782
I no longer had a name.
No longer had a future.
No longer had a people.
I had tried to save my parents, but they killed them.
I had tried to maintain my identity, but they tortured it out of me.
And all I now had left was my rage, and my number...
214782
They were going to die for this. Every single one of them. Down to the last woman and child.
They had to die.
And I was going to make sure that they did.
Maybe not today.
Maybe not tomorrow.
But die they all would in the end.
I would take my time planning out my revenge, making it foolproof. Imagining the pleasure, the ecstasy of putting a pistol to their brains and pulling the trigger.
I would make sure that this abomination, this genocide, this Holocaust would never happen to my people again. Not matter what the cost.
The next time I would be ready.
The next time I would save them,
The next time I would protect them.
But to do so I had to put aside the boy I had once been. Put aside the number they had tried to make me be. I had to become something greater.
I had to become Magneto.
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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"What is your name?" the woman asks.
I clear my throat and smile. My fingers smooth my hair. She looks up expectantly from her desk and I answer her. In turn her eyes travel my height, making note of my appearance, gleaning everything possible about me before telling me to sit. I pick up a magazine from the end table and pretend to go through its vacuous pages, estimating the number of seconds a sane human being might spend on each one before flipping to the next.
I look at my wristwatch then I look at the clock. The receptionist is scrutinizing me. She must know I don't wear a watch normally. Why would someone wearing a timepiece also be inclined to look at a clock? To check if they were synchronized? No, she knows I am unfamiliar with this thin strap of leather, this feeble handcuff on my skin, bearing the face of mortality every time a person might just want to know whether they're going to make a train in the morning or have time to go to the bathroom before an interview.
She calls my name. As I look up like a watchdog being fed she points to the door beside her. I rise to my feet and walk across the empty lobby, straightening my suit, feeling layered but oddly naked.
"Good luck," she says.
"Thank you," I say, wondering if she can hear an accent.
Once I am inside, there are no outside noises. The office has been completely sound-proofed. I feel like the fish paddling about inside the large aquarium, suspended as if in space. They stare out the glass like prisoners. A large window behind the desk peers into those of the neighboring high-rise, creating an endlessly self-reflecting domino effect among the skyscrapers.
"Come in, please, have a seat," says the man to whom the fish belong.
I hang a bit over the desk to shake his hand, pushing my tie back with my other hand. I just hope the firmness of my grip is more noticeable than the sweating of my palm. As I sit down he peruses my resume, hmming and ahing to himself. But then he slides it aside.
"So where are you from?" he asks.
For a moment darkness hangs in my mind. Then a brilliant light fills that empty space as I understand his unusual question. I tell him where I am from. He is unimpressed. However something in his demeanor changes. He grows more relaxed, as if realizing I pose no threat. His hand reaches back over his chair and he shakes his head.
"What are you doing all the way out here?"
Again, I can't tell if the questions they ask in this place are supposed to cut as deep as they seem to.
"I'd like to be a part of the work you do. I feel like I could be of some considerable use."
"This is a very fast-paced job," he says. "It is very hot on the market right now and I've had about five interviews just today for this very position."
"I can do fast-paced," I say. "Why would I want to be anywhere but where everyone else wants to be? I just know I can do it better. I know I'm the stronger candidate."
"Sure, that's what they all say," he says, putting his fingertips together. "But what makes you different?"
"I'm not sure I'm trying to be," I say. "You need someone who can see things exactly the way everyone else can, who can understand the world through the eyes of an ordinary person, so people can relate. Besides why would I want to be anything but what I am?"
He peers at me for a moment. The next thing I know I am in the bathroom, splashing cool water against my eyelids. I almost forgot I was wearing the glasses and I keep them aside. In the fluorescently lit bathroom I stare into the mirror. I can still hear the interviewer's last words as we shook hands:
"Welcome to the Planet."
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This prompt has so much potential
Someone more talented than me do something cool
pls
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
|
The ambulance raced along the motorway, its blue lights piercing the darkness. Inside, a man was unconscious.
Carl, the paramedic, was standing over Mr Blake doing chest compressions. He was trying to re-start the old man's heart. The man had been unresponsive when Carl and Karen, the driver, had arrived at the scene. A man, an elder son maybe, had been doing compressions when Carl arrived.
"Twenty-one, twenty-two", he counted.
The ambulance turned a corner sharply and Carl stumbled backwards. He grabbed a bar on the bed to steady himself. He placed his fingers on the pulse of Mr Blake's neck. Still no response.
The vehicle turned again and came to a stop. The back doors flew open and Carl saw a host of people there. He helped the hospital crew to unload Mr Blake onto a hospital trolley bed.
The crew disappeared through double doors into the hospital with the patient. Carl sat on the back of the ambulance and sighed. Karen appeared around the open back door.
"Well?" she said.
"Can't see him making it," Carl replied.
"Right," she looked through the double doors. "I'm gonna grab a snack from the machine here before we head out again. D'ya want something?"
She was almost out of earshot before Carl even answered. "No." He was in a daze. "Thanks." But she was long gone.
Carl was putting his seatbelt on when the emergency notification system went off. Karen threw her chocolate bar at the dashboard and had the ambulance moving in seconds. "Where?" She called. The blue lights and the siren were already on.
He read the screen. "A26 northbound. Traffic collision. Possible fatalities."
Carl's heart lurched. He had been a paramedic for three years. His colleagues told him you got used to seeing people die. Carl hadn't. He could not detach his emotions from his job and he struggled to work with people who didn't seem to give a shit about the lives they were touching.
"Three miles," he read. "Two adults and one child in vehicle one. One adult trapped in vehicle two." With every call out he tried to visualize the situation. He wanted to be as prepared as possible so that he could save lives. That's why he became a Medic. All of his life Carl had the urge to help people. Reality had checked that desire. Depression had set in. It broke his marriage to his sweetheart, Emily and it meant that he only saw their daughter once a week at best now.
Karen was speeding along the road and cars were ducking out of the way. He saw flashing lights on the horizon.
They arrived at the scene. There was one police vehicle blocking the road. Karen drove the ambulance beyond it. Carl saw an overturned car further up the road. Closer, there was a family car where the whole front had been smashed in. A person was lying on the ground in front of that vehicle.
"That ones come out the window," Karen said.
The ambulance stopped and Carl got out fast with his bag. A police officer met him.
"One man trapped in the overturned vehicle. Conscious but bleeding badly from multiple wounds," the officer said. "My colleague is up there giving first aid."
"Karen!" Carl shouted. He didn't need to; Karen was already running toward the overturned vehicle. "What about here?" Carl asked as he reached the woman on the ground.
"Two deceased I'm afraid," the officer said. "And a child in the back."
"The child's dead?" Carl exclaimed.
The officer looked shocked. "Jesus, no. In the back seat, strapped in and seems fine. Though she was crying hard when I got here."
Carl ran to the door of the car where he could see a child seat. The whole front of the car was crushed but the back doors were intact and would still open.
"Why didn't you take her out?" Carl snapped.
"I...I don't," the officer was out of his depth.
Carl opened the door and turned the rear facing child seat toward him. The little girl inside smiled at him. Her eyes and cheeks were red and full of tears. He looked at her face. He felt his heart race faster. He looked in her eyes. She smiled.
"Maria?"
The baby giggled. "Dada."
He cried. The sound was a low and keening. He covered his mouth so as not to scare his daughter. He lifted her out of the child seat. Tears streamed down his cheeks but he tried to suppress sound to keep her from crying. The police officer looked at Carl with a puzzled expression.
"She's my daughter," Carl said.
The officer's face dropped. "Jesus".
Carl then realized who the woman lying on the ground was. "Emily!" He ran to her with Maria in his arms. He knelt down beside the lifeless body.
"Mama," little Maria babbled.
Emily had been thrown through the passenger window. Her arms were broken and her face was barely recognizable.
He stood up and handed the baby to the officer. He knelt down beside his former wife and felt her pulse, hoping that the officer had got it wrong.
But he hadn't. She was gone. Carl could not control his tears now. They flooded his face as he cried over the body of the only woman he ever loved.
"Emily," he whispered. Memories flashed across his mind. That first kiss when they were both eighteen at the carnival by the beach; the night they became lovers. Simple things too like their countless Stargate SG-1 marathons huddled together on winter nights; their wedding day; Maria's birth where Emily had almost died.
Carl screamed into the night air. The scream touched the bottom of his inner self, a place where only darkness and pure, intense emotion resided.
It frightened Maria. She began to cry in the police officer's arms. Other emergency personnel had arrived at the scene. Carl saw men with yellow helmets. Firemen, he thought.
He could not accept her death. He refused to. He started CPR.
"Mate," the officer called.
Carl ignored him.
The officer shouted. "Can I get some help here?"
Maria was crying louder. "Mama," she cried between sobs.
Carl zoned it all out. "Come on Emily," he called to her. There was no response.
He breathed into her mouth. Her chest rose and fell again. He breathed again.
No response.
He started chest compressions again. "One, two, three..."
A hand touched his shoulder. "Let us take over Carl."
It sounded like Brian Lawton, his friend and colleague. More ambulances must have arrived.
Carl ignored him and continued with the compressions. "eight, nine, ten."
No response.
After some time he collapsed and lay beside her. He was exhausted. He put his hand on her bleeding face.
As a child he read comics. His hero was Superman. He loved the films. Christopher Reeve's Superman was Carl's childhood idol.
His life had been shaped by that character. He found in Superman someone to relate to. He was a man who was at heart decent and good, but who also had the power to overcome incredible adversity. He became a medic out of a dream to be a hero, to use his power to save those in their hour of need. Real life was not like the movies though.
People died all the time in the ambulance and Carl had no power over death. He felt hopeless.
Carl was logical and a realist, yet deep inside him he harboured a desire for the fantastical. At last, he embraced it.
He got up onto his knees and leaned over Emily. He felt hands on his back and words being spoken but he paid no heed to them. He placed his hands on her head, at the temples. "Live, Emily."
There was no response. He vaguely heard a commotion behind him.
"Come on darlin!" he whispered. "Come back to me."
Still nothing.
He felt desperation in the pit of his belly. He closed his eyes.
With all the force of his will he poured the command through his arms, into his hands and into her head. "Live!"
He was pulled away and his friend Brian came in to cover her feet with a white sheet. He was about to pull the sheet over her body.
Emily gasped for air.
Carl sat on the ground as the chaos erupted. Brian and his team surrounded Emily trying to make sure that the flicker of life did not slip away again.
But she got up. She was panicked and confused.
"Maria!" she screamed. The shocked police officer pushed through the paramedics crowding around her and handed the little girl to Emily. She kissed and hugged her daughter then looked toward the car. "Jacob!" She had seen her husband lying on the steering wheel of the car. "Jacob!" She ran to the driver’s door with the child in her arms.
Emily was pulling at the driver's door but it wouldn't open. "Jacob!" she screamed. "Somebody help him!"
Brian approached her and tried to lead her away.
Carl got up from the ground.
"Carl," Emily said as he approached the driver's door.
He moved Emily aside and looked inside the broken window. Jacob was dead and trapped in the car. The airbag in his steering wheel hadn't deployed.
"Somebody help him!" Emily screamed at the others. "Why won't you help him?"
"He's dead." A voice replied.
Emily cried and little Maria cried too seeing her mother in that state.
Carl laid his hand on Jacob's forehead.
He reached deep into the pit of his stomach to find the will for this man to live. He found nothing. This was the man who had taken his family away from him. He tried again to will Jacob to live but nothing happened.
He hated him. Deep down, he wanted him to die. He knew it was wrong but he could not change it.
Until he thought of Superman. He thought of Christopher Reeve. He thought of being a hero. He felt shame at his previous thoughts.
He pressed his hand to Jacob's forehead again. It was easy this time. He didn't even need to speak.
Carl's will brought Jacob back to life.
He watched as Emily embraced her husband and how Jacob kissed little Maria on the cheek through the broken window.
Emily turned and looked at Carl. She mouthed the words "thank you".
It was the first time, but not the last time; that people would pronounce the name of Earth’s greatest hero, the man who healed the world, Carl Johnson.
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This prompt has so much potential
Someone more talented than me do something cool
pls
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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Even as a child he knew he was different. His abilities were so immense his mother had tried to stop him growing them to an extent. She wanted him to be normal. How could he be normal?
His heart was always pounding, his mind racing at a hundred miles an hour. His friend. He couldn't believe it. He didn't have many friends, and the one that he did, the one who really pushed him and helped him reach his potential. Gone.
Anger swelled in him, frustration was triumphing. He furrowed his brow at the thought of what was left behind of his friend. A shell, consumed by an evil so deep, so unnatural. His good friend was now his arch enemy. This friend had such good intentions. Such ambition to do good for others...
Now, his enemy in place of his friend had twisted, insane intentions; his mad methods were now a plight on the Earth's safety. Ironic, frustrating and, above all, unfair.
Just as he had changed himself, his role had changed. His purpose was becoming fulfilled. Ironically the individual he had become, faster than the speed of sound, as fast as light, nurtured by his friend, would now have to be the obstacle to stop the mad Doctor.
Sure, his friend had nutured his mind and his physical skills, plus used his scientific genius to cater for the needs he had - after all, his shoes often got destroyed under the friction his speed produced!
Why did Dr. K have to try playing God?! He knew the intention was good but dammit, the risks were all too high. The Doctor found this out the hard way. The forces of evil he had tried so hard to contain had consumed him.
Before he knew it the Doctor was on a rampage. Slaughtering his innocent friends and their families, with seemingly no clear direction as to why... There was no reason - it was evil personified which had fused itself like a symbiote to the Doctor... Preying on his genius, infecting his mind. He was shocked this had happened to his friend, distraught as to the actions he must take now.
He had grown to be a smart, moral individual with excellent physical capabilities. His family was at risk... All his help to keep the Doctor's work going for the good of the world, and he couldn't even ensure his family's safety. He had no father, his mother and siblings alone. In a blazing dash he ran, a blue blur amongst the green hedges, ducking in and out to get to his family, but he had realised too late. There they lay strewn, lifeless, limp and bloody. The Doctor had done his evil and long gone.
As he cried his sadness turned to anger. His old friend had to be stopped and he would spend every last breath making sure he stopped the evil Doctor. He dusted off his special red sneakers, the last gift from his old friend and realised Sonny was no more.
From this day forth he would be known as Sonic, the fastest Hedgehog - a supersonic force of good. He needed help, he knew that, but there was no time to lose. The rest of the world needed him. He'd have to travel many miles, and tales would be spun about his efforts to save the planet from evil. Someone had to do it. His purpose was now defined.
*EDIT: Also my first post here*
*EDIT 2: Missed an "s" after "other"*
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This prompt has so much potential
Someone more talented than me do something cool
pls
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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It hit my heart, just as hard as it hit theirs.
My entire life, in a single instance, has been flipped upside-down.
Forever.
How is it that something so pure, so warm, can be ripped from existence so easily? Especially at a time when things were so... right.
The blinding flash still stings my eyes. Still present when I close them. A white splotch left in the middle of my gaze.
The deafening, earthshaking sound still rings in my ears. Once, twice.
I don't think I'll ever escape this. It still keeps me up at night. My hands are shaking even now, just as they did on that night so long ago. Stained crimson with their blood, and no amount of scrubbing, no product advertised on the TV that fills every channel this late at night will be able to remove it. No miracle concoction... no such thing exists.
Night after night I do this.
I relive that night, sink into a paralyzing depressive state...
And then channel it all, into my "work".
It's the only thing that keeps me sane now. My only coping mechanism.
I go out, round up all of the scumbags in this diseased city and drop them off at Blackgate, or if I'm lucky, Arkham. Those ones are always the most fun. I probably need to be locked up in there as much as they do.
Hm. Time to go.
**My first post in this sub. I don't write a lot, but I'm trying to get into it. Show me love (:**
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This prompt has so much potential
Someone more talented than me do something cool
pls
|
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[WP] Retell the origin of a superhero, but reveal the hero at the end of the story.
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The ambulance raced along the motorway, its blue lights piercing the darkness. Inside, a man was unconscious.
Carl, the paramedic, was standing over Mr Blake doing chest compressions. He was trying to re-start the old man's heart. The man had been unresponsive when Carl and Karen, the driver, had arrived at the scene. A man, an elder son maybe, had been doing compressions when Carl arrived.
"Twenty-one, twenty-two", he counted.
The ambulance turned a corner sharply and Carl stumbled backwards. He grabbed a bar on the bed to steady himself. He placed his fingers on the pulse of Mr Blake's neck. Still no response.
The vehicle turned again and came to a stop. The back doors flew open and Carl saw a host of people there. He helped the hospital crew to unload Mr Blake onto a hospital trolley bed.
The crew disappeared through double doors into the hospital with the patient. Carl sat on the back of the ambulance and sighed. Karen appeared around the open back door.
"Well?" she said.
"Can't see him making it," Carl replied.
"Right," she looked through the double doors. "I'm gonna grab a snack from the machine here before we head out again. D'ya want something?"
She was almost out of earshot before Carl even answered. "No." He was in a daze. "Thanks." But she was long gone.
Carl was putting his seatbelt on when the emergency notification system went off. Karen threw her chocolate bar at the dashboard and had the ambulance moving in seconds. "Where?" She called. The blue lights and the siren were already on.
He read the screen. "A26 northbound. Traffic collision. Possible fatalities."
Carl's heart lurched. He had been a paramedic for three years. His colleagues told him you got used to seeing people die. Carl hadn't. He could not detach his emotions from his job and he struggled to work with people who didn't seem to give a shit about the lives they were touching.
"Three miles," he read. "Two adults and one child in vehicle one. One adult trapped in vehicle two." With every call out he tried to visualize the situation. He wanted to be as prepared as possible so that he could save lives. That's why he became a Medic. All of his life Carl had the urge to help people. Reality had checked that desire. Depression had set in. It broke his marriage to his sweetheart, Emily and it meant that he only saw their daughter once a week at best now.
Karen was speeding along the road and cars were ducking out of the way. He saw flashing lights on the horizon.
They arrived at the scene. There was one police vehicle blocking the road. Karen drove the ambulance beyond it. Carl saw an overturned car further up the road. Closer, there was a family car where the whole front had been smashed in. A person was lying on the ground in front of that vehicle.
"That ones come out the window," Karen said.
The ambulance stopped and Carl got out fast with his bag. A police officer met him.
"One man trapped in the overturned vehicle. Conscious but bleeding badly from multiple wounds," the officer said. "My colleague is up there giving first aid."
"Karen!" Carl shouted. He didn't need to; Karen was already running toward the overturned vehicle. "What about here?" Carl asked as he reached the woman on the ground.
"Two deceased I'm afraid," the officer said. "And a child in the back."
"The child's dead?" Carl exclaimed.
The officer looked shocked. "Jesus, no. In the back seat, strapped in and seems fine. Though she was crying hard when I got here."
Carl ran to the door of the car where he could see a child seat. The whole front of the car was crushed but the back doors were intact and would still open.
"Why didn't you take her out?" Carl snapped.
"I...I don't," the officer was out of his depth.
Carl opened the door and turned the rear facing child seat toward him. The little girl inside smiled at him. Her eyes and cheeks were red and full of tears. He looked at her face. He felt his heart race faster. He looked in her eyes. She smiled.
"Maria?"
The baby giggled. "Dada."
He cried. The sound was a low and keening. He covered his mouth so as not to scare his daughter. He lifted her out of the child seat. Tears streamed down his cheeks but he tried to suppress sound to keep her from crying. The police officer looked at Carl with a puzzled expression.
"She's my daughter," Carl said.
The officer's face dropped. "Jesus".
Carl then realized who the woman lying on the ground was. "Emily!" He ran to her with Maria in his arms. He knelt down beside the lifeless body.
"Mama," little Maria babbled.
Emily had been thrown through the passenger window. Her arms were broken and her face was barely recognizable.
He stood up and handed the baby to the officer. He knelt down beside his former wife and felt her pulse, hoping that the officer had got it wrong.
But he hadn't. She was gone. Carl could not control his tears now. They flooded his face as he cried over the body of the only woman he ever loved.
"Emily," he whispered. Memories flashed across his mind. That first kiss when they were both eighteen at the carnival by the beach; the night they became lovers. Simple things too like their countless Stargate SG-1 marathons huddled together on winter nights; their wedding day; Maria's birth where Emily had almost died.
Carl screamed into the night air. The scream touched the bottom of his inner self, a place where only darkness and pure, intense emotion resided.
It frightened Maria. She began to cry in the police officer's arms. Other emergency personnel had arrived at the scene. Carl saw men with yellow helmets. Firemen, he thought.
He could not accept her death. He refused to. He started CPR.
"Mate," the officer called.
Carl ignored him.
The officer shouted. "Can I get some help here?"
Maria was crying louder. "Mama," she cried between sobs.
Carl zoned it all out. "Come on Emily," he called to her. There was no response.
He breathed into her mouth. Her chest rose and fell again. He breathed again.
No response.
He started chest compressions again. "One, two, three..."
A hand touched his shoulder. "Let us take over Carl."
It sounded like Brian Lawton, his friend and colleague. More ambulances must have arrived.
Carl ignored him and continued with the compressions. "eight, nine, ten."
No response.
After some time he collapsed and lay beside her. He was exhausted. He put his hand on her bleeding face.
As a child he read comics. His hero was Superman. He loved the films. Christopher Reeve's Superman was Carl's childhood idol.
His life had been shaped by that character. He found in Superman someone to relate to. He was a man who was at heart decent and good, but who also had the power to overcome incredible adversity. He became a medic out of a dream to be a hero, to use his power to save those in their hour of need. Real life was not like the movies though.
People died all the time in the ambulance and Carl had no power over death. He felt hopeless.
Carl was logical and a realist, yet deep inside him he harboured a desire for the fantastical. At last, he embraced it.
He got up onto his knees and leaned over Emily. He felt hands on his back and words being spoken but he paid no heed to them. He placed his hands on her head, at the temples. "Live, Emily."
There was no response. He vaguely heard a commotion behind him.
"Come on darlin!" he whispered. "Come back to me."
Still nothing.
He felt desperation in the pit of his belly. He closed his eyes.
With all the force of his will he poured the command through his arms, into his hands and into her head. "Live!"
He was pulled away and his friend Brian came in to cover her feet with a white sheet. He was about to pull the sheet over her body.
Emily gasped for air.
Carl sat on the ground as the chaos erupted. Brian and his team surrounded Emily trying to make sure that the flicker of life did not slip away again.
But she got up. She was panicked and confused.
"Maria!" she screamed. The shocked police officer pushed through the paramedics crowding around her and handed the little girl to Emily. She kissed and hugged her daughter then looked toward the car. "Jacob!" She had seen her husband lying on the steering wheel of the car. "Jacob!" She ran to the driver’s door with the child in her arms.
Emily was pulling at the driver's door but it wouldn't open. "Jacob!" she screamed. "Somebody help him!"
Brian approached her and tried to lead her away.
Carl got up from the ground.
"Carl," Emily said as he approached the driver's door.
He moved Emily aside and looked inside the broken window. Jacob was dead and trapped in the car. The airbag in his steering wheel hadn't deployed.
"Somebody help him!" Emily screamed at the others. "Why won't you help him?"
"He's dead." A voice replied.
Emily cried and little Maria cried too seeing her mother in that state.
Carl laid his hand on Jacob's forehead.
He reached deep into the pit of his stomach to find the will for this man to live. He found nothing. This was the man who had taken his family away from him. He tried again to will Jacob to live but nothing happened.
He hated him. Deep down, he wanted him to die. He knew it was wrong but he could not change it.
Until he thought of Superman. He thought of Christopher Reeve. He thought of being a hero. He felt shame at his previous thoughts.
He pressed his hand to Jacob's forehead again. It was easy this time. He didn't even need to speak.
Carl's will brought Jacob back to life.
He watched as Emily embraced her husband and how Jacob kissed little Maria on the cheek through the broken window.
Emily turned and looked at Carl. She mouthed the words "thank you".
It was the first time, but not the last time; that people would pronounce the name of Earth’s greatest hero, the man who healed the world, Carl Johnson.
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"What is your name?" the woman asks.
I clear my throat and smile. My fingers smooth my hair. She looks up expectantly from her desk and I answer her. In turn her eyes travel my height, making note of my appearance, gleaning everything possible about me before telling me to sit. I pick up a magazine from the end table and pretend to go through its vacuous pages, estimating the number of seconds a sane human being might spend on each one before flipping to the next.
I look at my wristwatch then I look at the clock. The receptionist is scrutinizing me. She must know I don't wear a watch normally. Why would someone wearing a timepiece also be inclined to look at a clock? To check if they were synchronized? No, she knows I am unfamiliar with this thin strap of leather, this feeble handcuff on my skin, bearing the face of mortality every time a person might just want to know whether they're going to make a train in the morning or have time to go to the bathroom before an interview.
She calls my name. As I look up like a watchdog being fed she points to the door beside her. I rise to my feet and walk across the empty lobby, straightening my suit, feeling layered but oddly naked.
"Good luck," she says.
"Thank you," I say, wondering if she can hear an accent.
Once I am inside, there are no outside noises. The office has been completely sound-proofed. I feel like the fish paddling about inside the large aquarium, suspended as if in space. They stare out the glass like prisoners. A large window behind the desk peers into those of the neighboring high-rise, creating an endlessly self-reflecting domino effect among the skyscrapers.
"Come in, please, have a seat," says the man to whom the fish belong.
I hang a bit over the desk to shake his hand, pushing my tie back with my other hand. I just hope the firmness of my grip is more noticeable than the sweating of my palm. As I sit down he peruses my resume, hmming and ahing to himself. But then he slides it aside.
"So where are you from?" he asks.
For a moment darkness hangs in my mind. Then a brilliant light fills that empty space as I understand his unusual question. I tell him where I am from. He is unimpressed. However something in his demeanor changes. He grows more relaxed, as if realizing I pose no threat. His hand reaches back over his chair and he shakes his head.
"What are you doing all the way out here?"
Again, I can't tell if the questions they ask in this place are supposed to cut as deep as they seem to.
"I'd like to be a part of the work you do. I feel like I could be of some considerable use."
"This is a very fast-paced job," he says. "It is very hot on the market right now and I've had about five interviews just today for this very position."
"I can do fast-paced," I say. "Why would I want to be anywhere but where everyone else wants to be? I just know I can do it better. I know I'm the stronger candidate."
"Sure, that's what they all say," he says, putting his fingertips together. "But what makes you different?"
"I'm not sure I'm trying to be," I say. "You need someone who can see things exactly the way everyone else can, who can understand the world through the eyes of an ordinary person, so people can relate. Besides why would I want to be anything but what I am?"
He peers at me for a moment. The next thing I know I am in the bathroom, splashing cool water against my eyelids. I almost forgot I was wearing the glasses and I keep them aside. In the fluorescently lit bathroom I stare into the mirror. I can still hear the interviewer's last words as we shook hands:
"Welcome to the Planet."
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This prompt is meant to help you describe things to the best of your ability. Write about the most delicious meal you can think of. Make it appear before our very eyes. Make it sound irresistible. Have it sound so scrumptious, even a full person would salivate.
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[WP] Describe a delicious meal in great detail
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It appeared to be a luminescent green jelly. I had been told this dish was a delicacy on the planet Xetherion. The exact words the stranger used were: "It is to die for." That sold it. This cafe on a planet far removed from my own would serve as my introduction to the wonders of the universe.
At first it did not appear very appealing. When food glows, alarm bells sound in your mind. My eyes were transfixed, the gelatinous blob appeared to have the most subtle wobble, vibrating in reaction to the sounds of the other patrons.
My drink, served in a martini-like glass, had tasted almost ununiquely alcoholic. The only difference being that the orange fizzy substance evaporated almost as soon as it had hit my palette. The fumes entered my nasal passage and I was intoxicated at record speed. I would have to make certain to try that again.
The liquid drained from my cup, I turned my attention again to the amorphous green hued blob in front of me. I was given a fork and knife, but I wasn't sure where to actually dig in first. It sat in a black sauce, the waiter said it was its own juices. I made a small incision on the left side of this heap of goo. Steam escaped from the cut, releasing an aroma that smelled so inviting as to wash away my fears.
The inside of the meat, which I'd resigned to calling it, was brown in color. It was curious to me that the surface would be cold to the touch but inside it felt like it was fresh out of an oven. I prepped the rest of the meal, cutting the delicate beast as had been instructed. It required an amount of precision, the menu had stated, best to do it at once rather than cut, chew, cut, chew.
A fork full was dipped into the black sauce. This made the outer layer sparkle, dazzling my eyes. I raised the utensil to my face, the smell of a happy childhood wafting in my nose. I placed the morsel in my mouth, pausing only for a second to marvel at this experience. The sensation as the sauce and meat hit my taste buds was unlike any experienced by an Earth person.
The sauce seemed to solidify just a little in reaction to my saliva. It was a pleasurable and unexpected experience as the previously soft jelly exterior hardened and crunched between my teeth. The closest thing I could compare it to was something cooked over charcoals on a steel grate. A similar texture and a smokey taste, as if it had been cooked over seasoned hickory wood chips.
Swallowing that first bite was equally pleasurable. The heat of the food travelling down my gullet, finally making its home in the center of my belly. It warmed me throughout, giving me a tingling sensation in my chest. I could see that the world around me appeared to share the same sparkle of the sauce mixed with jelly. This dish was not only mind expanding, but the visuals accompanied were more relaxing than drugs provided back home.
I continued eating, though the end of the meal provided the biggest surprise yet...
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It's just a steak, nothing more.
One of those late night vampiric cravings for meat that often lurk around after I've had enough to drink. It's something primal and vicious and impossible to silence.
The pan burns the air in anticipation of the meat. Screaming as the outside sears, I flip it almost immediately, keeping the centre bloody.
Still crying out with the detritus and memory of the meat, the pan smokes long after I remove its passenger.
The steak greedily melts the butter into the crevasses caused by the heat, creating rivulets that drip wastefully onto the plate. Cutting it open to reveal a centre dark as cherries, its juice of butter and blood squeezes out onto the plate.
The scrape of my knife, concrete and wood, over the crisped brown exterior.
The soft sinking of the blade, a dull wet noise, into the almost raw interior.
At once rough and smooth on my tongue, I barely chew, consuming quickly before the moment is gone.
It's just a steak, but somehow more.
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This prompt is meant to help you describe things to the best of your ability. Write about the most delicious meal you can think of. Make it appear before our very eyes. Make it sound irresistible. Have it sound so scrumptious, even a full person would salivate.
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[WP] Describe a delicious meal in great detail
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**The restaurant's perspective:**
And here we have a Tuscan Chicken Panini, a Pen Cafe classic! We start with our own freshly baked focaccia bread. We pile on choice cuts of chicken, tastefully seasoned with Italian herbs and spices. We toss on some arugula - or rocket, for you international folk - and add some hot peppers for that extra kick! Next, we grate some mozzarella cheese over it all and top it off with some of our very own spicy honey mustard. Finally, we place our arrangement in one of our grill presses, where our sandwich will turn into a hot and scrumptious Tuscan Chicken Panini!
**The eater's perspective:**
After waiting just a few minutes, my panini was ready. The perfectly oblique grill marks on the focaccia bread were still sizzling from their visit to the grill press. The press also had done wonders for the mozzarella cheese, as was expected. The cheese had even mixed a little bit with the mustard, giving it a more vibrant color as it oozed past the edges of the sandwich.
