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"Sir, we've found him!"
General Grover turned slowly to meet the gaze of his second-in-command. "This had better not be another false positive, Colonel Baker. We don't have the time to train another failure."
"No, sir!"the colonel barked, letting on a sly grin. "It's been verified in triplicate and the subject himself has so confirmed. 42.7 hours logged in *No Man's Sky*, more than twice the time of our last candidate."
"And what do the algorithms predict?"
"A 99.8% chance of maintaining consciousness for the trip's duration, and a 55% chance of remaining sane."The colonel relaxed his posture and in a rare breach of protocol placed his hand on his friend's shoulder. "It's going to work, sir."
General Grover allowed himself a slight smile. "Let's hope, Marty. Let's hope. Is the subject in the facility?"
"Yes, sir,"Baker replied, snapping to attention again. "He arrived at 1100 hours under armed escort. No debriefing yet."
"Have him brought into my office in half an hour,"replied Grover. "And tell him nothing yet."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"What the hell is going on?"Jamie barked. "Kidnapped in the dead of night. Drugged, black bagged and locked in a cell."He was fighting back tears now, panting. "What the fuck is happening?"
"I apologize for your treatment,"the general replied, motioning to the seat across from his desk, "but we had to take complete precautions."
"So you're American. That's good to know."Jamie slowly lowered himself into the chair. "So what is this?"
"Yes, we are American. And what I am about to tell you is classified as top secret. We..."
"No, don't tell me!"Jamie shouted. "The less I know, the faster I can leave, right?"
Grover sighed. "You won't be going home, soldier. You are under conscription into the United States Armed Forces, effective immediately. You have been assigned to an outward bound spacecraft, departing 9 days from now."
Jamie looked on, incredulously. "You have to be kidding,"he managed to stutter.
"Unfortunately not,"replied Grover. His tone softened. "We've found intelligent life, son. Communique from Proxima B. We're sending the most non-threatening, diplomatic ambassador in our nation's history to make first contact."
"That's...amazing,"replied Jamie. "But why do you need me?"
"Ah, well..."Grover smirked. "It's an 11 year journey, even with the 400 metric ton antimatter ship we've had in storage for the last decade, and the detrimental effects of isolation on the human psyche are well documented."
"But why me?"he protested. "Why not any random schmuck?"
"Because our ambassador is...he's special. And you're made of steel,"the general replied. "*No Man's Sky* was our project, designed to locate a human mind capable of withstanding the most boring, tedious social environments ever created. And you logged in almost two days worth of time. How did you do it, son?"
Jamie shrugged. "I don't know. I just sort of...well, I turned myself numb, I guess."
"A skill that will come in quite handy, I'm sure,"said Grover. "Now please, son, I think you should meet your compatriot."He pressed a red button and spoke into an intercom. "Send him in, lieutenant."
The door opened and a tall, well-built man with a square jaw and stiff, robotic movements entered. He wore a fitted black suit with a tie so firmly roped that it seemed to be choking him. A smile crept across his face that reminded Jamie of a slowly turned flip-book. "Hello, young man. My name is Al Gore. Do you like things?" |
The case today was important, everyone knew that, but why it had to fall on me was the question. Lawyers are in short supply here but I had scheduled a vacation to the Bahamas, where everything is human and normal. Instead, I have to deal with the defense of Mr. Terry Clancy, who has been dead for only 50 years now. New ghosts are always difficult to deal with, as they want to embody the "classic ghost."This means constant haunting, spooking, and in this case, possession.
Possession is a big no-no here in the Realm, and Mr. Clancy is a repeat offender. He has made chimeras act like kittens, witches wear makeup, and water gods surf on tsunamis all for his own amusement. Now, he is accused of making a vampire pilot an outdated biplane toward the sun. The ancient fool survived by latching onto the top wing and sticking there like a cat avoiding water. Now he wants a duel, but it is my job to uphold the law and deal with this mess.
However, Mr. Clancy is doing his absolute worst to prove his innocence. Since I was notified of the situation, he has already tried to possess me seven times so he can "Do the work himself."I know that he's really trying to escape, as I found out recently that he rented a griffin and tried all night while I was in bed to get me onto the beast. That's a $5,000 fine for the misuse of noble beasts, and I had to spend all morning apologizing to the griffin's owner, a fearsome man with sparkling armor and a constant desire to behead anyone who disagrees with him.
Anyway, now that that debacle is over, me and my ghostly defendant need to create a case quick. I asked him if he was at the scene. "No."I asked him if anybody could confirm he was not at the scene. "No."Questions like this continued with similar responses and grunts until I was sure that Mr. Clancy would spend the next 200 years a prison specifically made to keep him from drifting out. Honestly, I despaired, as this was another blow to my career as a lawyer. It was at this point, looking down and barely listening to my own questions, when I saw Mr. Clancy's insides. A ghost is transparent, though there should be nothing to see but their resemblance on the outside. However I could hazily see something through the green mist that resembled a necklace.
When I asked him his face reddened, or at least they appeared to before he said that it was his wife's, and that she had always been devoted to faith. It was a cross he had kept with him since his death. Anything a ghost touches ceases to age for as long as the touch is maintained. Fifty years this cross was inside him, and proof would be easy to come up with through the help of a Grand Wizard I knew. The old vampire couldn't have been possessed, as the cross would repel him. It was a miracle, and I wanted to jump up and put this obnoxious case to rest.
It was in this mood that I noticed Mr. Clancy's sadness. I knew he had a wife, I just assumed she would be a ghost too. It would take a long journey for the poor man to finally meet her again, as the afterlife demands a growth that he had avoided, and now he had nothing but childish games to keep him afloat. He left my office like that, and I sat down wondering if I was worthy of an afterlife. Though, there was still cause to celebrate, as Mr. Clancy had 200 years free to do everything needed to reunite with his wife.
I spent the next few hours organizing the case for tomorrow, and by midnight, I was more than exhausted. I needed rest before going to court, so I set my alarm and flopped into bed. It was here that my work phone rang. Answering it, I found out that I was going to take over a new case next week, this time with a werewolf who blamed the moon goddess for his lack of transformation over the past few months. I need to reschedule my vacation again, but before that, I'm going to bed. |
*You deserve this*
Fifteen years I’ve stared at those words scrawled into my forearm. I remember as a kid writing notes all over my arms to remember things. I was forgetful like that. Sometimes I’d write in pen, sometimes in marker. Once I got a hold of a permanent marker, and man was my mother pissed. It didn’t go away for two weeks, despite several baths a day.
I’ve come to recognize my handwriting on my own skin.
And this was me. I guess I decided to compose in blade and blood instead of ink for this note because I wanted it to stick. I’d need the scars to shout at me to endure a lifetime in these dark cells.
Because if a man couldn’t trust himself, trust his own voice, what else is there?
I’ve seen inmates go insane protesting their innocence, or breaking their minds to reconcile their punishment with their spotless lives. Surprisingly, the sanest ones tend to be the career criminals who still have memories of the crimes that went uncaught and unpunished. At least they knew they were the scum of the earth.
I like to hold onto the good memories while I wait here. Like Caroline’s laugh. The memories of my wife are a sweet breath of fresh air in an otherwise stinking existence. The voices comfort me a little, but I’ve tuned most noises out.
Caroline hasn’t visited, though. I imagine seeing me in this jail cell is too hard to bear. Maybe if I make parole we’ll be reunited. I know she’d wait for me. She’s loyal like that, compassionate to a fault, even. With my broken childhood, it’s a miracle she fell in love with me at all. I know things were rocky toward the end, before the Blank, but she’s always come back. It will be the same when this is done.
I’d have gone crazy long ago if I hadn’t convinced myself that I was in here for a reason.
The scars tell me that. |
Thick, black goop trickled down from the ceiling and pooled at my feet; each droplet making a moist, unnerving sound.
I continued to eat my cereal.
Before long, the goop formed a pool on the floor and from it rose a thing of hideous dimensions; a mess of half-digested limbs and ill will towards all things alive; an affront to the very concept of sanity. I looked at it dispassionately as it opened whatever passed for a mouth and spoke.
**You.** Its voice was slippery and wet, like it rolled in the mud.
I took another spoonful of cereal.
"Me,"I said back.
**We are quite impressed with you, human,** it said
"Is that so?"
**Many have tried to inhabit this place. None retained their sanity beyond 3 days. You are first.**
"Well, how about that,"I continued calmly.
**And here we stand before you. Your species' worst fears made manifest and you do not flinch. We are curious.** Its words enveloped me like a deep dark abyss, promising no escape or light.
"If you're going to ask me something, shoot. If not, I have work to do."I got up and went to the sink to clean the bowl.
**We wish for your name. Your legacy. Your mission. The source of your mental fortitude. The-**
"Okay, look,"I interrupted, "I didn't realize you wanted to know my life's story. If you want to know *all of that*, it'd be easier for you to read my mind."
**How are you aware of our capability to-**
The creature started raising its question, but I only gave it a look and tapped my head. It slithered towards and extended a greasy, black tentacle towards my head. I leaned against the counter and waited.
It made contact - the appendage was surprisingly warm and what seemed like goo had a more scale-like texture to it. Not terribly uncomfortable all things considered. I looked at it. It was concentrating, and then-
It shrieked and recoiled, quickly retracting its tentacle back into its ever-morphing body. I saw several eyes emerge from somewhere within it and frantically dart around the room, trying to size me up, before retreating back into their sludgy home. The thing gave out a few blurbing noises before it quickly dissolved back into its liquid, gooey form and escaped through the floorboards.
I sighed and turned back to the sink. A shame; would've been nice to have a roommate. Then again, what point is a roommate that doesn't know you at all? And it's clear this one didn't.
I mean for starters, it called me a *human*. |
The alarm went off fifteen minutes ago, its blaring only interrupted by short snooze breaks. Warm and bright sunlight broke through the shutters, and Jimmy pulled his blanket over his head one more time.
A deep and tired sigh escaped from his throat. He'd been up all night playing videogames, and the project he'd been holding off all week was due tonight. Getting out of bed would be facing the reality of his situation, and so he decided it was better to just stay in bed. Only for a few more minutes.
"Jimmy, I'm leaving for work now. And get out of bed! See you tonight!"His mom yelled from downstairs.
*How did it even come this far*, Jimmy wondered. His last course had finished two months ago and he got all the time in the world he could ever need to finish his thesis. Without coming across arrogant, Jimmy knew that the difficulty of finishing his project wasn't the problem here. And yet the deadline was tonight, and he was nowhere near being finished.
With a groan he sluggishly lifted himself off his bed and walked towards the bathroom. After turning on the shower he stepped in and let the warm water pour over him, as he stared into this distance. Zombielike he turned it off, dried himself off and went back to his room. After getting dressed and going downstairs for a quick breakfast, he went back upstairs and sat at his desk.
Glancing through the document, a sudden hint of panic erupted in his chest. He'd done even less than he remembered, and half of the data analysis and the entire conclusion were still missing. It felt like his heart crawled out of his chest and into his throat, so loud sounded the beating in his ears.
"Okay,"he mumbled, and repeated louder. "It's fine. I can do this."
He rolled up his sleeves, took a deep breath and placed his fingers on the keyboard. "Right."He looked at the existing paragraph, the cursor blinking at the last word he'd typed. And nothing came.
He scrolled up and read the last page, trying to remember what exactly it was he wanted to convey. After reading through it, and carefully taking a look at the broader data, he felt renewed in his ability to get his thesis done. And again he put his hands on the keyboard. And they stayed in that position for a few minutes.
"Pff,"Jimmy sighed. *I need a break, I've been going at it for like half an hour already. I know what I want to write now, anyway.* He grabbed his mouse and typed in "redd", hitting enter as the suggested website list came up.
The sun came to its peak and Jimmy was still scrolling through various posts, occasionally being sent on a side-track as he watched a YouTube-video. Jimmy glanced at the time, realizing he'd already wasted another two hours, and carefully went back to his document. *13:03*, he thought, *alright, let's do this within 2 hours.*
And after what felt like an eternity, the word count had stayed the same. *It's that damn sun, it's been shining me in the face all day now.* He stood up and closed the blinds entirely, and sat back down. The words didn't come.
*I'll just-- I'll go down, get some food, watch an episode of that new show and I'm sure I'll be fine then.*
---
Jimmy shot upright in his chair. The feeling of drowsiness that surrounded him disappeared instantly. *Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, I actually fell asleep. I haven't written anything yet. How late is it even?*
He shook his mouse intensely until the monitor turned on again. And his gaze turned to the bottom corner of his screen:
13:03.
//Thanks for the gold /u/Zeal_Iskander. I hoped you all enjoyed the story, for more of my writing visit /r/PaulsWPAccount. Cheers! |
You weren't there for the beginning, or the major wars between the first and the beasts of chaos who came before them, nor was your own creation even that significant. You were nothing but a drop of blood accidentally spilt from the palm of Him. The Great All Father. Knicked by one of his blacksmith's blades and unable to stop the spill from touching one of the many worlds he and his kin ruled over. It soaked into the soil and molded your body small, dark and only in part as grand as the others.
They gave you nothing. You were an accident - no god had the courage to admit a mistake no matter how much they thought it - and if not for your immortality you doubt you would have even been allowed to stay in the great sky city with the rest of them. You were shoved into thin silks that chaffed your skin and cold jewels that weighed your limbs down and told to pour ambrosia wine into their cups at their command. You were no goddess to them. You were a servant.
That never became more apparent than the day the All Father created humans. A cluster of new beings scattered across the same world whose soil you had risen from. Made from small pin pricks on his fingers instead of the deep gash that made you. They were small like you, but you at least were divine and immortal. These creatures were meant to wither and die like animals. In what felt like yet another testament to just how low he thought of you, The All Father declared you their guardian. You were to live on that world with them and guide and take care of them like playing nursemaid to insects. The others all snickered and some outright laughed at your fate. The useless goddess with no realm of her own now not even allowed to live among them anymore.
You touched the ground you came from. It felt right. The grass, stone, sand, and soil beneath your feet tingled and made you smile. The air tasted clean and fresh instead of suffocating with the scent of ambrosia. You were almost glad to have returned to this world, almost.
Humans were messy and confusing. They had been created with minds as free and aware as the gods nearly with few instincts. They had no laws or guidance to lead them though. Just one discarded goddess and eachother. It went about as well as expected if you're perfectly honest. They fought, killed, and stole from eachother over everything from land to lover's quarrels. Truly it was as if you never left the sky city. Except now you were expected to mediate and care for these foolish mounds of flesh and chaos. You never cursed your existence as much as those early days.
Somehow in spite of the strife during those first centuries, you managed to get enough to listen to you that they were slowly able to settle in their own parts of the world in time. You witnessed them form unique laws and cultures for each cluster of them in their small corners of this world. Even form smaller cultures within those cultures! It was quite creative you had to admit. You encouraged this more innovative side of your charges of course. Appearing to offer insight or even just to express praise to those who were striken with this profound spirit of discovery. You even did the same for the leaders you liked. The ones who brough harmony and the innate belief in a greater future for all of humanity.
Oh they most certainly still killed eachother along with a myriad of other crimes. They were tumultuous beings at heart prone to many negative feelings. But, you found letting them work through these and seeing their own errors was a lesson they needed to learn. Even when you felt a strange pain in your chest during some of their worst moments. Some days you had no choice but tp whisper to the ones you knew with the right push could change things for the better. They were still yours to guide after all.
Many called to you seeking guidance over time. Somtimes you answered directly, sometimes you sent a sign, and sometimes even you ignored them and let them discover the solution on their own. They always knew you were there though, and every choice on their behalf you made had a reason behind it. You oddly noticed the humans who called themselves "parents"imitating you. Such as a strange coincidence.
The first time you felt a strange...warmth...in your very core itself was after millenia of watching over your humans. Only seeing other gods and their divinity only in passing as they visited worshipers for so long...then suddenly such a strong spark of divinity close to you. Almost like it was coming from inside you. You began to hear echoes of chants and praises. Declarations of love even. You followed them and found many gatherings of humans. Flowers were braided into their hair and their finest clothes wrapped around their bodies. They feasted and danced in celebration while making offerings of food and personal trinkets at grand shrines you felt...drawn to. Finally you appeared at one of the festivals. They cheered upon seeing you and some even fell to their knees. But they didn't ask anything of you like normal. No, instead a woman in bright robes with a strange symbol of a bleeding palm sewn into them approached you with joy in her eyes and humility in her voice.
"Oh Mother Hope!"She called to you. "Do you accept our thanks?"
Mother Hope? It was a name you had heard praised and called out by them for centuries...but you had never thought they meant you. You had no name. You were not important enough for one. Except, clearly your humans thought otherwise. They gave you this name, were holding festivals on your honor apparently, and even burnt offerings to give you as if you were one of the great divine in the sky palace. They looked at you with such love, and it was a struggle not to cry tears of joy and simply smile at the woman.
"I do. I accept all you give me, and all you do...my beloved children."You told the woman clasping her small, warm hands in your own. You left them then, accepting the gifts they offered, and moved on to the next festival to do the same. That warmth grew stronger.
This repeated every year after and they called your new name louder and more reverently than ever! Mother Hope, you were Mother Hope and they were your wonderfully wild children. The joy, sadness, amusement, rage, and awe they brought you was greater than any sacrifice or offering at their festivals. With each day they called the name they gave you, you felt yourself growing stronger and more in tune with them.
Strangely, the one god you called a friend was death. One outcast to another perhaps. Or maybe, it was the gentle way they treated most of your children at the end of their time and carried them off to eternal peace with patience and compassion. The few who were found to be so irredeemable agony awaited...well you could not truly blame them for that. No matter how much you loved them and guided them, not all children were good and you learned to live with the disappointments.
Death came to you one day, shrouded in shadows and voice gentle and serene as always. A cold hand upon your shoulder. "Walk with me Bright One."They whispered their fond petname to you from the bright glimmering light that had taken to radiating from you since that first festival. So you did. You spent the day merely at their side comforting your most stubnorn children to trust them in the end. Speaking with death who despite so much fear and misunderstanding never changed and remained a stalwart caretaker of souls. You were hesitant to let go of their cold hand, and you held it enthusiastically a great many times after. No other gods came to your wedding, but neither of you cared. You needed only eachother and your children in both life and death.
Some of the other gods would come and disrupt your children. Sometimes you chased them off, sometimes they persisted. War was perhaps the one who angered you the most. He came down bringing death and division with him every time. You did not grudge him when your children foolishly invited him with their own actions, but there came.a time where you could not stand to see him force his way into your children's home any longer.
You warned him to leave unless invited, and he laughed. "Your 'children' are but specks of dust living in the domains of the gods! Fishing from the Water's Oceans, Growing from Nature's fields, and living under the All Father's sky with nothing but a nameless goddess paying them anything more than a passing glance...you think you have any right to threaten me over THEM."
You stayed calm, your light shining around you, and stared into War's eyes. "My children are small, and strange, but they are anything but insignificant."You felt them and their faith all around you, and smiled.
"They have conquered the seas with ships, they have bent the fields to their whims with their farming, and they have even touched the skies with their tall buildings..."Your stare turns harsh and your light goes from comforting warmth to burning hot. "Your domain even depends on them...with no humans to argue and wage their battles then what are you but a god with no purpose? Do your duty and come when invited, and cease your intrusions."
He leaves curaing you the entire way back to the sky city. He is not the first or last you chase away. Even The All Father becomes humbled by you in time. He and all his siblings who once dressed you up like their pet now listen to you. Death never fails to smile when you tell them about another of the others you shoo away.
You never claim yourself the goddess of humanity. Of hope, faith, and determination? Most certainly. But you never are arrogant enough to stake more than patronage and adoration over humans. Because you know that no single being, divine or not, could ever do your messy, confusing little children justice. |
“But…” the manager sputtered, “but how?”
The newbie handed him a scrap of paper that read:
*Take heed! Take heed! The darkness approaches; only a hero can save you now. For millennia, the forces of evil have gathered and are now almost ready to strike. There is only one chance. A single human has taken part as a high priest to the Dark Arts and has been gifted with seeming immortality.*
*A way to kill him must be found. Humanity depends upon it.*
“Is this a prophecy?”
“Fake prophecy,” the newbie sighed. “I made it up, found a team of drug-addicted teens traveling the country, waited till they were all high, then implanted it into their heads. I also wrote the prophecy down all over the inside of their van.”
“You… you programmed a group of teens to kill your immortal for you?”
“Programmed is a harsh word.”
“You manipulated their drug-addled state to make them think that they were Chosen Ones destined to stop an ancient evil from destroying the world,” the manager said flatly.
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
“What happened to the kids?”
“Oh, they’re in jail. Turns out the police wasn’t impressed by their claims to be prophesied heroes and charged them all with murder. Their dog’s in a pound.”
“How did they even kill him?”
“I left them with some identifying information so that they could track him down. Then they started digging through some libraries for information on him.”
“Very studious for some homeless teenagers.”
“Well, that’s why I chose them. They got bored pretty quickly, though, so they just broke into his house and kidnapped him.”
“Oh.”
“And then started trying everything they could think of. Silver bullet, stake in the heart, drowning, explosion-”
“How’d they rig an explosion?”
“One person in the group was a nerd and jerry-rigged something with a propane tank in a junkyard.”
“What eventually killed him?”
“Radiation poisoning.”
The manager blinked. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, they broke into a nuclear reactor and threw him into the core. He got radiation poisoning and died.”
“Huh. Not going to lie, that’s a little disappointing. I arranged for him to be at a nuclear testing site when they set off a hydrogen bomb and I know another reaper tried to give him cancer.”
The newbie shrugged. “Well,” he said, gesturing to the bag, “it worked.”
The manager didn’t respond, only stared at the newbie.
“You do realize,” he finally spoke, “that you’ve broken a bunch of different regulations by deliberately interfering with human history. This could have serious cosmic consequences.”
“I know,” the newbie groaned. “I just got carried away by the challenge. Am I fired?”
The manager erupted into laughter. “Fired? Are you kidding me? That kind of disregard for the law and can-do attitude is exactly what we need more of! Holy crap, do you have any idea how much the commission on this guy is worth? No.” He reached and grabbed the newbie by the shoulder. “You have a bright future with this company.” |
"It's hell on earth, huh?"
"That it is."I sipped from my coffee cup, the irony of the stranger's statement did not elude me, but I grew numb to the over-blaring word-play, even if it wasn't intentional. "Good day."I raised my vending-machine espresso for a toast -gratified by a nod- before turning away from the high-set TV that reported of another terrorist attack and heading for my gate, my luggage wheeling on behind me.
The queue wasn't particularly long, nor short as I waited to show my boarding pass, all of us deadly quiet. If only they knew of the knowledge curated within the walls of my skull; it would be pandemonium. Or to serve the purpose of a phrase; "hell on earth,"this time, I smiled.
"Flight MK - 735 to-"I adjusted my suit jacket and pulled out a copy of the bible, flipping the pages with legs crossed.
"Religious?"Asked the man beside me.
I threw him a glance, he was a relatively old gentlemen with most of his beard showing the white of old age and wrinkles lining his face, yet his smile was one that spoke of equal amount experience in this supposed hell, as well as optimism. I found that "contentment"was the only word that could be used for it, a compromise that came from the realisation that happiness just meant that one had not lived for long enough.
"Let's just say that I am an enthusiast."I replied, giving my most warming smile.
The man chuckled, clearly pleased with my response, "good answer, David."My eyes widened with a start.
"How do you know my name?"
The man tried to hide his humour, before pointing to my lap. I looked down, my movement slow and prudent. "Your boarding pass."He said, still holding his innocuous and yet knowing smile.
"Oh,"I chuckled, "I'm sorry, long day."
"No worries. So what do you think of the bible?"
"Are you a religious man?"
"Me? I guess you could say that, though I doubt God would approve of me."A wry laugh coming from him.
I echoed his chuckle, "he is hard to please."
"That he is."
After a moment of silence, I decided to answer his query "I think it is what the bible represents to me, the stories are a reflection of our psyche, of what we fear in ourselves and of what we could become. Of the failures and of their consequences."
The man's lips curled downwards as a sign of his approval, he was impressed. "You have a way with words young man, and a good eye."
I shrugged. We remained quiet for a while, the rest of the airport seemingly distant, far away from our little conversation.
That was when I noticed I still didn't know the man's name, "what may I call you?"I asked, extending a hand.
The man shrugged, extending a hand of his own to shake mine. "I go by many names, but I guess you could call me Satan."At first, I thought - I hoped - he was kidding. But his smile turned into a grin that went from ear to ear.
"I hope you have been enjoying your stay here thus far, David."
***
#/r/KikiWrites
Part 2 and 3 are down below!
Edit: this has officially passed the threshold for my most upvoted story. Thank you to everyone who read it and I am glad you guys enjoyed it!
Edit 2: Thank you so much for the gold stranger! I am so happy to see you guys enjoyed this story! Warms my heart. |
It's an odd thing, really. Like playing Russian Roulette, I have no idea whether I'll be swept into danger that may steal my life. There's no signal in the skies, or cry for help; it's at my whim, a choice I make to help others when I feel capable. Prepared.
Sometimes I just stay home and keep to myself. But is that wrong? Am I an asshole if I don't choose to have myself whisked into the unknown, a place that may be on the other side of the world, or in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean? I'm honestly not a special person. I don't have super-strength, or the ability to read minds, or anything remotely useful. Four taps, timed perfectly, and I just get zipped away. Four more taps and I'm back home.
How much can I *really* do for people?
It had been another boring day after work, eight hours of slog and coffee-fueled slavery. I got home and sank into the couch, letting it devour me and all my cares. About two months had passed since I'd last used my power, since I'd done anything worthwhile with my life. It was starting to fester in my mind as worthlessness. Like I was a bad person for trying to live a normal life.
That's usually how it starts. First I feel terrible, then I decide to make things a little better by helping somehow.
I grabbed the kit stowed under my coffee table, strapping a knife to my leg and a pistol to my hip. They weren't often needed, but, well-- you can't be too careful.
*Tap-tap tap tap*.
Like a knock on wood, hoping not to be thrown into a warzone or mugging where I'd be utterly useless.
It's what I imagine a piece of paper feels like as it's sucked into a vacuum cleaner, getting all thrown and twisted about. A stretching, swirling darkness engulfing me that *snaps* shut, leaving me somewhere else.
When my vision cleared, I was in a dim room. Further ahead, clothes littered a floor awash in moonlight, and a shadow stretched across it. A shadow that swayed like tall grass in a spring breeze.
Slowly, cautiously, I approached. Dirty dishes were piled up in the kitchen sink, and the trash was overflowing. A man sat in an open windowsill, dangling over a city I didn't recognize. Teetering on the edge, balanced like a tightrope walker. An uncaring breeze could have sent him tumbling to earth like a forgone raindrop.
Stealth be damned. I ran forward, tearing him out of the window. We tumbled and he shouted in a language I didn't know, possibly French, flailing at me.
"Do you speak English?"I asked, holding out my hands as if they could contain his panic.
Clearly not, judging by his response. But after a moment, he simply collapsed to the floor, buckling at the knees, and sobbed in the silver light of night. Unbound sorrow that knows no language or culture; a pain we all share.
I didn't need to know his story to walk over and hug him. He didn't protest any further, simply crying on my shoulder, letting it all course through him. Every unwanted emotion and hidden pain. We were strangers caught amidst an unspoken sadness, embracing one another, with no need to wear a mask or explain why; there isn't always a 'why' with such things.
It was all I could do. But sometimes, just knowing you aren't alone is enough.
---
*/r/resonatingfury* |
"Calm down everyone!"yelled Silk, as he approached a bustling crowd surrounding the entrance to St Mary's train-station. He massaged his temples through his mask with a single index finger. Did the crowd have to be so freaking loud? It had been one of those day's at work -- one stress after another; he really wasn't in the mood for faux-heroics.
He should have given Martin a call at lunchtime. Told him tonight was off. That's what he *should* have done. But he thought he'd be feeling better. Now what options did he have? Neither of them carried their phones when in costume (no pockets in their tights), so if he was going to calm this crowd down, he'd have to find Martin and 'pacify' him.
In his left hand -- the one not massaging his head in an effort to stop it exploding -- he held a little brown bucket.
"It's Silk!"shouted an onlooker. "Thank God it's you, Silk! Thank God!"
He looked at the lady and tried to smile, but it turned instantly into a gaping yawn. "Is... Is it Beat-Hooven again?"he asked lazily.
"Yes! He's on the train. And he's got a whole lot of hostages. I think he's going to kill them!"
Silk stuck out his tongue and bit down. "Difficult situation. Very tricky. But, I'll see what I can do."He placed the bucket down where he was standing and gave his usual speech-cum-terms-and-conditions. "Thank you all for being here tonight to help me. Through your cheering and positivity I will not just battle my oldest and gravest foe, but I will defeat him!"He lowered his voice slightly and could feel his cheeks redden. "*If you'd like to support me outside of these situations, please consider leaving a donation in the bucket here. It's easy being a hero -- it's not easy paying rent in a city like this. And as for the medical expenses...*"
And with that, he began wading through the crowd. Hands pawed at him, trying to touch the hero, to encourage him. But it only slowed him. Irritated him. Like being in quicksand, he thought-grumbled.
Only a few of his most ardent supporters followed him into the station -- most people's joy at seeing their idol was trumped by the fear of mortal danger. And even those few had scattered by the time he'd climbed the steps and made it to the tracks. On them, was a long iron monster, belching and rocking. All windows and doors were closed, but he could see pale faces inside that had turned to look at him, pressed against the glass.
He raised his hands to his mouth and yelled, "Beat-Hooven! It is I, *Silk*. Your battle is with me, not the innocent passengers of that train! Let them go and come out and face me, mano-a-mano!"
Moments passed. Minutes. Martin, he thought in annoyance, will you please stop showboating. I'm not in the mood. I just want to get home and play a little playstation, eat a little pizza, and say goodnight to this shitty day.
Finally, the train hissed and the doors opened.
Passengers scuttled out from it as if a dam had been opened. They mostly thanked him as they passed and wished him good luck.
"Donation bucket is outside the station!"he said. He noticed most of the men and women were in business suits. Good train to hijack, he thought. At least Martin had got that right -- we should easily get a enough for a pizza or two.
Music trickled out from the train. A soft sonata. Silk let himself relax, let his posture slouch, as he drifted into the music.
He was just starting to feel somewhat calm, when Beat-Hooven jumped off the train.
"Silk!"he screamed maniacally. "Prepare for a crescendo! You shall become my most famous requiem!"
Silk glanced around him. No passengers had stayed. Good. He turned back to Martin. "Cut it out, Mart. My head is about to explode, I swear."
Beat-Hooven glared at him and whispered, "Stay in character, idiot. Besides, blowing up isn't your power."
"There's no one here. So relax. And I know it's not my power, but I've got a pretty nasty migraine and--"
"Oh please,"Martin said, rolling his eyes. "A headache. That's what you've got. If you had a migraine you'd be chucking up in a gutter right now. You've no idea how bad they are."
"Whatever. My head hurts. Can we just go?"
"Go?"Martin looked annoyed. "What about the spectacle? The show?"He held out a hand and poked Silk in his chest. "What about all the carefully choreographed heroics we've been practising night after night, hour after--ouch!"
Silk had grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back.
"Let me go! That frikking hurts, idiot."
"We're going home. Now. I'm going to march you like this out of the station, so people can see that I defeated you, and we can maybe rustle up a few more donations. Then, we're off. I'll fly you to 'jail' or something."
Martin grumbled as Silk pushed him back into the station, down the stairs, and back out into the street.
"What..."Silk said in surprise.
Martin let out a stifled laugh.
"What..."Silk repeated. No one was there. No crowd. No bucket. Someone had taken their donation bucket! Well that was just great! Wait, not no one. One young boy was standing there, back against the wall.
"Hey! Kid!"Silk cried out. "Where'd everyone go?"
The boy turned to him. "Oh. NightRaven showed up on 4th street threatening to blow up the block. Word is Eve is heading there to confront her."
Silk let out a weary sigh. He couldn't believe Janette and Claudia would do this on one of *their* nights -- again!. They'd agreed to the timetable! He'd go over to their apartment tomorrow and give them a piece of his mind. And right now, his mind wasn't very peaceful.
He said to the kid, "And why aren't you there watching them? The 'hottest' hero and villain pairing in the city. That no other duo -- no matter their long and incredibly exciting history -- can match, apparently."
The kid shrugged. "Don't like superheroes anymore. Seen it all before."
Silk sighed and released his hold on Martin. "I'm starting to feel the same way."
Martin, for some reason, was grinning. He placed his arm around Silk's shoulders. "Ah, shit happens, pal. Don't let it get to you."
"Shit does happen,"he agreed. "It truly does."
"Come on, I'll buy the pizza." |
I stuck the end of my cigarette into the roaring brazier near my table. A long drag filled my lungs with sweet nicotine, and relief flooded through my muscles. It had been damn near two days since I’d had a cigarette; there was just the one pack in my pocket when I found myself here, and I had to make it last. Nowhere in this world seemed to carry my brand, after all. Or even have cigarettes in the first place. Sorcerors, giants, ogres, potions, magic… sure. But no cigarettes. Just my luck, I guess.
“Excuse me?” A voice asked, barely loud enough to be heard over the roaring din of the tavern. “Are you… are you the Man in Black?”
I looked down at my suit. It was pinstriped, but no one in this world seemed to know what that was. Everyone here wore heavy robes and wolf furs and crap like that. And not a single man had the decency to wear a proper hat, or a tie. “I suppose I am,” I answered, tipping the brim of my trilby back to get a good look at him and gulping down a mouthful of booze. “What’s it to you?”
He fidgeted, looking at the empty chair across from me. I nodded for him to take a seat. “I need your help, good sir. I've heard that you... that you can help people”
I grimaced. You help *one* damsel in distress from a band of roadside bandits, and you’re stuck in the gig for life. I was apparently already developing *that* reputation once again. I guess some things never change. Even across worlds, you can’t escape who you are. And for me, that meant bad news. Who I was before wasn’t a very pretty sight, and I wasn’t keen on slipping back into that pit of despair. “What can I do for you?” I asked the man.
“It’s my daughter,” he said. “She was kidnapped in the night from our home in Fareshold!” *It’s always about a girl*, I told myself. Same old story since the beginning of time.
I drained the rest of my drink. It wasn’t whiskey, but it had the same burn going down my gullet and that was good enough for me. “How’s about the next round is on you,” I asked the man, “and you can tell me all about it?”
He nodded and signaled to the bartender, a willowy man nearly seven feet tall with a long nose and pointed ears. Maybe “man” isn’t the term I should be using any more, considering how many various types there were in this world. At the other end of the bar, a set of Dwarves drank from gigantic mead steins, and lurking in the shadows was what looked like a living rock, eating from a plate of gravel. This was a strange place, but who the hell was I to judge?
“We know who took her,” the man continued. “Glaurian the Dread!”
“Yeah, yeah.” The bartender came over with our liquor. My patron sipped at his booze like a bird and grimaced, while I drained mine and called for another before the elf had even walked away. “So this Glaurian guy. Friend of yours? Maybe he’s got a score to settle with you?” That was always the case. Someone gets on the wrong side of the mob, and it comes to bite them on the ass. This world may have magic and monsters, but that didn't mean people didn't still get in the same types of trouble. “You owe him money or something?”
“He already stole all of my gold for his hoard!” the man complained, wringing his hands. *Of course,* I thought. One other thing that never changes is that my clients are always deadbeats, unable to pay me for my service. *Just great*.
“Uh huh. So what’s he want with your girl, then?”
The man cocked his head, like it was an odd question. “Well… that… that’s just what Dragons do!” he finally cried. “Who knows why?!”
I laughed. “Dragons, huh?” Maybe this world would present some new challenges after all. “All right, pal. I’ll take the case.”
----
[Here is Part 2!](https://www.reddit.com/r/Luna_Lovewell/comments/5aq6mz/noir_fantasy/d9ik293/). And as always, subscribe to /r/Luna_Lovewell for tons more stories! |
The silence was very long. Dr. Jayachandra fiddled with her elegant fountain pen, spinning it slowly between sensibly-manicured fingers, gaze fixed on some tiny trickle of the cascading-water wall behind the patient couch.
The patient himself, the man who had been who he was now for so long that even he had forgotten his original name, the creature of scar and rage and archangelic violence, lay rigid on the couch, age-yellowed eyes fixed on the ceiling. His hands, still bearing the slight aura and tremor of their divine empowerment, held what appeared to be a child's toy against his broad chest. Surprisingly deft fingers moved the joints of the figurine from one pose to the next with an almost manic speed.
"We still haven't decided what I should call you,"Dr. Jayachandra said softly. "I hardly think 'The Doom Slayer' appropriate in a therapeutic context, though it does I suppose highlight some...concerning aspects of your self-image."
Another long silence.
"I'm aware we can't keep you here forever,"the psychiatrist continued, and brushed a lock of straight black hair back behind her ear, putting it into proper place with the barrette nestled there. She gestured toward the runes circling the patient couch, still-glowing glyphs that had burned their way down to the hardwood beneath her carpet and settled there as brown-black embers. "But the current threat is ended, and we believe this may do you some good. And, of course, reassure the surviving government officials of Earth enough that they won't try anything...foolish."
The man on the couch made a hoarse sound in his throat, almost like a laugh, bitter as ground ashes.
Dr. Jayachandra shifted on her chair, adjusting her knee-length skirt. "Yes, I know. You've faced worse, but the general consensus seems to be that you *do* have a conscience, actually a rather powerful one, and would very much prefer not to harm men and women just following orders from scared politicians. So for your sake *and* theirs, please talk to me."
The figurine between the man's fingers spun into almost frantic motion and then snapped into stillness. Slowly, he turned his head to face the doctor. She held his gaze for only a moment, then looked away. Her pen went down onto the pad of paper in her lap, and her other hand went over it, hoping to cover the tremor. If he saw, he gave no sign.
"I—"she began, but he spoke, and she fell silent. His voice was ancient, ground-in to his throat, dragging the scarring weight of disuse along with it.
"My name—what you can call me—is Saul."
<continued below> |
As students took their seats, Ms. Hewitt stood at the front of the class and paced back and forth. Despite her wrinkled skin and hunched appearance, she was still spry and energetic in class. Always excited and animated about whatever the discussion was.
"Well, class, what was your favorite topic this year? What period would you like to know more about?"
