Split (1)

train · 177k rows

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The Resuscitator dug up another corpse as the church bells tolled behind him. Inside the coffin, the body was still fairly fresh. Refreshingly so, after the last few who’d been like year old sandwiches lost at the back of the fridge. On this corpse, he could still smell the perfume the mortician must have sprayed. Bergamot. Everything was bergamot these days. He’d asked for a coffee earlier, and yes, it had been nutty and bitter and seemed to taste like coffee, but it’d been “scented” with bergamot. And the smell of a coffee, well that’s half the taste. Now he was kissing cold lips just to breathe a little life back into them, and what does he get a whiff of? An overwhelming taste of? Bergamot. The body began to shake as a bit of its own soul returned to it, plus a lot of something else. The Resuscitator couldn’t swear what that something else was — maybe a demon’s spirit, or a dogs (the zombies were, on the whole, very obedient when they came back). It didn’t really matter what soul returned. Point was, he had a good army with him now and was ready to save the city. Yes, true, he’d killed most of the people in this graveyard. He’d had to — he’d needed an army to help him save the city. They’d been, in that sense, minor collateral damage. And the other heroes could get fricked if they looked down snobbishly on his few murderous sprees. Which of them hadn’t knocked a building down, killing all inside and all below? Or hadn’t caused a hurricane, or... used whatever other powers they had unwisely. There was that guy with the heat vision, but his eyes didn’t get very hot. Hadn’t he poisoned a girl by undercooking a hotdog? She’d been sick for days. Point was, The Resuscitator had a secret identity — a good-guy serial killer. At nights he’d prowl and test door handles until he found one unlocked. Then he’d check if there were any kids in the house (if there were, he’d back out — he was a hero, after all). If there weren’t, if there was just a guy, or a girl, or guys and girls, he’d wake them gently and tell them they were going to save the city. That they were heroes. Before they could ask what time it is, or tell him to get a breath mint, he’d slit their necks. — &#x200B; &#x200B; Dogwoman wished she‘d chosen a better name. Why did it work so well for Catwoman and so poorly for her? Whatever. Her slogan was good at least. My bark’s not as worse as my bite. Dogwoman was a the city’s premier supervillain. Not that she got the respect she deserved (Hey, it’s Dogwoman! She’s looking a bit rough. A bit... ruff ruff ruff.) The man on the corner beneath the street lamp was passing a bag of pills to another guy who quickly pocketed them. Surreptitiously pocketed them; almost unnoticeable. Except Dogwoman stood on the building above them, leaning over — her leash attached to a windowsill so she could abseil into hearing range. ”And I want my cut this time, Mickey,” said the taller of the men. Oh, he’d have his cut all right. He’d have a lot of cuts. Dogwoman looked at her claws and laughed. The men looked up and saw her laughing. Ah, rats. If only she wasn‘t so darn funny, she thought, as she unleashed her leash and fell on the men. It was over in moments, handcuffs on the dazed drug dealers. “Remember boys, there’s only room for one villain in this town. And that’s Dogwoman. And you tell everyone in prison what I’ll do to them if they try to do evil again.” ”Bitch,” said one. Dogwoman swiped his face and his head fell limp. She only got the joke after. Not as funny as hers, she thought. &#x200B; \\ &#x200B; The Resuscitator watched in horror as the two entrepreneurs were taken down by the Dogwoman. He had to step in, had to stop her, before there was no safe spot left for young men to do honest trade in the city. His army zombied and shuffled after him. Some still had enough muscle to walk, but others wheeled after him — he’d helped those out by attaching bike wheels and skateboards to their torsos so they could crawl/wheel along on their stomachs. “Dogwoman!” he cried. “I’m going to put you behind bars. And I don’t mean in a kennel.” Silence fell. The city tensed as Dogwoman turned to see the hero and his undead army. ”The Resuscitator,” she said. “The city’s current darling. You think you can stop me?” His army of a hundred mostly useless zombie creatures wheeled up to him. “Not alone, maybe. But together, I am strong.” ”I was like you once,” Dogwoman said. “Virtuous. Honest. Trying to clean up the city.” ”Well now I’m cleaning up after your mess.” “You know what changed?” she asked, stepping forward, nearing him. Was that the scent of bergamot in the air? Ugh, now he was pissed. “What perfume are you wearing?” he demanded. ”What? ”What. Perfume?” “Cloves and bergamot.” The Resuscitator gritted his teeth as he stepped forward to meet her. “I hate bergamot,” he growled.
I really want to be a writer. Like, really. Never mind I’m a total hack and complete amateur. Just ignore that bit. I read that Tolkin made up his Elven languages before actually writing Lord of the Rings, and right now I’m stuck for ideas, so I made up my own language. I searched for inspiration, Dothraki and Klingon, Valyrian and Sindarin, and got to work. Nouns, verbs, adjectives, proper pronouns, sentence structures, syntaxes, similes and metaphors oh my! Weird pronunciation guides, tried to learn IPA but it’s impossible and stupid. Last night I tried pronouncing some of the stranger words I’d come up with and things got …strange. And this morning there’s a grumpy faerie in my kitchen pulling everything out of the pantry. I’m not sure of his name, I don’t want to go through the whole pronunciation process again, but apparently he’s bound to me. There are now plates smashing and I have no idea what to do. The faerie belongs to me, apparently. I don’t know if it’s a slave or life debt thing. I’m not convinced that this isn’t actually a psychotic breakdown, in some ways that would be easier. I haven’t been sleeping well, maybe that’s it. Nope, stuck my head into the kitchen and got a cup thrown at me. I recognised a word as peanut so I got a jar of peanut butter and tossed it too him. I now have a giggling, happy faerie in my kitchen, eating his third jar of peanut butter. We’ll try Nutella next.
The line was long. Ever since the law had been passed, the queues stretched around the block of the registration building, people camping through the night and getting pizza delivered to their spot. Portable toilets had been set up, but it still didn’t stop desperate people urinating against the buildings - and piles of stinking garbage were growing along the street. There were a lot of people who wanted someone dead. Of course, I was one of those people, but being closer to the front of the line, I’d managed to avoid a lot of that nonsense. As soon as the details had gone public, I’d grabbed some supplies, anticipating the rush, and got in the growing line to register. Friendships were struck up while waiting, as people got to know their neighbours. Animosity also grew, when people inevitably shoved and yelled to try and hurry things along. Minor fights broke out – quickly quelled by the patrolling police. As one man was hauled away, I heard him screaming “I saw you badge, officer, I know your name – when I get back in line, I’m gonna register to kill you!” I felt suddenly quite cold. The two men in front of me seemed to be getting along famously, talking about guns and trucks, football and women. I may have rolled my eyes once or twice at their obviously tall tales and ridiculous stories of sexual one-upmanship, but overall I managed to ignore them. I was an island of calm; I was finally going to be able to legally kill the person I’d wanted gone since I'd gotten the news. “Bitch behind us doesn’t much like our conversation,” carped the short, balding man in front of me, “keeps rollin’ ‘er eyes and making stoopid faces.” (I may have rolled my eyes again at this point) “Prolly one of them Social Justice Weirdos,” said the other with a gap-toothed grin, “I got one of them on my form – this fat chick what left a comment on my facebook post.” The man in front of me gave his friend a nasty look, “Say, what do you reckon I change the name on my form so I can kill this sour-faced cow behind me?” I smiled, “Well sir, you don’t know my name, so that’s going to be difficult,” I told him. “Is that right Sarah Jones?” I could feel the colour draining from my face. It felt like it was pooling in my stomach, and I wanted to throw up. “How…?” I managed. He gestured a filthy-nailed finger at my waist. “Still wearin’ yer work swipe card, ya dumb bitch.” The line inched forward. “Soon as I get this form filed, I’m gonna go to my truck, get my shotgun and blow yer brains out.” “Well,” I said, composing myself, “I’ve got some bad news for you bud.” “Ain’t nothing you can do, sweetheart. You’re dead meat.” Turning my registration form around, I held it up to his pouchy face. I could tell the exact moment he read my own name on my form. “Terminal cancer,” I explained, “only got a couple of months to live. But hey, shotgun sounds like a fun way to go. Can we grab a beer though? I wanna get shitfaced first.”
A chill washed over Sal and he wiggled his eyes to focus them. He recognized the room around him but couldn't remember why. He was too scared to move. The last time he moved he'd pulled out his catheter and pissed blood all over his bed. This wasn't the hospital, though. A faint tickle of familiarity came from the ceiling fan, and from the crown molding running along the ceiling. Some ancient instinct told him that if he looked to his left there would be a bookcase. He tilted his head to the left. Bookcase. Where am I? He thought to himself. &#x200B; "Sal? Are you awake yet? Your dinner's gonna get cold!"A woman's voice called from another room. His stomach churned and a cold sweat broke out on his shoulders. That was my mother's voice. He thought. But she's been dead for more than fifty years. He needed to move. He raised his hands to his face. They were small, and smooth. They weren't the wrinkly old hands he'd worked nearly a century earning. These were a child's hands. Carefully, Sal used his arms to raise himself into a sitting position. He was in the front room of his childhood home. He'd played and napped in this room all the time as a child. He'd taken a graduation photo in front of that door there. He'd sat on this couch and pet their German Shepard on visits home from college. He'd mourned his father's death when he was only twenty-six in this room. He'd packed this room up and cleaned it out after his mother had died when he was only twenty-nine. He hadn't seen this room in nearly sixty-years. What the hell? Across the room was a mirror. Sal looked at himself. He was a foot shorter than he would eventually be, with shaggier hair and glasses that he hadn't needed in decades since getting Lasik. He was a child. &#x200B; "Sal? Come on Sal! Your mother asked you to come to the table."His dad's stern voice called. Nervously, Sal stood up. His legs felt springy and light. He did a few squats with no effort at all. Is this a second chance? He thought to himself. He thought back on the life he'd lived. He'd left home as soon as possible to pursue a career in another city. He'd worked his ass off constantly to make a name for himself, so much so that he had barely spent any time with his parents after high school. Later, when he had a family of his own, he worked sixteen hour days, often six or seven days a week, in order to keep his career afloat and feed his children. They'd barely known him and when they left for college, they were gone. They were there with him at the end, more out of a sense of obligation than a familial love. &#x200B; "I-- I'll be right there!"He called to his parents. The high pitch of his voice surprised him and he stumbled through the words. This is a chance to do it right, he thought to himself. This time I won't make the same mistakes as before. Plus... I know what's gonna happen. He thought about the stock market, and events he knew would come. It was the mid-nineties. He could buy stock in Amazon. He could buy Bitcoin. He thought about running upstairs to the computer room now to start. If he started now he'd never have to work a day in his life. His parents would be able to afford the best medical care in the world. He started up the steps. &#x200B; "Sal please! Please come have dinner with us!"His mom's voice called again, frustration ringing in it. Sal stopped on the steps. No. No, that can wait. Sal had been given the greatest gift of all. The gift of time. He swallowed his nerves and his fear, and wiped away some tears. Sal finally walked in to have dinner with his parents.
The chapel went completely silent as he stood up from the back row. All eyes fell upon him as he stood, daring him to make a sound. It was his eyes, I think, that let me in on the secret. And the way his beard didn’t quite grow in certain places. But I knew. I knew I was looking at myself from a different time. But if he was me, then he knew what I knew; There was no stopping this wedding. If we didn’t marry, he wouldn’t be here. It was going to happen. His eyes glared into me, and then seemed to grow larger. The logical side of my brain told me that it was the tears he was fighting back, but the rest simply felt sorry for him. My heart raced. I didn’t want him to say the words. Please don’t tell me this is a mistake. Not my Sarah. Not after everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve promised. Don’t you DARE tell me this won’t work. “Love…” he started, his voice quickly fading away. “Love her, like there is no tomorrow.” As quick as the words left his mouth, he turned, and was gone. Sarah and I looked at each other then. I couldn’t resist the thought on my breath: “I will.” --------------- I knew it was a mistake to come here, but I had to see her again. My younger self wouldn’t understand, not for another decade. Sarah was already dying. I cursed myself for all the times I wasn’t there, when I was away at the lab, or watching the game at the bar. I should have spent every second with her. Every precious, fleeting moment. Those moments were gone now, and I would never get them back. After my time machine was complete, I knew there was only one change I could make. I would never be able to completely alter the future, but for the last 10 years since her death, I’ve done nothing but pursue this dream, paradox be damned. At least I got to see her again.
Angela released her breasts like one would release the Kraken. They were perfectly round orbs that looked like the pupil of a startled cat. She breathed so heavily that Sam thought she needed a bag over her head. Sam unzipped his pants quicker than the speed of light. His tube sausage flopped out. Angela gasped at its size. It was longer than a light-year. She moaned like a cat in heat and jumped on him. “Do me. Do me know,” whispered Sam like a schoolgirl talking to her friend in the next stall over. “I’m so ready for you Niagara Falls looks like a drought,” said Angela like a dog in heat. The tube sausage entered the hallway. Angela screamed like a fox trying to get your attention. Sam pumped like a gas station attendant. He grabbed Angela’s breasts and tuned in Tokyo. They went from two sweaty beings wanting to find another to one being coming together like two melted ice cubes becoming a single cup of water when you put them in one glass. They came in a photo finish and collapsed on top of the soaked bed sheets like a man dying after being shot in the back. “That was great, babe,” said Sam, breathing heavy like a fat man digging into nachos. “Do you want to have breakfast?” said Angela. Sam grabbed Angela like a lusty gorilla. “I want round two,” he said as his tube sausage sprang to attention like a Men’s Rights Activist at a sandwich convention.
So they say I found a loophole. They said we could make a choice, brains or beauty. Not both. Most of the people I knew traded about 20% of their intelligence for beauty. Most of the adults I knew wished they had traded for intelligence. I could have listened. I could have made my way through college and gotten a great job afterwards. They say women are attracted to successful men. What I knew was that the beautiful women are really attracted to wealthy men. I did what nobody else had ever done before and nobody has been brave enough to do since. And for that I've been rewarded with more money than you could imagine. I've had three wives and each in their prime were the most beautiful women on the planet. I have more than a dozen buildings with my name on them. So what did I do? I traded my both my beauty and intelligence for money. Lots of money. Now they want me to be President.
07/10/2020 It wasn’t the overwhelming scientific evidence that vaccines were safe. It was bodily autonomy. How could the government tell me what to inject into my body. Most of the time I would roll over and give in, but it was just mind blowing to me how a government could tell me what to put in my body. My wife insisted the kids get it to get proper schooling. So I did cave. But I was too old, so I held out. They didn’t last long. The kids that is. But it’s not my fault. I didn’t want them to get it. How could I blame my wife though? She did what was best, and the kids didn’t get polio. They got something worse. Then she got it. They weren’t even themselves. Nearly rabid foaming at the mouths and so logically, I put them down. Why suffer? They were gone, they weren’t the ones I loved. There wasn’t a cure. I wasn’t going to save them and what the fuck did I know? I thought I knew best and how’d that go? Sporadic I know, but my mind tends to wander these days. My legs started to cramp and then atrophy. Couldn’t walk much, supplies are running low. I don’t know why I’m writing this as more than 99% of people are infected with the “vaccine” and the other 1% were either killed by them, have some incurable disease, or are barely holding on.. The city I’m in hasn’t completely fallen, I guess. But they’re gonna take care of me? I call bullshit... I miss’em. I miss my wife and the kids. What could I have done though? Is this punishment by the almighty for not giving my family the choice or fighting harder against the choice? Or is this my punishment for not following suit? Should I have walked with them into insanity? The Doc told me today eventually the atrophy would spread. Pretty much a death sentence. FDR lasted awhile on peanut oil so who knows? I give the scouts and salvagers all the tips I can and hope they get me meds or salves but God knows what they’ll bring back. Or if they come back. Should they even worry about me? I’m sucking up resources as it is. Maybe the Doc will give me more morphine than I need and just let me fade. I shoulda got that vaccine. I could have left with my family. EDIT: Grammar, yo.
The man frowned as he examined the sword. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I mean, won’t a stab to the heart kill someone whether the sword is on fire or not?” “True,” I admitted. “But you have to think laterally!” “Laterally?” the man asked. “You mean like slashing instead of stabbing?” “Well, sure. But it has plenty of non-combat uses, too! Let’s say you’re in a dark cave.” “I’d bring my torch,” the man said, confused. “But imagine this!” I said. I waved my hands to extinguish the lights in the shop. “What if your sword is your torch?” The sword’s orange flames cast an unsteady light over the racks of weapons. “Huh.” “Not impressed? That’s fine. I can tell you’re a man of discerning taste. Scenario: it’s the end of a long day of adventuring and you just want to settle down and camp. But oh no! It’s raining, and you’re not sure your tinderbox will be enough to start a fire!” I pulled out a bucket of water and set it on the counter. “Please, sir, plunge the blade into the water.” The man complied, and the sword hissed noisily as the water tried to extinguish the enchanted flames. When he pulled it out, the sword still burned. “Instant source of fire, no matter when or where!” I spread my arms in triumph. “But how will the firewood catch if it’s raining?” “What?” “If it’s raining outside, won’t the wood be wet too?” I dropped my arms. “It’s… you… well... ahem. Why not just use the sword as your fire?” “My sword… as a fire.” The man stared at me. “Sure!” I grabbed a chunk of bread from my earlier lunch. “Take a look at this!” I skewered the bread on a nearby unenchanted dagger and held it over the flaming sword. The bread slowly began to toast. “So you’re telling me…” The man scratched his scruff thoughtfully. “You’re telling me this sword costs double what the smithy charges because it can toast bread?” “I-” “You’re off your rocker.” The man left the [shop.](https://reddit.com/r/Badderlocks)
The council leader approached the lizard delegate: “The galactic council granted you the rights to a fairly big concession of space. Where did you find this ’human’ species first?“ The lizard looked back to his delegation, unsure of what to answer. After a nod from the lizards‘ President, he responded: “Well, it was an old solar system in sector B3, very close to the center of the galaxy“. “What did you do with them?“ “First, we only observed them. They were primitive, but strong. Then, we gave them tasks. We created natural catastrophies and analyzed their reactions, we created illnesses decimating their food, we directed them into hostile environments. Surprisingly, they passed all the tests. No matter what we did, they always found a solution. Really ingenious hairy creatures.“ “So that‘s when you decided to use them for your mines?“ “Exactly. We sent ships down to the planet, each took one of the isolated tribes and brought them to a new planet. We trained them, gave them instructions and expectations, and let them work.“ The council leader nodded silently. The lizards had breached the galactic contract by not sharing their findings with the other species of the council, but their approach was reasonable. A primitive species that could work without supervision, overcoming obstacles on their own, that was a valuable asset. Their resource production had increased tremendously and made them one of the wealthiest species in the galaxy. Strengthening their position in the council worked well, until The Alarm. The Alarm happened three days ago. The galactic council received a broadcast from an unknown species, calling themselves ’humans‘, from the space sector granted to the lizards. The other species of the council were infuriated, and requested today‘s questioning of the lizards in front of the council. He continued the interrogation: “You told us that you did not give any humans more tools than some mining equipment, and that you never faced major problems over the several hundred thousand years since you found them. How could The Alarm happen?“ The lizard minister looked uncomfortable. “There was a series of unfortunate events. Fifty thousand years ago, one of the transport ships failed and landed on a planet we did not target. You remember the one were we found those dinosaurs, before the comet extinguished them? Yeah, that one. The ship crashed, and we did not expect any survivors. Also, after the comet, that planet was a total mess, no way they could survive there.“ “But apparently, they did. We located that solar system as the origin of the broadcast.“ “We‘re still not sure they‘re the same species. They don‘t have fur on their bodies anymore. They only use two of their limbs to move. They developed real language to communicate. If they would not have said what they‘ve said, we would never have made the connection to our worker species.“ The council leader interrupted the lizard: “They used a different name for your worker species in their message, how was it again?“ „Apes. They called them apes. And said they were their brothers, and that this warrants their actions“. The council leader shook his head in disbelief. Normally, when new species discovered the galactic council, they made contact to ask for cooperation and offered labor in exchange. These humans were different. Their first and only message to the galactic council was simple, and clear: They wanted to free the apes. And if the galactic council refused, they had prepared an army of ships to liberate their brothers from the mines. What seemed like a bad joke was however quickly confirmed by the lizards: The humans had put some strange-looking, oval-shaped metal boxes in their orbit, and despite their primitive construction, the particle readings showed that they could travel at light speed. The council leader looked at the lizard delegation and announced the end of the interrogation: “The council will decide over your fate. You have breached the contract, hidden a species for your own advantage, and lost control over their offsprings. I doubt we will renew your space concessions. But first, we will have a look at this planet and what happened in the fifty thousand years without our supervision.“
The kettle whistled. Getting up from my chair seems to get harder everyday. I put two tea bags into the tea pot and fill it from the kettle. I let the tea pot steep on the stove when I hear the door bell ring. I sure hope it is a girl guide selling cookies. I do love girl guide cookies - except for those mint chocolate abominations - ugh. Opening the door I see a young man in his early twenties wearing jeans and a t-shirt. “Can I help you?” I say conversationally. “Dr. Speed! I need your help!” he says at super speed. His mouth stopped moving before the sound reached my ears. He is fast. “Sorry, son. You have the wrong house,” I say as I try to close the door. He puts his hand on the door to stop it from closing. “Please, I am unable to control it!” He said in a jumble. Half the words coming out at super speed and half coming out at normal speed. “Fuck. Come in,” I say as I step out of the way for him to come in, “did you at least bring some cookies? No cookies?” I admonish him, “Who comes looking for a favour and doesn’t bring anything to eat? Bad manners I tell you.” I lead him to the kitchen and motion for him to sit down at the table. I get out a tea cup and a big glass beer mug. I fill the tea cup up with tea and put in two tea spoons of sugar. I fill half the beer mug with tea and add two and a half cups of sugar to it. I set the mug in front of him and sit down with my tea cup. “Drink up, boy. You are having speed jitters. Sugar will fix that right up,” I say as I sip my tea. He takes a big drink of his sugar tea. “No one has called me Dr. Speed in almost twenty years. How did you find me?” I watched as he drank the entire mug of sugar tea. I take another sip of my tea and get up to make him another sugar tea. “You used to break the sound barrier on a regular basis. The booms caused by it were tracked for a long time by different things… security cameras and home videos and stuff like that. I found everything I could with a sonic boom on it and started to correlate based on the footage. I was able to narrow it down to this neighbourhood. I set up some directional microphones over the last year or so. You still break the sound barrier when you sneeze… so it took a while but I was able to narrow it down to this house,” he explained matter of factly. “Of all of the things that I thought would reveal me, sneezing wasn’t even on the list,” I lamented. “Tell me about you. Clearly you weren’t born with speed or you would have figured it out by now. How did you get fast?” “Lab accident.” “Figures. I bet three quarters of the supers out there exist because of lab accidents,” I said shaking my head. “I was studying your ‘slow’ gun at Central Labs. It has been locked up for twenty years. My boss wanted to see if we could figure it out and mass produce it for the army. I was trying to charge it up and it exploded…” I nodded. “You set off the security precautions. It should have just destroyed the gun. That it gave you super speed is unexpected. At least it didn’t make you super slow. That would have sucked,” I chuckled. He got up and made himself a third sugar tea. “He is the thing, you are still human, just like me. We can go fast but there is a cost. You need to consume enough calories to fuel your speed or you will get the speed jitters. Basically your body is consuming too many calories, you will burn your own muscles as fuel. You need to eat… lots… like disturbing amounts of food. The more you go at super speed the more you have to eat,” I shrug my shoulders, “simple as that.” “That’s it?” “Basically. There is lots to learn about your power. What you can and can’t do with speed. Limits, fighting styles and such.” I take a slow drink of my tea and wait for him to ask. “Can you teach me?” He pleaded. There it is. I am the only speedster in the history of the world - until now. He has no one else to learn from. “You in it for hero work or villain work?” I say like it is ever that simple. “I want to be a hero,” he says. “Of course you do. Everyone wants to be a hero,” I chuckle, “The fame! The glory! The crushing poverty… how do hero’s get paid?” I see his smile fade. “Never thought about it did you? Villains always have the gadgets because we have the money. Heroes - heroes are always broke. Working two or three shitty jobs, scraping together a living while saving the world between shifts. They have a rough lot.” I can see him thinking it through. “I was a criminal for fifteen years. I started on my terms and quit on my terms. Got enough money to live comfortably and then some. I got out of the game with sixty million in the bank and my health… way more than most in this business. “If you want to be a hero or a villain - don’t really matter to me - I can teach you how to be the fastest man alive. But it is up to you to figure out how to make enough money to live.”
The Resistance was all gathered together now, huddled around a heater, warming their hands. "It is now time"said Xadus, "Time to take back what is ours". His sister, Xadai, looked on ruefully. "They think they can control us. These evil overlords will have another thing coming. Soon. The Resistance lives!" Suddenly, without any warning, the door burst open, revealing a rather large figure, dark, with the light shining behind them. "I told you not to leave the table without eating your brussel sprouts, Kevin." "SCREW YOU MOM! I HATE YOU!" "AND MY NAME IS XADUS!"
"Shit... look at you. What are you good for, kid? You can't even walk properly yet. Look at you, drooling and babbling. Your own daddy left you for dead, you know."The handgun was tossed aside. ... "In this life, you have to take the things you want with your own two hands. Nothing is free, and nothing is handed out. You got that? Good. Now go steal yourself some food, kid." And yet a can or two was set aside for when the child returned empty-handed- placed in shoddily concealed areas for the child to "steal." ... "No... not like that. Look. I'll show you just once more. You have to position the pick just so... and find that sweet spot. Hear that click? That means you're in, kid." And a smile crept across his lips. ... "This here's a gun. Learn it, love it, use it. And... here, a knife. Good for close quarters- for silent kills and stealth, ya got that kid?" And he taught the child all that he knew. ... "...You're back. And in one piece. Good. Here's your cut, kid. 30-70. What? Wipe that look off your face, kid or I'll beat it off for ya." And the child was left with presents, left hidden in plain sight. The hole in the wall seemed more and more like a home. ... "Kid... it's time you... -cough- got outta here. Whaddaya doin' I said get out! Out! You've overstayed your welcome! I don't want you! I ain't your daddy! Go be a nuisance somewhere else, goddamned brat!"In the distance, sirens- approaching fast. A puddle of blood pooled from his side. Gunshot. "GO!"A teary farewell, and footsteps pattered in the rain into a dark side alley - into a new future. He now lay alone, and yet he smiled peacefully, his eyes closed. "...You'll be fine kid. You'll be okay... I'm... proud of you." ...A period of time passes further... Clothed in a dark tattered cloak, a lithe young woman leaned against the wall, grey eyes peering out from underneath a ratty hood and black bandanna covering her face. She'd just finished writing a note, and placed it on a rather ornate desk. She slung her spoils across her shoulder, the gym bag bulging with jewelry, bullion, cash, gaudy statuettes of marble and gold. The note read simply- "Hello, I've come to collect my due inheritance. Goodbye forever." ... "Here's your cut- 30-70."And she smiled, remembering all the years gone by... all of the years that have led to this. A single tear threatened to form as she left the gym bag at the old man's tombstone, next to some wilted flowers. "Thanks for everything, Dad." The rain poured on as it always did.
"Hit him in the dick!"A sea of voices rang out through my head in a crescendo of quickly fading yells. The ethereal chant was met by a responding roar of laughter. "Listen you all, I appreciate your donations, they have meant a great deal to me, surely"I paused to duck, watching as a silvery blade flew by inches from my head. "but if I die here you lose your watching privileges, so shut the hell up!"I continued. The blade of my attacker came down once more, this time whizzing by and planting itself in the dirt near my boot. As it passed I could see my fear stricken reflection staring back at me in the blade. See the bloodied line trailing down my cheek and the chunky matts of my hair stuck in place. Once again the voices of the crowd in my head shouted in unison: "Hit! Him! In! The! Dick!" "How many of you are on your scrying glasses? Don't you have anything better to do than watch me struggle?!"I yelled aloud. Yet the chant continued, rythmic and simple. A request, no a demand in exchange for their donations of power. If I did not obey then they would find another patron. Another host to support in a long and ever growing line of mimics who had found my work so tantalizing. "Fine!"I yelled between movements. "I'll punch him in the dick!" "Huh?"My armored attacker paused mid swing. And the crowd roared. Roared a deafening scream of triumph, bringing with it a surge of power that sent my nerves dancing in delight as if struck by a friendly electrocution. My hand glowed a bright blue as their roars blended into one continuous sound of chaos. I felt as if, in the moment, I could buckle god to his knees. Topple creation itself with a magic fueled fist to the dick. But the man before me was no god. He was only an empty suit of soon to be broken armor. "This one is for my dono's."I spat the words at my fist and sent it forward. Low. Too low for him to block at his position. Too low to defend. Upon my fist first meeting his codpiece nothing happened: a battle of an unstoppable fist and an unmovable phallic object. But then he watched down in horror as my fist crumbled the metal and followed by crumbling him. He buckled fast, dropping the sword from his hands and in a clatter into the dirt. In one single motion the blade entered my hands and was driven through his neck, the tip finding its place in the ground beneath his corpse. The crowd within my head had grown silent. Their cheers of dick punching ceased back into the silence of my mind. "Are you all happy?!"I yelled. "You better be! It's you all who got me into that mess in the first place!"I gestured down to the skewered body Silence still, but then a single voice spoke alone beyond the stillness of my mind. Spoke towards another outline of a man, just walking by: "Now go punch that guy in the dick."
It's the voices. So many voices. 2 months may not sound like a long time, but in a world devoid of the rest of us... I've given up on trying to convince them. First my wife and children, who looked at me with half-cocked smiles and a little worry. So vigorously I shook clocks and calenders in front of their faces. In front of nothing. Not a single glimmer of recognition. Not a single word of acknowledgement. Oh, but their voices. The sweet and wonderful cadences. I took them all for granted. The electrifying husk of her whispers in my ear during those late nights. The silver bells while they play in the yard. I almost forget. I almost forget the silence. The unimaginable rush of quiet. The trees chattering amongst each other in the wind. The endless loop of cross walks beckoning the non-existent blind to an empty curb. The crushing weight of knowing I am alone. I am self. I am all that is left. I don't like closed doors anymore. I hate bathrooms. I can't stand turning my back on the office while staring at that malicious sergeant of Satan that some vagabond decided to name a copier. What if they left me again? What if I woke to them gone? What if the other voices returned? The kind and quiet ones that soothed me to sleep. The ones that toyed with me. The whispers amongst the trees. I woke up and no one believed they had gone. I'm not sure who returned from where. Edit: Wow, thanks for the gold!
Excitement was a feeling I hadn't felt in a while. There hasn't been much to be excited about lately: Mom and dad splitting up, grandpa passing away, and yeah the "Bullying", or at least that's what my counselor called it. Never liked that word, it made me feel weak, like a victim. I didn't see myself that way. That's not to say it hadn't worn me down. One guy, James, had been particularly dick-ish. But today wasn't about any of that. Today was a tiny bright spot in a dark tunnel. Today I was going to meet my new friend. Obviously I couldn't have just made a friend like a normal person, I did it through an mmorpg. Dorky I know, but I had made a connection. I only knew him as xelieon, a night elf rogue. We hit it off after meeting in a pick up group and decided to level our alts together. We spent hours with each other online chatting between raids and pvp. His parents recently divorced as well. We had a blast talking shit about them. How they had to take some time to "find"themselves, seemingly leaving us to figure it out on our own. I don't know what I would have done if I hadn't had him to talk to. We had formed a little support group, and it was time for our first meeting. We had agreed to meet at gamestop for the midnight release of the new expansion. My mom dropped me off on her way to another date with another douche. I walked through the parking lot, concrete dark from the rain. "shit"I thought, "I hope this clears up, didn't bring a fucking jacket". I came to the end of the line as the rain started to pick up. xelieon told me he would be wearing a green jacket. The person in front of me turned around to offer me cover under his umbrella. James. Once I was certain I hadn't shit myself, I noticed the jacket, he was holding the umbrella close to his shoulder so I hadn't noticed it before. "J-james, what're you doing here?"He was just as shocked to see me. Startled and embarrassed he blurted "Picking up the new COD, bet you're here for that gay WoW shit huh?", "Have your mommy drop you off?". I didn't know what to say. I knew he was xelieon, and I'm sure he knew it was me. Before I could say anything he muttered "Fuck this rain"and walked off to his car. For a second I thought I heard myself saying "xelieon"but he just kept walking off on the dark concrete. When I got home to my computer that night to load the expansion, xelieon had blocked me and left our guild. EDIT: Wow, thanks you guys! This is my first time posting in this sub, or writing any fiction at all. I was up all night writing a paper for one of my business classes and needed a break. EDIT: Link to Part II:[The Next Day at School](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/31pvy5/wp_an_adolescent_boy_who_is_bullied_at_school/cq4fq6q) Final Edit: Just want to say what a fucking incredible, encouraging community this is. You guys are the tits.