Not just satisfied staring at such an inviting meal, I took my first bite into the panini. The crust of the focaccia was crisp from the grill, but it quickly gave way. As I bit further into the sandwich, I could notice each distinct ingredient. The chicken was moist and easy to ingest. The Tuscan element was certainly present. The olive oil provided another moist component to the sandwich and the slightest tinge of bitterness. The arugula provided another tangy layer to the sandwich and a small crunch as well. It had a bitterness as well, which went well with the Tuscan seasoning. The hot peppers provided a more solid sort of crunch than the arugula. The peppers' most expected effect was noticeable as soon as they hit my tongue. I knew that my eyes would be watering by the time I finished the sandwich. But they were sensible enough to not wholly overpower the flavor of the panini. The mozzarella cheese was a welcoming relief. It was that perfect blend of soft and stringy, existing only as melted cheese is cooling. This mozzarella had little flavor of its own, leaving that up to the rest of the sandwich. It existed only for its texture, but it played its part exceedingly well. The mustard was textured due to the various spices contained within. It provided a spiciness in addition to, but very unlike, the hot peppers. The focaccia bread reappeared on the other end of the sandwich, providing closure. Its herbs echoed the flavor of the Tuscan seasoning on the chicken.
***
I'd originally written the prompt just from the creator's perspective, but I realized that I was missing the entire point of the prompt, which was to describe a meal. I was not describing a meal, but a recipe or a product. I then chose to write the eater's perspective. It's the only other perspective in a meal, really. And arguably the most important one when attempting to describe a meal as delicious.
In the end, I decided to keep and submit both perspectives. It seemed to me to highlight a distinct difference in the manner in which a new menu item is sometimes advertised compared to what somebody actually eating a meal and savoring it senses.
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It's just a steak, nothing more.
One of those late night vampiric cravings for meat that often lurk around after I've had enough to drink. It's something primal and vicious and impossible to silence.
The pan burns the air in anticipation of the meat. Screaming as the outside sears, I flip it almost immediately, keeping the centre bloody.
Still crying out with the detritus and memory of the meat, the pan smokes long after I remove its passenger.
The steak greedily melts the butter into the crevasses caused by the heat, creating rivulets that drip wastefully onto the plate. Cutting it open to reveal a centre dark as cherries, its juice of butter and blood squeezes out onto the plate.
The scrape of my knife, concrete and wood, over the crisped brown exterior.
The soft sinking of the blade, a dull wet noise, into the almost raw interior.
At once rough and smooth on my tongue, I barely chew, consuming quickly before the moment is gone.
It's just a steak, but somehow more.
|
This prompt is meant to help you describe things to the best of your ability. Write about the most delicious meal you can think of. Make it appear before our very eyes. Make it sound irresistible. Have it sound so scrumptious, even a full person would salivate.
|
[WP] Describe a delicious meal in great detail
|
The first thing you notice is the smooth batter cooked to a brown perfection, with slight cracks here and there where gas and air escaped. The first bite breaks through the cooked crust of the outer layer and into the soft yellow innards, down to the beef frank in the center skewered with a small Popsicle stick.
Dipping it aside in a small bowl of ketchup, you're met with the same sensation, A crisp outer layer, soft bread and delicious frank, all now wrapped in the wonderful taste of a homestyle tomato ketchup with a hint of pepper and cilantro.
Once you reach the final bite, you're left with nothing but battered crumbs flash-fried to the stick in the cooking process. You lean back, wash the corn dog down with a swig of beer, and set to finish the next one- Maybe this time you'll try mustard or mayonnaise.
|
It's just a steak, nothing more.
One of those late night vampiric cravings for meat that often lurk around after I've had enough to drink. It's something primal and vicious and impossible to silence.
The pan burns the air in anticipation of the meat. Screaming as the outside sears, I flip it almost immediately, keeping the centre bloody.
Still crying out with the detritus and memory of the meat, the pan smokes long after I remove its passenger.
The steak greedily melts the butter into the crevasses caused by the heat, creating rivulets that drip wastefully onto the plate. Cutting it open to reveal a centre dark as cherries, its juice of butter and blood squeezes out onto the plate.
The scrape of my knife, concrete and wood, over the crisped brown exterior.
The soft sinking of the blade, a dull wet noise, into the almost raw interior.
At once rough and smooth on my tongue, I barely chew, consuming quickly before the moment is gone.
It's just a steak, but somehow more.
|
This prompt is meant to help you describe things to the best of your ability. Write about the most delicious meal you can think of. Make it appear before our very eyes. Make it sound irresistible. Have it sound so scrumptious, even a full person would salivate.
|
[WP] Describe a delicious meal in great detail
|
**The restaurant's perspective:**
And here we have a Tuscan Chicken Panini, a Pen Cafe classic! We start with our own freshly baked focaccia bread. We pile on choice cuts of chicken, tastefully seasoned with Italian herbs and spices. We toss on some arugula - or rocket, for you international folk - and add some hot peppers for that extra kick! Next, we grate some mozzarella cheese over it all and top it off with some of our very own spicy honey mustard. Finally, we place our arrangement in one of our grill presses, where our sandwich will turn into a hot and scrumptious Tuscan Chicken Panini!
**The eater's perspective:**
After waiting just a few minutes, my panini was ready. The perfectly oblique grill marks on the focaccia bread were still sizzling from their visit to the grill press. The press also had done wonders for the mozzarella cheese, as was expected. The cheese had even mixed a little bit with the mustard, giving it a more vibrant color as it oozed past the edges of the sandwich.
Not just satisfied staring at such an inviting meal, I took my first bite into the panini. The crust of the focaccia was crisp from the grill, but it quickly gave way. As I bit further into the sandwich, I could notice each distinct ingredient. The chicken was moist and easy to ingest. The Tuscan element was certainly present. The olive oil provided another moist component to the sandwich and the slightest tinge of bitterness. The arugula provided another tangy layer to the sandwich and a small crunch as well. It had a bitterness as well, which went well with the Tuscan seasoning. The hot peppers provided a more solid sort of crunch than the arugula. The peppers' most expected effect was noticeable as soon as they hit my tongue. I knew that my eyes would be watering by the time I finished the sandwich. But they were sensible enough to not wholly overpower the flavor of the panini. The mozzarella cheese was a welcoming relief. It was that perfect blend of soft and stringy, existing only as melted cheese is cooling. This mozzarella had little flavor of its own, leaving that up to the rest of the sandwich. It existed only for its texture, but it played its part exceedingly well. The mustard was textured due to the various spices contained within. It provided a spiciness in addition to, but very unlike, the hot peppers. The focaccia bread reappeared on the other end of the sandwich, providing closure. Its herbs echoed the flavor of the Tuscan seasoning on the chicken.
***
I'd originally written the prompt just from the creator's perspective, but I realized that I was missing the entire point of the prompt, which was to describe a meal. I was not describing a meal, but a recipe or a product. I then chose to write the eater's perspective. It's the only other perspective in a meal, really. And arguably the most important one when attempting to describe a meal as delicious.
In the end, I decided to keep and submit both perspectives. It seemed to me to highlight a distinct difference in the manner in which a new menu item is sometimes advertised compared to what somebody actually eating a meal and savoring it senses.
|
It appeared to be a luminescent green jelly. I had been told this dish was a delicacy on the planet Xetherion. The exact words the stranger used were: "It is to die for." That sold it. This cafe on a planet far removed from my own would serve as my introduction to the wonders of the universe.
At first it did not appear very appealing. When food glows, alarm bells sound in your mind. My eyes were transfixed, the gelatinous blob appeared to have the most subtle wobble, vibrating in reaction to the sounds of the other patrons.
My drink, served in a martini-like glass, had tasted almost ununiquely alcoholic. The only difference being that the orange fizzy substance evaporated almost as soon as it had hit my palette. The fumes entered my nasal passage and I was intoxicated at record speed. I would have to make certain to try that again.
The liquid drained from my cup, I turned my attention again to the amorphous green hued blob in front of me. I was given a fork and knife, but I wasn't sure where to actually dig in first. It sat in a black sauce, the waiter said it was its own juices. I made a small incision on the left side of this heap of goo. Steam escaped from the cut, releasing an aroma that smelled so inviting as to wash away my fears.
The inside of the meat, which I'd resigned to calling it, was brown in color. It was curious to me that the surface would be cold to the touch but inside it felt like it was fresh out of an oven. I prepped the rest of the meal, cutting the delicate beast as had been instructed. It required an amount of precision, the menu had stated, best to do it at once rather than cut, chew, cut, chew.
A fork full was dipped into the black sauce. This made the outer layer sparkle, dazzling my eyes. I raised the utensil to my face, the smell of a happy childhood wafting in my nose. I placed the morsel in my mouth, pausing only for a second to marvel at this experience. The sensation as the sauce and meat hit my taste buds was unlike any experienced by an Earth person.
The sauce seemed to solidify just a little in reaction to my saliva. It was a pleasurable and unexpected experience as the previously soft jelly exterior hardened and crunched between my teeth. The closest thing I could compare it to was something cooked over charcoals on a steel grate. A similar texture and a smokey taste, as if it had been cooked over seasoned hickory wood chips.
Swallowing that first bite was equally pleasurable. The heat of the food travelling down my gullet, finally making its home in the center of my belly. It warmed me throughout, giving me a tingling sensation in my chest. I could see that the world around me appeared to share the same sparkle of the sauce mixed with jelly. This dish was not only mind expanding, but the visuals accompanied were more relaxing than drugs provided back home.
I continued eating, though the end of the meal provided the biggest surprise yet...
|
[WP] A complete stranger asks you for directions to your house.
|
>Hello
yes?
>Sorry sir - I've forgotten to write down your address - could you please repeat it once again for me - I'm a bit lost and your pizza is getting cold
|
"Uh, yes- hello! Hello, sir?!" fumbled the checker-suited rat-bastard-son-of-a-bitch.
"Yeah, what's up?" I asked him, exceedingly happy to see the overflowing amount of eviction papers stuffed into the folder in his hand.
"Yeah, can you give me directions to 4394 Bellcrest Lane?" He asked frantically. I gave him a cold look and brought my eyes from his toes all the way to the tippy-top of his mangled little forehead.
"Why?" I spat and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke in his face.
"I don't- I don't really have time to explain, er- um- do you live there?" his snivelling shrill voice managed to sputter out. I smiled really wide with the several teeth I had remaining and took a really loud, irritating sip of my gin-induced cough-syrup concoction, inside a cup on which I had written "life-power."
"I can give you AIDS just by looking at your tummy," I explained. He seemed appropriately unnerved by this.
"That's...very bad, I think," he concluded. "But, can you- can you give me those directions?"
"Take a left and then another left and then a right and go half a block and you'll be there." I rattled off. He tipped his hat. Who the fuck wears a hat?
"Thanks!" he exclaimed. I tipped my hat to him. Psyche. I don't wear hats, those are for assholes.
I waited until he was a safe distance away and then started following him, although because of the cough-syrup I was pretty sure he was a unicorn, but it was his spirit, so that's all that really mattered. He was the third one this week. I was getting a good collection. As soon as he got up to the door-matt, I pressed the button and the door flipped open, slamming the debt collector into the wall of the house repeatedly.
I had a good laugh.
I dragged his unconscious body into the house and threw him into the debt collector cage and undressed. The most recent debt collector slowly came to his senses next to the other five debt collectors in the cage as I started dancing naked and shitting on the floor- my performance art piece about the plight of the pigme people. That was a good day.
I can't wait until the repo men start showing up!
|
|
[WP] A complete stranger asks you for directions to your house.
|
"Excuse me?"
Startled, you look up; the local newspaper was boring you anyway. "Can I help you?"
"Yeah, I saw you reading, I wondered if you might be from 'round here?" The man shrugs, seemingly rising up and sinking back into a slump, as if also bored, "I'm kinda lost..." His gaze shifts around, almost awkwardly, as if your eye contact is the last thing he wants. Come to think of it, he does seem to be acting strangely - jumpy, almost scared, as if the leaves collecting in piles at the sides of the road might suddenly blow away and reveal a great fear of his. But you cast this away: it's probably nothing, you think. Some people are just twitchy, he surely has no ill intent.
"I'm from around here, where do you need directions to?"
He thrusts his hand into his pocket and eventually pulls out a crumpled map covered in nondescript markings. "Here." He points to an area circled vividly in red pen. You get up, and upon discovering the map is help upside down rotate your head awkwardly in order to read the street name - but suddenly, you stop. It's your road. "Which house did you want?" "Number 32, I think."
The breath catches in your throat. You ask why he needs to go there - you weren't aware of anything being delivered at all, but if it was a delivery guy he wasn't in uniform so that wasn't it. Had she - your wife, that is - finally given up? You'd been going through tough times recently, but surely it hadn't come to this. So you think. "Excuse me?" Once again, the man standing in front of you interrupts your train of thought. Once again, you look up, and see his eyes darting wildly. No, that can't be it. The kids are at home sleeping, and your wife, your oh so beloved wife, will be watching TV and looking after your baby, the third, a girl. "Sorry, I need to go, I can't help you," you stumble out a reply as you grab what little you had with you and make a start.
"Wait!"
You turn one final time, to see the man, panicking, frantically scream, "I'm sorry! They made me, I didn't want it to be this way!"
And then he falls, as if all his life had been sucked out and all that was left was a lifeless sack of meat.
You turn back around, ready to sprint home. And there's another man, standing there. A pistol gripped firmly in his hand. You wonder to yourself, why didn't I hear the shot? And then you look down, and notice the steam of blood slowly dripping from the exit wound in your chest. Funny, you think, that this is how it ends, dying in the street after all that time you'd spent in the military - you could have gotten killed at any point then, but it happens when you're safe at home.
You look back up.
You hear two dull thuds, and then the world tips sideways. The last thing to go through your mind - before the final bullet, that is - was to think, to wish, that you'd gotten home sooner to make it up to your wife. And then, the flowers you bought for her, now stained and splattered in crimson mist, fall out of your lifeless hand.
"...Excuse me?"
You look up from your newspaper - you'd almost forgotten about the nervous man standing in front of you.
___________________
First submission here, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated. :)
|
"Uh, yes- hello! Hello, sir?!" fumbled the checker-suited rat-bastard-son-of-a-bitch.
"Yeah, what's up?" I asked him, exceedingly happy to see the overflowing amount of eviction papers stuffed into the folder in his hand.
"Yeah, can you give me directions to 4394 Bellcrest Lane?" He asked frantically. I gave him a cold look and brought my eyes from his toes all the way to the tippy-top of his mangled little forehead.
"Why?" I spat and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke in his face.
"I don't- I don't really have time to explain, er- um- do you live there?" his snivelling shrill voice managed to sputter out. I smiled really wide with the several teeth I had remaining and took a really loud, irritating sip of my gin-induced cough-syrup concoction, inside a cup on which I had written "life-power."
"I can give you AIDS just by looking at your tummy," I explained. He seemed appropriately unnerved by this.
"That's...very bad, I think," he concluded. "But, can you- can you give me those directions?"
"Take a left and then another left and then a right and go half a block and you'll be there." I rattled off. He tipped his hat. Who the fuck wears a hat?
"Thanks!" he exclaimed. I tipped my hat to him. Psyche. I don't wear hats, those are for assholes.
I waited until he was a safe distance away and then started following him, although because of the cough-syrup I was pretty sure he was a unicorn, but it was his spirit, so that's all that really mattered. He was the third one this week. I was getting a good collection. As soon as he got up to the door-matt, I pressed the button and the door flipped open, slamming the debt collector into the wall of the house repeatedly.
I had a good laugh.
I dragged his unconscious body into the house and threw him into the debt collector cage and undressed. The most recent debt collector slowly came to his senses next to the other five debt collectors in the cage as I started dancing naked and shitting on the floor- my performance art piece about the plight of the pigme people. That was a good day.
I can't wait until the repo men start showing up!
|
|
[WP] A complete stranger asks you for directions to your house.
|
"Mister! Do you know how to get to 107 Oak St?"
I looked down at the little girl in confusion. She could be no more than four, all smile and bounce. I didn't recognize her or her mother and I couldn't think of any reason someone would have asked her to play such a silly prank.
"Why do you want to go there?" I asked her, while her mother me a rueful smile.
"Because that's where the man I'm going to marry lives!"
I laughed at that, at the randomness of her picking my address along with the silly prognostication.
"Well young lady, I assure you the only man living there is far too old for you and already married to boot!"
Her mom laughed and pulled her away, clearly used to her daughter's flights of fancy.
I thought nothing of it as I got my cup of coffee and headed back to my car to head home. The whole way back I thought of how amusing my wife would find this story, and couldn't wait to tell her.
When I arrived home, my wife's excitement clearly trumped mine, and she got to go first.
We're having a baby.
|
"Uh, yes- hello! Hello, sir?!" fumbled the checker-suited rat-bastard-son-of-a-bitch.
"Yeah, what's up?" I asked him, exceedingly happy to see the overflowing amount of eviction papers stuffed into the folder in his hand.
"Yeah, can you give me directions to 4394 Bellcrest Lane?" He asked frantically. I gave him a cold look and brought my eyes from his toes all the way to the tippy-top of his mangled little forehead.
"Why?" I spat and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke in his face.
"I don't- I don't really have time to explain, er- um- do you live there?" his snivelling shrill voice managed to sputter out. I smiled really wide with the several teeth I had remaining and took a really loud, irritating sip of my gin-induced cough-syrup concoction, inside a cup on which I had written "life-power."
"I can give you AIDS just by looking at your tummy," I explained. He seemed appropriately unnerved by this.
"That's...very bad, I think," he concluded. "But, can you- can you give me those directions?"
"Take a left and then another left and then a right and go half a block and you'll be there." I rattled off. He tipped his hat. Who the fuck wears a hat?
"Thanks!" he exclaimed. I tipped my hat to him. Psyche. I don't wear hats, those are for assholes.
I waited until he was a safe distance away and then started following him, although because of the cough-syrup I was pretty sure he was a unicorn, but it was his spirit, so that's all that really mattered. He was the third one this week. I was getting a good collection. As soon as he got up to the door-matt, I pressed the button and the door flipped open, slamming the debt collector into the wall of the house repeatedly.
I had a good laugh.
I dragged his unconscious body into the house and threw him into the debt collector cage and undressed. The most recent debt collector slowly came to his senses next to the other five debt collectors in the cage as I started dancing naked and shitting on the floor- my performance art piece about the plight of the pigme people. That was a good day.
I can't wait until the repo men start showing up!
|
|
[WP] A complete stranger asks you for directions to your house.
|
"Do you know how I can find my ways to 14 Oak Street," said a young man wearing a fedora.
I stared at him. "What an asshole," I thought, as I shook my head and walked away.
|
"Uh, yes- hello! Hello, sir?!" fumbled the checker-suited rat-bastard-son-of-a-bitch.
"Yeah, what's up?" I asked him, exceedingly happy to see the overflowing amount of eviction papers stuffed into the folder in his hand.
"Yeah, can you give me directions to 4394 Bellcrest Lane?" He asked frantically. I gave him a cold look and brought my eyes from his toes all the way to the tippy-top of his mangled little forehead.
"Why?" I spat and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke in his face.
"I don't- I don't really have time to explain, er- um- do you live there?" his snivelling shrill voice managed to sputter out. I smiled really wide with the several teeth I had remaining and took a really loud, irritating sip of my gin-induced cough-syrup concoction, inside a cup on which I had written "life-power."
"I can give you AIDS just by looking at your tummy," I explained. He seemed appropriately unnerved by this.
"That's...very bad, I think," he concluded. "But, can you- can you give me those directions?"
"Take a left and then another left and then a right and go half a block and you'll be there." I rattled off. He tipped his hat. Who the fuck wears a hat?
"Thanks!" he exclaimed. I tipped my hat to him. Psyche. I don't wear hats, those are for assholes.
I waited until he was a safe distance away and then started following him, although because of the cough-syrup I was pretty sure he was a unicorn, but it was his spirit, so that's all that really mattered. He was the third one this week. I was getting a good collection. As soon as he got up to the door-matt, I pressed the button and the door flipped open, slamming the debt collector into the wall of the house repeatedly.
I had a good laugh.
I dragged his unconscious body into the house and threw him into the debt collector cage and undressed. The most recent debt collector slowly came to his senses next to the other five debt collectors in the cage as I started dancing naked and shitting on the floor- my performance art piece about the plight of the pigme people. That was a good day.
I can't wait until the repo men start showing up!
|
|
[WP] A complete stranger asks you for directions to your house.
|
"Excuse me?"
Startled, you look up; the local newspaper was boring you anyway. "Can I help you?"
"Yeah, I saw you reading, I wondered if you might be from 'round here?" The man shrugs, seemingly rising up and sinking back into a slump, as if also bored, "I'm kinda lost..." His gaze shifts around, almost awkwardly, as if your eye contact is the last thing he wants. Come to think of it, he does seem to be acting strangely - jumpy, almost scared, as if the leaves collecting in piles at the sides of the road might suddenly blow away and reveal a great fear of his. But you cast this away: it's probably nothing, you think. Some people are just twitchy, he surely has no ill intent.
"I'm from around here, where do you need directions to?"
He thrusts his hand into his pocket and eventually pulls out a crumpled map covered in nondescript markings. "Here." He points to an area circled vividly in red pen. You get up, and upon discovering the map is help upside down rotate your head awkwardly in order to read the street name - but suddenly, you stop. It's your road. "Which house did you want?" "Number 32, I think."
The breath catches in your throat. You ask why he needs to go there - you weren't aware of anything being delivered at all, but if it was a delivery guy he wasn't in uniform so that wasn't it. Had she - your wife, that is - finally given up? You'd been going through tough times recently, but surely it hadn't come to this. So you think. "Excuse me?" Once again, the man standing in front of you interrupts your train of thought. Once again, you look up, and see his eyes darting wildly. No, that can't be it. The kids are at home sleeping, and your wife, your oh so beloved wife, will be watching TV and looking after your baby, the third, a girl. "Sorry, I need to go, I can't help you," you stumble out a reply as you grab what little you had with you and make a start.
"Wait!"
You turn one final time, to see the man, panicking, frantically scream, "I'm sorry! They made me, I didn't want it to be this way!"
And then he falls, as if all his life had been sucked out and all that was left was a lifeless sack of meat.
You turn back around, ready to sprint home. And there's another man, standing there. A pistol gripped firmly in his hand. You wonder to yourself, why didn't I hear the shot? And then you look down, and notice the steam of blood slowly dripping from the exit wound in your chest. Funny, you think, that this is how it ends, dying in the street after all that time you'd spent in the military - you could have gotten killed at any point then, but it happens when you're safe at home.
You look back up.
You hear two dull thuds, and then the world tips sideways. The last thing to go through your mind - before the final bullet, that is - was to think, to wish, that you'd gotten home sooner to make it up to your wife. And then, the flowers you bought for her, now stained and splattered in crimson mist, fall out of your lifeless hand.
"...Excuse me?"
You look up from your newspaper - you'd almost forgotten about the nervous man standing in front of you.
___________________
First submission here, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated. :)
|
>Hello
yes?
>Sorry sir - I've forgotten to write down your address - could you please repeat it once again for me - I'm a bit lost and your pizza is getting cold
|
|
[WP] A complete stranger asks you for directions to your house.
|
"Mister! Do you know how to get to 107 Oak St?"
I looked down at the little girl in confusion. She could be no more than four, all smile and bounce. I didn't recognize her or her mother and I couldn't think of any reason someone would have asked her to play such a silly prank.
"Why do you want to go there?" I asked her, while her mother me a rueful smile.
"Because that's where the man I'm going to marry lives!"
I laughed at that, at the randomness of her picking my address along with the silly prognostication.
"Well young lady, I assure you the only man living there is far too old for you and already married to boot!"
Her mom laughed and pulled her away, clearly used to her daughter's flights of fancy.
I thought nothing of it as I got my cup of coffee and headed back to my car to head home. The whole way back I thought of how amusing my wife would find this story, and couldn't wait to tell her.
When I arrived home, my wife's excitement clearly trumped mine, and she got to go first.
We're having a baby.
|
>Hello
yes?
>Sorry sir - I've forgotten to write down your address - could you please repeat it once again for me - I'm a bit lost and your pizza is getting cold
|
|
[WP] A complete stranger asks you for directions to your house.
|
"Mister! Do you know how to get to 107 Oak St?"
I looked down at the little girl in confusion. She could be no more than four, all smile and bounce. I didn't recognize her or her mother and I couldn't think of any reason someone would have asked her to play such a silly prank.
"Why do you want to go there?" I asked her, while her mother me a rueful smile.
"Because that's where the man I'm going to marry lives!"
I laughed at that, at the randomness of her picking my address along with the silly prognostication.
"Well young lady, I assure you the only man living there is far too old for you and already married to boot!"
Her mom laughed and pulled her away, clearly used to her daughter's flights of fancy.
I thought nothing of it as I got my cup of coffee and headed back to my car to head home. The whole way back I thought of how amusing my wife would find this story, and couldn't wait to tell her.
When I arrived home, my wife's excitement clearly trumped mine, and she got to go first.
We're having a baby.
|
"Excuse me?"
Startled, you look up; the local newspaper was boring you anyway. "Can I help you?"
"Yeah, I saw you reading, I wondered if you might be from 'round here?" The man shrugs, seemingly rising up and sinking back into a slump, as if also bored, "I'm kinda lost..." His gaze shifts around, almost awkwardly, as if your eye contact is the last thing he wants. Come to think of it, he does seem to be acting strangely - jumpy, almost scared, as if the leaves collecting in piles at the sides of the road might suddenly blow away and reveal a great fear of his. But you cast this away: it's probably nothing, you think. Some people are just twitchy, he surely has no ill intent.
"I'm from around here, where do you need directions to?"
He thrusts his hand into his pocket and eventually pulls out a crumpled map covered in nondescript markings. "Here." He points to an area circled vividly in red pen. You get up, and upon discovering the map is help upside down rotate your head awkwardly in order to read the street name - but suddenly, you stop. It's your road. "Which house did you want?" "Number 32, I think."
The breath catches in your throat. You ask why he needs to go there - you weren't aware of anything being delivered at all, but if it was a delivery guy he wasn't in uniform so that wasn't it. Had she - your wife, that is - finally given up? You'd been going through tough times recently, but surely it hadn't come to this. So you think. "Excuse me?" Once again, the man standing in front of you interrupts your train of thought. Once again, you look up, and see his eyes darting wildly. No, that can't be it. The kids are at home sleeping, and your wife, your oh so beloved wife, will be watching TV and looking after your baby, the third, a girl. "Sorry, I need to go, I can't help you," you stumble out a reply as you grab what little you had with you and make a start.
"Wait!"
You turn one final time, to see the man, panicking, frantically scream, "I'm sorry! They made me, I didn't want it to be this way!"
And then he falls, as if all his life had been sucked out and all that was left was a lifeless sack of meat.
You turn back around, ready to sprint home. And there's another man, standing there. A pistol gripped firmly in his hand. You wonder to yourself, why didn't I hear the shot? And then you look down, and notice the steam of blood slowly dripping from the exit wound in your chest. Funny, you think, that this is how it ends, dying in the street after all that time you'd spent in the military - you could have gotten killed at any point then, but it happens when you're safe at home.
You look back up.
You hear two dull thuds, and then the world tips sideways. The last thing to go through your mind - before the final bullet, that is - was to think, to wish, that you'd gotten home sooner to make it up to your wife. And then, the flowers you bought for her, now stained and splattered in crimson mist, fall out of your lifeless hand.
"...Excuse me?"
You look up from your newspaper - you'd almost forgotten about the nervous man standing in front of you.
___________________
First submission here, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated. :)
|
|
[WP] A complete stranger asks you for directions to your house.
|
"Do you know how I can find my ways to 14 Oak Street," said a young man wearing a fedora.
I stared at him. "What an asshole," I thought, as I shook my head and walked away.
|
I was walking to the store when I saw a curious sight. A man in a black and white horizontally striped shirt, black tights, a black skull cap was heading in my direction. When he got a bit closer, I noticed the black mask around his eyes and a small bag in his left hand and realized what was going on.
"Late night last evening, eh?"
The man widened his eyes, startled. He looked at me for a moment and then sagged his shoulders, relaxing.
"Ah, yeah, just got out...er...up. We picked up so much from these houses that we didn't know what to do with the rest - or where to put it. " he said, showing me the bulging bag he was carrying.
"Too much candy can make you sick. I hope your child didn't overeat. Candy and alcohol don't go very well together either." I said winking as I looked into his bloodshot eyes.
"Oh, we're alright. Say, do you know where 2213 Trinity Place is by any chance?"
This time it was I who was startled.
"Of course, that's my place! It's right down the end of the road right here. That big house on the right. Why do you want to know?"
"Oh, really? I was just...I just passed by last night and saw the amazing work you put in... on the decorations. It must have been expensive, especially with all of the lights."
"It wasn't really, I did a lot of the decorations myself. There's an art store down the road where I bought most of the materials. I'm actually heading there right now to return some stuff if you'd walk with me."
"Thank you, but I'll continue on this way, I have some work I need to finish."
"Alrighty then, take care. Nice costume, by the way."
"Thank you, take care."
What a polite fellow.
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[WP] A complete stranger asks you for directions to your house.
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A bell sounded as the door closed to the coffee shop I visit every Tuesday and Thursday. My first step onto the sidewalk outside the store was welcomed with a howl of wind cutting through the alleyway. The days are getting shorter and the nights are getting colder. It was already dusk. It was time to go home.
I put my hood up over my head and ambled toward the lot where I'd parked my car. I kept my head down toward the ground, as to avoid having the large hood blown off my head. The cold air dried my eyes.
Down the row of cars, I spotted young girl decorated in red plaid let go of her mother's hand and dart into the street. I heard her giddy laugh while she pranced around like a pixie. She was bathed in light when her mother screamed after her. I felt my heart skip a beat. The black car came to a halt maybe four feet from her. I could not make out the driver through his tinted glass, but I could see an angry gesticulation made toward the mother of the child. The mother looked flushed and red. She firmly grasped her daughter's hand and bent down to remind her of the dangers of the road. The little girls face was hidden from me, but I saw the big red hood bounce up and down, nodding.
I allowed myself to breath again and carried on toward my car. I checked my watch and hastened my pace. Time eluded me. I pulled out the key fob and unlocked my vehicle. The red taillights blinked at me. I stopped short of my car when I noticed a man standing behind my vehicle. He hadn't noticed me yet, rather, he seemed distracted by the dead leaves that lay around his feet.
I made obvious strides toward my drivers seat in an effort to prompt him to leave my car.
"Excuse me," came a deep, polite voice. I looked in my car's rear-view mirror. The man seemed to be patiently trying to get my attention.
"I'm sorry," I call out, "is there a problem?" The heat from my breath fogged up the glass of my window.
"Can I trouble you for some brief aid?" The man closed his pocket-watch and placed it in his pocket. A gold chain hung from his belt.
I got out of my car and got a full look at him. He was certainly older than my father, but there was something about him that seemed almost... spry. He was dressed in a full tuxedo. His pressed pants rippled in the wind. His face was clean shaven, but his hair seemed unkempt. He had an ugly, hooked nose, and soft, dark eyes. There was a polite smile on his face. I hadn't the time to help a stranger, but I'd hate to drive home feeling guilty. "What can I do for you?" I asked through a forced smile of my own.
"You see," he began, "I am a bit lost. I'd been heading to my destination for a mere minute before I remembered that I needed to be here," he pointed to the sign above the coffee shop's door, "As it happens, I needn't be here at all. I am completely lost."
I tried to avoid showing my impatience. "Where are you headed, sir?"
"I am actually headed to your house," he looked at me, suddenly seeming a bit taller than I remembered.
"You're heading to my house?" I was more than a little bewildered, "Do you know who I am?"
He smiled back at me, expecting my reaction. He pulled his pocket watch back out of his pocket, quickly checked it, and returned the golden timepiece. "Yes," he said, "at least I know your name. I do not need to know too much more about you right now. Can you please direct me to your house. I'm quite late."
I had never seen this man before in my life. I began to panic. "What do you need at my house? Who are you?" I felt my face start to flush. Did he know my father? Maybe he was a doctor or some type of caregiver.
"I have an appointment with your father," he answered, as if reading my mind. His tone had adopted some impatience of its own.
"Are you a doctor?" I asked plainly.
"I am not."
"What do you want with my father?" I tried not to sound too bewildered.