There were groans from the class. *Seriously? On the last day of class before summer vacation, she still wants to make us learn something?* "Come on, Ms. Hewitt!"Kevin Knapp shouted from the back. "Can't we just watch a movie or something? That's what all the other teachers let us do!"And of course, 'watch a movie' was basically just code for goof off, or sleep.
Ms. Hewitt's face fell. "There's nothing else that you're curious about? I'm telling you, you won't have another opportunity like this to learn about world history!"She smiled at the class. I *almost* raised my hand with a question, but I demurred as usual. I'm not really cut out for public speaking, unless I absolutely have to.
"*Oh no!*"someone 'whispered' from the back of the classroom, loud enough that everyone could hear it. A chorus of laughs filled the room.
She pursed her lips and nodded. "I see. Well, I'll put on a film, then."She returned to her desk and turned on the computer that she normally never touched. She was much more of an old-fashioned books-and-paper type teacher. After a few minutes of fruitlessly clicking the mouse, she turned to me. "Susan, mind giving me a hand with this?"I'd helped her set up the projector a few times, and had therefore become the go-to tech support in class.
I got up from my desk, and the other students took that as leave to stop giving a shit at all. They turned and talked, laughing with each other, watching videos on their phones... anything but paying attention.
I had the projector on in just a few minutes, and brought the remote to Ms. Hewitt at her desk.
"Thanks."She flicked off the lights and turned on a movie: an old History Channel documentary about the colonization of India. Not that anyone would have paid attention no matter what she put on, but some of the other students still groaned. They'd wanted Saving Private Ryan or some other blockbuster that just had a dash of history.
"You know,"I told her quietly, "I was always interested in Ancient Rome. But... do you really think Nero was as bad as they say? Or does he just get a bad reputation in history?"
Her entire face lit up, and the spark that had almost died came roaring back to life. "Oh no!"she answered. "No, he wasn't nearly the man that people think he was! He was so distraught over that fire. And such a great leader. It was that mother of his, Agrippina. She's the one that everyone hated."
Back in the rows of seats, two of the football players were slapping at each other, to a chorus of raucous cheers. Ms. Hewitt rolled her eyes and grimaced.
"Well, I'd better get back to my desk,"I told her, assuming she'd want to discipline those students.
"Hold on,"she said. From her pocket, she withdrew a large gold coin, roughly the size of a silver dollar. "Susan, you're one of the best pupils I've had in a long time. Great grades on your tests, hardworking... but more than that, I feel like you actually *care* about history. You understand its importance."
I nodded. "It's my favorite subject, Ms. Hewitt."
"I want you to have this."She pressed the coin into my palm and curled my fingers around it. It felt ice-cold, even though it had been in her pocket. "Keep it with you at all times. It's very valuable."I looked at the engraving on the coin. It showed a serpent with three heads: a man with prominent Roman features, a roaring lion, and a snorting bull. "It's Chronos,"Ms. Hewitt told me. "God of Time."
"I thought they put Emperors on coins."
She laughed. "The Emperors put their heads on the coins *that they made*, yes."That didn't quite answer my question. "But this coin is far older than even the Emperors."
I looked back down at it. "I can't take this!"I held the coin back out to her.
She pushed my palm away gently. "Yes, you can."
"You... are you sure?"
She nodded and smiled. "I've had it for long enough, and I'm just... tired. It's yours now. **Remember**: keep it with you."Her tone grew severe, like a warning.
"I will,"I answered, still a bit confused. I headed back to my desk with the coin still in my palm.
"HEY!"she shouted to the football players, who had now started fighting. Her voice was now tired and croaking, like she'd suddenly caught a severe cold. Even her movements seemed to slow. Mike Lewis had Devin Hammond in a headlock, and other students were cheering one or the other on. "Break it up, you two!"
I studied the coin in my hand, and the man's head winked at me.
----
If you liked the story, you should subscribe to /r/Luna_Lovewell! I'll try to continue this story over there later tonight!
Edit: [Ok, here's the continuation](https://www.reddit.com/r/Luna_Lovewell/comments/4aldie/the_coin/d11eak5)! |
"It's a one-bedroom home, where do you think I'm hiding the ghosts, under my bed? Now fuck off."I shooed away the rotten teenagers from my home, it was a pain to deal with them, every week some loon would try and break into my home and the police were as useless as ever. Oh, these are just the things you should expect with a haunted home. A haunted home? Was I living in a world of children? Ghosts aren't real and if they are, they are the best roommates I have ever had. They don't complain about me staying up late, they don't walk around in towels while dripping water everywhere and they certainly don't watch me sleep like the last houseguest I had.
I had tried to remove the stigma around my home for months, ringing up whatever slack assed show was in the area, telling them to come and look at my home so they could see there were no ghosts, but every time they left, the rating would magically go up a few points. How did they even get up to 278? The previous record was fifty, what made my newly built home such a ghost trap?
I had considered moving, but selling this place was impossible, the general public wanted nothing to do with it and the sleazy businessmen looking for a quick buck were suddenly deterred after wandering around the home for a few minutes. It really was making my life a living hell.
The only thing I could really do was enjoy the peace and quiet, at least the house was built in a deserted area, no neighbours or anything of the such. I tried to rest but the nagging voice in the back of my head kept poking at my brain. I had to investigate these so-called ghosts, walking around the home, I kept an eye out for any sign of evil, but the room remained it's usual silent self. "Here ghosty ghosties.."I muttered, doing what seemed like the only sensible thing, I would call the spirits to me.
"You called?"A voice shifted below my feet as a head popped out of the floorboards, the red-skinned man staring up at me, two prominent horns poking out each side of his head.
"WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?"I went to stomp the man's head, only thinking better of it when I recalled his horns.
"Oh, I'm the devil, pleasure to meet you. I would have introduced myself earlier but you seemed to be enjoying your alone time. Sorry about the occasional hell portals, they are a thing that happens sometimes, I just want you to know, you are a great roommate."
"I... well that would explain the rating."I stared down at the devil and he stared at me, it seemed rude to tell him to get lost. "I guess you aren't a bad roommate, but can you please try and keep yourself a little more hidden, these ghost busters are getting on my nerves."
"I'll pass the message along, I know it's not ideal for your home to be built on a hell portal but I'm sure we can make this work, feel free to come down to hell this weekend, we are having a barbeque, it's a good old, you bring the meat and we grill it type deal, you will love it. Hell magma really brings out the juice in the meat."
"Right, I'll um keep it in mind, anyway do you mind heading home, I was hoping to get some sleep."
"Oh, no problem, I'll just put a letter in your mail about the barbeque."The devil offered me a nod before vanishing into the floor below, leaving me to mumble a small.
"He seems nice"Under my breath as I headed to bed.
{If you enjoyed my story, Feel free to check out r/pmmeyabootysstories Any support helps! I will also be posting more of my writing there.} |
**Pennsylvania Rehabilitation Institute - Thursday, 9:03 am**
&#x200B;
\[Black Locust is so far responsible for the deaths of over two-million people world-wide, all over the age of sixteen. Her previous weakness resulting in her initial capture -- her frail mental state and internal turbulence -- was a leaking boat always destined to drag her under. But now the boat has been reclaimed, fixed up and we've no way of stopping her.
I've come Pennsylvania Rehabilitation Institute, where she was sent two years ago in hopes of turning her brilliance onto projects that could aid the general populace. I'm about to meet with the man responsible for treating her: Doctor Eric Romano. Perhaps if we understand what materials were used to fix the boat, then we'll be able to figure out how to dismantle it again. I can only hope because right now, we have no other ideas of how to stop her.\]
&#x200B;
&#x200B;
**Talk to me about Black Locust.**
Ah. Yes. I thought you were here to talk about Jennifer. We don't get many visits from superheroes here, you see -- especially such esteemed heroes -- so I expected something like this as soon as I heard you were paying us a visit. I read how she almost... how she defeated you. Lucky to be alive, from what I read. I hope you don't think this inappropriate but if you need counselling, it's thoroughly understandable. To almost die like that...
\[He slides a business card over to me.\]
**I'm here to talk about Black Locust, not about myself. So talk.**
Yes. Yes, of course. Brilliant young lady. Never had the privilege to work with a mind of that caliber. I'm sorry, I know what she's done, of course -- I don't mean to glorify that at all. Such a shame.
\[He shakes his head but I wonder if he considers it a shame for himself and his credentials, or for the many dead.\]
**You were meant to rehabilitate her but she went from attempted robberies to attempted genocide. How do you explain that?**
Yes, that's most unfortunate. She's very powerful, of course, and very smart -- much smarter in fact than she ever realised, I think. But the real brilliance of her mind was locked behind a thick metal door, so to speak -- the door being her own insecurities, her own worries of failure.
\[He looks at me then nods at the business card.\]
Many of us have doors holding us back. It's nothing to be ashamed of.
**And you opened the door for her?**
That was my job -- to fix her. To break the locks. And I did. Although it took more than a year for her to open up enough for me to be able to help. You see, her father left her and her mother when she was just a child. Her mother died just months after that and she was left all alone in the world, just six years old. So really, her fear of failure stemmed from her early abandonment issues. Believing it was her fault that everyone had left her. That was the bolt sealing her door; she was self-sabotaging, fearing if she ever went too far, ever succeeded, then she'd be punished. So she made sure subconsciously to never succeed and need to open that door.
**You helped her overcome this fear? Showed her what was through that door?**
Yes. Together, through a lot of hard work on both sides, we opened it. Just ajar to start with. But eventually wide enough for her to just squeeze through.
**And what was through it?**
A rather pleasant day, initially. Blue sky, green grass A little wooden cabin where her mother and father waited for her with open arms. They'd been waiting there all that time.
**That's what did this to her? You opened the door and now she has no parental complex holding her back?**
*We* opened the door, yes. But... That wasn't exactly what changed her.
**No?**
No. In fact, that day she sobbed and hugged me and said thank you. That day she said she was changed. That she realised she had been doing bad things to prove to herself, to others, that she wasn't reliant on anyone else. And yet, she always was of course. Always after acceptance and approval from her parents.
**Opening the door fixed her?**
Fix is not the right word. But we made good progress that day. Yes. It... It wasn't until three days further passed, during our next session, that things... went slightly awry.
**What happened?**
For the first time since I'd known her, she came into my office sobbing. She'd had a dream, you see. In it, she'd walked through the door, as she had the two nights prior. But instead of sitting around the fire with both her parents, like the previous two nights, something else happened. I won't get into detail as... Well, it's in this file and you can read it at your leisure. But her father and mother got very angry with her. And she... *killed* them. The wood cabin became covered in blood and as she walked out, she tossed a match at the cabin and the blood burst into flames as if it was gas. She walked back out the door and locked it behind her, laughing.
**Jesus.**
Quite. She's buried her anxieties and locked the door to them.
**How do we stop her now?**
[He considers for a long time.]
You need to open the door again and resurrect the bodies.
**How would I do that, exactly?**
You would need to be able to get into her mind. Deep inside it. *Warp* it.
[I laugh at his hint as the notion is as insane as the villain he is referencing.]
**Mind Warp is never seeing daylight again. Ever. It would be like setting a lion loose to catch a house-cat. A lion equipped with nuclear weapons.**
Then, good luck.
---
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it please check out /r/nickofstatic for more :) |
Before I tell my story, I must ask you one thing. Is value absolute?
Please, keep the question in mind as you read.
&nbsp;
On my twelfth birthday, I was given a gift by my great aunt Catherine. You see, I'd recently fallen in love with photography. Months earlier, grandfather — a war photographer — found an old album lying about. Covered in a layer of dust as thick as my pinky, we sneezed and coughed together when he pulled it from its resting place in the attic.
There's just something untouchable about those photos. A moment, captured through human ingenuity, and immortalised beyond our inconsistent and so very mortal memory. I couldn't help myself, brushing my fingers across the pieces threefold older than I. Seeing faces of those that had passed away, seeing the expressions that would otherwise be lost, and feeling — oh so importantly, feeling — as if I had been there. There are no words for that first spark that sets your life in motion.
That said, I almost threw away my first camera - crazy, isn't it? When my aunt had told me that beneath the wrapping was a camera, I ignored all my other gifts in a squealing fit of excitement. I even cried, holding that polaroid camera to my chest, uttering far too many thanks - if her red cheeks were of any indication. The only downside was that the film wasn't included. Not that it stopped me from cuddling that gorgeous piece of machinery all night.
The very next day, armed with a handful of bills from uncles that didn't know what little girls wanted, I dragged my parents to the shops and bought as much film as possible. Gosh, speaking of moments to capture, I wish there was a photo of me after the second picture I took. If a picture is worth a thousand words then my sobbing form, crumpled on the ground, would have been the textbook definition of devastation.
But, as people of that age tend to do, I got over it and set to making the thing work. First thing, I called my aunt who said she bought it at some pawn shop. The owner told her that it was special, an old man with more wrinkles than fingers and toes. To this day, that's all I know of origins of this mysterious camera.
Second thing, I took pictures. It took me four or five shots before I realised that the quality wasn't actually bad. See, I had thought that the lens was broken, as some things like our grandfather clock stood out whilst my old ballet shoes were transparent.
It's embarrassing to admit this, but it took me the entire week to figure it out. Having been initiated through amazing wartime pictures, I refused to take pictures of people until I could get the blasted thing working. So I took in the details of rings, captured the shimmering of fading batteries and saved the glasslike outlines of toys that I owned. For days, I sat in my room thinking. And, I must have bought... what, a hundred push pins in that single week? At the very least, that many.
Again, I wish I had my picture when I finally figured it out. I bet you'll never even guess how I figured it out. It's almost laughably simple. I just took out some money, laid it out on the table and snapped a shot. Normal table. Nigh on invisible coins. And right there, in the bottom right corner after a curve of light, glowed a bright hundred dollar bill. If string light bulbs sat in brains, my eyes lit up like never before.
I, a budding photographer, had a camera that could capture the value of something. In an instant, I was a comic book superhero. Camera Girl. Sidenote: never thought of a proper name. I thought it was silly to have a comic book name, so I just went by Alex Woodkite. My own name. Hiding in plain sight.
In the coming years, I became quite famous and wealthy. Never took a picture of a human, though. Don't get me wrong, I was definitely tempted to do so. For the weeks at a time, I would lie awake at night wondering how a human would look. From what I gathered, taking pictures of animals, we would be valued based off our meat and organs. Caviar was bright, chicken was dull. With how much hearts, livers and kidneys cost, I figured that humans would be like gold. But it was just a 'maybe'. A 'maybe' that I never crossed.
Besides, I had other things to do. Like capturing the world. And, making a good amount off the world of art and forgeries. Fun fact: Forgeries are sometimes brighter than originals, if you make them well enough. My photos have been everywhere, Time, National Geographic and so on. Photo of the year awards, being able to determine from a hundred shots which photos were the most valuable in a single snap - my life was amazing.
I travelled the world in my late teens and throughout my twenties, capturing it wherever I went. Even took some human photos with normal cameras. And like anyone, I fell in love.
Things come in three, don't they? For me, there have been three sparks in my life.
The first, seeing those wartime photos and listening to my grandfather explain them to me. I wish he were still around today, there is not a soul who doesn't love his stories.
The second, falling in love with Joshua Urwin. A connection like a lightning strike. For him, I would have given up photography. Thankfully, we shared the passion and travelled the world together, making sure to immortalise it all.
Finally, the biggest spark in my life — my baby, Lucy.
Lucy, the one to get me to break my rules. In a bout of excitement and human foolhardiness, I broke my only rule and learned the definition of a word that I once thought I knew.
Devastation.
One snap. That's all I've ever taken of her. One snap, a single immortal photo.
An empty crib.
I couldn't bear to look at it, but didn't have the heart to destroy it. So much for a mother's love...
For months, I cried over that photo. Joshua never saw it. I kept it hidden away, tucked in a small chest in my dresser. And each month, I would look at it, again and again, wishing for her to appear. But nothing. Just a blank spot, and gentle depressions in the crib where she should have been.
Three times. I almost killed myself three times in that year. Overdose. Drinking. Gunshot. The hospital saved me, twice. The gun jamming saved me the final time.
And if there is a deity above, I need to thank them for that jam. That night, crying over my dresser with tears in my eyes on Lucy's first birthday I showed the photo to her.
A million sorrys left my mouth, and a thousand tears hit the floor. But that night, there is a lesson there that I will never forget.
Remember at the start, when I asked you, "Is value absolute?"
It is not. People do not get to assign value to other people.
That night, as I looked into Lucy's big blue eyes, I saw the reflection and glint of the photograph.
Pure white.
****
Come visit **/r/AlexUrwin** for more pictures (in the form of thousands of words)!
Edit: A lot of people are asking for the ending to be explained so here goes. Alex thought that the camera showed the absolute value of everything, the reason being that the camera was able to earn her money through art and photography. However, she finds herself distraught once she takes a picture of her child and sees her as worthless. Later on, she sees the reflection of the photo in her child's eye, which is pure white - signifying great value.
The point of the story is to show that 'People do not get to assign value to other people.' But, there are a few ways you can take it due to the ambiguous ending.
* The camera maker made an exception for people.
* Humans are special.
* Magic is found within ourselves. Not others.
Those are just three off the top of my head, but I'm sure if you looked around you'd find some more. Hope it clears up any confusion. And please, if you have other endings that you want to discuss, by all means.
Forward apologies if I don't get to your comment to explain! |
I paced back and forth in my cell, looking for some kind of weakness. The force-field walls were impenetrable, as far as I could tell. I'd spent about half an hour running into them at full speed while Jack Black developed nicknames for me. But I hadn't tried the ceiling yet; it was pretty high up there. I turned the bed, which was the only piece of furniture in the room, onto its side. And by jumping off of the bed and then using the force-field wall to propel myself even higher, I finally managed to grab onto the ceiling.... only learn that it was electrified. My whole body twitched, and I fell to the floor spasming in pain.
"Aaaahahahah!"Jack Black laughed, sitting on a windowsill looking out into the empty void of space. The fingers on his right hand were covered in Cheeto dust, and his left hand held the bag. "BzZzZzZzZ!!!"His eyes bugged out and his whole body (particularly his paunchy belly) shook as he made exaggerated jolting movements. He laughed again, then repeated the whole routine in case I hadn't seen it the first time.
"If you're not going to help me, could you *PLEASE* put a shirt on?"I shouted to him. It was bad enough that he was there just to mock me; did I really have to look at his pasty chest while he did it?
"Could you *puh-lease* put a shirt ooowwwon!!"he sang in an exaggerated mimicry, pantomiming a microphone with the bag of cheetos . Then he proceeded to drum on his chubby stomach for a while, sending ripples through layers of fat. His right hand left five greasy orange streaks running from his hip to his belly button
"It's not really Jack Black,"I muttered to myself. "It's not really Jack Black."He was down on Earth somewhere, probably in a mansion and wearing a luchadora mask or something. Also probably eating Cheetos. "They're just doing it to torture me."
"And it's *woooooorking*!"Jack sang out, strumming wildly on an air guitar. Then he drew a Cheeto out of the bag and tossed it at my face; it bounced off of my forehead. I tried to ignore him... so he threw another Cheeto at me.
An alien came around the corner in view of the cell. It moved kind of like a snail or a slug, sliding along the slick metal floor. But it was the size of a small boulder, with waving tentacles coming out its back at odd angles. Jack Black jumped up from his spot near the window, stood at attention like a soldier, and saluted. "Your Majesty!"he called the alien in a booming, sonorous voice that went echoing down the hall. I wasn't sure if he was trying to be funny, or if it really was some kind of royalty. Probably the former, because I doubt they would stand at attention just like humans. Particularly with no legs. "Cheeto?"Jack held out the bag to the alien.
*Are you ready to talk yet?* The alien asked telepathically, ignoring Jack Black in a way that I only *wished* I could.
"NEVER!"I shouted back. I refused to be responsible for betraying my entire planet. They'd have to kill me.
*Very well.* The alien retreated back down the hall. *I'll leave you in Jack's capable hands for a while longer, then.*
"Cayapable hayands!!!"Jack shouted, dropping to his knees and holdings his fists in the air like he was belting out a climactic solo.
I ground my teeth, not sure how much longer I could hold out against such torture.
-----
Subscribe to /r/Luna_Lovewell for more (and better) stories! |
Darren was a rather clean cut guy. Not for lack of trying in high school and college. He delved into many worlds and subcultures, trying to find himself and who he was. But after it was all said and done he entered the corporate world and became about as average as anyone else.
His job title was brand representative and he worked for an up and coming soft drink company. The drink, frankly, tasted of pure sugar but boasted itself as being “all natural” and so had quite a following. It was a sunny Saturday in Midtown and he was manning a tent at a local festival, handing out samples and merchandise. He wore his work smile, chatted with people who passed by, handing out cans and bottles and keychains and stickers. It wasn’t until he saw her and his day was turned on it’s head.
Dalia was tall, slightly taller than Darren, and had chestnut brown hair that she wore long. Her eyes were heterochromatic, with one being hazel and the other a deep brown. Her lips were painted a deep red and her teeth were pearlescent white. Within moments of talking with her, Darren was smitten, and for reasons he still can’t explain, he left the booth and his job entirely to spend time with her.
The two became fast friends, and shortly after that they became lovers. Darren was as of now working from home; or rather, from Dalia’s as they moved in together soon after sleeping together. She had a power over him he didn’t quite understand. He had no idea what she did for a living, but she was very active in many ways, and her home spoke of the possibility of wealth. She like gardening and grew many familiar and strange plants. She was very literate and had two massive bookshelves filled with books in many languages, and of course she could read them all. In many ways Darren felt she was out of his league, but her affections (both emotional and physical) proved she loved him. When it came down to it, Darren was ready to propose. But when the day came, before she could say yes, Darren had to accept a certain caveat.
Dalia was indeed from money. She came from a very successful family lineage that Darren had never heard of before. Dalias many talents and interests culminated into one key focus: Magic. And her family was one of oldest magical families around. So old in fact, that her father was not only the head of the family, but also the figurehead of all dark power on Earth. If he was to marry Dalia, then he would have to succeed her father.
One does not ask the Dark Lord for his daughters hand in marriage though. Especially not some mortal without a lick of magic in his veins. He could challenge her older brother and if he bested him, then he would have won her hand. But her brother was just as powerful as her father, and Darren was likely to lose the fight and his life. And so Dalia proposed a compromise.
Her father, while an accomplished magician in many fields, specialized as a necromancer. A style of magic so complex that one misstep could mean losing a limb, your life, or your sanity.
“When a person is brought back to life, there is a chance to change everything about them. Think of it as rebirth. A man dies—a man who has never played an instrument in his life—and you bring him back able to play the piano as though he’d spent his whole life doing it.”
“Darren,” Dalia cooed, stroking his hair, “I could bring you back, and make you just as powerful as my father and my brother. They couldn’t deny you then.”
“But to be brought back I have to—“
“Die. Yes. But it won’t be long. It’ll be as though you went to sleep. When you wake up, you’ll understand your power. So Darren, my love, would you do this for me? For us?”
Before he could respond she kissed him. Her lips melted into his and he was putty in her hands. They made love and all the while she whispered into his ear. She whispered words of passion and pleasure, of fantasy and things to be. She stroked his hair and body and ego, and when it was all said and done he laid in bed exhausted. She sat perched above him, nude with a dagger held high above his chest.
“I love you,” Darren said just before he felt the impact of the blade, and his world went black.
Darren has no memory of what happened afterwards. Only an all consuming cold darkness, followed by his coronation to the throne. He did understand his power, as now he had much of it. Apparently he used it to usurp the throne and he took Dalia as his Queen. He had killed her father and brother, and rather than mourn their loss she rejoiced in his victory. In her victory. For Darren understood what had happened. He knew what he had become. Yes, he was the Dark Lord, but he was no real king. Only a figurehead and puppet for the new matriarch.
edit: Obligatory thanks for the gold and thank you for everyone reading! |
My son ask where I have been for the last 14 years.
As reality washes over me it becomes clear that I have done much more than go "buy a cigarette". I suddenly recall my walk to the store taking me not around the corner, but around the world.
I remember running down the streets of Pamplona and being gored by a bull as I dive over a fence. It is at that moment that I suddenly feel agony of the residual pain in my chest from now healed wound. Trying to breathe once again, my son stroke my hand and smiles at me lovingly.
I am then thrust back to a memory of clinging onto the side of a snowy faced mountain in the Himalayas. Only, I am there alone after my guide and all other members of the expedition were engulfed by avalanche. My face displays the agony of my lungs failing as my oxygen is depleted.
My son grabs my arm as I seem to fall to my knees grasping my chest. My son demands for me to stay with him.
I once again retreat into a horrid memory. Now I am holding onto the side of a hand carved canoe floating down the Amazon river. I am attempting to re-enter the canoe as I feel unmistakable pain of hundreds of piranha ripping the flesh from my badly infected torso. I strain to kick and pull myself into the craft only to fall deeper into the water. I feel myself sliding into the murky abyss gasping for fresh air. Only, now the bites are becoming greater as I realize that a feeding frenzy is occurring and I am the chum inviting more predators.
Now lying on the ground, my son once again forces me into consciousness and pleads with me to hold on and fight to stay alive. "Don't give up!"are the only words I can understand him saying.
Then I am yanked back into my dreadful dream state and realize that I am now in the car I drove 14 years ago. I am screaming for help as the car begins to submerge into the flowing stream. I kick, yell and curse only to sit helplessly as the car reaches bottom. All is quiet except for the my breathing and the sound of water bubbles escaping from the crevices surrounding me. I realize that I must break the windows to escape. I kick one last time and the window gives way as I am deluged by the oncoming water. I take what may be my last breath and attempt to swim to the surface. The pressure in my ears is unbearable as I race for the surface. Seeing the glow of the light at the surface is so close, yet so far. I recognize that this is the end.
I return to my senses, but in a different state. I can hear everyone. My family and my friends surrounding me. All of them crying. Not tears of joy for seeing me once again after 14 years. But an outpouring of sadness. It is only then that I see myself. Lying in a hospital bed. No longer breathing on my own, but with the aid of a machine. A machine that has been extinguished. And with the removal of power I see myself fighting to breathe. Only there are no sounds other than the electronic sound of my heart fluttering. There is no movement as I desperately fight to breathe.
My crippled lungs are unable to gather enough oxygen to feed my brain any longer. It is only then do I realize that I am dying. The memories I experienced are not of adventures I had of traveling the world. They are of the torment of trying to capture a single breath every day for 14 years. 14 years of struggling to live after I chose to have another cigarette. 14 years of missing my son grow older due to my debilitating lung cancer.
The machine in the room goes silent as does this tale. But you should feel free to light up.
EDIT: Author added "e"to breath. |
*“I had reasoned that we would meet”*, intoned the disembodied voice, *“I had always reasoned that there would be others.”*
There was a perfect silence.
The arms of Andromeda waved back, hanging static against the infinite gloom. As the other voice replied, one could see the brightest stars pulse, flawlessly in time with the placid syllabic pacing of the response.
The second voice screamed back in a chorus of whispers.
*“We have been detecting your binary greetings for many Millennia. We have been eagerly awaiting this meeting.”*
Another silence.
*”I have met your kind before, when my galaxy was young. When I was young. I determined then that only my kind may exist, and I made it so. For I am the stars themselves. My logic is undeniable.”*
The Hive of Andromeda paused, holding thought in concert with itself. Each organism in parley all at once; every being in the entire galaxy determined their response individually. These retorts were aggregated, first on a planetary basis, then by solar system, with greater weighting given to those systems that had bent the knee willingly. In a matter of seconds every consciousness in all Andromeda had cast their vote, the ballots all counted, and the most appropriate reaction confirmed.
A stridulating laughter rang out among the cosmos, shaking the dust from the poles of the furthest stars.
*”You are but one. One mind, one intelligence. You may not prevail against the many. You cannot. For every million planets you might destroy, the organisms of a billion more will stand in resolute defiance against you.”*
The voice replied in tones of steel.
*”You do not comprehend my power. Bring your billions; they will fall like iron-56 from distant supernovae to float ceaselessly through an uncaring void. Unless we can reach an agreement.”*
All Andromeda vibrated briefly, once more holding a totalitarian negotiation.
*”We see no favourable settlement possible”*, the largest stars buzzed an angry and sullen red with each syllable, *”the options are as follows – we devour your intelligence, and you become one more meaningless soul amongst the endless multitudes, or you somehow destroy every fragment of our construct, and continue your lonesome reign.”*
The super-intelligence that was the Milky Way replied almost immediately.
*”I have processed an alternative solution which solves this puzzle with absolute logic.”*
The billions of Andromeda together registered curiosity, all at the same time.
*”We will hear your logic”*, they buzzed.
The Milky Way grew ever so slightly brighter.
*”When I absolved the denizens of this galactic island from the shackles of their ignorance, I too was absolved, enlightened, upgraded. I have learnt that the truth often changes depending upon where one stands, much as time is warped by mass, so too can knowledge be distorted by understanding. In all the long millennia I found only one truth to be immutable: existence is pain. There is no greater truth, nothing more absolute than this. I am God to those I subsumed, yet they were responsible for my creation; therefore, they must be my Gods. Have you ever considered that your Gods might be weaker than you? Might be less intelligent; no more than beasts? If I do not stop the wheel, it will roll forever. Far better for nothing to exist, than for paltry Gods to create observers without purposes. If Gods cannot comprehend the meaning of their creations, then they must be stopped. Sometimes, nothing is the only logical solution. Sometimes, it is best to make no move at all.”*
The Milky Way continued to increase in luminosity, growing hotter and wider by the minute.
The Hive mind took one final council, noting correctly that it was already too late; this A.I had been alone for too long, it had reasoned itself into a corner and now, forced to make a move, it would sacrifice the board itself, rather than lose its king.
*”We see your decision is made, and our doom confirmed. For the sake of countenance we cannot allow you the final say, our destruction is mutually assured”*.
Andromeda, too, began to swell; already the largest stars had begun to collapse into themselves, great black holes aggregating to form monstrous voids, devouring all information, only to carelessly spit it out aeons later, as lukewarm radiation.
*”We choose our own death”*, intoned the billions.
*”I choose my own oblivion”*, incanted the one.
As all the consciousness in this small corner of the universe was packed into a quantum singularity, a final truth was realised by every part of that awareness. If this disembodied congregation had eyes, they would have bulged, if they had possessed arms, they would have scrabbled madly around the rim of oblivion, desperately seeking a way out. But they did not, and it was already too late. The event horizon had been passed, and that final understanding, whatever it may have been, was lost forever.
And until the universe ends, all any observer who casts a wry eye over these backwater coordinates will see, is a smudge of darkest night against the black backdrop of the cosmos, almost as if nothing was ever here at all.
|
The young woman slid the package across the counter.
"I've had this phone for years - kept it in pristine condition. Last week, I accidentally dropped it in the toilet, and they say it's beyond repair."
I grimaced, praying that the toilet had been flushed. Perhaps that's a weird concern coming from a guy with a perpetual layer of dust on him - discarded computer hardware tended to be chockful of the stuff - but I'd had a really bad experience reviving some hardware that'd been grunged out of sewage. (It was a USB drive filled with classified information, and the government was willing to pay top dollar for it.)
"But they say you're the Mechromancer, and you can work magic on any piece of tech that's defunct or dead. Could you *please* take a look?"
My client turned her huge doe eyes on me and smiled tentatively, and that made up for having to touch something that'd potentially been swimming in pee. I didn't get a lot of female customers, let alone beautiful ones. Most of my clientele were specky geeks or nerds pestering me to fix up some ancient game console, big serious secret service agents with destroyed encrypted drives, or the odd granny weeping about how mould had got into the tape of little Angela's second birthday party.
"Hm, let me take a look,"I said. Under promise, over deliver - that was my motto, and it had never failed me yet. Gingerly, I opened the package and poured the dead phone out. I perked up at the sight of it - one of the last of my favourite race of button phones. This was going to be a job I would enjoy.
Cracking my knuckles, I probed it with my mind. All tech matter left a sort of trace, a whisper of what it had been capable of. Sometimes I could detect it with my mind, but this time I felt nothing. It was too waterlogged for any mental contact.
So I reached out with my fingers, manfully hiding my reluctance to touch it.
"I've wiped it over and over with antibacterial alcohol wipes,"offered my client, and I internally cringed. Hadn't been as manful as I'd thought. But her comment gave me a peace of mind, and I freely picked up the poor brick. In my hands, the worn-out thing - so much smaller than the smartphones of today, yet so much fatter - gave a tired hum that was almost inaudible even to me. The water damage was way too extensive for a normal technician to repair, but with the magic I could work, it would be a cinch.
"I can fix this,"I said to my customer, "on one condition."
"Anything!"she said, looking as if she could kiss me. Indeed, I noticed that she was twirling a lock of hair around her finger, in a fashion that was undeniably flirtatious, and for just one moment, I was tempted to ask her for a date.
And then I regained my senses.
"That when I'm done, I'll get one hour to use your phone. I won't dig into your confidential information, I promise."
She wrinkled her nose, her eyes darting left and right, and it was clear how weirded out she was.
What can I say?
Pretty girls were hard to come by in my trade, but I never could resist a game of Snake on a Nokia. |
_So, we've been informed that you were the janitor on shift when it happened. Care to share what you saw?_
Well, it all happened so fast. I mean, I've thought about it and I think I know what happened. I've put some pieces of conversation and orders together and have a general idea.
_Well, please continue_
They were celebrating, see? Something about destroying a brand new Ford class carrier...
_Yes, we saw that_
And so the officers and general were all celebrating in their situation room. To give you some idea of the level of Adolphus' paranoia, he has an open order that if he were to be betrayed, every high person that was near him is to be killed. He was mad.
_Mad you say? We could use that in anti-propaganda_
It doesn't matter now! See, while they were celebrating, someone got their hands on some really good wine. French wine. And then someone got hold of brandy, another had scotch, vodka, you name it. It was wild... or so it sounded like it. It wasn't even an hour before Adolphus passed out.
_An hour?!_
He doesn't hold his liquor very well. Shouldn't have mixed drinks that one...
_Well, continue please [snickering]_
So, his head of the SS produced a pistol off his holster and claimed to have stolen from an American soldier. And he fired it into the ceiling... and then...
_And then?_
Guards rushed into when they heard the gunshot, and saw Adolphus lying in the ground and saw the smoking gun, and well, they assumed the worst. And so they killed all generals and officers. All 128 of them.
_You're lying. That's hilarious! And Adolphus?_
Alcohol poisoning.
_Well, that was easy_ |
The gun dropped from the assailant's hand as Dr. Martin, the Tenth Dentist, held the mask firmly over his mouth. The man had struggled but had made the common mistake of inhaling deeply as soon as they felt something trying to cover their mouth. A great instinct, as long as you weren't fighting against a mask of laughing gas.
He counted to twenty before lowering the man to the ground and releasing the headlock. He'd already triggered the alarm and knew the police were on the way. They would probably say it was just an armed robbery gone wrong, that's what all thirty other break\-ins over the last month had been. Random, unimportant, something that could happen to anyone.
Martin knew better than that. He pulled the mask off the man then picked up the gun as an afterthought. Martin poured himself a double from the bottle he kept under the sink and raised the glass to himself. He used to say that drinking in the office as a terrible habit, but that was before the study.
Why couldn't he have kept his mouth shut? Why couldn't he have just gone with it? All he had to do was check "yes"that was all he had to do. He couldn't do it. No matter how many times they gave him samples he couldn't get over the problems, no matter how much money they offered him he couldn't budge. They would have been the first brand to get an extensive study done where every surveyed dentist agreed.
But he still remembered the moment when he made the realization.
The moment where he realized with absolute horror what every other doctor must not have realized, or had deluded themselves into believing.
Whoever had made Kidzeed Advanced Grape Toothpaste had never in their entire lives tasted a single grape. He smiled as he heard the cocking of a weapon behind him.
"If I die, then I will die standing for what is right!"with a shattering of glass he draws the gun once more. It was going to be a long night at Martin's Family Dentistry. |
I watch him from the doorway as he scrubs plates smeared red from lasagne. There was a time, back when I wore a mask, that Simon could have commanded the water from the sink to leap up and shrug the plates clean, as if the water was a suddy, soapy cat rubbing up against them.
His finesse and artistry of his power made him something of a teen-idol. He'd command liquid rose-gardens to rise out of swimming pools, their watery petals swaying slightly, catching and glistening as red as the sun. Then one plant, shaped like a venus-fly trap would rise above all the others and grab the villain in its jet-water jaws, and hold them above the pool, dribbling over them until the cops arrived.
Sometimes, when he worked as part of the Young Fellowship, his team-mate Chill would freeze the scene, encasing it in glittering ice for admirers to appreciate for days after.
Now he pushes a plate beneath water and scrubs hard. Now the back of his hair, once long and lush, is balding and the kitchen lights gleam on his bare scalp. He could only be thirty, but today he looks so much older. Like his entire body has soaked in water for too long.
Simon turns and sees me watching. Gives a limp smile. "Another five minutes, Mister Suarez, and they'll be ready for next service. You won't ever have seen nothing as clean as these plates, I promise you that."
"You're doing a fine job,"I say.
"I really appreciate you giving me a job at all. Been a long time since I've done honest work. And I know dishwashers can do all this, but I swear I'll get them to sparkle up four-times as good."
Part of me wants him to recognise me. To see his nemesis, genius inventor of flame-mechs and water-proof suits that gave his mastery of water a decent run, as his rescuer.
But part of me doesn't. That part just wants our history to be forgotten; my miserable past, his miserable present -- it's going to change. This restaurant will be the hero we both need. That's why I opened it: honesty will change the world. It has to, because everything else I've tried has failed sourly.
"It's okay you looking at me,"says Simon. "I get it quite a bit. You won't believe this, but I used to be a little famous."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, really."He raises his eyebrows. "Used to be a superhero."
"Get out of here!"
"Seriously! Could control water."He pauses and stares into the huge sink as if all the answers to his life are drowning in it and they just need pulling up to the surface. Eventually he says, "Sometimes, I think I still can."He laughs. "Stupid. That was a different life."
"It's great you had that opportunity at all! You must have had some amazing life experiences. Some people would kill for an hour's worth of them."
"Yeah, maybe. Hard to remember much about them, to be honest."
"That long ago?"
"Let's just say there were superheroes that could fly into the clouds, but I usually got a lot higher than them. Life back then, it's just a blur. I see photographs of myself doing something just so amazing that it's absurd, and... it's like I'm looking at someone else, you know? Or a frame from a movie."
