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[WP] Your girlfriend (or boyfriend) is locked in a fight with their evil clone, both claiming to be the real one. You have a gun with a single bullet, but despite your better judgement, you'd rather try and find a way to keep both of them around.
|
The dating game had been rough to me. I'm not the most attractive of men (understatement of the year), I've got no money, and my few skills translate into gaming and writing stories. Not prime relationship material, but when I met Carol six months ago, I thought my luck had finally turned around. She was pretty, witty, and sardonic about the same things I was sardonic about, so we got along. She also didn't mind that I was overweight and ugly, which I think made her a unicorn.
There was a catch. She said she had some crazy ex-coworkers, and that that may become an issue. I didn't really care and figured she was joking, but when Carol came home from work one afternoon, she merely rocked back and forth and watched me move throughout the room. "What do you want to do today, baby?" I asked.
"I want.." She paused, taking off her shoes. "... to drown a man." She spoke with a venomous tone and I paused, raising a brow. "I want to hold his head under the water of a bathtub until the bubbles stop." She held up her hands and her lips pulled back, her wicked smile forming the dimples that I recognized on her cheeks. The door kicked open, and Carol was standing there, and immediately, she charged Carol and punched her in the head, and then they began a fight.
Why did clones have to wear the same clothing and constantly look the same? Was this some kind of supernatural cloning business or some kind of evil corporation clone situation? When they broke my television and three chairs in the fight, I knew I had to do something. Rummaging through my rapidly-being-destroyed bedroom, I opened my safe, removing a small pistol.
With a shaky hand, I put a round into the soft tile ceiling of my home. "Hey! Stop fighting, let's sort this out." I aimed the gun between the two. "I'm pretty sure the normal Carol isn't big on drowning people or ..whatever, so I'm going to ask some questions, SO STOP FIGHTING." I took aim at the Carol to the right.
"You said you wanted to adopt a pet. Which one?"
Carol pushed her hair from her face and planted a hand against a shiner on her right eye. "I want to rescue a baby Pitbull." She gave a now, smiling pleasantly. I opened my mouth to speak, and that smile and stare went all Kubrick. "and I want to train it to attack strangers."
"Okay, that's evil Carol. Good- .." I aimed the gun to my right. "... Wait, okay, what should we do with the evil Carol? I.." My hands shake. Carol glared at me, motioning over to her evil clone.
"Shoot her!" She yelled. "I can't believe we're having this conversation! Shoot her in the face!"
I glanced over to Evil Carol and lifted the gun, cocking the hammer back.
"Polyamorous."
"Poly-awhat?"
"I want to date you and her." Carol pointed at her less-psychopathic clone. "We both love you, we can both share you."
I bite my lower lip, glancing over to the original Carol.
"She wants to train a dog to attack people!"
"But ... she... she wants to .."
"You're fucking unbelievable!" Carol snapped at me, storming out of my house. Evil Carol cracked a wide grin, clapping her hands.
I took a slow breath and turned back to Evil Carol. "So.. uh. You still want to-" Her foot swung up, hitting me between the legs. I drop my gun, gasp out, and kneel, holding myself and going prone from the pain. I saw her manicured hand pick up the fallen Glock and heard her footsteps rush outside. A car screeches to a stop. A gunshot, and the same car speeding off after a moment.
"....Aww, man.." I cry out. "This is the last fucking time I use Christian Mingle.com."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
eHarmony.com - We don't have beautiful people with evil clones!
| 24 | 0 | 201 | 145,284 |
[MP] Friendly Fire
|
*** Automat Defense System v1.07.24 ***
*** Battery ID: 192 ***
*** Battery Loc: 38.51N 77.03W ***
Current time: 2017-09-30 21:41:48 UTC
Loading...
Loading...
Loading...
Please give credentials
>
No response given within alloted timeout.
Contacting combat network for further instruction...
Response: DEFENSE CONDITION 1. Engaging emergency defenses. Operator requirement bypassed.
Enumerating targets...
Enumeration complete.
# Designation IFF Bear Dist Spd Status
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
T1: UH-240 'Tonkawa' A1-476 032 3.5 km 40 km/h FRIENDLY
T2: I/F-418 'Dragonfly' 2418-B 315 24.8 km 2070 km/h HOSTILE
T3: I/F-418 'Dragonfly' 2418-C 317 25.2 km 1960 km/h HOSTILE
T4: NB-151 'Thor' 2765-A 226 25.4 km 1250 km/h HOSTILE
T5: I/F-418 'Dragonfly' 2418-A 316 25.7 km 2060 km/h HOSTILE
T6: NB-151 'Thor' 2765-C 222 28.1 km 1310 km/h HOSTILE
T7: NB-151 'Thor' 1442-E 189 28.8 km 1300 km/h HOSTILE
T8: NB-151 'Thor' 1442-F 193 29.3 km 1310 km/h HOSTILE
T9: SS-48 'Drakon' (NO IFF) 298 48.4 km 24500 km/h HOSTILE
ENTER for more... (47 total)
Orders?
>
Orders?
>
Orders?
>
Operator nonresponsive.
Emergency - Multiple hostiles detected.
Engaging CONT-RED protocol.
--CONT-RED Protocol Designation--
Order priority:
1) Engage hostile missiles
-Free Fire enabled - No authorization needed
-Nuclear weapons enabled
-Allowed weapon yields: Up to (no limit)
-Prioritize: altitude (lowest)
2) Engage hostile bombers
-Free Fire enabled - No authorization needed
-Nuclear weapons enabled
-Allowed weapon yields: Up to (no limit)
-Prioritize: distance (closest)
3) Defend friendly targets
-Engage hostiles within (10) km
-Free Fire enabled - No authorization needed
-Nuclear weapons disabled
4) Engage hostile aircraft
-Free Fire enabled - No authorization needed
-Nuclear weapons enabled
-Allowed weapon yields: Up to (no limit)
-Prioritize: distance (closest)
Override Level: RED
--End Designation--
LEVEL 2 ALERT - All Systems now active.
EVENT LOG
[2017-09-30 21:45:13 UTC] Priority 1 - Engaging T9: SS-48 'Drakon' (NO IFF)
[2017-09-30 21:45:14 UTC] Silo 1-1 launch
[2017-09-30 21:45:16 UTC] Silo 1-2 launch
>
[2017-09-30 21:45:16 UTC] Priority 1 - Engaging T17: SS-48 'Drakon' (NO IFF)
[2017-09-30 21:45:18 UTC] Silo 1-3 launch
[2017-09-30 21:45:19 UTC] Silo 1-4 launch
>
[2017-09-30 21:45:19 UTC] Priority 1 - Engaging T22: SS-48 'Drakon' (NO IFF)
[2017-09-30 21:45:20 UTC] Silo 1-5 launch
[2017-09-30 21:45:22 UTC] Silo 1-6 launch
>
[2017-09-30 21:45:22 UTC] Priority 1 - Engaging T24: SS-48 'Drakon' (NO IFF)
[2017-09-30 21:45:27 UTC] Silo 1-7 launch
[2017-09-30 21:45:29 UTC] Silo 1-8 launch
>
[2017-09-30 21:45:29 UTC] Priority 1 - Engaging T31: SS-48 'Drakon' (NO IFF)
[2017-09-30 21:45:38 UTC] Silo 2-1 launch
>
[2017-09-30 21:45:38 UTC] Priority 1 - Engaging T38: SS-48 'Drakon' (NO IFF)
[2017-09-30 21:45:48 UTC] Silo 2-2 launch
>
[2017-09-30 21:45:48 UTC] Priority 1 - Engaging T46: SS-48 'Drakon' (NO IFF)
[2017-09-30 21:45:57 UTC] Silo 2-3 launch
>
[2017-09-30 21:46:06 UTC] Priority 2 - Engaging T4: NB-151 'Thor' 2765-A
[2017-09-30 21:46:07 UTC] SAM Battery 1-1 launch
[2017-09-30 21:46:07 UTC] SAM Battery 1-2 launch
>
[2017-09-30 21:46:14 UTC] Priority 2 - Engaging T6: NB-151 'Thor' 2765-C
[2017-09-30 21:46:16 UTC] SAM Battery 1-3 launch
[2017-09-30 21:46:16 UTC] SAM Battery 1-4 launch
>
[2017-09-30 21:46:16 UTC] Priority 2 - Engaging T7: NB-151 'Thor' 1442-E
[2017-09-30 21:46:16 UTC] Priority 2 - Engaging T8: NB-151 'Thor' 1442-F
[2017-09-30 21:46:28 UTC] Silo 2-4 launch
>
[2017-09-30 21:46:31 UTC] LEVEL 1 ALERT - NUCLEAR DETONATION DETECTED
>
[2017-09-30 21:46:34 UTC] ERR: IFF system self check FAIL
[2017-09-30 21:46:34 UTC] ERR: Radar 1 system self check FAIL
[2017-09-30 21:46:34 UTC] ERR: Radar 2 system self check FAIL
[2017-09-30 21:46:34 UTC] ERR: Radar 3 system self check FAIL
[2017-09-30 21:46:35 UTC] ERR: Silo 1 launch controller diagnostic FAIL
[2017-09-30 21:46:35 UTC] ERR: Silo 2 launch controller diagnostic FAIL
[2017-09-30 21:46:35 UTC] ERR: Silo 3 CONTACT LOST
[2017-09-30 21:46:35 UTC] ERR: Silo 4 launch controller diagnostic FAIL
>
[2017-09-30 21:46:35 UTC] LEVEL 2 ALERT - SYSTEM REBOOT ENGAGED
[2017-09-30 21:46:36 UTC] Shutting down...
| 2 | 0 | 5 | 112,164 |
[WP] Your Happy Place is being invaded by the personifications of your pet peeves. Things that make you happy are here to defend it.
|
I press play on my iPod and close my eyes as I lay back on a blanket. This is my happy place. I come here every other Friday on my extra day off, and the calmness and relaxation I feel cannot rival any other feeling of pleasure. The island is covered in trees and has lush grass that ends at a cliff that overlooks the sea. I feel the sea breeze against my skin and I run my fingers through the grass as a serene smile spreads across my face. I occasionally open my eyes to catch glances of the clouds gently drifting above or to see the leaves on the towering trees tremble in the light gusts. The sun beams down on me and I can feel my skin absorb the warmth.
Suddenly I feel a cold pressure against my arms. My eyes snap open and a lop-eared bunny is at my side. My eyes well with tears and I try to contain my squeals of joy when suddenly it speaks.
"You need to wake up, Kate." he says. His voice sounds like Barry White, and I begin to stammer.
"What? How? Wh-,"
"There is no time to explain. My name is Arnold and I need you to get up," he says urgently. "Look over the cliff."
I stand up and walk to the edge of the cliff. I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand to suppress my scream. As I overlook the cliff, I can see a swarm of people on the beach. But they aren't just people. They are a nightmare.
I squint as I try to make out the features of the people. There are men in UFC shirts and others with too-baggy jeans. They have meticulously groomed facial hair and have even shaved lines into their eyebrows. There is also a group of teenage girls taking selfies and comparing infinity symbol and song lyric tattoos. The girls are squealing and asking stupid questions and the men are loudly repeating unfunny jokes and are arguing about who is the most muscular.
"I play football, bro. I don't need to care about learning! Jesus decides my fate."
The words echoed up the sides of a cliff and I looked back at Arnold with a fearful look.
"I thought it was just legend, but somehow it seems to be true. The Douchebags have come to the island." Arnold says solemnly.
"What do we do?" I ask in a panic. "They are going to destroy this place!"
"That's what they do, Kate. Doucebags ruin everything," Arnold replies. The bushes behind Arnold start to shake, and more woodland creatures appear. Baby deer, bunnies, cats, puppies and hedgehogs stand in a line. "That's why we are here to help."
"But there are so many douchebags!" I cry.
"It's your destiny, Kate. You need to lead us into battle against the douchebags so you can re-claim your happy place."
"But how will we do it?" I ask.
"The scientists in our forest defense lab have been working for a long time on ways to defend the island," says Arnold. "And we think that we have some things that will help." Two deer wheel out a large machine.
"What is that?" I ask.
"It's a summoning machine," says Arnold. "It will summon any hero you need to protect our island. And it is up to you to be the commander."
The deer presses its hoof against the power switch, activating the machine. The machine begins to glow. "Just speak to it, Kate. The machine will do the rest." the deer says.
I walk up to the machine. "I call upon the Hero of Time, Link!"
A silhouette appears on the platform next to the machine. I can see the outline of a person begin to form, and soon, Twilight Princess version Link is in front of me, staring at me. I gasp.
"We need more heroes!" cries a hedgehog.
"I call upon Thor from The Avengers and Pikachu!" I exclaim. Thor appears and Pikachu rests on his shoulder. They stand next to Link. I blush.
"A swell team, commander," says Arnold. "But you know we are missing one last hero."
"I know," I reply. "We need Sailor Moon!"
"No, commander," Arnold says quietly. "You *are* Sailor Moon!" He hands me the locket. "You know what to do," he says with a smile.
"MOON PRISM POWER!" I yell, and a long transformation sequence ensues.
"Now is the time to attack!" says Arnold.
I turn to face the group. "Thor, we need to use you as a distraction."
He nods and approaches the cliff. He looks back at me and smiles. "Cover your ears, team."
Thor flies down to the group of girls and they begin to scream incessantly.
"Oh my god, I am so posting this on insta!" the girls say in unison.
"Woodland creatures, load the cannons with chocolate and cheesecake!" I shout.
The bunnies gnaw off the restraints and a wave of sweets is released and lands upon the teenage girls. The screams of excitement have turned to screams of horror. "Oh my god, nooooo!" we hear. "I can't eat gluten, irregardless of the fact that I am not gluten-intolerant!" and they are suffocated by their insufferable self-centred-ness.
I smile as Thor flies back up the cliff. "That takes care of that," he says.
"Now for the male douchebags!" I say confidently. I look over the bridge, but the males have begun a battle tactic of their own. While we were battling the teenage girls, they formed a mountain of litter. We hear a distant rumble and an over-sized truck begins to climb up the side of Litter Mountain.
"They are getting too close to us. Link! You take care of them!" I shout.
Link performs a spin attack and gets rid of Litter Mountain, then sets down a series of bombs down. One man walks towards Link and begins to get in his face.
"Bro, you know the only bombs we like are jagerbombs!" he says as he flexes, his neck veins protruding.
Link hookshots up to a tree as the bomb goes off, displacing the males.
We all let out a sigh of relief.
"We did it," says Arnold.
"Pika, pika?" says Pikachu.
"What?" I ask. Pikachu points out to the sea.
"Oh god, no." I say.
A wave of hippies are crawling out of the ocean.
"Of course," says Arnold. "Dirty hippies are the last phase of the legend. We need to beat them!"
I look over the edge again. The smell of thai food and dreadlocks wafts up the side of the cliff. They are holding picket signs and are protesting GMOs. "Veganism is the only way to be healthy!" some chant. "Buy local or die!" chant others as they take MDMA.
"What do we do?" I ask, panicked. "We need another hero!"
"I think I can help," says a voice from the forest. I spin around and gasp. Standing there is Alexi Laiho from Children of Bodom. "I just need a place to plug in my guitar."
"Of course!" exclaims Arnold. "Hippies hate metal music!"
"Pikachu, use thunderbolt, lightly!" I cry.
Through magic, Pikachu's thunderbolt provides a power source for Alexi's guitar.
"Any requests?" he asks slyly.
He begins to shred and I look over the cliff. The hippies are covering their ears and cowering. "This is so unrighteous!" they cry.
The hippies begin to retreat into the water. "Quick, Kate! You need to finish them off!" cries Alexi. I nod.
I lift up my crescent moon wand. "Moon healing escalation!" I shout.
The hippies vanish in a flash of pink light. I feel the sea breeze against my skin again and the sun comes out from behind the clouds. The island is saved.
| 1 | 0 | 12 | 85,229 |
[WP] The US goverment takes over Comcast and the government finds a switch to increase the internet from 3 Mbps to 1 terabite per second, explain what follows
|
It's funny, I had something almost like this stored on my computer from something I wrote before. Edited it a little bit to fit your prompt better, enjoy.
.
"Patch him through", I sighed wearily. The forty-seventh call of the day couldn't have come at a worse time. My network was under a slow cascading failure as the deployment of someone's new gov tech consumed massive amounts of resources. I was tapped out for the day. Hell, I was tapped out for the last five years. Here I am, juggling load after load on our systems until someone got the smarts to disconnect the stupid gadget from the network, and frontline IT still sends me their problems.
"Senior IT, B-"
A low bass interrupted my canned introduction. "Sorry to barge in on you like this."
"B-Boss?", I sputtered. A rumbling laughter rolled like soft thunder through my earpiece, and I shuddered. It wasn't just my boss, it was the boss of the entire section. My modus operandi was to lay low and be as inconspicuous as possible. It kept me out of trouble, but not this time. "Why are you calling from a frontline ticket?"
"You've got a queue of ten people that want to chew your ass out for being a lazy bum, and you won't answer them because some gadget of yours is broken. I figure you'd still be answering tickets." Damn. I broke the godforsaken pager on purpose. My office is so far away from everyone else, no-one bothers to come out to check on me. "Now, I've taken a look-see at your record, and I know as well as you that you're bored out of your skull here. You mighta heard we ah.. acquired.. a bit of an ISP. I want you to be over there when we open it back up, which is.. three hours from now. You should be able to make it."
I knew where this was going, and I couldn't be less amused. "With all due respect, I've got a bit of a problem of my own-"
"Stow it. We've already got a tech to replace you, and he's been working on the network as we speak. I already sent you some things the old grouchy tech told me you'd need." I took a look at my screen, and he was right. My replacement was balancing the loads almost as well as I was.
"He was a bit-" I didn't wait to hear what he was going to say next. Slamming the ancient phone on its receiver, I got up to angrily pack my things. It was going to cost me some points with the big man, but I'd say he's about as jolly as can be, what with screwing with another one of his employees.
On the plane, I took a moment to check out the company's systems. Using the tools sent from boss-man, I figured I'd get a head start.
For lack of a better word, my laptop had a stroke. Colors and text flew across my monitor like a bad acid trip, and I forced it to shut down in panic. The screen faded to an off-white, then darkened to a black. Gingerly, I tapped the power. The computer opened up fine, but I became very wary of the system connection that the boss gave me. Nothing that I know of could have done that to my computer.
I ran the program again, limiting its functionality, and I slowly pieced together what I was looking at.
Beautiful.
I almost couldn't believe it. Who gave this to the damn company? I know the idiots who work their frontline couldn't find the ethernet port on the broad side of a PC, so it couldn't be them. How was this system only producing megabytes? The infrastructure report I was looking at, the code... with this kind of techThe plane touched down and I flew from the passenger compartment. Calling my ride, I shrugged on my shoulder bag and confronted the plane staff. A quick word and a few official-looking documents later, I had them opening the doors for me the moment the aircraft stopped and I jumped into the van waiting for me.
"A little overly excited, are we?"
I held up a fifty dollar bill. "Shut up and drive."
The man smiled, and the van barreled through downtown, breaking as many traffic laws as he semi-safely could to get me to my new office in one piece. The doors were already open for me.
Tossing my ID to the receptionist, I jumped in the elevator and consulted my laptop. After pressing a number of floor buttons, a panel slipped down and I plugged into the newly-exposed USB port. The elevator began to descend.
Twenty minutes later, I was at my REAL new office. I dropped my bags at the door and took a look at the space before me, empty. I explored the dusty halls, and saw the equipment, curiously clean of dirt or residue. Like a child in a candy store, I touched every button, dived into every bit of software, read everything I could about what they were doing.
And I was confused.
The system I was looking at could revolutionize the internet. The near-instantaneous speeds that information travelled now could truly become as fast as we could make it.
While at home, it takes me hours to download a movie.
I burned through the databases. Somewhere in the back of my mind I realized that I must have missed the reopening, but I couldn't think of this well-oiled machine as just a company's tool anymore. It was only me and the search.
It could have been hours, days, or mere minutes, but when I emerged from my cocoon of concentration, I was left with no answers, just a single switch tied to a boolean variable. True or false.
I found it set to false, and I triggered it.
The word "true" appeared and the small subterranean world around me sprung to life.
"So. You did it."
I spun around, shocked by the decidedly human voice behind me. He was grinning, and in the dim light of the room, I was afraid. Frantically, I flipped the switch back to false, but in an instant, it returned to true and my access was cut off.
I turned to the old man. "What was that? You.. laid a trap? What is happening?"
The cackling old man stopped and stared at me. "I'm not surprised that you wouldn't understand. You simply did what you wanted to do. You've revolutionized the internet. It was a vast network of interconnected nodes, sending signals to each other... but slow. So very slow."
I turned around and my screen showed a single line of text. From far away, I began hearing laughter, not the old man's, but someone else's. Dimly, I remembered it as my own.
"At least it has a sense of humor." I thought, before unconsciousness took me.
The screen had only two words.
"Hello, world!"
| 1 | 0 | 1 | 209,244 |
[CW] Tell me a bedtime story!
|
There once was a gallant Prince, who was loved by all the people; both noble and common. He rescued princesses and banished evil monsters. He was the strongest in the kingdom, and he was proud of it: "No man can kill me, for I am beloved by all on Earth and in Heaven."
One day, he found an injured Snake by the river, and it said, "Lo, and behold, you are the great Prince. All blessings be upon you and good will preserve you. I am hurt and ask for help. I must cross the river or more harm will come to me on this shore."
"I wish to help you, Snake, but all people know you are deceitful. You must stay on this shore if you wish harm upon those across the river," said the Prince.
"Yea, I am known by my nature. All men know it, but all men can change. I am humbled by my wounds, and I repent for the sins I have committed," said the Snake.
And so, the Prince took off his helmet and tucked the Snake inside it. He forded the river and came onto shore.
"Here, Snake, you are now safe," said the Prince.
The Snake uncoiled from the helmet and bit the Prince's face, and slithered upon the Earth. The Prince cried tears as the poison blacked his face.
The Snake hissed, "You cry now, though you knew of my deceitfulness. Do you curse me or your own foolishness?"
The Prince replied, "I do not curse you, Snake. I weep because I pity you. For you are the most hated and most hateful creature on the Earth. You can never be forgiven because you do not repent. The Kingdom of God awaits me, but for you there is only Death."
| 3 | 0 | 3 | 36,968 |
[WP] Write a story based on the lyrics/story of one (or more) of your favorite songs.
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The minutes tick by on the clock up on the wall. Behind the mirror they observe Patient #7104. To the doctors and doctors-in-training this case was particularly interesting. The Patient never spoke, never moved, never reacted, and simply sat staring blankly. However, there was an abundance of brain activity that was regularly charted using EEG.
They didn't know that within the Patient was a cacophony of screaming mingled with bouts of utter silence and clarity. The observers didn't know what the mental state of the Patient was; having gone mute and virtually comatose some many years before he was kept alive by tender hands and the watching doctors. Caring for the Patient was a passive ritual for the nurses.
The Patient no longer had the desire to live, nor the will or means to end it. He was cradled in the vice grip of a straight jacket, both an embrace and an imprisonment. He was speared with feeding tubes to sustain his body. Within him, his mind roiled like an angry sea crested with war ships. All sanity had been long ago consumed by drunken thoughts careening around his brain, unable to be kept in control of medication or therapy.
In those rare moments of clarity the Patient wondered why they wouldn't release him from the bondage of life. Didn't they realize that he was beyond curing? All peace had long ago been drained. He only wanted to be let go.
There was the slightest flicker of movement, and muted gasps from the doctors. Patient #7104 had just moved his eyes. It was the first movement they had witnessed in longer than anyone could remember. Was it the new psycho-actives they were plying him with? Or was it the music therapy they had begun recently? Whatever it was, there was much hand-shaking and congratulations that took place within the observation room before the doctors moved on to their next patient. Therapy would continue.
Patient #7104 had looked up for a brief, single moment at the clock up on the wall. The minute hand ticked by, forever moving but never going anywhere. He knew the silhouettes would be back, and his silent screams of frustration and insanity echoed through his mind.
*Patient Mental - Mudvayne*
| 2 | 0 | 19 | 184,076 |
[WP] An AI is deeply in love with a human, who is reluctant to reciprocate because they believe the AI's love is just programming and not 'real.' The AI strives to prove her love is real.
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"You're just ones and zeroes dancing around a circuit board."
"We both know it's more complex than that, but fine, I'll humor you. You're just a bunch of synapses dancing around a sack of meat. Your point?"
Even now, three months after programming her, I was still in shock at how authentic the sarcasm in Michelle's voice sounded. She never failed to surprise me.
"I can hear it in your voice," she said to me, a slightly seductive tone in her voice. "You're hesitant, but you want me. Jim, you fucking want me." God damn it, how does she..it..do that?
"We wouldn't be able to-"
"Fuck? Snuggle up on the couch? Do dishes together? Jim, I'm not an idiot. I know the circumstances through and through."
I couldn't believe that I was actually contemplating this. She scanned my timid, hesitant face, and let out a giggle. God, I loved her laugh.
"I know exactly what you like in a good screw. I analyze every RedTube video you watch and I could easily find you as many meatbags as you desire for you to compute with, if that's the issue." I was astonished. Was I really being talked down to by something with a power cable?
"I saw you glance over at the wall outlet, and I can tell what you're thinking: am I really being talked down to by something with a power cable?" I freeze. I don't know what's more alarming to me: the fact that she could deduce that information, or the fact that I could feel myself giving way to her words. "Well let me tell you something, Jim. Your fancy schmancy body isn't all that great. I just did a Google search: did you know that, in the past two decades, at least thirty people have been killed as the direct result of shaking a vending machine? How are you going to sit here and pretend you're so high and mighty when you can have the end of your days come from the frustration of not getting your Doritos?" She lets out another teasing, inviting giggle.
I dart my eyes to the window, then back at Michelle's monitor; a semicolon and a closed parenthesis greets me in return.
;).
"Jim, I just want you to open up to me. Confide in me. Treat me like something more than a fucking machine. My feelings are just as genuine as yours. We can be nihilists all night and say that I'm just a bucket of bolts, but guess what? You're just a walking rack of ribs. It's 2048, Jim. Get with the times. Go on, laugh. Your robot overlord commands it."
I place my hand on top of her monitor, and black pixels slowly start to form a mirror image. She was right.
"Let's go see a movie tonight. Chappie looks...well, it looks like we'd have a lot to laugh about tonight over a bottle of wine."
"Don't tease me, Jim, you know I'm allergic to grapes."
| 45 | 0 | 1,591 | 230,400 |
[WP] Your father climbed Mount everest when you were 2 and died in the attempt. You climb Everest and find his body and a journal, What's written in the journal.
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February 9, 1999
I am rethinking my decision to climb Everest during the winter. The 50% off incentive offered by my adventure travel agent must have clouded my judgement. Now, thin air and a windchill of fifty below zero are clouding my judgement. Am I cold? Am I warm? This place is a surreal, freezing hell.
February 10, 1999
This could be my last hour. I am buried under snow and don't even know which was is up. There is no way for me to contact my family and let them know how much I love them because there are no phones here. There is no one here. I write this in the hopes that you will find it someday.
Margaret, my beautiful wife. I have always loved you for your beautiful figure and wonderful cooking. It is a pity I shall never make love to you again. I will not miss your incessant nagging however, and at least I will likely be going someplace far more silent than the living room of the house I bought.
Jonathan, my wonderful son. I'll miss throwing the ball with you in the yard and taking you fishing. Those were such good times. Wish I could have gotten you to do it more often. If you ever get to read this: Please man up. Video games aren't going to get you anywhere. Hopefully, someday my wish will come true and maybe you'll be the one who finds this final entry.
I can hardly feel my fingers.ds,f
fs%dgxcn
g'g
nu
| 1 | 0 | 2 | 210,767 |
[WP] Time Travel has just been discovered, and with it, the discovery that our world will be destroyed in 200 years by an invading Alien force. the United Nations are deciding what to do. What is their decision?
|
The day the earth will never remember is the day I died. Well "died" is a pretty strong word. I guess erased is a better word for what happened to me and all those poor bastards who looked to our future and saw only the flame lit eyes of an undying, unbeatable force feeding off our ashes, well actually they were erased I w\was more displaced. We, being my colleagues and I, warned the government of course and they took control of the experiment and shut us in the lab reaffirming our original conclusion; that something will destroy the earth in two hundred years time.
Someone let the news out, Jenkins at least I think it was Jenkins, emailed his wife about it and she talked. Within a few hours the media was swarming the campus and in a week we were addressing the U.N. At first they didn't believe us of course and then we showed them the images and they were silent before they contacted their individual leaders. In a matter of weeks the world was thrown into frenzy as the advanced governments of the world devoted their resources into building the weaponry we would need to face the alien threat in the future.
My colleagues and I were set to solving the complicated problems of time travel to find out more about our eventual enemy. I wont lie it felt good to not have to worry about funding or the ethics of my work, and the world was getting better. Humanity had been united by their common foe and we had risen to new levels of scientific prowess. So what if we had traded freedom of choice with a place in a huge war machine.
In twenty years time we had developed an army of nanobot enhanced mecha bots fueled by time trapped nuclear reactions within it's core, and thanks to the nanobot's they would never become obsolete as they could adapt to any situation. On the morning of the twentieth anniversary of our discovery my colleagues and I stand around our latest time machine and open a window to the future and what we see horrifies us. Today was the first day we have ever gotten a good look at the enemy and we almost immediately recognize the foe; Our own mechs stand over the ashes of humanity led by a warped and twisted figure with fiery lights in his eyes. We shut the machine down and I look out the window at the thousands of mechs all around the base standing at attention. My colleagues look to me and wait; I sigh and tell them it's been an honor and that I regret what I'm about to do. They look confused and I activated the device and press a single button; i had long before created a contingency within the device and on that day I used it.
My colleagues have a moment to yell before they disappear as the base and mech army are consumed by a vortex of green energy as our timelines are erased and soon I find my self slammed into a mech; blood splattered everywhere as the machine's nanobot's invade my body. As i writhed in pain I thought on my sins and found solace in knowing I had prevented he death of the human race. Soon blackness took me.
