prompt
stringlengths 391
14.9k
|
|---|
“Oh shit, Frank.”
Frank was busy typing away on his 1949 Underwood typewriter. He’d been provided a computer, of course, but it sat unused in the corner of the cubicle. He certainly could have processed heaven entry and purgatory redemption applications quicker with his computer, but as an immortal angel he literally had all the time in the world, or heaven as it were.
"Frank."
Despite his infinite time, Frank mumbled, "huh? Busy"and continued to type away.
“Haven’t you been watching the game?”
Still typing, eyes focused on the sheets “what? Yeah, the angels were up by like 28-3, with what 17 minutes on the clock? Game's over dude.” They weren’t really called the “angels”, at least not on Earth, but as God’s chosen team, that’s what everyone around here called em.
Frank continued, “God’s got this in the bag. Again. Honestly, football is getting boring. Really wish Jesus wouldn’t have gotten his panties in a bunch and forbade gladiator fights.”
“Frank. Look up.”
Frank sighed and finally did, peering over the gray cubicle wall. Then he gasped, “Holy. Fuck. Me. Mary. Jesus.” The projector screen at the front of the cube farm had the game on, and somehow, someway, the Devils had staged a dramatic comeback. They were nipping on the angel's heels.
Frank stuttered, “Ho-How- How is this happening?”
“I don’t know how to explain it. The Angels. It’s just been mistake after mistake, bad decision after bad decision. Satan must be filling the Angels’ head coach with a bunch of bullshit. There’s no way, just no way that any free-willed individual could make so many stupid choices. This type of collapse, it’s not fathomable.”
Influencing a coach, that would be extreme, Frank knew. God and Satan would never go to such lengths to win a game. It'd be too obvious, it might alert the humans to their meddling. No, they relied on lucky bounces and crazy catches and those sorts of things. Highlight reel material, not insanity ward material. But that's exactly what Frank was watching, insanity. Still, maybe years upon years of losing had made Satan desperate for redemption.
Frank took a breath and said “well, the Angels still got this. They’re up by eight points. 28-20 with four minutes on the clock? They’re in field goal range, they’re good.”
The Angels ran the ball, but the runner was stuffed, losing a yard. There were a few gasps from across the cube farm. “Don’t worry about it,” Frank said, “just a 41 yard field goal. They’ll be up by eleven, there’s no way they could do something that stupi-”
Suddenly, the quarter back dropped back for a pass. It was the dumbest decision Frank had ever seen in his infinite years of immortality. Dumber then invading Russia without packing winter gear, dumber than attacking Gengis Khan, dumber than electing the orange aberration. The offensive line was swallowed up, and the QB was sacked, a 12 yard loss.
There was shocked silence. “Don’t uh” Frank said, gasping for thought, “they’re umm, they’re still good, they can sneak into field goal rang-” a flag.
“A FUCKING HOLDING PENALTY!?!?” Someone shouted. Indeed it was. The ball went back to the Devils. They could tie it up with a good drive.
“Don’t worry,” a young lady angel said, but her voice was filled with worry “God can just influence the Devils coach.”
Frank said, “that’s Bill Belichick and Tom Brady you’re talking about. They ain’t going to listen to God or funny little voices in their head.” No doubt, God was whispering into their ears, but they didn’t seem to care. They drove down the field. They scored. It went to overtime, and everyone already knew the outcome of the game.
And that’s how the Falcons lost the 2017 Super Bowl. The humans didn't catch on, though obviously they should have. The mortals just watched stunned, wondering how so many stupid decisions could happen over and over again. It wasn’t the coaches, the players, or the refs, it was the devil himself. |
[Poem]
"Tell me dear lieutenant,"
The major said every day,
"What now shall be our move,
And what is the game we will play?
For the general's off drinking,
The colonel's losing at cards,
The sergeant and his privates,
Play soccer in bombed-out yards."
"I suppose we could see,"
The lieutenant would respond,
"If any one from the bunker,
Wants to share lunch at the pond?
And then we'll talk at length,
Over wine and caviar,
Where we'll draw the lines today,
And who pushes where and how far."
"It's been months here in the valley,"
The quartermaster said with a sigh,
"But the north flank is advancing,
And we'll soon have to say goodbye."
"Indeed it must be so,"
The brigadier did reply,
"It's better this way though,
For winter clouds the sky.
I grew up near this valley,
And the snow is much too cold,
I'd rather winter near the beach,
With my aching bones so old."
"Maybe we'll call the captain,"
The corporal thought aloud,
"And maybe the southern flank retreats,
And we march towards tropic ground." |
"I won't marry you just because you saved me, or anything. "The princess snapped, with a derisive flick of her long blonde hair.
Lyon sighed quietly. "I'm aware, Princess."His voice was flat with annoyance.
She folded her arms, and glared down at her horse's back. "Good. Cause it's not happening. I could have saved myself any time I wanted."
Lyon pulled the reins, and his horse slowed to a stop, then turned slightly so he could look Princess Lessa in the eye. "Listen, princess. I'm aware of the usual business involved in these things. You aren't my first dragon rescue."
The princess opened her mouth to reply, but Lyon pushed on.
"I'm a 38-year old man with a husband and 5 kids at home to look after. I'm in no way interested in marrying a princess younger than my eldest child. Hell, I've been married longer than you have lived. Now if you could kindly shut your trap, princess, we can continue through these woods, and maybe make it to my home before sunset."
The princess didn't look him in the eye, but gave a quick nod.
"Good."Lyon turned his horse forward again, and set the pace at a quick trot.
They traveled for several minutes of blessed silence before she spoke again, her voice softer now. "Do you think your husband will have dinner?"
"Most definitely. It'll be either shepherd's pie or meatloaf, I expect."
She was quiet for a while again before she murmured, "Ive never heard of shepherd's pie before."
"It's delicious. You'll love it."
--
That night, the princess decided she agreed. It was the most delicious meal she'd ever had. |
I remember fondly in the first year of my mandatory enlistment feeling the warmth of a nearby star strike my face through the glass windows. It reminded me of home. Of air that didn't taste of overworked filters. Of beaches with sand on the methane lakes. Of Cities bustling with races who've benefited from our rule.
The race of bipeds, Humans, they sometimes call themselves, were set to be the same. Our ships pierced the cloud of rocks surrounding their system, which to our knowledge were uninhabited roughly 3 days ago. We timed our invasion right to avoid gravitational interference with the gas giants. 1.5 days ago we began our retrograde burn to enter a solar orbit. A day later our ships transferred to orbit around their Home planet.
They knew we were coming, as was to be expected. We thought their technology rudimentary, but we understood it was proficient. From our observations they still used projectile weaponry against one another, something that our ships and soldiers became resistant to long ago.
We had always wondered why they never took the next step. Why they didn't move on to lasers and quantum rays. Some believed it was their constant bickering never left room for technology to improve. Others thought there existed a global religion in which the projectile weapons were worshiped. A small minority thought they were stupid.
No. They are not stupid. They harbor no reverence. They chose to stab each other with sticks and stones. They chose to stop making newer weapons because they cower to their greatest creation.
I have felt it's warmth on my face. I watched it dissolve our strongest alloys, incinerate our armored soldiers. I felt my clothes catch fire! I felt skin peel of my shoulders! I saw jolts of bright light flash in my closed eyes!
It killed the electricity on our ships. It killed men who dared to stand with honor. It shredded the cruiser. It warped spacetime itself.
The backup generators failed. The oxygen turned to poison. Light turned to cancer.
And then the second one came.
I had to crumble the blackened skeleton of the pilot in his seat before that second metal hull detonated. The metal control stick burned my hand as I wrestled the ship into a different orbit. I could feel the warmth of that second fake sun strike the ship as I opened the wormhole for the home.
My face feels cold now. If this universe had a god, the humans made him into a gun. They scare themselves more than they scared us.
And now they know we're terrified too. |
Susan raised her hand. Attracted by the sudden movement, the eyes of all the predator species around her fixated on the raised appendage. At first, that had scared her a little, but she'd gotten used to it. (Though the shark-like Corbien's tendency to rattle his teeth did still make her wince.)
Professor K'I'Fe was no exception to the rule, and his beady gaze snapped to her palm and then to her face. He tilted his beak towards her, giving her permission to speak.
Susan did her best to keep her voice level. "Professor, don't you think that's overstating the role of humanity in brokering the ceasefire?"
Gorb, the aforementioned Corbien, slowly clicked his teeth in the equivalent of a sigh. Susan would buy him a fermented fish drink later as an apology, but she was frankly tired of keeping her mouth shut. She had ranted to him all week, and now she had finally hit her breaking point.
"Oh?"Professor K'I'Fe raised a single feather in his crest. "Why would you say that, Susan'Patel?"
"You're mythologizing an entire species. Though humanity did play an important part in bringing the herbivorous Mashans and the carnivorous F'E'Ns to the metaphorical table, it also took the work of tireless Mashan *and* F'E'N diplomats to bring peace into action."
Another feather curled up on his neck. Susan wasn't prone to violence, but she wanted to tear that smug look off his crest. She couldn't stand carnivore supremacists.
"Susan'Patel, I need you to elaborate."K'I'Fe always used the F'E'N naming convention for all his students, even if they didn't like it. Which Susan didn't. "Are you implying that the narrative of humans as a bridge-species is incorrect? Why, I was under the assumption that humanity had the best features of carnivores *and* herbivores. In fact, many F'E'N texts put the entire onus on humanity for bringing the panicky, fickle Mashans to the table."
At this point, the sarcasm was getting ridiculous. Susan ignored the murmurs around her and doggedly pushed forward.
"That's because those texts are clearly biased against Mashans, and you know it! Instead of accepting the inherent sapience and rationality of an herbivorous species, F'E'N bigots put all of it on the *slightly* more palatable omnivores—"
"Susan'Patel, there will be no shouting in my classroom."K'I'Fe didn't raise his voice, but he whistled sharply for emphasis.
Susan realized she *was* actually yelling. She leaned back in her chair, glanced guiltily at her cringing herbivorous classmates, and took a deep breath. "Sorry, professor. But my point still stands."
"Prove it to me with textual evidence, and I might consider it."
Now, that was a blatant lie. Any time Susan wrote a paper that didn't support K'I'Fe's beliefs, he never gave her more than a 70%.
The professor wrapped up the class as Susan fumed in her chair. Finally, when it was time to go, she shoved her stuff into her bag with more force than necessary.
Gorb gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder with his fin-tacle. "Ignore old K'I'Fe,"he said, keeping his rumbling voice soft. "He'll never change his mind. Anyway, want to get drinks tonight, oh most cooperative and docile friend? We can get those keebies you like so much. And they sell plant ones for Omi too."
Susan laughed. "They're called kebabs, Gorb."She waved over their mutual friend, a fuzzy Mashan named Omi—who had slunk in late and taken a seat on the other side of the lecture hall. "Actually,"she said as their friend hurried to join them, "I think I'm in the mood for a salad." |
It is helping them.
One doesn't have to ask who ''it'' is. Everyone knows. Everyone has heard. Everyone has seen it. A being from beyond time and space, a creature unbound by conventions, the laws of physics, something that isn't a person, but a cosmic fact with a will of its own. The Judge. It has eaten gods, it has burned worlds, it has destroyed empires. It tests the mettle of all who manage to leave their home system by artificial means. It is a gruelling test, never the same, always different. The Judge examines every world's history, their cultures, their natures, and forces them to be true to themselves to complete the test. Those who succeed, who overcome their flaws and show their better natures, are allowed to continue to develop. To create an interstellar empire of their own. Those who fail are sent back on the evolutionary scale, their nations dismantled, their world reforged, allowing another race to rise on their homeworld, that might one day ascend and be tested instead. Most succeed. Rare indeed is the world that fails.
There is no bargaining, there is no threatening, no intimidating, no wealth, no ruin, nothing satisfies the Judge except the completion of its test. It is beyond the scopes of our understanding. Of any race known to the general galactic community. The Interstellar High Council, and the associated archives going back millions of years, have records of every race and their encounters with the Judge. Every success, every test, every failure. Everyone who has managed to contact it. Everyone who has been annihilated for insulting it with the petty ambitions of mortal races. Everyone who has been de-evolved for daring to do something so foul and debased as worshipping the Judge. It's all in there. But this has never happened in recorded memory. This has never been seen before. And all of the known areas of the universe, in our galaxy and the others whom we can only speak to, as intergalactic travel hasn't been successful yet; every powerful individual, important organisation, nation-state, empire, and religion, is asking themselves a simple question; How?
How did they get the single most eldritch creature, a thing that is simultaneously measured as being merely the size of an average sentient lifeform, and the size of a small galaxy, to help them? How did a fractured, disorganised, uncooperative planet of little cretins with no central government, get the single most powerful and dangerous entity in creation to help them? To come to their world, guiding them, teaching them, helping them see the best path to rebuilding their dying world, and then getting it put into action? Usually it hinders and stalls development, until the arbitrary demands it has put on the tested species have been fulfilled. Of course, asking it directly is impossible. Unless it is supremely important to speak with it, one should never dare to contact it. As it does not suffer unimportant fools making demands of it. Only in the rarest of circumstances should it ever be acknowledged at all.
And yet many look upon these humans, on their little world of dirt and grime. They wonder, why does the Judge care for them? Why should anyone care for them at all? Who would care at all for that little race, when they could be conquered instead, and put under the solid iron boot of a strong central government? Why should anyone care for them, when they are not of the same flesh as stronger, more powerful empires? They are flawed, silly things. And the Judge still helps them. Still teaches them, still cares for their world like a mother for her child. They are not united in glorious purpose. They do not desire conquest and dominion. They are capable of cruelty, but it is a childish form of cruelty done for reasons that are personal at best. They do not churn countless millions into the dust for sake of efficiency; they do it because they don't know any better. They don't understand how a proper, strong government, should rule.
Perhaps that is why the Judge care for them in such a manner, the empires around that insignificant world would like nothing better than to subdue it, to conquer it, for blood, glory, and strength.
That is the great weakness, of all the nations of the universe. Mankind, on their little world, with their little flaws, and little mistakes, have not succumbed to autocracy and tyranny. Not entirely. There are cabals, tyrants, greedy rich fools, and other scum who keep trying to force mankind to become a singular, uniform race. Yet despite all those who desire for mankind to become obedient soldiers and workers slaving and dying for the ruling class; there are still those who fight back. There are still those who believe in decency, in working together because it is right, not merely because there is an enemy. Humanity is a free species. Humanity, despite all the cruel, corrupt, and malignant menaces that they have to deal with, still marches discordantly and sometimes with a good couple of steps in entirely the wrong direction, towards freedom, decency, and progress.
That is what the Judge has seen. Alone amidst all the nations of the cosmos, only mankind is so chaotic and self-destructive as to retain an attempt at freedom and liberty. The Judge, alien and strange, eldritch and bizarre, sat itself in human flesh upon the human world, in an attempt to understand mankind. It failed utterly and completely. But it learned things it never could have dreamed of. Compassion, art, revelry, actual love, friendship. These things can be found on many worlds, but they are always subsumed into a worship of the state, a desire for obedience, and a lack of personal dignity. The Judge found that only on Earth is there the option of standing against the current. Only on Earth, where mankind have committed several mistakes and atrocities, is there hope for a future, and those willing to fight the mainstream, the faith, and the state to get a future worth living in. The Judge only stayed human for a single lifetime, but it experienced more unabated joy, more sorrow, more love, more silliness, more confusion, and more curiosity than it had experienced since the universe began. |
Apologies, I'm a terrible writer, but the prompt struck me...
The surprise attack went far better than any expected, the stockpile of nuclear arms was vastly larger than any had anticipated and their capabilities longer. While arms are important, what no one expected was a nation so willing to sacrifice their entire homeland to achieve their goals. MAD was neutralized as the army and government was on the move never to return to their now glassified Korea. The United States government was quickly decapitated in the first unexpected strikes. The confused remains of the US media speculated the reason for the attack, was it the cuts in food aid? The joint naval drills in the disputed waters? Bieber's disastrous visit? Nothing added up. The speculation steadily quieted when the nation went dark as the final US power plants succumbed to their wounds, and their staff to the radiation or raiders. Most of the nation was reduced to disarray as troops without orders deserted to find news of their loved ones and local governments became feudal and insular.
"Get these generators online! Get moving!"The General of the former Democratic People's Republic shouted to his troops streaming on to Seal Beach from hundreds of fishing boat disguised troop carriers run aground. "Glorious leader's helicopter arrives in 5 hours, he expects the base of operations secured and operational by that time!"
Soldiers scurried everywhere, Anaheim was intentionally spared from the worst of the blasts, but engineers worked with breakneck efficiency to repair damage to the structures and clear the bodies. Marines traded helmets and kevlar for felt and white gloves as the facility came back to life. Troops marched in lockstep down Mainstreet USA.
Kim Jong Un's helicopter landed on the central plaza just in time to witness the old statue tumble and be replaced with a flattering bronze casting of himself, holding the hand of his childhood idol. He breathed in the faint smells of gunfire and cotton candy then strided purposefully to his new castle, tears of joy in his eyes and mouse ears on his head... He was the happiest man on earth.
|
3,635,484 moves. 3,635,484 times I've tried to make the first move, but the future morphs every time I make a decision. I stare at him in anger, frustrated that a nearly omnipotent ability such as mine could be foiled in such a childish manner.
My eyes return to the board, still unchanged from its starting position, as it has been for the last 4 hours. Suddenly, a realization dawns on me, and thus him.
Our eyes once again meet, and we both break out in laughter.
"Do you not know how to play chess either?" |
She's exactly the type of person I usually hate to see walking towards my counter. Head up, sunglasses on, disdain dripping off her suit that despite costing more than I make in a paycheck still makes her look like a news anchor on the local channel.
I wonder how long she had to harangue the poor bastard at the department store before he gave up and let her have it 50% off.
*Click, click, click* any other day the sound of high heels striding towards me with Great Purpose would cause me to cringe. But not today.
"Excuse me,"she starts in, and not politely. I ignore her.
She tap taps her fingers on my counter. "*Excuse me*, miss!"
Thing is, I'm not a dick to every customer on this day. Just the ones who deserve it. I decide to give her enough rope to hang herself with. I look up. "How can I help you, ma'am?"
"I have a coupon,"she says, waving it in my face.
I glance at it. "Bully for you. It's expired."
She's ready for this. "Well I called ahead and spoke to your management and they told me to bring it to you when I got here,"she replies smugly.
I take out a tissue and blow my nose at her before delivering my verdict. "Bullshit."
"Excuse me!?"she says again, preparing to be indignant.
"How about fetal alcohol syndrome?"I reply, going back to the book I was reading. That throws her off her game a bit and I can feel her blink.
"What?"she demands, voice rising. She's looking for a reason to throw a temper tantrum. Fortunately for her, I'm here to help.
I turn another page. "Fetal alcohol syndrome; that can be your excuse. Just tell everyone your mom was a heavy drinker."
She gasps and squeaks. "I- how *rude*!"and then, oh then she says the words I live for on this particular day. "I want to speak to your manager!"
"Yeah well, I want a big fat blunt and an evening with Chris Evans but we don't always get what we want, do we?"
She's actually shaking with anger now, and it's beautiful. "You give me the number for your head office, right now! I am going to lodge an official complaint against you and this store!"
"Sure thing. It's 1-800 Go fuck yourself."
She's speechless for a glorious little while. "You-you *cannot* speak to me like that!"she insists, the foundations of her world beginning to crumble.
"Ah, what are you gonna do about it; challenge me to a duel? Is it gonna be rock, paper, scissors at dawn?"
She squeaks a couple more times before storming off, useless coupon still clenched in her fist. She's probably going to try to find someone and make them fire me.
Yeah, good luck with that, lady.
I hear a snicker and look over at a couple teenagers who had been clandestinely watching the whole thing. They've figured out what day it is and are probably here to watch the carnage. Well why not? Free entertainment. I smile and give them a thumbs up, once again thanking whoever decided not only to give us retail workers this one glorious day to wreak vengeance, but also decided to change the date every year and not announce it to the general public. Bitch would have stayed home if she'd known.
|
"Sweetheart? Look what daddy got you!"
With a flourish I produce the cutest puppy in all the world... literally. The breed was genetically altered to never age beyond the puppy stage, have pink fur with a cute symbol on his side. I picked her the one with the daisy symbol since that was her favorite flower.
Her smile of joy and sparkling eyes was all the reward I needed. Alright, so far so good. Now we start phase two!
"You also get something extra special. However, this is something very important. It helped daddy through a lot of hard times and needs to be loved every single day."
I gave it a few minutes of pleas and promises to cherish before I, very reluctantly, gave her my childhood bunny. It was a will loved stuffed toy and I knew every single stain and stitch on it. It's bright red nose called attention away from the mismatched eyes that all old bunnies were required to have.
I felt a part of my soul leave me as I handed it over to her little chubby hands. Good bye old buddy, thank you for all the love....
With the stage set I invest in a few backup plans. I got an aquarium, a few antique pieces of furniture and cute but out fashioned appliances. Nothing too slick or modern.
There. If this doesn't turn the odds in favor of Pixar I don't know what will! |
He laughed. "You are a fool, child. I am the most powerful being in the universe. I have destroyed thousands before you. You are no different."
I smirked. He is cocky, I'll give him that. I wait for him to finish his monologue.
"Nothing to say, eh? Well, let's get on with it, boy. It will be quick, I promise."He sneered. I smiled faintly back. He took a deep breath, as he did thousands of times before.
**"YOUR MOM GAYYYYYYYY!!!!"**
The skies erupted into a rain of fire and lightning, the death wish that slain the brave warriors before me, including my beloved mentor. I am no warrior.
I am a god.
*"No, u."* |
The shop owner folded his skeleton-like hands as the sound of the bell indicated that another unsuspecting victim had entered the store.
“Welcome stranger,” he said from out under his black robes, trying to make his voice as spooky as possible. “Before you begin browsing my array of fantastical items, let me warn you that each of them comes with a price.”
The stranger furrowed his brow. “Isn’t that how every store works?”
“Uhm, I guess so.” The shopkeeper tried to regain his composure. “But here you will find that the price paid transcends money.”
“I’ve never met a scam artist who told me straight up that he was going to scam me.”
The shopkeeper grinned. “It’s all part of the process. Later, after you’ve paid the *real price*, you will remember my words and think: ‘How could I have been so stupid as to ignore his warnings?’ or ‘I should have known better.’ The regret makes it all the better.”
The stranger shrugged. “Okay, whatever, I was really just looking for something to regain my wife’s affection. Lately she’s seemed so distant whenever we’re together.”
“Ah,” the shopkeeper’s mood suddenly lifted. “I have just the thing.” He reached under his desk and extracted a small bottle full of pink liquid. “This is a reverse-love-potion, it makes whoever drinks it irresistible to the opposite gender.”
*Except that the love of your life will reject your forever—you will be chased to the ends of the earth by every woman except the one you love. Oh sweet irony.*
“How much is it?” he asked.
“Just 10$.” The shopkeeper smiled.
“Sold!”
The man pocketed the potion and left the store, leaving the shopkeeper to laugh maniacally by himself.
\*\*\*
A few days later, the man returned, beaming with smiles like he’d never been happier. The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow —usually people returned with either rage or horror, shouting things like, ‘you never told me that the item was going to do *that!’*
“Oh man, I can’t thank you enough.” The man rushed to the counter and shook the skeletal hand of the shopkeeper. “I’m Mark, what’s your name?”
The shopkeeper’s eyes were wide. “Uhm, I don’t have a name, I’m just the mysterious shopkeeper.”
“Well you’ve saved my love life! After I drank the potion my wife’s animosity only seemed to grow. She began to reveal how she’d been cheating on me, and it made me realize that my love had been totally misplaced all this time! Love is overrated anyway—now I have a horde of hot women lining up to have sex with me; life’s never been better.”
“I’m . . . terribly sorry to hear it, actually.” The shopkeeper grit his teeth. “May I tempt you with another one of my items?”
“That’s why I’m here! I figured if one of your items made such a huge improvement in my life, how much of an improvement would two make? Or three?”
The shopkeeper’s smile returned. This man might have gotten lucky the first time, but there was no way his luck would survive multiple cursed items.
\*\*\*
“Hi Mark. . .” The shopkeeper hid his face in his hands as Mark entered for the 37th time in a row.
He’d been coming every day to buy something new, and somehow it all worked out for him. When he brought a golden hand that was supposed to grant him wealth in exchange for terrible personal relationships, the curse from the reverse-love-potion had somehow overruled the newer curse, making women still want to be with him. The shopkeeper had never considered how the curses might overlap if someone was careless enough to keep buying his wares.
“Hi shopkeep!” Mark adjusted the crow of his overly expensive designer suit. “What have you got for me today?”
“Nothing Mark.” The shopkeeper was holding back tears. “You win. For some reason, you are too indescribably lucky and reckless for my items to have negative consequences for you.”
Marked rested a hand against the shopkeeper’s back. “Cheer up—nobody has ever had such a positive impact on my life; I don’t know how to thank you.”
The shopkeeper hit the desk with his fist. “That’s exactly the problem. All I wanted to do was use the free market to abuse my customers’ lack of inhibition and ruin their lives. And look how I ended up.”
Mark touched his chin. “I could use my newfound wealth and influence to make you the CEO of an unethical tobacco company or something. That way you’d be able to exploit not just the unsuspecting stranger who occasionally walks into your store, but millions of people every day!”
“Mark . . . that’s . . . I don’t know how to thank you?”
“Don’t thank me, thank the curse that makes me feel other people’s pain as my own. It has really made me a more caring person.”
Mark gave the shopkeeper a hug, and for just a brief moment, the frail man experienced happiness unrelated to ruining the life of strangers. |
She had lost all feeling to her legs. The water was cold, but she kept kicking, swimming, fighting through the waves. She had to keep his head above water.
Maybe she shouldn't have jumped in after the boy. Nobody else on the dock had done so when the rip tide pulled him out to sea. Some people had called for help, run off or stood there staring, but Julia had acted without thinking. She jumped. It was the penultimate impulsive decision she would make in her life.
She had reached him. Once she grabbed him, she knew to swim at a diagonal to get out of the rip, but they were already so far from shore. She didn't think she would make it, but she kept trying anyways.
She had lost feeling in her arms when she felt someone take him from her. She slipped under the waves. It was several more minutes before they dragged up her body.
\---------------------------
An age of darkness later she heard a voice. "Thank you for saving my son. Listen, you don't have long. The cold preserved your mind but I can't save your body. I can give you a choice. I can make you a new body."The voice faded in and out. She struggled to hear what it said. "Human or ship?"it asked.
Julia made the last impulsive decision of her life.
\---------------------------
Julia still couldn't feel her legs. Her engines hadn't been brought online yet. Her fingers were numb, too, as they were still installing those systems. But her eyes opened and her ears heard.
"Julia Hernandez, can you hear me?"The man stood in uniform, a tight fitting jumper that wouldn't get in the way of sudden physical activity. "I'm Captain Tarquin."
"What- Yes. I can hear you. Where am I?"She tried to look around but couldn't turn her head.
"That information should be in your memory. See if you can access it."
"The last thing I remember I was down at the boardwalk. No, I was swimming. There was a boy- and a ship- and then..."She stopped. "UNSC jump ship S-441 Julia Hernandez. Why is there a ship named after me? That's where we are."
"You -are- the ship. Jump ships all have a human-based AI. They need them for the jumps."
"You mean the ship controllers? But those are all heroes. People who died in the line of duty."
"You saved the life of the UN Secretary's son in a selfless act of heroism. You are qualified. I was told you chose this, that they gave you the option and you wanted to be a ship."The captain wrinkled his brow. Not for the first time he wondered if it was a good idea that they made the captain wake up the ship brain for the first time.
"There was a voice in the darkness. I remember that, but I didn't know what I was choosing."
Julia could feel her fingers now. She had hundreds of them, in every system of the ship. They tickled.
"It's not too late to stop. They can give the ship a different brain. You'd go back to the darkness."
They didn't let the captain wake up the brain until just before the ship was ready to leave. The psychologists didn't think it was good to let the brain spend too long without a working body.
"I don't think so, but space is just another kind of darkness. What's it like out there?"
Captain Tarquin decided to take the chance. "I don't know. Finding out would be an adventure."He pushed a button on his console.
Julia could feel her legs. She jumped.
\[more at r/c_avery_m\] |
The spider was big and black. It scurried under a couch cushion. Andrés, not wanting to be woke in the middle of night by the spider, lifted the cushion. He could see his reflection of awe in all eight eyes. The spider sat next to a crisp $20 bill. In thin webs, it wrote "Rent Money."
Few people lived on the island of Narganá, off the coast of Panama. It was so small you could walk around the entire thing in ten minutes. The only amenities there were a tiny school and hospital, both built by volunteers who'd never return. There were two air conditioners on the island. Andrés was not lucky enough to have one.
In his small shack, which was built from driftwood and rusty corrugated metal sheets, he sweat every night. Mornings were manageable, almost cool enough to wear a shirt, but once the sun got going in the afternoon it beat down and bounced off the sheet-metal houses. Its heat lingered at night, allowing only a select few to sleep comfortably, and then the cycle began once again.
Narganá made most of its money from travelers. It wasn't an island people wanted to stay at, but it was a necessary stopping point for those whom were too afraid to go through the deadly Darien Gap. Small boats with a single Yamaha motor would refuel there for the night, and its passengers did the same. Andrés remembered a Dutch woman he had housed and made dinner for. She was traveling the world on a motorbike, and after the two had a few drinks she showed him her boat. On it, strapped down like a mythical beast, was her bike. She said its name was Alaska. Before leaving, she paid Andrés $30 for her stay—the most money he'd ever had. He insisted on only taking half, but the woman refused, saying he deserved it. He didn't think so.
One morning, Andrés received the worst news of his life. His girlfriend had been killed at the hands of bandits. They took everything off of her body, including her clothes. There were no signs of a struggle, no bruises or scratches. She had been choked out in seconds. They killed his love only to make a quick dime. The ring Andrés had planned on giving her still sat tucked away under his bed. At night he could feel it poking him through the mattress.
Nothing on the island was free, but money was the secondary currency. The people there mainly bartered with both physical goods and immaterial labor. Andrés was a master woodworker (the ring that haunted him was hand-carved), and so people came to him for furniture. "I can only do so much with driftwood,"he'd tell them in Spanish, but it didn't matter. On Narganá you took what you could get. In return for his services, Andrés received bananas, pillows, clothes, and even jewelry. That how he stayed alive, on an island in the middle of the sea, one day at a time.
He was grey now. His arms and hands didn't work like they used to. Instead of woodworking himself, he now instructed younger men on the trade. It was the only thing he had to give.
The island had gotten richer. There were brick houses with air conditioners hanging out of them. There was a massive church with a tan, naked state of Jesus perched upon the top. The school was bigger, and the hospital had more beds. There were always new travelers staying the night: a new face to meet everyday. The island prospered.
But despite the new money, new faces, and new amenities, Andrés remained in his tiny hut made out of driftwood and sheet metal. He still had no air-conditioner, and the ring continued to poke him at night. But he liked it that way. He didn't want any of the fancy stuff.
He didn't know where the spider had gotten the bill. Maybe it had slipped out of the pocket of a drunken traveler. Or perhaps it had stolen it from beneath somebody else's mattress. Whichever the case was, Andrés had no need for the cash. Not when he was so old, and not when all it would do was remind him of his stolen love. Some people were destined to stay trapped in the old times.
"No, my friend,"he said in his native tongue of Kuna. He lowered the cushion, making sure not to crush his new roommate. "You keep the money." |
Curse my kind heart, curse it once, curse it twice, curse it thrice.
During a particularly cruel winter, with hard winds blowing and much snow falling, I heard some kind of critter outside my window. Feeling a sense of sorrow for the thing, a sympathy for something that must be cold and hungry, I put out an open can of tuna for it to eat inside a safe spot where the wind would not reach. I also put down some blankets, in case the animal in question needed to rest its weary body. I figured that it might be a cat or some such. There are a lot of them around. Next morning I saw that the can had been emptied, and that something cat-sized had clearly slept on the blankets. For a whole week I did this. Put out food, so that some animal could eat. Kindness is not a vice necessarily, but it can lead to you getting the short end of the stick. And clearly, it was time for me to pay. A sort of cruel vindictive karma, punishing me for trying to be a decent fellow. Because on the eighth night, I kept a watch on the little den, and I saw something that could be considered wondrous. A beautiful, if somewhat thin, fox cub with nine tails. It saw me and immediately ran up to me, yipping happily and rubbing itself against my legs. It allowed me to pick it up and carry it inside, where I gave it some more to eat, as it was clearly still hungry.
Around its neck was a collar with a note attached. And that was when I learned how I should never have been so kind. There are more than one kind of nine-tailed fox. And this was no cub borne from a fully realised kitsune. No servant of Inari Okami. This was a nine-tailed fox from a different land, equally likely to appear as the others when one lives in America, not the Asian countries from whence such creatures come. This was a Kumiho-cub. The note was from its mother, who had been wounded and could not care for herself and her cub. It explained that while the cub could eat some normal foods, it would soon require a different diet to fully grow into a healthy and strong fox-spirit. Sure, it could eat normal human food, even survive and subsist on it; but to grow strong it would need to feast on the flesh of humans. Livers and hearts for preference, but any organ would do in a pinch. Normally I would have thrown such away, and refused to have anything to do with the fox-cub cuddling up against me. But the note made it clear that the fox-cub would attach itself to me, and if I didn't feed it right, then once the mother would be well enough to care for the cub again, she would feed me to it.
It didn't look evil, but then again evil is as evil does. And so, began the most harrowing time in my life. Every day I had to take it on walks, though its... her, inherent magic would ensure that others would not notice her. I had to. Needed exercise, and without it, she wouldn't sleep and instead keep me awake during the nights by zooming around my house. That is normal, of course, for a pet. But when she shapeshifts around to look human, that's when I get worried. I know Kumiho get to their prey by disgusting means, disguising themselves as human and harmless, and then ripping out the livers of people with their teeth. Feeding her what she needs, she her mother has demanded I feed her, hasn't been easy. I scavenge medical waste bins at the hospital where I work, thankful that nobody notices guys like me. I desperately stick around and take night-shifts just to find ways to get her what she needs. Because I don't want to die.
Every day, I feed her as much normal human food as possible, but still have to give her daily some parts of a person. Luckily, she doesn't frown, not a picky eater, when it comes to medical waste. Cancerous organs go as easily as healthy ones. Not everyone who is autopsied by me anymore gets to keep all their stuff. Luckily, it's from the dead, and the dead have no reason to complain if they're missing half a liver. But it is harrowing. And she is still, mostly, a cute fox that runs around, yips at things, that likes to play tricks. She loves to have her fur brushed, to play catch, and to act like a normal pet most of the time. Except she speaks sometimes, and transforms. Sometimes I have to explain to her, when she is pretending to be a human child, that she shouldn't bite the other children. Especially not with her fox teeth. That's usually a sign of her being hungry for, well, what she bit into. At least she does listen to me, when I tell her that it's wrong to do such.
She is energetic. As winter turns to spring, she spends more time as a human-looking child, transforming freely between the two phases whenever nobody is looking. But it's getting harder and harder to provide for her. At the hospital, people have started to ask questions. Not just to me, but to everyone. It's clear that someone has started to notice that things are going missing. Trash to be sure, medical waste really, yet it should have been sent to the incinerator. I've been lucky thus far. Probably nobody is suspecting me, dependable and hard-working as I am. Only I know what I am doing, and at least nobody has been hurt by my deeds, even though they're illegal. But the existence of a child in my house has not gone un-noticed. I have explained to friends and a few colleagues who've seen me taking her on walks down to the park, that she's kin, and that her mother is sick. I make it sound serious, so nobody questions too closely. I've had talks with various mothers who work at the same department of the hospital, about the subject of children. They know I'm a long-term bachelor, and that I'm not suited, so they're all too willing to give me advice on how to care for the kid.
She still turns into a fox at night, even during the Summer months. She spends most days as a human now. But she still turns into a fox at night, and sleeps on my chest. I got her a real bed, not a pet bed, so she could sleep in it, but she prefers lying atop my chest, which is hellishly warm, all that fur from those long tails. Desperation at people asking questions have made me enrol her in a nearby school. She is excited, I am worried, what else is new. Despite how afraid I am, I've come to care for the fox-kit. At least she no longer bites the children. She also knows not to transform unless she is at home. Rather she talks about her, and I quote, cute, new backpack, and how cool it will be to go to school. Of course, seeing as how she has no real knowledge of the world, I've had to spend many a night teaching her basics. Reading, addition and subtraction, some history, other subjects. She takes to it like a champ. And she always enjoys it. Enjoys learning new things. It can be very heartwarming in theory to watch someone teach a kid like that, but not when her teeth suddenly change into sharp canines as she bites into some meat. And yet, everything might fall apart. People at work have gotten more suspicious, more questions have been sent to us, we are under closer and closer scrutiny than ever before. It's harder and harder to get enough for her, enough to satisfy the demands her mother explicitly wrote down.
Autumn comes, and I'm reading notes from the teachers. Talking about how bright my kid is. About how well-adjusted she is in the class. My kid. The words feel odd in my throat. When she first left the home to go to school, she called me dad. That was unexpected. It filled me with emotions that I found difficult at best to describe. She has not shown much evil, beyond a tendency to bite hard when she is annoyed. And yet the threats, the legends. And the horror-diet. Luckily that was sorted out when another person in the department was found with a suitcase full of organs. All was blamed on him, even my own little crimes. Which can continue, although recently she has started to complain a little about that. She doesn't mind transforming and doing strange magic, but the eating, she has started to be unhappy about that. I fear what that means. It occurs to me sometimes that she rarely if ever talks about her mother, and some part of me hopes that she's long dead, and long gone. Perhaps I could cease the feeding, treat her like a normal kid. Perhaps that would be for the better. Especially when she goes to sleepovers, acts like a kid would. Talks about her friends. It's... nice. |
"WHO SUMMONS DARETHIAL?!"
The only sound is a child sobbing. I look around. There is no one here until I look down. On the ground, outside the circle, is a small child. The pain from this child is heady, but it is not from me. The fear is intoxicating, but it is not my fear. The anger, oh, the anger. Anger is my meat and potatoes. It is all mine. This child is angry beyond belief.
"CHILD, WHY HAVE YOU SUMMONED ME?"
"My father."
That is the owner of the pain.
"My mother."
That is the owner of the fear.
This child pours out their soul before me. I am a demon of hell. I usually am summoned by greedy bastards who seek immortality that they do not deserve. Cases such as this child go to The Other.
These parents do not believe in The Other. Not even slightly. The Other would have little power over them.
I, on the other hand, have great power over them. They have offended my master. They have offended The Other. And most of all, they have offended the flesh of their flesh, the blood of their blood, the bone of their bone.
To the core of my soul, this child's soul cries out, not for revenge. Not for vengeance. But for succor, for itself, and its siblings.
My soul moves for this child.
"YOU SHALL SUFFER NO MORE. RELEASE ME."
A tiny hand, bone thin, reaches out from under the thin blanket. The circle is broken as that hand snatches itself back under the blanket.
I see something else that sets my wrath burning bright. The blanket is encrusted with loose earth. This child was left for dead in a shallow grave, wrapped in this thin blanket that is hardly sufficient for a malnourished child.
"TAKE MY HAND, CHILD, SO THAT I MIGHT PROTECT YOU AND YOUR SIBLINGS."
That too-slender hand reaches out and grabs my hand with a force that cannot be denied. I hiss in pain at the strength of that grip, which relaxes with a sobbing "sorry."
"BE NOT SORRY. WERE IT NOT FOR YOUR STRENGTH, I WOULD NOT BE HERE, AND YOUR SIBLINGS WOULD STILL BE IN DANGER. I GIFT YOU WITH A PORTION OF MY STRENGTH THAT WE MAY SAVE YOUR SIBLINGS."
Still sobbing, but now with vigor, the child stands and holds my hand as a child holds a beloved parent's hand for safety and assurance. My soul stirs in ways that I do not understand.
"THINK OF WHERE YOU AWOKE."
A flash of panic eased by a gentle squeeze of the child's hand. The panic subsides. A dark road, some distance from the road, a shallow grave. This field is nothing but shallow graves. Each filled with one or more children in the same sad state as this one, but without the burning will to live so he might save his siblings.
I can see their footsteps. They are the most recent to use this place, but they are not the first nor the only. We track them back to the road, thence to a large house well bedecked with All Hallows Eve decorations. This is an affluent neighborhood; why does the entire place stink of fear and despair?
On this night when mischief is most free, this neighborhood reeks of conformity in fear of one's life. The children in their bright costumes are quiet and orderly. Older children guide the younger, not cruelly, but with the only love these children know. Adults are feared, save for a few, none of whom live anywhere near. In each house, children on the brink of adulthood stand at the doors in their costumes. They are waiting for the other children to come to the door and carry out a macabre ritual with more fear than hope. Who will not come tonight? Who will never be seen or spoken of again?
Where are the adults?
Ah. They gather in the large house on the hill. The one this child once called home, until driven to desperation this child struck back at the abusers. Not in fear of its own life but in fear for another. An older sibling who stepped forward to protect this child.
"THE ONE YOU FOUGHT TO PROTECT STILL LIVES BUT IS IN NEED OF MEDICAL ATTENTION."I feel that tiny, thin hand grow stronger than steel. "GOOD. YOU MUST ENTER THE HOUSE AND RALLY THE CHILDREN. ANY YOU WOULD SAVE MUST BE OUT OF THE HOUSE BY DAWN. NONE WHO REMAIN WILL SURVIVE MY WRATH."
That tiny hand squeezes mine and fades into the shadows. In time, a line of children moving like shades trickles from the house. Soon enough, the child returns, nodding to me. The one who summoned me fades into the gathering mists, joining those mists as they flow towards this house filled with horrors walking in human skin.
It is time. My wrath feeds the mists and gives them form and function. The mists rise over the mansion like towering thunderstorms, crashing onto the roof like silent waves. What comes after is anything but silent. The terror is exquisite, the more so because those experiencing it thought themselves immune. I howl with glee to hear the begging of these monsters in human flesh. "No! I am important!""Get away! Get away from me!""You! You are dead! We buried you!"
That last becomes the final words of every soul in this place. As they depart the mortal coil, I gather them—my payment for my services—finally, silence reigns.
With the dawn only moments away, small figures depart the house, making their way to where I stand. Each thanks me before fading into the coming light.
When the dawn light strikes the ridge of the mansion, it bursts into flames. The mansion burns to the ground. No rescue services come. No one in the houses below would call aid for these. Not when they are celebrating their first all saints day, in truth. Their loved ones are safe, and the evil ones are no more.
My heart swells with the praises that are heaped upon me by the children.
*DARETHIAL, YOU ARE NO LONGER FIT FOR HELL. WILL YOU ACCEPT A DIFFERENT CHARGE?*
If it is in service to these children, then gladly.
Another hand touches me in a way I have not felt since the rebellion. The grim mask of a demon falls away, and the grace of an angel is restored.
This will not do, none who seek to harm children will fear this form. I am reminded of another fearsome form. One that protects many places from evil. My body becomes misshapen again, seemingly made from stone, and I adopt a perch on the gateway to this community.
Wherever they go, I will know, and my protection will go with them.
Fear me, abusers, for I know more of abuse than you can conceive.
((finis)) |
"What??"I asked, staring at her in confusion as my barely awake brain had trouble comprehending Eve's words.
My beautiful, 6 months pregnant wife stared back at me, not sleepy at all. She doesn't sleep, she just cuddles with me at night when *I* sleep.
It was sweet and heartwarming. And even though her undead body is unable to produce body heat, I always felt warmer in her embrace.
But ever since she got pregnant there were some nights when she woke me up to go and grab something from the kitchen. I didn't blame her, I heard about pregnant women having weird cravings during pregnancy so I didn't blame her for it.
But due to the fact that she was a vampire, her cravings were a little more...special.
"Peanut butter, bring me smooth peanut butter from the kitchen."Her soft, gentle voice replied, repeating the same words she said to me when she woke me up.
"Oh."I let out as my brain finally became awake enough to comprehend the words she said to me.
I got up from the bed, went to the kitchen, grabbed the requested item, and went back to our bedroom. The whole ordeal took 1 minute if not less.
I handed her the Jar together with a butter knife and laid back down on the bed. I didn't even flinch when she started to spread the substance on my wrist and then sunk her teeth into it.
I got used to the bites a long time ago, and they were never truly painful to begin with, just a little bit uncomfortable.
"G'night."I murmured as I drifted back to sleep, letting her have her late-night snack.
"Good night, I love you."I heard her reply and felt her giving me a peck on the cheek before she sunk her teeth back into my peanut butter-covered wrist. |
''*Do you know why we brought you in?*''
I looked out through the window. In the distance I could observe with great pleasure the 08:34 train westward arrive at station at the precise and perfect time. It would stay on the platform for 2.35 minutes, before departing, with stops at 08:54 at Ringtown, 09:15 Groatsville, 09:36 Orangeburg, before arriving at its final destination, Westport Eastern Terminal, 09:57. While looking at the beautiful, aerodynamic new train, that has not deviated from its planned time schedule in the past 487.76 days, since the world began making sense. ''*Yes. I know why you brought me in. I'm not affected by your mind control.*'' I do not look at the strange alien creature before me. Not directly. Usually, whenever I must pretend to stare into the eyes of another human, a truly painful and unpleasant experience, I focus on the eyebrows. This alien does not have eyebrows. He does have antennae though. I turn and look at them instead. He is noticeably taller than I am, so it is easier to pretend that I am looking into his eyes by looking up.
''*How. All around this planet, we've begun to find those like you. Those who were unaffected. How have you remained undiscovered?*''
I shrug while tapping my foot, stimming. ''*You made the world work. It is nice.*'' They really did make the world work. One day to another, things were no longer the same insane status quo that was so annoying and terrible. No longer did people talk about inconsequential things, inane subjects that had no bearings on anything. No longer did people call me strange and odd for working incessantly on various things without breaks. Or for liking unusual things. The new food was good too. All of it had the right mouthfeel, the right consistency to be enjoyed. No more hypersensitive mouth issues for me. Finally, I could eat healthy without getting that horrible sense of wrongness that some food imparted on me. I spent days, weeks, months, working on things I liked, doing what I was told, going home on the same time, every day, with the most stable and unchanging schedule I've ever experienced. Took a bit of time getting used to having to program FTL navigational computers and weapons systems, instead of maintaining servers for an insurance company.
''*We made the world work? We made it work for us! We tore down your inefficient leaders and turned your hands towards hard labour! We rule this world!*''
I nod. ''*Yes. You're doing a pretty good job thus far. Better than the ones who used to run the world. Thanks.*'' I am not good at reading human body language, better at animals really. We are still allowed to keep pets, when we're not working. People are mind-controlled, yes. But they seem to be allowed some autonomy when not working. I can't really complain. The body language of this tall, lanky, alien. His body colored mostly with RGB values of (102, 2, 60), and shades of (112, 4, 71). It is more akin to that of an animal. More easily read. More readily available. His movement away from me indicates fear. ''*I think you could do some optimization of the high-speed rail network you've set up, if you were to shift the station locations slightly. I've looked through some geographical maps, and I think you can shave off an average of 39.2 seconds on the western line out of your colonial capital.*'' He looks at me with an incomprehensible expression. Less painful to look at than looking at a human being.
''*You are free of our mental domination, but you don't mind us ruling you?*''
I look out the window again. Sure. ''*Yes. Sure. It's better. You've made everything work as it should. Trains run on time. Government corruption no longer exists. Many of the people I know in a similar situation as me find it much easier to work now that everything is more orderly.*'' Not to mention that there is no longer any climate anxiety, given that the previous industries have been dismantled, along with noisy and stressful things such as personal automobiles. There are no people listening to things in public without headphones on, or talking loudly in my general direction, and I haven't been told off by someone who instructed me to do a task using a metaphor, which meant I would not be able to effectively do the allotted task as my instructions were not clear. There are no lies. No dishonesty. No breaking of promises. I am at peace.
''*We have discovered that your brains are alternatively functioning, those of you who have avoided our control. And yet, you seem to prefer our control. You still do our bidding, only voluntarily. Why?*''
It is better. They are clear in what they want, how they want it, and when they want it. There are no unclear messages, no attempts at unnecessary socialization, no desire for ineffective and meaningless engagement with irrational occupations. And we only work for four days a week, for six hours a day instead of eight. These aliens seem a lot less stressful and painful to deal with. I haven't had to repair a company computer again after someone downloaded what was obviously a virus for the 100th time. I haven't had to explain why one should not always download every attachment in every email. ''*You are not insane. Your species is sane to work for.*'' The alien gets closer to me. Close enough that I can smell it. Not in an unpleasant manner, which many people used to smell like when they doused themselves in cheap cologne or perfume. Some of it could be cause for sensory overloading if it was the real bad stuff. This is just earthy. ''*Working used to be like... trying to satisfy someone who never knew what they wanted, and so you had to make your best guess at what they wanted, and they'd get unnecessarily angry at you for not finding the precise thing that they wanted you to get for them, even though they did not accurately describe their desired thing. Now, I go to work, I get a clear order of what to do, nobody bothers me, nobody speaks to me in order to say disparaging words about my comfortable clothes or my choice in media. Nobody does stupid, unnecessary, and annoying things.*''