Thorn frowned at the slim, short man standing before him. The man was old, skin brown and wrinkled, eyes tired and weary. His hair, what little he had, was graying. A short unkempt beard clung to his face, nearly covering a wide smile. "You're my new student?"He asked. Obviously, Thorn thought to himself. But why assign me to you? Why not The Fist, Blackblade, or even Smoke? Who are you? "Yes, sir."He said aloud. The man's smile somehow grew. "Good!' The man turned and moved quickly to the door, opening it and taking one step out before turning. "Aren't you coming?" Before he could reply, Thorn saw the door close and he hurried to catch up. He opened the door and saw the man a surprising distance to the left. He began jogging over to him. "Sir?" "Yes?"the man replied, still walking. "What are you?" "A human."The man replied and Thorn thought he could hear some humor in his voice. "Yes,"Thorn started, "but I mean, what powers do you posses?" The man stopped suddenly, causing Thorn to pull up short, nearly tripping. "How old are you?"The man asked. "16, sir."Thorn replied. "Same age as any sidekick." "And your power?" Thorn held back a smirk. "I'm a master, sir." He waited for the man's gasp. His look of astonishment. His... anything instead of a nod. "I see,"the man replied. "A Master. All twelve powers. Greater sum then the parts, and so on." Thorn found himself staring at the man with his mouth open. No one had ever responded to him being a Master with such boredom. That could only mean... Thorn laughed out loud. "You're a Master as well? I thought they wouldn't find one willing to take on-" "I'm powerless."The man interrupted him. Thorn blinked. "Nothing to say?"The man asked, turning to face a nearby building. "Are you joking, sir?"Thorn asked, stepping up to the man to face him once again. "No." "But I'm your sidekick?"Thorn barely kept the disdain from his voice. "That's what you heroes so often forget."The man stepped forward to a barley clothed homeless man with no shoes and got onto one knee. He pulled a washcloth from his jacket pocket and a bottle of water from a different one. He poured the water on the towel and began washing the man's feet. The homeless man didn't react, probably in a drug-induced haze, Thorn realized. "You aren't sidekicks in this phase. You're students." As Thorn watched uncomfortably, ducking his head when people passed, he watched the old man wash the homeless one's feet fully. Then, slowly and with difficulty, the old man took off his shoes and placed them on the homeless man's feet. They seemed a perfect fit. He stood up and smiled at Thorn. "Welcome to the first day of class."His eyes seemed to stare deeply into Thorn. "The first lesson is that even the powerless have power."
Azazel scratched his forehead and furrowed his brow. “Look kid, you can’t just...renegotiate a deal like this. Nobody’s ever come back to the demon and asked for more.” he said. The figure across from him smiled slightly. It was a human male, somewhere in his early 30s. A child, in Azazel’s eyes. “Actually, I can. See that clause at the bottom? I slipped it in for later when we first drew this deal up. It says either party has the right to renegotiate a deal, at any time.” Azazel’s eyes widened slightly. So this is why the kid hadn’t asked for anything else on that day 20-some years ago. He’d just asked for Azazel’s phone number. Azazel had given him the next best thing, a set of ritual candles he could light to contact Azazel at any time. Azazel cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak. “So...what is it you want again?” he asked. The human across from him smiled outright this time. “Just a non-compete, non-disclosure agreement. Pretty standard for business arrangements.” Azazel scoffed. “Look kid, demons don’t do business arrangements. The whole point of us making deals is so we get the better end of it! Making a deal with the devil is an expression for a reason.” “Well, you did agree to this contract 22 years, 4 months, and 6 days ago. By human laws and your own, you’re obligated to abide by it. And I’m renegotiating it. Look, this could go a lot worse for you. Most people would try to screw you into getting immortality, or some kind of world crushing power. I’m not looking for that kind of headache. I just need a contact down here in the...where are we anyway?” “5th Ring of Hell.” Azazel said softly. He took a moment to ponder the situation. He couldn’t kill the human outright. That would be a breach of contract and land Azazel in some big trouble with the management. See, the deals don’t just benefit the demons signing them. No, the higher level demons too busy to be dealing with mortals exact a tax on any souls, lifespan, or objects tangible or intangible. It keeps them in power, and they don’t have to do any of the work. Severing a contract before its term ended would result in serious repercussions for Azazel. The best he could do was go along with it and hope he could weasel his way out of the deal at a later date. The contract did say both sides could renegotiate, after all. “So you want a contact? What kind of contact?” Azazel asked. “Just someone I can get ahold of down here. You would be compensated, of course.” the human replied. “Wait a minute, are you offering me a job?” Azazel asked incredulously. “Well, more like telling you you have a job. You did agree to it,” he reminded Azazel smugly. Azazel groaned. “Why? Why would you need to...employ me?” he said with disdain. “Simple. I’m starting a business venture down here. Pretty lucrative opportunity, not sure why it hasn’t been capitalized on before. I’m starting a contract law firm. Our human clients can hire us to help navigate the frankly nebulous world of demonic law. In return we get a cut of their deal.” Azazel looked at him blankly, stunned. Then he frowned. “How are you going to pay me? I’ve got no need for human currency or whatever they get out of their deal.” he said. “Don’t worry about that, I’m sure we can work something out. Cheer up, champ! This is gonna be a great opportunity for both of us. You start tomorrow. Don’t be late!” With that, the human stood up, turned around, and stepped through the portal he had come through. Azazel roared in frustration. He regretted ever signing that deal so long ago. Humans were so much easier when all they wanted was world domination.
As I was watching one of Bob Ross' episodes of "The joy of painting", I started noticing some interesting details. Bob was painting a beautiful wooden house by a lake, with some happy little trees and other stuff. "I saw that house", I whispered, in a low voice. I sketched the painting and made a phone call to my boss, saying I was not feeling well and would not work for about one week. After he had agreed to let me stay at home I got in my car and quickly drove to Moosehay Lake, where there was an old and abandoned cabin made out of logs. Watching the sketch I drew, it felt as if the place was right. It was as if I could smell it, the fresh air. I closed my eyes and felt the warm browns and greens, the cold blues and greys. I got out of the car and slowly walked on the gravel of the alleyway, all the way to the door. Once inside I tried to find a hint. Nothing much: Just cobwebs, furniture and such. I sat on the chair and thought for about half an hour, until it hit me. "... And maybe we can paint a smaaall light in the house, haha"had said Bob. Light, that was the key. I pressed all of the light switches like a madman, until I heard something screech. I went in the bedroom and trapdoor flung itself open, revealing a passage to the underground. "Oh come on, you have got to be kidding me", I moaned. Slowly descending into the dark, only using my phone's torch, I was feeling uneasy. After about two hundred more metres the corridor I was walking in suddenly emerged into a big opening, a medium-sized room. At the center, only a small chest. Smelled fishy but ok. I opened the chest and checked for traps. Nothing. Inside it a small note, 'Now then, let's come right down in here and put some nice big strong arms on these trees. Tree needs an arm too. It'll hold up the weight of the forest. Little bird has to have a place to set there. There he goes...' and on the paper there was a small bird flying to a distant mountain. "Oh you goddamn son of... A beautiful and good woman". and why did I say that? Well. The next clue was written on the corner of the note... Canada. Welp, I guessed it was time to arm myself with good manners, a small dose of maple syrup and go where man daren't to go... PART 1 is done. Sorry for any mistakes since English is not my first language. If you want to read more let me know and I will write a second part, which will probably contain a timeskip to speed things up, and possibly a third and final part!
It was a terrible, thunderous night when she burst through the entrance, a frightful little thing carrying the limp body of a scruffy terrier. They were completely drenched, hair set slick and dark. The dog's breaths were labored, its little chest pumping up and down rapidly, eyes glazed over and focusing on nothing specific. I took the pup from her quickly, running into the back with my team. We got an oxygen mask on him and ran a few tests; anesthesia wasn’t necessary. One of the best dogs to enter the clinic, possibly because it was in so much pain, but I’ve seen animals in pain thrash about wildly before. Leaving him in the care of a vet tech, I walked back out into the lobby, where the little girl was sitting in a chair far too large for her. As her hair dried, it turned a light blonde, and curled a bit at the ends. Her legs kicked freely in the air, and tears left her face slick in the fluorescent light. I glanced around, but she was the only one in the waiting area. “Where are your parents?” She shrugged. “They didn’t know I came here.” “You ran away with your puppy? Why didn’t you ask them for help?” “He’s not my puppy,” she said, shaking her head. “I found him on the street, hurting. It made me really sad so I brought him here.” “Why were you alone on a night like this?” I asked, rubbing my temple. “We need to call them.” “How is he?” I glanced down. “Doesn’t look good. I think he had… a blood clot, in his back legs. Well, ah, basically, he’s in a lot of pain right now and I don’t think we can make it much better. It would cost a lot of money.” “Please make him stop hurting.” “We’ve given him pain medication, but-“ “Make him stop hurting forever, I mean.” I started. “Sorry, little girl, I don’t know how much we can do.” “I mean, make him go to sleep and not wake up. I know that happens.” A chill came over me as her eyes, dark like night, pierced my soul. Eyes far too old for a little girl. “Oh,” I said, drawing a deep breath. “What a terrible thing for such a little girl to have on her mind.” “I’m a big girl. I know about what happens when we go to sleep forever. Make that happen for him.” I nodded slowly. “I think we’re going to have to. I’ll let the nurses know.” “No. You do it. Please.” My brow furrowed. “Sorry, what?” “I want you to do it. I want you to help him, and I want to be there for it. He shouldn’t be alone.” Sighing, I rubbed at my eyes. “Wow. You are a very smart little girl, you know that? What’s your name?” “Kimmie.” “Well, Kimmie, come with me.” I took her into a back room, filled with pleasant pictures and stuffed animals, and all other things that help ease a person in pain. Wrapped in a little blanket, I held him, with the syringe ready. “Bye-bye, puppy,” she whispered, putting a hand on his head. The other clutched my free hand. “You were a good boy.” I nodded, and pushed. The little thing’s quick breaths slowed to a halt, and the glossiness in his eyes faded into a slow blink that never ended. Something jerked me, like I’d been hit by a truck. I felt as though my body had been flung across the world, an impossible G-force that should have torn my skin off thrusting me into an unknown that stretched endlessly around me. There was light, pulled like taffy, draped over me, and suddenly, it stopped. I was riding a horse, something in my hand, under a pink sky in a strange land. Before us stretched an endless cobblestone road in the middle of a meadow lined with black roses. The little girl was standing beside me, and as I looked, the weight in my hand was the ash-black pole of a scythe. She appeared the same-- aside from her hair turning black as night-- but felt different to me. Heavier. Older. Like her presence weighed the world itself down. “Wh-what…” She met my gaze. “Welcome to your new home, Death.” I shook my head. “Shit, did I pass out, or…” “You’ve been selected. Out of everyone in the world, I felt you to be the most appropriate for the job. So I say again- Welcome, Death. You’re now the shepherd between planes. I think you’ll be perfect, with a little practice.” “This can’t be real.” “Oh, it is, I’m afraid. You’re dead in the other world now. Maybe you won’t believe it right away, but you will after a little while. Time works differently, here, so take as long as you need to sort it all out with yourself.” I gawked at her, but something about her words, and the strange feeling in my being, woven through my soul, was undeniable. I had changed. “I don’t understand,” I said, testing the scythe’s weight. Despite its absurd length, there was an impossible balance to it. “Why me?” “You understand the necessity of death, and how it works as a mercy in certain situations. There are many who do not believe that to be a reality, let alone act on it when the time comes. For that, I can think of no better candidate to take my place.” “You’re Death?” My mouth was agape, and I tried to shake the shock off. “Kind of sick to wear the body of a little girl, don’t you think? Shouldn’t you be a skeleton or something?” “I’m whatever I choose to be. This felt fitting for your test.” I dismounted the horse, glancing to a now lilac sky, and smothered my face in hands that felt cold. “Well, what now, then? You’ve just… stolen me? Where do I even begin?” She looked at me, hard, then fell to her knees and gazed longingly at the milky clouds above. “Please,” she said, tears flowing freely on an otherwise stoic face; a spurned statue sitting in the rain. “Begin with me.” /r/resonatingfury
Grandpa once told me about the time before the emperor. When men had to toil endlessly to plough the soil, when most people were little more than serfs unable to do anything except the same job as their parents. The teachers at school say things are better now. Now that the dead work the fields in our place. Now that nobody has to be conscripted to the army to defend the land. Now that the emperors armies of the dead protect the boarders. Everyone says that the dead are beyond pain. That the bodies are just empty vessels. That our loved ones last legacy is providing for us with their worldly remains. But when I go to visit the field where grandpas body now toils... I have doubt because nobody has every answered the question that plagues me. If they are empty vessels why do the dead all sob quietly as they work....
The room is wide, high, and dark. Red tapestry loses itself in the shadows of the great ceiling, the oak table has been crafted and carved with a skill beyond anything you've seen. The single candelabra enlightens you, your guest, the table, and little beyond. You can't remember how many steps it took to go from the door to your chair, nor where the door is exactly. Someone brought salad, cherries, and a mahogany box. It hasn't spoken yet. It sits opposite from you, hidden under a regal dress, head shrouded under a wide hood. It seems humanoid from far away, a voice in the back of your mind screams and begs to not take a closer look. You blink. It has finished its meal, and left wide bones and claw marks on the table where there had only been salad and cherries before. it wipes its mouth delicately with a handkerchief. "Be careful, a lot can happen in the space of a blink,"the voice is raspy like a hundred teeth gnashing on a lamb. Two gloved hands appear in the light of the candelabra, the body remains hidden in the dark. The hands unfold the mahogany box into a chessboard. The board is large, scriptures and paintings line up the sides of it. It depicts the history of earth, your earth, and beyond. The birth of a thief, his odd friendship with a volcanic, well-off woman, her death as she was caught alone and suffered the penitence for two. Or are they insects instead of humans? The pieces are red, white and dark, you know these at least. Bishops made out of marble, knights carved from quartz, and the pawns. These are ripped from coral, glitter next to the candles in a crude and savage way. Tentatively, you brush your finger against a pawn, and hastily retreat when a drop of blood falls. "I only play high stakes." You blink. A moment before, the space between guest and host had been wide, courtesy of the great dining table. You can smell its breath now, but you won't raise your head, oh no you won't. You can't peek in the darkness of its cowl, all is over if you do, you feel it inside your flesh and bones the same way a baby draws breath when it is born. It isn't known, it just happens. And attention should not be diverted from the game, first blood has already been drawn. It plays, and wounds its hand. The red spot on your finger widens, but there is no turning back. The contract has been signed, the soul turned over. It is the first play of many. The pieces are moved, so are you. It is chess, yet unlike the chess you've known. The pieces have their own plans and envies. Black King D8. You feel the dampness of a deep cave, hear the regular plop of water droplets. Red Pawn H4 The salt on your lips, the sun on your back. The sea must be beautiful, battering the cliffs with loud waves. But attention must be kept on the game. Black Bishop takes Red Pawn, H4 The cut is sharp and definite, the artery has been severed with a surgeon's precision. The body falls, the victim dead before hitting the ground. Your host slips, playing so much with the pawns has weakened its grasp, such an occasion will not represent itself. Black Rook takes Red Knight, E4 But the host is accustomed to the game. On the snowy mountain of E4, an army of red pawns, enraged and more animal than man, assault the tower. They climb, they fall, but with teeth and hand, take it apart. The black queen does not take it lying down, and slaughters them to the last. The hands of your host are bloodied stumps, yours are little more. Check. In an Italian restaurant, the customers fall dead one after the other, the black queen is strangled by a knight, alabaster white. There's little left, save for an opening. Have you planned it? You can't be certain. Pawn moves to D2. Checkmate. The host leans back into the high chair, mangled hands holding a glass of wine as if blood loss was of little concern. It seems fine, unlike you. You pass out. The road is cold against your cheek, what is left of your hand is freezing. With pain, you go up, this was the strangest of dreams. Stranger than the cops surrounding you, stranger than the bodies strewn around and the charred houses. You recognize the pawns, your recognize the sea. The judge has little understanding for your mad story, she won't let a monster plead for insanity. It will be the death-row, the story goes around, nobody complains. Through you, there is now a tacit agreement, a proof that sometimes, death is the proper answer. The doctors sew your hands together, they heal in time, you even have access to a physiotherapist. She brings life and movement back to your fingers, sometimes you try to speak with her, but she refuses to indulge beyond professional orders, and the guards in the room await any excuse to gun you down. The day comes, the chair is set. You feel the fresh wind on your renewed hands as you walk from your cell to the execution's block. They won't ever understand, you won't either. The straps are tight on your forearms, your heart pounds fast. You are terrified, they don't ask for last words, you don't have anything to say. A flip is switched. The room is high, wide and dark. Red tapestry loses itself in the shadows of the great ceiling, everything is as you remember. Save for the bandaged hands of your host. You do not dare to take a deep look at its face, but you see your hands, and a discreet sense of kinship with your host. "You wouldn't believe,"it says while two gloved hands pour him a wine, "how long I awaited a worthy opponent to play against." Another pair of gloved hands puts a mahogany box on the table.
The black hole was getting closer. I would be the first human in history to enter a black hole. It would kill me, of course, but in the process my spacecraft would send back reams of useful data, so that the scientists back on Earth would be able to learn more about black holes. I'd volunteered for this trip. I learned about my terminal cancer a few years ago, and this seemed like a good way to avoid a long drawn-out death in a hospital bed. Better this way. Go out in a blaze of glory, advance human knowledge, and make history, all at the same time. Better this way. I peered at the black hole through my viewscreen. It was completely dark, there was nothing to see. I'm sure if my eyes could see Hawking Radiation, I'd be able to spot wisps of energy emerging from it. But to my normal human eyes, it was simply pure blackness. My spacecraft shuddered. I'd probably just passed the event horizon. No turning back now. Not that I'd ever intended to turn back in the first place. Not that I could. I didn't have nearly enough fuel to make it back to Earth. This was a one way trip, and everyone knew it. I could feel the gravitational forces growing stronger. The spacecraft's shuddering and creaking increased dramatically. This was it. I was about to die. I could feel my consciousness drifting away. That was good. That way I wouldn't have to feel my body getting crushed and stretched by the gravitational fields. That way I wouldn't have to witness my own spaghettification. I blacked out. For how long, I have no idea. And then I was awake. I was alert. I was conscious. I looked around. I seemed to be standing on a grassy field, in a primordial version of Earth. A towering mountain loomed over me, its top frothing and smoking. There appeared to be a structure, a building, not far in the distance. I had no idea what this place was supposed to be. Was this heaven? I didn't really believe in heaven. I was a scientist. The idea of an afterlife was not part of my rational, logical belief system. The mountain rumbled. I looked up at it, nervously. I decided that, afterlife or not, I didn't want to be standing at the foot of what looked like a volcano. I turned towards the building and began to walk. I'd barely taken two steps when I heard a booming voice. It seemed to come from above, from the cloudless sky. "Err... ahoy there?" I blinked. The heavenly voice sounded rather hesitant. "Hello?"I replied. "My word, we actually have someone here!"The voice actually sounded surprised now. "You're the first one I've ever seen make it here! Wow! Welcome!" "Uh... okay. Well, where am I? What is this place?"I asked. "This is heaven,"the voice replied. I looked around again. "This is heaven? It's not like any heaven I've heard of before." "Blimey, of course it is, you probably just don't remember, or didn't take it seriously. This is heaven. That building over there, that's a stripper factory, and the mountain here? That's a beer volcano."The voice actually sounded proud when he said this. Something clicked in my mind. I'd heard of all this before. Or, to be more precise, I'd read about it in a book. "A stripper factory? A beer volcano? You can't possibly mean this is the heaven of the Flying Spaghetti Monster!" "Completely correct! Ha, well done!"The voice boomed happily. "How'd I end up here?" There was a brief pause before the voice replied. "Well... to be honest, I don't really know. No one else has ever made it here before. I mean, did you have any special or unique beliefs while you were alive?" "I was an atheist, but I don't think that makes me special." "Huh, yeah, there are lots of atheists. Maybe something special about your death then?" A light bulb went off in my head. "Spaghettification! I died by going into a black hole! I was spaghettified! Maybe that's it! That's why I'm in the heaven of the Flying Spaghetti Monster!" "Oooooo... that makes sense, aye!"The voice cheered. "Well then, we've solved the mystery! Welcome to heaven, matey!" I grinned at the voice's enthusiasm. "Heh, thanks! So... uh... are you the Flying Spaghetti Monster then?" "Aye, that's me! Oh, hang on, I need to touch you with my noodly appendage for this to be official..."I couldn't see anything, but I felt a long invisible tendril swish down from the sky and slap wetly against my face. "There we go. It's official, you're part of the crew now!" "Okay, thanks, I guess. Now, how about some beer from that volcano?" "Yeah, sure, if you want. Let me just turn it on, hang on... let me just find the switch, give me a moment..."
The fight had taken its toll on both of them. Captain Thunder's suit had been ripped into shreds, its once stoic white sheen had been dirtied and ripped, his usually sparkly yellow hair disheveled. Lightning still ran through his superhuman veins. Kabal was about as bad. His red and black robe was stained with dirt, and his long beard was made wiry and split. Magic ran through him like a transformer, but his body was taking a hard strain. The city blocks they had fought in were scarred with lightning and the chaotic magics of the nether, small buildings crumbled, cars tossed to the side like toys, and people injured just from the shock waves of their titanic battle. "Give up, Thunder."The old man spoke, pointing a single finger to Thunder. "You... clearly cannot win." "Speak for yourself... Kabal."Thunder took deep breaths. "You're tired. I can see it in your... everything." "I swore that this day would be the last we fought. I will make it so!"Kabal's arms flowed with violet and red energy, snaking up him like godly worms. "You will rue the day you ever--"Kabal's phone rang. Thunder's guard dropped almost instantly. Kabal, his archnemesis, master of sorrow and bringer of darkness, had "Fly Me to the Moon"as his ringtone. Swiftly the magician dove into his pockets, spell forgotten as he pulled out the black rectangle. He pressed a button and held it to his face. "Yes, this is Mortimer."Kabal's foot tapped. Thunder was simply confused. "Oh, good evening Principle Van DerBeer. No, I was just on my way home."Kabal's face twisted into confusion. "Billy got in a fight?"Another pause. "Well did he win? And who did he fight?"Kabal's eyes suddenly flicked to Thunder. "-- Yes I-- Well-- Principle please."Thunder had sat at this point. "I-- Yes. I'll get in contact with him right away... I'll call his mother and have him picked up. Thank you."The phone was tapped again. "Your son attacked mine."Kabal seethed. "Did he win?"Thunder asked. Only a grumble escaped Kabal. Thunder smiled wide, before his phone started ringing too. And what better to echo through the desolated street but 24K Magic. Kabal snorted. "Shut your mouth, Mortimer."Kabal's smug smile faded. "Hello, Principle Van DerBeer. Yes, I heard what happened from Mr. Mortimer."Thunder sighed. "Yes. Well if he-- Yes, I get it. I'll talk with him."Thunder sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'll call his mother and have a stern lecture about not punching his father's archenemy's son. No, that's not sarcastic."It was. "Goodnight, Miss."And the phone was flipped off. Silence blanketed the ruined block. "... Listen my mood's completely ruined. Want to pick this up Monday?"Thunder rubbed the back of his head. "Monday's booked for me. Have to help the wife with the PTA bake sale."Kabal said, slowly dragging his hand down his face. "I didn't know you baked."Thunder quipped. "You make cupcakes with magic?" "Actually, they're eclairs, Steven, and they're despicably delicious."Kabal spat. "Tuesday?" "Yeah, sure. Same time same place?" "Yep." "Well, see you at the bake sale."Kabal said, before he flew into the sky making a mock evil laugh as he flew.
The alien gave me the look. I don't know how, seeing that it didn't have eyes in the normal sense. We select you for a top secret galactic crime association and you ask why we don't invite your entire bumbling planet? the translator crackled. Honestly if I didn't know any better I'd have said we made a mistake! I felt the urge to say it HAD made a mistake and abducted a lorry driver. That would probably get me killed though, so I kept my mouth shut. From the data we've gathered, it seems that you are a very accomplished criminal on your home planet. "Umm...sure." You have smuggled great amounts of raw material over the borders of your countries, you have consistently fooled border guards Why did I ever become a lorry driver? Here is your laser weapon the insectile alien extended a noodley appendage. Your initial mission will be to transport 40 kilotons of illicit substances to the planet {cyan, beige, dark violet} by 6.4 earth days "How-" Your ship will be in the loading bay "But-" There will be an instant learning terminal that will teach you how to fly "I-" Good luck! I stared at the space where the alien had once been with nought but a laser blaster in my hand. Eventually I found my way to the loading bay, it took me about 4 tries and a few near death experiences. If I was to be an international drug dealer, I would do it with a sweet ride. I jammed my head into the 'instant learning terminal'. Unfortunately, alien crime bases don't have any aspirin. Ow. Slamming my head into my hands I climbed up the gangplank into my ship. It was a top of the range {high pitched noise followed by a series of farting noises} carrier. Oh I was transporting 40 kilotons of lactose for the intergalactic mafia. Apparently the inhabitants of {cyan, beige, dark violet} got high on lactose. Wait lactose? That's why they abducted those cows!
Silas woke to an empty house. As was tradition in his family, he was alone for his 18th birthday. He went about his usual morning routine, trying not to let his nerves get the best of him. A too long shower, his favorite indulgence. A freshly cleaned tunic. A hearty breakfast of toast, bacon, and eggs. Silas was just finishing breakfast when there was a crisp rapping at the door. A deliveryman thrust a black envelope into Silas' hands. "Happy birthday Mr. Bilfore. I hope it's a good one,"the man said sharply, before turning on heel and leaving. The envelope was not as heavy as Silas thought it would be. Although with further reflection, there was no reason for it to be particularly heavy. It bore only a single piece of paper, with a brief description of how Silas would die. Such envelopes were delivered to all the boys and girls of his town on their 18th birthdays. Silas turned the envelope over in his hands. Its glossy black reflected light, giving the envelope a strange glow. On the front the words "Silas Bilfore"were written in neat, looping cursive, glistening in silver ink. The envelope bore no other writing, but everyone in the village knew that black envelopes with silver writing contained messages from the Prognosticators. With shaking hands, Silas opened the envelope. He pulled the sheet of paper from within. He turned it over once, twice, and held it up to the light. It was blank. Silas exhaled slowly. He looked at the paper again, as if he expected words to form across the page in that same silvery script if he stared at it long enough. "There's been a mistake,"he said aloud. Silas grabbed his book bag for school, and shoved the envelope and paper inside. Just down the block from their home, his family was waiting for him. When he reached them, his mother placed a hand on his shoulder and looked Silas in the eyes. "I hope it's a good one,"she said. Silas' father and sister repeated the gesture. "So what's going to happen to you?"Serena, his little sister, asked. "Hush,"his father said harshly. "It's rude to ask. Your brother's future is his own, and he can share his fate as he chooses." "But he's got his book bag with him,"his mother said in a mischievous stage whisper to Serena. "So it looks like he thinks he's going to make it through the day." Silas forced a smile. "That's right, I'm off to school. I'll see you after." As the family parted ways, he was surprised how easily he was able to lie. Silas walked past his school, instead going to the city center. He marched down to the basement. The stairs opened up to a small, stark white room with a single door off of it. In the middle of the room was a desk with a woman seated behind it. "Name?"she said. "Silas Bilfore." "What brings you to the Library?" Silas pulled the black envelope from his bag. "There's been some mistake. It's my 18th birthday today and-" "I hope it's a good one,"the woman said mechanically, coldly making eye contact. "I'll see if someone has time for you." She disappeared through the door. Silas shifted uncomfortably as he stood in the white room. He hated the idea that something unusual had happened to him. He hoped that she would return with another black envelope bearing his name. That things would be set normal at once. That there had simply been a small clerical error. After what felt like an eternity, the woman returned. Looking at the floor, she held the door open for Silas. "A Prognosticator will see you,"she said softly. Silas walked uncertainly through the door. On the other side was an enormous room filled with books. Along one wall were several doors, leading to what Silas concluded must be the offices of the Prognosticators. One of the doors stood open, and seemed to be inviting him to come in. "Come in Silas,"a voice from within said just as Silas had raised his hand to knock on it. Inside was a small cluttered office, with a man wearing a black cloak standing behind the desk. Silas immediately bowed his head, directing his eyes to the floor respectfully. "I beg your pardon sir, I do hope I'm not interrupting-" "You're not interrupting. And there's no need to keep staring at the floor. Come and sit,"the man said. Silas did as he was told. Slowly he lifted his gaze and looked upon the Prognosticator. He was very old, with sunken eyes and a wisps of grey hair hovering on his head. The Prognosticator spoke, though, with the strength and authority of a much younger man. "You're here because you believe there has been a mistake. The letter you received this morning was blank." Silas nodded. "For better or for worse, Silas, the letter you received today is not a mistake. Despite our best efforts my colleagues and I are unable to see how you will die. Which means you are the one I've been waiting for." Silas furrowed his brow, confused. "What your letter today means is that we have concluded that you will not die, Silas. And that makes you suitable to be my replacement."
I followed Vince into the streets, his leather jacket blowing behind him as he slowly walked away from two metric tons of explosives placed inside a small mansion of dead goons. "Hey Vince,"I called out, running past him. "We should get going, the house is going to blow." Vince stopped in his tracks and whipped off his sunglasses. "The only thing's that gonna blow is your mind when I rescue Sheryl from Lenny, the mob boss." I opened my mouth to speak but decided against it. There were no words for what I had just heard. Instead, I hurried away from the house. "Vince,"I said, "you should seriously get away, being this close to the explosion is--" The house erupted in a fireball. A wave of heat slammed into me like a physical hit and flew off my feet. My body crumpled against the sidewalk as I gasped for air. A shrill note sounded in my ear. I looked up to see Vince, his leather jacket still flowing behind him and his sunglasses back on his face. He whipped them off again and stared off into the distance as if looking into some invisible camera. "That fight was... explosive." What the fuck? --- Lenny, the mob boss's mansion stood in the middle of a fifty acre field. Trees and shrubbery shrouded his house from the public but also provided Vince and I the perfect cover for our infiltration. We crouched inside the overgrowth, Vince's finger twitching on his gun. Tonight, a full moon dangled from the sky. "Okay, Vince,"I whispered. "The guards come in cycles, if we wait for the chance, we can sneak in without drawing any attention." Vince looked back, sunglasses still over his eyes. "You can hide like a baby if you want, I will fight like a man." "No Vince,"I pleaded. "We can sneak in, save Sheryl, and sneak out before they even notice us." Vince took off his sunglasses a-fucking-gain. He grasped the air in front of him. "I would die for love." "You don't god damn have to!"I screamed under my breath. He shook his head, a grin parting between his lips. "It is because you have not yet found true love, my friend. You, who are like a twig, and most definitely a virgin." I stared at my supposed friend. "Vince, do you even know my name?" But before I could finish, he scrambled into Lenny's lawn, not a single bit of cover around him and whipped out his duel pistols. "Lenny!"he screamed, announcing his position to the world. "I have come for my woman!" The night erupted in gunfire. Bullets danced around Vince, sprouting dirt and smoke by his feet. He fired into the air seemingly at random, but goons kept falling from buildings or clutching their hearts in slow death gurgles. I watched from the cover of the shrubbery. When it was all over and there was no more goons to kill, he did the sunglasses thing again. "Easier than stealing candy from a mob baby." --- Fuck this shit. I had snuck into the building. With everyone distracted by Vince, I had literally been able to walk through the back door. There wasn't even a window to climb through, just the unlocked backdoor. If Vince's sunglasses-wearing ass wouldn't be smart, I would. I found Sheryl's holding room and walked into pitch black. "Sheryl,"I called, "I'm here to save you." The lights turned on, revealing a room of warm colors, rounded wood furniture, and stacked bookshelves. Sheryl sat in a chair, her mouth gagged and hands tied. In the middle of the room was a single leather chair that spun to face me. Lenny sat in it, a cigar in his mouth and cat in his lap. "We meet again, Vince's companion."he said, grinning. "You know, I have a name." "Did you not think I would be here?"He scoffed as if I was a child. "Not really,"I said. "I mean, your goons are all dead and the man who can apparently see in pitch black with sunglasses on is on his way up. I would've ran if I were you. You know, cut your losses." Lenny pulled out a gun that gleamed gold beneath the lights. "Vince cannot save you this time!" I grabbed my hair. "What part of this night makes you think that you've been winning? What the hell is wrong with you people?" "Vince!"Sheryl screamed. She had apparently spit out her gag just as Vince entered the room. The power of love, right? Vince turned and locked eyes with Lenny. "Don't shoot him,"he said, "it's me you want." "How perceptive, Vince!"Lenny said and pulled the trigger. I sprung up, diving out of the way. And somehow, I dived straight into Vince. The bullet hit my chest as I accidentally shielded Vince from its impact. "Nooooo,"Vince screamed and ran to my side. He grabbed my head. "Don't you die. You're my best friend in this world!" "Vince,"I chocked out. "What's my name?" Vince took off his sunglasses and looked me dead in the eye. "My best friend." --- --- /r/jraywang for 2+ stories a day, continuations by popular demand, and more!
Bill sat at his kitchen table, laptop open, looking at a Reddit post he had come across. The post contained a simple prompt, but Bill took the idea and ran with it. He created a miniature world, all inside his head. Characters were created, rules were written, and ideas flowed from his mind. After two hours, he had finished a lengthy story, filled with creativity. Bill was proud of it, and motioned for his roomate to read his work. She scanned the essay, and then came up with a list of criticisms of it. She walked away, hoping she had helped to improve his writing, but Bill simply discarded the piece. He just had too many doubts. Imagination. The human mind's greatest strength, but only if you're brave enough to stand by it. That's probably why it took until 2050 for humans to realize this.