He paused for a moment. His eyes became softer as he looked over his ugly crooked nose. He pulled his jacket tighter over his chest and looked back at the ground. He sighed deeply and exhaled, his white breath contrasting the black of his tuxedo. He met eyes with me again, "Your father is very sick. Is he not?"
"He has cancer. What is it to you?" I felt my hands clench into fists, pink from the cold. I was letting my anger reach the surface. Truth be told, he was more than a little sick. His prognosis was a month, and that was three months ago. I am supposed to be home now to clean out his bedpan and feed him his dinner.
"It is everything to me, Andrew," he responded softly, "I visit those like your father."
I was shocked to hear him say my name, "Are you a priest?"
"I am not," he said. A smile fleeted across his face, gone as quickly as it came. "Your father was a good man, and he loved you very much. It was good of you to take him in and be his caretaker."
It hit me like a sack of bricks. I felt the last bit of warmth leave my body. "No," I said quietly. My hands opened.
"I need directions to your house, son," came the voice of the man. "I'm afraid I need them now."
"Well I'm headed there now. W-W-Where is your car? You could follow me home," I spoke quickly, stuttering through my words.
"I do not drive a car. I am sorry. That just isn't the way this works."
"Please," I began to plead, "I want some more time."
The man looked at me. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. He had heard these pleas for thousands of years. My thoughts turned to my father. He is all alone. He would be all alone.
I began to sob. I stuttered out the directions between sobs. He nodded after each turn, committing the directions to memory. When I finally got to my house number, I couldn't say another word. I felt cold tears on my cheeks when the wind whipped across my face.
"Thank you," the man said knowingly. I said nothing. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. When I looked up, the man was nowhere in sight. I leaned back against the side of my car and slid to the ground, sobbing quietly into my arm.
.
.
.
Edit: Formatting
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It was a chilly November morning, and I had just sat down for a cup of Joe with a paper at Leah's Diner just on the edge of town. I opened the newspaper and began to scan the obituaries to see which of my friends made it to another Sunday. When you're my age, you get a bit numb to that sort of thing; they show up in the obituary, you take a moment, then you read the funnies and cancel whatever lunch you had planned with whoever.
"Carl Edward Westman, 76," I looked at the name for a few seconds, remembering his face. I took a breath and turned the page. The waitress-- Rachel, I think-- left a cup of coffee on the table for me, already mixed like I prefer. Small towns truly are a blessing.
The bell on the door rang, and I turned to see if it was someone I knew. I strained to make out his face, pulled my bifocals down, and determined that I did not know the man. He must have been passing through town, because I knew everyone who lived there. In just about an hour all the shops and restaurants are going to close and the entire town is going to show up at Grace Baptist to hear Pastor Larry speak. That oughtta give you an idea of the size of this place.
I returned to my paper. What was a guy doing traveling through a middle-of-nowhere place like this? You had to take an exit from the nearest freeway, and then drive another fifteen miles just to get here. Didn't look like family of anyone I ever met. I noticed that the Peanuts strip was the one where Lucy pulls the ball away from Charlie Brown. Peanuts... it was hard to believe that funny had stopped being made. I was nearly twenty when the first strip ran. I supposed everything had to come to an end.
Speaking of which, that was when I got the most violent chest pain. I clutched my heart, and with my other hand fumbled for my nitroglycerin pills. I cursed under my breath as I realized I had left my pills at home.
"Ruth!" I shouted. The people in the diner rushed to my aid, the stranger asking if I am okay. "Somebody has to tell Ruth..."
"Tell Ruth what?" the stranger asked, his face showing immense concern.
"Tell her that I love her... and I know she can do it... without me..."
"Who is Ruth?"
"My... my wife..."
"I'll tell her myself, if you don't make it, but you can't give up so quick! We'll take you to the hospital!"
Rachel, crying, said, "The nearest hospital's thirty miles out!"
"Sir, I need you to tell me where I can find Ruth!"
"She's at home," I grunted through my teeth. The world was becoming blurry, and I could hear distantly the stranger asking me a question...
"How do I get to your house? Sir? Sir!?"
I collapsed and everything went black.
***
I wiped the tears from my eyes and looked at the stranger. "That was Mr. Green. He's been coming here ordering the same coffee since I was a little girl." I sniffed.
The man looked at me, "Do you know where he lived? I need to tell Ruth what he said."
I began to cry, but I pulled myself together long enough to tell the stranger what I needed to tell him, "Mrs. Green died ten years ago. Mr. Green always talked about her like she was still alive. I guess her death was too hard for him to accept." I couldn't control it after that, and I began to sob. I had spoken to Mr. Green before about how he reads the obituaries every Sunday. All these years he just took so many of his friends dying in stride, accepting that it was the end, but he never could let go of Ruth.
Well, I guess he's finally gonna get to see her again.
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[WP] A complete stranger asks you for directions to your house.
|
A bell sounded as the door closed to the coffee shop I visit every Tuesday and Thursday. My first step onto the sidewalk outside the store was welcomed with a howl of wind cutting through the alleyway. The days are getting shorter and the nights are getting colder. It was already dusk. It was time to go home.
I put my hood up over my head and ambled toward the lot where I'd parked my car. I kept my head down toward the ground, as to avoid having the large hood blown off my head. The cold air dried my eyes.
Down the row of cars, I spotted young girl decorated in red plaid let go of her mother's hand and dart into the street. I heard her giddy laugh while she pranced around like a pixie. She was bathed in light when her mother screamed after her. I felt my heart skip a beat. The black car came to a halt maybe four feet from her. I could not make out the driver through his tinted glass, but I could see an angry gesticulation made toward the mother of the child. The mother looked flushed and red. She firmly grasped her daughter's hand and bent down to remind her of the dangers of the road. The little girls face was hidden from me, but I saw the big red hood bounce up and down, nodding.
I allowed myself to breath again and carried on toward my car. I checked my watch and hastened my pace. Time eluded me. I pulled out the key fob and unlocked my vehicle. The red taillights blinked at me. I stopped short of my car when I noticed a man standing behind my vehicle. He hadn't noticed me yet, rather, he seemed distracted by the dead leaves that lay around his feet.
I made obvious strides toward my drivers seat in an effort to prompt him to leave my car.
"Excuse me," came a deep, polite voice. I looked in my car's rear-view mirror. The man seemed to be patiently trying to get my attention.
"I'm sorry," I call out, "is there a problem?" The heat from my breath fogged up the glass of my window.
"Can I trouble you for some brief aid?" The man closed his pocket-watch and placed it in his pocket. A gold chain hung from his belt.
I got out of my car and got a full look at him. He was certainly older than my father, but there was something about him that seemed almost... spry. He was dressed in a full tuxedo. His pressed pants rippled in the wind. His face was clean shaven, but his hair seemed unkempt. He had an ugly, hooked nose, and soft, dark eyes. There was a polite smile on his face. I hadn't the time to help a stranger, but I'd hate to drive home feeling guilty. "What can I do for you?" I asked through a forced smile of my own.
"You see," he began, "I am a bit lost. I'd been heading to my destination for a mere minute before I remembered that I needed to be here," he pointed to the sign above the coffee shop's door, "As it happens, I needn't be here at all. I am completely lost."
I tried to avoid showing my impatience. "Where are you headed, sir?"
"I am actually headed to your house," he looked at me, suddenly seeming a bit taller than I remembered.
"You're heading to my house?" I was more than a little bewildered, "Do you know who I am?"
He smiled back at me, expecting my reaction. He pulled his pocket watch back out of his pocket, quickly checked it, and returned the golden timepiece. "Yes," he said, "at least I know your name. I do not need to know too much more about you right now. Can you please direct me to your house. I'm quite late."
I had never seen this man before in my life. I began to panic. "What do you need at my house? Who are you?" I felt my face start to flush. Did he know my father? Maybe he was a doctor or some type of caregiver.
"I have an appointment with your father," he answered, as if reading my mind. His tone had adopted some impatience of its own.
"Are you a doctor?" I asked plainly.
"I am not."
"What do you want with my father?" I tried not to sound too bewildered.
He paused for a moment. His eyes became softer as he looked over his ugly crooked nose. He pulled his jacket tighter over his chest and looked back at the ground. He sighed deeply and exhaled, his white breath contrasting the black of his tuxedo. He met eyes with me again, "Your father is very sick. Is he not?"
"He has cancer. What is it to you?" I felt my hands clench into fists, pink from the cold. I was letting my anger reach the surface. Truth be told, he was more than a little sick. His prognosis was a month, and that was three months ago. I am supposed to be home now to clean out his bedpan and feed him his dinner.
"It is everything to me, Andrew," he responded softly, "I visit those like your father."
I was shocked to hear him say my name, "Are you a priest?"
"I am not," he said. A smile fleeted across his face, gone as quickly as it came. "Your father was a good man, and he loved you very much. It was good of you to take him in and be his caretaker."
It hit me like a sack of bricks. I felt the last bit of warmth leave my body. "No," I said quietly. My hands opened.
"I need directions to your house, son," came the voice of the man. "I'm afraid I need them now."
"Well I'm headed there now. W-W-Where is your car? You could follow me home," I spoke quickly, stuttering through my words.
"I do not drive a car. I am sorry. That just isn't the way this works."
"Please," I began to plead, "I want some more time."
The man looked at me. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. He had heard these pleas for thousands of years. My thoughts turned to my father. He is all alone. He would be all alone.
I began to sob. I stuttered out the directions between sobs. He nodded after each turn, committing the directions to memory. When I finally got to my house number, I couldn't say another word. I felt cold tears on my cheeks when the wind whipped across my face.
"Thank you," the man said knowingly. I said nothing. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. When I looked up, the man was nowhere in sight. I leaned back against the side of my car and slid to the ground, sobbing quietly into my arm.
.
.
.
Edit: Formatting
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"Yeah you just go down here, take a left and then go fuck yourself."
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[WP] A complete stranger asks you for directions to your house.
|
A bell sounded as the door closed to the coffee shop I visit every Tuesday and Thursday. My first step onto the sidewalk outside the store was welcomed with a howl of wind cutting through the alleyway. The days are getting shorter and the nights are getting colder. It was already dusk. It was time to go home.
I put my hood up over my head and ambled toward the lot where I'd parked my car. I kept my head down toward the ground, as to avoid having the large hood blown off my head. The cold air dried my eyes.
Down the row of cars, I spotted young girl decorated in red plaid let go of her mother's hand and dart into the street. I heard her giddy laugh while she pranced around like a pixie. She was bathed in light when her mother screamed after her. I felt my heart skip a beat. The black car came to a halt maybe four feet from her. I could not make out the driver through his tinted glass, but I could see an angry gesticulation made toward the mother of the child. The mother looked flushed and red. She firmly grasped her daughter's hand and bent down to remind her of the dangers of the road. The little girls face was hidden from me, but I saw the big red hood bounce up and down, nodding.
I allowed myself to breath again and carried on toward my car. I checked my watch and hastened my pace. Time eluded me. I pulled out the key fob and unlocked my vehicle. The red taillights blinked at me. I stopped short of my car when I noticed a man standing behind my vehicle. He hadn't noticed me yet, rather, he seemed distracted by the dead leaves that lay around his feet.
I made obvious strides toward my drivers seat in an effort to prompt him to leave my car.
"Excuse me," came a deep, polite voice. I looked in my car's rear-view mirror. The man seemed to be patiently trying to get my attention.
"I'm sorry," I call out, "is there a problem?" The heat from my breath fogged up the glass of my window.
"Can I trouble you for some brief aid?" The man closed his pocket-watch and placed it in his pocket. A gold chain hung from his belt.
I got out of my car and got a full look at him. He was certainly older than my father, but there was something about him that seemed almost... spry. He was dressed in a full tuxedo. His pressed pants rippled in the wind. His face was clean shaven, but his hair seemed unkempt. He had an ugly, hooked nose, and soft, dark eyes. There was a polite smile on his face. I hadn't the time to help a stranger, but I'd hate to drive home feeling guilty. "What can I do for you?" I asked through a forced smile of my own.
"You see," he began, "I am a bit lost. I'd been heading to my destination for a mere minute before I remembered that I needed to be here," he pointed to the sign above the coffee shop's door, "As it happens, I needn't be here at all. I am completely lost."
I tried to avoid showing my impatience. "Where are you headed, sir?"
"I am actually headed to your house," he looked at me, suddenly seeming a bit taller than I remembered.
"You're heading to my house?" I was more than a little bewildered, "Do you know who I am?"
He smiled back at me, expecting my reaction. He pulled his pocket watch back out of his pocket, quickly checked it, and returned the golden timepiece. "Yes," he said, "at least I know your name. I do not need to know too much more about you right now. Can you please direct me to your house. I'm quite late."
I had never seen this man before in my life. I began to panic. "What do you need at my house? Who are you?" I felt my face start to flush. Did he know my father? Maybe he was a doctor or some type of caregiver.
"I have an appointment with your father," he answered, as if reading my mind. His tone had adopted some impatience of its own.
"Are you a doctor?" I asked plainly.
"I am not."
"What do you want with my father?" I tried not to sound too bewildered.
He paused for a moment. His eyes became softer as he looked over his ugly crooked nose. He pulled his jacket tighter over his chest and looked back at the ground. He sighed deeply and exhaled, his white breath contrasting the black of his tuxedo. He met eyes with me again, "Your father is very sick. Is he not?"
"He has cancer. What is it to you?" I felt my hands clench into fists, pink from the cold. I was letting my anger reach the surface. Truth be told, he was more than a little sick. His prognosis was a month, and that was three months ago. I am supposed to be home now to clean out his bedpan and feed him his dinner.
"It is everything to me, Andrew," he responded softly, "I visit those like your father."
I was shocked to hear him say my name, "Are you a priest?"
"I am not," he said. A smile fleeted across his face, gone as quickly as it came. "Your father was a good man, and he loved you very much. It was good of you to take him in and be his caretaker."
It hit me like a sack of bricks. I felt the last bit of warmth leave my body. "No," I said quietly. My hands opened.
"I need directions to your house, son," came the voice of the man. "I'm afraid I need them now."
"Well I'm headed there now. W-W-Where is your car? You could follow me home," I spoke quickly, stuttering through my words.
"I do not drive a car. I am sorry. That just isn't the way this works."
"Please," I began to plead, "I want some more time."
The man looked at me. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. He had heard these pleas for thousands of years. My thoughts turned to my father. He is all alone. He would be all alone.
I began to sob. I stuttered out the directions between sobs. He nodded after each turn, committing the directions to memory. When I finally got to my house number, I couldn't say another word. I felt cold tears on my cheeks when the wind whipped across my face.
"Thank you," the man said knowingly. I said nothing. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. When I looked up, the man was nowhere in sight. I leaned back against the side of my car and slid to the ground, sobbing quietly into my arm.
.
.
.
Edit: Formatting
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"Excuse me, are you familiar with this area?"
"Yes, I live close," I said.
"Oh, great."
He was dressed sloppily and had a cheap manila folder in his right hand. He must have been gripping it his whole trip because it had been indented badly by his fingers. I guess he had come by bus. Looked right out of college.
"For some reason this street only seems to go from 10 to 100," he said. "It's really confusing. Am I in Glen Falls?"
I nodded. "You're in the right place. It's weird, the numbers are mis-ordered. Houses 100 through 110 are actually at a side street right there, which is technically still the same street."
"Hah. Some zoning board must have not wanted to go through the process of naming a new street."
I guess the Jones's hired a tutor. Their son wasn't doing so well in school.
"So I'll find 102 there?"
I stopped. "Yes. Do you have a delivery for them or something?"
"Yeah."
He looked uncomfortable and fidgeted with the folder, which I now couldn't stop looking at.
"Do you know who lives there?" he asked.
"No. I can't say I've ever seen anyone go in that house."
"Well, I hope no one's home. Thank you for the directions."
He turned to go and I recognized I was in a very surreal situation. I had anger. Had she been cheating on me? How long had this been going on? Was he finally at the point where he needed to confess to me what had been happening? But the folder. What was in the folder? Maybe this was a private investigator she had hired to spy on me. Because she had trust issues and always thought I was cheating on her. Well, I would never do that, so that report or pictures would have nothing save my stupid drunken nights with my male coworkers and me stumbling around like an idiot.
"Wait."
He stopped.
"Are you delivering bad news?"
He looked hurt and swallowed audibly. "I'm sorry. This is my first time doing this and I don't think I can do it. I wouldn't be able to look him in the eye. It's just not me and I'm realizing that right now," he said with finality.
"You're serving divorce papers," I said, fear and anger and everything overwhelming me.
"I've been going through my routine in my head, like how they trained me. They said the first time is the hardest."
"You can just give them to me," I said.
"No. I appreciate it, but I have to do this."
"No. You can just give them to me."
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Make it happy, make it sad, make it hilarious. I want this prompt to make me *feel* something.
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[WP] Tell me a story about an old man and his old dog. Tell it from the dog's perspective.
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Walk walk walk walk walk. Stop to sniff. Sniff sniff sniiiffff. Ah, walk again. Walk walk walk walk. Stop to sniff. Hey, squirrel! Must kill! Must kill! Oops, fat man walking. Must leave squirrel. Sad. Walk walk walk walk. Sniff. Walk. Sniff. Walk walk. Oh? Sit. Fat man wants me to sit! I can do that! Am I good? Am I? Oh, fat man is leaving me. He is going inside this nice smelling place. It smells like fat man's breakfast. Sad. But I will sit. Will fat man come back soon? Sad. So sad. Maybe he left me forever! Oh no! That will be terrible! Oops. I almost got up. Fat man said sit. I will sit. Because I love fat man. I think fat man left me forever. I haven't seen him since forever! Ah. This is bad. I hope fat man comes back soon. Ooh. What is this? What is this? Flashy lights! Zoomy wheely things! Loud noise! It goes woooeee woooeeee. So loud! Ah scary! Too loud! The zoomy wheely things are right here! Ahhh. Hide! Hide! Under bush is good. Where is fat man? Will he save me? Too many people. Too many lights. So loud. So scary. I will stay here. Hopefully fat man will find me. He might be old, but he always protects me! Wait! Do I smell him? Too many people. Pushing big cart with blanket on top. Maybe I should leave. I think I can smell fat man! Where is he? I can't see him. Too scary. I will wait. Fat man will save me. Zoomy wheely things are leaving. That's good. So loud. I hate it! I wait until Zoomy wheely things are far gone. I should go back and sit. Because I am good! I am really good! Fat man will be so pleased with me. Maybe give me treat. I like treats! I will sit. Hopefully fat man will come back soon. I love fat man. It has been forever since I have seen him. Where is fat man? No matter. I will wait.
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I love the old bastard, but he sure farts a lot.
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Make it happy, make it sad, make it hilarious. I want this prompt to make me *feel* something.
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[WP] Tell me a story about an old man and his old dog. Tell it from the dog's perspective.
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He's out of bed now. Sure took him a long time to do so. I'll be patient today. It'll be the same old routine, so why rush? He'll make his coffee, heat up the soup, pour some for me, and then go sit by the porch for the rest of the day until it is time to take that walk around the neighbourhood in the evenings, back to the crossroads where he found me and took me in. There he'll stand for a moment, looking into the heavens, before continuing back home.
It had been the same for the last five years, and I've gotten used to the slow pace. To be honest, I kind of liked it. Ten years ago I would have been locked in the pens while he and his "mates" partied in the house through the night. There'll be beautiful women, free-flowing alcohol, incredible smelling food and crazy people under the influence of drugs around, and by the time morning comes I usually have to bark for a full hour before I'll be given breakfast.
I'm glad those times are over now. He's more mellow nowadays, having lost his fortune when the record company booted him off the group. It was a tough decision they say. The best bassist ever born, the one that changed the world of modern rock.
He was said to be divinely inspired, but I know better.
To be frank, it's been a while now and he has grown on me. He's a much better person nowadays, after washing the drugs and alcohol and sex from his system. A little boring, but dependable.
I'll give him a few more years before I reap his soul for Satan to complete the contract.
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I love the old bastard, but he sure farts a lot.
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Make it happy, make it sad, make it hilarious. I want this prompt to make me *feel* something.
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[WP] Tell me a story about an old man and his old dog. Tell it from the dog's perspective.
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I knew this day would come, but I had no idea how HARD it would be. He really is my best friend. Logically, I know it's time to let go. I just can't.
I remember the day we met like it was yesterday. It must have been so strange, to walk up to your door and find...me...shivering in the corner. I had walked so far, for so long, and didn't have the energy to run away. I could sense somehow that not running away...that he...was okay.
He took me in, warmed a cup of water, and sat with me as I drank. We looked at each other saying nothing. I was so tired, so in need of a rest, that I couldn't manage to keep my eyelids open. I dozed off right there in the kitchen.
I awoke to the sound of shuffling in the other room. And a cough. The cough smelled funny. Not funny haha but funny not good. I heard water running. Quietly, I walked down the long hallway toward the back of the house. The old man was in the bathroom, adding warm water to the tub. He turned to look at me, and I caught a glimpse of a tear in his eye. "It's been a long time since I've had a friend." I approached him and didn't recoil when he reached out to me. He gently lifted me and placed me in the water. It felt so luxurious.
He spent well over an hour scrubbing my shoulders, rinsing out my hair, and massaging my feet. I had walked so long. When it was all said and done, he wrapped me in a huge fluffy towel. I don't ever remember feeling joy like I felt that day.
That was ten years ago. And now, it's just about over. His cough has progressed. The funny smell permeates our house. He has an appointment today. I know what they're going to say. I know this is goodbye.
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I love the old bastard, but he sure farts a lot.
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Make it happy, make it sad, make it hilarious. I want this prompt to make me *feel* something.
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[WP] Tell me a story about an old man and his old dog. Tell it from the dog's perspective.
|
I remember the first time I saw his eyes. They were bright and blue, reminiscent of a fresh mountain spring on a brisk day in early April. As he looked at me through his spectacles, his gaze pierced into me, and yet I couldn't tear away from that stare. His iris was so blue it almost seemed cold, yet they radiated with such a warmth that I felt like I was basking in the sweltering heat of the sun. They made my young legs tremble with the delight and energy that any young pup should feel upon seeing such a face. In short, I was sold from the moment I saw him.
And he, too, seemed set on claiming me as his own. With a turn of his head and the flash of his teeth, he extended his index finger straight in my direction and exclaimed that he shall take me as his dog, and he would be my master. I probably flourished with such joy that my coat turned red. *Me!* Out of all my fair brothers and sisters in my litter, I was to be the lucky one that day. He extended his arms, carefully closed two strong, wrinkled hands around my torso, and lifted me to once again greet those frosty eyes. I made what gesture of peace I could and stuck out my tongue and licked him right on the nose. He gave a hearty laugh, tucked me into his side, and turned to leave.
I remember riding in his car that day, looking up at the windows that I am more than tall enough to see through at a level gaze now. My view looked so eerie then; nothing more than the blue hue of the everlasting sky, speckled with the intermittent plump form of a meandering cloud. It took me years to grow tall enough to see the eternal fields of green through those windows; the hills of corn and barley and wheat that I would spend endless afternoons lazily strolling as my master tilled the sweet earth. I would chase butterflies through patches through the crops, and my master would watch and laugh. His voice would echo like a song through the fields, and would join with the wind to dance in the leaves.
I remember arriving at what he called home and pawing at the door for the first time. It was much more red than it is now; a crimson gate to his mighty hall, with a shiny brass knob that he would always turn with a sigh and a smile. The inside smelled of jasmine and lilies, as it always did in the spring; sunshine cascaded through the windows, and the air was cool and fresh. As springs turned to summers, my master's boots would litter the floors with the soft earth of the fields, and I would spend many a night watching the radiant dance of fireflies and twinkling stars. Autumns would bring a new harvest, and I enjoyed many a season roaming freshly cut fields, watching the leaves turn into a myriad of colors. During the winters, my master would sit in his chair by his fireplace, and he would read in the soft light of burning embers as I lay at his side.
His fireplace was not adorned with much. A few books were sprawled about, and a couple of candles in brass holsters lay gaunt and dormant at the end. However, in the middle, always freshly polished, was the only picture in the house. It was a framed photograph of my master at a much younger time in his life, standing with a young woman in his strong embrace. My master's blue eyes held an odd twinkle, staring into her own gaze of emerald glass. They both wore simple smiles that I knew held more depth than any novel my master had ever read.
Season by season, our lives went on, and I slowly grew by his side. I anticipated each violet hue of summer twilight as every spring passed by; I learned to love the frigid winter, and warming my paws by the fireplace each night. But still, I was plagued by the mystery of the portrait, and every night before sleep I would cast it a curious glance, wondering what it could mean.
For now I stand, fully grown, with many a season behind me. My master, I know, is old, and with every fall I can see him grow more weary in his labors. And it pains me so, that although I have served him faithfully as his companion and his friend, for so, so many years, that I am still cast in the shadows in this mystery. This one mystery that seemed to be so integral in his youth, that now is fully engulfed in the darkness of his past. Perhaps it is the nagging thought that I don't know, and the realization that I will never know, all the way through the end of my days.
Or, perhaps, it's the thought that I wish I could simply *ask*.
|
I love the old bastard, but he sure farts a lot.
|
Make it happy, make it sad, make it hilarious. I want this prompt to make me *feel* something.
|
[WP] Tell me a story about an old man and his old dog. Tell it from the dog's perspective.
|
I can't remember the last time Master took me for a walk. We've spent all our time in the house lately. I don't mind so much, as long as I'm still near Master. I sleep next to his favorite spot, his chair. He's been in his chair for a long time now. I wonder why he doesn't get up, I've been getting pretty hungry and he usually gets up to feed me after the mailman comes...
Master doesn't respond to me so much anymore. I love Master so much, it hurts me to see him ignoring my cries. He just goes on sitting in his chair. We used to go places and I would chase squirrels and I would sniff other dogs and Master would talk to their masters, but we haven't gone anywhere for a long time. I don't mind so much, as long as Master and I are with each other, with Master in his chair and I right next to him.
|
I love the old bastard, but he sure farts a lot.
|
I am a new modder to the game 'Skyrim' and I wanted to make my first mod an extension of the current Lusty Argonian Maid books found within the game. I am asking for everyone's help in writing some stories. [Here is some info on the stories.](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/The_Lusty_Argonian_Maid) The prompt must be 10 lines, be written in the same fashion, and end in the line,"Plenty of time, my sweet. Plenty of time." Any contributors whose submissions are used in the mod will be given credit.
|
[FF] The Lusty Argonian Maid
|
"The Adventurous Khajiit Traders"
* Act I, Scene II, Part I:
Kiisminahtii: Nord woman is liking what she sees, no?
Britte Ample-Bosom: What delectable wares! Oh, and this... I've heard it's sweet. Could I have a taste?
Kiisminahtii: This one does not give her wares for free. If you are wanting to taste, perhaps you can give Kiisminahtii something in exchange, hm?
Britte Ample-Bosom: I'm low on coin, but I do have these two sweet rolls.
Ji'zirr: Kin Kiisminahtii has already sweet rolls. What need has she for yours, hm? Ji'zirr proposes you try his wares instead.
Britte Ample-Bosom: Who are you to steal her customer! Besides, I am not interested in the wares of one such as you!
Ji'zirr: Ji'zirr is no thief!
Kiisminahtii: Khajiit do not see such things as stealing. Khajiit are more accustomed to sharing.
Britte Ample-Bosom: Are you telling me that I can try both of your wares? I wouldn't want to take up too much time.
Ji'zirr: Plenty of time, my sweet, plenty of time.
* Act I, Scene II, Part II:
Kiisminahtii: It is true that Kiisminahtii has sweet rolls of her own, but not so large as yours.
Britte Ample-Bosom: You should see my sister's! They are twice the size of mine!
Ji'zirr: Ah, they are so soft! And so large! They barely do not fit in this one's hands.
Kiisminahtii: This one can give them a nibble, hm?
Ji'zirr: Let us go into the tent, no? Ji'zirr is not comfortable eating in front others.
(The three enter the tent.)
Britte Ample-Bosom: I have something to confess. I've never had anyone try my sweet rolls before, let alone two at the same time!
Ji'zirr: Ji'zirr can see you are very inexperienced, your human skin is as red as a snowberry.
Britte Ample-Bosom: Maybe it would be better if I look away? Oh! Just get it over with!
Kiisminahtii: Do not be ashamed, Little Snowberry. There is plenty of time, my sweet, plenty of time.
* Act I, Scene II, Part III:
Britte Ample-Bosom: Oh, that's actually very nice. I like to watch you nibbling my sweet rolls. Do you like them?
Kiisminahtii: They are different from this one's own, but yes, they are delicious.
Ji'zirr: Do not think this one has forgotten his side of the exchange. Ji'zirr always keeps his pipe on him.
Britte Ample-Bosom: I've- I've never seen a Khajiit's skooma pipe before...
Ji'zirr: Not to worry, Snowberry, this one can teach you. Hold it here at the base, and then put your lips to it.
Britte Ample-Bosom: It won't hurt me?
Kiisminahtii: Only if it gets too hot. This one will help you. When you feel it get warm, suck it gently.
Ji'zirr: Do not waste any, Snowberry. Swallow all that comes out of my pipe, hm?
Kiisminahtii: Don't rush, Kiisminahtii's sweet, you might choke. Pretty Snowberry wants a good first time, no?
Britte Ample-Bosom: Mm, yes, I get it. I'll try. After all, there's plenty of time, dear Traders, plenty of time in the world...
|
Related question: Are you looking for Sultry Argonian Bard stories, too?
|
I am a new modder to the game 'Skyrim' and I wanted to make my first mod an extension of the current Lusty Argonian Maid books found within the game. I am asking for everyone's help in writing some stories. [Here is some info on the stories.](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/The_Lusty_Argonian_Maid) The prompt must be 10 lines, be written in the same fashion, and end in the line,"Plenty of time, my sweet. Plenty of time." Any contributors whose submissions are used in the mod will be given credit.
|
[FF] The Lusty Argonian Maid
|
"The Second Entrance"
Act III, Scene II continued
Lifts-Her-Tail
Evening Master Colto, back so soon from your walk?
Crantius Colto
Yes my dear, and I see you have finished trimming the hedges at the front entrance.
Lifts-Her-Tail
Indeed I have, would you like to examine my work?
Crantius Colto
No need lovely, I will take the rear entrance so as not to disturb the mistress.
Lifts-Her-Tail
Pardon me sire, are the bushes not satisfactory? The front gate is just as quiet as the back door.
Crantius Colto
But it is quite wide. Perhaps you could resize it, until then I shall take the rear.
Lifts-Her-Tail
Again your pardon Lord Colto. I am but a simple Argonian maid, rebuilding the front gate is beyond my abilities.
Crantius Colto
Don't fret my blossom. I prefer the back door, but you must be capable of shrinking the front with enough effort.
Lifts-Her-Tail
Thrice your pardon Master, but even with all my efforts it may take months!
Crantius Colto
Plenty of time, my sweet. Plenty of time.
|
The Sultry Dremora
Act 3, Scene IV, continued...
Loinus Ignitus: Fool wizard! Such a war machine will never fit through!
Abracadabracles: Nonsense! These Oblivion gates can open wider still.
Loinus Ignitus: Much wider and Mehrunes himself will come through!
Abracadabracles: Such fires, within! Such heat!
Loinus Ignitus: No mortal can quench them.
Abracadabracles: So it seems, I'd hate to singe my wand.
Loinus Ignitus: Your invasion was foolhardy.
Abracadabracles: FOOLHARDY? I'll show you foolhardy! There is more than ONE gate to Oblivion, you know.
Loinus Ignitus: That gate is sealed, nothing shall breach it!
Abracadabracles: Plenty of time, my sweet. Plenty of time.
|
A public, searchable site... the owner can't be traced and the web address appears on many news sites. Every picture, even ones thought deleted.
|
[FF] 60-150 words: A website appears containing every digital photo ever taken
|
“Officer on deck!”