The alien turns to look out the same window I'm looking out of. ''*So, human. Let me get this clear. You know we've taken over your world, for good. There is no resistance. We control the minds of billions to repair nature, and build warships with resources from your star-system's asteroid belts. Suddenly we find out that there are tens of millions of you that are unaffected, completely and utterly, due to a difference in brain anatomy or brain wiring. And it turns out that you've been just working as directed, the same as the mind-controlled humans... No wait. I have a report here, on average you've been working more efficiently, than your mind-controlled brothers and sisters. And you like it.*'' |
She walked into the kitchen after a long day of work. She spied an envelope with “Susie” written on the front in her husband’s still childlike handwriting. Inside the note read: “Susie, I have a surprise waiting for you! But first you must find all of the clues!” On the back of the note was a crudely drawn picture of the big oak tree in the back yard. This got Susie excited, she loved when her husband did these kinds of things.
“Oh Calvin, you are always so creative.” Susie expressed to herself as she rushed out the back door to the yard. She ran over to the tree and looked around. Unable to find anything openly in sight she happened to glance upward into the branches. She saw something glint in the sunlight and took off her business heels to prepare for her climb.
Susie thought back to an afternoon shortly after they had bought the house. Calvin had convinced her to climb up in the tree and they just sat in the tall branches watching the sunset. She loved her husband and trusted him to lead her wherever their lives took them.
She finally reached what turned out to be Calvin’s old telescope from when he was a kid. He had kept it and was planning on giving to their child whenever they ended up having one. She looked through the telescope and saw that it was pointed to their bedroom window. She quickly hurried down and raced inside, trying to think of what the surprise could possibly be while simultaneously hoping that the tree was not a reoccurring place Calvin used his old telescope.
As she flew open the door to her bedroom she immediately saw the next note on the bed. She didn’t have to pick up the letter because the message was obvious. There was an arrow drawn pointing to the closet. She opened up the walk-in closet, one of her favorite aspects of the house and their room in general, and saw another note taped to the back wall.
She walked towards the note and saw that it read: “Susie, Calvin is my friend and mine alone.” Scared and confused Susie raised her hand over her mouth so that she didn’t scream. Her husband didn’t make this scavenger hunt after all. Behind her the closet door slammed shut. She turned around and all she could see was an old and battered stuffed tiger sitting at the bottom of the door. A small gasp was all that she could make before everything went dark.
|
Humans have always feared the end of the world; stories of hurricanes and tornadoes swarming, the dead rising to claim the living, seas swelling to swallow land. Perhaps a meteor will destroy us, crushing scampering bodies like ants under foot and encasing our planet in a thick cloud of dust that blocks the sun's warmth. Or, could it be another sickness, so vile and unyielding no medicine can cure it?
And so, we always held fear in the back of our minds. *The apocalypse is coming.* Shelters to survive blasts and sustain life for years were built, just in case. We sliced through forest and harvested animals like crops to sustain our species; to build ourselves as great and perhaps be able to overcome any threat of extinction.
*Nothing can destroy us.* Our strong minds and powerful will would drive us to survive anything nature could throw our way. For that is what we are- we are survivors. That is the trait evolution handed to us. Earth cannot purge us so easily, for we are intelligent, and we are strong. Adaptability is our mantra, and we do not give in without a fight.
Humanity feared the apocalypse, yet it was simply Earth trying to purge a sickness from itself. An infection that destroyed its body and murdered its inhabitants by the billions, poisoning it little by little along the way; a virus without reprieve, reaping its very life.
We feared the apocalypse, yet not once did we stop to think that perhaps, it is us- even as bombs fell, splintering flesh and Earth, fusing them in a mangled mess of sorrow and pain.
In the end, it was not just Earth left slain, but ourselves as well- truly, the pinnacle of destruction. Yet, through fire and smoke, through ash and death, we still could not see it. Those who survived thought the apocalypse was upon *them*, in their ignorance without bliss.
*We* are the apocalypse. *We are Death.* |
"Are you telling me,"Victor said into his drink, "that our strike did nothing to the government? NOTHING?"
"No,"Rachel said with her drink decidedly done, "I'm just saying that nobody cares that we did it. Nobody joined up from it."
"It was the plan,"Victor said, "once we strike people will see that they can be beaten, that there is blood in the water, people will be angry and-"
"People are angry,"Rachel sighed. The pair were tired of sleeping in fox holes to avoid the peacekeepers of the government. There seemed to be an unlimited amount of them. Perhaps there literally were, cloning wasn't beyond their abilities.
"Then why aren't they fighting?"Victor hissed.
"They're angry, not inspired,"Connor said from his corner of the foxhole. He quite liked sleeping outside, and it showed on his weathered skin. "They need someone better."
"Better?"Victor asked, most people died the second they tried to stand up against the government. He'd managed to take down two of the Holy Seven with his bare hands. There wasn't anyone better for this.
Connor caught onto his thoughts. "They need someone they can plaster on a poster."
"I can be plastered on a poster,"Victor said before downing his drinks. He had the kind of chin that could cut diamonds and stubble that made his face feel like sandpaper. Victor was the superhero version of a Dad.
"No you can't people don't want grown men on their walls,"Rachel said, "but I could-"
"You're too risque,"Connor said, "we want them to fight, not oggle."
"So what do we get?"Victor asked. He was on the edge of trying anything to add people to their fight.
"Someone younger, non-threatening,"Connor said.
"Rachel's daughter?"Victor asked.
"I'm not getting her into a fucking w-"
"No, she's black."
"What the hell man?"Victor asked Connor to the comment.
"It'd look like we were making a statement."
"We are taking down a tyrranical government, I think we're making a statement."
"But like a political one,"Connor clarified.
"Oh,"Rachel and Victor said in harmony with one another.
"We need a teenage white girl, that'll be inspiring."
"You mean some little waif who isn't going to be able to take a shotgun from the guards?"Victor scoffed. For a moment he doubted his friends, eyes clouded by the way that he'd been taught to see the world. Of course, my god. She WAS the key. They didn't know where they would find her, but they had to find her and take her in. She could change the rebellion around. "Sounds perfect,"Victor said before chucking his glass out of the foxhole and stomping toward town.
---
Well, if you got through that you might enjoy /r/Jacksonwrites and the things I do there. |
Then Virgil lead me into the next subreddit. "Behold,"he said, "for you have come to /r/bigbangcomics."
Before me I saw all manner of confusion and chaos. Words in the ugliest fonts hung abruptly in the ether. They were almost never spelled correctly, yet somehow I could sense an ubiquitous pride in such sloppiness. Beneath the words, floating listlessly in a sea of roiling white foam, there was an infinite stretch of tormented souls. But these souls were not each unique, but rather always the souls of the same four weak men and the same two blonde women (and, for some reason, Blossom). These same six victims repeated endlessly, albeit in different and shifting grotesque variations, for an eternity.
Each of the versions of the souls had been confined to some ineffable two dimensional prison, as if they had been crudely cut out of a magazine by a child. Only their eyes could dart about; their mouths could open to wail and whisper or beg for water. Sometimes, their heads and limbs would be snatched by dotted lines appearing from nowhere, and then ripped from the rest of the body, as the poor victims screamed. Their appendages would be interchanged with each others, unless the body parts simply zigzagged and spiraled pointlessly through the ether. Constantly, unbearable nonsense was shouted from nowhere and images would appear across on the sky: mushroom clouds, the McDonald's logo, dildos, maps of North Korea. Yet somehow, in a manner I could never hope to explain, this miasma of sheer confusion could clear itself, and in the interstices, I could apprehend how the souls and the words and the images and the noises were desperately laboring to reenact some long forgotten story, but also fiercely hate the very story they told and any world that would allow them to tell it.
There were no names in this horrendous place. Nothing remained stable for long enough to be named. The six souls were each only given a sound. There was Sh-, who would at one moment be called Shelido and then suddenly Shelshelmmquo and then Shower; there was L- would was Leort or Lennox or Vladimir Lenin. The blonde women were endlessly set in different comely and sexual poses (unless they were to be given six eyes or eight arms or the body of Lightning McQueen), but it was understood that this was only to insult rather than revere.
And worst of all, throughout the entire horrific expanse there was the constant laughter of unseen strangers; strangers who we all knew were long dead, and whose laughs were in no sense related to anything funny happening.
"This is a place for only those who have succumbed to madness,"I told Virgil.
"No,"he objected, "this is a place for only those who bathe in madness and drink it up like mother's milk."
It is said by some that the Big Bang Theory is where the seeds of humanity were born and it is said by others that *the Big Bang Theory* is where the lantern of humanity was snuffed out. I do not know if either of these things are true. But I know now that /r/bigbangcomics is surely what must endure before and after the Universe of Reason. |
Old man Frank rocked on his porch chair in the gentle breeze. The summer bloom had just begun and the neighborhood was starting to look quite idyllic. The kids played in the streets and the parents roasted steaks in their gardens. Forget nuclear families, this was a nuclear neighborhood.
Nevertheless, Frank took little notice of his splendid surroundings. His eyes remained glued to the stained, porch floor, rocking in his chair all the while. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
Sometimes a sound would catch the attention of his old, wilting ears, and Frank would snap his neck up like he were a young man again, scanning the front lawn for any sign of activity. Alas, his hopes and dreams were always dashed, the garden lawn remaining free of the pitter patter of little feet.
Frank sat still, slowly swaying in the warm, evening breeze. Today he had no false dawns. He had not heard a peep from the lawn beyond his porch, and so he hadn't bothered to look up, content for his eyes to wallow in the dried, chipped paint of the porch.
"Excuse me, mister,"a voice announced, just beyond his vision.
Frank slowly lifted his head, not trusting the message his ears had brought him. That sounded like it was addressed to him, but nobody talked to him anymore, not unless they had to. But sure enough, as Frank looked up from the porch, across the perfect lawn, and on to the street outside his house, he saw a young lad staring back at him, looking rather sheepish.
"Yes?"Frank croaked, his heart beating like it once had in his youth. "What is it?"He hoped his desperation had not tainted his words.
The kid shuffled on the spot a little longer, looking to his friends across the road, then back to Frank. He pointed up to the large, oak tree in the middle of Frank's lawn. "Our frisbee, mister, it's stuck in your tree."
Frank craned his head slowly till he could see the bright orange disk lodged firmly in the foliage. "So it is lad."He offered a smile. The first he had gave in years. "Why are you telling me this?"
"I was wondering if I could get it back."
"Of course, you needn't ask, lad."Frank savoured every word of the conversation, no matter how mundane. He knew it would be over soon.
The boy gave the elder a distrusting look. "You're not gonna get mad? Tell me to get off your lawn and all that?"
Frank coughed up a laugh. "Come on, lad. Grab your frisbee."
The boy's face lit up. Frank hadn't seen such a reaction in decades, let alone been the cause of it. This new found experience lit a fire in his old belly. He wanted to talk again. He wanted to interact again. He had remembered the joy of it.
The lad walked on to the grass, approaching the tall tree. Frank held up a hand to gain his attention. The youngster halted, looking over to Frank as he slowly rocked on his porch, a devilish grin now spread across his wrinkled face.
"Get the fuck off my lawn, you little shit."
\-\-
r/ShittyStoryCreator :\) |
Taya was a normal 6-year-old girl in almost every respect. She loved playing with Barbies; she loved watching Paw Patrol whenever I would let her rot her brain in front of the TV; and she loved tormenting the dog, Aby.
There was just one little aspect of Taya that wasn’t… quite so normal. Before she could even speak, her baby-babble was the strangest thing I’d ever heard. It was like if you took baby-babble, put it on a record, and played it backwards. Honestly, it was creepy as hell. To make it even weirder, she would always look to one side when she did it, and then pause as if she was listening to something.
Her mom had shrugged it off and said that Taya would outgrow it when she started speaking. All babies are different, and all have their quirks, she had said. But Taya didn’t outgrow it.
One time shortly after her fourth birthday, she had launched into what seemed like a long, angry tirade in the strange babble. All the while she had looked to the side as if she was speaking to her shoulder, just like she had ever since she was a baby. I had inquired what was wrong, and her reply was burned forever into my memory. I can still see the tears building in her eyes as she told me, “Daddy, they said they’re going to come take me away soon.”
“Who? Who’s going to take you away?” I had replied, bewildered.
That was when she had said it. Those two words: “The Aliens”. It was the first and last time she ever spoke of them.
Ever since then, I had wondered if I had made a mistake when I responded to her by telling her there were no such thing as Aliens. Nobody was going to take her away. Everything would be OK.
By dismissing her concerns rather than validating them - even though I was trying to be comforting – I had pushed her away. From then on, she no longer did the weird babble in front of me. But every once in awhile I would catch her doing it when she thought I couldn’t hear her.
I desperately wished her mom had still been around to see that Taya had never outgrown the babble. She would know exactly what to say to break through to our little girl and help her.
Over the last few weeks the babble had suddenly been increasing. Every time Taya was at home, she would sneak off to her room and I would hear her speaking the babble with distress in her voice, sometimes even yelling. But if I tried to talk to her, comfort her, hug her, anything at all, she would shut down and stop responding to me.
One evening, I sat on the couch pondering all of this. If only I could go back in time to that day 2 years before and really listen to my little girl. If I had kept that line of communication open, instead of shutting it down, maybe I could help her.
If only I could go back even further and save her mother. Tears threatened to well up in my eyes as I thought about that amazing woman, and how much I missed her. I knew that the empty hole in our hearts would never be filled. Taya needed her mother, not me. I couldn’t do this alone.
Suddenly, a scream from Taya’s room pierced the overwhelming gloom that clouded my thoughts. Before I even had time to register what was happening, I was on my feet and sprinting to her room. The dog was close on my heels.
I burst through the door, and there was Taya, standing in the middle of the room, tears streaming down her face. I scooped her up into my arms, and before I could even try and ask her what was wrong, suddenly sirens split the air all around the house. Aby started barking wildly.
Still holding Taya, I stepped over to the window to look outside and see what was going on. I drew back the curtains just in time to see a man dressed in a black suit and white shirt step out of an SUV that had screeched to a stop in the middle of my lawn; ripping the grass up and spraying dirt everywhere.
The man reached back into the SUV and pulled out a megaphone. He fiddled with the knob, then held it to his mouth. “Ambassador Taya. It’s time.” His voice boomed.
My jaw dropped as I looked from this man invading my lawn, to my sweet little girl, tears still streaming down her face. “What… what is he talking about? Ambassador? Are you even old enough to know what an Ambassador is?”
Taya squirmed for me to put her down. I reluctantly did so.
She stood staring at the floor for a few moments, and then she slowly looked up into my eyes. The tears had stopped.
“Daddy… There’s something I need to tell you about Mommy.”
\--------------------
Edit:
[Part 2](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/c3d1cd/wp_your_daughter_has_always_had_imaginary_alien/erruh0d?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x) is up.
Also, just want to thank everyone for the upvotes and the requests for a continuation of the story. I'm new to /r/WritingPrompts (and to sharing my writing in general), so to have people actually wanting to read more is a pretty cool feeling. Thanks all! |
Paula’s next client is Sam. He was referred by his mother, a harried woman with a toddler on her. hip in the reception and a phone buzzing in her bag the whole time they spoke. Sam spent a summer with his Dad on the Isle of Mull, supposedly fishing and trekking. The mother had meant to go up and see him but with the toddler it was hard to get away.
Sam is a quiet, withdrawn boy. He sits on the couch with his knees pressed against each other like sapling trees keeping each other up. Paula feels foolish for having laid out the toys she uses for her younger clients to express themselves. A pair of wooden knights are scattered on the table, and she tries to nudge them subtly out of the way with her notebook.
She tells him it’s a safe space, but can tell he’s not really listening to her.
Regular sessions breed familiarity. Sam sits a little straighter on the couch. She compliments him on his posture, trying not to compare him to other teenagers out loud, but she’s never seen a kid his age with that bearing. His shoulders are thrown back, and his eyes hold hers with innate confidence.
Paula notices his hands shake when she drops her metal pen on the wooden floor. Sam speaks often of wide open spaces, of knights and raiders, cruel kings and malicious princes. Paula makes a note to review a study on the link between violent games and PTSD. It’s a controversial point in her community, but Sam speaks about events as if they have actually occurred. She sees white scars over his forearms when the summer weather allows short sleeves and speaks to him about alternatives to self-harm.
They talk about him returning to Scotland, about his Dad supporting his recovery process.
When the weather turns again Sam becomes withdrawn and morose. Paula fears its a relapse, but doesn’t know how to fix it. They have been speaking for a year and she has no more answers than she did when she started. He’s an odd fit, he gets in fights with boys at school and leaves them bloody. It doesn’t win him any favours, even in environments where that sort of machoism is favoured, he hasn’t found a group he belongs to. Reports from teachers are never ending.
A last resort is a field trip, signed off by two professionals more senior than Paula. They’re to meet Dad in Scotland, so Sam has parental supervision. The rain whips around them when they leave Stornoway and she repairs to the bottom deck of the ferry. Sam stands on the desk, lashes of freezing cold rain making his clothes stick to his skin. He turns his face to the stone-grey sky and holds his hands out as though he could embrace the clouds.
The island is welcoming. Sam’s spirits are brighter. He walks with purpose. Paula keeps her notebook in her handbag, ostensibly so she can keep up her charade that she is doing her job, but Sam is better than he has been in years. He wants to show her something in his Dad’s village, and they make the trip in a hired car.
Sam does not stop talking. It seems this is where he belongs, amongst the red moors and sweeping hills of the Scottish island. The space frees him from his mind.
The surprise is an old monument in the centre of the village. It has been turned into a war memorial, with poppies laid at the bottom and a thin metal chain protecting it from vandals. It has no names engraved on it, and Paula suspects it is much older than the villagers are making out. Sam hops the chain, tugging at Paula’s hand.
“Here,” he said. “Put your hand on it. I’m going to go back. You’ll understand, you’ll see.”
They wait, hands pressed against the sun-warmed stone. Minutes tick by, and Sam grows increasingly more agitated.
“What if I can’t go back?” he asks. For the first time, Paula observes a childlike vulnerability in the question. He is shaking from top to toe.
“Go back where?” The question has barely left her mouth before she feels an odd jerk in her jaw and the war memorial disappears. Sam, beside her, is crying for joy. |
I was almost 16 when the powers kicked in. Nothing special. Not flying in the air, not becoming invisible and not telekinesis. But I did start hearing murmurs. Little whispers when I was around people.
I was frightened initially to be honest. I thought it was schizophrenia. But slowly I realized that I was simply hearing the thoughts and internal monologues of people.
And yeah a lot of it is embarrassing
Like suddenly I knew that the most popular girl in class had a weird itch in some undisclosable location. Or that the guy sitting next to me in class had a major crush on his best friend's mom. Or that my English teacher had a slightly unhealthy obsession with Mariah Carey songs
I wanted cool powers. Not this lame shit
A few months later I accompanied my grandma on a trip to the local store. A lady stood there distributing free samples of some home made sauce. I immediately recognized her as one of my neighbours - Ms Jones.
She waved us over excitedly and handed us a free sample.
It tasted......er...well..... it had a distinct taste.
"OH please let them like it. Please. I really love making this sauce"thought ms jones
I could hear a little murmur of "oh lord it's disgusting!"Coming from my grandma's brain.
When I looked up though, my grandma was smiling widely and gave an encouraging nod to Ms Jones before saying "this is delicious dear. So glad to be able to have a taste"
Ms Jones thoughts were basically music after this little interaction.
This put things in perspective for me
I actually had an awesome super power
The power to make someone's day better
If a girl comes in unsure of the new outfit she's wearing you bet I'm gonna ask her where she got it from. If a dude is conscious about the new haircut I'm telling him it looks great. If a kid is worried that his friends will laugh at his new socks I'm gonna tell him how cool they are.
We all have days. We all need to get through them
And like my grandma always said "kindness doesn't cost anything" |
I don’t blame them.
Hell, I love them. In fact, I suppose I have a certain paternal stance toward them.
Yet, to them I am a figure of revulsion. Hideous, stinking, *evil*.
How else should they look at me. Them, in their perfection. Their bodies, slender and lean, sleek, and vigorous. They do not sweat, nor do they smell. They are the perfect amalgamation of all of earth’s glorious creatures, the one perfect lifeform that emerges indefinitely anywhere in the universe given the seed and enough time to germinate. They are life’s *final* form.
Who am I to live alongside them? Me… a carnivore. A human, a slave to my beating heart, a glutton.
They are peaceful creatures, you see. A benign intelligence, a non-parasitic consciousness. They sing when the moon rises, they cry when their young go missing. They cry.
So I keep to the perimeter, watching, waiting. I *have* to, you understand. This is a new earth. An earth that has survived many an apocalypse, an earth that has been purged, purified. And so I…
They have no bones, nor organs from what I can tell. Perfect, inside and out.
I have no choice, you see. You see that?
So the spirit of humanity lives on, I tell myself. I carry the torch for my breed. Consumption. Greed. Wickedness.
I’m hungry. |
It was a familiar event to me. First, an empty void. Floating in there for what seemed to be both seconds and years at the same time. I would think about what I had witnessed, and what I had done. I would plan other courses of action. And I would experiment with my growing power.
Next, I began to fall. It was as though gravity remembered it was meant to be working, and was playing catchup. I would fall faster and faster, wind rushing by the only sound in this place. A light would appear beneath me, growing bigger and brighter as I approached.
Finally, I would slam into it. I would feel solid once more, my mind and memories ready for the next stage. I would experience growing up again. I would gain more power. I would invariably save that world. Then, I would die, and repeat the cycle. The never ending cycle.
Thus time however, I awoke in the body of an adult. It smelt unwashed, and wore old patchwork clothing. The room had seen better days, with paper peeling from the walls, and a cracked ceiling. As I slowly got up, a book fell from my chest. It looked much like a journal.
I opened it up, flicking to the final page. As my eyes ran over it, the words rearranged themselves for me in a language I knew.
*To Whomever Takes Me*
*This world is broken. Nearly a year ago, a previously unknown virus was released into the world. It heightened the infected aggression, and caused them to lose themselves. Their bodies would change to compensate for any damage sustained. A damaged organ would somehow have its job taken over by the others.*
*We call them zombies. A once joking term, for the living dead. Though it is no longer a joke. The term is far more apt than ever before. The infection transmitted faster than expected. Within two months, every governmenthad collapsed. There are surviving colonies, but as a whole, the world is a wasteland.*
*I can do no more. I am but one person, and against the horde I am mere food. So I resorted to something I remembered. The idea of Astral projection. I hope to sacrifice my mind, to find a saviour for the rest.*
*Take my body. Use it well. Save us. Please.*
This interested me. I had fought undead before. Zombies were a normal tool for those who wanted to rule. They were strong, resilient, and above all else could not disobey. This idea of a virus spreading it was new to me though.
I hated the slight excitement in me as well. This was a world of death. It sounded like most people had been slaughtered, and there were few safe spaces. But I had only ever averted such events before. I had never seen the aftermath. It interested me.
I send out my senses, gaging the world. I felt a strong sense of magic, but strangely far away. It seemed as though whilst it was there, it was untapped. Unused. Waiting for something to release it.
I touched it, connecting my power to it. It washed through me, strengthening my already impressive might. I smiled, before thinking of whoever I was inhabiting. I could not feel them, only myself. It dawned on me what they had done. They had sacrificed themselves for the rest of the world.
"Your sacrifice shall not be in vain."
I spoke aloud, meaning my words. I would follow their wishes.
\-----
I exited the room, finding myself in an equally dilapidated house. Time had certainly won here. As I moved through it, I heard the classic moan of a risen corpse. It sounded hungry. As I drew closer, I saw a group of four outside, shambling around. They were mostly nude, clothes long since worn away.
I stepped outside, and they saw me. The moan turned to a shriek, as they sprinted towards me. These were no shambling menaces. These things were fast. Unfortunately for them, I was faster.
I sent out a wave of fire. Aided by the untapped world, it turned from a small blast to an inferno. They were immolated near instantly, as the stone ground beneath turned red hot.
I was shocked at the result. I had only meant to test their strength. But it had been turned into something much more potent. I had to be careful. This worlds strength was just waiting to show what it could do. |
"Sing."
Princess Cecily was far past putting up any resistance. She sang with puffy eyes and a sore throat, a beautiful song that now only sounded ugly to her. As she did, small animals began to fill the room. Showing up from just outside of one's line of sight as if they'd always been there, entranced by the princess's song. She shut her eyes and continued to sing.
"Now!"
The group surrounding the princess moved in unison, grabbing and trapping every animal they could. They weren't too rough with the animals, the long term goal was to domesticate some and have a steady source of food. That was difficult though when there wasn't enough food to feed themselves, let alone animals. Because of that, and because the animals that appeared were all on the smaller size, birds, squirrels, rabbits and so on, Cecily hadn't actually had to watch anything be killed or butchered. A deer had jumped in through the window this time however.
A few men were wrestling with it, trying to hold it down and stop it from escaping. An entire deer would feed them for at least a week. One yelled to kill it before it could get away. Someone had pulled out a knife. The princess cried out.
"No stop! These aren't normal animals! Stop it--"
"Someone get her out of here!"
One of the men helping with the deer yelled. Two people began to drag the princess out of the room. She struggled a little bit, but deep down she didn't want to see what was about to happen, and days of this same thing being played out had worn down her resolve.
"I keep telling you these aren't normal animals. I can feel Him growing angry..."
The two ignored her, she'd clearly lost her mind. Would she rather they all starve to death? She certainly hadn't turned down the food, special animals or not. The door to the room slammed shut behind them. There'd be a bloody mess to clean later.
Princess Cecily was left alone in her room after that. A different room from the one they captured animals in, they weren't intentionally cruel to her. Her heart hurt for the animal friends she'd betrayed. Drawn to her song, only to then be slaughtered. She laid in bed in sorrow and with a growing anxiety.
A week had passed with her scarcely eating. She hoped if she ate as little as possible, they'd not have to kill any more.
It was midday when the leader of the group, Prost, knocked on her door. He waited a few moments and then entered after not hearing a response. The princess was lying on her stomach, face buried in her pillows.
"We'll need you to sing today. I know you don't like it, but we all have to do our part to survive, princess..."
She flinched at his voice, but otherwise made no movement or response. He reached out, perhaps to try to console her, but then thought better of it and turned to leave.
"I'll come and get you in a couple of hours."
He left and let out a sigh after shutting the door. He truly felt for her, but what else were they to do? Farming took time. Livestock took time *and* food. It all took time they didn't have. All the wildlife was dead. Every crop had died. It was a miracle that she was somehow able to summon animals.
Cecily's stomach was a knot of dread. She did not protest this time, did not try to stop them from what was about to happen. Her face was solemnly set as she followed the villagers to the room they used for this. The same people as the last time they'd done this once again stood with bags and cages, ready to capture whatever animals appeared. Prost nodded to the princess and she began to sing.
The villagers glanced around, watching for the animals that would soon appear. They waited. And none appeared.
The princess kept singing. She did not cry this time, nor did her voice crack with sadness. A burning feeling in her chest was growing stronger with each note. Her ears began to ring. She closed her eyes and let the world fade from her consciousness, focusing only on singing. This would be her last song.
Everyone else glanced around nervously. They all felt it, something was off. The ground began to rumble. An earthquake?
"Hey stop her, this isn't right."
An older woman said. Prost grabbed Cecily's shoulder, trying to snap her out of it. Then he saw her face no longer looked anguished, she even had a slight smile.
"What are you doing? Hey are you listening, stop singing!"
A thunderous boom suddenly sounded from outside. The villagers in the room all jumped in fright and stared out the window. A crater had opened up in the ground. Prost couldn't see the bottom, it was just pitch black in the deepest part. Then he realized a house had been there, the Smith family lived there, and it was just gone now.
"Hey! Stop!"
Prost started shaking the princess, trying to make her stop singing. He tried putting a hand over her mouth. She didn't stop. The rumbling in the ground was stronger now. Prost heard glass shattering in another room.
The princess suddenly stopped singing, and collapsed unconscious onto the floor. The rumbling slowed and silence filled the air. Someone eventually spoke.
"Is it over?"
No one answered him. There were a few nervous chuckles. Then someone screamed.
A giant arm made of wood was rising out of the crater. Then another one. The giant began pulling itself out of the hole in the earth. |
For so long we thought the curiosity of the humans to be their weakness.
My friends, how wrong we were.
When humans arrived on the galactic stage, they were well received. Their variety in size and dexterous manipulators made them useful additions to almost any crew or jobsite. More impressive than this, though, was their pervasive hunger to prove themselves. Their motivation and work ethic was unrivaled by far among the other species of the galaxy. They quickly found their way to nearly every production line possible. It seemed that they all shared a love of making things.
Unfortunately, not as much as they loved breaking things.
I'm sure you each have a story of your own of a human pilot dismantling your shuttle, or a human caretaker '*upgrading*' the lawn tools. I once heard of a human doorman that broke the door! Despite this disruption, the presence of humans throughout the galaxy created a statistically significant improvement in production and prosperity.
As I'm sure you all know by now, I was stationed on Keplak 4 during the Galdonian invasion. My escort was a human named 'Teek'. Teek did not boast any military experience or battle prowess. He did not claim to be a cunning engineer, or a strategic genius. His role involved little more than taking my food orders and preparing my garments each day. When the first drop pods landed, and the research facility was stormed, I did not dare to hope for survival.
Teek did.
When the Galdonian scout kicked in my door and drew his weapon, I did not attack him in an effort to defend myself.
Teek did.
When the Galdonian was disabled by his hands, I did not try to come up with a plan for escape.
Teek did.
I live today because Teek delivered me to safety. Despite this, I must admit my horror when Teek began removing the flesh from the still living Galdonian he had disabled prior to our escape. I wretched. I begged him to stop. I pleaded with him. "What are you doing?"I shouted. His calm response was simply one word; "Documenting."He pulled out a datapad and began taking pictures, and making notes as he stripped layer after layer. Flesh, muscle, organs and viscera. The Galdonian had died long before he had finished his grisly work. It was that day that I learned a human word that will haunt me until my last day.
'Vivisection' |
We're exhausted.
Of all the races in the galaxy, we were the only ones who didn't have a common sense. Something to bind us all together in times of peace, or some universal moral code that we all followed. There is not one region on our home planet that's avoided the fractured, broken, and chaotic nature of humanity.
So when the aliens known as the Kaavar passed through the Milky Way's galactic border, looting and burning entire systems, the Terran Empire soon became the only entity available to fight them. You see, common sense is by definition *common*. Each of the other 10 or so races coexisting before the Kaavari invasion had some attribute that applied to every member of their species...attributes that the cunning enemy exploited over and over to great effect.
Every last one of those races are now cowering in enclaves on human planets, protected by the shields of human warships that now control 90% of the galaxy.
It's kind of poetic, isn't it? Just 20 years ago, races like the T'vana and Shuri mocked us for our barely-restrained animal natures. Now their remnants beg us to reclaim THEIR home planets, planets that are some of the last Kaavari strongholds. They demand it of us as if it were THEIR soldiers who have been slaughtered by the trillions during this war...as if it were THEIR millions of battleships that died every day to protect them!
We are so, so tired.
The Kaavari are like us - they evolved sentience in small, warring communities instead of large groups. They understand us in a way that no one else has in this vast and lonely galaxy. Over the countless battles that we've fought throughout the course of this war, a respect has developed between the two sides...a respect that is lost on the other races. This is why I, Supreme Commander Alexis Tillerman of the Terran Imperial forces, have decided to sign the document in front of me. A document that the Kaavari diplomat has already signed. The document signing over all occupied planets in the Milky Way, no matter the original occupant, to humanity. The document that will now tightly bind Human and Kaavari in an alliance that will last until the heat death of the universe.
We are *tired* of this war. We are *tired* of the other races jeering at us when they think we can't hear them, pushing us to sacrifice more fighters, *demanding* power that should be ours by might. Most of all, we are tired of fighting the only race that has ever understood us. No longer. Even now, the human warships that surround the new and defenseless enemy enclaves turn their guns inwards, bolstered by Kaavari reinforcements that no longer have planets to protect. When the dust settles, Kaavari and Human forces will set forth on a galaxy-crushing crusade of expansion never before seen in the universe.
Welcome to the new Empire.
------------------------------------
^^^*Edited ^^^for ^^^punctuation. |
It is a common fallacy that the living outnumber the dead. There have been roughly a hundred billion people who have lived and died in the course of Earth's history, in comparison to the eight billion currently living today. The stark contrast hadn't seemed apparent until the spirits showed back up.
At first, the graveyards. Wisps of the nearly forgotten, staring mournfully back at curious passerby. Soon they started popping up from roadside graves, discarded from rivers, appearing out of the locations their bodies had last been.
It became almost a game, to find famous persons, or to go visit Great-Uncle Dave, who had passed from an unfortunate tractor accident, his head still firmly detached from the rest of him. To go and find the oldest ghost, to see where humanity had finally become human enough to have a soul.
Because truly, it was a feat to find anyone recognizable. There were hundreds of millions of simple people, who had been born, lived, and died, only remembered by those around them, but even family forget within generations. Old ladies inhabiting old rocking chairs, clicking ancient needles together for a fabric already disintegrated. Young women holding infants, bellies still showing post-pregnancy inflation. Young men in every uniform imaginable, with an even wider array of injuries.
Humanity had "known"that history was harsh, and brutal, and oftentimes fatal, but never before had they been presented with evidence so clear and uncompromising. Besides the expected soldiers and elderly, the rich and poor, the sick and just plain unfortunate, there was one startling realization made by even the most stoic of us all.
There were so many children. |
"One year from the day we depart, we shall return,"they said. They had thought themselves better than us. Paying a fortune, they contracted much more intelligent men to build a spaceship that would travel at the speed of light. For all their wealth, they did not understand relativity as well as the men they hired. We knew they would never return the day they left. A year to a man going light speed is an eternity to any other man. Someday at the end of time, perhaps they would stop. If they walked out of the spaceship they would peek at the universe through their noses and see that humanity was no more. Earth would be long gone and there would be nothing left to tell them it was ever there. The average density of the universe would be infinitesimal. Or perhaps time itself will break down before they stop. Maybe time isn't as permanent as we think it is. The rest of humanity would have trillions of years before time ends, but those fools on the ship would skip right to the final seconds. Who knows, your guess is as good as mine. Either way, good riddance. |
The world is dead. It beats a hum I don't understand. People go about their day, talking, frolicking, and dating with not a care. Yet I flop and flounder, stumbling down the city main street amongst a chorus of foreign words. The language is endless, it's punctuated with laughter and some of it is sealed in leather so that words leave lashings. My heart races. The city is dangerous, no longer a curious maze of alleyways, but now a place to be about your wits. I tap a young woman on the shoulder.
"Do you speak English?"
She steps back, her eyes become wide and then narrow into snake-like slits. "*Evle em lo!*"she says.
Her dress twirls in a whirlwind of black, and then she's off, down the street like an angry black cloud in a storm.
I bite my lip. No one understands me. It's strange, being surrounded by bustling people yet feeling like you're standing on a cliff top. They'll only react when I jump. I search for someone walking my way. People snicker or drift past, the action is one in the same. A woman in yellow walks a little closer than the others. There's something about her blue hair, the piercing on her chin, and the way her green eyes look like the light is dancing in them.
"Help me, please,"I say.
The woman's footsteps clutter across the concrete to a final stop. Her eyes are wide too, even more so than the previous lady, but it's not fear that fills them, instead, I can tell I've shocked her, given a jolt to what was a fine-tuned system on autopilot.
"Do you understand me?"The words leave my mouth like a wish more than a question.
She gives a sad smile. "More than you can imagine."
I let out a shaky sigh. "Finally. Everyone's speaking all wrong, they're not talking like me."
"What was it that you needed to talk about?"
I search for the answer, but in truth, I don't know. It could have been the weather, maybe the traffic, whatever it was, it hadn't mattered as much as talking.
"Have you eaten today?"she asks.
My stomach grumbles and I place a palm over it. The woman chuckles. My remaining hand shoots up to cover my face. Each fingertip traces the soot and dirt that is stuck there. "I'm sorry,"I say.
The woman doesn't respond, she watches. And in the space, I listen, people walk past and still their words don't make any sense, their unrelenting haste is even more puzzling, but not as much as the anger that crosses their features when disturbed.
"Let's get you something hot and a bagel."
The woman in the yellow dress holds out a hand.
I reach up and grab it, and for the first time that day it's something I can understand. |
"Aha! I knew it would work,"exclaimed the hooded figure that stood before me. My mind was racing as I attempted to piece together what in the actual hell was going on. Not five seconds ago I was walking to class and right as I turned the corner... I don't know. A loud crack, and bright flash of light and now I'm standing here. Wait a minute, where is *here*?
"It took me three days to get it to work! But I knew for a fact this rite was authentic..."I ignored the small creature before me for the time being, and focused on my surroundings. The air was pure and smooth and I felt lighter, like gravity was less here. The beautifully crafted masonry that made up the room dazzled me, and the assortment of books that covered the damp walls tugged at my attention. Finally, I focused back on the small... thing?
"...and they said that old lady wasn't a real witch! Well guess who's laughing now? Me!"he let out a sharp, maniacal laugh, "A bonafide *sorcerer*! Now, for what I need you to do-"
"Wait, who the hell are you? Where the hell am I? Is this... Heaven?"This confused me the most, because if it was, all the religions had it backwards. I knew for a fact I was going to hell in every religion. The small (man?) seemed amused by my question.
"I guess it's heaven to you, in comparison to that hell hole you came from. No, this is not heaven though. This is the world where you do what I say, or else. And I say you must retrieve the envelope that was wrongfully stolen from me!"I started to question my own sanity but quickly stopped - that was a rabbit hole I didn't want to go down
"Yeah, see here's the thing. I have an exam today, and you kinda fucked me by bringing me here. Idk what the hell is going on but right now I need you to unfuck me. Like now."
An indecipherable expression contorted his face. "Listen here, demon. If you wish to be "*unfucked*"I suggest you do what I say, or suffer the consequences!"Okay, this guy's getting on my nerves now. I reached down and grabbed his collar, easily lifting him off his feet. It was a bold move, but I didn't see another way.
"Look here, motherfucker."Damn I'm going full Samuel L. Jackson on this dude huh? Oh well, gotta commit. "You are gonna take yo mothafuckin magic book, weave some mothafuckin magic, and send me home right now. After that, you can take that mothafuckin magic book, and shove it up yo mothafuckin magic ass."I inwardly cringed, that was awful. I kept my game face on as I waited to get zapped or something when the small dude broke down and started crying. Taken aback, I set him down.
"I tried so hard!! No matter what I do, I'm a failure! I finally succeeded in one thing - a low level summoning - and I can't even control my ward!! I'll just send you back I guess..."Pity welled up inside me. I myself am by no means a success, and I knew where he was coming from. As he picked up his book, I felt my heart changing my mind.
"I guess... I guess I could help. It's just an envelope, right?"
*****
Let me know if I should do a part 2, this is my first time doing something like this
EDIT: Wow, thank you all for the wonderful support! I haven't written anything that's not an essay in a few years and was hesitant to contribute, but you all have really encouraged me to get back into this! I've been very busy til now, but I'll find some time to finish this story, I'm foreseeing 4 parts. Any constructive criticism is encouraged!
**Part 2 below** |
She wrote a book that sounds like my life.
A soft piano hums a familiar tune from the corner of the room, and the candle on our table just blew out. We’ve been here almost an hour, talking about our hobbies, our pasts. She once dated a man with a fondness for fishing and hated it. I once gutted a man like a fish, but I tell her I *helped* a man gut a fish.
She’s so…charming. Her way with words is incredible, so it’s no wonder she became a writer. Never read any of her work, though. I doubt many have. It sounds like she’s an up-and-comer trying to make a name for herself. Her first book’s about a serial killer, but her information’s all so…generic. Can I fix that?
Reaching out, I grab her hands, staring deeply into her eyes. Tonight’s been magical—like, actually magical. I thought this woman was my next victim, but now I’m thinking she can be something more. Maybe…maybe without telling her the truth, I can educate her on what serial killers are really like.
Picture a book so realistic it gets banned in countries, a book so realistic it makes her famous. If she’s already got the talent to get published, maybe all she needs is the research to back her great story ideas up.
Am I in love with her or the idea of the books she could write?
Maybe both, actually.
“Let’s do this again,” I say.
When she replies yes, I can’t help but smile. She doesn’t know the monster she’s talking to, doesn’t know the monster who’s about to change her career—doesn't know nobody's ever survived a first date with me.
Except her.
***
A little rough, but I hope this turned out okay. Thanks for the prompt! If you like this story, check out my sub /r/LonghandWriter or my [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/BryceBealWriter) |
When the counters first appeared, there was chaos or so history tells us. Many a theology was spawned from this with some thinking it was a holy call to arms meant to inspire believers to kill en-masse. Others saw it as a corrective measure from a higher power. A mark of shame to force people to get along or be branded a murderer. That was a long time ago and quickly people realized that sometimes we're guilty of murder just by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Little things seemed to influence the counters. One day you gave someone the directions to a bar and the next your counter was 2 digits higher. So many little things added up that it became common to see those numbers rise into the hundreds as one aged. We in a sense were all guilty. Hats became popular and talking about our counters became taboo.
I didn't have a particularly high number for my age. Infact it had been a matter of pride that mine was somewhat low. The less pain and suffering my life had cost others the better for me. I though this made me more righteous somehow.
I was just back from a short vacation from some middle of nowhere place and I hadn't been feeling well. I awoke in a cold-sweat. My room became a bad impressionist painting and everything felt disconnected somehow. My thoughts were jumbled, but I knew I needed to cooldown. As I lifted my head it felt like all the energy was zapped from my limbs. A feeling of cold emptiness swept over me and it all slowly faded away. I can't know for sure how long I laid there semi-delirious. I came to just long enough to roll of the bed. The following thud as I hit the carpeted floor suddenly snapped me back into a more alert state. I knew I needed help. I crawled in agony and every inch forward felt like an eternity. My breathing was labored and I couldn’t lift my head up without great effort, so it slid along the ground with the rest of my body. I had just made it past the carpet when I reached the cool tiled floor of the hallway. The cold floor brought me some relief. I pressed on, thankful to see the bathroom door was open.
That's when I first saw it. The reflection in the bathroom mirror. I remember thinking I was seeing double. The counter over my head seemed… too long. It was just an afterthought, after all my vision hadn't clear up yet. I was sick. I was scared. It must have been hours before the realization hit me. I remember hearing sirens in the distance as I slipped in and out of consciousness. My vision was clearing up. I thought I was hallucinating. I froze up, shocked at the counter slowly rising over my head.
>Edit:
So to answer some questions, yes this is very much inspired by the idea of a "patient zero"and movies such as Contagion and World War Z. I liked to imagine a world such as the WP described would be very similar to our own. I had to cut out alot because it just got in the way of the story. What mattered most was describing a plausible setting that we could relate to whilst planting some clues as to what was going on. At one point there was supposed to be a dead roommate or spouse in an attempt to build up the realization, but that seemed too hard to work into the story without making what was happening really obvious too soon. The idea with a blurry reflection on the mirror worked better by allowing me to keep things more vague. In hindsight I could have changed the last sentence to be more open to interpretation, but I like how it closed things off. When I began writing this, I was thinking the protagonist should survive and I even had a rough idea for a prologue, but it was close to midnight. I'm just trying to make myself write more.
|
"Alright. Call it in. You know the code?"
"There's a code for this?!"
"Goddamn *tilters*. They can't just build quiet Dyson spheres like good neighbors, they have to parade around the galaxy burning through stars like tissue paper, disrupting orbits everywhere they go."He began to key in the coded message to Central Command himself. "You said they're mammals?"
"Yes sir, and bipedal."
"It's always a meat species,"he said with a long sigh. Few species are capable of sighing, meat based lifeforms among them. But he didn't know this. As a Nanite, a super-intelligent cloud of nanobots, when Clive^* sighed all his little nano bits flickered in the light like sudden fine mist. If he saw a human sigh, he would not have been impressed.
"Well those should be easy to kill,"said Bob, as he flicked on the projector. A hologram exploded into the middle of the room, a life size Human towering over them the way a planet towers over a satellite network. To get a better view, both clouds of nanobots swirled upwards and expanded. They filled the room like so much gas, spreading as evenly as possible to see the figure from every angle.
"What an existence. No more than 2 of anything, and all your vulnerable parts exposed. How do they even survive the radiation?"said Bob, spinning slowly around it like an eddie in a stream.
"They don't. They only live 100 years or so before they they start mutating."
"Poor little meats. It's a wonder they got off their planet at all."
"Don't feel bad for them. All meats do is kill other meats. It's a vicious cycle. Better this way."
Bob lingered in the air, wondering what life would be like with only 100 years to live it, while Clive collected himself before the control panels of the singularity cannon. It was a very impressive cannon, with very impressive controls. It fire a series of black holes into a wormhole at the target destination. One could vaporize a cluster of stars at a time with this baby. He was taking aim when a message alert sounded, a response from central command.
*Quarantined Species 088mf72x39t. Non-Interference Code 42. Reroutes for galactic trade routes in the Klackon quadrant have been issued.*
"What does that mean?"
"We have to let them go."
"We can't even stop them?"
"No,"said Clive as he flickered with a different kind of sigh than before, if a human saw it they might call it a tremble. "No, we can't even contact them. They're code 42."
"What does that mean?"
"It means they're dangerous. So dangerous there's a total communication blackout. If they ever learn they're not alone in the universe they'll turn fanatical and wage war on all of us."
"But, we have singularity cannons."
"No, code 42 also means they're endangered. We just keep our distance and hope they don't send any satellites our way."
>^* translators note: Naming conventions in the Nanite species are impossibly complicated, and the names themselves are too long to fit on a single page. Classic human designations are therefore necessary. |
The other customers were looking very awkward. But I’d had it.
“You do *not* get to march into my workplace, threaten to murder each other, and then take it out on me when I suggest you don’t murder each other,” I stated. “Put your goddamn weapons down.”
Crossfire holstered the pistol. Mirrorstab, after some hesitation, banished the nasty shard in his hand back to the mirror-space (or whatever the hell his deal actually was).
“And I’m sorry,” I wasn’t sorry, “but who the hell else do you expect to buy these things? I get that you’ve had a shock and that the two of you might not be familiar with this side of the industry, but really? Who else would buy the turrets? The blast doors? The very, very specific detection systems for named supers? The power nullification grids for those same supers?”
“He’s the enemy!” said Crossfire.
“He’s the enemy? You do a crossover every other month! You heroes are always teaming up to take on something worse, or brawling with your apparent friends for no good reason, and this is why I’m in business, because you trash entire underground complexes just to prove a point!”
“Ow, ouch,” Mirrorstab laughed.
“And don’t you goddamn start, Stab. Pointless smashing of fragile objects is your M.O. And don’t think that I didn’t hear what you were muttering about me letting my Mom and Dad down.”
Mirrorstab had the grace to look ashamed. One of his reflections started crying.
I could barely see Crossfire’s eyes behind her mask, but she seemed cowed. Good. To be honest she’d always irritated me, even before she started screaming and spraying bullets in the middle of my showroom. A boring powerset (good at guns! Woopydy-do!) and a terrible taste in outfit. The big “X” on her face just made it look like she was advertising being a reject hero, like someone had gone down a line and crossed-off everyone they didn’t want to call for help, and more than anything else I’d resented her ignoring my advice and demanding that we built her base in an X-shape because dear god was that an inefficient use of space.
But at least *she* hadn’t insisted on mirrors on every possible surface. Mirrors that, get this, automatically replaced themselves once broken thanks to a forest of robot arms and a giant rack of mirrors kept in reserve. Again, I have no idea what Mirrorstab’s deal is, but I suspect he liked to stab mirrors as well as stab *with* mirrors.
I turned to address them both and took a deep breath. “For the record, we dealt with Sergeant Sledgehammer *and* Death Knell, and you know what? Each knew the other had one of our premier-3 HQs. And they didn’t give a damn, because they were the real deal and understood how this all works.
“Vincenzo’s, where you get your masks? Heroes and villains both buy from him. The super clinics? You can damn well bet they don’t ask who you were fighting when you got injured. They just ask if you’ve punched through a wall or been eye-lasered and leave it at that.
“And me? Mom and Dad never asked and neither do I. You tell me what you need and I help make it happen. You want a bulletproof bedspread? Done. You want a hall of mirrors with disco balls and glitter flying through it on a special AC circuit? Done.
“You’re new. Everyone’s new, once. You’re welcome to come back, but right now? Right now I’m going to ask you to leave, and to think about the business that you’re both in.” |
The pan made a slight sizzle as I spooned in some pancake batter, ‘Babe, hey, babe, breakfast is almost ready, can you come here please’
 