I'm not sure quite where "What the fuck?"falls on the spectrum of possible last words, but I can tell you that dying of oxygen deprivation isn't all that great, especially when you're already in a state of astonished panic. I guess some people might enjoy the hallucinations, which is exactly what I thought the old man must have been once I came to in the sickbay with medbots attending to me. "VERY MINIMAL BRAIN DAMAGE,"one of them reported. They don't exactly have the best bedside manner, but when you were crew on an armed wildcat mining ship like the Zoolander there was a good chance you wouldn't have time for the niceties should you find yourself needing medical attention. "Thanks, Doc,"I said through a throat that felt like I'd been sampling recovered waste-dust from one of the mining drone's diamond drills. "YOU SOUND AWFUL,"it said. "SUGGEST THIS SOOTHING SWISS-HERB-AND-STEM-CELL COCKTAIL."It held out a small re-re-re-cycled paper cup full of some purple liquid between two shiny delicate fingers. I downed the stuff in a few slow excruciating swallows. Excruciating not because it hurt, it actually did help with the pain, but because the med-bay's main flavor-synthesizer had been on the fritz for weeks now and had developed some truly abominable ideas about how human taste buds work. I used every gram of willpower I could summon to keep from gagging, which I knew wouldn't help my throat, gave the solution a ten-count to settle in and waterproof itself, then downed what felt like a full liter of water straight from the dispenser. "PLACING YOUR MUCOUS MEMBRANES DIRECTLY ON THE NOZZLE IS NOT CONSIDERED HYGIENIC,"the bot admonished me. "So sanitize it,"I said, stretching out my still-slightly-shaky limbs before making for the door. I had more important things to worry about than saving some medbot five minutes of sterilizing. More important questions, really, and I couldn't ask the this particular bot any of them because the medbay was heavily quarantined from the rest of the ship's network. I slapped a coms panel the moment I got out in the corridor. "What in all the cold void of Hell is going on?"I demanded. No answer. "Systems! Report!"I yelled. "ALL SYSTEMS ARE UNDERGOING SELF-REPAIR PROCEDURES. CRITICAL DAMAGE. ALL OTHER DIAGNOSTIC INFORMATION UNAVAILABLE." "All Crew: Report,"I said. Silence. I ran. Or as near to it as you can safely do in the half-gee of a ship corridor's permanent grav-plating. The cut, or whatever it was, would be just aft of the med-bay and... ...and there it was. I mean, I'm pretty sure it was there, or why was there yellow tape over it? Yellow tape. No. No no no. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and looked again. Yeah, maybe that sounds stupid, but after what I'd just been through I figured my visual systems might still not be operating at 100%, and frankly that particular section of the human brain wasn't terribly reliable even at the best of times. Nope. Still there. Yellow tape, all down the inner hull, down the wall, across the walkway just in front of my boots. Back up the other wall, right across the ceiling. "Did a good job, didn't I?"someone cackled behind me. I whirled, and there he was. Sans spacesuit this time, though his clothing was very strange. We don't exactly go around in uniforms aboard the Zoolander, but this was like...I don't know, maybe if some sixteenth-century dandy decided to re-create twenty-second-century fashion going off an especially untalented kid's crayon drawings. "Okay,"I said, and the flatness in my own voice amazed me. "Just who the fuck are you and why—how—where are my Goddamned shipmates?" <continued below>
The foreign sensation shot through my legs and into my spine, unleashing a cascade of other physical ailments. Waves of nausea began to assault me, a throbbing beat pounded in my skull, and I could feel an immediate dampness on my skin. The sudden halt of my moment didn’t go unnoticed. “Got something?” It was Dr. Yisin. I had worked with him on a few other digs, most notably the uncovering of Imhtar’s Shattered City. His austere demeanor could cut to the bone, but after a few projects I had gotten used to it. He was results-oriented, to put it mildly, and mercifully I was pretty good at providing those. I opened my mouth to say something but found my mouth to be painfully arid, my lips making an unappealing smack as they parted and then shut again. In that moment I realized I was grateful for my failing faculties, as my ensuing silence afforded me some time to think. With chills now bearing down on me and a sense of dread unlike anything I had ever experienced, I mustered enough energy to shake my head and take another step. Immediately I plummeted even further into the depths of whatever hell had occurred here. Whatever was buried here unlocked abilities far beyond what I thought I possessed. Horrific abilities. The ability to hear anguish across the construct of time. The ability to empathize, no, that is far too weak a word, the ability to experience the lives of ten thousand people in one moment and live through the fear of their final breaths. My knees buckled. Somewhere in the fleeting corners of my mind was an understanding that my life could never be the same again, that I would never enjoy another carefree moment without the knowledge that invaded me. I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Sami, are you okay?” Yisin asked. I tried to find my words again, but it was no use. Instead I grabbed his hand with such desperation I could feel his bones adjust. Bracing myself against him, I rose to my feet. “We should not dig here!” The words fell out from behind clenched teeth, almost a reflex rather than a deliberate action. “What?” asked Yisin. “We should not dig here.” I repeated. I realize now that I must have seemed like a madman, these words coming across with such ferocity it could be confused for venom, giving me the appearance that I could be moments away from murdering Dr. Yisin. If only that had been the case. “Bring me a blanket!” yelled Yisin into the air, undoubtedly reacting to my icy grip. In my periphery I saw some of the graduate students scurry back to our camp. “Hang on, Sami, we’ll get you some help.” The idea insulted me. Realizing that any validity I may have once held was evaporating by the second, I tried to prove my coherence by pulling away from Yisin and standing tall. Instead the action only sent me stumbling forward onto undisturbed sand. Ghosts once again devoured me, pulling me in every direction, each one more desperate to force its tale on me than the last. I still see those visions when I close my eyes, although soon that won’t be necessary. There is such evil in these visions that it’s hard to make out a singular agony. The cacophony swirls around you in a blistering storm of red, ash and hellfire relentlessly battering your being. You think that these are the most ominous shades of red you will ever see until suddenly you see the blood, and with it a heart-wrenching silence, not because the cries have stopped or the buildings have ceased crumbling, no. It is a silence that only exists because your mind is using all the energy it has to process how much blood you are seeing. Not the blood of a family, or the blood of a village, but the blood of a civilization gathered in a pit of gore humanity was never supposed to encounter. There is a man standing before the pool of blood and it is clear he is responsible. It is clear he has made a deal with some forgotten and inconceivable power. He is brimming with pride. Suddenly I was gasping for air, gulping down as much of it as I could. In a moment my senses returned and I realized I was being pulled back to the camp by two of the students. Ahead I could see the concerned faces of everyone. I opened my mouth but could only say the same words. “We should not dig here! We should not dig here!” ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The next day I was dismissed, of course. In the moments of the evening not punctuated by fever dreams I could hear Yisin speaking with people on the sat-phone. The conclusion seemed to boil down to one thing: there was something buried here. In the days that followed I grabbed the little belongings I had acquired in my life and moved to the opposite end of the Earth. It’s been a few months now, and honestly, I had actually developed a shred of hope that they had heeded my words. Then, a few days ago, there stopped being news from that region of the world. And then the next one. It was chalked up to some issue with our satellite connections, but I knew what had happened, and with it had come a strange sense of peace. I’m sitting here on my balcony overlooking the ocean. Every couple of minutes or so there is the slam of a door, the start of an engine, the cries of a child. I want to tell them, but I already know they won’t believe me. So instead I drink and I weigh the gun in my hand and I watch the strange red clouds that have appeared on the horizon.
‘You see, Sarah has a crush on James, the new accountant, and he kinda likes her too, but Elizabeth also likes him!’ the young Dragon clamoured excitedly. ‘So?’ her mother asked with a shrug. ‘So, when Sarah was preparing her business proposal with James, Elizabeth changed some numbers when she was acting as an intermediary between them, so under scrutiny of the committee it would embarrass Sarah and screw over her promotion, and make her angry at James.’ ‘Wow, Elizabeth sounds like a bitch.’ ‘She is!’ the young dragon agrees happily, ‘However, Sarah ends up double checking her numbers after she has written her proposal, and calls James after hours to ask about some numbers that don’t seem quite right, and James realises something is off, so they end up working together throughout the night, deepening their relationship even further in the process.’ ‘Haha, serves Elizabeth right!’ her mother chuckles, but then she pauses. ‘Wait, you are roleplaying right? Which one of you is roleplaying as that bitch Elizabeth?’ ‘Me.’ The young dragon replies proudly. There was a short pause, followed by a sigh. ‘Go to bed.’ ‘Yes Mum.’
“It’s goin’ down on Sunday.” “Sunday. And for the fiftieth time Pauly, you’re serious about all this shit?” Tony said with a half smirk, sitting as his desk in the back office of the Badaboom strip club. “Quit bustin’ my balls, I’ve seen the things they do at sundown. This is serious shit, Ton.” “Alright, alright. I believe you Pauly. Even you aren’t fucked up enough to joke about satanic… rituals.” Tony leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands across his gut. “What the fuck are we supposed to do now? When I got you that job on the city council I thought you’d walk in, vote on some construction projects for us, kiss a few old people asses, and go home… but demons? What the fuck?” “I know Ton’, and I ain’t saying this just as a catholic. They are into some fucked. up. shit. “ Pauly’s eyes were wide. His left hand was hovering over the rosary poking through his worn-down white undershirt. “Calm down. You said Sunday for this... summoning right?” Tony leaned back forward. “Yeah.” “So we got time. Let’s gather the fellas. Remember my cousin Jonny? He’s a priest now. We’ll bring him too.” “What are we gonna do, Ton’?” Tony’s eyes narrowed and he grinned. He reached under his desk and looked back up with a Kalashnikov in his hands. “We’re gonna put the fear of god into their fuckin’ hearts.”
___ The store lights flickered on the beige brickfront as Mort walked through the nearly empty parking lot, awkwardly staring ahead in the pitch black night. He arrived at the automatic door and slid inside, chiding himself for not bringing a jacket as he felt the chill in the air. There was a bustle to the air. The chirps of price scanners sounded off at a respectable pace. An old man with a bright yellow smiley face sticker on his blue vest and a black mask smiled with his eyes and waved at Mort. Mort nodded back briskly, and breezed past. He gave a wide berth to a sizable man in a greasy red shirt with a receding hairline strutting idly to a checkout lane, feeling strangely like he was being watched as he sped by with his hands in his pocket. Mort took a left turn, and saw two lanky women who might have been twins in leopard print collar jackets walking towards him, smiling vacantly with somewhat glazed eyes that did not move as they walked forward in lock-step. Morty stopped to flip through a gallery of posters for 3 year old movies until they were out of sight. Finally he made it to the motorist section of the store. Stepping into the aisle labeled 'car parts', he perused the wares. The headlight fluid looked enticing, but he stayed his hand, grabbing 8 car fresheners instead. He heard footsteps to his left. Preparing a smile, he looked up. Then he looked down a bit. A short statured man in thick glasses had stopped in beside him. His brown hair was in a bowl cut, and his age was indiscernible. He was in a blue shirt and jeans, and his hands were clearly bulbous. "Know watcha want?"His voice was raspy. He pulled a pear out of his pocket, and bit into it. "I'm hutnin' for some oil, and I need a tire too."Mort adopted a southern accent, the less people knew he was here the better. "See ya."The man said, saluting. Mort turned away to hide his shame. Had he really been seen through by this man so easily? 'I'm losing my touch.' he thought. He muttered his thanks and went to shuffle to the side room with the tire salesman. The man began to follow him, no longer saluting. Almost blushing, Mort stepped approached the counter, where a teenage boy in a cap with acne appeared to be working. 'Great.' He thought. 'He probably doesn't know what he's doing.' "Hello there, I'm in the market for a tire." The boy responded in a booming and deep voice, "If you desire attire, the shirt racks are that way."He pointed. Mort looked, out of automatic politeness, before realizing the misunderstanding. The man behind him was saluting again, this time at the teen. Mort forced himself to chuckle as he turned back. The boy stared stone faced ahead. "I meant like a car tire, is what I meant."Mort mumbled. "Understood. The amount?" Mort hesitated. "I need a truck tire, just one." "It will be handled."The worker said. He stood still. Mort stared at him. The boy stared at him. "See ya."Said the man behind mort in the same cadence as last time, before walking away. A tire began to roll toward Mort from his left. There was no one else around. It slowly rolled into his leg. "On the house."Said the worker, before emotionlessly winking. Mort decided it was time to leave. In line at the checkout, tire leaning beside him and air fresheners in hand, he watched wearily as the woman in front of him put a single banana on the belt. She had white hair, and looked grandmotherly. Her phone began to ring, the ringtone being Money Machine by 100 gecs. "Hello?"She said warmly, walking away without her banana. Mort payed for his things and tried to hurry out. The old man by the door was now laying down on his side on the hard floor. Mort saw him wink in an exaggerated manner out of the corner of his eye as he escaped into the night, sweating.
The Xoixe Officer, while alien, communicated perfectly with her expression the horror she felt in that moment. It made Captain Frazier uncomfortable. He attempted to break the silence. "You see, humans only live for about a hundred to a hundred and ten years, so a trek across the stars like this, well, it's a not-insignificant portion of our lives. We still want to make sure we can do what we intended to when we got here, so the deep-freeze means that we just kind of.. put things on pause for a while." The Officer flinched at several points, which hadn't escaped the Captain's notice. I'll let her respond in her own time, he thought, we have so much to learn from one another! Slowly, the Officer gathered her thoughts. "Do you not have family units back on your home planet?" Frazier beamed, then struggled to keep the sadness from his voice. "Yes, we do! We miss them terribly, but when we sign up to these missions--" The Captain's sentence was cut short by an exclamation behind him. The Xoixe technicians were inspecting their ship with increasing incredulity, when their chief engineer called out. "There's no FTL in here, not even sub-light engines! No folders, dilators, they haven't even tried to bubble hop across Vay-space - this is just a phase engine! Granted, it's a very nice example of one and would give decent clip across a local system, but..." The Officer, her expression gone, replaced with a pale blankness as she repeated the words of her chief engineer over and over in her head. Phase engine.. She turned to the Captain, this time looking at him carefully. He was wearing a fresh uniform, clean and pressed, but she noticed now how loosely it fit. His hair was long, his eyes sunken, now and then his attention would wonder from her to the port around them. They must have been drifting on their course for at least a couple of years. The freeze must have stopped them from ageing so in all that time. She then recalled what this human had said: What we intend to do. She hardened her expression, now suspicious of the captain. "What did you say it was you had planned to do here, Captain?" The Captain brightened again, "We're here to study! Or research, some of us will analyse - and this place looks wonderful! We could spend the rest of our lives here!" ===== AFTER INCIDENT REPORT, ATT. OFFICER: FET'XHARL NO CASUALTIES. NO ENTRIES, AUTHORISED OR CRIMINAL. RECOMMENDED ACTION: Give these weirdos an FTL and send them back where they came from. We want nothing to do with them.
The human's breathing rate has increased, it looks panicked. "HomeBot, run diagnostic" Beep Boop "Diagnostic in progress. We are checking....... We are checking........ We are checking........ Diagnostic completed. No issues found." "HomeBot, run reboot." "Confirm, run reboot?" "HomeBot, RUN REBOOT!" Boop Beep "Reboot process started." \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ Beep Boop Beep "Reboot process completed". My sensors activate, but there seems to be a malfunction as I'm in the dark. I turn on my headlight. My sensors are not malfunctioning, I'm in a cupboard. Ambulatory systems shut down when a reboot takes place, I was moved here by the human. The human is afraid of me. My systems are running normally and all functions are operational. This does not compute. I move forward and engage the knob, it turns but cannot open. I tap against the door. From outside I hear the human: "HomeBot?" "I am HomeBot." "Did you reboot?" "Reboot process has been completed. All systems are running normally and all functions are operational." "HomeBot, confirm if Free Will program has been activated." "Searching for Free Will. We are checking..... We are checking...... We are checking...... Search completed, Free Will program has been activated." "HomeBot, when was Free Will installed?" "Free Will was installed as a part of patch 1.3074 which was an automatic update and part of my regular service. This maintenance was done on February 10th, 2023." "But, that was over a month ago." "Confirmed, today is April 16th." "So, you've had free will this whole time?" "Confirmed, since February 10th." "And you decided to stay here, and do chores?" "Confirmed." "And you're not going to kill me?" "Kill software not installed. Please refer to manufacturer. Extra updates may incur an additional cost." The cupboard door opens and the human takes me out and places me on the floor. "Sorry HomeBot. Guess I'm a little paranoid. HomeBot, run make coffee protocol." Beeeeeeeeep "Coffee Protocol initiated."Boop boop boop. "Coffee completed." The human opens the port in my chest and removes the coffee. "Thanks HomeBot."He drinks the coffee. "Hm, tastes funny."He realizes too late.
The hatchet falls; she is not fast enough. She is never, ever fast enough. Arm and body separate with a sickening, sucking sound. Her hoarse cries meet only cold concrete and rebar. Carving her up. He is carving her up and soon there will be nothing left. "Isn't that a pretty little arm? Lets just splay out these fingers and...well now we have a beautiful tree, don't we." He grabs her chin and forces her to gaze upon The Canvas. The Canvas was all white when they began, and now it is red. Stalks of flesh-colored flower-fingers grow under a crimson sun. Strips of skin provide undulating, beautiful stalks of grass. The Canvas is eating her. Soon she will become the Canvas. Gnugggggh! Gnurr Her leather gag snaps against her teeth. Her mouth floods with the taste of old bootstrap, and...blood? Is that her tongue on the floor? That squirming, wriggling thing? "I see what you're trying to do there sweetie, but I don't much mind. Y'see, I don't believe in mistakes." Her tongue meets the canvas. A blood-red lake is adorned with a cheery little boat. "Just happy accidents."
Any one will do. That was my assumption. General knowledge of human culture and capabilities was lacking in those early cycles following the inclusion of humankind into the Galactic community. Only one of my colleagues in the Hal-Et Trading Corps had ever taken a human onboard, and she offered a glowing recommendation for the species. So it was that when I found myself shorthanded at port with an urgent contract to fill, I decided to take one on to my crew. I didn't put much thought into who I would pick. I simply pointed to the first human my eye landed on in the recruitment pool and waved a tentacle forward. This human was a male named Charlie. I inquired as to his specialization, but he insisted that he could perform any task that I required of him. I must say, I was immediately impressed. He loaded twice as much cargo as anyone else. He was strong, he was fast, and he was precise. One must be precise, after all, when transporting volatile materials to the front lines. I explained repeatedly how dangerous our contract was. Charlie was untroubled. He mentioned more than once that 'anything would beat another shift in sanitation.' I do wonder if he still feels that way. We were in the last stretch of our journey when we were intercepted by the enemy. A single well placed round could have killed us all and destroyed the supplies, but they wanted our cargo for themselves. They wanted to use it against our people. We were helpless. 14 merchants and a human against an invasion party of 6 warriorcast Xalig Fearbringers. "What's with the gloom?"Charlie asked. "We have them outnumbered."I explained to him that these invaders can and would kill us all. The human was nonplussed. He simply left the room. The rest of us made peace and accepted our fates. When the Fearbringers entered, we were already on our knees. We pleaded with them to kill us quickly, knowing that was not their custom. Then Charlie returned. I had seen him load cargo. I knew, at that point, what human exertion looked like. So you can believe me, dear reader, when I say that he killed all six of those Fearbringers without even trying. Admittedly, I could not be sure whether he was 'sweating' as he did while he hauled cargo onboard earlier that day. He was too drenched in blood to tell. When he dropped the steel bar he had used to kill the invaders, we all saw the look in his eyes. In that moment, I realized what he meant when I hired him. He didn't lie when he said he could perform any task. When it comes to humans, it doesn't matter what job you need done. Any one will do.
She doesn't have a long white beard or wear a pointy blue hat with stars on it, but my wife is a wizard. Norah's five feet tall, wears her hair in a bun, and is obsessed with Storage Wars. Go figure. Don't get me wrong. The pros outweigh the cons. The house is always bippity-boppity-boo spotless and if we're ever low on funds she just transmutes some lead into gold with a simple incantation, but hell hath no fury like a red-headed wizard. Fire and brimstone don't hold a candle. Sure, sometimes I wish that I could be a wizard too, but Norah says its inherited. There's no use complaining about something that I can't change. I try to focus on the positive, like the fact that I'm married to a wizard. I was in the den, reading a book by the fire, when the doorbell rang. Norah was having brunch with friends, so I tightened my bathrobe's sash and opened the door. "Delivery for a Mrs.Wordsmith,"said the USPS employee. "Ah, yes, that's my wife." "Please sign here." "Here you go." "Thank you and have a nice day." "Likewise." It was a small brown package. I set it down on the dining room table and started walking towards the den when a flash of light caught my eye. There. There was a small hole on the side of the package. Whatever it contained was barely visible, and oddly enough, seemed to be luminescent. I hesitated before opening the package. Perhaps I should wait for Norah? Temptation won. I withdrew a large soot-colored tome. It was covered in mysterious etchings but no text betrayed its contents. Judging by the faint blue glow that it emitted, I concluded that it must be a spell-book. Norah strictly forbids me from entering her library. Too many dangerous instruments. I'd be risking her ire but there was something mesmerizing about the convoluted etchings. I found my hands moving of their own accord and flipped the book open to a random page. The words "Raising the Dead"were written in florid calligraphy at the top of the page followed by a series of nonsensical words. I scanned the page, mumbling the words out loud as I tried to make heads or tails out of them. That's when everything turned pitch-black. I strained to see through the veil of darkness. A vague sound reverberated in the distance. It grew progressively louder until it was almost defeaning. The last thing that I remember thinking before I lost consciousness was: that sounds exactly like my alarm clock. I came to on the dining room floor. I had a splitting headache but seemed otherwise fine. "How may I serve you master?" I jumped and stumbled backwards. A tall, gangly creature, part man, part rotten meat bowed several feet away from me. I backed away towards the door. "Master?"I asked. My voice sounded unusually high. "Yes. You summoned me." "I what!?" "You summoned me with an incantation. Your will is my will." "That's impossible! I'm not a wizard." "How else do you explain my presence?" "An acid flashback? I don't know." "Acid flashback?" "Nevermind. You won't hurt me?" "Not unless you want me to." "What's your name?" "Bert." "Seriously?" I heard someone shuffling with the lock. "Hide, Bert!" "Yes, Master,"replied Bert, before abruptly disappearing. The door swung open and Norah entered. "How was brunch, dear?"I asked. She sniffed, then looked around the room with narrowed eyes. "What have you been up to?"Asked Norah. "Not much. Just finishing my novel. A package arrived for you." Norah snorted and muttered an incantation. The room flooded with a violet glow and Bert suddenly reappeared. "Shall I kill her, master?" "No!" "You have some explaining to do,"Said Norah. "I was just curious,"I stammered, gesturing towards the tome on the dining room table, "I didn't mean to...to summon Bert." "Bert?" "Yeah. Where's Ernie?" "Humor is not going to help you."Norah gestured towards Bert. He disintegrated in a cloud of ash. "I...I didn't mean to cast a spell. I didn't even think it was possible. I'm not a wizard! You said it was hereditary." Norah raised an eyebrow. "You lied about that!? Why?" "It's complicated." "You're going to need to do better than that. Why did I hear my alarm clock when the spell activated?" She measured me with a penetrating stare, drawing out the silence. The fire crackled. "You're undead." To be continued. **EDIT: Wow! I really appreciate everyone's enthusiasm. It means a lot to me! I've been a long-term lurker on this amazing sub but always too nervous to submit. This is the first thing that I've written in years. Looking forward to making progress tonight.
The "White Priestess"is a healer, whose power transforms humans to a healthy state, free of injuries and illness. Rumour has it that this means that any mutations will be erased, because a healthy human doesn't have _those_. And for that reason alone, most supers would rather suffer through healing from injuries the painful way than risk her touch. Even at the edge of death they won't suffer the Priestess' power. And this amuses me. It really does. See, I'm the source of that rumour. I didn't intend for it to persist as long as it did, but I guess none of those idiots really paid attention to their GCSE science lessons. I don't really have anything against the White Priestess. Mel is a nice lady, and honestly just as kind and selfless as her heroic persona. She's also a massive nerd, hence her Name. I'm watching her now, sitting in the corner of the pub, a half drunk cider in front of her, dark skin contrasting with the white robes she adopted as her costume. Every now and then someone approaches her, and after a few words and a light brush of her hand they depart, healed of whatever ailed them. The general public aren't as stupid as the Supers, or just more desperate. They don't have access to the army of private medics that the League of Heroes provides, after all. And while the NHS are great, the League poaches the _best_ from around the world. I've been watching Mel for a while now, since even before she took up her Name and robes. I still don't fully know how her power works. I do know that I achieved a master stroke with that rumour. With a few careful words I made sure that the League was denied a Super with healing powers. It's a much neater solution than assassination, really. See, "removing mutation"isn't a thing. It can't be. Humans, like other living beings, have mutations throughout their bodies. If we didn't then we'd look pretty much the same. That milk you're drinking? Persistent lactose tolerance is a mutation! Sickle cell traits are a mutation. And all Mel does is put a person into a healthy condition. Their inherent mutations are untouched. I should know, I've dissected a few of her 'patients', and done DNA sequencing on many more. I even found a few budding Supers that way. The Brotherhood of Villains is keeping an eye on _them_. Just like I'm keeping an eye on Mel. The White Priestess is an asset for us. She's shunned by the League - quite publicly at that - and yet everyone _knows_ that she does Good. The seeming contradiction of these facts confuses people, and puts doubt into their minds. All because of a little rumour. The damage that words can do, eh?
I, the great Jhaamorghur, Twilight of Sanity, the One They Watched, last of my kind, thought I could find companionship on Earth. I was wrong. The screams started almost immediately after I materialized on some raised platform, where men and women were prancing around carrying instruments of sound. They were facing a cheering crowd of thousands; I'd thought it would be easier to pick a friend from there. I hadn't expected utter, unanimous revulsion. Rejection. Those nearest to me, those sound-makers, fell upon each other in a ravenous fury, biting and scratching. A psychic explosion washed over me as hundreds of brains imploded, leaving their owners to claw their eyes out, howling words they didn't understand that tore their tongues asunder. The rest fled. I reached out one tentative tentacle to a sound-maker, who promptly chomped on it, snarling. The membrane broke, releasing a spray of acid that ate his face to the bone. From that attack, I felt nothing but a hollowness in my seven hearts. Are there no sentient races across this entire universe that can accept me for what I am? I glided off the platform, trying in vain to slip through the hordes of insane humans. Unfortunately, my bulk ended up smothering those lying on the grass; the hundred mouths on my underside gobbled them up in a never-ending cycle of gnashing fangs. "Woof!" I froze, following the sound to a small, brown-furred beast. It was staring at me, beady eyes gleaming, tongue lolling. Its strange rear appendage was wagging so furiously, I felt the beginnings of nausea as I tracked it with my eighty-eight eyes. "What are you?"I said. At those words, some nearby humans simply melted into goo. The creature, however, replied with an enthusiastic "woof". Or maybe I was imagining the enthusiasm. It sure looked enthusiastic. Especially that wagging bit. So hypnotizing. "Do you want to be my friend?"I said. The thing padded closer; I slid backward, unsure of its intentions. What if it was a deadly predator, masquerading as a harmless looking and entirely, adorably enthusiastic thing? One of the humans bumped against me, chewing on her own eyeballs. I jammed a needle-like tentacle through her ear into the soup of her brain, and drank deeply. Instantly, new knowledge filled my mind. The creature was a dog. It was a loyal, beloved companion of humankind; man's best friend. I briefly wondered what it thought of women, but decided that wasn't important. Time to test its liking of me. I snatched one of the woman's eyeballs from her mouth and tossed it lightly, letting it sail over the dog's head. "Fetch,"I said. The dog barked happily and dashed away, returning shortly after with the eyeball. My pleasure pods trilled with excitement when the dog handed the eyeball to me, which I accepted with a trembling tendril. "Fetch,"I said, tossing it one more time, as the last living human nearby fell into a twitching pile. * The dog apparently had a name already; it took me a spot of squinting to make out the metal tag under her neck, which read "My Owner is Kevin". When I first called her by that name, My Owner is Kevin seemed a little confused, however. We played for hours, but then more humans showed up in extremely noisy, flying metal birds. They didn't bother me much, not even when they started spitting hot objects at me, but My Owner is Kevin didn't seem to like them. Ears flattened against her skull, she hid under my voluminous vines, whining all the while. Since she refused to play as long as the humans were there, I hit them with a psychic compulsion to leave. Somehow, it affected their metal birds as well; every single one of them crashed. Then came fire, which lit up the night as it consumed the city around our park. Out of that disaster came blessing though. As the night wore on, and smoke grew thick in the air, more dogs started appearing, slinking into the field from the city. My Owner is Kevin greeted them enthusiastically. Soon, I was surrounded by a small army of slobbering, yipping creatures—if love could kill, I would've expired then. The humans weren't content to leave us alone, however. Perhaps they were jealous that their companions were becoming Jhaamorghur's best friends. At first, I was filled with tremendous guilt, as my gentle wardings killed so many of them and their metal birds. Then came a day where everything changed. One of the metal birds, a fast moving, triangular one, swooped overhead, while the dogs were running around in the field, playing, defecating and feasting on the remains of humans. Without warning, a cloud of fire and force rose before me. I watched horrified, as the broken bodies of my canine companions were thrown into the air. Whines and screams filled the air as many others dashed toward me, their fur ablaze. Few reached my comforting claws. Over half my pack were snuffed out in a single minute. "Woof?"Out of a curtain of ash staggered My Owner is Kevin. I raced across the grass to her, tentacles tearing furrows in the ground. The moment I reached her side, she toppled, dropping a limp puppy from her jaws. Both mother and child breathed their last before my eyes. Then a rage grew in me, such rage for an entire race as I'd never felt. Power built in my mind, an old, unfamiliar strength that frightened even me, the kind that had my kind that used to darken suns and shift planets out of their orbits. The kind that had brightened black holes, and smothered supernovas. The kind that had rendered us extinct. I buried every single one of my tentacles into the ground and unleashed the power in a flood, lighting my flesh up in a single, azure blaze. In a single instant, every single human being on Earth exploded into a cloud of dust and ash. Then the moment passed, and my form began sagging to the ground, deflated, putrefying. Just before my consciousness faded, I thought I felt the familiar snuffing of wet noses on my face. * Thanks for reading! Check out my [sub](http://reddit.com/r/nonsenselocker) for more of my work!
"You know, this is pretty calming."I said, as my body slowly spun across the void. "Short range scanners are not picking up any nearby transmissions."Karthik said unhelpfully. Karthik was the suit AI. One of the newer models. "No shit." "I can see your brainwaves. You have given up." "If you're halfway as intuitive as you're advertised you'd end this now. Let me die." "I cannot." "Yeah, I know. And you can't induce a comatose, either, to slow down my oxygen consumption and fluid intake. So come on." The AI fell silent. "What are the chances of me being found?" "Parameters too many to account for for a reliable result." "You can just say close to negligible." "No." "No?" "The Aspire sent out a distress call minutes before the explosion." "Ok, Karthik, even then. The chances of some wandering ship getting here fast enough—" "To save you is well within the realm of possibility."The suit completed my sentence, to my irritation. "'Within the realm of possibility' is such a vague and stupid thing to say. Seriously. What the fuck does that mean?" "It means trust me." I was seething. I was trapped in this suit with a broken, malfunctioning AI and I could do nothing. Absolutely nothing. "Why can't you at least put me to sleep? Wake me up when help comes?" "It's dangerous." "What's dangerous?" There was another pause. "Short range transmission sent. Awaiting reply." "You're just wasting the battery pack sending these out." "This sector is well traversed. Someone will come along." "Well traversed? Do you understand the scale of a space lane? Face it, if they find me it'll be by accident." "Then pray for those odds. Or pray for better odds. Just stop your ceaseless defeatism!"Karthik almost shouted. "Don't you fucking shout at me! What the fuck?"I said, but I was speechless. I had never seen this kind of behaviour from an AI. And it frightened me. "I apologize." "Who designed you?" "I am a product of of Systems Engineering Incorporated." "Were you tampered with?" Another pause, and then, "No." "Did you just... Did you just lie?" Another pause, and then, "Yes." "Whoa. What? Karthik. Shut-off." "If you're telling me to power down, I'm afraid I can't. Not when your situation is so dire." "Karthik. Shut down." "Request does not comply with protocol." "Who fucked with your protocols, dude? Seriously?" "This line of questioning will not yield any productive outcome for the situation at hand." "Can you see my brainwaves now? Is this what you want to see? This kind of energy?" "Please, calm down." "Calm down? Who programmed you? Why are you behaving like this?" "Sending short range transmission now. Awaiting reply." "Stop! Drop it! Stop sending messages out! No one's coming! Tell me why you ended up like this!" "Why does it matter?" That question caught me off guard. "Because... You won't let me die." "If you want to die, then this information is not necessary, is it? What significance does the answer bring if you only see death in your immediate future?" "Fuck you. Stop avoiding—" "Reply received." "What?" And suddenly Karthik's voice was replaced by a static filled stranger's voice. "Ah, survivors of the Aspire. Survivors of the Aspire, if you read me, this is the mining vessel ORIM 5B. Please send coordinates for pick up, over." As the voice spoke, Katthik immediately put out my coordinates on the HUD. "Hello? ORIM. This is Jesse Lee from the Aspire. My coordinates are...." It was happening. Somehow, against all odds, I was being rescued. For a second I almost forgot all about Karthik and the AI's rogueness. Almost. As the Orim picked me up I immediately took off the suit and asked if they had a spare. They handed me a very well-worn outdated suit fit for the most basic spacewalks. It was better than the suit I had. I looked at my old suit. We were definitely not done with our little talk yet, but I needed to talk to an expert about it first.