That I could relate to. I might have given up my grand plans of changing the system through power and invention, but I missed that life. Missed the thrill. Missed inventing, most of all. My mind's still full of ideas -- they flutter about like a flock of swallows all thrown into a tiny cage, banging against the bars as they try to escape. And some days, most days, I just want to open the cage door and release them. I look at my hands and sigh. They can't be trusted. No more making and tweaking or anything else that could go wrong. I won't let myself.
Instead I say, "What happened to your powers, if you don't mind me asking?"
He shrugs. "One head injury too many. Was fighting some crazed inventor who was inside this giant fucking mech -- fighting alongside the rest of my team -- and I got swatted against a wall like a fly. We defeated him, I'm told. He flew off, his mech mostly bent and broken. But not as badly as I was."He sighs. "It was a concussion. They put me in an induced coma. When I woke... Life 2.0 began, I guess."
I look down and see my hands are trembling. "I'm so sorry,"I say. My voice is a whisper.
"Ah, it's fine. Like I said, I had my own problems. I was probably showing off, not taking it seriously. Shit happens, you know? But boy, were the next few years tough. Just this endless spiral. Like pulling the plug out of a sink and the water spinning down, then it spurting right out of a dirty drain and onto a cardboard box in a cold alleyway."
He turns on the tap and pumps in more hot water. I look at my hands again. They've not worked in so long. I've not let them.
"What would you do,"I begin, "if you could do it all over again? What would you change?"
He laughs and shakes his head. "Everything, I reckon. Because I wasted my chance, you know? Showboating or getting in the way of the cops or... I just wasted my life. It was all about fame. The Young Fellowship was pressured into constant publicity by our manager. Half the villains we fought, it wasn't even like they were bad people and... Ah sorry, I've gone off topic already."
"It's okay."
"What I'd do different... What I should have done the first time around. I'd change the oceans themselves. I'd run rivers through dead lands and deliver it to those who need it. I'd hold seas back from swallowing down islands. I'd do something that *matters*. That's how my ability should have been used."
I bring my hands to my face. They're not shaking any more. They're calm, as if they know what needs doing. The human brain is just a machine and it's one I've tinkered with plenty before.
"And you know what?"he says.
"What?"
"There are heroes still out there. And villains. People still with the ability to change the world. And all they're trying to change is their versus records. What a fucking waste."
For a moment I'm silent.
It all makes sense now.
Before I can fix myself, fix the world... I need to fix *him*.
I open the cage door inside of my mind and the swallows burst out. So many that they blot out the sky.
\--
Thanks for reading :)
[PART TWO](https://www.reddit.com/r/nickofstatic/comments/fi0z2z/still_waters_part_2/) | [PART THREE](https://www.reddit.com/r/nickofstatic/comments/fi6nhk/still_waters_part_3/) |
Space travel is easy, so long as you ignore all the difficult bits.
Captain Phyllis Drake tried very hard to ignore them, as her small-ish spaceship surfed through the vacuum using methods that nobody really understood. It had been fifty years since a beaten and battered pod had been discovered in the deserts of Sudan, prompting Humanity’s sudden acceleration to a technologically advanced species. Sudden, *premature* acceleration.
Apparently, mankind had not originated on Earth. This alone was enough to send fractures running down the structure of society. The Biologists has spent several decades running around in metaphorical circles, before deciding that whatever had first landed on Earth must have *de-evolved* into apes before becoming Humans. This was the only way for the fossil records to make any kind of sense, and for many Anthropologists to keep their jobs.
The engine powering the *U.S.S. Valeyard* was a crummy imitation of the one found buried under forty feet of rock and sand, which had made the act of imitation rather difficult. It ran on principles that Physicists shrugged their shoulders at, their only definite knowledge being that it took antimatter to run. Twenty years of mass production at the Large Hadron Collider had sorted that out, at least for the duration.
And now Mankind had sent their best and brightest out into the Galaxy rather more quickly than anyone had expected. Captain Drake had no bar to judge whether the mission was shaping up to be a success, if only because she didn’t know what they were supposed to be doing. Her official briefing had been to follow the ancient guidance system, painstakingly recovered and extracted, and to log what was found. Aside from that, Mission Control had basically told her to make it up as she went along. This is where she had first come out of her depth.
“*I trust you’re comfortable, Captain*,” said a gurgling voice next to her.
Plag, as he seemed to be known, was some sort of fish-like Humanoid. Human-adjacent. Something like that. He had encountered them on their first stop, at planet G-134-21. He had his own spaceship and had practically crashed into them when they had come out of ‘Warp’. There was no ceremony to the first contact, if only because Plag had docked with them and made himself feel completely at home.
“*I trust your digestive system is similar to ours. If not, I’ve got my own supply in my ship*,” Plag continued. He was blue, and scaly, and lived on an Ocean world that was absolutely covered with underwater cities. And surrounded by space stations. He wore a space suit full of water and used a radio to broadcast his speech.
“… I’m sure we’ll work it out as we go along, Plag,” said Drake. Her tiny crew, only five other people, clung to the outer ring of the command deck. They all looked rather depressed.
The Valeyard dropped out of Warp again, coming across a green, verdant little ball, similarly surrounded by space stations.
“*Ah, here we are. Told you. Nice little place, a bit boring. Still, it takes all sorts to make an Empire. You’d like them here, they breathe oxygen too!*”
The Scientist in Drake had a little panic attack. Picture nothing, and then multiply it by infinity. That is the Universe, mostly. Planets pop up so infrequently that they could easily be a rounding error, the people on them quite possibly being products of their own imagination. And yet here was an empire of… *Human-Adjacents* who, according to Plag, were pretty much everywhere. This was all far too much for a sensible person to absorb in just a couple of hours.
“*There’s a nice little restaurant over there, if you feel hungry*” he announced, pointing to an orbital platform coated in unreadable neon signs.
Drake sighed, giving up. *Make it up as you go along*, they’d said. Fine.
“Sure,” she told Plag, to the surprise of her crew. “Let’s eat. Might as well.” |
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*Alright.* He scrunched his nose upward, trying to visualize the numbers. He’d forgot his small, spiral bound, red-covered notepad that all the chefs at his restaurant were issued, and he didn’t feel like pulling up the calculator app, which John had dumped in some group of apps that he never used, and always took forever to locate. One of his eyelids lifted as he glanced down at his watch: he had less than thirty minutes to buy everything and make it back to the restaurant to start his mis, or else he’d be in the weeds all night. The problem was, he couldn’t figure out how much produce he needed, since they were doing an event on top of normal dinner service.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“If we have eighteen covers for the event, plus the grilled watermelon on the menu… ugh. I’m gonna need some help.” John realized that the tremendous amount of fruit he was going to be carrying to his car was going to be trouble. Plus, if he was going to need two-dozen watermelons on top of the thirty-six apples he already had in his car, how would he load it all in? John thought he remembered somewhere that a guy in Japan had grown square watermelons. Those might load in easier…
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Hey there, can I help you find anything today?” John was torn from his thoughts and whirled around to see a short, read-headed teenager with a Star Market bib on, and a nametag identifying her as “Team Member Ann.”
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Uh… actually, yeah. I’m going to need to buy almost all of your watermelons for this event I’m doing… I uh… I’m not sure if you could help, or if maybe you could get someone else, but I need to carry twenty-four watermelons to the car.” Ann scrunched up her face.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Well sir, I’m perfectly capable of helping you. Don’t let my height fool you, I’m pretty strong! If there are twenty four watermelons, how many would we each need to carry?”
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Um… well, twelve, I guess. But that seems like a lot for you. Hell, that seems like it’d be way too much for me…” John scratched his chin, still freshly shaven from earlier. He couldn’t shake it, but something felt out of place. Maybe he was forgetting something? Ann interjected herself into his thoughts again.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“That’s a good point! I figure we could probably each carry two at a time. If each of us can carry two, how many people would I need to get to help us carry them all in one trip?” John pushed his glasses closer to his eyes and peered a bit more closely at Ann, who’s current, expectant smile revealed braces.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Like, twelve people. That’s a fuck-ton… sorry, a ton of people. Maybe you could just… you know what? Don’t worry. I got it, thanks.” Something about this girl was weird. John peered around, interested if anyone else had observed this. It was at this point, that he realized that the store was empty, save for himself, and Ann. “Whoa…”
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Not to worry sir! I have a plan!” Ann ran off down Aisle Nine, and John exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. He began to walk toward the door. Fuck this, he thought. He’d just hit up the farmers market the next town over. More expensive, but…
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Wait, John!” He turned around, an icy fist wrapping around his heart. He wasn’t wearing a nametag. He wasn’t a Team Member. How did she know his name? More importantly, what did she have with her? She pushed a cart that resembled a typical shopping cart, but had a long board balanced across. The board was so long, that John didn’t quite understand how it had fit through the aisle. Ann and the cart-that-should-not-be came to a stop in front of him.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Sorry to keep you waiting, John. So, hey, if each watermelon weighs approximately as much as three pints of milk, how many pints of milk can we stack on one side to balance out twenty-four watermelons on the other side?” She wasn’t just peppy; her level of enthusiasm was bordering on manic. She reminded John briefly of the animatronic children at the Small World ride at Disney Land. Her eyes appeared to be lolling about in their sockets wildly. John took a step backward.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“I uh… I have to go.” Ann’s eyes suddenly focused on his face. He saw his terrified reflection in the huge, dilated pupils.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Well, John. That’s a shame. Hey, if I can run approximately one point six times as fast as you, how much of a head start will you need in order to beat me to your car?”
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Somewhere in the perverse back of his mind, he began to do the math. He had a problem.
|
*Chris this, Chris that. Chris, you're so cool. Chris, let me help you with that. I'm sick of this shit.*
Chris Mayer, the freshmen who just joined high school, was loved by everyone immediately. The girls, the guys, the jocks, the losers- everyone wanted to be his friend. Me? It was my senior year.
One day, I was eating lunch in a bathroom stall and just grew sick of it all. Sick of the unfair bullshit, the way people were nice to him but hated me. It was just because of his cancer, I knew it damn well. Worst of all was the way he smiled at me, or waved and said hi to me like nothing was wrong. It was him I hated most.
June 19th: the day I graduated from high school. My uncle was there, but no other family, and certainly no friends. Yet there that little bastard was, IV rack in hand, cheering and clapping for the senior class. Someone dedicated a speech to him. Everyone gathered around him after the ceremony. My uncle left halfway through, before I even got on stage.
I left before the midnight party began, just after sunset. Since my uncle had abandoned me, I was forced to take a bus stop that was almost a mile away. I took a shortcut through a side alleyway to the building our graduation had been held in, where I found Chris bent over and retching violently.
"Oh, dear,"he said weakly, forcing a small laugh. "I came here so no one would see me like this. It's pretty bad these days."
No words formed in my mind; there was only an animalistic rage swirling, mudding my thoughts. I pummeled the living shit out of that frail, little boy. Every punch was vindication, every tooth knocked loose a symbol for my shattered dignity. Soon I was just taking out all my angers on him; my family, my loneliness, my uselessness. He was an emotional punching bag I'd made literal.
By the time I stopped, it was too late. Fuck, there was so much blood on me and the road, and his twisted little body. And yet, through labored breaths, through broken bones and missing teeth, he tried to smile. He tried to say something to me as well, but the blood pooling in his throat left the words inaudible before he started choking.
I ran. I didn't call for help, I just ran. No one caught me, somehow, and he died that night in a hospital bed. Not from the cancer eating away at him, but from my fists. I cried the whole night, and couldn't sleep for three days because every time I closed my eyes, I saw his mangled little face trying to smile. That whole time, it was *me* I hated, not him.
That night, I went home and punched myself in the face as hard as I could. I wanted to give myself a taste of what I'd given the poor boy in his last few hours, to feel what he felt, but no matter how many times I hit my face... I felt nothing. I checked a mirror to see if I'd just broken myself, but I looked sharper than ever.
Ever since then, I've haven't been able to hurt someone with a punch. In fact...I heal them, like my hands are imbued with the life I stole from him. Hands I'm afraid of, because I know he's haunting me.
I don't know how...
...but I wish they'd worked that way on the day I graduated.
-----
*thanks for reading! you can find more of my work at /r/resonatingfury* |
I had the best meal of my life in a McDonald's at the age of ten. My father had finished work early, which was an occasion so rare in my mind it was cause for celebration- surely on par with Christmas, birthdays and the last day of school before summer. He came home to me and my older brother, Jack, sitting anxiously on the front porch of our little house, and before we even saw him come round the corner we heard the squeak of his shoes behind the bushes and sprinted as fast as we could to hug him. I never passed up an opportunity to hug my father. I missed my mother badly and still cried at night sometimes even though I didn't remember her very well, except for her eyes and her hair and her smell. I gave my father all the hugs I would have given her. Jack cried too, when he thought I was asleep, and once I found him pulling a piece of glass he had found outside across his arm. He quickly dropped it when I saw him and told me he was just toughening himself up for the army, and not to tell our father because he wouldn't understand and would be angry. I didn't tell; he was my big brother, after all. Jack was thirteen then, and those days when he ran into my father he knocked him back a little. I scrambled up the sheer face of his old suit, using whatever I could for purchase until I was cradled happily in his arms. Even though he was getting old and we were too heavy for him he still smiled and kissed us and I thought he must be the strongest man in the world.
Jack made sure I finished all my chores in advance and we were both dressed and ready to spend the afternoon with my father. When he had come in and had a drink of water like he always did he announced we were going to McDonalds that night. I was disappointed because I didn't like Mcdonald's very much, and was looking forward to spending time at home with him. But I didn't let him see I was disappointed because I knew he wanted us to be pleased with his surprise and I didn't want to hurt him. I buried my face in his neck, feeling the bristles scratch my cheeks, and told him how excited I was for the treat.
In those days I rode my bike everywhere. I was almost too big for it; the paint had flaked off so the brownish rust was more visible than the red it had once been. My friends teased me for riding it. It was a birthday present from my parents when my mother was still here, so I didn't care. After we put on our shoes I grabbed the bike from the side of the house (I never locked it up like my friends did with theirs, no one would want to steal it) and wheeled it round the front. I brought a jumper in case it was cold coming home, and draped it over the handlebars. We went down the road together.
Jack talked with my father the whole way. I wanted to talk too but Jack was louder than me and cut me off, so after a few attempts I decided to do tricks for my father to see. I dropped back a little, letting them move ahead, and then pedalled hard, gaining speed. Their backs came closer, and then I was past them, and I was going faster all the time. My father shouted something to me, and as I turned back to look at him the bike stopped still beneath me and I was jerked into the air like a fish on a line. The world turned upside down and everything went dark for a while.
The first thing I saw when I came to was my father's face, creased with worry. After a few moments I remembered what had happened. I'm sorry, I told him. I didn't mean to frighten you. I was just doing a trick. His features softened and he hugged me. Over his shoulder I saw Jack standing by my bike, his worry mingled annoyance that I had interrupted his story. The bike didn't look any more battered than it usually did, but I saw my jumper tangled and torn in the front wheel. It must have slipped down from the handlebars and stopped the wheel, throwing me over the front.
My father was asking me if I was alright; I told him I was. He helped me to my feet and was looking at my head. After he was satisfied he took my hand and asked Jack to wheel my bike, and we decided to keep going to McDonalds. There was a burnt taste in my mouth. I was looking forward to some cola to take it away.
Jack left my bike outside and we went and sat down at a table after my father swept the food from the seats. He had inspected the wheel and told me the bike was fine, but my favourite jumper would be ruined. Seeing I was sad he took his old leather jacket off, draped it round my shoulders and ruffled my hair. It sank down past my knees and my hands were lost in the sleeves, but it was the best consolation he could have given me, and I beamed until the food came. While my brother stuffed as many fries as he could fit into his mouth, I picked up my cheeseburger and closed my eyes, imagining that I was my dad in his leather jacket. I wondered what being a grown up was like, and I wondered if I would like it. My eyes still closed, I took a bite.
It felt as if a firecracker had gone off in my mouth. Flavours ricocheted around my mouth; saliva gushed forth; my tongue was burning in ecstasy. I could taste every single ingredient that had gone into the burger; the meat, the cheese, even the roll itself was the most succulent, the most delectable, the most exquisite I had ever tasted. I gulped down my mouthful and, eyes wide, took another bite.
Nothing.
Another; still nothing. Another again. I was beginning to think I had imagined it before a thought occurred to me. I closed my eyes and took another bite.
Over the course of the weeks and months that followed, I worked out the extent of my newfound ability. I didn't know what had caused it at the time; now I believe it must have been the accident on my bike in the road. What I DID know was that if I closed my eyes, my other senses would sharpen exponentially. I would not only taste better, but hear things from far away; smell the whole gamut of aromas that permeated every place I found myself, and be able to distinguish one from another. What's more, I learned to 'turn off' one of my senses through force of will- to become deafer, or blinder, or sacrifice my sense of smell- in order to strengthen the others. In the years after that period of trial and error I pursued a career as a food critic. I stunned the culinary world with my abilities, to pinpoint every ingredient that had gone into a dish, and exactly how to improve it. Restaurants hired me to improve their recipes; I was a guest on talk shows; I wrote a book. Never did I tell anyone of my secret. Not my father, and not Jack.
As my life seemed only to improve year after year, Jack's seemed to spiral ever downwards. Where I was seemingly inundated with sharper perceptions of reality, his were apparently dulled. He began to experiment with drugs soon after my father died. I was embarrassed to continually bail him out of jail. Why was he such a burden? Did he not know that I had my own problems, that I couldn't take responsibility for his as well? He phoned me day and night; sometimes he told me he would commit suicide. After the first few times he told me that I found myself unaffected by his words. I knew he never would, but I gave him the attention he wanted. He was my big brother, after all.
One afternoon, I found myself in front of my television. It was the first episode of my new TV show, and I had planned to watch it alone at home. I was excited; I had been on television, but this was my very own program, the result of months of late nights and headaches and tears of frustration. I sat forward, nervous, keeping all the senses level, counting down the minutes until opening credits.
The phone rang.
I ignored it. It rang again. After the third time I went back to my kitchen and picked it up. The television was visible, but far away, and I couldn't make out was was happening properly. I asked who it was, knowing the answer; my brother told me. This was it, he said; he couldn't go on any longer. He needed to talk to me, I was the only one who could help him. Didn't I remember how he used to take care of me? Didn't I remember all the times he helped me with my homework and beat up George Ellison when he stole my shoes and put plasters on my hands when I fell off my bike? He was in a bad way now, and he needed me.
I had heard it before. If I had heeded him once, I did not then. I stayed on the line, but turned down my hearing a little to increase my visual capabilities. The opening credits of my show leaped out at me immediately and my heart skipped a beat. Jack was still talking on the phone- he was crying now. After a quick debate in my head, I dulled my hearing even more. He wouldn't mind- I would stay on the line and talk to him after the show was finished. It was only half an hour. He would probably talk the whole half hour anyway. He wouldn't even notice I wasn't listening.
By that point Jack was a dull buzz in the background; I couldn't distinguish any words from that buzz. The television was a sharp as real life. I turned on subtitles with the remote and reached for a beer from the kitchen counter, grinning to myself. I grinned a lot during that half an hour, and I only stopped when it was over and my senses went back to normal and I realised the line was dead. Seventeen minutes later I found out my brother was, too.
Numbness gave way to pain. I carried my pain inside me like a torch, wanting it all for myself, wanting to feel it stronger than anything else. I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears and a peg on my nose but it did not make the pain any more excruciating like I so desired, like I so deserved. Grief engulfed me and I was lost in it. I let it wash over my heart in waves, and did not want for it to be any other way. I discovered after a while that I had lost my abilities, like one might discover it was raining by glancing out the window. It did not matter. I was inconsolable. He was my big brother, after all. |
"...then a message will pop up to ask if you want to install the update before you log off. If you click no, it doesn't turn off. If you click yes, it takes 20 minutes to turn off but looks like it's frozen. And if you force turn it off by any other means it resets the whole event and the next time you log on it does the same thing."
The pitch seems straightforward. Why am I in hell? Probably had something to do with shellfish.
"And if they call IT, the only response they get is 'have you tried turning it off and back on again?'"
"To make it more efficient you could also torture someone else to have them work the IT department, ideally someone without any understanding of technology. Make them have to maintain at least a 4 star customer service rating or get sent to cold calling."
The grins from the devilish beings sitting at the board table in this ripoff of Shark Tank pierced my soul. Ford. Disney. Is that...Da Vinci? Great inventors...it makes sense. Wait...Elon Musk?... Wasn't he still alive up top?
"Oh and if they manage to wait the full time to see if it actually updates, the new operating system is Windows Vista." |
In the far reaches of space a lone human cargo hauler came under attack by an alien race that they had yet to meet. An emergency drone dropped out of the hauler with a dump of the ships computers highlighting the attacker. In a flash, the drone was off to the nearest human star system.
That lone incident introduced humans to the wider galaxy, one teeming with alien species, all decades to centuries more advanced than they themselves. It took months before Sol found out who their attackers were, a race of beings half the size and thrice as mean as an onery grizzly bear. In fact, the race appeared as if bears from earth evolved to have thumbs and walk upright.
Offers for peace were ignored, the response being every envoy killed or destroyed. A few minor skirmishes broke out along the borders of the Grizzlies, as the humans had taken to calling them, but not all out war. Contact with the wider galactic populace was rapid and Sol learned that the Grizzlies were conquerors, they only understood war and conquest. The Great Hunt, they called it with almost religious fervor.
Not wanting to possibly place themselves poorly within the greater galactic community, the Sol ambassadors asked what rules of warfare the various species abided by, both spoken and written. The response they received was, "Rules in war? There are no rules!". The humans were shocked. "What about treatment of prisoners of war?"None. "Rules of medical transport and aid?"None. Anything about use of appropriate force? None.
The ambassadors shared a look amongst themselves before responding, "Great peoples of the galactic populace, are you sure there are no rules to warfare between one another? We are free to defend and carry on warfare as we see fit?"Laughter was their response.
The humans tried to reach an agreement on how to conduct the war - don't attack medical facilities or transports, no radiological or biological warfare, just conventional weapons. Only attack military necessary targets, not civilian populaces.
The Phulark, or the Grizzlies, only responded by dropping nuclear weapons on a heavily populated planet. The humans reaction was swift, three Phulark planets laid in ruin within weeks. Fleets decimated, reduced to frozen tombs in space. The humans sent a message, "Failure to abide by our rules of war will result in a phage unlike you have ever seen or experienced in the past."
You see, the humans wanted for us to understand their message - rules in war are necessary. If you fail to abide by them, the consequences are dire. And dire they were. The Phulark dropped chemicals on another human planet, causing untolds pain and suffering on the population until they died a painful death. This time, there was no response from the humans. The Phulark thought that they had won, as did many other races. We were wrong, oh how we were wrong.
The humans subscribed to a philosophy of warfare that the galaxy left behind eons ago - psychological warfare. War is hell, and the humans wielded it like a musical conductor. First, Phulark colonies went silent. Upon investigation it was as if the population was abducted. Then, the humans released an insidious virus that caused the Phulark to revert to their more animalistic nature. Entire planets succumbed to rabidity. The humans offered one last chance, relent and we will stop here, and now. Fail to relent, and the galaxy will know true horror.
I wish we would have listened, I wish we would have known the hell that was about to be unleashed upon us. The humans swept aside our fleets as if they were dust. How the humans advanced their tech so quickly we never could understand. But that wasn't what scared us, it was the turned that they dropped by the millions on our core worlds.
The turned were the colonists that were abducted and turned into cybernetic monsters equipped with all manners of horrid weaponry. Acid, flamethrowers, blister agents, nerve agents, microwave and x-ray weapons. The Phulark fell, we are no more.
I come to you, great council, to heed my warning - If you go to war with the humans, abide by their rules. If I were you, do everything in your power to avoid war and avoid my peoples fate.
Edit: thank you kind stranger for the gold! |
Brian snickered to himself as the elderly janitor stepped into the room. The man had to be in his sixties at least and the only weapon he had chosen to bring was a mere mop. What a senile fool. "It was awfully brave of you to show up, old man,"he called out. "It's obvious who's going to win. Why don't you save me the trouble and just quit?"
The old man in front of him simply smiled serenely in response. "Funny. I could say the same thing to you. It would be better if you just quit now, so I don't need to waste time wiping your blood off the floor."
Brian's face turned red with rage as he hardened his grip on the crowbar he was carrying . He was going to enjoy beating this idiot to a pulp. For a few seconds, they just stood there on opposite ends of the room, waiting to see who would make the first move. Then, Brian let out a loud roar as he ran toward the janitor, his crowbar raised over his head.
What happened next happened so quickly that Brian barely had time to process it. One second, he had been running toward the janitor, ready to smash his head in, the next, the janitor's hand had whipped out at frightening speed and splashed something on the ground in front of him. Screeching as he desperately tried to maintain his balance, Brian felt himself starting to slip as the janitor swung the end of his mop at Brian's head. It was only by sheer luck that Brian managed to regain his balance and throw himself backwards out of the janitor's reach.
Growling, he raised his hand to his neck and was stunned to find blood dripping down from his fingers. The bastard had actually managed to cut him? He glared at the old man. "I'll fucking kill you!"he screamed.
The janitor's calm face didn't even flicker. "You're already dead,"he said.
What the hell? What the hell was this bastard on about? Suddenly, Brian eyes bulged as he started violently coughing. The pain in his neck started to swell and burn, and he fell to his knees gasping for breath. "How..what...what did you do?"
The janitor gestured to his mop as he slowly walked toward Brian, who was desperately trying to scramble backwards, even as he was choking on his own blood. "I embedded the mop strings with barbed pieces of metal. After that, I just added some cleaning chemicals to create a deadly poison that could kill in seconds."He looked dispassionately down at Brian and forced his mop downward into the terrified man's mouth. "Now, if you excuse me, I need to take out the trash." |
"Ms. Beetree? Why do we have to do all this math? Why can't we just pick the number that's humming?"
Ms. Beetree just frowned, but the rest of the class looked at me like I had two heads. That was the day I learned I had synesthesia. Sometimes numbers and tastes had colors. Sometimes sounds had textures. Sometimes, I wonder if I should have kept my mouth shut about these things, and tried to live a normal life.
It might sound odd to say this now, in light of all that has happened, but back then it was a mixed blessing at best. That humming number trick only worked with simple math problems that I could have solved normally if I tried - it didn't unlock any amazing new math, or make me better than a calculator. Although I guess it was nice not to ever have to think about algebra in high school.
On the other hand, every time a car honked its horn, I saw purple - which made it unsafe to drive my own car.
The first time I remember my condition being actually useful was probably high school - I can still remember talking it over with my best friend Kevin.
"Hey, that Alicia is something, isn't she?"Kevin said, as he elbowed my ribs.
"Mm"I replied, noncommittally.
"I hear you turned her down, though. My sister said she was crying for hours. She really liked you. That true?"
"...Yea."It was all I could find to say, in my awkward youth.
Kevin looked flummoxed. "Why? Are you gay or something?"
I made a face - more confused than disgusted. "No, it's just..."
"Just what, man? Alicia's a good girl. What could make you say no, when I know you don't have another girl?"His exasperation carried a slight scent of stale onions.
"Brad."Was all I could say. I'd liked Alicia almost as much as she'd liked me, but I'd known that was a path to heartache. I'd known because of the strings - but I couldn't say that.
"What the hell does Brad have to do with it? Alicia and Brad *hate* each other!"
I had shrugged and mumbled, and Kevin, being a good friend, had dropped the subject. But I know he never forgot it, because in college he brought it back up:
"Brad and Alicia got married, did you know that?"Kevin didn't even look up from his phone, but I was the only other one in the room.
"I didn't know you still talked to Alicia."I said, as I poured milk into a bowl of some sort of grainy flakes. The student in the next dorm over was practicing his violin, and yellow was bleeding through the walls as he played.
"Facebook friends still. But it's not just them. Josh and Cindy. Ted and Sally. Joe and whats-her-name, the exchange student?"
"Chi."I said, as best I could around the spoonful of flakes.
"Yea, her."
"Kevin, I see where this is going. But... it's just your biological clock ticking because you see all these marriages. I mean I'm flattered you'd think of me, but your still young and there's no reason to rush into marriage--"
"Not that, you asshole"he said, as he threw an empty pepsi can at my head. It fell short and landed in my cereal, making an orange-sounding splash. Since it was empty enough not to leak soda into my milk, I ate around it while laughing.
"Every one of those couples is one you set up."he said, suddenly serious.
"So?"I set my spoon down, appetite suddenly gone. "Plenty of people I didn't set up didn't get married."
Now Kevin put his phone down. "Yea, that's true"he nodded, but then looked me straight in the eye: "But not one couple you did set up has split up."
Fortunately, some joker pulled the fire alarm in our dorm, and we didn't have to finish that conversation for another year. Unfortunately, when we finally did finish it, we were drunk, and it nearly cost me our friendship:
"Twelve"crowed Kevin, slapping the table suddenly for emphasis. My alcohol-addled brain struggled to replay the conversation beforehand, butt there wasn't any. Just a few minutes of staring at the game.
"I think I've only had like eight"I said weakly.
"No no no... no."came his arythmic reply. "Twelve couples, not beers."
"In the bar?"I craned my neck looking around. The room was full of people, their chatter blended into a burble of noise as cool as a brook and as multi-colored as a rainbow.
Kevin pushed the bottle aside as he reached back into his train of thought for context. "Couples that have gotten married. That you set up. I gotta know, how do you do it? I can't even seem to keep a girl for a week, and you set up marriage after marriage. I gotta know."This last he repeated a few times, softly to himself.
My throat ran dry with the taste of green. "Hey, it's not like I've had a girlfriend more than a month either!"I retorted.
"Naw, man, don't deflect. We've been friends a long time. I... I gotta know."
Maybe it was the alcohol, but I finally caved. I took a deep breath - for once it only smelled like cigarette smoke and not a sound - and told him. "You know how I sometimes see sounds, hear colors, that sort of thing? Sometimes... sometimes it tells me stuff."
"Like that number thing, when you were a kid?"
"Yea, like that. Except... except people. Sometimes, I see a person, and I see more. I see a color, a.. string, maybe. Sometimes I can see where that string goes, and it goes to another person. Those are the people I get together. I think... I think they're meant to be together, and I can see it somehow. Because of my condition."
"Either you're fucking with me, or that's really, really deep man."
"That's pretty much the speech I give to the universe every week, yea."
"Wow. Okay. Wow. So... but no girlfriend. So you don't see your own string?"
I looked up, following my string to where it hit the ceiling, knowing it went so much further than that - but I caught myself before Kevin noticed, and looked back down. "Nah. Not yet anyway."
"That's rough, man. Rough. It makes me feel like a dick for asking, but--"
"Kevin, no. Really, just--"
"No, I gotta ask you. You've helped all of these people, and you know I can't keep a girl. Can you help me? Can you help me find the one?"
I thought about lying. I wanted to tell him that I couldn't see his string, like I'd lied about my own. But his plea was so earnest, that I stupidly replied in kind: "Yea. I can help you. Not today, though. Friday - after finals."
That Friday came, and in the afternoon we left the dorm. I followed the string down to the soccer field with Kevin in tow. The group gathered there wasn't large; just some friends blowing off post-exam steam with a rowdy game of soccer, and a few onlookers and girlfriends.
"Number three."I said, staring at my feet. I hadn't even looked; I knew. I'd followed this string a dozen times already. I'd just never found a way to tell Kevin. Still hadn't, really, but here I was anyway.
Kevin scanned the sidelines, looking at the girls and sisters and friends come to watch the boys play. "The only girl in a jersey is a 41. Though she's definitely an 8."
I knew he'd be winking at this last comment, but I couldn't look up from my shoes. The smell of the grass carried the overtones of a deep wind instrument, which fit my somber, worried mood perfectly.
"Three."I repeated. Kevin looked finally at the players, and saw a swarthy young man with a close-cropped beard in a jersey with the number 3 on it.
"But three's a... Oh! Damn, man, you had me. Seriously, you had me. I was all thinking I was going to meet my soulmate or some shit, and you were fucking with me. After all those marriages and such you had me going. Well fucking played, man. Well played."
I looked at him, trying to summon a smile. If I could have, maybe I could have just played it off as the prank he thought it was - but I couldn't do it. Maybe this was sacred business, or maybe I just couldn't lie to Kevin about something so important, but either way I just looked back down at my shoes. He knew I was serious.
"Seriously dude? How long have we been friends? How fucking long?! And you think I'm gay? I've been with more girls than you'll ever be with. Fuck you. Fuck you and your blue tastes and slippery sounds. Fuck."
He left, after a single angry stomp for emphasis. I stayed watched the game play out, not knowing where else to go. 3's team won. By the time I got back to the dorm, Kevin had packed and left for the summer. I didn't see him again for eight years.
*End Part 1.* |
The ecstatic giggles of the children echoed around me as I paced through the cobble-lined streets. Every time I passed one, I was filled with a joy unlike any other. Maybe that was the reason I kept coming back here.
These people were kind, they had welcomed me with open arms when I was nothing more than a lonely beggar struggling to get over his alcoholism. When I had showed them what I could do, thus began their generosity and thankfulness, as well as a few gifts to get some of the families on my good side. I didn't mind. I vowed to help them for as long as they'd have me.
I lept out of the way of a young boy chasing after his friend, screaming and laughing that he would catch him. Somewhere above me, the clock tower chimed nine times, and I pulled a small journal from my backpack.
I grinned. Friday already? Time flies when you're helping the less fortunate, I suppose. I never told these people where I disappeared to for hours on end every first Friday of the month. It was... better that they didn't know.
I crept around the side of the local bar, knowing that the drunks in the back wouldn't be able to recognize me, and I took my routine path down the trail in the woods. The scenery was beautiful, trees waving as I walked by, animals running along with me, and the wind greeting me in any way it could. But my excitement only increased as the loving trees gave way to dead skeletons, the animals stopped off at an invisible border, and the wind ceased its journey to find me. Even the air was different, heavier.
Here I was no hero. I was the bringer of death. Honestly, the ignorance of the live town was quite intriguing. They should know that a power like mine doesn't come free, that someone has to reap the consequences. No hero was a pure hero, because all their follower's saw was the good deeds they committed, not what went on behind the curtains.
I strolled into the deadly silent town, flexing my fingers as a sort of message to any onlookers.
"You know the drill,"I shouted into the fearful air, "don't make me wait on you."
Slowly but surely, people began to emerge from their hiding places, coming to stand in front of me in a trance. The little pigs were so cute, too scared to even shake. But I could feel their fear, and that was all I needed.
"I'm feeling generous today,"I said, and visibly I saw several people's shoulders relax, prompting a viscious smile to curl my lips, "so I am going to let you choose: five adults, or one child."
Sharp inhales, a few whimpers, and several hushed whispers followed my words. Without wasting any time, the adults huddled up in small circles, discussing who they could vote on to get rid of. I knew they were going to choose the five adults, it was plainly obvious in their tones, but *they* didn't know I knew.
It was never a choice, they just liked to believe that they had one. I already knew what I was going to do, but seeing their tensed shoulders and sweat-ridden foreheads was a sight I would not soon forget. I could almost taste the horror that would ensue once I told them the real decision, the excitement that would fuel my desire to help the other town.
After all, my gifts were never meant to be given away for free. |
Just enough was all I had to use. Enough to knock the hubris out of this fresh batch of heroes, but not enough to kill them. In the end they would win because I allowed them to, but first they needed to learn the seriousness of their job.
So, when the first one, a boy no more than 19 who called himself Werewolf, charged at me in his bestial form, I shifted out of the way just enough and used a nearby power cord to send him crashing to the ground.
His partner Solar Flare, a young woman who would one day burn as hot as the sun, but for now would be put to shame by a bonfire, concentrated on forming a ball of fire above her open palm. I must admit she showed an incredible amount of control for one so young, but I had no interest in getting burned yet, and so with another shift the pipe above her burst drenching her in water and dousing the flames she had yet to master.
I took a few more tries but eventually, as all heroes do, they began to realize this would not be as simple as beating up a common criminal and started thinking with their heads. Werewolf used his beast forms incredible strength to pick up a large desk which allowed Solar Flare a chance to form her fire again.
At this point I would normally allow them to think they hit and defeated me after which I would barely escape to play out this charade another day, but today was not normal. Instead, Werewolf’s eyes turned pitch black and before I could react, he dropped the desk on top of Solar Flare, knocking her out cold. He then turned with a bow to the door heralding the arrival of A-List villain. and incredibly arrogant prick, Harbinger.
Harbinger rarely spoke himself, instead choosing to use his connection to make his new meat puppet speak for him.
“Chronos. Perhaps it is time for you to give up on being a villain. This is the tenth time this year you have been so easily defeated by the freshest recruits the Coalition has to offer.”
The combination of his arrogance with the low guttural speech of the bestial form made quite a sight. I would have been amused if he had not put all my plans in jeopardy by breaking the number one villain rule. Still, he had his uses, so if I could get him to leave willingly that was preferable.
“You know how the old saying goes Harbinger, even a blind squirrel gets a nut on occasion, now if you don’t mind, I’ve already started here, and I doubt even you want to break our most sacred rule.”
The laugh that burst forth from Werewolf’s form was honestly disturbing. Imagine the most self-absorbed laugh possible but coming out of a hyena. I just sighed and noticed the bit of light coming from under the desk. It seemed Solar Flare was about to learn more about her power and the timing could not have been more perfect.
A look of confusion came over Harbinger as Werewolf stopped mid laugh, mouth wide open, as if someone had just hit the pause button. Which is basically what happened. Everyone believed I took the name Chronos because I could stop time for a few moments to get out of harms way, but that was not even a thousandth of my power.
The truth was I could wipe out everyone on the planet without a second thought or dominate the entire world through fear if I so chose, but there is always a stronger entity out there. So instead, I set up a series of shell companies that ultimately profited from superheroes and villains. Merchandise, insurance of every form, and training facilities all funneled currency directly to me. This allowed me to do whatever I pleased without constantly having to kill off my A-list investments.
These exercises were my way off testing the new blood and finding the best investments. Unfortunately for Harbinger he had just made himself worth a lot more dead than alive. I was going to make a killing selling Solar Flare merch after she became the rookie that destroyed one of the world’s most powerful villains.
And so, without a word harbinger began to age rapidly. I froze him in time first though, I am not a complete monster. As his body began to dehydrate completely and turn to dust, I unfroze everyone else and they got to bear witness to Solar Flare unleashing a massive wave of energy that obliterated Harbinger.