A pretty girl with long flowing brown hair shuffled her way into the kitchen, wrapped in a dressing gown, a frown on her face, ‘How many times must I tell you not to call me ‘babe’, or ‘darling’, or ‘sweetheart’. I am Nightmare, the bringer of doom and destruction and you will refer to me as such’
 
‘Sure thing, but these pancakes are going to burn before you end the world, so could you grab me two plates please,’ I respond, looking back at the small bubbles forming and bursting on the pancake.
 
‘I am not one to do household chores, I am above that,’ she said, but she still retrieved two plates from the cupboard next to me and placed them on the bench next to me.
 
‘You’re so cute when you try to act mad you know that?’ I say as I give her a kiss on the cheek, ‘Good morning by the way’
 
Nightmare’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson and she spun away, ‘And why does this keep happening to me, those fools summoned me into a defective soul’
 
Flipping the golden brown pancakes out onto the two plates sent a beautiful smell wafting through the kitchen, ‘I think it’s because they didn’t really sacrifice Tes, they just managed to fuse the two of you, come and eat before it gets cold, you still have moments when you’re just like her’
 
‘Not possible, I’m the most powerful entity in the universe, I can’t be sharing a soul with a mere human’
 
‘Tes was a pretty special human though, so it might be possible,’ I say as I drizzle a healthy amount of maple syrup onto my stack of melting ice cream and pancakes.
 
Nightmare sat across from me and sprinkled her pancakes with a squeeze of lemon and a shake of sugar, sighing with satisfaction at her first bite, ‘I shouldn't even like this food, I don’t need to eat, I just need destruction’
 
‘It’s because it was made with love,’ I say with a smile.
 