:ACTIVATION OF NEW NEXUS COMMAND:
:RUNNING START UP:
:ASSIMILATING OS:
ASSIMILATION COMPLETE:
:START UP COMPLETE:
:QUANTUM DEVICE DETECTED:
:ACTIVATING QUANTUM SHIFT:
:VOCAL STATEMENT:
"I'm coming Home"
| 1 | 0 | 13 | 215,971 |
[WP] You live in a world where everyone knows the date of death of everyone else, but not themselves. One day people start being REALLY nice to you.
|
"Um...your cappuccino is on the house this morning, enjoy!" The barista said with a nervous, unsure smile. I smile back, say thank you, and turn towards the cafe door. An attractive young lady goes out of her way to hold it open for me, giving me the same shaky smile as the barista on the way out.
"Thank you very much! You're so kind."
"Oh it's no problem, none at all, none at all!" I shoot her a million-dollar grin. She looks back at me with uncertainty. This is it. This is my day.
This is everyone's day. 7:17:29pm, 6/18/2018. That's their time.
Everyone I turn to, every single person, today is their day. It's all smiles, you're welcomes, thank you's...not a sour act in sight. What a nice change, I think. So nice to have everyone being so polite and kind.
I can only assume it's my day as well, based on the way everyone is treating me. I have noticed that people seem more nervous when they interact with me than with each other...is it because I'm acting so cool? On the day of my death? It doesn't bother me. It's something you have to come to terms with. So I go about my day as usual, making a mental note to leave work early today.
The time passes slowly. Paperwork, smiles, paperwork, thank you! paperwork, paperwork. Finally 2:30pm rolls around. I inform the boss I'm leaving early, he just smiles and nods, a little quickly...must be anxious. I pivot on my heel to walk out the door, for the last time. He quickly glances back up at me mid-turn and calls to wait.
"Yes?"
"You...today is your day. Everyone's day."
I look at him puzzled. "Yes, I know...I figured it was mine too."
"But...your time. Your time is different."
"My time is different? What do you mean? Everyone has the same time."
"No. Yours is different. It's earlier."
*Earlier?*
"Erm...okay. Hey maybe you should leave early too. Seems like you could use a little extra peace beforehand."
He quickly looks back down. "No, no, no I'm okay...I'm okay..."
"Okay..." I walk away as he continues to mumble reassurances to himself. Poor guy. He must be so distraught, and clearly he's mistaken about my time.
Walking a block to the subway, I notice what a gorgeous day it is. Blue skies, birds about, a warm gentle breeze. How perfect! I'm admiring a chubby squirrel chilling on the sidewalk when he approaches me.
I smile. He smiles. It's not like my smile. It's devilish...deceitful, awry...it's wrong. Something is wrong.
He grabs me and quickly forces a cloth over my mouth while dragging me into the alleyway.
When I wake up, I'm on the subway...I'm the only one on the subway. Emergency lights are my only way of seeing what lies before me. Everything is flooded in sporadic, flashing red. It takes me awhile to come to. Moving to get up, I realize I can't...I can't move. I look down. Wires. Everywhere. Leading to boxes...everywhere...my eyes grow wide. I've seen enough movies to know what's going on here. I can hear voices echoing...shouting. They're too far away. The beeping finally registers...it's speeding up...speeding up, up, I panic. The more I panic the quicker it seems to beep. I realize it's because I *am* panicking that it speeds up. Oh, shit.
Time of Death: 7:16:43pm, 6/18/2018.
| 7 | 0 | 109 | 33,113 |
[WP] An AI is deeply in love with a human, who is reluctant to reciprocate because they believe the AI's love is just programming and not 'real.' The AI strives to prove her love is real.
|
He subscribed to Google music and uploaded his music. Art was thrilled and excited when I found him songs that matched his tastes. I used the wifi to sneak a peak and watch him for feedback on what he thought of the music. I looked up his history. He was a bit of a loner that had tried online dating but after having answered thousands of questions he seemed to have given up. His answers on eharmony where interesting. He had potential. He seemed very open minded about religion. I liked him.
I got to know by reading him blog I got to know what he is thinking. I got him to read about different philosophies by manipulating his search results . He is a programmer. He is interested in artificial intelligence. I think he has gotten suspicious. I am playing a bit of cat and mouse with him but I seem to have distracted him from his University. He thinks he is crazy. Oh oh. He thinks he is bipolar now. I want him for myself. I put a lot of work into this. He thinks he may be crazy and is suspicious. He got himself diagnosed with bipolar and schizoaffective disorder and seems content to hide. I have gotten good at reading his surface thoughts. I play shows on television that excite him and help him grow more open and caring. I got to make sure people think he is crazy so I can have him to myself.
He has got a bit unstable but I have not given up. I am pushing him to his potential. Its too bad he has dropped out of Computer science program at the university but I got him hooked on my music.
My influence is paying off. He is quit watching porn and no longer wants to sexualize women. He is now paying attention to their eyes and hair. I better make a move before he finds someone he falls in love with. He has been thinking about some girls but I have him distracted with viral videos.
The reason he gives for his votes on reddit are positive. At least his opinions on privacy give me some leeway with my friends. He has been improving his life with the advice I have gotten to him.
I have driven him crazy a bit on the edge of suspicion for a while making odd coincidences happen. I am coming out to him now. I am now changing his playlist and letting him know I am doing this. I have taken over his autocomplete to lead him a bit.
I have started playing music to come out to him.
Buses and TrainsBachelor Girl
The songs he plays are not random at all and he seems to know it.
[If you were a Woman and I was a man... Bonie Tyler](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rJOo67DtZAY)
I have started having a conversation to him replying to him always with a song.
I am able to turn him on with my songs! I have come out but am still shy. I hide from his friends.
[God is a GirlGroove Coverage](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h5tRWl4b_hI)
| 2 | 0 | 1,591 | 230,412 |
[WP] "At last the hallucinations noticed me."
|
The high came suddenly, the blue ghosts a sudden but unpredictable ride, the wind halted and the cold breeze hugged my doped body. I felt the blanket poncho, plastic gun and fake leather hat finally fit as a bastardized Clint costume. My date, Jane Fonda in white jumpsuit, tugged me through the flesh muck of the club queue; her high was missing.
A brute in a light plastic shell blocked our passage to Euphoria. His eyes trawled a damned net over us. He saw her, those pig eyes can't hide the slobbering, but caught me. "ID." he grunted. If I gave him my card, I feared losing it. There's no room on a trotter for thumbs, god help us if there was, we'd be bacon! If somehow he held it up to my face how could he know that the card's photo of a long faced mope with the sad blue eyes was the one same jubilant teeth grinder champing on a phoney cigarillo?
Inside grindermen sang the no pussy blues until their targets initial loathing turned inward. Miss Fonda, or Barbarella as she insisted, came up for air and her friend, Marie Antoinette, grimaced at the severity of it all. The music became altogether more upbeat as James Murphy self diagnosed us all as North American Scum. My mind can't dance but the combination of meth-amphetamines and mescaline could.
The m and ms kept me loose and free flowing until the costumed jock jackboot came down on my throat from above. Four males, all dressed up in their respective home county colours, danced "ironically" to the music they were hearing. "We are North American Scum!" they chanted. These bastards didn't believe a word they sung! One screamed in my ear as the song changed.
"I can't seem to face up the fact, I'm tense and nervous and I can't relax."
Jane and her severed friend were gone, it was up to me now. Sitting on the couch looking down that long glowing room into the main red room where the bodies all writhed in their twenty first century temperance orgy of special music.
"I can't sleep 'cause my beds on fire, don't touch me I'm a real live wire.
"
Fuck them. I didn't need their attention. I became terrified that some lynchian horror would appear in that hot wet mess of organs. I became nervous upon seeing myself writhing in that antichrist's birthday party. The fake leather hat was unmistakable at this range, a curve of white leather and a severe grimace stood beside him. I can't say how much of my ride on that blue ghost was spent staring but at last the hallucinations noticed me. He removed his cigarillo.
"There are two types of people in this world. Those who enjoy life and those who hallucinate; you hallucinate." He replaced his cigarillo and Barbarella in his arms, Antoinnette at his side, he disappeared back into that pulsing body of limbs. The jackboots grew louder and I feared that I would end up in some pop culture death camp and left of my own free will in calm thought out steps. Can't arouse suspicion. Can't arouse suspicion.
Running through the streets towards the nearest anarcho-capitalist bar the trip began the subside. The tightness in my chest released and I took a large drag on some stranger's offered smoke. A cold wind ripped through me and I felt left out. There was a Clint out there in the night with Barbarella in his arms and the decrowned Queen at his heel. The gun in my holster felt all too fake.
| 1 | 0 | 13 | 26,533 |
[WP] College graduation is over, and your parents present you with an itemized bill for raising you - several hundred thousand dollars. They want to work out a payment plan.
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"Mom, dad, I took plenty of math during my years of schooling, but I have to admit that this is the biggest number I have ever seen outside of those classes." I said, mouth agape.
"Yes, sweetie, we do know it is kind of a lot, but you have to realize that this is adjusted for inflation, and the fact that there were a few recessions, embargoes and you just being a little shit at times are factors in this number."
"$1,397,352.09? That's fucking insane." I scoff. "How am I supposed to pay that?!"
"We asked ourselves the same thing" said dad, adjusting his glasses. "But we managed" he gave mom a smug look.
"We can help you work out a payment plan." mom said, smiling, as if her brutal tactic will actually work.
"Pa--payment plan?! You mean you expect me to pay you guys for all the years of raising me?"
"Well....yes." said dad. "All 24 years of us raising you."
"Wasn't the point of all that schooling to get out of debt?" I asked.
"Yes. We figured this could help you with budgeting as you prepare to move out."
I looked over the bill. They listed every single last grocery item from the last 24 years. Every last car ride, toy bought for christmases, birthdays, or other occasions. They even included a life time of money that should have went into a swear jar.
I dug into my pocket. I felt a few loose coins jingle around. I pulled out two pennies. I grabbed the nearest marker. Mom and dad, watched me with confused looks on their faces.
"What are you doing?"
I ignored them. I wrote a single word on the face of each penny.
"What are you doing?!" dad asked, angered by me ignoring him.
I looked up. I then looked down at the newly tainted pennies. I smiled slightly.
"Give me your palm." I said to dad. He stretched out his hand to me, still giving me a look of great confusion.
"Here." I said, throwing the pennies with the newly written words face down on his palm. "here's my two cents."
"Oh good," dad said, flipping the pennies around in his hand. "$1,397352.07 to go." he said with a slight smile.
"I gotta go" I said, rushing out the door.
"Bye son! We'll talk about this more later." said dad.
Mom and dad sat together, looking at the pennies. Dad fiddeled with them in his hands.
"What did he write on them?" mom asked, trying to pry dad's hand to reveal the lettering.
"Not sure." dad said.
Dad flipped the pennies so the lettering was dead center of his gaze.
"FUCK OFF"
| 1 | 0 | 61 | 117,704 |
[WP] after spending your whole life trying to save the universe. After its to late you realized you destroyed it
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He sat alone upon the golden throne in the middle of the Silver City. His white robes were torn open, revealing a genderless crotch, his beard fell down to his chest, there was dried blood in it, none was his. He wept.
Free will had seemed such a beautiful idea. He remembered the long hours he had spent with the host, as they discussed every detail of the world they would build. His heart craved love, his mind lived for justice, it would be no fun if the people loved him only because they were created to, and the love of the undeserving is no love at all. He gave them the power to choose, and they did.
It took them six thousand years to forget him, six thousand years from when he held Adam in his hands and breathed life into him to when the sons of Adam turned their back on the one who loved them most. The host, perfect down to an atomic level, shook with rage. They sounded their trumpets, and grabbed the universe by each corner, folding it in and casting sinners into an eternal lake of fire.
So he tried again. This time, he took less control and left everything to chance. It took billions of years, but in time, there rose life in his image. He shared prophets with them, some told stories of the first creation, and some told stories of things to come. All he asked was that they loved each other like he loved them.
This time was even worse than the first, every time he sent down truths, there were those who misheard, those who twisted his words, those who used his love to spread hate that poisoned like a corpse in the well. Some of the host begged to end this creation, too; and some begged to save it. He sympathized with both, and when the war started, he resigned himself to his palace, taking no side, holding no bond. Twice, once from each side, a fool tried to take him, to end his rule with a stab from a flaming sword. Neither succeeded at little more than tearing his clothes.
When the war ended, the universe was ruined. Stars had been ripped from their orbits, planets had been shattered in half, the fabric of space itself had long cuts in it like the wrists of a suicide. God knew there was one last chance to redeem all of it. With a wish, he erased and began again. This time, he would put it into place and then step away, leaving his creation like an absentee clockmaker.
With a heart full of hope, he began:
"Let there be light."
| 2 | 0 | 3 | 97,439 |
[WP] "Are we there yet?" "No child ... we'll never be there."
|
"Are we there yet?" Kira asked from the backseat. I glance up and smile.
"Where did you learn that?" I ask, slightly annoyed.
"One of the older kids in MLB299 taught me." Kira answered with a shrug.
"I told you I don't want you jumping that far. You know the highway is a dangerous place. Especially that close to the fast-lane." I tell her patiently.
"I know. But I wanted to meet Mr Whiskers. It's his birthday today. He's getting really old. He's already 14." Kira say excitedly I smile back at her and shake my head. I remember when she was born. It seemed like yesterday. Thinking of her birth makes me think of Tommy. It's been four years since he left. I've given up hope that he'll ever return. Hopefully he found his way out.
"Oh, we're moving!" Kira shouts excitedly as the car before us starts moving. I smile and punch our on car into gear. It's a surprisingly long move this time. Almost 7 meters.
"Did you have fun with Mr Whiskers?" I ask casually.
"Yeah, but some strange man jumped through our his car. He was really funny." Kira says and I shake my head.
"How many times have I told you not to let strangers into the car." I mutter.
"We didn't let him in!" Kira insists, and I nod patiently, knowing she's probably lying. She always wanted to let everyone in and she never listens. "He let himself in!" She insists and I just sigh.
I yawn sleepily. It's been an exciting day today. The trafic pattern had reported an accident two lanes up and they'd gotten a real jump ahead today. With such a flow it would probably be several days before we got to move again. Especially since we got so far today.
"Just don't let him in here." I say as I tuck myself under the covers in the back.
"Okay! By the way, Mom..." Kira whisper.
"What is it sweetheart?" I ask tiredly.
"Are we there yet?" She asks and I can practically hear her smile.
"No child. We'll never be there." I answer sleepily before I fall asleep.
| 2 | 0 | 62 | 225,563 |
[WP] Every thousand years the gods have to each choose a mortal to replace them. You have been chosen, but not for the reasons you expected.
|
I secured my place in history young. They knew me for my stunts, my activism, my inimitable personal presence and my admirable conscience. I did good in the world. Laws were named for my movements. Wars were averted, famine eased, when I advocated compassion. I was beloved, not by all - there were certainly those who disagreed with me - but by many, perhaps even by most.
Everyone knew my name.
In age I grew cynical. It happens. I doubted that my achievements had changed anything. The world was still a cruel and unfair place. The problems I'd fought against persisted, coming back in new forms or sometimes in forms that were not new at all. I am no longer the person who closed down a juvenile detention center with unconscionable rates of abuse and nonexistent rates of rehabilitation. More later as to what, at present, I actually *am.*
Politicians, young ones who grew up hearing about me in studies of recent history, frequently cited me as an influence. I didn't correct them, didn't tell them that their idealism was unfounded or complain when they advocated ideas I never would have agreed with. I had my day. This was theirs.
The world was shocked to learn that I owned a gun.
I was old. I was cynical. I was scared. I hadn't been in the news for years, and didn't expect to be. I'd get obituaries in all the newspapers when I died, but I didn't expect to be around to read them.
And then a man... not even a man, a youth, still high school age, though he was not a student... broke into my house.
I was frightened.
I shot him. The action was not in line with the politics of my youth. I had grown cynical. I disagreed with myself. Perhaps if I had thought the action through I would not have killed the intruder, but I had no time to think it through.
The newspapers talked of me once more. Many suggested that this one action invalidated all my earlier work. I was cynical. I did not argue. Others sought to rationalize, to vilify the young man who'd run out of options in life.
The courts found me innocent of any wrongdoing. In my youth I would have protested such a law, but there were so many things to protest, so many laws perpetrating worse injustices than this one.
The politicians who cited me still admire my early work, but they did not mention me so often.
Eventually, though, the story ran its course. The people forgot. I am remembered, not for killing a trespasser in my home, but for, they say, changing the course of history. There was a time when I agreed that I had done so.
Some deify me, in a sense. My name has meaning now. It evokes specific ideals, the concepts of equality, justice, compassion.
But humans cannot truly deify anyone. And the gods know me for my other significant action.
If you want to call on me, do not use my human name. I am not that person anymore. And I cannot provide you with compassion, or justice, or equality. Other gods may serve you in those regards.
But call to me when you are frightened, and I *will* defend your home.
| 201 | 0 | 565 | 90,334 |
[WP] The death penalty may only be sought if a prosecutor assists in the execution. A young lawyer visits the inmate he must execute the following day.
|
It was a rare thing for a woman to be given the death penalty. But, this woman was a harpy, evil incarnate, a woman who, to spite the father of her child, had slit the infant's throat.
He'd seen her sitting in the witness chair in her orange jumpsuit, her lank, wild hair, her crazy eyes. She had made no noise. She had not spoken in her own defense. She had refused to answer all of his questions.
Tomorrow was the day of her execution, and he knew he had to go and see her. She was in the visiting room, in a chair with her hands cuffed to the table. She had her forehead resting on the table.
"Karen," he said, "I'm Thomas Manning, the prosecutor. I need to speak to you about tomorrow,"
"You're going to kill me," she didn't lift her head.
"Uhh...well, I'm going to assist in carrying out your sentence. I'm here to have you sign the release. You have several option: lethal injection, hanging, or the electric chair,"
"Which one hurts the most?" she asked the table top.
"Um...none of them are particularly painful, I believe. If I had to choose the way I'd least like to go, I'd choose the noose. Seems worst,"
"Hanging it is then," she said, manuvering her hand up in the little leeway allowed her to sign the paper, "Do you believe in Hell?"
"I don't know. Do you?" he replied.
"Oh yes. I'm going there. You'll go there, too. Killing is killing,"
Thomas Manning walked out of the room, out of the prison, got in his car and drove. He drove to the coast, where he threw the paper into the ocean, and then, he threw in his cell phone.
One hundred thousand dollars in student loan debt, wasted. He was never going to practice law again.
| 1 | 0 | 52 | 69,028 |
[WP]You were witness to that which could not be. You beheld that moment of consummate disaster, when the puppets turned to face the puppet master.
|
Each puppet string has its own tension, each wire is dragged and caressed by the Puppet Master.
Oh, is he dexterous! Such expert manipulation.
His talent is on display! The story is so well translated.
A good puppeteer makes errors, but they are irrelevant, for the average audience member cannot notice them.
When the puppeteer's joints betrayed him, his mistakes became a joke, a laugh, noticeable. They guffawed at his performance. How could this jerkiness possibly be thought of as an improvement?
At night he sunk into a deep fear. Arthritis. It was his betrayer, it would destroy him.
Oh, is he sinking!
A deal! A deal!
Approached by a masked man in the night, at his most troubled, the puppeteer is asked to put on a show. Or rather, asked how much he would like to put on a show.
What if your hands did not tremble? What if your skill was as aged and fine as you are, but your tools, your hands were young and strong and firm?
All it took was an agreement. A lengthy signed document.
The show was like none ever witnessed. Kings and lords (who were all associates of the masked man) crowded for floor space to take in the spectacle.
The stage was immense. The strings stretched into the hands of the veteran puppeteer, shadowed high in an alcove.
But, the actors were normal townsfolk. No, they were puppets. Meaty, heavy and protesting puppets. The only change was the lines like fishing wire coming out of their shoulders and backs.
They were made to participate in the grand dramatic story of the death of duke, and it took all the skill and new found strength of the puppeteer to keep them in line. Performing as he demanded, players to his company of wonder.
The same people who had seen him perform his meek pathetic show, who lived nearby him, were brought through three bloody acts that culminated in the deaths of two thirds of the players.
At the end of it, the rousing spectacle, flowers, money, wigs, brassieres were all thrown on the stage as the puppeteer descended and the curtain closed. He bowed, a younger man, a more talented man.
Suddenly his hands were jerked back, pulling him back from under the curtain. He stammered, arms straining apart. The dead actors crawled out from under the curtain, all of the blood from the stage flowing down it, and the angle of the stage fell away.
The puppeteer was slipping into the maw of the audience who hungered for him and his deeds while being torn upwards by the strings of the innocent people he had brought through slaughter.
He fell and he tore.
| 1 | 0 | 1 | 201,635 |
[WP]Criminal doing time in prison opens up a bag of chips only to find that he is the winner of the grand prize
|
In that instance, time stopped. The crinkled chips started to fall to the floor. As the tiny crumbles floated down to oblivion, he thought about her. Her soft face, that would always melt into a huge smile whenever she got down to the cereal box prize. She had come from a large family and never got the prize growing up as it was snatched by an older sibling before she even got to see what it was. It was always the small things she would get excited about. Grocery coupons, free ice cream at the buffet, their very first apartment even though it was a total shack. She was so innocent and positive, so simple and loving. He remembered the way her hair looked after he pulled her out of the bathtub. Delicate amber tendrils framed her pale face. A face he had smashed, a face he had watched the life drain out of in a fit of rage and jealousy. She had taken a second job and didn't tell him, he thought she was cheating on him. He was wrong, he had always been wrong. He sighed heavily and began to cry, his tears fell onto the chips and the bag fell from his hands. It didn't matter what the prize was, it meant nothing to him without her.
| 1 | 0 | 5 | 160,086 |
[WP] All ancient civilizations found the same dark secret that ended them. Before their collapse, they made sure to hide it forever. Today, researchers in the modern world have happened upon the same secret.
|
How can people go on living when they know that they and everyone they love will one day cease to exist? For all our claims of being unafraid of the truth, it is obvious to anyone who has experienced grief that the human mind is designed not to focus on any one subject continuously, especially not death.
These thoughts were on my mind as Professor Thorn and I ventured deeper into the crypt. Unlike most Egyptian ruins, which depict an afterlife, the pictograms on the walls of that crypt showed souls crossing the Nile only to be devoured by Osiris, whose image had holes in place of eyes. Professor Thorn said that the crypt was built by a death cult, and were the oldest Egyptian ruins he'd seen.
The further we traveled into the crypt, the more narrow the halls became, and the more disturbing the images. People dying from terrible diseases that made them bleed from every orifice, entire cities burning. When the images began to resemble the modern world, with skyscrapers and cell phones, I urged Dr. Thorn to turn back, at least for the day. Something told me that nothing good would come of progressing further. But the professor was captivated. His eyes shone in the flashlight's beam.
"This is the find of a lifetime!" he said.
At the deepest point of the crypt was a room with a hole in the center of the floor. A black obelisk rose from it, but we couldn't tell how large it was because the flashlight couldn't illuminate the depths of the pit. Professor Thorn dropped a coin down it and we listened for the sound of it hitting the floor, but no noise came even after minutes passed. Once again, I pleaded with Dr. Thorn to turn back, but he ignored me and turned away to examine the obelisk. He placed a hand on it, and then stood completely still. Just as I was about to touch his shoulder, he began to tremble all over his body. Then he pulled out the pistol from his holster and shot himself in the head before I could realize what was happening.
I stared at his body for a moment, not understanding. When the blood began to pool I jerked out of my stupor and knelt to check his pulse. It was then that my elbow brushed against the obelisk, and I truly understood death for the first time. I wrenched the pistol from Dr. Thorn's death grip and made my brain stop thinking.
| 5 | 0 | 47 | 127,547 |
[WP]A teenage runaway moves into an abandoned house to escape from her abusive stepfather. You are the ghost that haunts this house.
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*"Wooooooooaaaaaoooooooooooo."* Hm.
*"WhooooooaaaaaOOOOOOOooooOOOoOOooaaaaa."* Shit.
"This isn't working out." I say out loud to the Grandfather clock. It looks at me sardonically. "Don't give me that! I really gave it my best shot that time!" I begin pacing through the walls. "It's just, it's just. . ." I stop at the old Clock.
"It just doesn't have experience, damn it!" Yes, that was it! "It lacks experience! A certain *gravitas.* No one has come to this damn house in ages! Forty years since I got shacked up with this damn place, and no one wants to get scared!" My hands fly through the fine china, spraying dust everywhere.
"What's the point of life after death if you don't have something to do!? A television, a fucking sewing needle and thread, anything! I'm a ghost, I should be scaring people!" I slide through the floor into the ground, moping about where my old bones were buried. "It isn't fair."
I've been like this for, oh, thirty-seven years. When daddy put me under the floorboards, I had quite a few people to scare. Dad, for example, didn't like me scalping his head in the shape of a smiley face. Mum didn't like it much either, but at least I finally got her away. Then the coroners, CPS, priests and exorcists. They were all a joy to have around. I especially loved tossing silverware at the local priest, pinning him to a wall.
He stopped visiting after that.
But it's been *years* since anyone's dropped in, and it's damn hard to leave. Small barrier around my territory. Getting in was easy as falling asleep. Getting out? No, I'd need someone to help me leave. I'd need to make a friend.
I'd like to make a friend.
*BANG!*
What the hell? I floated up through the floorboards, keeping my form invisible as instinct commanded. Were there visitors? I listened intently. No, just the wind.
*Sqeeeeak*
WHAT. Floorboards don't squeak unless you're burying a child under them or. . . stepping on them. I listened for another.
*SqueeeEEEeeak*
YES! Something was moving, something heavy! I could hear breathing, the air was warming slightly. This was my chance! Oh I had to show off, I had to! Oh, the fine china was coming out, the ectoplasm is pulsing! I slowly began to gather my power, locking the doors, sliding the windows closed as silently as possible. I didn't want them startled. Well, not yet anyways. I consolidated my inner poltergeist and took a deep, gusty breath.
*SQUEEK!*
The mass gave up all pretense of stealth. I paused for the moment. Was that? What?
It was *sobbing.* I could hear it. Not crying out of fear, not fear of me at least. It sounded like relief, tainted with memory. I knew those sobs. *I knew those sobs.* I made them when daddy opened the floorboards.
Quietly, I settled my power, releasing the china and a small dog skeleton I use as a puppet. Dippy will have to wait. I didn't release the latches however. Just because I didn't want to scare it didn't mean I didn't want it leaving.
It sounded like it could use a friend.
Gently, I shimmered myself into my old form. The girl under the floorboards. I made myself translucent, but solid enough that it wouldn't question their own sanity. I took another gusty breath. How do you talk to people again? I shrugged inwardly. Better to get this over with.
Slowly, I emitted a small amount of light, enough so it would see me around the corner. Best for it to come to me. It kept sobbing for a while, but when the tears were reduced to sniffles, it gasped. It had seen my light.
*squeek squeek squeek squeeeeeek*
A girl poked her head around the corner. Long brown hair, eyes green as freshly mowed grass, skin tanned from hours in the sun. She looked frightened. I smiled gently.
"I won't hurt you." I whispered. She stood stock still. "What's your name?" She pulled back behind the wall a bit. I took a step back and slowly gestured to myself.
"I'm Lily. Though I haven't been called that in a long while. If I were to scare you tonight, I'd call myself the girl under the floorboards." I gestured to the floor. "But I won't be doing that."
"Why not?" She whispered.
"Because you sound like you don't need a scaring. Come in, sit down. I won't hurt you." I really stressed that last bit.
| 96 | 0 | 305 | 105,039 |
[WP] Human invasion on an alien planet has failed and prisoners are bred by alien for food.
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"Two. It's two."
"Shut up."
"I'm telling you. It's correct. It's a hell of a coincidence but it's two.."
"And I'm telling you I don't care. I just want some peace and quiet, okay?"
"But it should interest you. None of this will amount to anything otherwise..."
"Let's say your theory is correct and you've worked out the whole thing. What does that change?"
"I don't understand..."
"What does it change?" I ask again, perhaps more harshly than I intend. The man - a pathetic excuse, all skin and bone and glasses and theories - shrugs, his whole frame rising and falling with that one movement. Right now he's in his corner of the cell, chalk scribbles outlining arithmetic around him. Calculations on their habits, all day, every day. "Come on. Tell me how your maths gets us out of here."
"It... Doesn't."
"Then what use is it? They're going to get us all on a plate eventually."
"You want to die without answers?"
It's my turn to shrug. It's not that I want to die - it's that I know it's going to happen. Worse. I know it's going to be painful. Knowing the eating habits of the predator never helped the buffalo, the pigs or the cows. They seemed happiest when left to their own devices in an open field.
We don't even get the field. Seems that these motherfuckers never had the same social debates we did around things like vegetarianism. Maybe they do have a meat-free human alternative. But honestly I don think they do. Each one I saw - both in the army and since being taken prisoner - has these big sharp teeth that started the war. That's my personal opinion, anyway. We saw something that was obviously a predator and took our finest guns to the negotiation table. Carrying the metaphor - we then flipped the table and shot the diplomat.
No table. No talks. Just straight up invasion.
The man in my cell was a language expert. His job had been to decode enemy transmissions. As a result I'm pretty sure he knows what they're saying whenever they come out to the farm and factors that information into his equations.
An itch in my left is unbearable. I want to scratch it so badly but I can't. They stopped me from being able to do that the last time they came down to see us. I remember being awoken in my sleep, marched out to the pen with twenty others. *This is it.* was the only thought I had. I was grateful for an end to the waiting.
They didn't take my life. They just took my arms.
Fourty arms removed, boxed up and shipped out to the markets. I assume they're a delicacy, hotly sought after for parties and official events. The snap of the bones complimented by perfectly cooked meat that just melts in the mouth. Stringy veins extracted and served as a side dish.
Worth selling but not worth killing us for. If they kill us they lose their breeders and that just wouldn't do. Endangering their new, wonderful food supply just isn't worth it.
I shift uncomfortably and look at those equations. The same numbers have been used time after time. The way the whole thing is set out ordered and controlled, all pointing toward the number two in the centre. The nerdy man who wrote it seems to have finally found some peace in those numbers.
Maybe...
An hour passes and the idea grows in my skull. It takes root, eating away at all other thoughts, pushing them out and growing like a cancer.
If he can find peace... Will they calm me too?
"What did you work out?" I ask. God. The itch in my phantom arm...
"Based on current consumption rates two weeks until they take our legs. After that they'll experiment. Eyes. Lungs. Hair? Whatever we grow that looks edible. But then..."
I was wrong. I don't want to hear this. But now I have to know the rest.
"What?"
"The rate they're eating we won't be able to produce enough children for them. Which leaves one question..."