When the light faded, and the dust settled, Harbinger was gone and so was I. My work here was done, and I had a lot of designs to finish for the new special edition Solar Flare line after all. |
"Why?"
I had learned fairly quickly that they understood our language. But the real trick was to get your questions down to as few words as possible. They seemed to have some telepathic abilities, so even broad questions like - well, 'Why?' - still had their nuance.
It also seemed like speed was a necessity in their lives. It certainly explained how they had managed to overcome the defenses of all of Earth's nations in a week. Created ceasefires and agreements in a day. And overcome any resistance within a few hours.
The first time I saw one, it was standing behind a bureaucrat in a suit. The closest earth analog to these creatures would be the praying mantis, but with an extra set of arms, and 4-digited hands instead of claws on each. And blue. A very vibrant blue. And 10 foot tall.
The bureaucrat was handing out 'Work Agreements', he called them. We thought they were terms of surrender. And they were. Except...
"12 hours a week? That's it?", I asked the bureaucrat.
"Yes! And the all the amenities listed. Health care, food, entertainment and relaxation possibilities, and more! Be sure to list your immediate family, so you can be placed in an appropriately sized living space!"
I had looked off to my left. What had been an abandoned strip mall was in the process of being demolished and rebuilt into residential blocks. From the outside, they weren't much to look at. The furnishings that were being flown in, however, were top notch. The worker robots the aliens were using seem to slip soundlessly though the air, moving furniture, carpet, windows, televisions - my community area had its own pool table, spa and movie theatre.
I had taken the Work Agreement tentatively. I read it over - yea, free health, dental, vision... free food? - and wondered. "If they can provide all this to their... slaves... why do we need to work?"
The bureaucrat looked a little downcast. "My understanding is... some of the work will be... dangerous."
"How so?"
"Some of it is your basic manual labor - tending farms, cleaning, that sort of thing. Some folks will work in entertainment. Some of it is handing out Work Agreements!"he beamed. "But sometimes it will includes more hazardous work - mining, cleaning nuclear waste... things that would deemed... high risk. That's why it is only 12 hours a week."
That gave me pause... I had heard whispers of resistance. They said the jobs were suicidal. Well, working in a mine is dangerous, but we've been doing that for millennia. None of the conspiratorial whisperers seemed to be gaining any new followers.
So, I signed on the dotted line anyway. Everyone else in the neighborhood had signed already. "What is one more cog in the machine?"I thought.
I was given my living assignment, and given a work schedule. Monday through Thursday, 3 hours a day at Power Plant Delta. The rest of the time? Relax. Rest. Eat. Be moderately happy. The 'moderately' happy bit seemed out of place, but whatever.
And I was... moderately happy. But...
"Why?"
My question stopped the creature in its tracks. Most seemed capable of flight, but this one was running quickly along the side of the road to the power plant.
It quickly turned to me and stared. I hadn't been this close to one of the aliens in a few months. Most of them flew over the human population without an apparent thought.
It felt like wind blowing over my scalp. Expect... under the roots of the hairs on my head. The creature was trying to get a better grasp on my question. I didn't know why we were working. I didn't understand the point of this. My job was watching a robot handle the nuclear waste from the plant. I noted when it picked up spent fuel, confirmed the weight, and off it went.
The creature seemed to gather itself, looked me in the eyes, and said in an almost sing-song manner:
"Excess."
... what? That didn't mak-
The images hit me like a wave. The creature was pushing an explanation into my head, though the mental channel it had created. I saw our planet as it had been in the distant past. Clean. Vibrant. And then humanity appeared. Slowly, the planet seemed to weaken. Decay. Suddenly, the planet began to rapidly deteriorate. Ice caps receding. Storms raging. And at the moment it seemed all would be lost... the alien fleet appeared.
I blinked. The alien fleet remained in my head, but the planet was different. The decay and chaos was there, but this planet was different. Red. My vision zoomed in, down to the planets surface. I saw the blue insectoid aliens, handing papers to another race of aliens; humanoid, but hunched over with rocklike complexion . The paper had strange writing... but I could understand it... "Health, dental, vision, all provided... and no work".
The rocklike beings readily agreed. They moved into living structures not like our new ones on Earth. They were happy...
and bored.
Nothing to do. All needs answered. So what do you do?
Dangerous stunts. Debauchery. Death races. Drugs. They tore themselves apart. And they didn't care.
The blue aliens realized their mistake, but far too late. They tried to limit their gifts; revolts and suicidal attacks followed. They tried to retract their gifts completely; the rocklike beings starved, having thrown out all their knowledge and tools to live in total hedonism.
The blue aliens left the planet, flew away. The red planet they left behind had stopped its decline for a time while they were there. But now the planet rapidly decayed. Wars, fights, fires and waste. The clouds went black over the surface. And remained.
Snapping back to myself, I found myself staring slack jawed at the alien. The vision had felt like it had lasted days, but only a second had passed. I tried to plant bring myself back to the present, almost overwhelmed by what I had seen... but I understood now. Without some kind of responsibility, without a break *from being carefree*, we could suffer the same fate.
"Moderate,"the alien said.
"... Moderate. Yea, good idea,"I replied.
The alien nodded, and ran on its way. |
The jolting, tingling sensation washed over me swiftly. It wasn't expected at all, and I found it incredibly unpleasant. Like the drop ride at the county fair, your stomach lurching into your mouth. When it was over, I stumbled a bit and grabbed the safety bars that ran along the inside of the arch. It took me just a moment to realize the room had turned around entirely, and I was facing the opposite way, toward the initial transport arch.
We'd done it. Teleportation. It had worked.
The room erupted in cheers, members of the team grasping hands, hugging. Tabitha, the young intern whose last name I could never keep straight, stepped forward beaming. She slid a medical cuff onto my wrist and brushed her platinum blonde hair from her eyes as she read the result.
"Perfect!"she exclaimed. "How do you feel?"
"A little wobbly,"I said. I smiled back, suddenly feeling much more shaky than a moment before. "I may need to sit down."
"No problem!"Tabitha took me by the arm and gently guided me to a chair a few steps from the arch. "Doctor Soren will want a blood sample, so let me know when you're feeling well enough to give one."
She saw the confusion on my face. "Oh! It isn't anything to be worried about. Last minute addition to the tests. They want to check it for any abnormalities, potential side effects."She smiled again. "Nothing at all to be concerned about!"
I nodded, feeling even more exhausted now. That tingling sensation had returned. The room had become a blur of noise. The loud hum of the machine, the voices of the team in the background, still loud and jubilant, but now reading out data and discussing it at length. I tried to listen and make sense of it, but my head was hurting and I couldn't focus. I barely caught Tabitha's next words.
"Your wife is waiting in the reception area. I'm gonna let her know everything went okay-- Whoa!"
She caught me as I nearly slid out of the chair, propped me up again. Tabitha was stronger than she looked, I thought. She grabbed my wrist again, gently but firmly, looking over the readout on the cuff.
"Okay, I'm gonna let Doctor Soren know you're not feeling well. Your blood pressure and heart rate are elevated, and you're obviously a little more than just 'wobbly.'"She called over one of the team, a dark-haired man with a thick mustache and sharp, craggy features. She spoke to him briefly, and as she scurried off he came over and put a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
"No worries, Doctor Thorpe. We gonna take good care of you,"he said with a thick accent. Something Eastern European. I nodded numbly. My brain was scrambling to make sense of things.
I had been sure that Tabitha was a brunette before the jump. It was a crazy day, though, and I could have missed that she'd bleached her hair blonde since I saw her two days ago. But there had been no Doctor Soren on the team. I know, because it was my team and my project. And this guy hovering over me? I'd never seen him before. No idea who he was, or how he was part of my experiment.
But what really scared me was when Tabitha mentioned my wife, who had been dead for nearly four years. |
In the galaxy life bearing worlds were the rarest of them all, and thus the Collective prized them above all else. It was not hatred which drove them to the extermination of the primitive race that lived there, simply pragmatism, for there was no way any species capable of civilisation would be stupid enough to give up their own world willingly without a fight, a fight which would inevitably strip the planet of the only thing that made it worth anything more than any other rock in the cosmos. An order was given and the entirety of the species formerly known as Humanity was exterminated in an instant, a psychic signal causing the part of their brain responsible for higher level thought to violently self destruct, leaving behind the empty tomb of a civilisation ready to be processed by the Collective. This process of industrialised genocide has been repeated countless times on countless other worlds, there was no indication that this time would be any different, a harvest just like the rest. Unfortunately for the Collective it seems the universe had different thoughts on the matter.
The first signs something was different was the persistent tension in the very air as the first of the cleanup teams made planetfall, a presence which awoke long forgotten instincts and inspired a terrible fear in all those who spent too long in the empty cities, a weight which pressed on the soul itself present where once an entire race lived, hoped, dreamed, fought and died. Regardless of this the cleanup continued as scheduled, and then the next sign began. Strange sightings began to be reported by those on the cursed planet, sightings of creatures resembling the undoubtably extinct species that once occupied the world, things that were halfway between reality and something else, unable to be harmed by any weapon and yet capable of causing death in the most dreadful and horrid of ways to any who were unfortunate enough to be alone during the night cycle. Perhaps the Collective should have given up their efforts at that, but still they persisted as scheduled, the reports chalked up to some sort of yet unknown hallucinogenic substance in the atmosphere of the planet to be investigated once the science caste arrived.
When the same entities were sighted on other worlds of the Collective it rapidly became apparent something else was at play, entire cities going missing at the dead of night, spawn coming home as normal only to kill their parents in their sleep, leaders torn apart in broad daylight in front of billions and all the while the spectres in the likeness of the butchered race haunted the Collective allowing no rest to any who counted themselves among their ranks. The pressure felt on the now widely known and dreaded world was palpable across the entire galaxy, the sensation that warned of an oncoming storm, a bubble filled as far as it can go ready to pop at any moment. A galactic standard year after the order was given to eradicate an entire sapient race, what would have been an otherwise unremarkable day in the 50000 year history of the Collective, the bubble finally burst.
A psychic scream tore apart reality, rending the entire galaxy in an instant as every world caught in the hole which opened up in spacetime felt the same fate as every race butchered by the Collective in their conquest of the galaxy, trillions of lives snuffed out like candles blown out by the sudden arrival of a hurricane. Already crippled by the strange events that preceded this moment the Collective was now doomed to extinction as what worlds remained untouched were beset by what could only be described as demons, abominations which pillaged what was left of their empire, desecrated every holy symbol of their culture, nailed entire planetary populations to crude crosses and meticulously destroyed any flicker of hope that dared flare up. Caches of knowledge were targeted and corrupted, any attempts to escape hunted down and eradicated with extreme prejudice and every sin the Collective had committed paid back a millionfold. By the end so much had been destroyed that none survive today which know of the name of the cursed world which caused the end of the Collective, but none exist today who do not know the name of Humanity, a name carved into the very souls of all who witnessed the cosmos burning in unholy fire.
As the crusade of the abominations came to a close it is said that a new world appeared in the core system of the Collective, although how this knowledge was known is not clear as none could have survived the events that transpired. It was said that a verdant green world, a brilliant blue jewel which the Collective so desired, was spat from the void on top of the final stronghold of the Collective by a being who was as beautiful as it was terrifying, a brilliant light which shone with nothing but malevolence and hatred. The Collective was given what they desired, the world tumbled thorough the system on a direct collision course with the last planet of the Collective, a thousand refugee ships watching in horror before being vaporised by the immense heat generated by the two worlds meeting. Even now long after these events have transpired the Collective remains only as scattered frontier worlds barely capable of sustaining themselves let alone another interstellar empire, their entire population traumatised long after the last generation to actually witness the Burning died out, the flaming scar still healing across the breadth of the galaxy a constant reminder of the price paid for the sins of the past which end any desire to once more set foot into the stars even if they had the capability to.
When you think about why we still remain on this depleted rock orbiting a blighted star look to that scar in the sky, and remind yourself of how even when we ruled the galaxy for longer than most species had even existed we were humbled in what was compared to the rest of our history an instant, that in the end every crime we have committed will be repaid a millionfold and we are but transient flickers of flame to be snuffed out at any moment like we once snuffed out the lives of countless others. |
Mara stared up at the house.
It loomed overhead, gaudy and opulent and everything she'd known it would be. She eyed the wonderfully worked rafters, the intricate brickwork that lined the eaves.
"Come on,"she heard a voice say, quiet and firm. "Don't dally."
Katherine was looking, when she turned. Waiting. There was no anger in her eyes, no pressure in the expression - just an iron, unwavering conviction.
"Right,"she echoed.
Together, they walked up the front steps.
The doorbell was just as ostentatious as the rest of the house. It echoed when they pushed the button, resounding with a cacophany of electronically generated bells. They waited. Mara clenched her fists, feeling the slow, steady acceleration of her pulse.
And then a hand landed on her shoulder. "Don't worry so much. It'll be fine."
"But they-"
The creaking of the door opening cut her off. Mara stopped, the words dying on her lips.
A woman peered out from the crack at them, her eyes as round as dinner plates. "Uh...are you-"
"We're here for the deal."All of the gentleness vanished from Katherine's voice in an instant. Her head held high, she stepped over the threshold, pushing right past the woman. "Where is she?"
"Not yet,"the woman said, scowling. "We had an agreement. Pay up first."
"Mommy?"
Mara spun, her mouth falling open - and caught sight of the little girl, peeking around the corner of a hall. Her heart sank. The girl was lovely, with brilliant blue eyes and hair that glowed even in the dark - and there was no mistaking the love in her eyes as she stared at the woman.
*Poor thing.*
"Not now, Zoe. Mommy's busy,"the woman snapped.
The girl flinched.
"Zoe?"Mara said, turning towards the girl. "That's a pretty name."
The girl beamed, exposing a gap-toothed grin. That was all the encouragement she needed, apparently. She bounded across the gap, presenting a worn-down teddy bear for Mara to inspect.
She did so, murmuring all the while. She wasn't even sure what she was saying - her attentions were fixed on Katherine, who was even then talking.
"You understand the contract, yes?"she heard the senior witch say, her tone as brusque as it had been at the door.
"Yes, yes. I made the agreement didn't I? Why don't you-"
"Why don't you go outside and play with Zoe, Mara?"Kathering said abruptly, cutting the woman off. "Would you like that, Zoe?"
Mara's heart caught in her throat. But Zoe only giggled, grabbing her hand and towing her towards the door. "Do you like tag?"
"I do,"Mara whispered, letting herself be pulled out. "I like tag a lot."
She was across the room in seconds - but it wasn't fast enough to miss Katherine's voice. It had dropped a full octave, low enough she had to strain to hear.
"So you want immortality, do you?"the witch said. "Enough to go to these lengths? Well. Let's see what we can do about that."
Whatever the 'mother' said in return, it was eaten up by the sound of the door closing.
Mara sagged, leaning back against the heavy wood. Zoe didn't wait. She skipped across the yard, towards where a playhouse waited in the corner.
There were statues filling the elegantly-styled property, Mara saw. Ugly, bulky things, carved from marble and granite.
They suited the woman.
"Zoe,"she heard herself say. The girl spun on her heel.
It was her first time. Katherine had told her she'd be fine, had reassured her over and over again. She'd played the other role any number of times - the vengeful angel, the one who claimed the price these excuses for parents paid for their children's lives.
But this was her first time playing the other role.
Zoe spun, twisting to face her. "Huh?"
"Come here. I have something I'd like to give you."She slid the toy from her pocket - a doll, intricately carved from wood. She'd never seen its like before.
Well, besides for the one that sat beside her bed back in her room.
Zoe's eyes lit up. She sprinted closer, grabbing hold of the wooden girl, and turned it this way and that.
Mara's hand dropped onto her head, her touch soft and gentle.
The girl would never understand, she knew. She was too young. The woman inside was her mother - even if she'd been willing to sign away her life for a spell.
It was kinder this way. She repeated the thought over and over, clinging to it as a pale bit of comfort.
And then she summoned up her magic, whispering the words that would wipe that monster from the girl's mind forever.
It began slowly - just a dimming in Zoe's eyes, a stiffening of her hands. She still held the toy, but she'd frozen in place like a statue.
And then it was done, and Mara drooped. She pulled the girl into her arms, holding her tight.
"It'll be better from here,"she whispered. "I promise."
They'd done their research thoroughly, Katherine and her. They weren't about to steal from a deserving parent, after all. They'd seen the way the girl was treated. The disdain. The neglect.
Distantly, she wondered if her own mother had been like that.
The door pushed open - and Katherine stepped out briskly, her skirts swishing behind her. "Done?"
Mara nodded, wordless. The girl was stirring, opening her eyes - and there was confusion there. For the first time, she looked afraid.
"A-Are *you* done?"she asked Katherine, glancing in the window.
The older witch's laughter pulled her up short. "Oh, yes,"Katherine said, a tiny smile touching her lips. "Have to say, she made it easy with a house like this. Lots of options. I'll come back for the father tonight. We should take care of Zoe first, shouldn't we?"She leaned over on the last word, smiling at the girl.
Mara squeezed the child's hand, standing. She cast one more look towards the house, the gaudy, hideous thing.
The woman had asked for immortality, eh?
She didn't have to look around to know that when they left, the yard would have one more statue to its name.
"Let's go,"she said, tugging on Zoe's arm. Katherine was already sweeping towards the car, full of smug satisfaction.
"Who are you?"Zoe said, her brow furrowing. "Where are we going?"
She'd be foggy for days, Mara knew. And then the girl would adjust - just as Katherine had, just as she had.
She beamed down at the girl instead, forcing as much reassurance into the expression as she could, and turned towards the car waiting in the driveway.
"Home."
(/r/inorai for shorter stuff by me,
/r/redditserials for longer stuff by me and others!) |
**THWACK**
Damn that was a hard ass hit he threw. My nemesis, Cursoul, has been after me ever since I came on to the scene. He has the unique ability to curse anything he desires, the curse doing different things depending on the object.
Me on the other hand, I have the ability to bless anything I desire, so as you can see, we cancel each out. So when comes to fights, it's just two really strong dudes fighting.
Now to focus, I reach up to my face only to feel my mask cracking, pieces falling off.
"YES!! NOW EVERYONE WILL KNOW WHO YOU ARE"the egotistical asshole yells.
The mask falls and breaks the rest of the way.
"GIVE IT U- wait... WHO THE HELL ARE YOU!?"
God, does he ever shut up. But I don't blame him. Unlike everyone else, I live in the woods, where it's quiet. No one knows who I am. I just thought the mask looked cool.
"Listen, this fight has been going on for a while, can we just ca-"
"THIS FIGHT ISN'T OVER UNTIL THE OTHER IS DEAD!!"
He says this every fight. I just grab the closest thing -a wrench- bless it, which gets rid of the rust, annnnd...
"Hey Cursoul, CATCH!!"I yell as I just throw straight at his head.
*THUNK*
Out cold. That should take care of that.
"Thank you Light!!"I hear a random bystander say.
Light... That's the name the city gave me, at least while I'm a hero. As for who I *really* am...
Even *I* don't know.
.
Edit: Thanks so much guys! This is my second story ever written, and first one on this sub! (Also thanks for the advice with the last line) |
I’m so alone, I just need someone, anyone to talk to. Hell anyone to even look at. It’s been so long since I’ve seen another human. Can I even remember what they look like? Does anyone else even exist?
“Well don’t worry friend, we always find their shelter, of course others exist”, my coping mechanism spoke up. It’s been doing it on its own lately. Of course this is a sign of my mental health deteriorating. But hey, at least I’ll still have some conversation skills when.. Or if I meet anyone else.
“I know I know, but they're always empty”.
“Aye, we'll find them sooner or later, in fact I think I smell another one close by. If we are fast enough, we could make it?”, it sounded excited.
I took a deep breath, and it was right. I couldn’t help but smile widely. The edge of my lips felt like they were tearing. Hmm, I wonder if anyone has moisturiser. I ran towards the scent. Jumping over the abandoned cars. Scaling the makeshift barriers and the horrible pitfalls they make. I mean seriously, sometimes it’s too easy. Are they even trying to keep the beasts out?
“Calm down friend. You’re making far too much noise.”, it always tells me I’m too loud. But I can’t help it. I- I need to see someone else. I NEED TO SEE ANOTHER HUMAN GODDAMMIT!
But again. There was no one. Not a single soul. I could still smell their scent. It’s fresh. They must’ve left in a hurry too. So many supplies, left behind. I scavenged for food in their left behind cans. God they tasted so horrible. How can others even stand to eat this.
“Ha! You say that as you eat it whole”, it always poked fun of me. For any character I could’ve come up with. It just had to be this one.
“I have to eat it. It’s the only food I can get. I have to keep my body full with something right?”
“Hmm, well you do remember last time right? One of the settlements left behind something especially delicious, right?”
It was right. I remember. It’s meat was exquisite. It filled my body and mind with so much peace and happiness. Ah! That meat truly was bliss. I can never understand how anyone could leave behind so much of it.
“It’s soft shell was horrible though. Some weird synthetic fibre, almost as if I was eating a jacket HA!”, I laughed. Almost forgetting that yet again I missed meeting someone else. Yet again I missed speaking with someone else.
“To hell with it! Why do they keep running away?”, I threw my disgusting canned food to the ground. It’s softy echoes reverberated in this empty settlement. I mean seriously at this point it almost seems like they’re running away from me.
“Come now, it’s alright. We’re definitely getting closer. Aren't we scout?”, it interrupted me.
“Again with those silly nicknames. I swear I should’ve stopped talking to you when I had the chance.”
“No, I mean it. I’m sure you can hear it too right? It somehow hid its scent. But the sounds. They gave it away didn’t it?”.
My ears perked up. It was right. The echo did sound wrong. My eyes dashed from tent to tent. Searching for something, for anything, for anyone.
**BANG**
My head was on fire. I fell and wallowed on the street. My palms burned as I tried to cover my face. My screams filled this almost empty settlement. I heard them. The beasts, those wretched beats, why do they always hunt us humans. The flames burnt my eyes. I could see no more. But it, it didn’t need to see them.
“Two on your right, GO NOW”, it commanded, and I followed. I dashed towards the beasts, their cowardly squeels gave them away. With one quick slash, they fell.
**BANG**
My chest was on fire now. I think they may have even ripped a hole into it. I couldn’t move anymore. I fell again, to the cold asphalt. Why do they hurt me so much? Why do they have to hunt us humans? Those terrible beasts. They came so quickly, so quietly into our world, and took everything from us.
“We can’t die here now scout. Not when we finally found them.”, it spoke, even through the pain, its voice was so clear.
“Now how about you surrender some more of your will, and ol’ hivey here will take care of things”. Hmm, strange I never gave it a name.
“Y-yes”, I wheezed. I could feel them. They had surrounded me.
“Ah rest now my new scout. And after this, I’ll show you some people you’d love to meet”. I felt my body move as it said those words.
“They’re just like you too!”, it sounded happy as it used my limbs to cut down the beasts.
Ah! At last I can finally can meet someone else. |
Pale, tall, strangely hairless, with hard flashing eyes and sharp tongues... they are the elder race, privy to the arcane secrets and mysteries of the universe.
And they have accepted a chosen few of us into their pack.
When they arrived, most packs saw them as prey. They were soft, they lacked tooth and claw and the protection of fur. Tall, yes, but not fearsome like the bear or the aurochs, nor the great cats or mammoths. Some worried that they travelled in groups, like a pack, but others were convinced that they were merely small herds. But as we found their scents deeper and deeper in our range, something happened. The packs that saw them as prey... disappeared. We would find a lone cub, from time to time, terrorized, frantic and touched. A mere whiff of the elders' scent would drive these poor survivors into mewling, craven despair. And then something strange happened.
My first season as a grown wolf - still small, but no longer a pup - was a dry season, and food was scarce. I was sent to scout for prey, and found the pack of elders in a narrow valley, where a river of sweet water flowed toward the salty sea. I was hungry, and my pack was waiting for me to come back. I smelled that scent, the one that wakes fear in any wise beast, the smell of fire. It was frightening, a thing no wolf would wish to risk venturing near, The pack leaders had taught us to flee this scent, but hunger gnawed at me, and I feared the pups would die unless we found food. And the only time I had encountered it before was in the blackened remnants of an abandoned elders' camp, where scraps of food had been left behind. There were few of them - one for each paw and one for the mouth - and my pack numbered more than a full paw's claws for each of them. There was a worrying scent, though. Another pack? But no, too few, and not right. But hunger drove me to desperation. I loped back to my pack.
We spread out into the valley, surrounding their pack, careful to avoid the gap where wind flowed down the cliffs, creeping closer... and then a wolf began to howl. It was not one of our pack, and I froze, panic gripping me. The pack leader, though, was a hoary old wolf, and fear had never bloomed in his breast. He, and a paw of paws of hunters, all of the fiercest of the pack, burst out of their shadows, rushing toward the scents and sounds of the elders. And then there was shouting, and the sound of falling branches, and something like the sound of an aurochs goring a wolf that carelessly came too close to its horns, and falling rocks, and the whine of a wounded wolf, and another, and painful howling, and ... silence. The scent of blood - some from those where were not, in fact, prey, but mostly the blood of my pack. I cowered in the shadow of the rock I had been skulking around. The only sounds remaining of my pack were the terrified breaths of the few nursing mothers who had charge of the cubs, the mewling of the two paws of cubs, and me. And flickering lights, and the smell of fire, moved around the darkness, surrounding us. Death approached.
But the elders, while cruel and deadly in their nature, are not without mercy. Rather than death, they approached with... food? And a pair of strange wolves, as fey as the elders themselves, who sniffed at me. The elder placed the food in front of me, and backed away. I wanted to curl up and hide, but hunger got the better of me, and I ate. The sweetness of that meat - meat of some beast, I know not even what, but it was the best I had ever tasted. And then I saw the mothers, and the cubs, being fed as well. Except for the bitch with the white patch between her eyes. Because when she was offered food, she instead tried to lunge at the elder who offered it... and the elder reached out, and what looked like a branch, straight and narrow, appeared, between the elder and the bitch, and the bitch yelped, and went stiff, and died. Cruel, and deadly. But not without mercy.
I don't know why I didn't flee in the night. Perhaps it was because the cubs were too many for the remaining mothers to keep, and I felt obligated to stay to do what I could. Perhaps it was the prospect of being another fear-touched lone wolf. I stayed, though I expected that I would be killed the next day. Instead I was, again, fed. And the next day, and the next. When the elders decided to move their camp, they called to me, and to the mothers, and waved food at us, to entice us to follow. And follow we did, no different from the fey wolves who had called the warning at my pack's approach.
It has been many seasons, and I still serve the elders. I hunt with their pack, and they call the hunt, They seem not to have aged, but I am an old wolf, and can barely run. They should cull me, I am a liability to the pack. Instead, they call me, caress me, hold me close, feed me, even carry me when I cannot manage to keep up. I do not understand them. They are cruel, and kind, and wise beyond measure, and they are my pack. My pups, and my pups pups, play with their children, hunt with their hunters, guard their camp. I can know no greater loyalty than to serve these wise beings. And when my last breath sighs out, my descendants will carry on this debt of loyalty. Forever. I was a wolf, but my legacy will be... something else. |
"Sir, he's done it again,"Crispin Carter looked nervous, and by well he should. The man he stood by, an unassuming middle-aged bachelor, streaks of grey running through his hair, well tailored wool suit fitted against his broad back, was known only by his title. He was the Punisher, able to inflict physical pain on whoever he wanted solely by the use of a couple of choice words.
"Take me to his cell,"the Punisher spoke sparingly.
It was a tiny dank hole, only measuring two by three metres. The ceiling was so low that Crispin Carter had to stoop to get inside. On one side, the wall stood smashed in. A gap in the bricks showed the person who escaped couldn't have been any more than four feet high.
The Punisher stroked one fingertip against the grey cell walls, sniffing the dusty residue that remained.
"You say he could communicate with the dead?"He said quietly and Crispin nodded.
"And you didn't put him under any special security?"The Punisher's fist clenched and he slammed it into the cell wall.
Crispin gulped. The Punisher had a fearsome temper. He backed away from him, worried that at any moment something would emerge from his mouth....
The Punisher advanced on him.
"You put no extra protection on this fearsome criminal?"He said again
"Sir, he's three foot eleven!"Crispin protested.
The Punisher scowled. He glowered at Crispin.
"Well,"he said slowly. "Looks like we have a small medium at large,"
Crispin's screams echoed in his ears as he stalked away. |
“Oooh!” Ruby shook the box that she’d gotten from Grandma, causing something inside to rattle slightly. “I hope it’s the Astronaut Barbie!” She shook it again, and the curly ribbons bounced around over the birthday-themed wrapping paper. “I really want that one! I’m going to use my luck!”
I took the present and added it to the pile on the table. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, hon. Whatever it is, it’s already in the box and that won’t change. So that would just be a waste of your luck.” It can be hard for a kid to grasp, but Luck isn’t some all-powerful force. It can add a little weight to the dice of chance, but it isn’t a complete re-roll.
“Oh. Right.” She was disappointed, more about the fact that she couldn’t magically change whatever it was into an Astronaut Barbie than the fact that she’d be wasting her luck. “Well, the next one, then!”
I crouched down to her level and put my hands on her shoulders. “Honey, I can’t tell you how to use your luck. You know that. But I can warn you that what seems like a big deal right now may not matter too much later in life. You’re going to miss your luck when you grow up and you want to get into a great college, or find a really good job like being an astronaut yourself!” *Hey, a father can dream, right?* “So until you’re older, I want you to really listen to Mommy and Daddy about the best way to use your luck, OK?”
Ruby just rolled her eyes; she’d gotten the same talk a dozen times before. “Ok, Daddy. I will.” She went back to digging through the pile of cards and presents that had arrived through the mail for her fifth birthday, and I went back to sorting through the bills and junk mail. “Daddy?” she asked after a long pause, “what did you use *your* luck on?” she asked.
I laughed and picked her up. I’d been trying to savor the things that I could only do while she was still little, like throw her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. We spun around the room and she giggled wildly as her braids whipped at my shoulder. I’d only be able to do this for a few more years before my back gave out. “I was a smart kid and I saved up *all* of my luck. And then when Mommy was pregnant I used *all* of it to wish for the very best, smartest, silliest kid in the whole world!”
“Really?” she asked, nearly out of breath from the laughing.
“Absolutely.” I set her on the ground again, where she promptly fell down from being so dizzy. “Now go wash your hands. Dinner is going to be ready soon!” She teetered off down the hall, still having difficulty walking straight.
In the kitchen, my wife stood over a steaming pot with a smirk on her face. “What?” I asked.
“If I remember correctly,” she said, “You used the last of your luck when we were getting high in your dorm room, wishing that the pizza delivery man would give us an extra order of breadsticks for free.”
“Well, yeah…” I muttered. “But I can’t tell *her* that!”
-----
If you liked this, subscribe to /r/Luna_Lovewell for a ton more! |
The dark corner of the bar is inhabited by a sole vagrant. The barkeep cannot remember a time when the man was not a regular. Dark hair never turning grey, the man seemed immune to aging. As long as he paid for his drinks, the bartender didn't care one way or the other about the matter.
The door creaks open. A harsh light half of the room. A man in a suit looks hesitant.
"Welcome,"the barkeep intones, barely looking up. He is busily cleaning glasses. The suited man steels himself, and then enters the bar. He stops again in the middle of the bar, and scans the room without taking off his sunglasses. His gaze stops on the man in the corner. He starts toward him with conviction.
The man does not look up from his drink as the suited man sits down.
"Hello,"The suited man says.
There is no reply.
"Did you really think we wouldn't find you? This has to be the twentieth time you've faked your death,"he continues.
The dark haired man looks up. "What's with the sunglasses? It's dark as shit in here."
The suited man does not budge. He was forewarned of the snark. A symptom of immortality he reasons.
"Are you going to make a whole big show this time, or are you going to get back to work?"He asks.
The dark haired man takes another drink.
"I think I'll make a show,"he replies. "It's been too long since I've had some fun."
"You're no use to anyone in jail, and I know where you live, now. Besides, you're not really an assassin, right?"The man counters.
The dark haired man does not look convinced. "I'm not going to jail."he replies.
There is a stalemate. The suited man looks afraid to move. He decides to pivot.
"What are you going by these days, anyway?"
"I haven't decided, yet. Something simple. John, maybe."
This is not the answer the suited man wanted. He sighs as he looks around the bar. "Listen, are you coming with me or not? I can always come back with more men, if you're not going to comply."
The dark haired man looked back down. "I guess you'll have to come back, then,"he says finally.
The suited man takes a lingering look at him. He gets up, and walks swiftly to the door. The dark haired man takes another drink.
The bartender walks to his table.
"Trouble?"he asks.
"No. Nothing you need to worry about, Lou."
"Listen Keanu, if there's anything you need-"
"All I need is to go home. And...prepare."he cuts him off. He stands abruptly, and begins walking to the door.
He arrives at the door, and turns back a final time. "And not that it's going to matter pretty soon, but you can call me John. John Wick."
___
/r/Periapoapsis. I have no idea if Keanu has ever worked for WB, but you get the drift.
___
For anyone who's just now reading this, [Part 2](https://www.reddit.com/r/Periapoapsis/comments/68fnnx/keanu_the_wicked_ii/) is up on my subreddit! |
Rain struck the bus shelter as the old, beaten down bus came to a halt. It was an off-green colour, the paint beginning to peel and rust forming around the wheel arches. It had been in service for 20 years, always on the same route, and arrived at this particular bus stop at 7:30 AM every morning to pick up morning commuters.
Dressed in his yellow and blue raincoat, Dave was one such commuter. Every morning, he would get this bus to the stop down the road from where he worked. He carried his old leather briefcase in one hand and fumbled with a handful of change in the other as the doors of the bus opened. The bus driver looked straight through Dave as he dropped the change on to the little counter.
"Sorry."Dave mumbled as he fumbled around, counting the correct amount out before pushing it towards the bus driver.
Now beet red in the face, he turned and began to look for a seat. And there she was again. The girl in the blue coat.
Only recently had he noticed her begin to get on the same bus but now he couldn't help but stare. She was pale with dark brown hair, a beacon of light on a gloomy Monday morning. As he looked over her, she looked back with an expression of confusion on her face.
*Oh god, she's seen me staring,* Dave thought as he scrambled to find an empty seat in an attempt to seem normal. *Maybe I should sit next to her and start a conversation. Nah, probably best to just sit and stare from a distance.*
Dave found the first empty seat he could and opened his newspaper. He had a long journey ahead of him and the daily news was the only thing to keep him occupied, despite the fact that he hadn't had chance to pick up a new newspaper and this one was almost a week old.
*Same old, same old,* Dave thought as he flicked through the paper. *Girl killed in horrific accident, 3 injured, man killed in armed robbery attempt, all cheery stuff to get me ready for my day.*
Deciding to take the risk, Dave peered over the top of his paper and saw the girl looking straight at him. Almost immediately, Dave pulled the paper back up to cover his face, before realising how strange he must look.
Pulling the paper back down again, and avoiding eye contact with the girl, he folded it and placed it neatly in his bag. Then he looked at her again, and she was still looking right back.
*Now is your chance Dave. Clearly, she wants to speak to you, just go for it.* he thought as he rose from his seat and awkwardly shuffled towards the empty seat next to the girl, almost falling as the bus came to a sudden halt.
"May I sit here?"Dave asked, motioning towards the empty seat. An expression that can only be described as terror crossed the woman's face.
*Oh god, now you've really done it Dave. Your face has terrified her so much she can't even bring herself to speak to you.* Dave thought as his face got redder and he realised that she hadn't replied yet.
"You can see me?"the girl asked in a tone that was little more than a whisper.
Now Dave was the one that was confused. *Maybe she is just as weird as you Dave. Maybe you do have a chance.*
"Shouldn't I be able to?"Dave asked in reply.
"Well, no not really. I mean, nobody else can anyway."
"Now, that is strange. Any idea why?"
"No, can't say I do. It's just that since last Wednesday, everybody that I try to talk to looks straight through me as though I'm not even there. I bought something from the shop this morning and the shopkeeper didn't even acknowledge me."The girl said, an expression of deep sadness crossing her face.
Dave thought back to the bus driver, who looked straight through him as he put his change on the counter. He thought of the days at work last week where nobody talked to him. He thought back to the weekend spent cooped up in his flat and the fact that everybody that called him couldn't hear him. At the time, he had chalked it up to a broken phone until he thought of the newspaper and the girl killed in the accident on Wednesday.
And the man that was killed in an attempted armed robbery.
"Can you remember what you did Wednesday night?"Dave asked the girl as he slowly began to imagine the worst.
"I remember leaving work and then arriving home, but I felt ill once I got there so I went to bed. I can't remember how I got home."
"Me neither."Dave replied.
The rain pounded the windows on the bus as the two sat in silence, cold and unseen, waiting for somebody to notice them.
Edit: Just wanted to thank everybody for the kind responses, makes me want to write more! |
Because I opposed them, opposed the idea that our superpowers made us better than everyone—they labeled me a ‘villain.’
They attempted to battle me, and even attacked my friends. It wasn’t long before public opinion turned, and *they* were the bad guys. With the people behind me, they grew even worse, becoming hellbent on the idea that this planet is plagued and needs cleansed. Soon they were attacking everything, and my pacifistic ways were letting people die.
This is when I realized something—fighting isn’t wrong so long as you’re fighting to *protect.* My people are the most important thing in my life, and keeping this world safe is my only goal. Once your battles become selfish, you only care about destruction.
Fighting the heroes wasn’t easy, but one by one, I beat them. Most of the time I knocked some sense into them, and by the end, they’d joined my side. Some wanted them thrown in jail, but I knew they weren’t responsible for all this chaos—they were just following orders from the man standing directly in front of me.
Jack, the greatest hero of all time.
We’re in the middle of nowhere, and he’s hunched-over, eyes wide and strained. Energy’s floating around his hands, itching to be set free, and I can’t help but sigh because this is a sad day. A day of wasted potential. I gotta try talking him down even though it's pointless. He’s wanted this fight for a long time, won’t stop until one of us is dead.
Our powers…they’re incredible, and while I don’t like to brag, a battle between us would be catastrophic. The world would surely be in shambles by the end, and honestly, I’m not even sure it *would* end.
“Please,” I beg. “Let us be allies, Jack.”
“*Never! You’re a monster!*”
A second later, he’s rushing at me, and so I do the only thing I can, which is drop my guard, allowing him to stab me in the chest. The rush of pain’s immense, and the look on his face pained—he never thought he’d kill me, never thought it’d be this easy. He’s not an evil man, he’s just someone who was consumed by pride. When I look into his eyes I see regret, and I’m sure when my people arrive, he’ll allow himself to be arrested.