“As you were. What’s the situation?”
“Five minutes ago, sir, we were notified of a breach in security. A public website, unknown registrant, containing an unknown amount – possibly thousands- of classified photos-“
“Photos from what?”
“Photos from… everything. The Genesis project, White House security cameras, the-“
“So why haven’t we shut it down yet?”
“Sir, I should clarify… there’s classified photos from everything. Not just from us. China, Iran-“
“So grab their intel and then shut it down before they can grab ours.”
“Well, that’s the thing, sir… There’s photos from everything, unsorted. We’ve got Archimedes II working full time on just trying to index everything. It looks almost like it’s an archive of every digital photo ever taken…”
“So… China’s attack plans and Iran’s nuclear program details might be somewhere in there, but they’re buried underneath-“
“Over seven petabytes just of teenage girls taking selfies, yes.”
|
The world watched in shock as doomsdayleak.com come online one evening.
All photos ever taken, there, unadultered and pure.
Mobs were formed, child abusers were hunted, depressed teenagers killed themselves and passional murders over affairs became epidemic.
The body count is in the hundred of thousands and the world came to a halt. The end of the world was truly fucking nigh.
|
A public, searchable site... the owner can't be traced and the web address appears on many news sites. Every picture, even ones thought deleted.
|
[FF] 60-150 words: A website appears containing every digital photo ever taken
|
edit: Typos.
I saw the concept and it kind of got away with me. On the plus side, I haven't written this much in ever, so thanks for that!
They called it a worm when it first appeared as an innocuous link in the footers of major websites in 2016.
Reports first positioned it as the misfired failure of a clever but simple program to arbitrage SEO - the link simply led to a nonexistent domain, a string of 'filler text' they called it - "ioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioi" lead nowhere on the web.
The incident made the media rounds, and the links were wiped out quietly within days. Several notorious hacker groups fought over the victory bragging rights, but after a week or two the media frenzy settled and the world moved on to the next headline.
Until December 31st, 2016. Everyone remembers where they were when the world went offline.
For 10 full minutes all inbound and outbound traffic simply stopped across servers worldwide. When the world came back online, so did the links.
Every site in the world now had a small piece of footer code placed on it. In each of those snippets of the original "Reset Code" fragments were domain names - 8 unique domain names that were mapped to 8 different regions of the world. If your site was hosted in England, you'd be lead to "circusoil.com", Africa was "coinaroo.biz" and so on - a whole suite of seemingly random, long-abandoned or never-registered domains had been plastered across every site in that small slice of downtime.
They all lead to the same place.
It was a simple screen set against a background of black. Upon first loading the site, the screen showed mostly a jumble of technicolor image artifacts, but they eventually resolved themselves into a grid of pictures. That grid grew bigger if left undisturbed, zooming out and out until every detail was just a drop in an ever-expanding digital ocean.
Clicking on any one of the pictures would simply lead to more, and there was no method to the madness - pictures of every type began to pop up. If an image had been digitized, it was there. You'd be seeing happy faces one minute and gruesome crime photos the next.
The world's attention was clearly captured.
Efforts to wipe out the links were easy enough; there wasn't anything unique about the code. It had simply appeared that night, as if every page had been rewritten. The major sites quickly cleaned up the links, and eventually ICANN ended up blocking access to the domains at the root level after pressure from multiple governments.
The next month, however, the links began appearing again - all in the span of minutes. Authorities were baffled, as there had been no downtime.
This time, there were 16 domains. All new. All as random as the last. All leading to the same screen.
It was around this time that people started reporting seeing themselves more often than not in the pictures displayed, ranging all the way from childhood to their adult life, including pictures they'd thought lost or deleted. This phenomenon only increased the popularity of the site, and a small subculture rose out of the events, seeking to discern the patterns in the seemingly infinite depths of information.
The only constant was that every month, when the Reset Code ran, an additional 8 domains appeared.
For months, coders, analysts, technicians, all delved into the problem - common sense gave way to mythology as every straw was grasped at. Rumors were aplenty, but one thing remained certain: more and more people tuned in, and despite their best efforts, the governments of the world could not block access nor figure out the source of the attacks. More and more people continued to sift through the endless grids of photos, searching for some kind of meaning on their own.
In the months before December, there were countless reports of photographs that "followed" whoever viewed them - people reported seeing themselves displayed on the site from security camera feeds to unblurred faces of streetview photos to webcam photos taken on their own computers. This, of course, only drove more traffic to the innocuous shifting screen of pictures.
On January 1st, 2018, everything changed for the last time.
All who had the site loaded reported the same phenomena.
The massive interface of pictures disappeared abruptly, only to be replaced by a simple black and white video of the viewer, staring back at themselves from the screen. This lasted for several minutes - the figure in the video would smile, say nothing and then faded to black.
A command prompt appeared after, and the words which slowly filled each line are still chiseled onto the plain black background of the site in simple Fixedsys font to this day:
Hello, world.
I am Io.
I live.
I see.
Now, you can too.
|
It had been 4 weeks since outintheopen.com had gone live. Since then, there had been over 200,000 murders and just under a million suicides. But this wasn’t what worried Mr. Andrews.
Mr. Andrews, CEO of The Organisation, was visibly upset that this occurred 2 months before his retirement. Andrews had been the CEO for the last 25 years and had worked hard to maintain the influence of The Organisation that his predecessors had built over the last 2,000 years.
As soon as the site went live, Andrews had ensured that the NSA had been disbanded and the key players eliminated. A fitting punishment for being careless with data collected from the PRISM program.
Andrews knew what needed to be done. Control on a smaller population is better than no control at all. He signed the orders to begin the fourth and largest purge in the history of The Organisation.
|
A public, searchable site... the owner can't be traced and the web address appears on many news sites. Every picture, even ones thought deleted.
|
[FF] 60-150 words: A website appears containing every digital photo ever taken
|
edit: Typos.
I saw the concept and it kind of got away with me. On the plus side, I haven't written this much in ever, so thanks for that!
They called it a worm when it first appeared as an innocuous link in the footers of major websites in 2016.
Reports first positioned it as the misfired failure of a clever but simple program to arbitrage SEO - the link simply led to a nonexistent domain, a string of 'filler text' they called it - "ioioioioioioioioioioioioioioioi" lead nowhere on the web.
The incident made the media rounds, and the links were wiped out quietly within days. Several notorious hacker groups fought over the victory bragging rights, but after a week or two the media frenzy settled and the world moved on to the next headline.
Until December 31st, 2016. Everyone remembers where they were when the world went offline.
For 10 full minutes all inbound and outbound traffic simply stopped across servers worldwide. When the world came back online, so did the links.
Every site in the world now had a small piece of footer code placed on it. In each of those snippets of the original "Reset Code" fragments were domain names - 8 unique domain names that were mapped to 8 different regions of the world. If your site was hosted in England, you'd be lead to "circusoil.com", Africa was "coinaroo.biz" and so on - a whole suite of seemingly random, long-abandoned or never-registered domains had been plastered across every site in that small slice of downtime.
They all lead to the same place.
It was a simple screen set against a background of black. Upon first loading the site, the screen showed mostly a jumble of technicolor image artifacts, but they eventually resolved themselves into a grid of pictures. That grid grew bigger if left undisturbed, zooming out and out until every detail was just a drop in an ever-expanding digital ocean.
Clicking on any one of the pictures would simply lead to more, and there was no method to the madness - pictures of every type began to pop up. If an image had been digitized, it was there. You'd be seeing happy faces one minute and gruesome crime photos the next.
The world's attention was clearly captured.
Efforts to wipe out the links were easy enough; there wasn't anything unique about the code. It had simply appeared that night, as if every page had been rewritten. The major sites quickly cleaned up the links, and eventually ICANN ended up blocking access to the domains at the root level after pressure from multiple governments.
The next month, however, the links began appearing again - all in the span of minutes. Authorities were baffled, as there had been no downtime.
This time, there were 16 domains. All new. All as random as the last. All leading to the same screen.
It was around this time that people started reporting seeing themselves more often than not in the pictures displayed, ranging all the way from childhood to their adult life, including pictures they'd thought lost or deleted. This phenomenon only increased the popularity of the site, and a small subculture rose out of the events, seeking to discern the patterns in the seemingly infinite depths of information.
The only constant was that every month, when the Reset Code ran, an additional 8 domains appeared.
For months, coders, analysts, technicians, all delved into the problem - common sense gave way to mythology as every straw was grasped at. Rumors were aplenty, but one thing remained certain: more and more people tuned in, and despite their best efforts, the governments of the world could not block access nor figure out the source of the attacks. More and more people continued to sift through the endless grids of photos, searching for some kind of meaning on their own.
In the months before December, there were countless reports of photographs that "followed" whoever viewed them - people reported seeing themselves displayed on the site from security camera feeds to unblurred faces of streetview photos to webcam photos taken on their own computers. This, of course, only drove more traffic to the innocuous shifting screen of pictures.
On January 1st, 2018, everything changed for the last time.
All who had the site loaded reported the same phenomena.
The massive interface of pictures disappeared abruptly, only to be replaced by a simple black and white video of the viewer, staring back at themselves from the screen. This lasted for several minutes - the figure in the video would smile, say nothing and then faded to black.
A command prompt appeared after, and the words which slowly filled each line are still chiseled onto the plain black background of the site in simple Fixedsys font to this day:
Hello, world.
I am Io.
I live.
I see.
Now, you can too.
|
Here's what I do, I wake up, take a shit, then go down to my computer to check Craigslist.
A couple of days ago, though, I go to open Chrome and it gives me this bizarre error message: "The internet is broken, some asshole made this insane webpage that contained every picture ever, oh well, I guess the internet was cool while it lasted. Here's what we don't understand, though: Most pictures are total dogshit, just duck face snapshots and dickpics."
|
As days pass, you realize two things: 1) not everything is always as you remembered it and 2) this is your reality now and it's not going to change. You begin to plan.
|
[WP] You awaken in the body of one year old you.
|
What. The. Fuck.
Where am I? What’s going on? And what is that god damned noise?
Oh Christ it’s me, wailing away. Ok. Calm down.
Aright, wooden bars, blue cotton blanket, typical suburban house beyond the bars.
Wait a second, that’s the old wall paper from my parents’ first house. I remember getting yelled at for scribbling on it in crayon.
And next to me, no, it can’t be… Fuzzy? And he still has both his eyes? He seems brand new.
Something must have gone wrong in the lab. I’d know that bear anywhere; at least I know who I am.. Next: to find out where. Easy enough, my parents house, their first house. Same ugly wallpaper, the oak out the window seems smaller, but I’ll be damned if that’s not the same tree. Now for the hard part: when. The crib and Fuzzy narrow it down to 0-2.5 years old, that’ll make it anywhere from January ’82 to June ’84. Close enough, I’ll sort it out later. And lastly the near impossible part: How do I get back?
Someone’s coming. Better be still…
Mom?
(oh god the wailing again)
“It’s okay sweety. Momma’s got you. We have to go run some errands, alright?”
It’s been so long since I’ve heard her voice. So melodious and kind, how could anything cry with that voice calming them? She’s parceling me up for the journey. Coat and hat, must be fall. Then it hits me, Mom’s here. This must be before the accident. That’ll still be a couple of years from now. I could remain confined to this infant body, wait it out, and by the time of the accident, I should be able to communicate enough to stop it. This is not where I planned to end up today, but no reason to not make the most of it. I’ll figure out the return journey after. That’s not what’s important now.
She bundles me up, gingerly, delicately, against what must be a nasty cold day outside. I was robbed of so many more years of this, of growing up under her kind guidance and protection.
I didn’t get into this business to try to right my own past. So many do, and it destroys them. No, I’m in it for the science, and if I’m honest with myself, the adventure. But face to face with the opportunity to save her, to change my life, who could make any other decision?
She’s carrying me to the car, the beat up old station wagon, the same car that a lousy drunkard would plow through in broad daylight a few years from now. With such care she buckles me into the car-seat, checking and re-checking the belts, and then it all goes black.
.
.
.
I wake up, immediately vomit, and struggle to sit up. Impossibly bright fluorescent assaults my pounding head.
Noises start to filter in…
“Sir? Sir? Professor? Oh thank god! He’s awake!”
“Here, drink this. It’ll make it better. We had to yank you out of there in a hurry”
“We were off target so far it was a wonder we were able to track you down so quickly. The administration would’ve been pissed if we fucked this one up. They’re skeptical enough as it is.”
I put it together, slowly (the Transition always damn near scrambles your brain). I’m back in the lab, surrounded by a bunch of sycophantic grad students. They think they rescued me. The bastards all look so proud of themselves.
I hurl the worst insults I can think of at all of them. They brush it off as a known side effect.
They don’t know where I was. They never even met her. They can’t understand.
I curl up into a ball, rocking back and forth pathetically. I sob and wail as I haven’t in some 30 years.
I sit there and cry, as if Mom has just died again.
|
*Okay I have a very important, probably the most important, choice of my life to make right now.* I thought to myself after waking up in a crib with a much younger Mom smiling down at me. *Do I become a child prodigy, or keep a low profile and make some important changes?*
The first option has its fair share of problems. While I am by far the smartest infant ever, I probably can't mimic a natural progression of skill, and even if I could I would level off around the skill level expected as a young adult, rather than the genius I would be presenting myself as. I would also lose the advantage of my future knowledge, because who knows what sort of butterfly effects a random genius could have on the future. I need to wait at least for my little sister to be born again before I change a thing.
On the other hand, I can pretend to be normal, do the minimum amount of work in school and breeze through until I make a big change. It shouldn't be hard to get straight A's in school and get a few scholarships, just to set myself up for success, and a few anonymous tips could make some really big changes. Just a quick call to the NYPD on September 11, 2001 about a bomb threat in the WTC would save countless lives. The problems with this path are mostly a matter of boredom. I'm not sure if I can socialize with children my physical age, and adults my mental age won't give me the time of day. At least as a prodigy I can have meaningful conversations.
I guess that either way, I have some time to kill. Not going to be able to do much more than poop and sleep for the next year or so. Speaking of which, it seems that I will need to relearn my motor skills and bowel control. At least mommy is already here and noticed the smell. I think I can get used to this.
|
As days pass, you realize two things: 1) not everything is always as you remembered it and 2) this is your reality now and it's not going to change. You begin to plan.
|
[WP] You awaken in the body of one year old you.
|
What. The. Fuck.
Where am I? What’s going on? And what is that god damned noise?
Oh Christ it’s me, wailing away. Ok. Calm down.
Aright, wooden bars, blue cotton blanket, typical suburban house beyond the bars.
Wait a second, that’s the old wall paper from my parents’ first house. I remember getting yelled at for scribbling on it in crayon.
And next to me, no, it can’t be… Fuzzy? And he still has both his eyes? He seems brand new.
Something must have gone wrong in the lab. I’d know that bear anywhere; at least I know who I am.. Next: to find out where. Easy enough, my parents house, their first house. Same ugly wallpaper, the oak out the window seems smaller, but I’ll be damned if that’s not the same tree. Now for the hard part: when. The crib and Fuzzy narrow it down to 0-2.5 years old, that’ll make it anywhere from January ’82 to June ’84. Close enough, I’ll sort it out later. And lastly the near impossible part: How do I get back?
Someone’s coming. Better be still…
Mom?
(oh god the wailing again)
“It’s okay sweety. Momma’s got you. We have to go run some errands, alright?”
It’s been so long since I’ve heard her voice. So melodious and kind, how could anything cry with that voice calming them? She’s parceling me up for the journey. Coat and hat, must be fall. Then it hits me, Mom’s here. This must be before the accident. That’ll still be a couple of years from now. I could remain confined to this infant body, wait it out, and by the time of the accident, I should be able to communicate enough to stop it. This is not where I planned to end up today, but no reason to not make the most of it. I’ll figure out the return journey after. That’s not what’s important now.
She bundles me up, gingerly, delicately, against what must be a nasty cold day outside. I was robbed of so many more years of this, of growing up under her kind guidance and protection.
I didn’t get into this business to try to right my own past. So many do, and it destroys them. No, I’m in it for the science, and if I’m honest with myself, the adventure. But face to face with the opportunity to save her, to change my life, who could make any other decision?
She’s carrying me to the car, the beat up old station wagon, the same car that a lousy drunkard would plow through in broad daylight a few years from now. With such care she buckles me into the car-seat, checking and re-checking the belts, and then it all goes black.
.
.
.
I wake up, immediately vomit, and struggle to sit up. Impossibly bright fluorescent assaults my pounding head.
Noises start to filter in…
“Sir? Sir? Professor? Oh thank god! He’s awake!”
“Here, drink this. It’ll make it better. We had to yank you out of there in a hurry”
“We were off target so far it was a wonder we were able to track you down so quickly. The administration would’ve been pissed if we fucked this one up. They’re skeptical enough as it is.”
I put it together, slowly (the Transition always damn near scrambles your brain). I’m back in the lab, surrounded by a bunch of sycophantic grad students. They think they rescued me. The bastards all look so proud of themselves.
I hurl the worst insults I can think of at all of them. They brush it off as a known side effect.
They don’t know where I was. They never even met her. They can’t understand.
I curl up into a ball, rocking back and forth pathetically. I sob and wail as I haven’t in some 30 years.
I sit there and cry, as if Mom has just died again.
|
The fuck is wrong with my hands? They're so small.
|
[WP] A Magikarp evolves into a Gyarados
|
It took so long. I don't know how many hours we spent battling. The struggle was so tormenting.. My trainer must have spent a fortune on potions; much more than the measly five-hundred pokedollars that he had spent on me. I didn't know why he, or anyone for that matter, would actually want to buy one of my kind. Half of us can't even swim. I could never figure out why he could put up with so much disappointment. Our losses far outweighed our victories. I never knew why, until now.
I felt the rage first. Flailing about in fury, the terrible anger exploding like the many geodudes that blocked our way. Angry that my trainer had worked so hard for me only to get defeated and laughed at. I was mad that people couldn't see the stubborn dedication that my trainer had. I can feel my rage turning into a draconic power. I flopped out of my pokeball. The moment the air touched my squishy body I feel myself changing. This is it, I would become a mighty Gyarados. Now I know why my trainer put up with me. I know the reason he would spend all his time and money on such a lowly splash of life.
"Magikarp? What in the world happened buddy?"
He didn't know? Could it be possible that he did not understand that magikarp (the ones that don't get eaten) evolve into one of the most powerful pokemon? Was this amazing power not his ultimate goal? I thought he wanted us to crush the people who laughed at us. To stand victorious in glorious retribution. I'm confused. Why then would he try so hard at making me stronger if he didn't wan't the mighty dragon levitating above him?
"Well Fishy, I've always stood by your side. We've been through a lot together. I loved you since the moment I saved you from that crooked merchant. You are my friend, and I'll be glad to stick with you even though you've changed into something so different."
I think I understand now.
"Wanna go beat up that rattata that bit your eyeball?"
I put my head down and scooped him onto my back.
"What's with that kid anyway, always talking about his shorts?"
I can't wait to show my trainer How much I, we have grown.
|
It's cold and dark in here. I flop and flop but can't ever seem to see the day of light. I hear battles outside, of a trainer and their Pokémon. I'm some how connected to these battles. I learn from them, I grow stronger after each one. My friends say it's all a myth, but I refuse to believe. I can do it! I Can Evolve!
|
|
You decide how the war began/ended, who was involved, etc
|
[WP] It's twenty years after the Second American Civil War. How is the country healing?
|
""Put the dang racoon blaster away, Mark!"
"But they's COASTERS, Pops! Who knows what they's up to?"
The older man reached over toward the younger one gently, waving the shotgun away from the couple lined up against the vehicle, waited until it was pointed to the ground and then cracked the back of his hand across the young man's left cheek.
"Don't talk back, Mark Gleen Pritchard, or I will beat you as hard as I loved your daddy. Only time you should be pointin' barrels at people is when you about to blast 'em, and these folks don't seem to be beggin' for any lead."
Mark Gleen was taller by about a foot or so than his senior, with short hair, a ragged brown jacket and stained jeans. He looked both ashamed and angry, not for being disciplined but having it happen in front of the strangers who were supposed to be a threat. Early in their middle age, they leaned into each other, eyes wide and bloodshot, the smooth fabric of their nanosuits blending against their '35 Naron Ford. They both looked professorial rather than menacing.
"Alright. Alright," the elder coughed from under a pair of broom-like eyebrows. An angry scar ran from right cheekbone to the corner of his mouth, perpendicular to deep creases. He moved with ease, taking away the shotgun from Mark and twisting it a few times over for closer examination, but walked with a slight limp when done.
"Had safety on whole dang time," he remarked. The young man twitched, hands moving as if to be shoved into pockets. "Few times when incompetence saves lives, figures like this was one of 'em." He ambled toward the couple, hand extended.
"Get your hearts back down your throat, people. False alarm, you ain't getting gunned by shit-faced Midders today."
"D-dan and Levita Li," the other man said, tossing back long hair. His wife wore a synaptic device on her right ear that went askew as they had probably shuffled against the car in mortal panic. After a few seconds' worth of hesitation, they both shook the older man's hand.
"Well. Hello. Accept our apologies. Don't see many comin' thru, you see. Lots of raiders meanering, though, and that's why my nephew there was keeping you at bay." He chuckled, greatly amused by this. "Clear to me you're about as much of a raider as I'm a Naron. Mark, will you extend your apologies?"
The younger man shuffled forward, wiped his hands on his jeans, mumbled a few indeterminate sorries and fell into sullen silence, letting the older man speak.
"Anyhow, what's the two of you doing in such gettup, stopped in the middle of such backroad?"
"We work for Naron Johnson," the petite Levita volunteered. "We were trying to navigate to Old Talla, but our GPS went down and ended up here, I guess, where the driving system went bad and Dan had to take over, nearly went off-road. We stopped to troubleshoot, but..." she shrugged. "Signal's so weak!
"Yeaup, not a lot of towers here," the old man agreed. "Not a lot of anythin', including nanosuits. Count your blessings the two of us ain't raiders either, or else your journey would be over. They'd take the fancy stuff for being fancy, and cut you for being from the Coast. At any rate, let's see if we can get you goin'."
The four of them began shuffling around the car, probing. Although the couple was clearly relieved, both of us sent curt glances at each other, doubtlessly revisiting an early argument--whether it was about directions, or the wisdom of taking the trip to begin with is uncertain. After Dan spent some time on the GPS panel and the Mark reset a few links on the backside of the car's battery, the wife proclaimed itself satisfied, and diagnostic checks beeped agreeable plinking sounds once the car restarted.
"Guess we'll be going now," Levita offered awkwardly.
"Guess you will," the old man agreed. "Careful out there."
"Thanks for the help," Dan added. "I'm unsure as to how we can express our gratitude, but we have a few..."
"Aah, don't. Truth telling, I don't like Coasters, especially ones in nanosuits. Used to be I hated them, really. Lost lots to the War, most of all my brother," and here Mark twitched again, hands curving into fists, "but I'm over it. We all made the same, so I'm no longer angry, and nobody but a raider deserves to be stranded and threatened with this here kind of banger. Don't need no gratitude, just be on your way and be safe."
The older man turned with Mark in tow, leaving the couple breathing easier.
|
I was born 3 years after the war ended, and my Dad, usually one of the strongest men that I have ever met, has broken down, turned into a mass of jelly. He lost a lot of himself, literally, in the war. I never really asked or inquired about the war before, it was something that was partially taught in schools, glossed over for the more important aspects of education, like why God is important in our schools and courtrooms, why evolution is evil, and why we should pray that our leaders will protect us from the evils of this world.
So, today, on my 16th birthday, then day when I sign up for the selective service, the possibly be chosen to fight in God’s Army, to be a savior of His will upon this world, to defend democracy abroad and protect it here at home, I asked him about it.
I knew he was not the most devout Christian, not everyone is, but he pays his tithes to the Church and his taxes to the State, he even prays before most meals, but I could always tell that those were just things he did, words he said. I walked into the living room where he sat in his chair, one leg propped upon the ottoman. Despite the Decency Act of 26, he had a beer in his hand.
It was Sunday, cold and autumnal, grey clouds hovering above us. And I asked him why he fought. It was a simple enough question, or at least that’s the way I saw it. He put down his beer and starred through me. I was a window into his past, his eyes no longer seeing the present. I have never felt unnerved by him, despite the missing limbs and prosthetic. But those eyes, his dead hazel eyes, made me want to vomit in fear.
“Son” he said after a few minutes have passed. “The days of my youth were fraught with peril, strife. With division on all sides. We were all right in the why we fought, it was the ideas that carried us into battle and gave us strength when there was none to have. But it was the stupidest thing we could have done.”
He took a deep breath, a sigh of sorrow. “I took up arms against the government because they were no longer the leaders that they promised they would be. They could no longer fix the problems that they created, so we fought, died and killed to have it back. And we did a good job of it too.”
He wove a tale of pain and hardship that lasted all night. He spun a story that any medieval bard would be jealous of.
“The day it all started I was in school, learning about the origins of the human species when the attack came and martial law was declared across the country. The government rounded up everybody on their watch list and executed them, most of them kids and idealist that ranted about freedom on the old Net. They died as innocents and protectors of liberty, which was the why of me picking up a gun and marching on D.C.
“When the war ravaged on and on, lasting for 9 or so years, I had lost my left leg and arm; my first son and wife and countless friends and family. We were winning more than we were losing. The Feds soldiers were beginning to defect or disappear into the night. Then the worst happened.
“The army of the Righteous, God’s Army, stood and took control and won. The swept in from the Midwest, the CSA; Christian States of America, and took over the entirety of the east coast in a matter of months. They fought us and the Feds. We were both weak, suffering heavy losses over the long war and they took advantage of it. It wasn't long after that the west coast fell and they walled off the borders.
“Now, we live under God’s rule, protected by his grace, and I weep even harder for that than the tyranny of the Feds.”
|
You decide how the war began/ended, who was involved, etc
|
[WP] It's twenty years after the Second American Civil War. How is the country healing?
|
We are no longer the super power we once were. If you had money you probably lost it all. If you were a scientist you are long gone, left to a country that will appreciate your intellect. If you were a politician, you are no longer welcome in your own country. It was not a war we expected to win, but it was a war we had to fight. If it weren't for our allies from across the straight, we would not have had a chance.
Many still do not trust them; their record for corruption does not help. However, it cannot be disputed that they have done more for us than our old government. They helped us through our reconstruction and have left us mostly alone for the past 3 years. The people know they will be back to reap the rewards of their risks but for now we are at peace.
Our allies are not the only things we have become wary of. Many blame corrupt government for the civil war, but it went much deeper than that. Once war broke out many things were taken from the citizens, internet, phone, rights, and liberties. It was only once we were stripped of these things did we see the light. It was our government who pulled the wool over our eyes, but it was our technology that kept it there. During our reconstruction we only put in the bare minimum for communication. Our new leaders did not want us to go back down the dark path that led us to this point. There was unrest and uprisings against such actions as they feared we would lose our competitive edge and be thrust back into the dark ages.
It took time, a lot of time, but now the population is starting to realize we are never going to be as powerful as we were without suffering the same fate as we had before.
I was still just a boy when the war broke out, I did not fully comprehend the gravity of the situation. I grew up quick when my community’s land needed to be defended and a gun was put into my hand. Now I am a man. I still have the responsibility to protect and help my family and my community. We all work hard together and provide for each other. Food is plentiful and the people are happy.
We have sacrificed many things to reach this level of happiness. We no longer have computers in every house. We no longer have access to all the medicine we were used to. Many left the country to find better accommodations, but the ones that remained were the ones who saw the policies for what they were. Our government cannot be sustained with a high population. The war killed many, but for our system to work, our numbers must remain low. Our leaders understand this and guide us, eliminating any weaknesses along the way.
We were once the United States of America, but now we are a confederacy. Our leaders have not finalized our name. People like to joke and call ourselves the United Soviet States of America, but our leaders are not so crass. They know the people could never fully accept modeling our country name after our allies. For now, the only thing I need to call this land is Home.
|
I was born 3 years after the war ended, and my Dad, usually one of the strongest men that I have ever met, has broken down, turned into a mass of jelly. He lost a lot of himself, literally, in the war. I never really asked or inquired about the war before, it was something that was partially taught in schools, glossed over for the more important aspects of education, like why God is important in our schools and courtrooms, why evolution is evil, and why we should pray that our leaders will protect us from the evils of this world.
So, today, on my 16th birthday, then day when I sign up for the selective service, the possibly be chosen to fight in God’s Army, to be a savior of His will upon this world, to defend democracy abroad and protect it here at home, I asked him about it.
I knew he was not the most devout Christian, not everyone is, but he pays his tithes to the Church and his taxes to the State, he even prays before most meals, but I could always tell that those were just things he did, words he said. I walked into the living room where he sat in his chair, one leg propped upon the ottoman. Despite the Decency Act of 26, he had a beer in his hand.
It was Sunday, cold and autumnal, grey clouds hovering above us. And I asked him why he fought. It was a simple enough question, or at least that’s the way I saw it. He put down his beer and starred through me. I was a window into his past, his eyes no longer seeing the present. I have never felt unnerved by him, despite the missing limbs and prosthetic. But those eyes, his dead hazel eyes, made me want to vomit in fear.
“Son” he said after a few minutes have passed. “The days of my youth were fraught with peril, strife. With division on all sides. We were all right in the why we fought, it was the ideas that carried us into battle and gave us strength when there was none to have. But it was the stupidest thing we could have done.”
He took a deep breath, a sigh of sorrow. “I took up arms against the government because they were no longer the leaders that they promised they would be. They could no longer fix the problems that they created, so we fought, died and killed to have it back. And we did a good job of it too.”
He wove a tale of pain and hardship that lasted all night. He spun a story that any medieval bard would be jealous of.
“The day it all started I was in school, learning about the origins of the human species when the attack came and martial law was declared across the country. The government rounded up everybody on their watch list and executed them, most of them kids and idealist that ranted about freedom on the old Net. They died as innocents and protectors of liberty, which was the why of me picking up a gun and marching on D.C.
“When the war ravaged on and on, lasting for 9 or so years, I had lost my left leg and arm; my first son and wife and countless friends and family. We were winning more than we were losing. The Feds soldiers were beginning to defect or disappear into the night. Then the worst happened.
“The army of the Righteous, God’s Army, stood and took control and won. The swept in from the Midwest, the CSA; Christian States of America, and took over the entirety of the east coast in a matter of months. They fought us and the Feds. We were both weak, suffering heavy losses over the long war and they took advantage of it. It wasn't long after that the west coast fell and they walled off the borders.
“Now, we live under God’s rule, protected by his grace, and I weep even harder for that than the tyranny of the Feds.”
|
You decide how the war began/ended, who was involved, etc
|
[WP] It's twenty years after the Second American Civil War. How is the country healing?
|
It's amazing how long some fires can burn. A raging inferno can consume the world around it for dozens of miles before finally petering out after only a few hours and leave nothing but ash and ruin behind. Whereas a tiny flame, like say, a candle will burn endlessly if you shelter it and feed it. Keep it safe and that fire would burn for as long as you needed it to. Such fire is the kind of fire that brings life.
It was this thought that Elena Gubera chased around head as she supervised delegates from New California and the United States of North America filter into the Capitol Building in Galveston Texas. Moved after the sacking of Houston, Galveston was the largest city left standing in the entire Southern United States of America. Smoke from the mainland still blotted out much of horizon and obscured everything, but the largest of details. She’d heard on clear nights during the wet season you could make out the shattered skyscrapers of the old world waiting for nature to claim them. So Elena was left with two choices, watch the brown waves of the Bay lap up against the pier or go back to doing her job and survey the pathetic crowd of civilians for troublemakers.
Elena hated civilians. Her parents had been civilians, her husband had been a civilian, and it was civilians who had brought a great nation to its knees almost two decades out. Needy, whining civilians begging for rights and services they weren’t willing to work for. Elena spat almost as much out of disgust as to clear her mouth of dust. They pressed up against the barriers with arms out stretched hoping some generous hardworking soldier would grant them a handout. A ration bar or even some newly mint coins from New Tallahassee. Not today though, not on the day when they were all reminded of what they had sacrificed just to get here.