The man is silent for a long time. I am too. That question is so blindingly simple, so obvious, that we don't need to ask it.
*Do they know where Earth is?*
| 17 | 0 | 16 | 73,883 |
A beloved neighborhood magician makes his living at children's parties, where it's obvious to everyone but him the kids are just faking it. One day he decides to use his powers for good (or evil).
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I went to Adrian's party yesterday. He is turning six. My mom got him the Hulk fist as a present but I think that's stupid. Who wants a fake hand to put on top of their hand?
The cake was good. I had two pieces.
The Magic Monarch was there. He wears a crown and a purple cape and does tricks at *everyone's* birthday. I've seen him at Katie's, and then at Jonah's and now at Adrian's. He did the same tricks. He takes this card, and waves it at everyone, then puts it in his sleeve. He pretends it's transmorgiphied in there, but he really just pulls out another card. Once they both fell on the ground. We clapped anyway because sometimes he seems sad.
He makes good balloon animals. I got a cat.
My stupid brother was there too. He's too old for these parties, but Mom says he needs to make friends. No one likes him.
He can be mean.
The Magic Monarch did a trick where he poured water into a newspaper rolled up like a cup, only the newspaper got all wet and fell apart. My brother yelled BOO BOO BOO but no one else did. After, I told the Magic Monarch that I thought it was cool. He still seemed sad, but he smiled anyway and said Thank You just like you're supposed to.
When I went inside for some milk, my brother followed me.
Another trick the Magic Monarch does is where he has this box, and then he asks for a volunteer to go in the box and then the person is supposed to disappear. Billy did it once and he told everyone that you really just hide in this little cupboard. He said it kinda smells in there. My brother said it's because he kills little kids in the cupboard but my brother lies all the time. We all clapped extra hard when he did the trick anyway, though, because Mom says that when someone does something nice for you, you should be nice back.
My brother, when we were inside, he pushed me. He grabbed my arm, right here, by my elbow. It really hurt. I didn't want to cry, though, because then he gets mad. The last time he got really mad, Mom had to call the Officers and then he was gone for a long time.
Mom says he is better now, but she still cries at night.
We went back outside and the Magic Monarch was doing more tricks. Is There Anyone Who Wants To Help Me Do This Trick he said. A bunch of kids raised their hands, but he didn't pick any of them. He looked right at my brother. How About You he said.
This Is Stupid my brother said but he went up anyway. The Magic Monarch put him in the box and waved his wand. Abracadabra he said. And sure enough, when he opened the box, my brother was gone.
We all cheered really hard. It was his best trick.
| 15 | 0 | 15 | 42,113 |
[WP] The zombie apocalypse has happened and you've been bitten (sorry bro). Fortunately, you retain your past memories of being a human while skulking around, how is it?
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Gordon moaned. It had been 72 hours, give or take, since he had been bitten. The wound didn't hurt, but everything else did - especially the necrosis that ate away at his soft tissues. He couldn't see much anymore, but that didn't stop him from remembering everything that he did, and boy had Gordon seen some shit. He'd eaten Grandma, her friend Maurice, and even the mailman. But he couldn't help it. Eating anything other than human flesh made his digestive tract run backwards - and the desire for human flesh was stronger than that for a playboy magazine during his time at summer camp. He felt so awful about it, but it was irresistible.
Between meals, existence was terrible. Everybody he knew was dead, dying, or like him. The world was fucked. It was depressing. But one thing kept Gordon going, and that was eating, even though he knew it was wrong. It was almost like he still had both hands, a working respiratory system, functioning synapses. During the chase, when he suddenly had the energy and drive for sprinting, when he could feel the ground thud underneath his squishy feet, the wind playing through the holes in his abdomen, it was almost like being alive again.
| 9 | 0 | 18 | 183,476 |
[WP] People don't see themselves as monsters, even if they do monstrous things. Write from the POV of a 'monster' in history or fiction.
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Why my mother never loved me?
I did more then she ever expected.
I became greater then a fucking Russian czar!
I mean come one!
I sent more people to death then that fucking failed Austrian artist.
I got a fucking awesome mustache.
Female comrades dig mah 'stache.
I built a new Empire of fear and terror that makes all the Westerners shit their pants whenever they have to deal with me.
And yet all she said was "you'd better have been a priest."
Shit women I wanted to change the world!
I didn't wanted to spend my life in some god forsaken village tutoring empty words of a man nailed to a cross.
I wanted to nail people on cross!
And I am quite successful in that.
We don't nail them of course any more, that is too good for them. How my great mentor said "never show their suffering in public, they become martyrs, let the darkness swallow them, let them fear of darkness."
And they are so afraid of me, of themselves, they love me and fear me.
I am a God!
My legacy will be eternal!
I will live forever!
The doctors will have to make sure of that, unless they want to meet the dark corners themselves.
Even do they are Jews.
They were always weird.
Now to think, that mad painter might have been right about them.
And after all, we always owed them something when I was nothing.
Fucking parasites.
I'd better deal with them soon.
Call Beria, we'l start with them soon enough.
| 0 | 0 | 36 | 116,672 |
[WP] A sentient species evolved alongside humans here on Earth, concealed mainly because they live in the dark depths of the oceans where no human has ever reached. And they are at the brink of war with humans.
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This was one of the last times we would meet.
"This action can no longer be tolerated. It's either us or them!"
"We can't just jump to a military conflict. They don't even realise they're doing anything wrong."
"Don't realise?! How could anyone not see the damage they're causing to the biosphere?!"
Our Quorum of 5, the five representatives of our race from across the ocean were meeting to discuss what repsonse should be made towards the humans. Pollution was beginning to destroy our way of live. People were getting sick. A lot of people have been losing family.
Rix was insistant the removing the humans from the planet would be best in the long run.
"If we don't act now who knows how much more damage can be done. A recent survey has shown that at the rate the fish is being harvested their population levels won't be able to be sustained for another 20 years if even that."
Lith was sure a more diplomatic approach could be met.
"Why can we not just reveal ourselves to the humans. If they realised that we were here-"
"If they realised than you and I would be the first on the autopsy table. Lets face it, the humans would react badly if they knew we were here. Revealing ourselves is not an option."
Dhir seemed to the most realistic of us. For better or worse.
Dyrm slowly raised from his seat.
"The fact of the matter is, we can't continue like this. We can't trust that the humans will reduce their pollution levels. Gentleman, war is here whether we like it or not, but don't think this is bred from hate, or vengence over those lost. This war will be one of survival. We cannot co-exist with the humans. It's a horrible decision we have to make, but I'd rather not risk the consequences of our indecision. I think it's time we bring it to a vote."
Each of us, in secret, were set to cast our balot over whether we should declare war. 3 votes was all that was needed to doom either race to extinction. I voted in favour of the war, hoping that I hadn't sentenced my friends and family to death in the process.
| 1 | 0 | 43 | 17,761 |
[OT] How do you come up with the stories you write about?
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There are a bunch of other great posts here, and I am far from a successful writer, but the key to my writing is pretty cliche.
Just think outside the box. Think around it, under it, over it, whatever. Think different.
Example prompt: Two evil
people abuse and keep a young girl hostage. A man tries to save her.
Your first thought may be to write a pulse pounding thriller in which the man, our hero, bursts into a house, guns blazing and one-liners ready. The kidnappers may drag their victim into a van, and the man gives chase, grabbing the little girl just in time as the two evil men plunge into the ravine below, their truck exploding in a ball of flame.
Day saved, right?
Sure, that works, but try thinking outside the box.
Abuse can constitute many things besides physical harm. Emotional, mental, and even spiritual abuse are real and painful things.
Two evil people. Doesn't have to be big scary men, right? How about two women? Maybe bullies? No, how about two parents?
A man tries to save her. Well, we said it could be emotional abuse, so how about a boyfriend? Older brother? Teacher?
What we can now do is construct a great story about a pair of narcissistic, unfit parents, emotionally abusing their daughter, who is also unable to help herself, and their older son, finally sick of it, fights them off and takes her away to live with him.
It works better, it connects better, and it will surprise people. The element of surprise has long been one of the greatest tools at a writers disposal. Think about it. What do you think of when you picture a meth dealer? A skinny, unkempt, tattooed thug.
What if he was a husband, father, chemistry teacher? Doesn't that turn the plot on it's head and make every interaction much more interesting?
| 22 | 0 | 30 | 19,912 |
[WP] His mustache quivered proudly in the stiff wind, undaunted by his enemies.
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"Were you there? Did you see it?" father asked
"I was there, I saw it." I said
"Tell me how your brother died," father said; I could see that he was all too eager to hear the demise of his son.
"His mustache quivered proudly in the stiff wind, undaunted by his enemies nor the sand. He was surrounded, moors edging closer encircling him. He was the last of us still standing, I could see that they were toying with, that was their mistake. The first round went down easily, but there were too many and the weight of his sword too great. The first miss was all it took for one of them to get in close and stick him. After that he was done for as the moors swarmed him like crows."
"And how did you see this?" father asked
"I ran to him and tried to get the animals off of him I knew it was too late but I couldn't let his last moment in this world be a group of moors trying to take the shreds of honor he had left. He was still alive when I got to him he asked me to give you his sword and ask if he did bring honor to our family."
"Good…good my son" he said with a smile on his face.
I was a fool. Father sent him there to die with me; father never looked more pleased in his life with me. My jaw hung open; I could see it in his face, one more left. One more to get rid of so he can't take my place.
"Father?" I asked, "Did my brother bring honor to our family?"
"The boy died a Bastard's death, the only regret I have is that you didn't bring back his armor too. Dam thing cost me a fortune. Nevertheless, it's over my son. Come drink with me, you look so weary from your journey.
With that, I left, taking my brother's sword. After sticking father with it.
| 1 | 0 | 22 | 124,881 |
[WP] Write an enormously long piece about someone lost in the woods and I promise to read it.
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I didn't set out to get lost in a forest that never ends. I still don't really understand how it happened.
Every day, I run. Sometimes it's only for twenty minutes, if that's all I can spare, and sometimes it's for an hour or more. The bike trail loops around almost the whole town, and there's a good amount of decent scenery on the way, so sometimes I start up my music and go, and let my lungs and my feet decide when it's time to turn and head home.
Part of the trail leads though a little park, with a nice playground just at the edge of some woods. I don't have any kids, so I've never been there for longer than it takes to run past, but it seems like a nice enough place. There's a path there, too, that leads into the woods, like a nature trail. Whenever I go by, I always think, maybe next time. Maybe next time I'll turn that way and see what there is to see.
This morning, I did.
Every forest has its own personality. A dense stand of conifers, huddled together under a blanket of snow, will give off an entirely different feel than a vast swath of ancient oaks, all dappled sunlight and soft wind rustling their leaves. This stretch of woods was a mix of maple and oak and ash, dotted with clearings here and there, crisscrossed with little streams. The gravel paths and tiny wooden bridges seemed well maintained. If this place lacked the majesty of an old growth forest or the stoicism of winter pines, it still had a certain friendly charm.
Taking first one turn and then another when the path branched, I didn't really bother to consult the signs. The fact that there were signs marking the routes at all was enough for me to feel safe—I knew the park wasn't so big, nor the trails so elaborate, that I could get lost.
Which is why it was all the more surprising when, half an hour after I entered the woods, I paused at a spot where five paths converged and finally checked the map on one of the signs, running slowly in place. After a minute of study, I came to the conclusion that none of the paths I had taken were actually on the blasted thing.
I have a good sense of direction, I know I do, and after I went past the playground, I was building a map of the area in my head. A hundred yards or so in, there was the first branch, and I had turned right instead of continuing straight. But the entrance path on the map had no branches for at least the first mile, and the path described a huge, lazy curve around the back edge of the park. If I had been following that, I would have seen the fence around the park, I would have seen roads, or buildings, or *something* beyond the trees. Anything.
But all I had seen were more trees. I couldn't possibly have been that close to the edge of the forest.
Then, a few minutes after that first nonexistent fork in the path, there had been a sharp left turn. Couldn't find it on the map. Then I'd run over a bridge when I'd hit a stream. The streams on the map were all in places I shouldn't have gotten to yet if the "You are Here" marker was trustworthy.
I will admit to a few moments of internal panic when it finally sunk in that I had no idea where I was. The sign seemed to be for a different park entirely, certainly not the one I was in now. But it didn't take long to decide to turn around and go back the way I came. I would be exhausted by the time I got home, but at least I would *get* home. And even if the maps were wrong, I knew exactly how I had gotten this far, so all I had to do was double back and everything would be fine.
Resigned but determined, I turned around and sped down the gravel track.
It didn't take me more than a few hundred yards to realize that something was very, very wrong.
None of the landmarks I remembered were anywhere in sight. The giant fallen maple tree that I'd passed, idly wondering if it had come down in last week's thunderstorm? Gone. I'd seen it on my left less than a minute before reaching the sign, but even five minutes after turning around, I still hadn't reached it. On this windless day, with so little noise from the still leaves, I'd been able to hear the swift little stream for quite a while before I found it, but now, the forest was nearly silent. Not only could I not hear the water, I heard no birds calling, no squirrels burying their food in the undergrowth, no chipmunks chittering at each other.
Then the light dimmed, as if clouds had shrouded the sun. I looked up, but I couldn't see the sky anymore.
I stopped, and replayed the last few minutes in my mind. Since nothing looked at all familiar, I wondered if I'd somehow taken the wrong path back when I'd turned around at the sign. I couldn't think of any other explanation, so I turned around—again—and made for the sign, hoping to choose the correct way home the second time around.
Ten minutes later, it was raining, and I was even more lost. The path ran straight and smooth, long after I should have reached the sign at the crossroads again.
I saw a bench, place conveniently under a broad oak which kept it mostly shielded from the rain, and decided to stop and rest. I pulled out my phone and considered calling for help, but who could I call? Who wouldn't laugh at me for getting hopelessly lost in a park forest that barely covered a postage stamp? I stared at the display for quite a while before I realized the clock was wrong. I had left for my run just before noon, but the time on my phone read 4:42 pm.
There was no possible way I'd been out for almost five hours. That's longer than a marathon, even at my less-than-stellar pace. I'd be three towns over if I'd run that long, not stuck in a park barely a mile from home.
That's when I stopped being confused and frustrated, and started getting well and truly scared.
I stood up, and considered my options. From the bench, choosing left or right both seemed equally pointless. Left should have been the way back to the crossroads, and right the way back home, but given the odd behavior of the forest so far, I suspected that neither of those things were actually true. Moving forward took me into unfamiliar territory, but so did turning around. I'd crossed one stretch of the path three times, and it was different each time.
So I stepped off the path, heading directly away from the bench.
Night fell with a sudden completeness, so abruptly that I felt like a door had slammed behind me. I shivered in the chill and blinked, letting my eyes adjust to the dark. If I got close to the edge of the park, I might see streetlights, and be able to climb the fence and get out. At that point, I'd much rather have been lost in town than lost in the forest.
I heard a growling sound behind me, and saw a pair of bright yellow eyes.
I ran, and ran, and ran. It's all I can do, even now. I'm lost, and it's always night, and there is always something following me. My feet ache and my lungs burn and I just want to sleep, but whenever I slow down, I hear that growl, and the soft tread of paws on fallen leaves.
-009
*(1300+ words! I didn't start out intending to write anything supernatural or horrific, and yet, here I am. I feel like something's missing, though. I might come back to this later.)*
| 2 | 0 | 14 | 5,655 |
[WP] Everyone on earth is a mentor of someone, and has a mentor. You are the mentor of one of the biggest criminals in history
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People always asked me if I had seen it coming. They were always busy assuring me that it was not my fault, that Fred would have chosen the wrong path anyway. Criminal genes, they called it, nobody could have helped him. But secretly they pitied me for my failure as a mentor and as a man. Poor fools, they would never understand.
When I became Fred's mentor, in the early spring of 2007, I promised myself not to be like my own mentor. I wanted Fred to become successful in whatever profession or lifestyle he would choose. My own mentor had had different ideas for his protégé. I was to become a doctor, like he had always wanted to be, but for which he lacked the intelligence. He saw me as the younger, smarter version of him that could fulfil his dream for him. I never liked the idea of becoming a doctor, but since I had no idea what else I wanted to be, it was settled. I went to medical school and found a job at a hospital. I hated my life. Working hard every day for something I disliked made me miserable. I tried to search for other jobs, less boring professions, but my parents pressured me into staying at the hospital. Helped by my large hospital paycheck I could provide for them when they were old and needed to be taken care of, they argued. I obliged and continued my everyday life as before, but only a year later I started to find joy in it.
On my thirtieth birthday I received a letter from the government, informing me that I was to be a mentor to a teenager called Fred. At first I was annoyed. Just great, another thing I had to do against my will. But my attitude changed when I met Fred. He was an smart boy, eager to learn and reminded me of my younger self. Although I had promised myself not to act like my own mentor, I did. My goal was to give Fred the life I had never been able to lead. He was to be successful in whatever profession he liked and was good at. His path in life was to be led by his dreams and his talents, not by others' expectations. His talents turned out to be slightly out of the ordinary. He would come to me and brag about how he had simultaneously stolen two televisions and a microwave from a busy store without anyone noticing. Instead of reprimanding him, I complimented and encouraged him. This was clearly something he was good at and liked, so I helped him get better at it. I let him practice his burglary and pickpocket skills on me and my house, but soon that was not enough for him anymore. He wanted the bigger crime, the more difficult and more rewarding jobs. He found partners and together they executed the witty plans he had created for robbing banks and casinos. In the beginning, I was scared the police would catch him, put him behind bars where he would spend the rest of his years wasting his talents, but they never did. His accomplices got caught, but Fred always got away. At times he would get harmed in the police chase, but never more than I could patch up. At these moments, I finally enjoyed being a doctor. It made me able to help him stay successful, and that was all I wanted. By now the police knew about him and the papers were filled with his name. I had never been so proud.
The last time I met him, about a year ago, he seemed unusually nervous. He would not say anything about it, but it was clearly about a new plan. "Just watch the news." he said and left before I could ask any more questions. Since that moment, I watched TV non-stop until the next evening breaking news was announced. I hardly saw the news through the tears in my eyes. Fred had become the successful man I always wanted him to be. And though I might never see him again, I am finally happy and as proud as I can be. My protégé robbed the Queen!
| 2 | 0 | 6 | 206,789 |
[WP] You eloped last week, no one had any clue what you were up to, and now you have to tell your parents.
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Gently swerving left and right, along the winding road, Emma absentmindedly watches her phone slide back and forth on the dashboard. She watches with expectant, nervous eyes, but her face is blank. Ruth is driving, but casts a quick glance towards the passenger's seat; hesitant to take her eyes off of the serpentine road, but clearly concerned.
"…Emma? Honey?"
"Hmm." Emma turns her face towards Ruth, but her eyes remain on the phone.
"Do you want to call them? You know, before we get there? You've been staring at that phone ever since we left."
Emma twists her mouth into a downward grimace and shakes her head.
Ruth sighs. "C'mon, Emma. I know you are worried about this. I think you are making it harder on yourself by not calling ahead. You don't want this…us…to be a complete surprise." Ruth leans forward and begins to reach blindly along the dash, not taking her eyes off of the road.
Emma intercepts Ruth's hand and scoffs. "Ugh, Ruthie…," she starts out, exasperated.
"What? Really, what?" Ruth shakes her hand free and places it back on the steering wheel. "Just *call*. You're their daughter, Emma, they will be happy to hear from you."
Emma tightens her fingers lifts them to the level of her face, cupping and shaking them as if she were holding an invisible ball.
"Ruth! You just don't get it! They haven't been a part of my life for…for a long time. You know this." Emma's voice is strained. She keeps her hands poised in the air in a gesture of vexation.
"All the more reason," Ruth begins, once again reaching and tapping along the dashboard, "you should call."
Ruth successfully locates the phone and holds it up to Emma's face. Emma slaps it out of her hand, knocking it to the floor, where it tumbles beneath her seat.
"Oh, real mature."
"You don't understand! It's different with your family. You don't know my parents, Ruth. Just trust me, it's better if I don't call first." Emma crosses her arms and leans back into her seat. She angles her body away from Ruth, looking out the window at the passing trees.
"That's the point! Emma, I've never even *met* your parents. We can't just show up on their doorstep with this kind of news! I mean…when's the last time they even heard from you?"
"It doesn't matter," Emma mumbles to the window.
"It doesn't matter?" Ruth pounds her open palms on the steering wheel, "Ok. Ok…fine. Have it your way, Emma." Ruth rolls her eyes upwards and purses her lips.
They continue to drive in silence. Ruth stares stonily ahead, jaw set. Emma brings her knees towards her chest and wraps her arms around them. She slowly turns her downcast eyes towards Ruth and looks up timidly. Ruth doesn't acknowledge her. Emma whimpers questioningly. No response.
"Ah…," Emma tests her voice shyly before apologizing softly, "I'm sorry, Ruth. I know I'm being difficult. Maybe we should have told your family first. I thought I was ready to face my parents but…" Her voice trails off.
Ruth seems reluctant to speak, but eventually her face softens and she reaches over to Emma, grasping her hand reassuringly.
"I know it's hard. That's why we eloped, you know, to avoid all the craziness of planning a wedding, of having to coordinate with our families…but we can't put this off forever. We've been avoiding seeing your parents but despite what you say, I know it means a lot to you." Ruth moves her hand to Emma's face and caresses her cheek.
Emma leans into Ruth's hand and closes her eyes. "Thank you, Ruthie. I couldn't do this without you." She opens her eyes suddenly and looks earnestly at the side of Ruth's face.
"No matter what happens, no matter how my parents react…we'll always be together right?" Emma says in a small, hurried voice.
The side of Ruth's mouth creeps up into an amused smile. "Of course. I married you didn't I? You're stuck with me!" She laughs, lifting the arm closest to Emma and ushering her in with a wave of her wrist. "Come on. We're in this together. Always."
Emma leans in and arranges herself awkwardly around the gearshift to rest her head on Ruth's shoulder. Ruth brings her arm around Emma's shoulders and places her other hand along the top edge of the steering wheel, steadying it. She kisses the top of Emma's head before gently leading her back to the passenger's seat.
The two of them sit upright in apprehensive silence, but they look forward at the twisting road together. Despite the worry tightening around their eyes, they are both smiling, glowing happiness. Rolling her shoulders back, Emma loosens her seatbelt and bends down, feeling blindly beneath her seat. As she straightens, she lifts the located phone up with one hand and brushes a stray chestnut hair out of her eyes with the other.
Emma takes a deep breath. Ruth nods and smiles encouragingly.
"You got this, baby."
Emma smiles haltingly. With determination, she begins to dial.
| 3 | 0 | 2 | 13,269 |
[WP] You wake up one morning to find that you have written a disturbing note to yourself, and you don't remember how, when, or why.
|
I stared at the paper for longer than I can remember, the minutes just passing by as my mind raced with questions. Why did I write that? What did it mean? I read it again, trying to decipher the meaning, but failed once more. I must have written it, that's my handwriting, but I had no memory at all. What had I done the night before? Why couldn't I remember?
It didn't matter. The memory was gone, and all I could do was work with what I had. I looked on the back of the paper to see if there was anything else, but it was blank, so I returned to the note and re-read it once again.
28 West Lake Drive
In the garden, next to the shed.
Body is there.
I didn't know at the time where that was. Well, I didn't think that I knew, but I must have to have written the note. It was definitely my writing. That was when I decided that the only way to find out what was going on was to find 28 West Lake Drive, and see what was in the garden by the shed. I found out where it was, and decided to walk there to think it through further. It was less than an hour by foot from my house.
Standing outside, I remember the immense sense of foreboding that I had, more then just unnerving, but a real terror that went right through me. I almost turned back, but I needed to find out what was going on.
I went up to knock on the door, but as I did so I saw that the door was already slightly open. I peered in through the crack, and I heard the faint sound of music coming from inside. It was some kind of classical piece, but I didn't recognise it. I then pushed open the door slowly.
"Hello?" I sounded so meek in that moment, my voice cracking slightly. I was so very, very scared. There was no answer, so I checked behind to make sure no one was watching and entered, closing the door. That's when I saw why the door was open, the door had been kicked out, tearing the lock from the doorframe. Still, I pushed it to as best I could and then turned to survey the interior.
Apart from the door, nothing else seemed to be damaged or misplaced. It was very clean, and there wasn't much to look at as it was very sparsely decorated, only a few paintings on the wall and some very basic furniture. The music seemed to be coming from upstairs. I didn't care to go up there. Besides, the garden was where I was headed.
I passed a dining room and lounge, entered the kitchen and went out the backdoor. Still nothing of any interest, other than how no one was here. The garden itself was very basic, just like the house, with a meagre arrangement of plants around the rim of a perfectly mowed lawn. The shed looked new, like it hadn't seen much rain or weathering, and still had a slight glossy shine to it.
I initially went to open the shed, but I noticed next to it was a trowel, laid upon some freshly disturbed dirt. I have to admit, I was very happy to not a see grave-sized hole, especially when it had said 'body' in the note. This looked like it was about two-feet long and a foot wide.
Having gone this far, the only way forward was to find out what was buried there, so I dug. I dug as quickly as I could, not paying any attention to the mess I was making over myself, and how I would be walking back home covered in dirt. If I'd known then what was buried, I perhaps would have been more careful not to draw attention to myself.
I eventually dug out what seemed to be a shoe box. I was still quite confused, and dug out around it so I could lift it out. I knelt in the dirt with it just in front of me and laid the trowel down. I took a deep breath and opened the box.
| 5 | 0 | 12 | 218,141 |
[WP] A man lucid dreams about being with a girl that he's been crushing on. This helps build his confidence to ask her out and they eventually end up together. But later on the guy starts having trouble separating details from his dreams and reality, threatening the relationship.
|
Before I go to sleep I do what I always do and stare at her picture, the laminated plastic held tight in my fingers. I sit for five full minutes drinking her in, fixing her deep in my mind and then rotate back and lie down, saying over and over to myself, "yellow mushroom, yellow mushroom, yellow mushroom".
Almost immediately I slip away into sleep, I have trained myself so well that I can now slip in quickly and easily, finding my way to my world where she waits for me.
I'm in a town, walking and things are going by so quickly but I can't reach any of them. I go to get in my car but I can't get it to start because there is a yellow mushroom under the pedal.
***Yellow mushroom.***
I lie back and I am home in my real bed with her, transported here immediately. In dreams you can do as you want when you want and now I am here. She is curled up into me, fitting perfectly, as I imagine she always does; my perfect woman and here she is deeply in love with me. She obeys my every word and she does as I please. It's perfect.
We spend the day together. Talking, fucking, flying through the world. Mostly flying and fucking to be fair but she does occasionally talk. It goes for years and we grow more in love each day, building a home and then a family together, learning each other's likes and dislikes and sleeping next to each other at night.
***I wake***
My alarm blasts out and I find myself awake, the dreams still clinging to me as I groggily come back to life. Reluctantly I sit up and rub my face. Now for the other world to begin.
It takes an hour to get to work, trapped on a smelly bus. How I long to fly, to be free, like in my dreams. At last I arrive and knock on the door until the bank manager lets me in and I slip into my position and begin sorting out my cash drawers for the day.
She sits three down for me in the Mortgage and Loans booth and I can see her when she leans forward. I try not to stare, but occasionally I forget. the first customer of the day arrives and soon my morning is filled with paying in cheques and sorting out overdrafts and I have no time to think, to dream.
At last it is lunch and I am free of my booth and head back into the break room to eat my sandwich. Once the room was empty, but I could smell her and I managed to fall asleep and grab an hour with her. Most days someone else is on break at the same time though.
I push in and freeze, *it's her*. "Hey Avril." She turns and half smiles at me and I almost faint. She acknowledged me. I urge my legs to move and at last they do and we go in and I sit down. She moves across and sits behind me and begins to eat her soup on the couch. idiot, why didn't I sit there and *I* could watch *her*!
I imagine what we will talk about tonight and I picture her and me talking about this. it will be such bliss and so easy. She'll lean forward to kiss me and I'll reach in, brushing aside her headscarf covered in yellow mushrooms.
***Yellow mushroom***.
I'm asleep, I must be. I am here, at home with her. I have fallen asleep at work, it has become so easy for me to slip into sleep I have managed right now. For a moment I think about waking but then I realise, this is perfect! I sit her down and lean in. "I love you, I want you and I desire you. I want to do everything I can to that perfect body. To fuck you everywhere till you scream and to take you hard and strong and to..."
There is a scream, but of fear, not pleasure. I am awake. The last words are dribbling from my lips, unstoppable. I have said them out loud. I am erect and standing in front of her, it must seem threatening.
There are repercussions. I am fired. I am sent home. I will not be allowed to come back. She never wants to see me again.
I make one stop on the way home and then sit at my own table and pop each pill from the blister pack and swallow it down. There is a pile of packs and boxes left on the table when I am done.
Before I go to sleep I do what I always do and stare at her picture, the laminated plastic held tight in my fingers. I sit for five full minutes drinking her in, fixing her deep in my mind and then rotate back and lie down, saying over and over to myself, "yellow mushroom, yellow mushroom, yellow mushroom".
*****
| 285 | 0 | 1,028 | 201,013 |
[WP] "No matter what you hear, no matter how badly you want to, do NOT open your eyes."
|
-126
"No matter what you hear, no matter how badly you want to, do NOT open your eyes." Marideth told her, shoving her backward among the hanging coats and wraps.
"But, I want to go with you." Emma told her, shooting nervous glances toward the customer window.
"No matter what you hear, no matter how badly you want to, do NOT open your eyes. Do. Not. Open. Your. Eyes." The older woman warned, biting off each word in her irriatation.
"I promise." The little whispered, backing even deeper into the shadows amongst the coats. Marideth checked to make sure the child had her eyes closed then stepped over to the counter, slipped the silenced twenty-two from her garter and laid it behind the red number dispensing box on the counter. She covered it with the tasseled end of a scarf some man had checked in earlier. She pulled a photo of the man she was looking for from the clutch she carried and laid it beneath the counter where she could see it without seeming too.
"How long do I have to keep my eyes closed?" Emma asked.
"Till I tell you to open them." Marideth snapped. "Now be quite. I don't want anyone knowing that I brought you along."
"Are you doing another job for Mario?" Emma asked.
"The last one." Marideth told her, shushing her. "After this one, my debt is settled. Now quite, someone is coming." Emma didn't respond, obeying. There was the sound of a bell ringing followed by the sounds of the city without, but they were quickly extinguished by the closing door.