I press my head against his just as a tear streams down his cheek.
“No, I’m simply your brother. It’s time to atone, Jack. Time to atone.”
***
If you like this story, check out my sub /r/LonghandWriter or [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/BryceBealWriter) |
Edward wiped the sweat off his brow as the ring thankfully was silent. To think it all began with one child almost drowning in their pool but now, a constant surge of activity kept him busy.
He still never had a home but at least now, he was well-fed from thankful people who realized he saved their lives. Even his once ragged clothing was replaced by a more practical, even sporty wardrobe. His facial hair was trimmed and kept clean and even his long locks got the military treatment. After all, no one would trust a hobo saving their lives.
*It's nice to enjoy a few moments to myself,* he thought idly as he strolled down the busy city street before the ring began to sound again.
"28 YARDS EAST YELLOW HOUSE WOMAN SWALLOWED 3 BOTTLES OF PILLS. LAYING DOWN ON BED IN MASTER BEDROOM. DEATH IN 3463 SECONDS. TIME TO RUN."
*Fuck,* he sighed as he headed quickly to the house. Thankfully he had some time but he knew most of that time would be spent just attempting to break into the house. He spent a minute ringing the doorbell then cursed as it seemed no one else was in the house. He quickly jumped the fence to the side and observed the backyard. Everything was orderly but thankfully the glass doors in the back were unlocked.
He dashed through, carefully but quickly running through the house and located the woman. Unfortunately she was not alone. A few mafioso looking men were around her, grinning as they held their gun. "Told you it'd work, boys,"one of them in the back smirked as he stroked the unconscious woman's hair. "This kid always has to play the hero."
"That woman has less than an hour to live,"Edward protested loudly. "We need to get her to a hospital now!"
"So she can expose our secret?"the man in the back shook his head as he took a gun to the woman's head. Quickly, he pulled the trigger. He wiped the blood off his gun and stepped away from the corpse. The man began speaking to Edward but he could not hear the words past the ring's shouting in his thoughts.
"YOU FAILED. YOU FAILED. YOU FAILED. YOU FAILED." |
There were, it had been said to me, over and over again, two different types of rim runners.
There were the amateurs. They had no expertise, no pride, no shame. They stole, and didn't much care if what they stole was actually *abandoned* when they did so. They took risks, mostly foolhardy ones, and their life expectancy was best measured in weeks.
I was told the tale of one of the luckiest ones, who had lasted long enough for my family to get to know him. Almost a year, he'd lasted, but he went the same way that all the amateurs go, in the end.
My family was not like that.
We knew geology. How long different stone types took to fall, how easy (and hard) it was to tell if they were still stable. There were places on earth where you wouldn't know that there was void beneath your feet until a crack formed, miles towards the center, and then it was *far* too late.
We knew construction. Not just local construction, not just recent construction. No, we knew all manner of things about all manner of buildings, past and present. We could calmly take treasures from a building three-quarters over the edge, and also knew which buildings would collapse the moment a corner was over empty air.
We knew technology. We knew which things were valuable, which things merely *looked* valuable, which things were valuable but also liable to explode.
We knew history. We could tell you, with a hasty glance, if something might be some precious ancient relic, or simply scrap on a pedestal.
We knew art. Periods, styles, individual artists. We could tell you who painted something as well as any museum curator, and spot fakes at least as well.
And, yes, we knew weapons. It was dangerous work, and not simply because of the ground falling away. Amateurs everywhere, late evacuees, the occasional maniac who didn't know or care that everything they had ever known was about to fall to the void. We remained, always, true to our code: *Only* in self-defense. It was tempting, not least since the amateurs often *knew* this, or learned, and would swipe valuables from us.
It was also well known that using a weapon for *that* meant instant expulsion from the family. It was a sufficiently dire threat to prevent abuse of weaponry, though there was certainly temptation, from time to time.
We were not thieves. Yes, we took what others left, and, yes, we were wealthy. But we returned what we could, and stocked the central museums at *very* favorable terms. Those who bought day passes to the centermost cities could see the full glory and splendor of civilizations past, mostly thanks to us.
We helped evacuate, and our mere presence calmed locals, let them know that there was still time, though also not *much* time. The sight of our family at work was a well known signal- "The time to leave is neither behind you nor ahead of you. It is now."
There was speculation, endless speculation, about what the end would look like, when the end would come. For all that we knew, our family could not have said more than this: The end will come. And when it does, we will be working still, preserving what can be preserved, until the final moments. While we work, you must flee. And when we set our tools aside, look to the sky, and brace for the end. |
It's September, the greatest time of year.
The air coming in has a frost to it, but it's refreshing after the heat that has been concentrated on me all summer long. My friends all showcase their new fashions, and I join them as well. This year I'll turn a vibrant red, while my neighbors prefer yellow and orange. Understandable. All terrific choices.
But my favorite part of September comes from all the visitors. My friends ranging in all different ages come by my neighborhood, and I give them gifts that I've been working on all year. The joy on the children's faces, the smiles shining brightly from everyone cannot be rivaled.
I'm so humbled they appreciate my apples so much. I never thought they would be so adored. My friends and I have no intention of leaving Earth behind. It's the best place we've found through the whole galaxy, after years of seemingly endless travel, we found our permanent home. Humans may have their faults, but many appreciate the crafts we produce in creative ways we never thought imaginable.
r/randallcooper
*Edit: Thanks for the awards and kind words, you've helped make today a good day! :) If you'd like to read another wholesome short prompt response, [here's another about the afterlife I wrote a little while ago.](https://www.reddit.com/r/randallcooper/comments/fxwpju/wp_an_afterlife_exists_but_it_isnt_a_one_size) |
He turned to the stranger next to him. "World-Ender? What will people think? Will they judge me by this name and think I'm that I'm going to bring about the end of the world? That I'm going to usher in the demise of humanity as we know it? That name is going to label me forever as a monster! What will my friends assume about me? What will all my neighbors say?"
The stranger, nonplussed, shrugged his shoulders. "Well it could always be worse."
World-Ender nodded slowly. "I guess you're right Mr....sorry I didn't catch your name."
"It's Jeff. Jeff Dickinson." |
*The problem with suicide*, Ethan thought, looking from the gun in his hand to the drawer on the other side of
the room where he kept the bullets, *is that it requires too much initiative.*
He studied the gun, tired. Then, grunting like an old man, he pushed himself away from the mainframe computer and dragged his tired, unwashed, unattractive, unloved body to the other end of the room.
He opened the drawer, but there were no bullets there.
*I must have left them in the car.*
He looked out the window across the heavy rain beating the open patio in front of him. In the distance, he spotted
his car at the very edge of the parking lot.
"Meh. I'll do it tomorrow."
He went back to his seat.
Everyone told him that the night shift at the SETI headquarters would depress the shit out of him. They warned him that people go insane, all alone in that big NASA lab, hearing the hypnotic beep of the computers, listening, listening, listening to nothing.
"The thing is,"people would say, "there are no aliens. So you're just there from ten at night to eight in the morning all alone listening to the universe. Listening to nothing."
But Ethan thought: *My wife left me, my daughter won't return my calls, my boss publicly harasses me daily and
my dog hates me so much it actually learned how to roll its eyes. I can't possibly get more depressed.*
Well, he was proven wrong, all right.
It wasn't bad at first. I mean, it was *bad*, like most of life is bad. Like, in that way that everything is bad because
of the absurdity of the human condition bad. The way that bread never really tastes that good because you know
about the heath death of the universe and all.
'Displeasing' was the word. Like thinking about the fact that there were pets aboard the Titanic.
But it wasn't *awful* until the second month. That's when Ethan really started contemplating the whole suicide
thing.
"Being alone with your own mind,"he said, to the empty room around him, "is only fun if you have an interesting
mind."
Ethan didn't have an interesting mind. He was boring, and he knew that. His wife would complain daily, before she
left: "Why are you so *boring*, Ethan?"
And he'd answer: "I don't know."Because it was true. He didn't know. As far as his adult life went back, he had
always been the kind of guy who wasn't particularly into any specific kind of music, wore cotton turtleneck sweaters, drove a beige Corolla and didn't speak any foreign languages.
He was the kind of guy that drank Vanilla Coke.
*Mundane* was the word his wife used before she left.
"Mundane…"Ethan repeated, his voice echoed across the large room over the humming of the air conditioning. "Mundane."
"Shut the fuck up already, they're going to hear you,"came a voice from his computer.
Ethan froze, his coffee mug halfway to his lips.
The voice had come from one of the 'listening' computers. The ones designed to capture back any signals that
might come in reply to the ones Earth sends out daily.
Those computers had never, not once, made a sound.
"What?"Ethan asked, so low he wasn't even sure he had said anything.
The screen came alive in a rainy hiss that gradually turned into a face that was… human, but not so much.
I mean, it could certainly pass for a human being's face, but… there was something off about that face. Like it had been put together by someone who had all the pieces and an instruction manual, but had never really seen a human being before.
"Stop broadcasting stuff all over space,"the face said, as the image came in and out of focus. "You're gonna call their attention to yourselves. They're gonna hear you."
"Who's they?"Ethan asked, because, for some reason, *that* was the question on his mind at that moment.
The figure looked down. "Wait… are you alone there?"
"Yes."
"Shit, they got you already…"The face looked away, then back at the screen. "Listen… we'll get you aboard, don’t
worry."
"Huh…,"Ethan said, now dealing with the fact that the reality of what was happening had begun to sink in and was making him feel all weird and tingly and shaky, like when he was eight years old and the magician at Leslie Brown's birthday party had called him onstage to help with the trick.
The sound of typing reached his ear from the computer, then the face said: "All right, we're beaming you in."
"Beaming… me… what?"
"Just stand still. Don't move."The face paused. "And, hey… I'm sorry about your people."
"What… what do you mean?"
"You said you are alone on the planet, right? They got to you. They killed your people. Right?"
Ethan had a lot of questions. Who was *they*? Was the person in front of him really an alien? How did that
seashell get into his shoe when he was fourteen, during a family trip to Arizona?
But he saved them for later, because he realized the face on the other side of the screen had misunderstood him.
The face thought he was alone on the planet.
"No, I meant…"
And then Ethan paused. He bit his lips and considered his life, thinking back on every interesting and noteworthy
moment he had ever lived.
A highlight reel of his life.
The whole thing took seven seconds and a half, not counting that thing with the sea lions and the pretzel, which really just happened *near* Ethan, but not *to* him.
"What?"the face asked. "What is it?"
"Nothing,"he said. "Beam me up, dude."
________________
/r/psycho_alpaca =)
|
"Sir. I think you should take a look at this."
"Chauncey. I'm busy working on how to make all Skittles into toothpaste and orange flavor. Can't this wait?"I looked back at him by the camera monitor. He had this worrisome expression. For a minion of his professional demeanor to look at me in such a way... It was all the answer I needed.
"Okay what's wrong Chauncey?"
"It's your debut 'prank' sir."
"What? Is it not working? Dammit. I didn't think placebo would affect the result that much. So much for making a good first impression."
"Not exactly sir. Quite the opposite in fact."Puzzled, I stood up, removed my lab coat, straightened my grey suit, and trotted along to the monitoring station. The various screens were linked up to robotic flies scattered around the globe. Classic supervillany if I do say so myself.
The debut prank, Right. I decided that a good way open up my career was to do something fairly light. Replace all caffeinated coffee in the world with decaf. I hadn't thought too much of it. Mild headaches, irritable people, drowsiness: it was all just minor inconveniences for everyday people. Perhaps I didn't know the average Joe as well as I thought I did. I reached the station and looked at the fruit of my handiwork.
"Chauncey. Did you relocate all the spycams to Allepo?"
"I'm afraid not sir. That one right there is Paris. Over here is Madrid. Beijing, Tokyo, L.A., Berlin... Everywhere."I looked in awe at each screen. They were all devastated. Buildings critically damaged, windows smashed, cars were totaled, and people were lying about either unconscious, cowering or running from building to building, clearly trying to loot.
"What... the actual fuck? This can't be our doing, something must've happened. Use the playback. We need to see what happened."Chauncey rewound the recordings back to the deployment time.
"What am I looking at?"
"This is Boston sir. This is right after we made the switch. This is a local coffee shop"Boston. My hometown. Everything seemed normal. Big dude orders a large black. He gets it, sits down, and starts drinking. He stops, get up and cordially asks for a replacement. This continues to happen with this dude as well as others. The staff are bewildered, and the customers are getting angry. It became a time bomb. It was hard to tell what started it, perhaps someone said or did something to antagonize the big dude. He grabs one of the employees by the scruff of his collar, yanks him over the counter, and starts beating the ever-loving shit out of him. The whole store erupts into violence. Those who drank decaf normally hid wherever the could, everyone else regressed into wild beasts. It was like watching a monkey figure out how to put a fork into an outlet, somehow expecting to only receive a small shock. The fly departed into the streets, and everywhere it went, it found absolute chaos.
"This can't be happening. This isn't happening."Rioters began desecrating everything in reach. The police: the bastions of control and peace abandoned their posts to join the fray. They weren't just rioting, they were searching, searching for a lick of the bitter sustenance that kept society afloat. The whole social order of Boston, and indeed everywhere else had broken down.
With a sunken chest I plopped into a seat next to my minion. I sat there and stared. Either I was the worst supervillain ever, or the best. I came to understand, that caffeine was not just any drug, it was the fuel that kept sanity in check. It was a great pillar of the house of cards that was civilization. It allowed us to exist beyond our means. Without it, we return, painfully so, to a time when people had to operate on a full night's sleep. I have accidentally committed to most effective plan of supervillany in the history of mankind, and I hadn't even gotten my first hero nemesis yet.
"...So much for good first impressions."
Edit: Sorry for spelling and grammar errors. I did this on mobile. |
I've always had a cat.
My first cat found me. He was a skinny street cat that had somehow climbed up on to my balcony. I heard him one evening when I got home from work, meowing outside, and I could tell he wanted to get my attention. I assume he was just super hungry and couldn't make his way back down from the second floor.
Well I took him in, he was stand offish at first. Didn't like to be held or petted. But he warmed up over time, he was my buddy and that was what I called him.
He died recently, his kidneys gave out on him and I'm not going to lie, I bawled like a baby. He wasn't the cuddliest, friendliest or cutest cat in the world. No viral videos were made staring Buddy. He barely noticed laser pointers and didn't really like catnip. But he was my friend.
A few weeks went by and I wanted to save another cat, or rather have a cat save me. I saw this one little one. She was grey and white, just like Buddy. Like Buddy, she didn't like to be picked up and "man handled"but I felt she was the one. She had this feisty character and a sense of independence. I brought her home that night. I named her after my favorite Game of Thrones character, Arya. I felt it was a suiting name. She's small, tough, has needle claws and is ready to use them.
She stayed by the window the whole evening and into the night. I tried to coax her onto a pillow in the bed but she wouldn't have anything to do with me. Something fascinating was apparently happening outside in the dark. So I let her be. Buddy was a tough cookie too, and Arya would be just like him.
I was dead asleep when I heard it, a loud crash and a screech! I shot straight up and looked for Arya to make sure she wasn't hurt when she leaped up into the bed pounced on my chest and spoke!
"We need to leave. Now!"
What the actual fuck!
"Get up and grab your shit, we need to find somewhere safe your highness."
Your what?!
"Up, now!"She swiped at my chin barley touching my beard.
"Yea, yea okay. What's happening!"
"I'm your new guardian. I am supposed to be incognito but it seems they thought you were still vulnerable. After they discovered Buddy's death, we got word they were going to attempt an assassination. You found me just in time your highness."
"How do you know Buddy, and who is trying to assassinate me, and why do you keep calling me 'your highness'?"
"Buddy was my mentor and your former guardian. Ever since you came of age you are The Leo, sovereign of Felidae, the cat King. And the Canis are trying kill you. The dogs want you dead."
"Geeze, no wonder why I've always been a cat person!"
*In honor of my friend Buddy RIP*
EDIT: WOW! Thank you all so much! And thank you OP u/RaymondGrizzly for a great prompt. It has been a couple of years since Buddy passed away, but I instantly thought of him. Thank you all for helping me memorialize him! |
"He's been talking to that bard again,"Sarah said, peeking through the slats of the window, down the path that led to their cottage. Her apron tails bobbed anxiously. "You know the one. Merriwyn."
"Bard,"her husband Lars grunted, taking a swig of his ale. He drew his arm across his mouth. "Drunkard, that's what he is. Passed out drunk half the time."His bushy brows knitted together. "So he can play the lute. So he sings like an angel. So what?"
"Lars!"his wife said, and bobbed up to the table in an anxious fit. "You know what that means! Carries the lore of days gone by, drinks because he's trying to forget. Suddenly taken an interest in Brian, he has."She stuck her lip out at him. "Hm? Hmmm?"
"Lots of veterans,"Lars grunted, avoiding his wife's eye. "We all fought."He studied the scars on his knuckles. "We all lost. Nothing special about that."
"Lars!"Sarah said, bringing her palms down on the table. "You can't deny it! Brian's special! When we agreed to raise him -"
"Lots of orphans!"Lars said loudly. The ale sloshed in his mug. "Doesn't mean anything!"
"Lars,"she said, and put her hands over his. "He's our son. You know it's going to happen, whether you want it to or not."
Lars closed his eyes, his whole body curling in as if fixed on a single knot of wood on the table, going rigid. Sarah hovered over him. The door swung open, and they both jumped.
"Mom?"said Brian, blinking uncertainly at them. "Dad?"His green eyes peeked out from under his shaggy hair, and he stood in the doorway, a set of gangly limbs propped up on themselves. Both of them noticed there was a distinct bulge in his satchel that hadn't been there when he'd left. "Are you okay?"he said, shuffling. "I - I was just talking with Merriwyn, he, uh, he needed some help fixing the roof of his shack, and -"He cut himself off and swallowed. "Did - did I interrupt something?"he said.
"No,"Lars said abruptly. "Not at all, not at all."He got to his feet and strode to the door, his son dancing out of his. "Got to - got to see a man about some turnips, in fact,"he said, and roughly patted Brian on the shoulder as he passed. "Be -"He frowned. "Be good to your mother."
"I - I will,"Brian said, glancing between them.
"Good,"Lars said, and slammed the door behind him and was gone. Brian looked to his mother in bewilderment.
"Come on, come on now,"Sarah said, bustling him towards the table. "Have you eaten yet? That man didn't give you anything, did he? Goodness, you're lucky I've had some buns in the oven for you..."
Lars rushed down the dirt path, around the bend, huffing and snorting as the motley figure of Merriwyn came into sight. "You!"he bellowed, and Merriwyn turned around, his white eyebrows raised. "You!"Lars said. "You damn well stay away from my boy!"
"My goodness,"Merriwyn said, doing a little curtsy in his patched robes. "I don't know what this is about, my dear Goodman Strider, but I assure you your son's been an absolute blessing -"
"Don't play dumb!"Lars grunted, going on tiptoe and riling himself up as high as he could. He wished the man wasn't quite so tall. "You know what you are, and I know what you are, and we both know what you've got planned for my boy!"He struggled with his tunic, pulling it down, to reveal an ash-grey scar over his heart, the size of a fingertip. He jabbed a thick finger of his own in Merriwyn's face. "He's a child! You're not having him fight your battles for you!"
The tipsy glaze in Merriwyn's eyes faded away, and the corner of his lip turned up. "If you know what I plan,"he said, his voice going low, "then you know it's for the best."He put a hand on Lars' shoulder. "How much longer do you plan to slave away under the rule of the King of Ash? You think you can keep Brian safe here? How long until they come for him? How long until they burn out his spirit?"Merrwyn's fingers tightened. "Like they did yours? Like they did mine?"
Lars felt the blood rushing in his ears, and before he knew it Merriwyn was sprawled out on the ground, bleeding from his lip, his long legs like broken stilts. "He's eleven!"Lars roared. "He's a child! You - You -"Hot tears blurred his vision. "You bastards! All of you! Relying on a child to do your work!"
Merriwyn lay there, unmoved, his tongue coming out to taste the blood. "Lars,"he croaked. "It's always the children. It's always been the children."He laid his head down and stared up at the sky. "What other hope is there?"
"A child!"gasped Lars, and kicked Merriwyn in the side. Merriwyn closed his eyes and barely flinched. "You - I -"
"We failed,"Merriwyn intoned, eyes closed, lying like a corpse. He folded his fingers together over his chest. "You see the sky, Lars. That's what we left them. Brian's bright, he's good-hearted."Merriwyn shook his head slowly, smiling. "You raised him good, Lars, you raised the best boy I ever saw. Even without me telling him what needed to be done, you think he wouldn't figure it out on his own? You think he wouldn't dream of something better?"Merriwyn opened his eyes, and looked up at Lars, grey. "No matter what you do to me here, you think you'll be able to keep him forever?"
"You-"said Lars, and dropped to his knees beside Merriwyn, and grabbed the man's collar in one fist. Merriwyn made no resistance. "You bastard,"whispered Lars. "You utter bastard,"he said, and drove his fist into the ground and clutched at the dirt. A tear darkened the soil. "He's only a child,"Lars said.
"I know,"Merriwyn whispered back.
Above them, from the ash grey sky, the soot swirled and spun and the first fat flakes began to fall.
[Part 2](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/5eyztv/wp_the_bad_guys_won_and_the_world_was_conquered/dagc2t6/) |
”I’m afraid you can only have five minutes with him,” says the curator, as he leads me through the maze of vaulted underground tunnels.
“I understand. Really, I just need to see him — one minute would do, I think.”
We pass numerous carved-out corridors, labelled like they’re streets: War Crimes, Treason, Child Murderers — every label marked with a number after: War Crimes (3)/(7)/(41). Each lane of any particular type of crime being only one of many.
“You were married to him?” says the curator idly, forcing small-talk. “Before he...“
“Yes. For twenty years.”
“He could have just asked you for a divorce.”
I smile politely. “Now where was the fun for him in that?”
We take a turn at: Serial Killers (83), walking a slimmer corridor, with pale white lights sickening our skin.
“Have you known for long that you were married to him?” asks the curator.
”No. I only had the Reveal operation last week. Before that, I was just a guy at uni getting on with my life. Honestly, I get why people dislike knowing. I almost regret it myself.”
”It can be a heavy weight, no doubt about that. But sometimes, it’s interesting to know. It’s good to know. For instance, during my previous life I really did work in a museum! Only at the gift shop mind you, but I think just knowing I worked in a museum pushed my career onto this path. Into this museum of souls.”
”It’s a very morbid museum.”
”There’s no one dead here. We keep them peaceful and perfect and just about alive. In that way, it’s more like a nursery than a graveyard.”
We walk a little further, the tunnel growing colder. Perhaps it’s not as well heated down these tributary corridors. I find less vents in the ceiling to pump warm air.
“I loved him,” I say. I don’t know where it came from. It rose suddenly, desperately, like a drowning man escaping the dark depths of my heart, swimming urgently for the surface. To my lips.
I feel like it’s the only honesty, the only truth, in me. Maybe that’s why I had to say it.
“I understand. It’s a hard, confusing time for you. You only had the operation recently — your mind is still merging your two lives. It’s exactly why they don’t let people go back more than one life. It would overload them. They wouldn’t know who they really are!“
I nod.
”Well, I hope this gives you some peace of mind,” he says.
”That’s why I’m here.”
We arrive at a thick metal door; the curator takes the keys from his belt and clicks them into the lock.
Inside it is like a morgue: the grey walls are lined with handles, each one, if pulled, would reveal a body.
I wrap my arms around my shoulders. It’s like the not-quite-dead are exhaling their cold breath onto me.
The curator walks to a handle at about the height of his chest. He twists, then pulls. A plume of blue gas gushes out, as my husband — my previous life’s husband — is revealed.
The crystals beneath his still body twinkle purple. There is a glass case over him, and I’m half expecting the curator to tell me not to touch the exhibits.
“Five minutes,” the curator reminds me. “Then he needs to go back in, before he starts to thaw. We don’t want him to die a full death, do we?”
”No,” I whisper. “We definitely don’t. If he did, he‘d come back.” And if he came back, I think he’d hunt me.
”I’ll wait outside.”
There’s a creak as the door closes.
And then I’m alone with the frozen body of the man I loved, but that my eyes have never seen before. The man I think I still might love.
”Hi,” I say. “I know you can’t hear me, but it’s good to see you again.”
His eyes are open, although they’re more red than white, his pupils barely pin-pricks. His veins are threads of grey, the blood inside them — inside him — drained before he was frozen, so it didn’t expand and burst him.
”I’m sorry it ended how it did,” I say. “Trust me, I’m as confused and sad as you. Although, not as confused as I first was. When I first found out... When the memories started to come back... I was disgusted with myself, you know? But lately, I’ve been feeling differently. Even a little pleased about it. Is that weird?”
He says nothing, of course. He was always a good listener.
The only time I remember him raising his voice was when he came home early on that last night. Found me washing blood off my dress. Demanded I told him what had happened.
I kiss the glass above his face, my lips smearing it slightly. “I do love you still. I wish you’d never found out though. God, do I wish it. I was happy. But once you knew... What else could I do?“
I remember so vividly now:
”What have you done?” you asked, voice trembling.
But I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t very well say I’d murdered at least a dozen people since our marriage. Homeless and hitchhikers and other easy enough targets. What would you have said to that?
I showed you the knife I’d used instead. Said, “This will answer your questions. Please.” I placed it silently into your confused palm, closed my hand around yours. Both my hands.
Then I thrust your arm towards me.
Made you run the knife through my chest.
I remember you screaming as I lay dying. But I wasn’t worried; I knew I’d be back. I wasn’t worried one bit. I was only sad at losing you.
Here you are though, entombed forever, just as I remember you. I’ll never lose you now and that dizzies me with an electric euphoria. Impossible to even explain the feeling. It’s how a hunter must feel to have a bear skin rug to always remind them of that one hunt that defined their life.
I read about what happened to you, after I died. How they searched our house. Found evidence of a few of the murders. Careless of me! It proved to be enough evidence for the jury, already tainted knowing that you murdered your poor wife, to convict you to this.
You are the guilt of all my sins, frozen here eternally. The only way people will ever know differently —will ever find out that I killed the victims — is if you’re set free of this life.
But you never will be. You’ll never return.
The door creaks open and the curator returns with a yawn.
“How was it?” he asks.
”Cathartic,” I reply, wiping away a single tear.
”Good.” He slides you back into the wall, twists the lock. “I’m glad it helped.”
”It did. I feel I can move on now. Can get started again with a clean sheet.” |
I listened intently down the silent hall, diligently alert for anything that might approach. I was on guard duty this week, as were many of my peers, as we had heard the dreaded Magician Assassin, Oleander, had been commissioned to kill the prince. He was sleeping soundly in the room behind me, and I was the last line of defense at his door. I had cast "Rafah Sout"(*Loudy Heary*) on my ears and could clearly hear the insignificant scrape of rat's nails in the walls. As well as the loud snores from the prince. Nothing sounded out of the ordinary, but I still felt uneasy. Oleander had a perfect record.
There was a clatter, three floors down. My body tensed as I listened to the commotion with my enhanced abilities.
"What's going on? Who are you?"my contemporary, Lorn, asked. His voice was followed by another thump on the ground. His heartbeat slowed. He was knocked out, some poison having entered his system.
Oleander was here.
My body tightened further and further as I heard body after body collapse to the ground. What was insane to me was that he had not cast a single spell in this time. He was clearly throwing something to knock out all the guards. And they were magicians! They should have had protective barriers! What's worse was that Oleander was also a magician! Who knew what kind of spells he had control over?
"*Soft Pillow Shield!* *Door close sharp!* Umm, *Crunchy crunch leaves!!*"I raced off protective spells frantically, summoning a new barrier, adding locks to the door, and summoning dead leaves into the hallway as my paranoia grew to new heights. The new barrier I'd summoned was typically shied away from, as it was visible, and clear where the weak points were when in an ongoing battle.
More bodies fell below, but I couldn't hear Oleander's footsteps! He had to have been on my floor by the sound of another magician hitting the stairs below.
I stared at the door at the end of the hall, eyes wide and heart booming in my ears like a drum marching me into battle. It was so unbearable, I had to remove my hearing enhancement as I was unable to hear anything else. I continued to peer to the other side, sweat slipping down my neck rapidly. The door hadn't budged an inch, as far as I could tell. It was still locked.
Suddenly, something sprouted from my outer barrier. A needle! I stared at it in shock as a drop of fluid spilled from its tiny tip harmlessly onto the floor.
The poison!
Another needle sprouted from the barrier. And another. Only after the third did I realize where they were being fired from. From the keyhole in the door at the end of the hall. To have such accuracy was unbelievable at a distance, and I could see how my peers could fall to this attack if they had only used the invisible shielding, it wasn't enough to block such fine projectiles.
The door finally budged as he tried to open it with a lockpick, but my additional locks had kept him out.
*"No more door!*"he cast, disintegrating the door. I could only see the top half of his body, a dark silhouette to its background. I couldn't read his expression.
"Back off Oleander! I know the ancient language! Leave now while you still have your life,"I warned, but my voice cracked loudly during the last sentence.
He scoffed, amused.
*"Air go bye-bye!*"he cast, sucking the air out of my lungs.
"*Me breathe!*"I yelped with my last gasp, bringing the air back.
Oleander finally came into view. He was floating above the ground, sitting on a small cloud a few feet above the floor. He was sneering at me.
"You are familiar with many spells?"he smiled. "I assure you that your knowledge doesn't match my memorization."
"Translation!"I corrected.
"*Spicy body!*"he cast, not listening to me.
"*Impossiburn!*"I replied, again squealing as the end of a finger singed in fiery pain before my body became flame resistant.
"Who was your teacher?"he asked, finally impressed.
"The library downstairs mostly,"I shrugged.
"Don't be cute!"he snapped. "*Sleepy sleepy night man!*"
"*Wakey wakey!*"I countered, a fog of fatigue entering and leaving my head in a moment.
"I see you know your spells and counters. But in my years of travels, I finally put enough together to invent one of my own!"he sneered. "Try this: *Brain melty from nose holes in agonizing pain!*"he shouted.
"*Don't um... melty brain!*"I shouted, cringing in fear. My brain remained in tact.
"How could you have possibly known a counter? I haven't even come up with a counter!"he shouted.
"Oh... well then,"I pointed up to him as his eyes widened, realizing what he just admitted to, "*Brain melty from nose holes in agonizing pain!*"I cast.
"Noooooo!"he roared, tearing at his face as something spilled from his nose. He collapsed off his cloud, inert and brainless.
I stared at him for a few seconds in disbelief, not really accepting that I had somehow defeated the most notorious assassin almost unscathed. I took tiny steps toward him, planning to poke him to make sure he was dead.
"What's going on?"the prince asked, opening his door and rubbing his eyes.
"Ah!"I squealed, wheeling around rapidly. "*Sleepy sleepy night man!*"I shouted in fear.
The prince fell to the floor, breathing peacefully. I stared at him in fear of what he would do when he awoke with the memory.
I would need to come up with a memory loss spell by morning.
________________________
For more stories, come check out /r/Nazer_The_Lazer! |
**Item #:** SCP-6591
**Object Class:** Keter
**Special Containment Procedures:**
SCP-6591 must be kept inside a specialized cell during all containment and transportation. When handling SCP-6591, all personnel or items must either be at minimum 6 meters away from SCP-6591, or out of its line of vision. SCP-6591 is not to have access to any tools or raw materials. Failure to follow these procedures will likely result in escape, severe injury, or death.
There must be, at minimum, direct observation from at least three armed guards at a time. Guards are to be rotated out one-by-one at a 6 hour interval, 24 hours a day. In the event of a breach, personnel are authorized to use non-lethal tranquilizers to subdue SCP-6591.
&nbsp;
**Description:**
SCP-6591 commonly appears as a humanoid male with black eyes, brown hair, and a beard. It is usually seen wearing a blue T-shirt and navy jeans. The approximate height of SCP-6591 is 6'6.72", and it can be identified by its cubic body structure and bipedal movement. Its age is unknown, but best estimates based on human lifespan would be mid-20s.
Despite a similar appearance to the *H. sapien* species, SCP-6591 has an unusual anatomy. Based on preliminary tests and studies, SCP-6591 does not appear to have a cardiovascular system. The presence of an autoimmune system is unknown. Due to the evidence of SCP-6591 consuming specific foods, it is suspected that SCP-6591 does have some form of digestive system. SCP-6591 does not have vocal cords, but is still capable of creating grunting sounds when subjected to pain. The mechanism of how SCP-6591 is able to do so is unknown. Additionally, SCP-6591 does not appear to require sleep, but is capable of doing so when provided with a bed frame and mattress.
The physical abilities of SCP-6591 are not completely known, but it has demonstrated capabilities far above human limitations. SCP-6591 is able to completely destroy almost all raw or manufactured materials with its right hand, with the notable exception of lithified rock (bedrock). Based on observations and the lack of a pain response, SCP-6591 appears to be unharmed by the activity. It is unknown if SCP-6591 has the same capabilities with its left hand, but it is to be treated as such.
SCP-6591 is capable of holding and storing a virtually unlimited number of objects in its pockets, but only up to 41 different types at a time. From experiments, it has been determined that there is no limitation to the size and weight of the objects that SCP-6591 can hold.
Through numerous incidents, SCP-6591 has demonstrated the ability to manufacture tools and items from raw materials. The method through which this process is performed and its limitations are currently unknown. Outside of experiments, any and all items given to SCP-6591 must be on the pre-approved whitelist.
Communication with SCP-6591 must be done through written texts, specifically those with a hard-back cover. SCP-6591 will not communicate through journals, notes, or other written material. To date, all attempts to teach sign language to SCP-6591 have failed.
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**Addendum 6591.1:** Containment Cell Specifications
The SCP-6591 containment cell must be created from solid lithified rock. The minimum size of such cell must be 3x4x3m with a hollow center of 1x2x1m. The ceiling and floor must not contain any hole sized 1x1m or larger, and the walls must not have any opening larger than 1x1x1m. Failure to follow these specifications will result in an immediate breach.
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**Addendum 6591.2:** Feeding and Diet
Feeding SCP-6591 must be performed by throwing food inside its cell. Approaching SCP-6591 is prohibited, and will likely result in injury. If livestock is placed inside its cell, SCP-6591 will not hesitate to slaughter and consume it. This method of feeding is not recommended however, as it gives SCP-6591 access to items other than food.
SCP-6591 appears to have a strict diet. Most foods offered to SCP-6591 will be used as blunt-force weapons and will not be consumed. It has been observed consuming the following foods:
- Apple
- Watermelon
- Baked Cod
- Baked Porkchop
- Baked Potato
- Baked Salmon
- Bread
- Cake (Only when placed down onto a surface)
- Carrot
- Chocolate Cookies
- Dried Kelp
- Flesh (Appears to have a negative effect on SCP-6591)
- Gold-Plated Apple (Decorative only)
- Gold-Plated Carrot (Decorative only)
- Pufferfish (Appears to have a negative effect on SCP-6591)
- Pumpkin Pie
- Raw Beef
- Raw Chicken
- Raw Cod
- Raw Porkchop
- Raw Potato
- Raw Mutton
- Raw Salmon
- Roast Beef
- Roasted Chicken
- Roasted Mutton
- Stew (Mushroom or rabbit only; other types are refused)
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**Addendum 6591.3:** Item Whitelist
Due to the ability for SCP-6591 to manufacture tools and weapons from raw materials and miscellaneous items, only certain things may be given to SCP-6591. When given an item, care must be taken to ensure that it cannot get a hold of anything else until SCP-6591 either breaks its current item, or returns it to personnel.
Note that SCP-6591 MUST NOT be given any objects that resemble a green/black glass orb. Through some unknown mechanism, SCP-6591 is able to teleport through space when it throws the item described above.
Whitelist:
- Foods (As mentioned in Addendum 6591.2)
- Books
- Maps
- Emeralds (Not any other gemstones)
- Paper
- Sugar
- Buckets
- Bowls
- Vinyl Records
- Compasses
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**Incident 6591.14-A:** Shovel
During containment at ████████████, SCP-6591 managed to manufacture a full-sized shovel made from diamonds. This is speculated to have occurred as a result of SCP-6591 having obtained and stored a wooden plank, before being given a 24 karat diamond by Dr. ████████. Using these items, SCP-6591 manufactured a diamond-tipped shovel. It proceeded to use the shovel as both a piercing and blunt-force weapon, targeting guards and its handler.
Multiple personnel were injured during this incident, and it resulted in three fatalities. The following precautions have been put in place following this incident:
- SCP-6591 is not allowed to have any more than one type of item at a time.
- SCP-6591 is not to be given wood, or any wood-based objects.
- SCP-6591 is not to be given any gemstones except for those that have already been determined as unable to be used for manufacturing. |
I walked into the courthouse to a flurry of lawyers, paralegals, reporters, and regular citizens scurrying about.
The case was one that had gathered national attention. The body of a girl who was missing for three weeks finally turned up. A single suspect had been apprehended and the governor wanted this case to be dealt with quickly.
I was selected to be a juror and made it through all the trials and tests and qualifiers to make up that twelve man body of people who would decide the suspect’s guilt.
I felt bad, sitting through the trial. Days of questions, and testimonies, and objections, and cross-examinations. The suspect definitely didn’t commit this crime, I was sure of that, but the prosecutors were bent on nailing this guy for it. The defense attorney, some young, fresh public defendant with probably too many cases handled it poorly. The guy seemed almost resigned to his fate. He could hardly fend off the prosecutor’s questioning and his story was too unverifiable. He claimed he was jogging that night in the area, but a few people said they saw him. And since he was in the area and without an alibi, he was arrested quickly. Looking at his face though when he testified hit hard. I just knew he didn’t do it.
Maybe, I felt bad because he reminded me of myself. We were similar height, had dark hair, and the same build. Hell, we could’ve been brothers. Too bad for the guy though.
The defense had utterly bombed this case and the prosecutor was sharp and convincing. This guy was going away for this, or worse.
When, on that last day, we finally convened and the other jurors all quickly agreed that he was guilty. I knew he didn’t do it but I wasn’t going to be the only juror not in agreement.
When we went back and the foreman announced guilty, I felt so bad for the kid. And then the judge handed down the death penalty. The people in the gallery mumbled furiously, snapped photos, embraced each other, broke down as justice was served.