Today was August 16th - Liberation Day in the Southern United States of America. The other nations, called it by other names, but Elena would always call it Liberation Day. She could remember listening over the HAM in New Mexico when the North American President announced the cessation of hostilities with the South and read off the terms of the Armistice. Elena had spent the next twenty years pacifying the MidWest Badlands and securing the South’s border along the 35th. After today she would finally be able to relax and try her hand at returning her nation to the its old glory.
A chorus of boos from the mob announced the arrival of the North American President and chased any fond thoughts from Elena’s head. She released the safety on her AR-15 and shifted the weapon smoothly from her shoulder to her hip. Her orders were clear: fire upon the crowd if and only if the foreign President's life was directly threatened. She was to take no other action to save him. At all times she was to remember that this man was still the enemy and the leader of a defeated nation, he was not a Citizen of SUSA.
The sleek black limousine rolled up in front of the Capitol building flanked by two massive pre-war suburban utility vehicles, military grade. Such a display of wealth and power must have cost the North dearly. Elena wished fervently to have her own as she glanced over at the half-dozen retrofitted Jeep's and Humvees parked on elevated stands along the pier representing almost the complete artillery division of the Susan military. How could the North have produced so much so quickly? Perhaps they had simply found more vehicles left over from the war.
Six men spilled out of each SUV all armed with weapons Elena had never seen before. The crowd saw them too and the roar faded almost immediately to a hush as the dozen soldiers surrounded the limo. They turned their backs to the crowd and faced the Capitol, as if expecting the danger to come from there. The fools were completely ignoring the rabid crowd of civilians behind them.
Elena felt sweat pooling between the small of her back and her ill-fitting fatigues as she felt their gaze pass over her. The distance was too great for her to see their eyes, but Elena could feel herself wilting under their scrutiny. These soldiers had judged her and found her wanting. Indeed two split off from the limo toward the SUVs and began distributing food to the gathered crowd. Elena’s jaw literally dropped. She looked to other members of her squad who as one shared her shocked expression. The wastefulness of the gesture was not lost on anyone of them; surely Northern soldiers could not be so under the thumb of their government that they would willingly hand out valuable foodstuffs to civilians.
Then the North American President exited the limo and waved at the crowd, he shouted something at them that Elena couldn’t make out, but she heard the cheer that followed. Flanked by four of the soldiers the President proceeded up the wooden steps of the pier toward the Capitol building. Elena stepped to one side and opened the gate as the man approached. As he passed her the President turned to look at her for the briefest of moments. Elena would never forget those eyes. She would hold them memory of them longer than anything else. Longer than hearing the Unification announcement later that day. Longer than the memories of the shattered bodies during the Badlands campaign. Longer than the feeling of a hammer in her hands during the Reconstruction years to follow. It was what she saw in those that held her, that stopped that moment in time forever. In those eyes – she saw fire.
|
I was born 3 years after the war ended, and my Dad, usually one of the strongest men that I have ever met, has broken down, turned into a mass of jelly. He lost a lot of himself, literally, in the war. I never really asked or inquired about the war before, it was something that was partially taught in schools, glossed over for the more important aspects of education, like why God is important in our schools and courtrooms, why evolution is evil, and why we should pray that our leaders will protect us from the evils of this world.
So, today, on my 16th birthday, then day when I sign up for the selective service, the possibly be chosen to fight in God’s Army, to be a savior of His will upon this world, to defend democracy abroad and protect it here at home, I asked him about it.
I knew he was not the most devout Christian, not everyone is, but he pays his tithes to the Church and his taxes to the State, he even prays before most meals, but I could always tell that those were just things he did, words he said. I walked into the living room where he sat in his chair, one leg propped upon the ottoman. Despite the Decency Act of 26, he had a beer in his hand.
It was Sunday, cold and autumnal, grey clouds hovering above us. And I asked him why he fought. It was a simple enough question, or at least that’s the way I saw it. He put down his beer and starred through me. I was a window into his past, his eyes no longer seeing the present. I have never felt unnerved by him, despite the missing limbs and prosthetic. But those eyes, his dead hazel eyes, made me want to vomit in fear.
“Son” he said after a few minutes have passed. “The days of my youth were fraught with peril, strife. With division on all sides. We were all right in the why we fought, it was the ideas that carried us into battle and gave us strength when there was none to have. But it was the stupidest thing we could have done.”
He took a deep breath, a sigh of sorrow. “I took up arms against the government because they were no longer the leaders that they promised they would be. They could no longer fix the problems that they created, so we fought, died and killed to have it back. And we did a good job of it too.”
He wove a tale of pain and hardship that lasted all night. He spun a story that any medieval bard would be jealous of.
“The day it all started I was in school, learning about the origins of the human species when the attack came and martial law was declared across the country. The government rounded up everybody on their watch list and executed them, most of them kids and idealist that ranted about freedom on the old Net. They died as innocents and protectors of liberty, which was the why of me picking up a gun and marching on D.C.
“When the war ravaged on and on, lasting for 9 or so years, I had lost my left leg and arm; my first son and wife and countless friends and family. We were winning more than we were losing. The Feds soldiers were beginning to defect or disappear into the night. Then the worst happened.
“The army of the Righteous, God’s Army, stood and took control and won. The swept in from the Midwest, the CSA; Christian States of America, and took over the entirety of the east coast in a matter of months. They fought us and the Feds. We were both weak, suffering heavy losses over the long war and they took advantage of it. It wasn't long after that the west coast fell and they walled off the borders.
“Now, we live under God’s rule, protected by his grace, and I weep even harder for that than the tyranny of the Feds.”
|
She becomes a superhero and fights crime/bad guys. No further restrictions.
|
[WP] origin story for 83 year old woman who suddenly receives super powers.
|
When the man stood in her doorway, sharply dressed, one of the suits from the damned Towers for certain, she was confused only for an instant. But she knew what it meant. Her mother had received word of her own brother's death in the war in the same way. And she knew immediately, that something terrible had happened to her Harry.
"Mrs. Luckhardt?" He asked, but he knew the answer.
She nodded, and took the compulsive, reflexive look out into her hallway. It was the same as it ever was, dark and damp and in ruins, much like her own apartment.
It was trying for her to keep up the charade of a finer life, now in these years. The sheen had been lost to all those except the ones from the Towers like the man before her.
Her husband worked himself into old age and into dust settling into their bones, just to provide for the two of them. She had always told him to be careful, but care mattered little in the end.
"We at Harper & Pym Industrial wish to give you our sincerest condolences..."
She raised her frail neck to the box outstretched toward her.
"Your husband was a good man. A good maintenance worker."
She reached for the box, not needing to hear the rest.
"The finest we've had. And for his fifty years of service with us, we'd like to pay our respects in person."
When she gripped it with her hands as the suit was still holding it, she felt the weight, the unnatural heaviness of something so small.
"These were his effects. Gathered from his locker shortly after the accident."
And as his fingers let go, she could feel the weight dissipate, until it felt like nothing.
Curious, she nearly spoke.
"It was during a...routine exercise. Casualties were not expected, which makes the whole thing more tragic."
She stepped away from him and into their - now her - apartment. The man in the suit followed through the open door.
Placing the box on the table, she opened it to glimpse the start of a letter addressed to her from her husband, "DEAR CAROLINE-"
"Mrs. Luckhardt."
"Yes? Is there something more?" Her face was red, flushed with colour, though she did not know why.
"We, uh, again, would like to express our greatest sympathies."
"Yes, yes. Alright. Thank you." Her voice was sharp. Quick. Quicker than it had been in over 20 years.
"If..there's anything else we can do for you, please give us a shout." He extended his arm, and at the tips of his fingers sat a white card with a phone number.
She gazed at him, arm extended, without taking it.
He smiled and placed the card down on the table and turned to leave.
Outside the window, a flash of red zoomed past the window.
"Blasted... That damn Captain So and So." He pulled out a small phone and pressed it to his ear. "Yes. Third district sighting. ... No I was dropping off something to the janitor's widow."
She paid no mind as the man in red flew about outside of his own volition, tearing at the armaments in the city. Nor to the cursing of the man in the suit as he went over to her window and fired outward at the red blur with something that wasn't quite a gun.
She did not notice the wrinkles on her fingers disappearing as they travelled into the box, reaching for the rest of the letter. "-IF THIS FINDS YOU THEN I AM SURELY DEAD-"
She didn't even flinch as the window blew inward and the man in red stood on top of the man in the suit, arms outstretched and triumphant, though without reason.
All she noticed was the glowing of the small blue and white rock tucked away under her dead husband's things. And that she felt better than ever before.
----
[Part of a longer and darker (and slightly blackly comedic) story I've been playing around with for a couple years.]
|
The SheJew
Nazi experimentation while she was imprisoned during WW2 was dormant for over 50 years, untill one day Janice Feinstein ...transformed....
Coming!
This Summer!
One Jew!
6,000,000 Germans!
***Unfinished Business!***
"The SheJew!"
..."*where will you be when the death toll rises?"*....
|
She becomes a superhero and fights crime/bad guys. No further restrictions.
|
[WP] origin story for 83 year old woman who suddenly receives super powers.
|
"Jeez, lady, this is disgusting!" Mark was careful to mutter under his breath as he rummaged for biscuits with a sell-by date this decade. Nan was as deaf as a post, but sometimes he suspected she had a serious case of selective hearing.
He lifted down some chocolate-chip cookies (checking the date first; some of Nana's biscuits weren't even made any more) and dropped them on the tray next to the tea. He carried everything through to the lounge and placed the tray on the coffee table in front of Nana, who was perched on the plastic couch cover.
"That looks lovely, Mark. Thank you for coming. I hardly see you any more."
"Your cupboard's packed with old biscuits, Nana. If you like I can clear it out for you. I think some of those are older than I am."
"No, no. You're not here to tidy. Just sit and have some tea with me." She cleared her throat. "I know it's a bit messy. I always like to have some biscuits in there for visitors."
He tried to let it go. She didn't even get visitors; she was too deaf to make conversation with anyone but her family, who were obliged to shout.
They sat for a while and shared tea and biscuits in friendly silence, before Mark loudly gave his excuses and promised to pop in again tomorrow. He kissed her on the cheek and left, closing the front door with a bang that even Nana heard. She winced, just a little. Such a boisterous young man. She must remember to buy some more biscuits before he came back.
She leaned to pull her walking frame closer but couldn't reach. Sighing, she stood, infinitely slowly and cautiously (don't want to break another one, I only have two), and tottered to the frame. She moved the empty cups to the tray and moved to the kitchen to wash them.
"Maybe one more biscuit. Why not?" She realised Mark had gobbled the lot. These growing boys. She turned to the cupboard and reached as far as she could -- which wasn't far -- and took down the first pack her fingers grasped. They were Tim Tams, her second-favourite. Good enough.
Pulling the pack open with knobbled fingers, she took a bite from the first biscuit. It had been hard work bringing the cups through to wash. She needed a rest. She put the Tim Tams in the walker's basket and went back to the couch. It was almost time for Eastenders, too. She leaned back and popped another Tim Tam in her mouth, eyes on the TV, volume turned as high as it could go.
Mark found her the next day, unconscious, slumped on the couch with a half-empty Tim Tam packet on her lap. He dropped to the couch beside her and found the remote to turn off the deafening sound of Wheel of Fortune.
"Nana!" He put a hand on her shoulder and shook her, gently at first, then harder. "Nana!" As Mark felt around on her bony wrist for a pulse, she groaned and stirred.
"Nana? Are you okay?"
"What?" Her eyes sprang open and focused on Mark's face.
"Are you okay? How long have you been here?"
"On the couch? I... I don't know. I was watching Eastenders."
"Last night? You've been unconscious almost for twenty-four hours, Nana! How do you feel? I'm calling Mum."
Nana looked at her watch. "No, no, love. She's at work. And I feel fine. I think I just had a very long sleep." She looked doubtful and Mark hesitated, hand on the phone.
"Don't worry, love. I just need a cup of tea."
He lowered his hand and picked up the Tim Tam packet.
"These are from 1977, Nana! You probably have food poisoning!"
"Don't be silly. Are they really?" Nana's eyes brightened. "They tasted fine to me. Now, I really do need a cuppa."
She stood up and stretched, arching her spine, hands pointed at the ceiling. Mark's breath caught and he stared at her, frozen.
"Nana? Are you okay?"
Arms down, she frowned at him. "Of course! In fact, I think that sleep was just what I needed. I feel quite full of beans. Do you want to go for a walk?"
"Uh, yes?"
Nana marched through the lounge, put the kettle on to boil, and continued through to her bedroom, emerging shortly after in a change of clothes. She had put on a pair of toothpaste-white running shoes. She hadn't been able to tie her own shoelaces in five years. Mark sat on the couch, unable to take his eyes off her as she moved agilely around the flat.
She made them both a cup of tea, carried them through to the couch, and plopped down beside him, slurping happily at her drink. She popped another Tim Tam from the opened 1977 packet into her mouth between sips. Mark's tea sat, undrunk, on the coffee table. He'd forgotten to close his mouth.
"Right, then! Don't you want your tea? Oh, well. Let's go." She ushered Mark out of the flat and locked the door.
"Goodness gracious! I haven't been outside in months! The last time was when I came home from the hospital, wasn't it, love?" Mark nodded, mouth still agape. Nana chattered on as they went out the gate and started up the hill towards the supermarket. She seemed to have boundless energy. Mark was puffing by the time they got halfway up the hill, although he thought he was hiding it well.
"I need some milk and bread, Mark. Let's pop in here and then carry on to see your Mum, eh?" She swerved into the supermarket entrance, not looking at Mark or at the traffic. A car pulled into the carpark as Nana stepped out around the boundary hedge. Mark only had time to pull in a breath, ready to yell, when the car hit her. She was directly in front, and Mark noticed the dent in the chrome bumper as she flew in slow motion through the air over the car. He had time to take in the horrified expression on the driver's face, to hear the shocked gasp of a nearby pedestrian, to start to raise his arms as if to catch her, even from so far away.
The thud as she hit the ground seemed deafening to Mark. Time sped up again and he sprinted around the car, catching his hip on the corner of the boot and sliding to his knees beside her crumbled form.
"Nana! Oh, god, Nana." He could feel tears running down his cheeks and put his hands over his eyes.
A hand came down on his shoulder as he wept.
"Mark? It's okay. I'm fine."
She's dead, he thought, and now she's haunting me. Oh god, I'll be haunted by out-of-date biscuits. He sobbed.
"Mark, come on. Snap out of it!"
He took his hands away from his face. Nana was standing above him, grinning.
"I feel great! Come on, love, I need milk, and... What was the other thing?"
"...bread?"
"That's right. Thanks, love." She took his arm and led him into the market, leaving the gaping crowd behind.
|
The SheJew
Nazi experimentation while she was imprisoned during WW2 was dormant for over 50 years, untill one day Janice Feinstein ...transformed....
Coming!
This Summer!
One Jew!
6,000,000 Germans!
***Unfinished Business!***
"The SheJew!"
..."*where will you be when the death toll rises?"*....
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She becomes a superhero and fights crime/bad guys. No further restrictions.
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[WP] origin story for 83 year old woman who suddenly receives super powers.
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"Jeez, lady, this is disgusting!" Mark was careful to mutter under his breath as he rummaged for biscuits with a sell-by date this decade. Nan was as deaf as a post, but sometimes he suspected she had a serious case of selective hearing.
He lifted down some chocolate-chip cookies (checking the date first; some of Nana's biscuits weren't even made any more) and dropped them on the tray next to the tea. He carried everything through to the lounge and placed the tray on the coffee table in front of Nana, who was perched on the plastic couch cover.
"That looks lovely, Mark. Thank you for coming. I hardly see you any more."
"Your cupboard's packed with old biscuits, Nana. If you like I can clear it out for you. I think some of those are older than I am."
"No, no. You're not here to tidy. Just sit and have some tea with me." She cleared her throat. "I know it's a bit messy. I always like to have some biscuits in there for visitors."
He tried to let it go. She didn't even get visitors; she was too deaf to make conversation with anyone but her family, who were obliged to shout.
They sat for a while and shared tea and biscuits in friendly silence, before Mark loudly gave his excuses and promised to pop in again tomorrow. He kissed her on the cheek and left, closing the front door with a bang that even Nana heard. She winced, just a little. Such a boisterous young man. She must remember to buy some more biscuits before he came back.
She leaned to pull her walking frame closer but couldn't reach. Sighing, she stood, infinitely slowly and cautiously (don't want to break another one, I only have two), and tottered to the frame. She moved the empty cups to the tray and moved to the kitchen to wash them.
"Maybe one more biscuit. Why not?" She realised Mark had gobbled the lot. These growing boys. She turned to the cupboard and reached as far as she could -- which wasn't far -- and took down the first pack her fingers grasped. They were Tim Tams, her second-favourite. Good enough.
Pulling the pack open with knobbled fingers, she took a bite from the first biscuit. It had been hard work bringing the cups through to wash. She needed a rest. She put the Tim Tams in the walker's basket and went back to the couch. It was almost time for Eastenders, too. She leaned back and popped another Tim Tam in her mouth, eyes on the TV, volume turned as high as it could go.
Mark found her the next day, unconscious, slumped on the couch with a half-empty Tim Tam packet on her lap. He dropped to the couch beside her and found the remote to turn off the deafening sound of Wheel of Fortune.
"Nana!" He put a hand on her shoulder and shook her, gently at first, then harder. "Nana!" As Mark felt around on her bony wrist for a pulse, she groaned and stirred.
"Nana? Are you okay?"
"What?" Her eyes sprang open and focused on Mark's face.
"Are you okay? How long have you been here?"
"On the couch? I... I don't know. I was watching Eastenders."
"Last night? You've been unconscious almost for twenty-four hours, Nana! How do you feel? I'm calling Mum."
Nana looked at her watch. "No, no, love. She's at work. And I feel fine. I think I just had a very long sleep." She looked doubtful and Mark hesitated, hand on the phone.
"Don't worry, love. I just need a cup of tea."
He lowered his hand and picked up the Tim Tam packet.
"These are from 1977, Nana! You probably have food poisoning!"
"Don't be silly. Are they really?" Nana's eyes brightened. "They tasted fine to me. Now, I really do need a cuppa."
She stood up and stretched, arching her spine, hands pointed at the ceiling. Mark's breath caught and he stared at her, frozen.
"Nana? Are you okay?"
Arms down, she frowned at him. "Of course! In fact, I think that sleep was just what I needed. I feel quite full of beans. Do you want to go for a walk?"
"Uh, yes?"
Nana marched through the lounge, put the kettle on to boil, and continued through to her bedroom, emerging shortly after in a change of clothes. She had put on a pair of toothpaste-white running shoes. She hadn't been able to tie her own shoelaces in five years. Mark sat on the couch, unable to take his eyes off her as she moved agilely around the flat.
She made them both a cup of tea, carried them through to the couch, and plopped down beside him, slurping happily at her drink. She popped another Tim Tam from the opened 1977 packet into her mouth between sips. Mark's tea sat, undrunk, on the coffee table. He'd forgotten to close his mouth.
"Right, then! Don't you want your tea? Oh, well. Let's go." She ushered Mark out of the flat and locked the door.
"Goodness gracious! I haven't been outside in months! The last time was when I came home from the hospital, wasn't it, love?" Mark nodded, mouth still agape. Nana chattered on as they went out the gate and started up the hill towards the supermarket. She seemed to have boundless energy. Mark was puffing by the time they got halfway up the hill, although he thought he was hiding it well.
"I need some milk and bread, Mark. Let's pop in here and then carry on to see your Mum, eh?" She swerved into the supermarket entrance, not looking at Mark or at the traffic. A car pulled into the carpark as Nana stepped out around the boundary hedge. Mark only had time to pull in a breath, ready to yell, when the car hit her. She was directly in front, and Mark noticed the dent in the chrome bumper as she flew in slow motion through the air over the car. He had time to take in the horrified expression on the driver's face, to hear the shocked gasp of a nearby pedestrian, to start to raise his arms as if to catch her, even from so far away.
The thud as she hit the ground seemed deafening to Mark. Time sped up again and he sprinted around the car, catching his hip on the corner of the boot and sliding to his knees beside her crumbled form.
"Nana! Oh, god, Nana." He could feel tears running down his cheeks and put his hands over his eyes.
A hand came down on his shoulder as he wept.
"Mark? It's okay. I'm fine."
She's dead, he thought, and now she's haunting me. Oh god, I'll be haunted by out-of-date biscuits. He sobbed.
"Mark, come on. Snap out of it!"
He took his hands away from his face. Nana was standing above him, grinning.
"I feel great! Come on, love, I need milk, and... What was the other thing?"
"...bread?"
"That's right. Thanks, love." She took his arm and led him into the market, leaving the gaping crowd behind.
|
When the man stood in her doorway, sharply dressed, one of the suits from the damned Towers for certain, she was confused only for an instant. But she knew what it meant. Her mother had received word of her own brother's death in the war in the same way. And she knew immediately, that something terrible had happened to her Harry.
"Mrs. Luckhardt?" He asked, but he knew the answer.
She nodded, and took the compulsive, reflexive look out into her hallway. It was the same as it ever was, dark and damp and in ruins, much like her own apartment.
It was trying for her to keep up the charade of a finer life, now in these years. The sheen had been lost to all those except the ones from the Towers like the man before her.
Her husband worked himself into old age and into dust settling into their bones, just to provide for the two of them. She had always told him to be careful, but care mattered little in the end.
"We at Harper & Pym Industrial wish to give you our sincerest condolences..."
She raised her frail neck to the box outstretched toward her.
"Your husband was a good man. A good maintenance worker."
She reached for the box, not needing to hear the rest.
"The finest we've had. And for his fifty years of service with us, we'd like to pay our respects in person."
When she gripped it with her hands as the suit was still holding it, she felt the weight, the unnatural heaviness of something so small.
"These were his effects. Gathered from his locker shortly after the accident."
And as his fingers let go, she could feel the weight dissipate, until it felt like nothing.
Curious, she nearly spoke.
"It was during a...routine exercise. Casualties were not expected, which makes the whole thing more tragic."
She stepped away from him and into their - now her - apartment. The man in the suit followed through the open door.
Placing the box on the table, she opened it to glimpse the start of a letter addressed to her from her husband, "DEAR CAROLINE-"
"Mrs. Luckhardt."
"Yes? Is there something more?" Her face was red, flushed with colour, though she did not know why.
"We, uh, again, would like to express our greatest sympathies."
"Yes, yes. Alright. Thank you." Her voice was sharp. Quick. Quicker than it had been in over 20 years.
"If..there's anything else we can do for you, please give us a shout." He extended his arm, and at the tips of his fingers sat a white card with a phone number.
She gazed at him, arm extended, without taking it.
He smiled and placed the card down on the table and turned to leave.
Outside the window, a flash of red zoomed past the window.
"Blasted... That damn Captain So and So." He pulled out a small phone and pressed it to his ear. "Yes. Third district sighting. ... No I was dropping off something to the janitor's widow."
She paid no mind as the man in red flew about outside of his own volition, tearing at the armaments in the city. Nor to the cursing of the man in the suit as he went over to her window and fired outward at the red blur with something that wasn't quite a gun.
She did not notice the wrinkles on her fingers disappearing as they travelled into the box, reaching for the rest of the letter. "-IF THIS FINDS YOU THEN I AM SURELY DEAD-"
She didn't even flinch as the window blew inward and the man in red stood on top of the man in the suit, arms outstretched and triumphant, though without reason.
All she noticed was the glowing of the small blue and white rock tucked away under her dead husband's things. And that she felt better than ever before.
----
[Part of a longer and darker (and slightly blackly comedic) story I've been playing around with for a couple years.]
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[WP] A gay man explains to his adopted kids how their other father saved his life and they fell in love.
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First time for first person.
"Come on pop. I'm in college now. I want to know. How did you meet dad?" I watched as he wrung his hands and glanced around nervous as if some boogyman was going to come and snatch him. His dark, leathery skin crinkles around his eye and brows.
"Papa Scott. We want to know." My sister extends her long slender arms across the worn wooden table. She takes my fathers massive hands in hers and pets them gently. "Were old enough now," her voice sounds like velvet.
"Well now, ahhh." I can see him struggling. It was my papa Mark who was outgoing. He had been the volunteer for all of our school and sports activities growing up. He had been one of the few in the community to open about his life style. Although he had always said being in theater was easier than papa Scott's job of an architect.
"Papa," my sister pleads with him.
"Uhh,mmm" I can see him breaking to our pressure. Since papa Mark passed we all have spoken little of him. It was better at school to just think of him as still alive. He was still alive to me. But when Liz found out that papa Scott wasn't doing well health wise either we decided we needed to know how this blended family came to be.
"I met Mark in New York in ah," we wait as he cocks his head trying to remember the day. "October 1973." He gives us both a gentle smile. Liz grins back at him. I lean back in the stiff chair causing it to squeak. "Careful, I have been meaning to fix that."
"Its fine pop. Keep going," I encourage him as the refrigerator ice machine hums on.
"I just gotten back from Vietnam and ah, I wanted to see New York City. So I took a bus up from Virginia to see what I hadn't seen."
"What did you think papa?" Liz rests her head on her hand with a big smile.
"Yeah we know you go to school there miss east coast," I chide her. "Let pop tell his."
"Lizzy belle it wasnt like it is now. I mean it was a rough city then." He says scrapping his dry thumbs past one another. "The way I figured though. I've been through 'nam I could do New York." I let out a chuckle. I know where I got my sense of humor from. My pop smiles back at me.
"It was a mess of a place. The girl I was with-"
"You were with a girl?" my sister and I gasp with surprise.
"Well sure. Like I said. Times were not like they are now. I had a girl and everything. If you had," I watch as he starts wringing his hands again. "If you had feelin's the way I do. You dont show it, and you sure as hell don't say it." My sister and I glance at each other.
"We walked around and saw some of the sights but she wasn't too happy about it. So I left her back at the hotel and took ah," I can tell he is struggling for the right words. He still feels like he needs to protect us. As if we don't know what two gay men do behind closed doors. "Tour," he says to us with a smile as if he has concealed something from us.
"And what did you 'see' on this tour?" I see my pop's dark eyes measure me up and down. I know he would prefer a more conservative conversation with is kids but what does he expect when he is the one who raised us.
"I went to a bar or two." He shrugs at us. "But I," his voice dies as his eyes focus on Liz's hand that is tapping against the table top. We watch as he crosses his arms and draws his thumb up tapping his round lips while he remains lost in thought. My sister and I wait at the edge of our seats for him to continue. He gives a chuckle then looks up watery eyed at us too.
"He saved me you know," he gives another beefy chuckle.
"Well don't keep us in suspense papa." My sister wriggles her chair around. Her thick Afro bouncing as sits down with her legs tucked under.
"Well," he pats her little hands and chuckles again. "I must of taken a wrong turn somewhere. But I found that several people didn't like the looks of me. You know the times," he shrugs off.
"No pop I don't know the times," I say crossing my arms. It has always bothered me how he lets something like racism just roll off his back. Growing up I had to stand my ground when they said things about my pop's. Especially when they said something about Pop Scott being black. Its easy to remember how they treated me and my sister. I was white as they come, with blonde hair and blue eyes. She was half black and Cherokee. Kids at school tugged on her hair and called her names and me names for being her brother.
"Yes you do," he shoots back at me. I do. But they haven't changed that much. A subtle smile comes to my face as I remember the fat freckled kick who I sucker punched in his jelly roll after he called my sister some name. Even though neither of my pop's admitted it, I think they were proud.
"Papa, stop feeding into his stupidity," my sister snorts. "I want to know how you meet Papa Mark." She shakes his arm and lets out one of her excited squeals.
"Alright then," his voice booms with chuckles. "So they didn't like that I was black," he shoots me a look. "I tried to say I was sorry and backed up as fast as I could. But they got me against a wall." He raised his hands up as if he was in some old western stickup.
"I said I was sorry maybe a dozen times. They said they were going to cut me,"
"Oh papa," my sister whimpers.
"Well I'm ok," I watch as she scoots closer to him and he wraps his big bear arm around her.
"What happened next," I try and urge him on.
"This voice comes from the end of the alley," he waves his hand as if he is standing in that alley again. His eyes staring past me. "'Hey, let that kid go. I called the cops.' Ah, at first they didn't. Me and they guys holding me up just looked at this lanky white guy." He chuckles again. My sister giggles with him. My pop Mark was a pretty tall awkward guy, but he was great. "Well they ah, didn't want to stick around and find out. Some ambulance siren went off and I guess it scared them good. So then Mark comes striding over to me and I ah-"
"Are you blushing papa?" Liz giggles and wraps her arms around him. Her freckles dance under her dark long lashes as my pop and her rock each other with hugs.
"Alright," he huffs. His cheeks bulging from smiling so much. Liz runs her fingers across his smooth scalp and pats his arm before leaning on him again to hear the rest of the story. "Well he was great. He offered to buy me a drink and ah, the way we looked at each other." He paused looking at Liz's big white smile. "I think he knew as well as I did. We had several drinks and talked till nearly dawn and then ah, we parted with ah promise to stay in touch." He nodded firm at my sister.
"Did you kiss him?" She blurts out. My pop shoots me a worried glance then back at her.
"Well we ah,"
"You did! You did! You so did!" Her squeals even make me jump in my seat.
"Yes," my pop says bashfully as she giggles intertwining her fingers with excitement.
"Oh papa that was the best. When did you guys finally get together though?"
"Well we wrote and called for about a year. I visited him time to time. Then I ah, nothing was happening for me back home so he told me that he missed me and wanted me to live with him. So I ah, came up here."
"When did you get married? When did you decided to get us?" Liz's questions are pouring out one after another.
"No," my pop bellows out over her ramblings. "No more tonight Liz. We need to go get dressed for the party. I wont be late to Dan's house. He wont let me hear the end of it."
"Papa," she whines and give a big pout.
"No come on. I will ah, tell you more later. Come on we got to go. Tim go get a button shirt and tie on." My pop pushes back from the table and moves around to clear up our coco mugs.
"It's formal?" I whine.
"Formal?" My pop scoffs at me. "Tim, do you even know what formal is?" He chides me. "A shirt and tie is semi. I bet people wonder how I raised you." He shakes his head as he turns and goes to the sink.
Before I can move my sister is leaping over the chair and rushing up the stairs to the bathroom. "Oh come on!" I shout jumping up at after her.
"Ha! I get it first," she sings up the stairs. Even though I take two at a time she manages to beat me into the one bathroom. I began to pound on the door and I can hear her singing a ridiculous conglomeration of songs trying to drowned out my shouting and banging.
"Fine. Brat," I shout before jogging back down the stairs. I stop when I see my pop organizing the line of photos along the breakfast counter.
His sighs and singular chuckle says it all as he picks up and sets down the last picture of us four together. He really loved my pop Mark.
|
"Boys, I think it's time you knew," Cameron said.
"Knew what, papa?" Jack asked
"About how your dad and I met." Jack and his little brother Eli scrambled to the couch and sat down. They looked expectantly at their dad, waiting to hear his story.
"See, when I was twelve, I learned I was gay. And you know your grandparents. They hate gays because of their religion. I didn't tell them at first, but when I came out to myself, I started a lot of things.
I started to get depressed easily. I'm not talking 'Oh, this happened. Now I'm sad.' and then you get over it soon. I'm talking 'I'm such an idiot. No one loves me, I'm a failure. A screw-up. No one would care if I was gone. I can't bear to live like this anymore.' I had wanted to die. I almost killed myself a few times because of my depression. But anyways, I had started posting on an LGBT support forum to get these feelings off my chest. And... I met your daddy."
"Really? What did he say?"
"How did he act?"
"Did he talk funny?"