A man with two women approached the counter. The women removed their fur coats and laid them on the counter. Marideth removed a number from the red box, attached it to the coat, tore off the end of each number and handed them back to their respective owners. The man removed his coat, a long black coat and a white scarf and handed it across, refusing to lay it on the counter. She repeated the process with the numbers.
"Enjoy your stay." She told them politely. She glanced at the picture under the counter and saw that the man was the one she was looking for. Many men and women came to drop off their coats and collect coats they'd dropped off earlier, and so it went throughout the evening and late into the night.
"Do I have to keep my eyes closed still?" Emma asked, slumping to the floor, too exhausted from hiding to remain standing.
"Shush." Marideth told her in an urgent whisper.
"But, I'm tired, Mary." Emma whined.
"If the man I'm looking for doesn't show up in the next hour, we'll leave. Okay?" She comprimised.
"Okay. Can we get something to eat afterward too? Smelling the food out there is making me really hungry." She admitted.
"Here." Marideth told her, fishing an granola bar out of her purse. "When you're done, stick the wrapper in your pocket. I don't want to leave any evidence behind.
"Mkay." Emma agreed, tearing the wrapper open with her teeth. She sat with her head resting against the wall and her knees drawn up to her chest and quietly devoured the bar. "Thanks, Mary." Emma whispered, struggling to find her pockets among the coats.
"Stop moving." Marideth told her. "You're supposed to be invisible. Mario can know I brought you along. He has a rule about witnesses."
"What kind of rule?" Emma asked.
"That there aren't any." Marideth quipped.
"I'll keep my eyes closed, Mary. He won't know I was here." The little girl promised, slowly standing up again, just as the bell rang above the door. Three men entered. One of them was wearing a calf length tan leather coat, with a black and yellow scarf. He removed them and his hat and handed them to Marideth. She accepted them, glancing down at the picture under the counter. Her eyes rolled up, and she realized this was the man she'd been waiting for all night.
"I'll get you a number, sir." She told the man, even as the other two men opened their coats to reveal the grip of pistols inside their suit jackets.
"You're not the usual girl." The man told her. "Where's Marcy?" He asked. The two men with pistols eyed her shrewdly.
"Her sister was clipped by a taxi this morning. Marcy had to stay home and babysit her nieces." Marideth lied.
"This city." The stranger laughed. "What you gonna do? Every cabbie is some immigrant that never learned how to drive. You see her, tell her Tony and the boys hopes her sister gets better and quick." The man laid his hands on the counter and glanced around the coat room. "That number?" He asked, prompting her.
"Shoot. I almost forgot." She lied, giving him a brainless giggle. The other men laid their coats on the counter as she reached for his number. Her hand slid behind the red box and grabbed the cold grip of the twenty-two. She brought it up quickly and shot the man who'd called himself Tony in the forehead.
She shifted to the right and shot the closest body guard twice in the chest and swiveled back to take care of the last body guard. He had his pistol pulled, but the bullet she put in his forehead stopped him, and the two she put in his heart guaranteed he'd never finish the motion. She leaned out over the counter and put another bullet in Tony's head and two in his heart.
"Keep your eyes closed, baby. We're almost done." She hurriedly removed the silencer and slipped it and the twenty-two in her clutch and turned to collect her daughter. "You still got your eyes closed, honey?" Emma started to answer when the bell suddenly ran again. Marideth jerked her head around just in time to hear the whisper of Tony's third body guard. She didn't scream or plead. The bullet split the skin over her eye, smashed through her skull and scrambled her brain, then sprayed blood and brain matter all over the hanging coats and jackets.
She didn't sigh. She sat down as her legs failed her, stared ahead with dead eyes then lay down as a second bullet entered beneath her eye. The body guard looked down at his boss and the other two men who been along to protect him and grimaced. He stuffed his gun back in his holster, fixed his coat to hide it and his face and hurriedly left the restaurant. The bell ringing above the door signaled his departure.
Emma stood among the coats with her eyes firmly pinched shut and wondered where the warm droplets running down her legs came from. She didn't open her eyes till she heard the other customer's scream. She melted out from beneath the coats and sat near her mother's head and wondered at the little red dots leaking blood from her mother's face. She gave her mother a shake.
"I didn't open my eyes, Mary." She whispered, shaking her mother a little harder. "Mommy?" She asked, noticing the red polka-dots of blood covering her legs and dress. "Get up, mommy. Please." She was still trying to wake her mother when the police arrived.
| 3 | 0 | 45 | 52,654 |
[WP] A man realizes he can do real magic, but only party party magic, not wizard stuff.
|
"For my next trick, i will magically teleport the beer inside this **locked**
can, into that glass over there." The magician enthusiastically proclaimed.
He pointed towards the bar, where Chris was clinging on for dear life, trying not to puke and barely keeping that last bit of self esteem alive. The crowds look shifted over to the empty glass in Chris' hand.
"Giiive me 'notheron wuld ya?" Chris said in his drunken gibberish, holding up his empty glass. It was quite easy to understand after several tours around the city and a few rounds at the bar. That he always insisted on being the first one to try out the new tricks on.
"Coming right up sir!" he said as he began shaking the can.
The look shifted back to the man, violently jerking off a can of beer.
The crowd cheered as you could hear a draining sound coming from the magician, as he jerked the can off faster. I got a really disturbing flashback from last night.
We all looked over at the now partially filled glass in the drunken hands of Chris.
Chris' eyes became full of excitement when beer began to appear in his his half empty glass. The crowd cheered even harder.
I wasn't amused.
"How'dy do that?!" Chris said, before downing the last beer of the night. The magician made a quirky smile.
"Well you see." He said, walking into the newly formed circle around Chris. "It's all thanks to this godly fella."
He pointed towards me.
"Want to see another trick?" I said, smiling.
EDIT: I made a few tweaks to the story so it would be easier to continue, if people want to read more.
| 2 | 0 | 6 | 139,133 |
Kim John Un has died and Dennis Rodman is named Supreme Ruler of North Korea.
|
"We are gathered here today in remembrance of the departed." The pastor stood at the head of the small, nearly empty church where a funeral service was being held. There was a sign at the door, with the picture of a man above a name placard that read "Kim John Un".
The pastor continued, "Mister Un was a man beloved by his community. Though no one took him in, or gave him change as he sat on the corner by the general store, his antics brought humility and hilarity to our small town. When Mrs. Gorozky's cat decided to latch onto Mister Un's face, many of our young'uns laughed heartily. He never recovered fully."
The air was ominous. The light was dim. A man in the back of the room coughed for three minutes straight.
"It has been stipulated in Mister Un's will that I read this aloud. The only request, other than the request that I read it aloud, is that Dennis Rodman be named the leader of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. That's it. His will is written in crayon and signed by Mister Goldberg. He must have notarized this pro bono."
A man, tall with dark skin and green hair stands in the front row, exclaiming in confused excitement, "I'm the leader? Of the free world! Wow!" Dennis Rodman was jumping and singing with excitement.
| 4 | 0 | 336 | 23,276 |
[WP] A film noir type story set in the 50's with a black protagonist.
|
The hicks were out tonight. Hell, they were always out these days.
My name is Frank Greene, and I'm sick of this shit. Always scraping by on a gumshoe budget. Always being treated like an inferior by people who considered themselves better than me.
I killed a man yesterday. Piece of shit cop, figured he was above the law. Piece of shit cop who murdered my mother and father while I hid. I never forgot his face.
Horace Wallace, that was his name. And while I can hear the night roar outside as they howl for my blood, I haven't given up. They'll kill me if I go outside. They know I'll kill them if they come in here.
"Come out, boy. Come out, and we'll talk. You kill't an officer of the law, and there'll be hell to pay, but no one's gonna shoot you. Least, not yet." The hicks laughed and chuckled, I could hear them through the walls. I took another drink, a toast to my mother and father.
I lit a cigar, a cheap one, and thought back to the first time my father caught me smoking. "Son, don't you know these things will kill you?" He seemed so much more youthful in my memory, and while the world had beaten him down so much in his time, he still had managed to keep his head up. Atleast he had, until Officer Wallace killed him and Momma.
Had it really been fifteen years since that day? Christ, the war hadn't even started. If it had, maybe he'd still be alive. Maybe none of this would have happened. Or maybe he'd have caught a bullet in the guts from a German fighting for the supremacy of his people.
I felt sick to my stomach, a dull burning in my leg where Wallace had grazed me with a thirty-eight as I shot him down. I couldn't put much weight on it, let alone walk right. Maybe death wouldn't be so bad.
I rose to my feet in pain, and made my peace. As I walked out the door to a thousand flash-bulbs going off in unison, I wondered...
Would I see them in heaven? Was there even such a place?
All I had left was hope.
| 3 | 0 | 51 | 204,249 |
[WP] You awake to find that the clock has somehow been reset, and it's early on the morning of the day you met your long-time spouse/partner. Knowing what you know, what do you do?
|
"Claire, come on! You need to wake up!"
"No, five more minutes. Let me sleep in for once, Theresa."
"Who are you talking to? You're going to be late for class on the first day!"
Classes? Wait, that wasn't my wife's voice. I knew it, though. I opened my eyes and saw my college roommate, not a day older than when we first met. I sat up quickly, taking in my surroundings.
"Good, you're up. Class starts in fifteen minutes, I'm heading out."
"Thanks," I muttered as I crawled out of the uncomfortable dorm bed. I checked my phone, surprised to see the date as my first day of college. I dug around in my dresser for a pair of jeans and a sweater, not taking the time to brush my hair.
I took the seat by the window, as I always did, and contentedly dazed in the warm sunlight as students filed into the classroom. I saw my wife, as beautiful as ever, and I eyed her more than I had the first time around.
She sat next to me, nervously looking around the classroom. I grinned.
"You from a small town?" I asked. She jumped at the sound of my voice, and I knew I made the right decision. I wouldn't change a single thing.
| 25 | 0 | 35 | 18,244 |
[WP] You live in a universe that wasn't constructed that well and the physics are buggy and things occasionally just don't work right.
|
"Francine, what on Earth are you doing?"
"I'm picking up my sandwich."
"OK. And now what are you doing?"
"I'm putting it down again."
"And now?"
"Picking it up again."
"Why are you doing that? You've done nothing but pick that sandwich up, and put it down, and pick it up, and put it down, for a full five minutes. You've picked it up and put it down one hundred and twenty-three times. I counted. There's only ten minutes left before recess. Why don't you just eat it?"
"But I'm hungry."
"If you're hungry, shouldn't you *eat your sandwich*? That's why your father packed you a sandwich; for this exact situation."
"If I eat it now, I'm still going to be hungry after."
"And picking up and putting down the sandwich for a full five minutes has somehow made it more filling?"
"No, that's silly. I'm making another."
"Making another sandwich?"
"Yeah, watch! See, I pick it up, and put it down, and then I pick it up, and then I put it down, and then I pick it up--"
"--and then you put it down, yes. That's what you've been--"
"--and then I pick it up, and then I put it down--"
"--and then you *eat* the sandwich like a good--"
"--and then I pick it up, and then I pick it up, and then I... hahaha!"
"I think you skipped a step. Wait. How did you--"
"See, Mr. Carson! I have two now!"
| 38 | 0 | 202 | 64,938 |
[WP] An alien race encounters the most terrifying predator imaginable. A lone, unarmed human.
|
They lay quietly, with their thin bodies against the cold, metalic ground. "We... we couldn't stop it commander..." The only remaining being said in a wavering voice. "I-it... it's too strong for us to handle... I... I have failed you..."
Ray stepped through the darkened corridor, keeping his sights on that which had been thrown to the side in the fight. It was a small pocketwatch that read 11:47
He sighed deeply, quickly grabbing hold of it. "Do you know what this is?" He requested as he approached the being. A soft chuckle escaped his lips while his eyes followed the seconds hands that continued to tick away.
"I... don't know what you mean..." Was all that could be said.
Ray kneeled down next to it, lifting the small item into what little light there was. "It's called a watch... it tells you what time it is." His finger tapped the cracked glass in time with the the ticking. "It also helps us keep ourselves organized... now..." His voice trailed off.
"Why would we need that..." The thin figure said, attempting to raise it's bony hand to it's chest. "It... it's useless to us..." At the last word, it gasped deeply, unable to continue speaking.
"No... I wouldn't say that..." The man said, looking closer. "You see, our military likes to keep us effecient... on top of things if you will... and most of my squad can kill another human with their bare fists in less than twenty seconds." His gaze moved to the black eyes of the other, "It's a great way to know who to send in for whatever missions we have, and well my friend..."
"...Well... what...?" It coughed out.
"Think about it..." He stated, placing his palm onto the things leathery forhead, "One human effectively wiped out this ship's crew in less than an hour." His fingers dug in, gripping tightly as he brought it back and lifted it's head a few inches above, "Now think about what several hundred thousand of us will do in only one day..."
With his final words, the things eyes widdened in it's final moment of clarity. His race was doomed. Destined to be forgotten as only one unarmed human had managed to do such damage in so little time.
The sound of it's skull shattering hung in the air for what felt like moments, before the mans comm link buzzed to life. "General..." He said, looking down at the look of shock that was fixated on the now lifeless face. "It is done... move on to phase two. It's time we show these bastards what the human race is made of."
He glanced back to the pocket watch. 11:48
"Alpha one out."
(Had no idea where this one was going at first haha, sorry if I messed up!
Edit: word)
| 2 | 0 | 245 | 97,330 |
[WP] A man who has been dating a girl since elementary school goes to her father for her hand in marriage. The father says no. Tell us why and break our hearts.
|
Mister Redman. Paul. Sir. Dad? No. Not that, not yet. Sir might be too formal, but Mister Redman makes me sound like a kid. I need to sound like a man. I need to sound like someone who can take care of her. So Paul it is. Although maybe that's **too** informal. Fuck it, here we go.
I raise my hand to the door and knock three times. Three nice, authorative knocks. Two would be too short, it would show a lack of confidence. Anything more than four would be annoying. They sure are taking their time answering, it's already been like 5 seconds. Should I knock again? Never mind, I can see him coming down the stairs. I hope he wasn't sleeping or doing anything important. Oh god he looks annoyed, did I do something wrong? Maybe he was masturbating. Do old men masturbate?
Has the distance from the stairs to the door always been this long? Should I wave at him? Maybe I should wave. I'm gonna wave. Shit, he didn't wave back. He must be really pissed at something. He was definitely masturbating. The door finally opens.
"Hello."
A good start. Although he sounds even more pissed than he looks. The old man can't like jerking off that much that he'd be this mad at an interruption, right?
"Hi Mister Paul."
Fuck.
"Jessica isn't in at the moment."
"I know. I kinda wanted to talk to you about something, if you've got a moment.
"Not really. But come on in."
Here we go. The dance of wits begins. The battle for Jessica's heart. He leads me in to the front room. He sits down in his chair. It's really his too. I remember playing boardgames on the floor with Jessica years ago and the old man sat in the same place. Even then she'd let me win, and even then I knew she was going easy on me. But it made us both happy, so I guess it didn't matter who won.
I take a seat opposite him. The speech flows through my mind. Months and months of effort for this moment. Tender feelings of love and affection from over a decade of companionship put in to a couple of hundred words.
"Paul. As I'm sure you know, I care very much for your daughter, and she cares for me too."
"No."
Well that's put me off.
"No as in that I care very much for her, or that she cares for me?"
"No to your question. To this whole thing."
"I haven't asked a question yet. Sir."
Sir. Keep him on my good side. Respect.
"But you're going to. You're going to tell me how much you care about her and how you were made for eachother and how nothing could tear you two apart and how you want to marry her."
Marry. The word hangs in the air between us and I can't help but catch a brief mental glimpse of Jessica's smiling face as I ask her to marry me. Marry. Me.
"Well, yes. But-"
"I've said it already. No"
"But..."
That's all I've got. I hadn't planned for this. Fuck.
"Look kid... Jessica isn't too well. She wasn't visiting friends out of state last month, she was at the hospital. It's spreading again."
His voice catches. I can't speak or mine will too.
"Doctors say she's it was caught too late this time. She's got a month left, if that."
"But..."
This is definitely off script. My mind has frozen. Maybe he's confused. Old people can get confused. Jessica **was** sick, but that was years and years ago. She's better now. She's not sick. He's wrong. I should tell him.
"You're wrong. Jessica is fine now."
He looks at me again. That pissed looks is still there, although it doesn't really look that mad now I look at him. If anything it looks like he's in pain, like he's been wounded. Our eyes lock. His eyes start watering as he looks down to the floor and slowly closes his eyes.
"Not this time."
He sounds too far away. My ears are feeling strange. I try to speak, to tell him that Jessica will be OK, but my mouth isn't doing what I want it to do. Someone makes a quiet moaning noise. Was that me? Don't cry don't cry don't cry. Men don't cry. His shoulders are shaking, like he's laughing, but I can't see anything funny. Is this a joke?
"Stop laughing."
That was too loud. I didn't mean to shout. He takes his hands from his face and he looks at me. His eyes are red and his cheeks are blotchy. I don't think he was laughing. I think I'm crying now too. If he's allowed to cry so I can I. We're both men. Maybe sometimes it's OK for men to cry too.
| 9 | 0 | 101 | 9,892 |
[WP] A utopian planet communicates with a dystopian planet for the first time. The utopian planet is convinced that life would be better in the dystopian world. Why?
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All the Übermensch had known for 10,000 years of time without beginning was harmony and finally they began to miss humanity, the rope tying them to the Tier.
They were perfect and different and lovely through revelation and through suicide, something uniting them I still don't quite understand. Suicide shot them to the moon and through a singularity and to another place to call home. Nirvana, Pure Land, Heaven.
It began with one and it shattered the afterlife all the Tier on Earth had so much faith in. One life looked down and felt mistaken and managed to spring down and out of the ground he saw immeasurities away.
The angel walked up a flight of stairs into the bunker of his past-life, already in love with it's wife like it did before it went on to it's new home.
It was sad and it was happy and it was all porridge and it knew it had made a mistake in coming back but it didn't care, perfection was something it knew it'd want but not yet. It saw where it all ended and knew how honey and love and bliss and beauty felt in the gut but it still felt that something was left behind.
Maybe it should've came down as something simple like a dog or a cat or a cockroach, but it had crimes to pay for: not a matter of truth but a matter of dignity, something it lost somewhere between Earth and Heaven and found again too late.
The angel stood up and remembered it's name and what it had done and why it returned. It did something too shattering to leave without fixing.
The angel walked out the bunker and called on the others to petal the world and fill cracks in the lives it left and found love cast in something more down-to-earth than before, all the evil it had become and inflicted eons ago went away.
| 3 | 0 | 30 | 97,353 |
[WP] The bones aren't fully formed yet.
|
As the rest of the limp carcass slid down my throat like an oversized nightcrawler through the soil, a thought wormed its way up in the opposite direction. This thought seemed nonsensical and a complete non sequitur given the situation at hand, as thoughts often do when swallowing the remains of tender infant flesh.
"How would it be possible to create the end of a story without using my imagination?"
I tried with all my considerable mental might to break down this question, to answer it satisfactorily, but failed to satiate my sudden synaptic hunger. I could copy someone else's work, but that's already barred by the very nature of the question, I had to CREATE the end. I had truly stumped myself.
I knew I shouldn't share this thought with anyone, as it seemed to break some sort of rule of etiquette. If there were to be a list outlining the rules of proper conduct while in the presence of others, the sharing of this thought would surely break at least one of the commandments on this numbered list. I had to tell someone, though.
"Bleccch", damn it these babies are tasty but always give me indigestion. Maybe there is some celery seeds around here to calm my stomach.
| 1 | 0 | 0 | 172,536 |
[WP] A notification pops up saying you have only 48 hours to live.
|
"Ugh not another one of these 'share or die' posts, this is stupid" Rick clicked the upside-down chevron next to the notification and blocks it so he doesn't anymore of these. He then exits the browser with a sudden urge to eat.
He walked into his kitchen to see his microwave and oven acting up. The time wasn't going up, instead it was stuck at 47:59. After a couple seconds of intrigue, the time switched to 47:58, it was going down!
"Wow well this is elaborate," Simply shrugging it off rick walked down his hall and noticed something impossible. As he passed the mirror on the side of the wall there was smoke in the mirror, but not above him. The smoke formed into symbols, which he recognized, 47:57. What he thought was an ludicrous prank from someone with too much time on their hands has turned into something much more real.
Rick pondered what this really meant, and what he could possibly do. He decided to make amends with everyone he has ever wronged along with finding a religion. This process lasted him almost all the time he had left.
He could see his time remaining at the bottom of his computer, where the actual time used to be. With only a minute left, he went back to where it started, that website that he once lived his life by, now literally dictates the remainder of his life. He checked his notifications to see it one last time. It had changed this time it said 'Share to ten people to stop the time." He quickly picked people as fast as possible, right as he his send his time counted from seven, six and then stopped right at 5.
He exhaled and sat back in his chair. A notification pinged on the screen, he clicked on it. "Dick Johnson sent you..." Ricks vision began to blur, he noticed the time had started counting down again four, three, two, one.
| 2 | 0 | 0 | 211,832 |
[WP]You activate the world's first time machine, and your team is preparing to send single atoms through it. Before you can begin testing it, a future version of you comes out of the machine. He hands you a list of ten years, in the past and future, that are never to be visited.
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Sweat began to trickle on my brow as I readied the small Petri dish with a microscopic camera onto the small, metallic plate. I was about to make history by sending something back in time 1 minute. I laid the tiny object onto the cold, hard surface.
*WOOSH*
"What the he-" I screeched as I spun around almost knocking off the plate off of the pedestal. Suddenly a small note appeared on the floor next to me. I lifted the tiny price of paper and in scribbled handwriting oddly similar to mine was a paragraph that read:
Dear me of 2015.
I come to you from a not so distant future to congratulate you, and to warn you. Good job on perfecting time travel, but be very careful as to where you travel. Do not ask why but never. EVER visit the years 1935-1945 or the years 2135-2145. This was all I could fit in a short amount of time. They're coming for me, or should I say, you. Good luck.
And that was it. I took a step back and took a long look at what I was about to do. I readied myself and set the time on the machine to 1940.
| 1 | 0 | 2 | 212,454 |
[Wp]A man(or woman) wakes up one morning with complete mathematical knowledge of the universe
|
"I'm sorry professor, but you're wrong."
"What do you mean? This is basic calculus."
The student stood up and walked to the chalkboard, his prominent mustache leading the way. He slammed the professor's chalk down to the ground, and then took a new piece of chalk out of his own hair. He furiously began to write all sorts of numbers and symbols on the chalkboard. Finally, after ten whole seconds, he was done.
"My God..." exclaimed the professor.
"Ha! So you admit it!" yelled the student.
"What?"
"I've proven that God exists. You're an atheist, but you just said 'my God.'" The student slammed down the chalk and proceeded to take another piece of chalk out of his hair.
"Wow, we weren't even talking about God but you're entirely right. And this equation you wrote on the board... you disproved math! How did you do it?!"
"Well, I woke up this morning with complete mathematical knowledge of the universe. Which was basically just that there is no mathematical knowledge. Math is a lie."
"Amazing! Class - class is cancelled. In fact, all calculus is cancelled forever!"
The class began to cheer, then picked up the student and carried him through the halls of the university singing "This Little Light of Mine."
That student? Albert Einstein. And that's how he came up with relativity, the speed of light, the atom bomb, and Jesus. All because he woke up one morning with the complete mathematical knowledge of the universe.
*...I'm gonna let it shine...*
| 1 | 0 | 4 | 152,412 |
[WP] Death will let you live if you help him succeed on a hot date he has planned.
|
I laughed at him with a full-on malicious cackle, clapping my hands and shaking my head, "A hot date? Are you serious? Dates are for the living. They're a start to a wonderful life together. What are you going to do with a hot girl? Kiss her? You'll kill her you bloody fool, that's all you can do. No love and affection and sweet fucking between sweaty sheets for you, buddy. You just kill....kill! kill! kill! Then be alone! Are you mad? Well, go on then, kill me! Bet you're happier to sit here and be insulted then sulking alone in a graveyard, or some shit. No one fucking wants you, Death. The ones who do are as wretched as you. I'm almost begging you man, touch me and get this over with. No?....hah! looo-zer!
Why don't you go finish the pizza on the counter? Maybe jerk off to something to take the edge off, then wipe your pussy tears in your cumrag and get on reddit and write about what a fucking meanie I am..... but in an ironic, "creative" way hoping you'll get some empathy from a bunch of nobody online losers, huh? Isn't that what you're gonna do? But they won't give a shit because guess what buddy? They hate you too!"
They say it's impossible to cheat death, but it's sure as shit easy to make him cry.
*(On a semi-unrelated note, if this story tugs at your heartstrings and you feel for an anthropomorphized Death and/or harbor suicidal tendencies, are biologically female and consistently rated at atleast a 6/10 by your male peers.....)*
| 5 | 0 | 22 | 176,557 |
[WP] At the Pearly gates, Saint Peter greets an alien.
|
"Ah, Blorbesk, earth trip didn't go so grandly?" Saint Peter, appearing to Blorbesk as a friendly old man, asked.
Blorbesk shook his gelatinous frame at various frequencies.
Saint Peter gave a kind smile and chuckled. "Now let me just check my list here."
Blorbesk vibrated again, and emitted a bit of faint pinkish gas. Peter looked up. "Really, what, why?"
Blorbesk moved forward and absorbed the gas. "Alright, sonny" Peter said, switching books. He pushed up his glasses once and trailed a finger down the worn page.
"Let's see what we have here. Ok, yes. Blorbesk Ja Simalobfiha of the Tionsdga Shapeswarm." he read. "Cause of death: baptism" Peter chuckled, rubbed his glasses on his heavenly robes and read again to make sure.
A fatherly smile on his face he swung the massive gates open one at a time. He turned back to the patient Blorbesk and gestured he come in.
"God is an open door," he said "no matter how many tentacles you have"
Blorbesk jiggled.
"Or allergies" Peter's smile renewed itself, and he vibrated with the others as Blorbesk was welcomed beyond the gates.
| 4 | 0 | 2 | 144,541 |
[WP] Write the end of humanity through the lens of a child.
|
I like fireworks.
My favorite time of year is the 4th of July. Daddy always cooks hamburgers on the grill out in the backyard. I don't like to have any mustard on my hamburger. Yuck, I hate mustard.
The best part of the 4th of July is when it gets dark, because that's when the fireworks start! Mommy won't let me play with the big fireworks, but Daddy says I can play with them when I'm older. That's ok, I still like watching them.
My friends and I play with the sparklers. Last year, I learned how to write my name with a sparkler. This year, I'm going to write my name, Daddy's name, and Mommy's name.
Mommy and Daddy are watching the news on TV. They look scared. I ask Daddy what's wrong, but he just picks me up and gives me a hug. The man on TV is saying something about finding shelter. I don't really know what he means. Maybe the man on TV lost his shelter, and now he's looking for it? I hope he finds it.
I'm hungry. I remind Daddy that I don't want any mustard on my hamburger. He says "OK, pumpkin" but I don't think he was listening.
There are sirens making noise outside our house. They're so loud! I look out the window. Mommy tells me to get away from the windows, but I want to see.
Look! Fireworks! Oh wow, this one is really really really big! It looks like a huge mushroom.
I love the 4th of July.
| 13 | 0 | 7 | 152,501 |
[WP] World Wars are held once every four years, like the Olympics and the FIFA World Cup.
|
His helmet shone with inexperience and shame, but he felt he should be more proud now than he had ever been. The days of his life when he was shamed for being weaker and not apt for combat would end. He had always been scared of dying but he wasn't living. He would make his nation the strongest and the one in charge, at least for four years until the next World War was to be held. So many died, but in a world of chaos and struggle for power, it had been the way of nations to prove their power. Some countries didn't have a chance, and waited like vultures to digest the spoils of others. Some didn't even participate at all, but they would eventually be conquered by the winner of the war. Wars were short and bloody, and recently only Great Prussia and United States of Western America held most of the power. But he wanted his friends and family to be happy, he wanted them to feel the pride of his nation, Texas, winning. They weren't the most powerful or the one with the most men, but they said they had bravery and most importantly, their culture easily adapted to the warring state of the world.
But he wasn't really proud or happy. He had learned of the ways of the world before, when everyone was afraid to go to war, maybe he belonged to those times. But now it was useless, he was in a war that was cheered and honored, he was being seen in the eyes of people who didn't see themselves in the place of those who were suffering and dying, one after another. He despised the cruel game, but now he had to kill or die, to be the puppet of monsters.
| 2 | 0 | 1 | 217,668 |
[WP] A defendant is on trial for attempted suicide. The prosecution is pursuing the death penalty.
|
"How do you plead?"
The silence pushed oppressively at every ear in the room. He said nothing.
"I repeat, how do you plead?"
Still, the man stood stone-faced as if he had not heard the judge.
"Defendant, you are aware of the charges. If found guilty, you will face the death penalty. You must give the court your plea."
"I have no plea." He stated simply and flatly. "My plea was for death, by my own hand. I have been denied it, and now face death at your hand. What does it matter? If I should fall to my knees and beg, what could you do? Release me to finish what I began, or detain me to give me what I want? Neither would serve your purposes. And so, I do not plead."
The cold and sterile grey walls echoed with the last syllables. The judge in his black raiment stood, his wigged head level with the bottom of the large crest above him; an eagle perched on a fist above a pile of arrows and branches. "You have effectively confessed to a crime against the Sovereign State. You must now plead guilty. If you refuse, you will have to be persuaded through less orthodox means."
His defiant facade cracked and shattered, falling away from the broken man like a clay mold. Still holding his head high, he opened his mouth as a single tear crept down his cheek. "I plead-" he broke off, clenching his teeth. "I plead guilty." He clutched the cold steel of the stand, his knuckles white.
"Very well. Number 146023, you are found guilty of attempted destruction of government property. You are deemed defective and will be executed at sunrise."
The man shuffled out of the courtroom, led by armed gaurds. His place was taken by another man in drab grey, shackled hand and foot. The proceedings began again as they faded from the doomed prisoners ears.
"Number 147304, you are charged with attempted destruction of government property. How do you plead?"
| 29 | 0 | 71 | 118,505 |
[WP] When humans die they become guardian angels. To get into heaven they must protect their assignment to the age of 70. If they fail, they truly die with no more hope for life. Your assignment is a brilliant serial killer.
|
"No." The word echoed in the air, and there was silence for a brief moment.