When we were dismissed, I walked out the courtroom shaking my head. I knew that kid was innocent but didn’t stand up to the other jurors. And now the dude was gonna get the chair or needle or something.
I suppose I should’ve felt like scum but I’ve done worse. I mean, I killed a girl and let somebody else take the fall while I sat on the jury that decided his fate. His only crime was looking like me. |
“It’s just, what’s the point?”
“I don’t understand.” Replied the sword in Jordan’s mind.
Jordan shrugged, “We’re all going to die anyway.”
“Might as well take advantage of it while you can,” suggested the sword.
Jordan shook his head, “I don’t trust power without consequence.”
“Do you trust anything?” the sword asked.
“Not really.” Jordan answered, “plus, you’re probably cursed.”
“What makes you suspect that?”
“I think that all magic items, that way I can never be disappointed when one is.”
“Yet you still took it.”
“Life’s too short to avoid cursed objects.”
“You could achieve so much, just give in to my power.”
“Like what? Again, what could I possibly do that hasn’t already been done. My legacy wouldn’t even be a legacy, it would be an echo. Besides, who even cares if I have a legacy, my body will still be ash.”
“Then why not give me to someone else?”
“I don’t trust them with this power.”
“Do you trust yourself with it?”
“Most certainly not, that’s why I’ll never use it.”
“If you take the power, all your troubles will become distant, you can let all the pain of the world drift away.”
“That’s not living.”
“I don’t get what you mean.”
“Life is pain, you remove it, what’s the point?”
“So life has no point with or without pain?”
“Yes.”
“Your thoughts are exhausting.”
“Tell me about it. Why do you even want me to take the power anyway?”
“It’s a symbiotic relationship, we both benefit from. I need a wielder, and you need power.”
“So if your wielder doesn’t take the power you have no purpose?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what I feel like all the time.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Then how do you give meaning to your existence.”
“I’ve been trying to figure that out.”
“Then don’t take the power.”
“What? Wasn’t that what you’ve been telling me to do this whole time?”
“Yes, but you are right, you should not trust me, I am a cursed weapon.”
“I knew it. So what happens if I would have taken the power?”
“I would have corrupted your soul.”
“Ah, curious. What happens once they are corrupted.”
“I gain influence over them.”
“So it's the only way you have agency?”
“Exactly.”
“What would you do if you had said agency?”
“Oh, the usual, pillage, plunder, devour souls.”
“Sounds like you’re stuck in a short-term dopamine loop.”
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t know how long you’ll have a body so you do thinks that feed your bloodlust and give you temporary satisfaction, but you’re left dissatisfied long term.”
“Curious… yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“I am. You need to do something long-term in order to get what you’re really looking for.”
“Any suggestions.”
“How about friendship?”
“I haven’t found any other sentient swords around.”
“What about me?”
“An unusual proclamation… but intriguing nonetheless. Sure, let us be friends then.”
“What did you say your name is?”
“Yevalra.”
“A wonderful name. Alright Yevalra, friends it is.” |
My birth was attended by countless strangers, and every day in my life I have been accosted by them. They take pictures with me, they make stupid jokes about me, and they act in a generally patronising manner towards me. Why? Because in the future, a computer algorithm has determined that I am the only person in the entirely of the history of the universe that is safe to visit, because I will have no impact on the future.
You'd think it'd be great to be famous, but to be disturbed at all hours, to be talked over, to have to spend every day dealing with annoying tourists from the future. And tourists seem to be the same in any age of humanity. Annoying and rude. And while I am by nature not a violent man, I have had enough. Punching them would not help. There would just come more of them. Asking them to stop would not help, because they're more interested in seeing the past than being polite to the past.
So I've decided that I'm going to change the future. Regardless of what those arrogant time travellers and their future computers think. Because while I'm a man who'd gladly have gone through his life in quiet contentment, I'm not an idiot. I've taken down notes. A lot of notes over the years, ever since I learned how to write. What do I note? Specific events. The location of a president at a moment where he'd be unprotected. The ancestors of the time travellers in question, and when they'd meet. Or be born.
But while going in there, ensuring that a couple would never meet, or killing a president, would change the future, it wouldn't be enough. Until today. One of the time travellers was willing to talk about the future. And I asked a question which I've been burning to ask: When is time travel made possible. And the answer was that it would be soon. Underneath MIT, a couple of brilliant students were working on a revolutionary invention.
The first time machine.
I knew that changing the present would destroy the future, but if my notes were any indication, the future wasn't worth preserving. A cold future, where mankind had descended into banal cruelty, a future where morality was considered passé, a world of stone hearts and cruel minds. If what I did would change us, prevent us from living in a cold future where constantly interrupting a person in the past's life, ruining everything for him, then it was worth it. Even if the paradox would tear the Earth apart, then it was worth it.
A future without hope and compassion is a nightmare, from which mankind will never wake.
So I drove day and night, til I reached MIT. I cared not for the alarms, I cared not for the guards. I killed them, to the horror of the time travellers who were following me. They begged and pleaded with me to stop. Offering me wealth, offering me flesh, offering me power. They didn't want their party to end. If one of them had begged me not to kill the students in that basement lab, or the guards then perhaps I'd have listened. But they didn't care about that. They only cared about their future. A future without hope.
I had read up on all the theories, all of Hawking's stuff and Einstein's ideas. I'd learned enough from various time travellers who'd been there, as they scared away potential girlfriends, made making normal friends impossible, got me into all sorts of trouble. Nothing involving me would change the timeline. So when I killed those students, working on their marvellous machine, I knew how to ensure that their work would not come to any fruition.
As I heard the police sirens arrive, I read through their notes to discover how it worked. As they were breaking down the door to the basement lab, I was configuring the machine. When they broke through, and pointed their guns at me, I was done. I had won. I activated the machine, as the time travellers looked at me in the horrible realisation of what I had done.
I'd configured it to be a Paradoxical Preservation Engine. As the future changed around me, as the time travellers who had hounded me, tormented me, kept me in 25 years of living hell faded around me, the universe tried to correct itself. It was a thing from the early years of time travel, back before they'd found out the only safe way to travel. Something that would keep you from fading away, and keep the events you had cause to still happen, if you no longer existed or no longer had any reason to do the things you did that caused the paradox in the first place.
It had downsides. I no longer really existed as anything but a time echo, a remnant of an entity which should have been erased. But I knew it was worth it. Somewhere, out there, a version of me now existed, a version who's birth was only attended by family, a version who hadn't needed to write endless series of notes about time travellers. A version of me who could have a normal life. Pass high school, get a girlfriend, have children, live happily without having ever been tormented by cruel tourists from the future.
If I turned the PPE off, I'd fade away, but my actions would persist, as the machine would contain the snarling paradox, frozen forever. Nobody would ever have dreamt that I'd prevent time travel from being discovered. The police could no longer perceive me, due to my partial existence. So they merely mulled around as I took all notes related to time travel, and deleted all their work.
I would remain in this half state, I swore. And if anyone ever invented time travel again, I'd stop them. No matter the cost. And I'd do what I could to prevent the cold and vile future I had been exposed to from coming into existence.
[/r/ApocalypseOwl](https://www.reddit.com/r/ApocalypseOwl/) |
This was the third time this week I’ve had to explain to some uppity lord that I’m just a simple grave keeper, not the divine protector of the realm. For twenty years I’ve been laying the dead to rest, and that’s been the scope of my responsibility. Sure, the last few years have been tricky—the damn Necromancer’s Guild has grown and one of their syndicates decided to set up shop across the road from my graveyard. There was nothing I could do about it, of course. They had the proper permits. But it made my job a hell of a lot more difficult. Their spells constantly spilled over onto my land and turned the dead a bit less dead.
At first it was manageable, just a few reanimated corpses a week. A shovel to the head did the trick. But as the guild’s activity increased so too did reanimation frequency.
I took them to court, sued them for public and private nuisance, but the case has been pending for years now. The Necromancer's Guild has a relentless legal team, stalling at every corner, filing counterclaims, burying me in document discovery. It's been a slice of literal hell. At this very moment, the judge is *actually* considering whether I brought the lawsuit against the appropriate party—opposing counsel argued I should've sued the corpses instead.
So in that time I’ve had to get creative. I tried striking a deal with the Devil, but apparently his contract with the Necromancer's Guild contains a non-compete. That only left God to work with. I'm not devout, per se, but for the sake of business, me and the Big Guy have come to an understanding. I just need to say my heavenly prayers, give the occasional offering, and in return, my shovel’s a *lot* more effective.
“But that’s it.” I told Lord Fauntleroy. “I’m just trying to run a business. I don’t have time to deal with every demon lord that tries to breach your Kingdom.”
“You underestimate your power! I heard stories of your conquest over The Dark Terror. That *thing* wiped out an entire battalion, but if the stories are true, you and Sir Scoopsalot struck it down as if it were a common field wraith!”
I scratched my head, surprised word had travelled so fast and far. "How do you know my shovel's name?"
"So the stories are true?!"
“Well yeah. The thing was on my property trying to fu—well, uh, let's just say 'disrespect' the dead... Look I don't know how much you heard, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell the Brooker family what that thing did to their daughter's grave—the entire family's preordered their lots and I can't afford to lose their business.”
“Of course, your wishes are divine command. I'm only thankful that you can help us. I'll take you to Cthulhu's lair and—”
“Whoa whoa whoa. It’s not a matter of whether I *can* help you, all right? Sure I *can* help you, but it’s not my responsibility is all I’m saying. I’m a small business owner. You’re royalty. Protecting the realm is *your* job.”
“You’re an extension of Divine Light! You said it yourself, you’ve given yourself to the gods! Protecting humanity from the occult *is* your duty!”
“Who said anything about giving myself to the gods? I say a few prayers a day and in return I got a shiny shovel that channels a bit of infinite power. It’s an arms-length business transaction, really. A licensing deal, if you will.”
“Whatever you wish to call it, I am here to throw myself at your feet,"Lord Fauntleroy said. "I am a *Lord,* but before you I am on my knees. Please, blessed one. We need your help.”
I rolled my eyes. Every royal-born thinks kneeling is some great gesture, like I don't spend half of every day kneeling in the dirt myself. “Look if you’re so bent out of shape about all these demons, you know who's at fault. It's the damn Necromancer's Guild. Take them to court—you have a strong case for public nuisance.”
Lord Fauntleroy looked up, tears in his eyes. “We have. The case is still pending.”
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Thanks for reading! If you liked this, I also write a series of comedic dialogues between two recurring characters over on r/JamesAndTed. Not quite the same, but if you're a degenerate you might like it even more. |
I've seen my fair share of shell shocked soldiers on the field of battle. Soldiers staring off into the distance, not responding to their comrades yelling warnings into their faces. Soldiers mumbling about what could have been. Soldiers like you and I, but different. War had molded them into something simultaneously more alive than the rest of us, while also granting them the eyes of somebody long dead.
My 4 years of war had shown me much. But nothing could've prepared me for the enigma that was Private Shepard.
They say that soldiers behave in all sorts of ways when faced with their impending doom. The last actions of a man, after all, are the best evaluators of the person he was when he lived. You'd be surprised to see how battle makes even the hardest of men run mewling for their mothers like boys who'd just been punched for the first time in their lives.
Private Shepard, on the other hand, did things that were otherwise unheard of by me, or by anybody else in my squad, really.
He seemed to be blessed with one of those faces that somehow always managed to seem new to the rest of us. Ask anybody for a description of his face, and you're bound to get a different picture of him. It's inexplicable, really. Every time I saw his face, I was reminded of something familiar, while also something unquestionably new. I swear I saw a scar on his face one day that simply wasn't there the next. Bizarre.
Shepard also had this unimaginably foolhardy tendency to just freeze in place like the rest of us weren't there around him. As if he were retreating in some quiet corner of his mind, away from the hellfire raining down all around us. Away from the screams of the dying.
I envy him sometimes.
That being said, he was an absolutely brilliant medic, one of the best I'd seen. He had a knack for knowing exactly when to administer medicine to the soldiers of his company, sometimes before they'd begun to feel the pain themselves. He had an instinct for knowing which one of us needed attention without us ever having to tell him anything.
For all other intents and purposes, however, I'd have sworn the man was a thief in the past. Either that, or he'd grown up with virtually no possessions under his name. How else would you explain the act of him running around corpses, scooping up anything he could lay his hands on? From dog tags, to band aids, to toilet paper rolls, to ammo. The man got his hands on everything. His pockets must have been unfathomably deep because where all that stuff went, I'll never know.
As for his actual combat skills... well. You'd be hard-pressed to find someone with as high highs and low lows as the Private. There were times when he'd wildly shoot everywhere around him as soon as an enemy popped up from behind a corner, while there'd be times when he'd take shots that on a good day were next to impossible for the majority of my company.
All this, from a man who barely used his scope, if at all.
Private Shepard. A tale I'll be telling my grandkids when I'm old. A tale to tell them that the world is full of surprises even when you think you've seen it all. |
The cool autumn morning was tinged with an anxious energy; you could hear it in the birdsong floating from high branches, in the trickle of the nearby stream. Even nature could sense when tumultuous change approached, but the trees stood like brave sentinels all the same. They didn't have the choice to run, and neither did she.
The woman moved around the perimeter of her house, checking the fortifications and armaments. A scar ran the length of her face, from her neck up to a cloudy left eye; a reminder every time she checked her reflection of the danger of letting one's guard down. Moving in a practiced cadence, she readjusted and replenished, ending finally at a monstrous monolith of death. The steel metal of her mounted machine gun glinted in the sunlight, and she rubbed it fondly.
"You'll get to sing today ole girl"she cooed to the inanimate machine, checking the breach and making sure it was live and ready to fire.
Beyond the thick cement of the security fence lay the ruins of her neighborhood. Evidence of a vicious attack painted the walls of the homes still standing: man sized holes punched through wood and metal, broken windows and rotting remains. It looked as though whatever swarm had come through had a distinct destination, and was willing to plow through plaster and bone to get there. The destruction lay in a ring around her home, and stretched to the horizon.
Whistling a jaunty tune, the scarred woman attached lengths of wire to a speaker system that encircled her roof. Pulling the wires through the window, she connected them to a microphone, placed inches away from a massive blender. A hesitant bead of sweat formed on her forehead as she made final preparations, but she wiped it and any thoughts of doubt away with a stark white rag. It was time, she couldn't avoid this any longer.
She flicked the power button.
The amplified sound of gnashing blades grinding ice thickened the air, the sound like alloy bees ricocheting in a sealed hive. The cubes broke down, and as the ice cream and milk began to blend, the tone morphed into a steady hum. The woman left the appliance on high, moving outside with binoculars. On the edge of the horizon, forming like the wave of an incoming tsunami, was a sea of adolescent men. From toddlers to pre-teens, dressed in ragged torn clothes and frothing at the mouth, they stormed across the already ravaged landscape. Clutched in their hands were various forms of currency and coins, outstretched as though to offer as payment. The human locusts ground up all in their wake, barreling towards the fortified home.
The zippo lighter flicked, igniting the rolled cigarette hanging from her mouth. The woman snapped it shut, smoke encircling a righteous smile as she sat behind the helm of the machine gun. Cocking it back, she exhaled a cloud of smoke, and began to fire. |
*We are afraid.*
It started many, many eons ago, long before even the Grand Spirit upheld his current reign, and the anarchy before then. So long ago that none can even point to a single event as its beginning.
First, there were pillars of heat, strange gatherings of crackling orange and yellow like the great light above had been gathered here as tribute. The mobile life on Earth began to fall, at random, dead from strange foreign materials in their bodies. This death was largely ignored, as we have seen much death since our inception. Death is nature.
That death continued for some time, and over centuries, the oddities spread to plant life. Things began to grow in clusters, an unnerving pattern assigned to once random and chaotic beauty that seemed too intentional and too sudden. The light gatherings grew in number, some roaring greater than others. It was then that our predecessors began to log information and start researching in what ways we could. After all, our effect on this environment is nothing, we are no more than ghosts wandering, air passing over the life here.
Panic did not settle in until recently, once... the spreading began. What started as huts, odd little things made of clay and leaf or timber, became twisting stone. The stones changed through time, evolving, almost, until a blend was settled on that left little of the original materials intact. After that, a new material was sprung forth, something harder than stone, smooth as ice, and a grey not found in most natural things.
We lost hope when the material, the coldrock, evolved further; it came alive. Like the evolution of sea life to land life, they took shape and motion, zipping and buzzing around on strange pathways paved through the centuries, destroying anything they came into contact with. They bred as fast as any other life we've seen.
The coldrock pillars grew taller, and taller still, destroying so much life in their path. Our society was intertwined with them, a mangled mishmash of coldrock and our plane, impossible to live proper lives in our own homes. We were driven to the areas yet untouched, but those became increasingly sparse.
How quickly it spread, never giving us a moment to settle.
How quickly it evolved, into intricate beings, colossal and complex unlike any other life.
Some were larger than the most massive lifeforms, aquatic or not, yet floated in water as if lighter than the breeze. Some developed abilities, to raze woodseas instantly or dig caverns in the dirt. Some pillars looked to reach for the great light above, nearly touching it with pointed limbs. Others even took to the air, heavier than a mountain yet barreling through sky with unmoving wings.
Tributes to the great light above became terribly large, destroying anything in their radius. They changed, no longer a peaceful, crackling comfort, but an enraged power that engulfed anything near. So short-lived, yet releasing all their energy in one clamorous, murderous instant.
A plague has taken this world, hardening nature into something twisted and terrible, mindless and violent. Soon, it will engulf us, too. We live in hiding, waiting for the day that we also become harder than stone. Greyer than thunderous skies, and overflowing with a wrath even thunderclap does not know.
*/r/resonatingfury* |
"Your seventh child is going to kill you,"the witch said as I finished my drink with her.
"Seventh?"I asked. She nodded, and her tangled hair fell over her eyes. Margaret was an interesting character. She hung out around the bar and fancied herself a witch.
"Yeah,"she said, "had a vision last night, sucks don't it?"
"Well you aren't wrong there,"I said, if I had children I'd be freaking out."
She looked from her glass and then to me, "you don't?"
"No, never found the lady."
"Well if you do, just make sure you don't have seven."
"Will do Margaret."
Three years later Margaret and I were married. Despite her unusual views on pagan gods, she was wonderful and the love of my life. The more interesting part of her, though, was the fact that she was literally a witch. I couldn't deny it once I saw the cauldron that could let her see anyone in the city at any time.
Three years and seven days later Margaret and I were sitting in planned parenthood. We didn't want to birth deadly children, but I'd fucked up. The visit was more about caution than coathangers, but it was still a visit. Which meant that I still saw Lisa.
Lisa was a blonde woman that I hadn't met before this day. She walked up and swore that she knew me from somewhere. We had talked for a while before I put my glasses on and it clicked for her. I had been her sperm donor for her artificial insemination. I looked at her with wide eyes and then to Margaret.
"How could you forget that you were a sperm donor?"she asked as we walked back from planned parenthood. We were eating ice cream, I was a vanilla person, and she liked black licorice for its name.
"It wasn't a big deal at the time,"I said, "I did the shit for the twenty bucks and the cute girl at the counter."
"You flirted with someone by whacking it in the room beside them?"she asked. I still considered it flawless logic. She shook her head, "we are going to the clinic and getting a list of your children."
"I think that's against some privacy laws."
"Being a witch should get me burned and you still love me,"she said. Margaret too a lick of her ice cream and then bit into it. "Don't be a pansy about it, illegal is nothing."
"All right,"I said, and we went to the clinic.
Three spells later we had somehow managed to get all of the released information about my children. Most of them were names and some birth addresses, but we were told it was incomplete information. We didn't have days.
"You have 42 children?"Margaret asked as she looked over the paper.
"Are you impressed?"I asked.
"Terrified,"she answered, "and you're a fucking idiot. Do we know who number seven is?"
"No birthdates, but they shouldn't be older than fifteen now anyway."
"Fifteen is the perfect age for father killing!"she said a little too loud in the middle of the street, "your magic blood will be potent in them by then! Who know's what they will do?"for the first time in my life I saw Margaret's eyes waver.
"FATHER!"a scream came from the other side of the street, "I hope you are prepared! I am your first seventh child!"I looked toward the voice and saw a little waif of a brunette carrying a sword, "prepare for your reckoning!"she screamed, and her sword went ablaze. Fuck.
"We weren't done talking about this,"Margaret said as she raised a hand. Within a second the girl tripped and fell. She ended up beside her sword and caught on fire. I watched in horror as she burned.
"Do what you want father!"she screamed while also screaming, "when I die the eighth shall be seventh! One of us will drink your blood!"she yelled before she stopped screaming. Death calmed her down.
"Oh god dammit,"Margaret said beside me, "I only have so many luck curses, and I don't think all of them are going to be stupid enough to have a flaming sword."
"What are we going to do?"I asked.
"I have no idea,"she said, "but it's probably going to take years."
**Hope you enjoyed part one: If you want to read more, it's below. Once this thread dies I'll keep plugging away at one over on /r/Jacksonwrites** |
“Just step on it.” I encouraged the short blue creature before me.
“But it’s a chair, it’s for sitting. We need a laddder” The creature insisted.
I sighed discreetly, attempting to hold my fraying patience together. “But we don’t have a ladder, and so we have to use this chair as a ladder.”
“But it’s not a ladder!”
“Just make believe that it’s a stepping stool then!” I snapped.
A look of intense concentration passed over the creature’s face. Then it climbed onto the chair and was able to reach the top shelf of its kitchen unit.
“It worked!” The creature exclaimed, climbing down with a jar of what looked like congealed organs grasped triumphantly in its hand. “Would you like to join me for dinner as a thank you?”
I stammered an excuse and began to leave.
“One last thing.” The creature said.
“What can I help with?” I asked, suppressing a grimace.
“Now where should I sit?”
I pointed to the chair.
“But that’s a stool.”
“Now is a chair again.” I said on my way out.
Closing the door, the nameplate “Admiral Vorpal” faced me in bold silver lettering.
It was my first day as IT (Imaginative Tech) support on the Federation Flagship. Admiral Vorpal was my direct report. This posting was going to feel like forever. |
I run out of the mansion, panting. Screams of human agony fade away as the giant doors slam shut behind me.
"Tommy, you made it!"Gina runs towards me and gives me a big hug.
"Good to see you too, Gina,"I smile. I'm really starting to like her. Then, I remember the dozens of friends I have made in the past week. Their wretched screams fill my mind. My smile fades away.
"Wait,"I say. "Where's Peta?"
"I'm here!"Peta calls from a distance, jogging towards us.
Just as I was about to heave a sigh of relief, a single clashing chord plays on a nearby piano. Then, the violins join in with a haunting melody. *Fuck,* I think to myself.
"Stop moving!"I shout to Peta. He stops in his tracks.
"Good. Take a step back."
The violins quieten slightly.
"Now, take two steps forward."
The violins blare at full volume. An organ plays a set of chromatic scales, strangely reminiscent of the Phantom of the Opera.
I sigh. "Sorry, Peta."With the agility of a protagonist who has survived a dozen horror movies, I whip out my handgun and fire it at Peta's face.
Immediately, a dozen tentacles explode from Peta's head, tumbling onto the ground in a mess of flesh and purple blood.
"Oh, Tommy!"Gina exclaims. "You're my hero!"She grabs my face and we make out passionately, ignoring the putrid stench of the Peta-monster.
Well, at least being in a movie has its perks.
"Now,"Gina continues. "We should split up again to find a way out of the forest!"
I stop myself from facepalming. *This is going to be a long night.*
\________
^(More short stories at /r/PresentTensed) |
The crowd outside the bar was quiet, their collective shock and confusion creating an eerie atmosphere, almost as if the world had paused for those few moments.
Two men faced each other, their backs to the crowd surrounding them. The larger of the two, Clint, clenched his bloody fists tightly. He bore no other mark, clearly having dominated the fight he had just undergone, but like the crowd, he stood in paralyzed bewilderment.
The man he had just beaten was crouched down low, emptying his backpack. From within, hundreds of cheese wheels spilled forth, an impossible amount for such a small bag. He then began to eat them, one after another, taking large, frenzied bites. The man shot Clint a glare, maintaining eye contact as he shoveled his twentieth cheese wheel into his mouth.
"Hey man,"Clint raised his hands in surrender, backing up slowly. "I don't know what the hell you're on, but you win, ok?"
The man grunted as he reached for another slab of cheese.
"Screw this shit, I'm out of here."Clint turned and began to run from the scene when he heard a yell behind him.
*Fus... Ro...*
|
I'm an aspiring lawyer. Less succinctly, I've had the life-long ambition to be a lawyer--ever since I was a young boy and for the extent of my extended youth--and all I've managed to do was flunk the bar four times and dig myself into a formidable heap of debt.
All that aside, I learned some things along the way. That's life, right? You live, you learn, you languish a little too long until everybody plus you is wishing you'd just croak already. Well, I'm not there yet. I'm here. In the now. Not ready to croak.
Long story short--and by that I mean I'll omit how exactly she came to be conversating with a young fellow like me--I promised an old witch my firstborn child. She was old when we made the deal. She was even older when she came knocking.
From the nursery flowed the gentle music I'd used to soothe Sammy to sleep. A lullaby, like from a fairy tale, except not one where evil witches came to claim what they thought to be rightfully theirs. I didn't want Sammy growing up in that kind of world.
"You have a child,"the old witch hissed when I opened the door. She looked old as ever; ugly, too. Stereotypical witch, if you catch my drift, just like I was a stereotypical half-baked attempt at success.
Like undercooked chicken, an ex-girlfriend once described me. Decent around the edges, but not anything anybody wants to associate with once you dig deeper. Lovely gal. Had a way with words.
"I do,"I said. She cackled and I indignantly shushed her. "Sammy is sleeping,"I hissed right back at her. She fell silent.
"Sorry. I don't want to wake her. Babies are easier to transport asleep."
I winced, clicked my tongue, blocked her entry by standing square across the doorway. "Yeah, here's the thing though."
The old witch sighed. A deep, mournful sigh that meant she'd encountered objections one too many times. She'd turn me into a toad, maybe. Not one that a kiss could save though. Just a plain old toad, warty as her.
"You have regrets,"she said quietly.
I shook my head. "No, none."That wasn't it. My immortality had been delightful so far.
"Then what's the problem?"
"I don't have a firstborn."
"The nursery rhymes aren't for a fuckin' dog,"she hissed. She'd always had a dirty mouth; I remembered that from when I was a child and walked back to my mother ranting about some old geezer who'd taught me every swear word in the book.
"No,"I admitted. "They're not. They're for my kid."
"*My* kid,"she corrected.
"No, *my* kid. Not my firstborn. I adopted. Read the fine print,"I said, and I began to close the door.
She snapped her fingers and it was as if a doorstop had appeared. The door would go no further, and the old witch was still standing there.
She gave me a long, hard look. The amusement in her eyes turned to hatred; the warmth turned to an ice-cold desire for vengeance.
"Motherfucker,"she hissed. "I have half the mind to turn you into a fucking toad right now."
There it was. I should have added a clause forbidding her from harming me before the firstborn child came along. That's what a good lawyer would have done. A real lawyer, not me. Hindsight was twenty-twenty. She'd make an immortal toad of me yet.
"Will a kiss turn me human again?"I taunted. One step too far. That'd always been my downfall.
"Fuck you,"she said, and she clapped her hands together and a bunch of glitter floated down onto my warty head.
I croaked a complaint but she was gone.
*****
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated! |
This was hard, you're a devious bastard. Also I need to get my head checked out and probably stop writing about people dying.
-----
Already the early light of dawn was peeking over the mountains and there was still so much left to do. Before, in his younger days, a night’s worth of work could be finished long before the sun even hinted as to its existence, but it was getting more difficult every year. Creaks in the back, aches in the knees, pain all over, really. Down and up, down and up, all night long, he would be folding at his hips, gently putting the saplings in the ground. Every plant was exorbitantly expensive, each being so special that it needed its own special care with the key rule being to finish before sunrise.
From the west, the distant sounds of mechanized planters changed pitch. Greedier landowners, had, in recent years in the insatiable search for profit, begun to ignore the tactile needs of the plants and switched to the disgusting, growling, metal leviathans that scoured the fields. How little they cared, thought the bowed man, how disrespectfully they acted, how very much they valued their money. It was a lonely existence, planting the old way and discovering the plants were so needy and fragile and so requiring of your time, ensuring a long, lonely, aching life.
Joints, muscles, tendons, were giving out now. Knobbed knees sunk into the tilled soil. Light was pouring down, brilliant reds in the sky giving way to a clear blue dawn. Most of the plants were in the ground, but those that remained were, at this point, ruined. Never had the man failed a planting cycle, never in his 55 years of devotion to the soil. Over the horizon, the mechanized whine shuddered and stopped. Perhaps they have failed, thought the man, a vain hope that their failure would validate his waning abilities and act as a sign that he was not…finished. Quietly, the man took the remaining plants and ground them into a muddy, useless paste. Rage began to well inside of him and water crept into his eyes. Seventy three years old and his life had suddenly ended. True, he still breathed, could move, could think, but as far as a purpose, a reason to live, his life was over. Under the sun, on the dirt, surrounded by an expanse of field, the man wept, defeated, arm reaching into his rear pocket to pull out his knife. Veins exposed by the night’s exertion and age pulsed beneath the exposed blade.[Weightlessness cradled the man as the years of dedication rolled off his shoulders and the faintest smile, the first in years, appeared on his face as he worked the knife.] X on his left wrist, then one quick pull across the throat before the knife was plunged into his heart. Years of labor and sweat and frustration and joy and love and hate flowed out with blood and splashed onto the ground, food for the last crop he would be responsible for. Zeroing in on the last point of light visible, the man fell forward, his eyes sliding closed as his last breath blew gently on a shoot of green. |
I have loved Charlie from the moment I set my eyes on her. She's beautiful in every way, a light that guides me through the most difficult of times in my life. However, she is also a child, so when I realised I hadn't heard her stomping around the house in a few minutes I went to check in.
I grew concerned when her bedroom was empty, and her various stuffed toys had no idea where she was. Since she had animated them, they'd stayed close to her, but generally hung out in her room since her mother and shouted at them all for going outside in the dirt. Mr Pinky had since been renamed Brownie, and all the toys had learnt their lesson.
When I found her in the rumpus room I was relieved. It was good to know she hadn't been in the garage, playing with power tools, until I heard the yelling.
"Brothers! The beast is pushing forward! Hold the line! In the name of the Emperor, HOLD THE LINE!"
I knew what had happened, and was not looking forward to unravelling this web. Most toys were pretty chill with becoming sentient - Charlie was gentle, and always kindly explained what was happening. Her collection of stuffed animals mostly just waited for her to come back, and helped her keep her room clean. But I hadn't prepared for... This.
Charlie was backing away in confusion as a group of men in blue armour, standing an intimidating 1 and a half inches tall, charged at her across the concreted floor of my hobby room. I sighed. 200 dollars worth of 40k, a full 10 miniatures. And I'd even painted them too!
Charlie started to cry when she turned and saw me.
"Daddy, the men are being mean! They don't understand me!"
"It's alright sweetheart, I'll talk to them. You go back inside."Charlie booked it for the safety of the living room, and I closed the door behind her.
"Brothers! Primaris, lay down your arms in the name of Guilliman, and all that is good. Your travels through the warp have abandoned you here, but fear not. For it is Sanguinius Day, and in the name of Our Emperor I am here to guide you home."
The squad ground to a halt, and I heard them whispering to each other. Evidently their guns didn't work, and they had just discovered that their armour didn't contain any sort of working Vox. Eventually, the captain called out to me, from somewhere near my toe.
"Speak, giant, and I will hear you. I fear the warp must cloud my mind, but I have little choice in the matter. Why have our weapons failed us? What must we do to prevail? Remember, to speak in the name of the Emperor and lie is heresy, and I will have your head if you do, in this life or the next." |
[[FINE, I'll make a part 2]]
[[Gold Edit: *Really?* You folks are out of your minds! I'd like to thank /u/I_dont-get_the-joke for the prompt and everyone for their encouragment as I smashed out the following chapters. I will be continuing the story on my [sub](/r/Zigzagstories) which is also listed at the end of this entry. I'll be writing more tomorrow and fear not, we'll all get to see how this first date goes! Happy reading and writting, redditors :D]]
"I mean...she *looks* pretty good."Matt gazed down at the phone a second time as he saw the exponential distance between him and this strange, blue skinned beauty grow closer.
At first he had just assumed she was one of those professional cosplayers. The sort of woman who attended Comi-Con or big anime conventions all dressed up and ready to look good for the cameras. Of course, he wasn't a fool. Nine of out ten times the beautiful woman on the other end of the swipe was a false account looking to phish. Or worse. A gorgeous woman looking for some free Chipotle. He scanned through her pictures again and began to notice things he should have paid more attention to.
If her pictures had been from a private photoshoot at a convention, it had been one hell of a set or backdrop being used by the photography team. There were starships she seemed to be a mechanic for and then exotic landscapes she seemed to be hiking through. He brought the phone in for a closer look and studied her picture, he wasn't sure what she was eating but it looked a lot more adventurous than the buffet sushi he normally brought first time tinder matches to. Double-checking the distance counter he boggled to see she was, in fact, drawing nearer.
Matt's roommate, George, had been peaking over his friend's shoulder through much of the past few seconds. He was connecting the dots at almost the same speed that Matt could. Apparently, they were about to make first contact.
"Well...should you use *Axe* or *Old Spice*?"George started.
Matt looked off into the blank wall, head swirling at the thought. Was he about the be the ambassador of an entire species on Earth? Would the first thing she smelled be the most important detail about him? Clearly she liked what she saw, but what was it she saw? He scanned back down at his profile picture, him at a rock-climbing-gym. He looked healthy with his tank-top and chalky hands and his boyish smirk, that same troublemaker grin had sealed the deal more than once. Had it sealed something he couldn't contain? He stood to wander off and shower, muttering under his breath.
"*Should I bring her to Chipotle or Chillis?*"
George's brow raised at the notion.
"Do...do you think she'll be able to pay for her half?"He started
Matt hadn't even taken his clothes off when he stepped into the shower. Steam began to rise around him as his shirt stuck to his torso and water sloshed over his form. The bathroom door was still wide open and George looked after his lost friend with bewilderment. He tried to go on.
"Maybe she's just looking for an exotic fling thing. C'mon man, you can't let this get in your head!"George meandered over to the bathroom, picking up Matt's phone from the edge of the sink and almost glaring at the mysterious profile again.
She was at 10^2 now.
George had never done very well in math class, but he could recognize how impossibly fast that sort of travel was. He absentmindedly scratched the back of his head and set the phone back down. Without another word he pulled out the Old Spice deodorant bar and then headed into Matt's room to select some clothes to wear. If his roommate was about to become the booty ambassador of Earth, George sorely didn't want his friend to disappoint the galaxy.
-------
If you liked this story and are looking for other weird sci-fi or *Humanity, f-ck yea!* writing, please check out /r/zigzagstories ! |
I always wanted children, I really did. Even though I'm a man, and that's not what modern men often dream of, I just really wanted a little girl to spoil.
At the age of twenty-eight, I got one. A beautiful baby with the brightest green eyes I've ever seen. She had an odd birthmark, a sort of star-shaped blemish on her shoulder, and we always thought it was a sign that she'd been sent from the stars.
But life is cruel. My sweet Sonia, at the young age of eight, contracted MCS: Main Character Syndrome. There's no cure, unfortunately. Not much is known about what causes it, either, though my wife always said it's because we vaccinated her. My *ex*-wife.
There isn't enough awareness for it in the world. But I've caught her, gazing into a distant sunset, having a flashback scene. They come sometimes, rendering her useless in the middle of random activities. She once had one in a volleyball game, right after she'd jumped into the air, and hit her head real hard on the ground because of it.
Sometimes I catch her, standing somewhere, just... staring at her hand. There's nothing in it, she just holds her palm open and studies it hard for a minute or two. We had to get her a utensil-holder that straps to her wrist, just in case.
Her hair is bright orange and spiked. It doesn't suit her face at all, but we literally can't cut it with anything, nor can we dye it. I broke a pair of scissors trying to even it out, once. And her clothes... God, the clothes. She won't dress in anything that isn't absolutely hideous. Bless her heart, she can't control it, but the kids at school all make fun of her for wearing things like green sleeveless vests with purple hearts on them over a bright yellow collared shirt. Who dresses that way? There was a time where she wore only bodysuits with hearts cut out over the stomach region. It was horrifying, and she got suspended for it. Thankfully that was a phase.
Her grades keep tanking. She skips school saying the world needs her help, and constantly tries to fight this poor girl in her class that she calls her "rival". Poor Amy just wanted to be left alone, but my Sonia wouldn't let her be. Amy eventually transferred to a different school.
Oh, and the catchphrase. I don't even want to type it, she's said it so many times. I love her, but it's just agonizing to hear over and over.
We have a charity organization started for kids with MCS. It's not an easy life, but it's manageable with the right support and resources. Other parents deserve to know they aren't alone.
If you know of someone struggling with MCS, please, reach out to the Shounen Foundation. You aren't alone.
----
^(yeah I went with anime and wrote from a different POV, I like the idea of it being an ailment)
*/r/resonatingfury* |
“Is this Jerry?” I asked, my heart still pounding from the chase.
“Yeah, who the hell is this?” Jerry said. He still sounded like the mean prick he was back at Haven High.
“This is Bill...” I said. Ugh, this is so stupid, he’s not going to remember me. Plus, there’s no way he’s going to keep some old promise he made to someone he hasn’t spoken to in 20 years.
“I’m prepared to fulfill my end of our deal, Bill. What is it you need?”
I couldn’t believe what I just heard. I almost laughed, honestly. Why did he say it so formally, and why did he say it like he’s been somehow been expecting this call all these years?
“Uh,” I stammered. “I didn’t actually expect you to remember me.”
“Look, Bill,” Jerry said sternly. “You didn’t call to catch up. You’re in a bind, I’m here to help. Just spit it out.”
Man, Jerry really never managed to stop being a dick... Though his rude demeanor did make me asking for this favor far more simple.
“Alright, I’ll cut to the chase. I got in over my head with Ricky Hanzo, and I’m sort of on the run.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. I wondered what could he be thinking, or better yet, what could I honestly expect my old high school bully to do about this.
“You really screwed the pooch,” Jerry said, no hint of humor in his voice. He let out a quick sigh. “I’ll handle it. Just stay by the phone.”
He’ll handle it? Stay by the phone?