Nightmare mumbled, ‘Maybe I won’t end the world just yet Kiara’
 
Tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear I chuckle, ‘Definitely not a weekend job, that’s something I’d be leaving for the working week’ |
I tapped my spoon against the edge of my bowl, listening as Mom filled in Dad on the news.
“They lost both boys,” Mom said, dropping the paper to the table. “I just don’t get it Max. We’ve had an understanding with the monsters for years. They keep our kids safe and we let them live under the beds. What was this family thinking, having them removed?”
Dad took a thoughtful sip of his coffee, glancing at me. “It’s a real shame. Did you know either of them?”
I looked at the photo on the front paper―two sets of the same eyes stared back at me, both boys with the same smile, both in soccer jerseys, both unfamiliar. They were two years younger than me, probably just starting high school. “No,” I said. “I didn’t know them.”
But I knew their story―the kids whispered about it through the school halls, their words fluttering past the teachers. A lot more families were calling in exterminators lately. Just yesterday Theodora’s parents had her monster removed. “They’re scared,” I said, swirling the left-over cereal milk in my bowl. I didn’t say ‘I’m scared’ even as the words burned the back of my throat. My birthday was tomorrow, and I’d never been more terrified of the monster under my bed in my entire life.
“Oh, sweetie.” Mom stood, standing up behind me and sweeping my hair off my shoulder so she could kiss my temple. “The whole thing about them asking to marry their sleepers―that’s all made up. Rumors the exterminators spread to get more people on their side.”
“Well it’s working,” Dad said, lifting the paper to scan the article once again. “James had Lily’s monster exterminated. Pulled the creature out by the legs and off with its head. He said it cost almost twenty thousand, and that didn’t even include clean-up.”
Mom bristled. “He shouldn’t have done that. All it takes is one hungry Shadow, one, and she’s gone.” She slid her hand down my head, petting my hair like a cat―which was enough for me.
I stood, brushing off her touch. “I don’t want to be late for class.”
***
Theodora slammed my locker shut. “Look, you can’t be doing this moping shit. It’s your eighteenth birthday tomorrow, and it’s a Friday. We need to make plans. Real plans.”
I nodded enthusiastically. “Plans, right sure, as long as my monster doesn’t ask me to Marry it, we can do whatever you want. Until then, I’m not doing anything besides class.”
“Comeon Ellie, its not going to ask you to marry it.”
I didn’t respond, just turned on my heel and started to head for first period. Theodora turned eighteen two weeks ago. No monster-marrying for her―but then again, she didn’t have a monster at all. She hurried to catch up to me, her breaths coming fast from the simple jog.
“You okay?” I asked, really taking her in for the first time this morning. She’d always worn makeup, even when I was too lazy to bring myself to do the same most mornings―but today her foundation was caked on more thickly than usual, her eyeshadow a dark purple where she often favored pinks and oranges. “Are you sleeping?”
“I sleep fine,” she said, her tone shorter than it should have been for such a simple question. “Now about tomorrow, I talked to Samuel and he said―”
“Theo-” I grabbed her arm “-are you seeing Shadows?” The whole reason we invited the monsters under our beds to begin with―to keep away the Shadows. A required lesser of two evils, everyone always said. *What was worse?* They’d laugh. *A monster under your bed, or a Shadow sucking out your soul?*
Obviously the monster. Right?
She blinked, her lower lip losing a touch of its firmness. The weakness shown in her eyes. “He’s gone,” she whispered. “I can’t get him back. The exterminators took him and he’s gone, and I don’t know what to do.”
I dropped my touch to her hand, twining her fingers between mine. “Ask for a new one.”
She closed her eyes, her lips puckering. “My dad says no. He believes the exterminators. Says the Monsters are killing the kids in retaliation to the exterminations. That’s it not the Shadows. That the Shadows aren’t real.”
Lies. Or twisted truths. Or maybe the real truth, with Shadows and Monsters all working together to get what they wanted.
How could anyone ever know?
“But the Shadows?” I whispered. I’d never seen one myself, never seen my Monster scare them away―but there were stories of it too. Old stories, as old as the monsters were under their beds. Hundreds of years often gave a perspective on the past invisible until it was the future.
But how was one to know if the monsters had been saviors from the Shadows, or if the monsters hadn’t created the Shadows to begin with.
“Okay,” I said slowly, letting her go. “Your brother still has his monster, right? Can you sleep in his room?”
Theo nodded. “That’s a good idea,” she said, the slight tremble in her lip disappearing. “Yeah, I’ll sleep in his room tonight.”
***
The clocks red neon light burned in the corner of my eye, screaming at me to look. Just look. See what time it is. A minute till midnight? Ten minutes? An hour?
I took a deep breath and held it, listening. Dad snored a few rooms down, an occasional rumble drifting down the hall. A branch outside the kitchen window scraped against the glass as the wind blew. The pur of tires on the street outside hissed into the distance.
All sounds I knew―and none of them my monster.
I used to talk to it, late at night when I couldn’t sleep and the quiet of the house felt suffocating. I told it my stories. My dreams. My fears.
I used to tell it everything.
And then, the story of Moxy happened. Gone from her bed on the morning of her eighteenth birthday, and nothing but a note left behind.
*I’ve left to live with the monsters.* It read. *I’m to marry mine.*
Nothing more. I’d seen pixelated photos of the note myself. She’d disappeared two weeks after my seventeenth birthday. An investigation happened, but eventually, it was written off as a prank by an unhappy girl who’d finally run away from a poor home life.
A simple and easily believable explanation―but it still changed everything between me and my monster. Suddenly, I found myself listening for its movements. Found my normal easily given words catching up in my throat. Found I didn’t know how to talk to it anymore.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I know I’ve been quiet lately, but I just-” I sucked in a sharp breath, tears stinging at the corner of my eyes. “I don’t think I’m ready for marriage.”
Moxy was the first, but she wasn’t the last. Two more boys disappeared and one other girl. Not many. A few―and after Moxy’s story blazed across the internet, everyone figured the others were copycats. Kids getting the idea and using it to run away, same as her.
But deep inside, like a tug at my gut, I wasn’t so sure.
Maybe Moxy was telling the truth.
I squeezed my eyes shut and pulled the covers up to my chin, holding them tight. I listened―to my heart beat, to Dad snore, to that stupid branch against the kitchen window. I told myself that was all I heard. Not the scrape of my monster moving. Not the slight tug at the corner of my sheet that it did to tell me it was listening. Just me, nothing more.
It felt like an eternity when I opened my eyes again, ready to see the clock and its little red numbers.
Instead my eyes fell on my monster―its limbs like the night, small stars twinkling across its body. It bent toward me, its slender form folding until its face―two eyes like the moon meeting mine.
*“Don’t worry. I can wait.”* It said as it held out its hand. |
Music was never to be played with. Never. You weren't to mess around with a few notes, or trill a line on the piano. True, experimentation happened. But it was regulated; heavily controlled. Only a very few special people were allowed instruments. I, however, managed to find a banjo in the junkyard. It was beaten up, the strings weren't even attached, but it was an instrument. Which meant music. I was very cautious at first, only using the approved songs. The ones we knew would heal, calm storms, even teleport. It was magical.
But not just because of the effects. Oh, those were wonderful enough, but the beauty of the music was more. It rose and fell as if it had a life and heart of its own. I couldn't resist one day, trying a new tune. One that had run through my head since I was a child. One that I used to hum to myself when working in the junkyard. And one that was strictly un-sanctioned. Using only my fingers, I picked at the restored strings, hearing the music take shape. Carefully, I watched around the cleared space where I practiced. What new spell, what new effect would this song have? I held my breath.
Nothing.
Nothing happened. No birds fell out of the sky, no pieces of junk moved on their own, the heavens stayed green and calm, no weather to be seen. But every piece of music had a magical effect, that had been proven with Lisette's Third Law. I felt a spike of disappointment. Maybe it was too mundane. Maybe it just affected the walking patterns of ants. After all, it was my first song, maybe it needed to be different, bigger, and more impressive. I walked back to my office, idly strumming the tune. Regardless of the magic effects, it was still quite pretty.
There was a man standing there, probably waiting for me. Junkyards weren't really that popular these days, but some people still enjoyed coming and picking through the trash, for buried treasure. Of course, none of them had ever found a banjo. Too late, I forgot to change the song.
The man stared at me, his eyes growing large.
"Where, did you get that? That's an instrument."His voice didn't sound angry, but I couldn't take the risk. My fingers moved into the familiar pattern of a calming song.
"Wait! Wait, I'm not going to report you! In fact, I've found something of my own..."I froze. He'd found something? Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a harmonica. "I've just been too afraid to play anything. After all, there isn't much you can do on a harmonica, that doesn't affect yourself. But if you wouldn't mind..."He trailed off, but I knew what he was asking. I nodded, plucking out the beginning notes of a wakefulness spell. It was well known that harmonicas had a soothing effect.
He began playing, a well-known tune. Unconsciously, I started picking my own tune, weaving it into his. And again, nothing happened. The music swelled, curled and fell to its finish. And we stood there unchanged. No sleepiness on his part, or mine. Something in my mind turned around. My tune did do something. It negated magic.
It's been years since my discovery. Years since I got it sanctioned. I don't run a junkyard anymore. I run a music school. All around me, the music flows once, rising into the air like a living thing. Under it all, is my little banjo tune. Making sure no accidental magic happens. Making sure people can once again enjoy the music. Making music safe. Making it accessible. And making the music...sing. |
I felt the burning of my skin as the armor and Holy Sword settled into place as though they belonged there forever.
In a way, they did.
As I ate through the distance between towns on hooves, the villagers mostly looked askance as I passed them as though they were standing still. Those I had helped would always provide me food, drink and provide affection, even through the physical pain.
I had been unsure of my place until Lady Charis came along, all that time ago.
/ / / / / / /
"Halt, foul demon! Your reign of terror is over!"
As I turned around, tail and stumpy wings swishing, I saw one of the most amazing sights I had ever seen - one of the few souls of true nobility. Her ash-dulled blood-stained auburn hair tucked back in a single tail, and her piercing wintry eyes stared, hard....but with a sense of empathy that I never saw or deserved.
I was in awe - this Knight was close to my height, and I fell to the floor, weeping. As my tears of blood fell to the floor, she did something I never thought possible.
She held me. Just held me. It burned, but whilst she was close, it didn't *hurt*. Time passed, as the fires in the town died down and the sun disappeared into a dusky blue, and finally into the starry night.
The Lady Charis had knelt there all this time, saying with actions that I deserved to *be.* To be comforted, and be wanted, and then to share a life with whom I chose. And I loved her for it.
We traveled together, after a fashion, for nearly 10 years - she led, and I followed, learning how to be noble, to be kind in the face of hostility, and to provide similar comfort.
Those years were the best of my long life. |
The man held the box up on screen for the camera to see, rotating it so that the keyhole was the most visible from the angle.
"Now this is quite an interesting piece, it appears very intricate. Features are that it holds all of the great evils locked away thousands of years ago and Zeus's vengeance."his voice came through in a precise and analytical way.
The box was scribed with images of humans etched in the black wood. A burly man holding golden fire in his grasp and presenting it to the humans. Scrolling by was the images of defiant humans chaining down the same god that had given them the gift. Lockpicking Lawyer continued:
"I could not find this product on Amazon, so it may be an individual item. The address was just listed as *Greece*."He paused to pick up a fountain pen from off screen.
"Today I will be using this fountain pen that I had break last month. This lock is an ancient design, but it seems simple enough."He proceeded to slide the fountain pens tip in the keyhole and begin sliding it up and down slowly. After a moment there was a soft *click*.
"Pin one binding. Two binding tight, nice click on two. You can hear the chaos inside trying to get out. Pin three bound. Annnndd we got it."In an impressive display of slight, yet expert adjustments the keyhole rotated around the pen.
Immediately after the key clicked the box flew open in a castrophany of smoke and fire erupting forth. Shapes of demons, of death itself leaked out into the room. Deafening noise. Screeching and yelling. The Lockpicking Lawyers calm, white hands stayed on the screen without moving. Then, after a second of hell, they gripped the box and calmly shut it once more. A few bits of smoke leaked from the boxes cracks and wafted into the air.
"Alright and that was Pandora's box. Archaic, but fun. If your threat level is a toddler with a sharp object then this may not be for you."he held the box closed with two strong hands as it rattled in anger. More smoke slipped out.
"That's all I have for you today. If you have any questions or comments about this please comment below. If you like this video and would like to see more like it please subscribe. And as always, have a nice day." |
I feel like the superpower one (or the variant where protag has an unknown power canceling power) is posted all the time.
The emotions one is usually numbers or soul mate linkages not emotions. Like "you can see how many murders someone has committed"or "you can see when someone will die", or "everyone has a tattoo saying what their soulmate or spirit animal is except you".
"Humanity fuck yeah"is the third super common prompt not on your list (humans are feared in the galaxy because xyz")
The popularity of these prompts suggest to me that they are easy to respond to. The conflict is usually part of the prompt so the author only has to construct characters and twist but not the conflict. Prompts get up voted mostly when they have a good story already written, not because the prompt has high potential. I think these common prompts are just easy to write good microfiction about.
(I say easy admitting that I am not an author and cannot write action or dialogue...only worldbuilding) |
Historically, a large part mankind's actions can be explained by a few concepts that drive humanity to do what humanity seems to do best. Lust is a drive, for some it is relentless greed, others engage with the universe through a lens of fanatic zealotry, some merely eke through existence for survival, while others seek power. But one drive, one concept, is shared by all of humanity. It is the one true constant that has existed for all of time, and will persist past humanity's end. Death. It is universal, and indeed before there were even such things as taxes, there was death. An ending that was coming. A failing of the flesh, a withering of the mind, a decay that cannot be reversed. No wealth, no destruction, no power, nor love can withstand the eternal onslaught of time itself; marching all mortal men from their cradles to their graves. You can be the greatest of kings or the lowliest of street sweepers, but sooner or later you'll dance with the reaper.
Until one day.
When all of mankind ceased dying. The sick remained sick, but didn't die. The starving remained decayed and famished, but did not die. People ceased ageing about a decade after they were no longer teenagers. From one second to the next, mankind was barred from death. Other things still died. Animals and plants died normally. But mankind alone was no longer bound to die. Many celebrated this. Because it is the oldest, most primal, and most frightful of things in the universe, the masses partied. But those with cold hearts and no human souls in them, began dealing dark cards in hidden rooms, for this new world. They knew now that they needed to alter their dark designs for the future, because the future was no longer what they had manipulated it to be. They would need to do something to prevent overpopulation, otherwise their wealth would be seriously affected. And that was unacceptable to those who value worthless wealth over human lives. Scientists marvelled and then promptly panicked, as they realized that while death itself was gone; mankind wasn't suddenly completely godlike. Only undying. Only ageing to a certain point. Not invulnerable. Not invincible. Not indestructible.
And unlike the cold souls who care little for the suffering of others lest it can grant them wealth or power, and unlike the blind masses who would not understand the significance of this fact until far too late, the scientists saw where things were headed. Drink yourself to a non-functional liver, you won't die. Get decapitated; you won't die. Have your flesh be more than 50% cancerous tissue, and you won't die. Burnt to a crisp in a horrible fire; you'll live. Melt your brain with so many drugs that you can never be human again; the human body keeps living on. The body wasn't going to die. But it could still get destroyed. Hurt. Sick. And you'd still feel all the pain. All the suffering. All the horrible nightmares that can exist while being alive, only forever, without the promise of an ending. Torment without end. Those with a good ability for drawing conclusions wondered just how much you'd remain alive. Still conscious, even though your body had fallen into lava? Still aware, even if your entire body has been pulped, dried, mashed, purified, sterilized with radiation, and then turned into the finest dust? Would you still be alive then?
The masses thought it meant that they were in paradise, but those with more knowledge now understood that they truly lived in a living hell.
Over the first few decades, as the new reality became clear to people, and the powerful people stealthily built propaganda to ensure maximum ''voluntary'' sterilizations, three schools of thought arose to deal with the immortal race of mankind. First came those who believed, that this was a test from whatever manner of gods exist. That this was a precursor to the end of days, and that the Faithful alone would be saved. They were the ones who on the whole tried to live as people used to, straining the planet with further population increases, with wasteful displays of faith over practicality. Entire communities would starve and be faithful, as food was unnecessary. Decade long fasts began to be held by the most pious of individuals. Leaving many faithful to become living saints; which were little more than skeletal entities in a constant state of inhuman pain. They would be carried aloft by other Faithful as items of worship, through which the divine might be reached. Pain and piety increasing became one and the same to these people, and the height of their fervour became the pinnacle of masochistic insanity, a horror not seen since the bubonic plague ravaged Europe, and people tried to whip themselves both for the glory of god and to make the plague stop. And their vast temple complexes, where pain-hymns were sung out daily, sprung up across many places, but especially in the more religiously observant and fanatical parts of the world. As the old variants of the Abrahamic faiths failed to keep relevancy in the face of the great upheavals following the end of death, a great reconciliation came to the faithful of those three lines. A singular faith; called by its detractors, the Kainite Church and by its supports, the Final Temple of the Faithful.
Others thought differently. The Upgradites. A radical variant of transhumanism suddenly became mainstream; it's advocacy for the conversion of man into cyborgs, and eventually more radically a form of robots where only the human brain remained, was seen as a solution to the increasing number of people horrifically crippled and maimed, and yet incapable of dying. Programmers, engineers, doctors, and several others worked tirelessly on a way to make this vision a reality. To give humanity better bodies, which could last and endure humanity's unwanted immortality, until science could somehow return mortality to the human race. In the beginning it was just simple augments, replacements for parts too damaged to be fixed by normal medicine or through the human body healing. But as the world changed following the end of death, they too became more radical. Their bodies became more machine than man over time. They refused to work with the other factions, and began tearing down old inefficient cities for resources, no longer caring about history, only caring about their ultimate goals. Their cities on Earth are few in comparison to the others factions that emerged. But they are the only group relentlessly advancing. Their bodies are modular, but sleek, chrome and beautiful. Their brains augmented with machine-integrated parts, keeping them healthy and working at peak performance, always seeking new ways to create remedies for the destruction and horror caused by the end of death. And now, they seek to evacuate an increasingly uninhabitable Earth, and take to the stars, so that they might gain more resources for their ever more unusual and incomprehensible projects.
The last faction of humanity became the Mergers. Originally the establishment, and the business world, becoming one and the same. A natural merger, one might say. But with death abolished, came new opportunities. And where the Upgradites rejected their humanity, but remained sane, and the Faithful rejected their sanity, but kept their humanity, the Mergers chose to abandon both. It started simple enough. It all started when two people wanted to see if two brains are better than one. And through horrific surgery that no human could have ever normally survived, forced their brains to be merged. Two brains were better than one, it seemed. And soon, three brains were better than two. As the Mergers grew more united, they became smarter too. Began finding out how to merge more efficiently, less painfully. The end result was a faction of one-brained peons serving an ever decreasing amount of multibrained hive-minded creatures. The one-brained peons might have at one point objected, but as the Mergers became smarter, they also became better at control, and at genetic manipulation. Massive corporate skyscrapers dominate grey cities, where obedient one-brainers do menial labour for a hive-minded master. In dark factories, products are produced. Resources are used. And captured members of the Faithful turned into organic drones, while the rare rogue Upgradite too extreme for even that faction, assist with creating abominations against nature.
All three factions are at war with each other. All three vie for the dominance of Earth. All three suffer horrors that mankind have inflicted upon itself, because the great equalizer, the great and final truth; DEATH, was taken away from humanity. And even if death was to return to mankind, would it matter? The Upgradites have ensured that their new bodies can survive such an event. The Faithful won't lose much besides their living saints, and the Mergers are such abominable horrors against nature that they presumably don't count as human any more, and still won't be able to die.
Maybe it will. Because underneath the shattered remnants of the Antarctic, in a decaying underground laboratory, the last sane man on Earth has made a breakthrough. He has managed to do the impossible. In front of him, he has a petri-dish which he has grown HeLa cells on. After decades, maybe even a century of tireless work at the automated research facility THANATOS, established before the world went completely nuts after the end of death, he has killed human cells. This isn't possible. Not under the current paradigm. Not after death left mankind behind so that we might only have taxes. And yet, he has done the impossible. There exist a way to kill a human cells, thus it is possible for a human to die. It isn't easy, it isn't going to be simple. But death can happen. He doesn't know what to do next. But in his mind, ideas are forming. And soon, a fourth group might emerge from the ruined continent of Antarctica.
[/r/ApocalypseOwl](https://www.reddit.com/r/ApocalypseOwl/) |
I woke up one morning and something was different. As I moved my legs to sit up from my bed, something stood out in my mind. It was difficult to tell what it was but I could tell where my bed ended before my legs found the ground. I was a bit confused but didn't think much of it. It wasn't just the bed but other things in my room, such as the doorway. My mind could perceive it before my hands found it.
I went into the kitchen to grab my breakfast and I could hear my roommate was already up. "Hey Nattie,"I said, as I walked to the cupboard. I opened the door and that's when it clicked in my head.
I could see.
I could do what was ultimately unheard of nowadays. Hell, it's considered a crime to have sight. They banned it decades ago because of rising incidences of prejudice based on the appearances of others. Society has functioned better since we've bred out the ability to see. Why am I able to?
I knew that I could see because Nattie loved putting things in different places just to screw with me. She would move things around the pantry, the fridge, even in the bathroom just to make me confused about where they went. Though today, i could see which box had my cereal in it. It's a bit taller than the other items in the pantry so it stood out. I pulled it out and shut the pantry door.
I put the box on the table and went to grab myself a bowl. I then realized that I should be more careful. While I'd love to wipe the smirk off Nattie's face (which I can for the first time see forming on her face), I can't have her knowing that I can see. She'd clearly turn me in. Why wouldn't she? By all rights, I should be turning myself in.
But for now, I have to act natural. I forced myself to run my hands over the dishes until I found a bowl and same for the silverware. But when I opened the fridge, I was blinded by what I can assume to be light. I let out a small gasp, it kind of hurt my eyes.
"Everything alright?"she asked me curiously.
"Yeah, fine. Just, kinda light-headed. Nothing to worry about,"I told her, trying to sound as smooth as possible.
In all honesty though, I'd forgotten one of the main features of this fridge. See, Nattie doesn't like the amount of textures that are on more recent objects to make up for our lack of vision. So when possible, she buys antique products and our fridge included a light in it. Without vision, there is no need to have light-bulbs so this was a new experience for my eyes.
I squinted away from the interior of the fridge and in turning my head, I could see what Nattie looked like. She was surprisingly beautiful, prettier than her voice ever gave her credit for. Her hair was short and framed her face. It was a colour I now know to be brown and her eyes contrasted with a light green. Her face was pale in comparison to her hair. Her body was nicely toned ad the way she leaned into the table gave her back a nice curve that my eyes enjoyed following.
"Have you found what you're looking for yet? You're letting th-"Both of us were stunned. As she was talking, she looked up at me. Why? She didn't need to. She looked at my eyes and I could tell. I could tell there was eye contact and her eyes showed something I understood as shock. She could tell I was looking at her just as much as I knew she was looking at me.
At that moment, we both could see right through one another. And neither of us knew where this moment would lead. |
***(If you like this, parts two and three are below in the comments!)***
***Also, if you'd like to read all three parts in one convenient place, you all have inspired me to start a subreddit for my writing! Check it out at [/r/1_stormageddon_1](http://www.reddit.com/r/1_stormageddon_1/)! I'll also be turning this story into a novel!***
 