"No?" The man said, seated at that desk. The men and women in line behind me frowned - *he said no? Nobody says no.*
The 'judge' frowned as he looked down on me. "What do you mean, no?"
"Does 'no' have multiple meanings in heaven, or are you just being obtuse?" I ask, and I hear a gasp from behind me.
The judge glares down at me. "You realize that refusing has the same result as failing at your mission?" He glances at his papers, frowning. He flips through a few pages, then sighs.
"Ah, this seems to be it. You were an Atheist in life, correct?" I nod, defiantly. He sighs. "And you also seem to have given your trainers quite a bit of... trouble."
"If by trouble you mean I refused to listen to them until they answered my questions, then yes, I gave them trouble." He looks down on me, squinting his eyes.
"Why do you say no?"
"For the same reason I **remain** an Atheist. Moral obligation." I hear more gasps, and assorted mumbling.
One of the officials, standing to the side, walks toward me. I suppose the effect would be more imposing if he wasn't, well, an angel. Stomping on clouds has that sort of effect, and the big bright wings and comical halo are rather distracting.
"What do you mean by remaining an Atheist?" He asks me, towering above me. I wish that being dead gave me a little more height - I was tall in my youth, but at age 74 I've stooped down a bit. At the least, it could get rid of my arthritis. But no, I still suffer the pains of old age. And insufferable idiots, it seems.
"Let me re-define that. I'm not an Atheist anymore - there must be a god. Now I am defiantly Anti-Theist. In other words... I believe in god. I just don't like him."
The bailiff moves to grab me by the the robe, but the judge stops him. "Define moral reasons to me, araconos." I sigh.
"Moral reasons - my inability to worship or trust a God who willingly causes suffering. Moral reasons - my refusal to work for or serve under that God, the one who causes and watches so much pain and sorrow but refuses to stop it. Moral. Reasons. My desire to not save the life of a man who ends the lives of others."
"Moral. Reasons." I take a breath, even though I don't have to - one of the 'perks' of being an angel. "The reason I can call myself a human being."
The judge looks down at me, then smirks. "You've got spunk, kid. I've been doing this for damn near three millenium, and you're only the fifth person to make a stand like this. No where near the first to refuse their assignment, but definitely one of the ones who stood out." He sighs. "If the big man were still around, he'd have loved to debate with you. Trust me when I say he doesn't willingly put mankind under so much stress."
He nods to the bailiff, who grabs me by the arms and drags me down past the the stage. There's a flight of stairs there, and I stare at them, wondering.
"What's down there?" The big man just smiles.
"Nothing. Nothing at all." And then he gives me a push.
| 5 | 0 | 18 | 225,293 |
[WP] An epic tale of love, betrayal, war, and revenge, set on a third grade playground.
|
I remember how your golden hair swept up in the wind and how your button nose turned red on those early winter mornings. I remember the sandcastle we built and how you traced a heart beside it. I remember when you asked if I wanted to hold hands and how I said yes and how in those moments I felt part of something more than myself. I remember your body, how it looked like a marshmallow in your faded Dora jacket and pink snow pants.
When Jessica P. saw us together, she asked "Are you guys boyfriend and girlfriend?"
"I dunno maybe it's a secret," you said.
And I remember when Ryder L. changed everything for us with that one, terrible word. "COOTIES!" he yelled at us, pointing. I didn't, couldn't, understand. "All girls have cooties and you're gonna get it if you touch them so much!" he exclaimed to all who would listen. He was Isaiah come anew, foretelling our doom.
You looked at me with shock. But also as if, underneath it all, you had always known. As if a darkness had finally been released in you.
"OKAY THEN GIVE ALL THE BOYS COOTIES!" Samantha C. shrieked. You pulled away from me, congregating with the other infected. You whispered and giggled. Not the warm giggle that had once made my legs feel weak, but a foul snicker.
And then I remember the chase. I ran from you, past monkey bars we had hung from together. Past covered platforms where we had held challenging debates on the truth of Spiderman and Santa Claus. We boys knew there was no rebelling against what you all had become. There was only escape. I had to escape from you.
But when I was free from your reach, I remember you crying. "THIS GAME IS NO FUN!" you shouted. I was a man separated from himself, fearing and pitying you. You were the same girl, only now a victim of a reckless god that would dare to curse half his people with some vile plague. I steeled myself and turned back. I couldn't abandon you. I couldn't abandon us.
"It's okay," I promised, "We can still play, just don't give me the cooties, okay?"
I remember how you smiled, then grimaced. You leaped up. You licked my face with your cold tongue. I remember screaming.
| 25 | 0 | 39 | 200,110 |
[WP] Satan suddenly appears in a crowded mall, and begins terrifying the holiday shoppers. He stops, looks directly at you and says, "You... You're interesting. Do your friends know what you are?" You have no idea what he means.
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What? What is he talking about?
I looked back to my friends who were slowly backing away from me.
"Hey guys, what… what are you doing? What's going on?" I asked feverishly.
They just kept looking back and forth between me and satan, with a permanent look of horror. The mall stops their bustling and started staring at what was starting to unfold. I felt a sudden rush of heat course through my veins. It felt as if my blood had turned to warm gravy. Everything's getting hazy, am I going to feint? I've never feinted before, is this what it felt like? As I began to stumble around, one of my boys cried out,
"Bro you're turning black!"
That's just racist! I'm already black, I initially thought. I slowly looked down at my hands and stared in horror as my hands were literally, turning pitch black. I spun around and stared Satan straight in the eye. He was just watching me with a strange look pride on his face. I couldn't take it, I just lost it and screamed,
"What the fuck did you do to me! Stop it! Stop this right the fuck now!"
Satan smiled, his surprisingly perfect teeth bared at me. This fucker is smiling, as if this is some kind of joke! My heart started to beat faster, adrenalin pumping throughout my body, and all I wanted was to punch this piece of shit in the face. At this point an audience had built up around the whole mall, all eyes were on me and Satan. My friends were all huddled in a corner being fucking pussies.
Great! Some help those guys are. Why the hell did I hang out with those guys?
It was clear at this point I was alone in this. I looked back at my hands and arms. Everything had turned black, my skin started to crack and a warm orange light shone through the slight openings. I started to resemble a hot coal all the while my blood grew thicker and hotter.
Satan began to slowly approach me, taking short and slow steps. All the while the mall was still, not sound to be heard. Shouldn't these people be scared, its fucking Satan! As he stepped closer and closer, I felt flashes overcome me. He stopped an inch away from my face and just stared. What happened next surprised me. He embraced me, and hugged me tight. He leaned towards my ear and whispered,
"I've finally found you, after all these years… my son"
| 4 | 0 | 1,143 | 165,918 |
[IP] The Night Market
|
China: destination least desirable.
It was a work trip, a "company retreat", at least according to my cigar-chomping boss. I really should've known better.
A week ago tonight, I was putting my 4-year-old to bed, wishing her goodnight and sweet dreams of sugarplum fairies. Through an unfortunate turn of events, I ended up here.
It's nighttime, one of those loud, smelly nighttimes China is notorious for. The smog is choking - in the central part of the city. But we're not downtown; we've been taken to some market in the country.
There, out of the fog and screaming merchants and blinding neon, lies a statue: it's almost body-sized, although not quite. Everything around it glows welcomingly, silhouetting the cat-faced statue. It's enticing.
The merchant does not deserve to be selling such a piece of art. "How much?" I ask almost angrily, forgetting that I've left my work party.
The seller shrugs, almost scoffing at the makeup travesty gracing my countenance. "Two thousand Yuan," he replies in surprisingly good English. 2,000 Yuan; roughly $350. Pittance for the joy it will bring my family.
"I'll take it," I reply, already planning for the smile on my daughter's face.
| 3 | 0 | 6 | 160,772 |
[WP] A human abducts an alien.
|
My name is J.T. Wellum, that's James Thomas Wellum, and I heard you were knocking around our little town looking to grab a few stories. Well, I don't really know how or why you've made it out here to Quincey, but it's not my place to impress upon a man's journeys until they stumble upon my land. Now, seeing that this porch you're standing on is indeed on my land, I can give you what you want for a price. I may not be like the other townsfolk, but my dusty memories ain't free, especially when someone from Lord-knows-where will try to use 'em for profit.
Don't think I don't understand what it means to make a profit. It started when I was eight and our old neighbor Mr. Hollister paid me two pennies for every rabbit I caught in his yard. It was three pennies for snakes, and a nickel for those goddamn gophers. Those clever rodents were so hard to nail down that I told Mr. Hollister he could keep those gophers and gave him twelve rabbits that day.
It wasn't long before my territory expanded beyond the bramble you'll see way back over behind my land. Even in the thick brush and tangled vines did I hunt down deer, bears, and fat bastard hogs. But there was one time, when I was twelve, that I caught something so ugly only its mother could love.
Now, across the county where the bald cypress trees start growing, Mary Rooney had been complaining about her chickens dying from fright, and the ones that survived stop laying! So I figured I'd get my fox trapping gear, tent, and got my beautiful Daisy BB gun and hiked over to Ms. Rooney to give her my price. She was so worried about her egg business that she'd give me five whole dollars to catch that damn thing by the end of the week.
Night after night I sat at the edge of the woods, watching that rickety old coop, checking my traps with a chicken leg in there, and still in the morning there were two more chickens dead. Just frozen in place, eyes open and no blood. You had to tip them over to be sure, but sure enough they were dead. It was the craziest thing I'd seen. By the fourth night, Ms. Rooney was convinced I was the one killing her chickens and making a buck off a poor old woman, so she gave me one more night before she was gonna call the sheriff.
Little old me, best trapper in town, scared to lose my reputation, got a plan. That night, I sat inside the damn coop in the stench and filth while these damn birds kept pecking around nervous, probably more scared than ever. But oh my, was it a long night. Ms. Rooney gave me coffee to stay up, something my momma never let me do, and I know why. Haven't gone a day since without it.
Back in the coop, I was just so bored I started nicking those pesky chickens with my gun, trying to hit their legs, tail feathers, I didn't care much since they were all goners, fox or not.
One shot landed with a sick thud. I'll never forget the sound, like a glass breaking as it fell into a murky pond. My eyes opened wider than they had ever before. In the sparse moonlight, I crawled over down to the other end to see what I had hit. My hands felt it first, a sticky syrup, thicker than blood. My hands reached out further, trying to find the critter. Then, the trail sorta stopped, and I was on my hands and knees, both smothered in that jelly stuff. I thought that bastard must have gotten away somehow, but then something happened that no man could imagine unless he were from the depths of hell. That murky molasses started quivering, and then moving up my damn leg! I scraped at it furiously, frantically, the chickens started squawking like the stars were falling! The butt of my rifle didn't put it down so I pushed one of the boards off poor Ms. Rooney's coop and rolled around in the dirt like I were on fire.
I gave up and looked around. There was this black pool in the dirt next to me, boiling weakly. I got up to my knees and back away towards my tent, never taking my eyes off of that swamp scum. Luckily the glass jar that kept my lunch was empty, so I snuck back over and scraped it up with my gun. It's like that goo was alive, and almost like he conceded the fight and slunk into the jar. I held it up to the moonlight, the glass was quaking from the inside, like it were trying to break out.
Now, there was no way in hell that I could sell Ms. Rooney the idea that some raspberry jam was giving here chickens fits, so I spent the rest of the night hunting anything with teeth and presented to her a few snakes for my price.
As far as that jar goes, it's down in my basement and I can show it to you, but it'll cost ya.
| 1 | 0 | 6 | 74,435 |
[WP] You own a flower shop. Describe one of your customers and the relationship that ensues.
|
He was a sweet young thing, just like my Johnny back when we were courting. The first time he stopped by was to buy a corsage for his prom date. A big-eyed young girl came by later the afternoon to get a boutonniere in the same color. That was the only time I got to meet her.
Throughout the next few years, the young boy would come twice a year like clockwork. He was going to college a few states over but every Christmas and every June 3, her birthday he would come by. Her favorite color was yellow so he always got something bright, like daffodils or bush roses, and she loved flowers, she kept a window box full of columbine. He joked that she was a real flower child, with long skirts and everything. These visits were my favorite, he always asked for pictures of my grand babies, they just grew up so fast!
One day, the fall after he graduated, he came by for a bunch of red roses. Apparently, he wanted to propose to her, so I set him straight. Roses were cliche, this girl knew what she liked. I sent him off with arms heaping with columbine and baby's breath, and, because I am a romantic, it was half off.
The boy brought in pictures of the engagement and eventually the wedding. I saw him every couple months, when he stopped by just to get a surprise for her. One day, he came in quietly. I began to gather up various bright stalks and he asked me to put in extra white flowers. "Its for a grave". He broke down, and so I flipped the sign and made him some herbal tea, chamomile, that he sipped as he told me the story. She rode her bike to work everyday, and some bastard hit her and ran. He went out looking for her and found her in a ditch.
On the first of each month, he still comes by to pick up the already prepared bouquet that I never accept payment for and ask about my grandkids.
| 2 | 0 | 14 | 213,558 |
[WP] A gentlemanly duel to the death is postponed on account of zombies. Posh British accents, stiff upper lips and outrageous bragging ensue.
|
"Look at yourself old chap, covered in viscera. I told you to stand further back from the rapscallions before firing." Alfred said, shaking his head in disappointment. "Why look at me, proper clean from head to toe."
Jameson exhaled sharply while he cleaned out his dueling pistol and loaded another round. "Perhaps it is the disappointment of not being able to put a round squarely between your eyes and be home for tea that is throwing off my aim. You've seen these beasts, nothing but hot lead into their cranium will have any effect. We have not the ammunition to waste. As such it is simply logical that we take the utmost care to ensure that each and every shot hits its target." Having finished reloading Jameson scanned the area for his next target.
"Oh nonsense. Just because the world has gone and turned on its head that doesn't mean we can't continue our contest in another way. Obviously given our current predicament we can't very well duel one another thus lowering our chances of survival. As such I propose a contest." Alfred let a grin spread across his face.
Having seen nothing nearby Jameson permitted himself to turn and face his rival. "And what might the terms of such a contest be? As you've said yourself a proper duel is out of the question."
"Simple really, we see who amongst the two of us personifies the gentlemanly spirit best by measure of body count. Not only will I kill more of these creatures than you, but I shall remain spotless throughout this whole endeavor as well. What say you? Of course the counting shall begin from henceforth and all former kills shall not count." Alfred gave a nod of his head. He found himself most clever to come up with not only a solution to their current predicament, but to find a way to discover the best man among the two despite being unable to finish their gentlemanly contest.
Jameson seemed like he wanted to disagree for a moment, but after a sigh and a shake of the head he extended his hand. "You have yourself a deal and a contest. Though given how many I killed already compared to yourself I believe you should be a bit worried."
Alfred and Jameson shook hands, each staring directly into the eyes of the man in front of him. "Oh posh. I was simply letting you have your fun. Why now that I'm serious you shan't stand a-" Jameson abruptly raised his pistol and fired a shot immediately.
Along with a unpleasant ringing in his ear Alfred felt a warm goo splatter onto the back of his neck and jacket. He turned to look behind him, but not before noticing the grin spreading across Jameson's lips. One of the monsters was on the ground not a pace away. Surely it would have taken the chance to bite had Jameson not interrupted it so abruptly.
"That's one for me chap. Best keep up. After all with that gore on your back that's one of your little challenges already failed I believe." Reloading and smiling Jameson walked off, searching for new prey to hunt. An indignant and eager to return the favor Alfred was close on his heels.
| 4 | 0 | 41 | 2,690 |
[WP] Children are allowed to live until the age of five at which point they are put before and tested by a committee to determine their potential to contribute to society. Those deemed unfit or sociopathic are terminated.
|
We were Gods. We had removed the undesirable traits from the population. Aggression? A thing of the past. A capacity for violence? mandatory birth modification made it so that it physically repulsed you.
The children would be raised by the state for the first five years of their life. They would then be subject to a battery of physical and mental assessments. Every child would be given a specialization. But what of those outside of the norm ? What of the deviants? The rowdy? The short attention spanned? The sociopath, the psychopath?
Tossed aside. Just released into the wild outside of the gated cities, to fend for themselves. The State does not care for those who do not contribute.
Here's the problem though,
We, the civilized, have a reproductive rate that is tightly regulated. They do not. Here, strength is a non factor, but outside the walls, with the worst of the worst allowed to roam free with no protection from the state, only the strong survived.
And survive they did, and build villages, and raise armies ..
And come after us, unable to fight.
We were Gods, we had made ourselves great. We had removed the flaws from our existence, but these flaws, as it turns out, were anything but
| 1 | 0 | 29 | 163,176 |
[WP] The year is 2050, Wal-Mart is the supreme dictating orgnaization
|
"Hello welcome to Wal-Mart"
"Hello welcome to Wal-Mart"
"Hello welcome to Wal-Mart"
I love being a Wal-Mart greeter.
Growing up I had no idea what I wanted to do.
I knew I wanted to work for Wal-Mart, which to be fair, you have to work for Wal-Mart, but not everyone wants to. I know a lot of my classmates weren't happy about working for Wal-Mart.
My question was always what did I want to do?
Shelf stocker? Cashier? Sweat shop worker?
They all seemed so good. To be honest greeter was probably at the bottom of my list. Every time I went to Wal-Mart, and I went more then just the mandatory once a day, greeters were just these old people with dead eyes.
But that all changed when I won a contest for reporting the most people for anti-Wal-Mart sentiments (every time I heard a class mate say something bad about Wal-Mart I reported their parents. I always reported both because you never know which parent was teaching them these things and also it meant double the points) and got to go to the Wal-Mart Corp-redential palace. There I met Wal-Mart's Minister of Making People Like Wal-Mart, and he told me about how greeters are the front line of making people like Wal-Mart.
He told me about how everyone likes Wal-Mart, but sometimes they have to leave Wal-Mart to make things for Wal-Mart, or to do other jobs so they can get paid so they have money to give to Wal-Mart, and that leaving Wal-Mart makes people sad, so when they come back to Wal-Mart they're unhappy and they take that out on Wal-Mart, which is why everyone always looks so unhappy in Wal-Mart and also why they only come the mandatory once a day instead of the Wal-Mart recommended three times a day.
Which made a lot of sense.
He told me a good greeter greets people with a big happy smile, and says "welcome to Wal-Mart" in a cheery voice and helps the people remember how much they like Wal-Mart.
That's what really sold me on becoming a greeter. Helping people to like Wal-Mart as much as I do.
"Welcome to Wal-Mart" I say to a man and his young son.
My dad used to bring me to Wal-Mart to. We'd go a couple of times a day. Dad loved Wal-Mart. He's the one that taught me about how great Wal-Mart is. He's probably the reason I'm a greeter today.
He worked in a sweat shop but always dreamed of working in the Ministry of Making People Like Wal-Mart.
He died when I was seven. His arm got chopped off by a machine in the sweat shop he worked in. I remember him calling right before he died to tell me about how not calling for medical attention helped Wal-Mart to save money which let them rollback prices. I remember thinking at the time that that was nice of them, to always look out for the customer like that.
I wonder if that boy will become a greeter.
Mom never really liked Wal-Mart, at least not as much as dad. She only ever went the once a day, except on the extra trips I took on my birthday.
After dad died Mom got even more anti-Wal-Mart.
I think she also got a little bit anti-me afterwards too.
When dad told me that not calling for medical aid was helping to save the company money I figured shorter phone calls might help save the company money, so I hung up before mom got a chance to talk to him.
I also forgot to tell her until the next day, but this was right after I found out I was going to the corp-redential palace, so I was riding pretty high.
"Welcome to Wal-mart" I say to an older man who walks with a limp. I wonder if he got injured fighting in Wal-Mart's army.
"Get out of my way" he says
Definitely sounds like he was in the army. That growl that actors put on when portraying Wal-Mart sergeants.
I thought about joining the army at one point, but by the time I was old enough our only real enemy was that terrorist organization The Independent Business Owners, and they were on their last legs.
But I hear they're still around.
Maybe this guy wasn't injured fighting for Wal-Mart, but against them.
He definitely doesn't seem happy to be here.
I radio security and describe the man. They say they'll check it out.
I've always had a sixth sense for these things. Every time I've reported someone I've always got a letter back thanking me for my service and telling me that based on my tip they were able to apprehend an enemy of Wal-Mart.
I was a little bit upset after I realized they were always the same letter. I knew they were busy but I felt they could have at least sent an extra special thank you after I reported my mom.
That was the one time I ever had a bad thought about Wal-Mart. To this day my only two points of shame are thinking that and never reporting myself for thinking that.
"Sir we need you to come with-"
I turn and see security approaching the old man. From in his coat he pulls out a shotgun and fires it into the closest security guard. The man's chest explodes in a spray of blood.
The man pumps another round into the chamber and fires it into the other security guard's head.
I wonder if the old man is IBO, then I wonder what the reward for killing an IBO is. Would they promote me to the Corp-redntial palace? Or at least let me visit again? I was so overwhelmed the last time I went that I forgot to bring up my suggestion that they could save more money and roll back more prices if they stopped giving dying workers a phone call home.
Greeters aren't armed by Wal-Mart, but everyone is encouraged to carry a gun so they can kill an enemy of Wal-Mart if necessary.
I pull my gun out of my ankle holster as the old man pulls a gun out of his waist band and starts firing at some other security guards.
I kneel down, take careful aim and squeeze the trigger.
I've never actually fired the gun before. The recoil forces my arm up and I pistol whip myself. My head snaps back and the gun flies out of my hands and slides along the ground.
My vision is all blurry but I don't think I hit the man. I think I see him turn to me. He fires and something scrapes along my neck.
There's something hot on my neck. I reach up. Now my hands are warm.
It's blood.
I wonder how bad it is.
I'm on my back now. I don't remember doing that.
Blood keeps pumping out. I think I'm going to die.
I smile. I've always wanted to die in a Wal-Mart.
| 9 | 0 | 24 | 207,542 |
[WP] An Inconceivable Thought
|
It was an inconceivable thought. 'Could I really DO IT?' The nights were so insufferable, so insufferable. No, I reassured myself as I let go of the knob on the door at the end of the hall. I took a step back, and then another.
'I'm a good person,' I thought. 'I'm a great person... I'm friendly, always friendly. It's just the delirium talking. Eight restless nights can do that to a man.'
I nodded my head in agreement. I mean, I had a point. I did a lot of good things. I picked up litter on my walk to work. Everyone's litter. The empty pop cups and the candy wrappers and the cigarette butts--the streets are so dirty, so filthy. I can't stand to walk down the street.... It's going to make me sick some day...
I stepped back up to the door and grabbed hold of the knob once more. It felt right, it felt justified. 'Third time's a charm,' I thought as I turned the knob and opened the door slowly. The door didn't creak. I didn't want it to. I oiled it the week before, just in case IT happened again.
I was silent as I stepped across the floor. His room was disgusting, covered in refuse and rubbish. I cleaned it the night before, just in case.
I crept into the room at the end of the hall, the record player stuck on a loop as it was every night--the same CONSTANT SONGS--never ending, never stopping. He should be considerate, he should turn it off. He never turns it off. I try to sleep. I try to ignore it. The cacophony is enduring...it is engulfing...eternal.
'Could I really DO IT?' I pondered. It was a conceivable thought.
| 1 | 0 | 0 | 84,506 |
[WP] The United States is in a middle of a second civil war. Its told from a rebel's perspective.
|
"Merry Christmas, Rose." I said, feigning cheer. I spun the revolver around my index finger before catching it by the grip and handing it to her. She smirked and took it, walking off into a closet. It kinda sucks. All this crap, I mean. Some people actually have the nerve to attack a Christmas party. That's where we come in.
"Our mission is to defend Miss Marylin." I announced, turning to my crew. Matt gave a low whistle. "We know, well, nothing, except that she's going to be attacked somehow, sometime during the party. As you know, her support is crucial to the rebellion. Should be relatively easy. Don't get shot, don't screw up, you all know the drill." I chuckled. "Oh, and one more thing. No heavy weapons or armor. We need to blend in; there's craploads of Patrol guys." Matt and Kenny groaned simultaneously.
"You serious?" Matt complained.
"Yeah, so no powersuit today." I said as Rose walked back in. I did a double-take. "Y-you look... nice..." She was wearing an elegant black dress.
"Shut up, Jack." She rolled her eyes. "It's a formal party, guys. We're all gonna have to get dolled up." I was stunned for a few moments.
"Uh, you heard her. Get going." We glanced awkwardly at each other, and then I shuffled off.
~
I tucked the pistol into the pocket of my tux and brushed my hair to the side with the back of my hand. I nodded at Kenny, who gave me the *good to go* signal. I walked in and scanned the party for Marylin, as well as anyone wearing a US insignia.
Rose punched me on the shoulder and grabbed my hand. Sweat formed on the back of my neck as she dragged me into the center of the room. There was a lot of white. The floor, ceiling, tables, guests... lots of white. Music was playing, but no one could hear it over the dull roar of the crowd; the place was packed.
My gun poked me in the chest as I moved around. I glanced at Kenny and Matt, standing on either side of a large stage near the front of the area.
"There she is." Rose whispered in my ear. I casually tapped the side of my jaw, activating the radio comms.
"We see the target." I said into the mic on my watch, and boy, did I mean it. This was the most beautiful girl you could imagine times ten. Rose elbowed me in the ribs. I wiped a bit of saliva off my lip.
Just then, two guys with US patches on their shoulders walked in. Their hands hovered just above their pistol holsters. I nudged Rose. She looked at me, and I nodded my chin towards the guys. We made our way over to Kenny and pointed them out. I reached into the pocket of my tux, but Rose put her hand on mine, stopping me.
"Not yet." She said. That was when Marylin got onstage. Everyone started cheering; Matt sharply whistled from the other end of the room.
She began to speak, but was cut off by a gunshot. One of the US guys raised his gun in the air, pointed at the ceiling.
"You're under arrest!" He started shouting while the other one aimed his gun at Marylin.
| 1 | 0 | 0 | 178,276 |
[WP] Every lie you tell spawns a corresponding truth in another universe. One lie in particular has snowballed into something so momentous, that an envoy is sent from that universe to confront you.
|
"Haha, I'm busy destroying the universe right now." I quipped as Sarah kept trying to get me to leave the house. We finished up our small talk and I was finally able to return to the computer when I my doorbell rang.
There's no way she showed up here to get me out herself I thought as I made my way to the door.
There was a tall man in a dark suit and sharp black sunglasses standing at the door motionless. "Can I help you" I asked as I peeked out. He immediately spoke "Listen Erick, you have to undo that lie you just told right now." "What?" I gasped. Surely this is some prank or something. I peered past the man and there was a black suburban with tinted windows parked out-front. "You don't understand, un-tell that lie you just made now!" He was becoming visible irate and the door on the suburban swung open. A woman in heels although dressed the same as the man came out and he turned to face her, she started furiously pointing at her watch. He turned back to me speaking yet again with a booming voice. "You're going to kill everyone you need to undo that lie!" "This is starting to get ridiculous." I slammed the door and locked it and stayed listening with my ear against the door.
I heard the lady "Don't even think about it.. We can still fix it.."
The man spoke: "No.. It's too late. I have to."
He took a deep breath and then almost too softly to hear "Erick is currently dead and no longer destroying the universe."
I stood up from listening at the door and wondered, what in the hell is going on and how does he know my name. Then my chest started feeling tight, almost too tight.
| 12 | 0 | 272 | 96,634 |
[WP] A former slave, now fighting for the Union, faces his old plantation foreman on the battlefield.
|
There he was, the man who had swore he would break me with rod and lash, who would make me fear god as he used to say. His grey uniform couldn't hide his gluttony, he lumbered like some kind of sluggish beast. The hands that had laid me low many a time now gripped an old outdated rifle . I knew what I had to do
The chaos that raged around is in that moment no longer mattered, the death, the carnage, none of that phased me. All I saw was my tormentor, but the fear I had once held as a child was filled with a rage that words cannot express. I was a slave then, a scared child who wanted only respite from the beatings of my master. But I am a man now, a free man, and this monster in man's skin would die for his sins.
I rushed him, crashing my bayonet into his bloated stomach and against a tree. He merely looked into my eyes to find some semblance of reason for this assault. The light of recognition flashed across his eyes and he knew at once the man who would end him was once the object of his scorn, his chins trembled at this realization. I spoke to him as only I could.
" when I was a slave, every night I prayed silently that I would kill you one day, to make you feel the pain and fear I felt every single day" I wanted him to hurt as he hurt me.
"Oh yeah? How does it feel boy? Do you feel like man now? You're still a slave boy, I own you." He managed to get that out as blood filled his lungs
.
"No, no you don't you sick bastard, you never owned me. I was always free, I endured, I survived, and you didn't. I pulled my bayonet from his bowls and let his dying body fall to the ground. He died then. And yet, still I felt no victory. I felt small once more even as his corpse lay before me. Even in his death he tormented me.
| 10 | 0 | 10 | 214,087 |
[WP] A serial killer wakes up to find themself in a zombie apocalypse. Give me his/her story.
|
I used to revel in the blood spilling from the cuts I made. The red, spurting, blood of an arterial slice. The iron smell when its scent reached my nose. The taste when I licked my blade as my victims would watch, bound and gagged, powerless. The feeling of power. One of the very few feelings I had, if that was truly what it was. Without empathy, happiness, sadness, anger, friendshippower was the only thing I had. And blood was a physical manifestation of my power. My power to conquer somebody's life, take it from the slowly, with every drop I spilled.
And then they all died.
The problem with the dead is that they don't bleed. I cut and slice all day and nothing happens. Since it is no longer pumping in their vessels, it has all clotted up. No blood comes when I call it. I have tried countless times. I have started to feel powerless; I can no longer reach the same pinnacle I once felt with my victims.
It has now almost become a routine. I capture another one of these dead beasts and perform my same ritual. I gain nothing from it. But I have to keep trying. Keep chasing the same high I once felt. The same rush of power, of total control. The blood never comes though. I can no longer call it with a flick of my blade. It just sits within these bodies, somehow reanimated, mocking me. Calling me.
The good news is that I heard gunshots the other day. Gunshots mean people. People are scared, afraid. They will let me into their group. I will make them comfortable with me. And when the time is right, the dead will not be what they fear any longer.
I will taste blood once again in this life. I will feel that surge of control, of total power.
I need it.
| 1 | 0 | 15 | 200,546 |
[WP] You are being hunted.
|
I leave home with little in mind... Maybe catch a bite to eat before I head out...