Cameron laughed and shook his head. "All I knew were the words he typed to me. We started talking more and more and moved to IM. But... he caught me on a bad day. I was thinking about suicide again. Without a moment's hesitation, he called me. He kept telling me how much he cared for me. I was blown away. We had just met and he cared that much about me. He gradually talked me down and started to help me get professional help. As time went on, I realized I truly loved him. Not just for his act of saving me, but for his kindness, his laugh, the way he always made me feel special, and just... for who he is." Cameron sighed happily with a smile on his face. Connor was his true love. There was no denying that.
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[WP] A gay man explains to his adopted kids how their other father saved his life and they fell in love.
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<Sorry about the length and I am not quite sure if I have the formatting appropriate for narration but here is my first free writing attempt in over five years>
Trevor went to go stomping out of the room like he always did when he came back home from his mother’s house and threw down an argument.
“I don’t understand why you don’t just go back to mom, why are you even with Kurt its not like you were gay before you met him, really this is our family” he yelled at the top of his lungs, “where exactly does that man fit in to our lives anyway, he has no place and no right.”
Something finally snapped inside of Jason. He looked in the mirror and he saw nothing of the man that Kurt had saved thirteen years ago. Trevor was only 2 then too young to understand why mommy and daddy couldn’t be around each other. As Jason continued to look, Trevor ran upstairs to his room. His feet giving away his frustration with every loud thud up the winding wrought metal staircase. Jason, still looking in the mirror, saw the determination wash across the close cropped red headed man staring back at him. His ice blue eyes glowed of determination that today he was going to finally have the courage to set the story straight. The scruff of his 3 day beard seemed to stand on end as his squared jaw bit down in an effort to draw courage from the force of the teeth gnashing together.
Kurt was still out of the country for a few days, so thankfully he didn’t have to hear the things that Trevor had said. Although his job required him to have a tough exterior, Kurt was anything but when it came to Trevor. He had always treated Trevor like his own and would have been heart-broken to hear such things and not understood where they came from. Jason and Kurt had always wanted to discuss the story when they were both here. It seemed that it couldn’t wait.
Jason climbed up the same stairs his son had just stomped up a few minutes ago. With each step he grasped the cold hard steel railing gaining composure with each step forward. This was a hard story to tell. In truth, before Kurt, he would have never thought of himself as gay, and if something were to ever happen to his husband, he wasn’t sure he would be again.
“Trevor, its dad, can we talk for a few minutes, I really would like to talk to you about some things that you don’t understand.” Jason’s voice boomed through the door with the voice that only years of command could have taught.
Jason could hear him bouncing his tennis ball against his bedroom wall in agitation. Clearly something had happened while visiting his mother that had him all upset. “Why dad, are you going to try to explain to me again how some people just like certain people and that’s that? We have had that conversation before and it didn’t really do much for me then either.”
“No Trevor, this time I have something to tell you that I haven’t told you before. Something that I have been afraid of telling you for a long time because I was afraid you would think even worse of your mother and I” Jason said through the door. “I’m coming in.
As he walked into his son’s room and took a seat on the overstuffed, cow decorated bean bag, he looked around the room. Hockey trophies and Red Wings paraphernalia decorated the white room with red trim. Trevor was fanatic about hockey. This had been Kurt’s doing, Kurt was a Red Wings fan. He never missed a game when he was in country and he had been taking Trevor with him since they had been together. As much as his son didn’t claim to like his husband, Kurt’s influence was all over the room.
“Trevor, I have told you that Kurt and I were best friends before your mother even met. We weren’t gay, we never even thought that way. In truth I loved your mother very much when I married her. What I am about to tell you, your mom doesn’t want to know for many reasons and I haven’t really been able to bring it up until now. Kurt wanted to be here when we told you the story but as you know he is still deployed for a few more days.
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"Boys, I think it's time you knew," Cameron said.
"Knew what, papa?" Jack asked
"About how your dad and I met." Jack and his little brother Eli scrambled to the couch and sat down. They looked expectantly at their dad, waiting to hear his story.
"See, when I was twelve, I learned I was gay. And you know your grandparents. They hate gays because of their religion. I didn't tell them at first, but when I came out to myself, I started a lot of things.
I started to get depressed easily. I'm not talking 'Oh, this happened. Now I'm sad.' and then you get over it soon. I'm talking 'I'm such an idiot. No one loves me, I'm a failure. A screw-up. No one would care if I was gone. I can't bear to live like this anymore.' I had wanted to die. I almost killed myself a few times because of my depression. But anyways, I had started posting on an LGBT support forum to get these feelings off my chest. And... I met your daddy."
"Really? What did he say?"
"How did he act?"
"Did he talk funny?"
Cameron laughed and shook his head. "All I knew were the words he typed to me. We started talking more and more and moved to IM. But... he caught me on a bad day. I was thinking about suicide again. Without a moment's hesitation, he called me. He kept telling me how much he cared for me. I was blown away. We had just met and he cared that much about me. He gradually talked me down and started to help me get professional help. As time went on, I realized I truly loved him. Not just for his act of saving me, but for his kindness, his laugh, the way he always made me feel special, and just... for who he is." Cameron sighed happily with a smile on his face. Connor was his true love. There was no denying that.
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[WP] On a trip through a small town, you see a man with wings, horns, and red skin who claims to be the Devil.
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The red man with the wings and the horns just walked right out into the middle of the street.
Tom's daughter Lindsey and his little boy, Jacob, were both in the backseat. Tom's foot hammered onto the brake pedal to prevent the car from plowing into the idiot.
"Kids, are you ok?!," Tom shouted into the mirror as he turned his head to look in the backseat.
"Yeah, Dad, we're ok - who is that guy?" Lindsey said, pointing a finger toward the windshield.
"I'm about to find out. You kids stay right here.", Tom's voice was still quivering a bit as he undid his seatbelt and stepped out of the station wagon.
"Jesus, we almost ran you over! Are you ok? Why did you walk out into the road? Why are you wearing that costume?" The questions just erupted out of Tom's mouth.
"Costume?", said the man in red, "You dare malign me? Such insolence!", he continued in a furious tone.
"Look, it's just that... we could have hit... you could have been seriously injured!", Tom stumbled across his own words.
"Ha ha ha, injured? Me?," said the man in red, as if it was the most ludicrous thing that had ever been muttered. "You know very well why I stepped into that road, Mr. Tom Hamilton."
"My, my name. How did you know...", muttered Tom.
"You're the bassist for Aerosmith - everyone knows your name Tom Hamilton!", said the man in red, his eyes glowing a blistery shade of yellow and gold.
"However, I know who you are much better than the average person does.", he said.
"Oh, you do? Is it because you're a fan of the band? I'd be glad to sign an autograph, it's just that me and the kids are sort of late for a school recital - ", he was cut off by the red man with the wings and the horns.
"Silence! You know why I'm here - Tom Hamilton." said the furious man in red.
"You really don't have to keep calling me by my full name. You can just call me Tom if you like. I'm not that big on formalities really." said Tom Hamilton - bassist for Aerosmith.
"I will call you whatever I like - Tom Hamilton.", he said, a wide toothy - or were they fangs? - grin stretched impossibly wide across his scorched face.
The man in red continued, "I am here to collect, Mr. Tom Hamilton."
"Collect what? I don't have any memorabilia with me at the moment, but I'll be glad to send you a signed album or a t-shirt if you'll just give me your add-", said Tom, but he was cut off again.
"Silence!", shouted the man in red.
"You know that is really rude! You shouldn't cut people off like tha-", Tom attempted an interjection.
"Silence I said! I've come to collect what is mine! When you were a young boy you made a deal. You said that you would give *anything* to be the bass player of a famous rock and roll band. I kept my part of the deal, now it is time for you to keep yours.", said the man in red.
"Ok, just who are you exactly?", said Tom, still struggling to understand the situation that has befallen him.
"Very well, you wish to make this difficult, than your wish will be fulfilled. I am the malevolent dictator of all that is unholy, the devourer of souls. I grant your greatest wishes, and bestow upon you your greatest fears." the man in red said as he did a slight flourish and spread his wings to the sky and shouted as the sun went black, "I. Am. Satan!"
"Satan?", asked Tom, with the most curious of faces. "You're telling me, Tom Hamilton - bassist for Aerosmith - that you are Satan? The Devil himself? And that you have come to take my soul?"
"Yes! Finally, we are making some progress here." said the man in red as he took a big reassured breath.
Tom stood still for a moment, then dropped some words that took the breath back out of the man in red.
"That can't be.", said Tom.
"And why the hell not?", said the man in red, tossing his hands into the air as his wings folded back down to earth.
"Because *I* am the Devil." stated Tom matter-of-factly.
By now, a large crowd of over six hundred people had gathered around. Why? Because it's Tom Hamilton - come on people, get with the program!
When the police heard that Tom Hamilton - famed bassist for Aerosmith - was standing on the side of the road arguing with some weirdo in a red suit, they blocked off the city streets to prevent any more people from coming in. They didn't want a riot to break out like last time when famed Van Halen bassist, Michael Anthony had a flat tire over on Morgan Street and nearly four-hundred rowdy fans showed up to offer him a hand.
"*You're* the Devil?", scoffed the man in red, "who would believe such a ridiculous thing? I'm obviously the Devil. I mean, come on, look at these horns and these wings. And you're as pale as a baby! The devil would at least have a dark complexion."
Tom stood his ground calmly, "Do you really think that the *real* Devil would just prance around on city streets with his red wings, and horns and trident? Wouldn't the *real* Satan wish to keep a little anonymity whilst he goes about his work? I mean, if I was Satan - which I am - than I would tone it down a bit. I'd have a laid back, easy-going personality, long blonde hair, light skin, and I'd play bass for a rock band."
A couple of the on-lookers could be overheard saying, "Yeah, that makes sense to me. That's what I'd do if I was the Devil."
An older gentleman with a cane stepped forward and said, "Since you both claim to be the Devil there is only one way to solve this. You must answer a question that only the Devil would know the answer to."
"Alright than," said the man in red, "that seems to be a good solution. You think you're soooo smart Mr. Tom Hamilton. Let us see how you deal with this!"
"Very well. If you are both in agreement, than I will ask the question." said the old man.
A hush fell over the crowd as they leaned in to hear what will be asked of the two devils.
"The question is:" continued the old man, "Does the Devil prefer tacos over pizza, or vice-versa?"
"Simple." said a stoic Tom Hamilton without a moments hesitation, "I prefer tacos."
The crowd erupted with cheering. Some even threw confetti and blew the foil horns that you find on New Year's Eve.
"Now just a minute!", said the man in red, his face contorted into angry, frustrated lines, "How is anyone going to know the answer to a question like that?"
"Well," said the old man, "the Devil would know."
Yeahs. Yeses. That's rights. And every combination of them could be heard humming through the crowd.
"Very well then, Tom Hamilton. You may have won this round, but-" this time Tom did the interrupting.
"Listen, I know this was a bit embarrassing. Come on, let me make it up to you. Come with us to Lindsey's piano recital." said Tom.
"Oh, I don't know. I don't want to be a pest." the man in red lowered his head and his giant horns dipped low toward the ground as they knocked a branch off a nearby tree.
"You're no pest." said Tom Hamilton as he put an arm around his new friend.
"*We'll get tacos afterward*", said Tom in a singsong voice.
"Well," said the man in red, cheering up as the sun came through the blackened sky, "I do like tacos."
And with that, the station wagon drove off into the sunset with two horns poking through the sunroof.
_____________
edit: formatting
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"So how about it kid? Do we have a deal?"
Asked the man, if you could call him that, with rich red-black skin. My body shook all over as my scattered thoughts tried to guide me toward the right answer. Though I'm not sure there was a right answer in a situation such as this. Inwardly I sighed at my predicament. Why couldn't I have just had a normal vacation.
I saw him as I was walking the cobbled streets of a small town in Italy. Gorgeous buildings surrounded me on either side, bathed in bright warming sunlight. You could feel the age and strength in the run-down, but still magnificent and proud, houses and shops that lined the path. My feet tapped softly on the cobbles as I meandered past street performers and shoppers alike with a warm glow of contentment at where I was and my freedom from the mundane job that usually ruled my thoughts. At least the pay let me fulfil some of my dreams of travel.
I rounded a corner and saw him. 6ft+ with red skin so dark it seemed to burn. On his head sat a curled pair of horns gleaming gently, despite his position in a dark corner of the street hidden from the sun streaming down. At first I thought nothing of it. Just another street performer plying his skills. A statue or juggler. Why this street I wasn't sure. It was deathly quiet along here and far colder and darker than it had a right to be with the sun right above. I shivered and something warned me to take care. A warning which came to late for me it would seem as the performer with the rather impressive looking outfit had seen me. He beckoned me closer with a grin and a wave. Against my better judgement I found myself walking up to him along the silent cobblestones.
There was no preamble. No pretence at normalcy by him. As I walked up his red grin widened and his sharp teeth gleamed brightly. "I am the devil. Would you spare a few moments to talk to me?"
Well. What do you say to that.
"I can see that. It's a fantastic outfit. I'd be happy to see you perform."
If possible his almost-perfect grin widened further. "Why certainly sir. But of course no performance comes without a fee! I'm sure you can understand. Even Lucifer has to eat my friend!"
My heart started to thump a little louder. Something felt wrong. But I was curious. Aren't we always curious. Never satisfied with the insane amount of knowledge already available we always seek to know everything. "Sure. That sounds fair enough. What'd you have in mind Mr fallen angel?" My attempt at levity sounded strained even to me. However I saw his grin falter slightly and his skin seemed to swirl while the gleam from his horns dimmed slightly. But It was over in an instant.
"Well, as I am the devil it would seem only right to propose a trade. Your soul would be the obvious price don't you think? In the spirit of the outfit and all."
His grin was starting to spook me. But I had no belief in angels or devils. Nor in a creator. I just wanted to get away from this weirdo. I suppose I should play along and leave as soon as I could. He'd probably only want a few euro.
"So how about it kid? Do we have a deal?"
"Yeah sure thing buddy. Let's see this show."
Once more his grin grew. And grew more into a cavernous howl as black wings burst from the performers back. A feather fell down scorching my hand as I yelled. The devils dark eyes stared into my mind as I stood there. Forced to watch the show I had paid such a high price for.
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[WP] On a trip through a small town, you see a man with wings, horns, and red skin who claims to be the Devil.
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I love this time of year. Fall is so pretty around these parts. Where I'm from, it's hot year round, and there's not many trees to speak of. But this little town is right on the cusp of perfection. Not too cold, not too hot. The wind is at a calm breeze, enough to rustle the freshly fallen leaves of these beautiful trees. I don't visit this place much, just right around this time. This town always has the best decorations for Halloween...
I love this holiday. So much thoughtful work goes into making it special, and today is the day the we get to see the magic. I can already see the children walking home from school in their costumes. Cowboys, princesses, superheroes, monsters. Even the parents are dressing up with their kids as they get ready for the festivities. The people here are friendly, and inviting. They always love to chat about their costumes. They even role play their parts to add to the believability.
I don't dress up myself. Well, unless you call a flannel shirt and jeans a costume. I just like to wander, and look at all the sites and trick-or-treaters. Besides, I'm not the best looking guy around right now. Standing at 5'5", a little more weight than I should have, and a pretty bad comb-over I'm not too keen on drawing attention to myself.
Sipping on my coffee, I see a man walk by in one of the best costumes I have ever seen. Horns, hooves, wings, tail and all he was the spitting image of The Devil himself. Even had his whole body painted red. How fun! I walk over to get a better look at the costume. He greets me with a snarl, as he entertains a small crowd.
"You there! What do most desire?"
With a chuckle, I respond "Oh, nothing really. I just like to watch"
Not convinced, the costumed man inquires once more, "Surely there is something you desire. Women? Fame? Money? For merely the price of your soul, your wish can come true. So what do you say stranger?"
The crowd is loving his performance. He's really good. I decide to play along. I haven't had the chance in years. "How about a game? If you win, I'll let you have my soul free of charge. But if I win, I get *yours*". The crowd giggles at the thought.
The Devil exaggeratedly strokes his pasted on beard as he scans the crowd. "We have a deal. But what is the game? But I must warn you, I have never lost at any contest!"
I smile, and suggest "How about riddles? First one to answer incorrectly, loses." He growls in a contemplative fashion, then nods in agreement. "Since I chose the game, you may go first".
"Fair enough," the would be demon retorted. He pondered a moment, "What has no eyes yet has a face, has no brain yet is bright, has no legs yet still keeps pace, has no hands but every morning you fight?"
"That's easy," I reply, "A digital clock." The crowd oh's and ah's as the red man snickers. He waives his hand in acknowledgement. "My turn. What has a number, but not a name, never smaller, never the same?"
He folded his arms as his dyed black brow furrowed. It took him only a moment. He laughed dramatically and opened his arms wide as he exclaimed "Your age!" The crowd clapped and cheered in anticipation of the performer's next riddle. "I can't be seen, yet I can be felt, I'm not an emotion, but your heart I'll melt. What am I?"
The crowd went silent. This one was easy as well, but I decided to act a little flustered. I took my time. My opponent acted as if he were impatient. I made myself sound a little unsure to add to the tension, "... Heat?". The fake wings rustled as he scoffed and scowled. I thought a bit about my next question. I wasn't sure if I wanted to end it yet. I was having fun, but I was also growing a little bored. I decide on using the showstopper, "What does The Devil look like?"
The man in red burst out laughing, as he thought he had me cornered. "Have you run out of riddles already?", he teased, "why, I need only look in the mirror to know what *I* look like!"
Before the crowd could respond, I replied "No. The Devil is clever. He would not walk around the world shouting to the Heavens as if to challenge God himself. That would be too obvious. No, he wouldn't draw attention to himself. He'd be the man you'd least expect. He wouldn't appear as the tall, muscular man in red. He'd be the small, unassuming, simple man. A man like me."
The crowd was silent, but still smiling. The fake devil chuckled. The fools. But it was already too late for my 'doppelganger'. He was already mine.
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"So how about it kid? Do we have a deal?"
Asked the man, if you could call him that, with rich red-black skin. My body shook all over as my scattered thoughts tried to guide me toward the right answer. Though I'm not sure there was a right answer in a situation such as this. Inwardly I sighed at my predicament. Why couldn't I have just had a normal vacation.
I saw him as I was walking the cobbled streets of a small town in Italy. Gorgeous buildings surrounded me on either side, bathed in bright warming sunlight. You could feel the age and strength in the run-down, but still magnificent and proud, houses and shops that lined the path. My feet tapped softly on the cobbles as I meandered past street performers and shoppers alike with a warm glow of contentment at where I was and my freedom from the mundane job that usually ruled my thoughts. At least the pay let me fulfil some of my dreams of travel.
I rounded a corner and saw him. 6ft+ with red skin so dark it seemed to burn. On his head sat a curled pair of horns gleaming gently, despite his position in a dark corner of the street hidden from the sun streaming down. At first I thought nothing of it. Just another street performer plying his skills. A statue or juggler. Why this street I wasn't sure. It was deathly quiet along here and far colder and darker than it had a right to be with the sun right above. I shivered and something warned me to take care. A warning which came to late for me it would seem as the performer with the rather impressive looking outfit had seen me. He beckoned me closer with a grin and a wave. Against my better judgement I found myself walking up to him along the silent cobblestones.
There was no preamble. No pretence at normalcy by him. As I walked up his red grin widened and his sharp teeth gleamed brightly. "I am the devil. Would you spare a few moments to talk to me?"
Well. What do you say to that.
"I can see that. It's a fantastic outfit. I'd be happy to see you perform."
If possible his almost-perfect grin widened further. "Why certainly sir. But of course no performance comes without a fee! I'm sure you can understand. Even Lucifer has to eat my friend!"
My heart started to thump a little louder. Something felt wrong. But I was curious. Aren't we always curious. Never satisfied with the insane amount of knowledge already available we always seek to know everything. "Sure. That sounds fair enough. What'd you have in mind Mr fallen angel?" My attempt at levity sounded strained even to me. However I saw his grin falter slightly and his skin seemed to swirl while the gleam from his horns dimmed slightly. But It was over in an instant.
"Well, as I am the devil it would seem only right to propose a trade. Your soul would be the obvious price don't you think? In the spirit of the outfit and all."
His grin was starting to spook me. But I had no belief in angels or devils. Nor in a creator. I just wanted to get away from this weirdo. I suppose I should play along and leave as soon as I could. He'd probably only want a few euro.
"So how about it kid? Do we have a deal?"
"Yeah sure thing buddy. Let's see this show."
Once more his grin grew. And grew more into a cavernous howl as black wings burst from the performers back. A feather fell down scorching my hand as I yelled. The devils dark eyes stared into my mind as I stood there. Forced to watch the show I had paid such a high price for.
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[WP] On a trip through a small town, you see a man with wings, horns, and red skin who claims to be the Devil.
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The red man with the wings and the horns just walked right out into the middle of the street.
Tom's daughter Lindsey and his little boy, Jacob, were both in the backseat. Tom's foot hammered onto the brake pedal to prevent the car from plowing into the idiot.
"Kids, are you ok?!," Tom shouted into the mirror as he turned his head to look in the backseat.
"Yeah, Dad, we're ok - who is that guy?" Lindsey said, pointing a finger toward the windshield.
"I'm about to find out. You kids stay right here.", Tom's voice was still quivering a bit as he undid his seatbelt and stepped out of the station wagon.
"Jesus, we almost ran you over! Are you ok? Why did you walk out into the road? Why are you wearing that costume?" The questions just erupted out of Tom's mouth.
"Costume?", said the man in red, "You dare malign me? Such insolence!", he continued in a furious tone.
"Look, it's just that... we could have hit... you could have been seriously injured!", Tom stumbled across his own words.
"Ha ha ha, injured? Me?," said the man in red, as if it was the most ludicrous thing that had ever been muttered. "You know very well why I stepped into that road, Mr. Tom Hamilton."
"My, my name. How did you know...", muttered Tom.
"You're the bassist for Aerosmith - everyone knows your name Tom Hamilton!", said the man in red, his eyes glowing a blistery shade of yellow and gold.
"However, I know who you are much better than the average person does.", he said.
"Oh, you do? Is it because you're a fan of the band? I'd be glad to sign an autograph, it's just that me and the kids are sort of late for a school recital - ", he was cut off by the red man with the wings and the horns.
"Silence! You know why I'm here - Tom Hamilton." said the furious man in red.
"You really don't have to keep calling me by my full name. You can just call me Tom if you like. I'm not that big on formalities really." said Tom Hamilton - bassist for Aerosmith.
"I will call you whatever I like - Tom Hamilton.", he said, a wide toothy - or were they fangs? - grin stretched impossibly wide across his scorched face.
The man in red continued, "I am here to collect, Mr. Tom Hamilton."
"Collect what? I don't have any memorabilia with me at the moment, but I'll be glad to send you a signed album or a t-shirt if you'll just give me your add-", said Tom, but he was cut off again.
"Silence!", shouted the man in red.
"You know that is really rude! You shouldn't cut people off like tha-", Tom attempted an interjection.
"Silence I said! I've come to collect what is mine! When you were a young boy you made a deal. You said that you would give *anything* to be the bass player of a famous rock and roll band. I kept my part of the deal, now it is time for you to keep yours.", said the man in red.
"Ok, just who are you exactly?", said Tom, still struggling to understand the situation that has befallen him.
"Very well, you wish to make this difficult, than your wish will be fulfilled. I am the malevolent dictator of all that is unholy, the devourer of souls. I grant your greatest wishes, and bestow upon you your greatest fears." the man in red said as he did a slight flourish and spread his wings to the sky and shouted as the sun went black, "I. Am. Satan!"
"Satan?", asked Tom, with the most curious of faces. "You're telling me, Tom Hamilton - bassist for Aerosmith - that you are Satan? The Devil himself? And that you have come to take my soul?"
"Yes! Finally, we are making some progress here." said the man in red as he took a big reassured breath.
Tom stood still for a moment, then dropped some words that took the breath back out of the man in red.
"That can't be.", said Tom.
"And why the hell not?", said the man in red, tossing his hands into the air as his wings folded back down to earth.
"Because *I* am the Devil." stated Tom matter-of-factly.
By now, a large crowd of over six hundred people had gathered around. Why? Because it's Tom Hamilton - come on people, get with the program!
When the police heard that Tom Hamilton - famed bassist for Aerosmith - was standing on the side of the road arguing with some weirdo in a red suit, they blocked off the city streets to prevent any more people from coming in. They didn't want a riot to break out like last time when famed Van Halen bassist, Michael Anthony had a flat tire over on Morgan Street and nearly four-hundred rowdy fans showed up to offer him a hand.
"*You're* the Devil?", scoffed the man in red, "who would believe such a ridiculous thing? I'm obviously the Devil. I mean, come on, look at these horns and these wings. And you're as pale as a baby! The devil would at least have a dark complexion."
Tom stood his ground calmly, "Do you really think that the *real* Devil would just prance around on city streets with his red wings, and horns and trident? Wouldn't the *real* Satan wish to keep a little anonymity whilst he goes about his work? I mean, if I was Satan - which I am - than I would tone it down a bit. I'd have a laid back, easy-going personality, long blonde hair, light skin, and I'd play bass for a rock band."
A couple of the on-lookers could be overheard saying, "Yeah, that makes sense to me. That's what I'd do if I was the Devil."
An older gentleman with a cane stepped forward and said, "Since you both claim to be the Devil there is only one way to solve this. You must answer a question that only the Devil would know the answer to."
"Alright than," said the man in red, "that seems to be a good solution. You think you're soooo smart Mr. Tom Hamilton. Let us see how you deal with this!"
"Very well. If you are both in agreement, than I will ask the question." said the old man.
A hush fell over the crowd as they leaned in to hear what will be asked of the two devils.
"The question is:" continued the old man, "Does the Devil prefer tacos over pizza, or vice-versa?"
"Simple." said a stoic Tom Hamilton without a moments hesitation, "I prefer tacos."
The crowd erupted with cheering. Some even threw confetti and blew the foil horns that you find on New Year's Eve.
"Now just a minute!", said the man in red, his face contorted into angry, frustrated lines, "How is anyone going to know the answer to a question like that?"
"Well," said the old man, "the Devil would know."
Yeahs. Yeses. That's rights. And every combination of them could be heard humming through the crowd.
"Very well then, Tom Hamilton. You may have won this round, but-" this time Tom did the interrupting.
"Listen, I know this was a bit embarrassing. Come on, let me make it up to you. Come with us to Lindsey's piano recital." said Tom.
"Oh, I don't know. I don't want to be a pest." the man in red lowered his head and his giant horns dipped low toward the ground as they knocked a branch off a nearby tree.
"You're no pest." said Tom Hamilton as he put an arm around his new friend.
"*We'll get tacos afterward*", said Tom in a singsong voice.
"Well," said the man in red, cheering up as the sun came through the blackened sky, "I do like tacos."
And with that, the station wagon drove off into the sunset with two horns poking through the sunroof.
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edit: formatting
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“You’re full of shit.”
The red man sat perched on the low brick wall surrounding the dive bar, arms crossed and a Virginia Slim in his mouth. He shot me a quick condescending glance.
“Sure, kid. You asked though.”
I pushed off of the light pole that I was leaning on and walked over to stand next to him. He smelled like an overcooked beef patty. The sun was setting behind the grassy hills far off to the west.
“Okay, then riddle me this: what’s the devil doing in a small town like this? Aren’t you supposed to be doing all that important evil shit down below?”
The red man took a pull of his cigarette. He turned to me and blew the smoke in my face, grinning widely.
“Day off. Beezlebub’s covering my shift.”
“Shift? The f…you work in an office building or something? Come on, give me a break.”
“I do, actually,” he replied. “I’ve turned into a bit of a workaholic lately, as I’m sure you can tell. Just felt like having a day where nobody bothers me.” With that, he shot me an insidious look.
“…All right man, my bad,” I said, apologizing. “I don’t know. It’s just…well…I think my wife’s cheating on me with my father and I kind of wanted someone to talk to.”
A knowing softness enveloped the red man’s face. He looked up at the darkening sky, exhaling smoke through his nose. He hopped up off of his seat, landing gracefully and with great flourish. His eyes met mine.
“She is."
"What do you mean?" I asked, confused.
"Your wife. The affair began last Valentine’s day when you were hung over at your parents’ house. They had sex in the downstairs office while you were sleeping.”
“What?” I demanded, shocked. “How did you…”
“They’re currently at your apartment taking a shower. Your wife doesn’t expect you to be home until late, as you told her this morning you were working a double shift. Presumably so you could go drink without reproach.” His lips pursed sympathetically.
I stood there in silent shock, knowing I had little to no reason to believe this man. But, somewhere in the depths of my consciousness, I knew he was not bullshitting. Before I had a chance to open my mouth to dispute his claim, he pulled off his beanie, revealing a pair of short but razor-sharp horns.
“Yeah, kid. They’re real. I really am who I say I am.”
“But…how…,” I tried to find a logical explanation for how he knew about my earlier lie to my wife. I gave up, sighing. “Jesus…”
“Satan, actually. So, what say we head down to your apartment and get this all sorted out? You want to?”
I stared at him, chuckling. I knew in my heart who he was and what would happen if I followed him back to my place. I didn’t care.
“You’re God damn right,” I exclaimed, leading the way to my car.
I had a feeling I was going to be seeing a whole lot more of this guy in the near future.
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[WP] On a trip through a small town, you see a man with wings, horns, and red skin who claims to be the Devil.
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I love this time of year. Fall is so pretty around these parts. Where I'm from, it's hot year round, and there's not many trees to speak of. But this little town is right on the cusp of perfection. Not too cold, not too hot. The wind is at a calm breeze, enough to rustle the freshly fallen leaves of these beautiful trees. I don't visit this place much, just right around this time. This town always has the best decorations for Halloween...
I love this holiday. So much thoughtful work goes into making it special, and today is the day the we get to see the magic. I can already see the children walking home from school in their costumes. Cowboys, princesses, superheroes, monsters. Even the parents are dressing up with their kids as they get ready for the festivities. The people here are friendly, and inviting. They always love to chat about their costumes. They even role play their parts to add to the believability.
I don't dress up myself. Well, unless you call a flannel shirt and jeans a costume. I just like to wander, and look at all the sites and trick-or-treaters. Besides, I'm not the best looking guy around right now. Standing at 5'5", a little more weight than I should have, and a pretty bad comb-over I'm not too keen on drawing attention to myself.
Sipping on my coffee, I see a man walk by in one of the best costumes I have ever seen. Horns, hooves, wings, tail and all he was the spitting image of The Devil himself. Even had his whole body painted red. How fun! I walk over to get a better look at the costume. He greets me with a snarl, as he entertains a small crowd.
"You there! What do most desire?"
With a chuckle, I respond "Oh, nothing really. I just like to watch"
Not convinced, the costumed man inquires once more, "Surely there is something you desire. Women? Fame? Money? For merely the price of your soul, your wish can come true. So what do you say stranger?"
The crowd is loving his performance. He's really good. I decide to play along. I haven't had the chance in years. "How about a game? If you win, I'll let you have my soul free of charge. But if I win, I get *yours*". The crowd giggles at the thought.
The Devil exaggeratedly strokes his pasted on beard as he scans the crowd. "We have a deal. But what is the game? But I must warn you, I have never lost at any contest!"
I smile, and suggest "How about riddles? First one to answer incorrectly, loses." He growls in a contemplative fashion, then nods in agreement. "Since I chose the game, you may go first".
"Fair enough," the would be demon retorted. He pondered a moment, "What has no eyes yet has a face, has no brain yet is bright, has no legs yet still keeps pace, has no hands but every morning you fight?"
"That's easy," I reply, "A digital clock." The crowd oh's and ah's as the red man snickers. He waives his hand in acknowledgement. "My turn. What has a number, but not a name, never smaller, never the same?"