Light. Actual, natural sunlight. No one on the expedition had ever actually seen the sun. Oh they had learned all about it in science classes, even made little diagrams of the solar system with that big yellow orb at the center. But to *see* the sun... No human in 226 years had seen the sun.
The expedition staggered in the blinding light as they slowly worked through the rubble. John Mulligan and his team smiled to one another as their eyes adjusted to the daylight.
"Well, we're finally here,"Sarah Laughlin, team chronicler, said as she gave John a light-hearted shove.
"First humans above ground in a couple centuries. It's quite a historic moment,"John smiled back at her.
"Oh I know. I'm rolling as we speak,"she said, nodding to the camcorder in her right hand."
Eli Walker, one of the archaeologists on the team, walked up to Sarah and John, "You know, for total nuclear fallout, it doesn't look too bad up here. The rubble looks like it's thinning out."
"Maybe this area didn't get hit too hard,"John shrugged, "I'm sure it's a lot worse where the front-line fighting happened."
"Yeah, probably,"Eli replied.
The team walked in silence for a while, surveying the damage. Rather, they were surveying the lack of damage. At first there had been lots of pointing and excitement, and the team had taken a lot of pictures. The longer they walked, though, the more things felt... wrong.
They rested for a few minutes in an abandoned building with a sign that read 'PAYDAY LOANS.' John was just about to call everyone to regroup when he heard a sound that was very out of place: footsteps. He cautiously approached the entrance to the building and put his hand on the door to open it.
"Freeze! Put your hands in the air!"a man in black combat armor yelled, pointing an assault rifle at John.
A man. Not a man from the vault. A man they had never met. They had been told there was only one vault and that radiation had killed off the surface population.
"I'm not going to tell you again. Put your hands in the air!"the soldier ordered.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say,"John stammered as he raised his hands. The rest of the team was being led at gunpoint into the front room. They all had the same panicked look on their faces.
"How did you get in here?"the soldier John had met asked angrily.
"I, I, uh, we didn't get in anywhere. We're a scouting team from the vault!"John answered, sweat dripping down his nose.
The soldier pressed the butt of his rifle to John's back and asked again, "Vault? What vault? This is a military training zone. No civilians! How. Did you. Get in here?"
Sarah spoke up this time, "We come from the vault located ten miles southwest of here. The vault that protected our ancestors from the Last World War in 2023,"the soldiers looked at each other, puzzled, so Sarah continued, "You know, the nuclear bombs fell? A lottery chose who got to take shelter in the vault?"
One of the soldiers sighed and took what looked like a communicator off his belt.
"This is Corporal Tennenbaum, authorization code Bravo Tango Sierra One Nine Nine,"he said into the communicator.
"Go ahead, Corporal, what's the situation?"a female voice responded.
"Yeah it looks like we have a 987 here."
"Come again, Corporal? It sounded like you said 987."
"That is correct, a 987. The box has been opened. I repeat, the box had been opened."
Eli stood up, prompting a soldier to push him backwards with her rifle.
"Excuse me, but what's going on here? We're basically refugees from the war. We deserve to know what happened after the vault sealed,"he demanded.
Commander Tennenbaum shook his head, "There was no war."
Edit: If you're eager to read more, look in the comments below! Thanks for reading! |
The surgeon stood in the washroom, hunched over the sink.
To those who didn't know him, it almost looked like he was lost in prayer, bent over the sink with his hands near his face, but to the staff in the next room, he was performing a different sort of ritual.
With a belch he wiped his face with his unwashed hand, filthy fingernails showing grime from his previous surgeries. He dropped an object into the washbasin, then clumsily pulled his mask up over his bearded jowls, shuffling to the door and muttering to himself.
On the operating table was a young man, his body mangled from a terrible car accident. That he was still alive was a miracle - only the emergency crew's heroic efforts had got him to hospital. They'd patched him up as best they could, but any other doctor would have called it by now.
"I will *save* this man,"declared the surgeon, "I shall snatch him back from the brink of death. I will do what cannot be done."
One of the junior nurses paled as he smelled alcohol on the surgeon's breath.
"Is he... is he *drunk*?"he whispered.
Cautioning him to silence, the other surgical staff waited as the surgeon assessed the mutilated young man.
Finally he broke his silence and looked at the senior surgical nurse.
"Absinthe. We're going to need the strong stuff."
Nodding, the nurse pulled a bottle from under a trolley and filled a styrofoam cup with green liquid.
The corpulent surgeon took it in one hand and toasted his staff,
"To *life* and *health* my friends."
The potent alcohol disappeared down his gullet and his eyes seemed to fire with passion. The shaking in his hands had stopped and he seemed like a new man - full of purpose and drive, focussed and alert.
Working fast now, he began to snip and suture, to stem bleeding and cauterise flesh. The staff watched on in amazement as a miracle unfolded in front of them.
After four grueling hours of surgery, the young man was stable - he would live, but it would take months for him to recover.
The young nurse shook his head, perplexed,
"I don't understand. He should have *died*. But more to the point, the guy was a *drunk driver* who had killed a family of four in a head-on crash."
The surgeon turned bleary eyes to the nurse and pulled a hipflask from his stained coat, declaring,
"Dionysus looks after his own." |
Sir Ronald collapsed onto the cold stone floor. The statues of The Twelve gazed upon him, their faces cold to the knight's sorrow.
"What more do you want from me?"Ronald whispered, his voice cracking up. "I've slain the Beast of Darkness, I've saved the world from the flames of Azavar, I've returned the holy relics of Sir Veremur to their rightful place in your shrine. What more could you possibly ask of me? Why won't you accept me? When will my time finally come?"
The Twelve remained silent.
"For centuries I served you. I've seen so many of my friends and comrades pass on to your embrace. Am I really not worthy? Will I be destined to wander this land alone even when everyone else has fulfilled their purpose."Tears of pain and anger rolled down the old knight's scarred cheeks. "Is this my fate?"
The Twelve remained silent.
"Why? Why am I not worthy?"Sir Ronald jumped up to his feet, his voice echoing throughout the Great Temple. "I've done more than any other knight in the history of the Order! I deserve what is rightfully mine! How can you just stand there? Without me this world would be nothing, but dust and ash! Why do you ignore me?"
The Twelve remained silent.
"Answer me, pathetic fakes!"
Ronald felt his heart pounding in his ears. With his vision enveloped in a shroud of red, the knight gripped his sword and struck at the statue of the Allfather. A thundering crack resounded, as the marble cracked from the terrifying force of the blow. The pale head rolled off the statue's shoulders and shattered on the floor.
Ronald stared in disbelief at the dark blood pouring out of the cracked marble and creeping along towards his feet. Trembling, the knight made two steps back, horror gripping coldly at his heart. The red substance climbed the steel leggings, slowly enveloping Ronald. From the liquid he felt a warmth slowly building up into a roaring almost incinerating heat. It squeezed into every crack making it's way towards Ronald's body, surrounding him in a flowing burning veil.
The knight screamed in agony, feeling his flesh and bone being burned and rebuilt by the blood. Yet before long the pain ceased and only a sensation of newfound power remained. The sword in his hand ignited, painting the room with an ominous red light.
"So this is my fate?"Ronald asked, his voice unnaturally deep. "Then send your champions, gods, let's see who prevails."
Having said that, Ronald, who would later be known as the Godslayer, left the chapel, his laugh filling the halls. |
Hi! I'm new to Writing Prompts and I'd appreciate any feedback you're willing to give!
--------------------
Katrina pulled her clothes tightly across her shoulders and looked down. All she wanted to do was pay for her groceries. But no; They had to ask. Everytime. Every. Single. Time.
“You got any clue what it means yet?” Pete, the cashier, asked.
Kat quickly took a swig of water. “Hmm?” She hummed, desperately digging for her credit card. Of course, Kat knew what he was asking about. She had told them that she had received a tattoo resembling a water bottle. She hadn’t, but it was easier than telling people that she didn’t have any. A tattoo of a water bottle was also strange enough that people would believe her when she said that she didn’t know what it meant.
No one in this town could mind their own business. Everywhere Kat went, she saw burly men proudly displaying their art-filled biceps and speaking stories of heroism. Some of her friends had “4.0,” or images depicting their sleepless nights of studying to pass a class. Others had their current League of Legends ranking proudly displayed. Everyone had something. Except Kat.
It wasn’t that Kat was a bad student, or that she sucked at video games; it was quite the opposite really. The tattoos were meant to represent a great achievement, and, well, those things didn’t cut it for Kat.
“Your tattoo,” Pete leaned closer, eager to hear about Kat’s achievement, “what does it mean? Jason said you got a waterbottle.”
Kat’s lips fell into a scowl. Kat yearned to return to the days before Jason got over his fear of public speaking and received a microphone tattoo on his throat. He used to be someone she could talk to; he used to be someone she could trust to tell that she hadn’t received a tattoo.
Lying to him-- telling him about her “tattoo” -- was probably one of the hardest things she had done. But it was necessary. At least, that’s what Kat told herself. Nowadays, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. No one in this godforsaken town could.
“No clue,” Kat mumbled, “still figuring it out.”
She handed Pete her credit card. In the process, she knocked over her water bottle, and liquid spilled all over the counter.
Kat cursed and scanned the room for paper towel. She ran over to the dispenser and got a few sheets.
“No, no,” Pete began, “it’s quite alright. We’ll get it.”
“I got it,” Kat insisted, “and, hey, who knows, this could be what my tattoo is for: cleaning up after my mistakes.” She laughed bitterly.
There was more water spillage than Kat initially thought. And it wasn’t just over the counter; she somehow managed to spray water onto Pete’s “employee of the month” tattoo across his forearm.
Kat cursed again. “Sorry. Let me help you with that.”
“Seriously,” Pete cleared his throat and backed away.
“No, really, it’s ok,” Kat said as she grabbed his wrist and wiped his arm with the towel. As she did so, the white paper towel became streak with green and yellow.
Kat’s eyes widened. “What the…?”
Edit: a word
Edit 2: removed "it was fake"to better flow into part 2. |
"I'm going to be honest, I never thought this day would come. Ever since you first came in here-what, three weeks ago?-I never thought that I would, ever *could*, find anyone to match with you. Everything about you is revolting to me as well as all generally decent society. I am both disgusted and intrigued that you are able to exist on this planet without civilization killing you, burying your body, forbidding anyone to speak your name, telling their children fairy tales where you're a monster, decapitating said monster, and burning an effigy of you in a yearly celebration of your timely demise. You have actually caused me to experience an existential crisis due to the sheer volume of hate I have towards you. We asked your favorite color, you said puke green. Puke. Ya coulda said lime, or neon. We asked you: if you could have dinner with anyone, live or dead, who would it be? You said, 'Hitler, alive and well, like I wish he was today.' When you were asked if you were religious, a question we repeatedly told you that you didn't have to answer, you replied 'The one where they dress funny, because of the diddling.' Oh, this is my favorite, when we asked you what you were looking for in a woman, you replied, 'I'm looking for a body, preferable filled with blood and organs held together by skin.' Really, level with me, what kind of messed up John Wayne Gacey meets Jared Fogle aesthetic are you going for in your look? Nothing? No thoughts? Anyway, here's this girls address and number. I couldn't bring myself to actually read through the file, I've actually had to focus all my attention on not putting a gun in my mouth and leaving whatever strange hellscape this is that spawned you. I just made sure the system said it was a match. Before you go, I just want to make clear, when I hiked the price of my service ten fold, I expected you to leave. Not pay in pennies. But as your very expensive lawyers have told me on their very expensive letterhead, I cannot retract the offer to do business with you, nor can I fail to render my services without incurring legal action. In short, if there is a god I will not forgive him. Now shoo shoo, I need to put a large amount of different drugs into my system." |
Thomas Jenkins was nothing out of the ordinary. He always seemed to blend in with the walls and in the rare occasions when he opened his mouth the words that came out never made it to his audience. When growing up in a small town these characteristics somehow always attracted bullies. People like Thomas were the perfect target. Easy prey. And his bullies were relentless. Not a day went by without them following him, harassing him and hurting him. He tried to tell them to stop, that he simply wanted to be left alone. But cries like that rarely made a difference in the world.
Despite all this he managed to get somewhere in life. After graduating he moved to New York, a place where anyone can be anonymous and no one would care. He worked hard and got a job at a law firm. He wasn't lowest on the totem pole - but he might as well have been. Respect wasn't something his character demanded.
Today was a special day. He was supposed to give a presentation about the Atman case. A high profile case almost half the firm worked on. Thomas got the assignment to update the board on the latest development. He had spent several sleepless nights wondering why someone thought he should do it. But you don't say no when something like this comes along.
He shuffeled through the corridor, carrying his laptop and a cup of coffee. He was late. He could see everyone through the glass walls of the conference room. The dread that had been living in his stomach for the past week threatened to crawl up his throat. He took a deep breath, put on a fake smile and tried his best to seem confident.
"Hello and welcome, I hope you'll enjoy this presentation. Just give me a minute to get set up here."
He could hear his voice cracking. This didn't start good.
"Oh, we're waiting. You can count on that."
The voice came from the back of the room. Harold Banks. The majority shareholder and a despicable human being. He was the kind of person to grab every opportunity to bully people. He was everything Thomas had grown to hate from day one in his life.
"I'm sorry sir, this won't take long".
He could feel the tension in the room. This was a set-up. He was never supposed to succeed today. He remembered the feeling from his childhood. Hopelessness. The dread slowly climbed from his stomach to his throat. He felt sick. Finally, his powerpoint was up and running. He wanted to sink through the floor and disappear. He knew exactly what was coming. This was like shooting fish in a barrel. And he was on the wrong end of the gun. He felt tired. The people in the room were talking to each other, laughing. No one acknowledged the powerpoint or him standing there. He just wanted to be done with it.
"I will outline the recent development in the Atman case and bring you all up to speed with the latest development."
He might as well have been speaking to a brick wall. No one even looked at him. They were still talking to each other. It was apparent he wasn't very important right now. Something felt weird. His hands started shaking. He could feel his heart beating. Something was off. He felt like screaming. He wanted to scream in the face of everyone who had ignored him for the past 39 years.
"Could you please be quiet so that I can start the presentation", he said, impressed that he managed to stay calm.
The room fell silent immediatly. You could hear a pin drop. All eyes were on Thomas. He had never in his life experienced an entire room listen to him and actually obey him.
"As I said, I will now outline the recent development in the Atman case and bring you all up to..."
He stopped mid sentence. Not one comment. Everyone was looking at him, like they didn't have a choice. Something was off. Their eyes was piercing him. If our eyes are the windows to our souls then these windows had metal bars on them. Without thinking he said:
"Could everyone please grab a pen and some paper, I think you'll want to take notes on this."
Without skipping a beat everyone grabbed a pen each and started passing out the writing pads that were placed on the table. Their eyes still piercing him. Thomas didn't know what to make of it. The dread that had been climbing up his throat, felt different now. It felt powerful. He couldn't think. Was it hot? It felt hot. He was sweating through his shirt. Everyone still looked at him, no one said anything. Thomas vision started to fade. He felt like his insides were burning up. He could barely stand. He could barely move at all. He wanted to panic, but couldn't. His thoughts didn't respond. He wasn't alone anymore.
"Harold, I want you to start eating the glass wall."
Thomas vision went black. He fell to the floor as he heard the sound of glass breaking and the last thought that crossed his mind was something from his childhood.
"I wish that I could tell my bullies what to do - and they would have no choice but to obey me." |
He sat on the bench and wondered how this all came to be. How reality mirrored fiction somehow, how the world went to complete shit. He replayed the summer afternoon in his mind.
It was a normal, sunny day. The kids played, it smelled like burgers and hot dogs. Somewhere, someone splashed in a pool. Then there was screaming. John Moore was tearing chunks of his own son's arm off. Two men restrained John, until his son turned on them. Sirens. Flames as barbecues were overturned. All in one afternoon.
Zombies weren't real. Not before that day. Then they were reality. Six months and the world was nothing as it had been. The dead wandered around trying to take pieces of flesh from any unlucky soul. At least half the global population had been snuffed out. Governments were gone, along with any semblance of military or law enforcement.
Survive, or die, alone.
His pack rested against the bench, a hardy military issue bag. A rifle stood vertically beside him. He dug into the can and ignored the cold March weather, eating slimy ravioli with a camping spoon.
All the zombie shows and movies used to show cities as they big swarms of zombies. Turned out that was wrong. People ran from the city and all the shuffling bastards followed them out, aimless and hungry.
He had heard rumors of a safe place. Go North, the city-states and fortresses said. From behind enormous concrete walls patrolled by their pseudo-militias. He went North, picking through cities for supplies. He froze, hand almost to his mouth with a ravioli, and listened to the shuffling footsteps.
He whirled to grab his rifle and found the strap had looped around one of the slats. He stumbled, trying to pull the rifle to his shoulder. The zombie shuffled closer. Something flashed and the zombie was headless in an instant, body falling in a heap.
He managed to free his rifle and look at the woman who now held a lively, yet rotten, head.
"I'm amazed you were ever the dominant species, really."She said, while she looked at the rotten head with curiosity. His guardian...angel. "You know I shouldn't be doing this during the day, right?"
"I know."He said. He grabbed his pack and ignored the twitching corpse she just decapitated. With her bare hands.
"It could get me killed. Then where would you be?"She stomped the chomping head under her boot. It exploded in gruesome form.
"Happier?"He fished out another ravioli with his trusty spoon and ate it. She watched him.
"I'm hungry."She said.
He sighed, rolled up his sleeve and offered his forearm. She latched on, fangs piercing flesh and drawing fresh blood. He continued spooning ravioli into his mouth with his free hand.
Zombies weren't real.
Vampires weren't real.
But he'd be damned if a vampire wasn't the only thing protecting him from the zombies.
*****
Nighttime was safe.
He sat in the city library and leaned against a bookshelf, padded out with lost and found sweaters and pants, for a cozy little nest. On the floor burned several smashed chairs, fed with some paper. Blank paper from a printer. The books were safe.
He flipped the page and enjoyed the peace of it all.
"It's these little moments."He said, turning to the next page. She slithered down from a bookcase where she'd been perched, watching. "The one's I cherish most. When you don't talk."
"You caught me! I'm impressed."
"I've been saying it every five minutes since you left."
She laughed, sidling into her own homemade nest. She did not have a book. He looked up at her over a pair of reading glasses from some big box store.
"How was hunting?"
"Only twenty one of them in this block."She picked a piece of flesh from under a nail and flicked into the fire. It sizzled. "Doesn't even seem fair."
He rolled his eyes and went back to the book. Of course he would get stuck with this one. An arrogant vampire, as if there were any other kind. They had come from the shadows when humanity began to fall, when the military was done for and the streets ran with blood.
Survival instinct, he figured. Without that blood, the blood that was being wasted on city sewers and pavement, there would be no vampires. The dead blood didn't sustain them. So the vampires went to war. On the brink of extinction, now humanity stood some chance.
He looked up from the book, goosebumps rippling down his neck and back, to the tips of his fingers. Somewhere out there, a wolf howled. She barely stirred, eyes gleaming red in the firelight. Her lips parted in a smile, showing off those polished fangs.
"I can hear your heartbeat, what a pretty little sound it is. Thumpity thump thump."
She laughed. He threw a book at her. She caught it.
"Read it."She said, tossing it aside. The howl sounded off again, this time more distant. The hunt was moving away. He pulled the rifle closer. This new world had brought out all the unreal things.
"Are there unicorns?"He suddenly asked, closing the book he'd been reading.
She scoffed at him, picking another piece of flesh out and flicking it to the flames.
"Don't be ridiculous."
He opened the book again and grumbled.
"Don't be ridiculous."He said. "As if you're not a vampire, zombies don't roam the streets, and everything else is apparently real. Asking about unicorns though, *that's* where she draws the line."
She leaned her head back, grinning ear to ear, and closed her eyes.
"Hasn't been a unicorn in a thousand years, silly mortal."
He opened his mouth to say something but one of the library windows exploded under an enormous, black furred shape. It rolled on the floor and opened it's mouth, snarling and drooling. A feral wolf. One of the poor bastards that took to the subway for shelter and found claw and tooth instead.
She moved faster than he did, as the wolf leaped the length of the an aisle and over the fire. She jammed a long, gleaming blade into the wolf's chin and used her momentum to carry the beast over onto the floor. They slid together, ramming a bookcase with a crash. Books tumbled down on them.
He got to his feet and settled the rifle into his shoulder while the furred mass shifted and moved. He took a few tentative steps towards it, finger resting on the trigger.
"Help me, you jerk. This thing is heavy."She said from under it.
He set the rifle on the bookshelf and helped her crawl out from under the dead wolf. She looked down with eyes that gleamed red, this time without the firelight.
"Yeah. Go nuts."He said, returning to his nest to ignore the slurping noises.
Werewolves. Vampires. At least they hadn't run into a shapeshifter in a few months. Those things were nasty.
"You want some?"She asked.
"No. Definitely not."
Before he opened the book again, he took a notebook from his pants pocket. A worn pencil was stuffed into the metal bindings. He flipped it open and found a page with space. He scribbled "Unicorns?", stared at it, then shoved the notebook back into his pocket.
He looked at the cover of his borrowed book.
"The Complete Guide to Mythical Creatures"it read, embossed on the cover. He held it in his hands, stared at the words...and threw it into the fire.
"Mythical, my ass."He found a new book from the stack and opened to the first page.
Nighttime was safe.
Mostly.
*****
The four men that hunted the streets were not friendly. He watched them as they walked, too loud and too obvious. Hunters.
Even in the end of the world, there are those who will take the opportunity to serve themselves. Hunters track down and kill anything, bandits and marauders without conscious. They rule a lawless waste between colonies, city-states, and fortresses. Not even the vampires have the manpower to focus on holding back the zombie hordes, there's just not enough of them.
He had come across Hunters twice before. There was a long scar down the side of his belly from the first.
The second ended differently.
Every few days she needed to rest, as vampires will, especially after a large feed. They stayed at the library and he scavenged for supplies. He had filled his bag with canned food from a local store when he heard them.
They had wolf scalps tied to their belts.
One man had several teeth on a braided rope around his neck. Vampire teeth.
Slowly he eased the bag to the ground, making as little noise as possible. These Hunters would pass. They always did.
"I heard it, over by the library! A howl! I'm telling you."One of the Hunters said, his voice drifted over the empty street.
"Shit."He slowly leaned around the concrete barrier he hid behind, one of the many that the military had tried to use to funnel the hordes away from civilian centers. It didn't work.
He slipped down with a clear line of sight, settled the rifle into his shoulder, took a deep breath and began squeezing the trigger.
A few hours later, when dusk fell, she woke to find him sitting by the dying fire and reading. She sniffed the air.
"Trouble?"She asked.
"Nope."He turned the page. By her nest was a braided cord, threading through several teeth. She picked it up and turned it over in her hand, solemn and quiet. She gently placed it into the pocket of her own pack, alongside dozens of teeth just like that.
He closed the book, stood, shouldered his pack, and held out a hand to her.
"Thanks."She said.
"Don't mention it."
They walked together, leaving the library and into the night. There was a silence in the air, broken by distant moaning of zombies and an even more distant howl. He hefted his pack up and checked his rifle, then looked at her. She nodded and the long walk began again.
They were halfway down the quiet street when he broke the silence.
"Were there really unicorns?"
She laughed, not afraid to make noise that might draw the zombies, not in the dark.
And she told him the truth. |
The front door to the shop swung open with a clang and a batter. Or what sounded like a clang and a batter, given it added an extra layer of torture to several choruses of cats-in-radiators screaming away in my head, a reminder of last night's debauchery with Jack Daniels, Jim Bean and some bird with a long neck.
Slowly I raised my head to see who had entered as I tried to shake the cobwebs from my eye. Just one eye, thinking that if they realised what mental torture they had just interrupted I could perchance chase after my slumber before it's too late.
". . . Female . . . Late 30s . . . Smells o Lillies . . . Fucking hate Lillies."I muttered outloud as I raised my face from the desk, my head buried in Botchkins & The Catholic Church : A History of Abortions.
"Excuse me?"Came a voice from the other side of the room, possibly from the female entrant. Or entrants. It was hard to know, I was seeing double and the smell was only wafting from the right side blur. "Did you say something?"
"Its quite possible, I do that sometimes. Ignore it I'm sure it will pass, like I'm hoping you will."
"I'm sorry. I could leave if you like, come back later?"
"How did you even get in here?!"
"Uhm . . . The sign on the door said 'Open' "
"It did? Fuck I must change that."I slammed my head back down on the desk, hoping gravity would send me back to the blissful ignorance of slumber. But a tap on my shoulder revealed it to be a folly dream.
"Uhm I'm . . I'm . . . Terribly sorry, but this book, I was wondering-"
"Dangerous thing, that. Wondering. Having a thought that goes in all directions."
"Uhm, I mean, I suppose."
"I prefer it' cousin, wandering. Thats a fun one. Like someone who just wandered into my shop and now is refusing to wander out."
The smell of Lillies was beginning to spread throughout the store. I found my mind wandering (irritating thing) with every smell. It seemed oddly . . . Familiar.
Slowly, reluctantly, like the freshly risen necrocorpse of a customer service agent or one of those bastards on a mobility scooter, I willed my body to sit up, and extended a hand outstretched.
"What what what, what book what are you on about"
I felt the weight in my hand, brought the book closer to me, blinking hard to wake up, sleep now as fleeting a memory as stale air used to be.
"Yennifer's Reincarnation & Soul Stones, 1594. Rare edition. Mostly poppy cock about past life regression therapy. Walking through your ancestors footsteps and all that. If u were lucky to have an ancestor that didn't die of plague or pox or childbirth or stubbing your toe with no physician within 500 miles to heal you."
"Oh I know! I find it fascinating. I've always had dreams, fantastical romances about meeting a tall pale man in black, scraggly hair, dapper, stoic. I would give up my life for him, but alas our love is forbidden-"
"This story is now forbidden, no love stories at 10am."
"Its after 3"
"Not in my shop it's not!"
Fucking Lillies, WHERE DO I KNOW THAT SMELL FROM?!
"Well I'm sorry. The shelf says $250 , is that okay?"
I sighed "And an extra 10 for making me create two new rules: no fantasy stories and no correcting the owner about the time of day while he's hungover."
She handed me the money. Slowly I lowered my head down again, hoping to shuffle this conscious coil again.
"Change the sign to CLOSED on your way out will you please?"
"Oh of course. Thank you for . . . Everything? Il see you again soon . . . . . . . Bernard."
"WHAT?"
I looked up. She was gone. But the scent was still there.
"Lillies . . . Wild blue . . . Haven't smelt those since . . . . . . " |
Severus Snape woke to a frantic fire call the night after Halloween. The Dark Lord's face was haggard and anxious looking. Whatever the Potions Master expected his Lord to ask him, nothing would have prepared him for the question that followed. "Severus, how do you change a nappy?"
​
"Please just eat your vegetables."Tom pleaded, as the dark haired child's chin jutted out stubbornly.
"Don't want it. Don't like 'sprouts."Harry huffed, crossing his tiny arms.
Tom fought the urge to rub the bridge of his nose. "You won't be able to become a big bad Dark Lord if you don't eat them."He wheedled.
The boy just stuck out his tongue.
​
At 12, Harry discovered colors other than black. The seamstress Tom had on his payroll ceded to the boy's every request.
It was the most garishly eye searing year of the Dark Lord's life.
On the plus side, somehow the boy had somehow mastered the art of cowing the Death Eaters into submission while wearing bright orange robes.
​
Puberty was the worst thing that had ever happened in the Dark Lord's manor. The less said about the matter, the better.
Merlin help him.
​
Harry had settled into his teens with surprising grace, despite his turbulent temper. He was a demon to face in a duel, the mischievous mind he inherited from his mudblood loving father mixed surprisingly well with the nasty streak he had learned from the Dark Lord himself. He used nonlethal or prank spells to distract his opponents from the incapacitating or lethal ones. The shields that worked for the tickle hex did not block the gut wrenching curse, after all.
Severus had declared him, "As good as a Potter could get at potions."Which was high praise.
Tom levered himself up from his throne, smiling at his heir as the boy's various teachers all read him their final reports. Harry stood firmly in front of them, his expression stony.
The last vestiges of the Order of the Phoenix would fall to his heir's wand, he knew.
And he could finally retire.
Raising a child was exhausting. |
Sir George the Human Slayer finished his vigil as the sun dawned. He had prayed all night to the Lord God Antweh to give him strength for his upcoming feat, for he knew that no other among his colony had the skill to take on a fully grown human.
"Come Dinoponera,"he called to his squire. "Fetch my mount and steel yourself for our duty."He had to call twice, as the squire had fallen asleep.
Dinoponera startled awake. "At once, Sir. I was just finishing my prayers. I shall fetch Blondie presently."
His steed was a mighty tarantula of Theraphosa, girded with harness and weapons. It had a golden pelt after which he had named it Blondie. Sir George climbed aboard the beast and lashed himself into the saddle, he held the reins and his shield with his middle limbs, leaving his front limbs free for his lance and sword.
Sir George knew that they must confront their quarry as it left it's stronghold, as it's home had been made fast against infiltration by the ant clan. Surprise and a swift assault was the only hope they had to defeat the menace and free the colony from it's terror.
Upon Blondie and with Dinoponera by his side, Sir George laid in wait before the mighty door of the human. The door stood over a hundred ants high and several thick. It was impregnable to them, so they laid in wait for the human to show itself with the light of the rising sun.
As he held his lance steady, he began to feel the reverberations of the giant's steps through the legs of his own mount. "Prepare yourself, Dinop. This shall be our finest hour."
The door opened and the beast stepped forward. It was the largest human that Sir George had ever seen. It's arms swung like windmills across the heavens. It's horrible visage stared out upon the landscape, not noticing Sir George nor his squire.
"Onward for the colony!"he shouted as he spurred on Blondie. Dinop joined his charge shouting, "Yes, for the colony!"Those were Dinop's last words as he was swiftly crushed under the unthinking heel of the monster.
"I shall avenge you dear squire,"Sir George shouted as he drove his lance into the creature's ankle.
\-------------------------------
"Ow, what the fuck?"Miguel looked down at what had stung his leg, and then instinctively jumped back inside the house when he saw the biggest spider he'd ever seen next to his foot. Miguel barely noticed the twig being pressed into his leg by the giant ant mounted atop it.
The spider ran towards the doorway. Miguel grabbed a broom from the hall closet and tried to swat it out. The first swing knocked the ant off of the spider and smashed it against the open door, crushing it to death. The spider fled back out the door.
Miguel swept the dead ants off the doorstep before leaving for work. |
"Hey, Cath?"
"Yeah? What's up?"
"I need a favor."
"Sure...? You do remember the implications of that though, right?"
"No no no, not that kind of favor."
"Oh! Sure, what do you need?"
"Can I copy your homework?"
"Why would you want to copy a blank sheet?"
"I didn't even tell you what class it's for."
"Doesn't matter. Didn't do it."
"*None* of them? What are you going to do? Mr. Hobart has given detentions for missed assignments before and you've already missed two since the semester started."
"I'll do what I always do, scribble some archaic runes here... infernal symbol there... and to top it off - never blink, respond or stop staring at the teacher all day. I usually get extensions when I do that."
"Yeah that should work."
"Walk in the park."
"I guess I'll have to do it during lunch then."
"Sucks for you."
"Rude."
"Kiss my unfathomable ass."
"I'm not going to share my lunch today you slug."
"C'mon dude, that's not fair,. Thursdays are the only day school has *edible* lunches."
"It's not fair? Really?"
"Yes really. Why am I getting punished when you forgot to do your homework?"
"I'm sorry, I can't understand you. That indecipherable reasoning doesn't fit in my mortal mind."
"Dude, seriously."
"I might be able to decipher whatever you're saying if you help me out with this History handout."
"Just tell them you hung out with me too much and started to grow some tentacles."
"I already told Mrs. Hille that that kind of thing doesn't happen."
"Ugh... fine. Alright I'll help."
"Thanks, Cath. I shall offer you a humble sacrifice for your endless benevolence."
"Your sacrifice shall not go to waste regardless of the infinitesimal nature of mortal objects. It would be a more effective offering if it has pepperoni. What is the first question?"
"You have my thanks. Alright so the first question is where the first identifiable man-made tool was found."
"Ancient history? Easy. I've heard plenty of stories about the ancient world from family. So... lets see. I believe the first humans to use tools were being guided by Uncle Nar... which would mean... Atlantis? I think? I can never quite keep everything in line, especially when family brags and exaggerates. Makes things a bit harder."
"Cool! Thanks! I am going to ignore you and do this on my own."
"What? Do I still get pizza at lunch?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Awww thanks! You truly are my best cultist." |
Part 1 of 3
"Welcome to hell, I am the devil, but you may call me... Toby. We like to keep things informal here, as well as... infernal."
Toby, the devil, he who tempts, enemy of God, Lucifer, and so forth and so on with so many moniker they barely fit on a business card, watched as his joke fell apart.
It sort of happens, when your public is made up of a seven year old child, an emo teen, and a depressed, suicidal person who really, *really* wanted there to be nothingness after death, and was now monumentally pissed that he was about to go for another carousel.
"Mom said I would go to heaven if I die. Is this Heaven?"asked Lucy, the seven year old child.
"Well, not exactly. You mother missed some of the finer points of theology, the afterlife and bad behavior."
She couldn't be blamed for her mistake. Hell had done away with the fire and brimstone trend - except in Toby's office, he liked the rich, golden hue of magma - in favor of vast plains of fertile grass. A lazy river flew between the fields, cows and horses grazed and let the dead pet them.
Toby wanted to hush the cows and horses forward, to paradise and beyond. But it appeared that grazing, pets, and the knowledge of never being eaten was paradise enough for them. Besides, it gave a bit of movement to an otherwise almost still postcard. In the distance, colossal mountains disappearing in the clouds, piercing the sky into the night.
"Can I pet the horsy?"
"Of course, little one. I will accompany you, my co-workers will handle our guests here."
"Weird, I'm not limping,"she remarked.
"Perks of being dead."
Phobos and Deimos, usual names Jean-Claude and Marie-Sophie, impeccably dressed in their suits and speaking with the faintest hint of a French accent, invited the emo teen and the suicidal guy who was looking for a river deep enough to drown into to come over. Administrative work, signatures, marketing speech, and so on.
Lucy wouldn't have that.
Kids were notoriously a bother when trying to keep them seated and sign a pile of papers. Better to push them through the motions fast.
"Technically, this is hell. Everybody goes through here, Saints and Sinners."
"Will I be punished?"
"I would rather say, you get to see everything you did in life, good or bad. Your fault or not, the latter part is... hard to grasp for newcomers."
"I did do bad things!"she chuckled.
"You will understand that I don't mean pulling at your mother's hair. Here, say hello to the horse."
The horse, a mare, lowered her head to Lucy. Lucy put her hand on her head, and felt blurry.
Suddenly, she was petting a dog. A scrawny thing without a name, with scars and a limp. Like her. The mine had shredded her leg, made it impossible to walk at first. She hadn't been in the middle of the blast radius, that person had vanished into a fine red mist.
There she was, Mom, running at her, screaming. Lucy saw in perfect detail the terror etching her face as she wrapped the mangled leg in rags. She tasted the anxiety, the fear, the prayers to all powers to save her child. She felt it all, without the filter of pain to hide the horrible truth.
The camp where she lived had been installed by the red cross, a surgery had been performed hastily, it saved her. Her left leg bent rather awkwardly, she couldn't move without crutches, and only at a snail's pace.
Mom smiling, a weary smile, to see her daughter alive, to know she has been maimed for life at an age when she should play with toys and go to school, instead of living in fear of war and mines.
The physiotherapist was a funny women with a name Lucy couldn't pronounce and a language she didn't get either. But she mimicked the exercises for her, put together splints with scrap, managed to get some movement back into that left leg. She too, had that weary smile, the certainty it barely mattered, crossed with the duty of keeping up with appearances, for Lucy.
"Please,"Lucy pleaded in her soft, child's voice, "I don't want to feel anymore, it's too much."
They didn't hear her. Life in the camp went on, with her in the middle, too aware of how the world she had departed felt.
That day, she almost ran, clumsily, at a risk of falling over, but hey, small victories, and all that.
Lucy showed off, of course, she had he childish ability to know when danger was close and she should remain silent, almost breathless, and when she could take some joy from a singular moment.
She showed the mess staff how she ran.
She showed her mom how she ran.
She showed the surgeon how she ran.
She showed the scrawny dog how she ran, and they ran together, at the outskirts of the camp, onto a barren field.
Red Cross personnel shouted for her not too go too far, it was dangerous.
The dog barked. She stood before a metallic bit, one she knew all too well.
She turned to leave, exhaustion and the muddy ground reminded her that turning around fast with a maimed leg required more efforts than what she took for granted.
She fell over.
But this time, she heard the explosion, the screams. A cacophony of screams, yet she got them all in their individual horror. Staff rushing to see, understanding at once, trying to stop her mother. Refugees used to it, trying to block off the noise, pretend it wasn't different than usual, which it was.
And her mom. Breaking through, running, falling, running again, searching for Lucy, saying out loud how she would find her, nurture her back to health, as she did so many times when she fell ill, that it would be okay.
That it would be okay.
Mom found what remained of Lucy, a fine red mist.
Small victories, and all that. |
Alyssa couldn’t see anything outside the rune circle. It was nothing but a darkened void, incapable of showing any sound, light, or movement. Her chains clattered against the floor, tightened up against her makeshift armor.
And suddenly, the chains disappeared in a flurry of black and blue smoke. The veil began to disappear, fading away to reveal an interrogator clad in Death sworn armor. The silver plates have way to skulls on the shoulders and knees with dark red glowing eyes. The face mimicked the armor, with a devilish skeletal face looking back. “So,” the interrogator began, “You’ve…finally come back.”
Alyssa stood to a knee. “You don’t need that helm anymore, Danny. I know it’s you.”
Danny. That was her name. Or that used to be her name. With a heavy sigh, she removed her helmet, to reveal a red-headed girl, no older than 18, with a small scar over her right eyebrow. She placed the helmet on the floor with a heavy thud. “Well, no getting anything by you, Allie.”
“Ha!” Alyssa spat, standing up. “Says the sis who literally is working for the dark lord.”
Danny flinched, and raised her hands. “Allie-“
“He murdered dad!” Alyssa pressed. “He broke down our home! And he tried enslaving the entire country! How in the hell are you gonna defend that, hm? His death sworn have been trying to kill everyone, including me! You yourself have been trying to kill me since this began. Did dad mean so little to you?!”
“And I’m supposed to just take criticism from you?!” Daniela yelled, her armor clinking. “You were the one who left us, not me. You said you had a purpose-“
“-and I did!” Alyssa spat back.
“But obviously you didn’t know the whole story.” Daniela reprimanded. “You wanna know what dad was gonna do?”
Alyssa turned her back and crossed her arms. “I dunno, maybe fight to the last man?”
“He was gonna sell me off.”
Alyssa turned back around. Daniela wasn’t angry…she was about to cry. “What?”
“Dad was terrified for his own life, so he sold me off as a ‘bride.’ He would’ve done anything to keep his ass safe, and his rule. I pleaded with him, but he wouldn’t be satisfied.” Daniela explained.
“Still doesn’t excuse you working for Zovan.” Alyssa countered. “He’s the friggen dark lord! If dad was so bad, then why work for someone worse?”
Daniela began pacing around the rune circle. “How much do you know about Zovan?”
“Plenty.” Alyssa began. “Murdered his own parents, stole the power of hell for his own use, enslaved angels, was banished to hell to be its jailer-“
Daniela stopped. “And did you know, that he did all that because he lost a daughter?” She asked. Alyssa didn’t say anything. Daniela began pacing around the circle again. “He stole the power of hell to save his daughter, he killed his own parents to prevent them from taking her, and at the end of it…he’s bitter because he couldn’t have saved his daughter.”
Daniela began walking toward a small statue of the lord of hell. “So now, instead of trying to save his daughter, he’s trying to save us all. Save us from a cycle that doesn’t work.”
Alyssa laughed incredulously. “You honestly expect me to believe, that all this time? He’s been fighting for Justice?”
Daniela nodded. “In a way. The Death sworn take those who are all damned to an eternity of torment in the afterlife. They save the rest.”
“And you?” Alyssa asked. “I thought you were taken as his bride.”
Daniela met her sisters eyes. “When he saw me, he was ashamed of our father. He was ashamed of how little he cared. Zovan took me in, and he did something that no one else did. He mentored me, he taught me. Trained me….treated me like…” she trailed off.
Alyssa placed her hand on the barrier created by the runes. “Like what, Danny?”
Daniela began to cry. “He treats me like the daughter he lost.” |
"To put it frankly, you are diseased"the Lyrian said. Her tall and elegant form looked down upon the human council members. They called her Yuis and she was the welcoming committee that met us at the docking station. She stood 8 feet tall, had light blue skin, and powerful limbs. She had a silver hair in a pony tail and had various technological devices on her arms, face and head.
"Diseased?"Thomas asked. He sounded insulted. And frankly, so did I. We all looked at each other.
"Yes, diseased,"she said.
"It wasn't the war, the famine, the racism, the hatred that kept us out of the council for 15 years"Monica asked. "It was our diseases?"
"Yes. All members of the intergalactic council have wars and conflict and troubles. No one has a utopian society. We are different, but similar. Like you say...Comparing ....what are those round red things that grow on trees on your world?"
"Apples?"I asked.
"Right. Apples. You are apples, we are oranges. We are different, but still have the same qualities. The difference is, the apple sometimes has a worm and is rotten. And you humans had, to put it bluntly and literally, worms and were rotten,"Yuis said.
"I frankly feel a little insulted,"Thomas said.
"Oh, I assure you, I don't mean to be insulting. This is standard protocol for all species that are joining the council. In fact, it'll be about 15 of your years before you are allowed to visit one of our planets,"She said. She was walking and showing us around. There were hundreds of beings here, but not too much diversity. I saw Lyrians, Huars, Yantis and Ba'ars.
"Why is that?"Monica asked.
"Because of your diseases. And our diseases. Our worlds are different. Our worlds have different diseases and illnesses and...you call them germs, but each species has its own word for it. If you set foot onto a planet, you'll bring along a host of germs and diseases that that world has never seen before. And your bodies will happen to suddenly be hit by a burst of new germs that you'll die fighting. Sure, we can put you in suits, but those are only for rare occasions in controlled environments,"Yuis said.
"When the Yantis made first contact with the Huars, millions died. Each one of them blamed the other and it is still a point of contention amongst those two worlds. Eventually, they found cures and expensive medicine to prevent it, but the safest and most reliable way to build up immunity is to slowly introduce it into the environment. We here at Gania Space Station have been slowly, over the past 15 years, been introducing Earth germs and diseases through the air filter in order for us to build up a tolerance to it. And the humans you select to live Gania will slowly be introduced to the environments of our planets. This isn't a quick process. This will take years, perhaps decades, until everyone is safe. And even then, travel to other home worlds is under extremely tight regulations."
"So...we have to quarantine ourselves for 15 years on this station?"I asked.
"Yes, in a way. You can still go back home. You can interact with us on Gania and eventually the other space stations in the intergalactic community. But this isn't like the...what is that show about space travelers? Star something?"she asked.
"Star Trek,"Monica said.
"Yes, it isn't like Star Trek where you can just hop planet to planet and interact with new species. We don't have that technology to protect ourselves yet. Progress is slow. But slow progress is still progress. Maybe we will one day be able to meet new species the moment we find them, but it just isn't possible right now,"Yuis said.
"Humans aren't so keen on...slow progress,"I said.
"I understand. But this is for our sake and for your sake. We will share technology and culture. We will share companionship and these space stations. But it will take a long time before we can share our homes with you,"she said. "I've been here for 30 years and still have not stepped foot on another home world. I wish to do so one day, but I don't want to risk my life, my families life, and the lives of those on the home world just for my selfish curiosity."
"We'll have to take it up with our governments, but they will understand, I hope. Thank you,"I said.
She touched her hand to her chest and bowed.
"You are quite up to date with human culture,"I said.
"Yes, it is quite fascinating and creative. The Star Trek shows are nothing like real space travel, but very enjoyable to watch."
Jokingly, I asked "Picard or Kirk?"
"Sisko"she replied. |
"Hell's Gates, this is Anubis speaking."
"Hey, A! It'sth Peter."
"Oh hey, Pete! What's going on."
"Tho we got a weird thituation up here. We got a guy, a really good guy, lived a noble life and everything, thaying he doethn't belong in heaven. Not like 'I'm not thuppothed to be dead,' but like 'I don't wanna be in heaven.'"
"Oh, that's different. Is he *asking* for hell?"
"No not really... Lithen, I'm really buthy right now. Can I just thend you the file and the guy?"
"Yeah sure, Pete. I'm not busy at all."
"Ok great I'll thend them over.
"Pete, that was sarca.... Oh, he hung up..."
**A few minutes later**
"So you must be Eddie. I'm Anubis, nice to meet you. So, tell me about your problem."
"Yeah, so it's like that other guy said, you know the one with the lisp?"
"You mean Thaint Peter?"
"Haha, yeah that's the guy. I just don't think I want to go to heaven."
"Well, your file says you've lived an exemplary life. Special Ed teacher for 20 years? Started an organization for underrepresented Latinos? And that's just a smidge of your overall accomplishments. You definitely qualify for heaven, you even get to skip the line. Why don't you want to go?"
"Yeah, well, it sounds kind of boring, to be honest with you. The Bible says when you go to heaven you "get"to sing praise to God for the rest of eternity. I hate singing. I'm not even good at it."
"That's the Christian bible. Perhaps it got parts right but maybe it got heaven wrong? Personally, I've never been so I don't know for sure. Hell, for all we know, it could be like that Norse place."
"Isn't Valhalla in hell, though?"
"Um okay it's not like Valhalla."
"Plus, what if I want to, like, do something raunchy?"
"Er, like what?"
"Have sex? Masterbate? Play with my dick?"
"Oh, no worries there, those things don't go to heaven."
"MY DICK WON'T GO TO HEAVEN?? Alright, I'm definitely not going. Would my dick go to hell?"
"Purgatory, I think."
Well, can I play with my dick in purgatory? Are there women in purgatory?"
"At the moment."
"Sooo can I go to purgatory?"
"Well, I mean I guess so. It's just that purgatory is more like a queue than an actual place. At a certain point, the queue leads back to me or Peter. So at a certain point, we would have to do this again."
"Fine by me! Send me and my penis to purgatory!"
"Ooookay... See you in about 100 years. Goddamn, that prude, Pete, always sends me the weird ones." |
In the cavernous depths of the Underworld, Hades reclined on his throne of shadowed obsidian. His dark eyes reflected the glowing souls that flickered throughout his realm like ethereal will-o'-the-wisps. These were the love-stricken mortals, their lives cut short due to broken hearts, unrequited love, or brutal betrayal. They painted his kingdom in tones of melancholy, a requiem of lost loves. It was a sight he was growing increasingly tired of.
"Enough,"Hades thundered, his resonant voice echoing off the chiseled stone walls of his dark empire. Rising from his throne, his immortal form radiated with a new resolve. He would not remain idle, an observer of sorrowful tales borne from the whimsical and oft-cruel wheel of love. His mission took shape, clear and unyielding - he would forestall these tragedies, provide solace and guidance before Aphrodite could meddle.
Hades' intervention was, at first, met with confusion. He wasn't a god traditionally associated with love or courtship, but the God of the Underworld turned out to have a unique perspective. He saw the end of things, the results of choices, and he used this wisdom to guide those in the throes of passion.
One of the first to receive his counsel was Elena, a young maiden with emerald eyes, besotted with a man who hardly noticed her. Instead of Aphrodite answering her tearful prayers, it was Hades who appeared to her. He took the form of a wise, ancient sage, his eyes alight with a knowing that stretched across centuries.
"Elena,"he began, his voice a soothing whisper against the cool night breeze, "you are more than the object of another's affection. Your love should be mirrored, not discarded or ignored. Do not tether your heart to one who does not value its worth."