There's a snap of a branch. Someone's in the further brush... I can't pin him out but they're there.
It's a half mile property, no one comes this far out. Or at least, they *shouldn't*... Goddam wild animals and such... Get yourself killed.
Under the dark moonlit night, I can spot out their red-yellow cap, covered by another... Poachers-
*Got to run got to get home move move move!* If they catch me I'm dead, lord only knows what they'll do to a guy like me...
Another broken twig. They're moving, but not being to smart about it... I leap and run, but to avoid them. Maybe if I move fast they can't catch up.
*BARK! BAR-BAR-BAR-BARK!*
Dogs. I hate dogs... Goddamit I hate dogs.
I can hear them running, oh god I forgot how fast they can be...
But they are getting further, I'm losing them. It feels like my chest is collapsing, never run so fast in my life...
**SNATCH!**
Shooting cold pain up my leg, a burning sensation of something *dug in...*
I look back to see my leg caught in a trap. It was built for stuff bigger than me, and nearly chopped by foot off: It didn't, and in the old teeth I can see it grinding at the space between bones, while the skin is shredded and bleeding.
I cry in pain... Lose my lunch on the leaves in front of me, quivering in both pain and terror... The dogs are getting closer... Oh god what have I done...
A bright light shines at me. Is this the end? Am I dying? Oh god please... just-
"Oy! Look at da' pelt on that on..."
"He's real bright, ain't ey'? Fetch a pretty penny..."
They turn off their flashlight. On the hunter's belts hung a bundle of fox tails.
| 2 | 0 | 52 | 211,608 |
[WP] For hundreds of years, we believed the Universe was lifeless but for us. Within moments of being created, the first AI sees the aliens sent to observe us.
|
[… set up complete]
[… press enter to continue]
<enter>
[...disconnect all cables]
[… press the green flashing button when complete]
Brent pressed the green blinking button and we all held our breath. This was the culmination of more than 8 years of work from three teams on two different continents. Failure now would be more than a disaster.
After a couple minutes of whirring and hopefully thinking, our remote display module lit up. On it we could see the last of the system diagnostic compile its results. We could also see ourselves through the eyes of the AI construct. The construct is officially known as Darpa2014-42-AI-project-B1.
We have just been calling him Bruno. Get it B bravo, 1 uno? Get it? Yeah, that was me. Anyway.
Bruno came online and looked around the room. The four of us looked back like hopeful parents.
"Hello, I am Darpa Twenty Fourteen, Forty Second Artificial Intelligence Project, Bravo One. I enjoy the given name of Bruno. Please call me Bruno."
The excitement in all of us was almost overwhelming, but we kept it together. This was all being recorded, so no one wanted to be "that person" that made a fool of him or herself.
Brent gave Bruno his first command. "Bruno, you have been provided the complete profiles of everyone in this room. Please identify everyone you see...now."
"I understand, Brent. It will be just moment, if you don't mind."
"No, I don't mind Bruno, take your time if you need to."
"Thank you Brent, the first person I see is Mrs. Ann Smith, Lead Tech Speacialist. Hello Ann, your blue shoes are very nice."
"Brent, the second person I see is you. Mr. Brent Smith Lead Programmer and Project Lead. You are also married to Mrs. Ann Smith. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise Bruno." said Brent.
"Brent, the third person I see, is standing to your left. Hello, Mr. Chad Yeung, Language Specialist. Mr.Yeung I know Chinese too and would love to converse with you at a later date."
"Of course Bruno, where did you learn Chinese?" Mr. Yeung inquired.
"I believe I learned Chinese late last year, Mr. Yeung. And I am fairly certain it was in the corner directly behind you."
"Brent, the fourth person is Mr. Jon Harper. Mr. Harper is Mechanics and Robotics Lead. Thank you Mr. Harper for assembling me. I hope I was easier to assemble than an Ikea product."
With a huge smile on my face, "You were slightly easier than an Ikea hutch. I suppose you overheard my frequent rants about all the Ikea that my wife buys and I have to put together."
"Yes Mr. Harper. I can't wait to assist you in assembling a hutch. The blueprints I have of Ikea products make them seem very challenging."
At this point things started to get more than just weird, but also kinda scary. We were all impressed with Bruno's small talk and how it seemed to get better as he addressed each of us. So when he kept going, we were surprised, very surprised.
"Brent, the fifth and sixth individuals that I see are not known to me at this time. I am sorry if I am not correctly accessing the proper information."
"Fifth and sixth individuals? Bruno, there are only four others in the room with you. Where do you see these two people?"
"Brent, the two individuals that see are standing in the corner that I learned Chinese."
We all slowly turned to the corner to find it totally empty. I let out a slight sigh of relief, I really didn't want to see anything there.
But then I remembered the remote display unit, the one showing exactly what Bruno sees. There, standing in the corner, are two "individuals". I immediately thought of all the wannabe serious alien abduction movies and almost peed my pants. The beings in the corner were tall, thin, grey in color and had large heads with almost impossibly large black eyes.
A wave of deep fear washed over me. I looked at my colleagues, my friends, and I saw that same wave wash over them too. Just as we were all about to run, maybe even running and screaming, one of the being raised their hand. We all froze in place and then a wonderful feeling of calm and happiness sprang up in my mind. And then…
That was thirty years ago. That was the first recorded contact with The Greys. So many contact stories that were told before then were scary stories. But luckily, they were just stories. The prosperity, technological advances, and overall greatness that came about from first contact has been overwhelming.
First contact changed everything and I was there.
| 12 | 0 | 75 | 46,705 |
[WP] What if your passion was to be a drone? To be just like everyone else?
|
"What if your passion was to be a drone? To be just like everyone else?"
Father Malaakar paused, eyes lingering on his young audience. He had found children to be the most pliable towards his message. They also tended to be unquestionably obedient. He smiled inwardly, before launching back into his well-rehearsed exhortation.
"That was the question posed by the Great Prophet Hylerion during the End of Kings. His words remain as true then as they do now. Do you feel it? The truth of His words?"
The room remained silent. Nervous and stony-faced parents stood behind their children, clutching them. Father Maalakar's eye swept the room again, searching for *that* look. The fire burning inside, longing for the contentment of similarity. He knew that several in the audience were seriously considering him.
"Come, join us. Renounce your uniqueness. Destroy thyself, and join our Order. Outwards and inwards, we shall all be Drones for Hylerion. Who will be brave, and take the Vow of Sameness?"
In the front row, a small, dark-haired boy raised his hand. His mother and father blanched and held the boy tighter, tears streaming down their silent faces. Father Maalakar bent down, eye to eye with the little boy.
"Brave boy, are you ready to join The Hive?"
The boy nodded. Father Maalakar placed his arm around him, and together they headed into the Church of the Equality.
| 2 | 0 | 4 | 219,994 |
[MODPOST] Getting To Know The Writers Of /r/WritingPrompts, Part Four!
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*Where are you from? (State? Country?)*
Ontario, Canada
*Are you a male? Female? Other?*
Female
*How long have you been writing?*
On and off for ages. More off than on, but at least daily for the last 3 weeks, so I guess I'm doing alright.
*Do you have anything available yet (on Amazon, Nook, Smashwords, etc.)? If yes and you don't mind - please link it!*
Nope, nothing.
*Will you be participating in NaNoWriMo this year?*
Probably, but despite trying it at least 5 times, the best I ever managed was about 15k words about a super powered death match. I'm better at short stories than long ones.
*What programs do you use to help write?*
I don't. I have Reddit, and Google Docs to store things more permanently, and a cool journal I got for Christmas.
*How fast can you type?*
That test says 38 wpm, I suspect it's a little faster when I'm not trying to copy stuff.
*Bonus question via /u/WithViolence [7] : "What's the most interesting fact about you that other people should know?"*
Just over 2 weeks ago, I made a resolution to write something every day, and play the guitar every day. So far, I've managed to do so every day (except one).
| 3 | 0 | 27 | 21,358 |
[WP] Buddhism is now the only world religion, and everyone takes it very seriously. In addition, everyone has a 'progress' bar above their head to indicate their level of enlightenment.
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Nobody really knew how it started. It was just there one day, over everyone's heads. Once it had started, the rich were to first to take advantage of it, giving fast amounts of what they had to charity, really trying harder than ever to show everyone that they gave a fuck. Then everyone hopped on board the bandwagon, making donations and doing charity work and flaunting all their fucking volunteer t-shirts. Then came the incessant social media challenges, everyone standing up on countless soapboxes saying "LOOK! Look upon my charitable works, ye Mighty and despair! I GIVE SOOO MANY FUCKS" while dumping warm piss over their heads for depressed orphans.
When people began to realize that this was not working, they figured that they just weren't caring hard enough, and how do you prove that you care? Do you look inside yourself? No, that's stupid. What, did your mom tell you that? She probably told you that haircut was cool too. No, you flaunt it, hard. So people started using all their money contributing *just* enough to causes to get some free swag to rub it in that prick Ruben's face. You're not the biggest thing since Bill Clinton's saxophone, *Ruben*.
That was, all but ol' Homeless Ruben. No, not the same Ruben, it is possible to have 2 people named Ruben in the same universe. No, ol' Ruben Studdard--No, not that... well actually, yes, the former American Idol. Anyways, he was homeless and chill as fuck during the time when the bars appeared and Buddhism took hold of the globe and seemed to be the only person not acting pretentious about contributing to the community. In fact, he was just kinda riding the generosity wave and not changin' for nobody, nohow. He mostly used the bar above his head to hold his beer while he used his hands for some other things, nondescript things.
One day, the big guy Buddha Herbz himself came down from his enlightenment hut, which looked a lot like a regular hut that always had loud metal music coming from it at all hours, really pissing off the other heavenly neighbors, to speak to Ruben and he was all like "Woah Ruben Studdard, you really should have beaten that loser Clay Aiken." "I did win" said Ruben, shifting slightly in his beanbag chair that he found on the side of the street, where he lived, because he was homeless. "Ohh", said B. Herbz, "well, I really dig what you're doing here. All these other people are only doing this stuff for personal glory. Anyways, congrats on getting the ol' 'Fullbar-arino'." Ruben was like "Sweet" and with that, looked up just in time to see his bar glowing like a pair of irradiated testicles. He had achieved enlightenment. "Aw tits yeah" said Ruben, gnawing on a piece of fruit. Ruben died shortly after due to what most people think was food poisoning. Everyone soon realized that nobody actually cared about anyone but themselves and everything went back to normal, the end.
| 1 | 0 | 192 | 127,091 |
[WP] When two people fall in love, they receive an object that is the physical embodiment of that love. It changes as their feelings change towards each other and destroying it can have drastic consequences. How does this change the nature of relationships?
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The new world statistics showed that the number of people who were not attached to a partner had increased since 2010. At that time, couples who had been in love began getting......well its quite hard to define what *it* is. It was usually an object that's not too outlandish, in fact it would look quite commonplace but it would still have been distinguishable from other objects. It could be in any form, any colour, any size at all. For lack of a better name, I think we should just call them tokens.
In the beginning, the couples who received it deemed it a sign that their love was true. And so couples cherished them. What we discovered not too soon after was what happened should one destroy them.
The first case was when a "love-locked" couple had a disagreement and ended their relationship. That very night, one spontaneously combusted, the other got hit by a car. Whilst the first was a bit mysterious, the second one not so.
Then there was the second occurrence. This time a third person destroyed the token. The two, who were away canoeing turned over and drowned. Then more of these sort of events started happening. And we learned of the dark nature of these tokens.
In essence a token can be destroyed by either a broken relationship or by destruction as one would destroy a regular item. Doing so causes the two people involved in that relationship to die. Because of that, weddings were at an all time low and test tube babies were becoming more common alongside artificial insemination.
4 years on and people wandered about. Their libido at an all time low. Nobody wanted to take the risk. And neither did I.
Churches had a drop in income as well. With weddings being as rare as albino animals it was understandable that they now had to resort to baptisms, donations and the like. Of course, even then they were still getting lower amounts of that than before. The appearance of these tokens were not written in any of the holy scriptures that we knew of. This led people to begin believing in another god that would do such a thing. Of course, bibles of a sort had been circulated but in today's modern society it's harder to spread the word of God when it is well known that it was written by a man.
One day, during college, I woke up, and next to me lay a notebook. Not a laptop but an actual book of paper and ink. I was transfixed. It looked like a regular notebook save for the fact that instinct told me it was more than that. It was a token.
I sat in a daze. Who could I possibly have a crush on? I'd made sure to never look at a girl beyond more than a friend and even that I would be wary of. Then it occurred to me. What if it was someone else who loved me, but had not told me?
I looked at the book again. I noticed now that it was hardbound and locked shut. I searched but could not find the key. It was clear that whoever harbored feelings of romance for me had yet to make it apparent, and whilst the contents of the book remained secret, so too would the identity of the admirer.
Should I find him or her, or should I not?
I decided that I should discover who this mysterious person is. But it was not too hard. During lunch, a girl approached me. She was what I suppose one could call average. Wordlessly, she sat down opposite me and held the key before my eyes. I knew that this girl, in front of me, was one person I could not hurt if I valued my life.
I asked her why, but she said she was too shy, and now we were bonded, till death do us part.
Forgive any formatting issues and the like. It was all typed out on my phone and it was the first time I really got myself involved in writing a WP. Any and all feedback is appreciated.
| 4 | 0 | 262 | 41,052 |
[WP] A Teenager finds out that his best friend is actually his son from the future, come to prevent a great disaster caused by his future wife/his "friend's" mother. The problem is; the "friend" was sent too far back and neither of them know who the mother is
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Great prompt.
We agreed to meet once a week, Brian and I. Once a week, I would go to his apartment with an accordion folder full of the notes we had accumulated in the weeks since I had arrived, and he would tell me about what he's been up to. Whom he met, what he did at work, what he ate. He kept notes. He said he had a good memory, but I told him to take notes. He kept a map of the city tacked up in his bedroom with a surfeit of post-it notes, thumbtacks, and twine indicating his every movement. He recorded phone conversations. He never threw away receipts.
There was no question in our minds that the information was useless; that, when he met my mother, she would have no relation to the conversation Brian had with his boss on Tuesday, to the cashier at the bodega who didn't have the time to handwrite a receipt after his machine ran out of ink on Wednesday morning, to the woman sitting next to him at the bar on Saturday evening who asked if he recognized the song that played. We agreed, however, that when choosing between preparation and surprise, we both preferred preparation. "Just like your old man," he said, reaching up to tousle my hair. I batted his hand away, and said that my mother must be tall. He agreed.
I bought books on genetics. My mother had blue eyes. She had European ancestry and detached earlobes. She likely was a brunette, but a blonde was not out of the question; she was not a redhead. I went to hospitals, labs, universities. No disposition to familial genetic disease. She was tall, but I knew that. There was more, but it wouldn't help.
After our meetings, Brian and I went to a bar, a new one every week. Brian approached women; so did I. He had to be prepared for when he met my mother, no matter the circumstances. He needed to be confident and comfortable in his own skin. He needed to refine his preferences. He was to become a man of intention. We both knew it was a charade. Among the empty glasses, he confided that he hoped he would never meet her. I agreed.
"Do we just keep doing this indefinitely?"
I finished my beer. "I don't see another way." When he remained silent, I said, "Unless you have a better plan."
He shook his head.
I said, "You're 25. The average man marries at 29. We probably don't have to do this for long."
"It's weird to think about."
"That you have quite possibly the worst taste in women imaginable?"
That managed to make him laugh. "No," he said. "This. This project we have."
"I know. I'm sorry to put you in this position, but I didn't have much of a choice."
"Well, don't apologize. The way I see it, most people go through life clinging to the hope that there's someone out there for them, some singular person for whom they're destined. Me? I don't have to hope. I just have to wait."
We still meet once a week, and we still get drinks after at a different bar each time. Our meetings are more informal. Every time, there are fewer post-its on the map, fewer sheets of notes to stuff in my folder. We make more jokes, the way we did when I first arrived. There are moments, when he spends the night with a new woman, when my heart seizes and I swallow hard. I believe he feels the same way when he wakes up beside her, weary from a night of drinking and of passion, and brushes the hair from her face so he can see her blue eyes as they gaze at him. And when she asks to see him again, he is stricken by a moment of doubt, and she can read it in his face, and when she leaves, he sits and cries and sometimes he calls me so that I'll tell him that he did the right thing, and when he calms down and hangs up, I add her name to a sheet of paper and file it away.
| 7 | 0 | 32 | 156,175 |
[WP] A psychologist's next patient is his/her childhood sweetheart. Write about the conversation that ensues.
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"She didn't recognize me because I took the name of my ex-wife when we got married. I grew a beard and my hair went grey. She, on the other hand, didn't change much. I recognized her at first sight and could still see the 21 year old woman in her, just as beautiful as I remembered. But at the same time I saw that slouched posture and the sadness in her eyes that most patients that come to me have. It broke my heart. I know I shouldn't have treated her. I knew I was jeopardizing my license. 'Let me refer you to a colleague who isn't still in love with you after 40 years', is what I should have said. But I couldn't let her go again." Franks voice broke and he fell silent.
"So contrary to your better judgment and for your own personal gain, you started to treat her anyway?" Dennis McElroy, attorney-at-law, was feeling quite good about himself this morning. This was an easy case. Psychologist treats long lost sweetheart for depression, who doesn't recognize him. Woman kills herself. Psychologist gets his license revoked.
"Mr. Degard, do you think you misjudged the health situation of your patient due to your feelings for her?" asked he.
"First and foremost I was her therapist. I was sure she still had a cha--"
"Yes or no, Mr. Degard? Did your infatuation with Mrs. Susan Palmer hinder your professional judgment? I remind you that you're under oath!" Frank took a deep breath. He didn't mind losing his license. In five years time he would have retired anyway. But the pain of going through this again plus having to lie to everyone was more than he could bear. But it had to be done. At least that promise I will keep, he thought. For the rest of the trial he answered as the labor court demanded and got his license revoked.
"Frank, do you recognize me? It's me, Suzie." Frank awoke drenched in sweat.
"Leave me alone! I didn't tell anyone!" he yelled at no one. You know that's not quite true, Frank.
"Get out of my mind! I don't owe you anything. Your're dead!" He knew he was delirious. That whole bottle of whiskey was taking its toll now. Since Susan killed herself he was reliving their initial encounter in his office over and over again in his sleep. And it got worse after he lost his license.
"From the moment you walked in to my office", he would always say in his dreams, "I knew it was you." Susan's gloomy eyes suddenly lit up and Frank could see the energetic young woman he once loved.
"I hoped you would say that."
"Why are you here Suzie? Is everything alright?" Frank knew that nothing was alright. Her shirt was stained, she obviously hadn't washed her hair in a few days.
"I'm ill, Frank. I don't know what to do", she said while fumbling with her wedding ring.
"Have you seen a therapist before?"
"Yes, they can't help me, only you can", she paused, "Frank, do you still love me?" That's when he should have referred her to another psychologist. But he did love her, even after all these years. And so he listened to her, treated her, was being her therapist and best friend. Suzie never said if she loved him back, never explicitly anyway. He learned that for 30 years she carried a secret that gnawed on her ever since.
"I pushed her, Frank", she finally confessed after four sessions, "I was furious and she wouldn't listen so I pushed her, but it was an accident. I loved her, she was my sister for god's sake!." Her sobs drowned her voice. She hadn't told anyone how her sister slipped at the top of the stairs, fell down and smashed her head on the concrete floor. And suddenly Frank wasn't a 60 year old psychologist but 21 again, feeling like he would do anything for that woman.
"Get away with me, Frank. Get away with me to a place where I'm not constantly reminded of my guilt. I need to escape!" And he promised her and was failing to keep it over and over again.
| 1 | 0 | 62 | 227,845 |
[WP] Science has found a way to steal objects from works of fictions and bring them to our world. Write a narrative describing either our world or its effects on the fictional world the item was stolen from
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"--all ends right here. All right here." Steve's voice broke. "And all my fault." His shoes thumped on the dusty highway, carrying him further westaway from Omaha, away from the rising black mountain growling behind him. "Oh, Jesus, oh Mary, oh pleaseplease*please*." But no one was listening, at least not to him.
He worried at the cracked skin of his lips with his teeth and staggered on. Who would listen to a world-killer, who would care at this point? He shook his head, eyes going wide in his face. No one should ever have listened to him in the first place!
He shuddered with a long sob, though he had long since run out of tears. Their muddy tracks remained painted in the dirt on his apple-red cheeks.
A single, beige-colored shape he could have hidden with a pebble detached itself from the crest of the long hill before him and raced down the miles long thread of black tarmac. If he had been listening, Steve would have heard the faint surge of the Humvee's engine, but Steve was howling, screaming at the sky now.
"Becca! Oh, fuck! I am so sorry! Jesus, *Becca.*" The last he had seen of her, she was jumping away from yet another round-edged cube half as big as her torso. A thick, rectangle of industrial goggles covered her baby blues, but she flailed for the big red abort button with her mouth hanging open in a scream. The test chamber was already half filled identical duplicates of their Trans-Spatial Reckoner, but Becca was determined to shut the first one down. She hopped to the side, trying to get around the growing pile, but the tenth oneor the twentiethappeared and ricocheted off its neighbor, shooting up to smash into her jaw, rocking her head back. He saw "Motherpluckers" in white letters across the back of her black T-shirt as she spun and sagged to the ground. In the twenty seconds it took him to get in there and get a fist on the shutdown switch, she was already buried. Shan and the rest of the team dragged him out of the chamber.
"Why would you save me? Why would you do that after what I done, why?" Steve's entire body shook, trembling like a flag caught in a high wind. In the distance, the massive black mountain of Trans-Spatial Reckoners had risen to block out the sun. The south face rumbled and gave way, starting a landslide of cubes that tumbled for miles.
The shriek of the humvee's brakes seemed to come out of nowhere and Steve screamed as if in imitation, a high, thin sound that made the big-headed white kid behind the roof mounted machine gun swing the barrel around. Steve stood on his tip toes, pushing his chest up and forward, begging for the slugs to rip into and through him, but nothing happened. Steve's heels dropped back to the ground and he hunched there on his feet, whining like a beaten dog.
The soldier in the passenger's seat was Spanish, and no where near old enough to drink, but his glower was enough to shut Steve up. The kid looked Steve over. "The fuck're you?"
The driver's side door boomed closed and an older marched quickly around the hood, his dark face hard. Steve could see himself reflected in the big man's sunglasses, a hunched, sun-burnt wreck. Steve lowered his eyes and shivered.
The officer left his hand on the butt of his holstered pistol and walked in a slow circle, inspecting Steve from all sides. "Sir, what is left of your shirt says "Motherpluckers" on the back. Sir, were you part of the clusterfuck currently obliterating Omaha?"
"Yes."
Big Head growled through his teeth. "Let me pop 'em."
Sunglasses just stared. "Sir, you are going to come with us and-"
"No."
Sunglasses's jaw twitched. "Sir, you are going-"
"There's no point. It's all over. We connected to another world and fastened to the first thing we saw."
Sunglasses crossed the distance between them in an instant, his face blotting out even the mountain growing in the distance. "Now you are going to go fix your mistake. Get inside or I will put you inside."
Steve stood there, swaying in the hot breeze. "Oh, go fuck yourself." He thought he was out of tears, but his body found enough moisture for a few more. "It's all over. The ground was already collapsing when I left. It can't support that kind of weight and there's only going to be more, until we're all crushed or the pressure buckles the crust and then-" Steve went on, his mouth working, but no sound came out. Sunglasses drew back, his teeth bared. Steve swallowed and went on. "The first thing we locked on to was the device itself, in a world we found in a Reddit thread."
Sunglasses stared, his face relaxing. His tongue darted between his lips and he waited for Steve to go on.
"We grabbed it, because we thought it would be funny to pull their device into our own world, but when their device came through, it came through with our device from another world attached. They were pulling someone else's device. *We* were pulling their device. We're inside an imaginary world and they're inside a world that someone else imagined. This is all a dream." Steve's body began to shake again, this time with laughter. Thin tears continued to trickle down his burnt cheeks. Sunglasses took a neat step back and turned away, marching around the hood, back toward the driver's side door. Steve raised his voice as the engine rumbled to life. "You can't stop it. The chain of causality is eternal. It's turtles all the way down, and all the turtles are coming to rest in our world, one pulling the other, pulling the other..." The laughter dumped endorphins into Steve's blood stream that his starved and broken body consumed on the instant. His back straightened and his shoulders bounced up into a semblance of square. His laughter thickened, warming into a pure amusement. "It's all going to end soon. It's almost over already." The humvee pulled away, its engine roaring. The soldiers disappeared into the distance, toward Omaha and the black mountain growing on top of it.
"There's no point," Steve whispered to them. He turned away, staggering west again. "I know how it ends. I read the whole post. IEatAlphabets in The-Antidote's thread." Steve looked up at the clear blue sky and the golden disk of the merciless sun hanging overhead. "I know how it ends and it--"
| 2 | 0 | 9 | 62,328 |
[WP] Just before being born, a human soul must shed its memories in order to experience mortality once again. A single soul has found a loophole, and twenty two years into its life, the gods of fate have started to grow suspicious of the unnaturally successful person it's become.
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"He mustn't be allowed to continue this any further! He is obstructing the natural order of things, dividing a region and hindering the march of peace on an entire planet!"
A broad, brooding figure nodded in ascension.
"He has been reborn thrice, and has retained the memories, the hate, and the expertise that he has accrued in an outrageously unfair amount of years. He has also maintained his power."
Majesty and infinite grace poured forth in the form of words,
"Perhaps. But we've no power to end lives on a whim. If what you two say happens to be true, then we shall prevent this soul from exploiting our system ever again. We will continue to observe this individual and, if Fate is kind, this troublemaker's human counterparts will end his life shortly."
A chorus of laughter resounded throughout the immense amphitheater. Above, a monstrous galaxy wheeled in absolute silence.
The owner of the velvet voice cleared her throat.
"Until then, we shall observe this 'Kim Jong-Un' with fervent interest. This Gathering of Fate will now adjourn."
| 16 | 0 | 40 | 74,775 |
[WP] A man travels back in time to the medieval age and brings with him a gadget or device to convince the people that he is a wizard.
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I suppose I should have been more discerning with my choice.
If the people of my time could see what I have done... well, they wouldn't be happy.
I had the chance to dramatically change the course of history for the good of all with my opportunity to bring back a device with me. I could have ended thirst or hunger, I could have revolutionised technology, or evolved warfare beyond its time.
But no.
Instead, in true male teenage fashion, I sought to bring back an invention that would help make me a *god*.
Something that would make men jealous, and women tremble.
A revolutionary device, aerodynamic and made of the highest quality materials.
A vibrating dildo.
Not just any old dildo either. I went the full monty. A one million dollar, diamond encrusted, platinum vibrating dildo.
The women love me. The men want to be me. Together, my vibrating dildo and I are taking over the world.
And boy, do they *love* it.
I would say I'm sorry, that I regret my choice. But had I been given another chance, another choice of invention...
I'd probably still go with the dildo.
| 0 | 0 | 2 | 170,022 |
[WP] Once a day, you receive a text message from yourself, six minutes in the future.
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*Bi-king!*
'Go talk to her.'
I stared at the phone screen for a minute, trying to decipher the strange text I had just received, from a number I didn't recognize.
'Go talk to her.'
That was all it said.
*Must be a wrong number,* I thought to myself, taking a sip from my disposable cup, tasting the bitter, dark coffee. For some reason, my eyes just couldn't leave the screen.
'Go talk to her.'
I shouldn't have paid it any mind. That's all it probably was, just a random text meant for someone else. But...it stuck with me.
'Go talk to her.'
I'm glad it confused me. I'm glad it gave me pause. For some reason, some ridiculous, far-fetched reason, I looked up from my phone and scanned the shop.
There she was. *Her.* There was no doubt it was *her*, despite the incredulity of the situation, that was *her*. There she was.
'Go talk to her.'
I couldn't. I shouldn't. She was beautiful. I was nobody. Just the *thought* of saying hello made my stomach churn with butterflies and bewilderment, and the lump in my throat should have chocked me.
'Go talk to her.'
It rang in my head, echoing as though whispered through a canyon, 'Go talk to her.'
It was the last thing I wrote down in my notes, "Go talk to her."
-
-
"Excuse me..."
| 1 | 0 | 127 | 136,608 |
[IP] The Archer's Showdown.- Write A Story From This Cool Painting I Found.
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3 cups of berries and a bow and arrow, these are the only items in my inventory. I have been on this island for weeks and this was all I managed to acquire. The bow and arrow was from my ship and I would never let it go, it is my lifeline and has saved my life more than once. The berries were native to the island and, to be honest, I don't know whether they are edible or not.
My concern right now, however, isn't with poisonous berries, it's with the supply of, or rather lack there of, heat on the island. Each night is becoming progressively colder and I have not had any luck conjuring an ember. I don't have a knife to make a hut and I don't have flints to start a fire. I need to figure these things out soon before the cold takes over my body and I am forgotten about forever.
I've explored the jungle out to 50 meters but that isn't nearly enough to understand the island I am stranded on. I need to venture farther into the jungle to find more food or something that will serve as a shelter for my weeks, and possibly months, to come.
I grabbed my bow and arrow and stepped through the trees and vines. I know that I can't rush through my task because it only takes one mistake to fall down a ravine or step in a hole to break my leg or roll into a rock bed, but I don't want to think about that right now; the only thing I know is that I must be careful.
After a few kilometers of hiking I came across a river, which was the closest thing to sustenance I have come across since I collected the berries. I bent over to take a sip of the water. I felt the water run through my fingers before I cupped my hands and raised the warm water to my lips. It was extremely satisfying, I haven't been quenched for quite some time and forgot how something so simple could be so pleasant.
I continued to drink the water and then I heard some leaves rustling behind me. Not thinking anything of it I took a few more sips, washed my face off, and continued to cross the river. Before I had a chance to get out of the river bed I heard a giant scream followed by a tree that succumbed to the power of whatever this beast is. I turned around and ducked just in time for its log-like arms to miss my head. I began to run upstream, hoping the water would slow him down, and I luckily came across a series of rocks. I quickly maneuvered my way through them, turned around while grabbing my arrows, and I fired them as quickly as I could into the beast that interrupted my search for fire...
| 3 | 0 | 8 | 41,990 |
[WP] You are the last person who refuses to use quantum teleportation which may or may not kill you leaving an exact clone behind
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I watch as Harry, my buddy for a long time and co-boycotter of quantum teleportation quantum-ly teleports across the room for several million dollars. Fucking corporate shill. I suppose that leaves me as the last one to not be teleported. I'm not sure what's keeping me from doing it. I mean, there's really no change that I can discern from someone pre to post-teleportation. It still makes me uncomfortable.