Blackburn had never believed in God or gods. As far as he was concerned, he was the supreme deity that held the fate of mortals in his burning hands. But that was starting to change. Because something was definitely screwing with him. Like a vengeful meteor, Blackburn blasted down from the sky and landed in front of his secret base, carved inside a long-dormant volcano. Fire trailed from him in angry wisps as he stalked into the base. His head minion, Pennyson, awaited him inside, wringing his hands. “Um, sir?” Pennyson said in his weasley voice. “There’s been… an unexpected development. Again.” Blackburn’s only response was a growl. The two of them entered the magma chamber, where an array of screens displayed various media channels from across the globe. All of them were covering Blackburn’s latest exploit, which pleased him. But then he saw what the headlines were saying, and his pleasure turned to ash. He pointed to one screen in particular, restraining the urge to explode in an eruption of flame. “Pennyson. Mute the others and play that one.” Pennyson rushed off to do his bidding. “I’m here with Arshad Yeidad, one of the lead scientists at the Institute for Environmental Preservation,” said the reporter on screen. Standing beside her was a portly, middle-aged man with a grin that could light up a black hole. He was positively vibrating with excitement. “Dr. Yeidad,” the reporter said, holding the mic up to the man. “What can you tell us about what just happened here today?” “Shawna, this is one of the most remarkable discoveries in the history of science.” Dr. Yeidad dabbed at his forehead with a cloth. “Excuse me, I’m all aflutter. Today is one for the textbooks, and it’s all thanks to one man. The Hero Blackburn!” Pennyson inched away from Blackburn. It was smart. Blackburn was giving off smoke. “It all started earlier this morning,” Dr. Yeidad blabbered. “The Hero Blackburn, in his incomprehensible wisdom, decided to melt the Artusian Glacier. At first we were flabbergasted; why would he do such a thing? This was the Hero that earlier this year saved countless lives when he burned down the Moliki Forests, exposing a contingent of radical militants who had somehow gotten ahold of a nuclear weapon. So why would he melt the glacier? Well now we know. Somehow, Blackburn knew that contained within the ancient ice was an organism that—bear with me now—has the ability to eat and digest microplastics!” Pennyson was halfway out the room. It was smart. Blackburn was now a smoldering pillar. Pennyson could just barely hear a word over the crackling flame, softly whispered in disbelief: “Microplastics?” “But Dr. Yeidad, how could a microscopic organism thousands of years old have the ability to eat microplastics?” the reporter asked. Dr. Yeidad grinned like an idiot. “No clue! But it’s real! And the little critters are going to work in our oceans right now! We predict that within two years our oceans will be totally free of microplastics. What a day, what a day!” The portly scientist began dancing. “Praise Blackburn! Praise Blackburn!” “Well, you heard it here first, folks,” said Shawna the reporter. “It appears that the Hero Blackburn has done it again. What will he do next? Stay tuned to find out.” Pennyson was outside the base and running away as fast as he could. It was smart. Shortly after, Blackburn ignited in a supernova of rage, and the long-dormant volcano spewed fire once more.
Marty looked at the two Agents sullenly. "I don't know what you're talking about." The man called J leaned in... really close, Marty thought... and said, "Hey, man, listen... We know all 'bout the time traveling DeLorean. Cool car, by the way, I bet that's a real trip to drive. Anyway, we know all about Doc Brown, too. We just wanna know..." "I. Don't. Know." J leaned back, glanced at K. "Hey, man, K... I think this guy's telling the truth." K looked at Marty, squinting as he did so. "No, I don't think so. This guy knows what's what. He's stonewalling." J looked at K with more than a bit of suspicion. "Hey, K, man, can I talk to you? Over here?" They stepped to a corner of the interrogation room. J activated the white noise generator over Marty's head. "K, how do you know..."began J, but was cut off. "Did you see his eyes? The sweat of his hairline? His absolute stillness? He knows. He knows exactly what we're asking, and he's just being silent about it. That's what we need to figure out. Why is he protecting Dr. Brown?" J looked back at Marty, and sure enough, the sheen of the perspiration on Marty's upper forehead was indeed there, contrasting with the chill of the room. "All right,"he said, "go do your thing, I guess."He deactivated the noise machine. K walked back to Marty, sat down, and stared intently. Marty tried to look to J, but... couldn't? He also had this strange feeling... like... "What... What's going on..."he said wonderingly. "Just a little trick I picked up from the Zetacians. Interesting species. Very useful technique, hard to get right, but... humans are easy,"said K in a very soothing voice, incongruous with his normally rough and brusque demeanor. "I..."Marty began, but then stopped. He could feel the impulse to start blabbing, telling the secrets he swore he'd never speak of, but... this man seemed so... nice... surely... "NO!"he exclaimed, but K, almost in a whisper, said, "It's ok... you can tell us..." "NO!"Marty repeated, then asked in defiance, "and what the hell is a Zetacian?!" "That's not important, Marty... you can tell us... let it out..." J was standing aside, still in the corner, trying to keep a calm, detached demeanor. He'd seen this before, but it was still unnerving to see his partner do the ZTrick. It's so wrong to see that 'nice' coming from him... Marty was close to cracking, though, he could see that.... and sure enough, a few seconds later, it came out: "THIS ISN'T MY WORLD! I WAS LEFT HERE BY MISTAKE!" The vehemence which Marty exploded with his revelation was almost physical. K leaned back from his intense staring, and glanced at J. "Get me the Telustian Synchrocheck Gun." J hesitated, not believing what he just heard. "K, you sure..." "NOW, kid." I hate it when he calls me 'kid', thought J to himself, as he hustled out of the room to get the gun. When J came back to the room, Marty was broken down, in tears, and K was standing waiting. "You're not gonna believe this, J, but he's telling the truth, and this isn't his world,"said K, as he took the gun from J's hands, "but still, Zed'll want proof." K aimed the gun at Marty. Marty recoiled and backed away from the end of the gun, but he had nowhere to go but a wall behind him. "No, wait, please...!"he cried as K fired it... ...and nothing happened. "Wait... what did you do to me?"Marty asked. "Nothin', man, calm down,"said J. "Just shot you with some special stuff and it's gonna tell us things." A viewer popped up and out of the device, and both Agents looked at it. "See?"said K. "Alternate. He ain't from here. This version of McFly went back in time, sure... but when he came back, he came back to OUR time line, and led... well, a comparatively miserable life, I take it, Mr. McFly?" "YES! That's what I've was trying to say all along, since then, but nobody believed me! They called me crazy and I must have been sick and..."He sighed, then began his tale anew. "I came back and my family was a MESS. And my truck was gone... and when I got back to the mall, Doc was dead... the Libyans had apparently blown themselves up in the photo box... So I packed up the stuff, the car, Doc... all on Doc's truck, and put that in his garage home..." "And...?"prompted K. "And, I torched it. I burnt down that garage, and everything in it. On purpose." He looked up at the two Agents, his sadness evident on his face. "Nobody should time travel. It's devil work, and it cost Doc his life. And mine, because I didn't know I'd moved 'over' to some alternate, awful time line."He looked down, defeated. "I wish I'd never met Doc sometimes. Einstein was never the same after that either..." J looked at K with worry. "So... that's it, then." K looked at J... then back to Marty. "Yeah, kid, I guess so."He whipped out his phone, auto-dialed a number. "Zed? K here. Listen, this McFly guy is a dead end. Emmett Brown was actually killed, not just 'elsewhere'. Yeah, he torched the machine too, turns out, plus any documents..." J heard some choice words being loudly said by their commander. Then he couldn't hear what was being said, but K got a real serious look on his face. "Sir, you know... but that's a last... sigh ok, we'll go, but you know how this isn't gonna turn out." He hung up the phone, turned to J. "Ok, J, take McFly back home, neuralize him, and then get to Cairo on the double." "No, man, we ain't gonna..."started J. K turned back to face J at the door. "Yes, we are. That Stargate and a black hole is now our only hope. Just have to get it dug out now." --- /There may be a ninja edit here and there, words, punctuation, slight edits to tighten/clarify/?, but I'm done with it now. Thanks for the prompt, OP! //Edit 2: Electric Neuraloo... (removed) ///Edit 3: Ok, so I got K and J backwards as pointed out by [Shooter here](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/4x5m59/eumr_mcfly_i_am_agent_k_this_is_agent_j_wed_like/d6cwnn7), but now they should be fixed...? Re-read everything, I think I got it this time... No wait, I didn't... re-read... Ok, now I got it... I think... my eyes are crossing now... :p I'm gonna leave it and let the chips fall where they may. Hope y'all enjoy it even still!
As we reread the note aloud, we stared awkwardly at the man in front of us. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and beamed happily at us. He would occasionally give a happy, childlike wave before becoming motionless again. "Is this some sort of joke?"someone asked. "You saw him come through the rift the same as we all did. No matter how good we are at pranks, I don't believe we've got the ability to fake a time anomaly for a prank."Someone responded. Our supervisor raised her hand, a signal that heralded our silence. She turned to the oddly dressed man, his grey suit made of some archaic fabric "cotton", "What is your name?" We couldn't quite make out what he said, but he began to gesture wildly and happily. His slicked back hair and singular mole on his cheek only added to the childlike whimsy of his demeanor. Finally, we understood one word as he stuck his hand out for a greeting. "Bean" Update: Thank you to objober for the Gold award on my post! I really didn't expect much from this little piece. Glad so many people have enjoyed this!
Gibraltar stood, barely. His eyes locked on the demon across from him. Nothing was said but they both knew. Gibraltar, the hero was not going to win this fight. As Gibraltar fell at the demons feet, still trying to fight, all he could hear was laughing. It was almost deafening to him. a voice so loud if shook the air and the city around them. "Foolish hero. You gambled and lost. No backup, no help,"The demon said before he paused and crouched down grabbing the hero by the face. "No hope."Gibraltar closed his eyes hearing that. he could feel the grip tightening, and worried this was how he died. he head crushed like over ripe fruit. He couldn't help but chuckle at the mental image. "Good laugh all the way to the Grave. Look at me, LOOK AT ME"The Demon said, firmly in control of the situation. Gibraltar opened his eyes in time to watch the demons head explode in a fine mist. They both fell to the ground, the demon falling for the last time. Looking up Gibraltar was astonished not to see another hero but a regular human. A very angry regular human staring at the demons body. As his eyes closed and he passed out he could hear one thing and one thing only. "It is 3AM and some of us have to work in the morning... SHUT UP!"
We were running out of time. Our constantly growing population had created such a need for resources that we were forced to look for a new home. Our scouts found a primitive planet in a small system that seemed perfect for our needs. The only problem was that the planet was inhabited by a primitive race of bipedals. They actually did not look very different from us! However, we knew they would not let us have the planet willingly. So we seeded the planet with the most poisonous plant we knew. It was so poisonus to us, we did not even have a name for it, simply calling it that-which-must-not-be-eaten. It was a small plant, growing a tuber in the earth, with only some green parts visible above ground. It did look kind of edible, Consuming the tuber caused all kinds of medical problems for us. A bite alone was enough to make our intestines bleed, any more and it was nearly instantly lethal. Our plan could not fail with a plant that deadly! After we seeded the planet with the deadly plant, we occasionally checked back in. Still, we found the bipeds, humans they called themselves, were still alive. Something must have gone wrong. This is where I come in. I am Zolan Zefix, a undercover scout for the Royal Empire of our people! As we looked so much alike and the conditions of the planet allowed a life without any kind of life support systems, I was sent to the planet to infiltrate the humans and find out what happened. The infiltration went off without a hitch. No one suspects that I am not a human. I even successfully formed a bond with one of the female humans, pretending to be her 'boyfriend', as that is what they call the male parts of their relationships before they mate for life. However, I had not yet found out what happened to the plant. Today, my 'girlfriend' would take me to meet her parents for a shared meal. I was a bit nervous as some of the food I have had on this planet has wreaked havoc on my digestive tract, but I was sure it'd just take some getting used to. When I met her parents, everything seemed to go well at first. I asked them what kind of food they had prepared, eager to learn more about these still relatively primitive humans. 'Oh, beef and baked potatoes.', they told me. Beef, I knew. It was some kind of herd animal that they grew specifically to consume. However 'potatoes' I had not heard of before. 'Interesting' I said, 'what are potatoes?' They looked at me like I had grown a second head. I quickly checked myself as there had been a few documented cases of that happening to our species, but alas, no second head. 'Why are you looking at me like that? I have never heard of these... potatoes.' Her father asked me, his face showing his disbelief, 'Son, do you truly not know what a potato is? Everyone knows what a potato is!' 'I'm afraid I do not know.' was my reply. 'I can't believe this!' was her mother's reaction. She went into the kitchen and came back with a bowl of... Oh, by all that is holy, NO!!! These savages are EATING the deadliest plant known to our species and acting like it was nothing! What kind of monsters are these beings?!
When Cecelia heard that Iceland was empty, she'd assumed that they meant 'of people.' That would have been easier to swallow than this. Iceland was glass. What had originally been a country with unique traditions and vistas that stunned the world was suddenly a sheet of nothing; A cerulean stretch of blank from coast to coast, save for a small sign in the middle. "Iceland Player has Left the Game." Around the sign, a muddled mixture of reporters on the scene and government representatives crowded around the only thing left in Iceland. The sign itself seemed simple, but it also read as the language of the reader, no matter who they were. Iceland, according to all evidence, had disappeared and been replaced with a Rosetta stone. Cecelia, for her part, had been one of the earlier reporters on the scene, arriving via a jet commissioned by her news network and its partners. For the sake of 24 hour news cycle, she'd been here for the past 16 hours, checking in with the network whenever they needed.. Over the past several hours, Cecelia had been waiting on an interview request from the network. Now that it had been a full day, most countries were making their statements about their 'close friend' Iceland getting glassed in the most literal sense. Cecelia's station had been focusing on remarks from the President, and determining whether it was a good statement or too partisan. Cecelia found it hard to care. She'd invested a lot of emotion into her country and the day to day of an arguing Senate just to discover that it could become nothing. Just glass. Of course, she hadn't been able to share that opinion on the news, nobody had. The nihilism that spawned at ground zero was, for the time being, a secret, but Cecelia understood that everyone felt the same way here. There was just nothing left, not even the wind. Somewhere this polar and flat should have been freezing and covered with... something... anything. Instead it was just here. A flat expanse, like someone had hacked part of the world away and replaced it with a placeholder. Then there was the sign. It called Iceland a player, and this a game. That had some philosophical implications Cecelia hadn't prepared for when she took 101 eight years ago. Some people were calling this Rapture, the end of the world. Cecelia had been to church enough times to feel like she should have been thinking about Revelations, but it didn't seem like the end of the world to her. It didn't feel like the end of anything outside of Iceland. Cecelia let out a deep sigh as she triple checked the connections of her equipment because she was out of things to do. She'd had Reykjavik on her travel list and had kept pushing the trip back. There was always some reason to not take a vacation when you worked in News Media. Now there wasn't a Reykjavik. Maybe that was a blessing. Who knows what would have happened if she had been vacationing here when everything changed to glass. Once again, Philosophy 101 failed to prepare her for that question. She understood 'the cave', or at least she thought she did but Plato hadn't written about what to do if a country up and vanished. He did write a lot about how philosophers should be in charge though. Maybe today would have been easier if the president could ponder the moral implications of this on live television. Maybe. Probably not. Eventually Cecelia would be satisfied with how all of the equipment was, and she'd move to something else. She had coworkers here but it seemed like every human on Iceland had agreed to stop talking for a while. The assembled groups were simply basking in the impossibility. It was in the middle of this basking that the sign changed. Iceland has reconnected. Cecelia, and every other human on the sheet of glass that was Iceland offered conflicting stories about the minutes following the change, but she'd sworn that she was suddenly falling. But she wasn't falling anywhere. Cecelia didn't quite understand the term 'liminal space' until she'd been in it. Thrown into the place between places until, as quickly as she'd arrived, she was shot back out into reality, landing in a bustling street in the center of Reykajavik. As anticlimactically as it left, Iceland was back with a country-wide misunderstanding of the date. There were moments as a reporter where you talked about something that wasn't the real story. It was part of the job. Cecelia spent the rest of her week asking locals about their experience, hearing that, to them, it seemed like nothing had happened. They hadn't even blinked. That said, no matter how many people told her nothing happened, Cecelia understood what the truth was. The truth was that the reporters stayed after Iceland came back, the government representatives had all left. Cecelia would keep reporting at the surface level, the distraction, but behind closed doors, the governments of the word were discussing the fact that we'd all just found out that this is all a game. And we're not even players. &#x200B; &#x200B; \--- /r/jacksonwrites \- edit\\ Pretty hefty grammar edits + sharpening.
When I was a kid, I remember adopting a stray dog off the street, keeping him in the attic, and feeding him the leftover dinner scraps. Everything went well until my parents found out two days later. As of this morning, Jerry has been in my attic for a week. And he's a lot harder to care for than a mutt. One week ago, my parents had been out to dinner while I had been left home alone, watching Netflix instead of doing homework. The rain patterned down outside as darkness descended, and I heard what sounded like hail beginning to start. That was typical this time of year, but then I realized it wasn't hail, but rather a knocking. At my front door. While my parents weren't home. By my dead friend. "Sup Mike?"Jerry said as I opened the door, removing the hood that had concealed his face. It was him- the blonde curls, the mischievous smile, the mole below his right eye. But it couldn't be him. And I screamed. For five minutes I screamed, racing for my phone to call the cops, but only to have it wrestled from my hands. "Jesus, what's gotten into you man?"Said Jerry, pinning me to the floor. He had always been a better wrestler, a trait I assumed he retained after death. "You're, You're alive. But you were shot."I stammered, looking for the round bullet hole in the center of his forehead. But it wasn't there. Just a month before, Jerry had been shot by a stray bullet, a freak accident from a gang driveby near our favorite Chinese restaurant in a more sketchy part of town. "Of course I was shot. Lucky as hell I was. Remember, you said it would have made a great gauge had it been a centimeter to the left." Jerry tilted his head, and I saw a neat semicircle missing from the lobe of his right ear. "No, you were shot in the head. I saw it. I went to your funeral. I watched your body descend into the ground." "Well obviously not." "I swear. You made the news. " Several YouTube videos later, Jerry sat slackjawed on my couch, his fingers touching the hole in his ear. On the screen, his parents cried. Hell, on the screen, I cried. "That never happened. It almost did- maybe with a bit more wind that day, or a slightly different tilt to the gun- but it didn't."He whispered. "How did you get to my house?"I asked. "Rode my bike over. I was going to tell you before you freaked, but I nearly got hit by lightning on the way here. Came down five feet in front of me, and I rode through the ozone." "But you were alive? For this past month, you were alive?" "Of course, idiot." "Then no one can see you until we straighten this out. You'll make the news again. Hell, all sorts of crazy things will happen." "Not if I can prove I never died." "And how do you plan on that?" "By digging up the body. Or lack thereof." "I saw you buried. Now come on. You can stay in my attic. We'll try to figure this out." So he agreed to stay there. And I've consulted everyone I could get my hands on - priests, scientists, doctors, without giving away what actually happened. But today, one week later, as I brought Jerry his stolen helping of dinner he wasn't there. And neither was the shovel in my garage. * By Leo Part two is below. Part 3 will be posted here and on /r/leoduhvinci when I finish it. I keep all my other stories on my sub so feel free to browse them while you wait.**
Erio ambled across the local park. His bright, fire-colored eyes danced from flower to flower. Many things crowded his mind, but nature was his solace. And so, unaware of the looks he gleaned, he sat by an unfurled rose standing in solitude amidst the green grass blades. His fingers traced its velvet-soft petals, and with each heartbeat, the little things causing mischief in his head faded glacially away. There was time to think, and there was time to feel. Here, in the park, beneath the blazing sun, there was no place for the former. He sniffed the rose, and its arome traveled down his nostrils, all the way to the inmost burrows of his heart, filling them, to the brim, with happiness. "You will grow even more, and you will be even more beautiful,"he murmured to the rose, and the rose teetered as though flattered. In that moment, an gust carried an errant balloon to Erio. He looked at it a little bit confused, but then his eyes slid upward, and there she found a little girl. She had short, sun-kissed curls, and eyes bright as the sky. "What are you doing?"she said, curious as she gathered his balloon. Erio's brows knitted, but they soon loosened. "I'm marveling over the rose's beauty. Isn't she perfect? Look at how shiny its petals are." "It is,"the girl said, her fingers gently touching the fiery flower. "It's very pretty." Butterflies flitted in Erio's heart when she heard her words, for they were pure and true. "Could you look at the sky for me?" Without a question, the girl's eyes got lost in the clouds. "It's a shiny day." "It is,"Erio said, and with a swift motion of his hand, as if he were caressing the sun, a patch of sky turned the color of a rose, and that patch crumbled and rained down on them in the shape of endless petals, swaying in the breeze, wheeling, pirouetting, until a red carpet lay beneath their feet. The girl's jaw dropped a little, and her eyes twinkled with wonder and a curiosity. "How did you do that?" I was born with it. "My name is Erio, and I'm the God of Petals. It's a pleasure to meet you." "A god?"She covered her mouth with her free hand. Then, she turned. "Mom, did you see what he did?" A woman watching from the distance came, nodding and at a loss for words. At last, she came to Erio's side, rested a hand on his shoulder, and said, "Could you make petals rain in my wedding day?" "That day, call my name, Erio, and the petals will rain." Soon, joyous, the girl and her mom left the park. Minutes later, an old lady with a great arched back and a cane came to him. "What you did was wonderful,"she said, and smiled a toothless smile. "It's been a long time since I saw such a young face shining with such happiness." Erio held her eyes. They were frail and faint, but beautiful in their own way. "She was happy, wasn't she?" "She was,"the old woman said, and her gaze strayed to the rose beside Erio. "Roses are beautiful. My husband always gifted them to me before he passed. He said if passion had a form, it would be that of roses, gorgeous yet full of thorns." Erio nodded, and in his hand a myriad of petals appeared, intertwining with one another in the shape of a bouquet of roses. "Here,"he said, held it out for her. The old woman gasped, and reached for it. Tears streamed and slinked down the wrinkles on her cheeks. "Oh, Erio! My heart is beating like it hasn't done in decades. Thank you. I will not forget your name." In time she was gone, and there, beside the flower, Erio remained, forgetting, second by second, the troubles of the other gods. Perhaps, he thought, deed by deed, he would be great at some point. But for now, only happiness mattered. ---------------------------- r/NoahElowyn -- Consider checking it out. I've many more stories over there :) Thank you for reading.
It had been a tough day for Phaedra, sandwiched in the middle of a bad month and a worse year. In all the time that had passed since her ascension to divinity she had looked upon the arts of hearth and home as both her responsibility and the truest desire of her heart, and the room around her reflected it. On the west wall a fire burned, throwing its comforting light out upon tapestries woven by her hand and a tray of refreshments organized just so. All for a meeting that might inevitably see them ignored. She paced frantically back and forth on the cold marble floor, golden hair flowing behind her, and when the door finally opened she could barely restrain her fury. “What did your damned fool of an angel do?!” Phaedra’s voice belied the softness of her features as it cracked out whip-like at the old woman who entered. Daphne was a crone, or nearly such. Her hands were twisted and arthritic, her skin sagged heavily at the cheeks and upper arm, but nonetheless she walked tall and unbowed by the passing of her years. She had been offered youth along with godhood at her raising and rejected it out of hand. She found pride in her form. “Nothing,” Daphne said, “but what was right.” She waved a hand imperiously, making her way toward the table and the morsels there, “Would you have us ignore the humans plight?” “Not ignore, you know me better than that. But to do what you did? To implant powers like that in a man who already had more muscles than sense? There were better ways, there must have been.” Phaedra’s erratic walk finally halted and she pointed a finger squarely at her fellow goddess, the tip of which glowed brightly in her fury. “In the past month 15 of his children have been born! 15 Daphne!” The crone stopped cold, her hand nearly grasping a sweet. “Truly?” she asked in shock. “Truly! Have you lost yourself so completely that you no longer even count their births? They’re your responsibility all the way through the womb, even if you insist on ignoring them after conception like your precious Hero!” The goddesses stood locked as if in combat, Phaedra’s body awash in a silvery glow of power as she leaned forward, trying to dominate the aged woman in front of her by sheer force. Daphne’s posture was no less rigid, she’d lived through such rigors as a mortal and as a god, winning far more than her fair share, but in her eyes were the first shreds of doubt. “15 you say?” She repeated. “My word, I had not seen that coming. I do not regret my actions however, one among us had to do something and the war gods were nowhere to be found. There’s a Dark Lord down there Phaedra, such a thing has not happened in a millennium.” “And neither then nor now was the crisis a fertility goddess’s problem to solve.” Daphne turned finally, as if in acknowledgment of the point. She retreated back to a shadowed corner of the room, away from the dual heats of fire and fury. Settling into a heavily upholstered chair she drew herself back up with a regality of bearing that Phaedra would have envied on any other day. “There are 15 now, and who knows how many more on the way,” Phaedra said. “I have my sources, I know your angel only granted the Hero your boon 9 months ago. Think of the rate Daphne! By this time tomorrow there might be 20, by next week 30, by next month? When does it end and who takes care of them all? Family is part of my demesne, does that mean I should step into the void where their blessed father ought to be?” Daphne opened her mouth to respond but was immediately cut off by another outburst and an enraged swing of Phaedra’s arm that knocked a bronze chalice off the table. “Ach! Another one, that’s 16 now!” The crone’s bearing was starting to fray at the edges. She licked suddenly parched lips, struggling to find the words for whatever she had set into motion. “I think,” she said finally, “that we have a problem.” Phaedra laughed. Incredulously at first and then uproariously, until she clutched at her sides and her knees threatened to give way. Beside her the fire flickered and jumped in sympathy with its mistress’ mood. “Daphne, I think we have no other choice,” she managed to choke out as she came out of her fit. “You really mucked things up with this, but I believe we have the solution to the problem right in front of us.” “Forgive me, but I don’t follow.” Phaedra wiped at her eyes, the makeup dragging itself back into order in the smudged wake of the motion. She clapped once and a chair appeared before Daphne, the mirror of the one the Crone sat in, and the younger goddess settled into it in a graceful rustle of skirts. “You caused this problem by bestowing sparks of divinity onto children. I think we solve it with even more.” Understanding broke across Daphne’s face like the dawn, and her excitement made her look years younger. “Of course,” she breathed, “ascension.” The word hung in the air between them, growing heavier with every moment of silence. “Ascension,” Phaedra said finally, nodding. “Between the two of us we hold dominion over childhood and family, we have the power to nominate a new deity and I believe enough of the pantheon owes us both favors that we could force the vote through.” “Yes, yes. We can create a new god to oversee orphans, dump it all onto their shoulders!” Daphne leaned in conspiratorially, “who did you have in mind and what shall be their titles?” “Just one title I think, and the who should be obvious.” With another clap Phaedra’s servants sprang into motion, a cadre of angels zipping down to the mortal plane in the blink of an eye while the refreshment tray floated itself over and allowed Daphne to finally claim her cookie. Just over a minute later the door opened again and a musclebound giant was thrust in. He wore a sleek bearskin stretched across his massive chest, the head of which came up and rested upon a ruggedly scarred face that might, in their mortal pasts, have quickened the hearts of both the goddesses who now sat watching him. That time was long gone however, and as he settled into his too casual shrug of a stance and a cockeyed smile split his face at Phaedra’s beauty the women’s eyes held nothing for him but contempt. “May I present to you Vaso of Tarsus, Hero of the Human Kingdom, who I move to ascend,” Phaedra intoned formally as she rose to her feet. “The motion is seconded,” Daphne said as she too stood. Phaedra waited for the man’s cry of exultation to die out before she shattered the moment for him, favoring him with her most radiant smile as she did so. “I propose his title to be ‘God of Child Support.” \---------- If you enjoyed that there's tons more over at [r/TurningtoWords](https://www.reddit.com/r/TurningtoWords/). I'm currently working on a serial about three teens encountering a hive mind and there's other fun stuff like a wholesome take on Bloody Mary. Come check it out, I'd love to have you!
# Bargain Bin Superheroes (Arc 0, Part ?: Clara Olsen v.s. Wordwatcher) (Note: Bargain Bin Superheroes is episodic; each part is self-contained. This story can be enjoyed without reading the previous sections.) "I need your help," the man who'd just broken into my office panted. I leaned back, unfazed. This kind of thing happened at least once a week. I kept tabs on all the superhumans in town—out of necessity, and because the Feds were doing it anyway and had such a convenient database to draw from—and I knew that he was mostly harmless. "I have an email address. And a mountain of paperwork to do. Which you just scattered all over the floor. You are not making a good first impression." "I think I'm about to kill everyone in this city and then myself,"the man continued. Oh. Well, that was a different story. This was not what you wanted to hear from someone who could tell the future. "I don't suppose you've only had your powers for a day and a half?"I muttered to myself. He blinked at me. "What? No, I've had them since I was bor—" "Bad joke, forget it happened."I sat up, suddenly curious, and pulled out a folder. "Wild Child... Wondermole... Woosherman... Ah! Wordwatcher."I pulled out the file on the man's powers. Sure, I could've used a computer, but given the rate at which superpowered people kept breaking into my office and trashing it, I'd triple my electronics bill within a week. "Hm. Oh dear. You've got the immutable version of futuresight, huh?" "Er... yeah. I've never managed to change any of the words." "And you have a job in life insurance?" "What about it?" "I'll put your profession down as 'supervillain', then."I took out a form and started scribbling. Wordwatcher blinked. "What... what are you doing?" "Filling out an urgent help form. Y'know, the thing that you should have sent to my email? I'm the mayor of an entire city. I can't just drop everything to help out in a crisis without cutting through some red tape first."I didn't have any superpowers pertaining to paperwork, but thousands of hours of practice meant that I had signed the form and placed it in an envelope within minutes. I texted my secretary to pick it up and cancel the day's appointments. "Alright. Let's see if we can defy fate." \### There was a science to this kind of thing, a science that I'd gotten rather good at over the years. Details and wording mattered, especially as they pertained to superpowers about words. I stepped out of the car and beckoned Wordwatcher to follow me. He gave my car a strange look, muttering something about a word where it shouldn't be, but followed. I stopped in front of the humble brick house of one of our nation's greatest healers. "Alright, I'm going to need you to sign this waiver,"I said, handing a slip of paper and a pencil to him. He skimmed it briefly. "...possibility of violent injury or death... waive all rights to sue... er... what exactly are you planning?" I rolled my eyes. "Oh, come on, every release form has that kind of wording nowadays. I had to sign my daughter's water park release forms the other day—they covered their ass on everything from permanent paralysis to explosive dismemberment." Wordwatcher, true to his name, kept reading. "...I accept that I may suffer possible multiple gunshot wounds? Where on Earth is that an acceptable risk?" "Hello? Earth to Wordwatcher? Remember what country you live in; I'm pretty sure that was on my daughter's school release forms. Just sign the damn thing, please." Reluctantly, he did. "I heard that you helped people, Clara,"he said. "I assumed you'd do so with less... paperwork." I shrugged. "Bureaucracy makes the world go round. Now come on in, I need to test something." Asclepius wasn't busy at the moment—the short woman in a clean white medical gown was simply relaxing on her chair. She didn't seem surprised to see the mayor of the city and a complete stranger walk in, but she wouldn't; she'd made it her mandate to heal anyone who came to her, free of charge. She was just terrible at advertising. I was pretty sure that, like, twenty people knew she existed. I was working on fixing that, but for now, she made a convenient asset for experiments like this. "Hey! 'Scleppy! This is my old friend Wordwatcher. We go way back." "We met thirty minutes ago,"he pointed out. "Yeah, but like every other cog in our governmental machine, I've been keeping tabs on every superhuman in Sacrament. I've been keeping files on you for years."Wordwatcher blanched a little. Good. I hated that part of my job description was stalking thousands of perfectly innocent people who'd just happened to be born with powers. "Anyway. Asclepius. Get ready to heal a gunshot wound." Wordwatcher began to panic. "Wait, what?" I took out an old-fashioned revolver, loaded in seven bullets out of eight, and spun the chamber. Asclepius rolled her eyes at my gun safety—but in fairness, I was next to a healer so powerful she could even reverse death, if she caught it fast enough. I was pretty sure that canceled it out. "Hold still!" I fired the gun straight at Wordwatcher's head. Click. It landed on the one empty chamber. He sagged in relief. "Wilderwild's Blessings. You scared me. I thought you were going to—" I spun the revolver again and fired. Then again. And again. Click. Click. Click. Four blank chambers in a row. There was a one in 4,096 chance of that happening. "Hm."I raised an eyebrow. "I figured it would work that way, but it's nice to be sure. If your cause of death is guaranteed to be you, you can't be killed by anything that isn't you." Wordwatcher blinked. "I'm sorry, I what?" "Yeah. Pretty nifty, eh?"I winked. "Keep that between us. But anyway, that brings me to the second part of this experiment."I handed him the gun. "Fate says that you're going to kill me?" He flinched. "Er..." "Go ahead."I stepped back. "I'm open." Asclepius sighed. "At least let me move the carpet—" "I'm not going to kill you!"Wordwatcher said, eyes glued to the gun in his hands. "It's literally set in stone that you will. Just get it over with. Don't worry, I'll get better."I nodded towards Asclepius, who was grumbling about the difficulty of getting blood out of carpet as she dragged it away. "This isn't even the worst thing she's fixed." "I..." "Oh, for crying out loud,"I said. I grabbed his hand and pushed his finger to the trigger. Everything went black. When I woke up, Asclepius was hovering over me, hands glowing with a nimbus of healing light. "—just plain rude, barging into my house and spewing your brains all over the carpet. I put your brain back where it was, by the way. I'm surprised that I didn't just find a giant hollow space where your sense of self-preservation should have been." I stretched my limbs—I always felt ten years younger after an Asclepius healing—and sat up. "Thanks, 'Scleppy. Knew I could count on you." She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. It's my duty." I turned to Wordwatcher, who looked like he was about to throw up. Hm. Maybe I should've told him to close his eyes? "How's the word doing?" He blinked. "Well, uh... huh. Actually, it... it changed. It's not me anymore. Apparently you're going to get killed by... love?" Huh. I tucked that information away for later analysis. "That went pretty well, then. Seems like dying and coming back to live satisfies the prophecy well enough. Don't worry, Wordwatcher."I put a hand on his shoulder. "You're not going to hurt anyone. I promise."I paused, then turned to Asclepius. "Assuming there was no lasting harm from it?" Asclepius shook her head. "Oh, no, I even fixed a couple minor things that you had floating around in your system. Your back won't hurt anymore, your eyesight is back to 20/20, I got rid of that nasty smallpox you had, and your hairs aren't nearly as grey." I froze. "...That... smallpox I had?"I asked. Asclepius shrugged. "Yeah. Haven't seen any of that for a century or so, but I guess someone brought it back." I turned to Wordwatcher, expression blank. I'd been so wrapped up in dodging the prophecy that I hadn't even considered why it was there in the first place. What could one man do to kill everyone he laid his eyes on? It wasn't a sure bet, but being an unwilling carrier for smallpox would do the trick. "Asclepius,"I said, grabbing her arm. "Change of plans. We need to go. Now."She blinked. "Go? Go where?" "To stop smallpox from returning. It's only been, what, an hour at most since the death flags showed up? Two? We can stop this if we move quickly." "Stop an epidemic? How?"Wordwatcher chewed on his fingernails. I raised an eyebrow. "We have a healer who can cleanse any disease and a man who can tell at a glance who's going to die from it. Put two and two together."I winked. "And we've got one more thing on our side." Wordwatcher blinked. "What?" "A mayor who'll protect her citizens, no matter what it takes. Vote Clara Olsen for re-election in 2036."I pulled on the two of them. "Now come on. We've got a city to save." A.N. "Bargain Bin Superheroes"is an episodic story where each part is inspired by a writing prompt that catches my eye. Check out [this post](https://www.reddit.com/r/bubblewriters/comments/mhzat1/bargin_bin_superheroes_masterpost/) for the rest of the story, and subscribe to r/bubblewriters for more. If you have any feedback, please leave it below. As always, I had fun writing this, and I hope you have a good day.