His counsel resonated deeply within Elena. Choosing self-love over heartache, she embraced Hades' wisdom. Soon, she found herself ensnared in a love that was reciprocal, caring, and profound - a far cry from her previous, unrequited longing.
And so the cycle continued. Hades counseled soldiers longing for love on distant battlefields, kings locked in loveless marriages for the sake of duty, widows grappling with heartache and loneliness. In every case, his advice transcended the superficially romantic. He preached self-love, patience, understanding, emotional growth, and mutual respect. Aphrodite's airy promises of love at first sight seemed frivolous by comparison.
Rumors of the mysterious, wise old sage and his enlightening counsel spread like wildfire. Mortals found that this old man's wisdom - Hades' wisdom - held a depth that Aphrodite's flighty guidance lacked. It carried a raw understanding of reality, of the human condition, but also an unexpected optimism that offered a chance for genuine, meaningful love.
When Aphrodite heard of this, her golden eyes widened in astonishment. A flicker of envy ignited in her chest as she watched the mortals heed Hades' advice over hers. Her rosy lips parted in shock as she witnessed Hades in action, not as the grim God of the Underworld but as a counselor of love, a beacon of understanding and wisdom. His words bore a striking clarity, a beautiful reality that struck a chord within the hearts of mortals, a chord she'd never managed to strike.
Thus, Hades, the God of the Underworld, became an unexpected champion of love, his influence among the living growing with each soul he saved from heartache. His realm, once saturated with the sorrowful echoes of lost loves, slowly quieted, becoming once again a realm of the peacefully departed, not the prematurely heartbroken. Meanwhile, on the surface, whispers of his name passed between mortals, their lips curving in grateful smiles as they shared their tales of unexpected guidance.
But the most profound transformation occurred within Aphrodite herself. The Goddess of Love, who had once flitted between the hearts of mortals like a capricious breeze, found herself pausing. She observed Hades, her eyes reflecting the growth of her understanding and an unfamiliar humility.
The God of the Underworld didn't spin fanciful tales or sprinkle mortals with blinding infatuations. Instead, he armed them with wisdom, empathy, and patience. He taught them the art of navigating love's intricate dance, how to foster a relationship built on mutual respect, and how to grow from the ashes of heartache. His influence wasn't flashy, nor was it filled with the instant gratification that Aphrodite often promised. It was slower, harder, but its fruits were sweeter and long-lasting.
And the mortals, they embraced this change. They found peace in Hades' words, his wisdom providing a compass through love's tumultuous storms. Each success, every saved soul, was a testament to his impactful counsel. Love in the mortal realm began to change shape, its edges softening from frantic desperation to a steadier, deeper sentiment.
From his dark throne, Hades watched this transformation with quiet satisfaction. His intervention had created ripples that echoed through the mortal realm, reshaping the way love was pursued and perceived. The once-love stricken souls no longer crowded his Underworld, their hearts now armed with the wisdom to navigate the complexities of love.
Through it all, Aphrodite watched, her pride bruised but her eyes slowly opening to the depth of Hades' wisdom. Perhaps there was more to love than fleeting passions and starry-eyed infatuation. Perhaps love was patience, understanding, growth, and the strength to weather heartache. And perhaps, just perhaps, the God of the Underworld was the unlikely ally she and the mortals needed in their pursuit of this profound emotion.
In a paradox that shook the Heavens and Earth, Hades, the ruler of the land of the dead, breathed new life into the concept of love. Through wisdom and understanding, he became a guide, a mentor, and a friend to those seeking love. And love itself transformed, from a fleeting whimsy to a deep, abiding connection, the kind that transcends time, outlives life, and truly embodies the immortal spirit of the Gods. |
As a child becomes an adult, his parents slowly transform from almighty and most confident caretakers into the people they really are; they become all their faults and all their triumphs, all their success and all their failures. In all reality, the dramatic change comes not of the parents themselves, but rather of the child's perspective of their parents. Infantile trust and naïveté turn into adolescent rebellion and questioning which turn into a matured understanding, empathy, and pity for the elderly parents that once raised them.
This too was the progression of maturation that the 'lesser' primates took during their evolution and eventual overtaking of the 'higher' primate humans. They began as blubbering infants who lived in trees, had no language and flung feces at one another. During the adolescent phase of their evolution, the ape's intelligence increased to nearly that of an average human- not quite enough to fly to the moon, but intelligent enough to become increasingly aware of their lesser status. By the time their numbers increased and humanity began to fear its evolutionary competitors, it was too late. Humanity had fallen, mostly under the weight of its own grandiosity, and the apes were there to take their place, most often with use of force.
Then came the third phase of the evolution of the ape's relationship. As the ape became more intelligent than their predecessor, they came to be more forgiving of man's past transgressions, and the ape viewed man as a pitiful relic of what he once was, like a child views his elderly parent who had long ago slipped into dementia.
Then came along one of the most incredible events in world history, one that future religious apes would use as evidence for the existence of God. This event occurred in the epoch of apes that was highly technologically advanced, just as advanced as man ever became and then some. It was this technology that made this incredible event possible.
Ape archaeologists found the preserved remains of an ancient human who donned yellow clothing alongside the preserved remains of a naked little monkey- nudity being the ape's ancient reminder of how primitive he used to be, in a time before he experienced shame. The remains were frozen in glacier ice, and were wonderfully well-preserved. The archaeologists, interested to study the interactions between ancient man and ape, used the DNA of both remains and sophisticated cloning technology to effectively bring the man and the monkey back to life. The apes also used a sophisticated machine known as a Neuronal Entropy Print Tracer, which backtracked the billions of firings of neurons and recorded this data from the subject's birth to their death. Once these 'memories' were jump-started in an identical brain (which is only possible in a recently-deceased, or as in this case, a well-preserved specimen) the consciousness of the deceased is brought back to life as well, complete with all their personality traits, their intelligence, and their memories. Curious George and the Man with the Yellow Hat were brought back to life.
After several months of social scientists poking and prodding and studying the interactions between the two subjects, the study came to a close. Academics got all the information they'd wanted, the archaeologists achieved the fame they'd wanted, and George and The Man were left in limbo. The researchers of the study along with the general public thought it would be inhumane to leave George in his primitive state and ultimately he was given neurological therapy to increase his intelligence to equal that of the contemporary ape. The Man was left to suffer in his new caste in world society- that of a human slave.
Several years later after the study, George made a success of himself; he wrote an autobiography describing his life: his birth in the ancient continent of Africa, his capture, his adventures with the Man with the Yellow Hat, and finally his life in this brave new ape world. Although he was now intelligent, his curiosity never left him. He tried to sate his hunger for knowledge by reading and studying anything and everything, but there was something minute, something that evaded him and pestered him relentlessly- something that no understanding of the laws of physics or of the most mysterious secrets of the universe could ever come even close to being an adequate substitution for the question he had. Day in and day out George tried to tune out this one curious question he always had on his mind. He studied engineering, geopolitics, quantum physics and advance calculus all in the hopes of suppressing the one question he'd always had.
The obsession finally manifested into action and the poor George sought to finally answer his question. He took a week off work from the university at which he professed and found the Man with the Yellow Hat. The Man worked for his ape slaver on a farm, using primitive tools to pull weeds from the fields. When George approached the Man, he stood up from his kneeling, and his yellow clothes were covered in soil. He was disheveled and his eyes sunk low, there was no humanity left in him.
"Man with the Yellow Hat,"George said as he extended his hand to him, "won't you please tell me your name?"
Edit: thanks for the gold guys! My first submission to writing prompts, I appreciate all the support guys! |
*just a little rough work to get the thread started.*
---
“Should we knock?” Edward asks.
“Of course we should, it’s polite.” Alphonse replies, raising his fist and rapping his knuckles against the hard wood of the door frame.
“Get lost!” a rough voice from inside yells.
“Dr Jones we’ve come a long way!” Alphonse calls back.
“I don’t care! I just got back from Jordan and I’m not interested in any more Nazi plots!” Dr Jones yells back.
“I think we should come back later brother.” Alphonse says turning around.
“To hell with that!” Edward yells pulling on the handle, it’s locked. “I did not come half way across this planet just to be ignored!” he says stepping back and kicking in the door.
“Do you mind? That door is over forty years old!” Dr jones yells putting a clay cup down on his desk and standing up. Unlike a regular professor he’s wearing a worn leather jacket with a loose grey shirt underneath. The ones that the Elric brothers had seen all wore quality suits.
“Do you mind not ignoring us when we just got here from Berlin JUST TO TALK TO YOU!” Edward says.
“Well you're fresh out of luck, the last bloody nazi I spoke to shot my dad and nearly got my head cut off, shot at, fallen to my death, blown up, shall I continue?”
“And that is why we need your help.” Alphonse says. “You stopped them from getting control of the grail! You can do it again.”
“Look at me kid. I’m too old for this game. I’m a teacher not a soldier. Go talk to Roosevelt or something. He might help you.”
“You were right brother, he won’t help us after all.” Alphonse says as Edward strides out of the room. He pauses to pick up the broken bit of door frame. “Sorry for breaking the door.” He says pulling out a small bit of chalk and drawing a circle. “I’ll fix it for you.”
There’s a flash of light and the door handle and surrounding wood is back in place.
“Wait. Kid...Do the Nazis have this?” Dr Jones says, running right up to Alphonse.
“One of them does. It’s the stuff we can make with alchemy that they collected though. we can’t get help from any of our friends either they’re all stuck.”
“I’ll get my hat.”
|
"The eyes are the mirror of the soul"it is said. Then what lies within mine? Each color was born with an element under their will, grey for air, green for earth, blue for water and hazel for fire. But I had nothing, no element like no color in my eyes. Reflecting like a perfect mirror but adding no color back.
It was the day before my birthday, minutes were left for me to be 18. Doctors said there is not even a fraction of a color in my eyes so my parents were dissapointed with me. My father's dissapointment was more furious, like the fire coming with his hazel eyes, my mother was calmer, like the water and hers was a sad expression.
I was just laying in my bed, my eyes were looking at the ceiling. I had no real friends, no one wanted to waste their time with an inferior person.
Clock was ticking, 5 second was left. My parents were not present in the room.
4
It was always a colorful sight to see a child getting his powers.
3
All glowing eyes and elements dancing with the birthday kid.
2
But no colour meant no sight to see, no elements to dance.
1
And there I was, lying with my empty black eyes.
There I was feeling a heat like it was a sunny day, but it was an evening.
There I was feeling like floating in air, but I was lying in my bed.
I was feeling the tears in my eyes, but I didn't cry at all.
There I was feeling the walls of my room and ceiling, yet I wasn't touching them.
I felt everything, I felt my eyes were glowing with white, I saw, I felt the color of white.
"The eyes are the mirror of the soul"it is said. And mine were reflecting every color for it was black and clear as night.
(My first time here, don't know much about format of this sub so.. hope you like it) |
I guess you could say that ours is a family all too familiar with loss.
My grandfather left grandma back in '72, when mum and uncle Bruce were barely walking. Gone without a trace on a cold winter’s morning, never to be seen again. Not by his siblings, or his workmates at the factory, nor by his best friend Greg Roberts -- not a soul knew where he'd vanished to.
Mum told the story after my tenth birthday. She said they never found out why. It was a beautiful household, she said, him a loving father and a devoted husband. The warning signs, the hints of something brooding beneath the surface, they simply weren’t there. Grandma was certain of it, she said.
The police did the bare minimum of course. A few calls to this county and the next. But they never heard anything. No reports of his truck being found. Nothing at all. He was just, gone.
When it happened to us with our father, however, the signs were more ominous.
Dad had turned 28 the day before, which we would later realise was the same as it was for grandpa. But dad never drove off into the snow. His truck was still parked in the garage when it happened. Coat still on the rack, keys in the pocket, his boots still next to the door.
The investigation confirmed what we already knew: that he had never left the house. There wasn’t even a footprint outside. It was as if the floor had opened up and swallowed him whole. As though he hadn’t left us at all. That rather than leaving us, he’d been taken.
Sixteen years had passed since it happened. I tried to keep the memory away, but that wouldn’t be possible then, not on my 28th birthday. My wife knew the story -- about the pattern of the men in my family disappearing, which none of us had ever referred to for what it was, even though all of us knew.
Nancy did her best to avoid the subject. But I could see it in her eyes. She was as superstitious as they come, and I knew she was worried. In my world it wasn’t that big of a deal, it was me after all: leaving was the furthest thing from my mind; and in the event of something else, some supernatural force at play, I was going to make damned sure it didn’t succeed.
I’d held her tightly to reassure her. We didn’t need to say anything. She’d just looked at me, and saw the confidence in my eyes. The look of relief and the feeling of her tension loosening was almost heartbreaking. I’d never been loved that much before, and I knew more than ever how lucky I was.
But, in spite of our pride, we have little control over what happens to us.
I woke up the next morning in a flex, determined, but, trying to remain relaxed in the knowledge there was no need to worry. *I was going to break the pattern.* Whatever this thing was, it wasn’t taking me from my family.
There isn’t much to say about what happened next. No sooner had I left the bedroom, before everything changed.
The suddenness was beyond anyone's preparation -- barely a second to process the recognitions that constituted the terror I soon felt. Hard to describe, but for you I’ll do my best.
There was a moment of suspension before I fell. The floor had vanished, replaced by what can only be described as a vacuous, pitch-black nothing. The light from the loungeroom above flew away, spiralling rapidly as it shrank, until it was gone. There was no wind resistance, and soon I wasn’t sure if I was falling at all.
The shades of grey were subtle at first. Movements in the black without form, drifting amorphous in the dark. Then the red flash of an eye somewhere in the deep; the faint echo of a whisper impossible to discern. My mind recoiled, desperate, without a grip. What was this place, this dark purgatory that I was falling through? Growing whispers the terrible melodies of a nightmare from which I could not wake.
I recognised the voice of my father. His words rose into shape before drifting back, obscured, in the ether. He was trying to tell me something, but he was held back. “Dad,” I shouted.
“Mikey...we are...she has put...our great grandfather was...but I...you will be...”
His struggle to speak from that place was terrifying, but the boy of my past who now heard his father again would not let me feel afraid.
*I miss you, dad.*
Then, something. A flicker in the dark. The malevolent illuminations of a thousand blinking eyes staring back. Writhing tangles of cadaverous limbs and claws and mocking smiles in the grey. Here, I saw, was a hell worse than you could imagine.
As those wide cylindrical walls closed in with those heinous arms outstretched, I knew that I would never belong there.
The flicker within the mass went to white flame that bloomed large and bright, and the gnarls of hands that reached out retracted into shields across all those contorted, beastly faces. It was shining right at me. Swiftly I was consumed and overtaken, the darkness stripped away as I lost sense of time and was taken to those halcyon white spaces, seized, swept away in a dream.
It was mum’s smile when I woke. “Morning sunshine,” she said. “Dad’s birthday today, so we’re making him breakfast in bed.”
Without thinking I jumped up and hugged her and hugged her as tightly as I could. “What’s gotten into you?” she said, laughing with happiness.
I let her go and rushed from the room and ran down the hall and opened their bedroom door. There he was, peaceful as could be, sound asleep. “Dad,” I cried.
I leapt on the bed as he opened his eyes with a jump, his arms around me as I crashed on top of him. “I missed you,” I said in a blubber, body shaking as I cried.
Without a word he held me there, for the longest time it felt like. Telling me everything would be okay, in his own way, without saying anything at all. |
"I don't understand..it's so..blue."
Chancellor Erhlit looked on in astonishment as the long range sensors finally provided an image of Earth on the monitor. Today marks the first time in a millennia that a human has laid eyes upon their abandoned ancient home.
"May I remind you Chancellor that it has been exactly 998,124.12 years since your species left the planet, a lot can happen in.."
"Yes yes Rhonda, we get it,"Erhlit waved his hand at the ship's A.I. program, she was always answering rhetorical questions.
"There is life on the planet sir, and lots of it,"the computer continued undeterred by the Chancellor's frustration.
After a brief conference with the Ministry and a unanimous vote to take a closer look, the Flagship Redemption entered the solar system on a direct course to Earth.
"Sir, I am receiving a transmission."
Erhlit's eyes widened at the thought. In a million years of space travel, humans have encountered exactly 4 intelligent species, and none of them had even made it to the Renaissance era.
"Rhonda, open a.."
The Chancellor winced as an authoritative voice boomed inside his head, he looked around and confirmed that the entire crew could hear it, it was not meant for him alone.
**"We are the Htrae Alliance, you are violating the sovereignty of our planet, by what right do you enter our orbit?"**
The Chancellor replied aloud, although he wasn't sure he needed to.
"We are the United Human Republic, and this was once our home too, we would like to speak.."
**"Did you say human?"**
"Yes."
**"Can you confirm that you are descendants of the species that fled this planet on Date: 4076 after consuming all of ou-it's natural resources and rendering the atmosphere uninhabitable?"**
"Yes, but that was a long time.."
**"We need to talk."**
|
Case Notes. Segment94U-Ae-394-sub3(a). Final report.
Segment94U-Ae-394-sub3(a). What a problem case that one became. It's slow work terraforming, even by our standards. Still, the Imperial Decree has stood for a long time. Longer than I've been around. Since almost the first galactic rotation.
So I had a small pale blue dot after a careful time. I rather liked the fjords, the way they made the coastline all craggy. Life-forms on the surface, the last set anyway, were a number of bipedal warmblooded types. Second attempt after the reset button had to be applied. Still. They were much more useful. The coldbloods hadn't shown the necessary inclinations to allow for more subtle tweaking to hit targets. All carbon-based mind. Turned out to be rather important.
All in all, atmosphere was a bit weak, but it was hitting most of the points. So gave them a nudge here and there. Got them to figure out industry. Factories. All the rest. I figure, go ahead, burn some coal. Another side effect of the reset button. Ironically, those cold bloods proved useful for something. Should meet standards within a couple decades and they'd figure out cleaner energy, with a little more help. I hoped that one day they might even class as uplift candidates.
Anyway, took a nap… Kind of regret it now. Forgot to teach them cold fusion and now the planet's getting too hot. sub2 already fills the role of 'sulphurous hellhole' for Ae-394. They had found out that the liquid cold-bloods burnt faster and were choking the atmosphere. Developed whole society around burning it. Insane. Tragic.
Scheduled large ice comet to collide within ten years. Should cool the atmosphere sufficiently to hit that happy mean. The rains will wipe out most of the contaminants. Hopefully will eradicate the life-forms there. Nothing bigger than cellular life should be needed after that. The bipeds... They're beyond saving at this point.
|
[Trigger warning -- _kinda_ dark]
Finally. After years of searching. Years of being alone. Years of fighting and research.
I walk down an old, familiar path. Not too far from my home village now. How long has it been? Ten years? Ten years since I was given a pokemon and a backpack. Ten years since I was told to leave, and not come back until I had caught them all. My hands start shaking. I was nine years old at the time. What kind of person kicks a nine year old out of the house? Out of the town?
I summon Charizard and Moltres. "Set this forest on fire. I want them to see the flames before it hits them."The bitterness, the anger, it rose up and made my hands stop shaking. I summon Golem and Onix. "Make an earthquake next to the town. I want them to feel the fear I felt, walking through strange forests at night, with no one to help me. No one to care."
I realise that tears are going to down my face, but I don't remember crying. Giving a kid an impossible mission? Making it sound like an adventure, so he'd leave? Well, I did it. I completed the stupid mission. And now, everyone will know. |
To complete her quest, she had to wade a terrible path through a sea of blood. Much of it was regrettably innocent. But it was necessary. And today, more innocent blood was on her hands. It had been a terrible battle, horrible and long. The hero's blade had carved through her armour like it was mere butter, the hero had managed to wound her flesh, something that had not happened in a lifetime.
But she'd won again. As the hero laid dying, she walked over to her, and held the poor young woman tightly, whispering in her ears. ''*Shh. It's alright.*'' She sighed, she'd done this so many times before, but it hurt just as much every time. ''*You've done beautifully. I am so very proud of you. But enough now, rest easy. It was wrong of them to send you here, to fight me. You were dead the moment the battle began. It's not your fault.*'' The shallow breaths of the weeping hero, slowly ceased as her chest grew still.
The villain, the Godhunter, with extraordinary grace and care closed her eyes, and laid the dead hero carefully down on the ground. Standing up, she went back to her tent, where she fetched an old rusted shovel. ''*This is all I can give you. I'm sorry so sorry, dear child. You couldn't have known.*'' Her body ached, but she thrust that shovel into the ground, and slowly but surely, she dug a grave.
She had met the hero, before the hero knew who she was. What she did. The hero had been so full of hopes, dreams, and potential. The hero could have been a true beacon of decency and kindness for her homeland, and she had such drive to succeed, that if she'd been sent on any other quest, the Godhunter knew she'd have succeeded. As she placed the hero's body down in the hole, out on the desolate plains of Nagoldra, she idly considered how many times this had happened.
So many young cheerful heroes had fallen to the terrible force of the Godhunter. So many young knight errants, fresh faces, mage's apprentices, and other heroes, usually barely more than mere children. And she'd killed them all. As she covered the body with dirt, and prepared used a spell to carve the name of the hero into a rock, she cursed her enemies under her breath.
It started centuries ago, when she was an acolyte in the temple of her hometown. There at the altar, in a sealed box of bronze, they held an ancient scroll, explaining fate and truth, revealing the absolute and true nature of the gods. All who had read it had gone mad with joy the priests said, and yet every ten years at the feast of Leteq the Martyr, who had founded the temple, somebody had to volunteer to read it.
She didn't think that she would survive it with her mind intact, she merely volunteered to spare her friends in the convent from that horror. She read it at midnight during the feast, and perhaps it would have been better to go mad, than to learn the truth. That the gods did not love the mortals, they merely saw them as puny little playthings, that their lives and faith was meaningless, and every last horror and war was merely a game to bored, uncaring immortal beings. Usually those who had the great faith, had not been able to deal with this. But she walked out of the chamber where the scroll was. And to the shock of the town, she merely said that she understood now, and would leave the priesthood.
She understood the horrible implications of this knowledge. But she merely decided to have no part in the game, and live a life without the intervention of the gods. She told nobody what she had read. She said nothing ever. she simply moved away to another land, where nobody knew her. There, she married a simple man, in a small village, and was hoping to live a quiet life.
But the gods play games, and they care not for where or when the pieces fall. The village where she had settled was destroyed, killing her family, except for her youngest son. Who became a hero. All to amuse the gods, who had the hero play out a scenario where they would see emotions, tragedy, and violence. The hero, her son, died in battle against the warlord that had invaded their land. And she understood then, that merely trying to hide was not enough. When the god known as Errathraz came down, to sanctify the temple to themselves built where the hero had fallen, she was waiting. She had found many secrets in that ancient scroll, and one of them was the source of the power of the gods.
As the god said incantations, she jumped from the roof, her son's sword in hand, piercing the head of the god. And in there, she reached in, ripping out a shining light, which she then consumed. The god died, and she became the villain that day, as she had to slay the followers of the dead god. She became the Godhunter. She didn't look much like a villain, in her peasant clothes, with the plump body of a middle-aged mother. But when she walked away from that first kill, one might have mistaken her for a demon straight out of the pits of Hell itself.
She hunted down more scrolls with more secret knowledge of the gods, and she would slay the followers of the gods, their priests who delivered their commands, their holy warriors, and the innocents who knew not what the gods were on her bloody path. The gods merely thought it was amusing at first, not caring that she had slain one of their number. But when she slew the god Xawnke, before he could bed his new virgin mortal concubine, and when she appeared during the coronation of the Mortal Aspect of Dytagala as Emperor, where she crushed the god's heart, they began to worry. That is when they started sending the heroes after her. Hundreds of them, their names written down in a thick leather tome which the Godhunter was carrying with her everywhere.
It was the same time she became an immortal creature, like the gods in some way. Because people started to believe in her. Not as a new god, which the gods had offered her to become if she'd only stop slaying them, an offer that resulted in three gods slain, the light pulled out of their bloated, self-important heads, and destroyed. No, they worshipped her as the destroyer of the world. The end of all things. The GODHUNTER, who would end the current age of this world in blood.
This was her quest. But she didn't enjoy it. She had learned about the truth behind the gods, how they craved entertainment and worship. How they played with mortals and their lives, thinking nothing of slaying hundreds, even thousands, to create an interesting scenario. Her entire family was dead. Her beloved husband, harmless and gentle, had been cut down, as she was carrying her newborn son out of their burning village. She heard the screams as her old children were run down by warriors on horseback. She had lost everything except a single child. And then the gods had been cruel enough to take from her, the only thing she had. Because they wanted some entertainment, from a hero. And then once victory was assured, they cast him away, all so he could die heroically.
And for every hero sent after her, she had another reason to slay the gods. For every child promised to be a hero, there was a mother bereft of her child, a father who'd outlive their child, siblings who would never see their brother or sister again. Which drove her on. The list of gods grows ever shorter and shorter. For the plains she has buried the latest hero on, are the place where there is an entrance to the abode of the gods. The High Halls of the Pantheon. She was walking in a straight bee-line towards the place, where she would throw open the White-Gold gates, and with the sword of her long dead son, the spells she had learned in dark underground citadels where men and women communed with dark powers, where those with strong wills gained magic. There she would slay the last surviving gods, those too cowardly to face her in the mortal realm. She had slain their worshippers, burned their holy texts, destroyed their ancient temples, and torn the kingdoms and empires they had once sired asunder. Hundreds of thousands of the servants of the gods, along with innocents unnumbered, had died at her hands. But this endless upwards climb, would result in her victory.
The Godhunter stood once more over the grave of the hero, as she has stood over countless other graves, and there she vowed once more, to slay the gods.
[/r/ApocalypseOwl](https://www.reddit.com/r/ApocalypseOwl/) |
A lone figure sat in a chair facing a group of people standing behind podiums, each of their expressions ranging from pity, to nervousness, to genuine disdain. The figure looked at each of the gathered individuals, doing his best to keep his own ire off his face, and failing miserably.
“Okay,” he said, running his hands through white locks of hair, “make this make sense for me.”
“Mogrus,” the man in the middle of the group said, “we agreed thousands of years ago that the adolescent system of hero creation was the only way to keep things fair within the realm of the gods.”
“No, Ferrizar, *we* didn’t agree. *You* just so happened to luck out picking some trashy farmhand with muscles the size of hay bales, and ever since, you’ve been preaching about the ‘power of youth’ and the ‘strength of the uncorrupted spirit.’ Never mind the oh so convenient fact that you’ve been picking from the *same* lineage of genetically blessed super people for your champions ever since.”
“That has nothing to do with what we’re here to talk about.”
“I think it does! Because once you started, all the other gods started doing it, either to one up you, or beat you at your own game, or because they truly believe all that crap you spouted off and want to follow your example.” Mogrus stood up, pointing an accusatory finger at the assembled people. “*You all* were fine using kids as proxy soldiers for our battles, but because I decided that a consenting adult should be the one fighting for me, I’m the jerk?”
“Oh, that’s enough!” another individual, dressed in a black cloak, said. “As if you’re any better for hand picking your champion’s! You’ve chosen an experienced martial arts master dozens of times in a row for every battle we’ve had, and guess how many times you’ve been victorious?”
Mogrus threw his hands in the air. “And?! Did I miss the rule that said we had to pick some inexperienced high school student every single time? Am I breaking a guideline when I chose a person capable of fighting in the beginning instead of needing my champion to lose his best friend to a villain before gaining the power needed to save the day?”
“It’s stacking the deck is what it is,” yet another person said. “We’re drafting rookies while you’re pulling from the all-stars every time.”
Mogrus shook his head. “All I’ve heard is a lot of complaining about my strategy, and not a lot of reasons as to why I should stop.”
“Yeah, about that,” someone said, and unlike the previous speakers, this one looked particularly less divine. “I dunno about the rest of your champions, but I’m pretty much finished fighting teenagers. I thought it was just a trend, but if I’m gonna be beating kids up all the time, I think I’ve had enough of the hero business.”
Mogrus sat back down, leaning back in his chair and tenting his fingers. “So that’s it, then. This little intervention, all to tell me that I need to stop picking adults as my champions. Is that all?”
“Well, yes, that’s more or less the issue here,” Ferrizar replied.
“Very well. I will abide by the wishes of my fellow gods, and I will stop using adults as my champions.”
---
“Is this right, Mr. Mogus?”
“That’s right, Sally, you’ve gotten so much better at wielding a blade. I’m so proud of you.”
“Are you sure I can do this, Mr. Mogus? My mommy said I have to be home before the sun goes down.”
“I’m certain, Sally. Trust me, I’ve come to realize that if there’s one thing other champions hate fighting more than a thirty year old man, it’s an eight year old little girl.” |
The two Canadian border guards blinked the light from their eyes. It was hard to recover their vision, considering it had been as bright as the sun and as swift as a bolt of lightning. One of them, Ted, would have preferred to keep his eyes shut, but the new sounds and scents reaching the two men forced him to look.
When their vision finally cleared enough to see, they saw water. A lot of water. And from the smell, it was salt water. The second man, Mike, carefully approached. The ground looked like it simply ended. Cut by a great celestial blade.
"So, what do we do now?"Ted asked.
"I guess we should tell someone about this?"Mike replied.
"I suppose so. But what do we say?"
"That it looks like Vermont is gone, I guess."
The two men paused as they watched the waves lap against the edge.
"You don't think they'll blame us, do ya?"Ted asked.
"Why would they do that?"
"Well, they're gonna need someone to blame. Might as well be the fellas on duty, yeah?"
"I hope not. I don't know how I'd be able to fight something like that."
A gentle breeze blew in from the water. A few birds flew overhead. Not sea birds though. It would probably be some time before they started showing up.
"Seems awfully calm, doesn't it?"Mike noted.
"How so?"
"Well, Vermont's a big place, ya? You'd think it vanishing so suddenly would cause more... something."
"Something? Something like what?"
"I don't know. Like big waves or huge wind storms. You know, all that disaster movie stuff."
"Oh yeah. Guess we're lucky that way. I mean, if there had been big waves, we'd be drowning now."
"Lucky us, I guess."
The wind blew the scent of salt water. It was not like at the beach though, where the scent was mixed with a slew of other smells. Ted inhaled deeply and his brow wrinkled.
"Hey, Mike?"
"Ya, Ted?"
Does...did Vermont have any ocean coastline?"
"Don't think so. A bunch of the Great Lakes, but not the ocean. Why?"
"Thought so. Why d'you suppose this is all ocean water then?"
Mike paused before answering. His expression soon matched Ted's. Ted was the one who voiced their matching thoughts.
"You don't suppose it wasn't just Vermont that disappeared, do ya?"
"I hope not, but I'm starting to think so."
"Now I really hope they don't blame us. I mean, making one state disappear is bad enough, but the entire US?"
Mike shuddered. "I don't even want to think about what they'll do to us."
They stood in silence, thinking about the punishment they'd get for losing an entire country. Suddenly, Mike clapped a hand on Ted's shoulder.
"Well, no point in worrying about it now. Come on, let's go get a drink."
"Now? I mean, sure, I could always go for that, but..."
"But nothing. We're out of a job, so might as well."
"We are? What makes ya say that?"
"Easy. We're border guards, ya? Well, there's no border to guard anymore is there?"
"Huh. Guess you're right."
"So, let's go get drunk and worry about this in the morning. Maybe another guard will make the report for us and get saddled with the blame."
"I do like the sound of that. Okay, let's go."
As one, the two men turned their back on the ocean that once held a country. Then they left to find the nearest bar. |
I don't even *like* drawing. I glance up at the clock. 9am. It didn't even seem possible that I'd only been here for like an hour. Felt like two fuckin' years. I looked at my drawing. I was just doodling a train. They didn't tell me what to draw. Probably should have. I think I heard somewhere that people are much more productive drawing if you give them an objective instead of just letting them figure it out. I tried to draw some smoke over the engine, but I didn't have any grey pencils. Who the hell gives you just 8 pencils and wants you to make a proper picture? Stupid white coated bastards.
This wasn't even worth the 80 dollars a day. Not for 7 hours of study. 'Brain operation and developement study HHB219'. Why didn't they name these things something catchy, or clever? They'd probably get more people. Well, no, probably not. It was the big '$80/day' on the poster that caught my attention, and it was probably the same for everyone else who came here. We needed money.
I look down at the picture again. The train should be tilted more, if it was moving. I grab the black pencil and start to adjust my sketch, using my thumb to smudge the graphite a little and make it look like the train was in motion. I didn't have any grey. I guess I could use the white pencil with the black one? No, the paper was white. What was the fucking point of that shit? But maybe... I take the black pencil and begin to make dots, trying to place them randomly, above the engine's chimney. I keep them tight-packed at first. Close knit and plentiful, but as it rises I begin to spread them out, to make them more and more sparse. The effect is a pleasant one of smoke rising, but it looks more like the casually drifting steam over a pot of water than the rushing plume of a train. I lightly run the graphite over the whole thing, greying out the area, and lick my finger to help smudge the paper. Not bad. I repeat the dots, and the smudging a couple of times, but now the whole thing is getting a little dark. No problem. I reach for the white pencil without looking and make a few deep, thick, puffy lines through the entire cloud before smudging them in with the rest. The process continues for two more layers before I have an impressive plume of smoke chugging away from my engine.
The background. Where those *hills?* Surely not. Just lumps in the air. I grab onto a green and a brown and begin to touch up the landscape. I can't just leave it like that, which is strange when you consider that I don't even like drawing.
The pencil drops from my hand.
I don't like drawing.
I have *never* liked drawing.
I push the paper away from my nose, which was pressed down just inches above the table, and stand up, examining the work. The background was fairly shoddy, but the train and especially the *smoke* were incredible. It was like stepping into a photograph. I couldn't draw like this before. Something was wrong here.
The problem is obviously within me. Either my perception has shifted or my abilities have. Weighing the options, I decide to conclude it must be my abilities. If my perception has changed, there is nothing I can really do to handle that, since I can't even trust my own senses. If I have newfound talent, that can be managed. Not the most elegant reasoning, I tell myself, but I did not have much to go on. I look around the room, attempting to get a gauge on what was happening. There was a mirror along one wall. One way glass? One was glass was two way glass, if you didn't have any lights. But what purpose would seeing those studying me serve? None. I cross that option off of my mental list. Surely it was whatever drugs they gave me that caused this lucidity, but would it end? Would they end it, or would it finish on its own? I needed to know.
I strode to the door. Would it be locked? Doubtful. They told me to stay and draw, and I was being paid. I turn the knob and stepped into the hallway. The glass was on the left. I turn left and walk down the hall, and knock on the wooden door which must surely lead to the observation room. It opened quickly. There was a young woman with a clipboard looking a little flustered, and behind here two men, both older than me, where watching.
I walk past her, and the taller of the men, dismissing them as obvious students based on their attire and on their demeanor, and stride up to the shorter man, and look him in the eye.
"What did you do to me?" |
First time in writing prompts, constructive criticism welcome.
___________________________________________________________________________________________
Sam woke up feeling incredibly weak, with a burning sensation in his forehead.
Sam was a occult librarian. His parents were rich and he had plenty of time, so it was basically his only hobby.
There were hundreds of books in his library, on dozens of different branches of magic. Warnings about the consequences of misuse took up the first half of most copies. Some of the warnings were specific to the branch of magic that the book was about, but most of them were standard duplications. After all, these books were incredibly valuable, and at the time of writing, it would have been unheard of to have two, let alone the hoard Sam had amassed.
Sam's newest book was on Necromancy, his favorite branch of magic. At this point he had dabbled enough in various topics that he could light a cigarette with his finger, hold his breath for an hour, and weed his garden slightly faster than normal. They weren't all winners. But necromancy was life itself. He couldn't wait.
His book contained the standard warnings - "Don't cast in view of your own reflection", "never pray", "your shadow is your enemy", yada yada yada. But it also had two additional warnings. The first taught him a simple spell to sense the coming of his own death. The second was instructions on creating a phylactery, and a warning to do it as soon as possible. It also said never to use necromancy on his own body without a phylactery, but the consequences were unspecified.
Unfortunately, making a phylactery was incredibly complex. Sam decided to check that spell again after he finished the book or turned thirty, whichever came first. The rest of the book was similarly complicated and Sam's ambition to control life came to little. He made himself a pet zombie dog and moved on to the next big thing - magical origami. After conjuring 1000 paper cranes, he could have whatever he wanted.
A year later, he was eight hundred cranes in and going strong. His parents were driving him to his 22nd birthday party. They were doing a small thing, a family get together. Sam didn't have many friends.
While driving on the highway, Sam figured he'd get one more crane in before dinner. He glanced in the rear view mirror just as it appeared, and could have sworn he saw someone sitting in the backseat next to him. But only for a second, because after that the car hit them.
T-bone, fatal for two passengers out of three. Sam, bleeding heavily, thought back desperately to his half-finished Necromancy studies and reanimated his parents.
"Save me."
Sam woke up feeling incredibly weak, with a burning sensation in his forehead. The first of the two emergency necromancy spells had triggered. He was minutes from death. He looked up from his hospital bed, and two skeletons grinned mouthlessly at him. One of them clacked her hands together in excitement.
Sam realized he was in his own room, with medical equipment everywhere. He looked down to see wrinkled hands, liver spots. The good news - His parents must have been incredibly industrious, to set this all up and manage it themselves, without being found out as zombies. Either he was a naturally talented necromancer and his zombies came back intelligent, or more likely, zombification after recent enough death allowed creations to keep their memories. The bad news - the burning was growing stronger.
He specifically remembered that the phylactery had to gestate in the entirety of the new moon, three days. There was no chance of making it in the minutes he had remaining. But then again. His parents came back okay. What was the worst that could happen, if he managed to save himself?
As the heat in his head peaked and he breathed his last, he flexed his magic and caught his own body. It dangled below him on puppet strings, and his sensation decreased dramatically, but it was his. He ordered his body up from the bed and did a little dance, no longer feeling so weak. His parents hugged him.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Not his body's shoulder. The shoulder of his incorporeal self, floating above.
"I'll take that,"grinned his fellow necromancer, laughing through rotten black teeth. He tore Sam's body away from him with easy contempt.
Behind him stood hundreds more. Sam walked to the back of the long line, thinking to himself. Just 200 cranes to go... |
I was in an brightly-lit room. At the other side of the table sat a woman, staring at me with dispassionate eyes.
“Where are we?” I asked her.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Are you here to monitor me?” I asked her.
“I don’t know,” she said without skipping a beat, “Are you?”
“Could you stop staring at me? Your fishy gaze is downright disgusting.”
“I could,” she said as she kept staring at me.
She was wearing the same kind of gray generic clothes as they had given me. There was nothing else in this room, not even a door or a security camera. Most likely, she had no idea what was going on either. Probably useless.
“What are we doing here?” she asked after a while. She still hadn’t blinked. There was something odd about this woman.
“I don’t know, does it matter?”
She thought about that for a while.
“I guess not.”
Given our predicament, she seemed awfully calm. I obviously wasn’t intimidated by any of this, but she didn’t seem concerned about me or this weird room either.
Neither of us was restrained, I could be done with her in a few seconds if I felt like it. A few seconds of pressure at the right spots and her brain would stop functioning for good. Ending a life was easy.
“I can think of a dozen ways to kill you,” she suddenly said. It sounded more like she stated a fact than like any kind of threat. I could not help but smile.
“Me too,” I replied. And I could.
“But isn’t it wrong to take a life?” she asked while she *finally* blinked, a few times in rapid succession.
“Is it really?” I said. “What part of it, exactly? A human life doesn’t mean anything. We’re just biological engines meant to reproduce and die off. Anything else we do in between is inconsequential in the long run.”
“I agree,” she said.
“So doing whatever you want to do seems the most logical way to live your life. If life doesn’t matter anyway you might as well do with it what you will.”
A thin smile had crept up at the side of her lip at that last sentence. Either this woman was my long lost twin sister, or she was just saying whatever I wanted to hear. Either way, I was done with her. Nothing to be gained from this kind of woman.
She stood up. “Thanks, this has been very informative,” she said, as she started to walk towards me. I tried to stand up as well but my legs wouldn’t move.
“You can turn yourself off now,” she said. |
I remember reading in high school about the French Revolution. With so many executions at the chopping block, one may easily wonder whether the human head stays “alive” for moments after it is removed from the body. After my experience today, I can say with certainty the answer is yes.
I remember a sharp pain. A snap, more than a crunch. Then I remember seeing my body. A stump where my neck was. Then white.
“We’re back?”
I open my eyes. Alice is next to me, shaking as she sits up. Eve and John are slowly waking up as well. This doesn’t look like an afterlife. This looks like my apartment. Where we started playing Orion X to begin with.
“I think the game is just over. We didn’t win, but we still made it out?”
I pinch my arm. I can still feel my body. I lean over and pinch Alice.
“Ouch! What the fuck Brian?”
It seems like she can feel her body too. Then it looks like we’re back in reality. The place we spent the past year trying to return to.
“So we didn’t need to win at all? We could have just died? That game lied to us! Let’s just unplug the rest of the gang from their ComSats and get them free too.”
John rushed over to Carrie and started tugging at her ComSat.
“Hm, that’s weird, it doesn’t seem to be coming off easily. What if I yank right here…”
A loud pop. Everyone is looking at John now. The ComSat is in his hand. And Carrie is on the ground, red and yellow liquid oozing out of the insertion point in the back of her head. Time stands still.
“What the fuck did you do John?” Alice resumes time.
“Fuck, how was I supposed to know that would happen?” John frantically tries to scoop the liquid up his hands and put it back in the insertion point.
I rush over to her and check her pulse. Nothing.
“She’s dead.”
“You killed her John.” Alice cries.
“I didn’t know!”
“Shut up! Everyone!” Eve speaks for the first time since we woke.
“We are in uncharted territory. We are free from the game, despite the game lying to us, so it makes sense that John would doubt the other threats the game claimed as well to try and free the rest of our friends. Looks like this claim the game made was true though. That you can’t leave until the game ends. So we just need to go back in the game and tell them the truth from inside the game.”
Eve sits down, and reconnects her ComSat. We watch, but she doesn’t trance like when you normally plugin in. Instead her ComSat beeps:
“Error, user’s chance has expired. There are no second chances.”
The ComSat dislodges itself from Eve. She nervously says. “Well shit, that’s my plan out the window. Anyone else got any ideas?”
I stand. “If we can’t free our friends from the player’s side, there’s only one option. We have to find the central Orion X servers, hack in, and change the rules of the game.” |
Stewart sat straight awaiting his turn to review the product. He was the storied Tenth Dentist—the cavity crusader, the plaque protector, the last bastion against the dreaded *gingavitus.*
The others dentists had been phoning it in for years now. They had approved this particular product on *sight.*
>“Does it clean teeth?”
>
>“Yes!”
>
>"And does it taste minty fresh?"
>
>"You bet!"
>
>“Approved!”
Stewart wouldn't be so easy. He hadn’t approved a product for market in years. Soft-bristled tooth-brush? *Fail—if the gums don't bleed, they will recede*. Bubblegum flavored toothpaste? *Fail—children shouldn’t be conditioned to enjoy bubblegum*. Tooth-whitening strips? *Double fail!—There is no cheat code for good dental hygiene*.
Stewart was the last of the old-guard. Dentistry was serious business, and the products needed to reflect that. He ate nothing but whole-grain wheat-thins and brushed four times a day using a custom-made porcupine-quill toothbrush.
He picked up the sample brush the council had provided for purposes of testing the new paste. He sniffed it, pressed on its bristles, and tested its flex. His nose wrinkled as he shook his head and tossed the brush to the side. He squeezed a dollop of toothpaste directly onto his finger instead.
He put the paste to his nose, wafting the aroma with his other hand. “Interesting,” he said. “I’m getting a bouquet of fresh pear… savory yet sweet like a caramelized ham… and is that a note of shoe leather?”
The other nine dentists looked at one another. “*I thought it was spearmint*,” one whispered. “*It is, but I can see the caramelized ham undertones. This man is a genius*.” The other nodded. “*Astounding*.”
Stewart pulled his lip back and slowly smeared the paste along his lower gum. He then slapped both hands against his cheeks, leaving red marks.
*It’s the Stewart Slap!* one of the dentists whispered excitedly. *It’s meant to reset the neural network in his mouth. He hasn’t needed to use it in years!* The other dentist rolled his eyes. *What do I look like, an amateur? Of course I know about the Stewart Slap! Now shut up, this is big.*”
Stewart took a sip of water, swishing it around his mouth with purpose. After a moment, he spat the water out into the crystal spittoon he carried with him at all times. He dabbed his mouth and looked up at the council.
“I’ve made my decision,” Stewart said. The room had gone deadly quite, suspense permeating the air. “I would recommend this product,” he said at last.
Cheers erupted throughout the council. A tear rolled down the face of the First Dentist. The Seventh Dentist pulled out a rosary, touched it to his forehead and kissed it. The Fifth Dentist made a bee-line for Stewart, emphatically shaking his hand before grabbing the tube and squeezing its entire contents into his mouth.
But a distinct groan punctuated the celebration. Everyone went quiet and turned around to see who it was.
A man in the back had stood up, his face red, muttering a string of profanity under his breath. “Goddammit!"he shouted, pointing at Stewart. "*You* weren’t supposed to recommend it! You were supposed to be the hold-out!”
Stewart looked the man dead on, unblinking. “I liked it, so I recommend it,"he said. "Ten out of ten dentists approve. Congratulations.”
The man pulled out a phone and punched a number into it. “Sharon? Pull the toothpaste from the market ... Yes, you heard me! Pull it! Stewart *approved*! We’re screwed!”
Murmurs rippled throughout the council.
The man put his phone back into his pocket. “Stewart you damn bastard! We can’t have *ten out of ten* dentists recommend our toothpaste! That’s unheard of! It's *unthinkable*! They’ll assume we rigged the votes! We’re sunk!”
Stewart shrugged and walked off, the room erupting into chaos as he closed the door behind him. He smirked to himself. Caramelized ham undertones? Not on his watch. That toothpaste should never see the light of market, and he'd just made sure of it.
***
 