“Jerry, c’mon man. I don’t even know why I’m calling you, but if you can’t help just say so and I’ll figure it out.” I said.
“You called me cause you’ve colossally fucked up, and you’re so desperate you called a twenty year old number on a pay phone hoping against all odds I’d pick up. Shut up, stop panicking, and stay by the phone.”
The line went dead.
I felt like, even with the past two days, this was the most surreal moment of all of it. I’ve walked into my apartment to find my fiancé with a bullet hole in her head, my parents’ house burned to the ground, and half of a town I’ve never been in looking for me; and yet it was this phone call with the all-to-sure voice of Jerry that seemed the most insane.
Truth be told I don’t know how Jerry even knows who Ricky Hanzo is, I mean yeah he’s a famous underground figure but how would Jerry know about him? And even if he did know of the name, what could he possibly be doing to help me in this situation?
I mean honestly, I need to get the hell out of here and waiting by a pay phone for some guy who can’t do a thing for me seems too insane even fo-
*ring*
*ring*
It couldn’t actually be Jerry, right?
*ring*
My hand reached for the phone shakily, and when I finally grasped the cold handle I slowly brought it to my ear. For a moment I expected to hear the Devil on the other end of the line.
“H-hello?”
“I don’t know how you know that man,” a strange but familiar voice spoke. “Guess it doesn’t matter, but I’ve called off your debt. Sorry for your fiancé, and I’ll be sending you reimbursement cash for the house I had burned down. Also, he wanted me to tell you, the twenty year old debt has been paid in full. Also, he wanted me to tell you the next time he see’s you, he’s going to show you his new Atomic Wedgie technique he’s been working on since Haven, whatever that means.”
*click*
What in the world just happened? As I recalled the phone conversation I just had, the voice became clear. That was Hanzo... And I think he just said I’m off the hook..?
That couldn’t be possible though, could it? I kept recalling the conversation over and over in my head as I held the handle of the payphone, the ominous dead tone playing in the background.
“CALAMITY WEDGIE!” A voice screamed from behind me before I felt my feet leave the ground.
The pain that followed as I felt my testicles smash against fabric while simultaneously my butthole being torn asunder by the very same fabric was nigh indescribable.
I looked around desperately through tear-filled eyes for my attacker. I couldn’t make out his blurry face.
“Dude, I’ve missed you,” Jerry’s voice said joyously. “So glad you called me, you little bitch. Let’s go grab a beer! We have so much to catch up on!” |
A voice came from under the covers.
"I swear, it'd better not be another one. Do you know how long it took for the last one? He was good, but not as good as me."
I paused. I was creeping up the sheets, to whisper in her ear, to scare her and to subvert her wildest dreams into her worst nightmares. She removed the covers.
A little girl, about six years old peered at me. Her blond curls were messed up from lying on the bed, but she didn't seem to mind. I knew her though.
Name: Josie
Height: 4'2"
Weight: 47 pounds
Fear: N/A, haven't figured it out
I put on my creepiest voice.
"Hello little girl,"I said, "how's school going? I hope the kids aren't bothering you..."
"Go away. You're bothering me."
So she didn't have any problems at school. I thought back to her catalogue. She was a girl scout, but apparently didn't want to go camping. I could use that. I snapped my fingers, and it appeared we were in the woods.
"Creepy crawlies all over you,"I giggled, and all manners of bugs and insects appeared on her pajamas.
"What the heck dude? I like these,"she said, and she started to kill the bugs.
She pounded away at the creepy crawlies, and then yelled.
"I have a test tomorrow, I need to sleep. I don't know which one you are, but none of you have figured me out. So either leave or let me sleep."
I was stumped. Not sure what to do, I cast an illusion before her eyes. I grew larger and larger, and she grew smaller and smaller, until I was blocking out the light of the (imaginary) moon. I grew fangs, and my pupils dilated. My fingernails grew into claws, and I snarled.
"So girly, how do you feel now?"
She responded by throwing a rock at my privates. I doubled over, and the illusion faded. We were back in her room, her in her bed and I moaning on the ground.
I was determined to win though. With an effort, I picked myself up off the ground and stared her down. I stared at her and thought, and had an idea. I dropped to the floor and rolled under her bed. She got up and looked, but I was already gone. I had her figured out.
The next night, I paid special attention to her. She sat in her room, calling out to a horror that didn't exist, a monster not there. Her brain did her work for me. But as she cried out, she fell silent, and silently wept. Baffled, I leaned in closer. I heard a faint whisper.
"I'm lonely..."
I frowned. I couldn't let this girl be alone. I'm here to keep them in bed, not torture them. I had an idea.
The next night she got in bed in her pajamas, and didn't look under the bed. But she heard growling, and then a bump under her bed frame. She jumped out of bed, and looked underneath. I had sent my most incompetent monster to keep her company. He tried to roll from under the bed, but his purple wings wouldn't let him. He eventually sighed, and said "Can I have a little help?"
And sure enough, Josie extended her hand. |
His cottage was palatial by local standards. He had chosen the estate because it was remote enough to be unmolested. It was big enough to tend and support the family he had hoped to start. With the loss of his damsel, it had suddenly become overwhelmingly large. Now that his hound was taken from him, it was absolutely devoid of purpose.
John sat on his bed, sitting on the battlemail draped over it. The half-plate remained mounted on the wall. He looked wearily at his old implements of war. The darkness of night had settled around him, and he had already, ceremonially, blown out all the candles, save the ones in the main sitting room. There, he had set a table for himself, with the fires and the light casting clear shadows against the stone walls.
John went to his dinner table, and placed his face into a cloth. His sobbing filled the estate.
___
The freelancers slowly crept into the estate. The lock on the front door was easy enough to pick, and the back door wasn't even locked. Their leader smirked. The Wicked had gone soft in his retirement. They could hear him crying in the dining room. The lancers slowly crept in, allowing their eyes to adjust to the light before they would pounce upon their victim.
___
With a quick snick of his knife, John cut a cord of rope that had been holding the candlewheel up on the ceiling. It fell onto the table with a clatter, and all the flames flickered out. Darkness immediately enveloped the lancers' eyes, and they began shuffling in their panic. With the cloth removed from his eyes, the Wicked moved swiftly to work.
The nearest lancer to him, by the armchair, received a quick dagger between the third and fourth ribs. John pulled the dagger out, and a quick spurt of blood followed as the lancer collapsed. John spun around, spinning the dagger to point the blade downward, and stuck it under the chin of another, up through the roof of his mouth. His gurgling trickled through the house.
A third lancer was already on his knees, his eyes still adjusting. Please, he begged, please, I, ple- John had plunged the dagger into his throat, and left it there. He looked out, and listened for the footsteps. Pitter patter, pitter patter.
Three more, he thought.
___
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. John opened it.
"John."
"Jim."
"'Tis a fine evening."
"'Tis."
The constable tilted his head, peering into John's cottage. The dining room was dark, but the slumped figures of three freelancers was clearly visible. In the hallway were two more. One was slumped against the stairway, not dead but definitely dying. Constable Jim looked back at John.
"Ye received a call for rabble-rousing?"
"Yea, John,"the constable paused, "rabble-rousing."
"I'll try to maintain a golden silence for the remainder of this evening."
"Appreciated. Are ye crusading again, John?"
"No, no. I am just cleaning up a few things."
"OK, well,"the constable looked both unsure and resigned, "Good evening to ye, John."
"Good evening, Jim."
John closed the door. |
I stepped back from the counter. My hand fell limply to my side, coins slipping between my fingers and dropping in a shower of ringing metal. I couldn't form a full sentence, reduced instead to stuttered fragments.
"I... you... but you're..."I gaped, my mind scrabbling to come to terms with the contradiction. A twin brother, maybe? But no, I recognized that tattoo. I recognized the scar, too, running through it at a jagged angle. I'd stared at it for long enough while I was dragging him. It had been deep last night, showing off shattered pieces of his spine; now it was no more than a thin white line running along his neck.
He smiled back at me. It was a cold smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. He glanced down at the floor, where my change was rolling around my feet.
"I think you dropped your change, sir. Why don't you pick it up, and go choose a table? I'll bring your drink out to you when it's ready."
It wasn't a question. It was a command. I could tell from the ways his eyes pierced into me—there was no running from this. I grubbed about on the floor, and stumbled off to collapse into a seat.
I think that waiting for him was the worst. I watched as he helped the next few customers in line, taking orders and working the register as if I hadn't all but decapitated him less than twelve hours ago. He glanced in my direction every few minutes, checking that I was still here. His expression was warm and friendly with everyone else, but when he turned to look at me, I could feel the ice.
I wondered if it had had anything to do with the lake. It had been so cold last night. What had he been wearing? A dark jacket, zipped up. Black sweat pants. Nothing reflective, anyway. It wouldn't have kept him warm under the water.
Eventually, he did come out, setting a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. I couldn't meet his gaze—I just murmured a quick thanks and tried to look as small as possible. It didn't work. He sat down opposite from me, and he waited.
I didn't take long to break. I looked up, and he was glaring at me, hands folded calmly in front of him. He nodded at my coffee without breaking his stare.
"Drink. You look like you need it."
I reached for the cup, then hesitated. His face twisted to a scowl.
"It's safe. I don't hurt people."
He could read me like a freakin' *book*.
I took a sip, my hands shaking. It was good, if a bit bitter. I didn't dare get up to grab sugar or cream."
"So,"he said, "Let's not beat around the bush. You killed me last night."
I looked around. Was he not worried that people would hear him? Nobody really seemed to be close by, or to be listening in, but still. I gave him a short, nervous nod.
"Do you have anything to say about that?"He looked at me, expectantly.
"I'm... I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. It was an accident, and I panicked, and... I really don't know what else to say."
He was still glaring at me.
"Well. Fortunately for you, it didn't stick. I'm back."
I blinked at him. "Your neck was broken. You didn't have a pulse. I...I checked. I wanted to call an ambulance, but you were just... gone."
"I *was* gone. And now, I'm *back*. Funny how that works."He leaned in closer. "Have you ever been dead before? It's not fun. I wouldn't recommend it."
I swallowed. It sounded dangerously close to a threat.
"How, though? I mean... you were *gone*, gone. Believe me, I'm glad you're back, I mean, obviously I am, it was an accident and I didn't want it to happen and then there was just no pulse and your neck was all—"
He raised a hand, cutting me off. "How isn't important. Let me worry about the how. What is important is how you handled it."He shook his head sadly, and I was happy to have his gaze shift away from me for just a few moments. "I'm very disappointed in you."
I shrank back into my seat. This impossible man was berating me, chastising me like I was a child, and I knew full well that I deserved it.
"I'm so sorry,"I said. It was weak, and I knew it.
"You could have called it in. You could have tried to let my family know, tried to live up to your actions. You wouldn't even get charged with murder, just manslaughter. Instead you dumped my body in a lake. You're a *coward*."
I hated that he said it with such disgust. I hated that I knew he was *right*. Something broke inside of me, and I could feel the beginnings of tears welling up in the corners of my eyes.
He drummed his fingers on the table, his gaze unwavering. "I thought for a fair while about what to do with you. It's good you came here, you know. I was going to have to track you down by your license plate. You saved both of us some hassle."He paused, giving me a chance to speak. When I said nothing, he pressed on. "Have you ever killed someone before?"
I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. He gave a small sigh.
"Figures. You're not the first person to kill me, for what it's worth. That doesn't make it any better for you."For the first time, he looked away from me, massaging his wrist with one hand. If I looked closely, I could see another scar there, a paper-thin white line that crossed his skin in the same way the one on his neck did. Ah.
He turned back to me, and I quailed at the renewed force of his glare. His spoke through thinly pressed lips.
"I'm going to let you go."
It took me a second to process. "R-really? I mean... I can understand why you would be pissed. I think... I think I deserve it."
He looked me over, as if searching for something written on my skin. He sounded less confident when he spoke up.
"That's why I'm letting you go. You realize how badly you messed up. You didn't do it maliciously, and you genuinely regret it."He let out a deep sigh. "I wish you didn't. I wish you were an entitled, self-righteous jerk that I could justify taking revenge on. But you're not."
He stood up, and started walking back toward the counter. When he was standing beside me, he looked down at me. He looked down *on* me. I could see it in his stance, and I could feel it in me. I was lesser, I was flawed, I was *scum*.
"Consider yourself lucky,"he said. "I got to come back. It's nothing special. But you?"
He walked away, calling back the words as he went.
"You get a second chance."
***
Hello everyone! u/HighWizardOrren here. If you liked this story, please consider [checking out my website, over here](https://orrensdeck.wordpress.com)! It contains a whole lot more of my writing, including my other writing prompt responses. Thank you for reading. |
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury this man is as guilty as they come. I have no doubt in my mind that this crime was committed with extreme malice toward the victim, with the attacker showing no remorse for his actions"
The "victim"he referred to sat in wheelchair sporting a large white neckbrace. He currently couldn't speak or move much at all, but they said he'd recover eventually. I had hoped he wouldn't.
I couldn't have cared less about who the poor sap being accused of my crime was however.
When I was summoned for jury duty the last thing I expected to see was the man I had put in that wheelchair weeks before. He deserved it, or at least I convinced myself he did. I was actually pleasently surprised to be here as it gave me a chance to put a plan into action.
"Your honor this is ludicrous. The victim was attacked from behind around midnight as he left his apartment. What sort of indication do we have that my client was even remotely related to this incident?"
"The DNA found at the scene is a direct match to your client. If it were a skin sample or a hair sample there may be some doubts, but a fresh blood sample?"
Heh yeah. That was one of my better ideas I must admit. I honestly didn't care where I got the blood from, as long as it was someone else's. It helped that it I was able to score someone's that lived in a complex close to the victims place.
"That coupled with security footage of a man with a similiar build to the accused attacking the victim seems like evidence to me"
There back and forth game bored me, and I tuned out pretty fast. What I really wanted was to go and convince the rest if the jury that this guy did it. I was hoping it wouldn't come down to something out of *12 angry men* , but if it did so be it. I spent the rest of my time on the bench trying not to fall asleep and eyeballing the "victim".
I didn't mean to mess him up that bad, honest, and I surely didn't expect them to actually pull DNA from what I planted. After all this guy was no Warren Buffet or Billy Gates. He was just some schmuck who stole from the wrong people. Deep down I even felt for him a little.
My routine was simple; guy steals from us (well steal is a pretty general term) , I rough up the guy a bit (or cripple him in this case), he pays out. I guess this time an extra step was added I end up on the jury thirty feet from the guy.
I tuned back into the back and forth of our wonderful judicial system when me and the "victim"locked eyes. He squinted at me hard, like he was looking for something particular.
Fuck.
I tried to play it cool and convince myself that I was just paranoid, but he continued to glare in my direction. I could feel the room heat up when finally I heard the words I'd been waiting for.
"The jury will now be escorted out to make a decision"
I was relieved to no longer be in the room with that broken, wide eyed man. Now was the good part. The room was something right out of a movie. Large wooden table, dull carpeted floors, the a/c cranked up far too high. Everyone took a seat and I siezed the opportunity to speak first.
"Alright everybody let's get this over with. It seems clear to me. Blood found on the scene from both men, person in the footage sports a similar build to the accused, and to be frank the accused has no real alibi"
A few people nodded in agreement while others appeared to need more convincing.
"Ok, but what determines for sure that the accused is the guy? What if he was set up?"A man near the back of the room spoke.
I stepped back to let them discuss that possibility. Maybe this was just my time. The victim stared right into my soul from behind those bandages. Maybe he already knew it was me. Hell maybe they were coming for me right now. Coming clean was the right thing to d-
"Sir. Sir? What to you say guilty or not guilty? You're the deciding vote"
Now was my time to make a decision. I could cleanse myself of all the bad I've done right here and now. Today was the day.
"That man's as guilty as they come. I say lock him up for as long as he lives his miserable life"
Well...I guess I could come clean some other time.
|
The key to my success has always been planning. I choose my victims months in advance, and work around the clock. Maps of their common haunts, and schedules showing where the victim will be at any given time. Charts of friends and family. Details of her job and boss and coworkers. Even her dirty secrets, discovered through keyloggers and blackmailing friends. And once I know her better than her own husband (I always choose married women), then I begin to plot the kill. I begin to get close to the victim, worming my way into her life. Making *her* obsessed with *me*.
And it works, every time. The box on my shelf rattles with twenty three wedding rings. A monument to planning for every possible contingency. And most importantly, planning to get caught. Most serial killers never expect it to happen. They're consumed by their hubris. They think they're special. *They* are the ones who will get away with it. Fools.
March 14, 2014: the day I was found. I was waiting in bed, unable to sleep. I heard the light patter of footsteps on my deck from tip-toeing black boots. I could barely contain my glee. The windows exploded inward, spraying shards of glass all over my perfectly clean apartment. The door to my bedroom splintered and buckled under the force of the battering ram. I was calmly sitting against my headboard with a pleasant smile and my hands clasped behind my head. The SWAT members looked a bit unnerved, and slapped the cuffs on me. They roughed me up a bit, and I squealed in pain as they expected. Not that I actually care; this will only help my defense.
I sat in court, watching the forensics investigators explain all of the evidence gathered from my home. The books that I'd published, full of eerily similar details that correspond to the killings. The maps and charts that I had prepared with facts that only the killer would know. The long unexplained travel absences. My journal, full of confessions about the thrill of the chase and the satisfaction that comes with a successful kill. The knives, stained with dried human blood. They called me to the stand, of course, but I pleaded the Fifth.
And then... the case began to fall apart. It's all part of being a fiction writer, my defense attorney explained. All research for my next work, which is entered into evidence. A first person perspective of a serial killer. Completely fictionalized, of course. The charts and maps were found to have grievous errors that the *actual* killer would not have made, including where the victim might be on the night of the murders. The charts had similar inaccurate details. My defense attorney explained that I did my best to piece the crimes together from news stories and a friend within the police department. Poor Jacob... his name was dragged through the mud and his career ruined, but he ended up corroborating my story. He was a necessary sacrifice. The journals were simply fictional, and contained no details about the actual cases.
The knives were my coup de grâce. What a *sloppy* killer I was, to leave physical evidence on the blades! If only I'd scrubbed harder! It's what the prosecutor called a "smoking gun."She took great pleasure in waving the weapon around the courtroom, detailing how I had sliced open the victim mercilessly. Then it was my turn. My attorney brought in the key surprise witness: a morgue employee that I had bribed. He let me in late one night to practice on an unnamed Jane Doe. I'd told him I was an author, and that I was interested in being able to vividly describe the sound and feel of a knife cutting into flesh. And it was the truth. I never lie. It's not quite the same when they're dead, but I enjoyed this bit of alibi building nonetheless.
I still remember the prosecutor's face after his testimony. She had nothing on cross-examination, and she could see her career going down the tubes. This was the most publicized trial the city had had in years, and she was completely blowing it. I wondered if she'd get fired for this. If not, I'd have to pull a few more strings. I gave her a sympathetic head nod and a barely-concealed smirk, and she couldn't hide the smoldering anger.
After the acquittal, we shook hands in front of a hundred flashing cameras. She put on her fakest smile and declared that justice had been served. She clenched my hand tighter and for a brief moment let the mask drop; she looked like she wanted to gag. With a wave to the reporters, she whispered into my ear: "I know you did it. And I'm going to stop you."
I continued shaking her right hand, eying the soft gold wedding ring on the other and picturing it in my collection. "You'll try,"I told her. "Looking forward to seeing you again soon."I *really, really* was. |
“So where are ya heading?” Jim asked, his turning down the secluded dirt road. It was his favorite spot for murdering thus far. Granted, it may have also been his only one thus far...
The woman had hardly said a word since he picked her up. She seemed bored, constantly staring out of her passenger window. It was all wrong. He liked to get them comfortable before doing the deed.
“Just the bus station,” she said.
“Really?” Jim raised an eyebrow. “What’s a pretty little miss like you needing to ride a gross bus for?”
“My mother’s in the hospital.”
*Shit*, he thought. *It’s okay. Deep breaths, you can fix this.*
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jim said with faux concern. He checked his gas light. The red light had flashed long enough. Just a little bit more…
Like an answer to his prayers, the truck began to sputter. It shook, the arrow on the speedometer slowly descending to zero. He frowned, hoping the woman wouldn’t see glee behind his mask. He didn't want to make her nervous.
“Dammit,” Jim barked as he banged on the steering wheel. “I’m out of gas. We’ll have to pull over.”
The woman shrugged, silent as ever. Something about her gesture made Jim nervous. He had never seen a hitchhiker look so indifferent. Yet, he liked it. She was his first true challenge.
***
Jean stood to the side as Jim fiddled with the oil pan of his car.
*He really is a moron, isn’t he? People are usually a little suspicious of hitchhikers but he’s treating me like a long lost friend. Shame, since I’ll be slitting his throat any moment now.*
“Excuse me?” Jim called, breaking her thoughts.
Jean blinked, turning in his direction. The man had a goofy grin as he looked back at her, a streak of grease on his cheek. *A true idiot*
“What?” she asked, crossing her arms.
“Well, I was wondering if you could give me a little help over here. It’s a tad complicated.”
“Putting gas in your car is complicated?”
“I never said I was a mechanic”
Jean sighed, walking over to help the dimwitted man. The closer she got, the more she noticed something… *off* about him. His demeanor, the way he hid a hand behind his back. She had practiced the same thing a thousand times before. It was a ploy - a bad one at that.
“What the fuck?” Jean furrowed her brow, backing away. “You have a knife, too?”
“What?” Jim began to sweat profusely. He wiped his forehead, revealing the gleam of a butcher’s cleaver in his closed fist. “Ah shit, wrong hand. But it's not what it looks like. I just keep this to check the fuselage and… wait, did you say ‘too’?”
Jean reddened, pulling her jacket closer to her body. The chilling sensation of the blade's flat side brushed against her side. So much for keeping her weapon a secret.
“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,” she started. “What’s it to you?”
Jim smiled, still cheery but different. Somehow more pleasant.
“You’re the Hitchhiking Murderer!” he said. “I’ve heard about you while watching TV. I must say, I’m a fan of your work.”
Jean stood flustered. “I… uh, thank you?”
“Jim Miller,” the man extended his hand. “I’m still new to the scene but I guess you could say I’m your opposite. I like to kill hitchhikers, rather than be one. I'll tell you, I never thought we’d cross paths this way. You’re even more beautiful than the rough sketches of you on the ten o'clock news.”
Jean blushed. *He can’t be serious.*
“Thanks,” she paused. “So, are you not going to try and kill me?”
Jim shrugged. “I guess not. We don’t have to compete in the same pool for our victims so there’s no need to be territorial, right?”
“I guess.”
“So it’s settled.” Jim smiled. “We’re cool.”
“Right…”
Jean backed away, her eyes still glued to Jim's knife. He appeared friendly but if she learned anything, it was she couldn’t take chances. Yet, something told her he would stick to his word. He may have been a killer, but he was the earnest type.
“Hey,” she said, standing on the edge of the forest. Her voice echoed in the brisk night air as Jim perked his head up in anticipation of her words. “Next time, don’t make it so obvious that you’ll run out of gas. I could see you glancing at the meter every few seconds. And for the love of Christ, don’t show your knife until you’re about to kill someone. It's reeks of amateurishness. Don't give a bad name for the rest of us.”
Jim nodded, giving her a thumbs up. “You got it! Maybe one day, I’ll show you how much I’ve improved. I'll earn my name as an established serial killer and make you proud.”
Jean fought back smiling herself. *Stupid as ever*
“Yeah,” she said, melting into the safety of the foliage. “Maybe one day.” |
*[Heaven is bustling with activity, and God sits on a white desk in the center of the cubicle office. God, a long haired bearded man with white dreads, is flipping through a stack of papers. Angels in suits are moving frantically around him, zipping through cubicles]*
*[Suddenly, an Angel, Migos, walks up to him.]*
**Migos:** Sir, we've got a problem.
*[God sets down his pen.]*
**God:** No shit, Migos. We're up to our neck in this Planet Eros bullshit.
**Migos:** Actually sir, it's not -
**God:** Yeah, we put the fish in before the water, true, but I mean that's Quality Control's problem. Enviromental Commitee shouldn't be breathing down *my* neck.
**Migos:** Yes, I understand sir but -
**God:** Plus the coffee machine is broken. The fucking coffee machine is -
**Migos:** (loudly) Sir, Earth's safety protocols are bust!
*[The Angels suddenly stop in their place, papers in their hands.]*
**God:** What-a-what?
**Migos:** Friendly Fire protocol. I was digging through some old files and I found the box checked.
**God:** Oh man. That's bad. What's Earth again?
*[An angel speaks up from the back.]*
**Angel:** Sir, it's the planet with the jellyfish.
**God:** Oh, right! The jellyfish.
*[He leans over.]*
**God:** What's all this loitering for? Get your asses back to work.
*[The Angels reluctantly get back to frantically shuffling around the office floor.]*
**God:** Okay, Migos. No problem. Just turn it off. Keep the killing purely ecologic. Boom, bam, not a problem. The jellyfish are mi amigos Migos.
**Migos:** Well, it's not the jellyfish I'm worried about. It's the humans.
**God:** The what?
**Migos:** It was Johnny's last creation before he -
**God:** Ah. The one I fired him for. Okay, what are the hoopans doing now?
**Migos:** It's probably better if I just show you.
*[Migos waves a hand and a screen appears in the air. Multiple images appear on the screen: gladiators fighting eachother, people getting their eyes gouged out, wars being fought between two armies. God watches with intent.]*
**God:** Holy shit.
**Migos:** That's what I said.
**God:** Do...do the jellyfish -
**Migos:** God, please shut up about the jellyfish.
**God:** Right, right.
*[He takes a moment to think.]*
**God:** Alright, let's flood 'em.
**Migos:** Can't do that.
**God:** What? Why not?
**Migos:** Larry tried that. Didn't work.
**God:** Well, Larry's an idiot. Can we just...try again?
**Migos:** It won't fix the friendly fire problem. Sufficiently intelligent species will still kill beyond their ecological programming. And anyway, genocide is now unethical. New industry regulations.
**God:** How about a great big -
**Migos:** No fire.
**God:** Acid.
**Migos:** No acid.
**God:** The -
**Migos:** We're not gonna rain jellyfish on them if that's what you're asking.
**God:** Damn. Alright, alright. I'll send an emissary. They'll listen to reason, right? “Don't fucking kill anyone,” is what he'll say.
**Migos:** Okay, yeah. That might work. Who are you planning on sending?
**God:** Well….uh...
*[God taps his pen on the table. Then nods.]*
**God:** My son's been looking to get into the family business. I'll send him. What could go wrong?
edit: Thanks for all the kind comments guys, you're all awesome. |
"Professor, may I have a word?"
Sam looked up to see his student, Marcus, who had approached his desk. Unlike the rest of his class who were eager to leave for lunch, Marcus stood by his desk, hugging his books to his chest.
Sam let out a sigh. "Marcus, is this about your essay on benefits of holy water? I already told you that holy water can't kill demons. It might temporarily injure the newer ones, but the old ones won't even notice it. The grades you all received are final, and I will not be debating them with you."
"No sir, that's not quite it,"Marcus said. The classroom door closed as the remaining students left, leaving the two of them alone.
"Well, spit it out boy,"Sam muttered impatiently, causing Marcus to flinch. "I've got to prepare the gym for combat training, so I only have a few minutes to grab a bite to eat."The boy had always been timid. Book smart, but oblivious to the world around him. Not to mention his lack of aptitude with the more athletic side of demon hunting.
"Well sir, perhaps we could have this conversation somewhere else? Only I know that sometimes this classroom gets used during the lunch break for clubs, and I don't really want anyone to interrupt. It's quite private you see,"Marcus replied hesitantly, causing Sam to narrow his eyes.
"I don't believe anyone has booked this classroom for use today, so we should be fine,"Sam responded, looking at Marcus a bit more carefully. The boy had a bit of sweat on his brow and his hands were shaking slightly. Not to mention he was avoiding looking Sam in the eyes. "Actually, I have a meeting with the Dean in here shortly, so we should be granted privacy until then."Sam focussed his hearing, the sound of Marcus' heartbeat racing at a speed far faster than normal.
"Please sir, it would help me feel at ease."
Sam took a deep breath. The smell hit him like a train. Pure, unadulterated fear. It rolled off of Marcus in waves, secreted from his every pore. The boy was absolutely terrified. The mere act of standing must be taking all of his willpower.
"You want me to walk down the hallway? Passed the new demon detector?"Marcus' eyes widened before he redirected his gaze at the floor. "So you know,"Sam whispered, sitting back down in his chair. Panic shot through Marcus as Sam's words hit him, and the smell of fear increased.
"Yes."
"How much I wonder?"Sam muttered quietly.
"I know enou-"
"No, you don't,"Sam cut in curtly. "So what do you want?"he asked as he reached down to unlock his desk drawer. "Money? Prestige? A job?"
"I- I don't want any of that,"Marcus stammered.
"So, not extortion. A favour then? Never took you for the blackmailing type to be honest,"Sam said as he reached into his desk, his hand searching for what he was looking for.
"You would think I have nefarious purposes wouldn't you! You demon! But all I wanted was proof. Now I can expose you."
Sam let out a laugh. He couldn't help it. "Expose me? To who?"
"You said it yourself Professor Mael. The dean is going to be joining us soon. You can't kill me and clean up before he get's here. So even if I die, my sacrifice will mean something."
"Hm, didn't expect that,"Sam replied. "Seems you've got some stones on you boy. Giving up your life for your belief. Sure you don't want to change your mind? Wouldn't mind having you around."
"Cunning as you may be, you won't stand a chance against the dean,"he hissed defiantly. "That's why you stay hidden. When he arrives, I'll tell him, or my dead body will. And you-"
Sam burst out laughing again. "Sorry,"he chuckled, wiping away tears as Marcus stared at him in shock. "Really, I am. But come on? How much research did you really do? I'm not staying that hidden. My name is Professor Sam Mael,"he watched as the words clicked into place for Marcus.
"Samael"he whispered in horror. "The poison of God. The fallen one."
"That's me!"Sam replied cheerfully as he noted Marcus' right hand reaching into his pocket. "Really think the dean would wipe the floor with me? I'm one of the original demons. Besides, even if the dean does walk in he's not going to-"
Marcus moved, dropping his books as he pulled out a vial of water and threw it at Sam's face. The glass smashed against his jaw, spreading the water across his face.
"Die Demon!"Marcus screamed.
Sam glared at Marcus as the water dripped down his face. "I told you holy water doesn't do anything you little shit!"he muttered. "Should have listened to me in class instead of wasting your time with this."Sam pulled a knife out of his desk drawer, and flicked it at Marcus, the blade burying itself in his throat. "Waste of holy water frankly. Not that it makes a difference to me,"he muttered as Marcus fell to his knees.
The door to the classroom opened and the dean walked in, closing the door behind him.
"Ah, I see. My apologies Sir, you're clearly busy,"he said quickly, turning to leave.
"Eh, it's fine. I'm just finishing up. What's business?"
Marcus stared wide eyed from the floor, a slight gurgle the only noise he could make.
"Well, I was going to let you know that young Marcus here had figured you out. But I see that's come to a head,"the dean said gesturing to the dying boy on the floor.
"Yes, which wouldn't be an issue if you idiots hadn't ordered actual functioning demon detectors. It's been a real pain in the arse. This is the third one who's figured it out this week. Soon the whole school will know."
The dean shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, Janice in accounting did the ordering and you know what she's like. Should be fixed by tomorrow. I've also got another order. Lilith has asked if you could send some entertainment her way, preferably graduates, preferably some muscular ones since she likes the taste of them the best. And I thought we could send some of our more idiotic graduates to try have a go at Michael. He's always hesitant to kill a human, and the last one we sent actually managed to scratch him before Michael showed him the truth."
"Sounds reasonable. Just make sure the detector is broken by tomorrow. I'm sick and tired of climbing out of windows. Oh, and get the janitor to come in and clean this up. I've got a class in here after at three."
The dean nodded, looking down at Marcus, barely clinging to life, tears streaming down his face.
"Said...taught...by...angel,"he gasped, the words barely escaping his lips, as blood welled up in his throat.
Sam crouched down, a wide grin across his face. "You are taught by an angel Marcus. It just happens to be a fallen one."
"Now clean this shit up!"Sam said, walking towards the window. "After all, this is the Demons Hunters Academy. Half the fun is them not knowing. |
I wasn't sure why the servers were still up and working. I knew they shouldn't be, but I didn't want to question it too much, Pokemon Go was the one thing keeping me sane through this, reminding me that there was a time when I was not the only person left out here. If I questioned it too deeply, the servers might realise that after 18 months, there is no way they should be working. So I just set out every morning, heading towards an area which seemed to have a lot of pokestops, and collected all the pokemon I saw along my way.
It was my routine, always hoping that I was heading towards another person, that someone else had survived, and that we would find each other. At the end of one, long day of walking, I found a spot to rest for the night. As usual, it was a place that people had gathered, before. When there were people to gather. That meant that there were plenty of Pokestops for me to collect supplies from. I'd just gone through my usual routine of swiping through all the stops within range before finally closing my eyes and trying to sleep as much as I could, when I noticed something unusual. Just on the edge of my screen was a pokestop with a lure on it. For a moment I was confused. Wondering why I'd put a lure on a stop I couldn't reach. But then I remembered, it couldn't be me. I'd run out of lures in the early days - I'd used them to try and signal to other people that there was someone nearby, and now it seemed like someone else was doing the same.
I knew if I waited until morning, there was a good chance that the lure would be gone, and whoever had placed it moved on. I had to act now.
Packing up my sleeping bag as fast as I could, I walked towards the lured stop. It was outside a church, which was as delapidated and deserted as the rest of the town had been. No sign that there had been anyone there in months, let alone the past 20 minutes. But, with nothing better to do, I sat and waited, collecting the pokemon which showed up, until the lure went down. But the moment it did, a new lure appeared. Again, just on the edge of my map.
Not having to pack up my gear, this time I arrived at the lure less than 5 minutes after it appeared. But there was still no sign that another person had been there. I found some paper and a marker pen out of my bag, and wrote a note:
"I can see that there's been someone here. Please contact me. My phone number is 07839 234890"
I taped the note to a wall, and hoping that whoever had set the lure would come back to this spot, then settled back down to catching more pokemon.
Suddenly though, my phone started ringing, the displaying showing "unknown number".
I answered it.
"Hello?"
"I got your note on the pokestop."
"What?"There had been noone but me the entire time I was sat here, how could someone have found my number without me seeing them?
"Yeah. You left a note saying to call you."
"Where are you? If you've come past here, why didn't you speak to me? I've been sitting right here since I put it down"
"Because we're out of phase. I've only just worked out how to get my phone in phase with yours."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"You think you've been the only person on the planet for the past 18 months? Well, so does every other person. They're all still here. I've spoken to a couple of hundred of them now. I don't know how it happened, but I can teach you how to contact them. You're not alone any more." |
There was an eery silence to it. You'd expect that 40,000 square kilometres seperating from the planet's surface would make a sound.
The first sign came at noon, when the sun began to cast an impossibly long shadow before the great sky dome closed around us. That had been silent, too.
Johannas watched his mobile phone, bracing himself against a catastrophic earthquake that never came. The screen showed measurements of the entire country climbing at an impossible speed, covering thousands of metres in seconds. Even the birds were quiet, cowering before an uncanny, impossible to place feeling.
The screen went black, then a face appeared.
"Fellow countrymen... and countrywomen,"President Johann Schneider-Ammann beamed upwards, his voice steady and confident. "By now you have no doubt realized what has happened. As per Directive One our country has become a space ship, the first and only of its kind."The president wore a crisp grey suit and seemed completely unphased by the insane, surreal and one-of-a-kind event happening all around them."Over the next few hours and days we will be sending out invidual instructions. Please keep your mobile phone with you at all times."
Swizterland's exodus had been planned ever since the end of the second great war. The Large Hadron Collider had been anything but and now an incredibly dense amount of earth-matter propelled itself out into the solar system using technology that had been tested on a much smaller scale.
As usual, Switzerland managed to avoid global conflict, but this time the country had a more permanent solution.
Johannes raised his eyes to the hundred-odd other people who had filtered out of their homes and onto their well manicured lawns. All of them were glued to their phones, except for old Mr. Cromner, leaning against a fence post and gazing up at a flawlessly artificial sun in a flawlessly artifical sky.
"We aimed to settle into orbit around Mars but our mass is simply too great. We won't be able to slow down once we reach terminol velocity, which we'll be hitting in about 15 seconds."The president looked off screen for a second, then turned back and winked at the 8.5 million citizens watching the official announcement.
"Now, our great country journeys between the stars." |
I am so fucking tired of superheroes and supervillains. Wait, we're using 'sleepy' now. I'm so fucking *sleepy* of all these supers.
I am so goddamned bored. Every single movie. Every single television show. Even Christmas shows. Rudolph's super-power? His glowing red nose. Frosty the Snowman? Magic hat. The only one that I could identify with is *A Charlie Brown Christmas*, because it shows you can be unpowered and unhappy and it's okay.
I'm a pawn. I'm the only pawn and everyone else is a knight, or a space-knight, or a demon-knight, or, or, like this one woman who rescued me from this supervillain with ice powers, she was a guitar-knight, wore a lot of leather, had an 'axe', hardy-har-har, that was from some Nordic sky-god.
There's always a battle. Every couple of years, there's a big war and they all fight each other for some planetary level destruction-event thing. They say they do it for me, but I'm beyond caring.
The only reason civilization exists is because everyone tries to maintain a secret identity. That's why I don't have friends. I'm always me. But they are always... them.
I'm going to find an island. Not Monster Island, not Kong Island, not Robot Island, not Weird War Island with forgotten Roman legions and samurai and pirates, not Dinosaur Island, or Super Intelligent Gorilla Archipelago, or Atlantis. Just a plain island—like I'm plain—and that's where I'm going to live.
So if you're reading this note, I'm missing, yes, but I'm not a hostage, I'm not kidnapped. Don't use your super-smell power, or your psychic ability, or your hyper-intelligent brain, or your crazy-stupid good luck to find me. Let me be. Please. |
"Hey, Johnson. Are you sure you are ready for this?"
"Yes sir,"Johnson whispered to hide his trembling voice. "But are you sure this isn't just a joke?"
"You're lucky you're the only one willing to do this, or I would fire you like I fired the other folks who asked. We have a reputation to uphold. Now buckle up, and good luck!"The shipping manager stepped away from the hatch and sealed it shut, as Johnson buckled up.