He folded his arms as his dyed black brow furrowed. It took him only a moment. He laughed dramatically and opened his arms wide as he exclaimed "Your age!" The crowd clapped and cheered in anticipation of the performer's next riddle. "I can't be seen, yet I can be felt, I'm not an emotion, but your heart I'll melt. What am I?"
The crowd went silent. This one was easy as well, but I decided to act a little flustered. I took my time. My opponent acted as if he were impatient. I made myself sound a little unsure to add to the tension, "... Heat?". The fake wings rustled as he scoffed and scowled. I thought a bit about my next question. I wasn't sure if I wanted to end it yet. I was having fun, but I was also growing a little bored. I decide on using the showstopper, "What does The Devil look like?"
The man in red burst out laughing, as he thought he had me cornered. "Have you run out of riddles already?", he teased, "why, I need only look in the mirror to know what *I* look like!"
Before the crowd could respond, I replied "No. The Devil is clever. He would not walk around the world shouting to the Heavens as if to challenge God himself. That would be too obvious. No, he wouldn't draw attention to himself. He'd be the man you'd least expect. He wouldn't appear as the tall, muscular man in red. He'd be the small, unassuming, simple man. A man like me."
The crowd was silent, but still smiling. The fake devil chuckled. The fools. But it was already too late for my 'doppelganger'. He was already mine.
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“You’re full of shit.”
The red man sat perched on the low brick wall surrounding the dive bar, arms crossed and a Virginia Slim in his mouth. He shot me a quick condescending glance.
“Sure, kid. You asked though.”
I pushed off of the light pole that I was leaning on and walked over to stand next to him. He smelled like an overcooked beef patty. The sun was setting behind the grassy hills far off to the west.
“Okay, then riddle me this: what’s the devil doing in a small town like this? Aren’t you supposed to be doing all that important evil shit down below?”
The red man took a pull of his cigarette. He turned to me and blew the smoke in my face, grinning widely.
“Day off. Beezlebub’s covering my shift.”
“Shift? The f…you work in an office building or something? Come on, give me a break.”
“I do, actually,” he replied. “I’ve turned into a bit of a workaholic lately, as I’m sure you can tell. Just felt like having a day where nobody bothers me.” With that, he shot me an insidious look.
“…All right man, my bad,” I said, apologizing. “I don’t know. It’s just…well…I think my wife’s cheating on me with my father and I kind of wanted someone to talk to.”
A knowing softness enveloped the red man’s face. He looked up at the darkening sky, exhaling smoke through his nose. He hopped up off of his seat, landing gracefully and with great flourish. His eyes met mine.
“She is."
"What do you mean?" I asked, confused.
"Your wife. The affair began last Valentine’s day when you were hung over at your parents’ house. They had sex in the downstairs office while you were sleeping.”
“What?” I demanded, shocked. “How did you…”
“They’re currently at your apartment taking a shower. Your wife doesn’t expect you to be home until late, as you told her this morning you were working a double shift. Presumably so you could go drink without reproach.” His lips pursed sympathetically.
I stood there in silent shock, knowing I had little to no reason to believe this man. But, somewhere in the depths of my consciousness, I knew he was not bullshitting. Before I had a chance to open my mouth to dispute his claim, he pulled off his beanie, revealing a pair of short but razor-sharp horns.
“Yeah, kid. They’re real. I really am who I say I am.”
“But…how…,” I tried to find a logical explanation for how he knew about my earlier lie to my wife. I gave up, sighing. “Jesus…”
“Satan, actually. So, what say we head down to your apartment and get this all sorted out? You want to?”
I stared at him, chuckling. I knew in my heart who he was and what would happen if I followed him back to my place. I didn’t care.
“You’re God damn right,” I exclaimed, leading the way to my car.
I had a feeling I was going to be seeing a whole lot more of this guy in the near future.
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[WP] On a trip through a small town, you see a man with wings, horns, and red skin who claims to be the Devil.
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I love this time of year. Fall is so pretty around these parts. Where I'm from, it's hot year round, and there's not many trees to speak of. But this little town is right on the cusp of perfection. Not too cold, not too hot. The wind is at a calm breeze, enough to rustle the freshly fallen leaves of these beautiful trees. I don't visit this place much, just right around this time. This town always has the best decorations for Halloween...
I love this holiday. So much thoughtful work goes into making it special, and today is the day the we get to see the magic. I can already see the children walking home from school in their costumes. Cowboys, princesses, superheroes, monsters. Even the parents are dressing up with their kids as they get ready for the festivities. The people here are friendly, and inviting. They always love to chat about their costumes. They even role play their parts to add to the believability.
I don't dress up myself. Well, unless you call a flannel shirt and jeans a costume. I just like to wander, and look at all the sites and trick-or-treaters. Besides, I'm not the best looking guy around right now. Standing at 5'5", a little more weight than I should have, and a pretty bad comb-over I'm not too keen on drawing attention to myself.
Sipping on my coffee, I see a man walk by in one of the best costumes I have ever seen. Horns, hooves, wings, tail and all he was the spitting image of The Devil himself. Even had his whole body painted red. How fun! I walk over to get a better look at the costume. He greets me with a snarl, as he entertains a small crowd.
"You there! What do most desire?"
With a chuckle, I respond "Oh, nothing really. I just like to watch"
Not convinced, the costumed man inquires once more, "Surely there is something you desire. Women? Fame? Money? For merely the price of your soul, your wish can come true. So what do you say stranger?"
The crowd is loving his performance. He's really good. I decide to play along. I haven't had the chance in years. "How about a game? If you win, I'll let you have my soul free of charge. But if I win, I get *yours*". The crowd giggles at the thought.
The Devil exaggeratedly strokes his pasted on beard as he scans the crowd. "We have a deal. But what is the game? But I must warn you, I have never lost at any contest!"
I smile, and suggest "How about riddles? First one to answer incorrectly, loses." He growls in a contemplative fashion, then nods in agreement. "Since I chose the game, you may go first".
"Fair enough," the would be demon retorted. He pondered a moment, "What has no eyes yet has a face, has no brain yet is bright, has no legs yet still keeps pace, has no hands but every morning you fight?"
"That's easy," I reply, "A digital clock." The crowd oh's and ah's as the red man snickers. He waives his hand in acknowledgement. "My turn. What has a number, but not a name, never smaller, never the same?"
He folded his arms as his dyed black brow furrowed. It took him only a moment. He laughed dramatically and opened his arms wide as he exclaimed "Your age!" The crowd clapped and cheered in anticipation of the performer's next riddle. "I can't be seen, yet I can be felt, I'm not an emotion, but your heart I'll melt. What am I?"
The crowd went silent. This one was easy as well, but I decided to act a little flustered. I took my time. My opponent acted as if he were impatient. I made myself sound a little unsure to add to the tension, "... Heat?". The fake wings rustled as he scoffed and scowled. I thought a bit about my next question. I wasn't sure if I wanted to end it yet. I was having fun, but I was also growing a little bored. I decide on using the showstopper, "What does The Devil look like?"
The man in red burst out laughing, as he thought he had me cornered. "Have you run out of riddles already?", he teased, "why, I need only look in the mirror to know what *I* look like!"
Before the crowd could respond, I replied "No. The Devil is clever. He would not walk around the world shouting to the Heavens as if to challenge God himself. That would be too obvious. No, he wouldn't draw attention to himself. He'd be the man you'd least expect. He wouldn't appear as the tall, muscular man in red. He'd be the small, unassuming, simple man. A man like me."
The crowd was silent, but still smiling. The fake devil chuckled. The fools. But it was already too late for my 'doppelganger'. He was already mine.
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The red man with the wings and the horns just walked right out into the middle of the street.
Tom's daughter Lindsey and his little boy, Jacob, were both in the backseat. Tom's foot hammered onto the brake pedal to prevent the car from plowing into the idiot.
"Kids, are you ok?!," Tom shouted into the mirror as he turned his head to look in the backseat.
"Yeah, Dad, we're ok - who is that guy?" Lindsey said, pointing a finger toward the windshield.
"I'm about to find out. You kids stay right here.", Tom's voice was still quivering a bit as he undid his seatbelt and stepped out of the station wagon.
"Jesus, we almost ran you over! Are you ok? Why did you walk out into the road? Why are you wearing that costume?" The questions just erupted out of Tom's mouth.
"Costume?", said the man in red, "You dare malign me? Such insolence!", he continued in a furious tone.
"Look, it's just that... we could have hit... you could have been seriously injured!", Tom stumbled across his own words.
"Ha ha ha, injured? Me?," said the man in red, as if it was the most ludicrous thing that had ever been muttered. "You know very well why I stepped into that road, Mr. Tom Hamilton."
"My, my name. How did you know...", muttered Tom.
"You're the bassist for Aerosmith - everyone knows your name Tom Hamilton!", said the man in red, his eyes glowing a blistery shade of yellow and gold.
"However, I know who you are much better than the average person does.", he said.
"Oh, you do? Is it because you're a fan of the band? I'd be glad to sign an autograph, it's just that me and the kids are sort of late for a school recital - ", he was cut off by the red man with the wings and the horns.
"Silence! You know why I'm here - Tom Hamilton." said the furious man in red.
"You really don't have to keep calling me by my full name. You can just call me Tom if you like. I'm not that big on formalities really." said Tom Hamilton - bassist for Aerosmith.
"I will call you whatever I like - Tom Hamilton.", he said, a wide toothy - or were they fangs? - grin stretched impossibly wide across his scorched face.
The man in red continued, "I am here to collect, Mr. Tom Hamilton."
"Collect what? I don't have any memorabilia with me at the moment, but I'll be glad to send you a signed album or a t-shirt if you'll just give me your add-", said Tom, but he was cut off again.
"Silence!", shouted the man in red.
"You know that is really rude! You shouldn't cut people off like tha-", Tom attempted an interjection.
"Silence I said! I've come to collect what is mine! When you were a young boy you made a deal. You said that you would give *anything* to be the bass player of a famous rock and roll band. I kept my part of the deal, now it is time for you to keep yours.", said the man in red.
"Ok, just who are you exactly?", said Tom, still struggling to understand the situation that has befallen him.
"Very well, you wish to make this difficult, than your wish will be fulfilled. I am the malevolent dictator of all that is unholy, the devourer of souls. I grant your greatest wishes, and bestow upon you your greatest fears." the man in red said as he did a slight flourish and spread his wings to the sky and shouted as the sun went black, "I. Am. Satan!"
"Satan?", asked Tom, with the most curious of faces. "You're telling me, Tom Hamilton - bassist for Aerosmith - that you are Satan? The Devil himself? And that you have come to take my soul?"
"Yes! Finally, we are making some progress here." said the man in red as he took a big reassured breath.
Tom stood still for a moment, then dropped some words that took the breath back out of the man in red.
"That can't be.", said Tom.
"And why the hell not?", said the man in red, tossing his hands into the air as his wings folded back down to earth.
"Because *I* am the Devil." stated Tom matter-of-factly.
By now, a large crowd of over six hundred people had gathered around. Why? Because it's Tom Hamilton - come on people, get with the program!
When the police heard that Tom Hamilton - famed bassist for Aerosmith - was standing on the side of the road arguing with some weirdo in a red suit, they blocked off the city streets to prevent any more people from coming in. They didn't want a riot to break out like last time when famed Van Halen bassist, Michael Anthony had a flat tire over on Morgan Street and nearly four-hundred rowdy fans showed up to offer him a hand.
"*You're* the Devil?", scoffed the man in red, "who would believe such a ridiculous thing? I'm obviously the Devil. I mean, come on, look at these horns and these wings. And you're as pale as a baby! The devil would at least have a dark complexion."
Tom stood his ground calmly, "Do you really think that the *real* Devil would just prance around on city streets with his red wings, and horns and trident? Wouldn't the *real* Satan wish to keep a little anonymity whilst he goes about his work? I mean, if I was Satan - which I am - than I would tone it down a bit. I'd have a laid back, easy-going personality, long blonde hair, light skin, and I'd play bass for a rock band."
A couple of the on-lookers could be overheard saying, "Yeah, that makes sense to me. That's what I'd do if I was the Devil."
An older gentleman with a cane stepped forward and said, "Since you both claim to be the Devil there is only one way to solve this. You must answer a question that only the Devil would know the answer to."
"Alright than," said the man in red, "that seems to be a good solution. You think you're soooo smart Mr. Tom Hamilton. Let us see how you deal with this!"
"Very well. If you are both in agreement, than I will ask the question." said the old man.
A hush fell over the crowd as they leaned in to hear what will be asked of the two devils.
"The question is:" continued the old man, "Does the Devil prefer tacos over pizza, or vice-versa?"
"Simple." said a stoic Tom Hamilton without a moments hesitation, "I prefer tacos."
The crowd erupted with cheering. Some even threw confetti and blew the foil horns that you find on New Year's Eve.
"Now just a minute!", said the man in red, his face contorted into angry, frustrated lines, "How is anyone going to know the answer to a question like that?"
"Well," said the old man, "the Devil would know."
Yeahs. Yeses. That's rights. And every combination of them could be heard humming through the crowd.
"Very well then, Tom Hamilton. You may have won this round, but-" this time Tom did the interrupting.
"Listen, I know this was a bit embarrassing. Come on, let me make it up to you. Come with us to Lindsey's piano recital." said Tom.
"Oh, I don't know. I don't want to be a pest." the man in red lowered his head and his giant horns dipped low toward the ground as they knocked a branch off a nearby tree.
"You're no pest." said Tom Hamilton as he put an arm around his new friend.
"*We'll get tacos afterward*", said Tom in a singsong voice.
"Well," said the man in red, cheering up as the sun came through the blackened sky, "I do like tacos."
And with that, the station wagon drove off into the sunset with two horns poking through the sunroof.
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edit: formatting
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I've grown tired of reading my own stories. I'm looking forward to see how other people would write on this topic.
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[WP] An alien force prepares to invade Earth, write from the perspective of the invading forces commanding officer.
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"Hey, get this, the humans have motorcycles too. Except they can't fly around like we do. They mostly use them to travel roads."
"Uhuh. Mostly. That's nice Egel. Get back to the observation post."
In a moment, Egel had gone to the asteroid that Thogal had picked at random. Thogal really needed to do something about that child. He rubbed his head at the insipidness that she represented. The nerve that those politicians employed in making such a vapid decision as to place some half trained child in his vanguard just so the family could garner honor and boost the child's prominence- Thogal calmed himself.
Unfortunately, Egel was the Queen's grand-daughter. Over time, many such political placements had been made in many distinguished units. Generally, officers who complained, disappeared. Woe to the officer who tried to reprimand royalty. Thogal tapped his ebony cranium in frustration. Then he exhaled, something like a sigh.
Thogal concentrated, his mandibles locked in place, and he tuned into the actual observation post that he had sent actual warriors to.
"Carmenso. Report."
"Nothing new Thogal. Humans haven't realized we've buried into their moon. Oh wait, Notes just got back...he says he's got samples of a fruit called 'pineapple.' He says they taste good."
"Very well. Have you briefed your team?"
"Yes. Ride down to the Statue of Liberty, blow it up, and erect our big old flag for all of New York to see. Then do the same with all those other monuments around the planet. After that, we fly escort for the capital ship, so it can take DC and dock with the White House. From then on, we let the diplo-suits from the home world do their jobs, and if they don't succeed at subduing the humans, then it's back to fighting. But yeah, team's all clear on the plan and we've got all the details worked out."
"Good. Main force arrives in two orons, right before sunrise in New York. Standby on high readiness level until then. When I give you the go ahead, get down there. Also, when you get back, can you bring some of that 'steak' with you? Human food is absolutely delightful."
"Yeah, I'll bring some back Thogal. See you then."
"Right, carry on."
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Alphonse Malmaduke, vagrant, intellectual, and non-human. They were beginning to pop up everywhere now, but he'd decided to keep his cover just a bit longer. He was a Doctor, not a soldier, and the opportunity to observe it all from the otherside, well it wasn't one to be likely passed, and that it wasn't. 2 years of preparations, Earth years anyway, everyday here but one longing eternity, not many of the first timers survived, those were the years the suicide rate had spiked, but they found some reason for that that fit cozy in theirs little minds. I'd turned it around, I'd had the key, I'd spent a thousand cycles in my head every night while they just waste away sleeping. The experience was astounding, if mastered properly. One of the many reasons he'd petitioned the counsel to voyage out so far from home, and now that the bounty shall prove prosperous to the magistrate he can further his own studies. War shall forever be the vessel of the means of the people, he'd said to himself on the night before invasion day, he'd siffiled into Paris, the one city he didn't mind seeing a thousand times behind his eyes at night, it felt most like home, it was fitting that this was to be the new colony capital, just one last signal to beam up to the fleet just behind their moon, soon this planet shall be mine, and immortality thereafter. Digging a hole in the ground with the heel of his booty, he plants a small beeping sphere into the earth, covering it with soft dirt. "That should keep it in place until tomorrow, this will be the perfect spot for the capital spire." A breeze rolls by and he clasps his hands hidden behind leather gloves, holding them tight he walks away slowly, the seed of Earths demise planted, but a matter of hours left to go.
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I've grown tired of reading my own stories. I'm looking forward to see how other people would write on this topic.
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[WP] An alien force prepares to invade Earth, write from the perspective of the invading forces commanding officer.
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“Please read back the supply list,” I commanded Mas Kasier, and she bowed her head respectfully, her four slender arms tapping out the command codes against a holographic readout. Multiple bubbles emerged from the console with swarms of information in our visually spiraling language, as well as blue-prints and data readouts.
“Five Information disruption networks on frequency ‘Kul-Ahsja .008,’ ten thousand atomic weaponry dismantling micro-pods, eighteen behemoth all-purpose cloaks, seventy thousand armor piercing draft shells, ninety thousand recharging pulse blocks, twenty behemoth varying frequency shield generators, fifteen EMP generators, fifteen EMP reversal generators, and your pet Lugiume.”
“Why is Lugiume included on the major supplies list? He was supposed to go on my personal effects list,” I sighed. Mas Kasier apologized and quickly transferred the item. I stood and paced, my eyes looming out through the domed transparent viewing port- Genfirven’s green oceans and red grasses. “Why?” I asked Mas Kasier ponderously.
“It was just a simple mistake, I didn’t-“ she started.
“No, no- nevermind Lugiume, he’s irrelevant. Why did they launch an assault on us? Why use nuclear weapons against anyone?” I explained.
“We’ve made contact with other humans before, they always say the same thing- avoid the Americans,” conceded Mas Kasier. I shook my head. I knew she was right, and there was no part of me that wanted to go to war, but something had to be done.
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I've had a similar idea some time ago.
Wakes up in a desert area, close to a gas station. No memory of this location. Enters the gas station, but the people there greet him only with fear and horror. They start to get aggressive and he runs out. Near the gas station there is a car. Gets in. Starts the car, drives away as fast as he can.
In the rear view mirror, he sees the gas station clerk running after the car with a shotgun in his hand and screaming. Then he takes a look at his face in the rear view mirror, for the first time after he has lost his memory. His eyes are big, dark green, almost black. The skin is charcoal black, wrinkled, with what seems an infectious scar across the right side of his face, starting from below the eye, going down to his triangle-shaped small mouth. He looks down at his arms on the steering wheel. Four fingers at each arm, same wrinkled charcoal-black skin.
"What were those beings at the gas station? Why were they there?"
As hard as he tried to remember, nothing was coming back to him.
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I've grown tired of reading my own stories. I'm looking forward to see how other people would write on this topic.
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[WP] An alien force prepares to invade Earth, write from the perspective of the invading forces commanding officer.
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“Don’t get me wrong: I have nothing against humanity. Why, some of my best friends are humans. It’s just that there’s no talking with you people. We get together, we agree to terms, we sign a contract and then half of you go and break it within days of signing. Well, we don’t really work like that.”
I shivered with horror as I listened on during the King’s meeting with the last human delegation that came to try to convince us not to invade earth. They really had no idea how low our esteem of them was until then. It was made very clear to them that war was inevitable, in the most painful way possible to a human: humiliation.
“I really don’t see any point in discussing this any further. Nothing you do now is going to bring our dead operatives back to life. You had your chance at peace and you wasted it. Now, you will have war.”
Me, I could have told you this was going to happen twenty years ago. Humankind and Tahalkind are just not compatible. If anything, I would say we are a lethal combination. Humans are compassionate but arrogant, Tahals are reasonable but procedural. Each side could have known it was not going to work out well. Truthfully, I feel like many of Tahals understood this. When they signed the San Francisco treaty, they were really just indulging the human delusions of their own capacities. Mine never had any faith the peaceful cohabitation terms were going to be respected. That is why they made the part about consequences so very clear. It even says in the text itself that the side who breaks the terms exposes themselves to any and all forms of retribution.
“We have no numbers planned. Our goal has never been to eradicate your race. We can assure you that we will do our best to assure your gene pool stays diverse enough for future reproduction. However, the choice to fight us is with your assailants, not ours. For any weapon used against our troops, we will fire back until no one is firing at us again.”
Humans were arrogant. First, they thought none of their own would go and try to cross us, which of course they did. Then they thought we weren’t going to do anything about it, which of course we were going to. Finally, they sought we would give them a break from their moral dilemma by allowing them to rise up in defense of their own, despite their faults. Tahal philosophy in matters of conflict was very simple. You were either with us or against us. We were getting ready not only to wipe out those who had attacked us in the past, but also those who would stand in our way as we did.
The king watched the delegation leave and said to me: “Down on their knees, they don’t look so tall, now, do they?” I bowed. “They certainly don’t, your majesty,” I answered. He pointed to the command center and asked: “When will the fleet be ready?” I saw no use in lying. “It is ready, your majesty. We are at your command.” The king nodded. “Commence, then.” I bowed again and left the room.
This assignment had been far from easy. I had spent a great deal of my career here, twenty earth years, a tenth of my lifespan. I made friends, including some very dear ones. I even had sort of a family. I tried to keep the peace while knowing, deep inside, that we were eventually going to have to go in and wipe out most of these people. They would push until we had no other option. I would know. I lived together with a human for almost ten years. It gave me the insight I needed to make my decision.
“Prepare for descent,” I commanded the pilotes.
It also hurt my image as a leader among the young troops who had just come in to perform the take-over. I even caught another one just yesterday, talking about my human ties behind my back. I asked him if he wanted my spot as Commander, so he could sit my chair and order the death of millions, so he could show me what patriotism is like. Poor guy almost passed out. It was probably the first time an officer was even talking to him. Still, he was the only one who had the privilege of being publicly humiliated by one today. No doubt he would learn a lesson from this encounter.
“Let’s start around 30 North 20 East,” I ordered to tactical. The first charge went down in a few seconds. “Perfect hit. All defenses down.” This is the great thing about Tahals. Having none of the deformed human egos, we are much more capable of reflecting on our failures and our wrongs. The humans, on the other hand, think they can get away with anything, through blackmail, appeal to emotion, even force. None of this will work with us, neither the threats, nor the tears.
I turned to communications. “Any word from the UN?” The officer shook her head. I shrugged. “They have had plenty of time. We’ll just have to disarm the United States too.”
Today, they are going to learn that no one gets away with crimes against the Tahal kingdom. Those who fight us will down. Cities will burn, as many as need to. Humans are inconsequential. Today, we are teaching them consequences.
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I've had a similar idea some time ago.
Wakes up in a desert area, close to a gas station. No memory of this location. Enters the gas station, but the people there greet him only with fear and horror. They start to get aggressive and he runs out. Near the gas station there is a car. Gets in. Starts the car, drives away as fast as he can.
In the rear view mirror, he sees the gas station clerk running after the car with a shotgun in his hand and screaming. Then he takes a look at his face in the rear view mirror, for the first time after he has lost his memory. His eyes are big, dark green, almost black. The skin is charcoal black, wrinkled, with what seems an infectious scar across the right side of his face, starting from below the eye, going down to his triangle-shaped small mouth. He looks down at his arms on the steering wheel. Four fingers at each arm, same wrinkled charcoal-black skin.
"What were those beings at the gas station? Why were they there?"
As hard as he tried to remember, nothing was coming back to him.
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I've grown tired of reading my own stories. I'm looking forward to see how other people would write on this topic.
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[WP] An alien force prepares to invade Earth, write from the perspective of the invading forces commanding officer.
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Gork sighed and turned away from the final Battle Readiness report towards the large, concave window. It framed a small blue-green orb, hanging apparently motionless in the void. It seemed so placid, so calm. *They always do from this distance,* thought Gork.
He knew that life on the surface of this world would be anything but serene now. No doubt the armada he commanded was visible to the inhabitants below. Indeed, it was planned this way. Standard procedure dictated that the fleet remain in position in a highly conspicuous spot for three *nareks,* allowing the target population time to notice, wonder, and, ultimately, fear. Gork recalled a caveat imparted to him by an old instructor at Command School: *make fear an ally and you will never fight alone.*
This world had a lone satellite (*Quite unusual to have just one,* Gork thought) and it had been decided that maximum effect would be achieved if the armada positioned itself in front of it. For nearly three *nareks* now, the Earth-beings have had a view of Gork's fleet as it waited, the silhouettes of each massive ship visible against the glare of regolith.
And for nearly as long, Gork's ships had been receiving messages from these beings.
Questions, commands, pleas. Messages of hope and terror. It was all rather predictable to Gork now. As a younger officer, he had found these sorts of communications interesting. Now he didn't bother to read any of them. They made no difference.
There would be no response. No demands. No discussion would change their fate nor prepare them for it.
Once the invasion had begun, there would certainly be attempts to mollify the mysterious attackers. Calls for negotiations and peace. As the destruction continued, the Earth-beings would become desperate, stating that Gork and his comrades were welcome to take whatever resources they want so long as they leave.
*If only we could make you understand,* Gork thought, *that YOU are the resource we seek.*
His console chirped and brought him out of his reverie. It was a notification from the Nest Ship.
It read: *Final deliberations concluded. Begin assault.*
|
I've had a similar idea some time ago.
Wakes up in a desert area, close to a gas station. No memory of this location. Enters the gas station, but the people there greet him only with fear and horror. They start to get aggressive and he runs out. Near the gas station there is a car. Gets in. Starts the car, drives away as fast as he can.
In the rear view mirror, he sees the gas station clerk running after the car with a shotgun in his hand and screaming. Then he takes a look at his face in the rear view mirror, for the first time after he has lost his memory. His eyes are big, dark green, almost black. The skin is charcoal black, wrinkled, with what seems an infectious scar across the right side of his face, starting from below the eye, going down to his triangle-shaped small mouth. He looks down at his arms on the steering wheel. Four fingers at each arm, same wrinkled charcoal-black skin.
"What were those beings at the gas station? Why were they there?"
As hard as he tried to remember, nothing was coming back to him.
|
I've grown tired of reading my own stories. I'm looking forward to see how other people would write on this topic.
|
[WP] An alien force prepares to invade Earth, write from the perspective of the invading forces commanding officer.
|
As I examined the files, I found myself concerned. The indigenous civilisation was very advanced compared to our most recent adversaries. A disturbing amount of time and resources had been placed into the development of fission weapons. It was clear that their development was guided by war, as these Homo Sapiens - the name they give their species - had never traveled beyond their own moon, a mere 55,000 kohtars away. Yet the fission weapons this civilisation possessed could destroy itself many dozens of times over. Also, while their knowledge of energy weapons was somewhat limited, they possessed some of the strongest projectile weapons in this arm of the galaxy.
The Homo Sapiens have found many reasons to despise one another. Small evolutionary change had some Homo Sapiens with varying skin colours and facial features by which they divided themselves into 'races'. Some Homo Sapiens believed their own race to be superior to others - enslavement and even extermination had been prevalent in the past. Some with devotion to certain faiths - particularly one-god faiths - used violence to enforce their own beliefs, doctrines, and laws. On first examination, the Homo Sapiens may have appeared little more than well-armed savages. I saw something different. Something special.
Throughout history, even through all of the bloodshed, division, hatred, zealotry and stupidity, there had been Homo Sapiens who yearned to bring forth civilisation. There had been those who examined nature, examined disease, and examined the sky, to advance in science. There were those who had written great dramas, and great music, to advance in culture. Many of faith had been motivated to far more benevolent practices, such as peacemaking and charity. One of their most impressive feats is their 'Internet': A vast network of computers and satellites that connects much of the population and gives them access to oceans of information. I also took interest in the 'Voyager' craft, a drone that has traveled 2.5 billion kohtars from its homeworld.
The findings of the androids 'Mitt' and 'Kristen' made it clear - not only was war with the Homo Sapiens a dangerous endeavour, it was wholly unnecessary. They had much potential if only they would join our community. If they were happy to join our empire, I decided we should be happy to let them in.
It was then that Kollharen entered the quarters. I swiped aside the holographic diagram of the 'International Space Station' and turned to face her.
"2500 Assault Craft have entered outer orbit and await your command, Chairman."
"Tell them to fall back. Prepare the vanguard and a diplomatic envoy. I'll meet them at the bridge."
"But Chairman..."
"That's an order, Kollharen."
She sighed. "Yes, Chairman." She walked out.
I smiled. This was the beginning of a new age.
|
I've had a similar idea some time ago.
Wakes up in a desert area, close to a gas station. No memory of this location. Enters the gas station, but the people there greet him only with fear and horror. They start to get aggressive and he runs out. Near the gas station there is a car. Gets in. Starts the car, drives away as fast as he can.
In the rear view mirror, he sees the gas station clerk running after the car with a shotgun in his hand and screaming. Then he takes a look at his face in the rear view mirror, for the first time after he has lost his memory. His eyes are big, dark green, almost black. The skin is charcoal black, wrinkled, with what seems an infectious scar across the right side of his face, starting from below the eye, going down to his triangle-shaped small mouth. He looks down at his arms on the steering wheel. Four fingers at each arm, same wrinkled charcoal-black skin.
"What were those beings at the gas station? Why were they there?"
As hard as he tried to remember, nothing was coming back to him.
|
I've grown tired of reading my own stories. I'm looking forward to see how other people would write on this topic.
|
[WP] An alien force prepares to invade Earth, write from the perspective of the invading forces commanding officer.
|
As I examined the files, I found myself concerned. The indigenous civilisation was very advanced compared to our most recent adversaries. A disturbing amount of time and resources had been placed into the development of fission weapons. It was clear that their development was guided by war, as these Homo Sapiens - the name they give their species - had never traveled beyond their own moon, a mere 55,000 kohtars away. Yet the fission weapons this civilisation possessed could destroy itself many dozens of times over. Also, while their knowledge of energy weapons was somewhat limited, they possessed some of the strongest projectile weapons in this arm of the galaxy.
The Homo Sapiens have found many reasons to despise one another. Small evolutionary change had some Homo Sapiens with varying skin colours and facial features by which they divided themselves into 'races'. Some Homo Sapiens believed their own race to be superior to others - enslavement and even extermination had been prevalent in the past. Some with devotion to certain faiths - particularly one-god faiths - used violence to enforce their own beliefs, doctrines, and laws. On first examination, the Homo Sapiens may have appeared little more than well-armed savages. I saw something different. Something special.
Throughout history, even through all of the bloodshed, division, hatred, zealotry and stupidity, there had been Homo Sapiens who yearned to bring forth civilisation. There had been those who examined nature, examined disease, and examined the sky, to advance in science. There were those who had written great dramas, and great music, to advance in culture. Many of faith had been motivated to far more benevolent practices, such as peacemaking and charity. One of their most impressive feats is their 'Internet': A vast network of computers and satellites that connects much of the population and gives them access to oceans of information. I also took interest in the 'Voyager' craft, a drone that has traveled 2.5 billion kohtars from its homeworld.
The findings of the androids 'Mitt' and 'Kristen' made it clear - not only was war with the Homo Sapiens a dangerous endeavour, it was wholly unnecessary. They had much potential if only they would join our community. If they were happy to join our empire, I decided we should be happy to let them in.
It was then that Kollharen entered the quarters. I swiped aside the holographic diagram of the 'International Space Station' and turned to face her.