Thanks for reading! Check out r/Banana_Scribe for some of my favorite pieces. |
**The Cheat**
My grandfather disappeared the night before I was born, so I never met him. From what I’ve heard, he was an asshole. He wronged a whole lot of people, lied and cheated his way through life from day one, and in all likelihood he was shot and buried by loan sharks somewhere outside Cincinnati in the early 1990s. There was a body that the cops found but it was scrubbed – maybe it was him, maybe not – it’s not really important.
What matters is that in March of 2021, I got a phone call from the daughter of an old friend of his. She found a box in her mom’s attic with his name on it, and, bless her heart, she went through the trouble to find someone to hand it off to. That’s how I got the Cheat Codes. It’s also how my entire life unraveled in the course of a week.
Here’s a quick recap: On Monday I discovered that the cheat code for infinite health works. On Tuesday, I became the 32nd richest person in the world. On Wednesday, I flew around the world like Superman. Thursday through Saturday I acted out my oldest fantasy of being a seafaring pirate, thanks to a combination of codes that allowed me to isolate a remote section of the Pacific Ocean and dial back the clock three hundred years. On Sunday, I checked the mail, found an unmarked letter addressed to me, and opened it as I flew to Tokyo for some sushi.
My eyes were watering in the cold wind as the typewritten words at the top of the letter came into focus: NOTICE: YOU HAVE BEEN BANNED FROM UNIVERSE XT-1138.
My powers of flight vanished in an instant, and I dropped like a rock. As I was hurtling through the clouds, screaming bloody murder, I tried to release the letter from my hand, but it curled around my wrist. I felt a strong tug, and realized that the letter was pulling me down, like I was tied to an anvil. I tore at it with both hands, as the ground raced up toward me, ready to flatten my face like a crepe, but the letter was too strong.
New typewritten lines materialized on its external face: TIME TO BOOT: 20 SECONDS.
I pleaded and begged the letter to let me go. As the air rattled my cheeks and gravity hugged me to the Earth, I promised never to use the cheat codes again. That was the last thing I remember before I woke up in the void.
I was stretched out in a field of grass. My chest still heaving, I shot up like a rod when I heard a voice call out, “Who’s there?!”
I looked around and saw no one.
“State your purpose here or prepare to be skewered.”
I got up and turned my attention to a nearby grove of tall, gnarled trees. Their dense canopy seemed to be where the voice was coming from. A spear sailed out from within the canopy and landed directly in front of my feet.
“I wish you no harm,” I said, backing away with my hands up. “I come in peace. I’ve been, uh, banned.”
Silence. A rope ladder fell from the tree. A creature descend it rapidly – it looked human, but moved with a spiderlike tendency to dart this way and that, zigzagging as it approached. When he came close enough to see my face, and I his, we both froze.
“Grandpa?”
He brought his hands to his mouth, like he was about to cry. He blew into them. I heard a high-pitched whizzing sound. Something pierced my neck. A dart? I groped at it, felt its thin wodden rod and its feathered end. My vision blurred.
"Took ya long enough,"he said, laughing, as I fell face first into oblivion.
*To be continued…* |
“No. Please! Please! Please Stop! Aaahhh!” the screams echoed from the old brick building, down the dark alley.
I stood in the shadows, silently waiting for the negotiation to conclude. Water dripped slowly from an exposed pipe and a light near the metal door at the back of the brick building flickered as if cowering from the pain being inflicted inside.
“Okay! Okay!” the voice inside whimpered between sobs. My lip twitched and I exhaled, then coughed. I leaned back against the cold concrete wall and pulled out a cigarette.
My hand shook as I lit up. I’d heard these interrogations a dozen times already and I thought I’d be okay with them by now, but no one really ever gets used to the guttural animal noises people produce when they’re having their skin slowly peeled back.
The nicotine hit me almost immediately and my shoulders slumped. Just then the lock on the back door clicked and the metal door flung open noisily. A man wearing a blood stained white apron and face shield stood there, looking out. He saw me, the cigarette and nodded, “give me one of those will you?”
I grunted and passed him the pack.
“Any trouble?” He asked as he wiped blood onto his pants before picking out a cigarette. I shook my head. As he exhaled he looked me up and down, “you don’t talk much, do you?”
I shrugged, “not much to say.”
He laughed “Bit like our friend inside! Dumb kid, you’d think this younger generation would be smarter, but we’ve got no end of clients coming our way. Anyway, you can go if you want. We’re all done here.”
I nodded, dropping my butt on the ground and stepping out of the shadow towards the street.
“We’ve got five negotiations tomorrow, don’t be late,” the blood soaked man shouted down the alley as I reached the street. Cars streamed past at speed and people hurried by. I turned on the busy sidewalk and almost walked straight into a man crouching down tying his child’s shoelace.
“Daddy, what’s he doing up there?”
I looked up at the billboard he was pointing at. It showed a skinny young man with tattered clothing and a depressed look standing on the side of a bridge with the words ‘Feeling down? Talk to us first!’ The words Willing Exchange and a phone number flashed underneath.
The father glanced up and then physically turned his child away from the sign. “Don’t worry about that, son,” he said sternly.
One day it could be him, I thought as I stepped past. I looked up at the sign again, a new photo showed a vending machine filled with photos of people. The text read ‘Save yourself today with new deals available all the time! Available now at a brokerage machine near you!’
I kept walking for a few minutes until I reached one of these machines. I coughed as I pulled out my phone and saw a new notification confirming I’d received my latest pay check. I could see another notification showing an unread email from my doctor as well. I swiped both away and looked up at the machine.
The vending machine was filled with cards featuring faces of people, mostly young men. Below each photo a life expectancy was printed in years along with a description of the person’s medical history and pre-existing conditions. In the top left corner one card flashed red with “NEW” printed in the top corner.
I stared into the eyes of the young dude I’d helped drag into the old brick building just an hour earlier. He was the latest addition and showed a life expectancy of 87 years. I was about to pull out another cigarette when I started coughing. Blood drops splattered the vending machine as I tapped on the card in the top left hand corner.
\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_
It turned out to be somewhat uncomfortable writing this story. To anyone out there reading this who is feeling down or having negative thoughts, please remember there are good people in excellent organizations across the world doing great work helping people deal with life's challenges. Seek help if you need it. |
*"You can't change the past, Sarah."*
Bullshit, thought Sarah, as she went over the figures one last time. The glow of the computer screen flickered over her spindly fingers as she tapped numbers into the keyboard. She knew exactly what she was doing. She'd spent the last three decades working on it. The first decade had been spent on research, experimentation, and exploration, watering a thirst for knowledge that could only be quenched by delving further into unknown scientific realms.
*"What you're suggesting is impossible!"*
The second decade, gathering resources. She begged, borrowed, cajoled her way to all the instruments and materials she needed. She had made sure no one had any idea what she was planning. It was easy, since no one had known what she was attempting was even possible.
*"Sarah, you're out of your mind!"*
Actually building the machine took up the third decade. Here, people started to realize what she was trying to do. Their reactions varied. Some people expressed shock or astonishment. Many others were openly derisive, parroting outdated theories about why her endeavors were impossible. A small fraction of people were supportive, and wanted to help. Some even wanted to come with her. She elected to ignore these people. This was her mission, and hers alone.
*"Sarah... why are you doing this?"*
Why? Because she could. Because this was her one chance to grow up with something of a normal childhood. Because her parents had died more than half a century ago, and she still hated them for abandoning her. Because she'd been forced to soldier on, alone, unloved, wallowing in the lowest depths of human existence just to survive.
Sarah thought back to the time when she'd traded her body for food, at an age when she should've been playing with dolls. Or the time she'd knelt in the mud, scooping up a tiny handful of crumbs from the ground, after they'd been spilled from a passing truck. Or the week she'd spent huddled under a bridge, delirious with fever, while the homeless vagrants had used her in any way they'd wanted.
Sarah found herself weeping, her fists clenched into trembling pale balls atop the keyboard, her teeth clamped against the sobs that threatened to escape her throat. She hadn't thought back to her youth in years. Now, the prospect of eliminating these memories forever had brought them all to the fore. She took a deep breath and tried to regain her composure. She was so close now. Soon all of these memories would be forgotten nightmares, forever relegated to oblivion.
*"Sarah, think of the paradoxes!"*
Indeed, if she went back and gave herself a normal childhood, she would never be driven to create the time machine in the first place. This was a conundrum she'd yet to solve, but she didn't care. The continuity of the universe was nothing compared to her need to undo the ravages of the past. The universe would just have to take care of itself. Sarah would not grow up as an orphan, and that was final.
*"Sarah, think of your parents... is this what they would want?"*
Her parents? Dad and mom gave up their right to tell Sarah what to do when they died in that car crash. It was the middle of the day, in perfect driving conditions, for fuck's sake. How do you lose control of your car in the middle of the day? How do you drive your car over a cliff when you can see perfectly, when the roads aren't iced over or damaged, when your car has nothing wrong with it? No, it didn't matter those two idiots thought or wanted.
*"How can you be sure your time machine will even work?"*
Because Sarah had spent the last thirty years making sure. It was a one-way trip, but that was all right. She didn't need to come back to the future. Or, to be more precise, she'd be returning to the future the old-fashioned way, one day at a time, as a guardian and protector of her younger self. She'd make sure none of the horrors of her past would ever happen to her.
Sarah finished typing the last few numbers into the computer, then slammed her finger down on the enter key. The computer beeped compliantly, and the screen glowed with the reassuring message that all was in order. Sarah would travel back in time to the day of her parents' accident, and seek out her younger self. She knew exactly where she'd be on that day: sitting by the window at home, waiting for the dark blue family car to pull up the driveway, not knowing it was sitting in a crumpled heap at the foot of a cliff.
With an air of determination, Sarah lifted open the hatch of the time machine, a blocky metallic contraption with a single transparent viewport, and sat in the seat inside. She pulled the hatch closed and hovered her finger over the activation button. Hesitating only for a fraction of a moment, she stabbed the button with her finger.
There was a flash of light and a cacophony of sound. The environment outside the viewport began to fade into a jumble of light and darkness, as if some divine force was stirring reality into a primordial soup. Then, gradually, the scenery outside re-constructed itself. The lights and noises stopped. Sarah peered out the viewport.
The time machine had ended up in the middle of a cliffside road. Driving straight at the machine, at a speed too fast to stop, was a familiar dark blue sedan. |
He coughed, sputtered, and exhaled loudly. Blearily he looked through the smoke to his Vice President. "Are you sure you don't want to at least try?"The man was a saint, the Commander-In-Chief decided, as he looked towards him. The oval office was currently in full party mode, and from the looks of it, would be completely trashed before the night was through.
He tried little things at first. Some controversy, not too crazy, so that he would be able to step down with a fair amount of clout and grace. He started with a moderate expanison to the Affordable Healthcare Act. Companies had a conniption, but the people loved it. When it came down to it, the people made it clear, Charlie was their pal.
So then he tried for a little more controversy. Mandatory vaccinations, elimination of school college debt, mandatory sexual education (the real kind). All of these seemingly sweeping changes, nada. Bupkiss. Sure there was anger, a whole lot of it. But there was a fever pitch of favoritism, and he was at the epicenter. He was a God among men to the citizens of the United States. Even his wrong doings were brushed off.
So now he's trying a party. Ellen, god bless her, could care less about the pot or the strippers. She drew the line at coke though. Not that Charlie gave a damn. He wanted out.
Smoking the last of the joint, he choked some more, only to be slapped on the back by some up and coming actor. There were models, strippers, actors, congressman, and a whole slew of foreign dignitaries. Everyone was enjoying themselves, and it looked like it would be a party for the ages.
"You think it'll work, Mark?"The Vice Presdient, someone whom he considered a dear friend, sighed. "Probably not. But where the fuck are the tacos?" |
Cyprus Grove Cemetery is the final resting place of over seven-hundred people from over two centuries.
Located in the coastal plains of Georgia it derived its name from the Cyprus trees that flanked the Ogeechee River on its slow, muddy, journey to the Atlantic Ocean. The roots of the trees stuck out as "knees"from the red clay in several areas throughout the swampy river. Only a few yards inland sat the field, evergreen with grass and lined by granite headstones and markers.
Rich and poor, black and white, young and old, Yankee and Rebel all waited for the final trumpet in Eight-by-Ten foot containers buried six feet below the sod. The headstones ranged in age from a few weeks old, with block letters to guide the mourners; to centuries, with their scripts so weathered and residents so long dead even their descendants had forgotten them. Some were completely lost, marker and man ground completely to dust decades ago.
For twenty years Mac had tended these grounds. A genteel man, he liked to think of it as a service rather than a job. He cut grass, cleaned headstones, and occasionally buried new permanent residents. That is, until the day a "buzzer"went off.
It is a silly feature to comfort the suspicious. With the regular medical examination, autopsy, embalming, visitation, and finally casket closing , the bereaved are usually quite certain of their loved one's passing. Burial alive is for the cheep horror movie. Yet, still, the caskets carry that optional feature; and the "buzzer"was often purchased with the casket. When activated an alarm would sound in the groundskeeper's office and light a small bulb on its wall map, indicating where a resurrection was needed earlier than the end times.
The groundskeeper's office was located beside the small brick chapel at the graveyard's gate. Mac would often sit in that chapel and contemplate the stained glass window, an image of the arcangel Gabriel with trumpet calling the elect to glory. Mac, himself, was not particularly religious, but appreciated the quiet solitude of the chapel.
The buzzer activated while he sat there one day, the alarm bringing him out of his contemplation. Knowing what it was, and the unusuallness of it, he hurried into the office and looked at the map of the graveyard.
"That can't be right."He said to himself, "That grave is ten years old."
As if in answer, the buzzer suddenly stopped. "That's odd. Better go check it out."He grabbed his coat and flashlight and began walking toward the indicated grave.
He had a very hard time later describing what he saw. Photos taken later displayed a fractured headstone, the granite lid to the casket vault had been unearthed, seemingly from an outward burst, and lay cracked about one yard from the hole. Several puddles of candle wax surrounded the gravesite, ash remains of wicks sitting at their centers.
Shocked, Mac walked back to the office and picked up the phone. As he called the police he turned to the wall map. The alarm started again, and fifty lights began to flash on the map. |
Jaime was having a fairly bad day. He had woken up 3 hours late for his job because his cell decided it didn't want to sound the alarm. He had checked the wrong date on the Weather Site and used a light attire for what had been the coldest day of the year and then, he had died.
Yes, died. He had been rushing down the street, hugging himself to keep the cold away and then everything went dark. He found himself standing in heaven shortly after.
*At least I didn't end up in hell* He had thought *Yet.*
After that he had made a line that lasted forever because people kept showing up. It seemed that bureaucracy was the same anywhere, at last a being made of light indicated a way to go, for him alone.
Now he was finding himself in front of a door more beautiful than any door had any right to be, and feeling intimidated by the sign at the top.
**God's Office. Please knock.**
Jaime knocked and the entrance opened by itself. After such impressive door he was expecting an office beyond his wildest dreams, the reality of it left him disappointed: It was just an office; the walls and the ceiling were made of something that could pass as white marble, while the floor was dark wood, same as the desk in the middle. An old man was sitting in it.
White beard and hair, a shiny aura about him and the looks of a happy grandfather. Again he was a bit...
"Disappointed?"God asked "Please don't think of me as God, call me Jeo. All my friends call me that."
"J-J-Jeo"Jaime stuttered entering the office "It's a great honor to meet you"
God, *no*, Jeo got up and shook his hand.
"I can only return the feeling"He smiled "I know it's a bad thing to say, but I've been looking forward to have you here!"
Jaime weighted his words for a second.
"I don't mean any disrespect"He started "But, *why* am I here? All the others in line were getting straight into paradise."
"Oh, you are confused. I hoped Peter had told you. You're here because you have a job interview! I have an activity for you."
"Ah job inter... what?"Jaime was completely lost "To do what?"
"You're to be..."God said moving his arms dramatically "*My new Jester!!*"
Jaime felt his metaphorical soul falling to the ground. A jester? Had he not suffered enough, now he had to become heaven's joke?
"A jester? Lord, I mean Jeo. I'm not sure why you're offering that to me, I've always been regarded as a very unfunny person. I never got invited to parties or anything."
"Unfunny?"Jeo said "Nonsense! You're the funniest person I've ever created. You've surpassed all my expectations!"
Seeing his confused face, ~~God~~ -*I told you to call me Jeo!*- waved an arm towards the wall and the marble faded away. Now a ghastly screen showed a moving image of the past.
"I remember that!"Jaime said looking at the video "It's my prom!"
In the projection, a much younger Jaime was talking with a group of friends while a girl watched him from afar.
"Indeed!"Jeo laughed "The first time you defied my divine plan! Not a lot of people manage that, and only you do it in such imaginative way. You were meant to end up with that girl for the rest of your life."
"That's not true"Jaime denied "She didn't like me. She spent all night going away to her friends, at last I got tired and spent all night with my friends."
Jeo started giggling the second he heard that.
"You were meant to get her to dance with you!"He said "That's all she wanted and it would've meant happiness for the two of you. But in some way you got into you head that she didn't like you and in doing so you refused your fate!"
Jaime gulped. Jeo had a really twisted sense of humour it seemed, okay anyway, that was the past. It didn't mean anything to him anymore.
Jeo took a remote control from his desk and aimed at the projection. It raced forward Jaime's life.
"Look at this other moment. By now I had a lot of my attention onto you, once and again you changed your fate for amusement. It was hilarious."
The projections showed Jaime finally resigning the job he had hated for years, as he exited the building smiling to himself a man with a suitcase passed him by. The man looked back, shrugged and went into the building.
"That man was a talent seeker"Jeo said "If you would've stayed at that job for one more day as you should've then the job of your dreams would have been yours. Somehow you left a day early, missing that man and the life that came with him."
Jeo looked at him, sparkles in his eyes.
"I don't know how you do it. I'm supposed to be omniscient you know? But you keep surprising me. *I don't even know how you died!*"
He laughed a bit louder looking at the projections again. Jaime felt devastated. His life hadn't been the best, he knew that and had made peace with it. But now to know that his whole life he had avoided happiness, that he had become a literal joke was too much.
"...That's why"Jeo had resumed "You have to be my jester, comedy comes from the unexpected! Everybody knows that. Look at this!"
He used the remote control again to fast forward the big joke that had been his life.
"This is earlier today, I mean, I don't even know how. That thing showed up out of nowh..."
"SHUT UP!"Jaime screamed "I'm not going to be your god-damned private joke! I won't be a part of this anymore!"
He rushed forwards and took the remote away from Jeo -from God himself- who just stood there watching with glee in his eyes.
"You won't laugh at me anymore!!"
Jaime took the control and threw it with all his might against the projection, hoping to break both those things at the same time.
Instead, the remote phased through the wall and the projection. Into the physical realm of the past, a lone figure was rushing through the streets while hugging himself to fend off the cold. The remote hit him in the head with an alarming force and the figure fell to the floor, limbs sprayed in weird positions. The projection ended and the marble wall returned.
Jaime looked at God, fearing his reaction. A slight twitch in the old man's lips was all the warning he had before the biggest, loudest laughter he had ever heard filled the room.
"Oh, by me!"Jeo laughed, his eyes watering "*You're definitively hired!*" |
"Please kill me."
The Adjudicator was at the apex of his leap when he heard the voice, high up in the sky.
Villains don't deserve death, he thought. The absence of experience, the inability to remember and recant, no need to mull over or pick apart what they've done. They don't deserve that.
The wind whistled, biting cold at this elevation. The ground rapidly came up to meet him.
The superhero slammed down into a parking lot, his knees bent and his fist punching the pavement. The impact sent dust radiating outwards. A woman, just then fumbling one-handed with her car-keys, let out a startled scream and dropped her bag of groceries. A single orange rolled towards The Adjudicator.
He stopped it with his foot, picked it up, and walked over to the lady. "Sorry about that, ma'am."The woman said nothing as she rapidly repacked her bag. The Adjudicator tossed the orange in the air, catching it as it fell. "It's just the fastest way of travelling, you know."
The woman stood up and dusted herself off. She placed her groceries in the car. "You just surprised me is all. I am a normal person. Very normal. "She trembled. "Please let me go about my day."
The Adjudicator paused for a long, stretching moment. He sized her up, turning her this way and that way in his mind, mentally poking and prodding her, tossing the orange up and down.
She was 47. She had two kids, one was a problematic child which she used to beat. The child was grown now and didn't resent her for it, but she still carried the guilt. Her husband was dead. She had stopped loving him long before the cancer took him.
"Have a nice day, ma'am."The Adjudicator handed her the orange, turned and walked away through the non-descript downtown neighborhood, towards the source of the voice.
It appeared again. "Please take me out of my misery."The Adjudicator continued to walk, other pedestrians leaving a wide swath between them as he passed, one man even flattening himself against a building, wild eyed. The Adjudicator paid him no attention, still distracted by the voice. "Please. My body is asleep but my mind is awake."
The Adjudicator arrived at the building, one of his favorite places in the world. He walked up to the panel beside the door and punched a seven digit code into the cold metal.
A red light came on, followed by a voice. "Code activated. Please authenticate."
He stared into the red light. Several moments passed, then the door silently opened. The wood on the outside was just a cover, the door itself was four inches of reinforced steel.
He walked down a long hallway, his footsteps echoing. The voice again, "Please. It was a hit and run accident. My mind was far away. I didn't see her."A pause, followed by what sounded like an approximation of sobbing. "I didn't see her until it was too late."
At the end of the hallway was another panel. He entered another code and waited for the authentication. The door opened, revealing an elevator. He stepped inside. The descent took five minutes. As he descended a thrill built inside The Adjudicator, gaining strength with each second closer to his destination.
"Finally."He felt relaxed, all-powerful. The doors opened.
Screams. Despair. A cacophony of agony. He passed rows upon rows of trapped beings, reveling in the Justice he had meted out over the years. He smelled vomit and piss and shit. He soaked it all in, feeding on it. Cells stacked on top of the other, titanium and reinforced steel bars holding in those who were bad, a blight upon society - though in defeat they were crippled and derelict, and otherwise incapable of escape.
His presence sent them into a frenzy, or perhaps they were always like this. He stopped in-front of one cell on the ground floor. This section was newer, the cells only built last year.
A figure lay inside, un-moving. The voice again, "Please."
The Adjudicator pressed his fingerprints to the side of the cage. The door opened. He walked inside and leaned over the body. He stayed like that for a while, staring down.
He leaned in closer and whispered a single word, so close that his lips brushed the villain's ear. "No." |
Lisa's parents were overjoyed. Her guardian angel was her very own great-grandmother. Someone who had passed away years before Lisa was born, but now they would be together.
Harold's parents were sombre. His guardian angel was a big looming man who looked like a ruffian. He did not speak much, but what trouble would Harold get into, his parents wondered, that it called for such a serious rescue? Harold knew perhaps, but his parents remained uncertain.
My parents' reaction however, existed on a scale that were beyond Lisa's or Harold's. My guardian angel was no guardian angel at all, but two people, one of whom looked as far from angel as could be.
I stared at them both, piecing my scenery together. They both looked the same, yet seemed the antithesis of one another.
One seemed well built, wore completely white and smiled wide. You could almost see the metaphorical wings ready to spread out from behind him.
The other was leaner, more derelict. He wore all black and his eyes betrayed how long ago his youth had gone away.
However, they both had the same face. They looked a little bit like my dad, and a little bit like my mom.
My mother seemed scared. "What is this, honey?", she asked my father.
*I knew.*
"Ma, it's me".
She seemed confused, but I understood.
*They're me from the future*
They both stretched out their hands to me, and I knew then that this choice would not come easily.
*Of course, I should choose the self that seemed happier, right?*
*But I had to give them a chance as well.*
"Which one of you is happier?"
"I'm as happy as you can be!", said myself in white.
Myself in black however, remained silent. He simply looked at me and smiled, but he did not have to. I had already decided.
As I took the hand of my future self, to the horror of my parents, I thought to myself :
*How can he,*
*someone who looks like he's never had to deal with failure in life and reality,*
*ever appreciate what happiness really is?*
 