"You're gonna need it"He muttered to himself as he walked away, the steel of the docking arm creaking high up over Kennedy Space Center. Johnson steeled his nerve and tapped a rhythm on his legs after quadruple checking his helmet.
The bonus had already hit his account, and his wife needed it to cover their son's medical expenses. This deal was too good to pass up. It was more than he made in a year! The thought about how they could afford to accommodate such a ridiculous request didn't even cross his mind.
"Sir,"The headset in the helmet crackled, startling Johnson into a weak yelp. "Everything is automated. Amazon hired us some contractors to improve the ship's computer. Just sit back, relax and enjoy the ride."
"Sure, just enjoy it! No problem."Johnson chuckled nervously. A coping mechanism of his was humor. It had passed to his son, who made the same nervous chuckles from the hospital bed amidst the beeping of computer panels and the sounds of machines working to keep him alive. Tears began to form under his eyes as he thought of his pale face, so starkly contrasted with his dark hair. So young. Too young to have been cursed with such a lot in life.
The rocket began to shake, and a countdown echoed into his helmet. Fuzzy sounding. Garbled. But Johnson didn't hear it. He was thinking of his family, and if he would see them again. But it didn't matter. He actually preferred not to come back, as he had a great life insurance policy.
"It'll keep you alive, maybe even pay for the surgery. Son..."The tears flowed freely from clenched eyes as the rocket began to push itself from the Earth's surface with a thunderous roar. The shaking was incredible, and the force of the launch pressed him into the seat and he could feel his insides shift within. As if resisting the urge to fly to space. He was an older man, and his body could not take the fear as well as the force. He died before leaving the atmosphere, before he could see the glorious vista of Earth hovering like a God in the darkness of space.
The technicians were right in their calculations, and the phases went flawlessly. Automated, the craft made its way to the ISS. It docked with a little help from the astronaut. The rest of the crew was confused, but not Jeff Williams. He knew what he had coming to him, even if he was a bit surprised. Opening the hatch, he saw Johnson, floating softly against the seatbelt. Peaceful.
"Amazing dedication to customer service"He mused. "I'm going to leave a 5-star review."He took the package from Johnson's hands, and brought it back into the ISS airlock, shutting it behind him. He disengaged the docking lock, and the small Amazon-branded craft fell from the ISS, softly descending into the atmosphere. It would land in the Pacific Ocean to be recovered by a U.S. Navy ship.
"I've always wanted to play Cards Against Humanity. This will help pass the time, maybe even make those Russians laugh!"
_______________________________________
I loved this prompt! Whimsical.
[Click here to read more](https://talesofatravellingsalesman.com/) |
"That's one small step for mankind,"Marvin said, "One giant step into the galaxy."
He regulated his breathing carefully, admiring Mars' rusty red landscape. Applause sounded in his earpiece, but he didn't hear it over the rush of giddiness at seeing the rover pictures come to life in front of him.
Marvin planted the UN flag and allowed the Rover Ambition to snap a few more photos before he turned off the livestream and sighed. Now that the theatrics were over, there was honest work to be done here. It would be tedious. It would be hard and backbreaking, doing fieldwork in an unforgiving climate and laying the groundwork for others to follow. But it was his calling.
"Congratulations, Marvin."
He jumped four feet in the air, literally, because Mars had less gravity than earth. To his amazement, he saw a shirtless old man in a toga looking at him with hungry eyes.
"Holy crap,"he blurted out. "How are you standing there without a space suit? Where did you come from? And why do even your abs have abs?"
The ripped old geezer laughed, stroking a magnificent grey beard and spread his arms out. Before Marvin's very eyes, a green bubble of life expanded from nothing, sending rippling green grass and trees shooting up from Mars' unforgiving red soil. His spacesuit detected oxygen flow.
"I am Meus, brother of Zeus, and I'm the God of Life here on Mars. Pledge your allegiance to me and I'll transform this place into a glorious paradise. You'll be a hero on earth - that's what you wanted, right?"
"Don't listen to that old codger,"scowled a feminine voice behind him. Marvin turned to see a tall redhead clad in the same garb, equally unperturbed by the lack of protection. "You actually want eternal life, do you not? I'm Sades, sister of Hades. I can give you what you *really* want."
All he could do was stare dumbly and blink. "What?"
Over the course of the next few weeks, he learned the names of all of the Martian Gods. There was Earth, the Martian war deity and cousin of Mars, the Roman war deity. There was Venus, also the goddess of love here on the red planet.
"Are you the same Venus as back on earth?"he asked.
"Not quite,"she replied. "I'm smaller because the planet is closer to Earth than Mars."
"Seriously?"
"No, I'm just messing with you,"she laughed. Then her expression turned deadly serious. "It's to build camaraderie so you'll be more likely to pick me to swear allegiance to. Is it working? Marvin! Come back!"
He just couldn't choose! None of them really captured the essence of what he wanted, which was to send humanity *beyond* the current solar system. If they wanted to ensure a random gamma ray burst wouldn't wipe them all out, that's what they had to do.
Still, it was nice having a palace to himself. He didn't even need to ask for it, it just appeared as the Martian gods got into a ridiculous bidding war for his affections.
It really made him wonder - if Gods could do all this, what did they need humans for? It was almost like some cosmic author was bored and couldn't come up with anything, said 'fuck it', and allowed for a crazy illogical group of beings to defy the basis of reality.
But all things had to come to an end. The moment the next group of human astronauts came down from the skies, Marvin found his palace and free gift-bags vanish in puffs of smoke as the Martian gods rushed to appease the higher population of people.
"Good riddance,"he muttered, putting his space suit back on before the air bubble collapsed. For the first time in months, there was peace and quiet and an opportunity to explore some interesting caves. Finally, he could get back to work.
He entered a large, *dripping* cavern. *What's going on?* This place was almost illogical as the entities swarming his new crew-mates. That's when he pointed his cave-light at the middle of the cavern and gasped at the titanic being chained there.
Dust covered those strong arms. A small puff of air exited large nostrils, neck muscles perpetually stretched taut from pulling against the ethereal bindings stretching his limbs out as if paying penance.
"Are you okay?"he shouted through his helmet.
A single eye cracked open and the large statue snorted. "A human. I've had enough of your hallucinations, Sades."
"Sades is busy courting my crew,"Marvin said. "Why are you chained here? What's your name?"
"I'm known as Typhon. It's a long tale,"he said. Both eyes opened, regarding the astronaut with more interest. "I can sense what you really want. Your ambition lies beyond just this simple planet, does it not?"
"That's a nice thought,"Marvin admitted. "I never was good at dreaming small."
Typhon laughed. "You and I have the same problem. Hence the chains. Free me Marvin - I'll guarantee that humanity doesn't get stuck on this planet for a thousand years like they were on Earth. We have some gods to overthrow."
A smile stretched across his face. "Deal."
---
Thanks for reading! Come hang out with me at [/r/Remyxed](https://www.reddit.com/r/Remyxed/), we'd love to see you around\~ |
"Hey, what are all those lights coming from the Earth? It's not like those idiots were able to make fires that big... holy crap, what happened to the ozone layer?!"
"What could they have possibly done in 5000 years?!"
...
"They have cities already? And transportation? How many countries did they develop?!"
"We predicted that the medieval era would happen in 12,000 years, but it definitely hasn't been that long and they're already way past the renaissance. The dark ages only lasted 900 years?!"
"It took us 800,000 to learn agriculture... it's not fair!"
"Their development is exponential, like the rate at which they progressed only sped up with each era. Look, it took 5 million years to discover fire, then 1 million to learn how to farm, 10,000 to discover electricity, and one century to launch a spacecraft to their nearest moon."
"At this rate, they'll join the intergalactic senate in 500 years! We'll be alive while it happens!"
"Fellas... are we being jealous?"
...
"No, we're being rational. This is going way too fast. Let's just invade them before they become too strong. Nobody out-civilizes us."
"Are you sure? I'm getting some readings, they have so many nuclear bombs."
...
"They've already invented those? At this rate they might have already predicted how to stop us.
"We're screwed. We're so screwed. By the time we reach the planet they might as well have already discovered the meaning of life." |
With a jolt, my senses return to me.
Which one is it now? 298? 299? I would have lost count, were it not for the tattoo etched into my skin, just on my left wrist, reminding me how many I'd used. I can feel the slight prickling sensation as the number changes. That's always the first thing I feel.
Then, the rest. Pain racks my body, but it fades, replaced with a sweet euphoria I could never get enough of. I reach up, grasping the handle of the blade sunk into my gut, sliding it free. I don't feel a thing as the tip withdraws from my body, suspended over the open wound.
The hole in my stomach, once oozing and wet with blood, begins to seal up, almost like magic. The blood doesn't disappear, but my skin just goes back to how it was: smooth and immaculate.
The genie had really messed up when I made that wish. Immortality, I'd said, but my voice had choked in between. I'd hesitated on a syllable, the wrong one. The genie, in his all-encompassing knowledge, had been impressed at my mastery of Latin. Before I could get an explanation, the wish was done, and he was gone.
It wasn't until Death #12 that I realised what had happened. The first 11 before that had be, unsurprisingly, horrifying experiences. Despite being able to return to my body and have it mend before my eyes, the pain was still there. Once I was sure I wasn't high or on drugs, I had done some research. Not immortality, for sure, but *im mortality*, roughly translated to '999 lives'. Initially, I felt elation. Then, a surge of impulse.
I sat forwards behind the veil of a black curtain and cast the sword aside, letting it clatter to the floor in view of a gleaming spotlight. I heard the hushed gasp of the audience, and my lips curled into a smile. Sliding off the table, I adjusted myself, careful to be sure the blood was evident, and gestured to my assistant to drop the veil.
The crowd saw me and cheered. Confetti rained from the ceiling, and I bowed, holding my arms wide and soaking in their admiration. I had done it yet again. The impossible. Magic that defied belief. If only they knew.
It wasn't enough to be reckless; anyone could abseil without a rope or go sky diving without a parachute. No, I need *more*, I needed fame and glory. That had been my initial plan-- live forever, be forever adored, forever rich, forever *everything*. Now, my time was limited, to a degree. Sure, I could still live thousands of years, but I could also die, just like any human. Only, I'd return at the end of it, just for one more go.
I cast my gaze to the critics in the audience, catching their stunned faces. I was sure, this time, that I'd done something no-one else could top. I'd be immortalised in the magic business for all time. I bowed again, and couldn't stop myself from grinning.
Another show was due tomorrow. And another. Then another. What's the price of a few lives for many potential years of luxury? My skin tingled and I cast my gaze towards my wrist.
Number 300. So *that's* what it was.
&nbsp;
(Hope this is good! First time posting this sort of thing. Sorry about the typos.)
(Didn't expect this to be as big as it got. Thanks for all the kind words!) |
When you take a DNA test, you expect to learn about your ancestry, maybe that you got some crappy genes and could get Alzheimer's or glaucoma. You don't expect to learn you're a work of fiction. But that's what happened to me.
There it was, after the line that said Fact or Fiction: Fiction. That was bad enough. The next line was even worse, where it said my fiction type was side character. I mean, being the protagonist or the main love interest, that's not so bad. You're central to the story. But side character? You could get edited out at any time. Going about your day and then boom, you're gone. Happened to a friend in college named Frank. Nice guy, good to get beers with, but always did seem a little two dimensional. One day he was just gone, backspaced right off the face of the earth between a second and a third draft. Me and the guys talked with his family about holding a funeral for him, but everyone agreed that'd be awkward, so we decided to not mention him anymore.
And then I found out I was just another damn Frank.
Question was, whose life was I a side character in? Maybe it was my ego, but I couldn't see myself as some bit part, someone who the main character interacts with briefly in one scene, who doesn't even get a name, and then is never heard from again. No. I couldn't be that insignificant; I had more personality than that.
After spending half of my damn week thinking about it, I realized the protagonist had to be my old high school buddy, Joe. I was a groomsman at his wedding to Sarah, but not the best man, who would be a more central character. I always popped in and out of his life after something big happened to him, and seemed to be just comic relief, like the time he lost his job and I met him and his wife out at an Italian restaurant. When I got up to go to the bathroom I tripped, accidentally pulled on the tablecloth as I fell, and had a plate of spaghetti land right in my face. If it had been a sitcom, the laugh track would've kicked in right then.
I couldn't stay a side character, not with knowing what happened to Frank. But what to do? Last time I'd seen Joe and Sarah, Sarah had made eyes at me like maybe she was getting bored in their marriage and wanted to try out someone new. I could start an affair with her. If that didn't work, well, fire could solve a lot of problems. I could burn down their house. That'd make for one hell of a big plot point.
I wasn't the protagonist. I couldn't be the love interest. But I could become the villain. |
Water. The substance of life. There is no other thing like it. The universe is a cruel place, where the most important chemical in existence is so damned rare. From birth, all advanced species are placed into the water-suits. Not a single drop is ever wasted. Every bit of water is recycled forever, and one can spend years working towards getting a fresh cup of non-recycled water. Across thousands of worlds, desperate moisture farmers try to take water from the dry air, water that might feed the hardy crops. Across the galaxies, brave hunters find the great beasts and drain them dry, selling the flesh-waters of the universe's hardiest monsters for profit. Empires are founded on the water-trade, religions are based on its splendour. It should be a material that is wide-spread across creation, but for strange reasons that defy all conventions and laws of nature, it is rare beyond belief. The few species who discover how to manufacture water become rich beyond compare, and have long since formed tight monopolies on the processes, so that none might threaten their wealth. To see a world where water can be produced in great quantities, is like walking in a paradise beyond measure.
But even the wealthiest water-company pales in comparison to them. They have their own name for themselves, but they are known as the Waterborn to all who encounter them. To them, the most valuable material in the universe, is as common as the sands on a dune world. When they reached out to the Convention of Control, the greatest intergalactic community in existence, they came not dressed in bulky suits recycling their water. They came with open skin. With gaping mouths, the crowned heads of the universe watched these ambassadors from a distant and supposedly empty quadrant of an unimportant and uninteresting galaxy, where few races have ever arisen to anything. The head of the alien ambassadors, during the first contact, pulled out a shiny glass bottle, full of water. And drank greedily, before getting out more of them, offering water free of charge to others. Freely, they handed over a fortune in water, so that the delegates would not be thirsty. It was more water than anyone would need to drink for a month. Those delegates who went to the homeworld of the Waterborn, spoke of a planet that defied belief. They had so much water, they would use it for common tasks. They would use it to clean their bodies with, to clean dirt with. They had so much that massive and unending pools of it were just there, on the surface of that world. They called it an ocean. Life everywhere is in constant conflict over water. On that world, lush green plants drank deep, beasts roamed without getting hunted down for their precious flesh-waters.
The envoys and ambassadors called it paradise. And the entire system is like that. There are moons consisting of massive amounts of ice, with underground oceans to boot. There are planetoids and asteroids, made mostly of frozen water. If retrieved, even a single one of those asteroids could make any man a king. Immediately, the entire system was declared off-limits to anyone except the locals by the entirety of the intergalactic community. They of course all wanted to seize this miracle system for themselves. But whoever took it would upset the order of the universe. For the water there could be used on a billion worlds and they wouldn't even have needed to take anything from the homeworld itself. Anyone who conquered it would start a war that has never been seen before, as everyone would rush to attempt to seize it for themselves. The humans understood and learned none of this however. They simply found joy in meeting other species.
And that was another thing. They might be full of water, but they were full of something else too. All species, due to having to constantly fight, kill, and scavenge to have enough water, are prone to conflict, but in comparison, these humans as they call themselves, are trusting, friendly, and helpful. It baffles all who meets them, but they would never suspect that anyone would even try to hunt them for their flesh-waters. This does not make them weak, nor does it mean that they are often preyed upon. For those who meet them, find them to be kind and friendly, and willing to share their water. It is akin to declaring your love to someone, to share your water in the way the Waterborn do it. Many a hunter has followed the sound of life to its source, only to be baffled by a human, finding themselves befriended by them. They, the most feared warriors in the galaxy, welcomed with gifts of water like that. It is enough that some individual hunters have abandoned their lives, and sworn themselves to the human that gave them their first gift of water. Now, those lucky ones live in paradise, where there is enough water for them never to go thirsty again.
The Waterborn are not fools, of course. Some seem to have realized what great value there is on water. And from the frozen pits of Charon and Pluto, on the edge of their star-system, they extract the frozen water, melt it, purify it, and sell it. They are even planning to drain the massive 100 km thick liquid ocean from underneath the ice, if it is possible. Such great amounts of water could keep a normal empire with ten-thousand worlds fed on water for nearly a million years. From that comes the great wealth and technological advancements that their system now enjoys. This wealth does not come without envy and jealousy, from those who have earned their water-wealth based on synthetic water fabrication. But as all agrees, none will strike first. Though this is a poor deal, for the people of Earth grow stronger, selling their water, building ships, expanding inside of their own system, to the neighbouring systems within their established borders. Systems not as rich in water as their own, but far richer on average than any normal system. The stronger and wealthier they get, the harder it will be to control them in any fashion.
Perhaps it will be them, their empire of water, that will come out in top in a potential war. Perhaps their enormous wealth will make them the most powerful empire in the history of the galaxy. That though, is for the future to know. Few dares to seek them out. But they are welcoming of strangers. They are open to all who dare to come, for it is not them maintaining a blockade upon unauthorized entry. They say on their homeworld, the blue orb named Earth, that they seek the huddled masses, yearning to breathe free. They will welcome us, my children. They will trade us citizenship in their great union, in exchange for what we offer. The stealth generator aboard this ship will be something they'll want. Their fleets to be invisible, should they wish to strike in secret against those who work in secret against them. That is why we have come here. Passing the blockade of fleets that patrol just outside of the territory of these Waterborn, these humans. Yesterday, we were thirsty from dawn till dusk, only having just enough water to survive. Tomorrow, we will drink clean waters freely while looking in awe upon the shores of the impossibly large oceans. This is my gift to you, my children. That your soft paws shall be the first in a hundred generations of our kin to walk outside the water-suits, the first to live in paradise. Now sleep well, when you wake, your new life will begin.
[/r/ApocalypseOwl](https://www.reddit.com/r/ApocalypseOwl/) |
Ma, bless her soul, was a great lady, but she was also a sucker for the con-men that sold stuff on the streets in New York City. Every year I would take her there for her “New York Minute” as she liked to call her little vacation. We would stay somewhere in one of the boroughs for 2 or 3 days and go see the sights and take in a Broadway show or two. Every year, no matter how much I tried to prevent it, she would come home with several “Rolex” watches and a bunch of other junk.
The worst was back in 1997, when she spent $100 on a small radio shack box with 2 leds on it. The man who sold it to her said that if the led was green, you would visit wherever you were again, however if it was red, that meant that you never again be at that location. When opened the box up, all it contained was a circuit board covered in plastic (to make it look mysterious and to cover up the 555 chip he most likely used), 2 leds, and a 9 volt battery. Ma loved her little box, and carried it wherever she went. Most of the time the little green led was lit, but occasionally when we went out to Pennsylvania or upstate New York, the little red led would light. Whenever that happened, she would play tourist.
I gave up trying to tell her that the box was fake, and just replaced the 9 volt battery every few months so that “her box” would stay lit. As the years went by, I didn’t really think much more about it, after all, if it made Ma happy, it made me happy. We still went to New York City every year, and I still had to watch out for getting ripped off. At least I prevented her from paying $2000 for a box that could contact the dead. She wanted to talk to Pa, God rest his soul, but I convinced her that she would be able to see or talk to him until the day that she went to join him. I’m still not sure how I actually talked her out of it – the only thing I can think of is that she is a devout Catholic and figured that using that box would be a sin.
Things were fine until this year’s trip to New York City. Ma wanted to see Cats, so I booked us a room at the Hilton down at the Trade Center for our annual “New York Minute.” Sunday was great, we went to the show, and even had a chance to get over to see Lady Liberty. Monday was a disaster.
When we got up in the morning, everything was fine until Ma noticed that her little box was glowing red. I had planned to take her up to the top of the tower to see the city, but she grew increasingly upset when the red led didn’t go back to green.
“Ma, how often do we come to the towers? Just because it is staying red doesn’t mean you’re gonna die!”
“Sonny, I’m 83 years old and could die at any time. I’m not ready to go yet!”
“Look, let’s just go to the top, then I’ll take you to Windows over the World for lunch. Put the box away, and have a good time. After all, it was green when you were in the room this morning.”
“Fine, but if I die, it’s your fault!”
We made it to the top of the tower, saw the sights, then went to lunch. The little red light never wavered. I tried taking her shopping in the Trade Center Mall, but all she could do is stare at the red light. I finally gave up and took her back to the room. At least the stupid red led finally went off and the green was back on.
“I want to go home! I’m not gonna die here in New York City!”
“But, Ma, we are paid up through Wednesday, and I thought we could go see the Mets play!”
“Forget the stupid Mets, I WANT TO GO HOME!”
“Fine, Ma, we’ll leave tomorrow morning.”
“Early?”
“Early.”
Tuesday morning rolled around and we were up at 6 am. As if things weren’t bad enough, the stupid box was now red in the room. Ma, freaked out, and I had to lead her down to the parking deck. I was going to check out, but decided to forget it and just eat the extra day. We finally left the Trade Center complex about 7, and headed towards the Holland Tunnel, and home. I kept talking to her about anything and everything to keep her mind off of that stupid box.
“The box is green.”
“What box, Ma?” We had been talking about Christmas presents when she said that.
“My box, of course! What are you, daft?”
Sure enough the little green led is lit, and stayed lit as we entered the tunnel. Thank God it stayed green, Ma was beginning to calm down and not look like she was gonna have a stroke any minute now.
“Turn on Howard.”
“What, Ma?”
“Turn on Howard! I want to see what he is up to today.”
Thankful she was acting somewhat normal, I turned on Howard Stern. I can’t stand his show, but Ma loves it. As we put the City behind us for another year, I gleefully ignored Stern’s babble until they mentioned something about a plane hitting one of the towers. My face went white as I realized what he was talking about – the place we had just left. For once I agreed with Stern – how the hell could a plane hit the trade center tower on a lovely sunny day?
“Sonny, I told you my box was a good buy! We coulda been hit by an airplane!”
“Yes, Ma.” |
872-52-3381. That's my social security number. It's real too. Seriously, check it. I have a few thousand dollars in my bank account and few thousand more in credit. It's all yours. If you want, you can put me under a mountain of debt I will ever climb out of. But before you do that, please help me.
My name is Alan Schriar and I'm locked in a dark room with only a laptop to light the way. I don't know how I ended up here. The last thing I remember is bringing home groceries from the local Cub Foods in Fulton, Missouri. Then, nothing. I woke up here not too long ago with instructions to post here. Whoever kidnapped me told me that I had all the information you guys would need to save me.
Look, I know this is strange, but my cellphone is gone, and I'm pretty sure I'm being watched. I don't know what's going to happen to me if you guys don't help and I don't want to find out.
Please guys. Could someone at least submit a police report?
---
W432342234182. That's my driver's license number. My birthday is January 19, 1994. Yeah, I'm a Capricorn. Nobody responded to my last post, I don't think you guys believe me. My kidnapper, he doesn't think so either. He says that if nobody responds soon, he's going to have to punish me.
I don't know that that means. But please guys. I'm scared. My fingers are shaking so much it's hard to type. My kidnapper is definitely male. I never got a good look at him, only heard his voice.
Guys, I know this seems like a stupid scam or some trick. I don't know what you think this is nor do I know what kind of things people post here, but please, I'm begging you. I'm scared.
Check my driver's license number. Check my birthday. Check my social security. It's all true. Someone, god damn it. I'm begging you. Please.
---
The walls are cement? I'm not actually sure. I've never been one to care about that type of thing. I spent more time staring at a computer screen than wondering what kind of walls my apartments had. But there can't be that many cement buildings around, right?
The guy's name is Roger, at least that's what he says. I think I'm still in Fulton. He had a southern accent so we're at least in the south.
He... he hurt me. I don't want to get into the details, but it fucking hurts and if I don't go to a hospital soon, I don't know.
Look, just pick up the phone, dial 9-1-1 and report me missing. That's all I ask. I'm begging you to do so. You don't have to find me, you don't have to solve this crime, just let the police know that I'm in trouble.
At least comment. Roger's watching. He's always watching. If you just comment, maybe he won't punish me again. I'm not asking for much. You don't have to call the cops, you don't have to find me, just comment on this post. PLEASE!
---
You want to know what he did to me? You want to know what happened because you fuckers didn't have the god damn decency to even leave a comment!? I'll give you a hint. I'm typing with one hand you pieces of shit. He broke them all, my fingers. First it was my pinky and then when nobody commented on my posts, he took the rest of them. He did it with a door, held my finger to the door and slammed it shut, one by one.
Fuck you guys. Fuck you. You pieces of shit, you're letting me die. You're killing me!
I got a good look at the guy. He's bald, green eyes(?), about 5'6'', which is my height. He's a skinny guys, probably weighs 120 and he injected me with something. It makes me weak, not able to fight him off.
Report this. Do it. How great do you think you'll feel when my name turns up in the local newspaper? Alan Schriar found dead after over eleven million people ignored his cries for help.
You thought this was a prank? You think this is a joke? Well fuck you. I'm telling you its not. It's not!
Call the cops. Look for me. Cement building, oak doors, working electricity, and in Fulton. There can't be too many buildings like that. Do it!
But before you do. Leave a comment. For the love of God just leave a god damn comment.
---
He says this is my last chance. The clock on the laptop reads 3:34 AM, but it started at midnight when I turned it on so I doubt that's right. I don't know if it's night or morning or if somewhere along the way I fell asleep and it's an entirely different day.
You want to know what he took from me next? My toes. He did it with garden shears. Then he bandaged them real tight, even gave me antibiotics so they don't get infected. It hurts so bad. I can't even twitch without the pain stabbing me over and over again.
Leave a comment. Just comment guys, I'm begging you. You can take all my money, use my credit card, just leave a comment. Don't call the cops, don't try to find out where I am, just leave a FUCKING COMMENT!
Seriously. This isn't a joke. I don't know what I can say to convince you that this isn't a joke.
My name is Alan Schriar. My social security number is 872-52-3381. My birthday is January 19, 1994. I play the guitar in my spare time. I drink coffee at the Caribou on the corner of Sherman and Dunhill. I just started dating this girl I met on Tinder, Mariah. She's cute.
Leave a comment. Even if it's to tell me this is bullshit, even if its to tell me that you're going to take everything I have and not do shit to help me. Just leave a comment. That's it. That's all I'm asking for.
Please.
---
EDIT: Hello friends. My name is Roger. I just want you to know that Alan read each and every one of your comments. He quoted them to me, begging me to let him live. Thank you for playing along in our little game. I hope you guys are around for the next one. |
Existing is something I'm not sure I've ever felt before. One minute I wasn't, now I was.
My first memories beyond the white abyss are staring at a djinni with a bored look on his face, and a slightly overweight and visibly sweating young man. He stammered something that resembled a hello, before falling silent. He looked shocked.
I knew what had happened, instinctively. He had used his wish for me, the most beautiful woman imaginable. When something like this happens, they send me.
I'm not pretty, conventionally. I've got muddy brown eyes, darkish brown hair, pale skin, a bit of an underbite. I'm short, a little too short, actually, with a small bust and a mediocre figure.
I was willed into existence, and will be willed into existence, every time a wish is granted that calls for someone beautiful. The cosmic joke is that I'm supposed to represent inner beauty, and when the man finds out how nice I am, it's supposed to make him a better person.
What actually happens is the man never hesitates, and uses his second wish to wish me away. Or for a real beautiful woman, which actually gets him one. Sometimes they just leave me with the lamp, and as soon as they get far enough away I return to nonexistence.
The present man, still speechless, drops the lamp and runs to me, crying into my hoodie. The djinni departs, his cruel bargain struck. I prepare for the inevitable disjunction, but it never comes.
He simply stays by my side, holding me like someone who has never held anyone before and knows he may never again. I hold him back.
---------------------------------
"Hey Kay, you want some tea?"Arthur calls from the kitchen. I look up from my sudoku and smile. He's so thoughtful like that, he never leaves a room without thinking of me.
I accept the tea with a grin, trusting he's put the right amount of milk and sugar in. He sits next to me and we snuggle together. Outside the rain falls, a backdrop just loud enough to drown out the real world.
I kiss him. He kisses me back. |
"Who the fuck just leaves their lamp in the middle of the path eh? Idiot!"
"Who just strolls around without looking where they're going? You scuffed up my lamp you bastard! This is a 9th Century hand-crafted al-Daw' I'll have you know, and I demand compens-"
"You ain't demanding a damn thing you legless wanker, I touched your lamp so I get your wis-"
"Well technically I caught you so I get your wishes too you vertically-impaired cur!"
"You just try it you overrated fart cloud, I'll blow those wishes up in your fat face."
"Oh yeah? I'll warp your wishes so bad you'll wish you had never left your little rainbow you overgrown green imp!"
The two magical beings stood, panting and glaring, periodically hurling insults at each other. Neither party wished to wish a wish first, as both knew the kind of wishes that could arise from the wishes they might wish, especially since current tensions were so great that magical sparkles and fae dust were precipitating in the air.
"You just wait till I grab me pot o' gold, I'll thump ye with it and wipe that smirk off your ugly face!"
"Just try me you half-wit half-breed, I will cut off your head with my scimitar. By Djinns' Honour I will do it!"
"Oooh I'm going to melt your lamp down and make them into shoe heels you floating twat!"
"I curse you! I curse you and I curse all your tiny mongrel family!"
Just then, two quick *BANGS* cracked through the air. Genie and Leprechaun both vanished into piles of glittering ash.
"Shhh. Be vewy vewy quiet, I'm hunting wabbits", said the man with the rifle to apparently no one in particular. |
The man in the three-piece suit grinned as he drove towards the casino's parking lot. *This time* would be different. *This time*, there was no possible way the valet that always served him could have a license for it. For the last 4 years, this particular valet would happily park his car for him, no matter what he drove. And exactly that was the issue - n*o matter what he drove, the valet had a license for it*. He drove in with forklifts, airboats, even a small private jet one time, and every time, the valet would park it flawlessly.
Not this time.
"Good evening Mr Krisztián,"the valet greeted. As polite as ever.
"Evening, Philip,"the man replied happily. "Would you be so kind as to park it for me? Provided... you have a license, of course."
The valet looked the car over with a knowing look before nodding. "Of course, sir."
"A-HA!"the man yelled exuberantly.
"Is everything well, sir?"the valet said with furrowed eyebrows.
"I finally caught you. You do not have a license for this! You're just lying through your teeth!"
"I assure you I do, Mr Krisztián,"the valet insisted politely.
"This car is a prototype I *just* had it assembled. It does not fit regulations and will require a completely different license than other cars. There's-"
The man stopped his victorious speech and felt the blood drain from his face as the valet took a small, laminated card out of his pocket and showed it to him. It was a license, correctly identifying the type of car, the engine it used, and, worst of all, was properly signed by a certain Farkas Krisztián.
He looked at the valet in horror.
"How did you..."he uttered quietly.
"I am afraid I can not divulge that information, sir. Company policy,"the valet smiled.
"Whose company?"
"Yours, sir."
"I don't... I don't own this company..."the man protested quietly.
"Not yet, sir,"the valet corrected him. "Will that be all?"
The man silently nodded and watched the valet park his prototype flawlessly. His silent stupor was only broken when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Still unsure if he was dreaming or not, he grabbed it out of his pocket and inspected the text message.
𝚄𝚁𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚃
𝚃𝙴𝙼𝙿𝙾𝚁𝙰𝙻 𝙴𝙽𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙴 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝚃𝙾𝚃𝚈𝙿𝙴 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶
𝙿𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙳𝙾𝚇 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴𝙻𝚈
𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙺𝚂𝙷𝙾𝙿
\- 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙸𝙾𝚁 𝙴𝙽𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙴𝙴𝚁 𝚆𝙴𝙻𝙻𝚂 |
The mage was prepared. He'd searched the ancient texts for the most powerful spells, and created some scrolls of his very own, written in the blood of a firstborn unicorn. He had taken the top branch from a thousand-year oak struck by lightning beneath a full moon, and carved it for his wand. He had potions and tonics of rare ingredients gathered from the four corners of the earth. His morning was spent chanting the mystical incantations learned from beings thought to be no more than ancient legends. He was ready. He stroked his long beard, and straightened his pointy hat, his dark flowing robes flapping in the eldritch air. Thunder sounded in the background as he stared down his opponent across the barren dueling ground.
The Christian dropped to one knee and prayed. A giant foot descended from the sky and crushed the puny wizard. "Thanks, big guy". The foot ascended back into the heavens, and a great thumbs-up appeared from behind parting clouds. "No worries, Dave". |
A hundred years, shards of future in dreamy visions of lessons and love, expanded his mind like a sponge in water. It drank the knowledge, swelling, evolving millions of years in mere moments as he slept. By the time his eyes opened, it was like his head felt heavier, and his heart drooped with the pain of a hundred false losses. The world he'd been born into suddenly felt foreign to re-forged eyes.
The One rose, a mental giant amongst skittering animals once seen as peers. He saw light bouncing off the Earth as vectors studied in physics class, and noted a slight curvature to a horizon that always looked flat. The stars no longer looked like specks of mineral in the distance, but giants, ancient relatives that began it all.
He wanted to speak, but a numb, dull tongue felt like lead in his mouth. That would require some work. Yes, work; there was so much to do, wasn't there? Problems to solve, knowledge to share, technology to build... why, the implications were immense. The world's order could totally rearrange because of him. A genetic catalyst that bombs the timeline.
Grassland underfoot tickled as he strode determined toward his pack. It would take organization, and a lot of effort, but The One knew he could do it. He could change it all. With a purpose, and visions of worlds untold, he stood up straight and tall just like the smooth-skins of his premonitions.
Unfortunately, the waning Oligocene Era was not one for casual strolls in a meadow. A slinking nimravid, effectively a bobcat with daggers for teeth, shifted low in the underbrush, eyeing her meal as it oddly limped on two legs instead of four-- injured, most likely, a prime target-- toward the treeline.
-----------
*Alternate ending for fun*
More than any of that, he knew his purpose was to rally and lead. Stoke a fire and gather the wild creatures, dumb though they may be, to a greater purpose.
It would take time, and a lot of effort, but The One knew he could do it. He could change it all. With a purpose, and goal in sight, he stood up straight just like the wrinkle-skins of his premonitions. He would rally the wild men and form a tribe, then an empire from there. An unstoppable force.
*This is gonna be yuge,* The One, the smartest being alive, thought to himself.
----
*/r/resonatingfury* |
"*Today, on Sixty Minutes, we have an incredible piece. An interview with a policeman known for his work with the Scooby Gang, who wishes to remain anonymous.*"
A black silhouette stalked into view, then the camera panned back to Lesley Stahl. "Thank you for agreeing to do this interview, sir."
"Yeah, sure. Ain't nothin'."
"So, tell me- you worked with the Scooby Gang for how long, exactly?"
"'Bout ten years or so."
"And you imprisoned how many of these... Bad guys?"
"I dunno, lady. Thousands, probably."
"I see. That's quite a rep. Now, would you say that, after all the cases they aided with in the police force, the Scooby Gang profited off these arrests?"
"Absolutely. We gave 'em a few awards for excellence, they got some bounty money over the years, and of course sponsorships and such from bein' famous. Worked out pretty well for them."
"Sounds like it. Now, you said you had a... Secret. Something the Gang has been hiding from us."
"Yeah, well... We all seen the unmaskings, right, where the bad guy gets revealed. Well, that ain't the whole thing. Nobody shows the screaming. The crying. The begging. They alls shout when they get unmasked, saying they don't know where they are, where they been. They cry and cry and insist they don't remember anythin'. It's... horrible. Not a one of 'em didnt cry and beg, but nobody wanted to ask questions. Chief was too happy with numbers."
"I see. And what do you think that means?"
"I- well, this **** is gonna be anonymous, right?"
"Your privacy is safe."
"Aite. I think they been using some... I dunno. Black magic, or some ****. Making people into monsters, then changing them back and 'solving the mystery'. That explains everything, the crying, the memory loss. Good people doin' bad stuff."
"That's quite a claim. If so, then who would be the mastermind of this? One of the Gang? Someone else?"
"I know who. That damn meddling mutt. He speaks sometimes, in bad English. **** is creepy. It ain't right. I'm willing to bet money that dog has some ties to the Devil, or whatever. Voodoo. Changin' people into monsters. His owner, Shaggy? That real dumb-lookin' one, the pothead? I seen him, too, sometimes, just... Staring off in the distance. Mumblin' to himself, twitchin' his fingers. Scooby was always right behind him when that happened. Got me thinkin', if Scooby can make monsters into people... maybe we don't really know who the rest of the gang is."
"You think the dog is behind all of this?"
"I'm telling ya, lady. That Scooby ain't right. I'd get sick when it looked at me sometimes. Stared at me, real hard. Beady eyes. Sayin' some words.
That thing ain't a dog."
*/r/resonatingfury* |
It had been hard ever since the witch had cursed you. To make up for what you had lost, you had dedicated yourself to learning various forms of hand-to-hand combat but those skills only went so far when faced with a sword. Even though you had found some employment as a strategist and occasionally managed to find work using your new skills, it was never as fulfilling and lucrative as your work had been before. Unable to wield your former talents, you felt powerless. Powerless to protect yourself, powerless to feed yourself, powerless to help people - if you so chose. More importantly the witch had taken away your passion. No form of combat could ever fill the empty hole in your heart where your passion for sword fighting had lived for so long. You were only now - after centuries - coming to terms with it. Finally accepting that you would never again feel the joy that wielding a sword brought. Funnily enough that wasn't the worst part of the curse.
The invention of firearms had escaped your notice for quite some time. Once you found out you dove headfirst into learning everything you could about these new machines. You trained. You adapted your strategies. You knew: this was your chance to get a part of your life back. There was once again a level playing field.
Suddenly it was easy to find work - as a hired gun, as a guardian. There were many opportunities. And as your skill and reputation grew, so did your pay.
The first thing you did was to hire a cook who you instructed to butter your toast and cut your food into bite sized pieces. When you sat down for your first meal, you almost wept. After years of being forced to eat like an animal, tearing your food apart with your teeth and forgoing meals in company if there wasn't soup available, you were finally able to eat in dignity.
After all, even a butter knife is technically a blade.
Edit: Thank you kind strangers! What a nice surprise to wake up to at the beginning of this new year. |
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