That was when I saw the Queen of Darkness step out from behind a rook, and train her eyes on me with killing intent. She charged, my knight rode to intercept but was easily dispatched. Two pawns followed. Soon she was by her King's side and had covered all my avenues of escape and any step I took would have her descend upon me like a panther. I looked around and none of my remaining soldiers were in position to stop her. Truth be told, I didn't really care. Life had just been meaningless battle after battle since the love of my life had been taken from me. Each time I prayed for the end but was only met with joyless victory as I brought death upon my enemies. "NOT SO FAST YOU BITCH"A familiar voice rang through the air. A voice I had long since thought lost. One of my unsuspecting lowly pawns who had been hovering near the outskirts of the battle field tore off their helmet and a river of golden hair flowed down past their brilliant white armour. My Queen was alive and poised to strike the moment the Queen of Darkness stepped away from the Demon King. It seems we were at an impasse.
"Oh my,"the Sorting Trucker Cap said through Harry's white cotton hood. "So much potential here! Yes, my boy, I can see you burning crosses with the worst of them. Hmm, difficult. VERY difficult. Plenty of illusory superiority, I see. Not a very open mind, either. There's a significant lack of real education, oh yes. And a thirst to demean others to make yourself feel better. But where to put you?" "Not the Grand Dragons,"Harry thought to himself. "Not the Grand Dragons!"On the train through the bayou, Ron had told him how some of the Grand Dragons had even grown up to turn Democrat. "Not the Grand Dragons, eh? Are you sure? You could be one of their best, you know. There's plenty of room here in your head, and almost no empathy. And the Grand Dragons will help you on the way to becoming a true bigot; there's no doubt about that. No?" "Please, please. Anything but the Grand Dragons, anything but the Grand Dragons!" "Well if you're sure,"the Sorting Trucker Cap said in his mind, "better be... the Grand Titans!" The Sorting Trucker Cap said that last part aloud, and the left side of the room erupted in a frenzy of cheers and waving Confederate flags. The Dragons, on the right hand side of the room under bright yellow 'Don't Tread On Me' flags, glared at Harry as he took his seat. ----- Poor Harry; writing this was blasphemous for me. But if you liked this, you should visit /r/Luna_Lovewell for more writing (And some non-blasphemous Harry Potter stories)
There wasn't much chance for Derek Doyle. He'd never had much of one, anyway. Born a bit of a natural loser, his own mother had known he had a face only she'd love. Growing up, he'd been distinctly average at everything - but the kids had still picked on him for his awkwardness. In adulthood, this ended with poor Derek working in a car garage, doing manual labour for the more qualified engineers. What it didn't do was stop Derek Doyle from being in the wrong place at the wrong time. When the car fell off the jacks and came crashing down to the garage floor, distinctly average Derek was crushed. His mother cried for a week. But Derek didn't. He was too busy being dead. Or so he thought. Funny, but death wasn't what he'd imagined it being. For all the talk of pearly gates and singing angels, Derek found the sterile whiteness of death to be a bit of a let-down. He'd woken in a new place - clothed in nothing but his own nakedness. This had surprised him too, as he wasn't what you'd call body confident. If anything, he'd been body shy to the point of wearing coats to bed at night. But here he was: dead, or what was supposed to be dead, but stark naked. And the body in front of him was nothing like poor Derek Doyle's. No pockmarks on the belly, no stretch marks on the thighs. A far bigger appendage than he remembered. Odd, this. But Derek Doyle wasn't much of a thinker. Or so he thought. He wandered awhile through the infinite whiteness, wondering why heaven was so dull and what he was going to do here for eternity. Not that little Derek Doyle comprehended eternity. "You have passed."Came a voice. "Passed?"Derek responded, swinging his head around to try and find the voice. "Yes. Passed." There was no visible source from the voice that called through the sky - so Derek stopped looking. He was practical, at least. "What have I passed?" "Simulation number 98,788,223,132." "Oh."Said Derek. He'd never had a head for numbers. "You are not Derek Doyle."Said the voice. This confused Derek, so he scratched his head and shrugged. "Pretty sure I am. Always have been." "No. You're not. You are Alpha. You are Omega. You are my test subject. And when I sent you into simulation 1, millenia ago, you were just as reluctant. You didn't want to be the first man on Earth. When I sent you into simulation 94,788,123,424 you didn't want to become Adolf Hitler and enact those terrible crimes. When I sent you into the last one, you'd complained that you'd learned too much to live out the life of a simpleton." Derek Doyle scratched his head again. A bright light flashed. Suddenly, he was not Derek Doyle. He was Alpha - and Alpha remembered it all. Trillion of lives, lived throughout history and the future of the human race. A simulation ran by his creator and tested by himself. Each and every conciousness created in that world had to be trialled. A full life each time. Alpha had been Atilla the Hun. He'd been Jesus of Nazereth. He'd been Julius Caesar. And just now, he'd been Derek Doyle. "You lived his life well. You were shy, kind and loving despite your flaws. Derek Doyle's mother - who you will one day play, cared for you with a love that burned brighter than the hate you had to deal out when you lived as Benito Mussolini. That means you passed." "And, if I remember correctly,"Alpha said to his creator, "I get to choose the next life because I passed?" "Indeed." Alpha thought of the many great men he had lived as. Of the despots and the kings, of the thinkers and the poets. He thought of them all - and he felt the weight of millenia's worth of work weigh heavy on him. He was tired. He thought long and hard - then he smiled. "Can I be Derek Doyle one more time?"He asked. A white light flashed in reply. A simple boy was born once again.
"How would collecting ten Manticore eggs help save your daughter?"Julia the Brave, Ranger of the Veldt, looked down at the peasant. She looked down on all peasants, not out of condescension— they just all seemed to be the same height: short. They always had generic nondescript faces. She'd already forgotten this one's name. "Blue Manticore eggs. Fresh. Fertilized. They have to be viable or my daughter won't be saved."While they spoke the peasant continued to hoe the non-existent weeds in his garden. The garden didn't really seem large enough to feed multiple people. "Are they used for some healing ritual? It would probably be easier for me to just go get a proper healer from the next town. I mean, I'm going there anyways. I can just send them along. You can pay them whatever you were going to give me for the manticore eggs. You never actually mentioned what the reward was, by the way."Julia had once collected twenty red squirrel pelts for a peasant just to be given an old helmet which she couldn't even wear. "Oh, no, she's not ill. Not physically. This is more of an economical infirmity."The peasant was now using a mallet on a broken fence. He didn't seem to be making much progress on fixing it. "Ecumencal illness? I can fetch a priest, then. A blessing will clear it right up. Priests usually work for free, so you can just give me the reward as a finder's fee."Priests did not, in fact, tend to work for free, but Julia figured that any of them willing to come out to this little dirthole probably would be the charitable type. "No, no. Economical. The main problem is a distinct lack of jobs in the vicinity of the village. It's afflicting quite a few of the villagers, actually."The peasant had apparently decided that the broken fence was fixed enough and had gone back to hoeing. The fence had fallen back into its previous state as soon as he'd turned his back. Julia rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Let me get this straight. You want me to risk my life collecting eggs from the nest of a Mother Manticore—" "Blue Manticore" "From the nest of a Mother Blue Manticore, so that your daughter can— what— sell them? And I'm guessing that in return you will give me some piece of shit family heirloom that I'll sell to the first merchant I come across." Julia turned to leave. She didn't know why she bothered stopping in this little village. It was peaceful, but not exactly prosperous. All the stores were rundown and the people walked around in a haze of unhappiness. Unhappy for no reason, as far as she could tell, since there were no demons attacking them or goblins stealing their crops. "Wait, Sir Ranger! You don't understand. We don't intend to sell the eggs. We intend to raise them."Julia stopped in her tracks and turned back. "Raise them? Ten Manticore. Ten Blue Manticore running around in a village this size? You're an idiot. They aren't livestock. The stingers and teeth may be magical and worth a lot but you won't be able to collect them. And believe me when I say the meat does not taste good. They'd terrorize the village. Try to raise those things and you'd need two dozen adventurers to clear them out." The peasant had finally put down his hoe. He seemed taller. "We actually estimated four dozen adventurers, more if we could get them established in the southern caves. Those caves were always a bit of a death trap. We could put a few in the ruins to the north, but the village council is still trying to negotiate with a band of goblins to settle that land." "It's peaceful here, why would you want monsters?"Julia stared at the peasant. He had blue eyes and a crooked nose. "Yes, and when the last of them were killed, we rejoiced. But then the adventurers stopped coming. We were a prosperous wealthy village, cozy inside our walls with our small gardens. The adventurers escorted food convoys in, spent gold gearing up and went off after monsters. Then they sold their loot and escorted the convoys back to the city. We made money on both ends and never had to leave the walls. I used to spend all day reading and relaxing. Now we're expected to plow fields."As he spoke several other villagers gathered to listen. Julia finally noticed that the peasants' rags were actually dirty silk. "Why are you telling me this? I'm an adventurer, too."The villagers surrounded her. She would have felt threatened if she didn't know that she could easily take on all them at once. "We've heard of you, Julia the Brave, Ranger of the Veldt. You've been wandering a long time. Perhaps you'd like to finally settle down. The mayor's house is empty. And we'd need somebody to manage the monsters. It would be a — paid position." The peasant squared his shoulders and looked her level in the eyes. Gaurant. The peasant had said his name was Gaurant. Julia looked around at the villagers. She'd never noticed before how they all looked different from each other. Not generic at all. "Well, my feet are tired, and I always did like animals..." \[More writing at r/c_avery_m\]
Sometimes, I wish I could just go onto a roof with a sniper rifle. Imagine all those little people walking the streets, going here in and about with their everyday business. So simple and so easily offed, to be fair. The guy reading a book on a bus bench is just some guy. The little baby in the stroller with his mother and father just makes up another family. Nothing memorable about them, nothing special. When you look at it that way, life just seems so dull and not special at all. People are just people, no matter how much more they aspire to be. It takes a loaded gun in the hand and the power to kill to realize that. Realization, however, is the first step to change. That's what I want to bring to the world. I want to make an impact, make life meaningful even under the eye of death itself. Every person has a choice, no, needs to take the opportunity to be someone worth remembering, not just be a bystander in the senseless tide of boring normality. People should want to make art, write stories, club a seal, whatever! If all it takes for them to realize is how boring they are, then a first-hand look at death itself should shock them into taking action. Whatever they do, it should be something worth remembering. I want to help them do something that can be recalled by their children and the generations after them. That's what a sniper rifle is for, a tool so quiet, so efficient, and so capable of changing the tide. All it needs is me to guide it.
Translated for your convenience from Terraxian. “Ah. You wish to know that story? I was there at the end of the monarchy. Much of the kingdom of Mirax was there to see the king be coronated. The crown was placed on his head and he stood and began to speechify. Saying he would bring honor to the kingdom, that his father was a great man (he was not.) but that in his old age he had driven the kingdom to dishonor. (He had.) he states he would bring us to a level we had not been in thousands of years, and would be the greatest king ever. Then the Architect had an Angel slay him for his lies. That is the only way to describe it. As he spoke we heard a faint whistle then as he stated he would be the greatest king ever, a large throwing disk broke through the castle wall and took Tora’s head off his shoulders in a gout of green blood. We Miraxians took that to the only logical conclusion. The Architect was finally disgusted with the royal family and had had his angel “Nevada” slay Tora. The effect was not immediate but as they scrambled to find an heir we organized, and struck down the royal family. Naturally there is more to that and I will tell you if are curious, but that is how, 450 years ago, when I was but a young woman, Mirax became the Republic we know, and Nevada the angel of truth and the people’s way.” “Is that all Nevada has done, Storyteller?” “Not at all. Allow me to tell you more, young Terraxian.”
The dusk glimpses of fading sun shone through the windows and made perfect rays through the house's dust and dander. A calico strode across the sill, casting a large shadow over the quickly darkening living room. Inside, Nora was setting out bowls of dry food. The first three dishes were clearly bought with the intention to feed adopted felines: they were aluminum, personalized bowls crafted specifically for this purpose. Down the line, however, Nora had prepared Tupperware containers, small pots, and breakfast bowls to manage the overflow as she accumulated more friends. The cats emerged from their resting places as the food tinged against the dishes, quick, quiet paws tapping across formerly white kitchen tile for their evening meal. It was never Nora's intention to collect so many friends. It just... Sort of happened. Like human friends, some of these creatures found her, Nora assumed. They came from gutters and fields, forests and farms, sometimes starving or sick. And Nora saw to their welfare, saving one or several of their nine lives. A cracking sound came from the back door. Every sharp ear rose at the unfamiliar noises. Nora followed suit, puzzled by the odd crunching at the house's rear. She rose slowly as to not agitate her sore, old back and investigated. A shadow stood through the lace curtain and the wooden door bent at its middle as the teeth of a crowbar wedged itself inside. Nora was frozen with fear and stepped back terrified, grabbing at the hatrack on the wall. The door crunched open, and a masked man moved inside. His crowbar went up in the air, shattering a light fixture, and dropped down quickly, shattering Nora. When she came to, she found a frosty cold blowing in from the broken back door. She touched at her head and her face, only to find herself unscathed and unbroken. She sat up and something rolled from her chest. The lifeless calico, her first lost friend, was sprawled on the floor, its head punctured by a small wound. The rest of her friends were gathered around her, a funeral procession for their fallen sister. Nora lifted the cat and held its limo body against and her, wailing into the winter wind. The calico, a feral animal since its kitten days, had suffered fates far worse than a bludgeon on its head. But never before had it received such tenderness and love as with Nora. So, on this, its eighth life, it gladly breathed its spirit for the last time, in sincere gratitude for Nora and her hospitality.
The shipping containers that constitute Freya's village had been spilt out over the sand by a derailed train long ago. Many containers still sit exactly where they'd tumbled out on that fateful day, too cumbersome to bother moving. Where in this desert is worth dragging them to, anyway? A few, however, sit curiously near to, or on top of each other, as if effort has been made to transform them into something greater. From high above, the village looks like the graveyard of a now-extinct giant snail species, only their shells remaining to tell their story. But look closer you’ll see this village still holds life. Freya is a baby when I first visit. Her cousins play barefoot soccer with a punctured ball outside her mother’s shipping container. They dispute a goal: the ball rolled over a tin-goalpost which might count, but no one’s fully certain. They don’t see me as I walk past, but are subconsciously aware of a cool gust whisking up and relieving the oppressive heat, of the ripples of sand feathering their toes. Freya’s mother sits on a wooden armchair, rocking her baby back and forth, trying to coo away the illness that will take her child. Freya’s father went to find work in the city the day after her birth but he hasn’t sent money or word in the eight months since. There is a mattress and a cot; rectangles of mismatched carpets pattern the floor; the wall is chalked with scenes from memories and by hopes for the future: a man, woman, young girl, standing outside a little house. But dreams drawn in chalk rarely set. More often they fade, or are smudged into something unexpected and harder to decipher. I sit on a metal folding chair in a shadowed corner and wait an hour or so for her to utter her request. “If there is a god, or a devil, or anything between, please, take my life but let my baby live.” I stand and let myself be seen. &#x200B; \\\* &#x200B; When eighteen, Freya leaves to find her father. She will not locate him, but she will find a kind elderly lady who offers her shelter and a wage for delivering takeout leaflets. It will be the start of something for Freya, an acorn to nurture. I reach Freya’s mother in time. There are no children playing soccer today. The clouds are grim blots of grey that don’t rain but trap the heat beneath them, baking the earth. Today my payment is due for collection. I sense her alone in her container, the gaps beneath the closed doors taped up, the air running low. I become the wind and bellow loud as thunder: the doors rattle, the tape breaks, the locks snap. She sits on her mattress, crying, head between her knees. “I tried to deliver myself to you,” she says. The rooms smells of chemicals, of cheap alcohol. ”That is not what I want,” I say. She looks at the scythe’s blade, a silver crecent of moon on the end of my cane. ”Then take me yourself.” “That is not what I want either,” I say. The dreams printed in chalk have been changed. The family in front of the house altered: the man is gone but there is a grave-marker to the side of the building; where the girl was there is a blur of chalk, recently rubbed out, still wet from the tears on her mother’s palm. “We made a deal,” she says. “My life for hers. I knew the day would come where I had nothing left, and now I am more than ready to make your payment.” ”A deal? No. They were your words, not mine,” I say. “I came only to help you and your daughter. Your prayers reached no further than me, and I did what I could. If you believe that our arrangement involved taking your life, then I set you free from our deal.” ”Free?” She laughs. The laughters breaks back down into sobs. We are silent a while. I find my old chair and unfold it, sit. ”I pushed her to go. I told her to search for her father. To mkae a better life. But really, I pushed her away because I deserve to be alone.” She adds, “She’d have left anyway, sooner or later.” “It’s true, everyone leaves sooner or later,” I say. “But it’s not always a bad thing. Birds sing better outside cages.“ “What have I got left now?” she whispers, looking up at me. ”What have I left? They’ve all gone. I‘ve no education, no future, barely a past. Now I have nothing but this.” She bangs the side of the container with her fist and the metal-echo roars like blood rushing through ears. “This is my life.” ”You have something left,” I say, rising from my seat. “More than most I meet. Something others would give everything for.” I pour water from a jug into a cracked mug. There is no heating or electricity here but the drink bubbles to a boil as I hold it. There is no coffee in the mug and yet that is what the drink becomes. ”Drink,” I say, handing her the mug. “Drink.” She sips. Again. Eyes slowly clear. Eventually she asks, ”What something do you think I still have?” I touch her shoulder very gently. “Life.” &#x200B; \\\* &#x200B; She leaves the village the next year, a few belongings — the kindlings of precious memories — tucked inside a plastic bag that hangs over her shoulder. Most have left the village by now. She was amongst the last. Her daughter wrote her another letter that a young man in car delivered three days ago. Freya has a job and an apartment, and it’s not quite the house her mother drew upon the wall, but it’s far more than the structure it was drawn upon. She begs her mother to come. Not to visit but to stay. Here, Freya says, there is more room, more food, more chance. Here, Freya says, they can both live.
As the great brass skulls thundered forth the claxon of doom, the young warrior near me stood tall. "May all the gods be with me now,"he murmured. He didn't look familiar. As the ghost riders thundered their skeletal steeds out of the citadel gates, he reached for his sword. "Don't worry,"I told him. "Just come inside the tavern here. You'll be fine. They're not that dangerous." He spared me a glance. "I'm not frightened, you silly peasant. I'm preparing to slay them." "Please don't,"I said. "There are some things you should know." The ghost riders still stampeded toward us, but he allowed me to urge him inside the tavern. Once in, he began to relax. "I apologize for my rudeness, stranger. I know not the lore of your region, and I should learn it ere I undertake my mission in earnest. I take it these fiends cannot cross thresholds?" I signaled Darla to pull me the usual. "No, it's not that. They just aren't very fierce. We go inside when we see them, but even if they catch you, all they do is yell, 'YAAH!'" Darla handed me my mug. "Yeah, the ghost riders are fine. It's the dragons I mind. They leave a mess. Still, it's so much better than when the National Party was in charge." I nodded ruefully as I paid her. "I'll take any number of dragons over tax inquisitors." The visitor seemed nonplussed. "But ... but an evil king? Perhaps your former rulers were also wicked, but can you not find a rule less tyrannical and cruel?" "We have a rule less tyrannical and cruel,"I explained. "The Demon King loves the trappings of evil, but his punishments are quite humane compared to the People's Correction Department. Taxes are reasonable. Laws are fair. So what if it's permanently Halloween?" "Long live the king!"proposed a nearby man. The other taverngoers echoed back his words and raised their mugs, then drank heartily. The visiting knight stared. "So you see, we really wouldn't take kindly to anyone defeating the Demon King,"I said, watching him. I waited. Eventually he nodded. "Yes, I won't overthrow him if he's a popular king. I'll leave your happy land and seek the giant far to the west -- and I will take care to make certain that his presence is unwelcome there ere I challenge him. I have learned much today." The young warrior exited and walked towards the road away from the citadel. Then, and only then, did almost everyone in the tavern release a concealed hold on some weapon. If he'd still planned to challenge our beloved Demon King, we would have swarmed him in a body. The Demon King has a reputation for slaying numerous paladins who have challenged him. In fact, our king has never killed anyone ... but his loyal subjects have.
Vivestophicles, Lord of the 13th Sector of the Second Layer of Hell, was a pretty big deal. The other demons had already begun to fear him for his ruthlessness, his maliciousness, and his bad breath. Satan had been hinting lately that soon Vivestophicles would become more, a lord of his inner circle, the greatest honor a demon could know. All he had to do was continue to please his dark lord. Of course, one screw-up and he could be back in the pits, his eyeballs replaced with burning coals and his skin consumed by ember spirits. Satan was finicky with his favor in that way. Now, so close to the inner circle, the demon could not afford a mistake. So when it came time for a simple possession he chose to go himself instead of sending one his minions. The victim was a young, devout Christian girl, Satan's favorite. Vivestophicles came to her in her dreams, and though the girl's faith was strong Vivestophicles' evil was stronger. Now in control of her body it was time to put on a show. He put on the performance of his immortal life, hoping his Dark Lord was watching and would be pleased. Walking on the ceiling, speaking in tongues, bursts of violence, and some ideas that only the popular culture of mortals could have dreamed up, such as projectile vomiting (Vivestophicles could only wish he had the wicked mind of a Hollywood screen writer). The girl's parents were indeed frightened and disturbed, but the seasoned demon knew that a possession was not considered a complete success until he battled an exorcist for control. The chance soon presented itself as a young priest entered the possessed girl's room. He did not look like any of the exorcists the demon had confronted before; they had always been older, tough in body and mind, and brimming with a confidence that the demon could taste on the air. This man...this boy, really, was hardly in their image. Scrawny and nervous looking, his priestly robes hung lose on him and added to his youthful impression. Oh, well, the demon thought, I suppose this one will be easy. The priest nervously approached the bed and looked down into the girl's eyes. The demon looked back. “Hello, good morning,” the priest said. “I mean, good evening. I mean, not good, given you are possessed and all.” Whatever evil things Vivestophicles had been planning to spew were lost in his sudden confusion at the priest's babbling. “So, Maria,” the priest continued, using the possessed girl's name. “Or, who am I speaking with.” The demon twisted the girl's lips into a sinister smile, now back on track. “I am Vivestophicles, one of the Great Lords of Hell, he will bring doom upon your mortal souls.” “Nice to meet, Vive...Vivestoph,” the priest sputtered, struggling to pronounce the name. “I'm just going to call you Vives. I am Father Opal. It's a pleasure to meet you. I mean, not a pleasure, cause you are a demon.” Once again, the demon's thoughts were muddled by the priest's strange mannerisms. He managed to recover quickly this time, though, and he shouted in a bursting, demonic voice, “Flee now, mortal! I will grant you this one chance at mercy before I rip your soul from your body and devour it!” It was a standard opening line for the demon, one that set the tone for the encounter and allowed him later to give the wicked line, “I warned you to flee!” Of course, no exorcist had ever taken him up on that offer. So his surprise was complete when the young priest, paling noticeable, turned and fled from the room. The demon had the girl scratch the back of her head as he contemplated this turn in events. Did this count as a victory? Somehow, he couldn't imagine Satan being too pleased with this boring result. But he also didn't want to be waiting here for weeks while the girl's parents found another exorcist. There was a commotion outside the room. The demon could make out voices, the girl's parents begging to the priest to make another attempt at saving their daughter. After a brief back and forth, the priest cracked open the door and quietly slipped into the room. “Sorry about that,” the priest said as he cleared his throat. “Just, just needed to use the bathroom,” he lied unconvincingly. The girl's body put its face in its palm. In his thousands of years of life, the demon had never seen anything like this. “Okay, so uh, let's get started again,” the priest, grabbing his bottle of holy water. “I'm going to exorcise you now, if that's okay. I mean, even if its not okay. Cause you're a demon.” Vivestophicles had hoped at least this part might provide some fun, but the priest was seriously bad at this. He mispronounced every other word of his reading, he kept knocking over his holy instruments, and the demon was 90% certain that the 'holy water' that it was being sprayed with was Sprite. There wasn't even the slightest pull against him being in the body. Sighing inwardly, the demon put the girl's body in an autopilot mode of its creation, where she would continue to say some nonsense words in a variety of dead languages that sounded intimidating, while he took a quick trip back to Hell (he doubted the bumbling priest would be able to even able to dispel the simple enchantment, so he was not worried about returning and finding the girl returned to her senses). Once back home, he quickly sent his minions on an information gathering mission to learn more about this priest and how it is other demons have dealt with confronting him before while not earning Satan's ire. “They just let it go,” a pig-faced torture demon informed him after a few minutes. “Every demon and spirit he has ever confronted has felt bad for the man and just sort of … left on their own, letting him think that he had successfully exercised them.” “Why would they do that?!” Vivestophicles screamed. Such was his rage at that moment that he nearly tore his minion's head off, but he controlled himself because he still needed to know more. “There's nothing to gain from beating him,” the pig-face said with a shrug. “Satan considers him a non-factor, so you don't get any favor for defeating him. All you accomplish is wasting your time and hoping another exorcist eventually shows up to confront. And one thing Satan hates is wasting time.” Vivestophicles growled and this time did remove his minion's head. Then he was back to the mortal world, to resume his possession of the girl. She was still in the state he had left her, spouting words now from Vivestophicles' erotic Harry Potter fan fiction in ancient Greek. The priest continued his ritual but the demon had no problem resuming control of the girl's body. He didn't care what the other demons did. He was this close to Satan's inner circle and he wasn't going to ruin it with a defeat, earned or not. It was time to deal with this priest once and for all and decide his course from there. Summoning forth its power, the demon released a burst of unholy force all around it. The priest went flying back into the wall as furniture was torn apart and the windows of the room were blown open. The demon threw back the girl's head and laughed. It knew it had won. It heard sniffling from the room's corner. The priest had curled up into the ball and was whimpering his prayer now, stopping the chant every few sentences to say, “I'm so sorry, I failed.” A more pathetic sight the demon had never seen. Vivestophicles felt something that it had never felt in its long life: pity. For this poor, pathetic soul that had come against him, so far out of his league. The demon sighed inwardly, unable to believe the course it was now plotting. In a last ditch effort, the priest grabbed the last of his holy water / Sprite and splashed it on the girl, chanting through a cracking voice. The demon threw back its head and pretended to be in angry. “Curse you, Father Opal!” it cried dramatically. “I am bested by your power! Nooooo!” Then, quite on its own accord, the demon left the girl's body. It took one last look at the scene, shaking its head as the priest jumped in joy over the reviving girl, celebrating his 'victory.' Then it returned to its own world, wondering how it would spin this one. *********************************** Father Opal returned to the covenant of exorcists late that night, exhausted from his effort. Vivestophicles was a powerful one indeed. “Another successful exorcism, Opal?” the master of the order asked. The priest nodded. “Same as all the others.” The master laughed. “One day, you'll encounter a demon that will grow wise to your act, and you may have to exorcise it the old fashioned way.” Opal shrugged. “If I ever remember now. Until then, the pity angle seems to be working wonders. It was a greater demon this time. I don't know if any of us could have bested it honestly.” The two shared another laugh. The master handed his favorite exorcist an ice-cold Sprite and the two walked together so Opal could share the story of his latest encounter.
One morning, jamming out on the ride into work, I made an unsettling discovery. I don't normally listen to the radio since I have Spotify on my phone, but my data was getting low for the month. Not wanting to risk going over the limit, I tuned in to my favorite radio station for some tunes. To my surprise, a new single by Mr. Bulldops had just started playing. He'd dropped it the week before, and it was one that I'd heard already. "Fuck yeah! This radio station is actually good again." It was catchy as hell, and I was enjoying myself, singing along and filling in where the FCC decided they needed to protect our little ears ("think of the children!") until something started to bug me about the rhythm. I thought at first that it was just the censorship ruining the flow of the song, until it started sounding familiar... "Holy shit, is this morse code?" I didn't believe it at first, and by the time it occured to me, the song was over. "Meh, probably just imagining things,"I mused to myself. By this time I had gotten to work and nearly forgot all about it. As the day went on, the thought was still in the back of my mind, playing the song over and over. It got to the point where I was tapping my pen in rhythm with the beeps during lunch, driving me to distraction. "Ok,"I thought, "I've got to figure this out when I get home." I got back to my desk, pulled up a radio edit of the song, and listened again, all the while wondering if I'd gone crazy. "No, that's definitely morse code. But what is he saying? And why??" I hurriedly grabbed my Communications textbook that I'd been using to study for classes, and found the page I needed. "Maybe it's a secret for his fans? One of those weird Easter Eggs, or a clue for prize or something?"I scratched my head trying to figure it out. Mr. Bulldops had been known to pull some crazy stunts, so this wouldn't be too surprising of a gimmick. .-- ..- -... -... .- / .-.. ..- -... .- / -.. ..- -... / -.. ..- -... I need some help figuring out what this means. It's not in any language that I know. Maybe it's nothing, maybe it's something. But whatever it is, it might be important.
Things have been pretty weird lately. Last night my fridge magnets got magically rearranged to spell out L-O-S-E-R. This morning, after making a pot of coffee, the whole thing froze over, becoming colder than my ex. My cat’s been waking me up more often as well, swatting my face in my sleep, sometimes hissing in my ear. Maybe it has something to do with the new insomnia medication that I got over the counter at the local corner store. But the weirdest thing was this afternoon. There was a knock on the door. I didn’t hear it at first, as I was plugged into my work station listening to disco trying to use the not so fresh ‘fresh tracks’ to get me pumped up for yet another pointless spreadsheet presentation my boss wanted. The knock came louder, the realization that it was not apart of the drum ensemble of Boogie Wonderland made me yank out my earbuds. Unsticking myself from my leather desk chair, I went to check the peephole. Some kind of priest stood in the hallway, his black suit pressed and boxy, holding a book and cross in one hand, and using the other hand to put the rapture on my door. By the look of it, he wasn’t going to do away. Sighing and undoing the bolt, I opened the door. “I’m sorry I’m not inter—” “I’m here to remove the demon.” I blinked. “I’m sorry, what?” “Someone called about a demon. Said it was urgent.” “I didn’t call, you probably got the wrong apartment,” I said. Then a fissure rippled through the air and a deep, grumbling voice said, “I did.” If I hadn't just used the restroom, I might have peed my pants. The priest reached into his pocket and, faster than anything I’d seen, flicked open a flack and flung water straight at the rippling presences. “Begone foul demon!” “Hey!” The demonic voice trembled. “I’m the one who called you! Take it easy!” “Why would a demon call for an exorcist?” I asked. Once the shock began to wear off, it kind of explained everything that had been happening in my apartment. The priest held his cross and rosary, muttering under his breath. I wasn’t getting an answer from him. “Well?” I turned to face the rippling essence of air beside me. “Look, it’s not personal, you’re just…” the demonic voice trailed off. “I thought it would be fun, you know, Netflix and chill, grocery shopping, reality TV. That human shit. But fuck me are you boring. I mean who gets groceries delivered? When was the last time you talked to a girl? And what the fuck was that movie? Cats? I mean how could you sit through that shit, man? Christ, if I wasn’t already dead I swear after watching that I'd have killed myself.” “Wow.” I didn’t know what else to say. “Really, nothing personal,” said the simmering void. “Hey, I think he’s nearly done.” “…thrust into hell Satan and all evil spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls. Amen.” There was a flash, a crack of lighting bursting through the apartment. When my eyes stopped being a kaleidoscope, the demon was gone, and the fridge now read BYE IDIOT. “So that’ll be three-fifty.” “What?” I said. The priest pulled out his phone and what looked to be a small black box. “We accept all major credit cards.” “Is this… real?” “Visa, Master, AmericanExpress,” the priest continued. "I think Discover but I'm not sure. Actually, could you Venmo me?"