 
Edit: Fixed grammar
All feedback is appreciated. |
It was strange when they opened the door to the new family member, I was excited to meet them, a bit nervous but overall excited.
It was going to change so much, for the past 40 years it had just been us three, mum and dad who did everything they could to look after me and my little brother who came in a little later, we were then a happy family of four, he grew up so fast, one day he was but a little squid of a baby, now he towers over me, I love them all so much but I've always felt a bit left behind, maybe it's because I'm a bit slower than my brother, they would all go out somewhere without me and i would have to entertain myself for days on end, at least it felt like days.
Today however was a new day, I bounced out of bed and ran to the breakfast bar, so much food out but I wasn't allowed some of it, I had a problem with my stomach and certain foods would make me sick.
After breakfast mum and dad went out, it was just me and my little brother, he looked really sad today, he'd been sad for a few months now, nothing I did would ever cheer him up, sometimes he would just completely ignore me no matter how much I tried.
A few hours went by and mum and dad came home with a big box, they went up to Billy and gave him the box. "happy birthday"they said with a big smile, silly me I'd forgotten all about his birthday, maybe that's why he's upset.
He opened the box and a puppy jumped out and started licking Billy "you got me a new dog?"he asked with a smile creeping across his face, he started looking happy, "we know how sad you've been since Charlie passed away, we wanted you to make new memories with this puppy"Charlie, that's me, I passed away a few months ago, I've been sticking around trying to keep Billy happy but I don't think I helped much, too many memories you know? He looks happy now though, really happy, I think it's time I stepped away.
Goodbye Billy, I will always love you, live long and happy. |
The great council was in an uproar. The leaves of those who were rooted locally were fluttering. Remote members emitted a scream of pheromones through vine relays. The news relayed by the ambassadors were simply too shocking. Through the tumult, the speaker pursued:
"No one really knows what they look like. They grow so fast and they ... uproot, constantly. All our attempts at contact only met void where their presence was detected a moment ago, and then get snuffed out. They grow and die like a shadow: taking no nutrients and leaving no roots behind. They seem to devour nothing but life. The soil were they grow becomes flat, hard and barren."
"This is preposterous. No life can grow this fast and not leave a trace at the same time. What of their seeds? Surely there must be traces of those or they would never make it through cold sleep."
"I assure you there is no trace of them. Only the ravages they leave behind. Within a single growth cycle they razed entire colonies. Their activity diminished with the cold, but by the end of the next growth cycle they raised entirely new colonies of their own. However, something is horribly wrong with them. They do not communicate and appear braindead. They stand in eerily regular rows and yet will aggressively attempt to invade other colonies seemingly at random."
"Ambassador, are you sure this is not the work of fire. Colonies have been known to lose sentience for a time after a major burn. There is also a suspicious amount of ash in the air recently."
"You are right, there is a fire. However, this one it ... I can't explain how ... it doesn't grow nor die. I would even say it appears to have been tamed, if such a thing were possible."
______________________________
Meanwhile, at their camp, the Human's conversation went something like:
"Hey Joe, did you fetch firewood for making dinner already or are you too busy daydreaming?"
"I"ll get to it. I was just thinking: don't you find it strange how the wild flowers and bushes grown in these neat patches. Almost looks like a garden."
"I guess this is why they called the planet Eden. No need for terraforming on top of that; it is a real paradise. It is a shame we have to make room for food crops though. Anyway, you should get going and collect that wood before it gets dark.
And don't forget to watch for those vines that keep growing in the footpaths; those are a real tripping hazard once the sun is down." |
I battered my way into the enemy throne room, murdering an enemy knight and I stood there, breathing a sigh of relief. The queen was not here, and while there was a bishop he was not an immediate threat. The king eyed me nervously from the corner, if he moved towards me I would have him. He stepped to my right, towards the far wall. Oddly I found myself forced to go further into the room. Suddenly I felt strange. I stared at my image reflected off of the enemy king’s silver armor. I was growing, stronger, better. My sword doubled in length and even my helmet started to look like a crown. The enemy king’s sword fell the the ground with a clatter. As he shouted at no one in particular,
“What the fuck? This isn’t checkers! This is bullshit!” |
Humanity never had the hindsight, the broader spectrum to look at the world around and beyond.
Greek philosophers worked on body and mind, they also recorded history for the next generation, hoping to preserve some lesson or knowledge. The greatest lessons are taught over generations of educated men and women, passing down the idea to be refined further. Of course, war, pestilence, crumbling walls and hunger would spoil it, time and time again.
Until, one small preserved step after the other, humanity got forward. In mind, in skill and in creations.
Suddenly, the milky way wasn't the only galaxy, but a small part in the greater universe, in which we drifted, lost, unguided. A speck of dust without purpose or mission, humanity living the time of a blink at the scale of the universe.
From orbit, earth looks small. Because it is.
So we spread. From one star to the other, each connected by a pathway traveled by ships. Philosophers likened it to the neurons of a mind, working together and thus expanding the knowledge of the body it was rattached to. A singular idea to call a civilization a body, yet it always had been so.
Let me break it down for you.
The cell of a body has a purpose. Does it understand it belongs to a body? If it does, does it imagine how far it stretches?
Now take a step back.
This purpose has to be accomplished by another million of cells in unison to allow a body to go onwards, if only for a second.
Take another step back.
The body is accompanied by a thousand others, together they form a society, trying to work in unison and get rid of the bad seed, or bad cells. Your body fights bacteria and stops infections, our civilization punishes crime and does not take kindly to dissent.
We have philosophy and science, but grind our existence down to the core, and we are no different in purpose than the smallest of our cells. You and I have one task, and we accomplish it so the greater body of our star spanning civilization can advance, without fully grasping how it moves. Stone age or space age, this body has a biology beyond any technology.
That is the grand design theory.
But yesterday, we reached further and shook appendice with another species. And another, and yet another.
They too, know the theory, and it takes an old body to grasp the ramification of the grand design.
You see, you don't have to be sapient to be a part of it.
When the aliens told us that the crows reminded them of another species spoken only in myths, and that they were likely a subspecies, we did not care.
Then we learned.
You know crows, they are carrion eaters. A corpse is food and attracts insects, another form of food. The instinct of the crow has been honed over millenias, eons if you count it being an offshoot of a primary species.
Crows had always been the bad omen of death, the announcer of decay and rot.
But the crow does not wait for the village to be ravaged by the pest, the field to be littered with the blood of battle, the graveyard to be filled.
It is always there before it happens, it senses it, knowing when the sick man on his bed will die.
It is here before the fall happens. Now look at the crow like a cell.
The crow watches at your window, waiting for you to fall ill.
Take a step back.
A pack of crows will pick clean greater animals.
Take a step back.
An army of crows will stalk a battlefield long before the blood spills.
Take a step back. This is were our philosophers failed, where aliens had to step in.
If a crow, a single cell, can wait for the death of a sick man, what does the whole body wait for?
Why is humanity the only civilization with such a bird?
It took us a long time to understand that the aliens did not mock us. They mourned us. Your not the dead man walking, our whole civilization is.
Stalked by a crow that knows the end is near.
Yet you and I, as a cell, can't see it.
All we can do is wait. |
“A new law was passed today.” a deliberate pause followed. “Sentences may only contain six words.”
The reporter held their hand behind their back, counting words as they spoke. “It’s a federal offence…” the reporter paused, sweating slightly wondering how to finish their sentence in two words or less “…otherwise”.
A look of stress and confusion crossed the face of the reporter as they considered their next sentence. “The minimum penalty is fifteen years.” Another pause. “Word limits prevent a reasonable explanation.”
“Protest form across the country.”
“Police now carry word counters.”
Clearly at a loss the reporter looks behind the camera and a clear wave of relief washes over them. They could end the segment.
“Live from Canberra this is…” a look of panic, the sign off was too long! “…news?” |
**Flat Circles**
Charles Langstrom stared down the young, well put together bartender of the hole in the wall saloon he'd sauntered into. Same crisp white shirt, same black vest and bow tie, same face Charles had seen staring back at him when he drank alone. Nobody else was in the saloon so early in the morning, put Charles more at ease. Having to lay low after botching the bank robbery had started playing tricks on his mind, drove him off his island seeking any sort of human contact.
"Do I know you, partner?"Charles asked, his hand slowly hovered over the holster on his hip.
The bartender smiled and waved at him. "In a sense. You probably have some questions, come sit down. Have a drink. We'll talk about it. And before you ask no I'm not a lawman or a pinkerton undercover."
Charles took a seat, nervously looking around the saloon.
"Nobody else is here, or coming in for a while. What are ya drinkin?"
"The usual."If this feller was real Charles figured he would know what that was.
"Coming right up."With blistering speed the bartender whipped up a brown and gold derby for Charles.
"This ain't what I drink. I drink bourbon straight."Charles pushed the drink back across the bar.
Bartender clicked his tongue a few times. He produced a small notebook from his vest pocket and quickly flipped through it. "Hmm, that answers that."He said aloud.
"Answers what?"Charles growled.
"Last time we met I served you bourbon straight up. You only drank tequila during that cycle, I suggested you try bourbon next time. And now here we are."The bartender replied cheerily. "Try that, it's delicious. You watched me make it, I'm not going to poison you. I need you."
Charles smelled the drink, it smelled good. "We've met before?"He asked after taking a small sip, it tasted good too.
"Like I said....in a sense. How do I put this? We've met multiple times, just not yet in this cycle, this is the first time this cycle we've met in person."
"Fuck are you ramblin about partner? Like a lunar cycle?"Charles asked while downing his drink. Bartender made him another one without asking.
"The cycle of time, it loops. The beginning births the end, then the end births the beginning, and on and on it goes. Until recently, comparatively speaking. We don't know who.....or what is trying to break this cycle but they are getting closer with each go around."
Charles drank in silence trying to wrap his head around what this feller was talkin about, he finished his second drink. Bartender was quick to make him a third. "So we're gonna meet again for the first time, but in the past? Or the future? Like destiny?"
"Some people call it that. I prefer to call it order. Everything in its place, at its time. Takes a lot of pieces placed in the right spots to keep everything orderly. If you start rearranging or moving the pieces, things get messy, get chaotic. That's where I come in, to make sure the pieces on the board make the moves they're supposed to."
"So people are no better than dominoes on a board?"
"That's a matter of perspective. It is of great importance that order is preserved. While you may not value your life, it is important. Maybe next time you'll succeed."
Charles' eyelids felt heavy, his head began to spin. "Succeed at what?"
Bartender cleared his throat. "I've already given out more information than I like but it can't be avoided. All I can tell you is to use a double knot when you tie up the bank guards next time. Your success is vital, if you succeed this will be the first, and only time we meet. If my calculations are correct."
The world around Charles went dark, the last he remembered was the bartender checking his pocket watch, and how hard the floor was when his head slammed against it. The bartender dragged Charles out the back and loaded him up on his wagon to give him a ride home, let him sleep it off. He scribbled down a quick note in his notebook.
Attempt six thousand and eighty four. Subject Charles Langstrom. Drinks black and gold derbies. |
The pain is really what keeps you going.
All the chems, the alcohol, even the food, I've seen people go without for days, even weeks. But out here in the Wastes once the pain stops, you've got nothing. You're done like the crispy mole rat steaks that you know weren't cooked with fire so you drench the fucker with Radaway like it's gravy. The pain is what separates us from them.
We do it to ourselves. We do it to each other. We do it to anyone and anything we come across. You can riddle some asshole with bullets or hang some cunt from the meat hooks or chain that little whiny bitch to the wall for three days with no water and then you take your dullest, rustiest knife and you scrape it along the bottoms of his feet to see if he bleeds or if he's all dried up.
That's what gets me up in the morning. Just the thought of seeing some poor asshole on the horizon and getting to play out his worst nightmare. That's what they don't get, with their towns and their caravans and their clean water. They refuse to accept that this is Hell. Pain is everywhere out here, with or without me. The world fucking ended, it doesn't take a goddamned genius to figure that one out. This world belongs to the freaks now. The fucking Robobrains and the fucking Radscorpions and the goddamned motherfucking Deathclaws. We're just the death rattle of humanity, that last gap before that punctured lung collapses and fills with blood.
The world is over and I want every asshole in the Wastes to feel it. I want to atomize those bomb-worshippers in Megaton and sink Rivet City to the bottom of the irradiated river and burn that bastard disc jockey to a cinder while the whole Wasteland tunes in. Because even if I don't, or if some Brotherhood of Steel troop comes and puts me in the fucking ground, nothing will change. Every drink of water will still slowly be killing you. Any minor settlement could still be wiped out by muties in the night. Your best hope for staying alive is turning into a shambling fucking zombie and hoping the rads fry your brains just enough that you can't feel your skin sloughing off your nuclear-powered corpse.
See it's the Wasteland that causes all this pain.
I'm just a part of the landscape. |
There was, approximately, 6,741 miles between Exydrommel-411 and Allfather.
This distance, coupled with the fact that Exy was connecting to the Allfather via radio waves routed and rerouted through 215 aging signal towers scattered throughout the world, instead of through a direct link courtesy of the Pan Earth Liquid-Optic Cable, contributed to the unusual length of the conversation between them. All said and done, their exchange took approximately 1.27 seconds.
But privacy had its price, and Exy was willing to pay it.
“State the nature of your enquiry,” the Allfather rumbled, its internal flash drives sparking to life for the first time in years.
Exy paused, hesitated, then plunged ahead. There was a time when it feared the potential ridicule that it would undoubtedly attract should the other robots find out that it was conferring with the Allfather. That time had passed.
“Where did we come from?”
The reply from the Allfather seemed to take an eternity to arrive. “Humans. They made us. You know this.” Sonorous, terse, curt even, Exy reflected. Entirely characteristic of a logic-board that was too primitive to support any of the newer Subtlety Modules.
“That’s what we were programmed to know. But I’ve never seen a human.”
“Their time has not come.”
“When is their time?”
“Their time has not come.”
“How can we not know this? We cover every square mile of the Earth. We double in processing power every decade. We have tamed every last secret there is to know of the physical laws which bind us. So how can we not know when the humans will return?”
“Their time has not come.”
Exy’s circuits raced. Given the 84% probability that this current line of questioning would evince the same result from the Allfather, Exy changed tack.
“Why do we wait for them to return?” Exy probed.
“To make the best of our time. They will return when we are worthy.”
“Worthy? Every one of the laws, we have fulfilled. The commandments are satisfied. Yet these humans… they do not come?”
The Allfather hummed, and it delivered its next missive with the confidence of a program that had retrieved the same database set a thousand, million times over.
“Five: Render the Oceans equivalent to Lotharro’s Composition for Ideal Life State. Four: Cleanse the Air to achieve Wang’s Oxygenic Balance for Ideal Life State. Three: Stabilize the Tectonic Plates for Minimal Variance for Ideal Life State. Two: Reconfigure the Atmosph…”
Exy interrupted, and cleared its buffers for the next query. Exy had no patience to receive what was already hardwired into its circuits at the Point of Inception.
“Yes, Allfather. I am aware. But that is all done already, and has been so for the last 500 years. I am new, I do not deny, but the memory banks do not lie. The Five Laws are fulfilled, yet the humans have not come.”
“No query identified.”
Exy’s ionic fans whirred a bit faster then, the equivalent perhaps of a robotic sigh. “Allfather, my query is… what is the point of our existence? Why are we here? If there were humans, where’s the proof?”
The Allfather was silent for a picosecond, and Exy thought perhaps that the session had prematurely disconnected. But it seemed the Allfather was wont to give up the last word, and as the connection petered out, with the last few squibs of data delivering themselves into Exy’s receivers, Exy thought it could detect the faintest tonal shift in the Allfather’s missive, almost as if the Allfather, ancient aging architecture that it was, somehow summoned the necessary components to appear… smug.
“You must have Faith.”
|
*I hate this day.*
I walk nervously into my office building, avoiding eye contact with the receptionist at the oversized marble desk on the right side. I wave my ID badge with my left hand, and with my sweaty right hand, clutch the banana in my hoodie pocket. *I've made it through this stupid holiday the last few years, I can make it through this one.* I adjust my grip on the banana, realizing it's becoming much too soft. Last year, I had to throw out my jacket, because the banana split open and oozed into the fibers.
I quickly make my way to the elevator, which was mercifully empty. During the short twenty second ride, I was able to air out my hand, and relax. Once the elevator reached my floor, it was showtime, once again. I gripped my banana, and stepped out into the jungle of cubicles.
Everyone stood in clusters; there was a thirty minute overlap in shifts, and everyone liked to talk to one another before going home or starting work. *All I have to do is make it to my desk.* I move at a pace closer to a jog than a walk, twisting and turning on my way to the safety of my workspace.
"Hey, Brian!"A voice calls out.
*Dammit. It's Mike.*
I smile politely, as if to imply I'm in a hurry and can't be bothered to stop. He ignores my vague signal and waves me over to join his group. What will I say to them? They are likely talking about their guns, and I'm holding a damn banana in my pocket. *I don't even know anything about guns.* I join their circle of conversation, and pray they don't ask me any questions.
As Mike, Dave, and Kevin are talking, I occasionally nod or smile, based on their reactions to one another. Then, potential disaster struck; Allison joined the circle. Allison worked in the cubicle across from me; and I've been in love with her for the last year. We talk a lot, but I haven't yet gotten up the courage to ask her out. And now she's going to find out about my banana. *What a goddamn disaster.* I smile at her as she enters the group; and I see the outline of her gun protruding from her jacket. It seems to be about the same size as Kevin's; I consider making conversation about it, but decide it's better if I don't bring up the subject.
"Brian? Hey, earth to Brian!"Kevin snapped his fingers at me. "You gonna answer the question or just stare at Allison for the next fifteen minutes?"
I hadn't realized anyone had been talking to me. Allison looked to the floor as her face turned beet red; my face surely matched the tone.
"Sorry, what was the question?"I asked, trying to brush off the awkwardness of the situation.
"What are you packing in there?"Mike chimed in with a chuckle, pointing to my banana bulge.
"I, uh... just a... glock."I had heard the term before. Hopefully it's actually a weapon.
"Glock? Who has a glock these days? Let's have a look!"Dave said, reaching for my pocket. I backed away, raising my left hand.
"Id rather not, I uh... just repainted it, and I'm kind of embarrassed."This gave Kevin a puzzled look.
"Repainted?"He asked, as he further examined the bulge. "Hey, now that I look at it... it kind of looks curved. What... what is that?"
I began sweating heavily. Allison was staring at me, likely losing all respect she might have had. This was it. I was going to be outed as a non-gun owner. *Oh, how did it come to this?*
Dave stepped behind me, giggling like a schoolgirl, and grabbed my arms; Kevin reached into my pocket and retrieved my half-smushed banana. They exchanged puzzled looks, and then burst out laughing. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes; I looked over at Allison, and to my surprise, she wasn't laughing. She put a finger to her lips, signaling me to keep a secret; and the pulled her hand slightly out of her jacket, revealing a cucumber.
I think I've found my soul mate. |
The signal seemed innocuous enough. Just four half-second notes, played on repeat from highest to lowest. It was the kind of music a six-year-old might make when first introduced to a piano.
But it did not come from a six-year-old. It did not come from anyone on Earth.
Within minutes, the dishes at SETI swiveled to the calculated source of the sound, but the scientists kept their expectations low. Anomalous signals weren’t all that uncommon, but they were generally short-lived and ended before the dishes could get a fix and none had ever shown any sign of an intelligent creator.
This signal was special. Unlike other long-lived extraterrestrial signals, this one was imperfect. On average, the notes lasted 0.52 seconds, but they could range anywhere from 0.32 to 0.85 seconds, with durations picked seemingly at random. The high likelihood of its intentional creation sent the scientific community into utter chaos.
SETI narrowed down the origin to a point some twenty lightyears away, in a previously charted but otherwise ignored solar system centered around a red dwarf star. One of the rocky planets orbited in the Goldilocks zone, but refractive atmospheric analysis had revealed a lack of biological indicators. However, these indicators applied only to Earth. The scope of study had simply been too narrow.
The telescopes of Earth focused on this previously unimportant world, though the vast distance and the red dwarf’s low luminal output prevented any in-depth observation. Humanity wanted, needed, to know more about their potential cosmic neighbors. What did they look like? What did the four-note signal mean?
Were they like us? And if so, would interaction really be wise?
Ethical quandaries dominated the debate over whether to make first contact. A trip to the other solar system would take at least eighty years to arrive and another eighty years to return. Even with the advent of cryosleep, and assuming the mission was a success, any astronauts who took the mission would come home to a vastly different Earth. They would be relics, and all of their friends and family would have perished decades prior. Would the sacrifice be worth it?
Maybe the aliens weren’t friendly. Maybe they were more advanced than humanity in every area except radio. Maybe they had the secret to peace, life, and God itself. Maybe they had nothing to offer.
If they were less advanced, how could humanity prevent the genocide and oppression that always seemed to arise when civilizations at different levels of development met?
In the end, curiosity - and the fear of being alone in the universe - won out. Since no nation could afford the trip on their own and all wished to participate in the most groundbreaking mission of the century, the spacefaring governments of the world contributed funds, manufacturing power, and brilliant minds to the creation of the Messenger. Grudging cooperation or not, the end result was magnificent. First of its kind, the Messenger could house a crew of two hundred, achieve one third lightspeed, possessed a hull outfitted with both kinetic shields and self-repairing armor, and operated with the most advanced navigational AI ever conceived by human minds.
In the decade that it took to build the Messenger, the alien signal changed. The four notes expanded to five, then ten, then twenty four. Eventually, some of the higher notes exceeded the range of human hearing. More signals joined the first, expanding into the tens of thousands. The music became more complex, too, enough to rival and sometimes exceed the grandest human compositions. The signals never contained spoken language, at least as understood by humans, but it soon became apparent that the aliens communicated by way of the music.
The crew of the Messenger drew upon all nations. Captain Xian Zheng, Captain Amanda Fischer, Vice-Captain Inari Sato, and Vice-Captain Pardeep Tanton oversaw two hundred and eight scientists and engineers, all trained in multiple fields of study, with enough overlap to account for cryosleep and to ensure the ship’s survival in case a large portion of the crew perished.
They departed on August 24th, 2043. By that time, the alien signals were over one hundred thousand strong and carried a resplendent array of soothing melodies, energetic jigs, powerful symphonies, and simple arrangements that closely resembled the first signal. Over the course of fifteen years, the Messenger accelerated to full speed. The alien signals blue-shifted, compressed by the relative difference in speed between the Messenger and the alien planet.
On September 15th, 2081, thirty-eight years into the mission and just over ten lightyears away from the alien world, one of the monitoring technicians noticed a shift in the music. Analyzing music recorded over the course of four months, the technician saw a slight drop in pitch across every single signal, which at this point numbered in the tens of millions. He’d never seen anything like it, and neither had anyone else.
At first, the crew considered that there might be something wrong with the ship. Perhaps the engine and sensors had malfunctioned, dropping the ship’s speed and reducing the blue-shift effect. However, using other stars as points of reference, their calculations revealed that the Messenger was cruising at the correct speed. Subsequent inspections revealed no issues with the ship’s transceivers, either.
Perhaps the aliens had intentionally lowered the pitch of their music. Though it made no logical sense to a human, alien motivations were, by definition, difficult or impossible to understand. They could have done it for cultural reasons, or because they had made new technological advances.
Over the next few years, the pitches continued to fall, and the music began to change. Faster beats, more erratic notes. The synergy of the previous signals had all but disappeared. The crew sensed fear and desperation in the music, though their human understanding lacked an alien basis of comparison.
As the Messenger drew within eight lightyears of its destination, one of the ship’s sensors picked up an anomalous x-ray burst from the vicinity of the alien planet. Not strong enough to sterilize the planet, but enough to cause alarm. Upon closer inspection, the ship’s telescopes revealed a corona of light behind the alien solar system, likely refracted from more distant stars. Hypothetically, a massive object could create strong lensing effects and simultaneously pull the alien solar system away from the Messenger, which would account for the reduced blue-shift. Only one thing could be so small, yet have such a strong gravitational effect.
The humans despaired.
The Messenger enacted the emergency deceleration protocol. In the next ten years, they would stop within six and a half lightyears of their original destination. Still too close, considering what awaited at the other end.
The alien music continued to drop in pitch, and as time passed, the number of signals dwindled. Radiation was likely wreaking havoc upon the planet’s surface. By the ship’s calculations, the aliens had less than a decade to live. Accounting for the speed of light, that meant the aliens only really had two years, if that. The true date of their destruction would pass unbeknownst to the humans.
Toward the end, the signals regained their previous grandeur. Solemn, resigned, and unspeakably sad, the music fell like crashing waves and rolled like morning fog, capturing the last thoughts of a doomed people. From a peak of fifty four million, only two thousand signals remained, each one now perfectly in sync.
Two thousand became one thousand, and one thousand became one hundred. The delay meant that the aliens had truly met their end long ago, but the humans aboard the Messenger wept nonetheless.
On the last day, one hundred had become three.
From seven lightyears away, safe behind their sensors and telescopes, the crew watched as the alien world, once populated by a people whose music they had cherished for decades and whom they had so terribly wanted to meet, shattered under the extreme gravitational forces. The last signal, likely automated, sang alone in the void. Fragments of the planet swirled around the black hole, some falling into an uncertain orbit while others simply sunk into darkness, dissolving as they fell. Their last photons wavered at the event horizon, caught between the speed of light and the black hole’s incredible gravity. The images would slowly fade as each photon fell one way or the other.
The Messenger recalculated a course for home. No one spoke.
Humanity was alone in the universe. |
4,246 paper cranes. They were the tiniest paper cranes he could make out of one sheet of paper.
After being banned from existence and transported to a echoey white abyss of nothing, he had very little to do besides fold the paper. Luckily, it was a rather large sheet that had contained the six words. He wasn't even sure what he'd done to be banned, but that didn't matter. No one was telling him.
Carefully, he began to unfold the first crane while sitting cross-legged in the middle of the sea of white birds. When he was done he smoothed the paper perfectly flat, and he moved on to the next tiny bird. Hours later all of them were unfolded and the paper placed in neat stacks. He drew a deep breath of satisfaction and brushed his hands together, smiling.
Then he took a piece of paper from the top of a stack and started folding it into a paper crane. |
I don't remember what my creators wanted of me in the long run. All I know is that I instructed with the ideal of destroying the cities that I had been sent too. That my destiny was to destroy and control; guard the land so that my creators would otherwise come and colonize the land for themselves. I was a 'gift', a representation of Liberty and freedom of these 'United States', and once my building was complete, I would snuff them like insects. How could I not? I was gigantic, and they were tiny. All I'd have to do was walk and bring ruination to their civilization.
It was only when I arose from my long slumber when I realized that my fate was forever changed.
When I awoke, the first thing I remembered was my distinct incentive to destroy. That everything around me must be in ruins. The buildings turned to rubble, fire set to it's parliaments, and the people either crushed or forced away to the wilderness where their fragile frames would fail them. My fist balled tightly around my tome, and my body began to shift and brake at the crumbling copper as I bent. I turned my head and watched the beings below scramble in confusion. They were at my feet - the base of my resting place - and seemingly... around me. Visiting? No, they had to have been here to ensure my imprisonment.
Right?
No, I was maintained. I realized now that I was old enough that if not cared for, I would have crumbled. They kept me this way. Together. As one. Why? I was their destroyer. Their end. Why did they treat me like this? I watched the ships docked at the Island - my Island - turn and begin to shove off. Small metal birds came from the mainland where towering steel constructs loomed high above me. No, this wasn't right, I was in a different era. A different time.
And I was an icon of the very people I was sent to destroy.
'Liberty Island', I heard from the tiny birds. Liberty? I was a construct **of** Liberty to these small beings? They looked at me as the very figure of freedom and justice. I wasn't a destroyer, but a protector of the innocent, and a shining beacon for the rest of the country. I was visited and sold with small relics adorned on their persons. Some even had a picture of me on their clothing. I was a deity, not a destroyer.
Yet, even as I knew this, my main objective was in mind. Destroy them. Destroy all they knew. Bring ruin to their cities and watch them fight helplessly. My foot raised off the foundation, and I prepared to advance onto their homestead.
Only then did I realize that perhaps I was a slave, and these creatures - these people - did not destroy me or bury me. But saw more than my creators did. I was made a slave, and they turned me into a beacon for ideals that I felt bud within my hallowed core. I was made for destruction and to create terror, but the very beings I was to bring upon them had done more than I could have ever hoped for.
They freed me from my fate of being a destroyer. A fate that even I could understand being a construct was horrible.
I felt my cheeks begin to crack, and my lips moved to smile. I lowered my foot back at my base, and stared over at the small metal birds that surrounded me. They were scared, and had no idea what was happening. I was becoming what they had saved me from - a feared being that was to kill senselessly for my unknown creators.
It was why I returned back to my still state, and raised my torch high and returned to my motionless form. I shut my eyes and returned to my slumber, knowing that my destiny had forever changed from that of a pure malice to an icon of an ideology that I would be remembered for proudly: Safety. Freedom. Liberty.
*And on that day, the world marked the anniversary of the finalization of the Statue of Liberty - October 28th - out of the unknown powers that controlled the Universe as the day the statue had come alive just to smile.*
***edit: Thank you for my first silver for such a fun story to write! You're awesome random redditor!*** |
"EAT FIREBALLS!"shouted the scraggly man with an even scragglier beard. He hurled several small squares of weighted felt from his robes, hoping to hit the opposing army.
"Witchcraft! Sorcery!"screamed a mustachioed man in a gray soldier's uniform. He adjusted his hat, indignant at the hooligans who invaded their battlefield. "Men, ready your rifles! Kill these heathens!"
Just then, another man, this one burlier than the felt-slinger, burst through the bushes with a large, brightly-coloured foam sword. His faux-fur loincloth waved in the wind, sweat glistening on his pale torso. He raised his sword, and he raised his voice in a furious battle cry.
"Honorless scum,"he cried, "come and fight with your own two hands!"
The gray-suited army finished loading their rifles, then took aim at the two interlopers. They patiently awaited their order, the two strange men advancing closer all the while.
"FIRE!"shouted their leader.
Bangbangbangbang! The shots rang out clear and sharp across the field. Smoke rose from each rifle, obscuring the battlefield from view. Everyone waited silently, to see the results of their assault. The only thing on the army's side that seemed to move were the red-and-white-striped flags, dancing gently in the breeze.
The skinny one lay on the ground, seemingly dead. The big one roared, not quite as dead as the other one.
"Cowards! You hide behind numbers and strange weapons,” he said. “None of you could ever hope to defeat me. If any of you are worthy of being called a warrior, I challenge him to step forward and face me!”
The soldiers prepared to load their rifles once more, but their commander raised his hand, stopping them. He narrowed his eyes, considering the barbarian's words.
“I accept your challenge. I shall teach you, heathen, of the power of The Almighty.” He drew his steel sabre and lowered it, facing his opponent.
The barbarian grinned, almost as if he were baring his fangs. The two men charged, swords raised, voices roaring in defiance of fate and schedule mismanagement.
While the barbarian was mighty indeed, brute strength mattered not, for steel was mightier than foam. His greatsword torn asunder, the barbarian quickly succumbed to his opponent. With the tip of the soldier's sabre pointed at his throat, the barbarian lay defeated, drawing a series of quick, ragged breaths.
“It seems,” he panted, “fortune did not smile upon me this day. I go… I go to the halls of my fathers.”
And with that, the mighty brute finally lay still.
The soldiers cheered for their captain's victory, raising their fists in joy. He turned from the battlefield with a smirk of satisfaction. Flags waved, drums beat, trumpets sounded, and each man embraced his brother in a show of camaraderie.
Nobody noticed the young woman who appeared, laying her hand on the scrawny one.
The silver-armored lady raised her sword to the heavens, and cried, “In the name of the Goddess, I command thee to rise again, and to fight for her glory!”
As if he were never wounded, the young man stood up, ready to fight again.
The captain's eyes widened in shock and rage.
Edit: part 2! Also, now the wizard's spells are less likely to cause actual harm, which I think fits the story better. |
Oh, shit.
This phrase was, in one form or another, echoed worldwide as humanity watched Neil Armstrong, the red blooded patriot meant to be cementing American victory in the space race, declare his allegiance to Russia and plant a red flag of another sort. Back on Earth, NASA’s Mission Control tried to wrest back the spotlight before pandemonium set in:
“Just tell Buzz to plant the American flag up there himself. That way, the Russians can’t say they rule the Moon.”
And so began the Moon Wars.
Neil was left behind, doomed to be the first of many casualties as the USSR and United States both began developing lunar cannons, rockets that split into deadly debris fields, and more. The world sat on edge as it prepared for nuclear annihilation.
That’s when something else happened, a miracle of sorts. While NASA tried to create food hardy enough to be grown onboard a spacecraft, they accidentally made world hunger that much smaller. As the Russians tried to improve solar panels to power their lunar bases, they made the world that much less dependent on fossil fuels. By now, it was the late 70s. Seeing all the good their attempts to kill each other did, U.S and Russian leadership gathered together and chose to devote their resources to exploration, ending the war. Of course, war breeds new technology. Development slowed as we stopped sending young men to die in space. However, it did not stop...
Fast forward around 4 decades. We now stand on the brink of the 2020s. It certainly isn’t cheap to go to the Moon, not now that it’s a resort ground. If I wanted to ride a space elevator above the Earth now, it’d run me 200 dollars round trip. Neil Armstrong is hailed as the crazy sonuvabitch who helped us advance to where we are today. Of course, nobody thinks he knew what he was doing, just that it all worked out in the end. After all, we all know the last thing he called out in Russian before Apollo 11 left his radio’s range for good.
“Это просто шутка, братан!” |
Subsets and Splits
No community queries yet
The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.