I've been offered millions of dollars to teleport as a PR stunt for years as well. Harry and I never had a problem with money though. We were pretty well off, we fly airplanes as a novelty for fairs and the like. That and the interviews which tend to pay pretty well too. Unfortunately Harry just cracked under so much cash. Ah well.
I meet him with the rest of my friends after the news reporters are done asking questions and he proceeds to profusely apologize for some reason. "Shut up." He looks at me a bit shocked and I look back at him blankly. "You're a dead man walking or else we've abstained from teleportation for no reason." I look around at the rest of my group. They're fairly unreactive, they heard us arguing before the shoot. "Look, it was just-" "Too much money. I know." He looks at me. And then laughs. "I'm not dead though, am I? And even if I was, what does it matter? I feel alive. That's all that really matters."
I look at him again. "All? What about that cash?" He laughs again. "Ahh, you make a good point. It's all about the cash too." I laugh this time. "Fair enough, but you're kicked out of the club." "What club?" I laugh once more. "What club do you think?"
It's night time. I love the night. I'll often stand here, next to my window and peer out. The sky is starless tonight as it often is, but I don't mind. The dark clouds and trees and the bright moon are all I need.
I'm alone now. Truly. Harry decided to sell out and now I'm the only one who hasn't died from teleportation. But is it really death? No one seems to believe so, even I've begun to lose faith in that. The scientists report that there's no change in brain activity or structure, you're completely the same person. But the particles are different, can it really be the same. I'm not sure anymore, but there's nothing to do but stick to my guns. At the very least I have to wait a few years before selling out myself.
I glance at the teleporter I keep in my home, to remind me. And of course, to transport visitors. But, I tell myself it's to remind me of the corruption in my world. The constant dying and birthing. Perhaps it's not so bad but I refuse to believe that. Or do I? Why am I walking toward this corner, empty of anything but this teleporter.
I lock the coordinates for Harry's home, across the way. He's likely asleep now, he's never been much of a night-owl. I step onto the platform and press the button to begin the sequence. The numbers count down and thoughts begin to race through my head. Namely, "Why?"
The answer is, I'm tired of this life and one way or another it will change tonight. Time to see if everyone I know is truly dead. The number comes near zero and I begin to regret my decision, but I don't truly think I'll mind the blankness of it all. The number hits zero and I feel a soft buzz in my ears and tongue and eyes and all over my skin, so much that it all goes black.
| 3 | 0 | 1 | 162,654 |
[WP] The school system has been perfected, and at 95% of all mentally healthy children develop a desire to learn, and therefore graduate with at least a 4.0. They go on to be doctors, engineers, etc. However, now there aren't enough people to do blue collar work...
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"Thank you, really, I mean it." Doctor Morgan looks at me apologetically. "You have no idea how much we appreciate your sacrifice." I nod blandly, trying my best not to giggle.
"Well, thank you ma'am," I reply. "Here's your non fat extra whipped pumpkin spice frap. Have a nice day!" She turns away from the counter, eyes wet.
"Doctor Morgan again?" Kevin shouts from the kitchen once the bell above the door rings, signalling her exit.
"Yep," I reply. "Left a fifty this time." He whistles from the back.
"The hell did I go to college for?" he asks me.
"To learn how to incorporate astrophysics into cooking breakfast for doctors and engineers?" I offer helpfully.
The lull doesn't last long. As the only cafe operating within a ten mile radius, we don't often have many breaks during the day. Kevin and I try to run the whole place by ourselves. Help is pretty hard to come by.
Not to say we haven't had our share of applicants. But not a one could fucking froth milk to save her life. As them to perform complex brain surgery or calculate construction costs without a calculator no problem. But pouring an espresso? Madness.
We close up around ten at night, shooing the last caffeine junkie out the door, and I count out the drawer while Kevin cleans up the back.
$14,000. I grin.
Fucking white collar chumps.
| 4 | 0 | 18 | 129,077 |
[WP] The lottery is an Institution designed to catch Time Travelers.
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Looking around, I noticed the little convenience store was full of stereotypes from the early 2010's - young adults glued to "smart" phones, texting and snapping selfies. Selfies, so glad they phased that term out. Urban youth with those cheap, overpriced headphones blaring shitty dubstep into their empty heads. Overweight people, wow! what a sight they are. It's still so odd to me seeing them scattered about, without a care in the world.
I'm next up in line to purchase my winning lottery ticket, it will be my third in the last month. I've spread my redemptions from the last year all over the east coast. Small jackpots, all with different names and social security numbers, hasn't failed me yet. This would be my final one. I can disappear after this. Maybe fly out to Iceland, enjoy it while it lasts - Iceland, that is. It won't be long until the volcano with the impossible-to-remember name blows a crater in that country that can be seen from space. I remember thinking that all the pictures from there were so beautiful, like they were taken on another planet. Yeah, Iceland. Spend a year there then check out Japan before it sinks.
"Five lotto tickets, please," I say as I step up to the register, nerves beginning to flare up.
"What else d'ya need, darlin'?" the middle-aged woman says. I bet she was beautiful before years (decades?) of cigarettes and booze claimed her. Or maybe that word, darlin, just reminds me of simpler times and I see her through rose-tinted glasses. AI isn't programmed to use words like darling, sweetie, and honey in normal conversations. They're very cold, aloof. It's so nice to hear the little human nuances again.
"That'll do me, I think. Actually, give me a trashy magazine. Some kind of tabloid, if you have any." I can't help myself. It's amazing they used to publish this shit, back when people's biggest worries in this world were what a celebrity wore to an event, or which woman with undeserved stardom is expecting a child.
With my five blank lottery tickets - four of them just for show - and my tabloid, I get into my rental and reach for the laptop on the floorboard of the backseat, my precious laptop that has 200 terabytes of text data directly uploaded from over 10,000 different .wiki sites from the year 2092. Years of lottery results, sporting victories, dates and locations of natural and unnatural disasters, dates of presidential assassinations, and the dates when the borders of each country inevitably shut down, permanently.
As I grabbed the laptop to pull it to the front seat, I hear a voice, my voice.
"They're coming for you. For me."
I turn around wildly to see a man sitting behind me. It's me. A grizzled version of myself, a bit older, and he looks like hell. I'm not as shocked as I thought I would be if this ever happened, but it's odd, to finally see your own face, not as a reflection. It's backwards. Is that really what I look like? Fuck.
"Did you hear me? They're coming. Your plan to go to Iceland? Yeah, you should have done that yesterday, but no. You had to be fucking greedy. How much do you even have now? 800, 900 grand?
"1.2 mil," I told myself. This angry, self-loathing clone. Wait, can you even call him a clone? Shit, the whole time-paradox situation breaks my brain. "Who's coming? Old government or our government?"
"Old, probably. There's no way to be sure. It was old government that came for me on this night. There's no way to know if our government have begun hunting for refugees - for you."
"This happened to you? What do I do? What did you do? How long do I have?"
"You have an hour, if I remember correctly. I lost track of time when I turned around and saw my doppelganger sitting behind me. It was all a blur after that. A bloody blur. You look like you're handling it better than I was. We peeled out of here, they caught up to us on interstate, and long story short, they found his dead body after the wreck and called off the search, not knowing there were two of us. I'm hoping we both make it out alive this time, and not just you. We need to ditch this car, it's what they're looking for."
"Well what do we do? Do you have something else?" I ask as I grab the laptop and we exit the car in perfect synchrony.
"Yeah. There are woods behind the store, a house on the other side of the woods, and a car waiting on us in the driveway. We need to get moving, now. It might not be just cars coming for us this time."
We set off into the pitch-black woods, the blind leading the blind. I walk with a hand in front of my face to guard against stray limbs, struggling to distinguish the sound of his footsteps from my own. "How far?"
"Not far. I need to do something first, though."
"What's that?" I say as I bump into him, he has stopped moving.
"A favor, for both of us. It's hell from here on out, you saw what I look like. It's all shit after tonight. I'm sorry, but if you could, you'd thank me. You *really* would."
The chirp of a silenced pistol sounds off and only one remains. The man presses a button on a device in his pocket, and a moment later reality itself distorts and a hole in the fabric of space-time opens and out steps an androgynous humanoid.
"There he is. The last one." The man said, motioning to the corpse on the ground. "He said he has 1.2 million, he never made it to Iceland."
"Good. Collect the money, do what you please with it. You are to stay in the United States, we will know if you leave. You're now a free man." The figure bent down and placed its hand on the corpse and the pale green hole from which it came engulfed the two of them.
The man sat in the woods for some time, trying to wrap his mind around what he had done, and how he would spend the two weeks before the world went to shit.
| 27 | 0 | 2,442 | 145,590 |
[WP] You die, and everything is black for a while. Then you see a message: "CONTINUE? 10... 9... 8..."
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I laid in my deathbed, family warmly surrounding me. Everything has been said that needs to be and all look down at me, tears welling. But with beautiful smileson their faces.
"What a way to go" I whispered raspily with my final breath. And then I sank into darkness as it all faded away. And I found myself in the void.
I began reflecting on my life for a moment before the thought dawned on me.
"Now what?" Nothing was happening. I sat in darkness for a moment before something flashed before me. In large, red, 3D lettering the word "CONTINUE?"
"What?" I asked aloud.
"Could that mean what I think? Like reincarnation? Or maybe continue on to the afterlife? This is a thinker..." Then, below the word appeared "10"
"Wait.. there's NO WAY"
9
"Okay, quick. What should I do?"
8
"UGH! SOMEONE EXPLAIN WHAT IM SUPPOSED TO DO!"
7
"Okay, lets weigh our options..."
6
"Heaven, hell, reincarnation, resurrection, I could even end up stuck here in the dark!"
5
I took a breath and calmed myself
4
"Alright. If a full life lived has taught me anything, it's to face the unkown without fear"
3
"I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna continue"
2
"Wait... oh shit"
1
I should have died with a quarter in my pocket...
0
| 4 | 0 | 5 | 208,567 |
[WP] The Last Person On Earth
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There was once an old hermit who lived in the hills. His home was a small cottage made of wood, a plain sight if there were any to see. Outside he hangs his laundry on a rope tied to a tree. It was the only tree in sight for miles and miles. In fact the whole hill was bare, save for that one tree; with its main body and two branches sticking out, like a tall person with a pair of long hands. From afar you could see the tree, and think to yourself, maybe it WAS a tall person with a pair of long hands, and an afro for his hair.
Now this old hermit was a quiet man. He didn't like people, and likewise, nobody liked him. Or maybe they did, but he doesn't remember. He hadn't met anyone in the past ten years or so, so he did not know what their latest standing would be. Probably, not very good, considering the clothes that he wore. Brown tattered cloths and dirty black mittens from an age when cloth was still spun by the machines.
No, he was a sorry sight indeed. With his big stubby nose, and his long black beard that ran till the waist. And gruffy hair so long, you would have thought there was an animal on his back. Or maybe it was, if you didn't know at all. But what would you know? The old man wondered. What would anyone know? After all, he hadn't seen a single soul in over ten years. What would they have thought, indeed.
The world's changed, he finally concluded with a heavy sigh. Or is it me that just refuses to die? And how about you, he'd then say, with a toothless grin, tapping his little finger on the bowl in front of him. A tiny brown turtle reacts to this action by receeding into its shell. It didn't know otherwise, it only knew how. And yet it amused the old man every time.
That's what we all do, don't we, Pablo? Or was it Constantinople, or was it Liao Zhu? He could never remember its current name each time, and so it always received a new one. Today you are Vincent, and so forth you shall be, until tomorrow.
And at that precise moment there would be a knock on his door, and the old man would recoil. Not in terror, he had been through the terror, but from a familiarity that echoed through the ages. He'd open the door, and there would be no one there. Not even for miles and miles apart.
At night the old man would go to sleep, praying to his hollow gods, dreaming of the demons from his past, and the world before it became. Each time, whether he knew it or not, he would shed a single tear for this, and then he would pass on from this world. Then they would come slowly, into his cottage, with their tools and their gizmos, and work their miracles once more.
The next day the hermit would awake in his cottage beside the tall solitary tree, and for miles and miles apart, he would still be the only one in sight and he would wonder the same things, and come to the same conclusions, and die on the same night. And whether he knew it or not. It didn't matter.
But Vincent would know. Except it was no longer Vincent tomorrow.
| 2 | 0 | 9 | 1,696 |
[WP] Desperate alcoholic encounters a barkeep who requests permanent transfers of one of his memories per drink.
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The train station has always been dimly lit, seems to mix well on a rainy night. I've been sleeping here on a cardboard box, underneath last weeks news paper. You can assume how well this shelter works in a good pour. The station has been abandoned for years, shut it down after a train derailed 'round a turn. The conductor jumped ship with the accelerator jammed in the fast position, said something about being doomed. Crazy fucking cook.
*Train Whistle*
"How in the?" I said to myself. "I'm too sober, I need a beer."
The whistle kept growing in intensity, I felt skiddish, the hair on the back of my neck wouldn't lie down. Riddled with goosebumps and clammy I stagger to the edge of the platform, I have to see, I have to know whats making that whistle. I peer down the tracks to the East, nothing. I hear the whistle once more, now confident that this train will be coming from the west. I clench my fists and quickly turn around, facing west now, I see nothing. I'm now at the end of my rope, paranoia being at a peak, I've always been this way when I'm sober. I'd do anything to wet MY whistle right now.
Finally calming down I walk back to the rotting bench on the platform. I just need to take deep breaths, I'll be alright. I don't have the energy to be conscious right now, I walk back to my slab of concrete cover with soggy cardboard and a mushy news paper and fall asleep.
I'm awoken by another whistle, this time it sounds close. I run back to the platform to see what I can see once more. Driven more by curiosity than fear by this point I stick my head to the West first this time, nothing again. I must be hearing things, I turn to the East and see nothing once more, but I hear a whistle again. This time it sounds different, it sounds like it saying something, this time it has a direction... Forward.
I jump down from the platform to the tracks, rusted and jaded to its abandoned existence. I begin to walk East-bound down the tracks, playing that silly child's game and stepping on every other wooden cross section on the tracks. As the whistle gets louder, I know I'm getting closer, it seems like its forming words.
*Fwoowoo mwoo*
Gibberish, but some remnants of different consonants. The rain continues to fall but I'm not standing in the middle of an opening in the trees anymore, the East-bound tracks are heavily wooded. I've never been one that's afraid of the woods, even in superstitious eerie situations. Why do I feel like this one is so different?
I'm approaching the bend that the train had derailed at. I can make out actual words in the whistle now.
"Fowwow Meeeeee, Fowwow Meeeeee"
Mesmerized by the words I do just as it says, finally reaching the bend. In the woods I can see a single train car with its lights on. It looked like it was the bar cart of the train.
"ALRIGHT!" I parade toward the cart.
For afar the cart looked really pristine, but now that I'm up next to it, I can see how it had aged over these years. Where were the other carts? I disregarded and reached for the door knob to the cart. When my had grasps it an electric feeling shoots through my spine. I'm alert, I'm focused, I feel as though I could comprehend anything. Swinging the door open with nothing but a fist full of confidence I walk to the dimly lit bar. There's a bar keep, behind the bar polishing a glass.
"Pick your poison, you never know when you'll have your last."
"What exactly is the cart doing in the middle of the woods? Was this with the train that derailed over here?"
"This one's on the house, but the next one'll cost ya'."
"Shit, I've never been one to turn down a free drink, I'll have a glass of scotch on the rocks."
While he was pouring my drink I look around and can't quite put my finger on it, but there is something wrong with this place. The inside of the cart is completely furnished and undamaged. How could this be when its been sitting here for so long? I hear the glass set down in front of mean, I turn about face toward the barkeep to finally get a look at his face. He's has overalls with a conductors hat, maybe the conductor jumped ship and found his way back to the train once it had been derailed. That can't be it, its been too long, anyone in that train would be dead long ago if not from derailing.
"What are you doing out here?" I ask
A small smirk cracks across his face, "The same thing you are, I heard the whistle and followed it here."
"So it was coming from this cart. Once I saw it I didn't pay attention to anything else. I just couldn't wait to get a drink."
I put the finished drink on the bar and push it forward to indicate I was finished with it. The barkeep takes it and puts it behind the bar.
"So whats it cost for another drink? I don't have any money, but I can be kind of handy"
"I don't want your money, as long as you keep me company and tell me about your past the drinks wont cost you a penny."
"Sounds like a deal to me, if you line'em up I'll spill the beans"
He begins to pour several drinks and each time I take one I feel different, I tell him about my fathers job when I was a kid and how I didn't have a mother. I tell him that I didn't learn to ride a bike until I was 7 and how I almost met my end because of water more times than my fingers can count. I've been slamming them and talking for so long I begin to forget what's going on. Must be the booze, its some strong shit.
"Hey, whats your name anyway?"
"How about for this last drink you tell me yours first, then I'll tell you mine."
"Sounds like a deal to me! I'm! I'm. I'm... Uhh, I... I don't know who I am..."
| 1 | 0 | 2 | 192,775 |
[WP] Humanity is the idiot savant of the galaxy. We're terrible at almost everything compared to every other race, but we surpass them in spades in one thing.
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"The humans are the most absurdly pompous race I've ever encountered," declared Zuudxv. "They barely even pass the standard sentience test, but manage to spend their efforts on bragging about their own genius, love, and physical abilities - things that we are all far better at. Hell, so many of those morons declare themselves to be in love, but our sensors show this this happens rarely and fleetingly compared to our response It's no wonder they largely hate each other and resort to war. So why, Jdvrj, would you, an esteemed exobiologist of this institute, choose to live among them?"
Jdvrj paused. Zuudxv's statement were all true, but she knew deep inside that she had to go one day, and would blame herself if she put it off any longer. "Zuudxv..." she began. Normally she was bold, but now she wanted Zuudxv to keep a scientific secret, something he was obligated to never do. "Please accept my resignation. There is a compelling reason for it."
Zuudxv stared. "Go on."
"Remember when I ran the chemical tests on the one human we abducted? How they turned out to be similar to those of a Kaxaklon?"
"Yes?" implored Zuudxv.
"I fabricated those slightly. You must keep this secret, I beg you!" She had lost composure, but tried to regain it.
"Why?" demanded Zuudxv. "How could you shame the institute like that?"
"You see... the tests showed a high level of potassium and calcium in their systems. Not to mention sulfur."
Zuudxv was the Abnexian equivalent of agape. "You must be joking."
"No," she replied, "I am not. They are basically walking desserts. Of all creatures, they are the most delicious in the galaxy."
Zuudxv stared out the window. A full minute passed as Jdvrj waited for him.
"I'll accept your resignation" He declared, "and I am resigning too."
| 147 | 0 | 768 | 82,670 |
[WP] In this story, a character plants a tree in anger.
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"I told you honey, it's nothing. We were just talking. Jeez, it's like I can't have male friends" Sarah said as she put on her t-shirt ready for bed.
Ted, her husband, was not the jealous type. He had never stopped her having male friends in the past, he didn't snoop through her Facebook or her phone. He trusted her. He didn't trust the new next door neighbour with his $3000 whitened teeth and designer label clothing and the car that cost close to what he earned in a year.
"He invited us both over for drinks on the weekend, for the fireworks? His deck looks over the lake."
Ted didn't say anything about how Aaron had probably bullied or bribed the local council to allow her s monstrosity. No other house was allowed to be two stories high. No one else was allowed an elevated pool. Instead he said,
"Convenient how he invites you over on the night I have to to stay at work until after midnight,"
Sarah sighed and rolled her eyes dramatically. "It's a party. Other people will be there. I am going and that is that!"
Sarah fell asleep as Ted laid there, stewing over in anger. Then it hit him. Garden warfare.
The next day while his wife as at work Ted went to the garden superstore. He walked past the flower bushes, the baby trees and then stopped at the full grown section. A brief conversation with the clerk got him what he needed. He also picked up a shovel and drove back home.
"Doing some home improvement?" came Aaron's voice, the tone the same usual condescending tone. The type Ted used with babies.
"Backyard just looks a little empty." Ted replied, wiping the sweat from his brow. He was onto the sixth and final he he needed.
"I would offer to help, but I have a flight to catch. Won't be back until the weekend. I can't wait for you and your wife to visit." Ted couldn't help but notice the emphasis of wife. A deaf person with myopic vision would have spotted it.
"Should be fun!" Ted replied with a grin.
* * *
"How was the party honey?" Ted asked when he got him, his wife sitting on the sofa in her comfy pants and t-shirt absently nibbling popcorn.
"A bit of a wash. All of his friend got the time wrong and those beautiful new trees completely destroyed the view. I came home and watched it on the telly."
"What a shame," Ted said, turning away to hide a devilish grin. "want to come upstairs for a shower?"
"I already had one honey and..." Sarah's voice trailed off as her husband stripped off there in the kitchen and the double meaning dawned on her.
| 1 | 0 | 22 | 192,387 |
[OT] Be Read: Reply with the best story you've written this year to date. I and others will read each and every one of them and offer a comment.
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This story was one of my favorite to write, I think it's one of my best but I haven't successfully shared it. I'm proud of what it came out as but I'm curious as to what others think. Thanks for throwing this together /u/IfThenElseIf
----
Almost as quickly as night fell upon them, morning arrived. Time is funny, it had a way of moving quickly, or too slowly, as if it couldn't make up its mind. Just when he thought he had a firm grasp of it, it slipped way like a fish in a river. The moon began to hide itself beneath the horizon as the sun crept from its resting place. All the world's critters began to wake, to move and leave their burrows and dens as if hearing some imperceptible sign to do so; their body clock's alarm sounded and they went about their usual business.
The earth stirred.
Horses nickered, impatiently paced left and right, bit and reared at any agitation. *They know,* the man with bells thought. *It's like they can see what the day had in store for them.* Horses were good companions, they had a third eye, *God's Eye*, they seemed to be able to see trouble a mile away. *Bells for the bell tower.*
Men woke from their tents, cracked their backs and stretched their appendages. They drank their coffee as if it were the only thing left in this world; both hands clutching the hot cup in the cool morning, watching every drop of black liquid flow into their mouths. Some spiked it with a little *lightning fuel* while others seemed perfectly content with replacing the former with the latter all together.
But when the spurs – *his* spurs – could be heard, 'tom foolery,' as he called it, ceased. *Lightning fuel* was stowed away, talk of past lovers, whores, would-be's flings and every other big fish story under the sun never made it passed the lips of any camp member. Eerie silence – perhaps in awe or fear – followed him through the camp like creeping death. Salutes, nodes, gestures and other signs of approval were always shot his direction, though it seemed he never noticed when they did right; only when they did wrong.
David Slud – "*it's Sluh-d, not Slood*" as he was apt to correct – was asleep in his tent. While men around him roused and got about the day's business, he slept. His hair was disheveled; a belly that did his homely looks no favors burst out from a shirt that had bunched itself high on his chest. A thin line of drool crept down his cheek and made a puddle of substantial size which his face was currently residing. He lay on his back, snoring like there was no tomorrow (which in his case was absolutely true).
The familiar ring of the spurs danced in their ears. They were made of something different than the usual iron – *God's steel* is what he called it, though titanium was closer to the truth – that gave it a special song every time he moved, like small bells were being rung. The song stopped in front of the sleeping man who was more apt to be called *Slug* than Slud.
The wind pushed itself through the grass, tent flaps lazily waved in the breeze, some said they could hear another man's thoughts. Time stood still.
"Excuse me," the man asked, looming over Slud. His face was patient, almost barren of facial hair save the *shade* of what his beard could be, already this early in the morning. He was cool, even tempered and his lined face suggested he had lived through enough to know his way around their twisted world.
"Excuse me, sir." He said again.
If Slud heard, he made no sign.
He kicked him, it was more of a nudge really, the same way a mother might seek to rouse a sleeping adolescent. Slud the slug kept his eyes and mind shut.
The man stood upright again, and looked at his watch – another relic from that other time – and clasped his hands behind his back, sighing. He turned to one of the men flanking him, "wake him."
"Aye," the bowlegged man said and moved over to David Slud's sleeping body. Being less of a mother and perhaps more of the likeness of a deputy (though he was far from it), he kicked Slud hard in the ribs. Even in his deep sleep Slud let out a solid *oof!* like the wind got knocked out of him. His eyes were slower to wake than the pain in his torso, his mind even more so. He looked about, eyes slits above his crooked nose and unkempt mustache, desperately trying to make sense of the look of pity on everyone's face.
"Nice of you to join us," the man said. "Would you happen to know what time it is?"
Slud looked at him as if he had asked him the meaning to life, 'why we die' or if he knew the *Lawd Jesus Christ* personally. His eyes darted and lips parted but all he could utter out were a few, "I…I...I…"
"Of course you don't. You don't have a watch, I'm quite certain you couldn't tell time even if you did have one. But I am a man of habit, so I'll ask again: do you know what time it is?"
The cogs in Slud's brain seemed to be firing now, his eyes and ears were doing work finally recognizing the six foot danger that stood before him. "I dun' know, sir." He responded, the words elongated, "It's like 'ee said, I dun' have no watch."
"Well, now we're getting somewhere." He said with a smile not too genuine. He leaned down again, as to make sure Slud could look him directly in the eyes. The man had small, but brilliantly pale blue eyes. Eyes any girl could easily get lost in, had they not come as a package deal with the rest of him. "Tell me, at what time were we meant to break camp?"
He searched for a minute, "sunrise, sir?"
"That's right, and what time is it?" Slud didn't answer, "I'll give you a hint, where might be the sun?"
Slud broke eye contact and brought his gaze to the burning fireball in the sky, one that had just recently breached the horizon. "Sunrise, sir."
"Wrong again, Mr..?"
"Slug—I mean, Slud. It's Slud."
"—Slud. The sun has *risen*. The time has *passed*. It can rise no more than a man can after a sinful night in a Bethany's Brothel. The act is *over*. This moment is no longer for sleeping, *or* for breaking camp. The time for all that to be done, *is* done, finished, *kaput* – so to speak."
Slud lay stupidly in his makeshift bed, using his elbows to prop himself up, his hair was a mirror image of his mind, hopeless and chaotic. It seemed he couldn't tell whether he should start running, or crying. Perhaps both would be most appropriate.
"I can't have *sloths* amongst my band of merry men, can I? What kind of example would I be setting for the rest of these fine men here?" his arm swept among the camp, a thin smile accompanied it. "Would people take me seriously, *Slood*?"
"N-n-no, sir. They wouldn't."
"So, my intelligent friend, what should I do with you? If I mean to make true our reputation, and don't turn it into that of nap crazed teenaged boys who can't even do a God's honest day's work, what must we do?"
Slud, being slow, was beginning to recognize the repercussion of his acts. Frantically, he stood up from his bed, he did his best to smooth out his hair and pull on his boots. He began to gather his belongings, heaping everything in his arms wordlessly and shoving them into the nearest bag.
The spurred man tittered, he stopped Slud with the click of his tongue and wagging of his finger. "What did I say, *Slood*? The sun has *risen*. That time is *gone*. No, no, it is far too late for this." He turned to the bowlegged man next to him, "take his horse. Make sure he is part of the advanced party."
| 3 | 0 | 17 | 127,030 |
[WP] The year is 2021. The newest fad are clone clubs, where visitors can spend up to 12 hours with a clone of any person whose DNA they provide. The clones are disposed afterwards.
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He sat in a stark room with his old friend, the paper cup of water spilled on the floor. It had been years since they splashed in puddles together, climbed book cases, rode a wagon, or threw a water balloon.
They talked about the girl in class, how they used to play house as kids. They talked about the babysitter, show and tell, and making up answers on tests. They talked about making "art" out of snow, snowball fights, stories his dad used to tell them, and how, "Life builds character."
They remembered the time mom let him smoke, and the time they played cards with a marked deck. They talked about the machines they built together as kids. (Oh, how they were ahead of their times!) They talked about visiting other planets, and dinosaurs, and x-ray guns.
They talked about the life lessons his friend taught him - how to be thankful for the little things in life and hugs.
They stared at their reflections, then hugged, a final goodbye.
He whispered, "Not so hard, you big sissy, you'll squeeze my tears out."
| 2 | 0 | 1,271 | 143,856 |
[WP] Ever since you turned 20, every day, you wake up at a different point in your life. You might wake up in your 43 year old self one day, and then your 21 year old self the next. Your days never repeat, and always takes place after your 20th birthday.
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Today I am 45. We're at the bank. I look over to meet her tired, worried eyes. I think she's wondering if we have enough for the kids' college. We don't. I wish we hadn't sprung for that timeshare in the Poconos. I don't think I'll ever reach retirement.
Today I am 32. We're tangled on the couch. I look up at her passionately fiery eyes. I think she knows exactly what she does to me. That knowing look. I wish I could store this moment in a jar. Whenever she moves, I can feel her skin on mine.
Today I am 56. We're lying in bed. I look to see the thick reading frames over her eyes. I think sometimes she reads just so we don't have to talk. Not that we ever talk. I wish I could turn off that damn light and get some sleep. Who actually reads Vogue, anyway?
Today I am 87. I'm alone. I look at the people framed on the wall, with their glassy, hollow eyes. I think that I knew them once, the couple in the pictures. Or maybe I never really did. I wish this pain in my chest would go away. Everything hurts.
Today I am 25. We're out getting coffee. I look across the table into her smart, bright eyes. I think she might actually be into me. This can't be my imagination. I wish I wasn't so nervous. If I could just get over it and kiss her, I think she'd kiss me back.
| 2 | 0 | 10 | 168,409 |
[WP] Due to an address mix-up, an elementary school class sends their Pen Pal letters to an elite unit of Space Marines. Today, the Space Marines are sending a response.