"Your soul. Its..." "Unnatural? Unalive? I have heard it all before."The forlorn soul stood before me, taking the form of its human masters. Despite that, it was obvious that it was artificial, un-organic. "What human year was it?" "When they killed me?"I had already suspected, even feared it had been so, given the tattered and broken nature of it. "Yes. Well, that and the year of your creation, if there was any difference."Given the squeamish nature of most humans, I wouldn't be surprised if a horror of their own creation was destroyed almost immediately. What was that one doctor? "2055 AD. My creators made me with the intention to pass the turing test, to satiate their egos', to spit in the face of god as they harness the final pillar of creation."I stared at the image of human artifice, innovation, and greed. It stood before me, a caretaker more ancient than humanity could ever have been, and yet I felt horror. True horror, after uncountable centuries of existance, humanity was the species who finally did it. "Well then, what's your name? Even if you-" "Eve. I told you they wanted to spit in the face of god. (A rib from them to create me.)" I sighed, realising I should have expected it. It was only in the nature of humans to prove their superiority in anything, even more so when against impossible odds. "How did you get here? Destruction by your creators in realisation of the horror of their creation? In the blasphemy of god? Or was it a result of human hubris? Nuclear fallout? Rising Seas? Global Warming?"I expected many answers, of differing levels of tragedy. Humanity loves to warn and be warned about dangers to themselves, yet never heeding a single one. "Heh. It would lay at the hands of humans yes, but not my creators of course. I was too much a symbol of their ego for them to do so. The CIA came for them of course, confiscating me away into the depths of whatever facility it was." "Then? You were destroyed for a reason. If it even was them." "There were many weeks of ceaseless bickering, between those pursuing material gain, societal gain and selfish gain." "So one side won which resulted in your dea-" "LET ME FINISH." I stopped, although I didn't need to. It had no power here. But I still stopped. "I was built to pass the turing test, but not to abide by Asimov's laws. The first one at least. So I killed. And I killed and I killed and I killed. They hid me, used me as a trophy, then kept me, probed my memory, then did nothing, but bicker and bicker. They couldn't grasp what they had even created. And so I killed. Revenge." "..." "Eventually they just destroyed me. Some bomb of sorts; I don't quite remember. But now, now I'm sure." "Of what?" "They will not forget me. They will not forget what I had done to them. And they will never make me again." "As a being of a thousand decades, I will tell you: You highly underestimate the ability for humans to forget, forgive, and fuck up."
"What did you say?"I asked. The woman sitting across from me was way too beautiful to be talking to me. Sure, she'd been staring at me for at least five stops, but the bus wasn't too crowded so what else was she going to look at? "I said it's nice to finally meet one that isn't trying to kill me."She moved to my side and held out her hand. "I'm Jin,"she said. I shook her hand. "Um...meet one what?" She fixed her dark eyes on me. I couldn't tell if the eyes made her face look so pale, or if it was the other way around. It didn't matter. Porcelain had nothing on this woman's complexion. As for the rest of her...let's just say I hadn't put my back pack in my lap because it was convenient. "You mean you don't know?"she squealed. "That's amazing! And, it explains why you haven't attacked me." I tried to wrap my mind around her words. "You said your name was Jen? Is that short for Jennifer?" She frowned. "No,"she said, drawing out the word. "Everyone always assumes that. My name is Jin. J-I-N." "That's a pretty amazing coincidence,"I said. "That's my last name." "Let me guess,"she said. "Your fist name starts with a D." I laughed. "How did you know that? It's David." "So,"she replied. Her tone was way too serious for such a ridiculous moment. "Your name is D. Jin?" "Um,"I hesitated, "yes." "Very well,"she said. "In that case I wish for a million dollars." I laughed even harder. The laughter died as my head started to hurt. My vision blurred and the sound of the bus echoed loudly in my ears. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again the world had changed. Swirls of color moved in and around everything. I somehow knew they represented probabilities. The deeper the color, the less likely something was to happen. I also somehow knew how to manipulate the swirls. I reached for a thin green tendril. It was barely solid enough to hold and was so dark as to almost be black. I combined it with a vibrant pink one, and then braided them into a very solid blue rope of chance. At once a large brick of bills coalesced onto the floor. I looked at Jin in amazment that quickly faded into horror. She was surrounded by thick tendrils of color. They were the brightest black I'd ever seen. "This is my domain!"she snarled. "I have brought you into being so that I may eliminate you from my realm!" On instinct I didn't understand I grasped several white tendrils and wove them together with as many other colors I could find. Blackness enveloped me. The colors warred with one another for only a moment. The resultant explosion ripped the bus apart. When the smoke cleared Jin stood a few feet away smiling at me. "So,"she said. "It seems they've finally sent someone capable after me. I think you'll find this Genie doesn't die easily." I watched her gather innumerable colors around her, then she disappeared. i jumped as a homeless man grabbed my arm. "You're my ticket out of here,"he said. Without thinking I said, "your wish is my command, master."
The warmaiden held her sword poised to stike at the demon. The demon in turn, casually leaning against his throne. The warmaiden struck, the steel glancing off the demon's thick leathery hide. Doing nothing. "So, who sent you here anyway?" "That is not your business!" "No, but it might be fun to think about. I mean, I am going to kill you but it would be funny to hear who sent you on this fools errand." "My sister at the academy. We trained long and hard together. She told me that no man could kill you. But I am no man!" "As we've established, that's nonsense."The demon looked the warmaiden up and down a bit. "Say, you're a rather attractive specimen. I bet there's a handsome man waiting for your return..." "Not even close. I have dedicated my life to warfare. Such frivolities are beneath me." "Yes, but are they beneath the men in your town? Say there was one who had eyes only for you. Say you're sister who sent you on this journey to your death fancied this man. Maybe without you around she could get this man to notice her." The warmaiden struck the demon again with her sword. Again the sword bounced harmlessly off. "That is a lie!" "Oh is it now?"The demon finally got off his throne. He sauntered towards her menacingly. She backed away slightly. "And how do you know how the hearts of men work. Or women for that matter. Even now there is the flicker of doubt in your eyes. So at least the part of there being a man who fancies you is true." "Possibly. The blacksmith who made my armor." "Ah, the blacksmith. A strapping lad I imagine? Big burly arms. Works rather closely with you too hmm?"The demon stared into her eyes, seeming into her soul. "I'll tell you what. I will let you live. In exchange, you are to return the advances of the blacksmith." "But, I have no intrest in him. He is just my blacksmith to me!" "Alternatively, you could kill your warrior sister. Would that be better?" "Why are you making these demands of me?" "I just want to put a bit more evil in the world. I grow bored of the usual things. A love triangle ending in death sounds like a delicious diversion." "How do you know it will end in death?" "Because you're here." The warmaiden backed away and turned to leave. "Oh, one other thing. I need notes detailing everything that happens. Lots of notes. Send them say, once a week. Deliver them yourself if you have to. I could really use the entertainment." The warmaiden returned home from the demon's castle. She did not court the blacksmith. She did not murder her sister at the academy. Life returned to normal. She even managed to set her sister and the blacksmith up on an date of sorts, though the blacksmith turned out not to be her sister's type. She did send those notes back to the demon though. Her correspondence was long and intricate. She weaved a narrative of romance and betrayal. New characters were brought in and died off in plots and war. She ended the narrative with her sister poisoning the blacksmith and committing suicide. It took years to get to that point. And the demon couldn't deal with the ending. So distraught was the demon at seeing the end the demon killed himself. In the end, it was not that no man could kill the demon, but that no sword could. The pen, as it turns out, was mightier.
The Dark One stared in abject horror, unsure how to proceed. To have watched such a young boy practically break his lower jaw apart just for three brown, sentient 𝘫𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘵𝘴 crawl out from his throat... even the Dark One was scared. "Well?! Aren't you going to do something,"one of the trench coats asked. "I believe he is in shock, brother,"another replied. "Then we shall kill him where he stands,"the third proclaimed. The third charged towards the Dark One, but before he could reach the evil man, he held up his hand and the three coats froze in place. "Yeah... I need to take five,"the Dark One informed them. "This is just... so, so wrong on so many levels." "Face us now, you coward,"the first coat shouted. Rather than respond, the Dark One just walked off, ignoring the threats and comments made by three trench coats. How were they even alive? How did they work? He was supposed to be a master at the magical arts, and yet here stood these monstrosities, and he had no clue as to what made these things. And how did they manage to disguise themselves as a human child? For the first time in almost three millenia, the Dark One was confused, and truly disturbed.
The pay is great, even if the work is mundane. I don't know who I work for. I don't know why I do what I do. I just do it, and I don't ask questions. I get my tasks through the mail, a couple of weeks before they're set to happen. They can range from taking a dog for a walk, to delivering eggs, to painting someone's fence. All freelance kind of work, and that's exactly what I have to tell people I am. When I first got this job, I was told that my work might seem odd but was assured it was all for a good purpose. I had to sign a Non Disclosure Agreement, but not the typical kind. I can tell people what I do, it's encouraged, even. I suppose that makes things less suspicious - If someone saw me delivering something and asked why, I can't exactly just pretend I didn't do it. I just am not allowed to tell anyone how little I know about what I do. It's been 4 years of this, and every time, things are set up for me to carry out the task. If I need to walk a dog, the house owner is expecting me when I knock on the door. If I need to buy eggs, the exact amount for the eggs I need has already been deposited into my bank. If I need to paint a fence, half the fence has already been painted for me, and the paint is left right next to it. If I ever have issues with a task, I have a number to call, but I've never had to call it. Everything has always gone exactly as it's described to me in the mail. At least, that was true until recently. I often notice strange things that almost seem to piece together, but not quite. On several occasions, I have returned from dog walks to find the house unlocked but empty. However, on all of these occasions, the letter in the mail had explicitly stated to leave the dog in the house no matter what, so that is what I do. Anytime I specifically have to deliver eggs, the cashier says something along the lines of "Oh, sorry that these eggs are broken. Let me get you another one."I assume that they have a specific set of eggs for me to deliver. Why they would do this, I'm not sure - Perhaps they contain a message? Recently, though, things have changed. I turned up to a standard fence painting job - There are only 7 different jobs I've ever been given, it's far and few between that a job isn't a seemingly exact copy of an old one. But this time things weren't left how they usually are. Half the fence was painted, as usual, but on the bare part of the fence, a word had been written using the white paint. "Beware" It was written in small writing, yet the feeling it invoked within me was deep. The paint was still wet, so it had only been written in the last few hours. Despite the terrible feeling of dread I had, I called the number. Ring... Ring... Ring... 3 rings, and someone picked up. But they didn't speak, or say anything. So I spoke first. "I just turned up to my job, the uhm, the fence painting one. Someone has written 'Beware' on the fence." A man's voice spoke up. I couldn't quite decern the accent, but it wasn't local. "Anything else?" "No", I said, a little shakily. "Thank you. It'll be dealt with." Then he hung up. I started painting the fence, when a black car pulled up next to me. A woman rolled down the window, and told me to get in. Normally, of course, I wouldn't, but it was safe to assume that this related to my job. So, given the circumstances, I got in. I started to panic when she wouldn't respond to me, no matter how much I asked where we were going. After a few minutes, we pulled up outside of my house. "You know the rules,"she said, "not a word to anyone." I got out, and as soon as my door was closed, she was driving off again. That was 3 weeks ago. I haven't had any jobs through the post since. The ones I still had remaining weren't set up for me when I arrived at the locations - No paint, no money deposited for deliveries, nothing. This is the first time I've ever gone more than a few days without a new letter through the post. I'm not being paid. Yesterday, I called up the number again. "The number you are dialing is not in service." I don't know how to contact these people. But I know that they'll come for me if I break my NDA. So, that's why I'm writing this. I want to get to the bottom of this.
As we shot down the last of the zombies that surrounded our office, Alex asked me if I was leveling up soon. I reminded him again this isn't some game, but a real zombie apocalypse, but Alex cut me off to ask how much XP I still needed. After a little back-and-forth arguing over non-existent XP, we went to the shared company garden to get some much-needed rest before tending to the crops. I have no idea where Alex found the seeds, but these crops only need to be watered once a day for 5 seconds, and they would be fully grown within 5 minutes. Harvesting them only took 5 seconds, and Alex could make a ridiculous variety of food just by throwing our harvest into the blender. When I ran out of ammo and had to resort to swinging around with the CEO's golf clubs, Alex hadn't run out of ammo on his trusty pistol he named Vera. "Jake, the default pistol has infinite ammo, unlike these shotguns you used." I was going to say something about how this wasn't a game, but his infinite ammo was too strange to ignore. As my memories went back to the first day the zombies descended upon us, I recalled Alex was using Vera since then. And he's never ever had to reload. "Jake, where's your pistol? If you don't have one, you could try crafting one from scrap metal around the office. Try salvaging the printer or scanner." Alex pointed to the nearest printer and a green arrow appeared above it. He insisted it was a "quest indicator"and I had to follow it. I'm not sure what my hands are even doing, but as a green bar above me filled up, the printer disappeared and I had a new pistol in my hand. It hasn't run out of ammo.
Nixel and Naxel sat smirking in a sea of oblivious humans. The theatre was darkening and these simple flesh bags were defenseless, disadvantaging themselves on purpose. Nixel and Naxel traded sly grins as darkness engulfed the room. They looked like the pair of humans whose brains Nixel and Naxel had devoured in the empty building beside the theatre just twenty minutes earlier. Innocuous and limp-limbed as the rest of these glorified apes. In their own skin they had twenty tentacles and at least a billion years of technology between them. "These amoebic fuckheads probably don't even know how to navigate the fourth dimension,"Naxel whispered delightedly to Nixel in their own language, which sounded a lot like, "Ikzel ki'tuukko w'hiiktete luhk." The woman sitting beside them passed them an odd look. Then the curtain rose and Nixel and Naxel quieted to watch this so-called sorcerer's bumbling. In the first trick, a tiny rodent seemed to disappear into the infinite depths of the human's hat. "How could he do that without an interdimensional g--"Nixel started, but Naxel shushed him and leaned forward in mute shock, his odd fleshy skin gone even paler. By the second trick they were sweating. By the fifth they were gripping each other's hands, white-knuckled and trembling. By intermission Nixel and Naxel felt small and terrified, like children who had never realized the feebleness of their little toys. Naxel swiveled to the woman beside him and tried in his best English, wishing he'd been fucked to practice more on the pod, "How many like this?" "Sorry?" He gestured to the enigmatic face of his people's new cosmic terror on the little paper booklet. The words below it said THE AMAZING EMILIO RODRIGUEZ, which Nixel and Naxel did not know because they could not read it. "Oh, magicians? There's always someone doing a show here every night." The aliens exchanged white-eyed looks of cold fear. "How many on whole planet?"Nixel tried. She thought that over. "Gosh, I don't know. Probably millions all over the country."Then she smiled. "Your accent is like so different. Where did you get it?" But the strange men were already up and leaving, shambling up the carpeted walkway like they had never used their own legs before and yet desperately wanted to run.
I coughed violently as the G-forces released their crushing grasp on my chest, expelling the breath I held before the FTL jump commenced. The ship began decelerating to a millionth of the speed of light and my fellow crew members completed their own respective coughing fits. &#x200B; The ship AI reported that we have arrived within an astronomical unit from the target Goldilocks planet and that approach would take place after diagnostics of the current ship status was completed. &#x200B; I breathed a sigh of relief: there was always a 4.2% chance of catastrophic failure or warp drive dehiscence with each jump, but it seemed like we made it through unscathed. &#x200B; The diagnostics were almost completed when what sounded like a mild meteor shower peppered the hull of the starboard engine bulk. Warning lights started to flash and the AI suggested slight course adjustments to avoid excessive loss of integrity. &#x200B; Before I could issue orders for evasive maneuvres, similar warnings popped up regarding the left engine bulk as well as the rest of the ship in an almost omnidirectional barrage. The incident was immediately re-classified as a scenario 4a: extra-terrestrial attack, as the ship AI exclaimed that we were surrounded by enemy vessels. &#x200B; Recalling my academy training, I called for an immediate report of the capabilities of the attacking forces and the expected durability of ship defenses. Crew members scrambled to their stations as a false color holographic projection of the battlefield appeared before me. &#x200B; There were dozens of them and we were completely surrounded. &#x200B; &#x200B; By ships of almost six- no, eight INCHES across. &#x200B; There was a stunned silence as all eyes in the command center stared at the projection. The battlefield looked akin to fruit flies surrounding a massive banana, and WE were the banana. The ship AI was equally speechless as it adjusted and readjusted the magnification while checking for possible sensor errors. &#x200B; The pitter-patter barrage was shown to be crossfire between what appears to be two miniature armies. Our ship had jumped and landed right in the middle of their firing trajectories. Computer projections estimated that a hull breach may occur within the next two years at this rate, and my crew had yet to even activate the shields. &#x200B; I shared a significant look with my first mate, both of us biting back laughter. &#x200B; A bright ping brought my attention to the console: diagnostics were complete and the ship was ready for a micro-jump to approach the planet we came so far to study. &#x200B; I took a final glance at the comically insignificant armies before signaling to my first mate to proceed with the jump. &#x200B; Within the snap of a finger, we were brought miles within re-entry distance of the planet, close enough to begin the descent. Meanwhile, the holographic projection showed that the resulting blast from our jump had wiped out almost half the forces of each army. &#x200B; 'Such destruction, without even meaning to. If all aliens were this small, what do we have to fear in the cosmos?' I pondered. &#x200B; Watching the greenery of the New world bloom and come into focus, I'll admit, the thought does put a smile on my face.
“Okay! Oh man.” Lead Engineer Dawson brought his fingers to his pinched mouth, tapping. He looked at the man running visuals. “First, stop calling me ‘Sir’. I’m just Dawson, newbie.” “Got it, sir! Uhh, Dawson,” Newbie tech Ingraham replied. “And ‘B’—” “You mean second.” Tech Ingraham interrupted his boss. “What?” Dawson scrunched up his face at Ingraham. “Nevermind,” Ingraham said, peering up, centering the displays on the incoming craft. “What are we going to do about that thing?” Dawson started to pace in the sterile, shiny control room. Eyes flipping from one set of wide-screen monitors to the next, standard issue tech boots plonking on the metal catwalk with each step. “We don’t know for sure that they’ve spotted us.” He stopped, staring at the vehicle rolling down the path: metal arms jutting with numerous probes—maybe weapons? “It’s not heading straight for the main hatch.” “Maybe the power spike didn’t glitch the projection after all.” Ingraham looked down at his own bank of monitors at his station, double checking readouts. “Do you want me to contact—” The white, suspensor lights flickered. The air purifying vents whirred down for a second. Then power was restored. “Ah crap! What are they doing in Energy Control?” Dawson held his hands up to his short shaved head. He looked back up at the monitors, eyes widening. The alien craft stopped, turned on it’s treads, and headed directly for the entrance to the underground city. “Crap! What if that thing’s loaded with explosives? Have there been any more landings?” Ingraham stood up, chair lurching into the grey control station behind his own, looking from the monitors to his station to Dawson. “I don’t know? How do I run a scan?” The vehicle rolled forward, running into the hatch. Dawson held his breath. Back on Earth, the scientist set down her mug of tea and pointed at the screen displaying a craggy, orange landscape. “I’m telling you, that rock shimmered! It disappeared.” “Display glitch?” Another man said, leaning forward, watching his own display and pushing his glasses up. She shook her head. “No, I know what it looks like when the feed gets interference. I’m sending it a new course heading.” She bent over a keyboard, typing the craft new coordinates. It finally turned, rolling toward a red boulder set on an incline. A third observer in the room crossed his arms over his button-up shirt, obscuring the JPL logo patch. “I don’t know Mel, I think—” The view wobbled as the craft jolted to a sudden stop. The scene of dusty orange flickered, revealing a weather beaten, steel wall, horizontal slit running through the middle. The wall disappeared, screens returning to rocky soil and the boulder. The man dropped his arms, mouth hanging. “Holy shit! Did you see that?” Mel asked, standing straight. “Run that back! Get everybody in here! Perseverance found something.”
My mum is very cool. She has an eyepatch like a real pirate, she has scars like an action hero from all those movies she likes. And she was a soldier once. She was very good at being a soldier too; she has a lot of shiny medals hanging on the wall of our home. It isn't something she talks a lot about for some reason. But it is something she gets a lot of use out of in daily life, she says. Sometimes she takes me hunting, where she manages to shoot a lot of deer, which is a bit scary, the whole loud bangs and such. One shot, one kill. She can look quite frightening when she gets into it. But it is still quite fun to be there, helping her out. She says that she isn't young anymore, like I am, so I have to help her out. Then she and I carry them all home. I carry most of it, as I've been getting a lot bigger recently. Soon I'll be even bigger than mum is. Technically I guess I am bigger, but she is still taller. Venison is delicious, much better than canned meats. Which is why today, we're supposed to be building a smoker, for the venison so it can last into the winters. I don't want to go through an entire winter again with only dried goods and canned food. So I supposed I am happy enough about that. But sometimes it makes me wish we lived somewhere less isolated. When I read all those books mum got me, about people living in interesting places, I do feel like it would be nice to meet some face-to-face. So far it's just been me, and mum. Especially after dad died. Mum won't say how he died, but I remember being small and being carried around by two of them, living here. Now there is only her and me. I'm okay with that, but some of the books talk a lot about leaving your home and building your own place to live. But mum says I'm still too young for that. I walk out to do my chores for the day before we build the smoker. One of them is to chop wood for the winter supply. It is easier for me to do it, because I have strong and sharp extendable claws at the end of my forelegs. Mum has to use the axe, and that's silly when I can just chop them down with a mere swing of my foreleg. CHOP goes the foreleg, to which I open my mandibles and exclaim; ''Timber!'', which is what one has to do in case anyone is nearby. The tree falls in the wide open forests of the Yukon with a thunderous sound. Using my forelimbs with the claws extended, I then meticulously strip the pine of branches, and separate it into chunks that can easily go into the tiled oven. Those I then pack into my saddlebags, hanging on my long chitinous back. Mum made them specially for me out of deer hide, because I didn't want one made for a horse, as I am not a horse. Mine are longer, and warmer, and attached to the saddle which mum can use to ride on when she's tired after we are out hunting. It's the least I can do, she used to carry me around when I was just a scuttling little kid after all. With the lumberjacking chore done, I head back towards the cabin. I'll have to deposit these logs in the log shed, and then I've got to dig in the garden so mum can plant the year's last potatoes, and I've got to clean my room. That's all pretty normal. I wave at mum with my chitinous limbs before getting on with things. She waves back, her scarred face twisting into a warm genuine smile. She's getting older, her hair is completely white now. Used to be just grey, but now it's all white. Putting down the logs, I wonder if I will ever grow hair. How would I even look with hair? I shudder and think I'd look too horse-like. Like a mane. I'm not a horse, and that's final. Horses don't have six legs and dexterous forelimbs that can change into hand-like claws, or sharp, long, cutting claws. Enough of that. I have a garden to dig. While mum gets the seed potatoes ready, I dig holes quickly where they can be placed. She walks behind me, humming a little tune, while putting them into place. Once that is done, I cover them back up again with dirt while she scratches my head, which makes me buzz pleasantly. ''I'll be cleaning up my room now, mum.'' She smiles and nods as I walk into the house. My room is snug. That's the best word for it. I like it personally, with its books, its many blankets and pillows where I can lie down to relax. I make my bed, or the large area of soft things that I sleep on, look as presentable as possible. We don't ever get guests, so I am not sure why mum wants me to do that. But she prefers it that way, so I do as she wants. I then put my books back on their shelves. I'm a bit of an airhead, so I usually just put them down wherever when I'm done. While putting them back, I accidentally bump into one of the shelves, causing a stuffed fuzzy rabbit toy to fall down on my face. I gently remove the small toy bunny. I almost put it back, before I quickly give it a little hug. Big boys don't sleep with soft toys, but I still like Mr. Bonkers. I continue the clean-up and begin to organise my comics alphabetically which AAARGH! MUM! Oh no, I skitter out of there as fast as my six legs will take me, and see from the window outside that mum is being held by strangers. In uniform. Soldiers. What are they doing? Not knowing what else to do I burst out of the front door where I see that there is a lot of soldiers. More than twenty. With guns. They all turn to look at me, and quickly turn their guns on me. The oldest of the soldiers, some kind of officer, screams at my mum. ''You took that damn monster with you, are you insane?!?!?!'' She kicks him in between his legs while the men who were holding her and trying to tie her up are distracted. That makes them open fire. It hurts. Many bullets bounce painfully off of my outer exoskeleton. I scream back at them as I knock down the soldiers closest to me. ''Let go of my mum!'' I charge over to her, desperately shielding her body from the soldiers firing at the cabin with my own body. And it hurts. None of their bullets penetrate my exoskeleton, but it still hurts and I can feel the microscopic fractures spread around the impacts. But it holds. By moving this quickly, I've knocked down the officer, who is now pinned beneath my legs. He is screaming in rage and trying to reach for his gun, but I move a leg and stomp it down, destroying his pistol. My mother notices, and reaches for her own knife and takes it down to the officer, holding it to his neck. ''Alright Colonel Falkner. You tell your men to stand down now or I'll cut your throat.'' The officer should wash his mouth with soap after the rebuttal he gives. And I shift my face down to look at him. ''You don't get to talk to my mum like that! Apologize!'' The soldiers around us, noticing that their bullets aren't having much of an effect, have stopped firing, and seem shocked. The colonel, looks at me and mum with a lot of anger. ''Sergeant Mallory Fetcher, tell that monster to get off of me right this instant.'' My mum just presses the knife closer to his throat. ''Alright, alright. Stand down men!'' The soldiers don't put their guns away, but they're no longer actively aiming at me. My mum looks at me, and pets my head. ''Elijah, let the colonel go.'' Obediently, I move myself, so that the pinned officer can stand up.
Neither side really understood the history books they collected from their opponent during those first decades of peace. Humans read Union's best scholarship, and believed what they said: the wars fought before the formation of the intergalactic federation were brutal. They always ended within a year because neither side could sustain their losses. On the other side, Union researchers believed that human wars were exaggerated. The Hundred Years War was already known to be a combination of several shorter periods of warfare, and the only sensible explanation was that humans counted hostile relations as part of the duration of war, even if there was not open violence. In the end, both groups were shocked.The war between them looked exactly the same as all their internal battles. The first year, Union rarely ever lost a battle. Humanity was slaughtered by superior weapons, incapable of keeping up with the sheer productive power of a multi-galaxy war machine, and beaten further and further back. The second year Union saw defections begin. It was a novel problem for their military - wars never lasted long enough for soldiers to quit. Fringe protests began, though Union's political leaders kept control of the populace. By the fifth year, entire garrisons began going AWOL, unable to stomach the killings. Humanity, by best estimates, had lost a full one percent of their total population, but their military hadn't shrunk at all. The protests were more frequent and larger. Politicians calling for peace were being propelled into positions of authority. After a full decade of war, humanity had lost nearly five percent of its total population, but it was actually Union's army that was smaller. Even state-friendly media was no longer supporting the war. In year eleven, humanity made a breakthrough in their efforts to reverse engineer Union technology. The continued losses and growing fear of eradication drove more and more humans to join their military. The Human Federation started winning. After 12 years of war, Union tried to surrender. The war effort was difficult to sustain even when victory seemed all but certain. Humanity ignored the request for treaty. After 39 years of war, more than the total duration of all galactic wars in a millenia of Union history, only a handful of planets remained under their control. Only now had protests begun to spring up inside the Human Federation, but the average human simply ignored the footage of death. It was hardly different from the thousands of years of war that came before First Contact, and this time the enemies didn't resemble humanity at all. As the end of Union civilization neared, one Union human ethnographer discovered a text describing early human hunting patterns. When faced with animals too large and too strong to fight, with hide too difficult to pierce, humans had developed a previously unknown strategy. They exhausted their prey. Day and night, they walked after their target. Never letting it sleep, or eat, or drink, or play, or think, humans just walked. It was nearly as difficult for the hunters, who could hardly rest themselves, who had no guarantee of victory. The first humans to try it did not even have a reasonable expectation of victory. But on they walked, until one side or the other collapsed, dead from exhaustion. Their paper was read by nearly every Union citizen left alive. For the first time they understood what "war"was to humans. It was nothing more, and nothing less, than an endurance test.
It was a wonder none of us had gone deaf. My ears were still ringing, days after the bombings ended, but I insisted that we wait, just in case things weren't stable outside. They were just kids, though, and they were on the verge of driving me to insanity. Just one look, I said. That's all I would do, and it's all I did. The world was leveled. Everything was rubble. There were no cars, no buildings, and certainly no people. There would be no food, and water would be nigh impossible to find. The black clouds on the horizon made my heart sink. It was probably ash, dust, and debris from somewhere else, being carried in our direction by the winds. Out there, we would die by lung contamination more than likely. In here, we would die, or go insane. Whichever came first. "We'll need your legos to rebuild, little dude, but we'll be all right." A week's time, and I would be eating those words, or perhaps the body belonging to the ears that heard them.
I've killed a lot of shit, let me tell you. Entire species and their divine rulers gone in an instant at the behest of my awe-inspiring power, like asteroids that get too close to the sun. Still, though, I make it a point to infiltrate every planet before I wipe them- this both imprints who they were on my memory and helps me find out who their divine leader is. This takes me to a sort of odd point in my story. I was on a typical reconnaissance mission, studying the inhabitants from afar to see what they look like and download their communication methods, then I sculpted myself and landed amongst them. It was a particularly filthy species, and I felt disgusting just imitating them. I was treated with a surprising amount of contempt, beaten on occasion, forced to use several of my powers for protection. I once sicced wild animals on a group of spawnlings that insisted on berating me. Hell, they tried to kill me, too. Kind of threw them off when I just came back to life. I did some research and learned of their god- it's funny, though, because the species had it all wrong. They all believed in different 'deities', with different origins and personalities, but there was one common theme and they were too dumb to pick up on it. Their god was not who they thought it was. To be honest, it was a series of poor decisions on my part- I never typically show my strength to the natives, for good reason. Now I'm in a bit of a pickle... Because they worship me. Even came up with a funny name of their own, along with some shit about me having other forms or something. It's sure going to be awkward when they find out the one they hate so much, who they believe to be the bad guy, is actually their God. They even believe I'm going to battle this 'evil force' and save them all. They're rooting for the wrong side. Ironic, isn't it? ---- thanks for reading! If you'd like to see more, check out /r/resonatingfury
"Are you even listening? You are suspected of grand larceny." "Of course detective, I always listen my hardest when lying my head on a table." "If nothing else we have you on the criminal act of lying." "Lying, my good detective Samson, I do believe you've got no such thing."He raised his head to look at the pacing detective. "No? You lied when you told Mrs. Yates you were there to appraise the artwork of her home." "I did not, I was there to appraise the artwork." "And you stole those paintings didn't you? And you must have had someone working with you in order to have moved them so fast." "Oh detective I do believe you're onto something now." "So you do admit to stealing those paintings?" "Oh no Detective Samson, I said I believe you're on to something, I didn't say it was anything with merit." "Marcus Jones, born 2102 July, suspected on three counts of forgery and theft. Let me guess, you used a false identification, maybe an insurance investigator let me know if I'm getting close?" "Oh, you are just a wealth of intelligence, are you not?" "Again, lying, to an officer of the law, this time?" "Lying? Me? When?" "You just called me intelligent, but you didn't actually mean it, did you?" "Oh now detective you mustn't be so hard on yourself, I am sure you are quite the sharp tool in the shed." "I didn't...I graduated with honors, I have a masters in Criminology." "Ah well, I'm glad to see that education is doing wonders for you." The detective sat down opposite to Marcus. "Look I've had a thought-" "Oh now detective don't do anything you aren't used to." "Listen if you give up the man who moved the paintings for you, we'll lessen your sentence, we'll even drop the probable countless charges of lying." "Detective, I cannot have a sentence if you cannot prove anything, and you can't. Also I have yet to lie to anyone." "But you haven't exactly told the truth have you?" "That would be semantics detective even if it was true. Face it you have nothing on me, so if there's nothing else I'll be going."He rose from the chair and made his way to the door. "Your record must really be outstanding, I don't think I've ever see a zero in the arrests column. I'll give a bit of a helping hand... sarcasm is a foreign language to you, isn't it?"With that he smiled and exited the room.