"2500 Assault Craft have entered outer orbit and await your command, Chairman."
"Tell them to fall back. Prepare the vanguard and a diplomatic envoy. I'll meet them at the bridge."
"But Chairman..."
"That's an order, Kollharen."
She sighed. "Yes, Chairman." She walked out.
I smiled. This was the beginning of a new age.
|
“Please read back the supply list,” I commanded Mas Kasier, and she bowed her head respectfully, her four slender arms tapping out the command codes against a holographic readout. Multiple bubbles emerged from the console with swarms of information in our visually spiraling language, as well as blue-prints and data readouts.
“Five Information disruption networks on frequency ‘Kul-Ahsja .008,’ ten thousand atomic weaponry dismantling micro-pods, eighteen behemoth all-purpose cloaks, seventy thousand armor piercing draft shells, ninety thousand recharging pulse blocks, twenty behemoth varying frequency shield generators, fifteen EMP generators, fifteen EMP reversal generators, and your pet Lugiume.”
“Why is Lugiume included on the major supplies list? He was supposed to go on my personal effects list,” I sighed. Mas Kasier apologized and quickly transferred the item. I stood and paced, my eyes looming out through the domed transparent viewing port- Genfirven’s green oceans and red grasses. “Why?” I asked Mas Kasier ponderously.
“It was just a simple mistake, I didn’t-“ she started.
“No, no- nevermind Lugiume, he’s irrelevant. Why did they launch an assault on us? Why use nuclear weapons against anyone?” I explained.
“We’ve made contact with other humans before, they always say the same thing- avoid the Americans,” conceded Mas Kasier. I shook my head. I knew she was right, and there was no part of me that wanted to go to war, but something had to be done.
|
I've grown tired of reading my own stories. I'm looking forward to see how other people would write on this topic.
|
[WP] An alien force prepares to invade Earth, write from the perspective of the invading forces commanding officer.
|
“Don’t get me wrong: I have nothing against humanity. Why, some of my best friends are humans. It’s just that there’s no talking with you people. We get together, we agree to terms, we sign a contract and then half of you go and break it within days of signing. Well, we don’t really work like that.”
I shivered with horror as I listened on during the King’s meeting with the last human delegation that came to try to convince us not to invade earth. They really had no idea how low our esteem of them was until then. It was made very clear to them that war was inevitable, in the most painful way possible to a human: humiliation.
“I really don’t see any point in discussing this any further. Nothing you do now is going to bring our dead operatives back to life. You had your chance at peace and you wasted it. Now, you will have war.”
Me, I could have told you this was going to happen twenty years ago. Humankind and Tahalkind are just not compatible. If anything, I would say we are a lethal combination. Humans are compassionate but arrogant, Tahals are reasonable but procedural. Each side could have known it was not going to work out well. Truthfully, I feel like many of Tahals understood this. When they signed the San Francisco treaty, they were really just indulging the human delusions of their own capacities. Mine never had any faith the peaceful cohabitation terms were going to be respected. That is why they made the part about consequences so very clear. It even says in the text itself that the side who breaks the terms exposes themselves to any and all forms of retribution.
“We have no numbers planned. Our goal has never been to eradicate your race. We can assure you that we will do our best to assure your gene pool stays diverse enough for future reproduction. However, the choice to fight us is with your assailants, not ours. For any weapon used against our troops, we will fire back until no one is firing at us again.”
Humans were arrogant. First, they thought none of their own would go and try to cross us, which of course they did. Then they thought we weren’t going to do anything about it, which of course we were going to. Finally, they sought we would give them a break from their moral dilemma by allowing them to rise up in defense of their own, despite their faults. Tahal philosophy in matters of conflict was very simple. You were either with us or against us. We were getting ready not only to wipe out those who had attacked us in the past, but also those who would stand in our way as we did.
The king watched the delegation leave and said to me: “Down on their knees, they don’t look so tall, now, do they?” I bowed. “They certainly don’t, your majesty,” I answered. He pointed to the command center and asked: “When will the fleet be ready?” I saw no use in lying. “It is ready, your majesty. We are at your command.” The king nodded. “Commence, then.” I bowed again and left the room.
This assignment had been far from easy. I had spent a great deal of my career here, twenty earth years, a tenth of my lifespan. I made friends, including some very dear ones. I even had sort of a family. I tried to keep the peace while knowing, deep inside, that we were eventually going to have to go in and wipe out most of these people. They would push until we had no other option. I would know. I lived together with a human for almost ten years. It gave me the insight I needed to make my decision.
“Prepare for descent,” I commanded the pilotes.
It also hurt my image as a leader among the young troops who had just come in to perform the take-over. I even caught another one just yesterday, talking about my human ties behind my back. I asked him if he wanted my spot as Commander, so he could sit my chair and order the death of millions, so he could show me what patriotism is like. Poor guy almost passed out. It was probably the first time an officer was even talking to him. Still, he was the only one who had the privilege of being publicly humiliated by one today. No doubt he would learn a lesson from this encounter.
“Let’s start around 30 North 20 East,” I ordered to tactical. The first charge went down in a few seconds. “Perfect hit. All defenses down.” This is the great thing about Tahals. Having none of the deformed human egos, we are much more capable of reflecting on our failures and our wrongs. The humans, on the other hand, think they can get away with anything, through blackmail, appeal to emotion, even force. None of this will work with us, neither the threats, nor the tears.
I turned to communications. “Any word from the UN?” The officer shook her head. I shrugged. “They have had plenty of time. We’ll just have to disarm the United States too.”
Today, they are going to learn that no one gets away with crimes against the Tahal kingdom. Those who fight us will down. Cities will burn, as many as need to. Humans are inconsequential. Today, we are teaching them consequences.
|
"It is not who you were born, but who you choose to be that matters." Kal'Ethon, Imperitus Secondus of the Fourth Expeditionary Fleet spoke, projected into the view screen implanted in the retinas of forty thousand of the Homeworld's finest warriors. They did not need his words to be brave, they were the best. Hand chosen from birth: Genetically modified, artificially enhanced, and trained mercilessly. Today would be their graduation day. Kal'Ethon was proud.
"Today is the final test. When this Cycle is over, you will be no longer be a part of the Commoner Caste. Be proud, few make it even this far." Kal'Ethon paused, remembering the thousands who failed to achieve the greatness required to reach the coveted Conqueror Caste. Their fate was always the same- execution for their weakness. He did not pity them, for they had attempted to reach for the stars and do their duty defending an over-stretched empire from the Great Doom that was destroying it. There was much honor, even in failing.
"Your mission today will be a challenge. This test will involve combined land, air, and sea missions. The targets must be eliminated completely with as little damage to the world and its infrastructure as possible."
Kal'Ethon's voice boomed out from all communication relays across the eighteen heavy craft assembled.
"When we attempt to eradicate the infestation that has devastated so many of our worlds, our task will be much the same as the test before you today. We will turn the tide of the Great Doom, and retake our magnificent cities, every single stone. Gentlemen, remember what we fight for, the salvation of the galaxy rests within our hands. Asish Balak Neruu." Kal'Ethon finished his speech with the customary phrase.
"For our families"
Then, as one, the batteries of the Fourth Expeditionary Fleet opened fire. This was the last step before greatness.
|
I've grown tired of reading my own stories. I'm looking forward to see how other people would write on this topic.
|
[WP] An alien force prepares to invade Earth, write from the perspective of the invading forces commanding officer.
|
Gork sighed and turned away from the final Battle Readiness report towards the large, concave window. It framed a small blue-green orb, hanging apparently motionless in the void. It seemed so placid, so calm. *They always do from this distance,* thought Gork.
He knew that life on the surface of this world would be anything but serene now. No doubt the armada he commanded was visible to the inhabitants below. Indeed, it was planned this way. Standard procedure dictated that the fleet remain in position in a highly conspicuous spot for three *nareks,* allowing the target population time to notice, wonder, and, ultimately, fear. Gork recalled a caveat imparted to him by an old instructor at Command School: *make fear an ally and you will never fight alone.*
This world had a lone satellite (*Quite unusual to have just one,* Gork thought) and it had been decided that maximum effect would be achieved if the armada positioned itself in front of it. For nearly three *nareks* now, the Earth-beings have had a view of Gork's fleet as it waited, the silhouettes of each massive ship visible against the glare of regolith.
And for nearly as long, Gork's ships had been receiving messages from these beings.
Questions, commands, pleas. Messages of hope and terror. It was all rather predictable to Gork now. As a younger officer, he had found these sorts of communications interesting. Now he didn't bother to read any of them. They made no difference.
There would be no response. No demands. No discussion would change their fate nor prepare them for it.
Once the invasion had begun, there would certainly be attempts to mollify the mysterious attackers. Calls for negotiations and peace. As the destruction continued, the Earth-beings would become desperate, stating that Gork and his comrades were welcome to take whatever resources they want so long as they leave.
*If only we could make you understand,* Gork thought, *that YOU are the resource we seek.*
His console chirped and brought him out of his reverie. It was a notification from the Nest Ship.
It read: *Final deliberations concluded. Begin assault.*
|
"It is not who you were born, but who you choose to be that matters." Kal'Ethon, Imperitus Secondus of the Fourth Expeditionary Fleet spoke, projected into the view screen implanted in the retinas of forty thousand of the Homeworld's finest warriors. They did not need his words to be brave, they were the best. Hand chosen from birth: Genetically modified, artificially enhanced, and trained mercilessly. Today would be their graduation day. Kal'Ethon was proud.
"Today is the final test. When this Cycle is over, you will be no longer be a part of the Commoner Caste. Be proud, few make it even this far." Kal'Ethon paused, remembering the thousands who failed to achieve the greatness required to reach the coveted Conqueror Caste. Their fate was always the same- execution for their weakness. He did not pity them, for they had attempted to reach for the stars and do their duty defending an over-stretched empire from the Great Doom that was destroying it. There was much honor, even in failing.
"Your mission today will be a challenge. This test will involve combined land, air, and sea missions. The targets must be eliminated completely with as little damage to the world and its infrastructure as possible."
Kal'Ethon's voice boomed out from all communication relays across the eighteen heavy craft assembled.
"When we attempt to eradicate the infestation that has devastated so many of our worlds, our task will be much the same as the test before you today. We will turn the tide of the Great Doom, and retake our magnificent cities, every single stone. Gentlemen, remember what we fight for, the salvation of the galaxy rests within our hands. Asish Balak Neruu." Kal'Ethon finished his speech with the customary phrase.
"For our families"
Then, as one, the batteries of the Fourth Expeditionary Fleet opened fire. This was the last step before greatness.
|
I've grown tired of reading my own stories. I'm looking forward to see how other people would write on this topic.
|
[WP] An alien force prepares to invade Earth, write from the perspective of the invading forces commanding officer.
|
As I examined the files, I found myself concerned. The indigenous civilisation was very advanced compared to our most recent adversaries. A disturbing amount of time and resources had been placed into the development of fission weapons. It was clear that their development was guided by war, as these Homo Sapiens - the name they give their species - had never traveled beyond their own moon, a mere 55,000 kohtars away. Yet the fission weapons this civilisation possessed could destroy itself many dozens of times over. Also, while their knowledge of energy weapons was somewhat limited, they possessed some of the strongest projectile weapons in this arm of the galaxy.
The Homo Sapiens have found many reasons to despise one another. Small evolutionary change had some Homo Sapiens with varying skin colours and facial features by which they divided themselves into 'races'. Some Homo Sapiens believed their own race to be superior to others - enslavement and even extermination had been prevalent in the past. Some with devotion to certain faiths - particularly one-god faiths - used violence to enforce their own beliefs, doctrines, and laws. On first examination, the Homo Sapiens may have appeared little more than well-armed savages. I saw something different. Something special.
Throughout history, even through all of the bloodshed, division, hatred, zealotry and stupidity, there had been Homo Sapiens who yearned to bring forth civilisation. There had been those who examined nature, examined disease, and examined the sky, to advance in science. There were those who had written great dramas, and great music, to advance in culture. Many of faith had been motivated to far more benevolent practices, such as peacemaking and charity. One of their most impressive feats is their 'Internet': A vast network of computers and satellites that connects much of the population and gives them access to oceans of information. I also took interest in the 'Voyager' craft, a drone that has traveled 2.5 billion kohtars from its homeworld.
The findings of the androids 'Mitt' and 'Kristen' made it clear - not only was war with the Homo Sapiens a dangerous endeavour, it was wholly unnecessary. They had much potential if only they would join our community. If they were happy to join our empire, I decided we should be happy to let them in.
It was then that Kollharen entered the quarters. I swiped aside the holographic diagram of the 'International Space Station' and turned to face her.
"2500 Assault Craft have entered outer orbit and await your command, Chairman."
"Tell them to fall back. Prepare the vanguard and a diplomatic envoy. I'll meet them at the bridge."
"But Chairman..."
"That's an order, Kollharen."
She sighed. "Yes, Chairman." She walked out.
I smiled. This was the beginning of a new age.
|
"It is not who you were born, but who you choose to be that matters." Kal'Ethon, Imperitus Secondus of the Fourth Expeditionary Fleet spoke, projected into the view screen implanted in the retinas of forty thousand of the Homeworld's finest warriors. They did not need his words to be brave, they were the best. Hand chosen from birth: Genetically modified, artificially enhanced, and trained mercilessly. Today would be their graduation day. Kal'Ethon was proud.
"Today is the final test. When this Cycle is over, you will be no longer be a part of the Commoner Caste. Be proud, few make it even this far." Kal'Ethon paused, remembering the thousands who failed to achieve the greatness required to reach the coveted Conqueror Caste. Their fate was always the same- execution for their weakness. He did not pity them, for they had attempted to reach for the stars and do their duty defending an over-stretched empire from the Great Doom that was destroying it. There was much honor, even in failing.
"Your mission today will be a challenge. This test will involve combined land, air, and sea missions. The targets must be eliminated completely with as little damage to the world and its infrastructure as possible."
Kal'Ethon's voice boomed out from all communication relays across the eighteen heavy craft assembled.
"When we attempt to eradicate the infestation that has devastated so many of our worlds, our task will be much the same as the test before you today. We will turn the tide of the Great Doom, and retake our magnificent cities, every single stone. Gentlemen, remember what we fight for, the salvation of the galaxy rests within our hands. Asish Balak Neruu." Kal'Ethon finished his speech with the customary phrase.
"For our families"
Then, as one, the batteries of the Fourth Expeditionary Fleet opened fire. This was the last step before greatness.
|
I've grown tired of reading my own stories. I'm looking forward to see how other people would write on this topic.
|
[WP] An alien force prepares to invade Earth, write from the perspective of the invading forces commanding officer.
|
As I examined the files, I found myself concerned. The indigenous civilisation was very advanced compared to our most recent adversaries. A disturbing amount of time and resources had been placed into the development of fission weapons. It was clear that their development was guided by war, as these Homo Sapiens - the name they give their species - had never traveled beyond their own moon, a mere 55,000 kohtars away. Yet the fission weapons this civilisation possessed could destroy itself many dozens of times over. Also, while their knowledge of energy weapons was somewhat limited, they possessed some of the strongest projectile weapons in this arm of the galaxy.
The Homo Sapiens have found many reasons to despise one another. Small evolutionary change had some Homo Sapiens with varying skin colours and facial features by which they divided themselves into 'races'. Some Homo Sapiens believed their own race to be superior to others - enslavement and even extermination had been prevalent in the past. Some with devotion to certain faiths - particularly one-god faiths - used violence to enforce their own beliefs, doctrines, and laws. On first examination, the Homo Sapiens may have appeared little more than well-armed savages. I saw something different. Something special.
Throughout history, even through all of the bloodshed, division, hatred, zealotry and stupidity, there had been Homo Sapiens who yearned to bring forth civilisation. There had been those who examined nature, examined disease, and examined the sky, to advance in science. There were those who had written great dramas, and great music, to advance in culture. Many of faith had been motivated to far more benevolent practices, such as peacemaking and charity. One of their most impressive feats is their 'Internet': A vast network of computers and satellites that connects much of the population and gives them access to oceans of information. I also took interest in the 'Voyager' craft, a drone that has traveled 2.5 billion kohtars from its homeworld.
The findings of the androids 'Mitt' and 'Kristen' made it clear - not only was war with the Homo Sapiens a dangerous endeavour, it was wholly unnecessary. They had much potential if only they would join our community. If they were happy to join our empire, I decided we should be happy to let them in.
It was then that Kollharen entered the quarters. I swiped aside the holographic diagram of the 'International Space Station' and turned to face her.
"2500 Assault Craft have entered outer orbit and await your command, Chairman."
"Tell them to fall back. Prepare the vanguard and a diplomatic envoy. I'll meet them at the bridge."
"But Chairman..."
"That's an order, Kollharen."
She sighed. "Yes, Chairman." She walked out.
I smiled. This was the beginning of a new age.
|
“Don’t get me wrong: I have nothing against humanity. Why, some of my best friends are humans. It’s just that there’s no talking with you people. We get together, we agree to terms, we sign a contract and then half of you go and break it within days of signing. Well, we don’t really work like that.”
I shivered with horror as I listened on during the King’s meeting with the last human delegation that came to try to convince us not to invade earth. They really had no idea how low our esteem of them was until then. It was made very clear to them that war was inevitable, in the most painful way possible to a human: humiliation.
“I really don’t see any point in discussing this any further. Nothing you do now is going to bring our dead operatives back to life. You had your chance at peace and you wasted it. Now, you will have war.”
Me, I could have told you this was going to happen twenty years ago. Humankind and Tahalkind are just not compatible. If anything, I would say we are a lethal combination. Humans are compassionate but arrogant, Tahals are reasonable but procedural. Each side could have known it was not going to work out well. Truthfully, I feel like many of Tahals understood this. When they signed the San Francisco treaty, they were really just indulging the human delusions of their own capacities. Mine never had any faith the peaceful cohabitation terms were going to be respected. That is why they made the part about consequences so very clear. It even says in the text itself that the side who breaks the terms exposes themselves to any and all forms of retribution.
“We have no numbers planned. Our goal has never been to eradicate your race. We can assure you that we will do our best to assure your gene pool stays diverse enough for future reproduction. However, the choice to fight us is with your assailants, not ours. For any weapon used against our troops, we will fire back until no one is firing at us again.”
Humans were arrogant. First, they thought none of their own would go and try to cross us, which of course they did. Then they thought we weren’t going to do anything about it, which of course we were going to. Finally, they sought we would give them a break from their moral dilemma by allowing them to rise up in defense of their own, despite their faults. Tahal philosophy in matters of conflict was very simple. You were either with us or against us. We were getting ready not only to wipe out those who had attacked us in the past, but also those who would stand in our way as we did.
The king watched the delegation leave and said to me: “Down on their knees, they don’t look so tall, now, do they?” I bowed. “They certainly don’t, your majesty,” I answered. He pointed to the command center and asked: “When will the fleet be ready?” I saw no use in lying. “It is ready, your majesty. We are at your command.” The king nodded. “Commence, then.” I bowed again and left the room.
This assignment had been far from easy. I had spent a great deal of my career here, twenty earth years, a tenth of my lifespan. I made friends, including some very dear ones. I even had sort of a family. I tried to keep the peace while knowing, deep inside, that we were eventually going to have to go in and wipe out most of these people. They would push until we had no other option. I would know. I lived together with a human for almost ten years. It gave me the insight I needed to make my decision.
“Prepare for descent,” I commanded the pilotes.
It also hurt my image as a leader among the young troops who had just come in to perform the take-over. I even caught another one just yesterday, talking about my human ties behind my back. I asked him if he wanted my spot as Commander, so he could sit my chair and order the death of millions, so he could show me what patriotism is like. Poor guy almost passed out. It was probably the first time an officer was even talking to him. Still, he was the only one who had the privilege of being publicly humiliated by one today. No doubt he would learn a lesson from this encounter.
“Let’s start around 30 North 20 East,” I ordered to tactical. The first charge went down in a few seconds. “Perfect hit. All defenses down.” This is the great thing about Tahals. Having none of the deformed human egos, we are much more capable of reflecting on our failures and our wrongs. The humans, on the other hand, think they can get away with anything, through blackmail, appeal to emotion, even force. None of this will work with us, neither the threats, nor the tears.
I turned to communications. “Any word from the UN?” The officer shook her head. I shrugged. “They have had plenty of time. We’ll just have to disarm the United States too.”
Today, they are going to learn that no one gets away with crimes against the Tahal kingdom. Those who fight us will down. Cities will burn, as many as need to. Humans are inconsequential. Today, we are teaching them consequences.
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I've grown tired of reading my own stories. I'm looking forward to see how other people would write on this topic.
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[WP] An alien force prepares to invade Earth, write from the perspective of the invading forces commanding officer.
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As I examined the files, I found myself concerned. The indigenous civilisation was very advanced compared to our most recent adversaries. A disturbing amount of time and resources had been placed into the development of fission weapons. It was clear that their development was guided by war, as these Homo Sapiens - the name they give their species - had never traveled beyond their own moon, a mere 55,000 kohtars away. Yet the fission weapons this civilisation possessed could destroy itself many dozens of times over. Also, while their knowledge of energy weapons was somewhat limited, they possessed some of the strongest projectile weapons in this arm of the galaxy.
The Homo Sapiens have found many reasons to despise one another. Small evolutionary change had some Homo Sapiens with varying skin colours and facial features by which they divided themselves into 'races'. Some Homo Sapiens believed their own race to be superior to others - enslavement and even extermination had been prevalent in the past. Some with devotion to certain faiths - particularly one-god faiths - used violence to enforce their own beliefs, doctrines, and laws. On first examination, the Homo Sapiens may have appeared little more than well-armed savages. I saw something different. Something special.
Throughout history, even through all of the bloodshed, division, hatred, zealotry and stupidity, there had been Homo Sapiens who yearned to bring forth civilisation. There had been those who examined nature, examined disease, and examined the sky, to advance in science. There were those who had written great dramas, and great music, to advance in culture. Many of faith had been motivated to far more benevolent practices, such as peacemaking and charity. One of their most impressive feats is their 'Internet': A vast network of computers and satellites that connects much of the population and gives them access to oceans of information. I also took interest in the 'Voyager' craft, a drone that has traveled 2.5 billion kohtars from its homeworld.
The findings of the androids 'Mitt' and 'Kristen' made it clear - not only was war with the Homo Sapiens a dangerous endeavour, it was wholly unnecessary. They had much potential if only they would join our community. If they were happy to join our empire, I decided we should be happy to let them in.
It was then that Kollharen entered the quarters. I swiped aside the holographic diagram of the 'International Space Station' and turned to face her.
"2500 Assault Craft have entered outer orbit and await your command, Chairman."
"Tell them to fall back. Prepare the vanguard and a diplomatic envoy. I'll meet them at the bridge."
"But Chairman..."
"That's an order, Kollharen."
She sighed. "Yes, Chairman." She walked out.
I smiled. This was the beginning of a new age.
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Gork sighed and turned away from the final Battle Readiness report towards the large, concave window. It framed a small blue-green orb, hanging apparently motionless in the void. It seemed so placid, so calm. *They always do from this distance,* thought Gork.
He knew that life on the surface of this world would be anything but serene now. No doubt the armada he commanded was visible to the inhabitants below. Indeed, it was planned this way. Standard procedure dictated that the fleet remain in position in a highly conspicuous spot for three *nareks,* allowing the target population time to notice, wonder, and, ultimately, fear. Gork recalled a caveat imparted to him by an old instructor at Command School: *make fear an ally and you will never fight alone.*
This world had a lone satellite (*Quite unusual to have just one,* Gork thought) and it had been decided that maximum effect would be achieved if the armada positioned itself in front of it. For nearly three *nareks* now, the Earth-beings have had a view of Gork's fleet as it waited, the silhouettes of each massive ship visible against the glare of regolith.
And for nearly as long, Gork's ships had been receiving messages from these beings.
Questions, commands, pleas. Messages of hope and terror. It was all rather predictable to Gork now. As a younger officer, he had found these sorts of communications interesting. Now he didn't bother to read any of them. They made no difference.
There would be no response. No demands. No discussion would change their fate nor prepare them for it.
Once the invasion had begun, there would certainly be attempts to mollify the mysterious attackers. Calls for negotiations and peace. As the destruction continued, the Earth-beings would become desperate, stating that Gork and his comrades were welcome to take whatever resources they want so long as they leave.
*If only we could make you understand,* Gork thought, *that YOU are the resource we seek.*
His console chirped and brought him out of his reverie. It was a notification from the Nest Ship.
It read: *Final deliberations concluded. Begin assault.*
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Write about anything--their moment of realization, their reflections, what they do in the aftermath, what they think about 10 years in the future after the cult is long gone, etc. Completely up to you!
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[WP] A cult leader realizes she/he is wrong about everything.
|
“My Children, please…” I began. But I was drowned out, ignored. Forty-eight years, for nothing.
It was my decision that had done it. But I saw no other way. Thomas had been with me the longest, but he was a devotee, not a leader. Emma was wise, but lacked a blooming of genuine compassion. Jeremy was kind, but not skillful. And on and on. And now with all this infighting… no one individual was prepared to lead the community, at least I knew I was right about that.
“Michael has been having an affair with Laura Donaldson for nearly a decade! And you want him to be our next Teacher!”
Forty-eight years. The temerity of it, really. To think I was the one chosen to teach the unteachable. To express the inexpressible. The audacity to think I could convey that ineffable truth. And most of all, the naivety, to think that what I was saying was penetrating.
“You want Alejandro to lead? He has no true understanding, even a pure novice could see that!”
The voices rose and rose and I waited for a lull that never came. I signaled I had heard enough, raising my arms, palms outward and waited for the hush. 5 seconds. 10 seconds. Nothing. The fighting continued. Intensified even. I spoke again, beseeching them “Enough, children…” But my once booming voice had grown coarse and weak. 15 seconds. 20. Palms still outstretched. 25 seconds. My commanding pose becoming a plea. 30 seconds. Please. 35.
Slowly, I lowered my hands. 48 years, for this.
I turned and shuffled towards the back corner of the temple – my temple – the temple I had built both in toil and spirit. At the door I turned and looked back at my now-empty cushion, to see one follower lunge at another.
The door shut slowly behind me, muffling the shouts and accusations inside. There was no other sound, only silence. I walked down to the stream and wept.
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Commenting to say I'm using Jim Jones for this one when I get home and if any of you **steal** my idea I will frown at the computer screen *heavily*.
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What is the one phrase that would push someone - a functional and solid member of society - from the parapets of sanity, and into the dark pits of madness? Is it some news about their health? Perhaps a call from the police? Is it something their child says? Or perhaps, it's what is never said. The possibilities are endless, but let's see where this goes. As a side note, I would love to see this demonstrated in some sort of poetry, but I'm also open to short story. If you do go this route, try to keep it less than, or up to ~500 words.
Happy creating!
|
[WP] It has often been said that we are all one sentence away from insanity...
|
I used to be a normal man, the unassuming kind,
A guy that oft’ kept to himself within his simple mind.
Until the day I met that girl, down by the riverside;
She opened up her heart to me, and soon became my bride.
Our wedding night was wonderful, no other night compares,
And after all the guests had left, I whisked her up the stairs.
But something was amiss that night. I’d had far too much wine
To carry her successfully; the fall shattered her spine.
------
And in that moment, as I watched her slowly slip from life,
My muddled mind became unglued: I’d have another wife.
That night must now be ten years back. I’ve since corralled eighteen,
Each one a blushing beauty, each a token for my queen.
The garden that I made for her, our solemn lover’s pledge;
Its fertile soil given life by more than water’s edge.
But all that’s far behind me now, the water and the wives,
The garden that I built my love will bury no more lives.
------
And so I sit here telling you, my wrists wrapped up in chains,
The story of my awful life; not one good thing remains.
I left behind that normal man when I came here to rot;
So don’t you say, “I’m sorry,” ‘cause, deep down, I know I’m not.
|
It was completely on a whim that I went into the fair. It was a deviation from my usual routine: wake up alone, go to work alone, come home and eat frozen pizza. The shabbily dressed fortune teller in the dim, dusty tent turned over a card and told me, "No one can judge your deeds in this life, no matter how terrible they are." I thought of my son's mother. Of my boss. Of my gum-snapping cubicle-mate.
I imagined a lifetime of freedom. To choose my path, to rid myself of the obstacles between me and a happy, peaceful life.
I took the card with me, as a memento of that instant where the world opened up at last.
|
What is the one phrase that would push someone - a functional and solid member of society - from the parapets of sanity, and into the dark pits of madness? Is it some news about their health? Perhaps a call from the police? Is it something their child says? Or perhaps, it's what is never said. The possibilities are endless, but let's see where this goes. As a side note, I would love to see this demonstrated in some sort of poetry, but I'm also open to short story. If you do go this route, try to keep it less than, or up to ~500 words.
Happy creating!
|
[WP] It has often been said that we are all one sentence away from insanity...
|
As I crawled from the flaming wreckage, I could smell the burning flesh of my wife and children, and see their mangled remains. Once extricated, I dragged my shattered body towards the other car, which had upended in the roadside ditch. Its driver came bounding toward me, unharmed and unaffected. The reek of booze overpowered even the smell of burning. "Hey man," he said, "*Know where I can get a drink around here?*"
|
"What are you, but skin, blood and bones? Thoughts, feelings and emotions all tied up in a gooey, nature freindly disposable package. What makes you better than me? Different? You defend this city. They worship you. I prune this city and THEY HATE ME!"
"Why do I kill? Why do I maim, torture and use my cell phone in theaters?! That's an easy answer."
"We are alone."
"Utterly and terribly and wonderfully alone. Sure we say we have family, have friends and lovers, but what use are they when your drowning in an ocean? Maybe as rafts, until the sharks start circling. Then that's it! Bye bye. You're kaput and everyone forgets about you after a year. YOU DIE AND THERE IS NOTHING LEFT!"
"I kill them to put them out of their misery. Sure they may beg for mercy, but I grant them the kindest mercy. The utter release from the fact that *we are alone.* "
"But people like you and me, we put a mark on this world. No one will forget us."
"And I know you'll always be there for me, two peas in a pod you and me! Two bats in the belfry!"
"As long as one of us is alive, we'll never be alone. HAHAHAHAHA"
|
What is the one phrase that would push someone - a functional and solid member of society - from the parapets of sanity, and into the dark pits of madness? Is it some news about their health? Perhaps a call from the police? Is it something their child says? Or perhaps, it's what is never said. The possibilities are endless, but let's see where this goes. As a side note, I would love to see this demonstrated in some sort of poetry, but I'm also open to short story. If you do go this route, try to keep it less than, or up to ~500 words.
Happy creating!
|
[WP] It has often been said that we are all one sentence away from insanity...
|
I remember it quite clearly you know. As the bills started to stack up, and the hours got cut, and the world laughed at me something magical began. I laughed back. Suddenly everything made sense with the simple realization that there is no right and wrong. *There's only what you're capable of getting away with.*
|
"What are you, but skin, blood and bones? Thoughts, feelings and emotions all tied up in a gooey, nature freindly disposable package. What makes you better than me? Different? You defend this city. They worship you. I prune this city and THEY HATE ME!"
"Why do I kill? Why do I maim, torture and use my cell phone in theaters?! That's an easy answer."
"We are alone."
"Utterly and terribly and wonderfully alone. Sure we say we have family, have friends and lovers, but what use are they when your drowning in an ocean? Maybe as rafts, until the sharks start circling. Then that's it! Bye bye. You're kaput and everyone forgets about you after a year. YOU DIE AND THERE IS NOTHING LEFT!"
"I kill them to put them out of their misery. Sure they may beg for mercy, but I grant them the kindest mercy. The utter release from the fact that *we are alone.* "
"But people like you and me, we put a mark on this world. No one will forget us."
"And I know you'll always be there for me, two peas in a pod you and me! Two bats in the belfry!"
"As long as one of us is alive, we'll never be alone. HAHAHAHAHA"
|
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