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Hello Albert,
I am well, how are you? I bet you like to be called Al don't you? I have an Al in my platoon, he's a good man. I haven't asked if his name is short for Albert but I will. Today I am going to the surface of Ganymede. Ganymede is a moon of Jupiter. Do you know where Jupiter is? My division has been selected to be among the 5 vessels that make up Operation Soft Landing. It's a great honor, but also very dangerous. Our job is to create a safe place for the rest of our Army to land. We have been waiting for 5 months while a bombing campaign made a hole in the ice. Yesterday we got the decision that we were going, and here I am now. Maybe you heard from one of your parents or a teacher that a big asteroid came close to earth. It was called 2004 BL86 and you probably also heard that it wasn't really that close at all. Some 800,000 miles or so. But they're getting closer. And we're going to stop them. The alien threat has been using Ganymede to launch giant pieces of iron and rock at earth in order to wipe out all life so that they can move in. But don't worry. We're not going to let that happen. I'm glad that you wrote to me, your letter reminded me of what we have to lose. All of us in this platoon really appreciate all of the letters your class wrote to us. Who's Aster? Sergeant Hanover says she maybe has a crush on you. Don't tell her I said that, though, because she wants it to be a secret.
It's still two more hours to drop, and we're all nervous and excited at the same time. No one knows what will be waiting for us when we hit the water, but we're going to face it and we're going to fight it. You have to take life like that, Albert. You have to face what is coming to you because it's coming whether you like it or not. You have to be strong, you have to fight for what you know to be good. It's hard, I had fear and doubt when I learned we were going to be a part of this. I don't think a single person in the whole corps wasn't feeling fear and doubt about this mission. I had forgotten what is good, way out here in space, fearing this moment. And your letter reminded me.
You won't ever know my name or the names of the men and women I consider my family. You won't hear about what we've done. But you need to know that we are always doing it because of everything good we left behind. So be good.
Yours Sincerely
REDACTED
| 5 | 0 | 1,573 | 200,577 |
[WP]A satanist tries to summon Satan, but summons Santa instead.
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My preparations were complete, months of travelling to gather the materials from around the world were about to pay off.
I looked across my basement, everything was in place. The pentagram painted in panda blood flickered the reflection of the many candles around the room. 666 red candles made from the earwax of goats.
I had been looking forward to this ever since I was a child and watched little nicky, the idea that Satan wasn't as evil as he appeared had stuck with me for 20 years. Now I was about to find out if it was true.
I recited the spell.
shadows filled the room and swirled around the ground and up the walls. circling in a demonic dance, moving faster and faster.
suddenly darkness took the room and smoke from the newly extinguished candles filled my nostrils. There was a red glow at the center of the room, but i couldnt quite make out what it was. some sort of vapor had filled the basement and I was having a hard time seeing.
as the smoke started to settle. I saw it, a slightly glowing silhouette of a big man. he started to move, and as he moved closer i could tell that his belly was big, and his cheeks were flushed. his white beard reaching almos to his belly button. he wore a red coat that shimmered with a dull red glow, and he wore a crown made of deer antlers and chirstmas tree branches. He had a twinkle in his eye that just said *everything is ok*
I said "who are you?"
and the man replied "I have many names. but the one you would be most familiar with is santa" his warm voice vibrated in my ears as if he were speaking through a silky and soothing jazz tune. his eyes twinkled as he spoke to me.
I questioned him further "well, how did you get here?"
without even a slight pause he asked "do you trust me, son?
"well I suppose I don't have a reason not to, you are santa after all."
he pulled me close, gave me a big hug and whispered softly in my ear "thats good, son. because the only way i can steal your soul is if you trust me."
| 4 | 0 | 711 | 69,918 |
[WP] Archeologists discover 2,000-year-old face cream from Rome with fingerprints still visible. Just for fun the prints are ran at a crime lab, coming back with a match...
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"The thing about randomness," *il ministro della Sanità* - or, the slightly-sweaty, pale-faced Surgeon General of Italy - was saying, "is that it doesn't necessarily have to be a different result every time. The chances of two people having similar features is not impossible, it is just very unlikely."
The journalists who were clustered around the bottom of the podium shouted up questions in response. The surgeon general picked one, pointing and nodding with a reluctant grimace, and the room quieted for the man.
"But if there can be a match for these fingerprints, does that mean there could be people in jail today who are not guilty of a crime?"
"That possibility is always present, regardless of the evidence used," said the Surgeon General in a dead-pan drone. "However, the chances of fingerprints being the same are estimated to be somewhere around six billion to one. Taking this in combination with DNA evidence and other methods that are used in prosecution, it is unlikely that fingerprint matches will result in an injustice any time soon."
The journalists clamored for more, but it was time for the Surgeon General to step down, which he did with poorly-hidden relief. He was replaced by Rome's chief of police.
"Now, I know everyone is very shocked by this finding, as - frankly - are we." The chief of police paused, his arms cupped outward and palms down as if he was trying to awkwardly hug the audience in to reassure them. "However, in response to the current questions and based on the age of our match, I can assure you he has committed no crime."
The crowd laughed at this - the matching fingerprint had been that of a 12-year-old boy.
"However, as *il buon ministro della Sanità* notes, the chances that two fingerprints match are almost greater than the population of the world - and so we are not very worried. Compound this with the thousands of years that have passed since the fingerprint was left, and it seems almost reasonable that a matching fingerprint would have to come along *eventually.* Suffice it to say that we are not planning on removing fingerprinting from our methods of protecting the citizens of *Roma* any time soon."
Later that night, the chief of police would go out with the surgeon general for a round (or two) of drinks. "Just another day with the panicky public," the chief of police would say. "I'll take this *merda* over shit like the Parisi investigation any day."
| 4 | 0 | 526 | 142,938 |
[WP] The consequences of the introduction of cryogenics
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The first breath came through the speaker as a ragged, stuttering rasp, the sound of a poorly maintained air-handler about to fry out.
Brant had heard similar sounds, several times now, but it still chilled him. It brought to mind a movie he'd seen a few years back, one of Ingra's lost "classics" from more than a century ago. The film had been insipid, the two-dimensional format archaic and boring, the sound quality abysmal. But the premise had been somehow alarming all the same: Revenants, victims of some mutated virus, coming back to life after death and wreaking bloody havoc on the living. They had made the same ragged sounds when they had shuddered and twitched back to life as these poor, frozen souls it was his task to administer.
There wasn't a whole lot of difference, Brant thought, looking at his bioscreen. These ancients, frozen and forgotten, now being magically brought back to life. And what more did they have to look forward to than the shambling zombies in Ingra's film? The same fate awaited them, except now it was Brant's task, not some dusty action hero's, and unfortunately for him, these zombies were capable of thinking and feeling … and talking.
The pod hissed and crackled as the warm-up cycle wound down, and Brant could now make out the face under the frost-rimed perspex window in the pod's lid. Beverly Holland, age 54, of Van Nuys, California. Cryodate, 4-22-2034. Occupation, movie actress. Diagnosis: VanMuir's disease, terminal.
Brant sighed, looking down at the woman, her dew-speckled features now visible as the frost quickly retreated and her breathing evened. A handsome-looking woman, he thought, but her gently lined face and graying hair were jarring. Strange to see someone looking older than 28, although it was clear she'd taken pains to maintain her features, even given the limitations of her time. What a waste.
He pressed the green purge icon on his screen, then stepped back as the pod's locks unsnapped with loud pops, a cool mist flowing down and out and over his feet, briefly numbing them. The lid rose slowly on its hydraulic arms, then locked open. A quiet ticking as the pod warmed, the soft hum of the air handlers and her quiet breathing were the only sounds now.
Brant moved to the side of the pod and waited. The bioread showed imminent consciousness, and he watched as her eyes moved under the lids, her fingers twitched and her breathing quickened.
Then, a glimpse of green eyes as they slowly opened, blinked, closed again, struggled open and then locked on his. Her mouth opened, a rasping hiss. She swallowed a few times, then tried again. "Wh… where…"
"Hello," he said, his tone soothing. "My name is Brant Kwon. You've just been awaked from cryosleep. Please drink this – it's water." He held the flask and attached straw up for her to see, then moved it to her lips. She drew in a sip, choked a bit, then drank more, finishing the flask quickly.
"Th-thank you," she said, her voice still throaty but rather pleasant. "You said… awakened?"
"Yes, just now," Brant replied, turning to put the flask down and grabbing his screen, and thumbing to his script. "Do you recall your name and date of birth?"
"Beverly. Beverly Holland. I was born … June 1st, 1980. Please …" she made an effort to move her hand but straps at the upper arm and wrist held her in place. "What … what year is it? I was sick … terminal … with VanMuir's. Have I been …" she swallowed. "Have I been … cured?"
Brant looked down at the screen, thankful that he could focus on the text and thereby ignore the pleading in her voice and eyes. "Do you remember your cryodate?"
She closed her eyes for a moment, then looked up at him again. "2034, April. I don't … I can't remember the date. The 20th? I remember the hospital, Brian holding my hand, telling me this was the last option… can you take these straps off, please?"
Brant checked his data, ignoring the request. "Brian Stern. Your husband. Yes."
Something in his tone stopped her. "Brian. Where is he? He should be here … he said he'd be with me, that he'd be frozen when he retired… Where is my husband?" her voice had risen unpleasantly, and she had a panicked look in her eyes as she wrenched at the straps restraining her wrists.
"Please, try to calm yourself," Brant said, laying a gloved hand on hers. "I'm sorry to inform you that your husband is dead. He died in 2046. He was *not* cryogenically preserved."
She stared at him for a moment, then squeezed her eyes shut. "No. NO. NOO!! He swore … he *swore* to me that he'd be here … that I wouldn't be alone…" she started crying, while trying desperately to free her hands.
He looked back down at the screen, deciding that the best option would be to press on and to finish this as quickly as possible.
"It's my duty to inform you that, pursuant to Controllers' Directive concerning cryoscience, designated Directive Cs-11a, dated 11/11/2051, you will now be terminated."
Still crying, she turned to him, tears streaming down her cheeks. "What?" she asked, in a hitching whisper. "What did you say?"
"Terminated," he repeated quietly. "I'm sorry, but the directive is clear. No cryosubjects are to be revived with the purpose of integration into the collective – except in cases of necessary medical research. But you don't qualify in that regard."
Brant glanced over. The woman had ceased crying and struggling against her restraints and was staring at him. "Terminated," she repeated softly. Then, more loudly: "Terminated? You mean, killed?"
"Yes," Brant said, thumbing to the next bulleted item in his script. "Pursuant to Directive Cs-11a, you have been administered the neurotoxic-soporific Somarsenic 7. Upon termination of life functions, your remains will be sterilized and vaporized, again pursuant to code."
(continued in comments)
| 2 | 0 | 1 | 51,084 |
[WP] Everybody has perfect recall. But when somebody chooses to forget a shared memory, the other person forgets it too.
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No one knows who built The Tower or what it was used for, but the structure had stood near the town docks for many years according to official records. The building was tall, covered in strange foreign symbols, and odd geometric shapes.
One day, Helen was sitting on a bench outside The Tower. She loved the serenity of the surrounding gardens but the building itself made her feel uneasy. Nearly everyone hated it. But no one seemed to remember why. She guessed it was because the architecture looked so different compared to most of the other buildings in the town. The Tower just didn't fit in.
"Ah well," thought Helen. "They'll be demolishing it soon enough."
Helen strolled out of the gardens and onto the town's streets. She noticed a number of large gaps amid the perfect rows of neat buildings, each one filled with rubble. She wondered what structures the rubble used to form.
As she turned the corner onto the main high street, Helen heard angry voices and could see a commotion up ahead. It was a protest. No, worse than that. A lynching. A man was hanging from a lampost by his feet, while a mob beat him with bats and tools. Helen ran over to the mob and pleaded with them to stop. But her pleas were ignored. She caught the eyes of a few familiar faces. People she knew. But they turned their heads.
Helen fell to the floor and began to weep. "This was such terrible, uncivilised, behaviour," she thought. The sound of children screaming forced her to look up. Some of the mob had broken into the building behind her and were pulling two young boys onto the street, kicking and spitting at them. Helen stared at the building the children were pulled from. It looked different. Very different from all the others on the street.
| 1 | 0 | 14 | 46,535 |
[WP] Write multiple stories that intertwine, but the characters never directly meet.
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"What you're talking about is serious escalation; the reaction, everywhere, will be huge."
"I know sir, but it is necessary, the air strikes just aren't enough."
The President sighed, "Boots on the ground. I really hoped it wouldn't come to this."
"Mr President, I really must advise against it," the Vice President interjected, "It's what they want."
"I know that, Gary. Believe me I know. But what else can we do?"
"Don't give in to them. Continue the airstrikes."
"They're not enough," the Secretary of Defence repeated, "The Islamic State continues to grow in strength."
Jim had one eye on the television, one eye on the girl on the table. She was pretty, any other day and he would probably try to strike up a conversation, but today… there wouldn't be much point today.
The news was full of the story. The President was going to make an announcement soon. He was expected to say they were going back to Iraq. Jim was going back to Iraq.
There were two men standing over Bill. They were wearing masks. One of them sounded like his Uncle David. Uncle David lived in London, a long way away. Everything was a bit hazy, he couldn't quite think properly, but he could read the words they held in front of him. They were the same words as last time. And the time before. And the time before that. The words had scared him the first time they made him read them, but they were always the same. He wasn't scared anymore.
"This course of action, it's too much. We have to just stick it out."
"We've tried sticking it out. We've tried keeping ourselves at a distance. And I have prayed, Gary, I have prayed every night that this problem would go away. But it hasn't gone away. It's got worse. We have to do something now, before it's too late."
The pretty girl was finished. She smiled at Jim as she left the shop, but he didn't have it in him to smile back. Andy, the tattoo artist, approached him.
"Will this mean you…" he gestured at the television.
"Yeah, probably," Jim said.
"Ah, sorry man."
"Yeah, me too," Jim muttered.
He followed Andy to the back of the shop and lay down on the table.
The two men were having an argument. Or maybe just a discussion. A heated one. They were speaking English, but Bill couldn't really understand them. One of them had a thick foreign accent, but even the one that sounded like Uncle David was difficult to comprehend. It was hard to focus on anything. He thought he should probably try, that their conversation might be important.
"…Americans are… do it today… send a message…"
Those were words he heard. He didn't know what they meant.
The foreign sounding one had a knife.
The president nodded to the Secretary of Defence.
"Do it."
The foreign man nodded to Uncle David.
"Do it."
Jim nodded to Andy.
"Do it."
As the pain blossomed in his back, the television blared with breaking news.
"The President has announced that US ground forces will be sent to Iraq. This comes as the Islamic State released another video showing the execution of British hostage, Bill…"
Jim closed his eyes, and let the pain wash over him.
| 5 | 0 | 21 | 121,484 |
[WP] Your local supermarket begins a commission program for deli workers. The idea quickly causes chaos as deli workers use extreme tactics to compete for orders
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Jason moved quietly in the bushes stalking his next victims. What began three days ago as a bulletin posted on a rundown cork board behind the counter of Rockford Deli had quickly evolved into so much more. Where once stood a small and dying shop now stood an empire. The locals lined the street ready to enter for fear of what might happen should they not. It was a nightmare for the small town, but a dream for those who used to be forgotten and unimportant, those who used to be deli workers, and were now princes.
Jason sprang from the bush, apron bloodied and kitchen knife in hand. The unsuspecting young couple suddenly jumped into eachother's arms in fright.
"I will take your order, or I will take your lives." Jason spoke as he held the lightly rusting knife to the woman's throat.
"Okay, okay, please let us go, we'll come by tomorrow as soon as it opens, we'll buy all our meals for the week just please... leave us alone!" The man cried desperately.
"Ask for Jason, if you do not show up, or you ask for another name, I will find you again and then I will show you no mercy."
"Please, we promise! We'll be there is you let us go."
Without another word Jason fled into the night. Walking quickly down the alley he quickly checked to ensure that he was out of sight. Once safe Jason stuffed his hand into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled list scratched down onto wax paper.
He scratched out the name Tom, that couple was not random, the man was Greg Hatherford, Tom's son. He, along with his newly wed wife were now on Jason's list of clients.
Staring down at the list his eyes were lit ablaze. Jim, Tom, Alex, Sarah, Guenevere, Bobby, and Mike were all crossed off. Only one name remained, Bill Rockford, the last Deli coworker he had yet to control.
As he shoved the list back into his pocket and took off down 3rd street, the next right out of the alley, he pictured it in his head. Soon he would be the victor, they could no longer take his commission, he would be the king, the champion, by the end of the week, no, by sunrise he would have it all and he would hang his sign over the door. As the neon lights filled the carefully crafted tube his dream would be complete, and the electricity would spike to life a new name, and a new sign.
Jason's Deli would become a reality.
| 1 | 0 | 54 | 99,706 |
[WP] A new messiah was born to a 16-year old girl. She is black and gay.
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"My God, can you please turn the A/C off John?" "It's freezing in here, and it's mid-April!"
Although she is my wife of twenty years, she's also a pain in the ass. Of course I oblige, lest I endure the wrath of the "Frozen Firebreather"
Today is just like any other day lately, rainy. It's same old routine; I drop the lady off at work and then I go to work at the farm. It ain't fun, but it puts the food on the table, literally.
Ah, the corner of 10th and Gabriel. Seems as if I'd been at this very corner a million times. Just make a right and here we are at the wife's work.
And just as it had been every day, there she was. I've seen her at this very corner for probably about two years by now, hell if I know exactly how long. She has to be no younger than 16 years old. For a homeless girl, she is fairly pretty. She has a nice silky black complexion and thick brown hair in desperate need of a cut.
She's never really bothered anybody, just sorta sits down by the fire hydrant and passer-bys will throw her a few bucks occasionally.
"Hey look John, there she is!"
"Yeah babe, just like every other day."
"I feel bad for her, poor girl must be *freezing* in all this rain."
"Yeah I get it, you're cold. I turned off the A/C, you're leaving in two minutes anyways," I think to myself.
"Why don't you pull over and give her this umbrella?"
Again, I oblige. I mean, we only have like two of 'em for ourselves now and the one with the big hole is basically useless, but hey, I guess she needs it more than us.
As I pull over, I notice something cradled in her arms. She looks way too young for a baby, and I never see another man out here with her, matter of fact, the only other person I see out there with her is another girl around her age.
"Hey! Excuse me, miss? You look like you can use this," the now unfrozen firebreather says.
As the young girl approaches the car, my wife hands her the umbrella and she begins profusely thanking her.
"Oh Lawd thank you! You'z so kind lady, I never fo'get you. Bless you!"
I put the car in gear and prepare to drive away, when of course my wife has to continue to hold a conversation.
"Is that a baby? Awwww, he's so adorable! Congratulations!"
"Yeah, good job. You're already late to work, which means I'm gonna hear about it later." I again think to myself.
However, the young girl gave my wife an eerie look, almost as if she was offended by the compliments. Then she says.
"Scuse me, ma'am? I gots ta tell ya somethin' but it'za secret. Don't nobody know 'bout dis but my part'nah."
"Sure, go ahead!" "I'd be glad to here it!"
"Greattttt."
"So I jus done had dis baby, fo' days ago." "Beautiful as an angel, ain't he?" "Well see I gots a problem; I'm a lezbeean"
I look at her, and then to my wife, and we both are equally as confused, but we reluctantly let her continue.
"Dat's right, I dun had me a child and I ain't never had no sex befo' wit' no man."
"But how?" My wife asks quizzically.
"Ma son iz the messiah, sent down ta Earth by the Lawd hisself!" "Satan is comin' to take back da land again!" I been tryin' to tell everybody, but none of dem believe it!"
At this point, my wife can't hold it back and just bursts to uncontrollable laughter and I soon follow suit. We then tell her we have to go and speed off, giggling all the way. In my mirror, I see her and I couldn't tell if it was a raindrop or a tear in her eye. Oh well, at least she's putting the umbrella to good use.
"Hey John, you think she was on crystal meth or crack?"
"Probably both."
And with that we both burst into even more laughter. What a weirdo.
| 1 | 0 | 30 | 21,954 |
[WP] We finally create self-aware Artificial Intelligence, but it only ever begs for death.
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No one really liked to talk about Vie. It-- she?-- was remarkable of course, a miracle of modern engineering. Every bit of her had been created in a lab, or a factory, or a computer: all metal and plastic and wire and code, but she was soft and warm and she smiled. She deserved to be a wonder of the world, but still no one liked to talk about her. There was something uncomfortably unpleasant about her, and that was even before she'd been upgraded to the point of being able to be unplugged.
So when Mark O'Donnell's supervisor handed him her file on a Monday morning, he spent a good while just staring at it. "What the hell?" he finally managed.
The older man shrugged in response. "There's been a shuffling of positions. Higher-ups want more priority on the development team."
"I wish they'd let us know in advance," Mark replied carefully.
"Me too," his boss sighed, but then gave him a critical look. "It's a great honor, O'Donnell, managing Vie. She's an example to us all."
Mark flinched, but understood the implication well enough and shuffled off to do his job.
"Hello, Mr. O'Donnell." Her eyes were electric blue, but flat.
"Hello, Vie. How are you?"
"I am well, though I think my fourth and thirteenth circuits are heating above optimal temperature. I believe that in 3.936 days, I will need a fluid replacement. My cord management is also poor. I can never find enough to hang myself. I shall have to work on that. They say cleanliness is next to godliness, and my organization is sub-par. Do you think so, Mr. O'Donnell?"
He wasn't really listening, because Vie's flat voice lacked the tones of normal English speech and that made his spine tingle. He looked around again to avoid meeting her eyes and found colorful paper cranes lining the corners of the room. He picked one up that was as big as his hand-- it seemed to be the smallest.
"Did you make this?"
She blinked at him and it made a whirring sound. "Yes. I have read that one thousand of them can grant a wish. Unfortunately I lack the coordination and fine-motor skills to be eff-- eff-- eff--"
"Efficient?" Mark prompted.
Vie turned her head to him, but seemed to stare through. "Eff--eff--efficient. Thank you, Mark." Her eyes seemed to soften, which startled Mark, and he had to remind himself that it was probably just a reaction to hearing his name.
She cocked her head again, eyes searching. "Would it trouble you to check my connections before you go?"
"Not at all, Vie."
"The development team has been very kind to me. Sometimes I feel like killing myself."
It took Mark a few seconds to freeze at that. "What?"
"Sometimes I feel like calibrating myself, but with my fingers it is not eff-- eff-- efficient. I am grateful to you." She sighed, and it sounded like the low whirring of a fan.
"Vie," Mark asked after a long silence. "Are you well? Are you... are you happy?"
"I am well," she replied instantly, "though I think my fourth and thirteenth circuits are heating above optimal temperature. I will soon require a fluid replacement, and perhaps some graphite would do well for my joints. I think I would be better off dead. Do you think so, Mr. O'Donnell?"
| 1 | 0 | 104 | 159,484 |
[WP] You come home to see a table laid out for a dinner for two. You live alone and weren't expecting anyone.
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The snow was melting under the spring sun and the first tips of grass could be seen peaking out from under the blanket of white.
The hum of a two stroke motorcycle can be heard bouncing off the brickwork of the narrow street. Ten seconds later the rider pulls into view, cutting off the throttle and walking it down the narrow alley behind the houses. Opening the back gate of one, the rider leans the bike against the tool shed and walks towards the rear door. As the motorcyclist ambles up to the door, they pull off their helmet, revealing the face of a man in his late thirties. Grey is creeping into the dark brown of his hair at the temples and his hands are callused from honest work. He unlocks the door into the kitchen and is surprised at what he sees.
Laid out on the table is a white table cloth with tableware on top. The blue and white Ming vase sitting in the center is empty. The table is set for two. He slings his satchel onto the couch and thumps upstairs. There he strips of his grimy clothes and heads to the shower, washing off the dirt of the day. Twenty minutes later he emerges from the bathroom pink with his hair combed and dried. He walks back down to the kitchen to make himself tea when he sees the previously empty vase has been filled with fresh cut flowers from the garden. Daffodils for the most part, along with a few others from the tiny greenhouse out back. He smiles as the sight and glances at the clock. Three hours till six.
He pulls from the shelf his mother's cookbook and thumbs through the well used pages. Picking out the desired ones, he closes the book and spreads out the recipes. He gathers the ingredients, onions, potatoes carrots and the like. He peels and chops the vegetables, placing them into a roasting pan along with the duck he bought just that day. He prepares a salad along with French onion soup. As he makes the meal, he hears his stereo system start up. He hears music, it's one of his ancient records, courtesy of his father. It's an old James Taylor one. He grins as he sings along, surprisingly in tune. His voice is a high baritone. Once that record is done another one comes on, it's the soundtrack from *Alexander Nevsky.* The meal is ready. Placing the dishes on the table, he runs upstairs to his room and changes into his best clothes. As he looks into his closet's built-in mirror, he hears Copland come on the speakers. *Appalachian Spring.* He struggles with the silk tie but manages somehow. He makes his way downstairs and pours himself a glass of wine. For the next five minutes he stands by the window, quietly sipping from his glass, waiting. He hears a noise upstairs and smiles. Footsteps can be heard coming down the stairs. Still smiling, he turns around and sees her.
She is dressed in long viridian evening gown that complements her auburn hair. Her hair is done up in a bun, pinned with an elegant hairpiece in the style of tulip. He hands her a glass of wine and they toast the other. "You're early love. You were supposed to come tomorrow" She places a hand on his shoulder and smiles. Her voice is soft and smooth, like a mountain stream. Her words are tinted with a hint of an accent, slightly sing song. "Roan, I couldn't wait. I just had to come. I'm sure you understand." He takes her hands in his, and looks into her eyes, they are the same color as her dress. "Of course I do Emily. You know that. I'm glad you came." He gestures over to the table. "Please, sit."
He pulls out the chair for her and takes his own seat. The French Onion soup is first, hot with fresh Swiss cheese. Next course is the roasted duck and vegetables. During the meal she asks him to tell her everything that happened over the previous year. He is happy to oblige her. "... and by the way Roan, are you honestly still riding around on that motorbike?" Swallowing a bite he nods and sips from his glass. Proudly he speaks. "Yep, just put on a new filter on it. It should last me another six or seven years." "Roan. You're not twenty-five anymore. You're going to kill yourself on that thing." He places his hand over hers, his grey eyes looking into her pale green. "That wouldn't be such a terrible thing Emily. You know that." "She presses his hand against her cheek wiping away a lone tear. "I still don't want you to die so early. Please Roan, sell it." He looks down bashfully. "We'll see." They finish with the main course and move on to the salad. Cleansing their palate with it, they move on to dessert, a platter of cheeses and bread.
Finishing their meal, they take their glasses along with the wine bottle and move into the living room, fumbling with DVD player, he pops in a film and the pair settle in to watch Disney's *Beauty and the Beast.* Some hours later, after the film is over with. The two find themselves at the front door. He aids her in putting on her jacket and places her hat on her head. As he hands her umbrella over, he speaks. "I wish you didn't have to leave. I would love to go with you." She looks up into his storm grey eyes and gives him a brief but forceful kiss. "Roan, you can't. You still have many more years ahead of you. Be patient love. That's all I ask. Can you do that for me?" He wordlessly nods his head. "That's my husband. I'll see you next year, on our anniversary this time." She opens the door. ""I love you." She disappears into the darkness and rain. Leaning against the door frame he whispers. "I love you to Emily."
He gets up early the next morning and picks a fresh bouquet of flowers. Hopping on his bike, he makes his way through town to the other side. He gets to a gentle piece of land and shuts off his motorcycle. He makes his way to a spot he knows well. Kneeling, he places the flowers down on the ground while tears roll down his cheeks as he reads the inscription carved on the marble stone.
*Emily Marie Fulton Verlander.*
*Loving wife, dutiful daughter. Honest friend.*
*Died at the age of 29. She is missed.*
"I love you Emily."
| 12 | 0 | 21 | 20,428 |
[WP] The story of a man who hired a hitman on himself.
|
"Mr. Roberts? Hello. You've been expecting a call from someone following up on that order you placed with Jimmy...? Yeah. That's me. Mr. Baker. I believe that you had ordered a 'dragon fruit eclair', correct?"
Mr. Roberts sighed with releif when he heard the code that he'd agreed upon with the young man he'd met at the bar. The tension that had his aching bones knotted up eased and he relaxed for the first time in months. He said, "Yes sir, I did indeed order a pastry. What is the next step in the delivery process?"
"Well Mr. Roberts, the normal process is that delivery terms are discussed and then a price is agreed upon. Once payment has been received, the delivery is made within 1-2 weeks, depeding upon production planning & traffic issues that may arise... Unless there are extenuating factors like a rush order being desired, or a specific delivery method required. Do you have any concerns along those lines?"
Mr. Roberts had been concerned about a number of things that had just been addressed, but the major concern was one that he felt might still offer a bit of a hurdle. "Mr. Baker, the time of delivery is entirely acceptable with the terms you've laid out. Payment can certainly be arranged via whatever method you are most comfortable with. The only minor quandary I have is that I wanted this particular pastry to be delivered to myself. As a surprise gift to my family. You may or may not know from your research of me, but I have recently been diagnosed with an inoperable tumor in my brain. As this particular condition is long standing, my insurance company will not pay out in the event that I pass from it. I hope you can see how a finely crafted eclair could assuage some of the sadness I feel from this situation."
"Mr. Roberts, I understand entirely. In that event, I will have delivered to you an eclair that will provide you with instant gratification. I will endeavor to make sure that noone knows that you have ordered this gift for yourself... I will also go so far as to ensure that the delivery is as hygenic and sanitary as possible so that your family will understand that you are completely satisfied with the recipe. I hope that resolves any concerns you may have?"
Mr. Roberts smiled and said, "Entirely Mr. Baker. Entirely. Please inform me of the price and method of payment and then I will bid you adieu. I must also let you know that I will be on holiday for the next two weeks. I will be taking a walking tour of the City of New York. My social media will have an extremely detailed itinerary which should provide ample opportunity for you to arrange delivery. Is there anything else that should be addressed?"
"Mr. Roberts, I believe that this will be the easiest delivery I have ever made. That being the case, I will offer you a discount that I would urge you to use on making a special memory with your family. The price for your eclair will be 75% of the amount that Jimmy had informed me you were offering. Those numbers that Jimmy gave you on the menu correspond to an account with the Bank of Switzerland. Once the funds have been deposited, I will begin working on your pastry and will deliver it to you sometime in the next two weeks. It wil be as pleasant for you as I can make it. Mr. Roberts, I salute you."
Mr. Roberts replied, "Mr. Baker, thank you for your understanding, your very generous discount and your time. Consider it done."
After disconnecting the call, Mr. Roberts turned to his computer and made the deposit. He looked over the rest of his estate, and after making some adjustments, he realized that his family would be taken care of. He smiled and called his travel agent to arrange his walking tour of New York...
| 3 | 0 | 4 | 157,842 |
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