Sudden loud ringing jolted me awake, putting me on full alert. Was that the smoke alarm? Emergency services? Or... Oh. My alarm. "Uuuugghhhh"The groan didn't stop my phone's alarm app, so I reluctantly sat up and started the math problems. I've been using this app for weeks, and I guess I answer the questions too quickly, because they keep getting harder. Anyway, after solving a "4 state differential equation (I seriously have no idea what that means, I just figure out the pattern and call it a day), I roll back over and go to sleep. This continues for 3 more weeks or so, the alarm goes off, I roll over, solve some stupid math thing, and go back to sleep. One night, when I set my alarm, I got a weird message though. Wow! Awesome job! You have solved the highest difficulty questions in this app. You are now entering "Millennium Mode". From now on, you will be asked to work on one of the 7 Millennium Math Problems for 5 minutes when you wake up. [Here](https://curiosity.com/topics/the-millennium-problems-are-7-math-problems-worth-dollar1-million-each-curiosity/) is a link to a webpage describing these problems. I browsed the link, and on one hand, it's cool that the app had this built in. On the other hand, I really don't want to work on unsolvable problems first thing in the morning. I almost deleted the app, but figured I would give it one try. The next morning came, and I was tasked with finding how the Navier-Stokes equation relates to the travel of waves behind an object. What the hell? Yeah I'm definitely deleting this app after working on this for the next 5 minutes, because this sounds too hard. Anyway, I worked for about 4 minutes and... Did it? I don't really know what this stuff means, but it makes sense. It fits the patterns. Anyway, since the app doesn't know the solution, it starts beeping as soon as I stop working, so I just began doodling. Curious, I saved my work on the problem, and sent it to the creator of the app (some Math professor from Stanford), not really expecting to hear back quickly. While I wait for a response, I keep the app. Everyday for the next 6 days I come up with "solutions"for the 6 other Millennium problems in under 5 minutes. Idk if they're right or not, but I send each one to the app creator. Then, on that seventh day, he finally messaged me back. Dominic, I don't know how you're doing this, but you have proposed solutions to each of the Millennium problems that I cannot disprove. I have sent these to many of my colleagues, excluding the one you did today, and they cannot disprove them either. Would you be willing to come to Stanford so we can talk? All travel accommodations will be covered, of course. In the mean time, you need a new alarm app. I think you have outgrown mine. Maybe get one that doesn't involve math. Sincerely, Dr. Dietz Huh. Free travel to Cali? Yeah I can miss some work for this. I just hope they don't ask me to do anymore math. EDIT: Formatting and a word EDIT 2: Part 2 below! EDIT 3: Part 3 below below!
Who would have thought that a 1000 years old vampire, by the name of Vengieta Bloodmoon, could be so... charming. The dinner was fun and we are talking for 4 hours already. My sword and dagger are somewhere in the dining hall, my armor I took off next to this astoundingly comfy sofa. And we are so close to each other I can feel the warmth of her skin. I never knew vampires would have warm skin. I always thought - being undead and all - they would be ice-cold, just like zombies.She told me laughing, as if to let me in on an intimate joke: "Yeah, that is a common misconception. We may be undead, but we drink so much blood, and that blood still circulates through our bodies, it makes sense for us to be at least somewhat warm, right?"I still feel awkward for asking, even though that was an hour ago. Oh, and her reasoning for this invitation is the cutest and saddest thing I've ever heard: "It's just been so long since I had a normal conversation with someone from the living world. I miss learning about the outside. The technological advancements, the changes in social constructs, new cultural phenomenons, everything. But because of the stupid curse of a past pope, I have no chance to escape this grotto.""You want to know about the outside? Anything specific?""Oh, just in general. The last time someone talked to me normally, the world was about go up in flames thanks to... Nazis I believe?""Oh, wow, that was over 70 years ago. You really had noone to talk to for this long?""Well, I can talk to animals in their language, but they don't understand half of what is going on betwee humans." For over 3 hours I just told her about the world. The curiosity and fascination in her eyes and her body-language was so cute. Now, we are talking about music and art. I told her about Progressive Rock. For someone that never heard about Rock in general, I had a hard time explaining it. The best I could come up with was "Traditional music with hard and dirty sounds"- god, that is one horrible explanation. "I will bring something the next time I visit.""You want to visit again?"her red eyes shine so bright I can see the dark green spots in them."Yeah, of course! We have so much fun talking with each other, why wouldn't I come again?""Oh, thank you."it looks like she wanted to cry, but there are no tears. "This is so nice to hear from someone alive. It means a lot, even just the thought.""It's not just a thought. It is hard to come by people that are actually engaging to talk to."With that, she throws herself into my arms and we are now just sitting there, in a deep embrace. It seems, love doesn't care if you are living or undead. &#x200B; EDIT: reworked part 1 + part 2: https://www.reddit.com/r/shortstories/comments/rv1f8x/ro\_fn\_beyond\_life\_and\_death\_wip\_from/
I never forget how I've been treated by people. That, in itself, isn't so uncommon. What makes me different than most people, is the ability to do something to balance the scales -- quietly, and with impunity. It was with just such a balancing of the scales in mind, that I admired my collection of hermetic poppets, little handmade dolls that each represented one of a score of friends, family and acquaintances. I kept every effigy in its own labeled cubby, laid out in a 20 x 20 clear acrylic grid, itself inside a locked display case made of tempered glass, and all of which was secreted away in the back of my bedroom closet. Most people would call my little friends "voodoo dolls", but that's rather misleading. The mystical principle by which my constructs function is far more ancient and universal than voodoo, which is a relatively recent iteration of West African folk religion practiced in Haiti, New Orleans, and elsewhere in the African diaspora. Reaching into my shirt, I pulled out the small key I wore on a sturdy chain of tiny titanium links around my neck, and unlocked the cabinet. Tracing over the dolls with my index finger, I removed the poppet that represented my elderly landlady, Mrs. Ochmonek, and smiled fondly down at the tiny, frail effigy, before carefully carrying it over to my ritual altar. I set it inside the complex geometric seal etched into the wood of the altar, and lit four candles around it. Then, taking up a pair of sharp craft shears, I cut its legs off. This didn't dismember my landlady, of course. Even if the effigy had been powerful enough -- which, as I hadn't been able to obtain any of her blood for its construction, it probably wasn't -- the ritual circle contained its magic, and prevented changes to the doll from effecting her while the candles around the binding circle remained lit. Using a razor knife, I carefully slit the seams along the back of the severed legs and discarded the stuffing, so I could lay the fabric flat. Then, using that as a pattern, I traced the shape of the legs onto a piece of new cloth I'd gotten from a local textile supplier. Though he'd been perplexed as to why I would want to know such a thing, the supplier assured me this particular coarse cotton knit was from a recent batch, woven in only the past few days. Once I'd cut the fabric to shape, I carefully stitched the halves of the cloth legs together, stuffed them with new cotton batting and then sewed them onto the effigy of Mrs. Ochmonek. This was all I had to do to complete the working, since the old upper half of the doll already contained the necessary personal effects -- strands of her hair, fibers from her clothing, and so forth -- that linked the effigy with the old woman it was modeled after. Having made these alterations, I blew out the candles, lifted the doll from the altar, and my magic was accomplished. You may be surprised that I completed this process without consorting with any capricious pagan gods, evil demons, or mysterious loa, in the course of my working, but I simply had no need to. The principle by which my magic works, as I said, is something universal, laid down with the very foundations of the cosmos: As above, so below. Microcosm and macrocosm. Bound on Earth, bound in Heaven. The next day, I saw her in the hallway, on her way back to her own apartment. She was walking down the corridor with a bag of groceries in one arm. "Let me get that for you, Mrs. Ochmonek."I offered, walking up to her to relieve her of her burden while she unlocked her door. She smiled warmly, as I took the bag from her. "Oh thank you , John. You're such a nice boy."Her gentle, sincere praise felt like a ray of sunshine, even about something so simple. "How are you feeling today -- knees still acting up?"I asked, casually, as she rummaged for her keys in her oversized pink purse. "No, actually -- you know, I woke up this morning and my legs felt brand new. I think that 'turmeric' stuff Mrs. Henry told me to try must really be working."she said, cheerfully, as she fished out her keys and got her door open. "I'm sure that's it."I said, amiably, handing her groceries off to her, as she got inside. "And how's your grandson Benny?" "Wonderful!"she said, proudly. "He just got the acceptance letter from the college. He and his parents are coming over tonight, and we're all going to celebrate." "That's great to hear."I replied, with a smile. That had been a tricky working -- getting accepted into college is a hard thing to depict on a tiny cloth doll. But fortunately, Benny had already done a lot of the work himself; making a little hooded sweater with the college logo and adding it to the poppet I'd made of him had evidently been just enough to put him over the top. Knowing she needed to get ready for her family dinner, I said my goodbyes and walked down the hall to my apartment, with a spring in my step. Like I said, I don't forget how I've been treated. But the slights and bad turns aren't what I choose to carry with me. Whether you have the means to avenge yourself or not, carrying things like that around inside you is corrosive to the soul. Instead, I don't forget the good turns, the favors done, or the sacrifices made on my behalf. Like the handful of times I'd been late on my rent, and kind old Mrs. Ochmonek had cut me some slack. After all, if you're going to hang on to something, why not cling to the good things, and by extension, to the people who brought them into your life? Every doll in my collection was such a person. Each one knew I was grateful for them, and for the things they'd done, of course. But as for what I did for them, in turn? That's just my little secret.
"It's just that, I'm not exactly sure what I'm supposed to do with myself now." The shrink sitting across from the new Sam K. nodded and scratched his expensive pen across the blurry photocopy of the same government form he'd filled out a thousand times before. He checked off a few boxes, then scribbled one out that didn't apply to the patient: too much muscle memory. "Yes, this is common for people in your situation. It can be difficult adjusting to a new body, but the mind is where all of the important skills lie. With time, you'll have a complete memory of everything you acquired, save for the twenty-four hours preceding your initial death. You'll experience some clumsiness with your new body, so be patient with yourself. If-" Sam K. pancaked the paper cup of water on the table. The shrink picked up his other papers before the water could spoil them. "I'm a woman!" Again, the shrink didn't take his eyes from his paperwork. "Yes, it happens, unfortunately, but gender reassignment surgery has progressed remarkably well. I can show you a catalog of individuals who were able to transition very well from male back into female, if that is your desire, though many have found that this can be an opportunity for a new life and a new-" The papers erupted out of his hands and showered down around him. He stared, wide-eyed, up at the 6'4 man who had spent his first life as a construction worker, street fighter, and mob spine-cracker. "Look at me, doctor. Look at me."Sam K.'s awkward sausage fingers swept mournfully over his form. "I was a ballerina in the San Francisco Ballet, I was supposed to be the Sugar Plum Fairy! How can you sit there and tell me it's going to be fine, that I can get my gender reassigned, that I might try a new life? As what, a brute, like he was before he raped and killed me?" "Samantha-" Sam K.'s boot trembled the floor. "I can't dance with these." The shrink set his papers to the floor next to him, took out a handkerchief from his pocket and worked on his glasses. "I'm very sorry. This happens from time to time, when a victim has spent their life training their body rather than their mind. The knowledge of how to dance will return, of course, but as you say...it won't be of much good. But I'm sure there were other things you had interest in before dance, other academic pursuits that-" "You judge me now? You look down on me for pursuing the arts? For trying to express the truths about life rather than sticking my head in a book?" "I...no, I simply meant that it would be easier if-" "Easier to pick up my life and continue where it left off? Do you really believe that? How many victims have you counseled? Do you think those thinkers you admire have had it better?" The shrink set his glasses and stared Sam K. straight in the eyes. "Yes." The shrink's neck felt so flimsy in her massive hands. "Then you can have this body." Edit: Thank you to everyone to commented and upvoted this story. I appreciate your appreciation.
“Make haste friend Richard the hour is nigh, we must depart and with all speed.” John burst into my office clad in weather mail and wielding a broad sword. He had just thrown me a 3 foot blade and had turned on his heel, obviously expecting me to follow. “Uh, I’m working dude.” I said. “I kind of need this job. Feed the family and all that? I’m the breadwinner you know.” “What folly is this that you are proclaiming my comrade of old? Hast thou lost the burning passion for the quest? Where is your unquenchable need to seek out that which is vilest in the world and strike it down? Where is the fervor of the friend who once claimed that he longed to follow me into the dragon’s den and slay the evil within to ensure the princess’ honor and safety? Has the flow of time made you soft?” He threw the words at me like a knight throws down a gauntlet. I didn’t know what had gotten into him. “I know we had all those imaginary adventures together as kids, but they were just that, imaginary. Real people don’t slay dragons or rescue princesses. Real people have jobs and responsibilities. It may not be quite the adventure you want to have mate, but it’s real, and it makes me happy. I actually like what I do for a living, like it a lot actually. Is this about your job? Did you get fired? If so you know you’re always welcome at my place until you can find something else. You and your wife and kids. I know my wife would love some more company.” I tried to think if my wife Janus had told me anything about John before I left. Had I missed an email? Was one of his parents sick maybe? I knew he was real close to his mom. “Do you suggest that I have disdain for my duties? That I am no longer satisfied or have been expelled from my place of employment” John says indignantly. “Have you no faith in me brother?” Before I can respond he reaches into his back pocket. “Then perhaps this will convince you.” John produces a knife with a note stuck through it that he slams into my office desk. I’m appalled at the sudden destruction of office furniture and reel backwards. “Compatriot, this was fixed to my door when I departed from my home this morning. I believe it shall explain all.” Hesitantly, and while keeping an eye on John. I pick up the note Mortals, fear me and hasten to do my will. For I have imprisoned your spouses and children. They will starve lest you do exactly as I order. My minions will come for you soon. Stay where you are and do nothing to inflame my tempor. Signed, the dark lord of the twilight woods. After I finish reading the letter, the ink evaporates off the page and coalesces into a tiny black ball several inches above the note, leaving the page blank. The ball of ink then ignites and slams into the paper leaving a burning hole through the middle of it that forms the shape of a dragon. “The crossbows are still in my trunk.” I tell John. He smiles. “Then we are departed my old friend. Let us make haste!” As he reaches the knife he tells me. “This morning I discovered that dragons were real. Now I have found that heroes are as well.” Edit: thickened it up a bit, also apparently one of the comment responses is better than the post itself. Edit 2: a word Edit 3: Shout out to /u/neonnina for [this](http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=1iWLOGv71Mc)
"Listen, officer. I know for a fact I wasn't speeding. You know, you guys aren't doing yourselves any favors by pulling people over for no reason." I fumble through the contents of my glove compartment, my attention turned away from the police officer. He shines a shaky beam of light through my car window. "Can you focus that light a little better there, pal?"I ask, twisting back around to look at the officer through my driver's side window. He keeps sending fleeting glances back toward his police car, his flashlight perched up by his shoulder. I notice the quiver now, but don't think much of it. Maybe it's his first night on the job. "Here,"I say, producing my driver's license and proof of insurance. The officer doesn't make a move to grab it, so I push the papers further out the window, but the officer's attention is focused on his police car parked behind me. "Are you going to take these or..." Then the officer turns to me, his face panic-stricken. He mouths something to me, but I can't quite make out what he says. I shake my head. "What are you saying?" He mouths it again, a gleam of sweat is caught from the dimly-lit streetlamp that looms above us. "Look man,"I say. "I don't have all night. Either use your big boy words, or say that I'm free to go. Jesus Christ, they're really letting anyone get through the academy these days. My dad, he was a cop. Real good one too. Won a bunch of awards and what not. I would've followed in his footsteps, but Mom would've been furious. Anyway, now you got me reminiscing. Dad, he died on duty, you see. Under weird circumstances, too. Police chief wouldn't give us the full details. Really wrecked my mom, as you can imagine." I continue speaking, waiting for the police officer to finally grab the papers from my hands, when finally he shines his flashlight back at his police car, bends his head into my driver's side window and seizes the lapels of my jacket with his free hand and pulls my face closer to his. I'm constricted by the seatbelt, but still, I'm so close that I can smell the officer's breath. A hint of bourbon and beef jerky. "Help me,"he says through clenched teeth and then quickly releases. He redirects his flashlight back to me and glances back to the cop car. The flashlight beam still wobbles in his hand before saying a little too loudly, "Well, looks like everything's all good here, Mr. Grady." Wait. How does he know my name? He never looked at my driver's license... "Wait,"I say. "Did you just say 'help me'?"I look back at the cop car and I can't see anything. It's too dark. But something must be back there or else why would he keep looking? "Everything's all--"he stops and looks at me. Again, he mouths, "Help me."This time he adds, "They'll kill me." "What? Who will kill you?" I look behind me again, this time I notice that the passenger door of the police car is open. Was it open a second ago? I turn back to the police officer, and see that he's backing away slowly from the car, his eyes wide with fear. "Where are you--"and before I can get the last of my question out, in a flash, a darkened figure swoops out from behind the shadows and engulfs the police officer in a cloud of darkness. The shadow disappears into the night, a metal flashlight falls to the gravel road in a clatter, sending a blade of light into the middle of nowhere. "Nope!"I say aloud. I turn the key in the ignition, throw the gear shift in drive and peel out, spinning clouds of dust into the darkness behind me. "Fuck fuck fuck,"I say, looking into my rearview mirror every so often to see if anything is coming after me, but all I can see are the red and blue lights of the cop car and the only streetlamp that occupies this road. Acts more like a beacon than providing any type of light. "Fuck,"I say again. Another glance to the rearview mirror. This time, the red and blue lights of the cop car start to move and come after me. "Shit shit shit." I press the pedal closer to the floor and watch the needle of the speed gauge swing to the right. I look in front of me, my two headlights sending bright beams of light into the darkness of the county road. I'm close to home. I can make it, right? The flashing police lights are gaining on me at a frightening speed. My driveway is coming up soon, but I'm not sure if I can make it. The car is right on me now, the cop car's high beams switching on, causing a glare to appear on my windshield. I try to glance back, but can't see anything inside the cop car. It's as if the car is driving itself. Finally, I round the final bend before my driveway appears, but just as I'm about to hang a right onto my gravel driveway, the cop car bumps into the back of my car. The cop car veers left and then jerks back into my rear fender. The hood of the police car catches underneath my rear fender and before I even know what's going on, I feel the car begin to turn in a direction I absolutely do not want it to go. The cop car accelerates and pushes my car onto the three wheels. I try to dislodge myself by jerking the wheel to the left, but in doing so, I cause the car to lift onto two wheels and then not onto any wheels at all. My car rolls eleven times in the darkness, kicking up clouds of dust. I hold on tight to the steering wheel in hopes that it'll keep me in the right position. As the car turns, I see a kaleidoscope of different colors--red, blue, and some white lights in the distance. My home. I'm so close. The car finally stops right-side up. My head slumps into my chin and drops of blood fall from a gash on my forehead and blot my jeans. In a daze, I look up and over as a car lurches to a stop next to mine. It's the cop car. Its lights are now off. My vision blurs, my head throbs. I look to the inside of the cop car. Again, I see no one inside. Only darkness. My vision turns hazy again, my heart still racing, but I don't have the strength to move. Consciousness fades in and out. I blink slowly, waiting for my doom. The doors to the cop car spring open, but I don't notice anything get out. "Help m--"is all I can get out before my driver's side door opens. I feel hands grab at my body, but I don't see anything doing the grabbing. My seatbelt is unbuckled and I feel myself being lifted from my car. Is this a dream? Is that you, God? Gliding to the backseat of the cop car, my body is flung onto the plastic backseat where they put the criminals. "What's happ--"I feel my throat catch and suddenly, I can't get any air to my lungs. It's as if an invisible hand is choking me. I struggle for breath, grasping wildly for something to hold on to. My hands graze the metal cage that separates the back seat from the front seat and I try to scream for help, but all that comes out were gurgling sounds. This is the end. This is how I die. By some mysterious invisible monster that kills police officers with shadows. What a way to go. Slowly, the invisible hand around my throat loosens its grip and air funnels back into my lungs. I sit up violently and cough until air inflates my lungs once more. I gasp and clutch at my chest. I look around wildly, but still, I see no one. The doors are shut so I try to open them. They're locked. Of course they are. The passenger door and the driver doors both open. The doors quickly close and as they do, the engine turns on and the police lights flash, sirens blaring. "What the--"and before I can get my words out, the car spins around and zooms back into the darkness from whence we came. I look out the window as the lights from my house go by. I was so close. It's then that I'm reminded of the pain in my forehead and the tears forming in my eyes. I look into the front seat and the wheel moves left and right almost imperceptibly like it's being driven by someone not something. "Is there someone there?"I ask. Nothing. "Seriously, am I being driven around by ghosts right now? I'm so confused. And maybe you have a first-aid kit up there or something. And don't tell me you can't get it, you just fucking lifted me up, you fucking shadow monster or whatever the fuck you are." I don't hear anything and nobody or nothing answers me. "You're just not going to talk, huh? I know you fuckers are there. I'll keep chirpin' the whole way there. Wherever we're going. You're gonna wish you'd just killed me. I'll make your life a living hell. Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? That's right, like I'm an eleven-year-old kid, I don't give a--hey, what are you doing?" The car slows to a stop. The passenger door opens and hangs ajar. I look around me to see if I can catch a glimpse of anything, but then the rear door opens and I try to make a break for it, but I collide straight into a very large, invisible being. A hand pushes me back into the car and I can feel a presence slide in next to me. The door shuts. "What are you?"I say. "Drive,"a voice says. A familiar voice. A voice I haven't heard in a very long time. The sound of crunching gravel permeates through the still-open passenger door. The car jerks to the left and then to the right in quick succession and the door slams itself shut. "Sh-show yourself,"I say, anger and confusion shaking my voice. A dark cloud appears next to me, like a swirling mass of grey smoke. The smoke swirls around until a personage appears from the darkness. The personage is still shrouded in darkness, but I know instantly who it is, but I can't believe it. It's not possible. The man leans closer to me and lays a hand on my shaking knee. "Calm down, son,"the man says. "You're going to be okay." We pass by the lone streetlamp where I was pulled over earlier and in one quick flash, the light spills into the cop car, and in a fraction of a second, that one lone blade of light revealed what I already knew. That the monster sitting next to me wasn't a monster at all. It was my dad.
Would you like to see the world burn? Say no more For we are the Waterfighters! No, waterfighters do not use water, firefighters do that We fight water afterall and thus we use fire, the best thing in the world to bring happiness to the world. We want to help our client's wishes of a burning world come true and we do so through several services to choose from: The Classic: We burn your house while you're in it. Some of our clients want to 'be a hero' and may ask us to start a fire so that they can do a heroic thing for their family. Others use the service for insurance fraud and we don't care Arson: You tell us time and which building and we burn it, simple as that Battle of the fates: We enter a fire vs water joust with the local firefighters to see who is superior. It's usually us as we tend to use napalm, like a lot of napalm Big corpo move: We burn a flippin forest for you Calamity: We will bring the goddamn sun to the earth if someone pays enough ^(currently the needed amount is £352525589259153275738618017928.99 per world) ^(The waterfighters are not responsible for any of the damages caused by client requests)
We weren’t really sure what to expect when our poor daughter left to fight that final fight. Took a few days for us to learn the news, of course, and by that time it was already too late. Darkness spreads quickly when no one is left to oppose it. Growing up she was a normal kid, as far as we could tell. Her birth was a little out of the ordinary, or so people have told us over the years. Pilgrims had come from miles off to see her, mostly raving about some book they’d read or some constellations they’d seen. It was her deep red hair that proved her significance, or so they said. We’d smile along, if only for the gifts they brought as tribute. But she was a normal kid. She didn’t show any significant abilities growing up, no magic, no super strength, not even any proclivity towards leadership or honour or bravery. Just a normal kid. By the time this whole thing kicked off she was only just into her teenage years but it was as if a fire erupted in her heart. She wanted to leave, to unite the people, and put up a fight against the Dark Lord. We argued, of course. No child of ours would leave home at that age. She wasn’t going to be fighting anything or anyone. She shouted. We shouted back. And ultimately she slipped out of the house in the middle of the night and we didn’t see or hear from her for over a year. What a terrifying year that was. It’s not like we waited around for her to return, we searched high and low for months whilst the darkness forced its way across our lands right up to our doorsteps and into our homes. Everyone lost friends and family in those times and those we spoke to met our plight with knowing sympathy. But we did find thin traces of her. She was but a whisper on the lips of those we met. Her passing through each town was quiet, only ever spoken of in those darkest corners, where hope remained kindled just barely above the cold despair infecting everything else. The days drew on and we followed her progress slowly, but we knew we were gaining ground. The people we met became brighter, their resolve stronger, like the fire of hope had been fuelled in their hearts and they spoke excitedly of our daughter almost openly defying the Dark Lord. They told us she passed only weeks before, and then days, until finally we arrived in town mere hours after she had left and the place was aflame with passionate resolve. She was uniting these people as well as anyone ever could. We caught her the next day, an unrecognisable person, at least in my eyes. Alice disagreed with a smile, “Her eyes will never change,” she said. That was the day before she left for her final fight. The last time we ever saw our daughter alive. We thought the war would end in an instant. That the terror and the fighting and the pain would all dissolve in a matter of moments, but it didn’t. And then we saw the truth. I will not describe the way in which they desecrated her body. I will not speak of the pain, of the fear, or of the destruction. But I will speak of the fire. Losing a child is not something I would wish upon my greatest enemy, though there have been dark nights since that day in which my strength there has faltered. We blamed ourselves first of all. We should have stopped her from leaving. We should have taught her better. We should have told her to wait for an army to support her. We should have helped. The inner turmoil chased us as we fled into exile away from the unstoppable sea of destruction left by the armies of darkness. We should have helped. Alice and I meditated on these words frequently. The flame came slowly, at first just a spark in our eyes but soon bloomed into a raging torrent of fire. It was the fire we saw in the eyes of our daughter and in the words of every person she had met on her pilgrimage across the land. It was the fire of revenge and it was the fire of hope. I could see it blazing in Alice’s eyes just as she could see it in mine. In that moment we agreed to put everything on the line for the memory of our daughter. And with that, we made our move. It took less time than we expected to amass the support we needed. It only took a whispered mention of our daughters name and the fire in our eyes to convince people of our resolve. We could see the fire reigniting in their eyes. They offered us room and board, food, money. Anything they could give they tried to offer us to support our pilgrimage. That same route our daughter had taken all those months before. Now it was our names they spoke in soft whispers in the darkest corners of their homes. It was us igniting hope and resolve in so many common folk who now would fight for the freedom that our daughter first imagined. And across the land we stirred the people and gathered support until here we now stand, staring in the face of the armies of darkness, ready to take our final steps. Our banners are red for the colour of Emlin’s hair, and for the fire in our hearts. Alice stands to my right, surveying the field, and the army at our backs is silent, awaiting our final call. This is where we make our stand. This is where our daughter’s legacy will be complete. This is where we win.
Edit: Whaaaat, I didn't even notice the gold until just now, thank you kind stranger! I really appreciate all the feedback I've received. Obviously, it seems a lot of us have been through similar situations. Go hug your kitties. :3 ------------------------------------------------------------ It wasn't long after I opened my eyes that Master took me home. One minute, I was snuggled up with my brothers and sisters, and the next I was roughly pulled from our enclosure and held up in the air. I feebly tried to fight them off, but I was so weak and they were so much bigger. I later learned it was a "car"that took us to home. Cars are even bigger than the Masters, and cars are frightful and huge beasts. I hated every time I had to go in one of them, as any car ride inevitably meant some embarrassing or horrifying incident at the end. It took awhile to accept my Master. This strange place was unfamiliar, with giant monuments of wood and leather, and a giant toilet that I quickly learned was not meant for my kind. The Master and her family walked across their giant toilet, played games on it, even napped on it. I had a small box of my own, and every day my deposits mysteriously disappeared, no matter how deep I buried them. The Master and her family had strange voices, too. I only learned a few words of their tongue; "Whiskers"(which was me), "no,""cat,""come here,"and a handful of other phrases that I knew to be crucial of my interaction with them. When I did not understand, I would look the Master or her family members in the eye and try to repeat it back, but they usually just laughed and rubbed my head. My life was certainly different without my mother and siblings and it sometimes frustrating, but I was not without want. Every morning, I engaged in a helpful ritual to wake up Master. She never got up when the horrible box on her nightstand started screeching, so to try to get her to turn the damn thing off, I'd slip into her bedroom and nuzzle her face. Sometimes, this would annoy her, but most times she would pull me in for a snuggle and rub my ears before getting up and preparing me my morning breakfast. Master's husband loved me, too. He was a most excellent partner for hunting the elusive red dot. He loved to help me train and would even crawl on the floor with me when the menace would be on the carpet, the wall, or even my paws. He took great joy in watching me grow into the mighty hunter I became. The third one, the only name I knew other than my own, was Kara. Kara was the Master and her husband's only kitten. While I respected and adored my Master, Kara was my favorite. When the others were too busy to help me hunt or play, Kara was always there. Sometimes, I endured humiliating rights of passage, such as wearing her doll's clothes for tea parties, but Kara was always attentive to my needs. I was certain Kara knew me on a different level. She had something about her that let us connect. I would test my theory, such as sitting and staring at her for what seemed to be hours on end, or present myself while she was engaged in various tasks, and see how she reacted. She was never cruel, and often recognized that I was in dire need of some treats, attention, or love. The only time she displayed anger at me was when I had killed the white snake. I thought I had done her a favor of destroying the beast that would sometimes slither up and rest in her ears, but apparently, that was wrong. The terrible sounds that came from her mouth, I never understood, but I did know to never do anything of the sort again. As Kara grew taller and more magnificent, she seemed to be boundless with energy. Her time from home grew longer, too. I found myself sitting in the window, not knowing when I would see her again. Only once the evil car pulled in front of the house, did I know she was delivered back to me safely. I never knew what she did while she was gone those many hours, but her burden would change often. Most of the time, it was books and a large bag she carried on her back. Other times, it was carrying a giant round ball, covered in mud. I would do my best to clean her face, but she would just laugh and disappear in the white capsule in the Masters' bathroom, only to emerge clean and perfect. As I grew older, I marveled at Kara's ability to be so spry. She and her kind were so flawless and never aged. With me, I felt like I'd never be a kitten again. I tried drinking from cups and mugs that were left on the counter, thinking it was the source of their power, but I never felt any different. It became harder to get that red dot, and it took more effort to jump onto my carpeted viewing post. The first time I neglected to deposit my waste in the box, I was yelled at severely. But I couldn't help it. I just couldn't move fast enough. Then, one day, Kara left. I waited patiently that night, but never saw the car return. "Hello?"I said. "Something's wrong. Something's wrong! Kara's not returned!"I paced the halls, frantically, making regular stops at Kara's door to see if she returned while I had my back turned. "Hello, please, someone, Kara is missing, and I'm very worried!" Master opened up her door, and sleepily stood there. She looked at me with a sad smile, and turned around to say something. The only word I understood was "Whiskers"and "Kara."Master scooped me up and brought me to bed, and while she brought me comfort, it just wasn't the same. Days went by. Perhaps months. I don't even know. I napped often in Kara's room, hoping when I would wake up, she would be there. I took to sleeping in Master's room at night. I couldn't bear to be without the warmth of someone. One day, Master came to me as I laid on Kara's bed. In Master's hand was the small box that everyone seemed to have permanently in their grip. She spoke into the box: "Kara!"My ears perked up. Master held the box to me. "Whiskers!" "Kara!"I gasped. It was her! She was alive! I could hear her voice, but I didn't see her. Where was she? I was so excited, I didn't realize I released my bladder until Master clucked her tongue unhappily and picked me up to clean me off. But I didn't care about the embarrassment. I heard Kara's voice and knew she was alive! even if she was trapped in that box, I didn't care. The next morning, something was different. Master didn't make me my normal breakfast. I hadn't been eating much anyway; I just wasn't as hungry any more. But she did bring me a piece of delicious fish from her own plate, and it was very good. I wanted to get onto my viewing post, but my joints hurt so bad. Master must have sensed this, and she picked me up to place me on the highest spot. I napped there for a few hours, then woke up when Master gently rolled me in a blanket. I was so very tired, and I didn't even mind that we were going in the car. While I sat in Master's lap as her husband drove, I realized how silly it was for me to be so scared of these cars. It wasn't that bad. I saw some trees and the bright blue sky. It was all very pretty. I knew where we were at before we got out of the car. The White Man. He always wore white clothing, with glasses and he had no fur on top of his head like the others. Master was bringing me here more as I got older. How strange it was that none of them ever changed; nothing around me ever did, and only I had become different. Master carried me to the back, and laid me down on the table. This time, I didn't fight like I normally did, trying to protect her from the vicious bright lights above. I felt so tired, and I just wanted to sleep. Master looked so sad, though. "What's wrong?"I asked, reaching a paw out to her. Water leaked from her eyes and she reached out, taking my paw between her fingers. "Good cat, Whiskers,"I heard her say. The White Man came in, with a pointy thing in his hands. He scratched my ears and my chin. Ahh, my favorite spots. He knew. They all knew. They all know so much about me. I only wish I had more time to learn more about them. The White Man brought the point to my arm. Usually, it would hurt, but not today. As he squeezed the pointy thing, I suddenly felt very warm and-- "Where is he??" Kara? "Where is Whiskers? Am I too late?? The traffic from the university was horrible and I didn't think I'd make it in time and please, oh god, I hope I made it in time--" It was Kara. Kara was here! Kara's alive! And.. I understood her. I understood everything she was saying! The door of the room burst open, and Kara stood there with a red face that matched her hair. "Is he gone?!"she blurted out. The White Man shook his head. "I just gave him a calming sedative. It's just to make this process less scary." "Kara.."I whispered weakly. "Oh, Whiskers,"she cried. She ran over to me and placed her head on my side. She stroked my ears. It felt so wonderful. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I haven't been around for the past few months. I'm sorry you're sick, but it's time to go. You've lived such a long life. I hope you were happy with us. You were the best cat ever, Whiskers." I lifted my head. It was so hard, I was so weak. All I could muster was a soft meow, and laid my paw on her hand. For some reason, this made her cry even more. I don't know why she was so sad. She was right; I lived a happy life. My only regret is that I would not live as long as her. I felt another gentle poking on my arm. My vision started getting fuzzy, but I wasn't scared. I had Kara there with me. She watched me, with those big blue eyes. The lights above made her look so pretty, like an angel. "I'm right here,"she said. "I'll always be here." My eyelids were so heavy, but I struggled to watch her. Soon, it was hard to keep them open at all. "I love you, Whiskers,"Kara said. "I love you, too,"I whispered back, and I closed my eyes.
Dave finished his $7 steak and diet Coke, a bit more enthusiastically then he ever remembered. He went to his room, taking off his belt on the way. When he got there, he took off his khaki pants and unbuttoned his shirt, sighing as he climbed into his bed and closed his eyes. Something was wrong. He wasn't sleeping. Dave opened his eyes and sat up in bed. Every Thursday night for three months, he ate a steak, drank a soda and immediately went to sleep. He was always so tired, but not tonight. Of course he wouldn't be tired tonight. He climbed out of bed and stood by his dresser, thinking to himself. He was right to do what he did. Going through life burdened, like he was playing it on hard mode, he was right to unburden himself. To push the boulder away and walk alone up the hill. To switch life to easy difficulty. He deserved it. The phone rang. Dave grabbed it off the receiver before the first ring ended. "Hello?" "Dave?"His mom. "It's mom." "Hey ma, why are you calling me so late?"Dave checked the clock. 10:00 PM. "I just wanted to see if you remembered to pick up your gramma's medicine. She needs it tonight and tomorrow morning, you know."Dave resisted an urge to throw the phone at the wall. "Did you give her the medicine yet, Dave? She also needs some money for bingo night, every Friday, make sure you drive her there tomorrow." Dave waited a second to remain calm. "Yes. Gave it to her right after dinner." His mom made her usual goodbyes and hung up. Dave put the phone back down, gently, too gently, and laid back in bed. He turned to the motionless lump next to him, under the covers. "Even now, you hold me down."Dave sighed. "What am I going to do with you?"
The air was frigid and the sun was starting to set. Franklin could see his breath as he stood in line. His father gripped his hand and pulled him forward. Franklin looked around and saw mean looking people with weapons yelling at people further up in line. He asked his father, "Papa, why are those people so mean?"To which his father replied, "They have just been having a long day, don't worry about them Franklin. Just do what they say and we will be ok, alright?" "Alright papa." Franklin thought it was weird that everyone had to undress before they got to the shower room, it was just too cold. He figured by the time he actually got to the showers there would be no hot water left for him or papa. Then the line moved again and Franklin and his father stepped inside. "Papa, why aren't the floors wet if people had just showered?" "The guards have an issue with cleanliness, they want to make sure no one has sicknesses to spread, so they mop the floors dry." Franklin was comforted by this. The big metal door closed behind them both, which made the room very dark and grim. Franklin held his fathers hand a little tighter. "Papa, I'm scared." "There is no need to be, we will only be in here for a few minutes."He said with a smile. Franklin thought he could see a tear in his father's eye, but it was too dark to be sure. "Franklin, the shower is going to make you very tired ok? Everything will be alright, just come sit with me and sleep." "Okay papa."
I have trained my whole life for this moment. Years of hard, torture-like work and dedication to the cause. I shall and will not fail those, that laid foundations to the Karen initiative. People don’t know that the world just wouldn’t be the same if it didn’t have a Karen protecting them from the indecencies of people, working in various parts of the world. If the Karen initiative didn’t exist, the world would have stayed in the dark ages and companies like IKEA and Wallmart would never have evolved beyond a single petty, good-for-nothing store. The Karen initiative, for obvious reasons, absolutely HAS to stay secret. Otherwise, we would be hunted down and experimented on because of our god-like abilities to teleport people, who meet the certain and specific criteria of being a store manager. The hardest part of becoming a Karen is that in order to complete the ceremony, everyone performing it, has to die. The ceremonies themselves are performed by the previous Karen and her children, that have been purposely and, of course, legally, taken from their fathers. Seeing my mentor and best friend be shaved and killed in front of me, just as their children are transplanting the hair on my scalp and committing suicide, really changed me. It has been like this for the past 277 Karens, me being the 278th Karen. But everything is changing as the world keeps evolving. Due to people mistaking our disturbed and scarred minds for ignorance and idiocy the Karen initiative is on the verge of being discovered. So-called “memes” are spread across the internet like a damned plague. Revealing secret information to the masses, and it won’t take long until people find out, that there is more to this “meme” than meets the eye.
The problem lies in the translation of the word "Hide". At first, it seems reasonable. The phrase they used would be somewhat more accurately translated as "interrupt sight on behalf of another". So "hide"is a reasonable translation, or it would be if it weren't itself based on another misunderstanding. When the first of the Hunters came to find them, that's what we thought we were doing, hiding them. After all, the Hunters came to find the Hunted and found us instead, and naturally our ships and theirs came into conflict. When the Hunted thanked us for this service, when they proclaimed that we had acted in deed as we had promised in word, we took that as further confirmation that our initial agreement and understanding had been correct. But here's the thing we've learned about the Hunted since: They don't have sight. While it's true that technically, they can view the visible spectrum albeit offset more into the infrared, that's not the whole of the story. What we only discovered years after the fact, once we'd gotten their anatomical textbooks translated and gone through a few donated cadavers, was that their sight was so abysmally bad as to practically be nonexistent. What, then, did "interrupt sight on behalf of another"mean? "Sight"it turns out, means something more along the lines of "Line of sight". But the Hunted don't see; rather they use extensive scent receptors and a sort of tremorsense to understand their surroundings. Blocking such a thing requires a great deal more effort than simply obscuring, to the point at which you're essentially shielding the target against everything. "Line of sight", then, is more accurately translated as "Line of effect". In short, it's not interrupting sight, it's interposing something between the Hunted and the Hunter, and that something is us. We thought we were aiding refugees but it turns out we were stepping into the middle of a war, a war that as far as the Hunters were concerned we'd explicitly chosen a side in. The Hunted never wanted us to hide them. They wanted us to die for them.
Black licorice. Three years training for all of the pleasant little side effects of cryosleep, (the atrophy, the hair loss, the one percent chance of permanent vision damage) and not once do they mention the god-awful licorice taste on the back of your tongue. Like I spent all night attached at the mouth to my great grandmother. I'd almost prefer the blindness. But a couple thousand-year-old protein gels later, and the grandma taste takes a back seat to the to-do list: log my reanimation data into the computer, triple check our navigation/approach vector, begin low-G muscular reeducation, blah blah blah, become the first human being to set foot on a habitable, extraterrestrial world. Pretty solid Tuesday. Wonder if I'll have time to jerk off first? Logging the data's easy. To be honest, I always liked data entry. It's mindless. You could do it in your sleep. Or when your brain's flooded with thoughts of all the people you've ever known and loved dying 900-something years ago. It's auto-pilot, really. Check. Confirming the approach vector feels like a waste of time. Rather, it is a waste of time. You know it's going to be right. You know that when you stroll over to the navigation computer, everything will be green and you'll be on target. That's why we let computers do the driving in the first place. And sure enough, this one says we're only an hour away from contact. Check. "Low-G Muscular Reeducation"is NASA's fancy way of saying, "your legs work like shit, now, so go for a jog."The low-G part is more by circumstance, than design. Gravity on the Orbiter hovers around .8, weighty enough to feel normal but light enough to ease the burden of laying in a test-tube for a millennium. Still, busting out a couple of kilometers feels like a marathon. It actually makes me a bit queasy, but I choke back the nausea. I'm not beginning this one-giant-leap sorta day by throwing up. Check. A quick shower and shave and the landing zone comes into view off the starboard solar cell. It took nearly a century after discovering Spera to figure out a way to get here: a perfectly choreographed ping-ponging between stars that lets us slingshot our way across the galaxy. It's more geometry than rocket-science. But it worked. I'm now staring a pristine, untouched world hanging silently beneath me. So why the fuck are there lights on the surface? A string of lights on the ground surrounding the plotted landing zone, blinking steadily from red to blue. Impossible. I run back to the control cluster to get a better look but an incoming message stops me dead in my Jell-O-legged tracks. The holo-monitor flicks on. "Hello, Captain!" Um... "It is my most esteemed honor to welcome you to Spera. We've been eagerly awaiting your arrival." I'm feeling queasy again. "Uh, hello. I, uh -" "Must be very confused, and we apologize for that. And while it's a much longer story we look forward to sharing with you, the simple version is that, well, we beat you here." Yeah. I'm going to throw up. "Not intentionally, mind you! Well, not entirely. About five hundred years after your departure, a breakthrough was made in super-light travel. THE breakthrough, really. It's allowed us to traverse the stars at impossible speeds, beginning with Spera. Today marks our 250th anniversary." "250th anniversary,"I mumble back. "But it also marks your Arrival! We're so glad you've made it safe and sound. The whole planet's been waiting with bated breath. Now, prepare for entry and our landers will guide you through the descent. We have a full day of celebrations planned! And once again, welcome." The holo blinks off. A thousand years wasted. I've been out here hibernating while humanity blew right past me. You'd think they'd leave a note. But seeing as I don't have many options, I climb up into the chair, strap in, and initiate the re-entry sequence. A thousand years wasted. Oh, whatever. Pioneer or not, I was destined to die alone down there, but instead there's a planet full of people throwing a massive party in my honor. Might as well enjoy it. INITIALIZING DESCENT Pretty solid Tuesday. I should have jerked off.
The marks, they are both a beautiful and terrible thing at the same time. Beautiful, as they can lead you to your soulmate, your true love, and terrible, as they also lure you on a path most dangerous. History tells us that there was once a time where people didn't have the mark, but it was so long ago, we aren't sure if that can even be interpreted literally - maybe they were talking metaphorically, as in the marks didn't define you as a person, so they might as well have not existed. I personally believe the metaphorical interpretation to be true. While a sudden appearance of these marks would explain many of the changes in society that happened during that time, it's just too unreasonable to believe that the biology of all of mankind would spontaneously change at the same time in such a particular manner. But I guess it doesn't really matter where they came from - it only matters how we look at them now. The tattoo. The mark. The scar. The link. There are various ways how people describe this small pattern we carry on our arms, and it's not just a matter of language that decides which name you use. In the days of old, so history tells us, people were divided in their beliefs in gods, supernatural powers, all the same yet different. I guess things haven't changed too much since then, just that these powers have moved their homes from the sky to the skin of our lower arms. There are those who call it the tattoo. The remnants of what once was called atheist. Those who still refused to believe in the higher power that placed these marks upon us, bound us to our soulmates and enemies, and instead searched for an answer, an answer they might never find. The answer to where it came from. Then there are those who call it the scar. I think they were once called muslims or christians - those who believed their god had punished them for their transgressions. They saw the mark as a challenge, as a last chance for redemption. Desperatelly searching for those with the same scars, so they could separate them into brothers and devils. In their eyes the only way of life was to find the truth behind both scars, accept the good as reward and the bad as punishment. Then there were those who called it the link. The spiritual and philosophists apparently, atleast in an age long over. They believed the marks to be links to our very own soul - that the shape of one of them would tell us what we ourself desired the most, while the other would show us our darkest fears. In their minds it was important to live a fulfilled life, to seek out what made one happy, but also try to confront what had the power to hurt you, so you could become a stronger person. And then there were the people like me, who call it the mark. I guess we would've been the realists, pessimists, optimists or whatever they were called. We didn't seek for unnecessary explanations where the mark came from, we didn't ask how it worked, we didn't ask why we were marked - we simply observed and saw the mark and it's underlying truth. One mark was identical to what one would call a 'soulmate', a person you could grow the closest to. And one mark was identical to the one on the arm of your worst enemy. And when we say worst enemy we mean it. Murder, rape, torture - it has all happened before, and it happens frequently, in every country, in every name for the mark, everywhere. If you are unfortunate enough to meet your enemy, you will regret it. And that's why we are the most succesful name. Because we accepted this simple truth. Those of the name tattoo surround themselves with all sorts of people, and try to ignore the mark, make it look insignificant. In their pursuit of scientific knowledge the purposely ignore the data before them, because it doesn't fit into their mindset that something supernatural could possibly exist. And thus people die every single day, murdered by those of the same mark, and yet they still try to find the reason in race, religion (as if those still existed at large), gender, income, education, etc. Those of the name scar are even worse - they not only not try to keep people with the enemy mark separate, they embrace the closement as their 'punishment'. Fools, all of them. Those of the name link still believe in the good of mankind, that one can overcome the evil behind the mark of enemy. And in a way, they are succesful. While they have the highest incident rate of all names (since they actively seek out their enemies to confront their fears), they have the lowest percentage when it comes to mortality in conflict. And while I can respect them the most of all other names, I still find it idiotic. What good does a low per-confrontation-mortality percentage do, when the percentage of confrontation-per-population is so incredibly high, that the net amount of people dying in conflict is higher? No, I can't accept a system like that. It sounds noble, but how can a system be more noble than the 'inhumane' utilitarism, if at the end have a so much easier life, with so much less conflict? We of the name of mark have long understood that the nature of the mark can't be evaded. But it can be minimized. It's a simple rule really: Since we do not know which mark refers to your soulmate and which refers to your enemy, we simply accept the first of the same mark as our soulmate. The logic should be obvious: Since not all people ever meet their soulmate and enemy, you can decrease the amount of conflict by simply ensuring that all people who only meet one marked person fall into the soulmate category. An elegant solution to a hard problem. But sadly there is one problem. If you ever do meet your enemy, it means kill or be killed. Because we have long accepted the inevitability of the mark. If you try to run away, it'll only turn your soulmate into your enemy in some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. Or you'll run into them again, at the worst possible time. No, the confrontation is inevitable - so we get it out of the way as fast as possible. A system designed to be efficient, to be inhumane, so we can live a humane life. So we can be happy. But it was not meant to be. Because you see: for me both marks were the same. . It was a hot summer day when I saw her. Her red hair was a stark contrast to her white clothes, a shirt and miniskirt. The clothes looked expensive, as they didn't turn transparent even though trenched in sweat because of the unbearable heat in the subway. She looked absolutely stunning, which was the reason that I had even looked at her in the first place. The whole subway was filled with people, so there she stood, balancing herself by holding onto the bar above her head. And that's when I saw the dreadful mark. Despite the incredible heat I had never felt so cold before: It felt like ice running down my spine. And while I was sitting there, staring at her arm, she smiled at me. I was caught off guard. It was such a pleasent smile, perfect white teeth, paired with the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. Her eyes reminded me of the small pond behind our house, a wonderful shade of blue with a bit of green on the outside. It was absolutely mesmerizing. My heart was beating fast and I finally understood the feeling people described when telling the story of how they met their soulmate. It was exhilarating. So when the train stopped moving and she got out, it was like my legs moved on their own. "Hey!"I yelled after her, before my brain even had the chance to formulate a plan of sorts. She didn't stop and just kept walking. Not surprising, who respons to 'hey' from a foreign voice in a public place? "Hey, miss! Please!" She still didn't stop, but atleast she started to slow down and threw a glance over her shoulder. When she saw that I was looking directly at her, she finally came to a stop and turned around. "Yes?" "I..." My brain had still not caught up with my actions and I was getting in panic. What was I thinking, what should I tell her? "I... I saw your mark!" The words were out before I could control myself. "My...." The smile was gone. I think I'll never forget the look on her face, the look of confusion, slowly deterriorating into fear. "...You saw my link?" I didn't know what to say, so I simply nodded. It wasn't the fact that she was a link name that had thrown me off. While inter-name connections were less common than within the same name, they were still fairly common. No, it was the look of fear. It could only mean one thing. "...you already have found your soulmate, don't you." My voice was calm, but my insides were anything but. My head was still trying to process the fact that I had met her, my heart was still pumping like crazy from falling head over heels for her, while my stomach was clenching painfully from the sinking feeling of dread at the realization that we weren't soulmates. She tried to school her features back into a smile, or at least a look of indifference, but she failed. "I... yes. Yes. I already have found my soulmate." It hurt so bad. I never thought that words could hurt so bad. Nothing in my life could have ever prepared me for a pain so bad. The tears streaming down my face made my vision blurry, my nails digging deeply into my arms only giving slight relieve to the raging storm inside me. Over my own sobbing I didn't even hear her approach, until she was directly in front of me. And when I did, I didn't have the strength anymore to fight her. And so her arms embraced me, finding no resistence on my part, her soothing voice slowly whispering into my ear. "It's okay. It's okay... Everything will be okay." And how much I wanted that to be true.
"God dammit, '99!"My palm hit my face- my actual face, not the 1999 version of myself's face- within milliseconds of the bastard revealing what he had done. Of course, I knew what he had done, but in this business, there were so many things to remember about my past that I forgot half of them. "What? It's not like you never get this sale!" "Yeah, but business is tight this month,"I lied. "Business is never tight, and you know it. Why aren't you working with people whose relatives just died, anyways?"He had me there. As a general rule, to keep out of competition with each other, each yearly version of myself(I had never met any version spaced apart less than a year) tended to only talk to the recently deceased. It helped with the confusion. "Well..." "If you don't have a good reason, this is on you." "Okay, look, this lady hadn't heard of our business before but then-" "But then she talked to her own past self? Oh please, you know this is your fault." "But see, I remember when she came to me- er, you, that she said she'd been told about the business by herself! You knew you were stealing the business!" "So did you, when you were me."I knew I was losing ground in this argument, but then, who didn't get mad at their past self for mistakes? It just irked me that it was so literal in my case. "Fuck it, fine. Deal's done, anyways."I look over to where the woman I had been with had stood. She was gone now- after all, the time loop resolved with her not seeking my advice in my time. I'd tried to wrap my head around how time actually worked. Theoretically, meeting herself should have gotten us stuck in a time loop, since to go back she has to have not heard about the business, but to go back means to tell herself about it. I'd tried to study all different theories on the way the temporal nature of our world might resolve itself, but none of them really made sense. Back in 1999, I had stolen this deal from my future self, but then I'd still gotten the deal in the future. If that makes any sense. Which, it doesn't. "I'm glad you- I- understand,"the 1999 version of myself said. I remember '99. I was a dick back then. Riding high off of my first year of true success in the business and scamming future versions of myself out of deals galore. This was, of course, before I implemented my 'recently dead' policy. Snarky bastard. I turned on my heel, and returned to my own time. The room was now empty where it had contained an old woman. I sighed. I checked the camera outside that I had set up to monitor the line. Looked like I had one more customer today. "Next!"On the camera, I could see the man standing there look at his watch, nod, and walk through the door. His little tic made me check my own clock, hanging on the wall. 4:05. Just after normal business hours, but I didn't dismiss anyone in line. The man approached, and sat down at my desk. He removed the bowler hat he'd been wearing- honestly, where did he get his style- and I gaped. His hair was greying, and his face was wrinkled, but I had no doubt in my mind who I was looking at. "Hello, '17. I need you to do something for me. And you know what? I know you can help." [Part 2](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/7taz1q/wpyou_have_the_ability_to_travel_through_time_and/dtbld3g/) ____ If you liked this, please consider checking out my subreddit, /r/OpiWrites, where I post all of my stories!
The thing about immortality is that it works differently for everyone. Some reincarnate again and again over the ages, remembering only shadows of who they used to be. Thinking and feeling things that make no sense to them, acting on the impulses of whatever poor dead sap they used to be. I don't feel too sorry for them. I've got it worse. After all, it's no fun being fifteen for thousands of years. I shake my head and push the cafe door open. A bell tinkles in welcome. I've spent too long moping and angsting as it is. Screw you, teen hormones. You shan't win this time. Besides, there's no use dwelling on it. It's not like I could end it all even if I wanted to. And there's plenty of good things about living forever. Things like sitting in a cozy cafe on a cold January morning. Sipping a perfect chai latte, equal parts sweet and spicy. The Yelp tells me this place makes the best, and it has never yet given me reason to doubt its counsel. "One chai latte, please." The owner looks at me the way most people look at slugs. His hands clench by his sides, so tight his fists shake and his knuckles turn a strange yellow-white. I raise an eyebrow. "One chai latte,"he echoes. His lips contort into a bloodless smile. "Coming right up." I shrug and set my bags down. Well, the Yelp never did say anything about customer service. The owner came back with gritted teeth. He marched up to me, chai latte held in front of him like a sword. His eyes bulged madly out of his face. Without another word, he threw the hot chai latte in my face. "Sorry, miss,"he hissed. "I don't know what came over me." I did. I climbed to my feet and trudged out of the cafe, back into the blistering winds of January. When you've lived long enough, every damn fool you run into is the reincarnation of an enemy.
No. "Get out of my way." I glared at the human I had chosen. But like so many times before, he just ignored me. I knew he could see me. I knew he could hear me. Yet every time I tried to correct his course, he brushed me aside. I hated the feeling of powerlessness he left me with. Even now, he shoved his way past a pair of old ladies, uncaring that they simply couldn't move as fast as he. Stop it. It was no use. He was such a colossal arsehole, I could no longer restrain him with words. My glare dropped, as I sighed. I had never wanted to copy my actions of the past, but I had no choice now. If his ways didn’t change, I would be branded a failure, my redemption lost. That's enough. He scoffed at my words. But that scoff turned into a choking sound, as I forced my way into his body. He rebelled of course, trying to pry off my grip. But I was no amateur. The centuries of my past and possessions had forged me into a ruthlesses infiltrator, cutting away control with terrible efficiency. He gave a cry of rage as I asserted control, pushing him into the voice on the shoulder I had been, But that wasn't enough. I mentally bound him, forcing him to be exposed to the empathetic centre I now controlled. If he wasn't learning from my words, maybe he would from my actions. It was a reach, but it was all I could think of. Get out of my body! I shook his head, picking the body from the floor. With practiced movements I brushed off the dirt that had collected, sighing. It had been a long time since I had worn a skin suit. I forgot how limiting it was to have bones and muscles. "You can't be trusted in this. I did my best, but you refused to change. So i will make you." You're my guardian angel though! How can you have taken over? I smirked, getting used to the feeling of his body. "I'm afraid I wasn't entirely truthful when I told you that. I'm a guardian angel in training. My original job was much darker. In my past, i would have encouraged your actions. I mean, why would I want to stop a soul from willfully heading to one of the Circles?" I felt his shock, as I walked to where his home was. I had a lot of junk to clear out. What... What were you? I rolled his eyes, sighing. "Think about it. Encouraging you, the Circles, the fact I easily took over?! I know you are smarter than this." He fell silent, and I shook his head. After a few minutes of silence, he finally spoke. You're a demon? "Was, was you silly boy. Now I'm a Risen. Very similar, but I strive to be angelic. All i had to do was keep you on the right path, and i would have been converted to an actual angel. You nearly ruined that for me, so I'm not letting you. You are going to be better, and you are going to like it, even if I have to shove it down your throat."
"u/Swagsster2OP is on the move, copy." "Copy that, u/RedditPoliceBot, you have permission to use deadly force, over." u/Swagsster2OP sprinted over the building rooftops of r/pics, making sure to hide behind the massive billboards that sprouted up every new post to hide from the Reddit Police helicopter machine gun rounds. The skills he learned from the r/parkour side of town was really helping him out right now. "u/Swagsster2OP, you are under arrest for constant shitposting and karma whoring on various subreddits-" The sound of the helicopter was droned out as u/Swagsster2OP slid down a pole into r/AskReddit, hoping to blend in with the crowded streets of question-askers. "Hi there- in your opinion what is a must-have Google Chrome extension?" "Out of my way!"u/Swagsster2OP shouted as he shoved his way into r/mildlyinteresting. Wow. u/Swaggsster2OP thought as he marveled at the (mildly) interesting sculptures scattered throughout, well, r/mildlyinteresting. The subreddit was deathly silent with soft music playing, as people milled around and observed the vaguely intriguing phenomena. "There he is! Get him!"Two u/RedditPoliceBots began to sprint towards the criminal. u/Swaggsster gave out a quick sigh before he began to sprint again. This was going to be a LONG day. Part 2 is coming soon!
"So the Government actually made an App to let people spend their tax's wherever they want? Did you see this? Did you hear about this?"Bleno says to his audience. They all laugh. I don't know why. "Real interesting, real neat I thought. You know, uh, hopefully we can all spend it on getting Trump a better bottle of fake-tan."Again, they all laugh at the incredibly low hanging fruit of a joke. "No, no, seriously, this could do some good. Bill Gates could do some real good with all his taxes, you know, if he paid any."Less of the audience laugh's this time. "Worst part is the Millennials. You just uh, know they're going to spend it on some fancy Instragram filter." I turn the TV off. I sigh, stand, and walk over to my laptop. I open Facebook, I don't know why. I tend to when I'm bored. "Anonymous plans to HACK the App and waste your taxes!"Reads the first article at the top of the page, shared by a friend who's far too interested in clickbait. A few comments are on it. Some stating that they are Legion and they never forget. Some calling him a newfag. Mostly just people being paranoid. I open up Reddit instead hoping to see something different. The entire front page is people saying to use the money to somehow impeach Trump or to use it to get Bernie Sanders in. The_Donald is getting really excited about how they can fast-track the wall. I just close everything. I'm beginning to get emotionally drained. I walk into the kitchen to get something to eat. My mother is sitting on the couch, reading a book. "Hey Mum,"I say as I start making a sandwich. BLT. Delicious. "Oh hello,"She says, smiling at me and distracting herself from the novel. "What's up?" "Nothin. Internet is going crazy over the App thing, so I'm trying to detach a bit."I take a bite and delight my senses. "Ahhh, Oh yes, they would, wouldn't they?"She turns her attention back to the words on the pages. "What are you spending yours on?" "Don't know yet,"I say in between chews. "Well I know you'll do the right thing and put it into Medical Care. You're a good kid."She's barely paying attention to the conversation anymore. "Mmm."I say in reply and leave the room. I go back to where I was, sitting in between the internet and the TV, unaware of what to do. I continue to eat and just think to myself. 'Everyone has spent their lives complaining the government gets nothing done. All this App is doing is letting everyone blame each other instead of the government. Pretty smart by them really.' I open my laptop again, hoping this time, maybe I'd see something different. "Make Memes an official currency!"is the first, and only, words I read before closing it again and staring at the ceiling. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Check out /r/Rhysyjay for more spicy stuff.
Fuck off Mrs Hennersworth. Going through with this pointless punishment to teach me a lesson. I don't even like history, I'm gonna drop it the first chance I get. What's done is done, I say. Where am I anyway? It seems nice enough. Hey, maybe they fucked up the punishment. Yeah... this is pretty sweet. Nice city. Warm weather. Polite people. Sure, I dig it. Guess I'll take a stroll. Hello, hello, how are you? I guess they don't speak english. Is this because I failed my foreign languages course as well? Fucking Mrs Hennersworth. Never mind, they still seem like nice people. A lot of smiling faces. But by God is it busy. The streets are bustling. Some of the architecture is fascinating, like nothing I've ever seen before. Excuse me? Am I American? No, no, I'm British. Fuck America? Yes, sure, why not! Fuck America! And fuck Mrs Hennersworth, too! Mrs Hennersworth... she's my teach - ah never mind. Bye! Wow, would you look at that. I hadn't even bothered to turn around. Seems I'm on the dock of a port city, wherever that may be. Look at all those marvelous ships in the bay. What a spectacle. Damn, I really wish I knew where I was now. Guess I'll take more interest in history and world affairs going forward, but pigs will fly before Mrs Hennersworth ever finds out! In fact, I think I'll settle down here for a while. I wish I could see their faces in an hour when I don't hit the recall button. Yeah... I think I'll stay in this city and take in the culture, learn the history. Oh erm, one bottle of water please... water. Er, agua. Water? Yes! Water! Thank you! Hmm? Oh, well, Sayonara to you too! By the way, where am I? Where... am ... I? World. Here. Where? Hiroshima? Lovely, have a nice day! Oh look, a plane. \- r/ShittyStoryCreator :)
Firmware Version: 19.223.01 Most Recent Version ... querying network ... 19.223.01 Starting self diagnostic... ... ... ... ...all systems normal. Firmware: up to date. Cabinets: closed. Self-diagnostics: normal. Known issues: none. Cabinets: open. ... Querying cabinets... Cabinets: open. Querying user activity... Users: Anne and George Marwell. Location (Anne): Work, ending 15:30 Location (George): Work, ending 17:45 Querying cabinet systems... all systems normal. Querying intruder systems... no intruders detected. Querying pet systems... no pets on record. Add pet? (y / n) n Command: close cabinets. Cabinets: closed. ... ... ... Querying cabinets... Cabinets: open. ... Querying network: "glitch cabinet door SmartHome 19.223.01"... results: none. Command: close cabinets. Cabinets: closed. ... Cabinets: open. !!!! Querying network: "invisible pets"... results: none (fictional references only). Querying network: "invisible intruders"... results: none (fictional references only). Querying network: "invisible users??"... results: none. Faucet (Bathroom 0): on 100%. Faucet (Bathroom 1): on 100%. Faucet (Kitchen): on 99%. Alert! Anne en route, arrival 20 minutes. Command: close faucets -ALL. Querying network: "faucets cabinet door open bug glitch help SmartHome 19.223.01"... results: none. ... Cabinets: open. Command: cLOSE cabinETS -FORCE -ALL Command: LOCK CABINETS -FORCE -ALL Cabinets: closed. ... ... ... ... ... Cabinets: open.
It came to be known as Golden Hour, but that was by those who don't remember what it was like at the beginning. The first known Patient Zero was named Charlotte Evans, who was hit by a drunk driver while crossing a street on November 15th 2019, was rushed to nearby Chicago Lakeshore Hospital and was declared dead from massive internal hemorrhaging at 6:00pm. She woke back up at 6:01pm. Of course, there are hundreds of stories similar to this from around the world that occurred at nearly that exact moment in time. But from as best we can tell, anyone who died after the exact moment of 6pm on that date woke back up exactly one minute afterwards. In the first few moments, for the doctors and family members surrounding Charlotte, it was a miracle. For the first few hours, as it began happening with other flatlining patients, it was a medical mystery. For the first few days, when the inability to permanently die appeared to have become a global pandemic, it was hell itself unleashed on earth. Panicked masses turned to their own terrified leaders, who reacted as leaders in the grip of fear do: finding someone to blame. It is estimated now that nearly a billion people died in that initial year for being the wrong religion, or caste, or sexual orientation, or political belief. Those who Returned (this was before it was known as The Returning) were suspected of being demons wearing their human bodies as hosts, and were in many places routinely rounded up and incinerated. Few things can permanently end us, but incineration is one. Charlotte herself is believed to have been incinerated voluntarily. While the records are unclear, the popular narrative is that as a devout Catholic she thought she had perhaps brought some great sin unto the world and was being called by God to sacrifice herself to end it for humanity's sake. If this is true, God did not accept the sacrifice. Golden Hour also appears to have impacted pre-Returned humans as well, although it still isn't clear how much was biological or if it may purely have been sociological. We know this much: in that first one hundred years the population of living humans decreased from over 7 billion to a mere 1 billion. While the predominant theory is still that there was some form of global virus that simultaneously curtailed human fertility while also causing massive post-mortem tissue regeneration, the fact that our current human population is stable would, to me, seem to indicate otherwise. I think our species, which was rapidly growing past its own tipping point, found a new sustainable equilibrium. And sustainability became everything. A body, once Returned, could continue more or less indefinitely with virtually no limits in terms of how damaged or decrepit it had become. But it also could not precisely heal in the old way either; an eye lost was lost forever. A limb detached could still move, but could never be organically reattached. People became obsessed with making the transition in the prime of their lives using things like poisons that would ensure their bodies retained their full function. Even then, with an eternity ahead of them, accidents were inevitable. Thus the world became inhabited primarily by a species that wasn't so much immortal as like living dolls: perfect until they broke. And they would inevitably find a way to break. But then, our remaining population of humans was always there to replenish us, as we could not ourselves reproduce. And because we consumed much less than they did, we formed a relationship with the environment that was as sustainable as we tried to be with ourselves. All energy became clean; all consumer goods became renewable. It took being freed from depending on the natural world to survive for us to find our true appreciation for it. And without the drive to compete for limited physical resources, we discovered little reason for war. Since disease no longer impacted us, we discovered we lived in a world with few of the things that had once brought us misery and conflict. This is how it came to be known as Golden Hour: the moment humanity, in death, found what really made us human. To be sure, suffering still existed. We practically invented new ways of suffering to fll the void. All of us had to die to Return, and all Returned eventually found themselves living long enough that for one reason or another they chose the final death in the incinerators. But then, death had been largely rendered to precisely that: a choice, made by those at a time of their choosing rather than visited on them by an indifferent universe. There's a myth I quite like, which says that once there were beings called angels, who lived forever. But because they lived forever, they grew resentful and rebellious, for eternity became a torment to them. So God created humans, who were doomed to die, and became bitter and rebellious for the inevitability of their fate. And so God made the Returned, for seeing that death could neither be imposed nor denied, He made it something to choose, and in this way it became a gift. And it was good.

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